by royal decree

The black government limousine glided to a stop outside the Manchester clinic, its tinted windows reflecting the grimy brick façade like a funhouse mirror. Princess Arabella Windsor-Smythe stared out at the cracked asphalt parking lot, her upper lip curling.

Of course they sent me here.

The clinic had been "randomly selected" for her royal visit a transparent PR stunt to show solidarity with the commoners. But Arabella knew the truth, this was punishment. Punishment for her father's outspoken opposition to the Prime Minister's emergency powers. Punishment for her family's refusal to quietly disappear into irrelevance.

Her bodyguard opened the door.

Before she could step out, a sweaty, wheezing figure waddled toward the car. His suit was two sizes too small, his wig a tragic brown mop that slid sideways as he bowed.

"Your Royal Highness! What an honour! I'm Graham Peabody, director of this—"

Arabella strode past him without breaking stride, her Louboutin's clicking against the pavement like gunshots. Behind her, Graham scrambled to keep up, his breath coming in wet, asthmatic bursts.

Inside, the clinic was worse than she'd imagined. Flickering fluorescent lights. Stained linoleum. A gaggle of so-called "nurses" lined up to greet her—a parade of sagging flesh and poorly concealed acne. Their uniforms strained against bulging stomachs and thick thighs, the cheap fabric doing nothing to disguise the sweat patches under their arms.

Something inside of her recoiled at the smell, a mixture of antiseptic and poor, "Time to do my bit for the greater good" she thought and did her best to smile

A marginally less repulsive woman in her late twenties stepped forward, hand outstretched. "I'm Nicole, senior extraction specialist. I'll be training you—"

Arabella didn't even glance at the offered hand. "Training me?" Her laugh was a razor wrapped in silk. "Tell me, Nicole did they teach you hand technique in nursing school? Or was that something you picked up in the back alleys of Bolton?"

Nicole's face flushed an ugly red. For one glorious moment, Arabella thought the woman might actually strike her, how delicious that would be, a treason charge to slap on this peasant, but Nicole clenched her fists and exhaled through her nose.

"With all due respect," Nicole ground out, "this isn't just about pleasuring men. Every sample must be properly labelled, stored, and catalogued. One mistake, and the wrong sperm fertilizes the wrong egg. Imagine the scandal if some coal miner's brat ended up in a duchess's womb."

Arabella leaned in close, her Chanel No. 5 clashing violently with the stink of bleach and body odder. "Listen, you rancid little proletarian," she whispered, "here's how this will work. Tomorrow, there will be photos. I will sit in a booth. I will hold a collection cup. And then I will leave. If you expect me to actually touch some commoner's—"

"Your Highness!" Graham interrupted, mopping his brow. "Perhaps a tour of the facilities?"

Arabella turned on her heel and marched toward the exit. Behind her, she heard Nicole mutter to Graham:

"Someone needs to tell her wasting samples is a felony now."

Graham's reply was a strangled whimper.

The princess didn't look back.

The following morning the black limousine rolled to a stop in a cacophony of camera shutters and shouted questions. Princess Arabella waited precisely three seconds just long enough to ensure every lens was focused on her before stepping out into the downpour.

A Sky News reporter shoved a microphone in her face, rainwater dripping from his cheap suit. "Your Highness! Any special techniques planned for today’s lottery winner?"

Arabella’s smile was a masterpiece of icy diplomacy. "I’m sure he’ll find the experience… memorable."

Her bodyguard materialized with an umbrella, shielding her as she glided past the press scrum. But at the clinic door, an obstacle blocked her path: a barrel chested man in a frayed flannel shirt, arms crossed, his face a roadmap of whiskey veins and old grudges.

She halted, waiting for someone to remove this human pothole. The man didn’t budge.

"Name’s Hamish," he growled, his Scottish brogue thick enough to spread on toast. "And let’s get one thing straight I think your whole family’s a bunch o’ glorified parasites."

The cameras ate it up. Flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Hamish jabbed a calloused finger at the clinic logo behind him. "Only reason I’m here is some bastard bought me a lottery ticket as a joke. Won the ‘privilege’ of bein’ milked by royalty." He smirked. "Good luck, lassie. Yer gonna earn that crown today."

Arabella shouldered past him, muttering just loud enough for the nearest reporter to catch: "Apologies. I don’t speak poor."

Inside, Graham the director fluttered around her like a nervous moth, his wig slipping further askew with every step. "Your Highness, the, the protocol requires..."

"Spit it out, man."

Nicole appeared, holding out a nurse’s uniform polyester tragedy with a hemline that screamed budget cuts.

"You’ll need to wear this."

Arabella didn’t touch it. "Unless it’s Dior, it’s not touching my skin."

Nicole’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. The press were herded out, leaving them alone in the sterile glow of the extraction booth.

Arabella retrieved a silver flask from her Birkin, took a bracing sip of gin, and eyed Nicole like a particularly stubborn stain. "Let me guess. You’ll handle the crude labour, I’ll pose with the sample, and we’ll all pretend I participated?"

"No." Nicole leaned in. "See, today’s record turnout means my staff are busy with actual donors. You’ll be working alone. And if you fail to produce a viable sample…" She tapped the clinic’s legal notice on the wall WASTAGE = CRIMINAL PROSECUTION.

Arabella’s laugh was sharp enough to draw blood. "You can’t be serious."

"Deadly." Nicole’s voice dropped to a whisper. "We have been instructed to help you only if we want to and between us? The girls and I think you’re a right cunt."

"I’ll have you flogged—"

"You’ll obey," Nicole hissed, "or the next photo op will be your perp walk and a cold room in a Police cell for the night."

The door slammed behind her.

A mechanical whirr. The partition slid open.

And there it was: Hamish’s flaccid cock, nestled in a thicket of white pubic hair like a hibernating hedgehog.