All I wanted was to fuck the American girl. The fact she was American was indisputable the moment I met her, but I didn’t want to punish her for it. I certainly didn’t want my father to find out. Ten years of hard labor, and it’s mostly my fault.
“Oh yeah. Give it to me hard!”
My attention drifts back to the screen, which is lit up with a naked woman lying on a wooden plank spreading her legs wide. She throws her head back in ecstasy (I’ve never once known a woman to do this during sex) and her eyes roll up as the man standing between her legs sinks his cock into her primed pussy.
“Oh yeah!” she yells. “Oh!”
I squeeze my limp cock, not seeing the girl strapped to the table, but Daisy. The American girl, with her cheeky mouth and her olive skin. She writhes on the table as I use a pair of scissors to cut away her loathsome trousers and that awful green shirt that clashed horribly with her complexion. She’s probably really hot under it all. I can just imagine her tits warming my hands, and I wonder whether her nipples are pink or brown. She had beautiful, shining black hair and stunning blue eyes.
I pinch my cock again, finding it rock-hard. I want that American pussy, want to feel her come on my tongue. But how? Now that dear old Dad’s sentenced her to ten years of hard labor in the fucking quarry, how am I ever going to get near her again?
“Harder! Oooh! Aaah!”
The woman’s fake orgasmic screams have the same effect as dumping a bucket of cold water over my lap. Instant boner killer.
I shut the TV off to grab my phone. Then I scroll through my Twitter feed. I have millions of followers, but nothing I can do through social media will make Father cave. The bastard isn’t one for buckling under social pressure. So I tuck my half-hard cock back inside my trousers and yank them up my ass. I just have to convince him that he went overboard with the punishment; otherwise, she’ll suffer. She won’t last a week in that quarry. She’ll waste away to skin and bones. I’ve seen the people my father sends there. Those who survive return home with broken backs, curved spines, unable to work.
It’s awful, but like I said, he’s a bastard.
I like to think of my father as the king in Lord of the Rings. You know, the one who gets bewitched by Wormtongue to do all sorts of horrible things? He’s a lot like that, except there’s no excuse for his awfulness. Even before Mum passed away, he was a nasty git. When I was five, he told me Father Christmas wasn’t real for no other reason than I had to “grow up.” At five. At thirteen, he paraded me naked through the streets because I spat in my brother’s soup. I always thought he was hard on me because I’m the next in line for the throne, but now I know better. He’s a cunt.
Sometimes I worry he can sense my seething lack of respect, but I’m hardly the first prince in the world to pack a yacht full of women and attempt to fuck them all.
I climb the narrow staircase to my father’s chambers and knock.
“C’min.”
I open the heavy door to the giant, circular room. I can’t wait until the day it’s mine—the parties I’ll have. I’ll get rid of the stupid, tacky décor, and all the rusted swords hanging on the walls will go. I’ve never been one for family memorabilia. Maybe I’ll install a stripper pole or two. A minibar. Why not? There’s no reason ruling the kingdom has to be boring.
“Oh, it’s you.”
The glacial tone used to bother me.
Back at you, prick.
I step inside as Father hunkers down in his chair by the fire. It’s stifling hot in the room, but he shivers constantly. One of these days, I’ll wake up to the bells tolling, announcing the king’s death.
I try to search inside myself for an ounce of grief.
“Let me guess. You’re here about the American girl.”
I take my time, knowing it’s best not to rush things with Father. I take a seat next to the fire even though my skin immediately starts to burn.
“You know this won’t make Anglefell’s foreign relations any better.”
“I could give a rat’s arse about that.”
You’re ruining the fucking country. “The Americans