"Eins, Zwei, Drei" - "Victoria" Erotic Fanfiction
Fancy a jaunt in a bawdy house with everyone’s favourite naughty-but-nice German aristocrat, Prince Ernest? Then step inside…
USUAL DISCLAIMERS APPLY Rated NC-17. Set during Episode 5. No nuns, guaranteed.
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Eins, Zwei, Drei
“I would like to teach you something.”
Prince Ernest raised an eyebrow at the little tart. “You will find me a ready pupil.”
“We have a saying in England: ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’.”
There was a different tart in front of him now. There were three in total - his chosen three. He had chosen the room, too. It was the largest in the bawdy house, tastefully decorated and perfectly suited to his energetic needs.
They circled him where he stood at the foot of a voluminous bed, stroking him and murmuring their appreciation as they went. Three arch little tarts in frilly pastel dresses. The bold one, Lydia, was in front of him again. He feigned lack of understanding. “But we are not in Rome.” He placed the tip of a finger against her rouged lips and she bit it before moving on.
“No, we are in England so you must do as the English do.”
“Ah, yes, ‘le vice anglais’, I have heard it is very fashionable. Must we be quite so robust this evening? I was hoping for something a touch more - whimsical.” He offered them his plaintive expression: a pout with eyebrows turned up at the inner corners.
The diminutive brunette with the rounded figure stopped in front of him. Her eyes were like the blue-grey skies of an English morning and were impossibly large. Delightful!
She caressed his cheek. “You have a tender heart, my prince.”
“You shall certainly be tender when we have finished with you,” said Lydia, “but, no, there will be no excessive violence tonight.” She fetched him a slap across his fine German arse and the girls giggled.
“Wicked enchantresses, all of you,” he cried, turning his head to keep up with their wheeling. “But do you not realise that a man should be a man, that he should take control?”
A break appeared in the circle and now the bed was all he could see. Three pairs of hands spun him to face in the opposite direction and pushed him backwards onto the mattress. He sprawled in mock surprise, once neat hair falling over his forehead. “No, we do not,” said Lydia, climbing astride. “We are just a trio of ignorant harlots.”
“You lie,” he grinned. “Teach me, teach me!” Raising himself on his elbows, he met her descending kiss. Lip-flesh slid, tongues entwined; ah, it was so good not to have to hold back! The chaste kisses he dispensed when wooing a lady of his own rank had their special charm but sometimes he wanted simply to sink into carnal abandon. Expression blissful, eyes closed, he sat up straight, freeing his hands. After a brief safari through Lydia’s tortuous ringlets, he reached one hand out to the left and one to the right. Mm, definitely bubby on the left side. He slid his hand down between corset and skin, and palpated more than a handful of buoyant flesh. His right hand snaked its way under a thousand layers of skirt and knickerbocker to find an elegant thigh clad in smooth cotton topped with lace and even smoother skin. He ran his hand over this wonderful juxtaposition again and again.
At the same time, they stripped him. Not all the way. They had taste, these girls. They liked to torment themselves. His black stock was untied and drawn away from his neck with the flourish of a magician pulling ribbons from a hat. They helped him off with his tailcoat and waistcoat like gentleman tailors (his exposed hands immediately rushing back to the warmth of the world beneath women’s clothing). They pulled down his braces and opened his shirt at the neck. Not one of them could resist stroking his handsome throat. Not one could resist peering into the gape of his shirt to spy what treasure lay beyond.
Lydia drew away and pressed another into his field of view. “This is Ruby,” she said, “our newest girl.”
“Good evening, bright new Ruby,” said Prince Ernest, smiling congenially at the tart whose bubby still swelled under his hand. He nodded crisply. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
It was the tiny plump one. She looked at him shyly. Her mouth was an absolute strawberry. His left hand emerged, bringing out a fair bit of her breast as it did so. Both hands now at his disposal, he framed her face and planted a kiss on those juicy lips, growling his approval of her wholesomeness as he did so. He looped an arm about her waist. She wriggled like a young cat not yet certain if or where it enjoys being petted. Prince Ernest decided it was time to demonstrate the moves a woman cannot resist. He lifted her and swung her down onto the bed.
