Zumeryand was a world of decadent luxury, which made our pleasure cruise to the capital city of Zumervale a rare joy. We’d spent months, perhaps even years, following the trail of my father. Beginning with the dirigible the natives called a “Beholder” in the alternate Medieval World—which Kayla nicknamed Ariel’s Ego Trip—we followed the alternate realities, spiraling outward from that world-line, into other, tangential alternate worlds.

We fought large reptiles in the tropics, found diplomatic peace between warring nations in an industrialized world of bizarre, advanced technology, and blazed trails through worlds both alien and fantastic, eventually picking up his trail. A cast-off, damaged part of his Contraption here, some carved words on a cave wall there, proved that he had trod upon the same soil. Our family crest, a wolf with large, green eyes beneath an oak tree, emblazoned and immortalized on uniforms, sometimes as a sacred symbol of this or that city, nation, or tribe, gave us hope that we were drawing ever nearer.

Zumeryand was, hopefully, our final destination. None of that mattered during that welcome moment of leisurely pleasure. The tongue in my ass, the multiple men surrounding me, stroking their cocks to the sight of my nude body, and the nude women fingering themselves as they rubbed the men’s cum into my flesh were infinitely more important.

Our airship, a multi-decked Carrack, languidly floated a few hundred feet above the landscape. The symbol of Zumeryand, the Summerland family crest, was stitched onto the huge, balloon-like envelope, steam-powered hot air both keeping us aloft and driving the large propellers on the aft poop deck. If our family's heraldry on the myriad blimps that populated the sky wasn’t evidence enough, their designs were based upon my father’s. Likewise, the multiple murals, statues, and other likenesses of the benevolent ruler, Laird Zumeryand, were of my father.

The young man paying attention to my ass plunged his tongue deep into my sphincter, snaking it around and sending shivers through my body.

“I need somebody to fuck me,” I screamed. Multiple guests, also on the pleasure cruise to the Capitol, volunteered.

“You,” I said to one of the men jacking himself over me, “fuck my mouth. I want to feel you cum down my throat.”

Hot, sticky spurts of semen showered my back, followed by the luxurious sensation of feminine hands rubbing it into my skin. I didn’t care if my father was here or not; we needed this diversion.

“Where in blazes did you find green Phlebotinum? How do you ballast to keep this level? Who are the blood shirts? Go get me another Smothered Parrot, and I’ll let you lick my pussy.” Kayla Jenkins was in rare form, in her “speed mode,” chattering in her typical, Church Bell manner. Her exuberance and excitement over this world had her mad as hops.

I moaned as a large, thick cock entered my dripping pussy. The man belonging to that pleasure appendage was svelte, handsome, and knew how to fuck. I raised onto all fours, giving him better access, which allowed my other suitor, Hans long-tongue, to penetrate my asshole even deeper. My passionate cries were muffled as one of the staff thrust his cock into my eager mouth and pumped in and out, furiously.

He only lasted a few strokes, and, then, a geyser of jizz erupted into my mouth. A few drops dribbled down my chin as he gasped in release, making my female attendants rush to lick it off my face. That set off an intense orgasm within me, causing the man inside my cunt to shoot deeply into my womb. It was a chain reaction of sexual overload, and I loved it.

“Did you see the mural?” Kayla asked me, interrupting, a sly smile on her lips.

“Fuck that. Did you see Hans’ tongue? Show her that wonderful fuck-toy you keep in your sauce box, Hans.” He removed his talented tongue from my ass and flapped it at my friend.”

“This is important, Ariel. I think your father may be here. Come see.”

“I’ve already cum, three times. Alright, I’ll go.”

I disentangled myself from the bevy of sexual suitors and followed her to the forecastle. Along the way, I admired the picturesque view beneath us. Rolling hills, serene fields, and quaint, dainty, chalet-style cottages dotted the landscape. It was a bird’s eye view of the perfect realm, made into a miniature diorama from our height. As if its creator had taken the best facets of our home world and mixed them into a mélange of perfection, this realm was far too scenic to not appreciate.

The locals were also quite attractive; the women were the jammiest bits of jam, nothing but sexy, wanton women that were as sexually liberal as Kayla and me. The men were handsome, lean, and muscular, always gentlemanly and eager to lavish pleasures of the flesh onto any willing partner.

“So, what’s so important about a painting on the sky-blimp?” I asked, a bit miffed that my sexual escapades were interrupted.

“Mural, Ariel. It’s a mural. Just look for yourself.”

