The call usually came on Sunday, in the early afternoon. Specifically, Sundays which were preceded by a wild Saturday night on the town with the girls. That’s when the princess was reminded of her lady in waiting.
Isabelle, the princess, always had the prettiest party dresses and was well-loved, though she stood outside their circle of friends; a pink dress in a sea of black. She had a sweet face, “traditionally attractive,” but sad eyes and always the slight scowl of those who are unsure of where they belonged. Ava had always been her best friend and, in her head, her lady in waiting. Waiting on her; waiting for her; waiting.
With all of the princess’s good grooming and high-class schooling, she would whine on the phone. The whining was what would do Ava in, honestly. There was something about the innocence and the hunger in Isabelle’s voice. The fact that princess Isabelle would never admit to why she wanted Ava to come over for, but it always went down the same way.
The princess would wear a pink dress even though it was just the two of them at home. Her fancy clothes and fancy apartment made Ava feel like a mouse coming in from the wilds of Brooklyn with her dirty sneakers and bad hair.
The princess never said anything about that, though. She would pour the wine, and they would gossip. Isabelle would ask all about Ava’s love life, though her golden eyebrows would furl with confusion. Some part of the princess just didn’t get dating because all of her princes seemed to fall short.
And tipsy princesses would always want back rubs, and their eyes would close when eager ladies in waiting would press into their perfect skin. The moans of comfort were high like the cries of songbirds.
Then, though Ava always promised herself, she wouldn’t, who could say no to the glossy pink lips of a princess?
Ava would fall into the kisses, the two of them on the big too-soft bed, in a nest of satin pillows and stuffed animals. Everything smelling like the princess’s expensive French perfume and sweet clean sex.
When Ava looked into Isabella’s eyes, they were unfocused and far away. And the princess would push Ava’s head down, down under her pink dress, and Ava would be the one whining, fighting her desires, but always losing.
In the end, who was she kidding? The princess’s pussy was the best thing in the world. It was the end all be of all of pussies. Between her skinny legs was heaven on Earth. Soft lips, always wet, tightness that pulled her fingers in like a siren song.
The princess’s greediness was part of it too. The ache in Ava’s heart, knowing that there would not be any reciprocity, only shame. All they want and little girl demands would disappear after the princess came a few times on Ava’s talented tongue.
The princess was Veruca Salt when her silk panties from Paris were on the floor. And Ava was there lapping up her candy pussy until her face was wet with it. Once she got going, nothing mattered anyway. The only thing was showing the princess what she could do—making her come. Giving her what only she could give her, what none of the princes could offer.
The first time of the night always took a while, but when it was close, in the light from the street lights come in from the window, Ava would look up for a moment to see the princess’s cheeks red and her eyes closed tight and just one of her pert breasts free of the top of her dress. And Ava would squeeze her own legs together and could almost come just from making the princess come. Almost but not quite.
After a few rounds, Ava would get rudely pushed away. The sleepy princess would mumble something about “you can stay here tonight, if you want,” before drifting off to sleep.
And then, for a few moments, Ava would watch her. Sleeping beauty under the spell of the night, her cheeks still red and the smell of her pussy everywhere and the humiliation of being used again would swirl with the lust, and she would debate taking care of herself right on the floor next to the lacy dust ruffle.
But no, Ava would get her things and go out into the rain-darkened streets and take the long train ride home to sit in her room and think about what she had done. And then she would fingerfuck herself through the shame and promises she wouldn’t play the princess’s game anymore.
Until the next time.