Chapter 9: The Princess's Submission
This was all there was.
He took her on the table until her legs gave out, then carried her to the floor, the ancient rug rough against her skin. He rolled her onto her back, hooked her knees over his elbows, and drove into her deeper than before, the angle making her see white static behind her eyelids. “More,” she begged, her voice shredded, “please, more, don’t stop.” He didn’t. His rhythm was mechanical, relentless, a piston of flesh that refused to falter or soften. She came again, a sharp, screamless convulsion that locked her body around him.
When that climax ebbed, it didn’t bring respite, only a heightened, screaming sensitivity. He flipped her onto her hands and knees. He mounted her from behind, his hands braced on the floor beside hers, his chest against her sweaty back. He fucked her like this for what felt like hours, the slapping sounds of their bodies a humid, rhythmic beat in the room. She lost count of her orgasms. They began to blur, a continuous cascade of pleasure that felt less like peaks and valleys and more like a state of being, a new and permanent climate of her nervous system.
“Why doesn’t it… why are you still so hard?” she panted, the words slurring as he filled her, withdrew, filled her again.
“The wish doesn’t have an off switch,” he grunted into her ear, biting the lobe. “It’s not just size. It’s endurance. I don’t get soft. I can go until you break.”
The confession should have terrified her. It ignited her. She pushed back against him, meeting each thrust with a frantic roll of her hips, impaling herself. “Break me then,” she hissed, the princess gone, only a creature of need remaining. “Fucking break me on it.”
He obliged. He fucked her with a brutal, creative stamina that explored every inch of her. Against the cold marble of the fireplace mantel. Bent over the arm of a damask sofa. On her back on the grand piano, discordant keys groaning beneath them. Each position unlocked a new dimension of the feeling, the pleasure so amplified it crossed into hallucination. Colors seemed brighter, sounds sharper. The portraits’ eyes seemed to watch not with judgment, but with envy.
Through it all, his cock remained a rigid, throbbing constant, a source of world-ending sensation that she could neither fully accommodate nor bear to live without. Her mind did explode, not into unconsciousness, but into a realm of pure, screaming ecstasy where thought was impossible. There was only the next thrust, the next gasp, the next electric tremor from her overstimulated clit.
Finally, with her sprawled bonelessly on the rug, he knelt over her face. His cock, slick with her juices, glistened in the low light. He stroked it roughly, his breath a sharp series of grunts. “Open your mouth,” he commanded. She did, without hesitation, her tongue lolling out in exhausted anticipation.
He came with a raw, guttural shout. Thick, hot ropes of cum splashed across her forehead, her cheeks, her eyelids, her parted lips. The sensation of it hitting her skin was a shocking, possessive brand. She gasped, and more spurted into her open mouth, coating her tongue with a salty, bitter richness. The act of receiving it, of being marked by it, sent a final, helpless shudder through her thoroughly ruined body.
As he finished, she began to lick her lips clean, then used her fingers to gather the cum from her face, sucking them clean with desperate, hungry pulls. A low, broken moan vibrated in her throat. Simply swallowing his cum, tasting it, knowing it was inside her, triggered another faint, sweet aftershock of pleasure deep in her belly. She lay there, paint-streaked and utterly destroyed, breathing in the musk of sex and power.
Slowly, the room came back into focus. The fire was embers. Her body felt both flayed and reborn, every nerve singing a hymn of submission. She turned her head, looking up at him as he stood, still magnificently hard, looking down at her with those calm, owning eyes.
A wild, impossible idea, born from the emptiness of the throne and the fullness he had just shown her, clawed its way through the haze. Her voice, when it came, was ravaged and small, but laced with a terrible, sincere hope.
“Marry me,” she whispered. “Be my Prince. Rule with me. This… you… it’s the only power left. You could fix everything.”
Caleb looked down at the princess lying glazed and broken at his feet. He smiled, a small, polite curve of his lips that held no warmth, only a vast and quiet amusement. He crouched, brushing a strand of sticky hair from her forehead.
“Thanks,” he said, his tone almost conversational, as if she’d offered him a cup of tea. “But I have three wives.”
The words landed not like a blow, but like a slow, cold seep of water into her lungs. Three wives. She blinked, the drying streaks of his cum tightening on her skin. The immense room, with its whispering portraits and dying fire, seemed to tilt sideways. A sharp, animal sob broke from her throat, followed immediately by hot, shameful tears that cut through the residue on her cheeks.
