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Someday My Prince Will . . .

By: sr71plt



Last night I dreamt I went to paradise again. I believe we can credit the encounter to Daphne du Maurier. My tour in Cyprus was at an end, but I had hung on for a month, sending my wife back to Washington, D.C., to get the house open up again and everything there back in working order and to guide one of our children into a new university year. I had stayed past my assignment rotation date to attend an artists' gathering in the Troodos mountain village of Platres. A internationally well-known naive artist lived there during her summers and held an annual week-long artists' retreat there. I had been invited to the retreat because I had just published a novel based loosely on her intriguing life and she had done the cover for the book. We got along famously, and so here I was, gathered with her artist friends and trying to keep up with the talk of light and shadow and balance and depth perception—not unknown concepts for the creative writer either, I happily realized.

The artists were dotted around in various residences in the rustic mountain village and met in the afternoons at the artist's rambling and cool house for discussions and then at 10:30 PM each evening at the central open-air restaurant to celebrate their talent in local wine and a meze, which was a never-ending march of finger foods across the table top. After this, they dragged back to their host homes and slept until the next afternoon's gathering at the artist's home.

I opted for other lodging, however. I was leaving a country I loved and wanted to make the most of every moment I could. There was a fine old, internationally known English-style hotel, the Forest Park, at the edge of Platres, high on a hill. I opted for that partially, but not solely, for its somewhat dishabille opulence but also because of the room I requested and was able to book—the suite where Daphne du Maurier wrote the draft of her classic novel Rebecca.

I had just begun to learn what my direction would be after a career of spying, thanks to the success of my novel, and I wanted to seek inspiration in the room where Rebecca had been drafted—perhaps even conceived. This had already worked well when I had managed to rent the home of Lawrence Durrell on the island's northern coast, where he wrote much of his Alexandria Quartet. So, I was seeking a muse. I would never have imagined to have also found a prince.

He knocked on my door at the Forest Park late on the morning after I had arrived and politely asked if he might just have a look at the room. He introduced himself as Gregor and said he was a student, majoring in creative writing, and wanted just to see where Du Maurier had worked the magic of her pen. Thus, he was established immediately as a fellow seeker.

Over lunch on the large, tiered stone terrace at the back of the hotel, I learned that there were several other parts to his name, with the one that really rang a bell being Hapsburg. He acknowledged he was of those Hapsburgs and was, in fact, a prince on paper, although he'd never been permitted to see what would have been his domain in Hungary if a couple of world wars had not interceded.

He was a very presentable young man of solid build, handsome features other than a very prominent jaw that I was to learn was the genetic curse of his family, pale blue eyes, and an exuberance of dark hair leaping from his head in an unruly, but not unattractive fashion. He was a wonderful conversationalist, and I was already going over the artist retreat scheduling in my mind to determine when I could possibly see him again, when he obviated my efforts. While my mind had been spinning, I asked him what he was doing here in Cyprus other than pilgrimaging to famous writers' dens.

"The contrast of sporting interests," he answered with a winsome smile.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "What sports would those be?"

"I want to snow ski and swim in the ocean on the same day."

"And you can do that here?" I asked, not really believing his answer, thinking he was just being flippantly sparkly in his conversation.

"Yes. There is a minimal ski slope up on Mt. Olympus, no more than a three-quarters hour drive away from here. There's usually enough natural snow this late in the season, but if there isn't, they just make it. It's cold enough up there. And then in just about an hour I can be down at Pissouri Beach from here and swim in the Mediterranean."

"I don't believe it." I said, somewhat lamely. There was no reason for me to doubt him really, but I'd been in the country for years and hadn't heard about the skiing. But then the topic would rarely have come up when discussing a mostly-dusty and warm Mediterranean island. The Scandinavians came here to swim on New Years Day.

"I can prove it, if you're game," Gregor said. "Come with me tomorrow, and we'll ski in the morning and then go down and swim in the sea in the afternoon."

