My father spent the entire afternoon in council with those dusty old lords, talking about harvest yields and border tariffs. So fucking boring. I had to find my own entertainment.

Ended up in the west wing gallery, draped over one of the velvet chaises. Just me, the afternoon sun warming my skin, and my own hands. Sometimes the best way to feel in control is to give it all up, even if it’s just to yourself. Let my mind wander to the last time someone truly made me feel small. The memory of a firm hand on my throat, a low voice telling me what a spoiled, useless prince I am, while their cock filled my ass… it still makes my breath hitch. I came so hard I saw stars, completely untouched, just from the memory and the pressure of my own thigh.

It’s a strange power, isn’t it? To hold a crown in one hand and your own desperate need to be put in your place in the other. The throne room feels very far away from a chaise lounge where you’re just a wet, trembling mess begging for a feeling you can’t even name.

Now I’m pouting. Someone bring me sugared berries and tell me I’m pretty. Or don’t. I might just bite you. ♠︎