Poontang Protocol

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by Cristiano Caffieri

Twenty-two-year-old Michael Sloan had developed a technique for picking up chics. He’d walk into crowded restaurants with the idea of trying to find some table he could share with an attractive woman. That’s how he met the young lady who called herself Angelika von Hessische-Littau. When he asked if he could share her table she sighed and said he could but as soon as he sat down she began to pour out her troubles. It appeared that her pet Poodle had been run over by a truck and she was having quite a job fighting back the tears.

“He was a given to me by my cousin Prince Azorov-Yeremsky,” she sniffled, “FooFoo had a fine pedigree and I was hoping to show her at Crufts in London next year. But alas there be no scarlet ribbon for poor FooFoo now.”

Michael commiserated with her loss and even held her hand to comfort her. He felt that if he played his cards right he could have her in bed by the end of the day. To this end, he paid the bill, on which she insisted he give a much larger tip than he was accustomed to giving, and then she suggested he walk back to her apartment with her for, what she described as, a really good cup of coffee. It was not a lavish apartment for somebody with such a distinguished name but she had little touches that suggested she might have been used to better things at some point in her life.

The silver tea and coffee service for example, which she said was given to her by a Swedish Count, was very elaborate and probably worth a few dollars. She also pointed out that the china from which he’d be drinking “a really good cup of coffee,” was Limoges.

The living room was dominated by a huge oil painting of a regal looking older couple who she said were her late grandparents, and according to her, they were pretenders to the Prussian throne.

“They were wonderful to me when I was a child,” she said, “We traveled all over Europe together, staying the best hotels and dining in the most incredibly expensive restaurants. I miss them dearly.”

She held out her hand to show him a ring with an enormous diamond, although it could just as easily been a Zircon for all he knew, “They gave me this for my 18th birthday,” she continued, “I have lots of other jewelry but I keep it in a safety deposit box, you can’t afford to wear too many valuables walking around New York can you?”

Angelika went on give him a detailed inventory of pieces given to her either by aristocratic admirers or family members.

“I could have married royalty,” she said, as they sipped their coffee and munched on Jaffa cakes, “I got my first proposal when I was just sixteen but that was far too young to tie myself down.”

To break the monotony of listening to what he regarded as fanciful stories, he ventured to use the little German he knew, she responded by telling him to speak English, “We do live in the United States you know.”

Although he was beginning to think she was a pathological liar, he played along and tried to very carefully introduce his favorite topic into the conversation.

“That’s all you Americans think about is sex,” she snapped, “I suppose you’re sitting there now wondering how you can get into my pants.”

He was a bit taken aback by her forthrightness and mumbled something about not thinking about her pants at all.

“You’re a very handsome man, Mr. Sloan, but in my position, I can’t afford to sleep around, particularly not with a commoner like yourself.”

“Being as beautiful as you are,” he came back skilfully, “You must fighting off suitor all of the time.”

She smiled at him, “You’re a very sweet talker, Mr. Sloan, but you’ve got to offer a lot more than that to sleep with someone like me”, she paused to take another sip of her coffee, “Would you consider yourself a great lover?”

“I’ve had no complaints.”

“That’s hardly a Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval,” she sighed, putting down her cup and crossing her long nylon clad legs in a most provocative manner. “However, you did pay for my lunch, and escort me home, perhaps I do owe you something.”

He couldn’t believe his ears or his luck, it really looked as though he was going to steer his cock between those inviting thighs and he couldn’t wait.

“There is a certain protocol,” she added, as she put her cup down. “It all has to be done with a sense of refinement.”

He had no idea what the fuck she was talking about but he was willing to go along with anything to get his leg over. She got to her feet gracefully, took his hand and led him to her boudoir.

“You may now undress me,” she said, “And do it gently, I’m not looking for a bit of rough.”

