Princess by the Hour
A Short Story
By Maryanne Peters

Part 1 – Awakening

“It is very simple – attitude like yours cannot be taught. It can only be acquired through an up-bringing of pampered entitlement. It is exactly what I want.” I could hear the words but I had to focus to see the woman who spoke. The voice was deep, but it was a woman – or appeared to be. I had only muttered a few words, in a voice that barely sounded like my own.

“Now look here, whoever you are – you should know that my family is very powerful and quite ruthless. You would be well advised to let me go immediately, or you could suffer …”. I stopped suddenly because I had become aware that my voice sounded shrill and high – so much so that my effort of bravado was causing her only to smile at me, condescendingly.

“Aren’t you estranged from your family? We found you on the streets. We have pulled you up and out of that place. We are offering to return you to your life of luxury – albeit in an altered state.”

“I make my own decisions, and I most certainly will not be doing whatever it is you want,” I squeaked. I was not even convincing myself. Why did I sound this way, and why was I hurting all over?

“I doubt that you have ever called the shots, except maybe to servants,” she said. She was large and mid-dle-aged, but not unattractive. She had perfectly style hair and heavy but skillfully applied makeup. She was not taking any notice of my attempts to control the situation. If anything, she was slowly convincing me that I was definitely not in control.

“What do you want from me?” My life had been compromise since I had walked out – bad luck and com-promise.

“We cater for a specific need,” she said. “Some might call it prostitution, but that would not be accurate. We don’t sell sex, as such. We sell fantasies – our clients get a princess by the hour. But, unfortunately we are running out of princesses. There used to be plenty of spoiled little girls littering the gutters of this cities, but we have scooped them all up, dusted them off and sprinkled them with glitter. Now they are making more money than they thought possible and have no need of the wealth their families once offered. You could be as successful as them, if that is what you want.”

“What? A princess? Me? Clearly that is not possible.”

“The drugs are wearing off, and as they do you will become more aware of that altered state I spoke of,” she said. “We simply ran out females of your class, and we had to resort to males, and make the neces-sary changes.”

There was a moment of panic and I realized that I was lying in a hospital bed, angled slightly, with covers pulled up. My hands moved quickly to pull the covers away from my chest and reveal my naked torso and two female-looking breasts stretched tight by implants beneath.

I was speechless, but next my hands moved to my throat. There was a dressing there, and under each of those breasts, and as my hands shot down there was a dressing in my groin as well.

“Don’t worry too much,” said my captor. “You are intact down there although modified in a way that will ensure that you look good in a bikini, and that your body receives a constant stream of hormones. They will soften the skin over time, but as you are you seem to look extremely attractive. And part of the rea-son for leaving your genitals untouched is the possibility that they might be useful in making you a little more … exotic, for certain of our customers.”

“What have you done to me?” I almost screamed it, in the high pitch that seemed to be my new voice. But the words required no answer. She had told me what I needed to know. I had been abducted and had my sex forcibly changed. It was the stuff of nightmares, but I knew that I was awake.

“I have a mirror over here, so I will show you,” she said, turning her back for a moment. “There is still a little swelling in the face, but that will disappear soon. But you have a bit to learn before you face your first customer – I don’t need to tell you what etiquette is, do I?”

She was holding a large mirror, but it might just as well have been a window to another universe, where a pretty girl with blond hair and a slightly bruised face stared at me with horror all over her face. Then slowly I saw her expression change. She turned her face slightly to reveal a cheek as smooth as polished marble. Then the other side, to look at the symmetry of the new cheekbones. She was admiring herself.

Part 2

“I do like truffle,” he said, savoring another mouthful.

I had to say something, just because I do – “I do too, but sometimes I think that they overdo it. It is such a pungent perfume that a good chef should be sparing with it, unless “truffle” is in the title. A lesser chef just adds it to build up the price. But then that’s just an opinion.”

