More fictional sex between people whose motivations are less than pure.
The wardrobe smelled of mushrooms. Kirsty fought the urge to retch, and wondered for the tenth time in ten minutes if she could let the door ajar to give her some respite. She tried to distract herself from the odour by checking her camcorder again. How long would they be? It was already past midnight.
She flipped open the viewscreen and checked the battery. Full. Sixty minutes left on the tape. It ought to be enough. Jeremy said he didn’t expect the whole thing to last more than five minutes.
“Let’s face it, they’ll be exhausted,” he had told her as he drove her along Pall Mall. “It’s the biggest day of their lives, even Wills, and he’s a prince. Just imagine how Kate will be feeling.” He leant on the horn and flicked two fingers up at a taxi driver. “She’s been working up to this moment for the last ten years. They’ll be knackered.” They stopped at the red lights in Trafalgar Square. “Just think of all the things that might go wrong.”
“Too drunk, too tired, too wasted,” Kirsty volunteered.
“And she might have the painters in,” Jeremy said. “But none of that matters. Even if nothing happens, if we have got the only video of the royal couple’s first night together, then we’ll be minted.”
Kirsty couldn’t help wondering who exactly would buy a video of the royal consummation, but Jeremy knew about this sort of thing. He’d given her a special camera, which he said would be able to take video in the dark. Kate, he insisted, was not a “lights on sort of girl”.
Getting into Buckingham Palace had been all too easy. Jeremy’s friend Paul worked there. He’d managed to get her a maid’s uniform and a pass. He ushered her along the corridor to the royal suite and told her to wait in the wardrobe.
Kirsty sighed. That had been at midday, and she hadn’t even seen what the dress looked like. Twelve hours she’d been shut up in the cupboard. She’d hoped she’d get used to the smell, but the mustiness hadn’t disappeared. She shifted position, and sneaked a look through the gap between the double doors.
The bedroom was covered in gold and red brocade and silk. The bed was, as she had expected, a four poster, with drapes hanging everywhere. Everything was ornate. There was even a royal crest above the head of the bed. There was no portrait of the Queen though, or any of the other royals. It might be a bit off-putting, Kirsty realised, to have your grandmother staring at you while you attended to the important business of heir-making.
The bedroom door clicked. Kirsty froze. She could hear the handle turning, then footsteps on the thick carpet. She flicked the switch to turn on the camcorder. People. A soft, feminine voice, laughing quietly like a silver chime, and a throaty, masculine voice, murmuring. Directing. Kirsty’s skin prickled in fear and anticipation. This was it. She fumbled with the door, trying to push it open enough to squeeze the lens through. She couldn’t open the viewscreen, and she dared not bend down to look through the viewfinder. She could make out two figures, pinpricks on the glass of the lens, moving. They were sitting on the bed. The lights were on. The woman was wearing white. The man was in uniform. It must be them. It must be.
Kirsty set her trembling hands against her knee, trying not to make the camera shake. She managed to peek through the gap at the couple on the bed.
“Keep your uniform on.” The woman had a crystalline accent – the poshest voice Kirsty had ever heard. “I like being fucked by a man in uniform.” She said ‘fucked’ like she was pronouncing every letter. Just the sound made Kirsty throb. She had creamy skin, and dark, flowing hair. The officer had his trousers at his knees. The flap of his jacket barely covered his arse. Its firm, taut cheeks made Kirsty breathe harder. The excitement of being just a few yards from her quarry mingled with the thrill of watching the couple as they caressed. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, white material all around her, while he crouched down, then knelt on the floor and began to lap.
Kirsty bit her lip at the first moan. His head bobbed up and down as her hands ran over his hair, and Kirsty could imagine the feeling, the tongue burrowing and flicking, nibbling and slathering. She took one hand off the camera and rested it between her legs, underneath her maid’s dress.
