A Cracked Jewel Outshines a Stone

Heya, this is my first foray into smut writing. I originally set out to write this only as a sex fantasy and the greater story developed somewhat organically, which led it to deviate heavily from the original pitch (a simpler sex fantasy with a contained arc about learning to treat your subs well) into something with a pretty heavy depiction of power dynamics, nonconsent, and the consequences of both. Needless to say, it's not for the faint of heart, but still, I welcome you to enjoy it for the character conflict and the horny scenes both.

One of the characters is a trans woman, the other is a cis woman. There is some minor depiction of gender dysphoria if that might be triggering. Otherwise, debauched, morally bankrupt, highly graphic trans lesbian smut abound.

P.S. You can pry my italics and my em dashes from my cold dead hands.

Tags: Abuse, Bondage, Breeding Kink, Deepthroating, Emotional Trauma, Gender Dysphoria, Hate Sex, Magic, Master/Servant, Masturbation, Mild Blood, Non-consensual Sex, Non-consensual Violence, Oral Sex, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Swords, Trans Woman, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex

As chains of glowing dress cascaded down her shoulders, Princess Dianthel’s heart ruled her chest with its rhythm. The chamberlain, an older woman with irresponsibly beautiful curls over her porcelain skin, untwirled the enchanted layers as if she were harvesting buds on spring’s onset, and it took the princess’s utmost care to keep the rumbling contained as she was freed to the air of the chambers. She wasn’t nervous—certainly not, borderline impossible—but it wasn’t often that she exercised the right to take what she wanted.

“Please lift your arms, majesty,” said the chamberlain. The princess allowed her to unwind the evening's meters of chained lawstone. The lawstone wallglass cast its luminescent hues and deflected off the jeweled decorations to paint the wall with mural.

The princess mused, feeling herself unravel, of the woman’s eyes wandering all over her sinuous arms and toned hips as they did night after night. She couldn’t avoid gazing back, tracing along the chamberlain’s miles of smooth leg beneath her servant’s gown.

Was she in awe? Was she envious? Was she disgusted? Each possible reaction excited a further fantasy in her mind, of the many ways in which the curt, polite, tightly wound chamberlain could be undone.

The Dianthel of fantasy had… colorful interpretations. The wandering gaze and the longer-than-acceptable brushes of the chamberlain’s skin against hers, and the woman carrying herself like an available slut seeking an unholy union. It didn’t matter that this chamberlain was a years-long professional and not appealed to womanly form. In her head, the woman's gown buttons were displaced in the hopes that the princess saw the perfect skin framing her collarbone. She bent over seconds too long to keep the curve of her thighs and rear visible and on display. Goddess, she was an impossible sight. A statue of soft marble. She couldn’t stop looking in her mind, and further peeling away her layers.

The princess would put up her chin and politely informed her elder that she was disgusted by her gross perversions. The woman would be surprised, of course, but she would keep composure.

My apologies, majesty, I have not lived up to your expectations, she would say.

And Dianthel would ask her how long she had lusted for the body of a princess.

I h-have not, your majesty, she would say. Unsettled, but far from a slip.

Yes she had. Yes she had. Dianthel would insist, in a bratty way. The chamberlain should not deny what was so obviously true, for what would her father, the emperor, say?

Of course, your majesty. I apologize for my perversions, she would concede, and Dianthel would step closer. For the first time, the chamberlain would flinch, and the princess knew it was over.

Further and further she would fall, admitting to sweet nothings because a princess could create the truth. Her speech would falter and her face would brighten as Dianthel described the ways in which she was like a back alley whore. She would keep marching forward and force the chamberlain back until the woman tumbled onto the bed like an animal unable to decide whether to fight or run. And Dianthel would tear her gown apart, and rip her undergarments aside, and shove—

“Your majesty, I will remove your brassiere now. I wish to avoid agitating the lawstones.” The Chamberlain's helpful warning cut through the heat of her daydream.

