Bedtime Stories

by Johnson, Jean

  Through the open window, the sounds of singing and playing came to an end. The listeners in the garden applauded, and requests were called out for another performance. Gisette glanced longingly at the window.

  “Patience, Gisette,” the frog on her writing desk stated. “We still have more to discuss. Now, I’ll presume if your father knew you had a phallus, he would grow enraged?”

  “Absolutely,” she agreed glumly. “Not even Mother can make him see sense. I’d have to be married and pregnant before he’d admit I’m capable of becoming pregnant, and even then . . .”

  “Well, I know it’s terribly ungentlemanly of me to make this demand, but . . . if you do not assist me with my problem . . . I shall have no choice but to worsen your problem.”

  That caught her attention. Narrowing her eyes, Gisette stared at the frog on her desk. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean, if you do not do as I say, your father is going to learn about your mother’s secret gift.”

  She fumed at his implication. “I cannot believe I’m being blackmailed by a frog !”

  “If my own situation were not so dire, I wouldn’t dare. My parents did raise me to be a gentleman. Unfortunately, I have little choice. Luckily for you, the sooner you cooperate, the sooner I’ll be out of your life.”

  “I can endure a month of your presence,” Gisette asserted. “It’s only a month.”

  “It could be sooner, if . . .” He let the offer trail out.

  “If, what?” she asked, suspicious.

  “You are trapped by your father’s belief that you are still a little girl. My situation is not too dissimilar, in that I am trapped in the shape of a frog by an enchantment. If you help me break the enchantment, I will be free to leave. Otherwise I will have to stay at your side.”

  “Eating off my plate and sleeping on my pillow will help you break the enchantment?” Gisette asked, confused.

  “Unfortunately, no. I have to . . . uh, that is . . .”

  She peered at his broad, elliptical face. “Are you . . . blushing?”

  He cleared his throat with a croak. “I have to give you a climax.”

  Gisette blinked. “You . . . what?”

  “The Fairy Tilda stated that, as a punishment for refusing to accept her offer of marriage, I am cursed to remain an ugly, unwanted creature until a beautiful woman demonstrates beyond a doubt that she associates me with pleasure. In other words, I must seduce, assist, or otherwise be associated with a woman as she climaxes.”

  She stared for a moment in horror, then grimaced. “Eww!”

  “If you don’t want your father to find out about your golden phallus . . . you will have to use it in my presence. Under my direction, following my suggestions.”

  Shoving out of her chair, Gisette whirled away. “I’m not listening to this!”

  “I’ll give you a week to get used to the idea—Where are you going?” Henrik croaked as she headed for the door.

  “Down to the garden, to listen to something more pleasant!”

  “Not without me. I go wherever you go, remember?” he reminded her. “Or would you rather I had a word with your father?”

  Gritting her teeth, Gisette walked back to her writing desk. “I suppose once the enchantment breaks, you turn back into a toad ?”

  “Hardly. I was born a human prince. Second son, to be exact, and not the heir apparent,” he added as he crawled onto her grudgingly offered palm, “but a prince nonetheless. And I would be a gentleman and not press the matter . . . but in order to be a gentleman, I’d first have to be a man, wouldn’t I? Don’t squeeze me quite so tight,” he ordered as she curled her fingers around his fist-sized body. “I’m hardly going to escape, now am I?”

  “On that much, we can agree,” Gisette quipped, heading once more for the door. “You, sir, are no gentleman!”

  Henrik didn’t press the matter. At least, not the matter of breaking his enchantment.

  He did press the matter when it came to being poked, prodded, and even insulted by the others in the small court that had come with Their Majesties to the royal hunting lodge. His dignity, charm, and wit—if supplied in the form of a mere frog—managed to quell even the rudest of young men and most importunate of young women who associated with Princess Gisette. Though it did take a few pointed, swivel-eyed looks at Annette and the other handmaiden, Jacqueline, to get them to stop snickering whenever Gisette’s “golden ball” was mentioned.

