Broken Chastity: Virgin Princess's Slutification
Copyright© 2026 by Thomas Spencer
Chapter 3
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3 - In the medieval Kingdom of Francia, eighteen-year-old Princess Christina has lived a sheltered life, proudly upholding a childhood vow of chastity that keeps her pure in body and mind. Sex is a mystery to her—until Sir Aldric, the towering, battle-hardened Head of the King's Guard, returns to court.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Fa ft Mult Teenagers Consensual Reluctant Romantic Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Sharing BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Rough Spanking Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Cream Pie First Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Squirting Voyeurism AI Generated
Christina was in the dim chapel alcove, the faint glow of candles flickering across the stone walls. The air smelled of old incense and wax, heavy and close. She was completely naked, her pale skin prickling in the cool draft, nothing on her body except the thin silver cross on its chain, resting between her small breasts and swaying gently with her quick breaths. She didn’t know how she’d gotten there, but she was bent over the wooden desk—the same one she’d seen Sister Agnes on—her hands gripping the far edge, forehead nearly pressed to the scarred surface, ass pushed high and vulnerable. Her legs trembled slightly, spread just enough to feel exposed, every inch of her open to the shadows behind.
Sir Aldric’s presence loomed, his boots heavy on the floor as he circled slow. His voice came rough, low, like thunder rolling in from far off. “You’ve been spying on me, Princess. Peeking through doors, watching in the gardens. You thought I wouldn’t notice.”
Her heart pounded, a mix of shame and something hotter flooding her. She couldn’t speak at first, just breathed shallow.
“Answer me,” he growled, closer now. “You’ve been a very bad girl, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” she whispered, voice shaky, already thick with that ache she knew too well now.
“Louder. Say it proper.”
“I ... I have been a very bad girl,” she moaned, the words dragging out breathy, her body shifting back without meaning to.
He stepped right up behind her, heat radiating off him. “Again. And mean it.”
“I have been a very baaad girl...” It came louder, laced with a needy moan, her hips wiggling just a fraction.
“Keep going.”
“I have been a very bad girl!” Lustier this time, almost desperate, her voice echoing soft in the alcove. “A very ... bad ... girl...”
His hands finally settled on her hips—big, rough palms squeezing firm, fingers digging into her soft flesh hard enough to bruise. The touch sent fire straight through her.
“I have been a baaaad girrrl!”
She woke screaming it, the sound raw and broken in her quiet chambers. “I have been a baaaad girrrl!” Her body was already on fire, convulsing as the orgasm hit mid-wake. This time, she didn’t hesitate—hand shoving straight under her nightgown, fingers finding her soaked pussy, rubbing frantic circles over her swollen clit.
“Ahhh ... oh God ... yes!” The moans poured out long and loud, her hips bucking hard off the bed. She pressed two fingers inside herself right away, pumping fast while her thumb worked the clit, the wet sounds obscene in the silence. Squirting started almost immediately—powerful gushes spraying out around her hand, soaking the sheets in hot pulses. “Unhh ... ahhh ... bad girl ... unh...” She rubbed harder, chasing it, drawing out every wave—another squirt, stronger, splashing up her thighs and belly. Her free hand clutched her breast, pinching the nipple sharp, twisting as the pleasure built again. Sweat poured off her, hair sticking to her face, cross necklace tangled against her skin.
It rolled on for ages, her fingers never slowing—slipping in and out, curling to hit that spot inside that made her see stars, thumb grinding relentless. “Ohhh ... more ... please...” Moans turned to whimpers, then cries as another peak hit, squirting in forceful jets that drenched everything anew, her body shaking violent. She kept going through the aftershocks, fingers slowing to soft strokes, milking the last drops until she finally collapsed, gasping ragged, hand still cupped between her legs. The bed was a wreck again, sheets twisted and soaked through. This had been happening every night for a full week now—waking like this, body demanding, her vow crumbling a little more each time. She whispered prayers through tears, but they felt hollow against the lingering throb.
Morning came, and she dragged herself through the routine—maids changing linens with raised eyebrows she ignored, prayers in the chapel that left her distracted, staring at the very desk from her visions.
Lunch was a family affair in the sunlit hall, tapestries bright on the walls. Eleanor sat across from her, glowing as always, her dark hair pinned elegantly, laughing at something Lord Geoffrey said. “Oh, my love, you’re too kind,” she cooed, leaning over to kiss his cheek, her hand resting affectionate on his arm. He beamed back, mild and doting, passing her a plate of roasted fowl. “Anything for you, darling.” Their boys’ antics came up—Eleanor recounting tales with warm smiles, touching her husband’s hand now and then, the picture of marital bliss. Christina forced conversation, smiling tight, but nothing betrayed her sister’s secrets. Eleanor seemed utterly innocent, devoted even.
By late afternoon, Christina retreated to her chambers, the weight of the week pressing heavy. She tried reading, embroidery—anything to distract. But the ache built slow and insistent, wetness gathering until her smallclothes clung uncomfortable.