Even though he thought she was full of shit with all the aristocratic nonsense he decided he’d better play along. However, he was nervous as he fumbled to undo the buttons on her blouse. She held her head in the air like the queen as he worked his way down and then to his surprise her tits popped right out, she was not wearing a bra.

They were exquisite and he would love to have shoved her back on the bed and sucked them right away – but there was protocol to consider, and so he slipped off her skirt, her tights and her panties and just stood there breathing heavy.

The next task Her Highness set for him was to sponge her down in the shower. Like any devoted servant would, he soaped up the sponge and he very gently lathered her tits, and from there he went on to her hairy muff and gave that special attention. As he slipped it between her legs she started to tremble and he thought she was anxious to get on with the show. But he was wrong, she insisted that he had a shower and in spite of her higher station she sponged his balls and dick like a pro, peeling back his foreskin to make sure it was perfectly clean before it entered her aristocratic crack.

He had to carry her to the bed and once stretched out naked on the covers she reached over and switched on the CD player. Soon the room was filled with classical music and Michael was filled with lust. Thinking it was now time for a little tit and muff licking he attempted to climb on the bed but she stopped him and instructed him to light a string of candles she had on the bedside cabinets and dressing table.

The flickering lights, the sweet music, the sight of her gorgeous body and her sultry voice telling him she wanted him to suck her swollen nipples sent his brain into over drive. Leaning over and he began to gently flick his tongue all over her tits as she arched her back and responded with little gasps. He sucked, stroked and fondled her until she couldn’t maintain her pretentious demeanor any longer.

“Oh fuck,” she cried, “Oh for the love of Saint Gregor of Brackweda.”

As she writhed and squirmed her ass around he licked all the way down her belly, opened her legs up wider, and nuzzled his face between her hot thighs. When his tongue penetrated the lips of her cunt she screamed and began to bounce up and down. Michael reached up and grabbed onto her tits as he moved his pussy flicker lightly over her clitoris.

It didn’t take long before she had a royal orgasm and she didn’t seem able to stop her body vibrating for a full minute. Raising himself up, so that he could look down on her, he rammed his dick into her as far as it would go. She took a big gulp of air and then grabbed onto his arms urging him to start the action.

Angelika closed her eyes and bit on her lip as he thrust it in and out of her well-lubricated crack. The bed was creaking and her tits bouncing as he pounded her with all of his strength.

His balls felt as if a charge of electricity was passing through them and he started to groan, and she groaned with him. When he shot his load he just shouted out “FUCK,” and she screamed and wrapped her legs around him. It had taken rather a long time to get there but it was worth it. He felt it was one of the best shags he’d ever had.

The next day he was sitting in his apartment having a drink with his buddy Keith, telling him about his experience.

“She was a great fuck,” he told him, “Although all that aristocratic bullshit was a bit scary. “

“She sounds as though she has an over active imagination.”

“Her nanny probably dropped on her on her head as a baby,” Michael laughed.

They were both still laughing when there was a loud knock on the door. He opened it to find a tall elegantly dressed man standing there.

“Are you Michael Sloan?” he asked.

He nodded.

“I am Prince Azorov-Yedemsky,” he said, clicking his heels and giving a short sharp bow with his head, “I understand from my cousin Angelika von Hessische-Littau that you took advantage of her yesterday when she was not in control of her feelings due to the death of her little dog.”

Before he could answer the man gave him a resounding slap across the face with his leather gloves.

“My seconds will call on you in the morning,” he snapped and disappeared down the hallway.

Rubbing his face Michael turned to his buddy who just stood there with his mouth open,

“That’s ridiculous – people don’t fight duels in New York,” he said, with a stupid grin, “That crazy woman’s just paid some bum to scare the shit out of me – it’s just a big joke.”

“You could stay at my place for a few days if you like,” Keith invited.

“Good idea – I’ll just pack a few things and we’ll be off – I could even stay a little longer if you want me too.”
THE END
Copyright 2015 Cristiano Caffieri

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