NancyMadore

by The Twelve Dancing Princesses

  Princess Ora dropped her notebook and pen when she perceived her husband’s presence. He had come up behind her quite suddenly, grasping her breasts and pinching the nipples hard. She let out a little cry of surprise. He did not give her time to question or retreat; in her shock she was momentarily frozen so he continued to play his part, determined to let her catch up when she would. He knew she must be as aroused as he was after writing such a passionate tale.

  With one hand still pinching and twisting one nipple, he raised his other hand to her head and clutched a handful of her hair, pulling it backward, just as the story prince had done. This brought her head back so his mouth could crush hers in a devouring kiss. A little moan escaped the princess’s lips as her husband kissed her.

  The princess’s body slowly twisted around to face her husband’s and, in spite of her shock, she wrapped her arms around his neck. Her mind was awhirl with sensations, and she no longer knew for sure what was real and what was fantasy.

  The prince enjoyed their kiss thoroughly, unhurriedly demanding and taking everything from the kiss that it had to offer, but all the while mindful of the next stage of the story. While he kissed her he tore at the buttons of her dress. She gasped and drew her lips away from his when she realized what he was doing but he pulled her roughly back to him and resumed kissing her before she had an opportunity to speak. He had not even paused in the unfastening of her buttons during this little struggle, and so in very little time he managed to pull the dress off of her and toss it aside.

  Next the prince removed his wife’s under things, moving with swiftness and agility, and once again allowing no objections or discussion of any kind. Somehow, his lips never left hers long enough for her to speak. There had been no questions or speech in the story and he was determined to remain as close to the script as possible. In truth he had no desire to edit the story in any way.

  Once the princess was fully undressed it took mere seconds for the prince to remove his own clothes. This, too, he accomplished while engaging the princess in a most passionate kiss.

  Like the prince in the story, the real prince led his lover to a nearby pile of leaves, realizing with a little start that it was just like the one she had described. Had she imagined being led there and laid down, even as she wrote it?

  The prince at last released her lips as he maneuvered the princess onto the leaves. He would have thought being laid out in such a way would be awkward and embarrassing to the cultured lady he had married, but she herself had heated his blood with the image and so, by god, he would see it!

  He kissed her again as he raised her legs up slowly, parting them just as her story prince had while he pulled them up. She was wet—very wet—and he slid into her easily. Both the prince and the princess threw their heads back in ecstasy. It felt so good to have him inside her; it felt so good to be inside her.

  Slowly the prince began pumping his body forward and back as his eyes roamed over his wife’s body and looked their fill. Her legs were set up high and spread wide apart, with his hands holding them firmly by the ankles. He pushed them farther back, anchoring them in the soft leaves above her head as he gazed at her. Her face turned bright red, but she remained silent as she stared up at him. Her silence as she lay there, panting, ignited his passions to the boiling point. He thrust himself into her as violently as the story prince had done, and found himself obliged to stop periodically, lest he end this fairy tale before it was destined to be finished.

  The princess cried out with delight. By now she had perceived that her husband had somehow read her story and also that he was not angry or disgusted with her. But the relief she felt from this realization was too mild to contemplate, for at the moment she was aware of nothing except the fantasy and she followed breathlessly as her husband took her there.

  But the prince was moving ahead in the story still, and he crossed his wife’s legs in preparation for the next segment. The princess knew her part, as well, and she prepared herself to be flipped over while still impaled by his mighty shaft. She wondered vaguely what he thought of her as he played out each and every little particular of the story she had written. For him to act out her desires in such minute detail seemed to her more intimate than even the things he was presently doing to her body, and it added an element to her excitement that she had neither felt before nor imagined she could feel.

  The prince managed the transformation flawlessly, and finding herself on her hands and knees on the earth before her husband caused Princess Ora to lose any remaining inhibitions or embarrassment she may have had. The prince had never taken her this way before, and she had never dared offer herself in this manner for fear of what he would think. She had watched the animals in the yard perform this ritual freely, without reserve, and always she felt a deep longing to have her husband take her like that—and right in the yard, too! Now at last she was experiencing that wish firsthand. Unable to restrain herself any longer she pushed her buttocks up toward him, welcoming his animalistic thrusts with little thrusts of her own.

  But their passions were so strong that they had to reach a peak. Neither seemed to realize that this was where Princess Ora had left off in her story. Neither of them needed the story any longer as their bodies brought the tale to its only logical conclusion, with Princess Ora grinding and pumping her buttocks in the prince’s direction, and her husband battering her flesh with his powerful thrusts. The woods stood silent and alert around them as they cried out their passion.

  The next morning Princess Ora awoke with a start. She blinked several times to clear her mind. Had it been a dream? No, she realized it had been real. Her memory brought together the little pieces that made up the whole of the evening, ending with her husband carrying her home and up to bed. Her aching muscles gave her proof of their rough play in the woods. She blushed remembering.

  She smelled coffee brewing below stairs and wondered what her husband was thinking this morning. Would he have changed his mind, having spent all his passion the night before? Would he think her debased?