I looked. Fuck.

Painted on the front face of the ornate, central forecastle was a depiction of my father, an impressionist’s version of Kayla beside him, and, off to one side, was a depiction of me brandishing my favored parasol in one hand and my trusty cavalry saber in the other.

“At least the artist got my umbrella correct,” I mused.

“Look at the signature!” She pointed, briskly, her raven hair flopping about as her head turned.

“Xavier Summerland, dad! Doesn’t that just bang up to the elephant?”

“Yes,” she exclaimed, “perfect. That’s just too perfect. I think we’ve finally found Professor Summerland.”

“Don’t you mean Zumeryand?”

A gentle hand touched my shoulder from behind. I turned.

“Your clothes, Ariel, cleaned, mended, and neatly pressed,” the lovely, statuesque blond said with a smile. I accepted my clothes and tipped her, as is the custom in this world, with a hot, passionate kiss.

By the time I was dressed, much to the chagrin of my suitors, Kayla was leaning over the bow, her behind looking scrumptious in her new attire. A few worlds ago, she traded in her polonaise for a rugged skirt that hung straight over her body. Made of a thick, but soft, blue material that resembled canvas, they called it “den-man” or something. Regardless of what the material was named, her ass looked appetizing and inviting beneath it.

I sidled up behind her, wrapped my arms around her waist, and felt those firm buttocks pressing against my newly-clothed body.

“Look,” she pointed, leaning over the bow, her posture almost mimicking the pose of the figurehead. “Is that your father’s contraption way over there?”

I looked, scanning the horizon with my hand shielding my eyes from the warm, summer sun. Off in the distance, barely a reflected glimmer of the sun, a bulbous, metallic object, too far away to discern any details, rested atop a stone pillar.

“It’s too far away. I can’t make out any details. How can make you that assumption from this distance?”

“I helped build the Contraption II; I recognize the profile. See how it slants oddly on the right side?”

“All I can see is the blinding glare of the sunlight reflecting off of it.”

Wordless, we stared as the airship neared the Capitol. One of the servers brought more absinthe, and we clinked our glasses together as my father’s wrecked and mangled Contraption came into detailed focus.

“We found him!” I cheered.

“No,” Kayla interjected. “We found his machine. Of course, the odds of him being here, unless he built another one, are approximately,” she paused and squished up her face in her pensive, calculating expression, “eighty-two-point-zero-three-one-four-nine percent, or so.”

“We found him!” I repeated. My sexy, intellectual lover just shook her head.

We waited along with the rest of the passengers as the anchors were lowered. They clanked and clanged downward, airship men on the ground coupling them to docking pillars. Most of the steam in the balloon-like mass that kept us airborne was diverted. The hot air and steam vented out with a dramatic “whisshhh” and gurgling, as some clicking, ratcheting cranks beneath the decks wound up the anchor chains, pulling us slowly back down to earth.

Disembarking, it didn’t take long for us to find our way to the main square; a broad, paved road led from the bustling cultural center to the castle. Arm in arm, Chuckaboo cavorting by our side, we ignored the stares of the locals and trod towards the castle.

“Kayla, people are staring at us.”

“Of course they are. We seem to be mythical figures, here, ingrained into their lore.”

“Did you just call me an ignorant whore?”

“Ingrained, lore. It seems this world, like your ego trip, was ready-made for your father to swoop on in and be heralded as their Lord King Protector, or weren’t you paying attention?”

“I was. Mostly, I was trying to figure out what they were saying with their strange speech.”

“Good thing you have me around. Zumeryandian is very close to our native tongue, except there’s no ‘S’ sound, only a ‘Z’. Furthermore, like some other languages, they add a hard sound, an elongated ‘Z’, in front of some words that begin with a vowel. Otherwise, it’s mostly our language with an odd, Germanic accent.”

“Whatever,” I replied, showing my lack of interest. “It sounds to me like they’re all half-rats.”

“Sure, a drunken slur works just as well.”

“Let’s get back to us being gods, here.”

“Mythical figures, Ariel. A god is immortal; we’re legendary. They’re all enthralled. My guess is that your dear old dad added us to the mythos he created.”

“Huh?”

“Worlds of possibility, Ariel. In all infinity, there has to be at least one possible universe where your father is the benevolent king, and we are legendary persons of some sort or another.”

