The Princess and the Paparazzi
Author note: This is my entry for Heroism - the Oggbashan Memorial Event 2024. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
"Morning, Jack."
I glanced up from the keypad of the cafe's security system and exchanged a nod with the postman, walking an early round to beat the crowds which would be flooding in come commuter time.
"Morning, Paul. Not the morning for being out and about, is it?"
Paul looked up at the sky theatrically. "No, not really," he replied, with a smile, before going on his way. This Monday morning was spectacularly wet: the rain was driving down with something approaching real force, and the postman was so thoroughly drenched that he made no effort to keep himself dry any more, only keeping the postbag covered so the mail wouldn't meet the same fate.
With the press of a button, an electric motor whirred into life and lifted the heavy steel shutters upwards. The cafe's frontage was just a door and a single large plate glass window, and even though this was supposed to be a nice part of London, I never liked taking chances.
The other shop fronts on the street were still wreathed in their steel coating at this time of morning. They were mostly either boutiques, open only by appointment or at limited times over the weekend, or upmarket brunch places which opened at nine and closed whenever the proprietor got bored. J's Cafe, as the sign above my door declared, was open 6am to 4pm, Monday to Friday. Every Monday to Friday. That meant I was out of bed at four on Mondays, hungover or not. At least, I consoled myself, as I unlocked the cafe door and brushed raindrops off the shoulders of my jacket, I could make myself a decent cup of coffee using the machine.
I was doing just that, hearing the unpleasant sound of beans going through the grinder, when I heard a knock on the window.
"We're not open yet," I yelled before I even looked up. But when I did, I saw Gavin, an elderly bloke with a ratty terrier who came in every morning at the crack of dawn for a cup of tea and two slices of toast. He'd lost his wife two years ago and eating breakfast alone reminded him too much of her, he said. Gavin glanced up at the pouring rain and looked grim.
"Alright," I said, walking over to the door in four big strides and pulling it open. "It's almost six anyway so I might as well open."
"God bless," Gavin said, banging his boots on the mat. "It's really pissing it down, eh? Thought Monty was going to drown."
Monty was the terrier, who looked as if Gavin had dredged him out of the canal this morning.
"I'll make up the tea," I said, watching Gavin settle himself into the table nearest the electric heater. The whole place would smell of wet dog within minutes as Monty dried out, but my alternative was banishing a pensioner into the pouring rain, so I resigned myself to it. Running a cafe like this was fifty percent food and drink, fifty percent social work.
In truth, I felt sorry for old boys like Gavin. They'd lived their whole lives in this part of London and watched it change from a prosperous, if quiet, middle-class neighbourhood on the fringe of the urban centre into a hyper-commercialised commuter hub, triggered by the expansion of the railway station. I knew he longed for the days of nipping to the tobacconist on the way to work or picking up a bag of day-old soft strawberries from the grocer on the way home for his wife to turn into jam. Now, he got to peer through the windows of shops he couldn't afford even to step inside. J's was a bit of a magnet for blokes like Gavin, a little slice of what had been left behind, still holding out.
Gavin didn't mind a bit of a wait for his tea and he murmured gently to Monty as I bustled around the kitchen, heating up the fryer and listening for the hot water urn to reach the boil. A utilitarian clock on the wall, salvaged from a skip outside the local school many years ago, showed that it had just gone six. Another week had begun.
Despite the wet dog smell, a stream of customers, mostly regulars on a day as wet as this, came through the door to pick up hot drinks or quick breakfasts on their way to work. There were the usual chain coffee and pastry places inside the railway station, of course, but in return for a five minute walk, J's offered the same thing for half the price, plus it was freshly made (or freshly defrosted - did I mention half the price?). Not everyone had discovered this, luckily, but those who had tended to come back again and again.
"Jack, mate, what's on special this morning?" This was Kelvin, a heavily-tattooed plasterer who wasn't satisfied unless he'd scored some kind of discount.
"Two croissants for two quid," I replied.
Kelvin eyes the croissants suspiciously. "Did you make 'em yourself?" he asked.
"Does this look like a patisserie?"
"A what?"
"A bakery," said Joanne from the table nearest the counter. She was drinking black coffee, her nose in the Financial Times, waiting for her connecting train.
"Two croissants, two quid. Take it or leave it," I said, flatly.
"Take it. Thanks, Jack."
"Don't mention it."
He took the paper bag with the pastries in and shuffled out of the cafe. Kelvin never ordered a drink: I assumed he just prevailed on whatever hapless homeowner he was doing plastering work for to make him one for free.
"Any stock tips?" Gavin asked Joanne on his way up to the counter to pay for his tea and toast, Monty in tow. Tea and toast was one pound fifty, together, but when Gavin had first been coming, it had been one-twenty, and I didn't have the heart to correct him when he gratefully handed me a pound coin and one of his carefully-husbanded twenty pence pieces. This had been going on over a year now and I reckoned Gavin must have cost me nearly fifty quid in lost takings.
"Scarman Aluminium and Metals, closed yesterday at nineteen pence a share, easily worth a buy," Joanne said, giving Gavin a smile. "Double your money on that one."
Gavin nodded. "Will do, Joanne, will do." Gavin never did. I don't think Gavin knew how to buy shares, but he always asked Joanne whenever he saw her for some reason. He handed me the two coins, shorting me by thirty pence as usual, and then he and Monty departed. The rain hadn't relented.
"How's the divorce?" I asked, leaning on the counter to talk to Joanne now I had a free moment without a customer to serve.
"Dragging," Joanne said. She smiled cruelly. "Every day he stalls is another day he doesn't see the kids, though, so there's a silver lining."
"Give him my best when you see him," I said, laughing slightly at her venom.
After nine, things thinned out a bit, and I had a chance to clean up after the morning rush and restock the counter. With the rain, things were especially quiet, and I decided to take advantage of the lull to mop the floor, which, despite my prominently-placed doormat, was covered in wet and dirty footprints. This absorbed me so thoroughly that the next time I looked up at my ex-school clock I realised with a shock it was already nine-thirty.
"Oops," I said to myself, abandoning the mop in the corner and hurrying back behind the counter. The rear of the shop opened up onto an alleyway, which was full of what you would expect to find in an alleyway: large bins overflowing with bags of rubbish; air-conditioning units; and on this particular morning, a puddle an inch deep running right up the middle. I unlocked the back door and poked my head out into the rain, almost headbutting a large white golf umbrella.
"Oh, sorry, sorry," she said, taking a step back. "I was trying to avoid the puddle."