  She threw on her dressing gown and anxiously slipped downstairs. The prince sat at the kitchen table, reading. When he became aware of her he looked up and smiled.

  “Good morning,” he said warmly.

  “Good morning,” she answered, but her tone was reserved. She could not remember ever being so captivated by him. She was more aware of him than she had ever been, and even her trusty imagination could not take her mind off of the reality of him sitting there before her as she nervously wondered what he was thinking about the events of the night before.

  “You’re looking well rested,” he remarked.

  His small talk agitated her further. He must realize how embarrassed she felt and how much she needed reassuring; yet here he was pretending it hadn’t happened. She decided she would approach the subject herself—on the defensive, of course. “I did not rest very well at all,” she lied. Then she added pointedly, “I find it very disconcerting to think that I am being spied upon.”

  “Spied upon?” her husband repeated, shocked.

  “You daren’t deny it?” she challenged.

  “I haven’t any idea of what you are speaking,” he said. So, he thought, she did not guess that the magic pen had exposed her secret. But on reconsideration he realized she could never have guessed such a thing. It had been hard for him to comprehend it even as he was seeing it right before his eyes. Even so, to accuse him of spying!

  “So you deny you were spying on me last night,” she said, wondering what other explanation there could be if he had not been looking over her shoulder, reading every line she wrote.

  “Why do you even ask such a thing?” he replied cleverly. “What gives you reason to suspect me of spying?” He knew perfectly well why she suspected him, of course, but he also knew she would be hesitant to admit writing the story if there was any chance that he had not read it. He could tell that she was wondering if it were possible that he hadn’t seen it. She was likely contemplating wh
ether the magic pen had mysteriously brought her fantasy to life without him even knowing why. She seemed genuinely perplexed.

  “I just found your behavior of last night…strange,” she explained weakly.

  He took her hand in his and rubbed the soft skin absently for a moment with his thumb. “I’m sorry, princess, if I acted inappropriately last night,” he said with sincerity. “I vow, I think I went quite mad.”

  So! It must be the magic pen, she thought. Perhaps as she wrote her secret desires they became his, as well. She wondered if that was possible. Examining his face carefully she noticed a slight smirk of amusement, barely perceptible really, except that she had never before noticed such a look, or indeed ever had reason to suspect him of guile or trickery.

  Princess Ora mused over the matter throughout the day, one moment convinced it was the work of the pen and the next certain that her husband must have, in fact, been reading over her shoulder. Upon further consideration, it occurred to her that the actions of her husband had not been so unusual. Certainly the events had been wild and exciting for them, but really, compared to things she had heard of and even imagined, they were pretty tame. Perhaps it had nothing to do with what she wrote. But then, ere long, her mind would once again review the events of the night previous and her suspicions about her husband would return.

  By that evening, she had devised a plan to test the matter out. She would hide this time; somewhere deep in the woods where she could be certain her husband would not find her. There she would write something even more fantastic and see how it played out. She had lots and lots of fantasies, and was anxious to see if they would have the same effect on him if he were nowhere near her when she wrote them.

  After dinner she sent her husband into the cellar on an errand and then very quickly, before he could come back to see which direction she went, she took her notebook and magic pen and flew out the door toward the woods. She hurried along a little path that her husband used for hunting, but after a while she veered off into the dense woods and finally settled herself in a truly obscure location behind a very large rock. He will never find me here, she thought.

  Princess Ora sat down on a nearby stump and settled her notebook in her lap. Suddenly there was a rustling in a nearby tree and, startled, she swung around to find out what it was, half expecting to see her husband. But alas, it was only a mother bird, shaking her wings and fluttering about in an effort to become more comfortable in her nest.

  Princess Ora stared up into the tree for a moment. It was remarkably tall—the tallest in the forest by far. She wondered how long it had been there. Her gaze traveled down the long, hard length of it. It had been there so long that its roots had risen high above the earth, becoming a part of the trunk really, but twisting and gnarling about in peculiar shapes around the base.

  All at once she began writing. This time her story princess was being tied, naked, to the enormous tree, her fair skin being ravaged by the harsh, uneven bark. The story princess cried out and twitched about in agony. The birds in her story forest screamed out, sensing the princess’s anguish. Wild animals of the story woods watched quietly from their hiding places.

  Princess Ora’s husband, meanwhile, had come back up the stairs to find his wife had disappeared. He immediately surmised that she must have slipped away to write again, and this brought a smile to his face. But the smile quickly faded when it occurred to him that she would likely have found a more private place to write this time. He suddenly realized with horror that he would not know how to find her if, as he suspected, she was hiding. Already, at the mere thought of it, his body had begun to tighten and harden. And no sooner had he come to these conclusions than, sure enough, the words began to appear in his mind, exactly as they had done the night before.

