Princess of Thieves

by Bella Beaumont

  His mind took a dark turn, his brow furrowing.

  Or perhaps Alberus wants to drive me away, to get me away from the princess? Maybe he sees what’s happening between us . . . and he wants to sever our relationship before it can grow roots and truly begin?

  No, I can’t think like that. I’ve trusted him all these years.

  Alberus chuckled, breaking his concentration. “Don’t get so lost in thought that your face is stuck in a befuddled look forever, boy.”

  Stecker nodded. “I’ll do it. Rinzos would do it, right?”

  Alberus paused, a softness shading his eyes. His chin trembled, then he solemnly nodded. “Yes, Stecker, Rinzos would do it.”

  “Well, he was the best of us, after all. Maybe I can be more like him.”

  “Every day you seem more like him, my boy. More than you know.”

  There was a brief silence as Alberus turned around to hide his face. Stecker heard a sniffle, then said, “When?”

  Alberus shrugged, turning back, and his face had returned to its wrinkled, stoic flatness. “There’s no time like the present, Stecker.”

  “I’d like to say goodbye to the princess, first, if that’s all right.”

  The bigger man’s frown was pronounced and disapproving. “Must you?”

  A nod.

  A big sigh from Alberus. “So be it. But be quick, yes? And remember, lad, you’ll see the fair lady again someday.”

  SOMEWHERE ALONG THE way back to the dismal room, Stecker managed to get himself lost. In truth, he needed more time to think—he’d known these tunnels before Alberus had broken into his speech about their history.

  Winding around corners and stone walls, he thought, Does Alberus send me knowingly to my death?

  I know I must have courage to deliver this message, but what if I’m captured and tortured? After hearing how evil this King Sefyr is . . . I have no doubt he’d do me in.

  Will the Siblinghood abandon me while I’m gone?

  He stepped over a pile of filth, shaking his head.

  No. I must go. I cannot abandon them . . . I must return for the princess’ sake, to make good on my word.

  A strange sound met his ears, disturbing his thoughts.

  It was a wet . . . mewling . . . a slurping sound as if someone was drowning.

  Stecker put his hand to the hilt of his long dagger. Turning the corner from where the sound emanated, he drew the weapon with a soft clink.

  Then nearly dropped it in the muck at his feet. He stood stock-still and focused his eyes, a mirage of light basking in from the grate above on what lay ahead of him.

  Sala Annas sat cross-legged on a dried section of ground, back against one of the rounded walls of the tunnel. She was devoid of any armor. Her linen under-tunic was pulled down, baring her large, heavy breasts.

  The large woman’s nipples were hard, but only one was visible.

  A much smaller form was splayed across her lap, on its back.

  Stecker narrowed his eyes.

  It was Filtray, neatly planked on the woman like a babe. He gripped greedily up at Sala’s tit, his little fingers roughly fondling and compressing her round breast, his wet mouth engulfing her nipple, his eyes closed and lost in a dreamscape.

  He slurped and licked her large mound of soft flesh like a pillow—the mewling sounds were coming from him. Sala’s single heaving breast, now raw and red from Filtray’s clamping lips, was bigger than the young man’s head.

  One large hand of Sala’s caressed his head, petting him like a dog while she nursed him, fingers gliding through his greasy brown hair. The other hand was further south—

  Filtray’s breeches were pulled down to his knees, his pale naked ass rested on the woman’s thick thigh before his legs dangled off into the darkness. She had Filtray’s little hard cock buried in her fist, moving up and down, the head just barely poking out from the top of her hand like a turtlehead springing free from its shell.

  Stecker’s mouth dropped open at the sight. He sheathed his sword, and the noise brought Sala’s attention around, her head slowly turning up to him.

  She continued to pet him as she fisted his skinny pecker. Filtray didn’t open his eyes, but kept roughly embedding his grubby hands into her tit, sucking at her erotically, fondling her with little care for her own comfort.

  Sala gave Stecker’s shocked face a small half-smile. “You were the one who said not to bring each other down, Steck. So, here I am, boosting him up.”

