Beatrice, the princess royal, a young beauty of sixteen years, appeared in her mother's breakfast room dressed for tennis. She kissed her mother, well aware of the woman's freshly-fucked appearance, and stepped back, having practiced what she planned to say.
"May I use one of your guards now and then?"
The queen blinked at her, thought about the boy who had driven his huge phallus into her less than fifteen minutes before, and said, "Of course, my dear. But be careful. They can be habit forming."
The girl nodded. "My maids are doing their best, and I have been using the wonderful toys you gave me and reading those stories. But, well, I think I need a bit more, a real cock."
"Say penis, dear, or member. Don't be common."
The girl nodded. "Sorry."
"Just call the captain when you are ready; tell him where and when, and he will send the next one on his schedule. Never choose one by name, understand? They are, theoretically all the same."
The girl nodded and licked her lips. She had been allowed to observe the last swearing in of new members of the Queens' Own Lancers, as the palace guard was properly known. The novices had appeared before her mother naked, gleaming with oil, their phalluses fully engorged but not aroused, looking like foot-long clubs, hanging limply, sausages. Tumescent was the word someone told her.
Her mother had anointed both men's long members, and they had knelt and sworn their fealty as their huge male organs rose and then, right there on the steps, they had mounted and horsed two of her handmaidens, stood and backed away with the writhing girls impaled on their rearing horns. It had made the girl very wet between her legs and given her several nightmares.
An hour later when Beatrice returned from her tennis lesson, she gathered her courage and called the guard captain, told him who she was and asked for a man to come her guest bedroom in a half-hour.
"It will be done," the voice on the phone said.
Beatrice pinned up her long, blonde hair and showered, leaning against the tiled wall and massaging her vulva lips carefully when she was done. She toweled herself dry, thinking of her deflowering by her late father.
It had been exciting but not altogether pleasant.
Now she donned a light robe and white slippers, picked up one of the gold reward tokens she had been told to give to the lancer if he pleased her and walked to the guest bedroom at the end of the hall, eager for male comfort.
The man who appeared, knocked, entered, clicked his heels and bowed, was tall and rather rugged looking. They all were tall and she knew, she had even seen, they all were famously endowed. She had been told that twenty centimeters was the minimum, had looked at her ruler and tried to imagine a thick pole eight inches long being driven into her guts.
"Your name?" she asked the man, trying not to stare at his bulging codpiece.
"James, Miss," he said. "Your pleasure?"
"Yes, James, sexual congress; come and make love to me." She was proud that her voice was steady, and she crossed her legs and watched him disrobe quickly, tossing his uniform on the room's only chair. He sat to pull off his boots and then turned his back toward her to pulled down his britches and multistrapped underwear, designed to help him keep his erect penis upright when he was on duty at her mother's door. His buttocks were heavily muscled.
When he turned to face her, she almost screamed, but put her hand to her lips and stood. His tool was fully engorged, standing upright on his muscular body, looking as thick as her wrist and as long as her forearm. In fact it was both.
James smiled. She was lithe and lovely, unlike most of the females he had to serve including her rapacious mother. Conjugal sessions with the queen took a full day for recovery and then most men were sore for a week afterwards.
James untied the bow at the girl's throat as she smiled up at him, spread her very light gown and watched it slither down her lean, pink body. He felt his ram quiver and pump up lubricant, pre-ejaculant, as her pink nipples pointed up at him. He bent and kissed one lightly.
"Since I have been told that you have not used Lancers previously, may I suggest the seventh position, Miss. It will keep my weight off your body. I go about a hundred kilos you know."
.... There is more of this story ...