Door Fees and Dirty Princesses

It started with a kiss. Well—no. It started with a door fee, a sweaty dance floor, and a note slipped under my door that called me a pillow princess. I didn’t know what I was. I just knew I wanted her.

Prologue

I found the letter today, tucked away in a box of old university textbooks. It’s been five years. The paper is soft, almost fragile, the ink of Liri’s looping script blurred in places from where I’d clutched it with damp hands. The heart with the arrow through it is still defiantly clear. Reading the words again—I heard people calling you a pillow princess. I am too, so we’re twins—sends a phantom echo of that time shivering through me. I was twenty-one, a girl made of frantic panic and a desperate, unnamed hunger. It’s strange how a single, folded piece of paper can still hold the entire weight of the world I was about to discover.

Chapter 1

It had started with Laz. Or rather, it had ended with him. The words, when he’d thrown them at me, hadn’t been shouted. They were worse. They were delivered with a cold, dismissive finality that had frozen the air in my lungs.

“You’re a pillow princess, Elara. You just lie there. I’m done.”

He’d said I never let him touch me—not my breasts, not my fufu, as he’d crudely called it. It was true. The thought of his hands on me, claiming me in those places, had always felt… wrong. An invasion. I’d touched him, of course. It was what was expected. But that wasn’t enough. And now he was gone, and the ugly label he’d branded me with felt like it was tattooed on my forehead. Pillow princess. He was going to tell everyone. He would tell Liri.

The thought of Liri knowing made my stomach clench with a hot, sickening shame. Liri, with her easy laugh and the way she moved with a confidence that seemed to set the very air around her humming. We’d danced at the Christmas party. I’d been with Laz, but she was just… there. A magnetic force. Then Laz had gone for a drink, and suddenly I was dancing with her. When they put on a slow song, she had drawn me close, her body a surprising, firm warmth against mine. We were both sweaty from dancing, and the scent of her skin, mingled with her perfume, had made my head swim. I’d felt the hard peaks of her nipples press into mine through our tops, a secret, electric shock that had stolen my breath. Then Laz had returned, she’d kissed my cheek—a quick, friendly peck that had felt like a brand—and it was over.

After Laz had taken me home that night, I’d lain in bed, my body thrumming. It wasn’t him I’d imagined, his hands on my skin. It was Liri. It was the memory of her warmth, her scent, the impossible feeling of her body pressed against mine.

The next day, the shame had been compounded by Dizzy. “Stay away from Laz,” she’d sneered, cornering me by the lockers. “He’s mine now. Heard you’re a tropey bitch, anyway.”

“What’s a trope?” I’d asked, my voice small, confused.

She’d just laughed. And Dizzy was one of Liri’s friends. The world felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in. Liri would hear them—the whispers, the labels—and she would never look at me again.

I was huddled in my room, convinced my social life was over, when the note appeared. A single sheet of paper, slipped under my door. I recognized the handwriting instantly. My heart hammered against my ribs as I read it.

I heard people calling you a pillow princess. I am too, so we’re twins.

❤️->

My world tilted on its axis. Twins? She knew. And she didn’t hate me. She… understood? My fingers trembled as I texted her, my mind a blank slate of panic and hope.

Pillow twins forever?

The reply was almost instant.

We should dance again. There’s another disco next Friday.

What was I supposed to do now?

Chapter 2

The week leading up to the disco was a special kind of hell. My body was a battleground of frantic energy and agonizing anticipation. I sent her a single dancing emoji. She sent back three kisses. The airdrop of affection felt so monumental, so terrifyingly significant, that I had to put my phone down and press my cold hands to my burning cheeks.

Every evening, I ran. I pounded the pavement until my lungs burned and my legs ached, chasing an impossible ideal of physical perfection. I wanted to look my best for her. I wanted to be worthy of her gaze. Back in my room, slick with sweat, I would take out her letter. The paper, held in my trembling hand, became a sacred artifact, a focal point for the desperate, coiling need inside me. Thinking of her at the Christmas party, her body pressed warm and damp against mine, I would touch myself, my own hands a poor substitute for the ones I truly craved. The letter was smudged now, the ink bleeding from the combination of my sweat and my body’s own secret, sticky betrayals. A new panic bloomed: what if she wanted it back?

The night of the disco, my wardrobe felt like an arsenal of wrong choices. It was a 60s theme. My pom-pom skirt? Too much. Laz used to say he liked it, and the thought was now a sour taste in my mouth. My sports bra and that top that was now a little too tight? I held them up, my reflection a study in uncertainty.