“Oh, God, yes.” The woman was getting louder. “Lick harder, you fucker. Lick me like you mean it.” Kirsty began to rub her clit, her excitement growing at the unprincesslike words. So she was the dominant one, not him. Oh, yes, she would order him around, and be the power behind the throne. But it wasn’t Kate, no, it was Kirsty, she was the one ordering her prince, not waiting for him to come. She would make him want her, only her, not like the rest of the royals, but her devoted slave.
“Fuck, yes, don’t stop. Just there. No! Higher! Where you were before, higher, just a bit… oh fuck!”
Kirsty pulled her skirt up higher with her free hand, trying to keep the camera trained on the man’s bobbing head. She dipped the hand under her knickers and pushed one leg against the side of the wardrobe. Her heel clopped against the wood and she bit her lip, hoping it hadn’t given her away.
She leant back and began to rub harder, trying not to get her ring caught in the fabric of her tights. The camcorder drifted up and down the mass of legs and head and bare flesh on the bed. Kirsty imagined herself on the bed, with the tongue, and the throb grew until it began to spread. The tension was unbearable. If she could just move harder, use the other hand. She propped the camera on the wardrobe stopper, tilting it upwards, trained on the royal couple, and put her other hand between her legs.
“Harder, you fucker. Harder!”
She was gripping his head now, pulling it towards her, and Kirsty could feel herself reaching the crucial point, that moment when the flood would come. Her finger was dipping inside herself while she ground at her clit. It would only be a few moments. Just a bit more, a bit harder. Oh God.
The camcorder tilted in slow motion, tipped, then fell against the door of the wardrobe, pushed it open and clattered onto the floor. The door swung slowly, with a groan and a squeak, until it banged against its neighbour. Kirsty stared out at the couple, who were staring back at her.
They were not Will and Kate.
The mushroom smell had gone.
She still had her hands in her knickers.
“Who the hell…?” The man got up and walked towards the wardrobe.
Kirsty pulled her hands free, but her ring got caught in her tights. She was still trying to free it, ripping frantically at the material, when the man pulled open the other wardrobe door, exposing her to the light.
“Who are you?” He stared down at her. Kirsty noticed his eyes; hard, bottomless wells of grey, edged with fear. He was wearing a footman’s uniform. Drool was gathered around his mouth. The ache between her legs remained.
“She’s a little tramp, that’s what she is.” The woman was standing behind him, smoothing down her cream dress. Her knickers were still round one ankle, snagged on the strap of her high heel. “Frigging herself while she watches. Spoiling my fun.” She glanced at Kirsty’s hand, still stuck under her skirt. “Look, she can’t even stop once she’s been caught. Little tart.”
The footman took a step back, as if Kirsty was contagious, then walked towards the door.
“Where are you going?” The woman’s accent was poshness tempered with a Chelsea twang. “Not to get security. Don’t be an idiot, Marcus.”
Marcus stopped, his hand on the doorknob. “What else are we going to do with her?”
The woman’s gaze was fixed on Kirsty’s hand. “I think she could be quite useful.” She knelt down, next to Kirsty, and grabbed her by the chin. “You want to be useful, don’t you?”
Kirsty nodded, wide-eyed. Her heart seemed to be pounding out of her chest. Her mouth was dry and her voice was gone.
“You’re not a real maid, are you?” The woman scanned Kirsty’s uniform, then the camcorder. Her eyes were lined; her forehead perfectly smooth. “Probably a journalist. God bless our free press.” She pushed Kirsty’s chin away. “So how are you going to be useful, my little tramp?” She grabbed the camcorder and examined it. The red light was still on. She pointed the lens at Kirsty.
“Stand up, little tramp.”
Kirsty finally freed her hand, and struggled to her feet. She looked at the floor, tingling with fear. The camera tape whirred in front of her.
“You’ve got a choice, little tramp. Either we hand you over to the police, right now, and say we caught you here with this, or… Look at me when I’m speaking to you!”
Kirsty forced her head up, and looked at the camera, then past it, at the woman’s black hair, and her dangling diamond earring.
“Or, you pay for your crimes now, and show us what a filthy little beast you are.”
