12 Days: A Dark Reverse Harem Christmas Romance

by Dark Angel

  Remember when I told you I didn’t have a great school experience? Remember how I said I was mocked and teased? That people were mean to me.

  Well, the person who fomented all of that, the person without whom I probably would have been well accepted and maybe even liked, is right in front of me on television. The legendary playboy himself. The one, who despite how mean he’d be to me or ignore me, who’s body I would check out when he would run shirtless, doing laps for football practice after school. The one who has graced the front pages of my newspaper time and time again for a wide variety of reasons – everything from hooking up with famous married women to dumping Hollywood starlets at the altar.

  He’s on television now and he’s naked. He’s holding up his hands and he’s…oh my God! He’s swinging his dick around. The networks have blurred it, but I can still sort of see it through the blurring. He’s waving it at the camera.

  “You want a piece of this, America?” he says, holding it and stroking it. “I’m right here, waiting for you.”

  He’s got a positively evil glint in his eye it seems. I wonder if he’s drunk?

  Mike comes up to me.

  Mike looks at me. “You see the news yet, kiddo?” he asks me.

  I nod. The news to him can only mean the Prince. Forget about Iranian nuclear deals or sanctions against Russia or North Korean nukes. No, the news for us is a drunk or drugged prince waving his very large cock on camera for the nation.

  “Well,” he says, “The D.A. is coming over. And she’s asked for a meeting.”

  “Okay,” I say, still not sure what it has to do with me. So I ask him.

  “Because, kiddo,” Mike says out loud. “As of this moment, we’re placing you as head of the Prince beat.”

  Great. Covering the man who tormented my past on the day where another man destroyed my present. As if my life couldn’t get any worse than it is…

  Abby Adams: Meet Prince Sin…

  I’m Abigail Adams, and here’s what Abby’s hearing...

  Well, the world had a pretty stiff awakening today when billionaire playboy Prince Derrick Blaine of St. Livy decided it was time to get naked on set of a taping of CBC’s Today, USA. Not only did the entire nation wake up and tune in to scenes of him engaged in a very eye-opening, shall we say, display of his skills, but afterwards he sought to entertain the nation in lieu of an interview.

  That's right America. That was his junk waving around in your face. For a good 15 second too before the network and its affiliates were finally able to go off the air. Interestingly enough, it seems that CBC as a network has never gone off the air. Never say never...

  They say the early bird catches the worm. But this was no worm, ladies. We, at News of the Times, in our esteemed opinion think this was closer to a python or anaconda. And no doubt housewives across America today are a bit jealous at Today, USA host Mindy Friedman who was caught enjoying a nice large hunk of the Prince's junk…

  Speaking of which, my sources tell me that CBC has terminated its contract with Mindy Friedman, after several high profile sponsors threatened to pull their advertising from Today, USA. It's ironic though, because those same sources are telling me that the ratings when CBC did come back on the air were stratospheric...

  But not even ratings can help the beleaguered network. Executives attempted at first to classify the situation as a simple wardrobe malfunction. But wardrobe malfunctions don't involve the thrusting, grunting, and discharging to the extent that we were able to see. By my last count at time of publication, the YouTube hits on this footage have gone viral - surpassing three billion views. That's right ladies. Three billion…

  Although not everyone is pleased. My spies at the FCC tells me that "lewd and inappropriate" behavior, which this morning’s actions account for can carry a fine of up to $30,000 per second. Care to guess how much money that is? Maybe they should measure per inch…

  Although, if it really came down to it, who doubts that the Prince himself wouldn't just pick up the tab and pay it? Nightclub goers in New York can count off the top of their heads how many times they've seen His Royal Highness gracing the clubs. Reportedly spending close to $25,000 on certain nights, the Prince has a voracious appetite, indeed. In fact, friends tell me that the Prince was actually at the Waverly Inn followed by Pink Elephant the night before his fateful "interview".