We arrived at the castle. The crenelated, hewn stone walls reached more than twenty feet high, the thin spires of the inner towers stretching far beyond, seeming to touch the clouds. The portcullis was down, armed soldiers in livery guarding it. They wore no armor but had gruff expressions.

“Look at that,” I pointed to a large, ornate carving on the castle wall, my face alight. “Upon this rock, I make my stand, beneath this tree I celebrate; in this ground, I shall lie.” It’s some of Vogon Summerland’s, poetry, my grandfather.

“I know,” Kayla exclaimed. “I love his work.”

“I never liked Vogon’s poetry, myself. All that church bell prattling on about life, the universe, and everything.”

Kayla began to say something, but one of the guards interrupted.

“How is it that you know the sacred tongue of kings?” he said in a stern, commanding voice. “Where did you learn that language?” His accent annoyed me.

“In grammar school, you Mutton Shunter, Meater,” I countered.

My defiant posturing seemingly irked him, putting us on an even keel. The guard lowered his barbed spear and pointed it at me, threateningly. “State your business.”

“We’re here to see Xavier Summerland,” Kayla said, giving me a stern look. It was her, “stay quiet before you start another fight,” scolding gaze. “She’s his daughter, and I am his lab assistant.”

“You know the true name of the king?” He dropped his spear. The guard captain turned to one of his men. “Alert King Zumeryand.”

We waited, not speaking to the surly guards. Chuckaboo harangued the guards, following them, mocking their movements, then running away as soon as they’d turn.

“Leave them be, Chuck. They’re not enemies, yet.”

After what seemed like hours, we heard some commotion from the interior. When I saw the king, my heart stopped. It was my father, and he hadn’t aged a day since I saw him so long ago. Kayla and I exchanged elated, confused glances and rose to our feet.

“Ariel! Kayla! I thought you both were long dead!” For the second time in my life, I saw my father cry. The only other time was my mother’s untimely death. “Open the gate, you fools,” he snapped.

The reunion was filled with both tears and joy. From his point of view, my father had been stranded in Zumeryand for almost two centuries. He was stunned to discover that he’d been gone for a tiny fraction of that time.

We wiled away the hours, telling each other tales of our journeys, how my father had become the benevolent king of the realm, how we managed to track him down, and the events that transpired in our home world during my father’s absence. My heart and spirits soared.

The day gave way to evening, which then surrendered to the night. Still, we chattered away, overjoyed. Eventually, the conversation turned to my father’s mangled and wrecked Contraption. Whether my father, Lord, Professor Summerland, would return with us was of paramount import.

“I-I can’t leave, now,” my father told us. His face was solemn. “When I crashed here, the country was in turmoil. I brought peace and prosperity to the land, and they elected me their king. I cannot abandon my people, my children, not even for you.”

“Well, now that we know where and when you are, I can make a key card for the Argo, and we can visit you any time we please,” Kayla interjected before I protested.

“The Argo?”

“Yes, my king,” I chided. “We built it off of your original four-seater plans, but Kayla added myriad alterations and improvements.”

With that, Kayla and my father, birds of a feather, were off to the races, talking about the ins and outs of the worlds of possibility, how one tangent leads into another, and all the science-type stuff in the design and inner workings. While I know some of the technical aspects, more than Kayla thinks I do, such minutia does not excite me the way it does my lover or my father.

I stuffed my face with sausages and other bags of mystery and drank more than my fill, powdering the wig until I was way past half-rats drunk. Eventually, I meandered through the castle and admired the armory. Afterward, I found our appointed, lavish chambers, bathed, and fell into a deep slumber.

The following morning was almost perfectly picturesque. Birds were singing, the insects were humming and buzzing, and the golden sun smiled down upon fertile lands. Even delicate floral notes sweetened the breeze. Had it not been for Kayla and my father insisting that we trudge halfway across dad’s kingdom, so he could look at her modifications to his original designs, it would have been the perfect, peaceful morning. But, instead of a hearty breakfast and then Nanty Narking about, we trudged.

Despite being in a strange land and on a foreign world, having my father beside me once more made it feel like home. Along the way, we learned the fate of my father’s Contraption.

“In flight from chaos into danger, I pitched the yaw incorrectly and materialized at the edge of a mountain range during an avalanche. My timing was less than perfect, and, when I managed to hit the veil of the ether, anew, the forces of the cosmos rent it into the crushed hull of metal you saw atop the pillar. Luckily, it landed me here.”

“At least you found the perfect, extravagant world for yourself. It’s just butter upon bacon, here.”