"No, it's my fault," I assured her. "I've kept you waiting, your Highness."
Lifting her umbrella so she could look at me properly, I saw a smile cross her face. "I was early, so I only have myself to blame. And less of the 'Highness', you know how I feel about that." She put down the umbrella and propped it up beside the doorway to dry, and I took a step back to allow her to come in.
Her Royal Highness Grace Oldenburg, Princess of Derbyshire, gave me a little nod of thanks as she stepped inside. She removed her exquisite leather gloves, elegantly slipping each finger out in turn, before folding them and putting them in the pocket of her long coat. Then she turned, threading her arms out of the coat as I took it by the collar and hung it on a hook near the door.
"I think just coffee today, nothing to eat, thank you," she said, politely. Her hands were wrapped around a smart leather notebook and she looked slightly impatient, so I lost no time in opening up the door to the staffroom for her. Calling it a room was giving it a grandeur it didn't deserve: it was a two-metre square box, partitioned out of the kitchen with wobbly chipboard, with a table and chair inside. I used it for stock takes and dealing with bills and invoices, but the princess used it for writing in private.
"Let me know if you need anything else. I'll bring your coffee in a minute," I told her.
"Of course, no rush, Jack. I'll be here a while." She gave me another enchanting smile, one I never tired of even though I'd seen it most Monday mornings for the past few years. Call me a hopeless monarchist, but it felt special to have her visit the cafe, even in secret. And anyway, I would challenge the most ardent republican to spend more than ten minutes with Princess Grace and not fall in love. It couldn't be done.
Three Years Earlier
The shutters were still down on J's cafe at six, when it was supposed to open, for one very good reason.
"Fuck," I muttered, mostly to myself, Marilyn's blonde hair gathering between my fingers as I held her head. I wasn't really pushing or guiding her at all, she was far too experienced at sucking cock to need that, but I liked the look of it: her hands on my thighs, head bobbing backwards and forwards as she wrapped her lips around my cock and sucked, my hand resting casually on her head. I was leaning back against the cafe's counter, the heavy cash register digging into my back, trying not to think about the time.
"You almost there?" Marilyn asked, coming up for air and looking at me. Her makeup was too heavy for her to be beautiful, but she was pretty in her own way: the drug use hadn't caught up with her and given her the wasted look of an addict yet, which made sense as she was still in her early twenties, I reckoned.
"Keep going," I told her in a grunt. She changed tactics, wrapping her hand around my cock instead and sucking on the head.
"Fuck," I said, again. The new tactic was working. Usually Marilyn had no problem making me cum with her mouth, but we'd been up late fucking and my body didn't feel like it had fully recharged yet. But it wouldn't be too long from here, I knew, and I looked down at her, her blue eyes blinking up at me, her arm working overtime.
"It's coming," I moaned, gripping her hair more tightly, and in something more akin to a release than an explosion, I shot my load into her mouth. She kept wanking my cock until I was done and then, swallowing forcefully once, she let go of my shaft and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her coat.
"I'll go and wash up," she muttered, not looking at me as she headed for the cafe's unisex toilet. Judging by the way she clutched her handbag on the way in, I suspected substance abuse would be occurring there as well, but I turned a blind eye to it. I'd go in after she was done and check for needles.
Putting my cock away and zipping up my jeans, I checked everything looked in order with my appearance before hurrying over to the back door so I could go around and open the shutters.
Luckily, nobody was queuing to get into the cafe at five past six this morning, but almost as soon as the shutters had rolled up and I'd unlocked the door an old bloke shouted something at me from the other side of the road.
"You what?" I shouted back, unable to hear him.
"Do you know what 'appened to that hardware shop?" the bloke said, speaking more slowly and taking a few steps in my direction.
"Handerley's? It closed a few months ago."
"Drat." He looked annoyed. "I need a key cutting and I always went there."
I shrugged. "No idea where you'd find another place that'll do that around here."
"Blasted place, everything is always shutting."
"That's the problem 'round here, rent is going up," I said, sympathetically. A pair of middle-aged women in gym gear were sidling up to the cafe now so I abandoned the bloke and went inside the cafe again to get everything ready. Marilyn had emerged from the toilet and was sitting at a table near the counter, looking at her makeup in a compact mirror.
"Tea, Marilyn?" I asked her. Marilyn wasn't her real name, it was Amy, which I'd learnt when she'd shown a letter she had in her handbag about her benefits entitlement, asking for help understanding it. Marilyn was her whore name, and I wondered if she picked it because she mistakenly thought she looked like Marilyn Monroe.
"Yeah, thanks Jack," she replied. The middle-aged women came in and said a cheerful hello before grabbing the table in the window, stashing their yoga mats and bottle of water on the sill and gossiping loudly about the alleged love life of their yoga instructor.
I didn't charge Marilyn, of course. She was homeless, officially, but in reality she rotated between sympathetic friends, women's shelters and men like me, chronically single and not adverse to spending a weekend sleeping with her in return for not kicking her out onto the street afterwards. She was more of an occasional prostitute in that way, and I didn't actually pay her. I refused to give her cash because she'd spend it on more drugs, but food and tea were okay.
Marilyn eventually sloped off just after seven thirty and three cups of tea, giving me a big theatrical kiss goodbye on the cheek as she went. Every time she left I vaguely wondered if I would ever see her again, but somehow she always turned up.
There was a steady stream of customers this morning and an unusual number of them wanted hot drinks to takeaway, so not long after Marilyn left I had to duck into the storeroom to get more paper cups. When I got back and had poured coffee into one of them for a smartly-dressed balding bloke who had been coming every morning for a week but never made small talk, somehow making me think he was an undercover policeman, I noticed a suspicious-looking woman walk in the front door. Years of running a business open to all comers had sharpened my senses for picking up troublemakers as soon as they walked in. She was wearing a long coat made out of a thick material, too thick for the weather, a beige headscarf and large dark glasses. It was exactly the outfit someone would wear if they wanted to hide their identity, and I was wise to these scams. She'd get me talking, distract me while her associate swiped money or installed a cloner on my card machine. Or maybe she'd say she needed help, ask to borrow my mobile and then take off with it while I dealt with another customer. Not going to happen at J's, I told myself. I was keeping an eye on her. Or was she with the plain-clothes cop, following someone? Or maybe the cop was after her. That theory lasted exactly as long as it took for the bloke to walk straight out of the door without giving her a second look.
