by May Sage
So, quite unabashedly, she reached out between her legs with her left hand and pumped Yellow Man inside her, a bit more discreetly, as though he might somehow hear it through the phone.
“Anyhow, why are you calling? Tamsin's fine, right?”
“Never better. We're in England, sorry if it’s late.”
“No worries,” she replied, not quite sure what he'd actually said. The main thing was, her masturbation was getting seriously good, with his low, rumbling voice in the background. “But stop stalling and tell me what you’re after, honey.”
They were friendly enough, but nowhere near a level of intimacy where he would have called from another continent just to say hi or see what she was up to, so he wanted something.
“Now you mention it, I have a favor to ask you.”
“Go on?”
Given the fact that he was providing a delicious soundtrack to her self-indulgence, she was somewhat in his debt.
“It's Tamsin and Xander's anniversary next month. Our parents are throwing them a party, and well, as baby Alexander has bagged himself a most unsuitable wife, dear mother has taken to pairing Kane, Colt and I up with what she considers perfect candidates.”
It was Kellan, then. Alice relaxed; he was by far the least intimidating out of the four sex symbols.
“I'm desperate. I need a date who would get her off my back, and well, mom would love you, with the conservative thing you've got going on.”
That did manage to make her chuckle quite a bit. Might have had something to do with the fact that she was still fucking herself, her hips now up in the air to get a better angle.
His mother would find her real conservative, if she saw her now.
“Ok, no worries. I'll be your fake date, whatever. Sounds like fun.”
Kellan, she could deal with. At least, it wasn't cold, calculated, dismissive Colt Colburn.
“You did what?”
“I asked her out. She's gorgeous and single, for some reason; why not?”
There was a very long line of reasons why not. Alice Vaughan wasn't a valid dating option; Colt would have asked her out, if she had been.
“You don't have a problem with it, right? I mean, you met her first; if you've called dibs...”
He had met her first. It was he who had read her lighthearted email about setting up an interview and, against his better judgment, had accepted to discuss it.
Look, she’d written, On Top is a magazine for young professional women. My boss and I know that having the four of you on our cover would boost our sales to the moon and back for a good quarter, so give a little startup a hand; I’ll bring cake.
Colt handled public relations, because he was the most indifferent, focused and merciless amongst them; yet even he had laughed at that.
The meeting had been brief. He'd planned on quizzing the fuck out of her, get her angle, her goals, everything, but she'd appeared and put him on his ass.
He had no idea what had occurred but somehow, after a mere fifteen minutes, they'd set up an interview with the rest of the family.
There had been cake. Homemade apple pie, to be precise.
However, in no way had he done anything that could be conceived as calling dibs, despite his inclination.
She'd had her hair in a messy brown bun, off her neck, and seeing the elegant curve, he'd wanted to kiss the naked skin, put his hands around those hips, and...
But he hadn't, so his brother had every right to date her, if she was agreeable.
Fuck. The last time a brother of his had announced he was dating, they’d had a sister-in-law within three months.
What if Alice and Kellan actually hit it off?
“Chill,” his youngest brother said, joining him on the terrace where he’d isolated himself to think things through. “You heard the conversation. He asked her out to stop mom from setting him up. It wasn’t exactly romantic.”
Xander had grown uncomfortably observant.
“But she’ll have someone eventually – for real. If a fake date makes you look like this, you might want that someone to be you.”
“What about when we break up? Tamsin likes her.”
Save for Kane, – Colt’s twin – the Colburn boys were so close they’d developed an unhealthy codependence; they weren’t about to stop, it worked for them.
When Colt or Kellan needed eggs, instead of dropping by the closest store, they drove downtown to borrow them from Xander.
Ok, it may have to do with the fact that Tamsin couldn’t help herself from feeding them, and she was a great cook, but whatever.
Alice spent an awful lot of time at their place, and it would be incredibly uncomfortable to see her after she’d dumped him because he worked too hard.
She would, too.
Colt had dated two kinds of women: those who hated the fact that he often spent twenty-hours straight at the office, and those who didn’t mind.
The first lot dumped him, he dumped the second.
There was no doubt in his mind that Alice would be one of those who grew resentful; she wasn’t a gold digger, or a woman who just liked the stigma and advantages one got from dating a Colburn.
Whoever ended up in a relationship with her would get a genuine, full time, wholesome kinda love. And apple pie. In exchange, she’d demand some of her partner’s time and attention – two things he didn’t have a great track record at relinquishing.
Cinderella
If there was one thing Dane loathed more than yielding, it was having to yield to a bunch of meddlesome advisors; however – and much to his dismay – they were right.
He needed a wife – or more specifically, an heir – and as the bride he’d chosen for himself wasn’t an option, it was past time to settle on an alternative.
“How about Titania?”
