Prince Callan awoke with a smile on the day he was to receive a delicious new prize. Life had been good to the prince these last few years, ever since he had led the people's rebellion against that cowardly democratic excuse for a government. Strange how installing oneself as the leader of a nation could do so much for one's quality of life. Nowadays, he enjoyed only the cream of life, and he ensured that every man in his kingdom had the opportunity to do the same.
It was a shame he couldn't call himself the "king," as his ancestors once did. Such a position required him to be wed, and—more importantly—put far too many restraints on his… extramarital activities. As it was, he had plenty of options to choose for brides; ever since he had led the fair Kingdom of Altemir in prioritizing military supremacy, it seemed that kings from all over the known world were eager to wed him off to their various daughters, in hopes of gaining a powerful ally (and, of course, pacifying a possible foe).
Today marked the scheduled arrival of yet another suitress: the Princess Aaliya, daughter of some worthless monarch from the far east. Per the reports, she was as prudish and cold as she was beautiful, and Callan had been counting the days until her arrival. He intended to have some serious fun at the poor woman's expense.
Callan stretched, sitting up in his opulent bed. Turning, he found his servant Anna, still standing beside his bed as she was when he went to sleep. She was a gorgeous young woman, one he had hand-picked years ago to serve as a fixture in his chamber. Though almost entirely flat (he had hoped the girl would have developed at least a little during her latter teenage years), she had an undeniable beauty to her. Shining blonde hair framed an innocent face; were she not royal property, she would have fit perfectly as the gem of some rural town, the beautiful yet untouchable daughter of some neighbor or farmer.
"Good morning, Anna," he said through a yawn, gesturing for her to approach. "News?"
"Good morning, my lord," the girl said in her usual bubbly tone. "Nothing unexpected! Word came in an hour ago: we expect Princess Aaliya to arrive before noon. Preparations for her arrival are complete, and the celebratory ball is currently being set up for tomorrow evening."
"Wonderful as always, Anna. Now if you don't mind…?"
"Of course, my lord. Which hole?"
"Mouth."
With no further discussion, Anna pulled back the sheets, uncovering the prince's naked form. His cock was already halfway hard, a result of a pleasant dream about the day's festivities. Anna climbed onto the bed, straddling his legs, and took his member in her mouth. Her golden hair fell about Callan's hips as the servant met his eyes, her soft lips and warm tongue a welcome sensation.
Smiling down at the girl, Callan released his bladder directly into her mouth. Nothing made for a better urinal than a woman of Altemir; he may have used this particular object dozens of times, but it was never a sensation from which he tired.
These were the things that made Altemir great. These were the traditions that had given him such pull with the people, all those years ago. In the historic past, the females of Altemir had been considered nothing more than objects. Callan had heard foreigners talk of the tradition as if it were a black mark on the nation's history; he had never understood the cause for this. Girls were objects, yes, but they were celebrated objects. Prized communal possessions. Items of entertaining value, or a multitude of convenient uses. Taking the people's objects away—pronouncing the girls of Altemir to be human—had been the first and greatest failing of the now-dead democratic regime.
Thank the gods things are back on track, Callan thought to himself as he pissed down the servant girl's throat. He remembered a time in his youth when the people were forced to pretend such acts were profane, when the use of women against their so-called "will" had to be done in secret. Those had been dark times. Not only had the cunts deigned to consider themselves worthy of self-determination, but many had further abused that autonomy to flaunt their bodies, their scantily-clad figures used as taunts against the natural rights of men.
This is why he was prince.
Now, and for the last decade in which Callan had reigned, things were back to normal: females, regardless of age, were once again objects (had they ever really been human?) and men no longer needed to cower in secret or jump a pretty girl in a back alley just to live the way men were meant to live. Now the men of Altemir had this; they had Anna.
Anna made pleasant little gulping sounds as she swallowed mouthful after mouthful of her lord's morning piss. It was always hard to tell with the thick shaft of his cock forcing the servant's lips into an "O," but Callan thought he could see her smiling. And why shouldn't she? She was performing one of her basic functions. This was the reason why she was stationed by his bed each night; if ever a urinal was needed in the early hours, her holes were mere feet away.
And damn was she good at her job. Many of the kingdom's objects were still reluctant, still requiring force to remind them of the old ways. Not so with Anna. In the five years since she had become a fixture in his bedchamber (Callan could barely believe she was already turning eighteen), she had done her job diligently. The precious little cunt had even surprised him from time to time by getting new, often virginal objects for him to use alongside her own body. The model of a Altemiri woman, that one.
His stream beginning to subside, Callan popped his cock out of her mouth, allowing the last jet of piss to spray across her face. She grinned up at him as he smudged her makeup with urine, visibly enjoying the treatment.
"Hey!" she giggled. "I had chores to get done today."