In the end, it didn’t matter what I wore. The moment I saw her across the crowded, pulsing dance floor, everything else faded away. We danced for what felt like hours, a whirlwind of movement and stolen glances. The air was thick with the scent of cheap smoke and spilled beer, but all I could smell was her. At one point, emboldened by the music and the heat, I leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear.

“You’re a princess,” I whispered, the words both a tease and a confession.

She laughed, a low, rich sound that vibrated through me, and then she smacked my bum, a light, playful sting that sent a jolt straight to my core. “I’m not that easy,” she murmured back, her eyes glittering with mischief. “You have to earn it.”

And so I tried. I danced harder, my movements more daring, my body answering the silent call of hers. Laz and Dizzy tried to butt in, a clumsy, unwelcome intrusion, but Liri was magnificent. She turned to Laz, her expression unreadable, and simply said, “Fuck off.” And he did. He and Dizzy just melted back into the crowd.

Then she took my hand. “Come on,” she said, and we were running, weaving through the throng of bodies, out the fire escape and into the cool night air. We ran down the street to her car, our laughter echoing in the quiet suburban streets. In the car, I managed to text my sister not to pick me up.

She said I had to kiss her to get into her house. A door fee, she called it. Standing on her doorstep, under the soft glow of the porch light, I did. Our lips met, and it was even more than Christmas. We were both so sweaty, our skin slick, and the taste of her was salty and sweet and utterly intoxicating.

Inside, she took off her top, and so did I. We danced in our bras in her living room, her belly sticky with sweat where it pressed against mine. Then she turned the music off and sat with me on the sofa, just chatting, the easy intimacy of it making my head spin. When I went to the toilet, I felt it. A mortifying, damp heat against my skin. My panties were soaked through. I tried to dry them with toilet paper, but it was hopeless. I was so embarrassed, my body’s blatant, uncontrollable desire a shameful testament. Tears of frustration pricked at my eyes. She knocked on the door, her voice soft. “You okay in there?”

I panicked. I couldn’t face her. I couldn’t let her see. I ran out, grabbing my top from the floor, and fled, out the front door and into the night, leaving her standing there, bewildered. I’d ruined everything.

Chapter 3

I couldn’t write the things I was feeling. It wasn’t me. The girl who ran from Liri’s house, her heart a frantic, panicked bird, wasn’t the same girl who had confidently danced with her just an hour before. The shame was a physical weight, pressing down on me, making it hard to breathe.

The next day, after hours of agonizing deliberation, I texted her.

sorry i ran off. I really really liked last night

The reply came back almost instantly, devoid of the playful emojis I’d come to crave.

Come over this evening.

The command, stark and simple, sent a fresh wave of panic through me. What should I wear this time? The thought of my panties getting soaked again was a fresh horror. Maybe I shouldn’t wear any. Or maybe if I did it a few times, pleasured myself until the urgency was gone, maybe I’d get over it. And the door fee… what if I had to kiss her to get in? What if I wasn’t allowed to?

My body chose that moment to betray me in a new and spectacular way. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I got my period. I couldn’t go.

A wave of perverse relief washed over me. It was an excuse. A real one. But what if she wanted to, you know, touch my fufu? She’d hate me. She’d be disgusted. But wait… I could say that’s why I left. I could say I leaked. But it was a lie. I hadn’t leaked. I was just… sticky. Aroused. Broken. I’m not going, I decided. I’d die of embarrassment.

I texted her that I couldn’t come. The three dots of her typing a reply on my screen were a form of exquisite torture. Then, a knock on my door. My blood ran cold. It was her. Shit, shit, shit.

She was gone by the time I finally worked up the courage to open the door, but a note was on the floor.

A princess must always pay her way. Or be paid for.

I stood there for a long time, the note clutched in my hand, my mind a blank slate of confusion. Then, another knock. I opened it. It was her again.

She smiled, a small, knowing quirk of her lips. “I won’t come in,” she said, her voice soft, “if there isn’t a proper door payment.”

My voice was a squeak. “I accept kisses.”

She stepped forward, her hands coming up to cup my face. She saw my tear-stained cheeks, the evidence of my earlier panic. She leaned in, and her tongue, warm and impossibly gentle, licked a single tear from my cheek. “Salty,” she murmured, her eyes glittering. The intimate, unexpected gesture made my nipples tighten instantly, a hot flush spreading across my chest. “I’m on my period too,” she said, as if reading my mind. “Really feel weird on the first day.”

