You try to recover

You collapse face-first on the bed, ass still in the air, ass cheeks still pulled apart, exhausted by the pain and the passion. The prince holds your head down with his left hand as he, with his right, shoves a fragment of your old, torn dress into your right hand. “Plug up that ass,” he orders, his tone still far removed from the courtly prince you heard earlier, “until you can dump that load into the chamber pot.”

You shuffle out of the bed and over to the chamber pot, where you squat and force the sticky mass out of your bowels, wiping yourself with the pitiful remnant of what was once your favorite dress.

“Get back here,” the prince orders when you have finished. You return to the bed. “Lie on your belly, facing right,” the prince points to the foot of the bed, where he has placed a blanket, “spread your legs, and place your wrists against the bedposts.”

Once you are in position, the prince lashes your wrists to the legs of the bed, and then grabs your ankles and spreads them even more widely. “Your legs are to be spread as widely as you can get them, understood?”