  It's only a matter of time before YouTube removes all copies of the Prince and his rather large ‘retinue’. But fear not, denizens of Gotham, because we have the entire eleven minutes on our website. That includes the Prince doing the nasty, arguing with the head honchos when they tried to stop him, the infamous grab and splatter on the said head honcho, and the rather athletic penis-waving at America. It's free now, so watch it while you can, because who knows how long our corporate overlords will keep it up before charging people to access it...

  Still no word if the Prince broke any laws. While not a citizen of the United States and protected by diplomatic immunity, should the District Attorney decide to arrest him and secure an indictment, the resident visa that the Prince stays in the country with could be put in jeopardy...

  What does that mean for you, frustrated home wife whose husband pays too little attention to your needs? It means, that our favorite bad boy Prince could in fact be banished back to his kingdom.

  And now wouldn't that be a shame? Where would my paycheck come from? Because if there's one thing we need in our dreary New York lives, it's to lust after someone that deserves the name of...Prince Sin...

  Till then, I’m Abby signing out. Keep your ears open, New York City…

  Derrick

  I must have slept through the whole fucking morning because when I wake up the goddamn clock says 4 pm.

  Fuck me.

  “Your Highness,” Pressly says, “it seems that this morning’s actions have caused quite the stir.”

  Fucking hell, can’t a bloke wake up in peace without someone bringing up trouble? I sit up on the bed and grab a bottle of whisky that I left on the bedside drawer; taking it to my lips, I have a long gulp and let the burning amber liquid go down my throat and jolt me into consciousness. I look over at Pressly only once I’m ready.

  He’s holding a copy of evening edition of The News of the Times in his hands. I groan to myself. Those bastards have had it for me since the day I fucking moved to New York City. I brace myself as I read the title.

  “Meet Prince Sin!” it reads.

  There’s a picture of me holding one arm out and the other grabbing my cock as I wave it on around. Despite myself, I can’t but chuckle and smile to myself.

  “I fail to see what’s so amusing, Your Highness,” Pressly says stiffly.

  “Prince Sin,” I say to him. “Has a nice ring to it, mate,” I say. Fuck it. They want to have some fun, I’m on!

  I get up and, get myself inside some jeans. It’s just me so I decide to go shirtless as I amble down to the dining room - it’s already way past lunch time, but Pressly knows how I fucking roll.

  “Alright, Pressly. Lay it on me, mate,” I say to him as I eat.

  He clears his throat as I sit at the glass table and start filling up a plate and devouring everything in sight. Nothing better than a night of drinking and fucking to build an appetite. And, fuck, after plowing through three Russian models and a reporter during the past two days, my appetite is fucking huge right now.

  “Well, Sire, as I said, it seems your antics this morning have caused an international incident.” An international incident - what the fuck? Apparently I’m some kind of fucking terrorist now? Since when is it illegal to fuck a willing woman in this country on camera? If anything, they should be applauding me for showing them how it’s fucking done. None of that politically fucking correct claptrap. “Every single media outlet from CNN to the National Enquirer have been talking about it all day. You’ve certainly raised some hell, Your Highness.”

  Well, that does sound like me - I’m always ready to raise hell wherever I fuck
ing go. And all the tabloids are always fucking talking about me. So, really, what’s different this time? “Relax, Pressly,” I say. “People like to talk. This will all just blow over soon.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t be as easy as that, sire. I’ve heard that the District Attorney for the city wants to get involved now as well.”

  “Who the fuck is he to get involved and what the hell can he do to my diplomatic fucking immunity?” I ask.

  “By herself, the District Attorney can’t do anything, Derrick,” my attorney, Larry Summers says as he walks in. I wonder how the fuck he got up here when Pressly tells me, “I took the liberty of summoning Mr. Summers, Your Highness. He’s been waiting the last hour assessing the situation.”

  I grunt. I’m fucking eating too. Larry continues. “However, what the DA can do is bring charges against you that if indicted on, will make you lose your visa.”

  Fuck, did he just say what I think he said? And did he just say the DA was a woman? I’m not worried then. I can always fuck her real good, get her on the Blaine Train, and get her to drop to her knees while she’s dropping all charges.

