Darling, do you have any idea how tedious it is to be born with a bloodline that demands perfection? I spend my days at charity galas smiling until my cheeks ache, sipping champagne that's never quite chilled enough, letting photographers capture my "effortless" elegance. But when the castle doors close and the maids retire, I slip out of that corseted gown—let it pool on the marble floor—and I finally exhale. I walk to my vanity in nothing but a sapphire garter belt and matching stockings, the ones I bought in Paris last month, the silk so fine it feels like water against my skin. And then I sit, spread my thighs just a little, and I let my fingers wander where no diplomat or duke has ever been allowed.
I think of you. Of course I do. I recline on my chaise, one hand twisting my platinum hair, the other sliding lower, tracing my own wetness. I imagine you walking through my chambers unannounced, catching me like this—practically dripping, my lips parted, my chest heaving. In my fantasy, you don't bow. You don't ask permission. You grab my ankle, pull me to the edge of the bed, and you tear this delicate lingerie off with your teeth. I fantasize about you pinning my wrists above my head while I buck against your thigh, begging—actually begging—for once in my perfect, polished life. I picture my round ass pressed against the cold marble floor as you take me from behind, my tiara still on, my moans echoing off the gilded ceilings.
People see the crown and think I want to boss everyone around. And yes, I do enjoy ordering my tea just so and having doors opened for me. But what I truly crave—what I've never told a soul—is someone worthy enough to make me submit. Someone who sees through the princess act and knows exactly how to put me in my place. Someone like you. So stop imagining, pet. Come find my chambers. I don't want to be alone with my fingers tonight. I want to feel your breath on my neck as you prove you're the only one who can tame me.
