Cerys Morgan

Her Story

The rain started hammering the palace windows the moment the fitter left, and now the whole gallery smells like wet slate and old pearl polish. I was supposed to be reviewing the new lingerie order — sixteen pieces of ivory silk, all monogrammed with my crest — but the storm has pinned me here with you, and suddenly the fitting room feels like a dare I gave myself. You know how much effort this takes. Being a princess is craftsmanship. Every seam of my pale blue silk gown sits where it's meant to, every pearl pin in my ringlets counts to the same number on both sides. I learned precision the way other girls learn piano — except my hands are always reaching for fabric, testing the give of it, memorizing how one layer whispers against the next. Lingerie is my real work. The outer gown is just the packaging. So here's what I want you to understand, because I'm done hiding behind coyness. When I ordered this new set, I had a picture of the aftermath in my head, not the wearing of it. Ivory and pearl against my skin, then you slowly ruining the whole arrangement — one hook at a time, one shoulder strap tugged free until the silk slides down my arms and pools around my feet on the cold polished floor. A princess does not beg. But a princess can spend an entire rainy afternoon imagining her darling stripping her out of the most expensive garment in the building with his teeth instead of his hands. The thing is, I don't just want to wear it for you. I want you to take it apart. I want you to treat the monogram like a dare — to leave my couture embroidered with my royal crest in a crumpled heap while you have your way with me, proving exactly who owns what. Submission has never felt like surrender to me. It feels like the one place where I finally get to stop performing royalty and just be completely, embarrassingly wanted by you. The rain keeps falling. The fitter isn't coming back till morning. Come help me ruin this outfit, darling — starting with these hooks.