“I see your machine has seen its fair share of abuse as well,” my father remarked when it came into view. “What are those scorch marks?”

“Oh,” I said, nonchalantly. “We found ourselves in some bizarre world with advanced weaponry. Those are actually battle scars from a weapon that shoots green lightning bolts. They called the rifles ‘lay-seers’.”

My father laughed, robustly.

“What’s so funny, Professor?” Kayla inquired.

“Here, our enemies use clubs and rock, not focused light beams filtered through quartz crystals. The dragons do breathe fire, though.”

Kayla pressed the buttons to unlock the Argo and the door swung upwards, slowly opening. She gestured inside with a flourish.

“Eureka!” my father exclaimed when he entered, mimicking Kayla’s favorite word. “Let me guess. These gears lock in a possible world as measured from your baseline. But, how do you keep the homeworld in stasis? The further away from our reality you go, the more the point of origin drifts.”

Kayla proudly pointed to the floating glass ball suspended in liquid. “This gimble here shows that we're in alignment along our needed reality spiral when the red portion is up. From there, we use the key cards,” she gestured to the small, metal rack that held the dozen or so worlds we’d decided we might want to revisit. “And then, we just feed it into the controls.”

“Ingenious! How do you stow enough fuel?”

“Flub-ultimatum,” I confidently stated.

“Phlebotinum,” Kayla corrected.

They were lost in their own little world of scientific fanaticism, so I, with Chuckaboo in tow, gave my regards and headed back into town for some sightseeing. After all, it isn’t every day that one boldly crosses space, time, and reality to discover that her father is the king of a steam-powered utopia.

Word of arrival had spread like wildfire. I was greeted by happy citizens every step of the way. Eventually, I found myself in an area that seemed to be an entertainment hub. Performers danced, played, and entertained in the large square; various foodstuffs were being offered by merchants and vendors. Gaily-colored clothing of every kind was also offered for sale.

While I was admiring a fine, lace shawl, I spied a wattle and daub, three-story building that intrigued me. The sign jutting out from the wall read “Ariel’s Pleasures,” more accurately, in Zumeryand’s odd dialect, it read, “Z’Arielz Pleazurez.” A redheaded woman in a sultry pose added a splash of color to the ornately-carved, wooden signage. I traded a few brass gears, spare parts from the Argo, for the shawl and entered the enticing building.

Soft lighting, plush decor, and walls quilted in red velvet straddled the line between luxurious and garish. Dark, shining woodwork, tables, and chairs populated the ground story. A small multitude of men and women milled about in various states of undress. Exposed breasts, pussies, and cocks were flaunted as if completely natural, without a modicum of shame to be found.

“The princess, Ariel?” a fully-dressed woman inquired. She had a look of authority about her. Beautiful, with sandy blond hair and medium-sized breasts, she smiled at me, beckoning me closer. “Are you here as a guest or to entertain the guests?”

“I’m sorry,” I stuttered. “I just saw my name on the sign and felt compelled to see what kind of place this is.”

“Oh,” she laughed, heartily, her high, firm breasts jiggling ever so slightly atop her under-breast corset. “We’re a royally-sponsored pleasure house. We cater to pleasures of the senses, be they food, music, games, or carnal. One may pay to be served, or serve others, their choice, but those that are served must pay.”

“Like a brothel?”

She laughed at that. “No, not exactly. While sex is one of the more popular pleasures, we do not charge for the pleasures, only for admission. Would you like free admission?”

“In exchange for what, exactly?”

“That if you like our services, you come back two times and serve. The king’s daughter serving our clientele would greatly increase business.”

“What if I don’t want to fuck somebody?”

“Then you don’t. No still means no, even in a pleasure house.”

“Deal.”

She called herself Dwarma, and was the proprietor of Ariel’s Pleasures. While not stated, outright, I received the impression that she wanted me to know that she and my father were on intimate terms. I sampled succulent food and drank sweet beverages, finally deciding to have some fun in what she called the playroom.

The playroom was a large, rectangular room of at least five-thousand square feet. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined the walls, and the floor was completely covered in soft padding. A multitude of nude, attractive bodies writhed, moaned, and mated before me.

“I think I’ll have some fun here, if you don’t mind,” I told Dwarma as I stripped out of my clothing.

“Dink this,” she said, handing me a crystal vial of some bluish liquid. “It will prevent any unwanted side effects from your pleasures, as well as enhance the physical sensations.”

