Page 164 of Twisted Royals

I fidgeted again in the chair and found out again just how bizarrely hard its frame was beneath the appearance of cushioned upholstery. I learned later that Papa Bear has a little bit of back pain from his time on the front lines, where stealth often required him to fold up his massive body into spaces much too small for comfort. The hard chair helps with that.

It definitely didn't make for the sort of seating experience I wanted — especially right then, when the naughtiest possible instinct had begun to drive me towards some place where I could seek release from the erotic tension that had gripped my limbs so forcefully. I looked around the cozy living room, taking in the fireplace, the coffee table, and the other two chairs. I got up, swallowing hard and blushing a bit at the way even that movement seemed to make the fire between my thighs flare up.

I could still taste the wonderful flavors of the risotto. I ran my tongue around the inside of my mouth, in search of more of that deliciousness, and the simple act seemed so sensuous, so naughty even, that I put my left hand — my right had lingered between my legs as I rose — up to my right breast, and pinched my tiny nipple gently through the silk.

I bit my lip again, but this time it didn't prevent the soft whimper from escaping. The next chair seemed promising: not quite as big or as tall, covered in blue fabric upholstery, it seemed almost to call out, Come sit here and do the wicked thing you're thinking about.

I hadn't ever done it, really. Well, not much. It seemed, well, a little common, to be honest. Princesses had other people to do that for them, I always thought when I considered it, and my hand had strayed down there just to see. That in turn made me think of my boyfriends, though really, I don't think they deserved that name. My lays, maybe.

Frankly, I had to admit that I wasn't even positive I'd ever had an orgasm. Things had always seemed so confusing, when my lays had come into their condoms and then had asked "You okay?" or even, more directly, "Did you come?"

After a while I had learned just to say, "Fine," or "Oh yeah," because the first few times the result, from the guy's hand or (worse) his tongue, had produced such terrible conflict in me. I kind of thought I had come, but the experience had made me decide that orgasms couldn't really be all that.

Here in this cottage where I knew I shouldn't be, having eaten food that didn't belong to me, with the horrid thing my grandfather had said still at the back of my mind for some reason, it became entirely clear that I had in fact never had an orgasm. Indeed, despite fucking several guys, I hadn't even known what my pussy felt like, when I got truly aroused.

I had known, at age eighteen, that I might be one of the many women who have trouble lubricating, and so in preparation for my promiscuous sex life, I had informed myself about the excellent artificial solution. Beyond the slight discomfort of losing my hymen, the very first time, I at least hadn't experienced any pain while fucking my lays.

As I instinctively rubbed at the seam of my jeans, my eyes on the blue chair, however, I understood that actually I didn't have a problem with lubrication. In fact, right now, I got anxious that my problem might lie in the other direction, because to my mortification I could actually feel a wet spot on the denim.

A wave of hot shame traveled up my neck to my face as I rubbed my damp fingers even more firmly up and down the bumpy, clingy fabric in a helpless search for more friction. My blush took me by surprise: I knew I hadn't managed to free myself from all the modesty my royal parents and my elite, old-fashioned schooling had taught me, but I had thought at least that I could do what I wanted, sexually, without feeling like I would somehow get punished for my pleasure.

Avoiding the notice of the paparazzi was one thing — that just represented good sense, so that I could live my life outside the public eye, without having to answer to the press or the public. The thought that some authority figure might impose some other kind of consequence for dampening my jeans with my pussy's wanton need, and the way that thought made me bite my lip and furrow my forehead, came as a highly unwelcome discovery.

It's because they might come back, I told myself. It's not because of what grandfather said about the horrid discipline horse.

But that slight recollection of my conversation with my grandfather brought back the memory of Madame Grévy making me kneel on the terrible thing in the storage closet. My cheeks burned even hotter. The cloudy idea I had formed in my head of who might actually inhabit this cottage in the palace wood — whose risotto I had eaten and whose chair I had sat in — seemed to blend together with those memories, so troublingly that I pushed it all away… and went to sit in the blue chair

It seemed to envelop me like a marshmallow, so soft that I sank what felt like two feet into its seat cushion. For a split second I thought it suited me perfectly — that it had to be the most comfortable chair I'd ever sat in. I lost track of my limbs in its gentle, caressing depths, and I became conscious only of my right hand between my thighs and my left hand, still toying naughtily with my breasts inside the silk t-shirt.

Then, responding to an overwhelming bodily impulse, I thrust my hips forward, trying to match my fingers rhythm, feeling like in a few more moments I could get myself close to a release from the irrational lust that had gripped me. I found that I couldn't get any traction at all with my backside. The movement felt completely unsatisfying — in fact, it made me a little queasy.

I stopped. I took my hands away. I felt embarrassment starting to build up in my mind.

My mouth twisted to the side as I seemed to teeter on a knife's edge of indecision. On one side, I could get the hell out of the weird, over-soft chair, and then out of the strange cottage where I didn't belong. If I absolutely had to masturbate — which seemed unlikely from the perspective of that rational side of the choice — I could do it in the privacy of my bedroom, the way a normal princess did if she felt that shameful urge, though really as a princess she should know better.

On the other side, I could get out of that chair and try the third one.

CHAPTER 4

Goldilocks

"Let me be very clear," His Serenity told me. "I would be unendingly grateful if you could take the rehabilitation of the princess off my hands."

"And," I said, looking the kindly old monarch steadily, though respectfully, straight in the eye, "you're fine with whatever methods we use?"

"That's precisely what I'm saying," His Serenity replied. "Discipline in my day… well, it seems to me that it had a certain leeway that allowed it to be more effective. You special-forces folks are experts in the application of force, and I know from experience that when you wish to inflict, shall we say, severe discomfort, but without actually harming the subject, you have the requisite skill at your disposal. It's unconventional, of course, as modern standards go, but I'm hopeful that it may prove effective in straightening Her Royal Highness out before it's too late."

You mean Princess Goldilocks, Your Serenity? I didn't say it, but I thought it very hard. Karl, Hanna, and I had chuckled over Susanna's nickname more than once.

When I'd gotten the urgent summons from the crown prince, just as we had sat down to dinner — a particularly successful version of my favorite risotto recipe, if I did say so myself — this sort of mission hadn't been what I'd expected. My little team and I lived in our cottage on the palace grounds to provide snap security for His Serenity and the rest of the royal family, as well as any visiting VIP, should the need arise. Given the demands of the modern world, the need often did arise.

We were also still technically attached to Forthia's tiny military, which consisted of a single regiment. Two companies were palace guards who wore traditional uniforms and made everything look nice for the tourists — though they were also trained to defend the palace in the highly unlikely event of terrorist attack. A third, smaller company, to which Thomas, Valerie, and I belonged, were special forces.

Forthia remained proudly independent because of her extensive international financial interests. We secured those interests by any means necessary.

Or, apparently, we disciplined Forthia's wayward princess.

That was when my earpiece came alive.

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