"And now everyone you meet will know you to be a piss-pot."
Anna rolled her eyes. "As if they couldn't already tell. I coulda swallowed it all, y'know."
"I have no doubt," Callan said, wiping his dripping cock on her cheek. "Which is exactly why I did it. You can't leave my chamber looking too put-together."
"Then you coulda at least gotten my hair too," Anna said, faking a pout.
Callan laughed. "How did I find such a model woman? I should have you giving lessons to some of the commoners."
"Well, you know what they say, my prince. Golden hair, golden… uh, personality."
The two shared a grin as the girl straightened herself up.
"Anyway, thank you, sir. Can I do anything else for you today?"
The prince considered for a moment. No matter how many times he put this pretty young hole to use, she always seemed to satisfy. But today…
"No, no, I don't think so. I have a long day ahead of me, and a man only has so much seed."
Anna looked mildly crestfallen, but she would recover quickly enough.
"I understand, my prince. In that case, perhaps it is time to prepare for Aaliya's arrival?"
Callan nodded. "I believe new robes have been prepared for the occasion?"
"Oh yes! I saw the tailor bringing them in; they're quite lavish. I'll send them in."
With that, the bubbly little blonde hopped out of bed and strode from the chamber, leaving Callan to his thoughts.
Callan was wrapped in a loose dressing robe when at last the tailor arrived. She was a thirty-something woman, perhaps verging on forty; she was soft on the eyes, with large, heaving breasts that strained behind a tight corset. She kept her eyes low as she entered the prince's chamber, her posture properly and pleasingly submissive.
Behind the tailor trailed a much younger girl. An assistant? No, this looked to be the woman's daughter—the teen's face had some resemblance to the tailor, but the size of her chest was a giveaway, despite her age. She had the look of a teen that was probably very popular among kids her age; busty, overly-manicured, and clad in skin-tight clothing Callan had only seen among the fashionable youth.
The two carried with them an elaborate length of deep blue fabric, decorated here and there with white piping and embroidered golden leaves.
"Greetings," the prince said simply, watching the two alluring figures set down their wares. "Welcome. I very much look forward to trying on what you have prepared."
As he spoke, the tailor nudged the younger girl, whispering something in her ear. The child blushed, looking between her mother and prince Callan, her face nearly turning green.
"What?" the teen squeaked. "No! Here?"
"Apologies, my lord," the tailor said, speaking over her daughter, her eyes properly downcast. "My daughter is still learning the proper customs. Girl! Now we greet the prince in the traditional manner, as I told you. Ready?"
Ah, the traditional Altemiri greeting. That was one of Callan's favorite revivals from the old ways. In this kingdom, greetings between men were as casual and straightforward as they were anywhere in the civilized world; however, when a woman greeted a man, well… it made for a wonderful sight, to say the least.
With no further word, the tailor spun around, turning her back to the prince. Bending over at the waist, she thrust out her ass, then hoisted her skirts until both of her cheeks were in plain view. She unceremoniously pulled her undergarments down her thighs, giving Callan a perfect, unobstructed view of both of her holes. She had a tight looking asshole for a woman her age; framed by neatly-trimmed brown curls, her labia were dark and large, but intriguing all the same. These folds she parted with her hands, hooking her fingers deep into herself and spreading, giving the prince a look far into her most private places.
The woman knew precisely how to greet a man. Callan found himself endeared to her already; he loved a woman that savored her place in life properly.
The girl, however, watched her mother in thinly veiled horror. As a female herself—regardless of age—the girl was certainly expected to follow suit, to do exactly as her mother had done. The teen's face blazed red as her mother, holes bared to the world, shot her a warning glare.
Clearly the daughter was unaccustomed to the public life of a Altemiri woman, and by the burn in her cheeks, Callan suspected that even her father had failed to utilize her properly. She looked to be perhaps fourteen, give or take, and yet she had obviously never been given the honor of proper use. That was a shame. Callan found himself cursing whatever male relatives that girl had; he doubted that any man who passed up such a tight, young, yet busty body could ever considered a patriot.
The child bobbed her head to the prince, then turned her back to him, mimicking the motions her mother had just demonstrated.
Her hands were shaky, her movements uncertain, her posture embarrassed. This looked to be a girl that had never been seen naked before, and though Callan should be taking offense at her hesitance, he found the sight oddly endearing. The girl eventually managed to bare her ass for him, her face beet red as her trembling hands mirrored the posture of her mother. Her eyes bored holes in the floor as her shaking fingers began to move her underwear out of the way, inch by inch.
Such innocent little holes! Callan was entranced; hairless and pristine, the rosy pink bud of the girl's tiny slit beckoned to him, begging to be deflowered right on that very spot. Her delicate folds were, simultaneously, so womanly and yet so childish. Callan found himself wishing suddenly that he had not so hastily used dedicated urinal that morning; what a gift it would have been to fill this child's womb with piss as he stole her first time.