She was a voluptuous thing, excesses tightly reined in by her undergarments. From the hopeful way she looked up at him, he could tell she felt less appealing than her companions. How to reassure her that he found her most desirable? His gaze wandered down to her bosom. Ample was not the word for it - it heaved like rising bread. It was certainly her best feature and he suspected she was rather proud of it. “Oh, Ruby,” he said, making his words purr, “I think I shall have to make you a particular favourite.” And with that, he fell to nuzzling her bubbies, suckling on rosiness, moulding the yielding softness against his cheeks.
Ruby cooed at the attention, chewing on her bottom lip. Then she started laughing.
The prince’s head came up. He looked perplexed. “What is all this?”
“Your moustache. It is terribly tickly.”
The serious expression cracked and he chuckled along with her. “Have you never kissed a man with a moustache before?”
“No.”
“Well, moustaches are very popular in Germany these days. They have many unconventional uses. Never let it be said we Germans do not take care of our womenfolk.”
“I do not understand.”
“Let me show you.” Eyes locked on hers, open mouth smiling as it slid against her, he began to head south.
“First rate haunches!” It was Lydia again. She slapped a hand on his hip then ran her palm over it and down his thigh. “Never before have I seen a man fill a pair of breeches so well. Why, these muscles are so splendid, you could be a racehorse.” She flung a leg over his back. “Is that what you are, my prince, a thoroughbred? Gee up, horsey!” Thighs squeezed his waist.
The prospect of such fun was too much for him to resist. “I’ll be back,” he told the disappointed Ruby. Then he slithered to the floor, the raven-haired tart still in place, and began to canter about the bedroom.
Squeals ensued. The girls whirled about him as he tried the catch their skirts in his teeth. Hands rubbed his upper back, mussed his hair. More clothing was shed. He lost his breeches and stockings. Only Ruby was still relatively decent in her corset and knickerbockers. Lydia wore nothing at all from the waist up. And the third one…
A new set of thighs took ownership of him. It was the third girl, the demure one with the neat coiffure. Or maybe not so demure. She squirmed against him, endeavouring to bring her dainty flower in closer contact with his back. She leant forward and even through the material of his shirt, he could feel the peaks of her bubbies graze his skin. She kissed his ear. “Is that the quiet one?” he enquired.
“Yes. My name is Adelaide.”
“Adelaide, let down your black hair.” A cascade of shining locks fell before him. He hummed in satisfaction as she dragged them over his face.
Observing the pleasure Prince Ernest took in this seemed to inspire her. She plunged her fingers - and nose - into his hair. “Mm, you smell good, my prince,” she said in a voice as light and delicate as gauze. She ran her hand under his chin and lifted his head so she could lean over and take stock of upside-down handsomeness. “There are few Englishmen with cheekbones to equal those, and your hair and eyes are a pretty match.”
He smiled up at her as if he loved her.
A pillow hit them in the face.
“How tiresome!” someone yelled. “’Tis an orgy, not a place for billing and cooing.”
“Pick up that pillow, Adelaide,” he whispered, “and hold on.” He climbed to his feet with the slight young girl piggy-backed and armed, and rushed at Lydia, roaring as he went.
She made a leap for the bed but not before Adelaide fetched her a whallop across the behind.
“Nya-hah!” yelled Prince Ernest. “More of that later.”
Ruby was coming, both arms raised above her head, pillow clutched as if it were a vase ready to be broken across a villain’s head. She brought it down in such an artful fashion, she succeeded in striking both Adelaide and the prince on the back of the head one after the other. “Ouch!” yelped the pair. Prince Ernest’s eyebrow was aloft again. “Now you really will face my wrath.”
They struck. They screamed. They jumped up and down on the bed. Everywhere there was lovely flesh, flying hair, mangled clothing. Even the client in the room below joined in, beating out a rhythm on the ceiling with his cane. “By the Lord Harry, will you keep it down up there? I am trying to fuck.”
Prince Ernest snorted. He had paid more money than any other client that evening and no-one could tell him to stop. He was a prince! He always got what he wanted.
Extricating himself from the forest of limbs, he clambered off the bed and stood beside it. He looked down at the fine figure of a man he had become in his long, crumpled shirt, cockstand lifting it merrily at the front. He wrinkled his nose and guffawed.
The girls stopped what they were doing and turned to him, laughing alongside him at the sweetly obscene picture he made.
Prince Ernest swung his arms as if conducting an orchestra as he announced, “Mädchen, it is time to line up!”
