Have her strip off the dress
From Lord Of Utterdom
"Take off your dress." You point to the outfit, then point to the floor. You fold your arms across your chest then and wait for her to follow your command.
She sniffles light, eyes cast down, and you realize a small tear has leaked from her left eye. She doesn't seem pleased with the predicament she is in, but slowly begins to comply. She reaches up and unfastens the garment just below her neck. She moves slowly, fingers pulling apart one little silver clasp at a time, exposing more and more of her pale skin. It's smooth, flawless, without a freckle or unsightly mark, and as white as snow. As she undoes the clasp just below her breasts, the fabric falls open enough to see the inner rounding of her bosom as it begins to press at her dress. Supple and kissable, they sit mere inches apart, full enough to nearly touch each other and create quite a lovely bit of cleavage.
You feel yourself hardening as you get all the way down to her waist, then reaches up with one hand to peel the dress off her shoulder. Just as it begins to slide down her arm, allowing her breast to nearly fall free of it's containing cloth, you hear your father's voice interupt the moment.
"What in the name of the God's is going on here?" He grumbles from the doorway. You look over to see him standing there with an agry scowl plastered across his lips. His eyes burn with rage as the maid quickly pulls her things back on and rushes to escape the room. Your father steps aside and lets her out, then steps in to have at you.
"These women are not your playthings!" He shouts, then quickly raises a hand and lays it across your cheek. The smack stings hard and leaves your ears buzzing. "You fool! You're like an animal without honor, and without a lick of sense!"
You begin to speak, but your father interupts, shouting over you.
"I have had enough! You had a task to complete, and you dawdle here forcing yourself on my servants! You are no man! You are petulant child, and I will stand for this no more!"
He has the royal guard remove you from the castle, and they deposit you on the street face first. It seems your father really was tired of your shenanigans.
Having learned no skill except how to guilt young maidens into bending to your will, you exist mostly in poverty, until winter comes. In it's snow drifts and chill, you are mercifully put from the misery of yourself and from the concern of you father by a sickness that leaves you dead in an alley not but a handful of months after you were thrown from the castle and your lofty position.
Time quickly marches on, and the crown later passes to your eldest sister, who doesn't mind a bit that you were shoveled into an unmarked grave and never rose to the throne.
THE END.
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