Most gentlemen would have ended the greeting ritual here. After all, the day was too short to savor every hole presented in greeting, no matter how pink and pretty; it was enough, in the eyes of many, that these women had submitted and humiliated themselves. Callan, however, refused to take even this small gem of his culture for granted.
He approached the tailor, running a hand over her round, almost matronly ass. Yes, she was a model Altemiri woman; despite bearing a child, despite being at the sunset of her prime years of use, she kept her body tight and serviceable. She was no virgin, to be sure, but Callan had seen many a twenty-year-old cunt look more run-through than this one.
From her he turned to the daughter, stepping behind her spread ass. Like her mother, the teen was disproportionally tight for her age. Clearly the tailor had passed on some degree of her values, and for that she was to be commended. Many a merchant would have installed such a lovely little fleshlight in their place of business, serving both as a draw to customers and a way to give any other female workers (such as the tailor herself) a break from constant use by their patrons. Perhaps this was a second daughter, allowed to apprentice in the shop while her older sister satisfied needs..?
Callan placed a hand on each of the teen's upper thighs, feeling her tightly bouncy ass cheeks with his thumbs. He ignored her involuntary little whimpers—perhaps the mother hadn't imparted all of her positive values on the girl—and ran his hands up to meet hers.
Many children didn't know how to properly gape for a greeting such as this, but this one had hooked her fingers deeply into her seemingly-virginal canal. The result was a spread identical to her mother's, just on a smaller, unused model. What a conundrum this girl was; seemingly so sheltered, so untouched, and yet so well-trained in the traditional ways. How… precious.
"Cute holes, child," Callan said, running a thumb over her parted labia. He pushed her cheeks just a few inches wider, enjoying the way the hairless, pale skin between her holes stretched.
There was a moment of silence before the mother removed her right hand from gaping her cunt and used it to slap the little girl on the back of the head before returning to her position.
"Ow!" Her daughter exclaimed, face somehow redder each moment. "Oh. Oh! Uh, thank you. My prince."
Callan gripped each of her ass cheeks, one in each hand, parting them further. The girl's adorable whine earned her another stern glare from her mother.
"Have you ever considered applying for a position here in the palace? Or perhaps among the Royal Museum and Gallery?" Callan asked, idly toying with the girl's little clit. "A body like yours could certainly be put to better use than as a seamstress."
"I, uh, no. My prince," the girl said quietly, her voice wavering, full of tears. Yes, she was adorable.
Her mother cleared her throat. "That is an incredible honor, Adorinda. Don't disrespect the Prince."
"Sorry, my Prince. I-uh. Thank you."
Callan sighed. "If today was not so full for me, I would do you the honor of using you here and now. But I have not the luxury of time nor the semen to spare on a commoner today. Consider yourself greeted and well-met."
At those words, the mother straightened, pulling her undergarments up and allowing her skirts to once again cover her lovely, matronly holes. The greeting had concluded, and she was ready to immediately move on to business. The daughter quickly followed to do the same, clearly all too glad to return to a semblance of modesty.
"That being said," Callan added, meeting the younger girl's eyes. "Present yourself to my servant Anna when you leave. I shall like to see you first thing in the morning tomorrow. She will arrange the details."
Little Adorinda's face seemed somehow to blanche and blush all at once. She stammered out a shaky reply as her mother moved in to do the actual work.
"I've prepared for you a robe in the traditional style," the tailor said, flitting about the prince, taking measurements here and there.
"Perfect." Callan nodded to himself. "From what I hear, the new princess will have quite a period of adjustment. I wish to immerse her in Altemiri tradition in every facet."
"A good plan, my prince," the tailor agreed, adjusting the robe to fit the measurements she had taken. "I know the men of Altemir look forward to seeing another princess humbled before the throne. The last one was… quite the spectacle."
She was right on that account. Poor, foolish Mairin. That princess had been quite a challenge to break. Yet now she was the ultimate model of a Altemiri woman, and Callan hoped she would serve as an inspiration for the new cunt.
Callan watched as the women worked, tempted to order the young Adorinda to service him throughout the fitting. Would she even know how? Callan almost hoped not; there was an undeniable charm in a precious little girl fumbling her way through pleasing a man.
He sighed. No, he shouldn't push it today. Breaking in the new princess was, with any luck, going to cost all the stamina he had. Still, the two women had already gotten him quite aroused with their entrance; rather than using their holes, perhaps he would simply utilize one of their other entertaining values.
"Ladies," Callan said, commanding their attention. "Remove your tops. I prefer you work bare-chested today."
