My robe was in a pile behind me now, and I leaned forward, staring down at her, reaching for the collar chained to the bedpost nearest to her, used to keep non-royal consorts in their place. I examined her from there, eyeing her slim legs, shapely rump, well-toned arms, and breasts of a healthy size, covered by a semiformal black dress, the skirt of which reached halfway down her thighs. “Dan,” I demanded. The water was clean but fires still kept the palace alight. She pulled her hair aside from her drenched forehead and leaned back, shivering and convulsing. She gazed up thankfully, sheepishly. Her hair was as red as the fire she reached for, skin pale and soft as the moonlight spilling through the stained glass windows, several years younger than I. My father wasn’t known for his prudence, as all men in power seem not to be. Our continent had broken off from the world some decades ago, giving us a diverse population (for which I was very thankful) and left us with some modern conveniences and the fashion sense of the old world, but not much more. As much as I wanted to let her taste, it felt like my duty to take her more…