The princess simply slackened her shoulders and instinctively covered her chest when it was bare. The rest of the process completed without incident, though she was suddenly conscious of the painful throbbing between her thighs.

She shifted on her feet to relieve the pressure. "Has Father any word for me? Dinner perhaps?"

"No, your Majesty. The Emperor is meeting the Fifth Heir for diplomatic business for the next few hours."

"Of course," she said, sourly.

That made forty-eight days since they had last spoken at the imperial ball, on the day that should've celebrated her nineteenth. The last words he had graced her with were Chin up, the dukes are watching. He polished his lower value showpieces and that was all. Once the event concluded, she was ushered back home in a separate trolley and hung up like a mediocre sculpture: far away and in the dark.

Seventeenth in line was simply of no value to his conversation.

When her only duty was to wear a crown and smile, her time was spent in her quarters on books, studies, and when they dained to intrude, fantasies. Ever since she raided the romances from her late mother’s personal library at the tender age of eleven, she had dreamt of exploring her unkempt thoughts. The wordplay and illustrations of soft skin and untidy moans, far removed from her manicured existence, were vivid. It was royally improper, but she was human more than she was a princess. Without any avenue, however, she wasted away in her bed longing for an outlet to receive her. She wanted part in the games played by the romantic studs around their peasant darlings, or even the tender ministrations of the fairer sex in the books only found behind the loose wallstone.

If she was closer to the throne, Father might’ve protested the queer boy stealing away to a dusty corner of the fortress and playing out scenes of tango where both partners were women. He never even noticed when she arrived in gemmed dress to the royal family meals. Only when a suitor he signed left devastated that the dashing prince she was to wed wasn’t, in fact, a prince did he finally take notice.

He hadn’t sent another suitor since.

It was no wonder that her imagination overpowered her rational mind. After reading over and over the academics’ algebra and practicing their theorems on wide parchment, or between chapters on melding new lawstones from their individual properties, the invading thoughts would drive her to sweat until she couldn't focus. And on return from rhythmic, muscle-straining swordplay lessons with the guard instructor, she was often swirling with such impropriety that she had to dismiss the entire servant staff and seal herself deep in her quarters. She would futilely massage the unbearable heat in her cock and imagine instead a whore bouncing atop it, hands in shackles but still howling in ecstasy. The princess would pound up into her, and claw at her back until it ruined her fine nails, and continue breaking her and controlling her and fucking her until she couldn't think anymore.

She sighed. Even now, it was distracting her. The chamberlain continued to tidy what had been unset and prepared the Princess’s gowns for cleaning. After debating what to wear to bed, the Princess turned down the offer for a nightgown.

“Actually, may you retrieve my sporting equipment? The mood struck me for late practice.”

“H-here, majesty?” asked the chamberlain. She eyed the various jewels and gifts and treasures around the room, including the imperial crown resting on its rightful cushion at the floor’s center. It shined from every direction—in true reverence for the empire’s core strength, it was solely composed of a rainbow of rare lawstones. “Are you certain?”

The princess felt her inner smile curl, while her outer visage was violently neutral. This time the chamberlain's cowering fantasy, which only made the blood in her womanhood pulse harder. She bit her lip and let the woman boil in her own fear until she said, “I am quite certain. And I would recommend you watch your tongue.”

Thus, the chamberlain spirited away and returned in only a few minutes with padding and a saber. The princess graciously took it and amused herself at the woman’s hard breaths. Had she really rushed to the practice grounds in record time?

It must have been boredom and pent-up stresses that drew her to the servants of the imperial fortress. They were fascinating creatures. Many of them had dreams and games and relationships within their own, most of which she learned through conversations in Yulinau—a language they misjudged her fluency in. She hadn't the mind of her older brothers to step on them like dirt, yet they still quieted around her as if evading a predator.

Her heart throbbed (along with other things) as the chamberlain tiredly concluded her nightly rounds. She donned her sporting gear and gripped her skyward saber—she chose to practice with a true, sharpenwd blade, preferring the heart racing simulation. An unmistakable sweat beaded above her brows and fell across her eyes, which she swiftly wiped away as the woman bowed for her final leave.