Lydia took charge. She had played with the prince before and knew what to expect. She whispered advice and guided the others where necessary before throwing him a sultry look and pulling down her knickerbockers.
A trio of lovely bums. The girls were on all fours, facing away from him, their bums swaying in the air like apples ripe for plucking. All three were round, unblemished and quite pale. For now. “Wunderbar.” Prince Ernest stood at one end of the line, arm drawn back. “Eins, zwei, drei!” he shouted as he moved down the row, delivering sharp slaps to quivering flesh this way and that.
Those innocent buttocks soon grew rosy as he made the trip several times. Though the girls yelped in protest, the slaps merely stung, Prince Ernest being more interested in wobble than pain.
“My prince, you are too cruel,” lied Adelaide, pleading with him over her shoulder. “Our poor bums have surely done nothing to offend you.”
He pouted in sympathy. “Entschuldigung! Allow me to make amends.” He fell to his knees and to kissing her pert behind, licking the skin to soothe the burn while his hand swept along the entire scallop-edged line, offering comforting rubs and tickles farther down. His eyes followed his hand and saw two more bums wagging as they anticipated the ministrations of his loving mouth. When it made contact with places altogether more delicious, he relished their shouts of, “He knows! He is one of the ones who knows!” He was already part way to heaven when they pulled him up onto the bed and made a pietà of him in their arms.
The candelabras were burning low. From the room downstairs came moans of exquisite agony. Hands began to invade him, running under his shirt, pulling his thighs apart, caressing his face. He submitted to them utterly, sighing and allowing his head to fall back onto Lydia’s shoulder while his own hands contented themselves with a soft thigh each. The girls’ hands were gentle. They did not simply focus on stimulating him but on exploring him for their owners’ gratification. The hand under his shirt circled through the hair on his chest over and over as if it could not quite get the measure of this ineffably masculine trait. Another toyed with the bee-stung lips his moustache could not entirely hide. Someone was pushing up his sleeve and tracing the muscles of his forearm with her fingertips. Very soon, his own fingers were being sucked into a warm mouth. He groaned.
There were two hands tending to his steed. Then, abruptly, every hand rushed there to play. The sensation was myriad; he could not break it down, could not compass it. When he looked down, his cockstand was entirely hidden by swarming fingers. It would have been intimidating except the girls were covering his cheeks and brow in soft kisses at the same time. Tiny mewlings suggested they felt his pleasure as if it were their own.
Hands rubbing his inner thighs, hands hot on the muscular tension in his lower belly, hands frantic on his upstanding fellow. Whispers in his ear: “Let us see your pearly shower, my prince.” He offered them his plaintive expression again but this time, there was no artfulness in it. He began to pump his hips towards joy. “Mensch!” His warm gush overflowed. Encouraged by the “ooh”s and “ahh”s of his audience, he shook his hips. “Here is a little for you, my love. And for you. And for you.” “Ooh”s and “ahh”s turned to squeals that brought a schoolboy grin to his softening features. The girls laid him back on the bed to recover, pulling off his shirt at last and shedding the remainder of their own clothing. Contented, he placed his hands behind his head.
A moue appeared beside him. There was a girl kneeling there. “Ah, Ruby, I am sorry. I promised you so much.”
“I care not,” she said, shaking her light brown curls but her eyes flicked towards his lobcock all the same.
“Give me time and I shall make it up to you, liebchen.” He closed his eyes and bathed in the afterglow. He had paid for the whole night, after all. After a while, a certain thought came slithering along and would not be dismissed. His voice was low and velvety as he suggested, “A kiss may help.”
She kissed his lips.
He opened one eye and squinted at her.
“Oh! Silly me.” This time, she bent forwards and placed a lingering kiss on his nether regions.
“Now, that does help,” he said, although to the naked eye, his cock was unmoved.
An arpeggio of cries caught his attention. To his left, an entirely nude Adelaide and Lydia had decided to realise their unspent desire with one another. White bodies punctuated only by black locks and dark triangles between their thighs were entwined and Lydia was easing her way down Adelaide’s body with kisses.
“Now, that helps even more!” said the prince. “Is there any lovelier sight than two ladies engaged in amorous congress? I am so charmed by your English ways.”
Encouraged, Ruby began to touch him - light, undemanding touches here and there that allowed his body to warm again at its own pace.