“But that is exactly why I prefer to dine with a princess,” he said. “Some of my dates just move their food around with a fork and then eat nothing, and others scoff the lot with no decorum or appreciation of fla-vor, and probably don’t eat again for a week.”

“I can be a little demanding – forgive me.” It was a line I used often, perhaps more than once with Robert, Customer #8. He still held the number although I had been dating him usually every week, or more often should he wish me to accompany him to an event where class was called for.

“I will forgive you anything, and you know it.” He finished the last morsel off his plate and the last spoon-ful of Chateau Margaux from his glass.

I reached out and took his hand. This was our intimacy – to touch his hand, squeeze his arm as we walked, kiss him with my cheek on his cheek or just a mere touch of lips on lips – to keep my lipstick intact.

“And you know that you are the perfect woman for me,” he said. “I have been giving some thought to making a change to our relationship and I have even spoken to your employer upon the subject.”

“What subject would that be, Robert?” I was being playful, but to hide some apprehension.

“I am talking about marriage, my darling,” he said, waiting to see the impact of a shock wave.

“You know that I am … an escort, Robert?” A good word. I dislike “call girl” as I am more woman than girl and I am not on call. All customers know that a princess always has the right to refuse, although capri-ciousness is bad for business. As for “prostitute” that is middle class, and “whore” the very lowest.

“I know that our relationship has a contractual element to it, but marriage is a contract too. I hand over to you my heart and soul and my assets too, and you promise to that you will give yourself only to me.”

“You don’t even know my name.”

“I know that it is not Princess Anastasia, that is for sure. But I am sure that if you agree to be my wife it will have to appear on the marriage certificate. I can wait.”

“But I don’t have a woman’s name – only a princess name. You do also know that I am not completely a woman, don’t you?” I surprised myself by feeling a tinge of sadness in saying it. Was I regretting that I refused the surgery that was offered to me, or just sad for him, seeing those eyes full of love looking at me pleadingly.

“I know about that, although I prefer to think of you as fully female – you are that in my dreams.”

“Do you dream of me often, Robert?” Was I teasing him now? That would be cruel. It was not my aim.

“Constantly. Whenever I am not with you, I am dreaming of you.”

I suddenly felt very emotional. She always told me that emotion was the enemy. It needs to be kept at bay. She said that princesses need to remain aloof. Customers are like subjects. Keep them happy, but keep them at a distance. Touching royalty is not permitted, unless royalty touches first.

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.

“Now I need to ask you forgiveness,” he said. “I am a lovesick old fool, but that doesn't make me too fool-ish to background check that woman I love before proposing. I actually know quite a lot about you. I ac-tually know your parents. I don’t dislike them, and I support a few of their charities. They probably dislike me but I suspect they really don’t care if I exist or not. Theirs is old money and mine is not – I’m a self-made man, with far more material wealth than they have. But they have something I don’t. I appreciate that true taste takes generations to refine. You have it. I admire it in a woman. It is wasted in a man.”

“I wonder if they care if I exist or not,” I said. I am not sure why I said it. It didn’t matter to me what they thought – not any more. She was right, my “employer” – now that I was independent, I never thought about them. But imagine being richer than them? Marrying Robert – new money – real money.

The dessert menu arrived and was placed in front of me.

“What about a Madeleine?” said Robert.

“Madeleine. Yes, I like that for a name.” I did.

“No, I meant for dessert,” he said. “Madeleines – half way down. But I like it for a name for you too. Light and sweet, and a little nutty. But does this mean that you will consider my proposal?”

I looked up at him, with his white hair, healthy tanned face, warm smile and love-struck eyes. Could I love him? Or did I love him already?

“I have not received a proper proposal,” I grinned. “So long as I am still a princess I expect to be treated like one. So, get down on one knee and ask me properly. You might be pleased with the answer.”

The End

© Maryanne Peters 2025
1825

Erin’s sent me the image and this seed: “High social types have a problem having casual affairs - it can get sticky with involvement with rental nooky, and with lower class people there are opportunities for black-mail, so there is an escort service that rents out princesses of all sorts…”.