Kirsty felt herself blush, and looked at the ground again.
“Look at me!”
She raised her head, defeated.
“What’s your answer?”
Kirsty opened her mouth, but couldn’t speak. How long would she get? Jeremy had promised to make sure she was okay, but how would he get her out of this? The papers would be all over it. Her parents would die.
She twisted her feet, looked down then up again straight away, afraid of stiff, cut glass woman whose voice could command the birds from the trees. She was compelling. There was something about her.
“Shut up Marcus. What’s your answer, little tramp?”
The footman stared at her with his grey eyes, and she fell into them.
“I don’t want you to call the police,” she murmured.
“And?” Melissa’s voice was like the blow of a cane.
“I’ll… what… I’ll do what you want.”
“Oh, but that’s not good enough.”
Kirsty looked up, confused.
Melissa took her gaze away from the camcorder’s viewfinder. “It’s not enough that I want you to do something.” Her voice was suddenly softer. “But I think what I want and what you want aren’t so very different.” She walked up to Kirsty and ran a fingertip along her shoulder, over her breast, down her midriff until it lingered over her crotch. The sensation made Kirsty throb. She nodded, and exhaled, her skin prickling and shivering.
Melissa stepped back, and trained the camera on Kirsty’s face again. “So what’s it to be? What are you going to do to atone?” She shifted her balance. “What do you think, Marcus? What happens to bad girls?”
He cleared his throat. “Melissa… are you sure about this?
Kirsty couldn’t help noticing the bulge in his trousers. The sight set her throbbing. She nodded. “I’m sure.”
Melissa laughed. “You see? I knew it. I’ve seen her sort before. A little cat who can’t close her legs for any tom who wants her.” She dropped her voice. “I think she needs to be spanked.”
Kirsty shook her head. “No. No.”
“At my school, we got the cane. Count yourself lucky.”
Kirsty bit her lip, and looked at the footman. “Who would do it?” The couple exchanged glances, and Melissa opened her mouth, but Kirsty cut in. “He can do it. Him.”
“Aha! She’s got the hots for my tom cat! Sit down, Marcus.” Melissa stepped back from the bed. The footman sat down. “I bet you’ve never been spanked before, have you, little tramp?”
She knelt down over the footman’s knee and grabbed hold of his leg. Jeremy was not an adventurous lover. She had sometimes wondered what it would be like, if it was the thrill she had read about. Her bottom felt so exposed as Marcus pulled up her hem over her waist. The cool air wafted over it, and the pulsing between her legs increased.
His first blow was mild, almost tender, and Kirsty gasped as she felt the tension transform into desire. His calf muscle was strong, and flexed under her hand. He slapped her bottom again, and again, and she felt suddenly calmer. There was no pain. Her surrender was bliss.
“That’s not a spanking. Harder!” Melissa was almost dancing on the floor in front of them, still holding the camera. “Put some meat into it.”
The next blow smarted, making Kirsty’s head jerk back, and he rubbed her cheeks in slow circles. She could feel his hot cock next to her belly, warming her insides as well.
“That’s better. More!”
He hit her twice, the slaps coming in quick succession. Kirsty gasped and wriggled, grasping at the bedspread with her other hand.
He brought his hand down more gently, and rubbed again, and Kirsty relaxed into his lap.
“Oh, that’s no good. Come on!”
Melissa slapped her bottom sharply, once, twice, three times, then four. Kirsty squirmed with the pain and surprise, until she slipped off his lap onto the floor. She was breathless. Her skin stung. And the space between her legs began to ache.
“I said him.” She looked accusingly at Melissa.
“Oh, alright, little tramp. So what are you going to do instead?”
“I think we need to take a closer look at her.” The footman stood up, and offered her his hand. “I want to see what she’s hiding underneath her disguise.”
“Of course. Perhaps she’s wearing a wire.” Melissa nodded at her. “Come on. Take it off.”