Prince Ernest’s eyes, soft with fondness, roamed over the girls’ spectacle like one watching a magical ballet. When Ruby began to rain tiny kisses on his lips, he found inspiration in the oral escapades of his Sapphic friends and began to kiss her back with much luxuriation and tongue, eyes still fixed upon the privileged view. Then he heard Ruby say, “Well done, little Ernest!” and he knew his steed had risen again.
“Shall we play at St George?” she asked.
“Was? Was ist das?” He had forgotten where he was.
“You are St George,” she instructed as she pulled herself astride and squirmed into place, “ahh! And I am the dragon!” She began to ride him with intent.
The prince’s head tossed from side to side. “Then I swear these wyrms are delightful creatures! But beware, my fierce friend, I shall slay you in the end.”
Naught but a goad. Ruby placed the palms of her hands on his well-padded chest and balanced herself as she frolicked.
This was Prince Ernest’s second favourite sight; a young woman in the full bloom of her nakedness using his body for her own pleasure. Oh, what a harlot he was! His hands busied themselves with roundness: the curve of her hips, her soft belly, the breasts that hung so tantalisingly close…
But his eyes inevitably slid to the left. Was Lydia still a bee drinking from her friend’s fairest flower? How close was Adelaide to attaining her agony of bliss? What he discovered was even sweeter. Yes to all of the above but, in addition, Adelaide was watching him. Her hazel eyes, narrowed with rising joy, were feasting upon the corporeal delights before her and taking particular note of the revelation of the prince’s impressive physique.
He began to perform - not just sexually but theatrically. He thrust heavenwards, he moaned, he touched Ruby everywhere a woman wants to be touched and ensured Adelaide had a royal view.
At the very moment that Lydia, the happily drowning girl, reached up a hand and clutched the other’s breast, Adelaide’s eyes made contact with Prince Ernest’s. He smiled. He nodded. Her yearning expression transmuted into a look of ecstasy. She fell back and rolled, rolled.
Time for St George to fulfil his duty to his country. Prince Ernest whirled Ruby round, laid her flat on the bed and impaled her. The dragon’s death cries were piteous indeed. And greatly protracted. On and on he went, decimating her, and then even this merry prince’s benign features turned savage, racked as he was with male passion. He strained, he sweated, he bared his teeth, he -
Thwack!
His eyes went wide. “Was?”
Smack! Smack! Giggling, Lydia and Adelaide were taking turns to slap his arse as he fucked.
Until that day, he had not known it was possible to laugh at the top of one’s lungs as one rushed towards rapture. “Ja!” he cried as he bit his bottom lip and threw himself into his engagement with even greater vigour, hair flying as he raised himself up on his hands. It was traditional English slap and tickle they employed - sharp, teasing slaps that revelled in the springiness of firm buttocks that flew back from his hips like wings on a helm. And tickles that sent arrows through his loins, touches that fluttered up between his cheeks…
“Ahh!” he cried as a fingertip grazed his roundmouth. “Witches, all! Enchantresses! Wicked, wicked women!” and under their terrible schooling, he reached his second little death. He collapsed on top of Ruby, grateful for her bountiful shape, while the other two collapsed on top of him. “My prince”, “sweet prince”, “darling Prince Ernest” they murmured in his ear as he floated on divine oblivion.
“Imagine there is no second ‘e’ - Ern’st,” he said.
He and Adelaide lay propped up on pillows, sharing an apple and watching with mild interest as Ruby and Lydia cavorted. “It is not really black,” he mused as he stroked the tart’s dark hair straggling over his chest. “Hardly a shade darker than my own.”
She looked up at him in feigned remorse then took a lock of that hair and laid it across her upper lip in imitation of his most splendid moustache.
“What a handsome gentleman,” he purred and they both took a laughing bite from the apple.
Prince Ernest sighed. He felt mellow and carefree, high as a lark, his only concern being that he had taken none of the women to paradise through his own endeavours that evening. He sought to rectify his failure by directing the actions of the amorous girls. After placing them in a series of highly athletic positions he had only ever seen depicted on Greek vases, he bade them lie side by side facing him and fondle each other’s flowers as they kissed. “Yes, yes,” he encouraged, “like that. Now, Ruby, touch her upon her pearl. No, not there - her pearl. Her pearl. Du lieber Gott, you do not know what her pearl is? I shall demonstrate.” He began to stroke the demure, the shy, the angelic Adelaide’s tenderest spot, face pressed into her neck as he did so.
