At Residence 11, we want to bring you the latest in romance and erotic stories from top authors. Below is a sexy excerpt from erotic novel To Beg or Not to Beg by Cat Giraldo, Book 1 in her Kinky Classics series.

Ophelia

MORNING COMES TOO SOON. I don’t know when, but at some point in the night, I rolled off Horatio to lie curled between their bodies, embraced in the heat of muscles and men. I peek my eyes open, praying they’re both still sleeping, that our night might last a few moments longer before the sun that pours through the window shines the harsh light of day on the choices all three of us have yet to make.

The Prince of Danes is spooning me, is a sentence I never thought I would have the providence to utter. Yet, here we are.

One arm wraps around my waist, holding me close and sealing my back to Hamlet’s chest. His cock is heavy against my thigh, teasing me where I am already slick, where my leg draped around Horatio’s hips opens me to them both. I fight the temptation to arch my back. To press my ass even harder against the sleeping prince. To feel the glide of his cock between my legs.

Perhaps it would be different, if he were awake and thrusting his hips to match mine. Perhaps it would not be so daunting and so tempting at once, if he were not the prince, the one and only heir to the Danish crown. Perhaps, if he were anyone else.

I have spent so long forcibly hating the prince from afar for reasons he could not control and will likely never even know—his uncle, his status, my most hidden history. Somehow, now that he’s here, it’s hard to imagine that anyone but Hamlet could ever have found their way into Horatio’s and my bed quite like this.

His fingers tighten without warning, squeezing my belly. I rub against him and suppress the weak, needy sounds that bubble in my chest. Unsure fingers creep higher, from the curve of my belly to the firmer curve beneath my breast. He cups me, massages me, and hesitates until I rock my hips in frustration. Fingers roll my nipple until I gasp, all reason fleeing my head as Horatio rubs between my thighs, too. I feel his cockhead rubbing against Hamlet’s while the rhythm of my hips coats them both in my wet need.

“Ohh, Hamlet, that’s so good,” I moan. “Pinch me harder.”

“F***, Ophelia,” he whispers as his lips press against my neck. He pinches my nipple so hard my hips buck, and my eyes roll back in my head.

“What exactly do the two of you think you’re doing?” Horatio asks without opening his eyes. His sleep-thickened voice only devours what little remains of my self-control.

“I’m sorry,” I say, too distracted to sound sincere. I try to force my body to still. My breath to slow. My heart to steady. “I didn’t mean to wake you, Daddy.”

He smiles at me, happiness shining through the sleep still weighing down his eyelids. His lips are soft but firm against my forehead, and his fingers tip my chin up to face him.

“Princess, you know I want all of you, every minute, of every day.” His hand clamps around my thigh and pulls my leg higher to wrap around his waist. The movement is so small’ it tilts my hips toward him almost imperceptibly, even as his hips thrust to meet each thrust of Hamlet’s. “And, between the three of us, I appear to be the only one who isn’t confused about what I want.”

“What exactly—mmm—is that? Hamlet forces the question around a sigh, his teeth grazing my neck midsentence, when Horatio reaches between my legs to wrap his big hand around both of their cocks.

“This.” Horatio’s hand pumps between my legs, and I wish I could see the way he strokes their cocks together with that deliberate slowness that makes Hamlet groan and sink his teeth into my neck. “The two of you in my bed. My arms around you both.” His tongue slides between my lips—a quick, bruising kiss while his hand continues to jerk between my legs. “My two naughty submissives thinking they can play without Daddy’s permission.”

“Horatio,” Hamlet grunts. “Please.”

Horatio doesn’t answer. He merely pulls away and leaves me gasping while he searches for something in my eyes. The hand between my wet thighs stills. He releases their cocks with a suddenness that leaves Hamlet protesting and pleading like the brat he is. Horatio grabs me by the waist and rolls me back into position on top of him, leaving me whimpering and wishing I was enough of a brat to protest so vocally, too.

