The Cursed Six
Chapter 4

Caution: This Historical Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, mt/ft, mt/Fa, ft/ft, Fa/ft, Ma/Ma, Ma/mt, Teenagers, Coercion, Consensual, Magic, NonConsensual, Pedophilia, Rape, Reluctant, Romantic, Lesbian, BiSexual, Heterosexual, Fiction, Historical, War, Incest, Mother, Son, Brother, Sister, Father, Daughter, Cousins, Uncle, Niece, MaleDom, Humiliation, Light Bond, Rough, Sadistic, Spanking, Torture, Orgy, First, Lactation, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Petting, Pregnancy, Politics, Royalty, Slow, Violent,

Desc: Historical Sex Story: Chapter 4 - A historical fiction surrounding a cursed royal household. A dark tale of siblings and the lives they live.

~ PRINCE RHENAN ~

“There she is!” came the reverberation of a steady booming voice. Prince Rhenan of Redthorn. “My favourite girl. Oh, how I have missed you.”

At the fore of the stable, where daylight sweltered down onto the chalked burnished wood, a physician’s daughter stood twirling auburn ringlets of hair around her finger, nibbling her bottom lip and peering up through light dusted blonde lashes. An expectant smile curved one side of her mouth.

Rhenan darted past said girl and dashed straight for his mare.

A sleek brown beauty with dappled white spots along its belly. The horse was bare, its reins and saddle settled upon the protruding gear post at the back of the loft. Her name was Vortice, tokened after the devout mare that’d led the third king through the Dark Rebellion without a single enemy scratch on her.

If the commemorated portraiture rang accurate, then the horse before him was an exact facsimile.

A brizzly snout pricked his one degloved hand as he pet her. Recognition shone through those black, black eyes. If he were not in third party company, the prince may have even thrown his arms around the beast.

Something thumped against his shoulder.

He glanced down, confused. A dainty and dirty shoe lay at his feet ... He brought his gaze around behind him and was immediately met by folded arms and fury-drowned eyes. One foot was planted shoelessly on the ground.

What had he done?

“Do not give me that look, Prince Rhenan,” the girl stated coldly. “As if you do not know what you’ve done.”

Women.

He scoped the scene behind her, searching for his wrongdoing beyond the farm lot. The robust, massive beast of a steed he’d journeyed here on stood on the boundary of the fencing, as his presence alone upset the other horses. Not only because Kanter was a perfectly aware menace around other steeds, but Rhenan suspected the mares and stallions in the stalls could smell the royal blood beneath the sleek, shiny-furred skin of one of Redthorn’s appraised militant warhorses.

But Kanter was minding himself, diamond shaped ears flicking away the flies, nostrils flaring on each inhale and exhale of breath. They’d been riding for some time, hurrying to return to the castle in time for his father’s announced festival. King Gregor was notorious for celebrating anything from the birth of royalborn to the birth of a peasantborn to the birth of a baby ant on the side of a window sill. Rhenan had not been to the castle in months, and it was his father who demanded him home at once. What spurred the celebratory agenda this time? Who could say.

He looked back to Diadara. “What have I done—”

“Do not make me throw the other one!”

Instantly he put distance between himself and the mare, lifting innocuous hands in capitulation. “No need for such hostility.”

“How dare you greet a horse before me, and with such enthusiasm.”

“Horse?” Rhenan started towards her with caution. “What horse? I see nothing but a beautiful woman dressed in questionably clean rags—”

The shoe was off and flying before he could finished.

And he was on her before she could flee.

Wind knocked from her lungs as he dragged them to the hayloft floors and crushed her small body beneath his leather-clad weight. He was still dressed to the teeth in the oppressive, unrelenting vesture of the king’s personal infantry. Thick, layered textiles with fastening straps all over. He could feel nothing.

But she could feel everything.

He pressed between lush thighs, watched the black dots in her eyes become large ores of ecstasy and his smile felt admittedly predatorial.

“You’ve no shame, as ever,” she gasped, and there was something so incredibly satisfying in the heady pant of a woman’s surrender to lust. Even if she was degrading his appearance.

She was referring to his forgotten image. An unattended mane, having tailed far beyond the musculature of his shoulder blades to gnarl beneath the sword sheath’s chest straps. Unlike his father’s and unlike his brother’s, Rhenan’s hair was an entity in and of itself. Some said it made him appear ruggedly handsome. Others—most—recoiled and whispered that he looked like a feral jaguar who’d been accidentally released from its cage.

