Princes Ch 01

Ok, so I tried to write a serious story, but got distracted and decided that make-up sex would be more fun than actually furthering the plot with an explanation. This practically spilled out onto the page fully formed, so I'm awfully sorry if it is overdramatic and ridiculous. Of course, sex is a ridiculous thing to look at really, but hornyness makes us take it seriously...

Anyway, this was originally intended as a kind of fantasy story. So if I continue it, expect dragon-women, magic and swords and shit.

Feedback always welcome. Enjoy :)

"What's bothering you?" I ask, peering over at him. I set my drink on the table; he didn't want one.

"Nothing," he says, continuing to study the painting before him. It's one that he's had a long time, I've seen it hundreds of times previously.

"I don't believe you," I say, hoping for a decent answer this time. He appears to be angry, which makes me nervous, much too nervous to push it. Instead I attempt small talk; the tension is unbearable. "Is that one of your paintings?"

"No." His eyes remain on the painting.

"Is it your mother's?"

"Yes. Does it matter who the bloody painting belongs to?" He looks up suddenly, eyes hard and filled with an unfamiliar hostility. I want to recoil, run away and hide from this frightening anger, but that'd only make things worse.

"It doesn't really matter at all no, but I needed something to say, given that clearly you don't want to explain why you're so pissed off, presumably with me." Now I'm hurt, but I'm going to try not to show it. In my typical fashion, I'm going to make the whole situation worse by being aggressive, simply to hide that I'm upset.

Before I quite realise what has happened, he's left the room, and I'm sat on the window seat by myself, surrounded by shelves and boxes full of books looking at me reproachfully. The books love him. Deciding the best thing for now is to stay away from each other, I go to find my shoes.

I walk quickly up the lane, grey tarmac below, even more grey sky above. It's freezing, and I'm starting to wish I'd taken a jumper. The cargos I'd been wearing around the house weren't so warm either. The wind blows my hair in my face, and I tuck it behind my ears irritably. Maybe I should cut it all off, that's what angst makes girls do, right? Before long, I leave the small, detached bungalows behind, and I'm passing fields. The village is almost suffocating to me, all of its tiny houses and old people and even older dogs. It's one of those villages the elderly move to, knowing they probably won't move again before they die.

But it's where I live. That doesn't give me any affection for it, but it does mean I have places to escape to, and I'm almost there now.

A mile or so up the rough, winding lane, there is a stile, one of many. Climbing across quickly, I give a nod to the bored-looking cows, lying down as sleepily as if they too do not intend to move again before they die.

I march purposefully down the field, stepping carefully around the cow shit and over molehills, before reaching the river. I sit next to it, under a massive tree. I'm suddenly drained, and it isn't long until I'm asleep.

I'm woken up again some hours later by the beginnings of as thunder storm. I don't make it home again until it's almost dark. It began to rain on the way back, fat droplets that leave me soaked through and shivering quite violently. As soon as the low, wide front door is closed behind me, I'm dropping sodden clothes onto the warm tiled floor. It's only me here, and him, somewhere in this vast house. It was left to me by a distant but generous grandfather, I still don't know why. There are other people in our family far more deserving of it than me. But I don't complain. I pull my towel and chocolate silk dressing gown out of the airing cupboard and get a shower, as hot as I can bear it. The shower calmed me a little - the irrational anger had burnt itself out, and now I just felt bad. Something is going on, I know something is, and I know he isn't going to tell me easily. I should know that angering him into telling me isn't going to work; it never has with him. He will when he is ready, and until then I will just have to deal with it. As always... I feel the anger stirring again, and strive to quash it. Hold it off.

Padding along the corridor, I knock quietly on the door of what is the reading room. A lot of the rooms in this house are old and useless, so we stripped and cleared them and closed the doors. Others we repurposed, knocked walls in, made it our own - but not this one. The reading room is big, but low ceilinged, with massive heavy bookshelves full of books waiting to be prised from the shelves by eager fingers... Our own books, all good reads, looking comparatively flashy and trivial, sit awkwardly shoulder to shoulder with the original residents, ordered by author. Our books look young and inexperienced compared to the behemoth works of intellect and fantasy and times gone by, when anything was still possible. I think this is the main reason I have procrastinated over unpacking ours for so long, despite feeling quite bad for books kept in boxes. The room is dark and he's sat on the wide bench in the window, much as I was earlier. The fireplace is smouldering, and I imagine the books becoming very nervous. But they trust him not to let them burn. I put a little newspaper and wood on the fire to get it going again, and go to sit by him.

"Hey...are you alright?"

No reply.

"Ok, that was a stupid question. What's upsetting you? Is it me?"

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly.

"What is it then? You know you can tell me," I say softly. Typical phrases I know, but I figure they're typical in these sorts of conversations for a reason. They must work. I know he won't tell me anything if he doesn't want to, but I have to try. I can't see him like this. It isn't until the fire flickers upwards that I've enough light to realise he's crying a little.

I hadn't expected that: I've never seen him cry, not as long as I've known him.

***

"It doesn't really matter at all no, but I needed something to say, given that clearly you don't want to explain why you're so pissed off, presumably with me."

Her face is all hard and creased up, because she's hurt and trying not to let me realise it. What can I say to her? How do I explain?

Any more arguing or attempts at redeeming myself will just make things worse in the short term - not to mention much harder to sort out again in the long term. So I get up and I go, frustrated at the difficulty between us which she thinks is our relationship heading towards the rocks, but is really my secret.