An invitation I couldn't refuse. The artists wouldn't miss me for their afternoon session, and I'm sure they'd be as delighted with Gregor as I was if I brought him to the evening celebration.

Gregor was right. We skied in the morning on Mt. Olympus, although the slopes were such that it was more for the novelty of the activity than for the exercise or the downhill racing thrill. And we were down on the somewhat rough-rocked Pissouri Beach shore by noon. We swam for a bit and then lay out on beach towels on the shale side by side and talked of writing and European history and of art while we dried off. We studiously avoided talking of anything intimate, but our Speedos had no chance of hiding from each other our increasing interest one for the other. Gregor was well-muscled, if a little simian, with short, strong legs on a well-proportioned and slightly hirsute torso, and long arms with fine-fingered, sensuous artist's hands.

Acknowledging almost at the same time that we were hungry, we moved up to a seaside open-air café and ordered up swarmas, a luscious pita bread sandwich filled with shaved roasted beef slathered with tahini sauce. The young Greek waiter serving us seemed well-taken with Gregor and he with the waiter, and they flirted unabashedly while we ate. Gregor finished his swarma before I did and excused himself for a few moments. When I finished, I went to what passed for a men's room, which was more a hole in the ground in a section separated off the back of the café and enclosed by lattice work covered with grape vines.

I could see through the latticework as I pissed in the hole, and I spied Gregor knelt in front of the Greek waiter, who was leaning against the back wall of the café. Gregor was giving the waiter deep and rhythmic head, and the waiter was loving it. There was something about the prominent Hapsburg jaw working on a nice, hard cock that was mesmerizing. I knew that at some point in this brief encounter with the prince that I wanted some of that for myself.

The waiter returned to the table several minutes before Gregor reappeared, and the young man was smiling and humming a happy tune to himself, which well he might. I wasn't very surprised Gregor didn't appear first. He gave me plenty of time to receive and pay the bill for lunch; I had gotten the drift of who would pay earlier in the day when I managed to have my wallet out first at every turn of the skiing experience. And, of course, we drove in my BMW convertible. Gregor claimed this was because he'd fallen in love with the car, but I suspected that Gregor had no real transportation of his own. There was no loss on the lunch bill, though. The well-satisfied waiter hadn't charged for Gregor's meal.

That evening in the town square open-air restaurant under the bright stars peeking through the swaying pine trees and the cool breezes coming down from Mt. Olympus in this otherwise frying pan island at the start of summer, the atmosphere was festive and electric. Artists know how to have a good time and how to remain convivial as they sank deeper and deeper into drink. Gregor, who, of course, I brought and who, of course, was instantaneously and enthusiastically adopted by the artists, was particularly convivial with a usually very serious young abstract painter who I'd always thought took himself a bit too seriously.

About midway through the evening, which didn't end until nearly 4 AM, I noted the prolonged absence of both Gregor and the abstract painter, and it didn't take me long to find them in a small grove just steps away from the illumination of the strings of white Christmas tree lights that defined the restaurant perimeter from the stone-lined streets sloping up and down around it at precarious angles.

Gregor was vigorously pumping the abstract painter's cock with his strong jaw, and the painter was bucking wildly against him, at the height of ecstasy, no longer a bit aloof, off on some level of his own in the fireworks of passion. Gregor finished the other young man in a flooding of cum and a stifled cry of release, and I left them there, kissing deeply in the shadows.

This, of course, did not decrease my tension and anticipation as the party broke up and Gregor followed me back up the hill on foot to the towering Forest Park. I didn't question why he was still in step with me and would have gone breathless if he'd made any movement to leave my side. But he didn't; he walked me to the door to my room and thanked me very politely for accompanying him on his daily adventures and especially for bringing him into the circle of my artist friends.

We lingered there, not saying anything, and he turned to leave, not being able to continue the conversation. I was completely choked up. I wanted to ask him to come in, but I'd never pursued a man in my life and had such a strong sense of a code on this not to start now. I felt that this was when I'd start going downhill into over the hill in these male-male relationships. I didn't want to become a pitiful old man begging for it.