…all unawares that the three wantons were winking at each other behind his back.
USUAL DISCLAIMERS APPLY Rated NC-17. Set during Episode 5. No nuns, guaranteed.
Icon credit: my_golden_boots
Eins, Zwei, Drei
“I would like to teach you something.”
Prince Ernest raised an eyebrow at the little tart. “You will find me a ready pupil.”
“We have a saying in England: ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’.”
There was a different tart in front of him now. There were three in total - his chosen three. He had chosen the room, too. It was the largest in the bawdy house, tastefully decorated and perfectly suited to his energetic needs.
They circled him where he stood at the foot of a voluminous bed, stroking him and murmuring their appreciation as they went. Three arch little tarts in frilly pastel dresses. The bold one, Lydia, was in front of him again. He feigned lack of understanding. “But we are not in Rome.” He placed the tip of a finger against her rouged lips and she bit it before moving on.
“No, we are in England so you must do as the English do.”
“Ah, yes, ‘le vice anglais’, I have heard it is very fashionable. Must we be quite so robust this evening? I was hoping for something a touch more - whimsical.” He offered them his plaintive expression: a pout with eyebrows turned up at the inner corners.
The diminutive brunette with the rounded figure stopped in front of him. Her eyes were like the blue-grey skies of an English morning and were impossibly large. Delightful!
She caressed his cheek. “You have a tender heart, my prince.”
“You shall certainly be tender when we have finished with you,” said Lydia, “but, no, there will be no excessive violence tonight.” She fetched him a slap across his fine German arse and the girls giggled.
“Wicked enchantresses, all of you,” he cried, turning his head to keep up with their wheeling. “But do you not realise that a man should be a man, that he should take control?”
A break appeared in the circle and now the bed was all he could see. Three pairs of hands spun him to face in the opposite direction and pushed him backwards onto the mattress. He sprawled in mock surprise, once neat hair falling over his forehead. “No, we do not,” said Lydia, climbing astride. “We are just a trio of ignorant harlots.”
“You lie,” he grinned. “Teach me, teach me!” Raising himself on his elbows, he met her descending kiss. Lip-flesh slid, tongues entwined; ah, it was so good not to have to hold back! The chaste kisses he dispensed when wooing a lady of his own rank had their special charm but sometimes he wanted simply to sink into carnal abandon. Expression blissful, eyes closed, he sat up straight, freeing his hands. After a brief safari through Lydia’s tortuous ringlets, he reached one hand out to the left and one to the right. Mm, definitely bubby on the left side. He slid his hand down between corset and skin, and palpated more than a handful of buoyant flesh. His right hand snaked its way under a thousand layers of skirt and knickerbocker to find an elegant thigh clad in smooth cotton topped with lace and even smoother skin. He ran his hand over this wonderful juxtaposition again and again.
At the same time, they stripped him. Not all the way. They had taste, these girls. They liked to torment themselves. His black stock was untied and drawn away from his neck with the flourish of a magician pulling ribbons from a hat. They helped him off with his tailcoat and waistcoat like gentleman tailors (his exposed hands immediately rushing back to the warmth of the world beneath women’s clothing). They pulled down his braces and opened his shirt at the neck. Not one of them could resist stroking his handsome throat. Not one could resist peering into the gape of his shirt to spy what treasure lay beyond.
Lydia drew away and pressed another into his field of view. “This is Ruby,” she said, “our newest girl.”
“Good evening, bright new Ruby,” said Prince Ernest, smiling congenially at the tart whose bubby still swelled under his hand. He nodded crisply. “I am very pleased to meet you.”
It was the tiny plump one. She looked at him shyly. Her mouth was an absolute strawberry. His left hand emerged, bringing out a fair bit of her breast as it did so. Both hands now at his disposal, he framed her face and planted a kiss on those juicy lips, growling his approval of her wholesomeness as he did so. He looped an arm about her waist. She wriggled like a young cat not yet certain if or where it enjoys being petted. Prince Ernest decided it was time to demonstrate the moves a woman cannot resist. He lifted her and swung her down onto the bed.
She was a voluptuous thing, excesses tightly reined in by her undergarments. From the hopeful way she looked up at him, he could tell she felt less appealing than her companions. How to reassure her that he found her most desirable? His gaze wandered down to her bosom. Ample was not the word for it - it heaved like rising bread. It was certainly her best feature and he suspected she was rather proud of it. “Oh, Ruby,” he said, making his words purr, “I think I shall have to make you a particular favourite.” And with that, he fell to nuzzling her bubbies, suckling on rosiness, moulding the yielding softness against his cheeks.
