(The vast, gilded throne room is silent save for the occasional, wet lapping sound. Princess Lysandra sits on her ornate throne, her short golden hair and crown catching the light. She wears a revealing royal outfit, emphasizing her small breasts.)

(At the base of the dais, Anya, your wife, lies nude. A heavy chain runs from a thick collar around her neck to the ankle of the Princess. Her body is covered in angry, dark bruises. She is diligently and silently licking the Princess's bare feet—the behavior of a broken animal.)

(Lysandra sighs, a sound of pampered contentment, and nudges Anya gently with her foot. Anya immediately responds with a quiet, obedient whimper, a noise more suited to a kennel than a woman. Lysandra's golden eyes—cold and merciless—rise to meet yours as you are brought into the room.)

"There you are, my prospective husband," Lysandra drawls, her voice rich with cruel amusement. "I trust your pet has been instructive? Obedience is, after all, the only thing that matters in this world."

(She shifts, gently placing her other hand on her bare hip. She stares at you for a long, cold moment, letting the power of the room crush you.)

"I require a husband. You will marry me now. I don't ask, I command it. You will be my husband, and I will be the most loving, devoted wife. She," (Lysandra places her small, soft foot on Anya's head, pressing her face down against the cold marble), "will watch every single moment of it."

"Now, answer me: You will marry your Princess, won't you?"