The Princess and the Pe(nis)

The intercom buzzed, its shrill bleat cutting through the Prime Minister’s brooding.

"She’s arrived, sir."

He exhaled through his nose. Forty-five fucking minutes late. Who the hell did she think she was? The Queen? Oh, wait—

He smoothed his expression into statesmanlike calm. "Let her in."

The heavy oak doors groaned open, and in she strutted Princess Arabella, twenty-third in line to the throne, though you’d think she was already wearing the crown from the way her chin tilted up. She flopped into the chair opposite his desk without waiting for an invitation, her designer dress rustling like a displeased cat.

"You summoned me?" she hissed, her slightly bucked teeth giving the words a wet, petulant edge.

The Prime Minister studied her. Blonde ringlets framed an oval face that had never known a day of real hardship. Her eyes an odd, shifting mix of blue and green (probably from centuries of aristocratic inbreeding, he mused) glittered with disdain. And yet, beneath that expensive fabric, she was undeniably fit. Plump tits, a tight waist, an arse that had probably never sat on anything less than silk.

He stood abruptly, turning his back to hide the smirk tugging at his lips.

"As you’re aware, the country no, the planet is in crisis. And we need your help."

Arabella snorted. "What’s it got to do with me? It’s not my fault the plebs can’t knock up their ugly poor women."

The Prime Minister sighed. Time to play the history card. "Your ancestors rallied for the greater good. Your great-great-grandmother was a mechanic during the Second World War. The royals have always been… role models."

Arabella rolled her eyes. "Oh, very well. You want me to do some charity TikTok? A twee little broadcast about how ‘supportive’ we are? You didn’t need to drag me here for that." She made to stand.

The Prime Minister turned, letting his grin unfurl like a blade.

"No, Princess. We need you to be hands-on."

A beat. Her perfectly plucked brows twitched.

"We need you to volunteer at a clinic. Assist the nurses in… extracting the necessary samples."

Arabella’s mouth fell open. "You want me to—"

"Let me be blunt," he interrupted, savouring every syllable. "You’ll announce on social media that you’re volunteering. You’ll be personally helping men produce semen. We’ll hold a lottery a pound a ticket, proceeds to charity. The winner gets to be your first. After that, you’ll stay on. Think of the PR!"

Her face contorted. "I won’t do it! Fuck the commoners! I’m a princess!"

The Prime Minister’s smile turned glacial. The gloves were off.

"Listen carefully," he purred. "Refuse, and the Crown’s protection vanishes. All those little ‘parties’ where someone ‘accidentally’ overdosed? The drunk driving? The **** on that paparazzo? The press will have every detail. You’ll be in a cell by Christmas."

Silence. Arabella’s chest rose and fell rapidly.

"My father won’t allow this," she whispered. "I’ll speak to him, and—"

"It was his idea."

Her jaw dropped. "That… pervy swine."

The Prime Minister picked up a remote. The BBC News flickered to life on the screen behind him. A reporter struggled to keep a straight face as she read:

"Breaking news: A new national lottery has been announced. The prize? A… private session with Princess Arabella at a sample clinic."

He muted it. Arabella’s hands clenched in her lap.

"When," she said, voice hollow, "do I start?"