A Cracked Jewel Outshines a Stone

She had caused this woman to be born anew. She had taught her pleasures beyond even a devil's temptation.

She. Her. Dianthel. The Seventeenth Heir.

It was she that ruled the world.

She ripped her hand from the servant's overworked cunt and and positioned herself at the edge of the bed. Finally, her desires crystalized. She laid her throbbing cock against her lips without offering her time to rest. Though, she paused just long enough to compare her length with the girl's torso—she would be unable to perceive anything else.

Dianthel was tired of waiting. She slathered herself with fluid, to which there was so much spread across the girl's lower half that she didn't bother retrieving oil from the dresser. She angled herself. Her heart stopped when her tip glanced into the battered entrance.

All thought escaped her. She jerked her hips forward… and missed.

Dianthel's cock slipped and glided across her, grinding so deep into her wet surface. The split lips wrapped around and begged for her. She nearly roared at being teased, being denied what she so deeply deserved. But that was not her. She was a respectable, put together princess, not given to such uncouthness.

"Last chance, servant," she breathed. "Just say a single word. I will untie you, give you new clothes, and open that door."

"P-prin— cess—" she tried.

"That isn't a 'stop'," said Dianthel as she sawed her cock back and forth, agonizingly slowly.

"I c-can't—"

She seized the woman's face and planted herself close enough to see her soul through her eyes. "Tell. Me. To. Stop."

But she simply pursed her lips, closed her eyes, and twisted her head away.

Dianthel had had enough. She saw red. Her strong hips reared back, her cock aligned with the entrance, and she slammed herself inside her servant in one single, powerful thrust.

A triumphant roar announced her conquest of the single greatest pleasure she had ever experienced. The girl's insides tried to become one with her, squeezing her so tight in search of her stored essence. Rhythmic motions as she ground in place touched every part of her and nearly made Dianthel faint on the steps of heaven.

And the girl? She was quiet. Her teeth held together, and she had managed to withhold all but the weakest of noises even as she was thoroughly taken.

It withdrew true, instinctual fury from somewhere deep in Dianthel. She wasted no time in drawing back until the head was barely past her lips and followed the first with a second, even greater blow. This wasn't lovemaking, and there was no graduation. She was fucking the girl as hard as her body would allow.

"Say something, you slut!" she screamed. A groan of pleasure gripped her. "You act like you despise this, but I know you lie. I have given you multiple chances. I am a gracious princess. And you threw away— Every. Single. One."

With each word, a hard thrust. She savored the impacts of her thighs against the woman's flexed ass, and the tightness in her balls as the cunt swallowed her whole.

Every fold, every texture, Dianthel felt it all. Her hips drove as deep as possible in the hopes that she could reach the girl's womb and fully claim her.

The servant was molding her shape to the cock that belonged inside her. She squirmed and jerked more in reflex than in response. Raspy moans spilled from her without enthusiasm, and it only made Dianthel strike harder and harder and harder.

"Goddess, you are so tight for me. You took me in so easily, yet you cannot let me go," said Dianthel. She was clearly loosened from past trysts. Perhaps it had been some time since she was properly dicked, but she was malleable.

"Gnnh." That was the servant's only contribution.

"Say something, you bitch! Say you love it!"

And knowing she would refuse, Dianthel pierced her again hoping that she would hurt. But no matter how rough she became, how barbaric her hip motions were, how deep in her core she penetrated, the servant girl took it.

Why?

Why didn't it feel like she was winning?

She grew so incensed that it took all of her rationality just to stay conscious. Her hands wandered up the woman's rocking body and seized her exposed breasts. Her nails dug in and she ground the erect nipples beneath her palms. Dianthel plunged towards the girl's neck and dug her teeth in with enough force that blood swirled with the sweat on her lips.

She had no skilled motions, that much she was aware. She was simply tearing away at this woman like a prey's carcass, devouring everything she could take and leaving her marks as a warning. Though she slipped and snagged and had to reorient herself over and over, Dianthel never let her assault cease.

