ESTHER AND THE ENCHANTED EGG by Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Feature Writer: Jacqueline Jillinghoff

Feature Title: Esther And The Enchanted Egg

Published: 01.04.2023

Esther And The Enchanted Egg

Esther ran toward the sound.

In former times, when magic vapors filled the air, there lived a young girl who loved to be naked. Her name was Esther, and she dwelled with her grandmother in a cottage between a lake and a deep wood.

In wintertime, Esther covered herself in woolens and furs, as other girls do, but come the spring, as the sun rose higher each day, and blossoms appeared on the chestnut trees, she placed her clothes in the box beneath her bed and forgot about them for weeks on end. She knew no greater pleasure than to play by the lake shore with the sun on her back and the breeze encircling her slender limbs.

Esther’s grandmother never fretted over her indifference to modesty. A naked child is the soul of innocence, after all, and there were practical conveniences as well: Esther didn’t leave soiled clothes to wash, and if she appeared at the cottage with schmutz on her bottom, a quick dousing in the lake would take care of the problem.
As the girl grew, however, and the points of her bosom began to push forward, her grandmother worried she would attract the wrong sort of attention from the hunters and fishermen who frequented the lake.

“Esther, you’re almost grown up,” she said one day, lighting her little pipe. “It’s time you covered yourself like a proper lady.”

“But Grandma, clothes are such a bother,” the girl replied. “I like nothing better.”

“Do me one favor, at least,” Grandmother said. And, opening the door to her wardrobe, she withdrew a red, hooded cloak. “This belonged to your mom,” she said. “Wear it when you leave the cottage, and keep it closed if anyone approaches.”

With that, she laid the cloak across her granddaughter’s shoulders and tied the hood beneath her chin. The scarlet folds hung to Esther’s knees, and, when pulled tight in front, they were just full enough to hide her glabrous cleft.

“There,” Grandmother said. “How does that feel?”

“Like I’m tied up in a sack.”

“Live with it,” Grandmother said. “Now go, like a good girl, and gather some kindling for the fire.”

“But Grandma —”

“Do as I say now.”

Sighing and scowling, Esther left the cottage with her basket. The cloak weighed on her like stone. She threw it off one shoulder, lightening her burden somewhat, and strode along with half her body exposed.

The ground near the cottage had been picked nearly clean of dry twigs, and every day, Esther had to venture further into the woods for kindling.

“This is silly,” she thought. “The air is so nice, and there’s no one around. Why must I suffer so?”

Just then, a gust of wind shook the branches high above her, and a wealth of dead twigs clattered to the forest floor. As Esther bent to pick them up, she thought she heard a far-off cry, as of an animal caught in a trap. She straightened up and listened, and in a moment, she heard it again — distant, but unmistakable. The voice was human, and in great distress.

Esther ran toward the sound. Her cloak rose on the air behind her, but she gave no thought to her state of undress. Anyone in such dire straits would care only about being rescued. They would hardly notice their rescuer was naked.

The cries grew more distinct, and Esther thought she heard more than one voice. At last, she came to a rise in the ground. There was a steep drop on the other side, and she found herself at the crest of a stony hill. Down below, a dark figure lay half-sunk in a pool of mud, struggling to right itself, while two boys laughed at it, pelting it with branches and clods of filth.

“Stop that!” Esther shouted. It was a foolish thing to do. She was only a young girl. How could she chase off these ruffians, who were older and bigger than she? But her anger rose at the sight of such cruelty. The words were out of her mouth before she knew it.

And yet, the boys, looking up at her, were struck dumb. They staggered backward, as if overcome with fear, and in a moment, they ran off as fast as their legs could carry them. For they believed the vision that loomed above them — a shadowy pillar (for the sun was at her back) with golden hair that glowed like a halo — was nothing less than the goddess of the woods, come to avenge their victim. They thought themselves lucky to escape with their lives.