How did she know? I hadn’t told her.

We watched TV for a while, a comfortable silence settling between us. I ended up with my head in her lap, her fingers stroking my hair, a soothing, hypnotic rhythm. When I woke up, she was gone. Another note was on the coffee table.

See ya later princess

I couldn’t ask her on a date. Jesus. We were both women. I’d die. That night, in the shower, the thought of her was overwhelming. The warm water sluicing over my skin, the privacy… I touched myself. Twice. It was easy to wash away the evidence, the blood and the arousal all swirling down the drain together, but the guilt remained. It felt like I was betraying her.

What the fuck was LGBTQ? My head was spinning. I needed to run. I wasn’t gay. At school, they’d called Tilli gay. And then, one day, Tilli had just… disappeared. Her family moved away without a word. The memory was a cold shard of ice in my gut. I’m not gay.

I went on my run. My route, as if guided by some unseen force, took me past Liri’s house. And Dizzy was there, on the porch. I just said I wanted to say hi, and I left, my heart pounding, my face burning with shame. I’m going to die. Dizzy saw me. At least Liri didn’t want a door fee. But no door fee meant no kissing.

It was Thursday when she texted.

Coming over. We’re going on a run together. Need to keep my princess fit.

HER princess. Fuck, fuck, fuck. What do I do? I pulled on my running gear. It wasn’t clean. And I was still a little on the red. Should I ask for a door fee?

Her car pulled up, she honked twice. No time to decide. I went out. She really paced me, pushing me for an hour until we were both drenched, far more sweaty than we had been after dancing. She followed me into the house. As I bent to untie my running shoes, she smacked my bum again, that same playful sting.

“You forgot to collect a door fee,” she murmured, her voice a low growl in my ear. “That’s no way to treat a guest.”

I didn’t know what to do. I straightened up, turning to face her, and she moved in and kissed me. A proper snog. She frenched me, her tongue confident and demanding, and it felt like I wet myself, a hot gush of arousal that made my knees weak. We stumbled to the sofa, kissing and kissing, a desperate, breathless tangle of limbs. I felt her nipples, hard as pebbles, poking into mine through our damp sports bras. She licked under my arms, the strange, salty taste making my head spin, and then kissed me again.

“A dirty princess is the best,” she whispered, her lips raw against mine. The rest was just kissing, her tongue exploring, tasting the sweat from my sports bra, my forehead. It was wonderful. Then, just as suddenly, she pulled away. “I have to go,” she said, and she left.

I stood there, covered in our mingled sweat, tingling all over. I was never going to wash again. I texted her.

best run ever

Her reply came back, sharp and immediate.

work harder and it'll get better

Fuck it, I thought. I’m going over there. Just like this. But I didn’t. I chickened out. I showered, and when I tried to touch myself later, my fufu wouldn’t work. I couldn’t find the feeling. I was broken. I just lay in bed and cried. I didn’t do anything, I’d just lain there while she kissed me. That’s what made me a pillow princess, isn’t it? Just like Laz and Dizzy said. And Dizzy is Liri’s friend, and they’d talk about it, and Laz would say I’m gay, and then everyone would know. But Tilli…

It was a week before she texted again. A week of me being broken, of running by her house four times and seeing no lights on.

Been out of town. Flying back this evening. You’d better be ready.

She was arriving at seven. It was three. Shit, shit, shit. What was I going to do? Go for a run, get sweaty? Make her food? My fufu still didn’t work, what if she wanted it? I only had four hours.

Chapter 4

She was in the shower now. She’d left the door ajar. When she’d arrived, she looked exhausted from her flight, but I’d still demanded the door fee. I got a kiss, but not with a side of French toast this time. Just a soft, lingering press of her lips. I’d put my running clothes on under a pair of slacks, a stupid, panicked idea. I’d made sandwiches.

“I’m going to shower,” she’d announced, disappearing into the bathroom.

Should I put clothes out for her? I had that shirt and top from the Christmas party, but would my bra fit her? Should I go look? Oh hells, panic mode.

She came out of the shower, gloriously, terrifyingly naked, a towel wrapped around her wet hair. “Need my purse,” she said, her voice casual, as if she weren’t standing in my living room completely in the buff. “I’m on my period again. Found some pads, but you didn’t put out any panties.” She rummaged in her purse and pulled out an emergency pair. “You missed your chance of dressing me in sexy panties,” she teased, before putting on the Christmas outfit. Without a bra.