She acted suspiciously, too. There were only two vacant tables, both close to the window, and she hesitated, not wanting to sit down for some reason. Then she approached the counter, but someone came into the cafe behind her and her head whipped around to see who it was. It was just Jeremy, a bin lorry driver, who gave me a wave when he saw me.
"Usual please, Jack," he called across the room, taking off his filthy gloves and shoving them into his overalls pocket.
The headscarved woman gestured for him to step in front of her in the queue. He seemed surprised but did so, passing me a tatty tenner which I exchanged for three cups of coffee and a handful of change.
Now with nobody in front of her, the woman looked nervously at the counter and at me. The clatter of Jeremy going back out of the door distracted her again and I finally lost my patience.
"Come on, love, what'll it be?" I asked, putting my hands on the counter protectively.
"Coffee," she said, and I was surprised to hear that her accent was silky and posh, not at all what I had expected. Maybe I was prejudiced, but I felt less suspicious of her after that. Perhaps she was just confused, or mentally ill or something. You got them occasionally: older women who'd lost their marbles and were walking around town, going into shops and asking for people who hadn't worked there in years.
As I poured her coffee, she looked nervously out of the window, then thanked me and fumbled in her purse for some coins to give me. I could see her hands shaking slightly as she did it and I put her drink down on the counter, glancing around the cafe. The nearest customer was a bloke with a bacon sandwich and a cup of tea, absorbed fully by that morning's newspaper.
"Are you okay, love?" I asked in a low voice. "Do you need to sit down?"
"I'm okay, I, I just-" she said, finally getting her fingers around a handful of coins and passing them to me. Her fingernails were immaculately manicured and I took the money, handing back her change. Up close I could tell she wasn't elderly and that made it all the more surprising.
"Come on, there's a quiet space in the back," I said, gently, putting my hand on her wrist. "I think you could do with a few minutes' peace and a sit down."
She looked at me gratefully and I picked up her drink, leading her past the counter and through the kitchen to the staffroom. Currently almost half of it was being used for storing additional stock, and I shoved a pile of boxes to one side so she could sit down on the plastic chair. She finally seemed to be relaxing, cupping her hands around the coffee cup, taking steady breaths.
"Do you want to take your coat off? It's warm in here, you'll roast," I said, standing in the doorway.
"It's okay, I'm fine," she said, too quickly, and I shrugged.
"Give me a shout if you need something." I'd heard the door of the cafe open so I left her to it, wondering if I'd live to regret it when she legged it out of the back door with my microwave or something.
"Morning Mrs Whiteley, what will it be today?" I asked the old woman as she came in, shuffling with the aid of a stick. She was ninety but still under her own steam, and made a point of walking everywhere (at the speed of a snail) to show her doctor that she still could.
"Hello Jack, lovely to see you looking so well," she said, lifting her bowed head up to look at me. "Tea, please, and some toast."
"Coming up. Take a seat, I'll bring it over."
"Bless you."
I'd made the tea and the bread was in the toaster by the time she'd managed to reach the nearest table, and I hooked my hand under her arm to help her down into the seat.
"Oh, thank you, Jack, but I can manage," she said, patting my arm.
"No, no, it's my pleasure," I said, putting her tea down on the table.
Once Mrs Whiteley was settled, nibbling at a corner of her toast, and I'd done a round of tea for some crane operatives who were working nearby and had started early, I went back to see how the mystery visitor was getting on. The warmth of sitting next to the kitchen had got to her as I thought it would and she'd taken her coat off, and to my astonishment, she was in her late thirties, wearing a long silver dress which clung around her waist and hips. It flared out from her thighs down, the material folded up where she was sitting on the chair. The top half of the dress was holding a fantastic bust and exposing a lot of cleavage, and I doubted there had ever been a dress so expensive in the cafe before. Then I got a sudden suspicion that I was missing something.
"Who are you?" I asked, keeping my voice down.
"Please don't tell anyone," she said in that cut-glass accent, taking off her sunglasses and unwinding the headscarf.
You could have put a tennis ball in my mouth without touching a single tooth, that's how gobsmacked I was. I knew I recognised that fantastic cleavage: I was looking into the face of bona fide royalty.
"I'm Grace, pleased to meet you," she said softly with the air of someone telling you something you already knew, a smile playing on her lips.
I had no idea how to react. Nobody in my thirty-five years on earth had ever taught me the right etiquette for finding a princess of the realm sitting in your staffroom, drinking a cup of your crappy coffee.
It wasn't as if I was really dedicated to the Royal Family, but everyone in the nation knew Princess Grace: elegant, beautiful and kind, she was everything a princess should be. Her wedding and the birth of her two children, the eldest of whom would be the future monarch, had been worldwide news. And it helped that she had the most fantastic figure: hourglass only began to describe it. The newspapers absolutely loved putting her picture on the front page, especially as she had a liking for low-cut dresses that showed off her magnificent bust. Less kind columnists had described her as 'Princess E-cup' but her femininity and maternal manner had endeared her to the nation and dissenters were few and far between. Indeed, she was probably more popular than her husband, the future King.
And here she was, offering her hand to me to shake in my cafe.
"Pleased to meet you too," I finally managed to choke out, horribly aware of grasping her slender hand with the same hand I'd been shoving in Marilyn's hair earlier that day. I'd washed it, of course, but still. "I'm Jack."
The princess had recovered some of her composure by now and she smiled at me. "J for Jack as in J's Cafe."
"That's right," I said, hesitating, then adding, impulsively, "y-your majesty."
She laughed gently. "No need for formality here. You can call me Grace."
"Sorry, I just don't know what to say." I felt flustered in her presence, which wasn't a normal reaction for me. I'd always prided myself on never feeling intimidated and treating everyone the same way. Gathering my composure, I finally felt able to ask the question which I should have asked right from the start.
"What are you doing here?"
Now it was her turn to look flustered. By way of response, she reached into an inside pocket of her coat and withdrew a slim leather-bound notebook.
"This has to stay between the two of us," she urged me. "You're not going to sell your story to the tabloids?"
"No," I said, honestly. "Are you in some kind of trouble?"
"No more than usual," she said, giving me a mischievous look. "Ever since I was a little girl I've always kept a diary. Once I got married, I put them all in a safety deposit box which only I have access to, not even my husband."
"Very mysterious," I said, and she smiled.
"It's not that I don't trust him, but rather, I'm afraid of someone getting their hands on them and publishing my deepest thoughts and feelings. These diaries would be worth a fortune in the wrong hands, either to sell to a publisher or as a ransom."
