Prince Brock

by Xavier Neal

  When she doesn’t counter, I state, “I told Fresh Meat, I’d show him what makes me the best here. Need a volunteer.”

  French leans her bare shoulder against the door frame. “You know where the dancers are. Borrow one.”

  “I’m borrowing you.”

  The expression on her face doesn’t budge.

  “I’m gonna show Fresh Meat how I can bring even the Queen to her knees.”

  Her breathing changes noticeably despite the fact I know she’s struggling to stop it.

  Never doubt it’s me she wants even if she’s too fucking stubborn to have me.

  She lets her eyes run down the front of my white t-shirt covered chest, down to my black gym shorts that are now poorly concealing my hardening cock.

  Fucking ridiculous any one person besides me has this much control over my dick. Not fucking around isn’t exactly a choice. My cock won’t even flinch for anyone else. Convenient for work. Not convenient for anything else.

  Unable to resist pushing her, I lower my voice, “You can already fucking see you bring me to mine.”

  The short, shallow breath she lets seep free causes me to growl louder than intended.

  “I can just…look at the room,” Fresh Meat volunteers. “Just, ya know, use my eyes. No demonstration has to be shown.”

  She gives him a quick glance, but my eyes don’t leave her stoic face.

  They never fucking would if it were up to me.

  “It’s probably best it is,” she says with increasing irritation. “While I thoroughly explained to you what your job would entail, he has firsthand knowledge he can use to guide you on how to read the situations presented here and act accordingly. It’ll also teach you how to increase the value of your performance as well as what ends up in your pockets.”

  “String.”

  My correction is met with a glower.

  “Use the right terms and I won’t have to correct you.”

  French leans her face slightly closer to quietly snip, “Do not make me correct you and this behavior.”

  Contrary to her fucking belief, there’s nothing fucking worse she could ever do to me than what she already is. She’s all I fucking have. She’s all I fucking want. She’s my whole fucking world and won’t let me be hers. Nothing could make my fucking life worse. Nah. Been shot and stabbed, among other shit. This is much more fucking painful.

  Never one to back down, I buck back, “You made me this way.”

  She rolls her eyes, pushes past me, and announces, “Make this quick. I have shit to do.”

  Fresh Meat promptly follows behind, while I linger a bit back to enjoy the view. Her plump ass that’s always begging to spanked is being sheltered by a tight, black open back dress. While the front doesn’t display the pair of tits I’ve seen angles of but never in entirety, the back clings to her curves and caresses the top of the world’s most amazing fucking legs.

  Those fucking gold heels belong dented in my mattress.

  The room is much larger than people imagine. Once it’s packed with screaming, mindlessly horny women it instantly feels much smaller. The basic stage shape never changes. Part of our job is to work with Little Sami, the art director, to give it the various illusions it illustrates.

  That should really be the fucking tag line of this job. The Castle. The Princes. French’s artic existence. It’s all a bullshit façade that fades away the minute certain doors shut and lights fade. You’ll see…

  The main base is a very large square shape and the furthest point from the member entrance doors. It branches out with runaway like paths on each side, which eventually connect, leaving an open pit for women to be seated. On the outskirts of the same paths are more places for women to congregate and chomp at the bits over whatever stripper is emptying their Trust Funds. At the corner of the runaway there are poles and ramps for us to use at our discretion. There are a few pillars positioned throughout the rest of the room. They are to double as poles or props as well.

  A high-ranking rule of The Castle is every woman is to be satisfied no matter where she’s sitting. This place didn’t cultivate the reputation it has by leaving its clientele in a state of discontent. If they wanted that shit they could just stay at home.

  As I walk up the ramp towards where French is standing beside a pole, I instruct, “Sit.”

  She gives me stern stare. “No.”

  I repeat with more force, “Sit.”

  French’s face never twitches. “No.”

  Fresh Meat nervously takes a step back towards an empty chair.

  Instead of continuing the battle, I dart my attention to the newbie I doubt will last as long as she thinks. “You’ll see many women like her in the audience.” Slowly, I begin to stroll around her, eyes cutting through her frozen exterior. “Perfect make up. Expensive dress. Even more expensive shoes.”

  French doesn’t bother refraining from an eye roll.

  “A look of empowerment imprinted on their face.” My body stops in front of hers. “Women like this want one very obvious thing.” In a swift motion, I pin her hands above her head against the pole and grind my hips against her. “To relinquish control.”

  While her expression never falters her breathing does.