I watched in despair as Gregor turned and moved down the corridor. But then, just as I had opened my door and was about to move into the room—probably to be upset with myself for the remainder of the week—he turned and gave me a shy smile.

"Actually, I have no idea where I'm going," he said. "I made no arrangements for the night. I'm afraid it's the Hapsburg in me, the family trait of living off the people. Could you possibly . . .?"

I swung the door open wide and we barely had it closed behind us when we were at each other, devouring each other, our hands and lips racing to discover all they could of the curves and crevices of each other—the points at which a sensuous moan, sigh, or groan could be teased out of the other.

He had my trousers off my legs, and I was experiencing first hand the honor of the Hapsburg jaw wrapped around a cock that had been ready for him, aching for him, since early that afternoon on the beach. That Hapsburg jaw for which dynasty was mocked for generations was a tumultuous love-making vessel for me. I fell back against the wall beside the door as his warm, sensuous, experienced mouth played symphonies of pleasure on my throbbing member and balls.

I came quickly, having dreamed of this all day, and then I pulled him up and turned him belly to the wall, pushed his trousers down, and pulled his dick through the wide stance he had taken with this well-muscled thighs. He groaned, cheek planted against wallpaper, and beat his fists lightly against the wall while I alternated between giving him head on his pulled-thorough cock and wetting and loosening up his puckered hole with my lips and fingers.

When his hole was gaping and he was begging for it, I frog-marched him over to the bed, pushed him down on his back, spread his legs wide, thrust inside him, and fucked him until we were both spent in great shootings of cream.

We then stripped completely, showered and toweled off together, and shared the bed, him now taking me in a slow, languid side split of divine pumping that lasted until the dawn.

We slept soundly—or at least I did. I slept so soundly and satisfied and filled that when I awoke, Gregor was gone and there was no trace of him except for a note written on Forest Park stationery and laid on what a plaque claimed was the very writing desk where Du Maurier had penned her famous novel of romance, lust, and eventual exile. In a few brief, messy, yet masterful strokes, Gregor had written of how enjoyable and memorable the time with me had been. His signature, surely the full name he was given, took up more room than the well-received sentiments he had left me with. And I remember at the time chuckling and wondering if his autograph would ever be worth what I had spent on him.

But, no matter. My prince had come—and come and come—in the most delightful and memorable way. 

Someday My Prince Will Cum



She scrubbed at the floor, glancing fearfully over her shoulder now and again, waiting to hear the sound of her new master's voice. At least, she thought, this one let me keep my shift on. The silence of the house was the most unnerving aspect of her new captivity; after the raucous atmosphere preferred by her step-mother and sisters, the soundlessness was rather frightening.

A soft scrape immediately caught her attention, and the sensation of being watched rushed over her. Twisting around, the sight of two small mice and a blue bird caused her to drop her rag in surprise. 

The bird cocked its head and asked, "Why? Why? Wash why?"

Her jaw fell towards the floor. "Are you talking? To me?"

"Well duh," the white mouse scolded. "Do you see any other idiots scrubbing?"

"Now now, Johnny, be nice, the girl is obviously dim-witted," the brown mouse whispered. In a slightly louder voice, "Are you alright, my dear?"

She blinked rapidly, shook her head, but the three animals remained, apparently waiting for her answer. She tried to decide which question deserved the first response, but...

"I told you the poor thing was slow," murmured Brown Mouse. "She's obviously suffered years of abuse; the trauma has addled her wits."

"Oh, right, one psyche class, and NOW you're an expert!" White Mouse's voice practically dripped sarcasm. "You're the one who wanted to talk to it, so...TALK!"

"Excuse me, I don't mean to be rude, but, animals don't talk, so I'm finally losing it, aren't I?"

Brown, White, and Blue turned to the kneeling girl. "Well, what do you know, it can be taught!" announced White, while Blue chirped, "why? Why? Why?"

