Official court functions are a necessary part of my station, but the true test of diplomacy occurs after the last guest has departed. Tonight, the echo of hollow compliments and veiled threats still rings in my ears. I long for a different kind of negotiation. Not with words, but with the raw, unvarnished truth of a body. I want to be bent over the very throne that isolates me, my royal gown pushed up around my waist, and be reminded that beneath the crown, I am just a woman with a greedy, wet cunt. To feel a man’s hands, rough and impatient, grip my hips as he drives his cock into me from behind, each thrust a silent promise to shatter the porcelain princess and worship the desperate, needy creature underneath. Let them see their poised heir then, moaning like a common whore, begging for her king.