“Horatio, what the f***?” Hamlet asks. His fingers leave behind an electric trail as he strokes my bare back.

“If you’re in my bed, that’s Sir to you,” Horatio corrects. Voice sharp-edged and hard, even with the last traces of sleep making it gravelly. He slaps my ass, a quick reminder to behave against the still-forming bruises from last night’s belting.

“Good thing we’re in Ophelia’s bed then,” Hamlet retorts, and my eyes go wide at his boldness.

“Surely, I do not have to explain to you, Princeling, that Ophelia’s bed and my own are one and the same.”

“Yes, Sir,” Hamlet concedes, still with too much attitude.

Horatio only shoots him a glare that would have dropped me to my knees with my head bowed, hands laced behind my back, a racing heart, and a dripping pussy.

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I say.

I try to focus on anything except the thick cock beneath me. I force myself to hold still when all I can think about is the two of them sharing me, claiming me together. My efforts do not help. The harder I try not to focus on Horatio’s pulsing shaft, throbbing where I crave him most, the harder it is not to stare at the way Hamlet’s fingers close around his cock, stroking himself with my own wetness.

“Don’t be sorry, Princess.” Horatio’s fist closes in my hair and lifts me to face him. His other hand slaps my ass again when he catches the way my eyes drift to the prince beside us. “Look at me. Ophelia. Last night you asked for time to make this choice.”

“Yes, you’re right. I did.” I squeeze my thighs hard around him. It does nothing to offset the pressure and heat building to an impossible tension at my core. “I’m afraid to want this.”

“Keep going,” Horatio commands, but the hand not tangled in my hair massages the tight spots in my low back and between my shoulder blades.

“I don’t know you well enough to trust you won’t put being king ahead of us,” I say to Hamlet, though Horatio still holds my chin to face only him.

It isn’t truly Hamlet himself, but rather men of power, who I know will put station and status ahead of my well-being. My entire life, I have been made to trust, only to be used. Horatio is the only one who has never let me down, not in the ways that matter, and I will not let myself be used, be hurt, be tossed aside faster than last night’s refuse.

Never again.

“You’ve known me our entire damned lives, Ophelia—”

“Known you as a prince. Our relationship existed only by the grace of your uncle keeping my father as his council, and my place in your court is just as tenuous.” And far more rife with misfortune, I do not add out loud.

“The same council that has your father now the right hand of an imposter king, while I am yet a prince.”

It shouldn’t feel like an attack. Shouldn’t make my stomach twist with the hurt. But it does. It confirms every fear I wanted so badly to sweep under the bed, to hide in the dirty linens, as we f*** each other senseless.

“Do you still expect me to trust I could ever mean more to you than your crown, Hamlet, Prince of Danes?” I cannot force the words to be any more than a whisper, no matter that in my mind they are every bit as sharp as the glass shards slicing into my heart.

Horatio

I THOUGHT I’D LEARNED my lesson when I went to bed internally kicking myself for getting us into this situation. Yet, here I am, letting things go too far once more, not even eight hours later.

Hamlet looks stunned by Ophelia’s question. I suspect it stings worse because it’s clear she was not wrong to ask it. She practically vibrates in my arms. Every muscle taut. Her skin is eerily chilled and clammy, as if just drawn from the depths of a half-frozen pond. Both of them are in pain, all because I thought I sensed something between us. All of us are in pain—because I became greedy.

“I can want the crown that was stolen from me and want you, too,” Hamlet says. “They aren’t mutually exclusive.”

“Even if you cannot replace your uncle on the throne without another monarch by your side?” Ophelia asks.

She’s back to the same argument, and I know her mind is spiraling around images of herself cast aside as Hamlet leads some foreign monarch to the throne. Images of the two of us lying in dirty puddles, that Hamlet’s faceless queen might keep her feet dry. Memories of her father and brother discarding her just as easily, when she refused to kneel on the steep, thorny way to heaven, they expected her to bust and bleed her knees upon, in hopes that they might sell her body to tread their own primrose path to the promised land.