Was she really intending to pursue this? She faltered.

It was her elder brothers and sisters who were privileged. They could receive any request, unlimited even by the laws of space and time and magic. That's what their positions deserved. She was a mere insect beneath them

It was nearly too late as the chamberlain opened her mouth to announce the plans of the Princess’s lonely next meal. She thrust her blade to test the air and hesitated.

It was still her right.

Her right to demand.

The princess held up her hand and froze the chamberlain in place. She ordered, “The servant with the tied hair will prepare and deliver my dinner tonight."

“A-as you say, majesty,” said the chamberlain, unable to argue with a royal command.

The chamberlain was perfect in fantasy, certainly, but it was just that. However, the princess had paid close attention to the various others dancing through the shadows of the fortress. One in particular had become a fixation, as well as a driver of her private sessions after practice.

The image stuck. The girl’s waist-length hair, tied in successive knots and then wrapped around her gown's waist. The freckles dotting her face, and the small scar beneath her lip from cutting it in the stables. The endless brown eyes that stared down the royal house when they issued requests, chilled with compliance yet burning high with provocative rebellion.

How joyous it would be to snuff that flame with its own ash.

She's doing dinner service tonight!

Ana endured jeers as she sped through the kitchens, frantically preparing a royal recipe. Word for word, line for line. Cast an ardenstone for speedy flame. Bovine meat of explicit ratio, two to four to one of belly, loin, and rump. Vegetables were to be handled with utmost care—their sheer value meant a single one lost was deserving of discipline. She wasn’t a regular cook, leaving her further nerve wracked as the head chef hovered over her shoulder like a scavenger awaiting her fatal mistake.

The princess requested her. Why does she get special treatment?

The whispers weren't meant to be confidential. Even through the sizzling of molten oil and scrapes of crystal on metal in the kitchen and the rumble of countless other staff coming to serve the emperor’s issue, they wanted her to hear.

And as she wrapped up preparations, as close to record time as the ingredients would allow, she raced down the spiraling halls towards Princess Dianthel’s chambers deep on the outskirts of the castle. It was unwise to run, but a standard pace would leave a cold meal after the nearly kilometer path from kitchen to the patron deep in the fortess.

I wonder which prince knocked her up for her to get such a place in—

"Quiet!" she snapped, at the younger two servants gossiping by the corner. Her fingers shook with so much rage that she nearly spilled the Princess's dinner onto the rare velvet carpet, and if her neck wasn't already in danger, that might've sealed it. "Don't you both have chores?"

“W-we were joking.” One of them hid behind his broomstick. He must’ve known how many black eyes Ana had served to her peers between chores.

Back straightened, she marched the path of rainbow light cast by the lawstone panes, and she felt herself twist upside down with her stomach as she passed the crystal arches en route to the princess.

She would be lying if she wasn’t pondering the pressing question herself. Why? The few times she had interacted with the princess before, it had been curt responses and simple pleasantries, even if often in oddly private circumstances.

"What would you say a gravid ewe and a soldier have in common?" asked the Princess.

She stared up from within the clouded waters of her bath, only her shoulders and head poking through. Ana grew hot with embarrassment, but she was at liberty to answer. She considered the question a moment, and then said, "They're prey who cannot run. And they would perish if not protected by their herd."

The Princess thinned her eyes. "I see. How fascinating."

"Is that answer to your liking, Majesty?" Ana shifted in place.

The woman's thin lips curled upwards and she laid back in her bath to close her eyes. "I suppose. Dismissed."

"Servant, I cannot reach my hair. Tie it back, wouldn't you?"

The Princess was readying to leave for a ball. They tended to spare the servant's details, not deeming them important enough to communicate, and for that Ana agreed. She would much rather not busy herself with the goings on—anything that allowed her to stop thinking about House Garnedia.