“No,” she choked out, pushing herself up on trembling elbows. The movement made her aware of the profound, aching emptiness between her legs. “Please, Caleb. Reconsider. I’ll… I’ll be a fourth. Just let me be yours.” She crawled toward him, her nakedness now feeling vulnerable, not powerful. “I can be your fourth wife. But let me be your first priority. The Princess. The one beside you.”
She clutched at his calf, her forehead resting against his knee, her body wracked with silent weeping. The throne, the Crown, the crumbling world of men—it all distilled into this single, desperate plea. He let her cry for a moment, the only sound her hitching breath and the pop of the embers.
“Eleanor,” he said, his voice quiet. He cupped her chin, forcing her to look up. His thumb stroked her cheek, smearing a tear. “I will be ruling. This palace will be mine. Sophie, Chloe, Jessica, and I are moving into the King’s Suite. Today.”
He leaned closer, his gaze holding hers, allowing no escape. “But don’t worry. You can have me whenever you want. That soul-bending pleasure?” He pressed his thumb against her lower lip. “It’s yours. Consider yourself fourth. My fourth priority… over every other woman on this planet.”
Her tears slowed. Her gaze, wide and liquid, drifted down from his eyes. It settled on his cock, which still stood thick and heavy against his stomach, a faint sheen upon it. A full-body shudder wracked her, a visceral flashback to the endless, screaming pleasure, to the feeling of being unmade and reassembled around that single, perfect truth of him.
The memory was more persuasive than any crown. She looked back into his eyes, all fight dissolving, replaced by a weary, total surrender. Her shoulders slumped. A long, slow breath left her.
“I agree to your terms,” she whispered. The words were final. They tasted like his cum and absolute submission.
They tasted like his cum and absolute submission. The silence after her whisper was thick, broken only by the brittle settling of ash in the grate.
Caleb studied her for a long moment, her tear-streaked face glistening in the dim light. He then knelt beside her on the rug, its intricate patterns pressed into his knee. He took her head in his hands, his thumbs tracing the arches of her cheekbones. He kissed her, not with the brutal ownership of before, but with a slow, deep passion that tasted of salt and exhaustion and conquest. She whimpered into his mouth, her hands rising to cling weakly to his wrists.
He broke the kiss, his lips hovering a breath from hers. “I need to attend to my wives,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “See how they’re getting along in their new home.”
He stood up in one fluid motion. She remained kneeling, a nude and glistening figure at the foot of the stern royal portrait. He walked to the mahogany door, his footsteps silent on the deep pile. His hand closed on the cold brass handle. He pulled the door open, then turned his head to look back at her over his shoulder.
He grinned, a flash of white in the shadowed room. “They’ll probably be eager,” he said, his tone casually vile, “to taste a princess’s cunt on my cock.”
The door shut with a soft, definitive click.
The sound echoed in the vast silence. Eleanor didn’t move. The drying streaks on her skin tightened like a second, filthy skin. She heard his faint footsteps recede down the corridor outside, each one a nail in the coffin of her old life. A slow, trembling breath finally left her lungs. She looked down at her own hands, resting limp on her thighs.
She brought a finger to her lips, touching where his mouth had been. Then she dragged that finger down, through the sticky mess on her chin, and back to her tongue. Her eyes fluttered closed.
The palace corridors were a maze of hushed grandeur Caleb navigated by instinct now. He passed a young footman carrying a silver tray. The boy’s eyes flickered down, then away, his cheeks flushing a deep scarlet as he pressed himself against the wainscoting to let the source of the world’s new agony pass. Caleb didn’t glance at him.
He found the wing easily. It smelled different here—less of beeswax and history, more of fresh flowers, new perfume, and excited whispers. The door to the main suite stood ajar. Laughter spilled out, light and unburdened, a sound so alien to the grim quiet of Eleanor’s rooms it was jarring.
He pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The scene was one of lavish debauchery. Gowns of emerald and sapphire silk were tossed carelessly over gilded furniture. Jewelry boxes lay gutted, their contents sparkling from tabletops and the floor. A champagne flute had toppled, soaking a pale rug. In the center of it all, his three girls were in various states of undress, comparing the treasures.
Sophie stood before a tall, ornate mirror, a diamond tiara perched precariously on her tousled blonde hair. She struck a ridiculous, regal pose. “Do I look like I give a fuck?” she giggled, her voice bright.