  “And if I know the DA,” Larry says, “Then Samantha Scar won’t stop till she gets blood.”

  Samantha Scar?

  Fuck. That rings a bell.

  Former fucking noble from St. Penares. In fucking love with my best mate, Silas D’Avington – the prince. We fought together in Afghanistan. I was his best mate. But she and he ended on bad fucking terms. So she finally moved to America. She’s had many jobs in her lifetime. Even serving in the White House as Chief of Staff. But if she’s got her eyes set on fucking me over, then this shit is personal because of my friendship with Silas. And it’s also pretty serious.

  “Alright, I’m going to sort this out,” I say, reaching for my cellphone and getting ready to call the Samantha. These bureaucratic fucks are always after one thing - money - and I have plenty of that. I’ll cut a fucking check and in a week nobody’s going to care about my cock’s appearance on TV. Well, the ladies will care, of course, but that’s life.

  I unlock the cellphone but, as I do it, it starts ringing. My father’s name is on the screen like a fucking bad omen. My father, the King, is not really the kind of guy to call to know how I’m doing. Besides, after everything he’s ever done to me and my mother, may she rest in peace, he’s lucky I’m even going to take his fucking call.

  But still, I take the call and press the speakerphone button. Before I have the time to say a fucking word, my father is already speaking. And he’s both upset and worried.

  “You crossed the line, Derrick,” he says and then takes a deep breath. “Are you okay? Is everything alright?”

  Sigh. Here we fucking go. Moral lectures from the man who started dating his Press Secretary one year after I left the palace. Seriously, the only good thing about Samantha, the Press Secretary was that she was Alicia’s mother. Alicia Bayer. I would love to just sit and fucking rub one out thinking of her, but I have a cunt father to respond back to.

  “Fuck you, Leo. I guess you already know, then,” I say with venom dripping down my words. “Like father, like son, huh?”

  “Derrick? Son? What are you talking about and what’s going on? I can’t turn on the television without seeing you make an ass of yourself! It’s all over every damn TV channel in the world!”

  “Well, it’s not my fault I was made for the spotlight, you know?” I say, putting a toast inside my mouth while I lean back against the chair. Fuck, people are really getting bent out of shape. “But don’t worry, old man. I’ll call the DA’s office and I’ll get it sorted. I don’t need your fucking help.”

  “Derrick, I’m your father, for Christ’s sake,” the fucking fool continues. “Don’t use your anger for me to ruin your own life.”

  He sounds so miserable on the phone. Whatever. Like I gave a fuck. After beating my mother and cheating on her till she couldn't fight the cancer anymore, I don’t owe him shit. I don’t even care that he’s dating his Press Secretary. I just wished he’d showed my mom just a little bit of love when she was alive.

  But I still can’t treat him as badly as he’s treated Mom. I decide to give in a little.

  “Alright, alright. Calm down. I’ll just go back home for a few weeks and let this die off.”

  “No,” my father says in such a firm way I know there’s no way in hell I’m going to convince him otherwise. “You are going to stay there and you are going to fix it, Derrick. I’ve been trying to get a trade deal on paper for three years with the US, and I won’t let you ruin it just as we start to negotiate. Stay there. Get it fixed. If you leave now, it’ll look like you’re fleeing and be even worse.”

  I’m about to protest when Larry jumps in. “You really have no idea what you’re into, Derrick. You’re way in over your head. The DA doesn’t want a deal; she wants your head on a platter. I don’t know why. But whatever the reason, she’s going to indict you and try to get your VISA revoked.”

  What the fuck? Kick me out of the States?

  “I take it by your silence that you know what all this means,” my father continues. “You need to get this sorted.”

  Fuck, I really hate being treated like a fucking child. I’m Derrick fucking Blaine, not some goddamn pawn to be used by the DA against St. Livy.

  “Listen to me --” I say, but he doesn’t allow me to continue, cutting me short.