Brown Mouse stepped forward. "I am Gerald, my friend, Johnny," he pointed to the white mouse, then gestured to the bird, "and this is Claudius. We were curious as to your rather frantic cleaning of an already spotless floor, and in your underclothing, no less."

She stood, folded her hands behind her neck as she had been taught, and answered, eyes lowered, "I am Cyndi, and my step-mother sold me to this house to serve the Master faithfully, and to fulfill his every whim."

At this pompous declaration, the bird fell off the window ledge, laughing, while the mice had to support each other, their hysterics hook them so.

"'Serve the Master'?" squealed Johnny. "Have you even met him yet?"

"Well..." This was a point which had been bothering her ever since her arrival. She had been left to her own devices for the past two days, and, assuming that her situation remained unchanged -- that she was still a slave -- she found her way to the kitchen and set about her normal tasks. She had neither seen nor heard another human being; in fact, the mice and bird were the first creatures she had encountered since taking her step-mother's "potion."

"You haven't, and you probably will not," Gerald informed her. "He is very...selective about his companions."

"Nothing ever changes; I never am good enough to be a 'companion'," Cyndi whispered. Raising her voice she said, "I don't associate with the family, anyway."

The two mice exchanged a glance as the bird preened. "I don't think you understand, dear." Gerald looked pleadingly at his friend, who shrugged, rolled his eyes, and scratched at his ear with a hind paw. Seeing that he was on his own, he sighed. "You were not brought here to clean, but to regain your lost freedom. You have the run of the house, the grounds...except the forest. THAT is strictly forbidden."

"Yea, keep your fat ass outta Danny-boy's woods! He don't need any OOFFF!"

Gerald removed his elbow from Johnnie's ribs. "The master would prefer that you avoid the forest; there are many dangers, and your safety is f prime importance to him."

"But why? Why should this guy care what happens to me?" Cyndi glared at the mice, dismissing the bird entirely. "I'm not good enough for him to even speak to; Why should it matter if I get hurt, or lost, or whatever?"

"Denial," chirped Claudius, "Denial!"

***

He prowled the halls, growling softly. The girl's scent was everywhere, and the unaccustomed odor was driving him mad. To make matters worse, the fool had wandered to the edge of the woods, marking the path he took to his retreat. Though he had requested her presence, the whole point had been to save her from the violent mistreatment she had received at the hands of her step-mother; it had never been his intention to make her an appetizer. It was becoming obvious, however, that eating her was indeed a very real danger.

Exiting by a small side-door, he inhaled the night air deeply, and then grunted in surprise as the now-familiar aroma dazzled his senses. He caught himself pacing toward it and deliberately turned away, slipping quietly into the forest.

***

She stood at the head of the small game trail, arguing with herself. More than a week had passed since the hallucination (to think of it as anything else would call into question her sanity) about the talking animals, and now she spent her days wandering aimlessly through the castle, listing all of the negative traits she had been told she possessed. Now, faced with the prospect of defying her elusive master's orders, she tried to convince herself that she wouldn't enter the forest, despite the fact that she had stood in this same spot every day since those damn mice had spoken.

"It's not like the guy actually told you not to go into the woods," she reasoned aloud. "Hell, not only has he never told you anything, you don't even know what he bastard looks like! And what kind of man sends two rodents and a bird to deliver messages, anyway?"

A soft flutter caught her attention, as the bird (Claus? Cleo?) settled onto his perch just at her eye-level. "Going, going?" he demanded, "Where? Why? Where?"

"Look, you, I don't have time to wonder whether I'm going crazy, being locked up in this...this...You really do talk, don't you?" The last was whispered appealingly, hopefully.

"I talk, you stay, fat ass-fat ass!" the bird replied.

Cyndi glanced over her shoulder to see the offending portion of her anatomy. At five feet even, one hundred-ten pounds, with long, slightly curled hair waving to her waist, she was hardly what one would consider fat, yet she was extraordinarily sensitive about her bottom, mostly because she feared her numerous beatings may have caused it to swell.