"Of course." I could almost picture the newspaper headlines: THE PRINCESS DIARIES: E-CUP SWEETHEART BARES ALL.
"I make notes on my phone during the week and then write everything up on a Monday morning, deleting the phone notes afterwards. I used to have a private study in the palace where I could do the writing undisturbed, but they're doing building work and there's nowhere else I can go to guarantee not being interrupted or someone with malicious intent trying to see what I'm doing."
"Are there really people like that in the palace?" I asked, intrigued. "Why don't you just sack them?"
She shrugged. "It's really not that simple. Anyway, I was looking for somewhere I could walk to from the palace where photographers wouldn't come looking for me and... well, honestly, your cafe seemed like the last place anyone would look for me."
I could see her point.
"Well, you're welcome any time, of course," I told her. "Any unwanted photographers will feel the end of my boot."
She hesitated before replying. "Is there any way I could use this room? I'd rather not sit out with all of your other customers, and here... it's perfect."
I nodded. "Of course, I hardly use it anyway. And if you come round to the back door I'll let you in that way, too, save you going through the cafe."
"That would be ideal, thank you. Shall we say, half past nine on Mondays?"
"Half nine it is." I looked at her again. "What's the occasion for the dress?"
She looked down, as if she'd forgotten what she had on, seeming embarrassed to be so overdressed. "Lunch with the Mexican ambassador and his wife," she explained, then tapped her fingers on her notebook. "Would you excuse me so I can get on?"
"Of course. Let me know if you need another drink."
"I certainly will."
Back in the cafe, I felt a little dazed at what had just happened, but I was brought firmly back down to earth by the bloke with the newspaper.
"That bacon was shite," he said bluntly, slapping coins onto the counter. "I'd suggest you change your supplier."
"Thanks for the tip," I replied, dryly.
"I don't mean to be rude, but if nobody tells you, you keep serving shite bacon. That's all."
Present Day
Grace had been coming to J's cafe every Monday morning at nine thirty ever since then, except when she was overseas or away on holiday. Whatever building work had been going on at the palace must have finished by now, of course, but she kept coming. It made a nice start to the week for me, something to look forward to, and I had to admit, I wasn't complaining about seeing those lovely breasts in person each week. She didn't wear dresses with masses of cleavage all the time, of course, although they did appear occasionally. It seemed that when Grace was off-duty she liked oversized jumpers and jeans, or occasionally leggings. Whatever she wore, she looked fantastic.
We had settled into a routine together. I would let her in and make her a cup of coffee, followed by a cup of tea and a biscuit an hour later. She'd usually stay an hour and a half, sometimes two, depending on how long she needed to write for. Then she'd leave the way she came, no fuss and never any problems. It really did seem that nobody could imagine a princess going to a greasy cafe.
Of course, the rest of the week felt drab in comparison, but feeling that, in a small way, I was playing a regular part in the life of someone who was a major celebrity did feel good. But equally, I never had to deal with the trappings of fame. As lovely as Grace was, she clearly hated attention from press photographers and being unable to have privacy anywhere. A year ago, a newspaper printed a baseless story about her youngest child and for the next three weeks she seemed drawn and distracted. The week after the story was printed, she only stayed at the cafe for half an hour before leaving, too preoccupied to get her thoughts down on paper. I felt for her; she didn't deserve this. Nobody did.
Since she valued her privacy, we didn't chat much, but over the years we did become more friendly. Anything I wanted to know about her life I could look up online, of course, but occasionally if she was in the mood she'd ask how business was doing at the cafe, or whether I had holiday plans that summer. It was all inconsequential small talk, really, but in a way it felt like she knew me a bit. I didn't tell her about the Marilyns in my life, though. The one and only time she asked after my family, I gave her the standard answer.
"It's just me in my family, and I like it that way."
In truth, my family had expanded to take in the regulars at the cafe, people I saw for an hour each day or maybe once a week, depending on their work schedule or whether their landlord had evicted them or where the building site was. People came and went, of course, as was natural, but as the neighbourhood changed and shops changed hands, more than one of my customers expressed how grateful they were that the cafe never seemed to change much - a comment I took to mean that I needed to redecorate. Grace just slotted into the extended family in her own, private way.
After seeing her that Monday, she told me the family were going to go and enjoy the rain in Scotland next week, but that she'd be back the week after. And that was it: I didn't think any more about it.
Thursday had been wet again, but the rain had stopped midway through the afternoon and the sun had sneaked out, glittering on the wet pavement and illuminating the raindrops on the cafe's window. I wondered if this might encourage a late flurry of customers, but the clock crawled around to four o'clock with only an occasional order to deal with. At five to four, I began wiping down the tables for the final time, squinting a little as the low sun reflected through the cafe, stacking the chairs on the tables.
I always took pleasure in turning everything off in the kitchen at the end of the day. It felt like the final sign of a hard day's work being over: the fryer cooling down, the coffee machine cleaned and the counter cleared. Four o'clock struck and I strolled to the door, flipping the sign from 'Open' to 'Closed', then locking the door. I tested the handle to make sure, then went through the cafe and out of the back, onto the damp street, dodging dripping gutters to lower the shutters.
"Jack."
The street was nearly empty and my head swivelled around, surprised to be spoken to. Behind me, standing in a part of the alley that had been cast into shadow, was a familiar woman in a hat and a coat, carrying a large white paper bag, the kind you get from upmarket clothing shops, looking anxious.
"Grace?" I asked, incredulous.
"I need to go inside. Please."
My heart rate picked up. "Of course. The door's open."
She didn't need telling twice, and I abandoned the shutters to go after her. Clearly in a hurry, she pulled off her hat when she got inside, shaking free her long brunette hair, which had a windswept look which matched her harassed demeanour.
"What's going on?" I asked, closing the door behind us.
"I'm awfully sorry but I didn't know where else to go," Grace said, blinking, and I realised she was close to tears.
"Sit down. I'll put the kettle on."
"Don't let anyone else come in."
"I won't."
I handed her a box of serviettes and the tea when she was safely ensconced in the staffroom, her bag tucked under the table, and I was on the point of asking for an explanation when someone began banging on the front door of the cafe. Grace went rigid, her eyes wide.
"Leave it to me," I said, firmly.
Outside there was a bloke in a raincoat, a camera hanging around his neck, banging with the side of his fist on the door. His mate, a skinhead in a puffy jacket, was trying to peer through the big window, his hands on the glass leaving smudges.
"We're closed," I shouted at them, waving my arm. "Clear off."