"Of course." The tailor complied without even looking up, reaching around to unlace her top. Within moments it was cast aside, and her breasts bounced free. Large and round, they were pale enough for the slight color of veins to show. It was impressive how little her tits sagged, drooping only enough to show their pleasant weight.
"Adorinda," the tailor said, a warning tone to her voice. She had already returned to her sewing, her swinging bare breasts already forgotten. "Honey. You were given a command by your prince."
Callan tore his eyes from the tailor's attractive chest to glance at the teen, who was nearly looking sick. With trembling hands, she began to lift her bodice, revealing plain undergarments.
The prince knew that many men of Altemir commanded women in their household—wives, daughters, and guests alike—to go about naked at all times. Others settled for strict topless rules, while certain others opted for their women to go bottomless. Callan could see the appeal in each of these, but it would never be so in the palace as long as he was the prince. The reason for this stood before him now, burning bright red and refusing to meet his eyes. There was simply something so delectable in the sight of a girl forced to undress; the moment between safe modesty and forced humiliation.
Finally the teen unclasped her bra and let free her breasts. They bore a pleasing resemblance to her mother's, though slightly smaller and a touch pinker around the areola. At first, the girl attempted to cup her breasts in her hands, covering her nipples, but a stern word from her mother talked some sense in the girl.
Callan drank in the bouncing, delightful sight of both motherly and barely-teenage breasts as he allowed the women to continue their work, measuring and sewing as if nothing about the situation had changed.
At last the robe was altered and fitted, and Callan was dressed for the day. Not long after, Anna re-entered the prince's chamber with a look of anticipatory joy on her face.
"My prince," the blonde said with a genuine smile, turning and bending at the waist. She presented her well-used holes in greeting, the motion quick and practiced, an act she had done a thousand times before. Her holes were nearly pushed beyond usefulness, stretched from daily use and abuse, both at the prince's hands and by the prince's command. Perhaps he should swap her out for a girl like Adorinda before too long…
"The princess has been admitted into the city," Anna continued as she spread her familiar cunt wide open. "She should arrive at the palace doors shortly."
"Good, good," Callan said, nodding. "You are greeted and well met, Anna. See the tailor out, if you will. I'll meet the princess."
And so, leaving the women to their business, Callan left his chamber and began his walk to the palace entrance.
was a beautiful Altemiri day in the palace courtyard, the cloudy skies making a gentle threat of turning overcast. Callan stood with his retinue, a collection of trusty servants and guards employed by his palace staff. The princess would be due any minute; the energy in the small crowd was electric as anticipation for the kingdom's newest entertainment grew.
While the commoners chittered and watched down the road, Callan noticed a familiar figure marching around the corner of the palace wall, her feminine form clad in glinting steel armor. As she approached, Callan caught a peek of the scarred, yet pretty face under the shining helmet.
"Ah, Gwendolyn, just in time," the prince said as she arrived.
Gwendolyn, captain of the royal guard, saluted. There was much about this scene that many a foreign dignitary had found amusing upon visiting Altemir. After all the "misogyny," with so many aspects of Altemiri life being so degrading to women, outsiders always seemed to find it comical that the captain of Callan's guard was a woman. Moreover, they expected the guard's salute to involve some form of humiliating exposure, or for the armor to be little more than a chainmail bikini.
But no; Gwen led, Gwen wore armor, and Gwen saluted. She had been a true asset during the revolution, proving herself time and again as a loyal patriot for the true Altemiri ways. It was then that Callan had learned a valuable lesson: though the love and fear of the kingdom's men kept many women in line, there was perhaps no greater force of domination, suppression, and repression than a woman indoctrinated heart-and-soul as a worthless object.
In fact, about half of the guard shared her gender. Reports consistently showed their effectiveness in putting the odd discontented bitch in their place, and so Callan continued to approve Gwen's female-led guard.
Callan waved away the salute, gesturing for the guard to join him on the palace steps.
"All clear on the palace grounds, my prince."
"Good, good," Callan nodded. "I didn't suspect anything just yet, but you know. Foreign politicians often bring foreign problems."
Gwen grunted in agreement. "Mhm. 'Spect we'll get some activity these next few days."
"You think? Dissenters?"
"Countin' on it, sir. That'll be half the fun. Seems we get a little action each time you get your hands on someone, y'know, high profile."
That seemed true, come to think of it. To Callan's knowledge there was no large-scale resistance movement left in the country, but those few remaining groups did seem to rear their ugly heads at times like this.
"Dumb cunts," Gwen chuckled. Then, after a pause, asked, "You mind, sir?"
"Hm?" Callan turned to regard her, then noticed her gesturing at her chest. "Oh. By all means."
Gwen flipped a pair of latches on either side of her chest. A rectangular panel swung open, hinging down to a 90-degree angle, forming a small shelf. The guard's modest C-cup breasts spilled out, resting pleasantly on the padded steel panel.
