What about one of your favorite commoners?

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. 'But if you could pick anyone, no matter their birth, then you know who you'd choose.'

For a moment there's that image of a sweaty, tired Sir Arrick finishing up his training. You lock it away in a box and hide it. Something else soon rises to take its place. A big, broad man who's smiling as he tries to pat the heads of four big hunting dogs at once. There's pretty fearsome with most people, but huntmaster Frederik trained most of them himself. The hounds will sit politely and allow you to come and touch then if the huntmaster just makes a sign at them.

It helps that he's taller than you, broad enough that he probably weighs twice what you do and most of that is muscle. You overheard some of his friends and him talking about going out to celebrate his birthday, so you know he's only one year older than you.

'Big hands, big feet, you know what they say.'

Yes, you do know. Despite your tutor's best efforts you did hear that naughty saying. And if it's true then huntmaster Frederik must have to use some kind of groin corset to hide his manhood.

'Just think of how he'd stretch out that pussy of yours.'

You just about blush in your own bed, alone. How does that part of your own mind manage things like this. You've only seen it called that in some lewd margin notes in a book. A book that Madame Zelande snatched away angrily as soon as you asked what 'pussy' meant, since you couldn't imagine a barn cat standing for that kind of treatment. Her reaction helped you put two and two together and you later confirmed it with your confidante in naughtiness, the wicked lady Cole.

To your shame this isn't the first time you've thought about huntmaster Frederik. Though the other times you managed to quickly start thinking of Lucas instead. This time you can't. Instead the huntmaster is there, a dog on her back getting belly rubs, her tail wagging furiously and stirring up the dusty ground. The image changes and now there aren't any dogs or dirt. It's you, on your back, on a bed, Frederik kneeling over you.

He strips you out of your clothes and starts massaging your belly. More gently and slowly than he did with the dog. You don't even mind that he's using the same kind of technique. It feels too good to complain. If you had a tail you'd wag it for him. Then he starts massaging your chest a little more playfully than he did your belly. As he's toying with your stiff nipples you feel a great big fleshy lump settle against your loins. It's like the base of a wine bottle, but toasty warm and yielding.

Oh, Gods, there's no escaping this daydream. 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, cooped up in our tower bedrooms?"

'Maybe it's just me,' whispers that voice. 'Maybe all the other princesses are quiet girls and you're the only one who's ****.'

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, no, no. The 'royal sanctum' is 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 Frederik. No one will ever know.'

With some trepidation you lay one finger against your needy loins. You try to picture Frederick using his big meaty fingers to try and loosen you up for the main event. How much time will he take with those big, strong fingers before your slit can finally part enough to take his thick sausage. What will it feel like to get opened up by something bigger than your wrist? 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. Just let Frederik and his girth rock you to sleep whenever you need.'

Oh my. That seems like a dangerous idea. As you start to drift off you think one last thing: You had best work out which man you're going to end up marrying quickly. Otherwise you'll be dreaming of all the wrong ones.