The Princess and Her Sleep Number

“Softer than an angel’s feather,” she told them. “Softer than the softest silk from the private stock of a Chinese Empress. Softer than a secret lover’s whisper. Softer...”

And they must have listened, she thought, as she finally made it into her bed chamber after the exhausting, never-ending ceremony and the requisite thirty-course banquet, and collapsed into the ornately decorated heart-shaped marriage bed, specially built for the purpose by her bridegroom, Edward, by the Grace of God King of Luxuria.

Must have, because the exquisite fabric swallowed her skin like the welcoming water of a gently drawn warm bath, tingling and rejuvenating her senses. The mattress felt like a comforting cradle, lifting her as if she were floating on air, while the satin pillow gave the sensation of gently massaging her temples. The softly blinking constellation lights surrounding the silvery ceiling mirror gave the room a dreamlike quality. This is what heaven must be like.

Her new husband was already on his side of the bed, busily typing something on the phone that seemed to always be at his side. He had barely looked up at her when she entered the room. Affairs of state and all that.

He was older. Much, much older than her, with a stately grey beard and distinguished whiskers that could have graced any of a dozen ancestral portraits in his palace’s Great Hall .

“Call me Ed in private, Dear,” he said when they had finally met, no real warmth in his voice. “No need for formalities. I trust you’ve specified all your requirements to my head butler — he had sent you a questionnaire. You did? Excellent.”

Dear, he kept calling her. The princess wasn’t entirely sure if he knew her name.

“But King Edward is very, very wealthy”, Mother advised her when she expressed some reservations. “And our House is nearly bankrupt, so please do this for Mommy and Daddy. And for your brother Johnny, who will otherwise have to get a real job. This king is a nice sort. He will pamper you and take care of your ever need. It says so right here in the contract. And besides, you’ll sleep well,” Mother had added with a smirk.

Oh, poor Johnny, the princess had desperately wanted to say, but she was a nothing if not a dutiful daughter, and so now she was here, on her side of this exquisitely made marriage bed, staring at the ceiling, while His Majesty kept typing away.

Though not entirely sheltered, the princess was not fully wise in the ways of men, dynastic marriages carried certain requirements, after all.

Oh, she’s been on the Internet, and all that, and there was that one time in college when she woke up with her roommate’s face between her thighs, and wanted to protest, but the girl’s tongue was giving her so much pleasure…

“Please, please let me, Highness,” the girl had begged. And Highness graciously acquiesced.

Remembering the incident as she floated on her silken cloud bedding, staring at her own perfectly shaped reflection in the dreamy ceiling mirror, the princess felt a certain warmth down below. She found her right hand wandering there, but then caught herself.

Perhaps it is time to get this marriage going, she thought, and, ignoring her new husband’s apparently endless preoccupation with his phone, turned to her right and started reaching with her left hand to his side of the bed, as she’d seen so many times online. How hard can this be?

As her fingers crossed over the bed’s median, she did notice the mattress shifting to a much harder surface. How the heck do they do that, she thought, those Sleep Number people must truly know magic. She allowed herself a sensual stretch, eyes widening in faux surprise when her perfect left breast was left exposed, as if accidentally. She even licked her lips seductively. But there was a profound lack of hardness where she needed it most. This was not what Mother meant when she said I’ll sleep well, is it, she found herself wondering.

Perhaps sensing her rising concern, King Ed sighed and put his phone away, though he was careful to place it on the induction charging plate which appeared to be built into the richly encrusted side table. “Dear,” he said, finally turning his head toward her, “at my age these things can take a little more time.” He shrugged apologetically. “But I’ve already taken the magic pill, heh heh, so it should be no more than another hour or so — now, if you’ll excuse me for a moment…”

And with that the king gently took her left hand off his as yet unready manhood, and groaning a little, an old man’s spine being what it is, swung his feet off the bed and onto the marble tile floor, getting up and shuffling the somewhat saggy, if not excessively hairy royal bottom to the spacious ensuite bathroom that was fifty feet or so from their bed, the tall ceilings amplifying every shuffle of his leather slippers in a sound that, the princess considered, would take some getting used to.

Arriving at last at his destination — a gilded, state-of-the-art Toto throne, automated, motion sensor-enabled lid already raised obligingly — the king appeared to take aim, grunting softly. She was unsure of the exact length of time, but perhaps less than a minute had passed by the time she finally heard the sound of the somewhat unsteady royal tinkle, not unlike the sound of a tiny mountain rivulet. Then it stopped. Then started again. And finally stopped for good, as the king grunted again and started his slow journey back toward their bed.

As the princess listened to the hiss of the automated flush of the Toto mix in with the rustling of the king’s shuffling feet, the princess couldn’t help but feel she may have accidentally wound up in the wrong fairy tale.

The one called The Princess and The Pee.

With profound apologies to Hans Christian Andersen.