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Life’s not a fairy tale, and princes don’t fall for bookish virgins like me.
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“Sir, I…” My sentence hangs in the air. I know what I want and I want to ask for it, but I can’t bring myself to.
“Tell me, what do you want?” Prince James leans just close enough to let his lips graze lightly against my pussy as he speaks, making me gasp.
“I want you to… finish what you were doing,” I say softly.
“And what was that?” he asks, prolonging my torment. I can almost hear the smirk in his voice.
“You were… You were eating me out, Sir,” I say again, my pussy throbbing, both from the prince’s oral attention and from the cocky, dominating way he’s talking to me right now.
“Good girl,” he says, in the kind of voice that makes me want to please him even more. “But before that, let’s get your punishment over and done with, shall we?”
“Uh, punishment, Sir?”
He picks me up into his arms, making me shriek in surprise. He stands me up on my feet, then he sits on a chair by the big wooden desk, on which lie a few stacks of books.
“Lie across my lap,” he says darkly.
As if hypnotized, I step forward and put my belly across Prince James’ lap. I know what’s coming. I’ve seen it before. I’ve fantasized about it, but I still can’t quite believe it’s actually about to happen now.
“Relax,” the prince says, chuckling. “You’re going to like it.”
Despite his words, my muscles tense as he pulls the hem of my dress up over my waist.
Naked and vulnerable, all I can do is lie here and wait, while the heat from the prince’s lustful gaze sears into my flesh. I can feel his anticipation. The thought of inflicting pain on my body excites him.
I place my fingers on the marble floor to balance myself. The prince’s shadow moves as he raises his hand in the air. I brace myself for the impact.
The prince’s palm lands on my ass cheek, making it hot with pain.
Why did I ever think this would feel good?
Maybe I’m not cut out to be a Submissive after all. I should tell the prince I’m not what he thinks I am.
As I part my lips, the prince rubs the part of my ass that’s stinging in pain. His hand feels so gentle and warm.
At his soothing touch, the heat from the pain turns into pleasure that seeps through my skin and spreads throughout my body.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it, sweetheart?” Prince James asks.
“You like it, don’t you?”
I remain quiet.
I almost can’t believe my eyes.
But there’s no doubt in my mind.
She’s even wearing that same choker around her slender neck, the one that looks a lot like a collar.
I can’t forget a face like that. Or a body like that. The picture I’m looking at doesn’t show any part of her below the neck, but I remember.
“Pretty, aren’t they?” The man asks. Exhaustion is still written all over his face, but he’s beaming with pride.
“Yes, they’re lovely,” I answer, briefly tearing my eyes from the man’s phone that I’m holding in my hands.
I couldn’t care less about the other two girls in the picture. I only have my eyes on her, the one with the big, doe-like eyes the color of café au lait, the one with the wavy honey-brown hair tumbling down her back.
“This is Clara, my oldest,” he says as he points at the girl on the left. “Irina, the middle one—” his index finger moves to the girl in the center, then finally to the girl on the right “—and Rosemary, my youngest daughter.”
So that’s her name.
It fits her. A name from the old world, classic and elegant. But most importantly of all, that name is just another clue that she belongs to me.
I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I saw her last month. In fact, I’ve taken screenshots and short videos of the moments she’s caught by the surveillance cameras.
That tight little yellow dress, covering her up while showing off all her curves. That black choker around her neck. That golden rose pendant that rests between her collar bones, pulsing to the beat of her heart.
And now this old man is telling me that beauty is his daughter?
If I were a little more naïve, I’d be stumbling all over myself to declare this to be the work of fate. I’m not going to do that, but I know an opportunity like this will not come by twice.
“They’re all grown up,” I comment casually as Albert, my butler, comes to pour us more red wine. He raises a questioning eyebrow at me, but I press on. To the old man, I say, “They must be starting their own families now.”
“Oh, no.” Wrinkles appear on the man’s forehead and around his brown eyes when he chuckles. “My girls haven’t been lucky when it comes to love, especially Rosemary. She hasn’t ever had a boyfriend.”