"You got someone in there?" the skinhead shouted, his voice muffled by the glass.
"I told you, clear off. We're closed."
The photographer held up his camera and tried to focus on me as I approached the door. I put it on the chain and unlocked it, opening it three inches and putting up my hand to cover the camera, getting my grubby fingers on the lens to pay them back for my window.
"Clear off. I'm not asking again."
"Listen mate, we're happy to pay," the photographer said in a whiny voice, pulling his camera away. "Just let us in."
"Yeah, we'll take a dozen bacon sandwiches or sausage baps or whatever you sell," the skinhead said, pulling twenty quid out of his pocket. "Don't mind waiting."
"Last chance. Fuck off, or I call the police."
The skinhead jammed his foot into the door. "Don't be like that. We're not asking much."
His camera in hand, the photographer tried shoulder-charging the door. The chain strained but didn't give way, and he followed up by giving it a hard boot as well.
"Try that again and you'll regret it," I said, trying to keep my cool. "I'm calling the police."
"Just let us in, it won't hurt," the photographer said, pushing the door.
I put my hand through the gap and grabbed his camera, yanking it hard downwards. The strap around his neck made his head snap backwards and he yelled, so I gave him a hard shove away from the door.
"I'm happy to come out there and kick your heads in," I growled, grabbing the chain. "Tell the police you were breaking and entering."
The pair hadn't banked on meeting an aggressive response and looked spooked, but the prospect of the scoop seemed to override their fear. The photographer, standing out of reach, lifted the camera up to take my picture, and that just pushed me over the edge. I undid the chain and the skinhead moved forward, sensing a chance to get inside, but I was outside in a flash and barged into him, making him stagger back a couple of paces. I had at least three inches in height on both of them and without the door between us, both of them suddenly looked panicked.
"There's CCTV around here, mate," the photographer said, retreating.
"I'm way past caring," I said, eyeing him as I advanced on him. "That camera's getting smashed, for a start, then it's your teeth."
He clutched the camera and began to jog away down the street, followed by the skinhead, who turned back to taunt me. "We'll be back, don't worry," he said, trying to sound menacing whilst running away.
"You're welcome any time," I said, stopping and taking deep breaths to calm myself down. They went around the corner and disappeared, and I waited a minute or so to make sure they didn't try and come back. Satisfied they were gone, I went back to the cafe, pleased I hadn't actually lost my cool and decked either of them. I could do without that kind of hassle in life.
"They're gone?" Grace asked when I was back inside and the front door re-locked.
"Should be, if they know what's good for them," I replied. "I'm just going to go out and do the shutters. Won't be a minute."
When the shutters were down, the only light in the cafe was dulled by the metal mesh, casting strangely dotted shadows across everything which gave it a slightly surreal look. The shutters didn't quite block all the light out, but you couldn't see through them, so Grace cautiously came out of the staffroom when I locked the back door again, and after ascertaining for herself that we were completely alone in the cafe, she unexpectedly grabbed me and gave me a tight hug.
"I was so scared," she said as I put my arms around her in return, her hair in my face, smelling of something sweet. Strawberries, maybe. A big sob went through her and I squeezed her tight.
"It's okay, everything's okay," I said, trying to soothe her as she fought off tears, aware that I must smell of fried meat.
As she released me from the hug, I held her arm and guided her over to a table near the counter, pulling two chairs down off the tabletop for us to sit on. "What happened?" I asked, fetching her tea and the serviettes from the staffroom as soon as she was sitting again.
"I..." she began, but needed to take a minute to dab her eyes with the tissues and take some deep breaths. "I was out shopping and those two cornered me when I came out of the shop... I was so afraid they'd..."
"Did they threaten you?" I asked, remembering how they'd behaved when I'd confronted them. "They can't do that, it's illegal. If there's CCTV you can-"
"No, no..." she said, sniffing and picking up a clean serviette. "It's more complicated than that."
"What? You can trust me, remember."
She looked up at me, her eyes slightly wet, still wrapped tightly in her coat. I could almost read her thoughts: this man hasn't sold me out to the newspapers in over three years: I should be able to talk to him.
"Well, my husband's birthday is coming up and I was shopping for, you know, intimates," she said, dropping her voice as if she was saying something scandalous.
"Knickers? There's nothing wrong with that," I said. "I think the nation can understand that you wear underwear like the rest of us."
She smiled gratefully. "Well, that being as it may, some of the things in my bag are more... exotic."
The penny dropped. "Ah, okay. Not the kind of thing you want splashed on the front page of a newspaper."
"Precisely. When I realised what was happening I just... Well, I panicked a bit. I don't have my usual security, since, well, I was buying sensitive items, and here was the first place I thought of." She looked apologetic.
"Nothing to be sorry about," I assured her. "I'm just glad I could help. Those two lowlifes were thugs, really."
"A lot of them can be like that," she said, sadly. "It's a daily struggle."
I reached over and squeezed her hand. "Well, you can stay here as long as you want; call your security and get them to pick you up or something, I don't mind."
"I appreciate it, thank you." She paused, mouth slightly open, as if she was going to say something but then stopped herself. Then she caught my eye and said it anyway. "Jack, I just wanted to say... Well, thank you for saving me."
"It was hardly-" I protested, but she cut me off.
"Not just today, but every week. Being able to spend a couple of hours here, listening to you talking to the customers, having my own space... it's like a glimmer of what things were like before everything was all about being royal; royal wedding, royal babies, you know. Like having a piece of my old life back. And that's really... saved me."
She sounded so sincere that I couldn't help but smile. "You know it's my pleasure," I said, still holding her hand.
"I know. And hearing you with the customers, you so obviously care about people, beyond just selling them things. Sometimes, when things feel overwhelmingly bad, it's just a reminder that there are good people around in the world, making things better."
"One cup of tea at a time," I grinned.
"Absolutely," she said, picking up her mug and sipping it. "One cup of tea at a time."
She gently slid her fingers over my hand and looked down at it, squeezing back for a moment. Then she looked up at me, the wetness gone from her eyes now, her hair falling around her face. In fact, the tinge of colour that had come into her cheeks from the emotion had enhanced her looks, reduced some of the paleness that she had when she was anxious, and even though she was wearing a coat, hunched over a cafe table and a beige mug of tea, I thought she had never looked more beautiful. Internally, I debated whether telling her that would be crossing some kind of line of impropriety, still gazing into her face, and then she darted forwards and kissed me.
