THE PRINCESS WHO CAME IN HER SLEEP
by Princess Aurora of Somnophilia-Sur-Loire, dictated while horizontal and still slightly sticky
I was born under a chandelier of midwives who swore I smiled too early—an omen, they said, of a girl who would grow comfortable with eyes upon her. My parents, besotted and tone-deaf, named me Aurora, then commissioned a christening so opulent that even the holy water arrived perfumed. Three fairies floated in, gifts in hand: Wit, Grace, and the kind of Beauty that gets you murdered. A fourth—older, drunker, pissed at not being invited—crashed the party, spindle in one hand, merlot in the other, and cursed me to prick my finger at sixteen and sleep until “true love’s kiss” broke the spell. She forgot to specify where, exactly, that kiss had to land, and thus condemned me to a century-long nap with a loophole the size of a clitoris.
The castle went into lockdown. Every sharp object was melted into rose-shaped paperweights; every spinning wheel was reforged into chastity belts for furniture. But spindles are sneaky, and sixteenth birthdays are horny by nature. I found one lurking in a tower room that smelled of lanolin and forgotten orgasms. It gleamed like a beckoning finger. I touched it—of course I did—and the puncture was so small it barely bled, yet the drop that welled was enough to trigger the enchantment. My knees buckled, my vision tunneled, and I toppled onto a catafalque that had been dusted daily for this exact moment.
For a hundred years, I lay in glass lids closed, lips parted, nipples politely alert beneath brocade that grew thinner with each passing decade. Court dressmakers took liberties: first a modest neckline, then a daring slit, finally a bodice that pushed my breasts up like offerings. I was a centerpiece, a relic, a cautionary tale with a safe-word no one asked for. Princes arrived in alphabetical order, each granted one hour alone with the kingdom’s most expensive mannequin. They kissed my hand, my forehead, the corner of my mouth—nothing. Some wept; a few tried to cop a feel and were promptly beheaded by the palace’s automatic guillotine (a gift from the pragmatic fairy). The line grew shorter. Hope grew limper. My body, perfectly preserved, developed its own legend: the Sleeping Beauty who could dream but never cream.
Dreams, however, are private theatres. In the dark cinema of my mind, I ran rampant—orgies on cloud mattresses, tongues made of lightning, fingers that materialized from mist and knew exactly how to strum. I woke inside each fantasy slick and panting, only to remember I couldn’t move a muscle. The frustration was exquisite, a clitoral ache that spanned centuries. Imagine every nerve ending flayed alive and dipped in honey; imagine being eaten alive by bees who refuse to sting. That was my sleep—sweet, sticky, unbearably wet.
Then came Phillip—third son, first-rate pervert, possessor of a mouth that looked sculpted for mischief. He’d heard the rumors: princess who must be woken by mouth-to-mouth, location negotiable. He bribed the guard with a wineskin and a promise to leave the door unlocked for future tourists. Alone at last, he lifted the glass lid like a jeweler appraising the world’s most priceless vibrator. I felt the rush of foreign air across my collarbones, cool as a tongue on tea.
He started respectfully, lips on my wrist, testing the temperature. When I didn’t stir, he grew bolder, tracing the vein inside my elbow with the tip of his tongue. My skin remembered sensation and answered with a full-body shiver; the spell didn’t know how to suppress. Encouraged, he peeled back the bodice one pearl button at a time, exposing breasts that had waited a hundred years for hands that weren’t afraid of relics. He weighed them, thumbs brushing nipples already tight from centuries of imagined friction. I wanted to arch, to demand, to scream *lower*—but the curse held me statue-still, a mannequin with a pulse thundering between her legs.
Phillip, bless his deviant heart, read the room. Or maybe he read the faint sheen of arousal glazing my inner thighs—proof the spell kept blood flowing to all the right places. He parted my knees, bunching silk until cool air kissed the furnace at my core. The first touch of his mouth was butterfly-light, a whisper across labia still waxed smooth by invisible handmaidens. My mind detonated. He licked again, slower, parting folds like pages of a forbidden book. When his tongue found my clitoris—swollen, aching, thrumming like a temple bell—something inside the spell cracked louder than crystal.
He worked me with lips and tongue and the occasional nip, learning my silent alphabet: a shiver meant *yes*, a sigh meant *harder*, the sudden flood of slick meant *don’t you dare stop*. Centuries of dream-foreplay condensed into minutes; I teetered on an edge I couldn’t leap from. Then he added fingers—one, two—curling upward to stroke the spot that makes goddesses renounce immortality. The world tilted. My body, still frozen, detonated around him—wave after wave of sleep-drugged ecstasy that poured down his throat like sacramental wine.
The orgasm shattered the curse like a chandelier hit by lightning. I jolted awake, lungs heaving, cunt clenching on emptiness, screaming gratitude in three dead languages and one very alive moan. Phillip surfaced, face gleaming, looking like a man who’d just discovered fire and found it tasted like pussy. I grabbed fistfuls of his hair—finally able to grab—and yanked him up, kissing my own essence off his lips while wrapping legs around his waist. The catafalque creaked but held as I impaled myself on him in one desperate roll. He filled me perfectly—hot, hard, human—and we moved like animals freed from centuries of cages. The palace windows blew open; rose petals that had clung for a hundred years let go and whirled inside, sticking to sweat-slick skin like obscene confetti.
We finished with him shouting my name and me shouting something wordless that translated loosely to *about damn time*. Afterglow smelled of old velvet, fresh cum, and ozone. Courtiers burst in, saw the wreckage—me naked, him dazed, the glass coffin cracked down the middle—and fainted in perfect synchrony. We didn’t notice; we were too busy laughing into each other’s mouths, already planning the encore.
These days, I sleep only when he’s already inside me, a consensual reboot that leaves the sheets looking like a crime scene painted by drunk cherubs. Every equinox, we reenact the awakening for an audience of very jealous nobles who still can’t figure out why the throne room smells like sex and ozone whenever I yawn. Phillip keeps the spindle—now mounted on our bedroom wall—as a reminder that sometimes the smallest prick can cause the biggest happy ending. And every night, without fail, he kneels and repeats the spell that saved me: lips to clit, tongue to trigger, true love’s first—and second, and third—kiss.