  The squelching sound of Filtray’s mouth suckling her wet breast rang out.

  “I . . . didn’t mean like this, Sala,” Stecker said, still confused. “By the gods, woman, he’s not a whelp!”

  She looked down at the young man on her lap, eagerly sucking, his hips rocking up and down from the rough movements of her hands around his cock.

  “He sure acts like one at times, no?” she said, chuckling. “Ooh, careful there, Fil. The teeth.”

  “This is madness.”

  Sala shrugged. “I never found time in my life to be a mother, Steck.”

  “And so you force it upon our brother?”

  “I force nothing upon him. He would have me toy with him—it’s his own depraved desire, you see?”

  Filtray licked and panted. He whimpered and came in her hand, the murky white overflow spilling out like a squished egg between her grip, through her fingers. The young dandy grunted and turned on his side, using his arms to push Sala back against the wall. But she had nowhere to go.

  “It seems Fil has motherly issues . . . just as I do . . .” she said, chuckling at his aggressiveness. She was twice as big as him, if not more, and she would not be moved, no matter how hard Filtray pushed on her folds and muscles and bit down on her hard nipple.

  Father issues, too, I should think, Stecker thought disgustedly, recalling the way the small man had bounced on that bearded fellow’s cock at the Hefty Teat. The damned degenerate. Though . . . can I say it’s any different for any of us?

  “He’s not as confused as everyone thinks he is, Steck,” Sala said in a low voice.

  Just then, Filtray stumbled to his feet, without acknowledging Stecker’s presence whatsoever. With his pants still ringed around his knees, his bare bony buttocks showing, he thrust his body upon the sitting Sala.

  The young man’s hips pressed forward, his short wet cock pushing against Sala’s cheeks—leaving a sticky imprint—then her mouth.

  “Oh my, Filguuck!” Sala protested, lurching her head back just before Fil’s cock slid past her lips and into her maw. She hollowed her cheeks to take all of his shaft, her nose scrunching against his soft, smooth belly.

  Filtray groaned like a man possessed, still in his obscene stupor, but began pumping his hips, knocking her head back over and over again as he facefucked the huge woman.

  Her large hands held his hips in place so they couldn’t work so feverishly.

  Stecker snorted at the lewd, repugnant display. Before he could turn away, he saw one hand of Sala’s caress the curve of Filtray’s buttocks and then spread his asscheeks apart, two fingers sneaking in to tickle his anus. The fingers sank deeper, prodding and fingering the young man’s prostate.

  Filtray let out a cry, then wrapped his hands around the back of Sala’s oversized head as he pushed forward. With the contrast of their body sizes, it looked as if he was humping a large pumpkin against his stomach, nearly the size of his entire torso, while his small cock glided in and out between her barely-parted lips.

  Finally, Stecker spun around before the image of Filtray’s pasty, excitedly pumping ass became tattooed on his mind forever. He heard the sound of Fil splurging for a second time, this time pumping his seed down the giantess’ throat.

  “I won’t speak of this to Alb,” Stecker said, revulsion in his voice. “But you should be ashamed of yourself, Sala, taking advantage of Filtray like this. I won’t believe it was anything else . . .”

  As he walked away, Sala tried to respond, but was stopped by the cough in t
he back of her throat, the cock plugging her mouth, and the spunk seeping into her stomach.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sefyr City erupted in chaos throughout the day as soldiers roamed unimpeded, breaking down doors and questioning the townsfolk. Hundreds of Royal Army veterans marched through the streets as the news of Princess Catera’s disappearance swept through every corner of the municipality.

  The exits of the city were barred. Double guard duty was enacted in most areas, and the presence of the soldiery was teeming and palpable. The citizens were scared—many had been arrested without explanation, when they seemed too nervous and jittery during questioning.

  King Cartherus would take his time with those finicky people and discover the truth. Who knew about the princess’ vanishing act? Did she have help? And if so, who was the company responsible for her disappearance?

