Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter One

In the ancient Kingdom of Francia, where stone castles rose like solemn guardians over rolling hills and dense forests, Princess Christina led a life of quiet seclusion within the grand palace of her father, King Hugh. At eighteen, she was the epitome of untouched grace—slender and pale, with long golden hair that fell in waves down her back, often bound in simple braids beneath a veil. Her days were a gentle rhythm of prayer in the chapel, delicate embroidery in the solar, and lessons in scripture with the palace nuns. From the tender age of twelve, she had taken a solemn vow of chastity before the entire court, kneeling at the altar with wide, innocent eyes. She had promised her purity to the Church, to remain forever untouched by the sins of the flesh. Back then, the words had meant little more than a pretty oath, a way to please her pious mother and earn the admiring glances of the courtiers. Even now, the concept of carnal union was a complete mystery to her—a vague, forbidden shadow mentioned only in hushed warnings about the world's wickedness. She had never felt the urge to explore her body, never slipped a curious hand beneath her shift in the dark of night. Masturbation, desire, the very idea of coupling—these were foreign lands she had no map for. Her vow was her pride, a shining armor that made her feel exalted, closer to the divine than any earthly pleasure could offer.

Two weeks prior, the palace had buzzed with rare excitement. Sir Aldric, a knight who had vanished into the border wars years ago when Christina was still a child, had returned victorious. She barely remembered him from those earlier days—a quiet, low-ranked guardsman who lingered in the barracks, far beneath the notice of the royal family. But now, everything had changed. The great hall had been packed for his knighting ceremony, banners fluttering in the draft from high windows, the air thick with incense and the murmur of anticipation.

Sir Aldric strode in like a force of nature. He stood six-foot-five, his broad frame forged in battle—shoulders wide enough to fill a doorway, arms corded with muscle that rippled beneath his fitted tunic, a chest that strained the laces of his shirt. His dark hair was cropped short, framing a face etched with quiet intensity: sharp jaw, piercing gray eyes that seemed to see straight through a person, and a mouth that rarely smiled but promised depths when it did. Scars traced faint lines across his knuckles and neck, badges of the wars he'd won for the king. As he knelt before the throne to receive his honors—elevated to the highest rank, named Head of the King's Guard, and granted lavish quarters in the royal wing itself—the women of the court could scarcely contain themselves. Ladies fanned themselves a little too vigorously, their cheeks flushing as they stole glances. Servants whispered behind hands, eyes lingering on the way his breeches hugged powerful thighs. Even the queen's own attendants had stumbled over their words when he passed close.

Christina had watched from her seat beside her father, her hands folded demurely in her lap. Something about him stirred her in a way she couldn't name—a sudden warmth blooming low in her belly, a strange flutter that made her shift uncomfortably. Later that day, as he walked the corridors on his new duties, she'd caught sight of him again. He moved with effortless power, his presence filling the space, and that warmth returned fiercer than before. A slickness gathered between her thighs, soaking into her smallclothes until she felt damp and unsettled. She had hurried to the chapel afterward, kneeling in fervent prayer, begging forgiveness for whatever ailment or sin had caused such odd sensations. It must be a test of her vow, she told herself. She would endure it with pride.

In the weeks since, Sir Aldric had become a constant shadow in the palace. As Head of the Guard, he oversaw trainings in the yard, and Christina, from her window high in the tower, had glimpsed him more than once. Shirtless under the sun one afternoon, sweat gleaming on his bronzed skin as he swung a practice sword, muscles flexing in perfect, hypnotic rhythm. His deep voice carried commands that made the younger guards snap to attention. Women found excuses to pass the yard—maids lingering with laundry baskets, noble ladies strolling with unnecessary frequency. Christina felt that treacherous heat again each time, her body responding in ways that left her thighs slick and her breath short. She confessed it vaguely to the nuns as "worldly distractions," doubling her prayers, proud that she resisted whatever temptation this was. She had no idea it was desire, raw and insistent.

