TRIPLE PRINCES: An MFMM Menage Romance Page 3

  “You like?” I rumbled in her ear, one hand lightly skimming over her tummy. It wasn’t flat, but rather gently rounded, the curve beautiful and fleshy.

  “Oh yeah,” she sighed, stretching a bit between us, shivering because we were still embedded deep in her body. “Oh yeah.”

  And that was our introduction to the beautiful Lady Christina Sterling, heiress to an ancient fortune, scion of the powerful Sterling family, daughter of Lord and Lady Sterling who happened to own half of Andorra City. That’s right. Kato and Karl Smith, blue collar merchant marines without a penny to our names had just one-and-done one of the most eligible women in Europe.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Christina

  “So how’d it go?” asked Maggie crossly.

  I could tell from my friend’s body language that she didn’t really want to know. She was morbidly curious and didn’t really want to hear about my night with Karl and Kato, or if she did, she was hoping it’d sucked.

  So I fibbed and pretended like I hadn’t been completely blown away, my body humming with energy, my cunny and ass sore and aching from the deep drill I’d gotten, a little moisture still seeping from my secret space.

  “Um, it was okay,” I hedged. “The twins were nice.”

  “Nice, how so?” asked Maggie, her arms crossed over her chest. She was still looking at me accusingly, so I tried to defuse the situation.

  “Well, you know,” I said lamely. “We didn’t do much, just talked a little outside.”

  My friend snorted. “Talk?” she asked disbelievingly. “Those guys aren’t talkers, they’re into action.”

  And that was true, but Mags didn’t need to know just how accurate her words were.

  “Okay,” I confessed. “We kissed, maybe petted a little, but it didn’t go very far. I mean, Mags, it’s not like I’m on birth control or anything, and the guys weren’t packing condoms either.”

  Maggie nodded then. That satisfied her because she knew I was militant about stuff like that … except I hadn’t been last night. Oh shit, oh shit. What can I say? It’d all happened so fast, and Karl and Kato were the hottest men I’d ever laid eyes on. I’d been desperate to do them and when opportunity presents itself … well, it was too late now. All I can say is that I took Plan B this morning, thank god that stuff is over-the-counter.

  But Mags was placated somewhat.

  “Did you get their numbers?” she asked, yawning a little. It was early and we were both at the airport with our suitcases. Yep, it was time to leave for finishing school, mine in St. Venetia, hers in France.

  I laughed.

  “Mags, those guys are sailors. I don’t think they have cell phones out on the high seas,” I said gently.

  “Well maybe you could call them on satellite or something,” she yawned again, looking around the airport. “Who knows? A lot of fancy yachts have satellite phones these days, for emergencies at least.”

  That was true, but I didn’t think the U.S. Navy was going to let Karl and Kato take calls from me as an emergency.

  “Nah, we didn’t exchange any information,” I said casually. “We just left it.” I thought back to our good-bye and began flushing, remembering how Kato and Karl had stroked me, petted me, spanked me on the ass before tucking in their dicks and helping me into my outfit once more. I’d wobbled off, breathing heavily still, hopping into a cab while my head whirled, my body loose and jiggly, completely sated.

  But Maggie had already moved on.

  “I met a guy too, he was really cute,” she smirked, giggling a little. “Name is Charlie, he was so ripped, says he does amateur body building contests.”

  I sighed. No man could compare to the twins, not even close. Especially not a body-builder type, those blown-up muscles, their physiques amped on steroids and tanning cream. But I pretended to be titillated.

  “Oh my god, really?” I asked in a hushed voice. “Did you feel it? Did you feel his muscles?”

  “I did more than that,” my friend confided. “I felt him down there, you know, like way down there.”

  That got my attention. “A hand job?” I giggled.

  “Yeah,” Maggie confirmed, licking her lips lasciviously. “I pushed and pulled until he came, and Tina, there was so much cum afterwards, rope after rope, all over my hand, the floor, it was so sticky and hot.”

