by Cherise West
“Princess! You’ve decided to join us then?” I hear someone call from outside the wagon; a man in a suit, with a mighty mustache across his top lip, bows deferentially to me, speaking with mirth and vim. “We thought you’d never get yourself toget— oh my, you’re soaking wet! Did you go traipsing through the rain?!”
“I’m no—” I stop myself. I don’t know what’s gotten in to me, but… hey. I’ve had a hell of a day, haven’t I? I deserve to be treated like a princess. Maybe they’ll throw me in the dungeon if they find out, but with a cheating bastard of a slimy boyfriend my only comfort outside the castle walls, what’s there to lose? “I-I mean. I just wanted to see the sights, of Velune. And it started raining, so I had to rush back to my carriage here, and—” I swallow hard.
“Are you ready, then? Princess…?” he asks. I don’t know where the princess who was supposed to be in this carriage went… maybe she’s already in the party? Should I take a fake name? Should I…
“Princess Erica,” I answer firmly, smiling. “I’m quite ready, for…” I’m not even sure what I’m supposed to be ready for.
“For the ball, of course! The princess auction ball,” he announces proudly. Princess auction ball. That sounds… well, I guess it doesn’t matter how it sounds, because before I can voice my approval or disapproval an army of servants and attendants and men in white suits trying to shield themselves from the storm emerge from the towering castle gates and usher me in a blinding wave out, back through the rain, and into a waiting room at the castle’s flank. It’s beautiful - truly palatial, with white oak paneling on every wall; overstuffed velvet couches lining the floor, a table of pure carved gold at the center of the room, holding up a brilliantly-carved marble statue of a man with a crown. A hot man with a crown. Clearly, whoever built the palace has more money than I could ever even dream of. The door on the opposite wall opens and another mustachioed attendant smiles at me, bowing.
“Princess!”
“Erica,” I nod and smile.
“You must be freezing! So damp, it’s made your dress a mess,” he laments with a frown. “I’m sorry. Let’s get you a new gown.” He leads me through hallways - high-ceiling hallways, with massive crystal chandeliers glinting in each one, up towering staircases and through passageways trimmed in platinum and precious jewels, the stone walls covered with soft wood. We come to a massive double-door, throwing it open to a closet full of more beautiful, expensive clothes than I’ve ever seen - flowing gowns of pure gossamer silk, shoes covered in dozens of precious gemstones with gold lace on the trim. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it takes a long moment to realize just how much money this royal family must have.
“Would you like the sky-blue silk, or the maroon-red fabric, straight from Kitai?” the attendant asks, modeling each gown for me.
“The… blue, I guess,” I murmur, mouth still gaping in delirious surprise. The attendant pushes the doors shut and three women emerge from the side rooms; they peel the old dress away, and I’m so confused by the whirlwind of movement as I step into the new dress that it’s over before I can even realize it. A few attendants dry me off, though my hair still strings wet and messy down my back.
“You didn’t bring a tiara? We have to get you one, Princess Erica,” one of my lady-attendants, an older woman in a gray dress, comments.
“I guess it got left back at the palace,” I giggle weakly, more than willing to let the charade continue. From one of the dozens of drawers lining the walls of this wardrobe (which also happens to be bigger than my entire bedroom back home), she withdraws a gorgeous silver tiara, emeralds and sapphires shimmering across its entire surface.
“This goes perfect with the blue gossamer,” the lady-attendant informs me. I’m sure it does. To me, it’d go perfect with anything. She lays it onto my crown of messy hair with a quiet, ‘ta-da’. “Now you’re really ready to wow them, Princess Erica.”
“Yeah,” I smile brightly, feeling a renewed confidence. “You’re right. I look dynamite.”
“Princess Erica,” another mustachioed attendant implores, “the auction starts in a few moments. You should mingle a bit before, increase your chances of winning a date with whoever it is you have your eye on.”
“Who I have my eye on?” the reality of all this sets in. Me, in this dress, and tiara, in a room surrounded by hot, rich men, staring at me in gossamer blue, looking rich and influential?