***

I ache to make him all right again, so in the semi-darkness I shuffle closer to him. It's hard to cradle somebody bigger than you, but I put my legs across his lap and pull him closer anyway. He's cold, despite the fire, and I wonder how long he's been leant against the glass like that for.

"It'll be alright, you know. It really will," I say quietly. His head is bowed, almost on my shoulder, and I can smell his hair, thick, dark, and very familiar to me. I touch a hand to his hair and let my lips graze the skin near his ear, trying to comfort him. I kiss his jaw and near his eyes, eventually making it to his lips.

Suddenly I get a reaction as his lips almost crush my own in a hungry sort of kiss, which I'm glad to return. It's a minute or two before we manage to let go of each other and reluctantly even then.

"Talk now, or in a little while?"

By way of response, he kisses me again, and it isn't long before our hands are diving into one another's clothes, and I can't hear anything but our breathing and the fire. My hands run across his chest, which is broad and strong, and exactly the right sort of haired for it to be sexy. I find his nipples and pinch them, which makes him start a little. He tugs at my dressing gown purposefully, causing my breasts to spill out of it into his eager hands.

A small noise, almost a squeak, escapes my lips when he tweaks my own nipples – he knows exactly how I like it done.

I move away from him, and an almost child-like disappointed expression runs across his face before I settle back down again, this time straddling him. My dressing gown is in a pool of dark warmth on the bench around us, like melted chocolate. He has that effect.

Being naked is more fun for two, so I begin to unbutton his cotton shirt - but he starts from the bottom and between us it comes off twice as fast. We're familiar with one another, and contrary to popular opinion, it's got more pros than cons. The speed we can lose our clothes being one of them.

Without a word, we move to the floor. I pull the curtains closed on the way, although I doubt there's anybody looking. When I turn, he's gazing at me from his position lying on the floor, propped up on his elbows. His expression is one of dark intensity, although at least this time it is focussed on me. In a matter of seconds, I'm on all fours above him, hair over my shoulder and round, pale breasts swaying a little under me. He's sucking my nipples, sucking hard and then licking them, and the hand I'm not leaning on has found his belt buckle. It seems I've become quite good at undoing his with one hand, something I note with a sort of wry satisfaction.

Even with the distraction his lips are causing me, I fumble my way into his trousers and seize his excitement. I squeeze my fist, and it gives that little jump. He's very hot.

Soon I'm pulling his trousers off his ankles with an eagerness to rival that of a teenager much younger than I, his boxers follow quickly. Now I can see his manhood properly. Above it, there is a thatch of dark hair, and his cock itself is hot and red and of a size that almost leaves me bottomed out.

I look up at him. His expression is still serious, as he watches my small, rounded body slide over his stronger, sleeker one. I kiss my way up his cock, letting my soft, red lips caress it slowly, sexily. My very best blowjob face, perfected over several years, especially for when I want him to go really, really crazy.

He lunges at me. My world spins as he picks me up and strides to the couch, slinging me over the arm. I can manage little more than a squeak at this point. Balanced on my toes on the floor, fingers on the seat, my arse becomes the highest point of my body.

"Ffffuck!" I shout, equal measure of surprise and pain, as his hand lands, hard. I moan in sheer delight. Usually it takes pleading and begging and generally extremely slutty behaviour to make him hit me that hard.

Two, three four, five land on my now glowing cheeks. I mew, writhing and grinding, screaming 'fuck me' as loud as I can without words.

Now I'm hoisted down onto the sofa and practically leapt upon by my apparently lust crazy boyfriend. I raise my ass for him and he slides himself in, no care necessary. I'm wet and ready, and he doesn't need a second try to aim properly. He fucks me relentlessly. His large, heavy balls hit my perineum repeatedly, and there is an almost water-like slap slap slap of his taut thighs and pelvis against my burning cheeks. His cock fills me, repeatedly and mercilessly, fucking me to the line between pleasure and pain, human and animal, mere enthusiasm and desperation, the place where these things mingle until your world becomes focussed on only the basest of desires. Here we are not people, but forces, throwing ourselves into one another, casting off rational thought and reason in order to get closer.

I feel his entire body lock down around me, crushing me, arms wrapped around my torso to cross at my neck. His hot, sweat bathed body crushes mine as he thrusts deep and violently, shuddering all over as he cums. Slowly, slowly, he comes to a halt, and even then he still twitches inside me.

I slowly become more aware again. He drops his head down beside mine as he slumps, completely spent. His dark hair is stuck to his forehead, his lungs are heaving and his heart is still hammering even if he isn't. Never have I found him sexier than this.

Speech isn't yet an option, but I rest my head next to his and stroke his hair as his heavy breathing rumbles in my ear, like a horse blowing softly. He looks more peaceful than he has for weeks. I feel like I'm burning up with a fever, in the most pleasant way imaginable. Perhaps this time he will talk.

A while later, I awake at a sudden rush of cold air. He has climbed off me, slow and stiff. With a visible effort, he scoops me up and stumbles off to our bedroom with me. He deposits me in the bed, which is rarely made – it usually looks more like a nest – and crawls in with me. I nestle in close to his chest; his arms wrapped round and head tucked over mine.

"I love you," I murmur.

"I love you too,"

"Will you explain in the morning?" I ask, somehow still aware of how we got into this state in the first place.

"You must never, ever leave me. Promise." he mumbles. I am too sleepy to question his avoidance of my question or, indeed, the strangeness of the statement itself. We drift into darkness in the cool, soothing sheets.