Pretty Princess

I have always had an old four-poster bed with a large white mosquito net hanging down, like in picture books. On warm summer mornings, I would quietly lock the latch on my door and tiptoe back to bed. When we were little we had a dress-up box. In it was an old sheer white nightdress, covered in little white roses. I'd slip into it. I loved it when the cool fabric first slid over my nipples. I could see them, dark pink and pointy, through the nightdress.

I would lie back on my pillows, mosquito net over the bed, morning sun shining in the window. It felt very luxurious and incredibly sensual. I'd lift the nightdress up above my hips and run my hands over my nipples, down to the sparse hair lightly covering my crotch. I'd finger my clitoris softly, circling my fingertips, as my vagina grew wetter and wetter.

I'd imagine I was a princess. Sometimes I invented fantasies about my prince, but I was more aroused if I imagined that I was imprisoned in my room, the unfulfilled princess servicing myself in my own lonely, lofty tower.

I'd rub and stroke and tickle between my legs until I couldn't take it any longer: I'd jump up on my mattress, straddle my pillow and thrust and buck with the nightdress held bunched high above my small fleshy breasts. When I had ridden myself all the way home, I'd lift my hot, sticky vagina, flip the pillow and hope that no one ever found the streaky, wet evidence of my royal orgasm.