So it’s a hereditary throne, our dad King Constantine, our mom Queen Consort, and our older brother, Halson, the Crown Prince. Hayden and I? We’re back-ups, royal spares in case something goes off track.
But don’t get me wrong – it’s effing awesome to be younger sons. First off, all the attention was focused on Halson. Our poor older brother grew up under the limelight, crushed by constant public interest. The guy is naturally introverted and I think the relentless glare damaged him even further, making him withdraw into his shell.
By contrast, Hayden and I, as younger sons, had the freedom to do our thing, live up the royal lifestyle with family fortune, name and prestige backing us all the way. And it’s been fucking awesome. We just returned from a year-long tour of the continent, and yeah, we’d sowed our wild oats with plenty of pretty girls, both the ones from noble houses and the wenches at the local bar. Hopefully, our debauched ways haven’t led to any bastard children … yet.
But despite the press painting us as sordid playboys, we’re actually decently intelligent with a reasonable work ethic. Sure, we grew up spoiled but Hayden and I have always wanted to make something of ourselves. So we applied ourselves in school, pretending to be idiots but actually getting good grades and learning a lot. And it’s paid off. We survived medical school, the grueling rounds, the endless tests and practical exams and are full-fledged doctors now, him with a specialty in plastics and me in lasers. It’s a royal double whammy. If a pretty girl ever needs a boob job or butt lift, Hayden and I are your men, bring those jigglers our way.
Take last month for example. We’d had a giant party at our apartment and it’d gotten out of hand, three girls at once, the five of us a panting mess on the big circular bed.
“Please,” begged one girl, “do me again,” she said, wiggling her ass.
I’d teasingly run a hand along her pussy lips, stroking those wet folds.
“Mmmm,” she purred, her bottom quivering. “Again, again!”
But I’d done this so many times in the past that all I felt was boredom now. Was the only word she knew “again”? I wasn’t expecting much, but more than a one-word wonder.
Then again, the girls we sleep with aren’t exactly top notch in the intelligence department. Okay, I admit, they’re usually really dumb. Really, really dumb. Plus, the three we had in bed with us looked eerily similar, almost out of the Twilight Zone. All blonde, thin and Barbie-like, I couldn’t even tell them apart despite the fact that I’d been in each of their bodies not five minutes before.
“Honey,” I murmured. “Let me give you my card. Maybe you’d like to come in for a tune-up, I can help you get rid of that frozen expression.”
And despite the fact that I’d just insulted her, the woman giggled, her boobs quivering.
“Oh sure Hayden, I mean Holt,” she tittered. “Yeah, my last Botox session didn’t go so well. See?” she demonstrated, halfway smiling, lips pulling up slightly at the corners. “That’s as far as my lips go now.”
It was mind-boggling. The girl had given up her ability to smile in return for a wrinkle-free complexion, and suddenly, the superficiality of it all overwhelmed me like a wave, making me depressed and moody.
“Brother,” I grunted, “your turn,” I said, rolling the bimbo towards Hayden. But my twin wasn’t feeling it either, and he just ignored the chick’s pleas, instead hauling his massive form out of bed towards the shower. Guess she wasn’t going to get that complimentary beauty session next week after all.
So as you can tell, my bro and I party it up … a lot. Everything’s up for grabs, the hottest chicks, the bangest parties, the most depraved situations imaginable.
And that leads to the next natural question. Do we always do girls together? What do you think? Because oh yeah. Hell yeah. It’s our thing, everything’s cranked up twice as hot, twice as nice. Girls always seem to perform better if they’ve got two men petting them, stroking them, they’re able to come harder, suck faster, their pussies tighter if Hay and I go at them in tandem. And the women never, and I mean never, say no.
But all this has its downside, at least for our dad. Partying non-stop, banging different girls each night, their faces anonymous, blurring into a haze, has caused a minor public relations scandal, consternation brewing in noble circles. So Constantine called us in a froth, livid, practically spitting.
