The Crystal Dildo
Date: 30.10.2007Keywords: The, Dildo, Crystal,
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She lay against me on the couch in the middle of the night. Her head nestled in the crook of my neck and shoulder. Her left hand rested on my chest, and I could hear her breathe softly as I ran my left hand through her soft, curled locks.
Sometimes, her voice was strong and unwavering. Other times, it was plaintive and girlish. It was more that way now.
"Tell me a story," she whispered.
I laughed as gently as I could. I did not want to shake her head, which rested so comfortably on me.
"What kind of story would you like to hear?"
"I want to hear a dirty story. About a dirty princess."
She's an amazing girl. It's hard to imagine anything better than just cuddling on the couch with her. And I'll do anything to preserve this moment just one second longer.
"Once upon a time, there was a beautiful princess. She was named Meghan, and from early on in her youth, it was widely acknowledged that she was the most beautiful woman in the world. Her crystal blue eyes crackled with an intelligence that only added to her radiance.
When the princess' eighteenth birthday arrived, she decreed that whoever supplied her with the present that pleased her most would win her hand in marriage.
A great uproar seized the land, as men of all ages prepared what they believed were the best gifts.
After sitting through hours of the same boring things- jewels, deeds, and clothes- the town glassblower presented his gift to the princess. It was an exquisitely modeled glass castle. There was a miniature castle placed inside a glass ball filled with fluid. The water-globe formed the base for the larger, finely detailed glass castle. Its beauty was breathtaking, and nearly impossible to describe.
The princess shrieked with delight, and then looked the glassblower over. He was nearly fifty years old, with a large gut and balding hair. A widower for many years, he was known for ogling the town's young ladies. She found herself thoroughly unattracted to him. She was bound to her word, though, and it was clear that his gift was her favorite so far. She silently prayed that someone would come up with something better.
Several hours later, the princess had sat through more mounds of jewels and clothes, and one golden egg that turned out to be painted when it hatched in front of her (that had brought a quick beheading to the farmer who presented it!), the princess was becoming increasingly worried. The gifts were all unoriginal and boring, and the glassblower was staring right through her clothes. Her skin crawled at the thought of his sagging flesh on her own taut body.
The last gift was from the glassblower's son. It was a glass cylinder of some type. Nearly a foot in length, it seemed to be made of the finest clear crystal. In its center was a massive, well cut emerald, which gave the entire piece a soft green glow when held in the right light. The cylinder was very thick- the princess could not fit her hand around it, but it was surprisingly light. At the front (she assumed it was the front), it tapered into a curved nose. The glassblower's son presented it to her on a velvet pillow.
No one in the court had seen such an item before. It "was" very beautiful, but not more so than the glassblower's castle. It was simply a crystal cylinder with an emerald inside.
'What is this?' asked the princess, clearly bewildered.
'It,' replied the glassblower's son. 'Is a pleasure stick.'
'A pleasure stick?' repeated the princess. 'Whatever does it do?'
'You will know,' said the glassblower's son.
The court was mystified with the last gift, and departed with a buzzing that the glass castle was clearly the best gift. They anxiously awaited the news the next day of what the princess had chosen.
That night, the princess Meghan wept softly in her chamber. She had thought her plan would allow her to marry a crafty and wise man, but it had backfired! She was going to have to betroth herself to a sickly and disgusting man who was the age of her father. She sniffled and rose from her bed, and padded barefoot across her floor to her royal mirror.
This body should not be given to a wretched old man like that, she thought. But can I really marry any of the buffoons who gave the other gifts?