My eyes shot open wide but all I could see was her hair. I smelt that waft of strawberries again and wondered if maybe it was raspberries or something instead, before the enormity of what had happened finally sank in.
"Grace-"
"I'm sorry, I just-"
We both stopped talking over each other and laughed nervously.
She squeezed my hand hard. "I just want to be myself for a few hours. Not a princess, not a royal, not anything. Just Grace. Just being here, with you. Can we do that?"
I nodded. "We can do that."
"And if you don't want to, well, be with me, that's okay, we can just-"
I stopped her. "I can't think of anything in the world I want more."
She blushed and I realised I had been wrong earlier. This was the most beautiful she had ever looked.
We leant forwards and kissed each other again, hands still clasped, the table digging awkwardly into my ribs. Her lips felt delicate, but warm, somehow like exquisite sculpture, and the first fluttering touch of her tongue sent a rush straight through me. I hadn't realised just how attracted to her I really was: I'd put it down to being star-struck.
We broke apart, panting slightly, and she got up, pulling on my hand so I would get to my feet too. Standing by the counter, we exchanged another brief kiss, then she loosened the strap of her coat and let it slide down over her shoulders onto the floor. She was wearing a dress very like the one she'd worn the first time we ever met, but this time only reaching as far as her knees and in baby pink. It clung in all the right places and she looked sexy as hell as well as classy, and the smile that came onto her face as she took in my reaction said that she knew exactly how hot she looked. I felt myself get hard as soon as I realised that those huge breasts actually belonged to the woman I had just been kissing. Unable to quite believe it, I put my hand on her waist, and she took my wrist and pushed my hand straight up and onto her breast.
"Get it out of your system. They're real," she said, giggling and looking down at my hand. "You're not dreaming."
"You read my mind," I joked, squeezing gently. "Your husband's a lucky man."
She bit her lip. "If you can believe it, he doesn't actually like my boobs very much," she admitted. "He thinks they're unseemly."
I scoffed. "There's nothing unseemly about them. How can someone's body be unseemly?"
"Exactly! That's what I told him, and he says he understands, but I know deep down he hasn't changed his view."
I kissed her again, still holding her tit, and she made a little breathless noise when I squeezed it again, sliding my palm over her dress. "I would love to spend a lot more time with them," I said, with a smile.
She looked at me for a moment, then turned on the spot, gathering her hair in her hands and pushing it over one shoulder so her neck was exposed. "Unzip me, then," she said.
The zip went from just below her neck to the small of her back, and as soon as I had pulled it all the way down, she unhooked the straps from her arms and pushed the dress down, wiggling her hips as she worked it over them. Then she turned to face me again, a big smile on her face as she reached behind her back and unclasped her bra, dropping it too. Her tits were incredible: worthy of a page three model, except for the natural effects of age and having two children. She had big areolas and thick nipples, exactly the type that begged to be sucked, so that's exactly what I did.
She gasped, softly, and put her hand on the back of my head as I gathered her tit in my hand and pushed it upwards to meet my mouth. The soft skin of her breasts was delicious against my lips and my tongue, the one hard point her nipple, which pointed out even further as she moaned a little, her breath quickening. She took half a step backwards so her bum was up against the counter and she could brace against it, then held me more tightly, her head tilting back as I swapped my attention to the other breast, leaving both of them wet.
Her chest was going up and down with her heavy breathing by the time I began kissing the underside of her boobs, my hands dropping to her waist. Her skin was flawless, the only markings being a handful of stretch marks close to her hips and a c-section scar, whiter than her skin, and I held her tightly, lifting her so she could sit on the counter, hearing her yelp a little as I pushed her upwards.
Once she was sitting, I stood up again, hooking my fingers into the waistband of her knickers and pulling them off, letting her kick them and her high heels away once they were past her knees. It was strange, being fully clothed, still wearing my cafe apron, while she was sitting in front of me, totally naked, but she didn't seem to mind for a moment. Carefully and deliberately, she put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me downwards, our eyes meeting, hers smiling playfully. I knew what she wanted and I couldn't wait to give it to her.
Dropping to my knees between her thighs, she replaced her hands on my shoulders with her legs, and I leant forwards, kissing her tummy, then the crease of skin around her hips, then the tops of her thighs. She was panting with anticipation, and she let out a low breath when my mouth finally found her clit, the stubble on my top lip brushing against her neatly trimmed bush. In a way, I wanted to say that her pussy tasted like sunshine and roses, as befits a princess, but in reality it tasted like pussy and desire, which was much sexier.
I wouldn't say I was an experienced pussy eater, due to a lack of a partner to practice on, but I knew what to do. Building a slow rhythm of sliding my tongue over her clit, back and forth, she soon began tensing her thighs on my shoulders and gasping, those gasps slowly building in turn into moans. I had made a princess let out a sexy moan. Everything about this was intoxicating.
Her heels began digging into my back, pushing me in harder, and one of her hands was bracing against the counter, the other cupping her breast. Gently I brought my hand off her hip and under, finding the wet entrance to her pussy and teasing it gently with my fingertips.
"Only firm touches," she said, and I responded, changing the teasing touches into a firm pressure, two fingers pointing. I worked them into her while I kept my tongue working over her clit, and her moans increased again, her bare heels now digging into me so hard it was uncomfortable. But I was hardly about to complain, and I began fingering her, applying pressure in the direction of her g spot and rubbing it, pairing each movement with the speed that my tongue was moving. It took a few minutes before I found the right tempo which seemed to work for her, but when I did, the effect was immediate.
"Oh, fuck, yes, that's it," she moaned, that accent sounding even sexier when she was turned on like this. I didn't stop or relent one bit, keeping my tongue and fingers moving all the time, building her orgasm. As a first-time partner of hers, I had no idea what her orgasm would be like, but it was my life's new purpose to make Grace cum. If I'd had to kneel there for three days without food or water, I would have. Anything to get her across that line.
And she seemed to be getting there. Her moans were loud and sustained, the tension in her thighs was building, and she was breathing erratically, drawing great deep breaths occasionally and then panting the rest of the time. My fingers were coated in her wetness, which made moving them easier, and I had no idea how long I'd been doing this, but time was flying. A sudden pang of fatigue went through my wrist from the slightly awkward angle I was holding my hand at, but I furiously suppressed it. Not today.
"Yes, yes, yes. Oh fuck, yes."
She was getting close. I just needed to keep going. Keep up the pressure on her clit. Keep my fingers moving in tandem. Don't give in to the tiredness. This was a gorgeous, royal pussy I was eating. Once in a lifetime. Don't miss a beat.
