His Brother's Wife

by Mia Ford

I had spent years saving up for this trip, hiding my savings from my alcoholic mother and counting down the days until I could jet off, living the free life as a nomad with a savings account. I didn’t realize how meager of a savings account I had until I ended up stranded in Prague with just my backpack and a smile. Smiles don’t go very far under the unforgiving city lights.

  Shaken from my thoughts, I watched as Sveta bounced into the room, happy and carefree as ever. This girl was top notch, and she did not give a damn about anyone. Her tight curves, huge tits, and petite stature made her the focus of almost every man in the audience. She played that charm to her advantage, but on the inside, she was really a stone-cold bitch, which of course was why I loved her.

  Sveta leaned down and kissed my cheek. Her strong perfume wafted through the room. She always made me feel better, especially knowing that this was not the job I ever wanted to have. She plopped two shot glasses down and a bottle of vodka, smiling as she filled up our nightly dose of liquid courage. I only ever took two shots, but it was just the right amount to get me to drop the nerves and move my hips.

  “So, who do you think will pay our bills tonight?” she asked.

  We had this conversation every night.

  “Personally, I’m hoping those Russian guys come back,” I replied. I pulled up the straps on my body suit, adjusted my tits so they would pop, and pulled the g-string up, so I got the jiggle effect. “They liked my giant ass.”

  “I hope those rich Chinese businessmen come back,” Sveta replied, before taking a shot and sucking on a lemon. “I didn’t understand a word they said, and they were obsessed with my tits. They paid me just to jiggle them in their faces.”

  “Nice, or those two Irish boys vacationing on daddy’s credit card,” I replied, laughing. “They liked my English ass. They kept asking me to say things because they thought my accent was fucking hilarious.”

  “Whatever,” Sveta said, pouring another shot. “You’re still waiting for Prince Charming to walk through the door and whisk you away from this place.”

  “Yeah, right,” I said, laughing. “Like Reg would ever let that happen.”

  “Asshole,” we said in unison, clinking our shot glasses and tipping them back.

  Prince Charming. That’s funny. I hadn’t thought about a Prince anything since I was a little girl, back when I’d still been oblivious to the cold hard truth about men. I had given up on the fairy tale dreams a long time ago. Mostly as a result of my mother getting wasted and banging a new guy every night, and the string of creepy “uncles,” as my mother called them, hugging me a bit too long and looking at me with their nauseating stare and greasy palms. Now, I was just determined to make enough money to continue on my way. Sure, I could go back to Liverpool, but there was nothing there for me anymore. I was pretty sure my mother didn’t even realize I was gone.

  Even when I’d been standing completely broke and scared in Prague, auditioning for amateur night at the Caspian seemed like a better idea than calling my mother. So, three shots and two drinks later, my tired ass was shaking it for a bunch of dirty old men, whistling from the audience. Surprising to me, I actually won the contest. Not surprising, the owner, Reg Evers, refused to pay me. He was a bastard of a man with huge muscles and a bald head. He had a knack for covering up his deadly persona with bad jokes and cutesy stripper names. But there I’d been, facing off with him.

  He offered me a job and an apartment. I stood there under the giant stone entryway and considered my two options. I could stay here, dance a little, make some cash, and then be on my way. Or I could walk out into the cold streets of Prague and find myself homeless with a little less pride than when I started. So, I took the job. As I shook Reg’s hand and stared into his cold eyes, I could feel part of me float away into the red lights of the stage.

  In the end, I guess it wasn’t really that bad. I had a crappy apartment, just like in Liverpool, except the rent wasn’t quite as expensive. That might be because I share it with six other girls, but what’s the difference? It was like staying in one of the hostels I visited on my travels, except with a lot more nudity and way more crazy women. On my one night off a week, Sveta and I would hit the city, dancing with each other, shooing off the guys, and laughing until dawn. When you work at a job where you are constantly ogled by dudes, the last thing you wanted to do was pick one up on your night off so they could grope you for free.