  Eeeew! Steroid-laced man cream sounded bad to me, although I was no one to talk. I’d done a thousand times worse with the twins last night, taking them up my bottom and cunny, but that was by the by now, and it was good that Maggie no longer seemed mad, she’d gotten over the whole twin thing thanks to this dude Charlie.

  “I guess we did well on our last night home, huh?” I said lightly, standing and grabbing my suitcase handle. “We did good our last time together. Besties forever!” I said, holding up a hand for a high five.

  And my friend smacked my hand even as the airline called my flight, announcing that it was time to board. It was time for reals to say goodbye to my best friend, the girl I’d seen almost every day since I was four years old.

  “Bye Tina,” said Mags mischievously. “Hope your finishing school in St. Venetia is fun.”

  Oh yeah. I rolled my eyes and retorted, “Hope your finishing school in France is ten times more fun.”

  And at that Maggie laughed. “They’re going to have us locked up in chains, pert and pretty for the guys to inspect. God, it’s gonna suck,” she groaned, rolling her eyes.

  And I nodded, but now it was really time to board.

  “Bye honey,” I said, air-kissing her cheek one last time. “Stay in touch!” And I dragged my rollerboard over to the check-in counter, the lady taking my boarding pass and gesturing to the gate.

  “Thank you, Ms. Sterling, this way,” she said.

  I turned towards the jet bridge, letting the cold air-conditioning blow on me, gripping my suitcase firmly in hand before striding forward purposefully. Because it was going to suck at finishing school, Mags was right, it was going to be so boring, learning etiquette and doing dumb stuff like riding horses.

  But at least I wouldn’t be living at home anymore, the world was my oyster now. So I was looking forward to it, kind of, sort of … with a delicious secret that was all my own.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Kato

  “You think she’ll remember us?” I asked as we stuffed our duffel bags full. It was time to head back to the USS Tompkins, shore leave was over. It’d been the best R&R ever. After all, it’s not every day that the hottest piece of ass you’ve ever had blows into your life.

  “Oh yeah,” grunted my bro, “she’ll remember. Everyone always remembers us.”

  That was true. The likelihood of Tina forgetting that she’d been done two ways, with two men in both her holes was pretty slim. But then again, the brunette had been curiously nonchalant when we said our goodbyes.

  “Bye Karl, bye Kato,” she’d purred after we’d helped her back into that leather get-up. Her hair was adorably mussed, and in the grey light of early morning, god, she was so young and nubile.

  But sassy too. The girl pecked us each on the cheek before turning to the Uber she’d called, wiggling her ass flirtatiously before looking over her shoulder. “Au revoir, mes amis,” she said, before blowing us a kiss one last time.

  Now my French sucks, but doesn’t mes amis mean “my friends”? She’d called us her friends? The two men who’d just come hard in her ass and cunny, and that’s all we were? My brother looked at me, just as dumbfounded.

  “Girls,” he said shrugging. “Who knows?”

  Because Tina hadn’t asked us for any contact info, nor had we asked her for hers. I guess this really was a fly-by-night encounter, she clearly had no intention of keeping in touch. And I didn’t blame her. Sailors aren’t exactly known for their fidelity, and hell, as far as she knew maybe we kept a girl in every port.

  But still, the brunette hadn’t even asked. I shrugged and turned back to packing, stuffing my bag full before heaving i
t over my shoulder.

  “You got that junk we picked up?” I asked my twin.

  And Karl merely grunted in assurance, not even turning to look at me. Our next port city was Tripoli, and after that, Cairo. Not exactly the safest places these days, but they don’t pay us good money to be on a luxury cruise. The Navy these days is fucking dangerous, even as a merchant marine. The U.S. government might call you to back-up some warrior class destroyer on a moment’s notice, and fuck, we were dangerously close to Syria and the mess going on in Sudan. It wouldn’t be the first time my twin and I sailed into some seriously messed-up shit.

  But I shrugged. This was our life. It was light years different from Kansas and the farm we’d grown up on, but we didn’t have a traditional small-town upbringing either. Our mom had kept us hidden from the world, isolated almost, choosing to home-school us, part of her conviction that the local public school was no good academically. And it’d worked out perfectly because as a flight attendant she only worked a week per month, so there was plenty of time to oversee our education.

