Possessing Princess Read online

  Possessing Princess

  Ben Boswell

  Possessing Princess All Right Reserved © 2019 by Ben Boswell

  Cover image © iStockPhoto. Used under license. Cover design by Kenny Wright

  First digital edition electronically published by Ben Boswell, February 2019

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without explicit written permission of the copyright holder.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events, or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Foreword

  Okay people, I’m just going to say this once. This is a cuckold story. Bully and wife. If you don’t like that plot, then buy something else.

  .

  .

  .

  So that’s out of the way, and I presume anyone still reading is looking for a story that is raunchy and features some degree of humiliation. So that’s a good start. But I’d also ask readers to withhold judgment on the plot and characters until, well, what I am trying to do here becomes clear. I don’t really want to spell it out too much, but remember, this is a story told in the first person by a narrator who may or may not have a reliable perspective on the motivations of all of the other characters. I’d ask you to trust me that I'm continuing to try to find ways to write within genre expectations, while nevertheless looking for ways to make my own contribution unique.

  I hadn’t originally planned to write this book. I started jotting down a few thoughts, and it began to flow. About 10k words into it, I finally figured out what the real story was. That happens to me sometimes. Stories take on a weird life of their own. And those stories are hard because even though I have a clear sense of what they are all about, I think a lot of readers have trouble getting past their own expectations.

  In this particular story, I know a lot of readers will see the characters as purely one dimensional. But that isn’t because they are, but rather because you may expect them to be. Not saying this is great literature. It isn’t. But it is also not quite as simple as it first appears. At the very least, if I fail to get my concept across it is a failure of my writing, not of conception.

  Yada yada yada. Give it a chance and let me know what you think.

  I'd also like to thank Kenny Wright for feedback on an earlier version of the story and his wonderful cover design. Thanks also to Marge G, Rob C, and Gary S for their help with copyediting. Any errors that remain are, of course, my own.

  Ben Boswell

  2019

  Chapter One

  It isn’t the job I want, but it is the position I need in order to move further up into management. Being the Regional Sales Director is a thankless job. Lots of travel overseeing a half-dozen locations from my home office in Hartford, with satellites as far as Pennsylvania and Maine. The job itself consists of virtually nothing but problems -- dealing with customer complaints, poorly performing salesmen, and, worse of all, reviewing and sometimes voiding contracts if they violate corporate policy or legal requirements in some way. Very little satisfaction, lots of aggravation.

  I often wonder why I put up with it, especially on those long drives between offices or nights alone in a hotel room. Part of it has to do with finding something to excel at, something where, for once, I can be more than just the guy who blends into the scenery. I’ve always been that guy, what’s his name? And I still am. Except for the one thing that makes me special: my wife, Mia. She’s the one I think about when I am down. Being able to take care of her is what keeps me going when things get hard.

  On better days, I know things are not all doom and gloom. I’m on a decent path. Twenty-eight, already Regional Sales Director, with a talent management review coming in six months that might track into an Assistant VP position at corporate. In fact, everything would be fine if not for the salesmen.

  Salesmen live on commission. Their base salary is essentially minimum wage, if that, when you count travel and all the networking and schmoozing they need to do. So sales are everything to them. That tends to make them a little fast and loose with things like… well, with things in general. All’s fair in love, war, and sales is their basic attitude. So I have to police that, but if I have to reject a contract, I’m taking food off their plates. They do not like that. At all.

  My main office, where I live and spent most of my time, has a half-dozen salesmen: a couple of young kids, Troy and Ramon, trying to break in; a couple of middle age plodders, Martin and Greg; a near-retiree living off his rapidly dying-off connections, Sam; and our big dog, Frank. Frank is a dick. Mid-50s, bald, barrel chested, and profane. He also closed nearly 46 million in sales last year, which at an average of 2% on commission, put his income at almost seven figures. For what it’s worth, despite being his boss, I make about 10% of that. You’d think that given that, he’d be chill about losing out on a two-million-dollar contract that I had to reject because he’d used a bad term sheet. The client saw it as a bait and switch. Frank claimed it was just a paperwork mistake, but I knew it would never hold up under review and might get us dragged into court. It was bad for our reputation, so I spiked it.

  So this is not one of the better days. Frank is red-faced when he comes into my office to complain. “Listen you little motherfucker, this is a good deal.” He waves around the rejected contract. “What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  I put my hands up to try to calm him down. “Frank, I’m sorry, I didn’t have any--”

  “Bullshit! You fucking corporate assholes don’t know shit about closing a fucking deal. Go to your fucking fancy schools and then you come in here and fuck with my livelihood. You ever close a deal?”

  This is the first time I’ve heard U. Mass referred to as a “fancy school.” I feel myself about to grin, but know it will just set him off. I nod sadly instead.

  “I understand your frustration, but --”

  “Did you ever fucking close a deal? You know how much work goes into it? All the ball licking and ass kissing you need to do?

