It was night time. The moon was rising over the incessant foliage. A knock came from somewhere. Rousing, I found any material to make myself decent, and silently glided to the logical place a knock would arise from; the door. He was there, Harry, standing tall, a prince indeed. He smiled, but his eyes were bloodshot, what had happened? He tilted my head upwards by my chin, and kissed me softly, eyes closed, I kissed him back, feeling his tongue on mine, feeling his lips soft and inviting – almost as if he cared. Taking me by the hand he led me, laughing, smiling, into the room of which I had aroused from. Pushing me onto the bed, he kissed me more furiously now, but still soft; inviting. Clutching at my naked thigh, for the material was only my dressing gown; he thrust, not within me yet; not yet. Kissing back I clung to the back of his neck, desperately; how could I ever let him go? He parted the material, revealing my white breasts. My hand still on his neck, his hand still clutching my thigh, he brought his lips down to them, quietly caressing, biting, kissing, longing. I moaned, an ecstasy more for the moment than the feeling. Kneading them gently with one hand, he let his other off my thigh and brought it to where it was most sensitive, where I had been longing for him to explore. His lips still on my swollen breasts he rubbed it gently, slowly at first. I gasped as suddenly, not gently but not roughly, he slid two fingers inside me, kissing my stomach, kissing my breasts. Bringing his hand slowly out and then thrust back in. Gasping I brought my chin up, eyes rolling and mouth open slightly. He brought his fingers out, and then in, and then out. Still clinging to his neck I sit up slightly, indicating what I knew he wanted. He sat next to me, two fingers still deep within me, and then out, he had left me. I grasped where I knew he wanted me, and feeling my hand up and down it, up and down, he leant back, legs over the edge of the bed, his hard, throbbing penis in my hand. I knelt down, searching him, exploring him with my eyes. How strange he was here, so vulnerable, so defenceless. I continued my hand, up and down, the other on his stomach my mouth wavering, waiting, wanting. I searched the table beside my bed. There was a knife. A single, young woman living alone, particularly one such as myself, why shouldn't she have a knife? I took it. I pressed it to him, where I knew he would feel the ecstasy of the pain; his hard, throbbing penis. He looked up, he felt something cold, not right. I had to act now. I cut him, quickly, harshly. It fell in my hand like something dead, bleeding.
Next morning, I woke up, I had to see him today, see him with her, had to see him with his princess. But I always had my dreams, tonight... tonight.
In the morning, Staring into the distance, cloudy in parts, the grounds looked beautiful under the pearly dew, it was hard to believe that such freedom was so confined. My sky was disappearing – my escape route. Obsession was slowly consuming me. Harry was there, across the green, he was with her, a bleak picnic in the bleak September fog. There were few else around as I stood beneath my tree. They could not see me from here, I could watch unnoticed. He fed her something, I was too far away to see, the contact of her lips to his fingers sent a chill of spite running through my spine, spreading through my entire body, bringing the pang of jealousy into my sodden frame. I thought back to my dream – how his hands caressed me, how his lips touched mine, how he had felt for my darkness and brought me the numbed feeling of ecstasy. I punished him in my dream; for being with her, for kissing her first, for touching her where he shouldn't have, why was he doing this to us? I knew he loved me.
Closing my eyes, but still seeing him there, in front of me I felt my breasts, feeling not mine, but his hands on them, slowly caressing them, touching, groping. I brought my hand down my stomach and onto my skirt, I could feel what was down there; begging for him. I could feel his hand on it, rubbing me sensuously, making me moan in pleasure. Up my skirt went my hand, his fingers reaching for me, rubbing slowly. Down, underneath everything, I smiled, and gasped, feeling him on me, willing him to penetrate further. I could feel my clit under his fingers, the familiar feeling of pleasure and wanting consuming me entirely. His fingers went in me, in and out, again and again, pumping into me the ecstasy and satisfaction of the one I am meant to be with knowing me like this. Gasping, my fingers fell in and out of me, rubbing my clit slowly at intervals, his other hand feeling my breasts, rubbing them, caressing, loving. I became wetter as he pumped, so wet, I was ready for him, I wanted him inside of me. But no... No I could not, he was not there. I came down, I opened my eyes. He was not there. He was still underneath his tree, with her, his silver princess.
I smiled though, I knew he had been there, he had felt me, underneath that tree, the one with me. His silver princess had been left alone, she had waited for us with her picnic, alone. Yes, he was my prince. Always my Prince.
"Annette?" No no, no they could not have moved so soon. I sat motionless, looking at the former picnic spot, where silver princess and my prince had congregated. They weren't behind me, they were far away, they had gone the other way, left me alone.
"Annette Saunders?" That was my name, I knew it my name, but someone else was saying it, other people must have the same name, it wasn't her, she wasn't speaking to me, she was somewhere else, with my prince. I continued to sit, facing away from them, I would not talk, I would not breathe.
I heard nothing. Maybe they had left very quietly, maybe they weren't there any more. I hoped they had gone. No, I heard something; he had knelt down next to me, very close, I could almost feel his breath on the nape of my neck.
"Annette, please answer, are you alright?"
Would could I do? What could I possibly say? He was there, he was beside me, he was closer now to me than he was the silver princess, of course I was alright! Everything would always be alright, nothing would ever be wrong again, he was by me, with me, forever, forever.
He touched my arm, oh the pleasure, oh, the seeping ecstasy encasing me, bequeathing me the courage to turn and face him. Oh how I longed to kiss him, to feel him inside me, to touch him, to care for him forever, never ever let him go. I smiled.
"I'm fine, completely fine"
The silver princess knelt too. No, I did not want her, I could have pushed her off the very river bank behind me.
"Annette, really, you don't look fine" She said, the bird song in her voice only too clear, false and shrill. I looked away from her, looked at my prince, hoping he would ask me again; it meant he cared, it meant he wanted me as much as I wanted him. He didn't, asked what I was doing here. Not quite the sentiment I was after, but you know how boyfriends can be? Never giving a fallible answer, I didn't mind!
"C'mon Annette lets take you back to the Castle, you look chilled to the bone" He tried to pull my arm so that I would be lifted upwards. But I was a dead weight, I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay here, with him always.
Later, I dreamed of the very park he had touched me, I dreamed he had taken me there, underneath the silvery tree. By the river and on the grass. He would take me, arms round me, loving me, entering me, bringing me to climax and letting me bring him to the brink or pure pleasure and then finishing within me, taking me for his own, forever.
My hope dying as I watched him, laughing and dancing with his princess, her hair a silken cascade of ebony, her voice silvery, like a new born bird just learning to sing. She was everything I could never be. She was everything that I had ever wished to be. I am not a princess, a scullery maid at best, I supposed. Unremarkable, unheard of. To be her, to be in his arms, to have him whisper to you the delights reserved for those deemed worthy to hear it. Every night, when I sleep, I dream of him. I dream of his arms around me, caressing my face, and kissing my lips. In my dreams I am beautiful, I am someone he could love, beauty is in the eye of the beholder indeed, but what if there are none that behold you as anything other than the scullery maid, dressed in rags, not destined to be carried off into the sunset. What of these girls? The stories do not tell of them. What of me? I have no story; I have no future and no past. When these words end I will be gone, but I hope that I will be remembered, and that my only memory can be told, an encounter with a prince.