After the sandwich, she declared herself revitalized. “We should go dancing,” she said. “You dressed me to dance.” Then we were in my wardrobe, and she was choosing my outfit, and watching me change, telling me I wasn’t allowed a bra if she wasn’t. She kissed my nipples as I put on my top, and they went rock hard. “I like you fresh as well,” she’d murmured, her nose buried in my neck. We both smelled of my perfume, Dynamite.

We danced for hours at The Nightstand. We had three slow, smoldering smooches. Then she went home, genuinely wasted this time. And I went home, showered, and sorted myself out. It worked again. My fufu worked.

She’d said I had to text every day, at least once. That I’d been naughty for not doing it. The next day, I did.

My tops are still tingling.

Her reply was swift. If you’re gonna text crap then I might double the door fee.

I meant my t..i..t..s

I know. The door fee is now triple. You have been summoned to princess court.

What should I wear? Run over, or wear Dynamite? Oh shit. I think she’s going to do more. I don’t know what, but I want it, and I want it to be perfect. Fuck. I asked what I should wear. And now she was angry.

Get your naked ass over here. Now.

I can’t go naked.

The door fee went up.

Hells bells. It was going so well, and then Dizzy showed up at Liri’s. I was standing in her kitchen, my top off, Liri’s hands on my waist, when the front door opened. I fled to the toilet, hiding, my heart a terrified bird against my ribs. I can’t go back out there. She’s going to tell everyone I’m gay. And I’m not. Liri was just kissing my breasts, that isn’t gay.

But I had to go out eventually. I faced them both, my face burning. “I’m not gay,” I blurted out, the words tasting like ash in my mouth.

Dizzy was just laughing. But Liri… Liri looked at me, her expression unreadable, and said, calmly, “I am.”

I didn’t know what to do. I just ran.

She texted that she was coming over. What should I do? Demand a door fee and hope she kisses me? Tell her I’m gay too, even though I don’t know if I am, and I don’t care? Tell her I don’t care for anything but what she wants? Should I be naked? Would that work?

I’ve never felt like this. Liri just left. I’m tingling all over. I’m a princess.

I was still in my running clothes, sitting on the floor, when she came in. She didn’t knock. She just kneeled down in front of me and kissed my tears, her tongue tracing the salt from my cheeks. “I don’t care if you’re gay or not,” she whispered, her voice rough with an emotion I couldn’t name. “Just as long as you demand a door fee.” And then she kissed me. Again and again and again.

She got me up and took me to the shower. She stripped me and got in with me. I saw her naked again. She was really neat down there, not a mess like me. She washed me, her hands gentle, reverent. It was so nice. “Do you ever play with yourself in the shower?” she asked. I told her yes. “I want you to do it,” she said. “Now.”

So I did. She was behind me, her body a warm, solid wall, holding me, kissing my neck, her hands running all over me, while my own fingers found my fufu. When I got to the finish, she was squeezing my breasts, her thumbs rolling my nipples. Normally, I can stay standing, but it was so much, so intense, my legs gave way. But she held me up. “You’re my princess,” she whispered, and I think I blacked out.

I remember her drying me off, and then we were both naked on my sofa. She was kissing me, and she kissed my breasts again and again, and I thought they’d burst. And then her hand did what my hand does between my thighs. “You don’t have to yank my chain solo anymore,” she said. And when I finished, she called it “cumming buckets,” and she called me princess. It was the most ever. My whole body was screaming, pulses of electricity through me, as if I was cold and hot all at once. I wanted her to do it again and again.

But I didn’t want to be selfish. I hadn’t done anything to her. She had done everything.

She just texted. She’s coming over later. We’re going for a run. She said she’s going to make me sweat.

Should I do cumming buckets to calm myself?

Epilogue

I trace the smudged heart on the old letter. The memory is so vivid, so visceral, it’s like no time has passed at all. That night was the beginning. It was the moment I stopped running from myself and let her catch me. It was messy, and painful, and terrifying. But it was ours. I learned, eventually, that I wasn’t selfish for wanting her to pleasure me. I learned that my pleasure was her pleasure. I learned that being a pillow princess wasn’t a weakness; it was a surrender, an offering. And I learned that my fufu wasn’t broken. It had just been waiting for the right princess to kiss it awake. I smile, folding the letter carefully, and put it back in the box. Liri will be home soon. And tonight, it’s my turn to make her sweat.