Ruby cooed at the attention, chewing on her bottom lip. Then she started laughing.
The prince’s head came up. He looked perplexed. “What is all this?”
“Your moustache. It is terribly tickly.”
The serious expression cracked and he chuckled along with her. “Have you never kissed a man with a moustache before?”
“No.”
“Well, moustaches are very popular in Germany these days. They have many unconventional uses. Never let it be said we Germans do not take care of our womenfolk.”
“I do not understand.”
“Let me show you.” Eyes locked on hers, open mouth smiling as it slid against her, he began to head south.
“First rate haunches!” It was Lydia again. She slapped a hand on his hip then ran her palm over it and down his thigh. “Never before have I seen a man fill a pair of breeches so well. Why, these muscles are so splendid, you could be a racehorse.” She flung a leg over his back. “Is that what you are, my prince, a thoroughbred? Gee up, horsey!” Thighs squeezed his waist.
The prospect of such fun was too much for him to resist. “I’ll be back,” he told the disappointed Ruby. Then he slithered to the floor, the raven-haired tart still in place, and began to canter about the bedroom.
Squeals ensued. The girls whirled about him as he tried the catch their skirts in his teeth. Hands rubbed his upper back, mussed his hair. More clothing was shed. He lost his breeches and stockings. Only Ruby was still relatively decent in her corset and knickerbockers. Lydia wore nothing at all from the waist up. And the third one…
A new set of thighs took ownership of him. It was the third girl, the demure one with the neat coiffure. Or maybe not so demure. She squirmed against him, endeavouring to bring her dainty flower in closer contact with his back. She leant forward and even through the material of his shirt, he could feel the peaks of her bubbies graze his skin. She kissed his ear. “Is that the quiet one?” he enquired.
“Yes. My name is Adelaide.”
“Adelaide, let down your black hair.” A cascade of shining locks fell before him. He hummed in satisfaction as she dragged them over his face.
Observing the pleasure Prince Ernest took in this seemed to inspire her. She plunged her fingers - and nose - into his hair. “Mm, you smell good, my prince,” she said in a voice as light and delicate as gauze. She ran her hand under his chin and lifted his head so she could lean over and take stock of upside-down handsomeness. “There are few Englishmen with cheekbones to equal those, and your hair and eyes are a pretty match.”
He smiled up at her as if he loved her.
A pillow hit them in the face.
“How tiresome!” someone yelled. “’Tis an orgy, not a place for billing and cooing.”
“Pick up that pillow, Adelaide,” he whispered, “and hold on.” He climbed to his feet with the slight young girl piggy-backed and armed, and rushed at Lydia, roaring as he went.
She made a leap for the bed but not before Adelaide fetched her a whallop across the behind.
“Nya-hah!” yelled Prince Ernest. “More of that later.”
Ruby was coming, both arms raised above her head, pillow clutched as if it were a vase ready to be broken across a villain’s head. She brought it down in such an artful fashion, she succeeded in striking both Adelaide and the prince on the back of the head one after the other. “Ouch!” yelped the pair. Prince Ernest’s eyebrow was aloft again. “Now you really will face my wrath.”
They struck. They screamed. They jumped up and down on the bed. Everywhere there was lovely flesh, flying hair, mangled clothing. Even the client in the room below joined in, beating out a rhythm on the ceiling with his cane. “By the Lord Harry, will you keep it down up there? I am trying to fuck.”
Prince Ernest snorted. He had paid more money than any other client that evening and no-one could tell him to stop. He was a prince! He always got what he wanted.
Extricating himself from the forest of limbs, he clambered off the bed and stood beside it. He looked down at the fine figure of a man he had become in his long, crumpled shirt, cockstand lifting it merrily at the front. He wrinkled his nose and guffawed.
The girls stopped what they were doing and turned to him, laughing alongside him at the sweetly obscene picture he made.
Prince Ernest swung his arms as if conducting an orchestra as he announced, “Mädchen, it is time to line up!”
Lydia took charge. She had played with the prince before and knew what to expect. She whispered advice and guided the others where necessary before throwing him a sultry look and pulling down her knickerbockers.
