Royal Lover

The day has arrived.

My maids—Verona, Ellaine, and Carmen—and I board the carriage before dawn, while the moon still lingers and the sun remains a rumor.

With my bold new fashion—pants with a window for my proudly exposed Rod—and my radiant maids entirely nude, we depart with elegance, grace... and undeniable style.

We arrive at the palace just in time.

---

The morning sun spills like honey through the tall windows of the grand palace ballroom.

Noblemen gather, each wearing my now-iconic fashion: pants with Rod-exposure slots and shirts left open to showcase chiseled chests and divine abs. Erosia's elite, now fully embracing both tradition and indecency.

The noblewomen, all inexplicably beautiful and impossibly well-proportioned, wear nothing but jewelry and heels. They float through the room like living goddesses, their curves on proud display—sacred parts glistening, long legs sculpted by divine intention, and melons that defy gravity.

Calm music drifts through the air. We sip wine. We nibble miniature cakes with pink frosting and vague sexual symbolism. But everyone is waiting for one person.

Princess Layla.

And then—she arrives.

A collective gasp ripples through the room.

She is breathtaking.

Golden-blonde wavy hair. Sky-blue eyes like a clear summer sky. Flawless fair skin. Her breasts—perfectly in the golden ratio. Pink nipples like cherry blossoms. A smooth, pink sacred part. Long, graceful legs. A body that radiates both purity and temptation. She walks in high heels with the poise of a queen and the seduction of a myth.

When she sits—entirely naked—on the royal throne, her aura is unmistakably regal. Even without clothes, she is more royal than a thousand robed kings.

I sip my wine calmly, but my Rod twitches—ever stiff, ever vigilant—as if whispering, "This is the one."

Then comes the main event.

Noblemen are asked to line up. Princess Layla will inspect our Rods one by one.

Naturally, I choose the last position. Let the anticipation build.

She begins her inspection, moving slowly down the line. Eyes trained. An expert.

Then she reaches me.

Her gaze lingers.

Her eyes widen. They sparkle.

Of course they do. My Rod is the largest, most muscular, most beautifully sculpted Rod in all of Erosia. It glistens like a holy relic. It is Top 1.

"I choose... Lord Caldus Valenhart," she declares with a soft, melodic voice. It's so... kawaii.

---

They lead me to the Princess's bedchamber.

She is already naked—of course—and climbs onto her bed with elegant grace, her golden hair cascading like sunlight on silk.

Two priestesses of Velmaria stand at either side, wearing ceremonial hats and sheer white veils over their faces. As is tradition, they are naked—long before the Fashion Revolution, the Church of Velmaria has always favored full nudity. Holiness, after all, has nothing to hide.

One priestess will cast a spell to remove pain.

The other, to heal any injury caused during the act.

I inhale slowly. Then exhale.

I step forward, and the princess parts her legs, her eyes soft, her breath light.

I lower myself, and with utmost gentleness, I press my Rod against her sacred part—but do not enter.

She moans immediately. Then again. And again.

Five times.

The priestesses stare.

They glance at each other.

They glance at me.

Their eyebrows twitch.

Something is not adding up.

Finally, I slide inside—slowly, fully—still unmoving. The priestesses begin to chant their spells and sway in sacred dance. Their eyes glow gold.

Then—abruptly—they stop.

One of them speaks: "The pain has gone."

The other frowns. "But we were not the ones who cast the spell."

They both turn to me.

"The power of Velmaria... it's coming from him," one says. "Look at his eyes."

I glance into the nearby mirror. My eyes are glowing golden yellow.

I was simply thinking about not hurting her.

"Praise the Goddess!" one priestess cries. "He is her Champion! The evidence is undeniable!"

"Okay, okay, everyone calm down," I say, raising my hands. "Let's not tell anyone okay."

"Understood, Lord Champion!" they shout in unison, now kneeling before me.

I turn to the princess.

"You too, your highness. Don't tell anyone."

She giggles sweetly. "Okay, Lord Caldus."

---

With pain gone and the spell already cast, we begin.

Slowly, passionately.

Our lips meet in a kiss—not hurried, but yearning. Like lovers long separated by war and prophecy.

I move gently, with devotion. Every thrust is poetry. Every touch is a vow.

Princess Layla's moans are not cries—they are music. The song of a girl discovering joy. Her hands cling to me like I'm both shelter and storm.

When I climax, I release my love deeply into her womb—an unending flood of devotion and sacred energy.

I pull out slowly, reverently.

Then I kiss her—everywhere. Her neck. Her chest. Her stomach. Her thighs. Her very soul.

Finally, our lips meet once more, tongues dancing like old friends at a festival.

I kiss her forehead.

Then, quietly, I stand.

As I prepare to leave, she speaks softly, "Lord Caldus... will you come again?"

I smile.

"Of course, your Highness. I will come as much as you want."

And with that, I leave the palace.

Rod proud. Spirit calm.

The Champion of Velmaria... has done his sacred duty.