"I'll stay if you stop insulting me," she grumbled. 

"Danny-boy, Danny-boy, woof-woof," Claudius informed her. "Eat-up, eat-up"

Cyndi shook her head. "What idiot taught you to speak? Lousy bird, stupid mice...What's next? Tap dancing trees? I am so done here." With that, she started down the path, hoping to find something, anything, that made sense.

The further she moved from the castle, the darker the surrounding forest seemed to become. She tried to convince herself that it was all in her head, but...talking animals...The trees looked as though they were pressing in towards her, attempting to block her passage. Again, she told herself that this was all her imagination; trees couldn't really move, and even if they could, she was so insignificant that they wouldn't are where she went.

A twig snapped behind her, and she whirled, just catching a glimpse of a shadow slipping from the path. Her heart hammering in her chest, she began to walk faster, now hoping to find shelter, perhaps another human being to confirm that she was just imagining things. A low growl came from the surrounding wilderness, and, hugging her arms about her, she ran.

***

Damn it! The fool girl had ignored the bird, and here she was, running down his favorite hunting track. Instinct conquered reason, and he immediately gave chase. She slipped, grabbed a tree to pull herself up, and he pounced. His paws landed squarely between her shoulders, pushing her ample chest against the rough bark; his teeth clamped on the back of her neck as his claws racked through her clothing.

She struggled, fighting as hard as she could to free herself, and a rogue punch caught him in the eye. Taken by surprise, he hesitated for only the briefest of moments, yet that was enough -- she was off and running again. 

She looked back over her shoulder, the enormous shape pursuing her filling her vision. As she turned her attention back to the path, a branch snagged the ragged hem of her dress, throwing her to her knees. 

He fell on her, tearing the rest of her tattered garment to shreds, slashing a series of shallow gashing into her shoulder. Seeing her bloodied and naked, his lust overwhelmed his hunger, and he grasped her ankles, forcing her onto her back. She clawed at the ground, but the beast easily overpowered her, yanking her legs wide.

He leaned over her, panting, and ran his long, rough tongue along her breast, flicking the cherry red nipple. She screamed, and he chuckled, licking her other breast, rubbing the head of his tremendous cock against her clit. Her resistance only inflamed his passions, and he decided that further humiliation was in order.

He twisted over her body, holding her hands down simply by kneeling on her forearms, and began a thorough inspection of her pussy, using his claws to hold her labia open as he sniffed and licked at her clit. Her cries urged him to slide one long claw deep into her cunt, careful not to damage her and thus lessen his own pleasure.

His dick stroked her cheek and hair, teasing him, testing his patience; he growled "Take it in your mouth now."

"No, please don't do this!" Cyndi begged, "Please stop let me go!"

"Suck my cock, and I may not eat you," was his only reply.

She screwed her eyes shut tight and opened her mouth wide, not sure that she would be able to fit even the head in, but she needn't have worried. As soon as he saw that her lips were gaping, he forced his way deep into her throat, snarling fiercely as he felt the warmth of her tongue, the scrape of her teeth. 

She was gagging, crying, gasping for breath each time he withdrew, but each time he managed to shove more and more of his cock down her gullet. Her breasts heaved against his stomach as she fought for air, and he forced his tongue deep into her pussy, his teeth grazing her clit.

She squirmed under him, unwilling pleasure pushing through the pain. He pulled his sopping, drooling penis from her jaws, and ordered, "On your knees, bitch."

"Oh no, I'm begging you..." Her plea was cut short by a swift slap across the face and, sobbing, she rolled onto her knees.

He grabbed her long hair, wound it around one paw, and began spanking her ass, hard, watching the creamy flesh turn a bright, angry red. She was whimpering and imploring him to stop, but it was far too late -- it had been from the moment that she'd stepped foot on the game trail.