But at least his beard was better maintained. He’d had it clipped three—no four, no nine, yes, fifteen days prior. Surely it was still presentable.

Diadara rubbed her face against his like a loving, nuzzling feline, and in that moment, her soft hazel eyes reminded him of just that. A moody, volatile, manic-depressive kitten. Who flung their footwear at him one moment and purred against him the next.

Women.

He started on the dingy unladylike clothing she insisted on wearing despite the hefty coin he provided her.

She stopped him, asking, “Did anyone see you come here?”

“Three servants, a butcher and a Sirista tool all followed from a distance. They even questioned the innkeeper of where I slept. They know I am here.” He gave her a small wrangling. “Having my way with you.”

She brought her lips to his and he refrained from digging his teeth into the tender flesh. “Good. Let them see us,” she murmured.

She licked, she purred, she worshiped. “Let them spread their rumours.”

The two of them had been at this game of lies for what felt like forever. They were, as they often time joked, pretend lovers. These “secret” visitations were but planned excursions meant to draw the suspicion of those who watched the prince like a hawk, and falsely bring them to believe their meetings were but secret love affairs, not its true nature.

Her hips raised, grinding. He felt that. Nearly gave in to the urge to shove down, hold down, take down.

But he didn’t. This was not why he’d come. “Do you have it?”

After a delayed moment of the girl’s hand’s rubbing and lingering, she sighed. Then caught him by the crook of his dark coat and tugged him down. He obliged, just as she slid something into his breast pocket.

“You know,” she breathed hot at his neck, fingers now burying into his black curls. “We do not have to pretend.”

“Oh?” he murmured in turn, cutting his lips at the sensitive curve of her ear, drawing out a noise from the base of her throat.

“Pretend to be secret lovers, I mean. I am not asking that you marry me, but perhaps make me your most beloved concubine. Then you may lavish and pamper me properly, without my having to abuse you with my shoes.” She kissed the tip of his nose. “Besides, I do believe I’m starting to grow fond of you, even though this is but an arrangement and you are but the incarnate of a wild chicken.”

Inwardly, he sighed.

Women, always with their inevitable emotions, their unguarded hearts. They wanted to appear strong and sound of mind, but the more effort they thrust toward the facade, the more they unraveled their own seams, opening themselves to pain and rejection. He hated it. He hated the sight of a broken woman, be it of the heart or mind or both. More than that, however, he could never bear to be the cause of it.

Rhenan pulled away from the heat of her, and at once she appeared disappointed—no, she appeared dishonoured and wronged.

“Sorry, but I must go. I informed the king I would return before midday. Lest you wish me to defy him and face his dreadfully long sermon.” A hoax. His father never lectured. Such was the sworn responsibility of his mother, Petra, Queen of Lectures.

Women.

Diadara pouted some more, her hair wild and spilled around her in such tempting disarray on the barn floor; he ran the risk of saying fuck to his duty and offering all he had to her.

Luckily, she gave a relenting nod of her head, crossing her arms and pointedly looking away. Dismissing him.

Thank goodness. It was easier this way. Best they believe they had the advantage, the last word, gesture, show of power.

He’d gotten what he came for; best he left while her heart was whole and her idea of the two of them remained no more than a moment’s whim.


Three seasons ago Rhenan had accompanied Sir John to the power-driven town of Dunchin. For weeks the collection of taxes had proven as—or more—difficult than convincing a church pupil intoxication was good for the soul, something he’d tried many times to no avail. The men of the town had been inflated by their own self-worth, as the town itself was wedged between a major inland shipment port and a high-traffic grain route. They demanded that the king acknowledge their contribution to the two major power hulls in Redthorn’s corners and that he pay them.

Upon banking the small but imposing city, Rhenan had seen with his own eyes the line of men waiting at the rigidity city entrance with its chipped wooden sign, rebellion and fire in their eyes.

Rebellion and fire, until he drew close enough for the resilient men to identify him.

Amazing how quickly the human expression is capable of shifting. From strong and vicious to a fear one could almost reach out and touch with the point of their finger. The men had been terrified, not expecting the prince to ride with the tax collecting marauders.

