Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 68691 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 343(@200wpm)___ 275(@250wpm)___ 229(@300wpm)
Sproul, my social secretary cum butler cum personal assistant, had briefed me on tonight’s event.
“I believe, sire,” he said, looking at me over his glasses, “that you’ll particularly enjoy tonight’s event.”
I yawned and stretched, looking out the window of our library. Yeah, my ancestors spared no expense building and furnishing the St. Venetia Palace, and the library was no exception. Leather-bound volumes lined the walls, and there were quite a few collectors’ items scattered about, the antique books opened to pages with especially beautiful coloring or calligraphy. In fact, one of the original Gutenberg bibles was a few feet to my right, enclosed in a glass case, the temperature carefully monitored, lighting carefully controlled.
“Oh really?” I said disinterestedly. “What going on tonight? Wine tasting? Bourbon tasting? Whiskey?”
Sproul frowned at me. I’d been so bored and disillusioned lately that I’d been drowning my sorrows in Jim, Jack, Johnnie and Jameson. The Four Horsemen had been my constant companions, the hard liquor carrying me through these painfully dull parties.
But Sproul continued to look me over disapprovingly. He’s been with us since I was a baby, and knew me inside out.
“Sire,” he said frostily, “maybe you should hold back tonight because there will be young ladies in attendance.”
Oh that. I slumped in my chair, already bored again.
“Whoop dee doo,” I grunted, twirling my finger in the air. “What else is new.”
It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. After all, I’m the Crown Prince of a small city-state, heir to a vast fortune, with every asset at my disposal. You want lands? I got ‘em. You want estates? I got ‘em. You want far-flung mysterious overseas holdings which could potentially be illegal, but assuredly worth billions? I got ‘em. So as you can tell, I’ve been hunted by young ladies ever since I was a baby. Okay, maybe it was their parents doing the hunting at that age, but seriously, as long as I can remember, girls have been throwing themselves at me non-stop.
“Oh Kristian,” they’d breathe, bosoms heaving theatrically, pushing out their boobs. “Oh Kristian!”
And I just fucking hated it. I fucking hated these “aristocrats,” the inbred air, the predatory looks, the way dollar signs practically appeared in their eyes, cartoon-like, when they saw me. So I wasn’t excited at all, but Sproul cleared his throat to clarify.
“Tonight the girls will be from Miss Carroll’s,” he said, shooting me a meaningful look.
Um, ok.
“So?” I asked, bored. “What about it?”
Sproul looked at me disapprovingly.
“Miss Carroll’s is known for accepting only the most eligible young ladies,” he said with a sniff. “None of the riff raff you’ve been associating with lately.”
And I rolled my eyes. Of course, Sproul knew what I’d been up to in my free time. It’s not that I hate women, I just can’t stand the type that populate these stuffy society events. They’re always so thin, so skinny with elbows jutting, knees knocking, that sometimes I want to offer them a hamburger out of pity. Yeah, a Big Mac with a large order of fries would be just the thing. The emaciated look doesn’t turn me on, you know? My type is a lot curvier, with ass, boobs, and a sweet, wet cunt. And I’m not shy about bedding them, I just do it on the downlow.
Take Mama, for instance. Yeah, that’s her name. I met the woman at a bar last week, around 3 a.m. after a boring dinner and drinks at the Austrian Embassy. They were raising money for something or other, I’d already forgotten, and I’d hit the Jiving Rooster for some liquid relaxation afterwards, the seedy dive joint just my style, a place where I could blend.
“Hey stranger,” a brunette breathed, approaching me as I downed another shot of bourbon. I took a deep breath slowly, inhaling through my nose. Damn, the burn felt so good, my esophagus on fire, a pit settling deep in my belly.
I turned to look at her. I wasn’t expecting much, most women at the Rooster are pretty beat-up looking, but this one was better … sort of. She had a tramp tat on her lower back, something big and ugly, but I couldn’t see clearly in the low light. Her boobs were barely held in by a halter, busting out on top, below, and both sides, and her midriff was bare, showing a little pooch, but whatever, that was my thing. I like flesh, jiggly, soft, the kind you can squeeze in the middle of a long orgasm, hold onto as you’re losing it. And this girl had more than a little extra, so I leaned back, appraising her leisurely.
“Hey,” I drawled. “What’s up?”
“Mister, you looking for some fun?” she breathed, pushing her chest forward. “For a price,” she smiled sultrily at me.
Oh shit. A professional. Well, I had nothing against working girls and WTF, maybe that’s what I needed tonight. Maybe that’s exactly what I needed to stir things up, get the donkey going.