Another orgasm rocked the servant. Dianthel had barely been paying attention to her, but the sudden convulsing inside her rolled like waves over her buried cock. Singing was the only way she could express the consummate emotions overtaking her.

Dianthel gave her no respite and fucked her well through her peak. She was being more talkative again—unable to deny what she truly felt, how much she had goaded the princess into giving her this. She was truly conniving. And Dianthel would concede that much, if only she could finally defeat this horrible, rebellious little whore once and for all.

She felt it deep in her lower half. It had been building this entire time, and its sheer weight terrified her. She couldn't control it, but then again, she didn't want to control it.

She pounded faster, faster, faster, fasterfasterfasterfasterfasterfaster! What thoughts in her head! With little room left in her mind for the musings of a princess, and with only a few reservations, she let herself go.

"I want to breed you," she uttered as it built further. "I want you to be with child over and over."

What was she saying? She couldn't hear herself, as the only noise remaining in her senses was a cacophony of beastly statements and promises.

Dianthel gripped her hard and tight with her entire body while still slamming into her. The girl did not struggle any more.

"Would that be lovely? Your own royal bastards. None would know the truth but us."

The pressure in her balls multiplied until it was unbearable. Her thrusts became instant, each forcing a whimper from the servant. She had to release it. She would burst if she couldn't deliver her essence deep into this dumb servant girl's womb. That was Dianthel's purpose. Not to rule the empire, or win over her father, or learn the sciences, or look pretty for old, disgusting dukes. No. She was exactly where she belonged.

Fucking this girl until they became one.

"Almost—" She struggled for breath. "—get ready, servant. A-accept my g— my gift."

Faster. Harder. Deeper. Her cock was aflame and this girl was the stones that fed it.

She wanted to see her. Dianthel grabbed her again and aligned her face-to-face. She wanted to see the ecstasy written all over her and hear her surrendering cries as she was filled to the brim. Her unrestrained emotions carved into her face.

It was just like in her mother's stories. When the couples joined in union, they became inseparable. It was a profession of love, and just as she endured sensations of impossible brilliance, she wanted to see this girl feeling the same. No, she needed—

The servant was crying.

Her eyes were shut and tears flowed down her cheeks to meet the drying blood from her wounds on the sheets below. She said nothing, but her chest was wracked with motions as she coughed up sobs.

Dianthel slowed. "W-what? Servant?"

The princess came to an agonizing halt, yet the woman's sorrow only deepened. She quietly wailed like a child.

"Why… why are you crying? What is happening?"

Suddenly, Dianthel wasn't particularly excited anymore, and despite her cock aching to release, her confusion—or something worse—overshadowed the arousal that had driven her forward. She was fully cognizant again, fully rational.

"Quiet down, servant," she tried. "What are you even sad about?"

This should have dammed the flow, but instead the dikes burst. She was a slack corpse all over and yet overflowing with uncomfortable emotion like she was living too much at once. Her nose leaked and she was sweating up a storm—it was exciting before, but now it was… something else.

"I said quiet! I command you to—!" Dianthel's frustration caused her to slip free from the girl and a shiver tied her tongue. She was softening by the moment.

None of her protests had any effect. Most just kindled the sorrowful flame.

As she watched this girl wail like a child despite every order to stop, she came to a number of unfortunate realizations.

Something had gone terribly awry.

Dianthel was somehow its cause.

And princess as she was, she hadn't the slightest clue how to fix it.

She leapt from the bed and made to untie the ribbons. Once the servant's limbs were freed, the woman did not move or try to escape as. With the slack offered, she simply curled up into the bedding and dampened her cries with its fibers.

A princess should not panic. It was socially unbecoming and ultimately useless on the path of solving a problem. But, given that she wasn't a particularly successful princess, Dianthel was internally unsurprised at her state of unfocus. The cold was unbearable now. She rummaged through her drawers to clothe herself, only to lose her way in the winding array of closets and dressers that she hadn't personally opened in months. An unfitting nightshirt, some uncomfortable old boyshorts. She hastily clothed herself and paced the upended room, constantly whipping her head over to the dreadful figure.