  AS the days progressed, he strove to be as charming and entertaining and friendly as he could manage, until the princess no longer flinched whenever she had to pick him up, and no longer wrinkled her nose even the slightest bit when she glanced his way. When the first week of their month was up, as promised, only then did Henrik strike.

  Having changed behind a screen into a lace-edged linen nightdress, Gisette sat by the window, brushing out her long brown curls. Seated on the window ledge beside her, Henrik snapped his tongue at a mosquito—tangy and bitter—which was threatening to bite her, and composed himself for his plan of attack.

  “Gisette . . .”

  “Yes, Henrik?” Gisette asked, her attention more on working out a stubborn snarl with her brush than on the frog on her windowsill.

  “May I tell you a bedtime story?”

  That caught her attention. Blinking, she focused on him. “A bedtime story? What, like a child would hear?”

  “Hardly,” he snorted. Or rather, croaked. Being a frog meant it was difficult to make suitable scoffing noises. “I think we’ve long since established that you are an adult woman. No . . . I’d like to, if I may, tell you a bedtime story of the sort suitable for an adult woman to hear. I’m in the mood to tell one, you see, and I’d like to think I can tell an entertaining tale.”

  She smiled in remembrance. “That story you told about the donkey two days ago . . . I’ve never seen my father laugh so hard as he did over that one.”

  “I aim to please,” Henrik agreed, bobbing his body in his best approximation of a bow. “So. If I may . . . I would like to tell you the tale of ‘The Courtship of Wali Daad.’ I learned it from a book of tales brought from the East, and I think you will like it.”

  “ ‘ The Courtship of Wali Daad’?” Gisette repeated. Finished with brushing out her locks, she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them. “All right, it sounds interesting. I take it this is a tale of romance?”

  “Indeed,” Henrik chuckled, “though not quite the romance you might expect.”

  Launching into it, he did his best to enthrall her with the story, gesturing with his forefeet for emphasis and making full use of his deep amphibian voice to heighten the drama. At first she smiled and laughed as the amusing tale progressed. But when he mentioned the phallus, she gasped and glared at him, blushing.

  Henrik wasn’t deterred. If anything, he emphasized the lascivious parts all the more strongly, until she was all but covering her ears, her skin as red as a summer strawberry. Bringing the tale to its conclusion, he smirked. Frog mouths, being extra wide, were well suited to smirking.

  Face flaming, Gisette glared at him. “I can’t believe you said all those things!”

  “Would you rather I treated you like your father does, and restrict my tales to those suitable for a little girl? The kind of little girl who only ever plays with a gilded wooden ball?” Henrik offered. “Before you protest how this story is ‘beyond the pale’ . . . consider the stories I could tell, if I weren’t concerned about your delicate sensibilities.”

  From the curious, if wary, look she gave him, Henrik knew she was hooked.

  “Oh, yes. Tales of love and lust, of passion and pleasure, of adventure and romance. Stories of seduction, stories of instruction . . .”

  “Instruction?” Gisette couldn’t help ask. “Isn’t it just . . . Don’t you just do it?”

  Henrik croaked with laughter. “Hardly! Assuming you automatically know how to make love is like assuming you automatically know how to hitch a horse to a plow
. The farmer knows how because he has been taught from an early age, but hand a city-dweller a harness and he’s as likely to hang himself by the straps as get them on the horse the right way around.”

  The image his words conjured amused Gisette, soothing away her embarrassment. Chuckling, she rested her chin on her forearms. “All right. Let’s say you do know how to make love so that one doesn’t get all tangled around. What makes you think telling me about it is all that appropriate?”

  “I told you. It’s part of the conditions holding me captive in the body of a frog,” he reminded her. Swiveling his eyes, he snapped his tongue at another mosquito hovering near her shoulder. “Bleh. Tangy, but not exactly tasty . . . As I said, I am not inclined to remain this way for the rest of my life. Thankfully, I happen to know a fair amount about sensuality and seduction.”

  “Do you, now?” Gisette challenged him. “And how is it you come to know all of these things, hmm?”

