Widows of the Prince

They say you can't pick who you love. I picked Auggie not out of love but because he was a sweet, hungry, and willing bottom when we were both students at Stanford. It didn't mean much to me at the time that his full name was Prince August Maximilian Ormandy. No did I take into account that before we graduated from Stanford he'd rise to be monarch of a postage stamp-sized princedom on the Mediterranean that maintained its independence by hosting a world-famous gambling casino, being a tax haven for professional athletes, and providing a flag-of-convenience home for questionable-activities shipping vessels.

When I let Auggie take me home to his Mediterranean paradise with him, I continued to call him Auggie in private, but I soon learned to call him My Prince in public.

That didn't mean that he was in any way "my prince" when I had him writhing under me with my hard dick working his channel.

It did mean, however, that I had to carefully remain in the background, ever mindful of a Byzantine political game of chess that would have impressed Machiavelli and the Borgias. I had done far better at Stanford than Auggie had and came out of college with far better prospects—if you didn't take into account that he was the potentate of a square mile of pure gold and had nothing to prove by doing well in college.

The reality was that most everyone in my new home thought of me as Prince August's valet. Only his closest associates knew of me also as the close friend and confidante that he liked to have near him, and although even a few of them suspected that in private, behind locked doors, I fucked the shit out of him and he delighted in that, they didn't voice it in more than whispers among themselves. His wasn't a lese majesty type of princedom, but he paid so well that no one wanted him to fire them.

The valet cover—not really a cover, as I had to perform the function—helped explain why my bedroom was connected to his. This continued even after he had married, as tradition demanded he do, to the woman his father had picked out for him in a negotiated deal for money before the man had breathed his last.

Madeleine was a Hapsburg from the industrial northern German city of Hamburg. If I were to be asked to show an image of an ice maiden, I would flash a photo of Nordic blonde Madeleine—all very nice tits and ass; long, long legs; and cold, cold blue-eyed stare. She came with attitude, a discerning suspicion of my place in the scheme of things, and two thugs to guard and be totally devoted to her. That both were fucking her, sometimes as a threesome, taking her together, was something I made it my business to verify.

I didn't tell Auggie of this, though. He either already knew it and didn't care or he didn't know it and didn't care.

I held my own with Auggie—being his only functional spouse—through the night after the wedding. Madeleine conceded the position voluntarily on the wedding night, helped by the convoluted wedding ceremony customs of the princedom, which I observed from the fourth-row position from where the line of "staff" started.

The full-day ritual left both bride and groom exhausted, and Madeleine begged off the nuptial bed until both were more "up" for it. The prince agreed, and as they maintained separate bedroom suites, Madeleine retired to her room, and I shut and locked the doors of the master bedroom suite to the world, while the prince lay, exhausted at the foot of the massive, gilded, four-poster bed, still wearing all of his wedding finery.

As I undressed the Mediterranean-dark, handsome young man of androgynous beauty and slight and trim stature, I was functioning as the valet of the prince. When I took his cock in my mouth and gave him suck, he was My Prince. But when I crouched over him, lifted his right leg to my shoulder, slid my thick cock inside a channel that had been well-reamed by my specifications, and started to pump to the sounds of his groans and moans, I was the master and he was my bride.

Symbolically and atypically, I wasn't sheathed with a condom. This was Auggie's wedding night. I was not ready yet to cede my position as his lord and master in the bedroom. I seeded him, my bride, twice in the night before withdrawing to my own small chamber connected to his.

Madeleine's chamber also was connected to his, but I had made sure that door was locked. But I made no attempt to stifle Auggie's groans and small cries as I fucked him hard and deep. I wanted Madeleine to hear and know.

She was to make no overt indication that she knew the lay of the land. She also knew her purpose, as did Auggie. The prince's primary responsibility was perpetuation of the line. As a Hapsburg Madeleine understood this well too. On the third night after their wedding, she opened her chamber door and her legs to the prince, who did his duty, knowing that it was his duty. Within weeks Madeleine was pregnant and less than a year after the marriage, she had provided the prince with a male heir, Maximilian Gregor.