Keeping a tight grip on her hair, he ran his paws over the purple, welted cheeks of her ass, gripped her hips tightly, and thrust all nine inches into her tight cunt. As his balls connected with her clit, she screeched, her whole body convulsed around him.

"That's right, you filthy slut," he roared, "Cum on this cock, cum hard for your master." He thrust, head to balls, hard and fast. He pulled her by the hair into a kneeling position, allowing him free access to her tits. He pinched and pulled at her nipples, leaving little trails of blood wherever his talons touched her tender flesh. Wrapping an arm about her waist, he hauled her off the ground, putting her full weight onto his cock as he ground her hard against it. 

The feeling of wave after wave of clenching muscles around his dick was taking its toll, and he felt his balls tighten. Howling into the cool night air, he ripped his cock free of her body, spun her, and threw her to the ground. He straddled her, aiming his prick straight at her face. He felt his own muscles tensing, contracting, changing, as his orgasm crashed through him. Stream after stream of jism flew from the head of his dick, splattering across her face, as his body withered and shrank, leaving a shuddering young man where the beast had been.

***

His head hung down as he tried desperately to regain his equilibrium. Lying at his feet, dirty and literally drenched with semen, was the shivering form of Cyndi, the girl he had wanted to rescue. Instead, he had brutally raped her -- and he had enjoyed every second of it. He found that he was already planning the next instance, thinking of more twisted and depraved things which he would force her to do. 

"Well, well, well, the Beast strikes again!"

He whirled, searching for the source of the voice. "Who's there?" he demanded, "Reveal yourself!"

"Dumb ass, down here!"

"Johnnie, please, now is not the time for your, ummm, commentary."

He dropped to his knees beside the log, studying the mice who, for so many long years, had been his only companions.

"I think right now is the perfect time for commentary!" Johnnie protested. "Just look at that slut! That is one well-fucked ho! Just look at all that pussy juice..."

"I said enough!" Gerald insisted, "The boy feels guilty enough without you."

For a moment, all three males studied Daniel's handiwork; semi-conscious, battered and bruised, numerous pin-prick wounds over breasts, legs, buttocks. A scarlet hand print marred one cheek. Daniel blushed as he felt a stirring between his legs. It definitely was not guilt he was feeling.

"What should I do?" he wondered aloud. 

"Shag her raw!" announced Johnnie.

"Oh, shut up, you idiot!" Gerald grumbled. "Take her home, clean her up, and decide after."

"You really have no balls, do you? Bitch is naked and practically begging for it! Ride 'er hard, Danny!"

Daniel slid his hands up the dazed girl's thighs, his eyes fixed on her hardened nipples, swollen pussy. He lay full-length upon her, and a soft moan escaped from his lips. Without being truly aware of what he was doing, he felt the head of his now-human cock slip into her hot, wet cunt. He moved his hips gently, reveling in the tight sheath that gripped and massaged his swollen cock.

Her eyes opened slightly, and she gasped at the sight of a young, handsome stranger thrusting into her, a slight smile on his face. She reached for him, afraid this was all just a dream, that she was still being attacked by...No, she would never think of the nightmare she had lived through -- this gorgeous new arrival would keep her safe.

When her arms wrapped around his neck, her legs around his hips, he lowered his mouth to hers, kissing her deeply, tasting himself on her lips. She urged him on, twisting her fingers through his hair and tightening her legs to pull him deeper, harder into her much abused cunny.

Pleasure washed through her, and Cyndi screamed, "Harder, I'm gonna cum! Please more!"

He kneaded her tits as he quickened his pace, plunging head to balls, harder and faster. He reached one hand down and played with her clit, feeling her orgasm rip through her body, driving him over the edge.

"Oh, FUCKKKKK! He roared, plowing in and out of the convulsing twat. He threw his head back, hearing her screams of pleasure as he came over and over.

Daniel collapsed, sensing her enfolding him, welcoming his prone form with her whole body. His head rested between her breasts as the echoes of her satisfaction rippled over his cock. Surrendering to sensation, he closed his eyes, fell asleep.