Ana deftly pulled the locks back and twirled them into a knot. The left of the woman’s head was mostly hairless, where scar tissue crawled up her neck and temple. The Princess presented a jewel-adorned tie while she worked.

"I've considered shearing it all off. I can color it with chemical, too," she said. "Wouldn't that look grand?"

"As you say, Majesty. It would look beautiful on you."

The woman hummed in response, and kept her eyes focused on her face in the mirror. "I would much prefer that you refer to me as Princess."

"As you say, Maj— err, Princess."

Ana stood at the foot of the princess's bed, brandishing a burning castplate in the dead of night. Her nerves threatened to overtake her, but she reminded herself that this was an official order passed by the chamberlain.

She paced to the bedside and stared at the beautiful form of the woman, partially covered by strewn blankets. Hesitantly, she rocked the princess's shoulder, gradually more forcefully as she failed to wake.

Her eyes fluttered open and her pupils shot to Ana.

"Servant?" she hissed.

The sense that something was wrong flared up. She shriveled.

"Why have you dared to enter my room?"

"Your chamberlain, Princess." Ana spoke as quickly as possible. "She instructed me to wake you at midnight per your request."

"I made no such request."

Ana made the sickening realization that she had been fooled. That chamberlain hated her too,.and knowing how close she was with the princess, Ana knew that she outcompete her claim.

She tried to figure an escape from this situation. A cover. Some reason she could be here unannounced.

"You must be confused, poor girl," said the princess. She motioned to some stacked tomes lit by firelight. "Would you care to read me back to sleep before you go?"

Ana was a frantic pool of sweat and trembles as she fulfilled this request, throwing open a book she didn't understand; she had never quite gotten a hand of the empire’s runes. So, she frantically rattled off a childhood story while pretending to scan the pages just long enough for her to fly from the room with her casyplate in hand once snores again rose from the bedding.

Needless to say, she only trusted assignments from the steward from then on.

She wasn’t likely to be impressed with Ana from those few encounters alone, and certainly not that last one—she would believe those pervasive rumors of Ana's “troublesome attitude”. She was an efficient worker, but she took no joy in slavery. She performed her duties exactly as they were written and retreated to the servant quarters as early as possible each night.

The few times she had performed more elaborate strategies—a planned escape here, a disappearance there—they were always quashed by the falcon eyes of the steward. She had not been pinned to such crimes, but their suspicions undoubtedly remained.

“The Princess’s personal lapdog now, are we?” asked someone loitering far closer to the royal quarters than he should have been. Straight, black hair framed his sharp eyes.

“Don’t patronize me, Kitadani.”

“So says you, Ana.” Kitadani seemed to think the name tasted bitter, and that he had tried far better in the past. “But may I ask what you’re doing trying to claw your way up through her?”

Just as it was no secret that Ana wasn’t a favorite servant, it also was no secret that Dianthel the Seventeenth wasn’t a favorite princess. She was further from the core courtrooms than nearly any of the other royals, and according to the truly veteran members of the servantry, she wasn’t even the emperor’s blood daughter. They claim he adopted her to prevent the ridicule of an out-of-wedlock child, and passed her off as daughter of the late empress. Not that they could muster proof.

“She asked for me. I’m fulfilling my assigned duties and trying to forget about it,” said Ana.

“Just like you forgot your country?”

Suddenly realizing she’d been loitering too long, she exited the conversation at record pace. The man would spread his distrust to the other servants, no doubt. It almost made her look forward to being a lapdog, but she nearly vomited at the thought.

The castle inhabitants told wildly varied stories about the Seventeenth. She found a new hobby each week and never discarded any, leaving her quarters an endless yet chaotically ordered clutter, always permeating with a keenly human aroma. She wasn’t wholly unkind, but she was undeniably, unabashedly selfish. The Seventeeth Round was one of the least-desirable organizations in the entire castle, which was why Ana was employed there after originally being assigned to the Sixth.

She hated that term. Employed.