by Sage, May
Given the overall popularity of the higher class, his subjects wouldn’t be thrilled with him if he only considered ladies.
Dane almost shivered at the thought of potential repercussions. It wouldn’t do to admit fearing his own people, but hell, Alenians were tough fuckers. They’d won every war because each and every one of their citizens believed that most conflicts could be resolved by lodging a dagger in someone’s throat.
“If I am to choose a wife amongst my people, let them all be eligible.”
A long stretch of silence ensued, which was quite the achievement in such company; advisors generally loved the sound of their own voices.
“Dane,” Alessandro said in the patient, kind tone he only used with children and simpletons. “There are about sixty-eight million inhabitants in Alenia. Over fifty-two percent of those are women.”
“Half are married, another half too old, and most of the rest, too young. I sincerely doubt there will be an overwhelming number of potential candidates.”
Silvia – who’d started typing away halfway through his reply – helpfully interjected, divulging the number of single women of reasonable childbearing age.
Ah.
“You’re kidding.”
“No; from the last census, women between eighteen and thirty-eight are…”
“I am to be thirty. Cut out any woman below twenty-one or above twenty-nine.”
She updated the results, considerably reducing their pool, but the figure was still substantial.
“Well, we’ll just need to narrow it down a bit.”
Quite a bit.
“Let’s specify a set of qualifications. I’m the King, I can be fussy.”
Dane had arranged his fair share of strategical approaches in his time, but he had to confess: he sucked at this. Obviously his skill sets were limited to politics and battlefields.
On the matter of hunting for a suitable wife, he found his schooling tragically lacking.
This particular thought brought forth one essential criterion to add to the pathetically bland list of attributes candidates would have to possess.
“Education. She must have a bachelor, or be working towards getting one, at the very least.”
Dane had fucked his fair share of airheads and clever girls, and was not ashamed to admit preferring the latter lot.
“That was a good one,” Silvia approved. “You’ve cut out over eighty percent of your possibilities.”
A sad thought for his country.
“So, how many are we looking at?”
“Just under seventy-five thousand.”
There was still no feasible way to pick out the best one amongst so many.
“Restrict the age gap.”
They were down at forty thousand now; still overwhelming.
“How about a lottery? Get them to apply and we’ll select a few at random.”
Effective, yet Dane wasn’t fond of that particular suggestion. It left too much to chance and it was his wife they were choosing.
From experience, he knew that he generally spotted the women he desired to interact with very promptly in gatherings of any size; there was something – call it instinct, basic attraction, scent or pheromone – that either ignited his interest or completely failed to do so.
No, he needed to see all of his actual options; and all at once.
He had to choose wisely; as well as somewhat suiting him, the woman needed to be loved and respected by all their subjects and…
Oh.
“I have an idea.”
“Citizens of Alenia,” Dane, in his formal blue and silver coat, called to the camera lens, calm and confident as was befitting his role. “You have been magnanimous and kind towards your King. Since the death of my father, you’ve wanted for only one thing: stability. I thank you for your patience and am announcing that it shall be rewarded. I am to take a wife and she will be one of you.”
He marked a pause, knowing that by this time the attention would have been drawn towards every TV screen in Alenia; the viewers were shouting out, calling the rest of the household to come in and listen.
“Each single, childless woman without reputational damage, who is holding or currently studying towards a higher qualification, and is aged between twenty-three and twenty-eight, will receive an application pack within the next week. Those whom our censuses haven’t tracked can request one through their local councils. The application is to be filled out before the fifteenth. Those who are selected will receive summons by the end of the month and will be required to present themselves at the palace on the Friday of the Winter Fest. Transport, accommodation, and every expense will be covered. At the close of the festivities we will be holding, there shall be a ball whence I will announce whom you can call your Queen.”
He couldn’t help his smile as he carried on:
“I have come to this decision for practical reasons: this country deserves an heir. That’s all it’s about, ultimately: basic, carnal compatibility in order to satisfy this need. For that reason, the pictures I request of those who wish to apply are explicit. A full list of the prerequisites will be attached to our correspondence. If you aren’t comfortable with these demands, don’t bother applying. That’s all for today.”
•
John dropped to his knees, yet again blessing the King and wishing him a long, prosperous, delightful life.
Renowned photographers in Jenerapolis generally had an interesting life; fashion shows, arts, concerts – the luminous centre of Europa buzzed with more vibrancy than any place on Gaia, and they were capturing all of it behind their lenses.
His life, though, had never been as fun as the days following the King’s announcement. John – along with the main bulk of his peers – was swarmed under requests to shoot pure porn.
He wasn’t exactly complaining; besides the obvious, the whole experience highly entertained him.
“Space the lips with your fingers, sweetheart.”
The girl obeyed without question, brazenly exposing her vagina and for the nth time, John thought that their King was a bloody genius.
He was two poses away from wrapping up the shoot when a familiar name appeared on his silent phone.
Frowning at the thought that she might have called for the same reason as the future teacher who was playing with her clit in front of him, he did his best to quench the need to pick up.
Was he ever going to overcome that natural reaction? Ella hollered, he heeled like the well-behaved underling he would always be.
Nevermind that it had been over ten years since the girl had been on the delivering end of any sort of order.
When he failed to answer, a quick text followed, confirming his apprehension.