  The prince read eagerly as the words appeared this time, groaning with a mixture of horror and excitement at what he was seeing. Tonight’s story began with the princess already naked in the woods. She was being tied to a tree! Her silky skin was chafed bright pink by the abrasive surface of the tree. The feel of the harsh bark against her skin made her thrash about in sweet anguish, titillating her senses with painful surges of awareness. Her captor pulled the knots tighter, aware of the delightful torture he was inflicting on her. When he finished, she was tightly secured over one of the gnarled roots that circled and entwined the tree in a seductive manner around the base of the trunk. Her upper body was curved around the biggest part of the root, which was the size of a medium-sized barrel, with her arms securely tied to another root that wound around above her head. Meanwhile her legs were spread apart and fastened to two more roots, with her knees resting comfortably in the earth in between the roots. In this position, her body was rounded and secured, so that her face and bottom were readily available to her captor.

  The prince had been standing paralyzed to the spot while reading so far, but now he moved to collect some rope and go out into the woods in search of his wife. He was trembling with desire as he did these things, and all the while never skipping over a single word of the story that continued to unravel in his head.

  The story princess was waiting in suspense while the cool breeze played havoc on her private areas, which were unused to the gentle teasing. Her captor moved leisurely about behind her, watching her as he prepared for his next move. The story princess felt him getting closer. Very subtly she perceived something pliant but still rather prickly touching her. She gasped at the sensation, all at once mild and abrasive. It tickled and pricked in one smooth, tantalizing stroke. Her captor applied the offending article, which she supposed was some kind of plant he had unearthed, over the exposed area between her legs, brushing it over the vulnerable flesh ever so slowly and gently, and causing her to jump and squirm as much as was possible within her constraints.

  In the meantime, the real prince, who by now had reached the forest’s edge, groaned as he read this. His eyes roamed over the forest floor keenly, wondering which plant had appealed to his wife, causing her to imagine it tickling her most tender areas. Several plants caught his eye as possible candidates for such a task, and he decided that when he finally found her he would try out each and every one of them. But at the moment, he could only continue to read helplessly as he searched the woods for her.

  The strokes of the story princess’s captor were coming faster and harder now, and she moaned and wriggled, obliged to make the most of whatever he gave her to endure. He seemed in no particular hurry, enjoying the pleasure of watching her reactions as he leisurely tormented her. He brushed his weapon across her flesh with precision and aim, purposefully landing the prickly whisk so that her body would move the way he liked best. He amused himself for quite a while in this manner.

  Princess Ora was now as lost in her story as she was in the woods, forgetting her husband altogether for the moment as she let her imagination take hold of her uppermost thoughts. Her fingers moved the pen quickly and efficiently over the paper and her brow was creased in absolute concentration. She was so completely given over to her fantasy that it appeared to her more real than her husband, or the woods in which she sat, or even the notebook and pen she used to write it. It seemed that she could actually feel the brush of the woodland plant, as it thrashed gently against the story princess, causing a trickling wetness between both of their legs.

  The prince stopped in frustration. In his hands he clutched the rope and various brush vines and plants that he had acquired along the way to use on the princess when he found her. But where the devil was she? He sighed impatiently, scanning his mind for any clue in her story that would lead him to where she was. It was not easy to concentrate when her words kept appearing in his mind, faster and faster, describing in great detail the jiggling movements of the story princess as she strained against the thrashing of her tormentor, and the stinging wetness that she felt as she awaited his pleasure in relieving her. The real prince could empathize well with the story princess’s dilemma as he tried to ascertain his wife’s whereabouts,
almost too aroused to summon the full use of his brain. Even so, there was a nagging thought in the far reaches of his mind, insisting that he had overlooked an important detail in the story’s setting. There had been something vaguely familiar before he had gotten caught up in the narrative. What was it? He made an effort to recall what his wife had written earlier; it was difficult with her words still coming at him so quickly, beguiling and tormenting him all at the same time. Quickly his mind went over the few details he could remember. She was being tied to the roots of a very large tree. All at once the prince threw his head back and made a sound that was half laugh and half roar. He knew the tree his wife described! By god, he would find her after all!

  He changed directions immediately, running through the woods at full speed. He was startled that she would have gone out so far. But there was precious little time to consider these things, for he was reading as he ran, his body aching under the tireless persuasion of his wife’s indefatigable imagination.

  At last the prince approached the place where Princess Ora was hiding. Just like the previous night, she did not see or hear him approach. She was crouched down on the ground, sitting on her legs as she scrawled the words in her notebook. He stared at her a moment, fighting off a ferocious longing that bordered on madness. As if sensing this, Princess Ora looked up suddenly. She dropped the pen as her eyes took in the rope and the leafy branches in her husband’s hands. Without a word he put down the rope and the branches and approached her. He turned her around and made a small, rather futile attempt to unbutton her gown, but in his impatience he ended up tearing the dress wide open with his hands and pulling it single-mindedly from her body. Just as quickly he discarded her under things, tearing them from her body even more violently.

  The princess did not—could not—struggle against her husband. When at first she had seen him in the woods she thought she must have dreamed it. But the wild look on his face mirrored her inner feelings too keenly for this to be a dream. And besides, dreams did not impatiently rip the clothing from one’s body.