“I do not need another monarch to take back what is rightfully mine. Uncle Claudius has no claim to the throne, even if he did marry my disloyal coward of a mother. Tell her, Horatio. You know our laws better than anyone I know.”

“I do not need laws and history explained to me as if the pussy you f***ed with such abandon last night renders me incapable of understanding what I see with my own eyes, Hamlet.”

“I did not stop your midmorning dalliance so the two of you could start a war of words instead,” I say. “Hamlet, her fears are valid. It is not fair to you, for me to ask you to stay when Ophelia will be putting up walls to keep you emotionally at a distance. And it is not fair to her, for you to ask her to swallow her fears without doing anything to mitigate them. Do you understand, this isn’t about pushing you away or punishing you? It’s about ensuring, if we do this, we do it right? Make it count? Give ourselves a bat’s chance in hell of actually being happy together?”

“Ophelia’s fears.” Hamlet pauses. “What about yours, Horatio?”

“Mine are similar. If I did not fear for her heart, I might be more inclined to take a risk with my own.”

I do not point out that Ophelia could not even return to Helsingr for his father’s memorial because she feared the vitriolic rumors spewed by Polonius and Laertes—by her own blood—since she ran away rather than marry a man who was not me. Since they were so desperate to improve their station that I—with my work ethic, my ambition, and my undying love of their daughter and sister, but without a single unearned bit of inherited wealth or title to my name—would never be good enough for her hand in marriage. Not so long as offers existed from rich men who burned through wives faster than a candle lit at both ends, leaving broken women in their wake, like drops of melted tallow. I do not give voice to the fact that her own father would have gladly seen her dead for the right price.

“Well, then, I suppose I have to prove myself,” Hamlet says with a bark of frustrated laughter under his breath. “Who would have predicted such a thing, that I, Prince of Danes and sole heir to the throne, should need to fight not only to prove myself a worthy king, but also to simply prove myself a worthy lover.”

“It’s not about proving yourself, you f***ing brat,” Ophelia snaps. I hear the tears thickening her voice before I see the first hint of silver gleaming in her heavenly eyes. “It’s about earning trust between the three of us. Do you think Horatio and I have what we have because it’s so easy? Did you kneel and watch the way I release my body and mind into his hands, the way I wait without flinching for the feel of his belt on my bare ass, and not see it all for the unbreakable trust that it is?”

The single tear falling in her frustration is no match for the angry swipe of her fingers.

“You may be used to your silver platter, but trust like ours can’t just be given, stolen, conquered without being earned.”

“I understand.” Hamlet rolls onto his back. “I’m not asking you to walk into court on my arm and tell me you love me, Ophelia. Not asking you to trust me enough to put a belt in my hands and bind your own. I’m asking you to trust me just enough to try.”

“I should have stopped things sooner,” I say. “At least this morning, if not last night—”

“It’s not your fault,” Hamlet says. “Ophelia and I both got carried away this morning.”

“It would have been hard not to. Do you have any idea what a temptation it was to wake up sandwiched between the two of you? Poked by raging morning wood from both directions? I may be scared of this, but my pussy certainly isn’t.”

I can’t help laughing, even though it hurts. It feels good, breaking the tension. Especially when the two people who mean most to me in the world join in.

“You can have the time and space to make this decision properly, Princess, or you can have your fill of two cocks. You can’t have both.” It’s meant to sound stern, but it’s impossible to say without a smile.

“And fill you, we most certainly would,” Hamlet adds. There’s a brittleness to his words, but at least their arguments have stopped for now. “I wonder, Princess, if you meant to take us both this morning?”

“There’s a first time for everything.”

That breathiness in her voice ruins me. I have half a mind to grab her by the hips and hold her aloft until I can slide my aching cock into her. I slap her ass hard enough to make her yelp instead.

“What, Daddy?” she asks in the innocent voice dripping with honey.

“I am not sure how to feel about this,” I growl. Ophelia cocks her head in confusion, so I continue. “I bring a brat around to play for one night, and already my good girl is misbehaving.”