One restless night, when the moon hung full and silver over the gardens, Christina found sleep elusive. Her chambers felt too warm, her shift clinging uncomfortably. Slipping into a simple nightgown of soft linen, she padded barefoot down quiet halls and out into the palace gardens, seeking the cool night air. The paths wound through fragrant rosebushes and shadowed arbors, the only sounds the rustle of leaves and distant hoot of an owl. She wandered deeper, breathing in the jasmine, her mind drifting to innocent thoughts of morning psalms.

Then, a sound pierced the quiet—a woman's cry, sharp and piercing, echoing from a secluded corner near the old stone bench beneath climbing roses. "Ahhh! Oh God, yes!" It came again, rhythmic, desperate. Christina froze, heart pounding. Someone was hurt—attacked, perhaps tortured. Fear gripped her, but duty compelled her forward. Creeping silently through the foliage, she parted the leaves and peered into the moonlit clearing.

There, on the bench, was her elder sister, Lady Eleanor. At twenty-six, Eleanor was everything Christina was not: married to a minor noble lord who spent most of his time at distant estates, mother to two boisterous young sons, and known for her bold laughter and worldly ways. Now, she was bent over the bench, skirts hiked up around her waist, her full breasts spilling from an unlaced bodice, nipples peaked and dark in the moonlight. Her pale buttocks were raised high, cheeks spread wide.

Behind her stood Sir Aldric, trousers pushed down just enough to free his cock. Christina's eyes widened at the sight of it—enormous, thick as her wrist, veined and rigid, glistening with slickness as it plunged in and out of Eleanor's most private rear entrance. He gripped her hips with large, callused hands, fingers digging into soft flesh hard enough to leave marks, pulling her back onto every deep thrust.

"Unhh... yes, Aldric, fuck my ass harder!" Eleanor gasped, her voice breaking into a moan as he drove forward, his heavy balls slapping wetly against her dripping pussy. "Ohhh, you're so deep... stretching me so good!"

Aldric growled low in his throat, a sound that sent an inexplicable shiver through Christina. He leaned over Eleanor's back, one hand tangling in her dark hair to yank her head back, arching her spine. "You take it so well, my lady," he rumbled, voice rough with lust. "This tight hole was made for my cock. Beg for it."

"Please... ahhh! Deeper, please—ruin me!" Eleanor cried, pushing back greedily, her body trembling. Aldric obliged, spanking one cheek sharply, the crack echoing as red bloomed on her skin. "Unhh! Yes, spank me... I've needed this all day."

Christina stood rooted, hidden in the shadows, her mouth falling open. A thin trail of drool escaped the corner of her lips as she stared, transfixed. She had no words for what she witnessed—only that Aldric's cock looked magnificent, powerful and alive, sliding in and out with lewd, wet sounds, stretching Eleanor's hole wide around its girth. It disappeared deep inside her sister again and again, emerging shiny with juices, veins pulsing. Why did it make her own body ache so fiercely? A fierce throb pulsed between her thighs, wetness trickling down her legs in warm rivulets, soaking her nightgown. She felt hot, dizzy, her nipples tightening painfully against the fabric. But she didn't move to touch herself; the idea never crossed her innocent mind. She simply watched, breathing shallow, guilt twisting in her chest even as that strange hunger grew unbearable.

Aldric's pace quickened, hips slamming forward with brutal force. "That's it... milk my cock with your ass," he grunted, reaching around to rub roughly at Eleanor's clit. She screamed in ecstasy—"Ahhh! Oh fuck, right there... I'm going to cum!"—her body convulsing as she clawed at the bench, breasts jiggling with every impact.

He pulled her hair harder, forcing her to arch more. "You love this, don't you? Sneaking out here like a desperate whore for my seed." Another sharp spank, then he slowed deliberately, grinding deep, making her whine and beg. "Tell me how much you need it."