He inwardly cringed, but thankfully Alessandro was already on the case, firmly dismissing the shameless flirt who had attempted to sink her claws into him since he’d hit puberty.
She’d only managed twice.
“No royalty: the continent is too unstable. If we go to war, each kingdom will have to choose a side. It wouldn’t bode well to enthrone the child of a potential enemy.”
He nodded his thanks, relieved.
“So, we’re looking amongst our nobles then?”
That, Dane firmly opposed to.
Alenians loved their royal family, who historically had been known for their unusual approach to ruling: they explained why the taxes were raised, divulged what the spies discovered, and answered every trivial question any subject might ask with the simple, straightforward, hard truth.
The noble families had a reputation for doing the exact opposite, hence why, every hundred years or so, the people had taken to slaughtering them in their sleep.
Given the overall popularity of the higher class, his subjects wouldn’t be thrilled with him if he only considered ladies.
Dane almost shivered at the thought of potential repercussions. It wouldn’t do to admit fearing his own people, but hell, Alenians were tough fuckers. They’d won every war because each and every one of their citizens believed that most conflicts could be resolved by lodging a dagger in someone’s throat.
“If I am to choose a wife amongst my people, let them all be eligible.”
A long stretch of silence ensued, which was quite the achievement in such company; advisors generally loved the sound of their own voices.
“Dane,” Alessandro said in the patient, kind tone he only used with children and simpletons. “There are about sixty-eight million inhabitants in Alenia. Over fifty-two percent of those are women.”
“Half are married, another half too old, and most of the rest, too young. I sincerely doubt there will be an overwhelming number of potential candidates.”
Silvia – who’d started typing away halfway through his reply – helpfully interjected, divulging the number of single women of reasonable childbearing age.
Ah.
“You’re kidding.”<
br />
“No; from the last census, women between eighteen and thirty-eight are…”
“I am to be thirty. Cut out any woman below twenty-one or above twenty-nine.”
She updated the results, considerably reducing their pool, but the figure was still substantial.
“Well, we’ll just need to narrow it down a bit.”
Quite a bit.
“Let’s specify a set of qualifications. I’m the King, I can be fussy.”
Dane had arranged his fair share of strategical approaches in his time, but he had to confess: he sucked at this. Obviously his skill sets were limited to politics and battlefields.
On the matter of hunting for a suitable wife, he found his schooling tragically lacking.
This particular thought brought forth one essential criterion to add to the pathetically bland list of attributes candidates would have to possess.
“Education. She must have a bachelor, or be working towards getting one, at the very least.”
Dane had fucked his fair share of airheads and clever girls, and was not ashamed to admit preferring the latter lot.
“That was a good one,” Silvia approved. “You’ve cut out over eighty percent of your possibilities.”
A sad thought for his country.
“So, how many are we looking at?”
“Just under seventy-five thousand.”
There was still no feasible way to pick out the best one amongst so many.
“Restrict the age gap.”
They were down to forty thousand now; still overwhelming.
“How about a lottery? Get them to apply and we’ll select a few at random.”
Effective, yet Dane wasn’t fond of that particular suggestion. It left too much to chance and it was his wife they were choosing.
From experience, he knew that he generally spotted the women he desired to interact with very promptly in gatherings of any size; there was something – call it instinct, basic attraction, scent or pheromones – that either ignited his interest or completely failed to do so.
No, he needed to see all of his actual options; and all at once.
He had to choose wisely; as well as somewhat suiting him, the woman needed to be loved and respected by all their subjects and…
Oh.
“I have an idea.”
“Citizens of Alenia,” Dane, in his formal blue and silver coat, called to the camera lens, calm and confident as was befitting his role. “You have been magnanimous and kind towards your King. Since the death of my father, you’ve wanted for only one thing: stability. I thank you for your patience, and I am announcing that it shall be rewarded. I am to take a wife and she will be one of you.”
He marked a pause, knowing that by this time the attention would have been drawn towards every TV screen in Alenia; the viewers were shouting out, calling the rest of the household to come in and listen.
“Each single, childless woman without reputational damage, who is holding or currently studying towards a higher qualification, and is aged between twenty-three and twenty-eight, will receive an application pack within the next week. Those whom our censuses haven’t tracked can request one through their local councils. The application is to be filled out before the fifteenth. Those who are selected will receive a summon letter by the end of the month and will be required to present themselves at the palace on the Friday of the Winter Fest. Transports, accommodations, and every expense will be covered. At the close of the festivities we will be holding, there shall be a ball whence I will announce whom you can call your Queen.”
He couldn’t help his smile as he carried on:
“I have come to this decision for practical reasons: this country deserves an heir. That’s all it’s about, ultimately: basic, carnal compatibility in order to satisfy this need. For that reason, the pictures I request of those who wish to apply are explicit. A full list of the prerequisites will be attached to our correspondence. If you aren’t comfortable with these demands, don’t bother applying. That’s all for today.”