“Get a grip,” he’d screamed at the family dinner table. The fam doesn’t get together often, but today was an exception. My mom sat at my right, delicate and frail, and big bro Halson was slumped to the left, a shadow of a man. By comparison, Hayden and I were bursting with health, muscular, athletic, vital.
“Why, what’s wrong?” I asked, bored already. Our dad can be a nag even though he’s king. You’d think he’d have more important things to worry about with a country to run, but no. It’s been like this ever since we were fifteen and took turns with the headmaster’s daughter. Hey, the girl was ready and willing, so why not?
But all that was lost on Constantine. He’s retro, real old-school, so he snorted and glared at us disbelievingly.
“I got a call from Ursuline the other day,” he raged. “She says you left her daughter crying.”
Ursuline was actually Duchess Ursuline, a scheming old crone who’d managed to worm her way into my father’s good graces. I was sure she was after something else completely, this was just a distraction.
“Why?” I asked curiously. “What did Emmy say?”
“Ursuline said,” continued my dad, “that Emmeline didn’t come down from her room for two days after attending a party at your place,” he spit out accusingly.
My brother and I shared a glance. Emmy had been a total slut that night, begging us to use her body, pleading with us to take her virginity before she left for finishing school. And my bro and I had obliged. It’s the best going-away present for a nubile, willing girl because these so-called “finishing schools” were total bullshit. There was no studying, it was all about girls gone wild, flaunting their bodies before being married off to some boring small-time aristocrat.
And I suspected our dad knew, he just wanted to get on our case for some reason or other, give us the third degree.
“Oh that,” I said vaguely. “Emmy’s cute, yeah I’m not sure what happened to her at the party, it seemed like she was having a good time.”
“Having a good time?” roared Constantine. “Her mom said she wouldn’t come downstairs for two days.”
Downstairs was a quaint way to refer to Edenwood Castle. That place was fifty rooms, it was more like Emmy wouldn’t leave her wing of the house.
But this was all beside the point. The girl was a happy camper when we left her, our cum leaking from her cunny, and if she’d used it as an excuse to avoid her hag of a mom, then it was no business of ours.
“Listen,” Hayden said irritably. “If you want to rag on us for being us, then just say so. No need to bring Emmeline into it, she had a good time at the party, we’re sure of it. What’s your problem anyways? Holt and I are upstanding citizens, doctors no less. You got a problem with that?”
My dad snorted.
“My sons are doing boob jobs and butt lifts,” he said, rolling his eyes. “How does that help the kingdom?”
Hayden just shook his head.
“Dad, seriously,” he snarled. “You get a grip. The women we treat want these procedures because their self-image is distorted and with the surgeries, they’re able to go out and be themselves, live a fuller life.”
I nodded in agreement because what Hay was saying was true. But there was no getting through to Constantine.
“It’s disgraceful for the King’s sons to be doing facelifts, sucking fat out of women’s thighs,” he yelled. “Why couldn’t you be cancer doctors or heart specialists?”
I rolled my eyes. It’s true that oncologists and cardiologists do good work, but it wasn’t the type of medicine we were interested in. We love beauty, and there’s nothing like lifting an attractive woman
to the next level. So we’d devoted our practice to making women feel good about themselves with fillers, lasers, whatever tools were needed to help them live more fulfilled lives.
But the King couldn’t see it.
“You’re a public relations nightmare,” he ground out. “My sons touching women’s buttocks as ‘part of their job’? Think of the liability, the opportunities for sexual harassment claims.”
That was true, but that was also what insurance was for.
“Anyways,” continued Constantine, “I’ve decided that you should join a medical mission coming to Slovania.”
I groaned. I hated these things, where doctors and nurses spent their vacations in some rural area, donating their services to people in need. It wasn’t our thing, we preferred glitzy nights in St. Tropez or yachting in the balmy seas of St. Barts. Roughing it wasn’t exactly our definition of a good time.
“No thanks,” I drawled. “Not necessary.”
But my dad continued.