Hey, can you squeeze in a boudoir shoot?
Oh god. No way was he doing that to her.
Quicker than light, a second message appeared.
Not me, she clarified. Anastasia.
He couldn’t help but smile at the prospect. Truth was, he couldn’t spare the time on his current schedule… but if it meant he got Anastasia Tremaine to prove to the entire world that she was nothing but a foolish slut? He was game.
You aren’t applying, are you?
He texted quickly, one handed; thankfully his client was too distracted by the pleasure she was giving herself to notice.
Oh yes. Yes, I am.
•
Ella was grouchier than usual. She had yet again been noticed for her tardiness that morning; a habit she had developed despite her inclination towards respect and good breeding.
Truth was, left to her own devices she’d be the very first student seated and the very last one to leave. As things were, she was lucky when she caught the beginning of the lessons.
There had been the three women’s breakfast – delivered at a different time, of course – the cat’s litter and the laundry, as per her usual routine; but what had retained her was Drusilla.
Dru wasn’t the very worst of the three; while she didn’t
see anything wrong about using her stepsister as one of the household maids, she generally thanked her and was so good as to occasionally mention that her washing could wait.
However, Ella would be hard-pressed to decide whether she despised Anastasia’s cruelty more than Dru’s constant chatter – particularly before class.
“Why don’t you just leave?” John suggested. “You could move out.”
“With what money?”
Rental costs were astronomical in the City and what her jobs brought forth went straight towards paying her tuition.
Ella had never been considered for financial aid. When she’d enquired, the administrator had all but laughed in her face.
She was worth thousands upon thousands and thousands. Millions, if one considered the properties. Never mind that she’d never seen a penny of her trust, currently in the care of Lady Tremaine – otherwise known as dear stepmother.
“You could stay with us for a while.”
Us was John and his brother David.
Ella immediately shook her head. She would never be tempted to accept such an invitation.
Contrarily to what one would assume, it had nothing to do with the fact that there would be two men alone with her; the only problem was that she owed them too much already.
While it was true that they’d grown up together, it had been in a very different fashion. Up until her father passed, just over ten years ago, Ella had been a noble and they, her servants.
She’d soon learnt how twisted the way she was raised had been. When it became clear that Ella would not be fed on days she refused to sweep the floor, and that she’d pay dearly whenever she attempted to talk to outsiders about her situation, it was they – the servants – who saved her, showing her the ropes and helping her wherever they could.
They, who she’d been taught to view and treat with contempt.
There was nothing she could do to repay their kindness.
“You’re twenty-six, what’s her excuse for holding on to your money now?”
“Who knows? Bottom line is, I don’t have the means to get a lawyer yet and she knows it. If I make a half-hearted attempt to get to it...”
She didn’t finish that particular sentence, leaving it to his imagination.
“Anyway, what’s your poison tonight?” she asked when the shadow of her sleazy boss appeared around the corner.
Socializing might earn her one of the uncomfortable visits to the office she’d managed to avoid for four months. She’d done her best – blending in, not attracting attention – because if – or rather, when – he called her in, expecting a nice, slow, wet apology, she’d more than likely get angry.
Angry wasn’t an option.
Breathing out as she poured the foul smelling whiskey, she found herself almost wishing things were different.
Wishing she didn’t need to work eight hours per night, study five hours each day, attend her work experience, all of her classes, and tidy up, cook, and clean for her said “family.”
There was more to life. There had to be.
But wishing was one dangerous pastime for those of her blood, so she bit her tongue and served her next customer.
•
Ninety-seven percent had applied. Ninety-seven percent of the brightest young women in his country were stupid and slutty. Slutty, he could have dealt with – in the right circumstances, he might have seen it as an asset – but the former was a fault he didn’t care for.
“We’ve prepared the festivities for five thousand guests,” Chantelle was lamenting. “We have under twelve hundred women now.”
“We might have two thousand once we filter those who haven’t spread their legs.”
Dane wasn’t inclined to do so. They’d still shown a lack of intellect by actually going through the absurd process he’d set up.
“I can’t believe…” Sandro started, his eyes trailing on the screen he was absentmindedly flipping through.
He didn’t finish that sentence.
Dane turned to him, vaguely interested, and caught what had captured his attention.
Well, someone had a sense of humor.
The first requirement crudely stipulated that the King wanted to see the applicant’s pussy.
Incessantly for the last three days, his most trusted subordinate had clicked through thousands of vaginas – some demurely hinted between closed legs or sheer lace, others crude, moist – to physically erase every entry from their database.
There had been the occasional blank page, but this was something else entirely.
The picture on Alessandro’s screen featured a rather ugly, grumpy, and fat long-haired cat.
He clicked through to the second – usually a glamour portrait of the woman on her bed, if not a nude. Some had taken the direction a step further, actually playing with their bodies.
The shot, taken in front of a mirror, was a dark and slightly blurry amateur selfie; more remarkably, though, the girl was wearing an old hoodie and a pair of yoga pants.
Thereby sending a picture of her pussy and the clothes she wore to bed, she’d actually obeyed the directives.
“Damn. Read this.”
In lieu of the quick introduction he required, she’d written:
Dear Daniel Franko Phillipe de Luz,
I’ve applied to guarantee that I’m not summoned to your little orgy.
Fuck you. We aren’t all stupid.
Ella.
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