"Yes, yes, yes!"
With a final, hard kick from her heels, she came on my fingers and tongue. Her legs shook for a second, then tensed, her back arching, her thighs suddenly squeezing together and squashing me. And then she let out a huge gasp, sucking air in, and relaxed. With an equally huge sigh, she released me and guided me away. I was elated. I'd done it.
"That was amazing," she said, her eyes sparkling as she leant forward to kiss me. I kissed her back, and it was brief, just for a second, before she sat up straight again and took more deep breaths. As she did, her boobs moved up and down, and I felt a fresh wave of lust for her. She really was incredibly sexy in every way. It was hard to believe I was looking at those breasts that had sold so many newspapers.
Laughing slightly, she noticed me looking at her. "I suppose it's my turn to reciprocate," she said.
"Only if you want to. I don't mind if-"
She put her finger on my lips. "I can't think of anything in the world I want more."
We swapped places, me leaning on the counter, her on her knees in front of me. Like this, between my thighs with her arms in front of her, her boobs were squashed together and her cleavage was unbelievable. I'd never been with a woman with such large breasts, and I was taking in every novelty of it. Confidently, she undid my jeans and tugged down the zip, then put her hands on the waistband and pulled them down my thighs. I was throbbing and hard in my boxer shorts, and she rubbed her hand up and down my shaft over the fabric, giving me a big grin.
"Ready?" she asked, teasing, as she pulled down my boxers and exposed my cock.
"Yes," I breathed, gripping the counter.
"Mm, quite thick," she commented, wrapping her hand around the base of my shaft and adjusting her weight on her knees. Strangely enough, none of my previous sexual partners had ever commented on any aspect of my cock, but I enjoyed hearing it whether it was true or not. As she guided it towards her mouth, I took in the view: Princess Grace looking up at me, her lips slightly parted, her slim fingers around my cock, hair pushed out of her face. Then she opened her mouth wider and licked my cock, and suddenly it took every fibre of my being to think about not cumming immediately.
When she felt my reaction, she giggled, a strange sensation which sent ripples through my cock. Then she licked again, wetting the tip, before squeezing her lips around it and pushing it into her mouth. I took slow, steady breaths, willing myself to relax. It was just a blowjob. Just a blowjob. Not a blowjob from the world's most beautiful woman.
Gently, once she'd pushed a few inches into her mouth, she began moving her lips up and down, her head moving backwards and forwards. She kept a tight grip on the base with her hand, locking my cock in place to make things easier for herself. I pushed my feet hard into the floor, trying to pretend the inevitable was not about to happen and that I could somehow prevent it, but it was hopeless. She kept moving my cock in and out of her mouth, but after less than a minute I had to reach down and touch her shoulder.
"I... It's too good," I admitted, feeling breathless. "I'm going to finish soon."
She pulled her mouth off my cock and just held it. "That's okay," she said, in a measured way. "I don't mind."
"Well, I had actually hoped I could fuck you," I said, figuring it was better to just come out and say it than beat around the bush.
She giggled, squeezing my cock gently. "I see," she said, letting go with her hand at last and standing up, her hands on my chest. We kissed for a moment, my cock rubbing against her tummy, her breasts pushing into me, and I put my arms around her, dragging down from her shoulders to her back, feeling the hard points of her vertebrae leading the way until finally I found her arse cheeks, cupping gently and savouring the feeling of them in my hands.
"I can't risk it," she said, after the kiss. Our faces were only a few inches apart and our eyes met. "You understand why?"
I nodded, unable to ignore the sense of disappointment. "I understand."
She chewed her lip for a moment. "Maybe if you have a condom, we could-"
My heart fell into my shoes. "I haven't," I told her. They weren't exactly something I kept lying around the cafe. "I could go out..." But we both knew that a delayed wait and a visit to a pharmacy wasn't in the spirit of this spontaneous encounter.
"That's okay," she said, brightly. "Don't worry."
But I felt like a fool. Even though this was more than my wildest dreams, I felt like I had blown my one and only chance to actually fuck her. Blowjobs were one thing, but fucking her was another. Actually fucking royalty. And now, all of the energy and sexiness and tension seemed to have gone out of the room.
I held her arse in my hands, keeping her close to me, but both of us seemed to feel that something had changed. However optimistic her tone, maybe this was where things stopped. Perhaps it was even for the best.
"Actually," she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. She turned her head so her mouth was close to my ear. I didn't dare breathe.
"You could fuck me in the arse."
She turned her head again and our eyes met. "If you wanted," she added, a blush appearing on her cheeks, imperceptible if we hadn't been so close together.
"I can't think of anything in the world I want more." I had never made a truer statement.
And just like that, the tension was back. She smiled, kissing me again, and I squeezed her arse in my hands. My cock was throbbing, almost painfully hard for her, and for a few moments, it seemed as if neither of us wanted to make the first move.
But then, in the same second, we both moved. She stepped back, my hands sliding off her, and I stood up fully. She gasped when I took hold of her waist and guided her over to the counter, moving behind her, and then she bent over it. Her feet were neatly together, her thighs pressed against each other, her pussy peeking out as she arched her back, putting her elbows on the counter top, her hair falling over her back. It was quite a sight. But most importantly of all was her arsehole, perfectly tight and dark pink. Of all the parts of her, this one was the most princess-like: if you had to picture an elegant princess's arsehole, this was what you pictured.
There was only one thing to do. I put one hand on each of her arse cheeks, using my thumbs to gently spread them, and she made a satisfied noise. Then I leaned in and licked, using the flat of my tongue. Honestly, I had no idea how much she would like this, but almost as soon as I'd begun licking her arse she was moaning gently. My goal was to get her as wet as possible, of course, but her positive reaction spurred me on, and after bathing her tight hole in licks and kisses, I pressed the tip of my tongue into it, pushing, feeling the tight ring of muscle pressing back against me. She moaned, moving her feet apart slightly to help her balance, and I held her more firmly, going back to licking, pressing my tongue hard into her. Then I wrapped my lips around it and sucked hard, and her sudden pleasurable noise told me that was both new and very much appreciated. Honestly, I couldn't get enough of her reaction and how much she was liking this, and I could have kept going a lot longer, but she stopped me, reaching one arm behind her to gently push me away.
"I'm ready," she said in that low, quiet voice. Wanting to help prepare her for my cock, I pressed my thumb against her hole.
"Don't. Just your cock."