Ok, perhaps there were some liberties taken with the female armor design.
Gwen sighed, fanning her bare tits. "Not a day goes by I don't feel grateful you approved this designs, sir. Plate just gets too sweaty."
"Uh-huh," the prince said, eyeing her erect nipples. "I'm sure that's the only reason you suggested them."
The guard gave him a mischievous grin, letting the comment hang uncontested.
"Just close back up before the princess gets here. I suspect she will be as shocked by our ways as any foreigner. Perhaps more so."
Gwen gave a short salute in the affirmative before returning to fanning her breasts. They were somewhat less scarred than her face, though the odd nick and scratch in her tits did little to take away from their pink-and-puffy beauty.
"So, sir," she said, looking up the road. "Have anything specific planned for her?"
"Some. Nothing for certain, just yet. I need to see the state of the clay before I can decide how to handle it."
"Hm. True. You're gonna make a good spectacle out of it, I'm sure."
"Of course."
"Lookin' forward to that," Gwen said, chuckling. "I still get off to the way you broke princess Mairin in. Bitch had it coming."
Callan couldn't help but agree.
The carriage that approached was ornate, lavishly painted and pristinely kept. Callan could hardly believe that this vehicle had made the journey all the way here; wasn't the princess from some backwater far-eastern nation? Surely she hadn't been so strict with her servants as to keep the very wheels of her carriage spotless. Yet despite the dust of the road, the vehicle that stopped before the palace entry was shining as if it were new.
Callan thought he could spot the princess's silhouette through the car's thinly curtained windows, but it was hard to tell. As it pulled into place, servants of both the princess's employ and those of his own scrambled about in various preparations. At his side, Gwen snapped her breast-hatch closed as she called the other guards to attention.
At last, the door of the carriage opened, and a goddess emerged.
She had skin of a light brown color, smooth and unblemished, contrasting pleasantly with her jet black eyes and matching hair. Her figure was exactly as every messenger had described: lithe and thin, somehow topped with respectably large breasts and what appeared to be a modest, shapely ass.
Her clothing was foreign, and seemed to primarily consist of a wrapped piece of fabric over a sleeved top and some number of long skirts. Not a hint of cleavage peeked from her high-necked bodice, and only scant hints of midriff and leg were revealed below that. Callan had to remind himself that this was a foreign cunt; no respectable Altemiri woman would cover so much of her skin. (To do so would not only be morally reprehensible, but would run the risk of insulting men.)
Then there was her face. Thin as her waist and pleasantly bony, it wore an expression never seen on a Altemiri woman: icy, severe, and regal. Aaliya exuded an air of haughtiness, and though her eyes never once met those of a servant, all seemed to shrink in her path.
In short, she was the very picture of exotic femininity, of cold poise, of a woman yet unfamiliar with her place.
"Ah," the princess said, looking down her nose at Callan as she stepped from the carriage. "Prince Callan. What a… pleasure."
Callan wondered if he had ever heard such disdain placed upon his title. Had even the democratic leaders spoken of him with such venom, back during the war? Somehow he doubted it.
"Princess Aaliya," he said, bowing, his tone every ounce as warm as hers wasn't. "Greetings. Welcome to Altemir. I trust your travels were well?"
"They were… travels. A princess is not meant for the road. But my attendants were selected wisely and so served me well."
Silence hung for several moments. The Altemiri servants eyed the princess expectantly, waiting to see her next move, while the servants of the princess looked uncomfortable.
Callan cleared his throat, addressing his people. "I presume the princess is not acquainted with our manner of traditional greeting. No matter, we expected no less. Please go about your tasks."
"Manner of traditional… greeting?" The princess asked, each word laden with ice. "You are not so backward as to expect a lady of my station to shake hands like… like a lowly merchant, are you?"
Callan couldn't help but laugh, and a few of his servants snickered as they passed. "No princess, I assure you. Nothing of the sort. Come, let us get you settled in. I can tell we have much to discuss."
"Indeed, but first there is a matter of immediate urgency."
"Oh?"
The princess nodded. "My driver just witnessed an assault in your streets, prince Callan. Only a few streets from this palace, no less."
"It is true, your highness," added the driver in a thick accent. "A poor woman. I can give a description of the assaulter, though I suspect the crime may, uh, still be happening. Sir."
Callan did his best to hide a laugh. So they only saw one woman getting used in the streets?
"I shall send my personal guard to handle it directly," he said instead, bobbing his head to hide his smirk. "I assure you, this will be dealt with swiftly."
"Sir?" Gwendolyn asked, approaching.
Callan lowered his voice to a whisper. "Just go along with it; we don't need the princess getting scared off before she's in the front door. Take the description and make a good show of 'justice,' yes?"
"And if I find the slut?"
