The Elliot Silvestri Erotic Reader Volume 6

by Elliot Silvestri

  And the whorehouses didn’t mind if he created a minor problem or two. An injured whore. A broken bed. A disturbance where the city guard was called. All of these could easily be dismissed by either Prince Martin’s authority or some coins. There was also the bragging rights and notoriety. What whorehouse wouldn’t want to have the Prince as a client?

  The boy he had hired—well, really a man with boyish good looks and a thin enough body to pass for an extremely young man—sucked happily on Martin’s cock. He was skilled at what he did. Obviously the boy whore had spent more than a few days plying his trade. He knew exactly how hard to suck (slightly more than when drinking a beer but not so hard if he were cleaning his teeth) and where to focus his tongue (along the underside vein and around the corona of the glans) and how to handle the balls (firmly, as if handling freshly laid chicken eggs, but not so rough as to break the shells) and—hopefully, Martin thought—how to swallow the load of cum that was sure to fill the boy’s eager mouth.

  Gazing at the beautiful boy, Martin ran his hand through the whore’s slightly too long hair and curled it down under his jaw. He briefly forced the boy’s mouth off his cock, causing the whore to startle. “Have I not been pleasing you, my p—my lord?” It was common knowledge that Prince Martin frequented the house, but it was also well-established that no one was to acknowledge that fact.

  “You suck cock beautifully, boy,” Martin said, leaning forward and kissing the boy. His lips were soft and wet. He could just barely taste his precum on the whore’s tongue. “But I’ve had my cock sucked by men with years of experience, men who truly know how to make love to another man.” He paused and pushed the whore back, looking down his thin chest. There was plenty of muscle on his body, but it was carefully maintained to belie his age. Martin admired the deception. The whore was certainly older than he pretended to be. He shaved his face and chest. Martin moved his eyes lower. And his belly. Or maybe he was naturally hairless there. But the bulge inside the boy’s underwear was impossible to hide. Martin wanted to reach inside and find the hidden treasure to see if the boy’s lack of body hair extended to his cock and balls. But it was too soon for that. He would wait it out, teasing himself until the right moment. There was no hurry.

  “Are you displeased?” the whore asked. He modulated his voice perfectly, keeping it light and high. He was truly a professional. He had matured into a man years ago, but did everything he could to make himself seem younger. The wide-eyed innocence was cute, but not convincing. The false cracking of his voice however, that was a masterstroke that was almost enough to fool Martin.

  This whore was worth every silver penny he had paid.

  “No, no,” Martin reassured him. “I’m just looking for something…something more. Don’t be offended, but you are the tenth or the hundredth pretty little boy whore who has sucked my cock. Sucked it like you were born to the task.” He cupped the boy’s jaw and admired his slightly feminine looks. “Sucked it like you actually desired it. And maybe you do. But I want—I need—something more.”

  The boy wet his lips with his tongue, the saliva on them having dried up. “Something more exciting? I can bring in another boy…”

  Martin dismissed the suggestion with a scoff. “I’ve had more boys than you can count. Something else, please!”

  Now the boy—what was him name?—bit his lip. “Are you looking for something exciting and…dangerous?”

  Leaning forward and bringing the boy’s face to his own, Martin said, “Yes. That. Exciting and dangerous. What did you have in mind?” He rewarded the whore with a little kiss.

  The boy hopped up from his position on the floor and hurried over to an ornamental box on the low table next to the bed. Lifting the lid, he removed a carefully crafted leather leash with an elaborate buckle and clasp. He showed Martin how the device worked. Martin frowned. “I’ve been tied up before. It takes at least four ties for me. This is…pathetic.”

  “It’s not to tie you up, my lord,” said the whore. “You put it over your head and tighten it around your neck.” He demonstrated on his forearm how easy it was to constrict and release the leather strap.

  Martin smiled. “I’ve heard of this. Restrict one’s breathing at the moment of crisis and the peak is much more intense.” He took the leather strap from the whore, experimented with the buckle and then placed it around his neck, snugging it up to his throat, but not truly tightening it.

  “Control it with your off hand,” said the whore. “It’s too easy to over-tighten if you use your strong hand.”

  An eager nod showed that Martin understood and a moment later the whore was back on his knees with Martin’s still-rigid cock in his mouth. Martin waited to tighten the leash, waited until he was approaching the moment of crisis. He didn’t want to go without air for too long, he wasn’t stupid, but he was willing to take great risks for new pleasures.

  Once he was almost there, Martin pulled on the leash, tightening the slip buckle, making it impossible to breathe. The whore was right. The world got fuzzy at the edges of his vision, but Martin could feel the intensity of his orgasm building and building. Darkness pressed inward.

  When he cock erupted, the whore managed to keep his lips hooked over the ridge of Martin’s glans. He swallowed in conjunction with each jet of Martin’s ejaculations.

  Keeping the leash tight during his orgasm proved fairly simple. It was the most intense climax of his life. When he tried to loosen the leash, Martin found that impossible because a figure approached from the darkness on the other side of the bed and made sure his hands were well away from the leash unable to make the buckle slip free.

