Chapter 1 - Morning Tea

Centuries ago, in a land where kingdoms rose and fell like tides, the palace stood as a beacon of power and indulgence. Its halls whispered scandalous secrets, and every carved stone bore the weight of generations of unrestrained tradition.

The corridor was silent, save for the soft, almost invitation tap of her slippers on the cold flagstones. In her hands, the porcelain cup cradled the prince’s morning tea — a duty she never imagined would fall to her, a forbidden honor whispered about in hushed, knowing tones throughout the palace staff.

She passed the guards, their sharp eyes beneath polished helms undressing her with their gaze, making her breath catch, hot and shallow. Dawn’s pale light strained through a gap in the curtains, but shadows clung to the corners like eager voyeurs. There he lay — tall, sculpted, a magnificent, barely restrained force. Even in sleep, his presence charged the room, a raw, palpable heat. His chest rose beneath a loose linen shirt, sleeves pushed back to reveal scarred forearms — testaments to his potent, primal nature. He was spoken of with reverence as a magnificent warrior, devastatingly handsome, yet the same whispers often turned brazen, hinting at a notorious unpredictable womanizer, yet few could resist his charm. Elara hovered by the door, caught between awe, a rising heat, and the thrilling echoes of those warnings, her gaze lingering on his jawline and strong shoulders—a perfect facade she’d heard could shatter to reveal unbridled passion.

Then he stirred, a brow furrowing in deep, luxurious sleep, the ancient bed groaning beneath him. His eyes fluttered open — clouded with slumber and found hers.
She straightened instinctively, spine tall, cup steady, but a deep tremor started in her core.

His gaze swept over her slowly, deliberately — the look of a man who savored pleasure like a fine wine, of a connoisseur who claimed beauty for his own gratification. She stood 5'4", full and lush, curves that refused to hide — soft thighs beneath pleated skirts, a generous bust beneath a fitted bodice, and a gentle roundness at her waist that promised warmth. Her pale blue and silver-trimmed uniform clung in all the right places. She was exactly the contrast he craved—untouched allure against his experienced hunger.

His gaze climbed, lingering on her shoulders, flushed cheeks, and trembling pink lips. Nervous but unyielding, she held his look — filling the room without a word, a silent challenge he seemed to relish. Reclined, he said nothing, only watched, his silence a potent seduction.

Finally, their eyes met — his strong and unblinking, hers wide, soft, and trembling. He savored this moment, knowing the irresistible power he held over young girls drawn into his heated orbit. His stare deepened, unblinking, as if drawing out every unspoken thought, every hidden yearning.

A subtle tension ripped through her—not fear, but a thrilling, invasive weight of being seen, desired, consumed. His gaze was steady, overtly possessive, and it felt like a searing caress. Shame curled deep in her stomach, but it was a delicious shame, and she stood rooted, caught between flinching and a terrifying, almost magnetic surrender that craved more. Her submissive nature thrilled under his attention; invasive yet hauntingly familiar, aching to be claimed for a moment longer in a perverse, exquisite dance.

Her knees weakened, threatening to buckle. She lowered her eyes, dipping her head in practiced deference, a gesture that only highlighted her vulnerability.

“Good morning, Your Grace. Hope you slept well,” she whispered, her voice thick with unbidden longing.

He liked her tone — the faint thrill woven through her subdued voice a melody he savored. Without a word, he nodded slightly, a silent, commanding invitation for her to serve the tea. She obeyed, hands trembling just enough to betray her struggle against a rising tide of sensation.

He watched with amused familiarity but kept his face stern, an unreadable mask of controlled anticipation. As she carefully poured the tea and handed him the cup, his gaze never wavered — sharp, assessing, yet strangely patient, like a lover savoring the prelude to intimacy.

She stepped back as he sipped the tea, his eyes fixed on her. The gaze made her profoundly uneasy, a flush spreading across her skin, but she forced herself to speak, her voice soft and hesitant, a desperate attempt to regain some composure in the intoxicating air.