  “I don’t want to hear a thing, Derrick. You’re St. Alban’s heir. It’s time for you to behave like it. You want to hate me, that’s fine. You want to judge me for everything you think I’ve done? Go ahead. But I will not let you ruin your life because of your anger towards me and I will not let you ruin the lives of your subjects.” And, without giving me time to respond, he ends the call. I stay there, staring into the New York City skyline with the cell phone disconnecting after a bit.

  Fuck all this shit. Just fuck it.

  “Pressly, get me my helmet. I’m going out.”

  “Are you sure it’s a good idea, sir?” He asks me in that understanding tone of his. If there’s someone that cares more about me than about some fucking trade deal, it’s Pressly.

  “I need to unwind,” I simply say as I grab my leather jacket.

  “Very well,” Pressly says, disappearing into one of the rooms and returning a few seconds after with my black helmet in his hands.

  I look over at Larry who’s still sitting there. “Sir, if I may...” he starts.

  Here we go. Larry’s about to lay some fucking wisdom on me. I hate it when people do that… But whenever it’s him, I can’t help but listen.

  “Let it out, mate.”

  “If you can show that you’ve changed, that you’ve become more stable – we could make it work out in the end. I know it might sound absurd to you, but I know you’re capable of it.”

  I stare at him for a heartbeat. Change? How the fuck am I supposed to change? Should I become Derrick nice guy Blaine? That’s fucking impossible. Wrecking shit up is in my DNA. I’m a fruit of the genetics of chaos. You can’t change this shit. But instead of arguing, I simply nod at him respectfully - I know he means well. He could charge me a fortune, but he serves the kingdom pro bono.

  “Any ideas how I can change?” I ask him. I turn from Larry towards Pressly. “Any?”

  There’s a pause. At last, Larry ventures, “Is there anyone wholesome you could turn to? Someone you could be seen with?”

  Wholesome. With me? Gimme a fucking break.

  “And His Highness could work with her and maybe do some good publicity?” Pressly asks Larry.

  “Exactly!” Larry says. “Someone you could do some public service with that would get the public thinking you’re an asset rather than a liability towards civilization.”

  Fuck.

  I say nothing to them as I walk out of the condo. I need to work out. Then I need to fuck something.

  I grab the helmet and put it under my arm; I head to the elevator and get to the garages dow
n below as fast as I can.

  * * *

  Two hours later, I leave the private gym that I belong to and hop on my bike. I thought working out would clear my head, but doing dead lifts and squatting hundreds of pounds only increases the testosterone level inside of me.

  It makes me into a fucking maniac. All I need to do now is fuck.

  I cruise through traffic like a fucking storm, tracing the route to my very own strip club like some fucking missile. I bought the place two years ago and I use it when I need to release some steam or be by myself. Don’t fucking judge - women are my drug and I’m not fucking ashamed of that.

  As soon as I step inside the huge room, everyone turns their heads to me - yes, even strippers. I’m a fucking God among men, and they know it.

  I turn on my heels and head upstairs to my private room. Yes, I have a private fucking room in here. Stocked bar, soundproof walls and the windows that are one way mirrors. Exactly what I need right now - a place where I can drink in peace while taking in the sight of beautiful half-naked women. I get in and sit down on the couch, removing the cap out of the bottle and taking a massive gulp.

  “Well, hello there, Your Highness,” I turn my head back as a Russian looking stripper enters the room, wearing only a black lace thong and a pearly bra. She smiles at me, and asks, “I saw you coming upstairs and I thought you might…want a little company. May I…?”

  “Be my guest,” I say, leaning back against the leather couch as she walks towards me. It’s not the first time. Every fucking girl here wants a piece of me. They all want my fucking cock. At least once they want the eleven inches of His Royal Highness inside of them. That’s why they come to work here. Today must be her turn. “What’s your name?” I ask.

  “Marta,” she replies with a lascivious smile.

  I take one hard look at her: I’ve seen her around a few times, but never had the time for a one-on-one with her.

  She hits the switch on the wall and dims the lights; in an instant, she’s on the couch, sitting on top of me. I’m like fucking honey to strippers - they all want to try Prince Sin firsthand. Not that I’m complaining.