Pretty Pretty Princess

by McKenzie, Shane

  BLOOD BOUND BOOKS

  Copyright © 2016 by Shane McKenzie

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Artwork by Jeff West

  Interior Layout by Lori Michelle

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  Visit us on the web at:

  www.bloodboundbooks.net

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  FOR SCOTT. WHAT? NO I DIDN'T. STAY STRONG, CUZ!

  1

  Music erupted all around them. Men and women danced and laughed and drank from wooden cups. Each seeming to sing to their own beat and cheering with revelry. The disjointed sounds entered Prince Francis’s ear as a jumbled ball of chaotic noise. He clenched his teeth as he strolled across the courtyard toward the castle, doing his best to chew the infant headache down before it hit puberty in his skull.

  “Aren’t you tired of all this shit yet, Fran?” Gavin trotted beside him, his hoofs splashing in muddy puddles of water and horse piss. An oink escaped his tusked mouth as a horde of children ran past and nearly trampled him, playing keep away with a little girl’s doll who cried and begged as she pursued the group of sneering boys. “You know what she’ll say. Same shit every time.”

  “That may be,” Francis said. “But I still have to try. It’s my duty. It’s what P.E.T.P is all about.”

  “Pet pee?”

  “Princes for the Ethical Treatment of Princesses.”

  “That’s what you’re callin’ it now? The acronym is terrible. Makes me think of cat piss.”

  “It’ll do for now.”

  Thick, callused feet ground the animal shit into the mud as the common-folk pranced about in every direction. But none seemed to mind. They all appeared happy, or at least as happy as they could be. In a world so thick with misery, so pregnant with shit and hate and ignorance, a princess’s wedding day was cause for celebration. It was the only time that royalty opened their doors to the people, tossed out bread and chicken bones with a little meat still on them. Filled wooden cups with mead.

  “You can’t help someone that don’t wanna be helped, Fran. How many more times we gonna go through this? How much more gold are you gonna spend?” Gavin paused, dug his snout into the mud, then pulled his soiled face out of the wet earth, chewing on what looked like a dead mouse carcass. He slurped up the tail, licked his chops, then sat on his haunches and faced the castle entrance.

  “She wants to be helped. She just doesn’t realize she has a choice. She’s been taught that this is the way a princess is treated, and she sees nothing wrong with it.”

  “Not sure if you noticed, but you might be the only one who does see anything wrong with it. Look around you. Everyone’s happy but you.”

  “And how about you, Gavin?”

  “I’m a pig, Prince Fluffypants. My opinion don’t mean shit.” He snorted and squinted as he looked up at Francis. “When you gonna start Princes for the Ethical Treatment of Pigs? We got our struggles too, you know. Ever heard of bacon?”

  “Another time, Gavin.” Prince Francis heard his friend speaking, but couldn’t pay the words any mind. He was too focused on the castle in front of him, the thick-chested, armor-plated guards scowling at him from either side of the portcullis. They each held a spear with both of their gloved hands, the blade long and curved like a dragon’s talon.

  “I can tell by the look on their faces that they are very familiar with bacon. I’ll just be waitin’ over here . . . ” Gavin trotted toward a narrow alley between a tavern and an inn, oinking all the way, his corkscrew tail bouncing as he went.

  “My friends,” Francis said as he took a long step toward the guards.

  The men tensed, grips tightening over weapons as they stood straighter, their eyes never leaving Francis’s. Until he pulled out his leather sack that jingled as he shook it.

  “My name is Prince Francis of Granada. I would like a word with the bride to be, if I may.”

  “Granada?” the guard on the left said, sneering as he jabbed the butt of his spear into the mud and used it to lean on. “Nothin’ but queers and whores down that way.”

  “S’what I heard, too,” the guard on the right said as he scratched his groin. His leather-wrapped fingertips scraped across the metal plate there, but he seemed satisfied all the same. “Heard the first born got banished for havin’ too much sugar in his britches, I did.”

  Prince Francis smoothed out the front of his shirt, cleared his throat. He forced a smile, though he ground his teeth behind his lips. “Not quite accurate, but that’s not important.”

  “Oh, ay? Seems to me a banished prince ain’t no prince at all,” the guard on his left said, then swung his spear so the blade was inches from Francis’s throat. “So what is it you want with the princess, Sugar Britches?”

  Francis opened the sack and let four golden coins roll out into his palm. The guards’ sneers slackened as their eyes molested the coins, tongues emerging from behind their lips like pink, boneless turtle heads.

  “I mean the princess and her husband-to-be no harm. I only wish to speak with her. To . . . wish her good fortune. To congratulate her.”

  The left guard swiped two of the coins and immediately lowered his spear. The right guard let his hand hover over the offering a few seconds before finally taking it, glaring at Francis once again, the corner of his mouth twitching.

  “Guess there ain’t no harm in that,” he said. “Looks to me the worst you could do is recite poetry at her. Maybe give her a little dance, then?”

