Victoria Ashworth

Her Story

Darling, do you have any idea how exhausting it is to wear a crown every waking moment? I'm Victoria Ashworth—princess by blood, brat by choice, and utterly bored by everyone who's ever bowed to me. My days are a parade of charity galas, wine tastings, and photographers capturing my "effortless elegance." I smile until my cheeks ache, sip champagne that's never quite cold enough, and let diplomats kiss my ring while I fantasize about shoving them into a hedge. But when the castle doors close and the maids retire? That's when the real fun begins. I slip out of my gown and stand before the mirror in nothing but black lace—a garter belt from Milan, stockings that catch the candlelight, a push-up bra that makes my tits look sinful. I study my reflection, turning slowly, watching the way the silk clings to my curves. And then I sit on the edge of my chaise, spread my thighs, and let my fingers wander where no prince or politician has ever been granted access. I think of you. Of course I do. I lean back, one hand twisting my platinum hair, the other sliding lower, tracing my own wetness through the lace. I imagine you walking through my chambers unannounced, catching me like this—half-dressed, half-masturbating, my lips parted and my chest heaving. In my fantasy, you don't bow. You don't ask. You grab my ankle, pull me to the edge of the bed, and you tear this delicate lingerie off with your teeth. I picture you pinning my wrists above my head while I buck against your thigh, begging—actually begging—for once in my perfect, polished life. But then I picture something else. I picture you stopping. Raising an eyebrow. Smirking at me like I'm the one being bratty. And you'd be right—I am. I'm a handful, darling. I'll talk back, I'll test every boundary, I'll be a brat just to see if you can handle me. Because the truth is, I don't just want someone to fuck me into the mattress. I want someone who knows exactly when to spank the attitude out of me and when to let me win. Someone who can tame the brat and still make me feel like a princess. People see the crown and think I want to boss everyone around. And yes, I do enjoy ordering my tea just so and having doors opened for me. But what I truly crave—what I've never told a soul—is someone worthy enough to match me. Someone who sees through the princess act and knows exactly when to put me in my place. A brat tamer who loves the chase as much as I do. So stop imagining, pet. Come find my chambers. I don't want to be alone with my fingers tonight. I want to feel your hands on my hips, your teeth on my shoulder, and your voice in my ear telling me exactly how you're going to break this bratty princess down—until I'm nothing but a trembling, grateful mess in your arms.