“You look like a toddler who raided a museum,” Chloe called from a velvet chaise. She was nude, a heavy ruby necklace her only adornment, its deep red stones a stark contrast against her skin as she idly flipped through a leather-bound book she clearly wasn’t reading.
Jessica saw him first. She was by the window, wearing only a man’s silk dressing gown that swam on her frame. Her eyes lit up, pure and hungry. “Caleb.”
The other two turned. The tiara slid from Sophie’s head, clattering to the floor. Their faces, flushed with champagne and stolen luxury, transformed. The playful glee evaporated, replaced by a focused, singular attention. The air in the room changed, thickening, pulling taut towards him. They straightened, their postures shifting from playful to presenting.
“How was the tour?” Chloe asked, her voice dropping its teasing edge. She let the book fall closed.
“Educational,” Caleb said, leaning against the doorframe. He let his gaze travel over each of them, their stolen jewels, their eager eyes. “She made an offer. Wanted to make me a prince.”
Sophie’s lips pursed. “And?”
“I told her I already had a court.” He pushed off the frame and walked into the room. The girls watched his every movement, a predatory stillness settling over them. He stopped before Jessica, hooked a finger into the collar of the oversized robe, and pulled it down her shoulder. “She understands her place now. Fourth.”
A sharp, approving smile cut across Chloe’s face. Jessica just shivered, her shoulder bare under his touch. Sophie padded over on bare feet, her earlier silliness gone. “Is she pretty?” The question wasn’t jealous. It was acquisitive.
“She was,” Caleb said, his hand sliding from Jessica’s shoulder. He looked at his fingers, then brought them to his nose, inhaling deeply. A complex, musky scent clung to his skin—perfume, sweat, and sex. He held his fingers out to Sophie. “See for yourself.”
Sophie’s eyes widened. She took his wrist, her movements reverent, and pressed her nose against his fingertips. She breathed in, her eyelids fluttering. A low, wanting sound hummed in her throat. “Fancy,” she murmured, her tongue darting out to give a quick, curious lick. Her eyes met his, darkening. “Tastes like… old money and desperation.”
Chloe rose from the chaise, the ruby necklace swinging between her breasts. “Let me.” She took Sophie’s place at his hand, her analysis more clinical. She sniffed, then licked a broader stripe across his fingers. “High cortisol. Adrenaline crash. Fear.” She smiled, a cold, beautiful thing. “You broke her properly.”
Jessica, still by the window, simply untied the belt of the robe. It pooled at her feet. She walked towards him, her gaze fixed below his waist. “We’ve been waiting,” she said, her voice small but direct. Her hand reached for the button of his jeans. “We could smell her on you from the hall.”
Sophie and Chloe closed in, a circle of warm skin and hungry eyes. Chloe’s fingers worked at his other side, helping Jessica. The denim was pushed down. The thick, familiar weight of him sprung free, and the three of them stared at it, at the faint, iridescent sheen that coated the skin.
A heavy, shared silence descended. The crackle of the fire was the only sound. Sophie reached out first, her touch feather-light, tracing a vein. “Our king,” she whispered, not looking at his face.
Caleb placed a hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He guided her gently forward. “Clean it off,” he said, his voice flat. “All of you. Start with her.”
Start with her.
Sophie didn't hesitate. Her lips parted, her tongue a pale pink point, and she took the broad, gleaming head into her mouth. Her eyes rolled back in her skull the moment her tongue made contact, a muffled scream vibrating against his flesh. The transferred taste of Eleanor’s cunt—musky, saline, layered with royal perfume—hit her tastebuds first, a strange, intimate communion. Then the deeper, radiant pleasure from Caleb’s very skin ignited her nerves.
It wasn’t like sucking him before. This was a sacrament. She worshipped the shaft with a desperate, slavish focus, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked hard, trying to draw the sensation deeper into herself. One hand cupped his heavy balls, the other gripping the base of his cock as if clinging to a lifeline. She gagged, tears streaming down her face, but pushed further, her nose buried in his pubic hair.
Her body betrayed her instantly. A sharp, gasping orgasm ripped through her with no warning, making her back arch and her thighs slam together. She came just from the act of sucking, from the taste of another woman’s submission on him, her pussy clenching around nothing, soaking the rug beneath her knees. She didn’t stop. She sobbed around his girth, sucking furiously through the convulsions, chasing the next one.