  Even the household guards were questioned, and two of them were executed for telling white lies, just to get out of sounding guilty. None of the guards were guilty, of course—none had aided in the princess’ escape—but some of their decisions to cover their hides backfired and ended in their deaths.

  About midway through the day, with the princess still in the wind, Royal Advisor Rink stepped into the throne room, his hands clasped behind his back. His status during this entire operation had been elevated, as it had been his explicit order to sound the Red Flag alarm. Commander Infew had been his military arm, but all the city knew that Rink was at the head of the operation, and probably the king above him.

  People were scared of the short, skeletal, slovenly man more than ever before, and he relished in his new power and authority.

  He had even managed to find that fat, juicy apothecary, and the woman had been forced to submit to his will. He had pushed against the folds of her flabby flesh like a cushion as he railed her in her own workshop, in front of customers, no less. Bending over that pudgy bitch and spreading her large ass with his knobby cock had been a highlight of his day, after so many weeks of her ghostly avoidance of him. Now, she could not oppose or deny him, due to his heightened responsibilities, or she knew she might be imprisoned, and so Rink had used his newfound power to defile her.

  And it had been a satisfactory defilement. Rink grinned darkly as he thought of the woman’s screams and wails, her flabby arms flapping on the table, flailing and knocking over vials and containers full of liquid, before he thrust his own hot liquid into her warm hole.

  The horrified people present in the shop during the molestation had probably thought the woman had direct involvement with the princess’ disappearance, due to how Rink treated her, and so they did nothing but watched and turned away, filing out of the store as her moans followed them into the streets. Her elderly father, another fat and ugly man, had been held back by Rink’s personal guards, and so was forced to watch and weep as Rink debased his daughter.

  Upon arriving into the throne room, however, Rink made sure to hide his rictus grin and tone down his bravado, as he would now be in front of his superiors. He also had disconcerting news to report, and he didn’t want to be the next unlucky soul to be questioned and thrown in the jail cells by the king.

  He knew that as long as Princess Catera was found—hopefully with all of her limbs intact—then he was fine. And if not, he had no doubt that King Cartherus would blame him personally and do away with him in the most gruesome of fashions. It was the way the terrible king worked, and it would also deflect responsibility from the crown.

  As the royal advisor gained the stairs toward the throne, where Cartherus sat, Rink saw that Princess Ocena and Queen Yira were on either side of the king. It was rare to find all three of them together, and the queen and king seemed to be in the midst of a quarrel before Rink pushed through the double-doors.

  At the creaking of the doors, the argument suddenly ceased and everyone faced the shuffling little man in his royal robes. Rink scratched his shiny bald head, then stood at the top of the stairs with a bit of a pant in his tired lungs. He was not a fit man.

  “Rink, I did not summon you,” Cartherus growled. His eye darted to the corner, toward Queen Yira, and said, “Your king is in the middle of something.”

  “Yes, my lord, I see that. But I have urgent news that I felt obliged to report,” the man said in his high-pitched, scratchy voice. He nodded wisely. “I’d be remiss in my duties if—”

  “Fine, dammit, don’t drown me with pleasant notions of your gallantry, please. I’ve had to put up with enough shit today. This better be important.”

  Rink cleared his throat. “I believe it is, my king, or I would not have brought it to your attention.”

  “Well?”

  “You have a visitor, sire. A young man who swears to have information regarding the princess.”

  Cartherus sighed, leaning to one side of the throne so he could rest his temple on his fist. “Another one, aye? And how many anonymous tips have we received today of her disappearance?”

  Rink chewed his parched lips, his teeth working feverishly. “Erm, hundreds, my liege.”

  “And what makes this man different, in your estimation?”

  Rink paused, then scratched his reflective pate once more.

  “Answer your king, toad,” Queen Yira said, crossing her arms over her large chest.

  The royal advisor hid his smirk well, without acknowledging the queen’s harsh tone and demand. He remembered quite well the woman’s shrill cries from the night before, as King Cartherus had raped her until her body betrayed her and she moaned in rapture. If Rink had looked at the queen now, his knowing smile would have ruined him, his dark gaze deflating her pumped-up ego and self-importance.

