Author's Note
Please be aware that some of the content in this book is adult material  and may be sensitive to some readers. Enjoy, comment, vote!

There's said to be a fulfilling sensation of being a woman first deflowered. Princess Dimia felt that fulfillment at age eleven, when her father, the great King Galwain III sent for her in the dead of night. Queen Alse had been by the bedside of her ailing friend in one of the households in the city of Ofund and Gruuthar. Galwain Goldrock was a most honored king and was loved by many of his subjects. His heart was kind and Queen Alse's generosity rubbed off on him and he was most giving to his subjects. He was flawed, though, as he had a desire that could never be quenched. Queen Alse was a beautiful woman and was adored and lusted after by many, it was true. And she kept the king quite satisfied in their chambers and was devoted to his pleasure. But, she had never known of his infatuation with their daughter, who resembled her mother so much.

Dimia's skin was fair and her hair a deep auburn that fell to her back in lush waves. Her locks almost looked crimson in the candlelight, which her father especially admired. She had thin eyes with long lashes and plump lips that looked like two pin cushions. Her cheekbones sat high and were always rosy, no matter the amount of powder she slapped on. She was voluptuous now as a grown woman, and her breasts protruded from her corsets creating two beautiful mountains atop her gowns. Her complexion was clear from her head to her toes and she was milky white all over.

She liked blacks and purples against her skin, much like the dress she wore tonight. It was black, long, loose fitting with no sleeves. It laced at the breast and had a corset securing her tiny waist. There was a gold trim by the hem, that when lifted created a dancing line of shimmering light that drew the eye.

Dimia was pressed against her bedpost, said hem lifted above her waist and a ruffle of fabric pinned between her back and one of her house elves. He was a tall and green fellow, with black hair and crooked ears that pointed slightly at the ends. His was a frame that was thin but muscular, from all the laboring he had done around the castle for years. He reached around her, kneading at her breasts, and yanked at the lace bodice. The black fabric tore just a hair. His extra long elvish fingers dug beneath the fabric and grabbed at her.

With every thrust, Dimia rolled her head back onto his chest and let out a moan. This had not been her first elf nor would it be her last. Pandry, his name was, proved to be a challenge to get into her chambers. He was scared, the poor thing, to 'deflower' her royal highness. After much assurance that her territory had already been claimed long ago, and a few whispers between the other castle servants, Pandry succumbed to temptation and swiftly took her. Or rather, she took him.

This was their first time together. Dimia had wondered how many men she'd been with since the first time, but had lost track a few years back. The two moved up and down, the bedpost knocking into her cheek a few times. They rose and fell together and Pandry cried out in pleasure as he found his release. They collapsed on the elegant bedspread together, Pandry wincing as he pulled out of her and rolled onto his back. He was much larger than her in comparison and when he stretched he was almost the length of the whole bed.

Dimia pushed herself from the bed and stood, walking over to her vanity. She uncorked a bottle of spiced wine and poured some into a shallow glass. She waltzed back over to the elf and handed the glass to him. He took it and rested its bottom on his chest and laid his head back. He was breathing heavily and glistening with sweat, sated. She could feel his seed seeping down her leg. Dimia was sure that she was unable to bear children. For years she had let men inside of her and finish as many times as they liked and she never grew with child. The thought made her cold with agony but also gave her a great sense of power. She would never have a true heir to the throne, but no one need know that. If anyone had found out, she may lose her claim. Even her lovers inquired about it and she simply eased their minds by telling them she would wake and drink a special tea, brewed by her personal doctor. And now, with her father's death close at hand, she did not want to risk anyone finding out.

She sipped from the bottle of wine and sat at her vanity, her hem fallen back to its place. "You may finish your wine and then depart," she commanded, turning on her cushion and staring at her reflection in the mirror.

She could see Pandry's head lift from the bed, and he rose shortly after, throwing the wine back. He sauntered over to her and put both of his hands on her naked shoulders.

"My princess, I can stay and get you anything you need, if you would like. A foot massage perhaps," he offered, leaning down to smell her hair. He took a deep inhale.

"No, leave me now," she answered coldly, shrugging him off.

The elf backed toward the door slowly, trying desperately to look away from her beauty as he picked his rags up off of the floor and stepped into his clothing. His dared not to question her or push her further if he wanted another chance inside the princess. He left the dimly lit room.

Around the princess, the walls were decorated with art from all around the realm. She had even had a sculpture by her bed made by the ogres from Dratsac, the dried land that was once green and thriving, and had since been transformed into a wasteland. She had pieces that she was especially fond of, like the painting by an elf she had met in the market. It illustrated the human form, completely nude, and imperfect. It was a man in the picture, and his chest was small, his belly a bit round, his head bald and his arms less than toned. His legs were skinny and he was knock-kneed and his reproductive organs were almost too small to take notice of. His eyes were tired and sagging and he was standing in front of a crowd of silhouettes. She would often gaze at the painting a long time and wonder what the silhouettes thought of the man. That is a man I'd bed no matter how imperfect, she'd think to herself.

Dimia bore into her reflection, and began brushing her hair with a silvery handle; it was a birthday gift from her mother some years back. She pulled it gently through her hair at least a hundred times, her eyes never leaving the same spot in the looking glass. When she finished, she set the brush aside and reached into a drawer of the vanity, her fingers finding a crumpled letter. She unfolded it and tried to press it straight.