Callan shrugged. "Free to join in. Fuck her brains out. Or get some use out of your armor's cunt-hatch, I don't care. Just be back in an hour or so."
Gwen smiled and saluted in response before leaving to question the driver.
"Now that that's handled," Callan said, turning back to the princess. "Shall we get you settled in?"
Callan led the frigid bitch through the halls of his home.
Again and again, he found himself impressed with the woman. Over the years, Callan had dealt with dignitaries and royalty of just about every variety, from hotheaded warlords to bureaucratic bores. Yet not one of them had ever been such a self-righteous, aloof little cunt as Aaliya continued to prove herself to be. Even the way she carried herself seemed to trick passersby into forgetting about her vulnerably diminutive stature; a girl her size and shape would surely not have lasted five minutes on the Altemiri streets unmolested, yet each servant that passed seemed to bow their heads rather than risk being caught even leering at the princess.
Amazing. Callan should have been annoyed, if not disgusted, by her audacity. He wasn't. Nowadays there were too few conquests in the prince's life; too few challenges were left to overcome. With Aaliya, for once, Callan was as certain of her potential challenge as he was about the inevitability of her fate. Yes, she would eventually become little more than a hole for him, but the quest for that destination was going to be one for the books.
He realized idly that the woman had been talking as they walked. What was she flapping her cock-hole about? Something to do with decorum and respect?
Oh, he realized. She's still blathering about that so-called "rape" she witnessed. He tried not to scoff, doing his best to make his face a mask of the hospitable cuck she expected him to be.
"I do apologize, princess," he said, hoping to lay this matter to rest. "I assure you that we do not take such crimes lying down."
Callan tried not to think of Gwen, who likely was taking it lying down—or, at least, bent over.
"And I do realize this was not the grand reception you probably expected. But I assure you, that will change; we will shortly have a lovely dinner to welcome you into the halls, and tomorrow we will be hosting a royal ball in your honor."
"Hm," was all the princess said to this.
After a beat, the prince continued. "I have had my servants take your belongings to your rooms. Would you like to go there first, to settle in and freshen up?"
The sidelong look from Aaliya told him just how much freshening up she needed.
"I did not travel far this morning. I would much prefer to get down to business; there will be little need for 'settling' or 'freshening' if we cannot come to an understanding today, Prince Callan."
How did she manage to put so much disdain into a royal title?
"Of course. Then let me show you to my grand hall; we may talk in private until dinner is served."
"Hm."
"So, in exchange for assurance of mutual military protection," Aaliya continued, laying out yet another lengthy page of legalese on the dining table. "We are prepared to offer exclusive access to these trade routes, as well as priority trading in all goods listed here, on page sixteen."
"Mhm. Right."
Callan tried his best to feign interest, but as the hours had drawn on, he found the act harder and harder to uphold. Certainly this woman's advisors had covered every eventuality. She even seemed to have a functional knowledge of all these details, which was, admittedly, more than Callan had expected of her.
"And on the topic of heirs-"
"Hm?"
"Yes, heirs, Prince," she said with a look from those pitch-black eyes that had likely claimed lives in her home country. "This is a marriage we are discussing, if you've forgotten."
"Right. Go on."
She let the scowl turn to the seventeenth page of her document. "Heirs. I'm prepared to offer no more than four attempts at producing up to two male heirs. Two, of course, to ensure security of the line in case of mortality."
"Of… course."
Alright, this was getting nearly too difficult to maintain a straight face. Was the bitch really trying to limit their sexual encounters to no more than four? Adorable.
"In the case that two heirs are produced and neither live to the age of sixteen, the agreement leaves an opportunity for negotiation, at which point-" Aaliya turned that cold, black stare back on the prince, her brow furrowing. "What?"
"Hm? Oh, uh, nothing."
A slight frown flashed across those gorgeous brown lips. Callan couldn't help but wonder how pretty they were going to look wrapped around his cock, her deep, dark eyes glaring up at him as-
"You have no intention of marrying me, do you?"
That shocked him back to seriousness.
"What?"
"I am not a fool, Prince Callan." The words, short and sharp, fell like shards of ice to the table. "I can tell when I am being patronized."
Callan sat back in his seat. Perhaps she was right; perhaps it was time to treat her like an adult. An Altemiri adult.
He shrugged. "To be honest, I haven't yet decided whether I'll marry you."
That was, in fact, honest. Sure, the chances that he'd formalize his relationship with this particular cunt were slim to none, but he would need to take a wife someday. Perhaps if she proved to be a worthwhile hole…?
"Then why, pray tell, do I get the distinct impression you are uninterested in any of these deciding factors?"
"I'd say 'deciding factor' is generous. You really haven't mentioned anything worth my time."
The dark-eyed scowl turned incredulous.
"Not the heirs?"