Had she not eaten? The servants sometimes complained about their rations. She set her uneaten meal tray at the edge of the bed.

Was she ovulating? Dianthel had been overcome with the idea of impregnating her, but perhaps it was an emotional response in excess? She could have demanded that the apothecary ride to the fortress and provide them something to treat hysteria, but that would be by morning at least.

Was Dianthel… too much?

No. No, of course not. No.

It was true that she was more… unrestrained than the lovers in her mother's romances, but the players of those parts weren't servant and royal—they weren't opposed by nature.

The servant would have overtaken her had she let her guard down, at any point, and she wouldn’t allow herself to be trampled. For Goddess sake, she had jumped to attack her! This was the game they played, one that Dianthel had proudly won. It had simply… escalated.

Yes. That was it.

She slumped down in front of the lawstone panel. Its colors had all but burned up, leaving nothing but castplates to light the room.

The servant occupied a royal bed, but she was allowed to rest there for a time. At some point the girl's sobs slowed until all Dianthel could hear was her own uneven breathing. Maybe she had fallen asleep.

Dianthel couldn't say the same.

She was awake until morning.

Ana wasn’t used to dreaming.

Since being drawn into service to the imperial house, she couldn’t remember even one—before this. It was a blessing to be whisked away each night and know, even if she couldn’t perceive her own moments of transience, that she could be free from herself for a few scant hours.

This time was different.

She felt it over and over and over and over and over again; it never ceased, and she had no means of escaping, no matter how unbearable the sensations became or how far she spiraled into a depth of loneliness. Every barrier she had ever constructed around herself burst like agitated lawstones and none of her was safe. It wasn’t just her body. Her skull was operated on like a surgeon and all the hidden, uncomfortable thoughts that she had expertly stowed away were ripped out by her.

Her.

She was everywhere. Her face, her hips, her thighs, her shoulders, her hands, her cock. She was a disease that Ana was conscious of carying; she was aware of its every move inside and outside her. None of her was unsoiled and she couldn’t imagine staring at her reflection. She’d know exactly where she had been breached and wanted to scrub it away until her skin gave way to muscle and bone. She was disgusting.

Throughout the dark eternity she ran, only to be caught over and over. Only to be handled and entered and destroyed. Each insult played like a ballad’s constant reprise.

She wanted to escape.

Anywhere but here was better.

But she ran herself to exhaustion in her dream, having made no distance from the cold bed when she finally escaped to a worse reality.

The room was dull with faded light, inside which dust motes lazily explored. Ana managed to lift her head enough to scan for danger.

Trinkets were strewn about, books were torn and strewn, the crown pedestal was empty, and there was little about the floor that was unmarked. Clothes had been strewn about and assorted books layed open on the floor.

She dozed, fully clothed, beneath the dead lawstone panel like a limp carcass.

Ana rose from the bed—there was residue covering her legs, nethers, stomach, and face, that she nearly vomited thinking about. Standing was a dizzying affair, motion was sickening thereafter, and each stride agitated scabbed wounds on her side, thigh, and throat, but she mustered herself to dredge through the broken quarters.

She picked up the discarded saber without thinking. Her pace increased and she drew her arm back as she came upon the woman’s sleeping form.

Only one word formulate at the center of her jumbled thoughts; it was far louder than anything else.

Die.

Die.

Die.

She would have thrust it directly through the streaked burns crawling across the woman’s heart, if she even had one hiding in that chest of hers, had she not realized that the princess’s eyes were wide open and focused on the swordpoint.

Ana’s wrist trembled so hard that the weapon dropped from her grasp to clatter on the crystal tile. She collapsed to her knees directly in front of the Princess and prepared herself for torture, execution, or worse—she had already experienced worse.

“Forgive me, Princess.” Ana spoke dispassionately. “I will accept whatever punishment you desire.”

It was an understated response to threatening to murder someone of royal blood. But she no longer had the strength to care.

“I do not wish to punish you,” said the Princess.

“Please.”

