He did not stop.
Like an animal. Like a dog. His body continued— his hand on the maid, his hips thrusting forward, his groin pressing against her ass. The motion was instinctive. The motion of a body that is trying to fuck and that does not know that it cannot.
The maid cried.
She was on the bed. Her dress torn. Her panty torn. Her pubic hair pulled. Her body pinned. The prince— the vegetable, the thing, the screaming, convulsing, cockless ruin— was grinding against her ass. His scarred groin pressed against her. The friction— rough, painful, the scarred skin against her raw, pulled flesh.
"PLEASE—!" she sobbed. "PLEASE, KNIGHTS—! HELP ME—! IT HURTS—! HE IS— PLEASE—!"
The door opened.
"His Royal Highness, the Crown Prince!"
The announcement was loud. Formal. The voice of a herald. The words echoed in the chamber.
Everyone stopped.