Kirsty took Marcus’s hand and stood up. She stood in the middle of the room and undid her zip, then shrugged the uniform off her shoulders. She wriggled it off and pushed it down to her feet, then stepped out of it. She stood for a moment, almost defiantly, in her underwear and torn tights. She reached behind her back and unhooked her bra, shrugging it forwards. She covered her breasts with a forearm, a little embarrassed.
“Two fried eggs for breakfast.” Melissa smirked. “Go on. Is there anything in your knickers?”
Hunching her shoulders to obscure her breasts, Kirsty leaned over to take off her low-heeled court shoes, then peeled off the tights. She hesitated before hooking her fingers through the band of her knickers and pushing them down and stepping out of them.
“Mm, not bad. You need to work on your tummy, little tramp. Too many lattes. But I think you’ll serve.” Melissa sat on the edge of the bed. “Now, where were we when you interrupted?” She lifted up her dress, revealing her landing strip. “Marcus was performing admirably, but I can’t help but feel he would do better if he had a little encouragement.”
She pushed Kirsty onto her back and made Marcus stand as she undid his belt and pushed down his trousers. His cock swung out and he straddled Kirsty’s chest. She noticed Melissa’s legs above her and then her mouth was filled with cock and she sucked it greedily. She gripped his shaft with one hand, to stop it from choking her. The hotness in her hand made her own pulse intensify, and she reached underneath with her free hand to massage her clit.
“Fuck yes, that’s good darling.” Melissa’s voice caught in her throat. “Is that little tramp sucking you nicely? Is your cock in her throat?”
Marcus grunted, lapping away as she spoke.
“Is she a good little whore? I want to hear her trying. I want to hear her when you fuck her throat.”
Kirsty moaned as the shallow bucking of his hips became harder, pushing deep into her mouth, her hand pressed against her lips, her head stuck against the back of the bed.
“Oh, that’s good, that’s good. I can hear her, enjoying her bone, the little bitch.”
Tears welled in Kirsty’s eyes from the force of the cock down her throat, but she was close, so close, if only it was she who could spank Melissa, yes, with a cane, with a slipper, something to sting her lilywhite skin, to make her swallow her own words and, oh God, this was it.
Kirsty shuddered as the orgasm rushed through her, still being fucked by Marcus’s cock, and she moaned and wept with pleasure. And she could hear Melissa gasping and blowing hard as she came.
Then it was over. Marcus got up, releasing her from the gag of his cock, and pushed Melissa back on the bed.
“Wait,” she ordered. “I don’t think our little tramp has had enough exercise. Lie down here.”
Kirsty got off the floor and lay on the bed, a pillow under her head. Melissa knelt either side of her head and then lowered herself onto all fours, so that Marcus could fuck her from behind. He eased himself inside her.
“God I love your cock,” she said, squeaking the last word as it glided all the way inside her. Kirsty watched in fascination as the glistening shaft rocked to and fro, and Melissa panted at each movement.
“Come on, don’t just… lie there… make me…”
Kirsty reached out with one hand, tentatively, wondering what it would be like to feel another woman. She found her clit as though it was her own, and brushed it with her finger.
It was bigger than hers, and red, swollen, almost angry. Kirsty began to rub it, toying with it, then lifted her head up to dart her tongue at it. She licked a long, sensuous line down to the slit, letting her tongue glide between the softness of Melissa and Marcus’s hard, thrusting cock.
“Oh yes, yes!”
Melissa’s thighs shook as she came, and still Marcus kept up his pace, steady, insistent, compelling her to receive him. Kirsty began to rub Melissa’s clit harder, sparking an incoherent babble of noises as she came and came again.
“Too much! Enough!”
But Kirsty didn’t stop. She quickened her pace, pressing harder.
“Enough! I can’t take it, it’s just… fuck… Please!”
The sounds of Melissa’s helplessness, skewered on two prongs pleasure, sent a fierce joy through Kirsty. This is better than a spanking. Better than a slipper. You’ll come til I say you can stop. Come, you bitch, come.