  The money I earned was actually pretty decent, despite the amount taken out for rent, and whenever Reg wanted to be an asshole. I probably could have left, but I was afraid I’d find myself just one country over, doing the same thing again, but probably not in an elite place like the Caspian.

  “Okay I’m up,” Sveta said as her music came up.

  “Titties out and only accepting twenties,” we said, as if it was our motto.

  I smiled as I watched Sveta bounce on stage, wearing her g-string, tiny tutu, and a push-up bra.

  Sometimes I wondered why we even wore anything at all out on the stage. The men didn’t let us keep it on for more than a minute after the song started. But, once I got my top off and I heard the roar of the crowd, my nerves would calm. I would pretend, for just five minutes at a time, that I was the most desired woman in the world. Well, at least in Prague. The longer I worked here, the more I realized something strange about myself. Deep down, I liked the rush of the lights, the smell of hot lust from the men waving money at me, and the feeling that I could seduce just about anyone. It was also incredible, feeling the control.

  I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to, even though Reg highly frowned upon turning a client down for a lap dance. But, in reality, if all I wanted to do was dance on stage, I could do it. If I wanted to give a hundred lap dances a night, I could do it. Even if I wanted to let some perv rub his dick all over me, although I wouldn’t, I could do it if I chose. It was all about my control, something I didn’t have growing up in the sleaze house in the junky, run-down part of Liverpool. What am I saying? Every part of Liverpool was junky and run down.

  I took a deep breath and strapped on my six-inch heels, knowing when Sveta was done, I would be called up on stage. Reg liked my long legs and had this weird thing with the eighties. He always dressed me in leotards, cut abnormally high on the hips and incredibly low in the front. He also made me wear huge, flashing translucent heels. But I didn’t care, the men seemed to like it, and it’s not like it stayed on very long. Good thing, too, because this g-string hurt.

  I looked in the mirror and grabbed the eyeliner, going for the deep, sultry look tonight. Dark, thick eyeliner always made my bright blue eyes pop, and out here, they loved the blonde look. So I made sure that I teased my hair extra high with big, bouncing curls. I could see the men’s eyes moving up and down my body when I bounced across the stage. My huge tits, my curls, and their eyes danced in unison. During lap dances, when I spoke in my British accent, the men went absolutely fucking nuts. I didn’t know how many times I got three seconds into a lap dance and watched as the guy busted a nut in his pants. That was fine with me because that meant I did a little work for a whole lot of money, and they would most likely come back the next night and do it all over again.

  I stood up and stretched my ankles, getting ready to twist and turn on the stage. No one wanted a sprained ankle, and no one liked a stripper falling to her doom from the red velvet stage. I climbed the steps to the curtain that opened up out onto the walkway, bending my neck and stretching my legs. Reg poked his head around the outside door and looked at me.

  “You’re on in one minute,” he said, staring at my ass before ducking back out.

  Asshole. This was the part I hated the most, the initial explosion out onto the stage. You never knew what kind of reaction you were going to get. It was really tough on slow nights when you grab your inner diva and strut out, just to see two guys sitting in the audience, too drunk to even notice you’re dancing.

  I turned and leaned over to grab my second shot. I held it up in the
air. To future journeys, never telling my future kids I was a stripper, and kicking Prince Charming right in the balls. I slung the shot back and giggled at my own little cheers. I had become such a little hard ass, but that was good. It meant I didn’t get drug down into the depths of hell with the rest of the girls here, who came for a little while and ended up staying years.

  Sveta’s song ended, and she walked in through the curtain, carrying an arm load of cash, as usual. I stepped to the side, tapping elbows with her. With the amount of bills she was carrying, it must be a full house tonight, which meant they were selective about who they let in. Knowing that, I sucked it in tighter and reached into my suit to adjust my cleavage.

  Sveta ran over to the stairs and waved for me to bend over. I closed my eyes, and she blew a dusting of glitter on my tits. I turned and walked out onto the stage. The initial hit of the lights wore off, and the audience became clear. I posed, ready for the music to begin. The sound of the beating bass got the vodka kicking, and off I went down the runway, a spiteful sassy girl, wrapped up in a sexy kitten smile.