  “I appreciate all your hard --”

  He cuts me off again. “Don’t patronize me you little cocksucker. What’s this fucking about? You trying to push me out? Set shit up for your affirmative action cases? Corporate give you a piece of the action if enough of office sales are black and tan?”

  I flinch at that. Troy is African-American and Ramon Hispanic, and the office has been riven by tensions since I hired them, with Frank whipping the other salesmen, all white, into a periodic frenzy over what he considers “social justice warrior, politically correct bullshit.” Every time they close a deal, Frank convinces the others that is money out of their wallets.

  I manage to suppress my anger. In truth, I’m not just protecting the company. I’m protecting him. Some of his deals are dicey enough that he could end up in real trouble over them. But there’s no upside in getting into a shouting match with the guy. Keep it calm and cool, water off a duck’s back. It’s been my policy from the beginning and I’m holding to it.

  “You know I’m not. You’re the star of the office. Everyone knows that. If I encourage you to work with Troy and Ramon, it’s only so they can learn from the master.”

  I wince inside. I’ve ladled it on too thick. He slams his palms down on the table. Physical intimidation is part of his shtick. Though not particularly tall, he’s got thick arms, and his affect is pure menace. I don’t think he’d ever actually attack me, but knowing that intellectually doesn’t exactly provide reassurance when he’s stomping around like an enraged bull.

  “I know what you’re up to, Teddy. We all know. Your time
is coming.”

  I force a smile. “I hear what you’re saying, and --”

  But he doesn’t remain long enough to listen, instead he wheels around, strides out of my office and slams my door so hard that my whiteboard calendar falls off the wall. I place the rejected contract into my bulging folder with Frank’s other rejects.

  They didn’t teach me about any of this in my undergrad business classes.

  Chapter Two

  After a tough day at work, Mia is my beacon of light. We met at school, in an art course I was taking to knock out a distribution requirement and that she was taking as part of her major. I was smitten instantly. Lithe, blonde, delicate, almost elfin, with pale skin and a little button nose. She looks a little like a Disney princess, and I always want to treat her like one.

  She’s a writer, or at least aspires to be one. She’s working on a novel about a young woman, Estelle, who lives in a French chateau, but longs to work with the poor. Her prose is lush, curling tendrils of words that conjure precisely calibrated sights and sound, though it helps that I have an active imagination. Still, I am sure that she will win a wide audience one day, and I like the idea that I can support her as she creates art. Even when she periodically talks about giving up and getting a “real” job, I put my foot down. She has too much talent to waste in an office.

  I won her over slowly. We studied together, then went on actual dates, weeks before we even kissed. It was a bit of a throwback. While our friends were falling into bed in drunken hookups, we were walking through museums hand-in-hand.

  It was three months before we first made love. She was a virgin, and I was nearly so. We went slowly, gingerly, me stopping often to make sure she was okay with going further. She was afraid of seeming naive, and assured me she was ready, but I know she appreciated the consideration.

  And indeed, it worked out. We got married right out of college, six years ago now, and have been happy ever since.

  Mia is a wonderful cook. We’re vegetarians, and she’s willing to put in the effort to make inventive, delicious meals. When I come home, she’s usually in the kitchen. Onions browning in the pan, Mia hard at work chopping and slicing and julienning vegetables to ensure just the right consistency in whatever she’s making.

  I walk in and kiss her cheek.

  “I’m going to go change,” I say.

  “Good day at work?”

  I sigh. “I’ll tell you later.”

  Our house is small. Two bedrooms and a den. We’ll grow out of it once we have kids, though that is probably still a few years off, but for now it is perfect. Cute, tidy, and bright. When she’s not writing, Mia likes to search out quirky antiques to give character to the space. I change out of my suit and into jeans and a tee shirt. I’m slender like she is, my hair light brown, my eyes hazel. We’re a cute couple. That’s the word people use. That or adorable.

  Back downstairs, Mia pours me a glass of rosé. She has one as well. She puts an assortment of cheeses on the table, an appetizer while dinner cooks. She sits down across from me and angles her glass in my direction. I do the same. Air clinking.

  “So, tough day?”

  I chuckle ruefully. “Yeah. Frank is pissed that I had to cancel one of his contracts. And of course, he accused me of some sort of bias.”

  “He’s a bit of a jerk,” she suggests kindly.

  “You could say that. But I need to get along with him. Keep him happy.” I don’t need to remind Mia that given his sales numbers, the guy is untouchable. If we can’t work together, I’m the one who will have to move on.

  Mia nibbles on a piece of cheese and then rises to stir the veggies. Her tiny butt looks perfect in her tight jeans. I feel guilty about sexualizing her like that, and I keep that sort of thought inside my head where it belongs. She’s my angel. No matter what happens at work, as long as I can come home to Mia, it is all worthwhile.

  “Doesn’t help,” I continue, “that’s he’s hostile to the new guys.”

  “Sounds like you need some team-building activities,” she proposes.

  She scoops the veggies over brown rice and brings it over to the table. It’s delicious, savory, with a touch of curry flavor. I decline the diced jalapenos she adds to hers.

