The Mammoth Book of Threesomes and Moresomes

The Twelve Fucking Princesses

Kendra Wayne

Once upon a time there were twelve princesses, and every night. .

What? Did I ask you to stop me if you’d heard this before? Because you might think you’ve heard it, but you don’t know the real story. You know the watered-down, sanitized, safe-for-children version.

The truth isn’t really appropriate for children, trust me.

You really think it’s about twelve princesses dancing their shoes to tatters? Have you never heard of euphemisms?

C’m ’ere. Let me tell you what really happened.

Yes, there were twelve princesses, but they weren’t sisters, because if they were some of them would be too young for this story. They were at a finishing school, and they were supposed to be sweet virginal things, and the headmaster couldn’t figure out where they were sneaking off to every night and half-destroying their clothes.

And smelling suspiciously like certain bodily fluids — both women’s and men’s.

Not that the headmaster could admit that to their parents, oh no. How could he? He’d get flogged — and not in a way he’d enjoy it. He had to get to the bottom of this before anyone else found out.

He tried locking the door and sitting outside. No go. He tried hiring chaperones to stay in the young women’s communal dorm room (because he certainly couldn’t), but they all ended up refunding the money and wandering off looking, well, smug. Self-satisfied.

W.T.F., right?

So word got out about the headmaster’s problem — I’m not saying he was advertising, but you know how these things go. And one of the people who heard the word was. . let’s call him John, shall we? John, not to put too fine a point on it, was an ass. Sure, he wanted the money (by this point, the headmaster was getting a little desperate), but he also figured if he played his cards right, he might get his hands on a little bit of princess treasure, and I’m not talking about gold and jewels.

What do you mean, how do I know all this? Just shut up and let me tell the story.

OK, I’ll wait while you make a joke about pearl necklaces. Let me know when you’re done.

John, focused on the allure of money plus potential princess pussy, got the brilliant idea to disguise himself as a woman in order to infiltrate the finishing school and get the currently vacant chaperone job. Normally he would cast aspersions, as they say, on a man dressing in such a fashion, but he told himself it was for the money. And the booty.

Luckily he had a swimmer’s build and was blond enough that his body hair wasn’t as obvious. A wig and a dress and falsies and heels, and he was there.

Go ahead, snicker. He was an ass. He deserves it.

So, the princesses. Brianna, the eldest, was the de facto leader of the group. Gabrielle was the youngest, and she tended to kowtow to Brianna even though she was pretty sharp herself.

The rest aren’t crucial to the story, but because I know you’ll ask, their names were Juliana, Simone, Marguerite, Lianne-Marie, Charlotte, Talia, Faris, April, Rosalyn, and Philippa.

Brianna looked at John (who introduced himself as Jonette) and smiled a little smile that would’ve made him hard if he hadn’t tucked his peen back to avoid, er, outing himself.

“I’ll be honest,” John said. “You know I’ve been hired not just to give you comportment lessons, but to find out where you’re off to every night.” He knew saying something that was truthful would disarm them, distract them from his mountain of falsehoods.

“Of course you are,” Brianna said. “And you will.”

So then it was all about a hidden passageway and crossing an underground lake on a boat (like that isn’t a metaphor). Gabrielle made sure she was sitting next to Brianna, and she whispered, “Something’s not right about Jonette.”

“You’re a goose,” said Brianna. “She’s just like all the others.”

“Her fashion sense is deplorable, and not in a low-country kind of way,” Gabrielle pointed out. “And I just don’t like the way she looks at me.”

“You won’t have to deal with her after tonight,” Brianna said. “She’ll leave just like all the others.”

Brianna never mistreated servants, but she did kind of think they were all the same, interchangeable. Gabrielle sighed and stopped protesting, although she was going to say, “I told you so,” later because she wasn’t perfect and Brianna was going to deserve it.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

John had no idea what he was letting himself in for. Now, I should mention that the fact that the princesses came home each night reeking of various fluids wasn’t something the headmaster had shared with anyone. If word of that got out. . Yeah. Not so much.

Given the stories of torn clothing, though, John was expecting some kind of rave, maybe. For all his nasty thoughts, he really didn’t have a clue.

They disembarked on a wide, whitewashed dock. Two men came forwards and held the boat as the princesses and John jumped out. He trailed behind them into the room so he could keep an eye on them.

Then he was inside, and saw what the princesses were really up to every night.