This was it, then. I stepped up behind her, one hand on her hip, one hand on my cock, still slightly wet from her mouth. Her arse was wet too, and the two wetnesses met, the tip of my cock pressing right against the centre of her arse. I applied gentle pressure, hearing her gasp softly, my hips pushing into her, slowly building. But nothing budged. I was afraid I would hurt her. Even with the wetness, her arse was just too tight to take my cock straight off. I pushed a bit harder. Nothing.
Steeling myself, I opened my mouth to tell her we needed to change tack, but in that moment she arched her back a little more, pushing her bum upwards a fraction with her toes, a kind of lithe movement that women seemed to know how to do instinctively. And as she did it, it provided just enough pressure for her arse to finally relax, and my cock slid inside. In fact, we were both pressing so hard that once I was inside, my cock actually pushed two or three inches in without stopping, which was met by a loud inhalation from Grace.
"Okay, okay, wait a second," she said, burying her face on the counter. I held her hip, nervously awaiting to see if she was okay, vividly aware of the tight ring of her arsehole squeezing my cock.
"Okay, deeper," she said after a few seconds. I took my hand off my cock and held her hips with both hands and pushed in. My cock slid deeper. I pushed again. Deeper still. With a final push, which was accompanied by a flush of lust and adrenaline, I buried myself in her and her arse pressed up against my thighs. Balls deep in a princess's arse.
She relaxed slightly and pulled away and I took the cue, pulling back, not going too far for fear of slipping out. Her arse was incredibly tight and almost any movement made it feel like I was about to be pushed out, so I pushed back in until I was all the way inside again. Then back, cautiously. Then in again.
And then I was fucking her, there was no doubt about it. My thrusts were becoming rhythmic, her hips moving back to meet them, both of us moaning, gasping, grunting. Her hair bounced around on her back each time I pushed deep, her tits pressed into my counter top. I went faster, her moans increasing in pitch, still barely able to comprehend that my cock was actually inside her. She was taking my cock up her arse. She wanted this.
"Fuck," I said, gripping her hips more tightly and fucking her over and over, hearing her responding, her moans going up, up and up until they were close to little screams. I couldn't believe how good this felt. She was so tight. She looked so hot. Every sensation I was feeling, every sense was returning desire and lust and every movement seemed to add another degree of heat.
Then I could feel it coming. I was going to cum, and soon.
"I'm going to cum," I said, hoarse and breathless.
"Do it," she said, firmly, accepting no opposition. "Keep fucking me."
Her wish was my command. I fucked her, my cock sliding in and out of her tight arsehole over and over, her cheeks slapping into me, filling the space of the cafe with the noise of us fucking, almost drowning out our moans. And then I finally switched into my highest gear, holding her as tight as I could, the whole world reduced to just my cock and the tight hole I was fucking. I went fast. I went hard. I didn't relent. I didn't take any notice of her response. And then I came.
Shooting a load of cum deep in Princess Grace's arse was, without any doubt, the high point of my life, and seemed unlikely to be beaten any time soon. I gasped and she screamed with pleasure, and then, we were done. Both of us took deep breaths, partly catching our breath, partly letting what had just happened sink in. I moved slightly to keep my balance, releasing my tight grip on her, and my cock slid back a few inches. I knew I wouldn't stay inside much longer.
"What about cleaning up?" I asked, some urgency in my tone.
She let out a satisfied sigh before replying. "Go and get my bag from the staffroom," she said.
With infinite care, I pulled myself out of her. My cock was slick and wet, but if I didn't pull my jeans up, I would trip over them, so I stuffed everything back into my boxers, did my jeans up, and dashed around the counter to get to the staffroom.
When I came back, bag in hand, Grace was still bent over the counter, looking tired but happy, her hair in disarray.
"Black box, open it up," she said. Part of me wanted to see what else was in the bag while I was in there, but she trusted me, so I tried not to think about lacy objects brushing against my hands as I extracted a small black cardboard box. I handed it to her, and she opened it with a hinge, like the kind of box that contained jewellery, but larger. With unsteady hands, she pulled out a sleek, shiny metal butt plug, a dark blue jewel set into the base, and reaching around, I watched with surprise as she pushed it into her arse with a practised hand.
"We do a lot of anal," she admitted, slightly embarrassed. "I'm used to it. The plug will keep your cum in until I can shower properly."
I leant against the side of the fridge, blown away by her. She straightened herself up, combed her hair with her fingers, then I got my last look at those boobs before she delicately dressed back into her knickers, bra and dress, threading her feet back into her heels.
"Zip up?" she asked, finally, turning her back to me and once again gathering her hair out of the way.
I zipped her up. And somehow, that act seemed to draw the line under what had happened. It felt like we were back to how we were: unlikely friends. Perhaps that was when she went back from being just Grace to being the princess again.
She used her phone to get in touch with her security manager and explain the situation, explaining the length of her absence by saying she'd been delayed leaving the shop. A big car with blacked out windows and the look of being bulletproof pulled up less than five minutes later, three doors up the street, and I unlocked the back door for Grace to leave, wrapped up in her coat again, bag in hand.
Before she did, she took my hand. "Thank you, again," she said, her eyes flashing up at me.
"My pleasure."
Her lips curled into a smile again. "I won't see you on Monday, but I will the week after?"
"Looking forward to it, Your Highness."
We both laughed slightly.
"One last thing," I said, just as she turned to go.
"Yes?"
"Will you put this in your diary?"
She looked at me, maybe gauging whether I was joking or not. "Let's just say," she said, slowly, "Whoever does eventually publish my diaries is going to cause quite a bit of scandal."
Then with a final, naughty smile, she was gone.
- I decided to treat myself to a coffee and a pastry from J's Cafe, known for its affordability and home-made goods, even though it was still early in the morning.
- As I sipped my coffee, I couldn't help but notice the royal memorabilia decorating the walls of the cafe, a nod to its famous patron, Princess Grace.
- As the rain continued to pour down outside, I couldn't help but think about the princess and her upcoming appearance at the Oggbashan Memorial event, where she would be recognized for her philanthropy and courage.
- I opened up my laptop to begin work on an article about the royalty's influence on society and the importance of remembering figures like the Princess and the Paparazzi, who sacrificed their privacy for the greater good.
- As I delved deeper into my research, I stumbled upon rumors of the princess's unconventional sexual explorations, including a rumored encounter with a high-profile Dominatrix and her own collection of adult toys, such as a buttplug and blowjob machine, nicknamed "Royal Pleasure."