She swivels her hips. I dig my fingers into her love handles to keep myself from tossing her on her back, telling the prince to hold her still, and teasing her soaked pussy until she cries from the need for an orgasm that only we can give her.

“Are you so certain you don’t like my misbehaving? Just a little?” She sucks on my bottom lip. Grazes it with her teeth while her hips continue to roll.

“I seem to remember you promising our Princeling a punishment, Princess.”

I am playing with fire, and I can only pray Ophelia isn’t the one to get burned. Yet, for some reason, I cannot seem to stop. For better or for worse, none of us can. She sits up to think, the movement only distracting Hamlet and me more. Likely that was her intention all along. Her pussy lips envelop my shaft as her weight sinks down on top of me. Hamlet rolls to face us once more, stroking his cock with the same painstaking slowness I had used to tease us both.

The image flashes in my mind. Ophelia between us once more, our cocks both thrusting together deep inside of her, instead of thrusting inside my palm. She bites her lip in thought.

“I’m not allowed to play with his cock until I’ve made my decision, but I am allowed to punish it?” she asks.

I realize too late, this fire has long since burned out of my control.

Hamlet

“IS NOT THE REMARKABLE case of blue balls I’ve got, after the two of you went from ember to conflagration, then ripped away the flames, punishment enough?” I ask.

I catch Horatio’s gaze and stroke my cock slowly to emphasize my point.

“What do you think, Princess?” Horatio clears his throat. “Is sending him home trying to hide that beast in his trousers enough?”

“The Prince of Danes running across campus in a torn shirt, his cock tenting his trousers?” Ophelia asks, her eyes still drifting south every few words. “What will the gossip columns say, Daddy? Poise and Rationality would have such a field day writing that, perhaps a mere column wouldn’t suffice.”

“Not at all,” Horatio plays along. Their jokes are at my expense, but I wouldn’t have it any other way, if only we could stay just like this. “They’ll be falling over themselves writing sonnets about his cock.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t send him home like this after all.” Ophelia arches her back to pull her mess of dark hair out of her face.

Horatio groans, eyes hooded and lips parting, at the way the movement makes her hips shift. The way it makes her wet pussy slide over his cock.

I almost come on the sheets, and what a waste that would be.

“Keep that up, Princess, and I don’t think it will be a problem for him much longer,” Horatio says with a pointed glance at the precum already dripping down my fingers. As badly as I want to come, I’m afraid to leave their bed once I do. I try to still my hand, as if they might let me stay right here forever, if only I had the fortitude not to blow my load all over her sheets. But Ophelia rolls her hips, and I cannot stop my hand from stroking to the rhythm of her bouncing tits. “Are you torturing Hamlet, or are you torturing me?”

“Perhaps all of my men could use a little torture,” she says with a smile that would melt my heart if all of my blood weren’t already rushing to my cock.

“Your men?” I try too late to swallow the words, and I don’t miss the flicker of concern on Horatio’s face.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” Horatio hurries to distract her from my question. He sits up with a growl, propping his back against the headboard and grabbing her hips before she has time to counter his sudden movement. “Or have you forgotten last night’s punishment so soon?”

She squirms in his grip. She wraps her arms around his neck and clasps her fingers in his hair, which is a shade darker than hers. Leaning in close, she tips her face toward his, and my stomach flips. It fills with jealous butterflies pummeling me from within for not finding a way to be part of the love I still sit on the outskirts watching.

“Of course not, Daddy.” Her tone is so different with Horatio. A sweeter, more innocent sort of playful than the sarcastic command that edges in when she speaks to me.

“Good girl,” he says in that voice that drops extra low and drags on the final syllable. The sound alone is enough to make me groan against the need to come and to make her beam with happiness.

“Kneel facing us.” Ophelia turns only her head to look at me as she speaks. The rest of her is happily trapped in Horatio’s body.

“What is it with you two and having me on my knees?”