Now if only they weren’t princes. Ugh. After the Asshole of Palazza this afternoon, I feel ready to give up royalty for good.
“Get yourself a good one, okay, Princess Erica?” the older lady smiles, giving me a wink as the doors to the ballroom whoosh open. The colors - a rainbow of different ball-gowns on beautiful women in tiaras studded with every expensive stone imaginable, a veritable army of handsome men - silver foxes in slick white suits, handsome young princes with crown jewels, expensive stones set in gold crowns on their foreheads, each served by staffs and attendants, the sound of a symphonic orchestra playing a slow waltz in the background; it’s overwhelming.
So this is what life is really like for people on the other side of the wall.
I walk in cautious and slow; the ballroom floor gleams, wood tiles with gold accoutrements layered beneath my feet, banquet tables a half-mile long covered in exotic foods; cinnamon bread from Aluvon, a baked potato dish from Marweed. I’ve traded and sold goods like my dad taught me in the markets for years, and I’ve never seen anything quite like all of this. The slippers they fit me with in the wardrobe slide softly along the ground, and a young blond guy in a white suit bows, kisses my hand, and offers to get me a drink.
“Mercer Brandy, perhaps?” he offers, his young and handsome face smiling.
“Oh, no thank you,” I smile, blushing brightly. I don’t belong here. Erica, what are you doing? They’ll find you out in a second.
“Ladies! Ladies! Ladies!” A man at the back of the ballroom, on top of a small platform painted ruby-red, calls out to the crowd, quieting the gossip and stilling the violin-strings of the symphonic band. “The royal date auction begins in just a few moments, so please - all eligible ladies, line up near the edges of the stage!”
Oh god. Should I go up? I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. I should stay back here and wait and watch and not let on that I’m a fake. If I can get out of the building with this pretty gown and tiara, that’ll be enough for me for a night. I can go back to the apartment and start to toss Baron Asshole’s stuff out the window.
“You’re going to be going up for the date auction, right, miss…?” I hear a voice from behind me and it strikes me like cupid’s arrow, cutting right through my forlorn heart. I spin around, my dress whirling so heavy that it nearly knocks me over; I’m not used to billionaire party-gowns.
I know I swore off dating royals ever again, but good lord, this one is definitely making me think twice about that.
“Miss…?” he repeats; I’m too awestruck to answer him at first. He’s the fucking vision of a sculpted, marbled god in front of my eyes; I can see firm muscles rippling beneath a silken shirt worth more than my entire wardrobe, and a black jacket worth twice that much. Short and wild, dark hair drapes over one of his piercing green eyes, his face cut into a devilish smirk. I know they dried me off after I came in from the rain, but looking at this heart-throbbing hunk, I’m going to be twice as wet as I was after dragging myself through that rainstorm. And he’s talking to me. Asking me questions. What am I supposed to say? “Good god, I need you to fuck me right here, in front of this entire party?”
“Erica,” I answer timidly, “Princess Erica.”
“Erica? I don’t know if I’ve met you yet… which kingdom are you from, Erica?” he asks, his voice a deep and warmly-growling, rich baritone. I scramble for an answer.
“Th-the Kingdom of Tyrel,” I answer, stammering. I don’t even know if that exists. I can’t think right now because he’s making me sweat so badly with that smirk on his lips and the way his voice sizzl
es that I can barely even breathe.
“Tyrel? Oh? So you’re one of Vienni’s sisters?” he asks, brimming with a dark and dirty smirk. “I know Vienni well. She’s quite a firebrand. Do her sisters take after her, I wonder?”
“Vienni, yes,” I stammer, wearing a smirk of my own, hiding away how hard it is not to melt right in front of this absolute devil of a prince. “I think you might like what you find… maybe, if you can deal with all the sass,” I sneer. He seems to like a challenge, looming closer, his voice full of the same sort of envious lust that sears like burning coals in every limb in my body.
“Maybe if you enter that date auction, I’ll get the chance to show you just how much I enjoy a good Tyreli sister who doesn’t know how to behave,” he growls. My body shudders, my knees knock at so lascivious an offer, and it’s killing me not to jump the prince right there.