“The mission’s going to be in the Kolstya Mountains, it’s called Operation Smile, providing plastic surgery to kids with cleft palates,” he said sternly.
And I sighed because clearly, the King had done some research. Cleft palate corrections were actually operations that we could do. Of course, we hadn’t done one in a long while because boob jobs and butt lifts are our bread and butter, but cleft lips and cleft palates are relatively common, about two per thousand births in the developed world. We’d done them during residency, so yeah, this was something in our skill set.
“Why, what’s in it for us?” I tossed out.
My dad shot me a shriveling look.
“Can you stop acting like spoiled princes for once?” he frothed. “Help your people for a change. Go out there and use your skills for good, stop servicing divorcees desperate to look twenty again.”
He had a point. The endless partying had gotten to us, even we were bored of it now. Plus, the Kolstya Mountains were beautiful, we hadn’t been there since we were boys. Maybe getting into nature would help us shake off our malaise, make us hungry for life again.
So grudgingly, my brother and I agreed.
“Fine Dad,” I said, inhaling my salmon fillet. Damn, it was really good, the palace kitchens had perfected the tart lemon glaze on the fillet. “But we insist on going anonymously.”
My dad snorted.
“That does nothing for your reputations. If you want to rehabilitate yourselves in the eyes of our people, you need to be trumpeting to the world that you’re helping sick kids,” he grunted.
“Naw Dad,” said my brother smoothly. “Let’s go slow, one step at a time okay? Just getting us out there for two weeks is enough, maybe next time we’ll tip off the reporters.”
And so it was settled. Hayden and I were volunteering two weeks of our time in the Kolstya Mountains, the boonies of Slovania, mending the smiles of poor kids with a group of American doctors.
And you know what? It wasn’t bad at all. I’m not much one for charity work, but this felt good. The kids were cute, heartbreakingly young in some cases, all from destitute families. But their smiles after they awoke from the operation were the best. Even I, heartless bastard that I am, got the warm fuzzies when a two-year old little girl smiled at me, her lips straight and even for the first time in her life.
The problem was our supplies. The mission brought all supplies needed for the two-week stay, from band-aids to blood thinners, just in case we didn’t have access to something for whatever reason. You never know in these poor, rural regions. Sometimes things just vanish, and it’s not like Amazon delivers here.
But despite the meticulous planning of our operations guy, we kept running short because things kept disappearing, far faster than they were being used. At first, we just figured it was the villagers taking things. They have so little that anything extra was a blessing.
But the stealing grew more blatant, people making off with our stuff like it was theirs. And when it hit our drug supply, then we knew that shit was going down. The villagers shouldn’t have been taking anesthetics, this was stuff that could only be administered under the guidance of medical professionals, narcotics that were lethal if abused.
Plus, the stuff was medical-grade, drugs that were totally pure, able to command the highest prices on the streets of Europe. So yeah, when we realized there was a problem, we’d directed our head of security to surveil the camp on the sly, figure out what the hell was happening to the drug supply.
And our results so far? Nothing. Zero. Splat. Despite security surrounding our camp in the woods 24/7, watching our every move, we still had no idea who was making off with this stuff. Morphine, codeine, fentanyl, it was disappearing … and probably into the wrong hands.
CHAPTER THREE
Summer
I wandered into the dining hall after my liaison with the twins, my body still humming, incredibly relaxed yet alert at the same time. Jenny caught sight of me and patted a chair next to her.
“Summer, where have you been?” my friend asked plaintively. “I saved some food for you.”
I looked down at the plate of dinner rolls, with just a smidge of butter on the side.
“Thanks,” I said with a smile. “You’re a lifesaver.” Jenny knew I was vegetarian and likely the meal options had been meat … cow, sheep, or goat, take your pick.
No worries though, I was hungry and took a bite of bread. Or tried to take a bite, my teeth making nothing but an imprint on the dough. Ouch. Oh yeah, the rolls were unleavened and hard as rock, nothing like the soft, fluffy white dinner rolls I was used to back in the States. With a sigh, I put it down. It’d be soda crackers in our cabin again.
