Nancy Madore - The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Princess Conscia felt as if she were in a dream. The moment did not feel like an actual part of her life, and it was almost as if it was someone else entirely who calmly replied, “I didn’t even know that you painted.”

“I don’t,” he admitted. “But it seems this is a magic brush that allows me to recreate an image I see by visualizing it on the parchment.”

“Oh, my,” she remarked. “What an amazing thing!”

“Yes,” he replied absently, concentrating wholeheartedly on the task in front of him. “The most remarkable thing is the colors. I simply dip the brush in water and it creates the exact color of whatever I am painting. I think I have an aptitude for this.”

Princess Conscia was as relaxed as she was capable of being in her situation, except for the spine-tingling vibrations that here and again assailed her senses. It seemed that all her awareness was focused on that part of her body that she spent most of her life trying to avoid. She was wondering what she looked like in this most unusual position, and tried to visualize the image that presented itself before her husband. All aspects of her consciousness were concentrated on the small amount of flesh that rested between her legs; even her heart seemed to be steadily pounding, pounding, pounding…from within that place. And with each pounding beat she fancied she could feel the flesh there becoming more and more engorged, swelling to enormous proportions until it seemed to be absorbing the rest of her body. Herbreathing was becoming more and more rapid. She tried to focus on something else but could not.

The prince noticed his wife’s discomfort and was amazed and delighted that her response was so similar to his own. He had thought she would hate every minute of this, but he saw now that he had misjudged her. Perhaps her previous anxieties in the bedroom were not caused by a lack of desire, but something else entirely. As he painted he could not help noticing her laborious breathing and the flushed and engorged flesh between her legs. His own body was steadily growing and hardening, and his breathing, too, was becoming more labored.

Princess Conscia wondered that her husband did not touch her. She had been thinking about the different ways he had stroked her before and how he might caress her now. Mostly she was just aching for the feel of his hands on her. Why didn’t he touch her? What would it feel like when he finally did? She had never wanted to be touched so badly. Her flesh seemed to be rising up into the air with its desire for contact. All her senses waited, alert, for him to touch her. While she waited she could almost imagine that she felt each individual ray from the warm light as it met her sensitive flesh. It was all she could do not to reach her hand down and stroke herself. What would her husband think if she did that?

The prince noticed that his wife seemed to be becoming more and more agitated. Every now and then her hips would jolt ever so slightly upward, causing his own body to surge forward in a similar manner. He longed to touch her, but concentrated on his painting.

Suddenly, the princess became aware of the moisture that had been accumulating inside her since the moment when she had first removed her robe for her husband. The pressure had been building until it seemed that she could hold no more inside and so, ever so stealthily, a single droplet began to push its way out through the thick fleshy walls. And she could feel it! She held her breath, trying to keep it in, but it continued its agonizingly slow descent. The thought of her husband noticing it, too, caused another surge of excitement in her that brought even more of the silky liquid to the fore. At length the little droplet squeezed its way out through the nearest exit point, where it sat precariously balanced on the warm, tender flesh. The princess expelled her held breath with a small, involuntary moan.

The prince heard her moan and his paintbrush stopped in midair. He noticed the little droplet then and stared at it, mesmerized as it sparkled and enticed in the warmth of the light. The instructions had been firm and clear in their edict that the painting be completed before anything else, but how could he resist that little drop of moisture and all that it signified? It seemed to be communicating something to him; something that he had been longing to hear since that very first night they had spent together as man and wife. He knew she loved him but he had doubted her need for him—until now. In that little droplet he seemed to find everything he had been searching for in his wife. And he wanted to respond to it. He wanted to touch it—and taste it. And yet he knew he must capture this moment first. He must finish the painting, if only to show his wife what he had seen. She would understand everything, he was certain, if she could just see what he was seeing. With a groan, he dipped his paintbrush in the water, trying with all his might to capture the exquisite beauty and all it meant with the strokes of the magic brush.

The princess was hovering somewhere beyond reality and fantasy. Nothing seemed real. She had never felt such longing. She hardly cared anymore what she looked like or how she appeared. She was a sensual being. She was, at that moment, like a flower that was open wide with its stamen exposed, and with nothing to do but wait. In a gesture she was hardly aware of, she slid one of her hands slowly and caressingly down along her leg and thigh, stopping just short of where the little drop still sat, trembling.

The prince groaned again. He would never finish the painting if she kept giving him more material to paint. He feverishly dipped the paintbrush into the water, altering the portrait adeptly to reflect her new position.

The last few minutes that it took for the prince to complete the painting stretched out for both of them like hours. The princess was in a highly excited and agitated state, and the prince was so hard that his body ached. At last, with a sigh of relief, he threw down his paintbrush and moved toward his wife, holding her legs in position now while he kissed her swollen flesh repeatedly, devouring the seeping wetness and burying his tongue deep within her. She cried out loudly, actually tightening her arms around her legs and even further exposing herself to him, terrified that he might stop. She gave herself over completely to the incredible pleasure she felt in at last being touched, no longer caring whether he touched her with his hand, or lips or tongue, just as long as he continued to touch her. The longing ache she had been feeling subsided a bit in relief from his touch, but behind the relief rushed a new tide of sensations that were building inside her with equal intensity. It seemed she was awash in pleasure, and she allowed the tide to take her to places unknown. Her heightened desire had diminished her consciousness of decorum and appearance. She was conscious only of the pleasure that her husband was giving her, and her growing need to follow where it would lead.

Her husband’s tongue was doing incredible things to her, and she was stunned by the pleasure it gave her. All she could do was murmur the word “yes” over and over again. She didn’t know how he happened to find the little spot he was massaging with his tongue or how he knew how just to rub it in just the way she wanted him to. All she knew was that she would die if he stopped. But then he did suddenly stop, and although she didn’t die she gasped in horror.

Before Princess Conscia could move or speak, the prince was inside her. He was kneeled before her bent body, leaning over her as he entered her. With one hand he held her legs in place—in the same position she held for the picture and which now felt to her like the most natural position she could imagine—and with the other he resumed the rubbing motions he had begun with his tongue. He moved slowly within her, pulling himself very nearly all the way out and then pushing himself back into her until their bodies touched.