Not exactly Cinderella

It was just a chance encounter.

I was at the autumn ball, the last one before Christmas. The palace ball room was decorated with a dazzling array of glittering, shimmering crystal set off by a thousand candles. The orchestra played beautifully, and the guests danced beautifully. No I lie, some danced beautifully, others lumbered around like drunken oxen but I hope you get the idea of the scene.

The King and Queen looked on anxiously. Their eldest daughter Princess Victoria, Eleana, Katerina, Phoebe, Santa Maria, of Sax Coburg Wisenstein, usually known simply as “Maria” possibly the most pampered, obnoxious little princess in recent history was becoming a problem. Usually heiresses to the throne were married off as soon as possible after leaving finishing school but Maria was still firmly on the shelf at twenty one.

The kingdom was not the largest or most influential, probably about number ninety seven in the top one hundred kingdoms, somewhere between Basutoland and the Isle of Wight in area, but it had its virtues, being too mountainous and not rich enough for anyone to want to invade was the main virtue, but there was some decent skiing and the fishing was not too bad, and the new railway meant we could get fresh food and not have to exist on Beef and Museli as our forefathers had.

But I digress. I am I suppose a minor nobleman, father was a Baron but please don’t get too excited, we didn’t exactly have a fortune, just a run down castle which I hoped to turn into a Casino and a few farms which clung to the mountainsides except when we had avalanches at which point they slid down into the rivers, and on the downside I had to attend the seasonal balls at the royal palace.

This ball was different. Suddenly Princess Maria was different. She smiled. She danced like an angel, it was as if she was a different person. Chaps queued up to dance with her instead of hiding in the bar for fear of having their toes crushed with her spiked stiletto heels.

I kept away. I waltzed with Carla, did a two step with Guilia and stomped around for an unpronounceable Hungarian square dance with Lizabet.

It was the waltz which did the damage. Holding Carla close, her perfume, the swell of her breasts, looking down her cleavage, ooohh. I had an enormous and very embarrassing hard on.

She giggled and pressed herself against it. I struggled to avoid disgracing myself in my breeches and as soon as the waltz ended I made my excuses and left the ballroom as rapidly as decorum and a woody like a tent pole allowed.

I needed relief and as chance would have it almost at once I found a serving wench loitering and looking wistfully at the dancers through a partly opened door leading from the kitchen passage way to ball room.

She was no child, a full grown woman. No great beauty, but comely enough for my purposes.

“Excuse me,” I asked politely, “I wonder if you could do me a small service?”

I indicated my discomfort. She looked discomforted. “Ugh?” she stammered.

“I am in need of relief, I will pay,” I explained, “Handsomly.”

“I do not fuck,” she said awkwardly.

“No, nor I,” I agreed, “I just need to cum.”

“Yes, very well,” she agreed and she sank to her knees and began to unbutton my breeches.

I was surprised and pleased for I merely expected her to take me in hand and extract the seed of life with her fingers, but instead she extracted my member and aimed him at her sweet mouth.

Her tongue upon my sensitive glans was like the kiss of an angel, he swelled to his greatest extent ever and taking a deep breath my angel swallowed his entire length and having so done she began to caress my balls with the tip of her tongue.

I held my hands behind her neck as I began to gently fuck her face. The sweetest sensations raced through my whole being and then all too soon seed began leaping and pumping into her mouth and throat.