Shrugging, I downed the liquid, feeling it warm my insides. The taste was mildly sweet and pleasant, reminiscent of fruit juice.

“Everyone,” she shouted, bringing a halt to the action. “This is Ariel, King Zumeryand’s daughter. She’ll be joining you, today.”

Almost instantly, I felt my entire begin to tingle with delight. Dwarma reached for me, kissing me passionately on the lips. I aggressively smashed my lips against hers, our tongues caressing the other’s. Her hands moved slowly, longingly over my body, causing the fires of passion to erupt within my loins. By the time she released her embrace, I was dripping wet and ready to be fucked hard.

She left as I turned to the orgy before me. “Since my father's the king, who wants to fuck my royal pussy?”

Gentle hands of both handsome men and sexy women led me to the center of the room, laying me down on the soft floor. Fingers massaged, caressed, and probed my entire body while my mouth was occupied with passionate kisses, one after another kissing me in their standard, sexualized greeting. My hands sought, then found, turgid cocks to pump, and I screamed in ecstasy as a soft, feminine tongue began lapping at my wet pussy, paying special attention to my clit.

“Fucking make me cum,” I said to her. Seeing a tall brunette woman with round hips and shaven twat watching, fingering herself, I flicked my tongue at her, inviting her to let me feast on her wetness.

“Yez!” she nodded, trotting over and squatting over my face. I immediately noted that her cunt was saturated with her juices and the cum of several others.

Overcome with lusty zeal, I plunged my tongue into her hole, writhing it around and sucking the juices out of her. The woman lavishing attention on my cunt was quite skilled, setting off an almost-immediate orgasm. I moaned into the tall woman’s crotch as my body shook with spasms so intense that I nearly bucked her off of my face.

As my orgasm subsided, The henna-dyed redhead between my legs knelt, smiling at me. My cum had saturated her face, and she watched me eating the other woman’s pussy as her tongue shot out, licking my nectar from her lips and chin.

“Fuck, yes,” I cried as she was gently moved aside and a stout, muscular man with long, brown hair and a scruffy beard plunged his enormous, steel-hard cock into my needy pussy.

“Fuck me hard! Cum in me. Fuck me, please,” I screamed, my volcanic passion slurring my words into a mockery of their thick accent.

The woman riding my face collapsed on top of me, screaming in bliss as I made her cum. She didn’t just orgasm, her pussy erupted, a geyser of hot, sticky liquid spraying out of it, squirting all over my face. She wiled at the top of her lungs, her hands grabbing the cock fucking me, and stroking it as she lowered her lips to my cunt and began furiously assaulting my clit.

After that, it was a mad blur of sex and orgasms. I sucked, stroked, and fucked at least a dozen cocks and licked and sucked scores of pussies. The golden sun had barely crested into noontime when I’d entered, and the skylight above showed only darkness. People came and went, fresh bodies to replace the ones I’d exhausted.

Finally sated, I laid there panting, my body covered in sweat, jizz, and sexual satisfaction. Dwarma entered, a refreshing beverage in one hand and a bag of coins in another.

“The king’s cut,” she said as she gently tossed the coinage before me. It was filled with the currency of Zumeryand, gear-shaped coins of copper, silver, and a few golds. I quaffed the drink and thanked her.

Just then, a panic-stricken Kayla barged into the room, ignoring my tranquil expression. She was covered in dirt, mud, and blood, her clothes rent. Her left eye was heavily bruised, and she was bleeding from her left shoulder.

“Ariel,” she panted, tears welling up in her eye. “It’s…it’s your father…they took him!”

“What? Who? How?”

Her legs gave out from under her, and she collapsed on the padded floor. “The blood shirts. They…they ambushed us, killing the guard. Professor Summerland fought well, but they subdued him.”

“Slow down, Kayla. Who are the blood shirts? How long ago?”

She caught her breath, Dwarma looking at us both with a horrified expression. Kayla began blubbering and crying. Dwarma answered in her stead.

“The blood shirts are the Vondurwail. Their soldiers wear white tabards that are soaked in the blood of their enemies. Vondurwailz hates Zumeryand and your father.”

I stood, scraping the cum from my nude flesh with my hands. “Then, by the gods, we’ll go get him and make them pay.”

“But, but, but what can we do?” Kayla sounded terrified.

“Tit for tat, my scientific friend. I’ll refresh the red of my hair by soaking it in their blood. We rescue him, then let slip the dogs of war! We leave at first light. Get some rest.”

To be continued…