Chloe watched, her analytical composure incinerated by raw envy. She dropped to her knees, her hands pushing Sophie’s head aside not with violence, but with a possessive need. “My turn,” she breathed, her voice shattered. She didn’t just take him in her mouth; she devoured him, swallowing half his length in one smooth, practiced motion. Her throat opened around him.
The effect was even more violent. A guttural, choked roar escaped her as her first orgasm hit, a seizure that locked her jaw around him. Her fingernails dug into his thighs. She fucked her own face on his cock, driving it deeper, seeking to be split open by the pleasure. She came again thirty seconds later, a silent, shaking storm that left her trembling and drooling.
Jessica simply waited, her quiet desperation a palpable heat. When Chloe collapsed sideways, gasping, Jessica moved in. She was slower, more reverent. She licked him clean first, her tongue lapping from root to tip, collecting every trace of the two other girls’ saliva and the princess’s essence. She savored it, this layered cocktail of devotion. Then she took him all, until her lips met skin.
Her climax was a silent, endless unraveling. Her eyes flew open, staring up at him in stunned, watery adoration as wave after wave of pleasure coursed through her from the simple, profound act of having him in her mouth. She didn’t move, just held him there, pulsing with ecstasy.
Caleb let them cycle, a relentless rotation of worship. Sophie, recovered, shoved Jessica aside for another turn. Chloe, hungry for a third, fought her for position. They became a single, moaning organism at his feet, their only purpose to serve, to taste, to feel that brain-melting bliss that only his flesh could provide. They lost count of their own orgasms. The room filled with the wet, sloppy sounds of their fervor and their broken, pleasured whimpers.
He finally pulled Chloe’s head onto him by her hair, holding her deep. “Swallow it,” he grunted, his own control fraying. His hips jerked. The first hot, bitter pulse flooded her throat. She convulsed, a fourth or fifth orgasm tearing through her as his cum hit her system, the physical sensation of it going down triggering a parallel, electric jolt in her clit. She drank greedily, milking him with frantic swallows.
He turned to Sophie, still spurting, and pushed himself into her waiting mouth. She suckled at the tip, drinking him down with joyous, glazed eyes, her body quaking with yet another climax. Jessica received the last ropes directly onto her tongue, her mouth open like a baby bird’s. She swooned as she swallowed, toppling onto her side, her legs kicking weakly in the aftershocks.
Silence, except for their ragged, exhausted breathing. The three girls lay sprawled on the floor around him, spent, their bodies glistening with sweat, their lips swollen and shiny. The air was thick with sex and salt and power.
Caleb stepped over them. He walked to a high-backed chair of crimson velvet and gold brocade, a throne-like piece that had overlooked the room. He sat. The fabric was cool through his jeans. He rested his arms on the carvings, his still-hard cock lying thick against his thigh.
The girls, moving as if in a dream, crawled to him. They arranged themselves on the floor at his feet, sitting on their heels, looking up. Their faces were open, empty vessels waiting to be filled with his words.
“She begged,” Caleb began, his voice calm, conversational. “On her knees on that rug with ancestors staring down. She cried. She offered me the Crown, her title, anything. She came so hard from being fucked she forgot her own name.”
He described the mechanics of it, the table, the piano, the fireplace. The unrelenting hardness. The way her royal composure dissolved into guttural, filthy pleas. He told them how she’d lapped his cum from her own face like a starved animal, how the taste of it made her moan.
“I told her I had three wives,” he said, looking at each of them in turn. Sophie’s breath hitched. Chloe smiled, a sharp, victorious thing. Jessica’s eyes filled with tears of profound relief. “I told her this palace was ours. That we’re taking the King’s Suite. That she could be fourth.”
He leaned forward, the chair creaking. The firelight caught the hard planes of his face. “This isn’t a visit. We’re not going home. Every man in this country is a ghost. The real power is here.” He gestured to the room, to the palace beyond the walls, to himself. “You’re not just my wives. You’re the rulers of Britain now. This is our home. Everything you see, everything they have, it’s yours. And everyone in it answers to me.”
He sat back, letting the words sink into the plush silence. The weight of them was immense, a physical pressure settling over the opulent room.
“Any questions?” he asked.
Sophie stared at the diamond tiara, discarded on the floor. She looked from its sparkling facets to Caleb’s face, then to his cock, resting heavily against his leg. A slow, dawning realization erased the last trace of the frustrated high school girl from her expression.
“No,” she said, her voice clear and certain for the first time. “No questions.”