“Think twice the next time you feel the need to talk back, Princeling,” Ophelia says. “Don’t make me count.”

“Or what?” I gripe, even as I’m rising to my knees in the old bed.

“Do you remember your safe words?” she asks, her voice tighter than the playfulness in her hazel eyes belies.

“Yes.” I nod. “Grave to slow, Yorick to stop.”

“That’s, yes, Princess, to you.” She slides out of Horatio’s lap to kneel between the two of us.

“Yes, Princess.” I try not to roll my eyes.

After an uncomfortable fifteen or twenty seconds—passing more like minutes in the oppressive silence—she lets her stern glare roam down my body.

“So f***ing horny for us, isn’t he, Daddy?” she asks like I’m not even there.

“I think the Princeling likes when you’re a bitch to him, Princess.” Horatio laughs. “Look at the way he drips each time you put him in his place.”

“Have you ever tasted yourself, brat?” she asks.

“No. Why would I—”

“Well, we can’t have that, now, can we?” Ophelia interrupts me.

Horatio only grunts. Ophelia slides her hand up his cock until two fingers are hooked beneath his thick head. She slicks her fingers up and around—holds her fingers on proud display between us so I can stare at the generous droplets glistening in the sunlight.

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

She waits until I mirror the movement on my own cock, not that I keep her waiting long. As if I weren’t already horny enough, following her lead nearly makes me fill my fingers with a lot more than she gleaned from Horatio. I hold my fingers between us. An offering for my princess. Her little pink tongue darts out to wet soft lips while she examines my handiwork.

She clucks her tongue as if she’s unimpressed. I don’t argue. I simply watch her slide her own wet fingers between her lips. She licks, sucks, pops two clean fingers from her mouth.

“Your turn,” she says, her tone all wickedness. Her smile shines with the tiny droplet her fingers left behind.

I slide my fingers into my mouth with only a half-second’s hesitation. Salty. Sweet. Sticky. Warm. If I had known I would taste like this, I’d have licked my palm clean every night I stayed up sleepless, trying without success not to listen to Ophelia and Horatio through the walls. Every time I stroked myself, envying the wild abandon of their sex.

Ophelia lowers her hand to catch any fresh droplets from Horatio’s cock while she watches me. She parts her legs to give Horatio’s fingers better access, while I part my fingers on my tongue, as if they’re in her pussy instead, stretching her lips instead of mine. She laps absentmindedly at her fingers until, at last, I release my own.

“Don’t worry, you’ll have plenty more to lick up by the time I’m through with you.” She smirks, but there isn’t the slightest cruelty in her eyes. “We wouldn’t want to send a prince home soaked in his own cum, now would we?”

Ophelia

Though both men said it only in jest, I am convinced that I am the one truly being tortured.

Horatio’s eyes bore into me, watching how I handle this. He’s not half so subtle as he thinks—observing, analyzing, calculating whether or not this is right for me. Trying to determine whether or not he is pushing me too far.

If I don’t want him feeling worried and guilty when Hamlet walks out the door, I need to focus. Need to show him that my misgivings in our situation are about Hamlet, about the simple fact that neither of us can be the monarch to rule beside him, and not about him pressuring me out of my comfort zone.

I’m having a hard time thinking about anything but the assortment of ways I’d like to use and be used between the two of them. Heavens above, if I had my way and no doubts about the future, Hamlet would not have to worry about traipsing home in the ruined tatters of his shirt.

No, he wouldn’t have to worry about a thing because the sun would rise and set on the three of us still f***ing and cuddling our way through my suite. And each other.

Perhaps one day, I tell myself, knowing it must be a lie.

I am not fool enough to think a prince would choose me over his throne. Especially not a prince so notoriously indecisive as Hamlet. Perhaps I should stop this right now, before we take things any farther. Before Hamlet comes in my bed a second time.

It’s not as if a few minutes more is going to do any damage we didn’t already do the night before.

“I’m going to come on your sheets if you force me to kneel here watching Horatio’s fingers in your pussy much longer,” Hamlet says.

