Page 166 of Twisted Royals

I looked for the door to the bedroom. I found it — somehow I knew it could only lead there, to the room where they slept. Beyond it, undoubtedly, lay the three beds that went with the three bowls and the three chairs.

As if in the grip of a magical trance, I walked slowly toward the door, to the left of the fireplace. I still had my hands up in front of my face, and I took a breath through my nostrils and noticed how the fingers of my right hand smelled. I whimpered at how transparently that aroma betrayed my need, at how I could smell on my fingertips the musky, forbidden scent of my pussy.

Instead of stopping, turning, fleeing, though, I kept walking.

I couldn't keep breathing in that mortifying aroma, though. Something utterly wayward inside me decided — if you could even call it that — to make it even worse. I don't know how I managed it, given the sheer body-mechanical issues involved, but as I walked, I put my right hand back down the front of my jeans and just as I actually saw the beds, my fingertips reached my still-slick clit.

I guess I'd expected them to look different from each other, because that would have fit with the chairs. A king, a queen, and a twin, maybe. But in fact, three double beds stood along the wall of the big room, each one with a nightstand that clearly belonged to it, on the right side of the bed. No fancy bedsteads or headboards: just a mattress atop a foundation, covered with a green comforter — the shade of green, I felt pretty sure, that represented the official uniform color of Forthia's little army. That made me furrow my brow, though I guessed I shouldn't have felt any surprise: who else but members of the armed forces could the residents of this house be?

I took a step toward the nearest bed. The movement of my legs, with my hand down between them, brought enough friction to make me cry out, softly. A new wave of heat rushed into my cheeks. I did my best to stop thinking about any of it as I climbed onto the bed, on my hands — well, one hand — and knees, fluttering my fingertips against my clit as I did and thinking that this wouldn't take long.

I would put a desperately needed end to this apparently irresistible physiological necessity and then I would get the fuck out of here. Change my identity and leave the country, maybe.

The bed felt like a rock. Like, literally. I felt my face twist into a sort of comic double-take what-the-fuck type of expression. I knew instantly that it had to belong to the one whose chair I had sat in first, who apparently possessed a body made of diamond. It didn't actually injure me, but the mattress had no give at all, as far as I could tell. My body wanted to feel some elasticity, some push back for the shameless thrusting my hips demanded, but this surface wasn't resilient: it felt positively resistant.

The second bed, of course, had the opposite problem — just as the second chair had done, it seemed to suck me in. I spent even less time there than I had on the first bed, though it did take some effort to climb off it, on the opposite side, where the third bed awaited me.

As soon as I got onto it, I knew nothing could stop me from having my first real orgasm, right there and then. It happened in a flash: inside my now soaking jeans I pressed my fingers deep into my needy pussy, I thrust my hips, I found what had to be my g-spot, and my body exploded into a gasping climax.

The problem was that I couldn't stop.

CHAPTER 5

Goldilocks

I lost count of the orgasms after I'd had three of them. By that time, I had collapsed onto the bed with my jeans pulled down around my knees and my t-shirt hiked up above my breasts. I humped my right hand as if I were riding a runaway stallion.

My left hand pinched my nipples, moving between them, experimenting with the alternation of pain and pleasure it brought when I pinched hard, and held the little buds between thumb and forefinger for a long time, and then released them right when my clit seemed to need it most.

Then another even more shameful thought, or instinct, or maybe fantasy took hold, and I found that my left hand had moved behind me. I squeezed my bottom cheeks as I thrust my pussy against my soaking wet hand, my fingers going up and down, in and out, in a wild irregular rhythm.

At first, I squeezed gently, as if I just wanted to see what it felt like, and then I squeezed harder, and I cried out into the pillow that sat just in front of my face, and came again. I shouldn't… I shouldn't touch my bottom that way… I shouldn't do any of this, even though I was a princess… especially because I was a princess… a princess under house arrest, who would certainly reap the consequences…

I lifted my left hand and brought it down with a slap on my right bottom cheek. A flash of pain went through my backside, fading to a sort of dull glow.

Consequences… the kind of consequences a naughty princess receives, when she breaks into someone else's home. But she would never get just a single spank, would she?

I started to spank myself in earnest, but even as I did it, wildly thinking I would punish myself so no one else would have the right to, I understood that something had gone very wrong with me. I spanked myself, really, because to my mortification it felt good — not just right, as in, Princess Goldilocks misbehaved and according to the rules she needed old-fashioned bare-bottom discipline.

No, it felt good, as in, I couldn't stop coming as I made the halves my ass into warm, pink globes that I couldn't help stroking gently after each spank, molding them and cherishing them on my fingertips. I knew I had to be punished for that, too, but I understood that I wouldn't be the one to do it.

And… and I knew it had to happen differently. They… the owners… the residents of this cottage… they would have a way to punish me with my pants down that wouldn't feel good. They would whip me, the way they used to do to naughty princesses. And…

My left hand lingered on a spank. My middle finger found itself in the shameful forbidden valley between the pert cheeks. I touched myself there: my smallest opening, my most private place. I had to bite the pillow to keep from crying out as the biggest orgasm of all washed through me, just at that light touch and the thought of what it might mean.

I didn't even think about getting up from the bed, then, though I knew I had achieved my final goal, wayward and wanton though it had been. I didn't even realize how thoroughly I had exhausted my body. Sleep came over me as if I had sat myself on the beach with my back to a tidal wave.

"Your Royal Highness," a deep voice said. "It's time to wake up."

I hadn't had any dreams. None that I could remember anyway. Still, when I heard that voice it sounded like it called to me from another world, though I couldn't figure out which one corresponded to the "real" world. For some reason, that's what my brain decided to fixate on, for several seconds, whether the man talking to me wanted me to awaken into regular everyday reality or into some fantasy universe.

Well, I probably do know the reason. I wanted desperately to persuade myself that I didn't have to go back to the real world, because that would mean dealing with the consequences of what I had done. Not just what I'd done in the cottage, in fact, but everything I'd done, including the stuff my grandfather had called me on the carpet to answer for.

Also, I did feel like I had started to wake up not into the world I'd left behind but into a strange new one, because of course I was in a bed I'd never woken up in before, in a house I hadn't known existed until a few hours ago — and I had put my body through something pretty major. I mean, I know from the standpoint of the human species as a whole, masturbating to an absurd number of orgasms doesn't really represent anything particularly unusual, but for my body it felt a lot more significant than losing my virginity had seemed.

I started to remember — or, maybe more accurately, I started to process the memories. They were right there in my mind: I didn't have to reach for them, I just had to acknowledge them and admit they belonged to me, and above all to realize that, yes, I had done all those naughty things.

The three bowls. The three chairs, with the third one left in ruins. The three beds, and me in them… in the third bed…

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