At the time, Rhenan had sat atop the diabolical Kanter—and really, the scarred, shiny horse had done half the intimidation work—and then he’d showed his teeth to the men in what was supposed to be a smile, but was said to look closer related to a snarling, starving hound. What was worse, was the musical lilt to his voice, when the prince leaned forward on his steed and asked playfully, “What ever is the matter?”

An adage to his name, a question he reliably delivered just before he committed a mass, brutal, sickening slaughter.

He and the collectors had returned with twice the tax expectancies, and three heads decorating the pikes along Dunchin’s rigidity city entrance.

It was this same question he proposed to his brother, Prince Tristian, that evening when he barged into the male’s chambers, hopped up on the footboard of the bed and perched there on the ornate wood, grinning.

His brother was not so much caressing the pleasure maiden’s legs, as he was resting between them. It appeared he’d arrived blessedly after the copulation, which he knew could last anywhere from sunrise to sundown. Depending on his brother’s mood.

And he must say, Tristian was moody.

Not moody enough to lift his head from the flat pillow of the maiden’s belly, his golden eyes staring outward into nothing. He looked sad.

The face he wore when he was mad.

A thin white spread was strewn over his big body, and one might suspect he was a fragile vessel washed up and tattered by the world, recouping between the safe haven of silken thighs. His brother, always so dramatic.

The maiden, who was quite beautiful with her tanned skin denoting southern heritage and long locks, weaved her fingers through the maze of black upon her prince’s head.

“State your business,” drolled the somber voice of his brother. Still he had yet to look at him.

Rhenan swayed and rocked upon the bed post. “I wish to speak with you. Alone.”

“You smell like a barn.”

“I was with my horses.”

“That’s right, your choice of companionship was always deranged.” Tristian looked at him. Hard contours. God had taken special care when sculpting the fine, dominating features of Redthorn’s future king. Dark brows accentuated the golden assault of his gaze. Unlike him, his brother’s beard had been cut down to a dark shadow.

Silence passed, the two of them staring.

“Leave,” Tristian concluded.

Rhenan rocked and looked pointedly to the maiden, who was irritably placid and impartial. “Yes, you heard him, leave.”

And then Tristian moved with a speed not even he could discern. His hand captured something on the oakwood beside the great bed, and then silver was slicing through the air. Straight at him.

Rhenan capered out of its death path—and fell flat on the hardwood, his back protesting, sword and blades and various artifices digging into his hard flesh, making him question why he hadn’t disarmed before his grand entrance.

He sighed and lay there on the floor, tipping his head back. A silver letter opener stabbed into the plaster of the wall. It’d been intended to impale him. Not the first time Tristian had taken up arms against him. At least this time it was something small, as opposed to the knife he’d almost driven through his ribs on their last reunion.

The moody man was abruptly standing beside his sprawled body. A forest of curls hung down the prince’s face, darkening his golden attention to a burned amber as he stared down at Rhenan. Frowning. His shirt was loose and quite possibly made for the exact task of lounging between a woman’s legs, as its seams were long, hanging below his waist. Black breeches clung to muscled limbs. Laces undone.

It was easy to see why women adored him in bed.

Rhenan watched as his brother casually tucked his semi-flaccid manhood into his pants and began tying them.

“I said leave.”

“But have you not heard? Father wishes me to be here. And our sisters are well past due for one of my suffocating embraces.” The messenger had informed him his dear sister, Jocelyn, had managed to escape that drab husband of hers for once, and Rhenan had every intention to smother her until she tired of seeing his face.

Down here on the floor, he held open his arms, reminding him of the days he would lie in the garden, introspective and gazing up painfully into the sun. Regretful how he could not discern the difference when looking up at his brother. “I’ve a hug stored away for you as well—if you would have it.”

A kick to the ribs. “Get up.”

Rhenan did.

“Now get out.”

He stayed put. “But I mean to talk to you. It’s been three months. Perhaps a warmer greeting for your most favouritest company?” He looked to the maiden. “Second most.”

Barefooted, his brother shared his height and stature—an incredible accomplishment, for Tristian was always so averse to sharing. His thoughts, his women, his wardrobe, and even the space he breathed.

“Speak then.”

Rhenan went pole-straight, fists locking at his side as he demonstrated a bow. “Yes, Your Grace. Your Eminence. Your Highest of Highnesses.’

From the bed, the maiden suppressed a giggle and Rhenan smiled, standing upright.

