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"Ursus One, Ursus Two, come in please."
I frowned. The crown prince's eyebrows went up. "One moment, please, Your Serenity," I said, and tapped my jaw. "Ursus One here. What's up, Val?"
"We've got a bit of a strange situation. Emerald just breached our cottage door."
"What?" It didn't represent the most tactical of replies, but I literally didn't think I'd heard right. Emerald was the code name for Princess Susanna, and it seemed to me most likely I'd misheard, because her grandfather had just spoken to me about her. I turned away from him to let him know I was talking to Val as I heard her repeat the message.
"Emerald is in our cottage," she said.
"Hmm," I replied. "Can you get eyes on her at the monitoring station? I'll meet you there. Just going to let His Serenity know."
"Copy that," Val told me. "Ursus Two out."
I turned back to the crown prince to find him looking at me with obvious curiosity.
"Well, sir," I told him, "it seems like Her Royal Highness has made this simpler than Your Serenity probably expected. Her Royal Highness has just broken into our cottage."
"Ah," the old man said. "Quite. You'll take it from here?"
I nodded. "We will. We'll see what she's up to and…"
It seemed so outlandish that I hesitated.
"You'll discipline her as her behavior warrants?" the crown prince supplied.
I nodded again. "We will, Your Serenity."
Goldilocks
The third chair didn't look as comfortable as the first two, but as soon as I sat down in it, I knew it would work perfectly for my naughty purpose. I had a final twinge of guilt at the last second, right before my backside landed on the cushion, but the moment I felt mixture of the support and softness with which it cradled my butt, all my hesitation went away.
It didn't even have upholstered arms — that's probably why I'd decided it looked like the least promising of the three. Under my elbows I had polished wood, which — as it turned out — gave me both all the room I needed to move my hands and a bit of extra traction to push my hips out.
The cushioning didn't feel soft, but it also didn't feel particularly firm: it seemed to fall into some middle range where I barely even noticed it. Covered in a slightly nubbly beige fabric, a cotton wool blend, maybe, it felt pleasantly textured against my back when I thrust my left hand up under my shirt, making the back ride up so that my bare skin came into contact with the chair.
My back arched as I pinched my right nipple hard and I found that the fingers of my other hand had started to fumble at the top button of my jeans. I let it happen, really, rather than doing it. That's what I told myself anyway. The naughty girl: she unbuttoned my jeans and worked my hand down there.
I let out a cry of mingled shame and need. I had known I was wet: I had to be, obviously, to soak through the thick denim. Feeling just how wet I'd gotten, how slick and how ready for something much bigger and harder than my slim fingers, made my whole face glow crimson.
I threw my left leg over the arm of the chair. I thought I heard a sort of cracking sound, but my orgasm had gotten much too close to pay attention to anything else. I thrust two fingers inside my needy, naughty sheath, the hungry place for which the tabloid press said I couldn't find the right sized cock, and I felt myself clench hard against them. Even more of my wanton wetness gushed onto my hand and I spread it upwards, rubbing frantically, desperate to make it happen, the release I knew now I'd never actually experienced.
My whole body spasmed as I worked my pussy hard, moaning and writhing in the chair. I heard another of the cracking sounds, this one seeming very close to my ear, and again I didn't care, but then, to my horror, I felt the chair collapse under me.
I don't know how I managed to jump up out of the wreckage without at least twisting one of my knees disastrously. I ended up on my feet, though, staring down at the broken thing on the floor in horror. I honestly don't know if the cracking of the wood did actually echo off the walls, or whether that only happened in my imagination.
I do know that for a full, like, thirty seconds, I stopped feeling horny. My hands of course had moved away from my erogenous zones to push off the arms of the chair, probably hastening its sorry demise. Now I brought them to my face in the universal oh my God what have I done? gesture.
The instinct to flee almost conquered the rest of my mind. I could even feel my legs start to obey that flight reflex. But the fairly rational thought that I needed to be careful — that I could well meet the cottage's inhabitants even as I tried to escape their justifiable anger with my wanton destruction and unforgivable consumption of their delicious dinner — stopped me in my tracks.
Then, much worse, my fevered brain decided for some reason to mix it all together — the rebellion against authority, the heedless abuse of my privilege as princess, my alarm at having caused irreparable harm, my fear of the consequences, and above all my apparently unquenchable erotic need. I thought about what they might to do to me, if they found me. I thought about how a group of big, strong men — for in my head they had become that, the people to whom the bowls and the chairs belonged — might treat a young woman they found with her fly open and no panties on, with a wet spot on her jeans, standing over the ruins of the chair she had managed to destroy in the violence of her masturbatory lust.
I had, in some minor way, started to lose my mind. I could tell because I seemed almost to hear a deep voice, its tone very stern, say to me, You'd better go to the bed room and lie down.
Why? asked a fantasy version of me, inside my head.
You know why, the man replied.
I couldn't see him. I think in my irresistible fantasy he stood behind me, looming over me, but I didn't dare turn around. If I did, I would have to look at his enormous body, at his angry face.
