...looks down at you from her place on the throne, a cruel smile on her face and the leash to your collar in her hand.

You can see it so clearly. Your lithe, girlish form is on full display as you prostrate yourself before her, submissive and docile. The gold crown shines in her auburn hair, complementing the severe dress of gold and black that's wrapped around her perfect figure. In comparison, the only things you're wearing are silver barbells running through your pierced nipples and the black leather collar wrapped tight around your neck. The embedded ring hold a chain that the Princess has wrapped around her hand - one tug pulls you closer, half dragging you across the fine marble floor.

"Please, your highness," you say breathily. "How may your servant please you today?"

She just laughs, a sadistic sound that rings through the throne room. "Do you know why I'm sitting here and you're kneeling there, Freya?"

You nod your head hesitantly even as your heart races furiously from fear and arousal. "Yes, your highness."

She yanks the chain again until your head is practically between her legs. Close enough to whisper to. "Why then?"

"Because you're the princess, your highness. You're perfect and beautiful and smart and I'm just your subject."

She nods, then she slaps you. It's not a soft blow, and you reel for a moment as your cheek smarts. "Flattering, but that's not quite it. I'm sitting here because I'm perfect and beautiful and smart, but the reason you're kneeling there is because that's all you're good for. You're just a useless peasant girl with a talented tongue, so get down there and start licking." Another pull on the chain plants your mouth right between her thighs. "And remember. If you don't get me off in five minutes, you won't be able to sit properly for a week, so put your heart into it."

You get to work immediately, devouring her pussy with a practiced tongue. You know better than to look up at her, so you keep your eyes down or shut closed as you focus on worshipping her. The marble floor is cold against your knees, but you just know that you're leaving a puddle of arousal on the floor beneath you. Even more humiliating is that she'll undoubtedly make you clean it up afterwards.

The doors to the throne room boom as they swing open, and you hear the commander of the city guard make his introductions. You try to pull away to preserve some dignity, but she keeps your head there, feet resting on your back as she converses with the commander about troop logistics and funding. You're less than a servant in this situation - you're furniture, barely equal to the chair she sits on.