"I expect that isn't as big of a bargaining chip as you may think."
"A monarch without need for heirs," she muttered, rolling her eyes. "Then the trade deals? The military security?"
"Princess, the economy of Altemir is thriving; it has been so for the duration of my reign. Likewise, we have never been as militarily powerful as we are today—not in all of our history, mind you—and none of our rivals can yet contend with our strength. We are quite secure on both fronts."
"Typical," Aaliya scoffed.
"Excuse me?"
"I said 'typical,'" she said, crossing her arms over her voluptuous chest. "Ten years into your little 'dynasty' and you think yourself invincible. Invulnerable. Immortal."
"And you-"
"I have seen my share of little kings, Prince," the cunt interrupted. "I have certainly seen plenty of new reigns—many much more 'secure' than yours—crumble to dust and, ultimately, cost many a noble life. I had hoped you to be a reasonable man. I see that I was mistaken."
Despite himself, Callan had to suppress a smile. Damn, this bitch had him furious; he couldn't remember the last time a woman (or a man, for that matter) had spoken to him so. Even Mairin had come to more of a simmering, boiling fury, rather than such a venom as this.
It was invigorating. It had been years since Callan had wanted a woman as much as this. He had to talk himself out of jumping her then and there; the sweet sound of her imagined screams for help echoed in his head
"I see," was all he could muster as he tamped down these feelings.
A beat of silence descended on the pair. Aaliya, noticing her blows had hardly landed, straightened her back in indignation. Callan was content to let her fume, letting his eyes wander over the woman's features. After a moment, he noticed that there was a definite intentionality to her posture—was she sticking her chest out, ever so slightly? Yes, she was even crossing her arms under her tits now, subtly lifting and squeezing them.
"And what of me?" She said at last, her voice a measure smaller, a touch more like the prim, shy thing Callan had expected before meeting her. "I'm not blind. I see the way you look at me."
Callan had to give her that much; she was a gorgeous little thing.
"Now you," he said with a nod. "you are something."
She searched in his eyes, her expression melting to something warmer, something curious, for only a moment.
"And?"
The prince sighed. As much as he liked doe-eyed act, it was past time to level with each other.
"And I think it's time you learn something about my country, princess."
A slight expression of confusion crossed her pretty face, her dark brows furrowing just a touch. Callan took it as a request to continue.
"Here, princess, we have very… particular gender roles."
"Well, I cannot promise complete conformation to your customs, but I-"
"But I can," Callan cut her off. The woman had had her say and more. "Princess, let me be frank with you. I'm not sure there's any way to put this lightly: here, women aren't considered human."
"Not… human," she said, the indignant look returning to her face.
"That's right. In Altemir, women are considered no more than objects; traditionally, they are—you are—considered state property."
When he got little more than a deepening scowl, Callan shrugged and continued.
"Legally speaking, there is very little which is illegal to do to a woman. Any woman. Yourself included."
"This… must be what passes for a joke in this country?"
Callan shook his head. "Not at all."
A beat of incredulous silence followed, then, "and what exactly are these… few protections?"
"Well, you being state property, permanently maiming or killing you would be considered vandalism. Destruction of property. So would certain tortures and the like."
"…And?"
"And that's all. Anything else—anything at all—is legal."
He let his eyes wander pointedly to the woman's disproportionate chest, lingering there long enough to get the message across, then back to her face. Callan let just a touch of the true hunger he felt to seep into his expression.
For get part, Aaliya let out a rather un-ladylike scoff, rolling her eyes again.
"Alright fine, you caught me doing my seductress act," she said. "I can't say I've had much practice, but you don't have to stoop to such crude jokes in return."
"I have to prove it, don't I?"
Her look of bemusement was confirmation enough. Callan waved to his servants, who had been standing at the far end of the room, well out of earshot. One of them—a man—began to make his way over, but the prince shook his head and pointed at the feminine figure beside him.
The woman appeared to be a new addition to his staff. Callan's master of servants always did an excellent job of picking only the prettiest little holes to staff his palace. Whether child, matron, or young woman in-between, each was a true Altemiri gem. Many of these women came nearly or completely untouched; even so, many of these prudes and dissenters of the kingdom had learned to swallow their pride when offered such a high-paying job with only one man at risk of assaulting them.
This new girl (for she looked barely 20, if that) was no exception to the rule. She was statuesque, with curves that showed well in her royal maid's outfit (a purposeful part of the design, of course). Though her face had a shy look to it and her tits were no larger than a scant C cup, she was a beauty.
"Yes, my prince?" The girl's expectedly shy voice came as she neared the two seated royals. Servants were, in the line of their normal duties, not expected to perform the traditional greeting unless requested. Still, the fact that this girl hadn't even bothered to attempt the greeting… Yes, Callan was increasingly sure this was a prudish girl, or at least a girl unused to being sexualized. Perfect.
