I am Prince Elias Aurelian,
once heir to the throne of Aetheria.
Now I kneel naked at the feet of Lady Seraphine Velmont — the ruthless, beautiful duchess who conquered my kingdom in a single night.
She spared my life on one condition:
I became the eternal pleasure slave of her noble house and every woman within it.
Dark fantasy royal femdom chronicle ▪ fallen prince turned lifelong naked pet of a powerful matriarchal noble house ▪ velvet collars, marble halls, masked balls turned orgies, public use in throne rooms, chastity cages forged from royal crowns ▪ 18+ only
I remember the night my kingdom burned. I was twenty-two, crowned prince, standing on the balcony as House Velmont’s crimson banners rose over the walls. Lady Seraphine herself — tall, raven-haired, dressed in black velvet and blood-red rubies — walked into the throne room alone, flanked by only twelve masked women.
My guards dropped their swords without a fight. She ascended the marble steps, placed her gloved hand under my chin, and said, “Your crown looks better melted down into my new toy, little prince.” Before I could speak, her women disarmed me, stripped me naked in front of the entire court, and forced me to my knees. Seraphine drew a single drop of my royal blood with a dagger and pressed it to her lips. “From this night forward, Elias Aurelian, you belong to the women of House Velmont. Your body is our spoils of war.”
Three days later I was bathed, oiled, and displayed on a velvet dais in the grand hall. Every noblewoman of the new regime — duchesses, countesses, foreign ambassadors — came to bid. Not for gold. They bid nights, weeks, months of exclusive use. Seraphine started the bidding herself: “One year of personal service.” It climbed to five. In the end, the collective bid was “forever.”
They paraded me collared and leashed through the hall so every lady could inspect her new property. Fingers traced old battle scars, tested my mouth, measured my cock. Seraphine ended the auction by snapping a solid gold collar around my neck — forged from my melted crown — and declared, “He is the living trophy of House Velmont. Use him freely, sisters.”
The collar is soft black velvet on the outside, steel on the inside, lined with tiny inward spikes that kiss my skin whenever I swallow. It cannot be removed. Seraphine holds the only key on a chain between her breasts. Every morning she unlocks my cage in the servants’ wing, leads me naked on all fours through the palace corridors, and presents me to whichever lady has booked me that day.
Sometimes it is one widowed baroness seeking comfort. Sometimes twenty masked women after a ball. My tongue, cock, and body have become the most sought-after luxury in the realm.
Seraphine keeps me in her bedchamber three nights a week. She bathes me in rosewater and champagne, dresses me only in gold chains, and rides me slowly while reading state papers. She edges me for hours, whispering future conquests, letting me come only when she signs a new treaty — “Your seed seals my victories, pet.”
On quiet nights she chains me at the foot of her bed and uses my mouth as a footstool while she works. I fall asleep to the scratch of her quill and the scent of her perfume.
During the annual masquerade, I am the centerpiece. Blindfolded, bound spread-eagle on a rotating pedestal in the ballroom while hundreds of masked noblewomen take turns. They wear only masks and diamonds; I wear only my collar. Music plays, champagne flows, and I lose count after the fiftieth woman. Seraphine circles me all night, occasionally leaning in to whisper, “Listen to them scream your name, little prince. This is what power feels like.”
Every month the twelve ruling duchesses meet in the war room. I serve naked on the table — sometimes as a living centerpiece, sometimes bent over it while they debate borders and taxes. They pass me around like a shared quill, taking notes on my back in lipstick, signing treaties across my skin. When debates grow heated, they cool off by using my mouth under the table. Decisions that shape kingdoms are made to the sound of my muffled moans.
Even the Queen of the neighboring empire visits incognito. She books me for a private weekend, arrives in disguise, and spends three days treating me like her personal throne. On the last night she reveals her identity, laughs, and says, “Tell Seraphine her pet is the finest diplomacy gift I’ve ever received.”
Five hundred noblewomen. One week. The great hall transformed into a sea of silk sheets and chandeliers. I am chained in the center, oiled and displayed. They take shifts in groups of twenty. Seraphine crowns the week by riding me on the former royal throne while the entire court watches and applauds.
Other fallen princes and kings have been added to the collection, but I remain Seraphine’s favorite. We are displayed together at state events, leashed in matching collars, forced to service the same women side by side. The humiliation only makes me harder.
Today I am thirty-two. My kingdom is a distant memory. I have not worn clothes in a decade. My body is a gallery of bite marks, wax seals, and perfume stains from thousands of women.
Seraphine, now the unchallenged Empress of the continent, still leads me on a golden leash every morning. She kisses the collar she forged from my crown and whispers the same words:
“You were born to rule, Elias.
Now you rule on your knees.
And every woman in my empire
thanks you for it.
Forever mine.
Forever theirs.
Forever.