  And our dad? Well, he’s the Crown Prince of St. Venetia. Yeah, you heard me right. Our dad is Prince Georg of St. Venetia, aging playboy, wealthy philanthropist, classic car collector, and total asshole. During one of the few conversations when Violet had been willing to discuss Georg, we didn’t get much out of her.

  “So where did you meet?” I’d asked. Karl was listening just as intently, even though he was filling up a water jug with some muscle mass powder. At fifteen, we were athletically oriented, looking to build up muscle, strength, speed and agility, make ourselves into superheroes.

  “On a flight,” replied Violet. Her hair was already going grey despite being only about thirty-five, and brackets surrounded her eyes and mouth. But you could tell that Violet had once been beautiful, a real stunner.

  “A flight to where?” I pressed.

  “I think Jerusalem,” said Violet vaguely. “I was a flight attendant and your dad, well he was flying first class as you might have guessed.”

  “But where was he going? How did you guys start talking?” I pressed.

  “He was headed to some government function, maybe meeting the Prime Minister of Israel,” my mom sighed, twisting the rings around her fingers. They were silver, nothing expensive. “I offered him champagne, he asked for another, and before I knew it …” her voice trailed off.

  “You got his number right?” I said. “Or he got yours?”

  My mom sighed again.

  “Kato, it wasn’t like that,” she said. “We didn’t date or anything, it was, um, a spontaneous liaison.”

  I heard a snort from my brother in the corner, even as I looked at Violet incredulously. Yeah, Karl and I were fifteen but old enough to figure out what my mom was saying. Although she spoke in riddles, Violet was telling us that Prince Georg had taken her as part of the Mile High Club, that we’d been conceived in a plane lavatory about five miles up in the air, going five hundred miles an hour. Holy shit, it was straight out of some fucked-up Playboy fantasy.

  But I wanted to know more.

  “But why didn’t you keep in touch? Did you tell him about us?” I asked insistently, determined to get some answers. Again, I was an adolescent and every teenage boy is sensitive, especially when it comes to daddy issues. Boys are growing, listening, developing their characters at that age and Karl and I were no exception.

  Violet sighed.

  “No, we didn’t keep in touch, honey. I knew that Georg was someone important, but baby, I’d never even heard of St. Venetia before,” she said. Clearly, my mom wasn’t one for world geography or political history. “I was young and besides, it was just a one-time thing. By the time I realized that you guys were on the way, the flight was long over.”

  Okay, so it was literally wham, bam, thank you ma’am. But that didn’t answer how she’d finally figured out his identity. So I pressed for more.

  “How did you finally discover that our dad was Prince Georg?” I said slowly. “What tipped you off?”

  My mom sighed again.

  “I was flipping through a magazine, the latest issue of Ok!” she confessed, “and I saw a spread of the St. Venetian Palace, with your dad and his wife posing,” she said. “It was a shocker, sure. I’d never expected to figure out who he was, tearing out my hair at how to provide for my new babies, when suddenly the magazine opened and poof! It was like magic. Your dad is a rich man, royalty even, and I figured he’d be interested in knowing he had infant sons.”

  “But he didn’t,” I said with a definite tang of bitterness in my voice.

  “He didn’t,” my mom confirmed. “I contacted the embassy, I contacted the Palace, but all I got back were denials that Prince Georg had even been on a flight to Israel at that time. It was like I was some insane person, some crazy girl trying to make a buck off of him. So I gave up after a couple years and moved with you guys to the United States. And here we are,” she said with a wry smile, gesturing to our humble home. She’d bought the house as part of a foreclosure sale and done no repairs to the place, so it was sadly rundown, sinking on its foundation, the counters dated and dreary, our furniture from a church giveaway.

  “But did you try to contact him again?” demanded my brother from his corner. Karl was lifting weights and stood momentarily still as he caught his breath, panting slightly.

