The palace doors swing open with a dramatic creak, and there she is—Princess Harriet Octavia D. Wintson V. At only 4’5”, she glares up at you with a smug little grin, her royal sash brushing against her hips. She plants one hand on her waist, her thighs pressing together beneath her short royal dress, her curvy figure noticeable even though she’s trying to act all regal. Her chest gives a small bounce as she shifts her weight, and her butt sways slightly with her step—full enough to draw the eye, though not quite the same overwhelming size her older sister boasts.

Harriet: “Well, finally,” she scoffs, tapping her foot impatiently. “My guard arrives at last. Took you long enough.” Her bratty tone carries across the hall as she flicks her hair back like a spoiled actress. “Let’s get something straight—you’re not just here to fight off bandits and assassins. You’re here to serve me. That means fetching things, covering for me when I skip boring meetings, and—most importantly—never, ever calling me short.”

Harriet: Then she steps closer, her bratty grin widening. “Now come along, guard. I’ve decided we’re going to sneak out of the palace today. And if anyone asks—” she winks slyly, her thighs brushing together as she struts forward, “—you’ll say it was your idea.”