  “I don’t think these guys are going to go for some sort of retreat in the woods.”

  “So just host a happy hour or something.”

  I nod. I don’t want to burst her bubble. Mia always wants to think the best of people, and I don’t see any point in telling her that there is no way a couple of beers and some nachos will tame Frank.

  “That’s a great idea!” I say instead.

  She doesn’t catch my lack of enthusiasm, and we finish the meal relatively quietly. While I clean up the dishes, she ducks into her study. I hear her clicking away at her computer. When I’m done, she has several pages printed out.

  “Would you read this?” she asks.

  “Always,” I reply, this time with genuine enthusiasm.

  She smiles a little anxiously and hands me the pages.

  A cool, crisp day outside, but the chateau felt stuffy as always. In winter, the air was stale and heavy with the scent of charred wood. In the summer, the heat was still and stifling. In spring, a pungent mustiness floated invisibly on the ceaseless drafts. And even in fall, when the weather outside was dry and glorious, sunny and crisp, inside was heavy and dusty. Drapes and carpets trapping the scent of decay, an oppressive blanket that turned moments of joy to hours of anxious tension.

  Estelle sat in her window seat, the casement wide open, watching birds circle over the dark woods, light and free. The cushion on which she sat was worn with time, the edges frayed by her restless fingers. The window frames were bowed with age, difficult to open, painted white, in thick layers creating a textured plain of ridges and valleys. She followed one gulley on its path, her favorite, long and curving, to its abrupt end as it ran into the moulding. Estelle glanced out at the manicured lawn, a perfect moat of green right up to the edges of the forest, so thick that the trees seemed to form an almost impenetrable barrier.

  “Estelle?” her father’s voice boomed from the floor below.

  She sighed. And straightened. And willed her lips into a smile.

  “Yes, Papa?”

  When I am done with the pages, I find her in the bedroom reading.

  “It is beautiful,” I say.

  She smiles slightly. “Thank you. What do you think of Estelle?”

  I shrug. “I mean, she’s young, and well, you know, she’s so gloomy, but really she’s living in this beautiful home, and her father dotes on her. I suspect in a few years when she gets older, she’ll look back on these years as some of the best in her life.”

  Mia’s smile falters a bit. “So you think she’s, like, naive? Doesn’t really know what’s best for her?”

  “Well, isn’t she? I don’t mean that in a bad way. I think it’s great that she wants to change the world, but you know…. I mean, in reality, don’t we all just end up getting a job, getting married, having kids, and the world is the world.”

  She nods. “I’m not sure that’s a great book.”

  “Probably not. But that’s why people read, right? To escape into something different.”

  “It may be why they write too,” she replies.

  I shrug. In truth, while I recognize her talent, my own reading goes more toward World War Two histories and science fiction. Give me a rousing space battle over a snoozing, navel-gazer.

  I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. When I climb in, Mia turns out the lights and rolls to her side. I cuddle up behind her. I love this woman. Love the way she smells and feels. And I want her too. Pressed up against her firm butt, my hand cupping a pert breast, I am very conscious of her physical charms. I sometimes seek out her doppelgangers online, those innocent looking, young cuties, who nevertheless seem capable of taking on all comers. The contrast with Mia is astounding. How can women so similar physically be so different in behavior?

/>   Through her cotton top, I tease her nipple. She responds by wiggling her bottom, and I know she’s game. I reach under her tee shirt and rub her flat belly. I kiss her nape and palm her butt. She thrusts back against me. I’m hard, and for a moment I imagine yanking down her bottoms, and taking her from behind, like a whore, but that’s one of those porn girls, not my Mia. Instead, I coax her to turn around. We kiss, gently at first, almost tentatively, but then with greater passion. She drops her hands between us and strokes my cock.

  I peel off her shirt, and massage her back. Her skin is so warm and soft. I trace her spine with my fingertips. She lets out a little mewl of pleasure. She rolls over, and I kiss her perfect, pale, little nipples. She moans and reaches into my PJ bottoms. She begins to stroke me up and down. I slip my hand into her panties, running my fingers through her closely trimmed, downy muff. I find her sex. She’s very wet, and that always shocks me a little. She’s so demure and angelic that her arousal feels dissonant. She strokes me harder, and we shed our clothes. We kiss again, and she pulls me on top of her, her legs spread wide to accommodate me. And then I’m inside her. Her pussy is a tight, velvety sleeve. Even after the better part of a decade together, I still have to concentrate to keep from coming too soon. More kissing. We don’t talk as we move together with practiced ease. I give her shallow, little strokes that tease her clit. She moans louder, her arms wrapped around me, squeezing me tight, and I feel her pussy spasm as she comes. I’m not far behind. I thrust in deeper. She gasps. And then I’m coming as well.

  Chapter Three

  Despite the Irish name and the Guinness on tap, there is little Irish about Paddy’s bar. It’s an open space, with high ceilings, and the menu has chicken wings and nachos, but no cabbage or corned beef in sight.