Gendered pronouns for the prince, YC, are irrelevant. We can change it for the RP to be whatever you'd like. I'm an advanced-novella writer and expect the same from my partners. I have writing samples I'll share in addition to whatever's on my profile.
A usurped royal is turned into a freehouse whore; at this very moment they've been brought to a cozy, faraway plantation by a formerly loyal vassal of theirs to serve them. Do not expect or request extreme kinks in this story. All 'vanilla' kinks are things I'm happy with; this is meant to be a short-term, at best, episodic, story.
It’s morning when the prince is roused out of bed, bathed, and dressed. The water is warm on Philippe’s estate, the room afforded to him nearly as comfortable and ease of living as the palace had been with a humble amount of servants waiting to serve him at a moment’s notice. The marshal had always been an austere man, a proper roundhead that pushed endlessly for the cutting of unnecessary expenses. Many had hoped for those qualities to rub off on the king’s son so that they might be spared yet another generation of failed promises and unpaid debts. Even with how much of a disappointment (YC) had been the old warrior had been at his side all the way to the end, hardfaced and steadfast all the way from the declaration of war to the chambers of the new sovereign of the realm, face flushed with rage at the disrespect shown to their rightful Lord.
That was probably why the prince enjoyed privileges uncompared when Philippe summoned him. He’s had clients with gentler hands and cocks than the soldierly aristocrat- he’s not much different than anyone else when he’s inside one of the prince’s holes, but the man always had a flare for romantic gestures. (YC) had spent three weeks with him, quietly sequestered away from his apartment at the whorehouse and brought to a faraway, quiet plot of land so that Philippe could enjoy his company.
The sun isn’t quite up when they meet on the cliff overlooking the man’s sharecrops; miles of sugar, salt, and cotton worked by sleepy men and women that had gotten just as little sleep as the prince had. Only Philippe looks fresh-faced, lounging in a chair he’d obviously dragged out himself, one that (YC) would’ve struggled to even pick up, much less carry what must’ve been for a half an hour walk. The man isn’t in the prime of his youth anymore, but he’s close, looking fit and glowing as the first warm breaths of the sun manage to reach them over the valley they now overlook. He has a coffee in one hand, holding one with so much carefulness that it’s obvious who it’s for. He’s practically glowing when he sees the prince, and it’s hard not to notice that he’s aroused with the way he’s facing, though he doesn’t seem ashamed of it. It’s obvious what he wants. He hadn’t chosen this place, at this time of day, for no reason. Already the laborers are taking notice of them, most tipping their hats in greeting to their Lord, and others casting curious look towards the boy they’d only ever seen in passing.
Philippe doesn’t order (YC) to suck his cock yet though. He enjoys playing games, whether it be when he’d taught the prince chess, or moments like these.
Instead, he only offers the prince a cup of what will undoubtedly be divine cafe, speaking after a clearly faked yawn.
“This harvest promises to be a good one. We should be seeing the last of the protests this year, Your Majesty.”
Food had been hard to come by after he’d been overthrown. With those two sentences, Philippe dashed the last bit of hope that the people would rise up and put him back into power.
A usurped royal is turned into a freehouse whore; at this very moment they've been brought to a cozy, faraway plantation by a formerly loyal vassal of theirs to serve them. Do not expect or request extreme kinks in this story. All 'vanilla' kinks are things I'm happy with; this is meant to be a short-term, at best, episodic, story.
It’s morning when the prince is roused out of bed, bathed, and dressed. The water is warm on Philippe’s estate, the room afforded to him nearly as comfortable and ease of living as the palace had been with a humble amount of servants waiting to serve him at a moment’s notice. The marshal had always been an austere man, a proper roundhead that pushed endlessly for the cutting of unnecessary expenses. Many had hoped for those qualities to rub off on the king’s son so that they might be spared yet another generation of failed promises and unpaid debts. Even with how much of a disappointment (YC) had been the old warrior had been at his side all the way to the end, hardfaced and steadfast all the way from the declaration of war to the chambers of the new sovereign of the realm, face flushed with rage at the disrespect shown to their rightful Lord.
That was probably why the prince enjoyed privileges uncompared when Philippe summoned him. He’s had clients with gentler hands and cocks than the soldierly aristocrat- he’s not much different than anyone else when he’s inside one of the prince’s holes, but the man always had a flare for romantic gestures. (YC) had spent three weeks with him, quietly sequestered away from his apartment at the whorehouse and brought to a faraway, quiet plot of land so that Philippe could enjoy his company.
The sun isn’t quite up when they meet on the cliff overlooking the man’s sharecrops; miles of sugar, salt, and cotton worked by sleepy men and women that had gotten just as little sleep as the prince had. Only Philippe looks fresh-faced, lounging in a chair he’d obviously dragged out himself, one that (YC) would’ve struggled to even pick up, much less carry what must’ve been for a half an hour walk. The man isn’t in the prime of his youth anymore, but he’s close, looking fit and glowing as the first warm breaths of the sun manage to reach them over the valley they now overlook. He has a coffee in one hand, holding one with so much carefulness that it’s obvious who it’s for. He’s practically glowing when he sees the prince, and it’s hard not to notice that he’s aroused with the way he’s facing, though he doesn’t seem ashamed of it. It’s obvious what he wants. He hadn’t chosen this place, at this time of day, for no reason. Already the laborers are taking notice of them, most tipping their hats in greeting to their Lord, and others casting curious look towards the boy they’d only ever seen in passing.
Philippe doesn’t order (YC) to suck his cock yet though. He enjoys playing games, whether it be when he’d taught the prince chess, or moments like these.
Instead, he only offers the prince a cup of what will undoubtedly be divine cafe, speaking after a clearly faked yawn.
“This harvest promises to be a good one. We should be seeing the last of the protests this year, Your Majesty.”
Food had been hard to come by after he’d been overthrown. With those two sentences, Philippe dashed the last bit of hope that the people would rise up and put him back into power.