The struggle for ascendance over the prince between Madeleine and me continued for a year and got nasty—at least on Madeleine's part. I had to watch what I ate and I had to be careful not to be alone with Madeleine's two thugs. Unfortunately, I didn't watch what I drank enough. The pressure got to me, but rather than withdraw—there really wasn't any reason I could give that I clung to Auggie—and on too many nights I drank so much that I couldn't control myself.

That's when Madeleine changed her tactics drastically. We were alone. I was three quarters to the wind in my cups and she was all tits and ass enticement. When she produced a second child for the prince, a girl, Marta, the child had distinctively red hair—nothing like either Auggie's Mediterranean looks or Madeleine's Nordic ones. But very much like my own Irish heritage. Madeleine didn't let me forget the circumstances and held over my head the threat of telling August. It was petty, yes, but I could well understand that her frustration would lead to seeking some form of revenge.

So, I told Auggie myself that in a drunken stupor I had fucked Madeleine, stressing the circumstance of what naturally happens when a man has two spouses. What I left out was that it had been more than just the once and that chances were good that his daughter was actually mine. Auggie chose me, which was the beginning of the descent of Madeleine, but also, I fear the beginning of the end for Auggie—and for me.

Auggie spent less and less time in Madeleine's bed chamber and more and more time with the door from his chamber to hers locked. I now had him in bed every night. He had produced an heir and spare for the princedom. He considered his responsibilities in that realm fulfilled. I can't say how exhilarated I was that he turned from her back to me.

At the time I didn't analyze that, though, and give it full value. It only was after he was dead that I realized the challenge he had faced and the choice he had made—and why I had stuck around through thick and thin. During that time we enjoyed a companionship that was much the same as would be found in a strong marriage. He could always escape the demands of his monarchy with me for a taste of normalcy, or he could count on me being an unbiased sounding board. I would have been honest and forthcoming even about Madeleine, who had had no say in either the marriage or having found that Auggie had an avenue of release and companionship before she even came into the picture. To Auggie's credit, though, he never used me to stoke a dislike or resentment of her.

The breaking point was when Madeleine found Auggie and me "going at it" herself, something she had avoided actually seeing and thus that she heretofore could deny.

We were in the cabana by the pool at the palace. I had Auggie on all fours on a lounge bed and was hunched over him and mining his ass deep when I saw the door of the cabana open. Madeleine stood there in the doorway for the longest moment, not saying anything, just staring at us with those washed-out blue ice-maiden eyes. I saw her eyes narrow and an expression of disgust float across her face. Then she was gone.

The next day we were in Switzerland, skiing. As a mere valet, I was some distance behind Auggie and Madeleine when they raced down the slope. I had no idea where her goons were, but when I got to the scene of the "accident," where Prince August had veered off the course and into the trees, smashing his body against one, Madeleine and both of her thugs were there, bent over his body.

Madeleine was a widow—and the regent of the princedom on behalf of her two-year-old son. I was a widow too. But one without status or place—or recognition by anyone now alive.

* * * *

I wasn't even invited to the funeral. A widow of the deceased—his chosen widow, I had to believe—and there was no place for me in the church. I watched the caisson pass from the third row back on the street, two blocks from the church.

Now, I've come back to the palace to pack. I fully understand that, in the battle of the widows, I have lost. At least I can go back into my world and make a new start.

But why do I feel so sad, wasted . . . and empty?

Perhaps because for me it wasn't really a game for ascendance, but was a battle for my chosen life—and life mate.

I hear them at the door. They haven't bothered to knock. They've just pushed the door open and are standing there—Madeleine's thugs.

I drop the shirt I'd just folded on the bed next to the suitcase. I'm not going to need my suitcase. I can see it in their eyes.

"Time to go," says one.

I sigh, all of the fight out of me. They say that you don't choose the one you love. That is true with me. I thought I had chosen Auggie because he was a sweet, hungry, and willing lay. Why didn't I know until now that it was for love—and that with him gone now, I didn't really give a shit what happened to me? A widow's surrender.