  Strangling a man to death takes a long time. Long enough for the whore to have more than enough time to leave without panicking. The figure in black fought for a minute with Martin, but the prince was already spent from his orgasm and the assassin was far too strong for him to resist. Martin had no leverage or strength and he slowly faded away. The assassin was no fool. He had done this before. Though Martin continued to kick and struggle for the next few minutes, he was already gone, the prince’s efforts were feeble at best.

  The nice thing about working in a whorehouse, the assassin thought as he slipped from the room through the one window, was that no one ever disturbed him while he was working. Both murder and sex needed a good deal of privacy.

  Chapter Eight

  Prince Roderick sat in the chair immediately to the right of his father’s desk in the private office while he listened to the reports. None of them were good. He was still in a state of shock but was able to think clearly enough to take in all the information he was hearing.

  The captain of the royal guard’s report was well-organized and exceedingly well put together considering the circumstances and the short amount of time he had to write it. He spoke easily on the matter, only occasionally checking his notes. Roderick liked the man, he was cold and distant, but that was more a function of his job than his personality. It seemed unfortunate that the man might have to face the executioner’s noose for this massive failure in his duties.

  “All the attacks took place at or near the same time. They were well coordinated. They were not, however, particularly successful,” Captain Gillard said.

  “Give me the tally,” said Crown Prince Bradford. Roderick glanced at his father after spending most of the time in the meeting glaring at the captain. His father spoke as if he were asking for the latest results of tax collections.

  “Eighteen attacks total, so far that we know,” said Gillard.

  “Give me the names.”

  Gillard grimaced and consulted the list in his hand. “Those who were killed. Lord Jonathan Everrind. Sir Winford Moulod. The Marquis of Greenvale, Andrew Carnad.” The list continued for several more names. “Those attacked and survived: William Everely, Lord of Avon, stabbed. Sir Harvey Whitmore, shot in the shoulder. Earl Alexander LaValle, attempted strangulation.” There were four more names. Roderick recognized them all.

  “Of those who
survived, were the perpetrators captured?” asked Bradford.

  “Some. Two were killed, one escaped, the rest were captured and are being transported to the royal prison for interrogation.”

  Roderick did not envy those men the rest of their short, miserable lives. The crown prince then changed the direction of his questioning of the captain of the guard.

  “How did the assassin get into Prince Roderick’s apartments?”

  “We’re still looking into that. It seems that the assassin snuck in before Captain Broadess or the prince went inside. Presumably he was hiding in one of the wardrobes.”

  “What about Mistress Petnard?”

  “She’s fine. Unharmed.”

  “Fine except for seeing a man murdered right in front of her.” That statement from his father made Roderick take his eyes from the captain and look at the crown prince. His father had never been a big supporter of Roderick’s relationship with his mistress. “But I wasn’t asking that question. I wanted to know if the assassin was in the rooms before she entered.”

  “I don’t—that is, we are still investigating.”

  “Or perhaps the assassin entered with her?” he suggested.

  Roderick now glared at his father, hating the implication. His mistress, the mother of his unborn child, did not plot to have him killed.

  The captain glanced once at Roderick and then answered. “Like I said, sire, we are investigating. No determinations have yet been made.”

  “Do you really think that Mistress Petnard plotted against me?” Roderick burst out, all but accusing the captain of treason.

  The captain was silent a moment. “Again, Prince Roderick. We are still investigating. I would be remiss in my duties if I excluded any possibility without thoroughly considering what might have happened.”

  “You do realize what is happening here, don’t you?” Roderick asked his father.

  “I’d be a fool not to,” said Bradford.

  “Someone is trying to wipe out your bloodline,” said the captain. All of the names he had listed were direct blood relatives, all of who had a claim on the throne, though it would be unlikely any one of them would try to assert their claim.

  “Look at the survivors,” Bradford said to Captain Gillard. One of those attacks might have been staged to throw suspicion away from them.

  “We need to discuss Martin,” Roderick said as the captain started to leave the office.

  “Your brother is dead,” Bradford told his son, telling him nothing he didn’t already know. “Killed by a whore. The guard is shutting down the house where he was killed. The less said about it, the better.”

  “That’s it?” Roderick asked, aghast at his father.

  “What more do you want. You will be next in line for the throne. You’ve moved up one notch in the order of succession. Congratulations.” His voice was flat, as if he didn’t care. “Go to your wife and secure the bloodline. It would be nice if when your grandfather died he knew he that his last direct heir wasn’t a bastard.”

  The captain squinted at Roderick and the prince suddenly understood. The person who profited the most from Martin’s death was him. Martin was never going to marry, unless directly ordered by his father, he loved men too much. The chance of him having a child was remote. From an outsider’s perspective, it would be easy to see that Roderick would have his brother murdered.

  Roderick was offended at the implied accusation. He stood up and left the office. Let the intrigues and affairs of state be left to men who plotted. That was not the life for him.