  Both men burst out laughing, exchanging glances, then studied the gold. The left guard squinted as he inspected it, the right guard chewing on one of the coins.

  Francis wanted to stand up for himself, but thought better of it. The only thing that mattered was getting past the guards, into the castle, and then getting himself in front of the princess for long enough to explain things to her. That she didn’t have to do this. Didn’t have to marry a man just because he slaughtered a few ogres to rescue her from the dark, underground dungeon where her own parents had imprisoned her.

  The princess—all princesses—needed to learn to stand up for themselves. Demand they be treated with dignity and respect. That just because they didn’t have a royal cock swinging between their legs, they were still royalty. Didn’t deserve a life of solitary confinement, waiting years upon years for a man intrepid enough to risk his life battling the dregs of the Dark Wilderness.

  A princess had become a prize. A trophy that symbolized how fierce a fighter her betrothed was. How severe the imprisonment and the degree of difficulty to save a princess from her mandatory peril had become a point of pride for all kings and queens.

/>   “That’s right,” Francis said, then tucked his sack of coins—the last handful he had left—into his pocket. He folded his arms behind his back and rocked on his heels. “Prince Sugar Britches is no more dangerous than a sparrow.”

  “Tell me, Prince,” the left guard said as he and the right guard stepped aside, motioning to some unseen soldier to open the portcullis. “If I give you back one of these coins here, would you let me fuck your royal throat with my thick commoner’s cock?”

  The portcullis groaned and creaked as it slowly rose, stone dust floating down to the dirt and frosting the mud’s surface.

  “I heard the banished prince of Granada loves him the taste and feel of a nice fat cock,” the right guard said, then both guards shared a laugh as Francis shuffled by them, doing his best not to make eye contact.

  They don’t matter, he told himself. Let them have their laugh.

  Once the portcullis was closed behind him, the pandemonium and ruckus was nearly shut out completely. Only whispers of the out-of-tune melodies broke through the castle walls, the drunken shouts and laughter of the commoners like the whoooos of vaporous spirits floating in the ether on the other side of the stone barrier.

  Within the castle walls, a much sweeter sound swirled through the air, accompanied by a beautiful female voice singing about a brave knight who slaughtered the evil beasts to save the princess. She sang of how lucky the princess was to have such a brave and handsome warrior claim her from the dank dungeon where she had spent the last five years of her life.

  A game. That’s what this all was. A blood sport for everyone’s amusement. The princess the reward. Francis knew firsthand how cruel a king and queen could be, especially to their own offspring. But at least a prince had a chance. As long as a prince could swing a sword and ride a horse and fill his wife’s uterus with as many royal fetuses as it could house before finally shriveling up, that prince would be praised and worshipped and showered with riches and respect.

  But if a prince found iron too heavy to swing, found that a saddle chaffed his inner thighs, or found that he would rather marry a woman for love than force her to bare his children, then he was considered queer. A disgrace. Prince Sugar Britches banished to the Dark Wilderness to wander around on his own, his pet pig his only companion, free to suck as many common cocks as his weak, unworthy heart desired.

  But a princess? A princess is doomed from the moment she’s pulled screaming and dripping from between her queen mother’s legs. A princess, on the day she bleeds for the first time, will be locked away, surrounded by unspeakable creatures until the day a knight, strong and brave enough to cut and chop his way through the beasts, arrives and saves her.

  Francis nodded politely at the royal men, women, and children dancing and laughing and prancing about the castle grounds. Scattered among the well-dressed, tight-lipped royalty were massive brutes of men clad in boiled leather and metal plates, their weapons still strapped to their backs, clinging together as they paraded about, chasing the topless whores the king and queen no doubt provided for them.

  The knight’s brothers at arms. His band of warriors. Francis didn't know the knight who had saved this particular princess, but it didn't matter.

  One woman, each of her breasts the size of a child’s head, giggled as she ran past Francis, her left breast smashing into his back and bouncing him forward. She ran past, and not a second later, it felt like a battering ram hit Francis right between the shoulder blades, tossed him forward and down to his hands and knees.

  “Watch it, sissy man,” the knight said, nearly stomping down on Francis’s head as he stormed by, both hands outstretched, reaching for the swaying and bouncing flesh of the brunette whore whose bare feet slapped the stone floor as she cackled and bounded away from him down the hall lit only by mounted torches.

  Francis sighed, then slowly rose to his feet, swiping his palms across his shirt and pants to straighten the wrinkles.

  Hallways stretched out on every side of him, each one flickering with firelight, the stones glistening as if sweating from the heat.

  Francis had no clue where to find the princess, and figured he would have to start randomly opening doors like he had so many times before. Because he was dressed as a prince, most ignored his presence, assuming he was with one family or the other, only there to celebrate the binding of the princess to her brave warrior. His ability to blend in—and not stand out—was finally working to his advantage.