“Oh, goody.” Talia clapped her hands together. “Slave Augustus here. I’ve been itching to blister his adorable ass.”

“And he cries so prettily when you do,” Simone said.

“Shall we tag team?”

“Yes, let’s!”

They skipped off together, headed for a buff man wearing not much more than some straps criss-crossed around his chest, a posing pouch and a collar, all made out of burgundy leather.

Swiftly, they tied him down on a spanking bench while another slave gathered implements for them. Because a princess can’t mar her pretty, soft white hands, now can she? Talia was rather fond of paddles herself, but Simone chose a flail, and ran her fingers through the strands while she watched her friend go to work on the slave’s ass, which was indeed quite adorable, and getting hotter by the moment.

Slave Augustus murmured his thanks after every blow.

Charlotte and Faris had also chosen to share a slave, but to more direct benefit. Charlotte reclined on a feather bed full of pillows while the slave licked her and Faris played with her nipples.

Meanwhile, Rosalyn indulged her slightly subby streak with two men, preparing herself (and them) for an exquisite double penetration. She had a cock in each hand and alternated between sucking them — but skilfully not letting them come just yet.

Subby, yet always in control.

“What’s wrong, Jonette?” Brianna asked. “You don’t have to be all dom if you don’t want to. April and Philippa are as vanilla as they come.” She pointed to where each princess was squirming and squealing under the attentive ministrations of an accomplished man whose sole purpose was to give her as many orgasms as possible. “The slaves are just here for our pleasure — you can have them do whatever you want them to do to you.”

“Uh, Brianna?” Gabrielle said, because she was starting to figure things out. “I think maybe he-”

“Ohhh!” Brianna said. “Are you a lesbian? There are female slaves here, too.” She beckoned to one of the men, who stepped forwards, hands clasped behind his back. He was naked except for a short gold chain around his neck.

“No, I. .” John panicked.

Then he felt his skirt being pulled up and, before he could react, delicate hands plunged between his legs.

“I thought so!” Gabrielle cried. “She’s a man!”

Something clattered to the floor, and she snatched it up. “And he has a camera,” she said. “Spying on us. Probably planning to blackmail our parents.”

And then it was too late for John.

The princesses (the ones who hadn’t already gotten distracted, that is) pinned him down and, with the help of some of the slaves, had his clothing off, his wrists cuffed to a belt around his waist, and a spreader bar keeping his ankles apart faster than you could say your safe word. He would’ve protested, except for the ring gag they slipped into his mouth.

“I think we should let the slaves have some fun for once, don’t you?” Brianna asked.

“Excellent idea,” Gabrielle agreed, having already thought of it anyway.

Because you know, don’t you, that John was very much the type of man to not just be heterosexual and leave it at that? He had an abhorrence of anything that might remotely involve the faintest whiff of homosexuality. (Unless it came to girl-on-girl action, of course. That was entirely different. Charlotte and Faris over there, kissing and fondling each other while Charlotte bounced on the slave’s cock and Faris ground herself against his mouth? Hot. Very hot.)

The only thing worse than that? Having anyone he knew suspect him of such perversion. Which is why that camera of his came in so damn handy.

They got pictures of him being enthusiastically screwed up the ass by a lucky slave. They got pictures of him wearing a penis gag with an anonymous princess (it was Lianne-Marie, but for obvious reasons her features weren’t visible) bouncing up and down on him — because, of course, the princesses weren’t going to let the slaves have all the fun. They got pictures of him crying as he was whipped on an X-frame, having his face splashed with come from a circle of slaves, being forced to suck a whole line of men.

Worst of all, they got pictures of him achingly aroused by all of it. His penis straining erect, his balls shaved and bulging around a cock ring. Slaves licking his cock and balls and ass while he writhed and struggled.

A lovely video of him pumping his hips futilely against empty air, ungagged so he could beg to be allowed to come. That was the piece de resistance, the ultimate piece of blackmail.

They debated leaving a vibrating butt plug shoved up his sorry ass, but in the end agreed that permanent damage wasn’t really necessary. They did lock him into a chastity belt and toss the key into the lake on the way back, so he’d have that special added humiliation of asking someone for help removing it.

John slunk off in shame in the middle of the night, never to be heard from again.

And the princesses? Well, let’s just say they all went home, got married and became the power behind the thrones.

Except for Gabrielle. She runs a porn empire. She always did have a head for business.