She shrugged her nightgown from her shoulders and gazed at her naked self in the mirror. She was short, barely over five feet tall, and the top half of the mirror was wasted on her. She ran her hands through her long, jet-black hair. It was the same as her mother's, and she grew it out to her waist like her mother did. Her own eyes sparkled back at her. They were still as blue as ever. Her skin was very pale- any more and she would have looked sickly. But she enjoyed her fairness; it made her skin very soft. Her breasts were like two small melons. They hugged her chest, not sagging at all. She could almost fit each one in her hand. No, they certainly weren't large, but they fit her body, and that suited her just fine. Her nipples were as pale as the rest of her. In the candlelight, she had a hard time making out where they began. She reached up and pinched them playfully, and they quickly sprang to life. As they budded, they flushed with color. Pink, like she loved. She loved the way her nipples prominently stood out when erect- they went from pale parts of her breasts to large, pink nubs that demanded attention. She had learned how sensitive they were. Once hardened, it took little more than a gentle brush of them to make her gasp for breath. Her eyes flowed down her tapering body to her hips. Once they had been skinny- skinny like a young boy's. But now they flowed out. They were wide (for her body anyway), and womanly. She ran her hands over the outside of her hips. She loved them. They gave her body a perfect curve. She waggled them back and forth in front of the mirror a few times. Could she give them to that old man? She shuddered.
Her eyes finally landed on her mound of womanhood. It was think and black, like her hair. She had one of her servants keep it trimmed into a fat rectangle. Her lovely black patch was a sign of her womanhood, and she was proud of it. She ran her hand through it and marveled at its softness. She would have to reward her trimming servant the next time she saw her. She cooed softly at the feeling of her fingers in her small, curled hairs. Her natural scent gently wafted up to her nose.
Could she really award all this to the glassblower? Her beautiful mound, so meticulously trimmed? Her tight, pink flesh, which gave off her sweet scent? It had never been touched by anyone, save her. Her maidenhead was still intact. She had felt it, exploring herself. The wall was there, always slick with her wetness, but always giving way to her fingers and not breaking. That most personal piece of skin- property of the glassblower?
She despaired.
Her gaze went back to the mirror. She was suddenly confused- her skin was supposed to be pale white, not green. Startled, she looked down at herself. She gazed at her black bush for a second, and then inspected the rest of her skin. It was white, as it should be. Relieved, she looked back in the mirror. Why was it green there? She looked around the room, her black hair swinging back and forth.
Then it caught her attention. The… pleasure stick. She had set it down and forgotten about it. It was refracting the candlelight through the emerald, casting a soft green light around the room. She smiled, and walked over to it.
Confused, she gently picked it up. 'You will know,' the glassblower's son had said. That was rather cryptic. Just holding it in her hands did not give her any real pleasure. It was cold, but that only made her more aware of it. How could this simple thing give anyone pleasure?
Still, it was rather smooth. She ran her hands down its length. It was more than smooth. In fact, it was seamless. Even the glassblower's castle had small seams on it. They were tiny, but they were there. His son was GOOD. And he had made this 'pleasure stick' for her. She smiled again. So far, the greatest pleasure she had gotten from it was the knowledge of how hard he must have worked to make it.
Curious, she headed over to her bed. She flopped herself backwards and bounced a few times. Once more she regarded the pleasure stick in the candlelight. It must have had a purpose. She resolved to find out what it was before she went to sleep that night.
* * * * *
Hours later, Meghan was angry. She had tried everything she could think of, and still the pleasure stick sat motionless in her hands. She had talked to it, rubbed it, blown on it- everything. It wasn't magic. It didn't DO anything. How was that supposed to give her pleasure? It was smooth and that was it.
Absentmindedly, she rubbed it against her bare feet. They had always been extremely sensitive, and she loved to tease them when she was alone and frustrated. It helped her relieve herself. She noticed immediately that the smoothness of the pleasure stick felt good against her soft skin.
It felt good.
Her frustrations faded as her other senses snapped to attention. Was that it? She now moved the pleasure stick gently and intimately against her feet, feeling the smooth crystal touch her sensitive points. She lay on her back, and pulled her knees to her stomach. Gently, she worked the pleasure stick through her soft, high arches. It brought a wonderful feeling. She began to breath more heavily.
Trying to fit it between her toes proved impossible, but she could tease them with the smooth tip, and she did, sliding it back and forth across the bottoms of all ten of her toes. She gritted her teeth in delight, her nose scrunching in pleasure. She relaxed her body, and began to use the pleasure stick on other parts.
It danced on her taut belly, caressed her hips, tickled her ribs, and nuzzled her neck. She ground the tip into her nipples, reveling in the sensation of the hard nipples twisting under the crystal. The electricity that ran through her body got more and more intense.
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Keywords: The, Dildo, Crystal,