Chapter Text
The young prince of fourteen years had no experience of the opposite sex, except for the grotesque pictures in the book he had found one day. In his father's desk. It had been a mere coincidence, as he had only been sneaking around to get his hand on the tobacco pipe.
It was something he was forbidden to do, but he thought that smoking tobacco would give him a sublime feeling of manhood.
Just then, while rummaging through the drawer, he'd noticed the book, not realising that it was erotica, hidden from public eyes. Curiously, he had taken it out and looked wide-eyed at the pictures of men bending over naked women who were lying with their legs spread and the men sticking their penises into them in all sorts of ways.
Funny, he thought, how those dicks stuck out like spears when his member usually hung down softly, except in the morning. Then he often felt hard, and the thought of those exposed naked breasts pushing obscenely out of the tight cleavage, and the mere sight of those petite bodies being offered up to those lecherous men, made him jerk inevitably under the blanket.
He had found that stroking and rubbing his hard member gave him pleasure, especially when he imagined himself bending over the girls and thrusting in and out of their sex. He rubbed himself hard until he spilled a creamy liquid and wondered what it was for, apart from a momentary relief.
And at some rainy day, the young prince sat on the settee in the library, reached into his trousers and jerked into his hand, dreaming that the little blonde thing was here while he fucked her pussy. But she was not. And so, he ejaculated into his hand, closing his eyes and moaning as his fantasy overwhelmed him.
"Adam!"
The man standing in the doorway hissed in a choked voice, looked shocked and angry and hurriedly closed the door. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
The young prince jumped from his seat and fumbled awkwardly with his trousers, his hand smearing all the cum on his thigh. He was so embarrassed.
"I.... Oh..."
How to explain? But the older man came closer and gave his son only the sternest of stares.
"I know what you did. But damn it, do it in your bedroom where no one can see you."
Then he noticed the book on the settee, knowing what his son had been looking at.
"I'm confiscating this. You have seen enough. And that drawer is mine and none of your business! Do you hear me?"
"Yes, Father..."
The young man felt cornered and ashamed. Uncertain what his father really thought of him, he tried to hide his shame at dreaming about something he wasn't even sure was normal.
What should he do with the fantasy that made his groin ache with lust?
His father turned to leave, then stopped. "One more thing. If I ever catch you snooping around my things again, I'll teach you a lesson!"
"Yes, Father."
Two years later, when he reached the age of sixteen and was allowed to attend a festive banquet with his parents, he would lose his virginity. In a secluded short affair.
This girl, some baron's daughter, she'd whispered in his ear to take her to his bedroom in the guest wing. Nobody would be there as everyone was dancing.
Later he would not even remember her name. All he saw were her flushed cheeks as she giggled and lifted her skirts to reveal her pussy. He could barely control his desire to throw her onto the bed and force her legs apart. He wanted to see that glistening cunt spreading for him, begging him to fill her with his massive manly cock.
It had been a clumsy attempt, but in his fantasy, he'd felt so immensely powerful as the girl whimpered so sweetly under his penetrating magnificence.
He had never seen or heard from her again. Who knew if the old duke she was supposed to marry had gotten her pregnant in the meantime.
Adam never tried to fish for the erotic book again. The mere thought of his father finding out sent cold shivers down his spine. If only he could ask him why he had the book in the first place? Did he look at it and then seek out his mother to do those things with her? The now seventeen-year-old prince pushed the image out of his mind. Thinking of his parents in such an intimate way was more grotesque than the book itself.
No, he would never look at it again.
Not even after his parents died in a terrible storm on their way back from Paris, shortly after he'd turned eighteen.
He lived on, expecting no one to be there for him except his servants, who were paid to be around. He tried to look after the province as he had learned it. But business was all he had been taught. When peasants asked for an audience, he let Cogsworth deal with it, though he strictly forbade unnecessary generosity.
Life itself was meaningless. So why should he care about more than what he knew of it? To work for the money that gave him a luxurious life.
And love? Well, love seemed to remain a selfish dream, something for romance books, soapy novels and ancient poetry.
There was no such thing for him.
And certainly, there was no room for an old hag who asked for shelter…