  Chapter 2: Milos

  I looked down at my expensive leather shoes as I shuffled down the sidewalk. Alcohol fogged my brain. The streets of Prague were packed tonight, and the clubs were bumping with loud music and beautiful women, just how I liked it. I could feel my knees wobble as I squinted at the signs, trying to find my way to the exclusive Caspian Cabaret, one of my favorite places in Prague.

  There was nothing like ending my night with more booze and sexy girls, fighting for my attention, throwing their tits around just for the chance to have a private lap dance with the Prince of Silesia. Who fucking cared if they didn’t actually know where Silesia was? All they cared about was my stack of Euros and my entourage. Every girl dreamt, at one point in their life, of being a princess. So why not give them a chance to feel like one for a while, even if it was just while grinding on my dick?

  The neon lights around me blurred. I stumbled down the street, trying to keep myself upright and moving in the right direction. Who could blame me for the way I behaved? I was born a prince and took everything that came with that, including the huge allowance, the notoriety, and the ability to pretty much do whatever and whoever I wanted. The only people who ever questioned me were my parents, and even they were too busy with royal affairs to pay much attention, really. I learned at an early age that as long as I stayed out of the papers and out of the news, they stayed off my ass.

  Of course, when alcohol entered my life, staying out of the papers was a little more difficult than I thought it would be. The media loved a bad boy. They loved the drama and suspense of not knowing what the Prince would do next. I kept it low key for a while, but I was addicted to the rich life.

  “Watch it, man,” Brat said, steering me around the vendor in front of me.

  Bratlay Zobrina was my oldest friend and one of the most eligible bachelors, besides myself of course, in all of Silesia. We had grown up together, fighting the crowds, drinking the liquor, and catching the women. Though not royalty, he was a member of one of the richest families in all of Europe, and he knew what that meant as much as I did. He ended up becoming more of a babysitter than a partier since he got older, always talking about settling down and having a family. His parents had finally gotten to him, and he no longer wanted to get wasted and wreak havoc at the clubs and bars.

  He still came with me, but it wasn’t the same. Settling down and families were good for some people, but it was not my cup of tea. Although it pained me to think about it, I knew I would have to let him find his own way eventually. But for now, we were here, standing in front of the Caspian, waiting to get our drink on and our titties on. At least, I was.

  The bouncer at the front grabbed my hand and brought me in close, patting me on the back. I loved how I could go anywhere in any of these cities and be waited on like a king. Because I was a future king. Or the king waiting to be crowned. Just the thought of the palace and the responsibility made me feel uneasy, but the perks were good.

  I stumbled into the dimly lit club and went straight to the bar. I sat there for a moment, trying to collect myself with my jumbled-up, alcohol-induced brain fog. My father had really put me in a bind, making his dying request that I get married, settle down, and become the King of Silesia. Settling down was the last fucking thing on my mind when there were fast cars, loose women, and bottles galore at my fingertips. Don’t get me wrong. I loved my father well enough, but I didn’t want to be him. I didn’t find it fair that just because I didn’t have any brothers, that meant I was responsible for taking over when he passed. Talk about unlucky at birth.

  “Hey, man, why don’t you slow down,” Brat said, leaning in and whispering in my ear. “We’ve already been kicked out of two high-end clubs tonight. There’s nowhere to go but home after this.”

  I shoved him off of me and winked at the cocktail waitress as she passed, flashing her one of my killer smiles. Brat shook his head as I ordered bottle service and hobbled over to the VIP section, taking a seat and sitting back, watching the girl in the tutu bounce all over the stage. She was hot. Like smoking hot. But I was pretty sure I had already had several lap dances from her before. I looked up as the waitress smiled at me, setting down the whiskey, a bucket of ice, and two glasses. I poured a drink and turned my attention away from Brat, who was rolling his eyes at me. Who was he to judge me? He didn’t have a clue what kind of pressure had just fallen on my shoulders.