“Where were you?” asked Jenny again. “And what happened to your clothes?” she asked, looking askance at me.
I knew I looked weird, the shorts and t-shirt damp and clinging to my body. But I didn’t care and gave her a beatific smile. My interlude with Holt and Hayden had been incredible and I still couldn’t believe it had happened. Were it not for my pleasantly aching cunny and bottom, I’d almost think it was my imagination.
But my friend didn’t have to know, so I just shrugged off her question.
“I went and got changed,” I said carelessly. “It’s laundry day so I just grabbed any old thing.”
With a sigh, Jenny nodded.
“Oh and that reminds me, after lunch it’s time for us to be on laundry duty again,” she said, her nose wrinkling up. “I hate how there are chores here, I wish there were a cleaning service like back home.”
I bit my lip. Jenny and I go to the same college sure, but our backgrounds couldn’t be more different. Whereas I’d grown up working class, Jenny was from a wealthy family and had had loads of help growing up. She told me once that they had two nannies – one for her and one for her brother, an extravagance I’d never imagined.
So while I was used to laundromats, dragging huge bags of clothes to our local establishment, this was totally new to my friend. She’d had to read the instructions on the back of the bottle of Tide our first week of college, teach herself how to use the washing machine. Which was just as well because laundry duty was a fact of life here in the Kolstya Mountains.
“No worries,” I said with a sigh. “At least we don’t have to save quarters like we do at school.”
“Oh yeah, that,” Jenny sighed, blowing a strand of hair out of her face. “That’s the only good thing about it. I wanna go home,” she whined.
And that was another difference between us. While I loved being a translator and adored the kids we worked with, this was strictly business for my friend. If it weren’t for the college credit, there was no way she’d be here when she could be on campus living it up.
So after finishing lunch, it was with a grunt that we lugged the camp’s laundry into the backroom facility. Man, I had a lot of respect for laundry services now. For the thirty of us here from the United States, it felt like we had a hundred loads to do, all of it caked in dirt, g
rime, not to mention spatters of blood. Back-breaking work and then some.
But someone was already there waiting for us there. Oh right, Veronica. She was the other intern here with us from college, and she looked just like her namesake from the Archie comics. Tall, slender, with jet-black hair, she was a striking figure with curves in all the right places and a sneer on her pretty features.
“Finally,” she snapped, cracking her gum as she glared at us. “Where’ve you been?”
I felt like a potato next to her, short and fat, plain as a brown paper bag. But Jenny gave back like she got.
“What do you think?” she shot back. “We’ve been tromping all over the camp ground picking up peoples’ hampers. Where were you?”
“I figured you guys had it under control,” said Veronica dismissively, examining her long, pink nails. Although we were in a third world country, somehow this girl had managed to maintain a perfect manicure, no chips, no smudges. Plus, it looked like a gel manicure too, one of those glossy jobs where you need a UV lamp.
But I just shook my head tiredly. I didn’t want to get into catty sniping, we were here to work, and besides, my mind was still whirling with the events of this afternoon. Had it really happened? Had Holt and Hayden really stripped me nude and licked my pussy, letting me ride their dongs, feel those hard rods in a dirty DP? I ran the scene over and over in my head, like it was a dream from a million years ago, my body tingling all over.
But Jenny and Veronica wouldn’t stop bickering, their voices growing sharp.
“I hear you were dinged by Beta Tau Phi last semester,” snarked Veronica. “They were looking for a different kind of girl.”
She was referring to rush week at college. Every year, the sororities on campus take a week to select prospective pledges, called “rushing,” and Jenny had gone through the process. It’d been brutal, my friend obsessing about call-backs, about her outfits, the parties she had to attend each night. Supposedly, there was a hierarchy of sororities and getting into the right one was a big deal.
DOUBLE PRINCES: A Twin Step Royal Romance (With BONUS Book His Tight Little Brat) Page 3
