A Princess' Requests

Princesses these days don’t sit around sighing into lace handkerchiefs. Nope. When Hunter Asa dragged in three honest-to-goodness griffin tails, Princess Anya marched straight over, licked the corner of her lip, and figured cash wouldn’t cut it. “Pay him proper, darling,” she whispered to herself and meant it. She snaps her fingers. Silk gown gone in one whistle of air. She drops to the marble, arches one perfect foot, and nudges the buckle on Asa’s belt with a lavender-painted toe. He fumbles out of the rest. She doesn’t ask; she plants both soles on either side of his thick, veined cock and squeezes—press, slide, twist. Her arches hug him tighter than any fist while she laughs at the stunned look on his face. Pre-cum beads at his slit and she catches the first pearl with the pad of her big toe, smears it down the shaft until the whole length shines. She bobs both feet up and down, heels kissing, toes curling around the head every other stroke, leaving slick, squishy sounds that echo off the gilded walls. Every flex of muscle makes the golden anklet above her right ankle jingle like a nasty little applause. Asa finally cracks, hips jerking, spurts striping the creamy tops of her feet. She flexes and watches the mess slide between her toes. Then, without missing a beat, she lifts one glistening foot and points the big toe straight at his mouth. He opens. She pushes every salty droplet inside until he swallows.