“Did you sleep well, Your Grace? The morning air feels crisp today.”

He said nothing, his stare steady and unreadable, a suffocating wall of unspoken desire. Her words hung in the stillness, the tension thick and unbroken, a tangible thing that vibrated between them.

He let silence stretch, a deliberate, thrilling torment, then nodded. Setting the cup aside, he walked toward the privy, leaving her rooted in stillness, her body aching with a strange, perverse anticipation. Just as she thought she might be dismissed, he reappeared, his gaze falling, not on her, but on the chamber pot beside the toilet door.

"The pot is not clean," he stated, his voice flat, final, and laced with possessive insinuation. Her heart sank, a heavy throb in her chest; she knew it was, but his word was law, his whim an undeniable command. She quickly set the teacup and pot aside, grabbing a cloth, her hands clammy with a mixture of dread and illicit thrill. As she knelt and began scrubbing the chamber pot, her generous form presented to him, he watched, a gleam in his eyes, taking in the subtle sway of her large butt, almost gleeful amusement twisting his lips into a knowing, predatory smile.

Elara finished scrubbing, her movements precise, a desperate distraction. When she finally straightened and turned, his eyes were already locked on her, a knowing glint affirming his brazen focus on her form as she'd knelt. Her cheeks burned, but she managed a quiet, "It's done, Your Grace," and reached for the cloth, eager to vanish.
But as she took a tentative step, his tall frame suddenly filled the archway, blocking her exit. Without a sound, without a flicker of warning, he unlaced his breeches, pulled them down, and began to relieve himself into the very pot she'd just cleaned.

Elara stood frozen, her eyes wide, disbelief battling with a strange, burgeoning awareness as the raw intimacy of the act filled the small space, trapping her within it. Only when he was entirely done, shaking off the last drops, did his attention snap back to her, his lips curving into a slow, teasing smile, his eyes alight with triumph.
Let's revise that exchange to build the tension and highlight his dominant nature and her growing discomfort.

Elara finished scrubbing, movements stiff. As she straightened and turned, his eyes were already on her, that knowing glint affirming his brazen focus. Her cheeks burned, but she managed, "It's done, Your Grace." She reached for the cloth, eager to vanish.
But he was suddenly in the archway, blocking her. Without a word, he unlaced his breeches, pulled them down, and began to relieve himself into the pot. Elara froze, eyes wide, a mix of shock and something she couldn't name coiling in her gut. He ignored her until he was done.

Then he looked at her, a slow, teasing smile spreading across his face. "Well, girl," he drawled, low and suggestive. "What's with the surprise? Never watched a man piss before?"

Elara's mind scrambled, but her tongue felt like lead. She kept her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder, her cheeks burning.
"Look at me, girl," he commanded, his voice suddenly sharp, slicing through the tension.
Her eyes snapped to his, wide and captive. His smile softened, but the intensity in his gaze remained. "Now, answer. Have you?"
"No, Your Grace," she managed, her voice a barely audible whisper.

He chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Perhaps you should get used to it now." He took a slow step closer, then another, his eyes never leaving hers. "Tell me, girl, was it enjoyable to watch?"

Elara's breath hitched. She looked away for a split second, then forced her gaze back to his. "It was… I mean, I would not say 'enjoyable,' Your Grace." The words felt clumsy, inadequate.

His smile vanished, replaced by a gaze that hardened to ice. "So, you did not enjoy it?" His voice dropped, a dangerous edge to it.
Elara's stomach clenched. She quickly corrected herself, shaking her head. "No, Your Grace! I didn't mean it that way. I merely meant… it was unexpected." Fear, sharp and cold, pricked at her. She watched his face, a mask of mock anger, a cruel amusement playing around his lips.
"Unexpected," he repeated slowly, a sneer forming. His eyes flickered down to his exposed self. "Tell me, girl, have you ever wiped a cock clean after a piss?"

