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The Genie’s Gift
an Erotic tale by Will Crimson
A thousand gifts were given me: pearl, diamonds, books inscribed with leaves of gold and blue inks ground from azurite, rare herbs and spices, carpets, Jimson cloth and gingham, an apple from the Caesarean tree and a coco de mer from the lands beneath the sea. But above them, and most to my liking, you — a gem among gems with eyes like the desert sky and hips like the willowy palm.
A dozen Lords and Ladies are gathered in my tent. Beautiful servants, in few clothes or none, display my gifts. This servant I recognize. That one I do not. This one had been a Lady. That one, in another dream, had been a Lord. In dreams, as in life, we play a thousand parts.
You, my beautiful gift, how shall I receive you?
Dance before me. The smell of the air is dry. The sun slopes westward and the dunes turn reddish. The Lords and Ladies are seated in a circle and the circle is a tent that is thirty paces. They sit in splendor, recumbent on silken pillows and cushions of purple and gold fringe. The cushions are themselves lain on each other and circumscribe the center. In the center are overlapping carpets. The sand is under them, mixes in their tassels, and scatters like a tickling gold dust atop them.
There are many candles and lanterns lit.
A warm breeze lifts and lets go the roof of the tent. The sound is like the heartbeat of the desert. A beautiful boy and a girl bring me water and wine. Others bring grapes, nuts and fruits to the attendant Lords and Ladies. Sometimes it is not the food that interests, but the nipple or cleft of the girl, or the upright cock of the boy. I hear a startled choke. A boy, his strong and oil-glistening muscles rippling in the firelight, struggles to hold his tray of food as his silverish semen arcs upward beneath his abdomen. There is nothing he can do. A Lady’s fingers are on his cock and she smiles the smile of the pleased and the conspiring.
But I cannot decide.
Should you dance after I have penetrated you?
I wonder: do a young woman’s hips move differently after her spine has been curled to the fit of a cock; after her abdomen has been made straight by his rigidity? Will your nipples, having answered a man’s thrusts, confess to your having been taken? I will have my artisans create a gold leaf wherewith to cup your pussy and the gold leaf will be held in place by golden chains. After you dance, you will kneel. You will kiss my cock. You will straighten, kneeling and thighs apart, and I shall have the leaf released beneath you. Then the Lords and Ladies shall see that the cup of the leaf that is filled by the semen the was already inside you.
Should you dance before?
I will pierce your nipples with pearls. I will command that your cunt be shaved. You will be held down, placed on your back, and your arms will be stretched above your head. Your thighs will be spread widely apart, knees crooked to the sides. My eunuch will pour warm and fragrant oil over your cunt as you are held like this, will bring the oil to a lather and draw the straight razor to the inward of your thighs. Little by little, artisan that he is, he will denude and prepare your pussy.
The skin of your thighs will gleam and your own oil will dribble down the cleft of your ass as he thumbs your clit. When your back lifts from the silken rugs, when your eyes roll, he will pierce your clit so quickly it shall feel as though the pain were part of the pleasure. A diamond, from a silver chain, will hang from your clit and will tug at your clit with every step. The diamond, like a drop of your own arousal, will remind you of your purpose and your value.
How, then, would you dance?
You will inflamed me. Your firm belly will have driven me mad with desire to fill it. Your slender and shapely legs, glowing in the orange desert sun, will have driven me past madness with the desire to part them. You know that your breasts, firm and youthful, will have parched me with the thirst to taste their nipples on my tongue.
I discuss it with the gathered Lordes. We digress. We expostulate. We debate and consider.
The Ladies scoff at us, chide us, mock us and call us fools. They tell us there is no difference in the way a woman dances before and after she has taken a cock. They ask us why we do not discuss young men before or after their semen has been taken from them.
A giant of a man brings you to the center of the tent. His thick belly is girdled by tatttoos.
Pearls hang from your nipples. A chain of coins and gems hangs from your slender waist. Chains of golden coins circle your ankles and wrists. Gold and silver, gems and coins, are braided into your umbrous hair. I see your slender neck between the feathered wisps of your hair and your eyes waver with an amber arousal. Your lips are parted and your wrists are crossed in front of and beneath the dark pool of your belly button. Your belly is smooth and the long crease of your muscles falls into and out of shadow with every breath.
The large man reveals himself to be a magical being — a genie.
He holds in his hand the leaf that I had imagined. Its shape is like a curved leaf and there are two golden nubs. He says to me that this leaf is magical; that he will grant me both my wishes; that he will seal the gold leaf between your thighs, and that the nubs will press at both your openings. He tells me that the two golden nubs will grow as my arousal grows; that, as she dances, the first nub that presses at the opening to her womb, will become, in girth, in length and depth, a golden likeness of my cock. He says that the second nub that presses at the opening into her bowels, will also grow with my arousal and will also be in the likeness of my cock, though smaller than the first. He tells me that I will feel her movement, as she dances, as though it were my cock inside her. He tells me I only have to drink from the golden chalice. The lips of the chalice are in the shape of your cunt. A pearl is embedded at the V of the chalices opening, and this pearl is like your clit. Press your tongue into the chalice, he tells me, and drink the nectar therein.
