The alarm clock roused Lindsay with its shrill whine, and a fast moving hand bashed the plastic box with more force than was probably wise. Muttering a muted curse at the fury of the inanimate, she groggily threw herself out of bed before the mild energy the alarm imparted faded back into the warm embrace of sleep. She stumbled to a standing position, and stretched with a yawn, vaguely tossing the blanket back on to the bed. Stepping out of her negligee, she grabbed a pair of clean panties from the drawer, and slipped them on. She snatched a bra from the drawer above it, and walked into the bathroom, her balance vaguely improving. She slipped the black covering over her firm Cs, and handled the dozen and one beautifying tasks that had filled the first fifteen minutes of each of her days for the last decade.
She walked back into the bedroom, and grabbed the tortoiseshell comb she joking called "The Precious." Running in through her hair over and over again, she let each lock drop down her chest after the Precious smoothed it, relishing the pleasant sensation as the long auburn strands landed on her thighs. When she reached the hundredth stroke, she sighed appreciatively, smiling at the results. She threw on her long terrycloth bathrobe. Darting down the stairs, she opened the front door to pick up the morning mail. Two newspapers awaited her, six letters, and, much to her surprise, two packages. The first was amazon.com box—Harry Potter, Lindsay was sure—but the second was entirely an unknown.
Lindsay picked up the mail, and brought it in, tossing it on the kitchen table. After a brief glance at the envelopes—nothing more urgent than Publisher's Clearinghouse—she greedily snatched the mysterious package, freely indulging her curiosity. She ripped off the packaging tape, and sniggered as she saw yet another, smaller box inside, this one with a folded note on top of it. Reading it, Lindsay's sense of adventure was piqued rather than satisfied. "To the Recipient," it cryptically began, "According to the last will and testament of my employer, who furthermore instructed his anonymity to be respected, this address has been selected at random to received the enclosed bequest." Lindsay's eyebrow arched. She noted the legal office's letterhead adorning the top and bottom of the sheet, and the language vaguely reminiscent of the Publisher's Clearinghouse on the table.
Dropping the letter, Lindsay slid her hands into the box and retrieved the smaller package, eyeing the Russian dolls on her mantle with a wry amusement. She ripped off the tape—again—and stifled a gasping laugh as what appeared to be a giant gold dildo fell to the table with a thunk. Gradually, her will failed, and a rising chuckle escaped her lips.
The phallus wasn't particularly intricate or accurate—just cylinder with mushroom-shaped head, with a little slit at its end, and a small divot in the side of the head, presumably representing the frendulum, the 'sensitive' underside of the organ it imitated. Picking it up, still grinning at the humor, even as the wheels began to turn, contemplating its source, she noticed both the weight of the dildo, and, even more curiously, writing on the shaft. Quizzically squinting, she recognized a dozen different alphabets represented, as another channel of her brain began to entertain the notion that she was actually hefting gold. Rotating the cock with a care subconsciously emanating from her growing concern for the value of the piece, she found a bloc of Roman letters. The third that her eyes caught here English, and she burst out laughing as she read it.
"For a good time, rub me."
Lindsay sat down, chortling, and paused for a moment to wonder at who could or would have sent the object, and continued to mull over the concept of its composition. She grinned, and, as if to complete the joke, licked the understand, and burst out laughing, just in time to get hit in the chest with a blast of white smoke. Lindsay felt the breath get knocked out of her. She sucked in a lungful, and restored her equilibrium just in time to see a tawny beauty coalesce on the kitchen table.
A naked, tawny beauty.
Her skin looked like the fine sand of the beach, her hair, curved around her ears, like the blackness of a desert night. Her soft breasts, two small mounds—little more than A—topped by two tiny dots of crimson, with the most minimal of red halos around them. Lindsay's mind whirled for a moment, afflicted by the sort of vertigo that only witnessing the impossible can engender. Before she could gather herself, a low, enticing voice murmured "To whom do I owe the pleasure of my company and service?"
With a laugh now tinged more with worry and fear at the sudden interloper than it was with amusement at the situation, Lindsay sputtered "The genie of the cock? What the fuck? Going to grant me three orgasms now, are you?"
The blue eyed stranger grinned. "If that is what you wish for. But wish carefully—you only get one."
Lindsay's disbelief was quite thoroughly suspended by now. "Not three?" she queried, almost by reflex.
The genie smiled even more broadly. "I am Val'din, or, as you put it, the genie of the cock. Not the lamp. You get one sexual wish, and then I get to flitter off and do whatever it is I want to for the rest of your life. And when that lovely period ends, I get sucked back in, and the process repeats itself. It's really quite simple." She seemed quite pleased with herself as she explained this, and, as if to further emphasize the point, she uncrossed her legs. Lindsay, through sheer force of will, did not look.
"Bullshit." She replied. Cynicism restored itself to her mind, as her left hemisphere spun into action, seeking a rational explanation with all of its vigor.
"I gave Helen of Troy the cutest little nose, and you know what happened. Give it a whirl," she lazily replied. "Results are guaranteed. Wish right, and you can have anyone inside you."
The impossibility of the situation continued to resonate in Lindsay's mind, her left hemisphere continually coming up empty. "Oh, really? Anything I want?"
"Absolutely," the genie purred. "Anything."
"What did the last guy have?" Lindsay blurted, her left brain at last coming up with a logical query, a toehold in the rational realm. A question that demanded an answer that would, in the reaction it induced, reveal some shred of information, uncover a liar.
"You're not the first person to ask," the Val'din grinned. She raised an eyebrow, and, grabbing the golden dildo from Lindsay's hands, thrust it between her legs, and moaned "An eight inch, perfect cock." Sliding it slowly out, she brought it to her mouth, and licked it lightly. "Why, do you want one, too?"
Lindsay's brow furrowed, but before she could even contemplate the response, Val'din continued, "More than one of my liberators has wanted at least a taste of the other side's pleasure."
Lindsay recovered herself. "I've had more than my fair share of tastes. From both sides," she boasted.
"But you've never had your own cock sucked," Val winked with a smile.
Lindsay scoffed "Of course not."
"Don't even want to know what it's like? Eight inches sliding down a wet, warm throat… feeling hands grip your butt, wanting to taste you?" Val cackled with fiendish glee, and continued licking the dildo.