It was enough for Tristian to shoot the woman a glare that drained the colour from her colour-filled cheeks. He snapped. Pointed to the door. The woman practically sprang from the bed, grappling and stumbling to find her clothing before scrambling into the hall half-dressed and frantic.

Rhenan watched the doors close and blew an incredulous wind. “You’re no fun.”

“Speak.”

“I was.”

“Is that why you’ve come? To criticise my private affairs?”

“Oh, of course not. Such is the duty for our god and mother, both substantially indiscernible. Besides, I’ve far more important matters to occupy my thoughts than what form of therapeutic coping my brother chooses to wallow in now. For instance, I hear the town of Ustan has gathered coin to hire a musician to create a ballet of praise for Prince Tristian.”

His brother narrowed his eyes then crossed his arms. “And why would they do that?”

He shrugged. “Rumour has it Prince Tristian visited the eastern lands, with their rain-drenched crops and sickbed children, brought them three month’s supply of bread and clean water, grains to reharvest their lost fields.”

A terrible thing, those eastern lands, so close to the Pyracean borders, where it rained and rained and rained. So much so that the corn, peas, tomatoes, berries and apples grew tired and blanched, where they eventually shriveled and drowned.

How good of Prince Tristian to lend a hand.

Understanding eclipsed the succinct molten gold and his brother sank into a familiar rage. “You’ve been impersonating me again?!”

Rhenan hopped back and swung away from Tristian’s flying fist, hands up to his chest in surrender. “Why now, you should be thanking me. They adore Prince Tristian. For good reason. I hear he even visited the sick house and promised to return within a month’s time to spoon feed them hot porridge with his own two hands. Unfortunately, brother, I will be away tending separate matters, so you may have to fulfill the promise yourself.”

He doubted the people would know the difference between them. They’d just assume the prince had finally taken heed on his image and cleaned himself up a bit.

Tristian relinquished his attempts on subduing him, for no one was ever able to catch Rhenan unless he himself allowed it. Instead, Tristian stood stewing in his anger, that unstable ravine of violence and self-loathing.

Rhenan tilted his head to the side. “Well now, do not sober on my account! Rejoice. Laugh.”

Tight-jawed, unlaughing, the male’s thumb created dastardly patterns on the back of his knuckles. He wondered briefly if his brother would turn away like he always did. If he would stride in that confident, dark way of his and drop into that irksome chair at his grand desk and begin drafting drafts of whatever it was he drafted. Anything to shut the world around him into a carefully carved box, whose lid could only be opened by his hands. Rhenan once asked what it was he was writing, who it was he was writing to.

“Nothing. No one.”

Until Rhenan once discarded his mature notions of boundaries and snatched up the paper to find he was speaking truth. Oh, the paper was marked in ink, for sure. But it was the scribbles of a child. Aimless, jagged lines. Nothing. Written to no one.

He’d looked down at his older brother then, and his older brother had looked up at him.

Tristian used to say he heard music. Here, in the plastered walls of the castle crests and gentle cream designs. And Rhenan used to ask if perhaps he was mistaking the noise for the servants romping in the pantry where sound traveled so enthusiastically, and his brother would frown, but then he would laugh and say, “No, I hear music in the silence. When I write, the song plays.”

It was the one sure way for his brother to get Rhenan to leave him be. For Rhenan always felt out of sorts when he talked like that. The words and actions of a beginning mad man. It made him physically ill, for if his brother ever did lose his mind, Rhenan would have lost a brother.

But this evening, Tristian did not retreat to his desk, rather he took in a hard drag of breath and said, “I do not have time for your games. I’m to meet with Father Conwell soon. He has been preparing me for my union, as I too have been preparing myself.”

Rhenan snorted. “By cozying between the legs of a nameless pleasure maiden? My, my, my, when did redemption and cleansing of the soul induct adultery into its ranks?”

Cannons went off in his brother’s eyes. “I am an honest man!”

“Yes, yes. And Constance is an honest woman. And I only drink on holy days and Father will cease his frivolous excessive festivities.”

“You accuse my wife of blasphemy?” he seethed.

“I said she is an honest woman—”

“You meant the opposite.”

“—And please, Tristian, do not be ashamed of your sin. For she is not your wife just yet, and it’s understandable: you’re lonely.”

Tristian bared his teeth, bristled like a true bear.

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