Does it have to be a man?

Tradition does suggest the next in line to the dutchy of Illenda should be considered. In most cases you would bet that with such a long betrothal and such close families it would simply happen by weight of rumor, supposition and gossip. Everyone would expect and so it would be. Yet this time, even before the funeral, Duchess Illenda sent a letter to both you and your mother formally stating she would not seek and would not endorse a betrothal of you to Anton, her own son.

'She hates him almost as much as my own mother does,' that other bit of you thinks.

It's true. And your father also hated him quite a bit for some reason.

For a second you think of Anton, but then you shake your head. Both your mothers would never allow it, so why bother? He's not the only possibility.

'You're the most eligible woman in the country. Every man you can think of will want you.'

Yes, that's true. You're not just rich and set to inherit a throne but young, charming, pretty and smart too.

'Don't forget humble,' that other bit of you contributes with a derisive snort. After a long pause it asks 'Hang on, if tradition is out the window anyway, does it have to be a man?'

What kind of question was that? You need a husband, therefore a man. You don't need a lesson from Madame Zelande to figure that out.

'Well tradition says you should marry Anton. The queen and duchess are the ones saying no to that. Marrying a man is just a tradition too. Something you could say no to.'

That's crazy. No one would ever stand for that.

'Think of what a pretty couple you and Lady Lorria would make at the altar.'

Ilsa? Good grief, she's almost like a sister to you.

'But she's not a sibling, unlike a certain man you don't allow yourself to think about. Think of how much you have in common. And if anyone knows how to please a woman...'

Oh Gods, this is really crazy. But your mind supplies image after image of you and Ilsa. All the times you've got her to let her hair down just a little. Like that time Farinna smuggled some common ale up to your room and the two of you convinced Ilsa to try it with you. It wasn't even that good, but it was the first time all three of you did something bad together. Ilsa worried about it for a week, but nothing ever came of it apart from the three of you learning what regular ale tasted like.

You see Ilsa and you laying on your bed together, looking over different dresses and fabric swatches. Yes, that happened too. But then she puts down a piece of fabric and looks over at you. You look back and both of you smile a knowing, dirty smile. And then you put your hand gently on her neck and the two of you move closer and kiss. Oh Gods, this is against all the teachings of the church.

'Then why are you so eager to see what comes next?'

Noooo. Why does it have to be true? You can't even focus on a man right now, you're too deep into this little vignette. A quick check between your legs with your finger reveals exactly what you thought you'd find. Your desirous cleft is very wet. You'll never sleep now, not until you do something about it. In the dark you mutter, "Do all women have this problem? Is it just princesses and ladies, cooped up in our tower bedrooms?"

'Maybe it's just you and Ilsa,' whispers that voice. 'Maybe all the other princesses and ladies are quiet girls and you two are the only ones who are this ****.'

That was possible too. You're sure some young women have the chance to sneak away and have their fun. Otherwise how could there be so many bastards? But not you or Ilsa, no, no. Your 'royal sanctum' and her 'noble sanctum' are supposed to be guarded and uninhabited from now till your wedding night.

'How boring!'

Yes. Worse yet, just a few months ago, when you got all hot and bothered, it was easy to deal with. You just pictured Lucas in your mind's eye and worked away at your thirsting slit until your legs quaked and then you could lie back and rest. But you can't very well... do that when thinking of a dead man. You thump the mattress in frustration. Why couldn't Lucas have just come here six months ago and married you?

You take a moment and try to feel really bad about Lucas for a few minutes, but at the end you're still horny. That other bit in the back of your head just won't leave you be. If you hear Madame Zelande comment that you look tired one more time...

'Just think of Ilsa and her sweet, delicate love. No one will ever know.'

With some trepidation you lay one finger against your needy loins. You really shouldn't be thinking of your longtime friend this way, but you're lost when an image comes to you of Ilsa tucking her head under your chin and kissing at your collarbone. Meanwhile, down below her long, thin fingers seek out the wet inferno of your folds. With your own fingers already at work it's easy to imagine Ilsa taking you this way. And your own fingers are returning the favor, for Ilsa is panting and begging, kissing your throat and grinding her hips against you. Your other hand instinctively clamps over your mouth to make sure you don't wake anyone. 'Oh Gods!' you think to yourself. 'How was it so powerful this time?'

'Well,' says that other part of you, 'it has been a while since you took care of yourself. And maybe your dear friend isn't such a crazy choice after all. In your dreams, if nowhere else.'

Oh my. That seems like a dangerous idea. How would it even work? The church would excommunicate you, wouldn't it? How could you produce an heir? How could you convince your mother? As the questions pile up you drift off, now too tired to get stuck in endless arguments with yourself.