"What is your name, girl?"
"Jordan, my prince."
"Jordan," Callan echoed, nodding. "A pretty name for a pretty girl. Have you met the princess?"
"I have not, my prince."
"Aaliya, meet Jordan. A model Altemiri citizen."
The princess, even more confused and concerned than before, nodded politely to the servant, who curtsied back.
Without giving either woman time to react, Callan grabbed for the plunging neckline of the servant's outfit, yanking down on the fabric, hard enough to tear through some of the seams. The neckline gave way under his forceful pull and the girl's perky little breasts sprung free.
For her part, the servant did exactly as Callan hoped. She squealed (almost a full scream), and her reflexes had her arms crossed over her chest before much could be seen. But after a moment's pause, the girl—blushing furiously—lowered her hands to her sides with an apology.
"I'm so very sorry, my prince," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I didn't mean to offend, I-"
"It's quite alright, Jordan."
The prince had trouble tearing his eyes away from the pale-and-pink beauty uncovered by the girl's torn uniform. Her hardening nipples—smooth and delicate—pointed straight forward, aimed directly toward the scandalized princess across from her.
If Aaliya were of a typical Altemiri skin tone, Callan expected she would now be turning red, then pale, and landing somewhere in the sickly green hues. As it were, in her beautifully uniform brown, her reaction was less complexion and more expression. The cute little ice queen's eyes were wide, her hands clenched in fists, her mouth agape, and her previous attempt at seduction entirely evaporated.
"Barbaric," she whispered in shock, visibly drawing in on herself. Callan could tell just how desperately she was trying not to stare at the bare-breasted beauty before her.
"We see it as civilized."
Callan reached behind him to where the servant stood and took one of her pert nipples between thumb and forefinger, idly toying with it as he spoke.
"This was once the traditional way of our people. My people. A generation or two ago, a misguided government attempted to throw away our customs, to declare girls like Jordan—and you—as human."
Callan sighed and tugged at the nipple, forcing a moan from the embarrassed girl as he continued.
"And what good did it do? Crime rose tremendously. Quality of life fell. And men were reduced to pretending like women should have a choice."
He laughed, shaking his head at the absurdity.
"Today we are a paradise, a paragon of civilization. So forgive me if I don't credit your claim of 'barbarism,' princess."
Aaliya only shook her head, her arms crossing over her own tits as of it were her that stood blushing and exposed. Callan watched the weight of it settle over her, piece by piece.
"So that… that assault I saw in the streets…"
"I don't know the details, but it sounded legal. More than legal, really; common. Encouraged."
Aaliya placed a hand over her gorgeous lips, as if willing herself to keep from being sick.
"I think I need to leave."
She stood, shakily, knocking over the wooden chair in her haste. Gone was the poise, the larger-than-life goddess of severity; in her place was just a scared young woman. Callan might have felt bad, if he didn't still have such a compulsion to pin the whore to the wall. (Gods her body just begged for it.)
"I think that may be a poor choice."
The prince's words caught her before she could make it halfway to the door.
"Am I to be a prisoner?" Her voice came broken, frantic.
Callan had to think about that one. On one hand, that would be the easy route, and she certainly would make a lovely prisoner. But on the other hand, if his goal was to break the woman, perhaps it would be a step in the wrong direction. Too easy, in a way.
"No."
Aaliya opened her mouth, closed it, and nodded curtly before turning back towards the door.
"Here you have a degree of protection," Callan called after her. She paused again, visibly shaking as he continued. "Not full safety, mind you, but a good degree. While it's legal for just about anything to be done to you, my people know that I have an… interest in you. You will not be molested within these walls without my say."
"And if I leave?"
The prince shrugged.
"Then you are out of my reach and beyond my protection."
This made her pause to think. Once more she turned her dark gaze upon the prince, flashing back and forth between fear and hatred.
"And what will you do to me?"
There was that venom again. Good, Callan was worried this was going to be too easy.
"I don't know yet," he said honestly. "I have some ideas… but I'll leave it up to you. The whims of one man or the hunger of a depraved populous."
Aaliya stood frozen, wavering, uncertain. This could be the deciding moment: if she stayed, he could begin the wonderful work of breaking her. If she tried to leave… well, then there wouldn't be a reason not to push that royal body against the wall after all.
"I'll extend my generosity further," he said at last. "Spend the night here in my palace. Unmolested. Make your decision in the morning."
After a moment of thought, Aaliya nodded.
"Ok."
Callan released the nipple of the servant girl, gesturing her to the door.
"Jordan, take the princess to her rooms. They should be all ready for her."
"Yes, my prince," the red-faced girl replied, small breasts still bared to the world. "Right away. Come, princess, let me help you-"
The door to the hall slammed shut behind the two women.