  So, Rink kept his eyes locked on the king. “The difference, my lord, is that this man claims to come directly for the people responsible for her disappearance.”

  “Oh? So . . . there was a team involved,” Cartherus spat, staring at the floor as his mind reeled in all different directions. “I knew it!”

  “Quite right you were, my lord. Quite right.”

  “And what party does this man come from? The city rebels? An underground troop, perhaps?”

  “He refuses to tell me, sire, even under threat of torture. He says he will speak only with you.”

  King Cartherus guffawed in disbelief, but a cruel grin had twisted his face. “The man must have balls!” he said agreeably.

  Rink narrowed his eyes, unsure why Cartherus seemed so pleased about all this. “Erm, indeed, sire.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t throw him in the dungeons.”

  “I was about to, my lord, but that’s when he said . . . a ransom is involved.”

  Cartherus snorted, then punched a fist into an open palm. “The impertinence! What dastardly fools would dare threaten the king of this land with such pettiness?” But as he spoke, the smile remained fixed on his face, in a most peculiar fashion.

  In Rink’s estimation, it was almost as if the king . . . enjoyed this. As if he had been trying to find someone that he considered worthy competition, and maybe this brazen vagabond represented that.

  “I shall retrieve him for you, my lord, if you wish,” Rink said with a low bow.

  “Do it at once.”

  The royal advisor scurried away, his feet hardly showing from his shuffling gait.

  “The man even walks like a worm,” Princess Ocena said, snorting as she watched him go. She had the folds of her sleeves together, her hands hidden inside them.

  “He does indeed, girl,” Cartherus said with a bark, “but he is a wily, cunning fucker.”

  “I’ve no doubt,” Ocena muttered.

  A moment later, the doors opened and a stranger stepped through, with Rink walking behind him, prodding him with an outstretched finger.

  The man was decidedly . . . unimposing. King Cartherus’ dark, competitive grin seemed to fade away as the young man ascended the steps and came into better view.

  He was short in stature—a few inches taller than Rink and similar in h
eight to many women—wiry, with a scruffy black cloak that looked ages old, and a fair, dirt-strewn face. His curly hair bobbed on his head as he walked. He was a slender young man, and Princess Ocena pursed her lips in a bemused way as he approached, trying to cover the interested look on her face with something resembling sternness.

  She was more drawn to the fact that her stepfather was sorely disappointed with the physical appearance of this vagabond, than she was of any lustful desire she might have had for him. Ocena had always been tempted by strong, burly men, and their animal magnetism. This youngster possessed none of that outwardly primal disposition.

  Except in his eyes. Narrowing her own as the man scanned all three royal faces before him, she saw that those dark pools hid something there . . . something callous and yet fragile. Though his lips were thinned and his face was gaunt, with a grim expression written on his features, his eyes hid a more elegant softness to them . . . a modicum of empathy, like he was sad to step into this room and lay eyes on the king, queen, and younger princess.

  It was at that moment that Princess Ocena knew this man would be telling the truth—whatever it was he had to say. He had seen the princess, or at least met her, and judged her character, and now he was comparing everything he knew about Catera with the rest of her family before him.

  And the look in his eyes told Ocena that herself, Cartherus, and Yira came up . . . wanting.

  King Cartherus leaned back in his throne and furrowed his brow on the man as he stopped at the top of the stairs, just a stone’s throw from the throne itself.

  “Your name, young man?” he grunted at last.

  “Stecker, my lord.” He bowed low, like any good subordinate might do.

  “Stecker . . . what?”

  “Just that, sire. Stecker.”

  “Okay, Just Stecker. Why have you been allowed into my throne room? Do you believe yourself important?”

  Stecker shook his head. “No, sire, not at all.” He was not sweating—did not in fact seem nervous at all. Ocena wondered how that could be, when the man must’ve known that his life was on the line. There was a very real possibility that he would not be leaving this room, no matter how carefully he chose his words.