  Chapter Nine

  Roderick had Princess Margareta summoned from her private bedroom. She barely looked put together, which was strange for the princess, but Roderick attributed that to the series of attacks including the one on her life.

  “I heard that you were attacked as well,” he greeted her.

  She frowned at him, not even bothering to glare. “I survived, in case you were wondering.”

  He ignored her sarcasm. “What happened? I was not given any details.”

  “Some…commoner shot at me. He missed. Killed a footman. I was saved by my bodyguard.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said truthfully.

  She doubted him for just a second. “Is it as bad as I’ve heard? There are rumors of many deaths…”

  “Yes. My brother and too many cousins and relations to think about.”

  “I…I see.”

  “Father has ordered me to perpetuate the bloodline,” Roderick said flatly.

  She sniffed. “Haven’t you already done that? Aren’t we just awaiting the birth?”

  “He wants an heir that isn’t a bastard.”

  “But a bastard is better than nothing, I suppose,” she sniffed.

  Roderick didn’t want to argue. “It’s what we were both born for. It is our duty.”

  “I don’t want to fuck you,” she said. There was no emotion in her voice, only a resignation to having to do the expected.

  “You don’t have to fuck me,” he told her. “You just have to lay there. That’s all that’s really expected of you at this point. You’re hard work comes later.” He removed his jacket and started undressing, going through the motions because that’s all he knew how to do at the moment.

  She didn’t move and Roderick saw her lack of activity. “Should I call a maid to help you undress?” he asked.

  “I can do it on my own. I just don’t want to.”

  “You have to,” he informed her, which told her nothing she didn’t already know.

  “I’d rather fuck anyone else.”

  He paused in the middle of unbuttoning his shirt and looked on her with disdain. “I find that insulting.”

  She frowned and corrected herself. “I’m sorry. I meant to say I’d rather fuck someone else.”

  The words gave his cock the vaguest of stirs. He remembered how, when they were first married into their political marriage they could fuck with such great enthusiasm that would put shame to the basest of animals. On occasion she would share her secret thoughts about sexual relations with other members of the court. It was all a game. Was she still willing to play it?

  “Who?”

  Margareta caught his eye and looked deeply into his soul. “I’ve already fucked someone else.”

  Those words brought up to emotions that coiled around his brain in a confusion he couldn’t comprehend. At once he was angry that his wife had cheated on him, but that anger and jealousy blossomed into a lust that he didn’t understand. It wasn’t just the betrayal—after all, he had been enthusiastically fucking Pauline for two years now—it was that she would risk falling pregnant with someone else’s child.

  “Who.” He demanded this of her now. He wasn’t asking a question. It was information that was vital to his life. He knew she could tell that his tone implied an execution would soon be in the works for the man who had stolen from the prince of the realm.

  Despite the danger of the admission she was making, Margareta stood up straighter and stiffened her spine. It was not her life that was in danger. It was the life of her lover and Margareta was apparently willing to allow her lover to accept that risk.

  “Aphra McGuire.”

  Roderick’s brow furrowed in confusion. He didn’t know the names of every member of the court or those who served in it, but that one was particularly strange because the name, though old-fashioned, was that of a woman.

  “Aphra McGuire,” he repeated. “Who is this…person?”

  “She is my bodyguard. She is the one who saved me from the assassin’s bullet. I suppose I rewarded her.” Margareta sighed. “And I rewarded myself. She is the best lover I’ve ever had.”

  Roderick should have been insulted. He was insulted. But he was also excited. His cock was straining at the closures of his trousers. While she had insinuated in the past she had dalliances with other men before she was pledged to Roderick, never had she shown interest in bedding a woman.

  “Your desire to fuck a woma
n has no bearing on your duty,” he said. It was what he was supposed to say and yet his cock struggled to free itself of his trousers. If anything, her admission had inflamed his desire even more.

  She saw the tight bulge on the front of his pants. She knew what he desired. “Do you want to see me fuck her?” Margareta asked. “Do you wish to watch your wife debase herself with a woman?” She was taunting him because she was eager to see his reaction.

  Even Roderick was surprised what he did. “Shut your mouth!” he all but screamed at her, striding across the bedroom and tearing his shirt from his body. She was terrified at his sudden anger and stood stock still in response. He grabbed her and whirled her around, all but throwing her to the bed where she landed face down.

  Rushing because he could barely contain himself, Roderick pulled her dress up to her waist, tearing the expensive purple and black fabric in the process. Her loins were still covered by the white cotton underclothes demanded by propriety. He didn’t care. He pulled and tore at the thin fabric until it lay in taters on her legs, her sex exposed. For all the violence he promised her, instead of shaking in fear, she was shaking with anticipation. Her cunt was wet and he could smell her desire.

  As he struggled to open the closures to his trousers, she got up on her knees and opened up her stance to accept him into her body. He had been expecting the encounter to be yet another effort of dreary duty; instead it had changed to something else entire. His prick was as hard it had ever been, even harder than when he had pursued the maids in the palace when he was a youth. Sinking his rigid member into her wet and open cunt was as easy a task as breathing.