A trio of lovely bums. The girls were on all fours, facing away from him, their bums swaying in the air like apples ripe for plucking. All three were round, unblemished and quite pale. For now. “Wunderbar.” Prince Ernest stood at one end of the line, arm drawn back. “Eins, zwei, drei!” he shouted as he moved down the row, delivering sharp slaps to quivering flesh this way and that.
Those innocent buttocks soon grew rosy as he made the trip several times. Though the girls yelped in protest, the slaps merely stung, Prince Ernest being more interested in wobble than pain.
“My prince, you are too cruel,” lied Adelaide, pleading with him over her shoulder. “Our poor bums have surely done nothing to offend you.”
He pouted in sympathy. “Entschuldigung! Allow me to make amends.” He fell to his knees and to kissing her pert behind, licking the skin to soothe the burn while his hand swept along the entire scallop-edged line, offering comforting rubs and tickles farther down. His eyes followed his hand and saw two more bums wagging as they anticipated the ministrations of his loving mouth. When it made contact with places altogether more delicious, he relished their shouts of, “He knows! He is one of the ones who knows!” He was already part way to heaven when they pulled him up onto the bed and made a pietà of him in their arms.
The candelabras were burning low. From the room downstairs came moans of exquisite agony. Hands began to invade him, running under his shirt, pulling his thighs apart, caressing his face. He submitted to them utterly, sighing and allowing his head to fall back onto Lydia’s shoulder while his own hands contented themselves with a soft thigh each. The girls’ hands were gentle. They did not simply focus on stimulating him but on exploring him for their owners’ gratification. The hand under his shirt circled through the hair on his chest over and over as if it could not quite get the measure of this ineffably masculine trait. Another toyed with the bee-stung lips his moustache could not entirely hide. Someone was pushing up his sleeve and tracing the muscles of his forearm with her fingertips. Very soon, his own fingers were being sucked into a warm mouth. He groaned.
There were two hands tending to his steed. Then, abruptly, every hand rushed there to play. The sensation was myriad; he could not break it down, could not compass it. When he looked down, his cockstand was entirely hidden by swarming fingers. It would have been intimidating except the girls were covering his cheeks and brow in soft kisses at the same time. Tiny mewlings suggested they felt his pleasure as if it were their own.
Hands rubbing his inner thighs, hands hot on the muscular tension in his lower belly, hands frantic on his upstanding fellow. Whispers in his ear: “Let us see your pearly shower, my prince.” He offered them his plaintive expression again but this time, there was no artfulness in it. He began to pump his hips towards joy. “Mensch!” His warm gush overflowed. Encouraged by the “ooh”s and “ahh”s of his audience, he shook his hips. “Here is a little for you, my love. And for you. And for you.” “Ooh”s and “ahh”s turned to squeals that brought a schoolboy grin to his softening features. The girls laid him back on the bed to recover, pulling off his shirt at last and shedding the remainder of their own clothing. Contented, he placed his hands behind his head.
A moue appeared beside him. There was a girl kneeling there. “Ah, Ruby, I am sorry. I promised you so much.”
“I care not,” she said, shaking her light brown curls but her eyes flicked towards his lobcock all the same.
“Give me time and I shall make it up to you, liebchen.” He closed his eyes and bathed in the afterglow. He had paid for the whole night, after all. After a while, a certain thought came slithering along and would not be dismissed. His voice was low and velvety as he suggested, “A kiss may help.”
She kissed his lips.
He opened one eye and squinted at her.
“Oh! Silly me.” This time, she bent forwards and placed a lingering kiss on his nether regions.
“Now, that does help,” he said, although to the naked eye, his cock was unmoved.
An arpeggio of cries caught his attention. To his left, an entirely nude Adelaide and Lydia had decided to realise their unspent desire with one another. White bodies punctuated only by black locks and dark triangles between their thighs were entwined and Lydia was easing her way down Adelaide’s body with kisses.
“Now, that helps even more!” said the prince. “Is there any lovelier sight than two ladies engaged in amorous congress? I am so charmed by your English ways.”
Encouraged, Ruby began to touch him - light, undemanding touches here and there that allowed his body to warm again at its own pace.