But remember what royals did to your heart. You can’t get involved with them again, Erica.
“Maybe I will,” I tease, “mister…?”
“Prince,” he announces proud and bold, his voice that same sort of entrancing, sexy baritone. “Prince Estefan, of Velune.”
Oh, god the Prince of Velune?? That’s the guy who’s knocking me off my feet and making me absolutely soaked with want for him? The prince of my own city?
“Well, o-okay, Prince of Velune,” I respond, my confidence a little shaken by how hungrily he comes on. I can’t deny that I want him just as painfully in every bone and muscle from my head to my toes. “You’d better bet high… I’m worth a whole hell of a lot.”
“I can’t wait to find out just how much, when I win that auction and take you to my royal bedchambers and pump you so full of my hot seed, and we scream so loud together that it hurts us both to walk and to talk the next day,” he threatens hungrily. Oh god, what is this delicious disaster I’m getting myself in to?
Estefan
“Okay, ladies! Line up! Eligible princes, get your wallets - and your scepters - ready!” A bawdy cheer erupts from the crowd when the MC, a man in a comically-large crown and a long, flowing purple robe, steps on stage and announces the lineup. I have my hand deep in my pockets and I know why - I’d be willing to go fucking bankrupt to have a night - a date, and a night in bed - with that fucking impossibly hot little blond I just talked to. Erica. I meant what I said.
I don’t know if I’ve found that princess I’ve been looking for, but fuck, I hope I can fill up her young body nice and tight.
All the princesses march up on stage, flaunting themselves as good and hot as they can. Some in long white dresses, looking virginal… some in gold dresses, flashing brightly under the burning stage lights. Some in hot reds and pinks, trying to get noticed. Princess Cecilia is even up there, winking at me, her curves fitting nice and tight inside a maroon gown, a little ruby-red tiara on her long swathe of wild, messy MILF hair.
And then I see her. Looking out of place, but looking so god damn hot. Blue dress, nice hips, great tits, a face that could get a man to kill. I made a dirty promise and fuck, the more I see of her the more I absolutely know I need to follow through with it. Princess Erica.
“Okay, eligible princes, here’s your chance to win a night with a lovely princess of your choosing! All proceeds go to the Velune Orphan’s Charity Fund, administered by Queen Millard,” the announcer’s voice drones on, and I’m too busy watching Princess Erica blushing on stage to notice or care about anything he says. She has a poise, but not like the other princesses. She looks so fucking hot and fertile and I have to calm my breaths down to stop myself from blurting out how I don’t want to go through with the betting game, I just want to take her. Right now, on stage, in front of all these fattened dukes and sneering royal accountants and every other irritating royal you can think of, packed in and stinking up my palace.
“First up, we have… Princess Cecilia!” Of course, she had to be the first. Cecilia is looking hot, but I don’t have my eyes or my mind on her right now. She wiggles her hips and her ass up to the end of the stage, blowing a kiss to the audience; she searches until she finds me buried in the crowd. She gives me a little wave and a wink. She’s probably expecting me to throw out big money for a ‘date’ with her.
She’s not who I want to bid on tonight.
“Who’ll start the bidding, gentlemen?~” the master of ceremonies croons, presenting Cecilia like showcased merchandise. She obliges with an elegant spin on her toes. The whole time I’m looking past the spotlight and into the crowd of royal women, Princess Erica cluttered up by a dozen other blond damsels in their white dresses and golden tiaras. While Cecilia prances and the band rumbles out a lewd little dance, I hear calls begin to emanate from the gathered crowd.
“I’ll offer seven-hundred gold pieces!” A voice cries out, bringing a little wow from the crowd. The bidding continues, and Cecilia, smiling, watches the crowd - and me, waiting for me to throw a bid out. I can feel her glare, but I don’t care. I already have my eyes on the searing-hot, young princess who makes my pants feel a little tighter around my waist.