"So much... unh, unh, please don't stop! Fill my ass, Aldric—pump me full like you do every time!" Eleanor's pleas dissolved into moans as he pounded faster, the slap of flesh growing frantic. His muscles flexed gloriously—back rippling, thighs powerful, sweat trickling down his abdomen to where their bodies joined.

Christina's mind reeled amid the haze. Watching them, a sudden, shocking thought struck her like lightning: Eleanor's sons, those two boys with their strong jaws and dark hair... they looked nothing like her sister's mild-mannered husband, with his weak chin and thinning locks. But they bore an uncanny resemblance to the man now buried balls-deep in their mother's ass.

Aldric's thrusts turned savage, hips blurring. "Here it comes... take every drop," he roared, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pulsed visibly, thick ropes of cum flooding Eleanor's ass as she shattered around him—"Yes! Ahhh, I feel it... so hot, filling me up!"—her hole clenching, excess seed leaking out around his shaft as he ground through his release.

Christina's heart thundered. Silent as a ghost, she slipped away through the bushes, fleeing back to her chambers unseen. She bolted the door, collapsing onto her bed, body still throbbing with that unnamed fire, the images seared into her soul. The garden whispers echoed in her mind long into the night.

 

Chapter Two

Christina drifted in that heavy place between sleep and waking, the kind where the world felt soft around the edges. She was in one of the palace's dim corridors, the ones with high arches and torches sputtering in their brackets. Somehow, she had her back pressed to the cold stone wall, her thin nightgown the only thing between her skin and the rough surface. Her heart thumped hard, like she'd been running.

Then he was there—Sir Aldric, walking toward her with that steady, powerful stride. He was dressed at first, tunic dark and fitted over his broad frame, breeches hugging his thighs. But as he got closer, closer, until he loomed right in front of her, something changed. He lifted one arm, planting his hand against the wall by her head, leaning in. His scent hit her full force—musk and leather, warm skin after a day in the sun, something sharp and male that made her knees feel funny.

His face was so near, lips almost brushing hers. "Are you alright, Princess?" he asked, voice low, rumbling right through her.

"Yes," she breathed, barely a whisper.

He didn't pull back. Just watched her, those gray eyes steady.

"Yes," she said again, a little louder, though her breath was starting to catch.

"Yes..." It came out different now—thicker, heavier, like the word was pulling something up from deep inside her. "Yes... yes..."

The sounds turned moan-like, soft and needy, spilling out without her meaning them to. And that's when it happened—mid-way through those breathy yeses, his clothes just... vanished. One moment there, the next gone, like they'd never been. It struck her as weird for a split second, a flicker of what? But then it made perfect sense. Of course he was naked. It felt right, like he'd always been that way, his powerful body bare and close, skin warm, muscles shifting as he breathed.

Her hands were on him suddenly, palms flat against his abs—hard, ridged, moving under her touch with each breath he took. She stared down, eyes wide, as his cock came into full view: thick, heavy, starting to stir and harden right there between them. Veined and long, it looked so... alive.

"Yes... yes..." Her moans mixed with others now, echoes of her sister's voice from the garden that night—"Yes... yes!"—sharp and desperate.

"Yes!"

She jolted awake, the scream tearing out of her throat loud enough to bounce off her chamber walls. "Yes!" Her body locked up, every muscle going tight as something exploded inside her. Her hands fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, twisting the fabric hard as her hips bucked up off the bed.

"Ahhh... ohhh... unh..." The moans kept coming, long and ragged, one rolling into the next. A hot rush hit between her legs, and then she was squirting—powerful, uncontrollable gushes that soaked right through her nightgown, spraying out in rhythmic pulses. "Unhh... ahhh..." Another wave crashed, her pussy clenching hard on nothing, pushing out more liquid that drenched her thighs and pooled under her ass. She thrashed, back arching high, toes digging into the mattress as it kept going—squirt after squirt, each one making her moan deeper, body shaking like she couldn't stop.