Before he even finished the sentence, Elara moved, her hand instinctively reaching for the cloth she'd set aside, her body already anticipating the command, the humiliating task. But just as her fingers brushed the fabric, he scoffed, a low, dismissive sound. He reached down himself, a quick, efficient motion, and wiped himself clean. Then, he simply turned and walked back into the room.

Suddenly, he turned, stopping abruptly. Elara nearly ran into him, catching herself just in time. His eyes, now entirely alert, fixed on hers, and his lips curved into a slow, wicked smirk. "You know, girl," he murmured, his voice a low, casual invitation that sent a shiver down her spine. "Perhaps you should return the favor. Pee for me as well."
Elara’s breath hitched. Horror bloomed in her chest, cold and sudden. "Please, Your Grace," she whispered, her voice barely a sound, eyes wide and pleading. She stood rooted, incapable of movement.

His smirk didn't waver. He simply watched her, his gaze intense, unrelenting, drinking in her shock and resistance. The silence stretched, thick with her unspoken plea. "Move, girl," he commanded, his voice a low, silken threat. "Show me."

Her body screamed in protest, but the force of his will was absolute. Her eyes welled, tears blurring her vision, but she fought them back. Slowly, agonizingly, her fingers fumbled for the ties of her uniform. Her legs felt heavy, uncooperative, as she began to shift, a tremor running through her. Every move was a battle against her own shame and desperate reluctance.

Just as her hand brushed the fabric, he let out a soft, almost regretful sigh, the cruel amusement back in his tone. "Perhaps some other time, girl." He gave a dismissive flick of his hand, a gesture that was both a release and a promise of future torment. Then, he simply turned and walked back into the deeper confines of the room, leaving Elara trembling, the cold tile beneath her feet a stark reminder of her frozen humiliation.
She followed him out, her mind raced. He was owning her every reaction. What truly terrified her was the perverse thrill that still hummed beneath her skin.

He moved to a large, carved chair by a heavy oak table, sinking into it with an air of complete command. "Breakfast," he stated, his voice flat, a definitive end to the previous torment.

Elara, still reeling, instinctively nodded. She moved to the side table laden with covered silver platters, her hands shaking slightly as she lifted a lid to reveal steaming oat porridge. She spooned a generous portion into a bowl, adding cream and a drizzle of honey, then carefully carried it to him. He watched her every movement, his eyes assessing, a silent critique in their depths.
As she placed the bowl before him, he merely glanced down at it, then back up at her. "More," he ordered, his gaze intense. "A lot more. Enough for two others besides myself."

Elara’s brows furrowed, confusion warring with her ingrained obedience. Two others? Who could he possibly be expecting at this hour, in his private chambers?
Elara quickly moved, her steps urgent. She returned swiftly, balancing two more steaming bowls of porridge, cream, and honey. By the time she reached the table, his first bowl was already scraped clean. As she laid the additional servings before him, his gaze wasn't on the food, but on her.
"Ah, good, girl," he murmured, his eyes sweeping over her. "And such a charming belly you have. I always did appreciate a woman with a cute tummy."

A blush crept up Elara’s neck. She managed a soft, sheepish acknowledgement, her fingers lingering on the cool porcelain of a bowl. She tried to pull away, but his gaze held her.

"Tell me," he drawled, his voice a low purr, "can you guess what I like even more than a pretty tummy?"
Elara's mind raced, searching for an acceptable answer, her heart thrumming. "I... I do not know, Your Grace," she confessed, her voice barely a breath.

His smile widened, a predatory gleam in his eyes. "A tummy that is full, girl."
Elara's confusion deepened. She looked at him, then at the two extra bowls of food. A slow, chilling realization began to dawn. "Your Grace?" she began, hesitant.
He gestured to the empty chair opposite him. "Sit." It wasn't a request.

She obeyed, her movements stiff. He leaned back, observing her. "I am a kind man, Elara," he stated, his voice a soft command that belied its absolute authority. "Eat."

"Thank you, Your Grace," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the table. "But I am truly not hungry."