Dear Princess, Light of all of Oren, Magnificent Angel,

My Beautiful Enchantress, Dimia,

Dimia felt bile rise in her throat as she reread the greeting, then continued.

It is my pleasure to announce to you that I have conspired with your father, our glorious King Galwain, for your hand in marriage. With his devastating health drawing lesser by the day, he seems to wish you well married off to someone who will treat you as the flower you truly are.

I can assure you, I have all the security you may want of. I come from an old, wealthy family and have respectfully been serving the realm as Master of Trade, as I'm sure you're aware. While I can provide for you financially, though you do not need it, I can also assure my great devotion to you always throughout our lives and your protection. I hold many titles from tourneys in the Doomhammer Arena and have slain many pirate scum who threaten the peaceful waters of Oren. I am sure you could bear me many sons and daughters and that we could be happy as the new King and Queen once your father has passed the crown. I hope to hear correspondence from you in some time and I will be visiting the keep at earliest convenience when my duties are fulfilled.

Until I see your ravishing face once more,

Yours, always,

Sir Wyliamme Carac

Master of Trade and

Loyal Servant to King Galwain Goldrock III

The letter bore a seal of an eagle. A wretched creature that had been long since extinct.

"So dear father, you wish to set me free after all this time," she whispered to herself. When she had first read the letter, she did not so much as get past the first line before crumbling it in her palm and throwing it across the room. Her chamber maid had put the dreaded piece of paper in a safe spot in case she 'wished to write the gentleman back'. She'd have to scold her maid later for being so nosey.

Dimia retrieved a piece of parchment and ink quill from her bedside table and returned to her vanity. She dipped the quill in the ink and pressed to the beige, rough material.

Wyliamme, she began. She scratched out his name.

Father, she began again. She scratched that out as well.

Queen Alse.

No that wouldn't do either. Dimia scratched her chin and set the quill down. She had nothing to say to any of them, if truth be told. Her father would soon perish, and her mother would never know the truth of her husband. Dimia would be Queen, and would be able to decide whom she wanted to marry. Sir Wyliamme would be a good match, despite the crippling age difference. He was nearly forty five and gray hair had already begun to settle in his features. She sighed and stood from the desk, unlacing herself. She discarded the black dress onto the floor and kicked it aside. Her smallclothes were soiled so she removed them as well and moved about her room naked. She pulled back the curtain on the balcony and walked out, the crisp night air causing her skin to prickle and her nipples to harden. She leaned her elbows on the stone wall that separated her and a plunge to death in the courtyard below.

Dimia sighed and looked out over the city. Ofund and Gruuthar was filled with prominent families that had been vital to the survival of the monarchy. People had not wanted the Goldrock's rule to end since her great grandfather's generation. Even the house elves in the city were fond of their placement and the generosity of the king. Yes, his generosity is something to be celebrated, the princess thought. It was only a week after her flowering, and she had been horrified. Queen Alse had just left to visit her dying friend, and had left Dimia at the care of her chamber maids. They explained to her about her flowering, and told her that while she was still young, this meant she was slowly becoming a woman and that marriage and childbearing wouldn't be much longer off.

That next week, her father had sent one of his men to collect her from her bed as she slept. He roused her and she followed, always the obedient daughter. When she visited her father, she remembered him to be drunk and stinking of raw meat and sweat. It was an excruciating feeling, her being there, and she had never seen him that way. He took her in his arms and sang to her for a while, then told her many times he loved her. And then he hurt her. And from that time on, he would send for her sporadically, when her mother was away visiting friends in the city or giving to the poor. And he would continue to hurt her; he had bedded her over five times a year for the past eight years. By the time she was fifteen, she had begun to escape to other men, offering herself willingly to try and drown out the memory of her father atop her.

She used to be sensitive to the thought, but now it just made her angry, and she reveled in the knowledge of his slow demise. Dimia pressed her breasts to the stone bannister and she laid her arms out wide. I could just fall over. She sighed and closed her eyes and laid there a while, the sweet sounds of the city going to sleep quietly humming in her ears.

Hands surprised her on her backside, and she jolted upright. Her hand swung around and caught a warm cheek with stubble, and a lighthearted chuckle erupted in her face. Roland, she recognized. Roland was a human cook from their kitchens. He was youthful and handsome and his beauty was wasted because of his low class. She would marry him if he had a powerful name. He would be a very pleasant face to look at for the rest of her life. He was dirty and smelled of goose. Her hand found the front of his trousers and she quickly unlaced him, reaching a hand down and grabbing hold of him.

"Evening Princess," he whispered into her neck, pressing himself against her. She could feel his excitement down below and her own regions began to moisten.

"You're not my first of the night, Roland. You took too long to show," she warned him. He laughed against her hairline.

"Never stopped me before," he replied. He twisted her by the hips and bent her over the balcony bannister. He thrusted inside of her almost at once and kept a fast pace.

Dimia rested her head on the stone and gazed up at the stars. This would be her life. She was no better than a common whore. But she had a good name and would be queen soon. The Whore Queen, they would call her. And how she would make them all pay.