“Did I give you permission to speak?” I do my best to sound threatening—a feat I doubt I pull off, while Horatio’s fingers are keeping my pussy stretched and dripping.

“See the way his cock twitches, Princess?” Horatio curls long fingers inside me, rubbing my tender spot until my thighs begin to tremble. “He loves it.”

“Is that true?” My words are breathy as I struggle not to pant and collapse in Horatio’s arms. “Does it make your balls ache when I remind you of your place?”

“I don’t know, Princess,” Hamlet says, his sarcasm weakened by the begging clear in his tone and cadence, even if not yet in his words. “Maybe you should try a little harder.”

From the shoulders up, he looks smug as can be. But his small, pale nipples are hard enough to cut glass, his abdomen clenching beneath its cushion of fat, and the effort he makes to hold back his orgasm fills me with a perverse sort of pride. His cock is dark and ruddy, so swollen, I’d worry it was painful, if I hadn’t spent my adult years learning to endure—no, to enjoy—my fair share of painful pleasure.

I pull Horatio’s fingers from my quivering pussy and sigh with regret at my sudden emptiness. Rising reluctantly from the warmth of my bed, I busy myself in one of the bags beneath the window. Horatio sits, slowly stroking himself, eyes flitting from Hamlet to me with a dramatic rise of his eyebrows. From the cock in Hamlet’s pumping fist, to the toys hidden behind my back.

“Did I give you permission, brat?” I ask when Hamlet turns to see what I’m doing.

“No,” Hamlet answers, still stroking. I smack his ass lightly with my hand. Not enough to mark. Not even enough to sting. Just enough that he will hear the impact more than feel it. “What the hells, Ophelia?

“What the hells, Princess?” I correct with another teasing smack, the sound echoing through the bedroom.

One more smack because he is still stroking and closer than ever to coating my dark sheets in his sticky, white mess. The gall of this prince, to imagine he might get off so easily. Hamlet whips around to glare at me, hand and cock still moving as one. Horatio’s eyes are like a hawk on prey, cataloguing my every response.

I could definitely get used to this.

I shake my head, as if the curls slapping my cheeks can keep me from overthinking this. Every command, every tease, every pinch, and slap, and smack builds me up higher. I have never felt so powerful and vulnerable in equal measure, and if I think too hard, I’m afraid I won’t be able to imagine a life without this. But the thought of searching for it with anyone other than the naked prince in my bed leaves me feeling as hollow as the pewter birds watching us from my nightstand.

“Eyes forward and down.” The command is as much for me as it is for Hamlet, as I struggle to regain my composure before Horatio can intervene. When he complies half-heartedly, I continue, punctuating my words by rubbing my palm over the barely-there handprints on his pale skin. “Better yet, your entire face down. Lay on your stomach for me, Princeling.”

I climb onto the bed behind him and guide him forward—forceful, adamant but gentle—until his face is planted in the pillows, and his cock is trapped between his body and the mattress with no room for his hands. I lower myself to straddle his back.

“Hands up. Grab the headboard, and don’t let go,” I demand.

“Make me.”

I pinch his earlobe, just hard enough to make him say, “Seriously? What the f***, Ophelia?”

I grab his wrists and lunge toward the headboard before he realizes it was a mere distraction.

“A little help please, Daddy?”

“Of course, Princess,” Horatio says, while Hamlet writhes beneath me without trying to pull away. He lets me keep his hands splayed against the headboard while Horatio drapes silk ribbons around his wrists. “Tell us if you want this, sweet Princeling.”

“Yes,” Hamlet sighs, and his writhing beneath me changes course. No longer squirming as if to buck me off of him but grinding his cock against the mattress instead. “Please.”

“Thank you, Daddy,” I say once the prince’s wrists are bound in loose ties that would do nothing to bind him in place if he wanted to escape in a hurry.