"That does not matter," he countered, his voice losing its pleasant edge. "You will eat. Now."

The hint became a clear, unsettling demand. Her stomach clenched, not from hunger, but from a cold dread. He was making her do this. He was going to watch her. Elara picked up a spoon, her hand trembling.

Elara picked up a spoon, her hand trembling. She ate, each spoonful a heavy burden, the warm porridge turning to ash in her mouth. She forced down mouthful after mouthful, the sweet, creamy substance becoming a suffocating weight in her throat. All the while, he watched, a slow, amused smile playing on his lips, his eyes gleaming with pleasure at her discomfort, at the subtle sway of her bust beneath her uniform as she lifted the spoon.

Finally, she set the spoon down, a small, soft clink against the bowl. "Your Grace," she whispered, her voice strained, "I thank you, but I am truly full." Her breath hitched, anticipating his response.

His smile didn't falter. "More, girl."
Her eyes pleaded with him. "Please, Your Grace. I cannot. I truly am full."
Without a word, he leaned forward, his large hand moving over the table and then, terrifyingly, over her abdomen. His fingers splayed, the warmth of his palm a stark contrast to the chilled dread that seized her.

He pressed, gently at first, then harder, against her stomach, feeling the taught roundness of it, his touch a deliberate, invasive caress. Elara gasped, a quiet, pained sound, her entire body tensing under his touch.

"Nonsense," he purred, his voice dangerously soft, laced with a dark, intimate amusement. "There's plenty of space." His thumb brushed lightly over the fabric of her uniform, just above her belly button, then he squeezed, a possessive, almost playful assertion of his power. His eyes, cold and unwavering, met hers as he picked up two hard-boiled eggs from a nearby platter.
"Please, Your Grace," she begged, a desperate plea escaping her lips, her voice thick with unbidden longing and shame. "I beg you."

His gaze sharpened, a hint of genuine anger now in his eyes. "Are you daring to disobey your Prince, girl?" The question hung in the air, a deadly threat that silenced all further protest.

Elara's resolve shattered. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but she knew she had no choice. Slowly, grudgingly, she opened her mouth. He watched, a cruel satisfaction on his face, as he pushed the first egg into her mouth. It was too big, choking her, but she chewed, struggling to swallow, her throat burning, the rough texture of the yolk a torment. He fed her the second one just as relentlessly, watching her struggle, his gaze unwavering, a silent command for her to obey. The last egg, he didn't just offer; he almost rammed it inside, forcing her to gag, her eyes streaming with tears of humiliation, the taste of bile mixing with the lingering sweetness of the porridge.

A choked sound escaped her as she finally managed to swallow the last bit of the egg, a small, involuntary burp following immediately. He watched the subtle expansion of her midsection, his gaze lingering with proprietary interest.

"Nice," he simply said, his voice flat, devoid of real praise but laced with a dark satisfaction, as he ran his hand over her distended stomach one last time, a gentle pat that felt anything but. He then dipped all five fingers of one hand into a nearby pot of honey, lifting them, dripping, just inches from her face. Without a single word, his eyes locked on hers, he slowly, deliberately, licked each of his sticky fingers clean, one by one, his gaze never breaking contact. The sweet scent filled the air, a perverse contrast to the raw humiliation she felt, a deliberate flaunting of his power over her senses.
When his fingers were spotless, he pulled his hand back. "You may leave," he said, his voice now crisp. "You're a good girl. Return tonight, sharp at eight."

Elara scrambled from the chair, her legs unsteady and stomach aching, fleeing his chambers with a quick, jerky bow, terrified he'd call her back. Her body felt heavy, bruised, and invaded, the cloying scent of honey a perverse reminder of his debasing gesture. Relief washed over her, but an insidious thought curdled in her mind: "Tonight. Eight o'clock." The undeniable summons echoed, and the horrifying truth was, she both dreaded and morbidly anticipated what new demands "tonight" might bring, knowing he had pushed her to her limits.