Prince Ernest’s eyes, soft with fondness, roamed over the girls’ spectacle like one watching a magical ballet. When Ruby began to rain tiny kisses on his lips, he found inspiration in the oral escapades of his Sapphic friends and began to kiss her back with much luxuriation and tongue, eyes still fixed upon the privileged view. Then he heard Ruby say, “Well done, little Ernest!” and he knew his steed had risen again.
“Shall we play at St George?” she asked.
“Was? Was ist das?” He had forgotten where he was.
“You are St George,” she instructed as she pulled herself astride and squirmed into place, “ahh! And I am the dragon!” She began to ride him with intent.
The prince’s head tossed from side to side. “Then I swear these wyrms are delightful creatures! But beware, my fierce friend, I shall slay you in the end.”
Naught but a goad. Ruby placed the palms of her hands on his well-padded chest and balanced herself as she frolicked.
This was Prince Ernest’s second favourite sight; a young woman in the full bloom of her nakedness using his body for her own pleasure. Oh, what a harlot he was! His hands busied themselves with roundness: the curve of her hips, her soft belly, the breasts that hung so tantalisingly close…
But his eyes inevitably slid to the left. Was Lydia still a bee drinking from her friend’s fairest flower? How close was Adelaide to attaining her agony of bliss? What he discovered was even sweeter. Yes to all of the above but, in addition, Adelaide was watching him. Her hazel eyes, narrowed with rising joy, were feasting upon the corporeal delights before her and taking particular note of the revelation of the prince’s impressive physique.
He began to perform - not just sexually but theatrically. He thrust heavenwards, he moaned, he touched Ruby everywhere a woman wants to be touched and ensured Adelaide had a royal view.
At the very moment that Lydia, the happily drowning girl, reached up a hand and clutched the other’s breast, Adelaide’s eyes made contact with Prince Ernest’s. He smiled. He nodded. Her yearning expression transmuted into a look of ecstasy. She fell back and rolled, rolled.
Time for St George to fulfil his duty to his country. Prince Ernest whirled Ruby round, laid her flat on the bed and impaled her. The dragon’s death cries were piteous indeed. And greatly protracted. On and on he went, decimating her, and then even this merry prince’s benign features turned savage, racked as he was with male passion. He strained, he sweated, he bared his teeth, he -
Thwack!
His eyes went wide. “Was?”
Smack! Smack! Giggling, Lydia and Adelaide were taking turns to slap his arse as he fucked.
Until that day, he had not known it was possible to laugh at the top of one’s lungs as one rushed towards rapture. “Ja!” he cried as he bit his bottom lip and threw himself into his engagement with even greater vigour, hair flying as he raised himself up on his hands. It was traditional English slap and tickle they employed - sharp, teasing slaps that revelled in the springiness of firm buttocks that flew back from his hips like wings on a helm. And tickles that sent arrows through his loins, touches that fluttered up between his cheeks…
“Ahh!” he cried as a fingertip grazed his roundmouth. “Witches, all! Enchantresses! Wicked, wicked women!” and under their terrible schooling, he reached his second little death. He collapsed on top of Ruby, grateful for her bountiful shape, while the other two collapsed on top of him. “My prince”, “sweet prince”, “darling Prince Ernest” they murmured in his ear as he floated on divine oblivion.
“Imagine there is no second ‘e’ - Ern’st,” he said.
He and Adelaide lay propped up on pillows, sharing an apple and watching with mild interest as Ruby and Lydia cavorted. “It is not really black,” he mused as he stroked the tart’s dark hair straggling over his chest. “Hardly a shade darker than my own.”
She looked up at him in feigned remorse then took a lock of that hair and laid it across her upper lip in imitation of his most splendid moustache.
“What a handsome gentleman,” he purred and they both took a laughing bite from the apple.
Prince Ernest sighed. He felt mellow and carefree, high as a lark, his only concern being that he had taken none of the women to paradise through his own endeavours that evening. He sought to rectify his failure by directing the actions of the amorous girls. After placing them in a series of highly athletic positions he had only ever seen depicted on Greek vases, he bade them lie side by side facing him and fondle each other’s flowers as they kissed. “Yes, yes,” he encouraged, “like that. Now, Ruby, touch her upon her pearl. No, not there - her pearl. Her pearl. Du lieber Gott, you do not know what her pearl is? I shall demonstrate.” He began to stroke the demure, the shy, the angelic Adelaide’s tenderest spot, face pressed into her neck as he did so.
…all unawares that the three wantons were winking at each other behind his back.