  “Well, I did have to learn all the various ways to manage a state ‘just in case’ . . . but my older brother Gustav is as healthy as a horse and quite competent as a ruler-to-be, so I haven’t been pressured to study the dry, boring bits extra hard. Thus I have been left with a decent amount of time for studying, shall we say, extracurricular materials?”

  “I’ll bet,” Gisette snorted. Still, her curiosity got the better of her after a moment. “So . . . what exactly did you learn?”

  “That men and women are different. That women take longer to find their pleasure than men, but when a man learns properly how to help her find it, it’s far more delightful for both of them.” His tongue snapped out again, catching another mosquito. One of the wings snagged on his throat, making Henrik cough. “Bleh . . . Could you carry me to the water bowl, please? I think I’m getting a little dried out.”

  “Certainly.” Scooping him up, Gisette left the bench under the window and carried him to her nightstand and the silver dish filled with cool water. Once he was in the basin and splashing around, sighing happily, she returned to the window to close the shutters and fetch her brush. As she turned back toward the bed, her gaze fell on the inlaid chest sitting in the corner. “Henrik . . .”

  “Yes, Gisette?” Hooking his forelimbs over the edge of the basin, he swiveled both eyes in her direction.

  “Could you, erm . . . can you . . . well . . . teach me?” She blushed as she asked it, but she didn’t take it back.

  Henrik struggled manfully—or rather, frogfully—not to smirk too much. Finally, she’s in the mood to cooperate with my needs. Which means I must take extra care to attend to hers . . . however limited in usefulness this form may be for such things. “Of course I can. It would be my honor to guide you in exploring your adult sense of pleasure.”

  Her lips twisted ruefully. “Not to mention the means to release you from your enchantment?”

  Henrik coughed, hastily raising a forepaw to his broad mouth. “Well, that is a bonus, to be sure . . .”

  Gisette blushed, but moved toward the chest. Unlocking it, she dug through the cloth, down to the cool, hard lump of metal hidden beneath the layers of her best dresses. Once the gilded phallus was exposed, however, she started having doubts. Henrik was a frog, yes, but if he was indeed an enchanted frog, then he was also a man underneath his damp green and yellow skin. Whereas I am a maid, and so shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts . . .

  “Come along now,” Henrik croaked, cajoling her. “No need to be shy. I may not have one at the moment, but I do know what it looks like, so it won’t shock me to see it.”

  Somehow the thought of a man being shocked at the sight of a phallus struck her as funny. Giggling, Gisette bit her lip and faced him. Her face was hot with embarrassment, but she still managed to meet at least one of his swiveling eyes without flinching. Much. Moving back over to the bed, she perched herself on the edge, facing the nightstand and its amphibian-occupied bowl. She lifted the oblong object and cleared her throat.

  “Um . . . what’s this part?” she asked, pointing to the knobby bit at one end.

  “Those are the bollocks. If you respect a particular man, treat them very gently and he will enjoy it. However, if the man tries to disrespect you, and particularly if he tries to maul you in some unwelcome manner, hit them as hard as you can,” Henrik advised her. “But we’ll presume this is a man who respects you, and a man whom you like, so touch them gently. Obviously they will be made of flesh and not metal, so there will be some warmth and some give, but you can stroke, pet, and very, very gently knead them.”

  “I see.” Blushing a little, Gisette petted the rounded bulbs, then trailed her fingers up to the shaft. “And this part?”

  “That is called the shaft, or the rod. It can be grasped more firmly than the bollocks, but the best way to treat it is to encircle it with the fingers . . . or one’s lips, or other body parts,” Henrik allowed as she gingerly stroked the gleaming metal, “and rub it up and down. Men can get excited just by looking at a beautiful woman such as yourself, but if you rub a man’s rod, he’ll definitely get excited, making it turn stiff and ready for copulation.”

  “Like . . . this?” she asked, following his instructions. The metal was slowly warming under her touch, but it was also beginning to stick to her skin a little, thanks to the way her embarrassed blushing made her palms a little damp. She grimaced as her hand bumped unevenly up the shaft of the phallus. “How do I keep my hand from dragging on it, like that?”