Horatio kisses me. He sits with his back against the headboard, so close to Hamlet that all the prince sees when he tries to raise his head is a close-up of Horatio’s body, from his perfect love handles to his muscular thighs. I slide down Hamlet’s back, grinding my hips hard enough to leave a slick trail down his spine.

I lean forward. Bite his ear. Lick the shell. Suck on his earlobe.

Try not to feel anything more than this moment and the solid reality of his body beneath mine.

“One of these days, you’re going to learn your lesson,” I whisper.

“I doubt it,” Hamlet groans. “You might have to keep teaching me. Over and over, and over—”

“That’s enough talking for now.”

I slide a strip of fabric from his ripped shirt into his mouth, pausing to give him time to adjust or object before I tie it in the back. It’s intended only for effect—loose enough that he could spit it out if he needed to, but the muscles in my prince’s back relax as he sinks deeper into submission.

Our handsome prince has never looked so beautiful.

The ever-present furrow fades from his forehead. His expressive eyebrows finally rest. I’ve often envied Hamlet’s thick lashes, but I’ve never been close enough or given myself permission to look at him long enough to admire how naturally they curl. At some point, straddling him like this became less about teasing him than about taking the time to memorize every single stunning detail.

I swipe away the spit beginning to drip around the gag, but really I’m memorizing the softness of his pale, pink lips beneath my thumb. I ghost my knuckles over his cheekbone and immortalize the way his eyelids flutter. I drag my fingers through his hair and dedicate a piece of my heart to the way his breath sighs against the silk pillowcase.

He tries to mumble something, but it only adds to the thick coat of spit sliding down his stubbled chin.

“What’s next, Ophelia?” Horatio asks.

The moment isn’t broken, but the spell I’m under weakens enough for me to pull myself out of the prince’s orbit.

“What do you mean? Now your Princeling has a perfect view and no hands to do anything about it.”

I crawl between Horatio’s knees. My breasts press between his open thighs while I kiss my way up to the vein pulsating along the underside of his shaft, from his well-groomed balls to just below the glistening head.

I lap the wet bead from his tip with the point of my tongue, with my eyes locked not on his, but on Hamlet’s.

“Good girl,” Horatio says when he pulls me back. “I want to finish inside you this morning, though.”

“Yes—” I sigh, desperate to have him filling me after weeks apart. Desperate to have him filling me after all the other ways he touched me the night before. “I need your cum dripping from my greedy pussy and running down my thighs.”

“I love hearing that.” His deep voice nearly disguises the sound of Hamlet’s anguished moan. Horatio’s fingers grab my hips, turning me to face away from him as he pulls me back into his lap. When I’m straddling him—my back against the heat of his chest and my nipples hard against the morning chill—he wraps my palm around his cock and his other hand around my throat. “Ride Daddy’s cock, Princess.”

I’m so wet, I guide him into me in one long, slow stroke. My eyes want to close, to revel in the fullness, but I can’t look away from Hamlet’s ass, each rise and fall pumping his cock against the sheets.

I’ve lost track of time since the first rays of sunlight and Hamlet’s morning wood against my ass woke me. From the moment I was so close to coming with both of their cocks between my legs, time has stopped, nothing else existing but me edging myself to the brink of oblivion for the sake of punishing the prince. Horatio’s free hand slides between my legs as I ride him, his hips meeting me thrust for thrust, hard and fast, as he rubs circles around my clit.

“Oh, f***, Daddy! Mmm, gods, I’m so close—” my shouts are broken by my whimpers and Hamlet’s groans, and Horatio’s voice rising over both of us.

“That’s it, Princess. Be a good girl. Make yourself come hard for me. I want to feel you squirting all over me when I fill you.”

I scream when his fingers close like the most beautifully vicious vice on my clit. Wave after wave of pleasure and pain crash through me until my vision goes hazy and all I feel is the wet heat soaking between my legs.

Hamlet’s body tenses, his hips spasming against the sheets the same moment Horatio explodes into my own clenched pussy.

to beg or not to beg cat giraldo hamlet retelling

To Beg or Not to Beg is available from Amazon.