  She struggles back to cause me to purposely tighten my grip. “See, Fresh Meat, women who spend all their time controlling others, often crave having someone else control them in the bedroom. It lets their mind be free. It lets them…” I drop one hand to yank French’s leg up. “Just. Feel.”

  Fuck....You have no fucking idea what I would do to make this real instead of a fucking game to punish her for the flower bullshit.

  Without warning, I reposition her so her hands are still wrapped around the pole but with her ass facing my crotch instead. “You have to show them that’s possible.” I grind my hips and she rolls hers in return. Swiftly, I yank her head back with a sharp tug of her hair. “You have to prove to them it’s alright to submit to the pleasure.” My foot braces itself on the pole while I tug French back into each rhythmic roll. “That their satisfaction will be met. Each.” I bump my stiffening cock harder against her ass. “And.” Another hard hit. “Every.” The next one receives the faintest of whimpers. “Time.” As abruptly as I took her, I release her, not surprised at all she still has her composure.

  She mastered the art of resting bitch face ages ago. Blame her mother. It was a necessary survival technique. I know all about those. Have quite a few myself.

  “Questions, Fresh Meat?”

  His shaggy brown mop-top head quickly shakes.

  French readjusts her dress and states, “Prince B was very accurate with his assumptions. For most women, that’s exactly what they need. A fantasy that isn’t met elsewhere. A man willing to demonstrate his strength. His force. His regard for your pleasure above anything else. Most of the women who walk through those doors will crave submission as well as the illusion that they are more valuable, more desirable than any other woman in the room.” She folds her hands together. “It is your obligation to make every woman feel that way every show. Learning to make a woman feel like she is the only one who matters in a crowded room takes practice, dedication, and patience. I suggest you indulge in all three in a timely manner. Do not test my patience.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  “And for the record,” her face swings to me, “my fantasy isn’t submission. I enjoy the control in and out of the bedroom.”

  I fold my arms across my chest as disbelief pumps through my veins. “Then what is it?”

  She takes two steps to close the distance between us and declares quietly, “A worthy adversary.”

  Anger begins to fester in my blood. “And I’m not?”

  French allows for the smallest smirk to grace her face. “If you weren’t, you wouldn’t still be by my side after all these years.”

  Her response thumps my cock against my shorts.

  She gives me one final look before letting the grin disappear and sauntering away.
>
  A deep displeased growl lingers in my throat.

  You think the line between love and hate is thin? Try the one between love and loathing. That’s where it feels like we fucking tap dance. Believe it or not, even after all these years, I’m not sure we’ll end up on the side we probably should.

  French

  I have a seat in the chair across from the only genetic tie in my life I still speak to.

  Ugh. Please do not drool over him. I understand he has the whole older gentleman, men get better with age syndrome, but it doesn’t negate the fact he is the sperm donor who contributed to giving me life. Yeah. I don’t use the term father willingly nor do I use its counter. I didn’t have parents. I had patrons. Just because one is still making the effort to be more doesn’t change how I was raised.

  “There’s my lovely Poppet.”

  “As arranged,” I snip and fold the napkin in my lap. “And the nickname. We’ve discussed it.”

  He lets a warm smile cross his barely wrinkled face. “My apologies on the name, daughter-”

  “Not that one either.”

  There’s a short, frustrated breath. “I appreciate you being here, French, even if it is only because you need something from me.”

  It takes every ounce of will power I have not to scowl.

  Unfortunately, he’s absolutely right. It is a need. You have no idea how much I loathe needing anyone else.

  The waiter appears almost instantly to pour the expensive bottle of champagne that’s already been ordered.

  “How was work this weekend?”

  “Profitable.”

  “And your…employees? Are they all in good spirits?”

  Not all…It took Brock two days to wind back down to tolerable brute as opposed to intolerable douche. Not only did he glare at the flowers every chance he had, he not so cleverly tried to knock them off my desk more than once. He also bought me two dozen red roses in a bigger vase to prove his point of always being better. That was adorable in the precious, jealous sort of way.

  I let out an exasperated sigh. “Do we really have to engage in the trite traditions of dinner between two people who share this many chromosomes?”

  “Yes.”

  His instant response causes me to grit my teeth.

  Behavioral traits from both as well. Not sure either should be proud of bestowing them upon me so much as thankful I use them to enrich the lives of others. Something they never quite got the hang of.

  After the glasses are poured, the waiter introduces himself, and attempts to explain the specials. Before he can finish the third word in his well-rehearsed speech, I place my index finger to my lip indicating to clearly close his mouth. He follows the instruction promptly. The moment I point for his dismissal he scurries away as if frightened beyond consolation.

