The Kinky Prince: The Complete Series by Wilde Mann

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About the author:

When I’m not writing kinky stuff, I’m watching Formula One or The Premier League Football Games and drinking beer. My girlfriend says I’m a slob, but she’s still sticking around. I think she likes my probe.

Here is a short sample from the book:

If I walked by you on the street, you would probably recognize me. I mean, I’m one of the most photographed men on the planet.
My Mother is Queen of a wealthy European country, and the whole Royal Family is always in the news.
Especially me.
I’m the second son, and my older brother has a kid already, so it’s highly unlikely I’ll ever be King, which is just the way I like it.
I have unlimited wealth, and once I’ve done my daily appearance somewhere or other at some function or other that requires a Royal presence, I’m free to do whatever I want to, no matter how depraved or decadent that might be. I only have to work at my job as a prince five days a week, thank goodness, although my weekend often falls in the middle of the week.
Did I mention that besides being Royal, I’m very rich in my own right and over six feet tall, with a Mediterranean complexion (yeah, yeah, yeah, the stereotypical tall, dark and handsome), a perfect smile and when I want to bother, I can be pretty smart – cunning, even, to get what I want.
Oh yeah, I’m also into sex in a big way – kinky sex.
That drives the Palace and my handlers crazy, keeping my unconventional activities out of the tabloids and social media.
I usually wear a disguise when I go out on the prowl for a new, tasty piece of tail.
My Mother insists on it.
She even bought me a membership in the most expensive, exclusive sex club in England, hoping that if she kept my depravity out of our own country, she could keep it out of the public eye.
Nice gift, Mamma, and thank you. I can be across the Channel and in London in just over an hour from our own capitol city. I keep an apartment there, under the name of Charles William Harris. Wills and Harry think that’s a hoot. Prince Charles, not so much. He takes himself far too seriously.
So, last night I attended the State Banquet for the King of Moratovia and flirted dutifully with his dishwater dull daughter, Princess Sofia. Both Mother and King Ferdinand hoped Sofia and I would light a spark, because he wants to marry her off, but they were out of luck.
We don’t even like each other. She’s dishwater dull, as I said, bookish, no sense of style and obviously has the passion of a wet dishrag.
Not my cup of tea, as the English say.
So as soon as the banquet was over, I skived off to my private apartment in the Palace, grabbed a can of orange hair spray, streaked my black hair and spiked it with some gel, changed out of my tails and white tie into some tight jeans and a blue linen shirt, grabbed my black leather jacket and headed for the helicopter pad where my personal bird sat, the propeller already whirring, ready to fly me to London and freedom for the next few hours.
I am perfectly capable of flying myself. I spent two years doing a stint in our army and learned how to pilot helicopters and planes, but my over-protective Mother insists I have a pilot and a bodyguard.
I dealt with her paranoia by hiring two of my best friends from the army for the positions. They’re just as wicked as I am.
We landed in London shortly before eleven, and my car and driver were waiting at the private airport I favor.
I decided to hit a few clubs and see what action I could stir up before midnight.
A new club called Taboo had opened the weekend before. The name alone was enough to entice me there.
I saw her when I walked through the door.
She was standing with her back to the bar, chatting with a couple of other beautiful women, looking bored with the conversation, her eyes darting around the room, giving all the men the once-over.
She smirked when she saw me, and I smirked right back.
I recognized her from the television series she starred in, a science fiction thriller that was in its third season. She was supposed to be involved with one of the other actors in the production, but there was no sign of him in the Club.
Good, because I planned to take her out of there as soon as possible, get her naked and have my very wicked way with the lady.
Did I say lady?
I probably lied, if her press coverage had even an iota of truth in it. The tabloids all insisted that Adrienne Aprill was anything but a lady…
Adrienne’s television show was a success because of the skin-tight costumes she wore as much as the plot and her acting ability. The woman is stacked, boys – stacked. She’s got a rack on her that makes a horny male like myself salivate, a thin waist and curvy hips. Her ass is perfectly padded.
So, I sauntered over the bar myself, and elbowed my way to a spot near her which happened to be in front of the bartender.
I slipped him a hundred pounds and a credit card and winked.
“How drunk are those three ladies?” I asked quietly as he opened a tab for me and handed my card back.
“They just got here,” he replied, “so they’re pretty sober still.”
“Open a bottle of Bollinger’s and give them each a drink,” I instructed.
“And what would you like, sir?” he asked deferentially.
“A shot of your best vodka with a slice of lime and lots of tonic,” I said.
He smiled and gave me and the three girls exactly what I ordered.
They turned and smiled at me when they sipped the champagne.
I smiled back, leaned on the bar and made no move to approach them.
That piqued their interest. All three of the beauties were used to men sending them drinks and then fawning over them.
My pilot and my bodyguard joined me, and we stood, watching the action, ignoring the women I’d targeted.
“I guess you want the redhead,” said Giles, my bodyguard.
“Yep,” I nodded.
“I want the blond,” said Rolf, my pilot.
“That leaves me the brunette,” said Giles. “Good, I like brunettes. Are we taking them to your Club?”
“No…that would attract far too much attention. The paparazzi will follow her there. Giles, get us the Queen’s suite at The King’s Hotel under your name. Tell them we want three bottles of Dom on ice and we expect to arrive an hour from now.”
“Yes, Highness,” he said, and speed-dialed one of my favorite hostelries in the City of London.
The blonde broke first. She wandered over and Rolf immediately grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the crowded dance floor.
The brunette smiled at us, and Giles moved over to her and soon they too were gyrating to the techno beat.
Adrienne looked at me and shrugged.
I raised and eyebrow, nodded toward the dancers, and she smirked and put her empty champagne flute onto the bar.
Within thirty seconds, we were in the middle of the crowd, and I had my hands on her ass, holding her close to my impressive package.
She smiled up into my eyes and pressed closer, gyrating her hips.
I smirked, and did some gyrating of my own.
Her skin began to flush and her eyes lost their focus as I thrust my shaft into her mound in time with the music.
Her arms crept up round my neck and her full, pouty lips parted as they found my mouth.
My tongue quickly invaded her open cavity and my hands started to knead that luscious backside.
She sighed into my lips, and as my thrusts became harder and my left hand pushed under her mini skirt and squeezed her buttock, she started to gasp.
I had a finger up her dripping hot cunt within seconds, and I quickly made it two fingers, finding her g-spot and rubbing it hard and fast as I deepened the kiss.
She shattered around me within half a minute, and went limp against me.
I removed my hand from her channel and wrapped it around her waist, supporting her, still moving in time to the beat of the music, until she calmed down.
“Wow,” was all she said.