He presses the gold leaf between your legs. You inhale and shudder, your forehead a question, as you feel the nubs press at your openings. I take the chalice and lift it. I press my bottom lip and tongue to the pearl. Your eyes abruptly grow wide, as though with shock. I hear your high voice as you breathily exclaim and see your spine coil as your expression changes to something like pleading and unexpected pleasure. I press my tongue between the lips of the chalice, into the chalice, and dip my tongue into a dark, odorous syrup.
You exhale loudly, your legs opening, your breasts pressing forward, your narrow hips back and your hands at the base of your belly. I lift the chalice to my lips, I drink, and I feel the moist, lips of your cunt, the just parted opening at the tip of my cock.
The genie releases the bonds at your wrists. Castanets hang from the bracelets and they slip into your hands. The drummer begins to sound the tabla. Another rattles a riq. Another the mizwad and another the mizmar. The great genie steps back, raises a switch in his hand, and your buttocks loudly crack with the swing of it. You fall to your knees, head back, muscles strained, then your hips begin to move with the rhtyhm of the drums, or to cool the stinging heat of your ass.
I already begin to feel arousal. I feel your cunt, rhythmically kiss and suck at the tip of my cock as your abdomen moves back and forth. Do you hope that I won’t be aroused. It is too late. The genie switches your ass once more before he backs from the center of the room. You cry out. Your knees widen and hips move back and forth with pain or the music. I cannot tell. My cock begins to fill, to rise and your eyes widen once more with shook as the golden nubs gradually rise, become penises, and forcefully, slowly, inexorably part the entry to your womb and bowels. You stiffen. I grip the cushion beneath me as I feel the heat, moisture, and warmth within your body, as your abdomen begins to enclose the tip of my cock.
Pleasure! I groan with you.
You rise, you begin your dance, spitted on the ever deepening and widening girth of a cock. The more you move, the more you spin, arch and bow, the greater your impalement. You begin to pant as you dance. I hear it. I feel your breath around my cock. I cannot tolerate confinement! I free my cock as I myself begin to pant. Were you not expecting so large an impalement? Your gaze meets mine as you dance, stunned and pleading. You spin. Your gaze turns away. Then back. Then away. Then back. Your forehead is a mask of agony, the agony of a woman as her taut belly grows accustomed to the fullness growing within her, claiming her, forcing her to concede, within her core, to the will of another.
But my face is also a mask of agony, of the exquisite pleasure that engulfs me, the moves about me, that already begins her slow tug at my semen.
I grip the pillow on which I sit, my elbows straight. I bite my lip like a girl. I growl. I straighten my legs and my hips thrust imperceptibly. The thrusts, you cannot feel; but my cock grows, red, filled, thick and finally, fully upright. I exhale loudly. You fall to your knees, falling forward, one hand to support you, and lift your cunt behind you, spine curling, head thrown back as though mastered, as though conceding your will to the cock impaling you from behind. You are unused to such a possession. You receive my length in the posture of submission and you turn your gaze back to me with a question. What do I desire? You are mine. I fill you. You acknowledge it.
But you see in me, King of King’s, the same enslavement.
My cock twitches. You feel it. Your eyes shudder. I am yours. My semen thickens in me with every twitch and movement within your belly. You rise. Your movements are slow for your abdomen is filled with a rigid presence. You dance with a renewed purpose. I cannot escape. Your eyes do not leave mine. Who claims who? Who is the master and who the slave? How differently you dance! How purposefully! How knowingly!
My toes curl. Your nipples jut as they prepare. I groan. You circle your hips and I feel your darkness swirl around my cock, slowly tugging at, claiming and possessing my liquor, my semen, my essence into your essence.
The music is like a din. The tabla is like the racing hooves of a horse. The notes of the mizward circle like hawks. My fingers are white. My spine is stiff. I have lifted my buttocks from the cushion. My legs are stiff. I cannot stop the journey that my liquor already undertakes. It rises, called forth from me! I cry the desert’s name! I cry to Allah! I cry that I am beaten, defeated, and am equaled!
The music stops.
You fall to your knees, fingers at your nipples. Who has beaten who? None could say. You stare at me, unable to speak or breathe. Your eyes turn slowly upward. You lean forward though not over. You jut the golden leaf that seals your cunt behind you, and the spurts that are both yours and mine, the mutual clenching of our abdomens, begins to fill your womb and bowels. The spurts are like piercing needles, hot, and melting. You feel them. You feel them beneath the stretched skin of your belly button. You feel them piercing you completely.
When at last you look at me, your eyelids are heavy and your lips are full and parted.
You are claimed.
The genie comes to you, a giant magical being with iron banded arms. He bends and with a finger’s tip at both ends, slowly withdraws the curved leaf of gold, and with it, the long and arching cocks, golden and still twitching. The tips seep with my semen and semen spatters the sand and carpet between your knees. You roll your nipples between your finger tips. The gathered Lords and Ladies applaud loudly at the site of the golden cocks.
The genie bows.
The gift, he says of you, is mine to keep.
And I will. I will keep you fiercely, guarded as the gem of gems, a rose among roses, an oasis in the midst of the high-boned desert. I have claimed you. You have claimed me. I will let nothing come between. I will celebrate you as the gardener celebrates his finest olive tree, and I will cherish the fruit you bare for me.
February 28 2014: William Crimson