  Before my father, King Yasen, died, he told me that if I didn’t choose a bride and get married, he would dissolve the royal line and donate all of my inheritance, which was the whole of the royal fortune, to charity. The Parliament would then become the ruling force of the land, a group of men hell bent on seeing me poor and in the dirt. Let’s just say my antics over the last thirty-five years of life have not left them with a good taste in their mouths. My father was so intent on forcing me to settle down, that he was willing to kill a 700-year royal reign to see his kingdom end in prosperity. I mean, part of me, the sober part, understood that he was terrified of me squandering the royal fortune like my uncle had done, before my father took the throne from him. But that wasn’t my plan. You couldn’t really impress the chicks with no money in your pocket.

  When my father passed away two weeks ago, I thought I was in the clear, but my mother was just two steps behind him, telling me she would make sure my father’s wishes were fulfilled, even if it was the last thing she did as queen. On the one hand, I did not want to settle down. That life was not for me. The responsibility of an entire kingdom on my shoulders and a wife and kids to deal with were not enticing in the least. On the other hand, there was no way I could keep up with the elite clubs and hot girls without a penny in my pocket. I was a good-looking guy, but damn if my pocket change wasn’t what kept the girls throwing themselves at me. But how the hell was I supposed to pull off both of these?

  I poured another shot of whiskey and took it down hard, wincing at the burn in my chest. All this thought of marriage and my father was really starting to get to me. However, even cloaked in an extreme amount of alcohol, my brain started creating a solution to this little problem of mine. I glanced up at Brat, who was still staring at me with judgmental eyes. I waved away his attempts to woo the drink from my hand and turned toward the red glowing lights of the stage. I took a sip of my drink and sat back watching as Ms. Tutu danced off the stage with an arm full of euros. That must be a month’s worth of bills for that girl, I thought to myself, chuckling. I started to pick my drink back up when a golden goddess walked into the lights. Her long blonde hair bounced around her, and her body was curvy in all the right places. I leaned forward as the music started and watched as she strutted down the runway, just like a queen.

  My mouth, normally curved up in a devilish smile, hung open as I watched this Golden Goddess. She made her way to the end of the stage, turning and shaking her ass for the crowd. The men went wild for this girl, but all I could think of was the
plan I had just cooked up in my devious little mind. I slammed the full glass of whiskey on the table and turned to Brat.

  “Get me some coffee,” I said, watching exasperation cross his face.

  He stood and walked off to find a waitress. I sat and watched as this girl ruled with a golden body suit. Men fell to their knees in front of the stage and threw money at her. The fierce look on her face screamed control, and I instantly had to know more about this girl. She was gorgeous, and her blue eyes sliced through the red lights, piercing right into my chest. She glanced over at me as I sat watching, probably wondering if I was going to come tip her. Not yet. I really wanted to see what this girl was made of. Was she just a coked-out drama queen like the rest of these girls, or was she really as poised and regal as she seemed to be? If she was, then all I could think was: how the hell did she end up dancing at a strip club in Prague? Girls that held themselves like that were usually rich snobs, looking for their next husband, like Brat’s sister, Zlata, who thought I was oblivious to her attempts at gaining the crown by marrying me.

  The thing about girls like Zlata was they were born with the same silver spoon as I was. They thought they were slick with their sweet smiles and cute jokes, but I knew a raging bitch was lurking just under the skin. One thing worse than getting married was marrying some controlling cunt who was going to nag me about everything in our lives. I could see my future now if I married Zlata. I would have all the riches in the world, but I would be locked down so tight I’d never see the inside of a club, or another woman, for the rest of my days. I would be reduced to a fancy placeholder in the throne room, waving at my staff and smiling during parades, secretly thinking about pushing my wife from the moving car.

  I looked back up and stared at the girl on stage. She pulled her jumpsuit down, dancing along to her rock music and letting men stick euros down her cleavage. If she could con some drunk assholes out of money, using nothing more than an angry stare and her breasts, she could totally run a country.