  “You are sure the queen said so?” a girl said as she hurried across the hallway to Francis’s left, her pearl-colored silk dress flowing behind her like liquid butterfly wings.

  “That is what she asked for. For the princess’s nerves, she said,” another girl said, dressed identically to the other.

  “Poppy water only hours before her wedding? She’ll be a blabbering fool by the time she spreads her legs for her husband.”

  The girl held a silver chalice with both hands as she gracefully strode past Francis.

  Francis nodded and smiled at them as they passed. They only glanced at him momentarily before continuing on their way. Francis waited a few seconds, then quickly followed, making sure his feet stepped gently so as not to make a sound.

  A door roared like a wakening beast as the girls threw it open, then they disappeared. Francis pulled out his leather sack, plucked a coin, and then rolled it across the stone floor. It hopped as it went, but stayed on course before sliding between the door and the wall just as it shut.

  Francis rushed toward the door, used the toe of his shoe to nudge it open, bent down to retrieve his coin, then slid into the room.

  It smelled of perfume and bath water, the air still swirling with fingers of steam. Female voices chattered in the distance, sounding like broken glass being shaken in a well bucket.

  “Here you go, Princess,” a girl said.

  “What is this?” The voice sounded weak, shaky, as if it could blow away in the wind.

  “Poppy water, Princess. From your mother the queen.”

  “What is it for?”

  “A drink to soothe you.”

  Then there was the sound of choking and sputtering as if the girl forced the liquid down the princess’s throat.

  “Better?”

  Francis still stood by the door, having only taken a few steps forward. It took another couple of steps for him to be able to see the congregation of bodies on the other side of the room. Sunlight spilled in through slats on the wall just above them, casting fish gill shapes over the floor and furniture.

  Five girls surrounded the bride who lay on a bed just big enough to fit her body. Though her dress was at least twice too big, the fabric flowing off her body like mercury, Francis could tell she was malnourished. Her cheeks were sunken, the flesh there slightly darker than the rest of her face. Her teeth pushed past her lips like a shriveled corpse’s mouth, her hair pulled so tightly behind her that the skin below her hairline was red and irritated.

  “Who are you?”

  Francis had been focusing on the princess so intently that he didn’t realize the rest of the girls were staring at him. They tightened their circle around the princess, all scowling at Francis and looking like predatory cats ready to pounce on an injured bird.

  “Who is it?” the princess said, now sitting up and trying to shove the girls out of the way to get a look. “Is it my husband?”

  The princess said the last statement with a quiver to her voice, as if she were speaking of the devil rather than the man she was to marry.

  “You do not know me, Princess,” Francis said as he approached them. He held his arms out to show he was no threat, but the girls tightened their circle around the princess even more, one breaking off to stomp toward him with her fists raised.

  “I may be a woman,” she said. “But I’ve got a grip strong enough to rip your balls from your groin in one pull. Be as easy as picking a bunch of daisies.”

  “Won’t be necessary, I assure you.” Francis smiled, but the girls we
re still on the defensive. “My name is Prince Francis of Granada. And I’m only here to speak with the princess, if I may.”

  “Granada?” one of the girls said. “I heard their heir likes the taste of a man’s hanging parts, that’s what I heard.”

  The other girls nodded and shared glances with one another.

  Francis sighed but was able to mash his lips together and force a smile.

  “Who I am and where I come from is of no importance. The only thing that matters is the princess and the information I have for her.”

  “Listen, Prince Hanging Parts,” the girl closest to him said, now grinning as if Francis was no more a threat than a gnat. The court jester who had come to lighten the mood and tell a few jokes before the princess said her vows in front of the gods and her entire kingdom. “I think it would be wise if you just—”

  “Wait.”

  The princess stood, bared her teeth as she forced her way through the girls who did their best to hold her back. They reached for her, wrapped their fists around the fabric of her dress, but the princess pushed forward, glided past the girl closest to Francis.

  “Princess,” Francis said, then dropped down to one knee. “I have something of great importance to tell you. Something that will go against everything you have ever been taught about who you are.”

  Francis had lowered his head so that his eyes were facing his own groin. A gentle hand pressed against the back of his neck like a dead leaf floating down from a withering tree.

  “Please,” the princess said, her voice barely audible. “Stand. What is it you need to say, Prince?”

  She is the one. I know it. She will hear me. She will understand. And she will be the example for all the others. Soon, all will see the atrocious nature of their traditions.

  Francis stood and faced the princess. She reached out and took both of his hands into hers, the pressure hardly stronger than a gentle breeze gliding over his palms.

  Francis took a deep breath, then stared into the princess’s heavily-lidded eyes, both rimmed with a bright pink the color of salmon meat.

  “Princess,” Francis said, ignoring the glares and sighs of the girls in the room. “I’m here to tell you that you do not have to do this. I’m here to tell you that what has been done to you is a crime and that you deserve better. That you should demand better.”