“Fifteen-hundred!” the bids keep coming, and Cecilia grows more and more frustrated with my lack of interest. The band’s tune reaches a fevered pitch, and Cecilia’s eyes desperately cling to my expensive, Kitai silk jacket.
“Seventeen fifty!” Comes the latest bid; I follow the sound and catch sight of slimy Duke Abruzzo, a corpulent old man with a lewd glint in his eyes and three chins under his face. The crowd goes silent.
“Do we have any more bids?” The announcer asks. Cecilia looks at me. I can feel it. I don’t care. “Okay! Sold! Princess Cecilia, on a wonderful date with the man in the purple,” the master of ceremonies remarks. Cecilia’s fake smile shines over a crowd of politely-clapping royalty in expensive suits and glinting, bejeweled crowns. She shuffles off the stage, a glare thrown through the crowd to me at the last moment. I know Cecilia wanted a date with me - and I know exactly what she wanted to do on that date. Unfortunately for her I have other things in mind - like blue gossamer gowns, perfect tits and a body fit better than any to bear the royal heir I need in my life.
Cecilia is fun, but I can get any woman I want. Why wouldn’t I want to capture little Princess Erica and make her exactly what I want, filling her up hot and sticky while I kiss and bite every inch of her soft, milky skin, leaving my mark bruised and burned into her tiny, taut and perfectly fuckable body.
“Next up, we have…” my mind wanders away while the MC presents the next few prizes to the audience of horny partygoers. I watch Erica shifting around in the shadows while another princess, some horse-toothed royal, the same sort you always see at events like this, struts up to the front with her head held lofty and proud. Fuck, the more I see of her the more I’m lusting, the harder I get thinking about what I want to do to Erica. In my head I imagine her in my bed, tearing frantically at the sheets with hungry little hands, her back arching and pressing those breasts against my rippling, strong chest while I fuck her and spread her wide, claiming her to be my bride, pumping my cock inside of her until it presses against her pretty and wanting womb. It takes every ounce of self-control not to start jerking my shaft until it explodes, looking at her, right here in this crowd.
“We have 2500! Any other bidders?” The horse-toothed princess with her stringy blond hair struts to the edge of the stage, giving a lewd little bow and a kiss to the shabby-looking prince in a dirty white suit who threw out the winning bid. That jackass can afford a 2500 gold piece date with a woman like that? Well, that’s just how some people want to spend their money, I guess.
“And next, Princess… Erica!… Princess Erica?” My attention snaps to the stage; that pretty, petite blushing blond hesitantly steps forward, the spotlight from the ballroom rafters splashing across her tight little body. Smirking, I dig my hand into my pocket, full of a book’s worth of royal notes, worth hundreds of gold pieces each. I have no worry that she’ll be mine.
“Who wants to start the bidding?” the MC asks, ges
turing to my pretty little thing in her gossamer blue.
“Twenty-five hundred!” Someone shouts before I can even open my mouth. A casual glance reveals a snake of a man throwing out bids - the Duke of Palazza, that asshole. I know the reputation he has, and with the look in his eye - and the panicked look in Erica’s - I know she doesn’t want anything to do with him. I don’t blame her. I guess this won’t be as easy as I expected.
“Three thousand,” I bark back. Erica’s eyes fall onto me, and I can feel her shiver from here, seeing me. A fertile, hot princess like that, for three thousand? What a steal.
“Five thousand,” the Duke insists. Where is this asshole getting that kind of money? Did he screw some poor, hard-working merchant girl out of it? Erica shudders and winces on stage, seeing the man betting on her. Now it’s not just my job to whisk this princess away to my royal chambers to let her enjoy the crown jewels, I’ve also got to save her from this dickhead Duke.
“Ten thousand,” I answer, without hesitation. For me, that’s not even chump change. For a Duke, it’s probably a life savings. I smirk to Erica, who shakes like a leaf in a hot wind down at me.
“Eleven thousand,” the Duke responds. I double-take; he’s really going hard, isn’t he? I guess I’m going to have to kick this up. It’s for charity, after all. I like charity, but I like that irresistible, different, delicious blond on stage even more.