  “Lubrication. Moisture. One can use a salve . . . or one can simply use one’s spit.”

  “Eww.” She wrinkled her nose, eyeing the dildo, then the frog. “That sounds messy.”

  “Sex, when properly done, is messy,” Henrik croaked. “When a man is excited and his rod stiffens, moisture will leak out of that little dimple at the top. Just as when a woman is excited, her slit will leak fluids of its own—don’t wrinkle your nose at me. The moisture is perfectly natural, and makes everything work together a lot more easily than if everything remained dry. It’s also a lot more pleasurable when things are moist, and if you deliberately make them so, it helps. Nature doesn’t always provide sufficient liquid for the job.”

  “Why not?” Gisette asked, curious.

  “Think of it this way. If you haven’t had enough to drink in a while, does your mouth get dry?” he asked.

  “Of course it does. But all I have to do is find something to drink and it’s moist again . . . Oh. Right. Of course. But women don’t look like this,” she pointed out, lifting the phallus in her hand. “Not that I’ve exactly peered at everything down there, but I don’t have one of these. How do I get moist down there?”

  A pity this is only an abstract exercise for me, Henrik sighed silently. Stuck in this form, I literally am unable to get aroused, at least one presumes not outside of mating season . . . which I hope to Heaven I won’t have to experience as a frog. Clearing his throat, he explained briefly.

  “You have various folds of flesh between your legs. Some project outward a little, and feel marvelous when gently rubbed—or so I have been told by women, since I am not a female myself—and you have other bits where it’s like a pocket of flesh. That is your womb. A man pushes his rod into that pocket, rubbing it in and out, which feels good for both of you, until you both shudder with pleasure, and that is the point when the seed for a baby is planted. If the man pulls out before that point and spills his seed on the bed or the ground, it isn’t as likely for a baby to be planted.

  “But for now, we’re talking about how to pleasure a man. The bollocks are where the rod is rooted to the front of the man’s hips. At the tip is that little offset ridge. There are three parts to that end which you should know about.”

  “Yes?” she asked, tilting the phallus so she could examine the indicated end.

  “The first, the ridge itself, feels nice when it is rubbed, licked, or otherwise stimulated. On a real one, there is also a little sleeve of skin which often covers the head before the rod is fully stiffened. Once it do
es stiffen out, that cowl-sleeve gets stretched and pulled out of the way. The second one is the little slit at the top and the soft skin in front. These two spots feel good when touched, if in a different way. You can stroke them, rub them, knead them, kiss them, suckle them, and even flick them with something soft and moist, such as your tongue. All of that will feel good to the man.”

  “And the third spot?” she wondered.

  “Where the ridge sweeps up into a little point. On some men it is more blatantly visible, and on other men it is less noticeable, but all men have this spot,” Henrik told her. “This is what I like to call the Dear Sweet Heaven spot, and if you stroke it just right, you will have a man begging to do anything you please, so long as you keep stroking it until he squirts his seed.”

  “Really? This little spot here?” Gisette asked, touching the arrow-like section of dimpled metal. “It’s so small . . .”

  “Yes, that spot there. Stroke that just right, whether it’s with your fingers, your lips and tongue, or even the moist folds of your womb, and you will make a man very, very happy. And if you combine all the spots I’ve mentioned into one, you will put him into Heaven while he’s still alive.”

  She pouted a little. “Well, that’s not very fair. I know I don’t have anything shaped like that on my body. Why should a man get to have a spot that makes him think of Heaven, but a woman doesn’t?”

  “Trust me, you have your own special spots,” Henrik said, chuckling.

  “Really? Where?” Gisette demanded.

  “First, you’ll have to set down your golden ball,” he teased. “Then fetch out that little hand mirror you have. And you’ll want to sit on the bed so that the light from the candles falls on your body. You’ll have to be able to see yourself, since we don’t have a gilded substitute on hand.”

  Tucking the phallus under her pillow, Gisette fetched her silver mirror. Seating herself on the bed so she faced the candles, which meant facing Henrik in his bowl, she eyed the frog on her nightstand. “Now what?”