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Woman's dominant father mistakes her for sexy celebrity.

As the moon rose, he pointed out the lands below, the silver ribbons of the rivers, the dark shadows of the forests and the red dots of faraway fires, each a small haven of safety in an inky black night.

A silence - just the sound of cicadas chirping nearby - and then:

"I promised you a surprise"

* * * * *

They descended a spiral stone staircase, and he led her by the hand into a small room. The tapestries on one wall were illuminated by a bank of candles on the wall opposite. They were alone.

At the far end a single throne glimmered with gold. It was ornately carved, it sat on a dais of burgundy and jade.

He took the princess's hand delicately, elegantly holding hers on top of his, and led her towards it. "Your throne, your highness"

He enjoyed how quickly her expression changed from pride to shame, as she spied the finger-length protrusion of finest ivory just behind the centre of the velvet seat - and as she realised just where it would penetrate.

She noticed the silken bonds dangling from the armrests - and something else, a strange wooden contraption on the floor below the dais, just a few footsteps in front of the throne. It looked like some kind of spanking bench, she thought, suddenly recalling the details of the austere punishment room of her youth.

He reached behind her to undo her gown, which dropped silently around her feet. She stood naked in front of him without complaint. He spoke softly, but firmly.

"Please, be seated, highness..."

She hesitated, then stepped up onto the dais with as much dignity as she could manage. The throne's gilded craftsmanship was exquisite, but her eyes were irresistibly drawn back to the bone-white ivory protrusion in the middle of the seat; it was as wide as her thumb, as long as her index finger, with a subtle curve, and there could be little doubt about its purpose. She knelt over the throne, and took the ivory finger in her mouth, her tongue feeling every sculpted groove as she moistened it.

She stood and faced him, her arousal obvious, before stepping backwards and beginning to sit. She supported her weight on the armrests as she lowered herself towards the ivory finger, then she felt it, cool and damp, poking between her bottom cheeks. She raised herself slightly, feeling the finger trace down her crevice, until it touched her arsehole. She pushed against it, gasping as she felt the cold, hard protrusion slide inside her. As her legs quivered, she dropped the remaining short distance, fully impaling herself on her new throne of shame.

She sat upright, regally, her posture immaculate. But he easily saw behind her pretence of elegance, she could not conceal her abasement as she squirmed disgracefully upon her throne's protuberance. He stepped onto the dais and bound her wrists to the armrests with the silken ties, then parted her legs to bind each ankle to the throne. His fingers glanced across her lips as he dabbed the damp patch of velvet between her thighs, tsking at her lack of self-control.

Fettered and immobile, she felt the pleasure of impalement spread from her arse to her crotch. She imagined a bonfire spitting hot embers towards a pan of gunpowder, realising the inevitability of an explosion...

But what he said next shocked her.

"Is this really how a princess should behave?"

She stared back, open-mouthed.

"What kind of princess wanders in rags, in the wilderness?

What kind of princess impales herself so readily?

What kind of princess soaks her own throne with her arousal?"

Dumbstruck, she let his words sink in.

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