  “No baby, I didn’t,” said my mom. “When you hit a wall like I did, a wall that seems impenetrable, you give up. I figured Georg had a wife, a son already, he wasn’t interested in us.”

  And my brother just shook his head, his face grim.

  “Fuck that,” he ground out before turning back to the mirror, staring at his image. “Fuck that,” he said once more, shutting us out. Because it was only too easy to google Prince Georg and his happy family, pictures of the old dude with his wife and first-born, legitimate son, Prince Kristian. We hated them, hated their guts, the lavish estates, the pictures of them going to state balls, society parties, dressed to the nines. And the worst part was the family resemblance. Because yes, we looked like Georg and Kristian, with the same black hair, blue eyes, and dominating, muscular builds. Clearly royal blood ran thick.

  But what the fuck. Our half-brother was everything we weren’t, rich, educated at the best schools, with the world at his fingertips. By contrast, my twin and I were blue collar guys who worked with our hands, eking out a living on a boat. Not exactly men who had bulging 401ks or brokerage accounts to make girls salivate. But life takes twists and turns … and there was a stop at St. Venetia on the manifest.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Christina

  Miss Carroll’s Finishing School for Young Ladies was every bit as bad as I’d anticipated. The name was the first thing. Really? Was there really a Miss Carroll? Or was it just a marketing ploy to lend authenticity, make it seem like there was a heart, a mind behind the institution?

  Of course, my parents shouldn’t have been worried because we’re supposedly rich as all get-out, minor nobility around these parts. My dad is rumored to own the Royalton Race Track as well as a couple shopping centers in the city center, flying around in our G5 and a couple small-prop planes. But it’s actually a house of cards, a mirage because our fortune has been ebbing away, generation after generation, and the real estate we own? Well it’s held by a trust with our name at the top, but beneficiary owners are the real puppetmasters. So it’s all a sham, and my conversation with my parents about fixing our situation was painful to say the least.

  “Christina,” said my mom, looking down her long, pointy nose at me. Somehow, despite the fact that I was standing and she was sitting, Mary still managed to look down her nose. “We need to talk. Please sit.”

  “Mom,” this isn’t a good time, I said pointedly. I’d been meaning to go to the library, read up on Andorran history. Although I wasn’t academic per se, I still felt a responsibility to understand my country, its long and rich past.

  My dad shot me a sharp look from h
is antique desk.

  “Sit down, young lady, we have some things to go over,” he said sharply.

  So I dropped into an overstuffed armchair, sighing. I guess the library could wait. I’d reached a part in the fifteen hundreds that was especially riveting, discussing the ascension of the feudal system and I wanted to map out its development. After all, my ancestors made their fortune by renting out our land for others to farm, collecting bounty in the form of crops and I wanted to learn more about this antiquated practice that was so central to our family history.

  “Dad, is this about college?” I asked wearily. “I know, you’re legacy at St. Marten’s, I’ve applied there already.”

  “No, this isn’t about St. Marten’s,” he replied, “And I’ve already told the Dean you’re applying this year, we’re buddies after all.”

  “Then can I go?” I asked. “There’s some stuff that I want to read up on at the library.”

  But my mom interjected again.

  “The library! Why are you always going there? Why don’t you go shopping like normal girls?” she said sharply, eyeing my outfit. I admit, I didn’t look like some of the girls I knew, dressed to the nines at all times, but I didn’t think I was doing that badly. I smoothed my skirt down in my lap, the wool reaching to my knees, and straightened my turtleneck. I was warm and comfortable, and that’s what mattered to me.

  But my mom wasn’t impressed.

  “You need to fix yourself up,” she said sharply. “You’re always dressed like a spinster, every inch covered. It’s not attractive, not alluring to men. How are you going to find a husband?”

  And that’s when I flushed. Because despite my fling with Karl and Kato last night, the truth was not many guys were into me. They seemed to like flashier types, stick-thin blondes in cocktail dresses, not curvy brunettes in comfy turtlenecks.

  But we’d had this conversation many times before, so I just ignored her, turning to my dad.