“No, servant. Honest.”

Why should she believe anything this woman said? She was so convinced that Ana was a liar, she had repeated that numerous times. Neither of them took initiative to punish or be punished, and Ana was trembling so hard that her teeth and eyes might shake out of her head. She had already resigned herself to knowing where her fate lay.

"You are crying again," said the Princess, flatly.

Ana wiped her cheek with a finger and realized she was. How strange.

"Answer me, servant. Why?"

"Why?" she croaked out. She had half a mind to pass out and kill herself by a fit of laughter. "I'm sorry, Princess. I don't wish to be a burden. Just do it."

"I will not do anything to you! I want you to explain yourself. I command it."

She had never been more confused by a question. The princess had forced herself upon her, taken her apart piece by piece, insulted her, restrained her, hurt her, and she only had the mind to ask why she was crying? It's not as if she could answer if she wanted. Everything she could say now was in itself a death sentence, a betrayal of the imperial crown and those horribly lucky fools who had been born to wear it. If she said nothing, her life might last a few seconds longer.

The princess curled her knees to her chest and refused to meet her eye. "This wasn't how it was supposed to play out. I read so many stories and they all felt right, but I don’t believe… I enjoyed what we did last night. I cannot stop thinking about it. Even though the pleasure was—” She noticed Ana’s pained grimace and declined to continue. “It is not a favorable memory. Tell me why that is.”

“It isn’t my place, Princess,” whispered Ana.

“Goddess, you are impossible,” she whined. Shoulders tensed, she shot to her feet, displaying herself once again. Ana prepared for the strike, but the woman moved no farther than a displeased glance. “What must I pay to make you talk? You’re trying my patience.”

“Princess, I— I can’t— I—”

A sharp knock on the door made both of them jolt to attention. Ana was frozen in place, but the Princess sauntered towards the door and stood before its cracked face. “State your business.”

“Majesty, your crown is being melded by a royal gemsmith. The repairs will unfortunately take a few days.” It was the steward’s booming voice, stern but level.

“Yes, wonderful. I was quite careless handling it.”

“Nonsense, Majesty. It is our pleasure to serve you. May we provide your breakfast?”

“I am feeling quite unwell and would prefer not to be disturbed today.”

“As you say.” And though he seemed to disappear, his voice reappeared moments later. “My apologies, Majesty. A servant has gone missing who reportedly delivered your dinner last night. Would you be aware of her whereabouts?”

She shifted her gaze to Ana and mulled for a moment, before barking at the door, “Why would I keep track of your servants? Have you misplaced her?”

“No, Majesty. My mistake. Please forgive me.”

And the steward was gone, leaving them alone together. The princess leaned on the edge of the bed and crossed her arms.

“But, I broke your crown, Princess,” said Ana.

For whatever reason, Ana was still alive. Furthermore, she was being protected within this torturous space—it was the one place she would rather not be, yet she would be stupid to forsake this offering.

“Are you daft?”

“If you believe I am, Princess.” She was trained. Always affirm the princess.

“Are all servants like this?”

“Yes, Princess.” She was trained. Always affirm the princess.

“Then, I order you to stop talking to me like a servant. Believe me when I say that I wish to discuss this matter personally. Not with a servant. Not as a princess. I decline to hold you in contempt.”

She held out her hand to mirror the extended branch of peace. Ana did not take it, or not directly. Curling up on herself, she muttered insane nothings to try to decide if this was even real, or if she was better off grabbing that sword again and making regicide a hobby. Eventually, she said, “As you say.”

“Were you pleasured by our, erm, encounter last night?”

Ana’s breath quickened. “No.”

“Why?”

“Princess, what do you—”

“Not as a princess,” she repeated.

It was a herculean effort just to muster up enough life in her throat to speak. She had never spoken anything that could be reasonably called truth to a member of the imperial house, and as if she was suddenly standing on the roof, all of the rules, along with her guts, were inside-out. She could smell her own blood welling up her head. Every other interaction with any of the princes and princesses had a script, and now she was being asked to improvise where her life depended on it.