  If I wanted to hear what Leave It to Beaver had to say I would watch TV Land reruns late at night.

  Rhys chuckles. “Do you have any idea how terrifying people find you?”

  “Yes.” I fold my hands and place them in my lap. “And it would be wise if they never found out how terrifying I can actually be.”

  He smiles more and my stomach churns.

  No one should be this happy to be having dinner with their offspring when their offspring clearly can’t stand them.

  “Sometimes I think you received the worst des traits de caractère from both of us.”

  “I did.”

  His expression falls despite his desire to stop it.

  I’ll give him this. Once the time restraint of the custody agreement ended he became increasingly active in his pursuit to repair the irrevocable damage caused by being a distant parental figure who left me to be raised by The Devil’s Apprentice. And make no mistake, the woman who gave me life to get a pay check for eighteen years is nothing less than Satan’s understudy in stilettos.

  “Have you spoken to your mère?”

  “No.”

  “Has she made contact since she fled?”

  “She’s attempted.”

  “And you don’t think-”

  “That I should entertain the notion she matters in my fucking life when she doesn’t? No.”

  Aside from instilling in my brain the gritty truth of the power of selling sex from the time I could talk, she also tried to cypher away my college fund, which I didn’t use to go to college anyway, but that wasn’t my point. She tricked Rhys into getting her pregnant by purposely waiting until she was ovulating and then screwing him like they were the last two people on earth while he was in town. This wasn’t the first time she ran this play. She had a known cycle of rich, powerful men she would screw only during that time on the idea of getting pregnant to assure her at least 18 years of a pay-off. She would poke holes in condoms. Bend them repeatedly in the package to guarantee they tear. She would also get men worked up to the brink of desperation and then pretend she didn’t have one. They were always too far gone to see what she was really up to. And yes, she told me these things personally like insider trading secrets. At the time Rhys was a French diplomat sent here to…I don’t know…whatever it is people in politics do. I don’t really know nor do I care to know. The world I govern has its own set of politics and those are a pain in the ass to deal with on their own. Adding unnecessary information to my brain I don’t find beneficial is not something I often do. Anyway, the birth machine, got pregnant, then essentially blackmailed Rhys into a contract that swore she would keep me his dirty little secret unless otherwise legally noted by him. He shelled out hundreds of thousands of dollars to keep her in a cushy lifestyle and me in the best private education. However, she was smarter than he anticipated. The document they agreed upon denied him the right to visitation even after he decided it was alright to have a mixed child with an American woman. He managed to place additional holdings on the money he intended me to have when I graduated high school, but she had done a significant amount of sucking it away before then. Truth is for a woman like her there’s no such thing as enough. My name is a mocking reminder of where my genetics were from and who didn’t want me. Bitch wasn’t exactly brilliant in that department, but believe me she was in ways that make it illegal for her live in this country. Last time I heard, she was wanted for six counts of felony fraud. I like to believe she’s stranded on an island all alone. Like Castaway. Oh spare me the ‘she kept a roof over your head’ lecture. I kept a roof over my head and food on my table. You have no idea….

  He clears his throat. “How’s work in a broader aspect?”

  “Lucrative.”

  Worth investing my college fund along with my savings and his half a million ‘I’m sorry I left you with her’ donation.

  “Do you ever…think of investing in something else? Branching out?”

  “I have plenty of branches, Rhys.”

  More than most people can fathom.

  “What about traveling? Perhaps for plaisir? Seeing more of the world?”

  The line of questioning isn’t clever.

  I know what he wants from me. What I hate is that I’m going to have to give it him.

  “Can we skip the formalities now and just establish the terms of this agreement?”

  Rhys has another sip. “Why the rush?”

  “My time is valuable.”

  “And mine is not?”

  Clearly it isn’t if he wants to do the father daughter routine….

  When I don’t counter, he adds, “French, I hope you know despite your…distaste for me, je t'aime and whatever crumb of time I’m given.”

  Uncomfortable from his declaration I adjust in my seat. “Terms?”

  “Fine.” He surrenders his hand. “When your request, which I’m assuming is far from simple, is successfully fulfilled, the following weekend, you are to come to my villa in France for a visit.”

  I grind my teeth over the high cost.

  “Thursday night arrival with a Sunday night departure.”

  My thumbs begin a gentle tapping in my lap. “You have clearly
thought this through.”

  “I may not know you as well as I like, but I imagine your mother raised you to be aware of every possible out in a presented scenario leaving the less to be debated, the better.”