John dropped to his knees, yet again blessing the King and wishing him a long, prosperous, delightful life.
Renowned photographers in Jenerapolis generally had an interesting life; fashion shows, arts, concerts – the luminous centre of Europa buzzed with more vibrancy than any place on Gaia, and they were capturing all of it behind their lenses.
His life, though, had never been as fun as the days following the King’s announcement. John – along with the main bulk of his peers – was swarmed under requests to shoot pure porn.
He wasn’t exactly complaining; besides the obvious, the whole experience highly entertained him.
“Space the lips with your fingers, sweetheart.”
The girl obeyed without question, brazenly exposing her vagina and for the nth time, John thought that their King was a bloody genius.
He was two poses away from wrapping up the shoot when a familiar name appeared on his silent phone.
Frowning at the thought that she might have called for the same reason as the future teacher who was playing with her clit in front of him, he did his best to quench the need to pick up.
Was he ever going to overcome that natural reaction? Ella hollered, he heeled like the well-behaved underling he would always be.
Nevermind that it had been over ten years since the girl had been on the delivering end of any sort of command.
When he failed to answer, a quick text followed, confirming his apprehension.
Hey, can you squeeze in a boudoir shoot?
Oh god. No way was he doing that to her.
Quicker than light, a second message appeared.
Not me, she clarified. Anastasia.
He couldn’t help but smile at the prospect. Truth was, he couldn’t spare the time on his current schedule… but if it meant he got Anastasia Tremaine to prove to the entire world that she was nothing but a foolish slut? He was game.
You aren’t applying, are you?
He texted quickly, one handed; thankfully his client was too distracted by the pleasure she was giving herself to notice.
Oh yes. Yes, I am.
Ella was grouchier than usual. She had yet again been noticed for her tardiness that morning; a habit she had developed despite her inclination towards respect and good breeding.
Truth was, left to her own devices, she’d be the very first student seated and the very last one to leave. As things were, she was lucky when she caught the beginning of the lessons.
There had been the three women’s breakfast – delivered at different times, of course – the cat’s litter and the laundry, as per her usual routine; but what had retained her was Drusilla.
Dru wasn’t the very worst of the three; while she didn’t see anything wrong about using her stepsister as one of the household maids, she generally thanked her and was so good as to occasionally mention that her washing could wait.
However, Ella would be hard-pressed to decide whether she despised Anastasia’s cruelty more than Dru’s constant chatter – particularly before class.
“Why don’t you just leave?” John had suggested. “You could move out.”
“With what money?”
Rental costs were astronomical in the city and what her jobs brought forth went straight towards paying her tuition.
Ella had never been considered for financial aid. When she’d enquired, the administrator had all but laughed in her face.
She was worth thousands upon thousands and thousands. Millions, if one considered the properties. Never mind that she’d never seen a penny of her trust, currently in the care of Lady Tremaine – otherwise known as dear stepmother.
I recommend adding a transition sentence to show readers that the scene has shifted from a classroom to the bar.)
“You could stay with us for a while.”
Us was John and his brother, David.
Ella immediately shook her head. She would never be tempted to accept such an invitation.
Contra
ry to what one would assume, it had nothing to do with the fact that there would be two men alone with her; the only problem was that she owed them too much already.
While it was true that they’d grown up together, it had been in a very different fashion. Up until her father passed, just over ten years ago, Ella had been a noble and they, her servants.
She’d soon learnt how twisted the way she was raised had been. When it became clear that Ella would not be fed on days she refused to sweep the floor, and that she’d pay dearly whenever she attempted to talk to outsiders about her situation, it was they – the servants – who saved her, showing her the ropes and helping her wherever they could.
They, who she’d been taught to view and treat with contempt.
There was nothing she could do to repay their kindness.
“You’re twenty-six, what’s her excuse for holding on to your money now?”
“Who knows? Bottom line is, I don’t have the means to get a lawyer yet and she knows it. If I make a half-hearted attempt to get to it...”
She didn’t finish that particular sentence, leaving it to his imagination.
“Anyway, what’s your poison tonight?” she asked when the shadow of her sleazy boss appeared around the corner.
Socialising might earn her one of the uncomfortable visits to the office she’d managed to avoid for four months. She’d done her best, blending in, not attracting attention – because if – or rather, when – he called her in, expecting a nice, slow, wet apology, she’d more than likely get angry.
Angry wasn’t an option.
Breathing out as she poured the foul smelling whiskey, she found herself almost wishing things were different.
Wishing she didn’t need to work eight hours per night, study five hours each day, attend her work experience, all of her classes, and tidy up, cook, and clean for her said “family.”
There was more to life. There had to be.