Esther carefully made her way down the slope, following a little stream that flowed over moss-covered stones. The mud puddle grew at the point where the stream cut through a path in the lower forest, and there lay an old woman, clothed in rags. Her face was black, and a wart the size of a baby’s fist clung to her nose.

“They thought she was a witch,” Esther said to herself, and though she did not believe in witches, the sight of this dark-skinned hag made her uneasy. She drew her cloak about her. For the first time, she was glad her grandmother had insisted she wear it.

“Child, please help me!” the woman said. “My stick is over yonder.”

The old woman’s voice was soft as a dove’s, and Esther saw there was no harm in her. She relaxed her grip on the inside of her cloak and, looking about, saw a shillelagh of polished blackthorn lying not far off. She retrieved it and held it out to the woman, who took hold of the knob.

Clutching the thin end with both hands, Esther pulled as hard as she could. It was the greatest weight she had ever tried to lift, but after a few moments of strain, the old woman was hauled to her feet. She was shorter than Esther, and as wide as she was tall.

“Oh, look at my clothes,” she said. “They’re covered in mud.”

“And they’re torn!” Esther said.

“Oh, they’ve always been torn.”

“No, I mean really — in back.”

The woman peered over her shoulder, but she could not see what Esther saw — a rent down the length of her spine that exposed her fat, lumpish hams.

“Your bottom is out!” Esther said. Pity and politeness prevented her from adding it was not a pretty sight.

“Oh dear!” the dark woman cried. “I can’t be seen like this!”

Without a moment’s hesitation, Esther removed her cloak and covered the woman’s shame with it.

“Child, you’re naked!” the woman exclaimed. “You can’t go about like that!”

“It’s all right,” said Esther. “I like it.”

“You must be the spirit of the woods,” the woman said. “Let me repay your kindness.”

And, pawing through her muddy rags, she produced a sky-blue egg no bigger than the tip of Esther’s thumb. It was made of polished stone and speckled with gray.

“Oh, I can’t,” Esther said. “It’s too pretty.”

“I insist,” the woman said, folding it into Esther’s hand. “Sleep with it under your pillow, and it will bring you the same happiness it has brought me. Tomorrow I shall return your lovely cloak.”
Esther lost herself for a moment in the egg’s lustrous blue glaze. Or perhaps it was more than a moment, for when she looked up again, the old woman was gone.

xxxxx

“You should never have accepted it,” Grandmother told her. “It’s surely the only beautiful thing that poor woman owns.”

“But she said I could have it,” Esther replied, “and then she just disappeared.”

“You can return it when she brings your mother’s cloak back.”

“I don’t think I told her how to find us,” Esther said. “I can’t remember.”
Grandmother sighed.

“Well, what’s done is done,” she said. “Make up the fire.”

That night, Esther (who of course never wore anything to bed), slipped beneath her counterpane with the little blue egg in her hand. She squeezed it and turned it about in her fingers, wondering what it could possibly be made of, for it felt as heavy as lead. Then, as sleep was coming on, she tucked it beneath her pillow, as the old woman had told her to do. The woman had said the egg would bring her happiness. How could that be? It was certainly delightful to look at, but

Esther suspected the woman had meant something more.

“Perhaps it will bring me pleasant dreams,” Esther thought.

She might have been asleep for hours, or for only a minute — for the spirit of slumber plays tricks with time — but at some point during the night, Esther suddenly awoke. Something made her open her eyes, though she could not have said what it was. A gust of wind? Thunder? Yet the night was quiet, but for the soothing chirp of the crickets. Perhaps it was a dream she could not recall. She rolled onto her side and closed her eyes again, but sleep would not return.

Then she felt a tingle against her cheek, like the buzzing of a bee. It rose through her pillow in two short bursts, then stopped. Esther waited, mystified, her body tensing. She wondered if she was imagining things, but the double-buzz came again, louder and more insistent this time.

She reached beneath the pillow and took hold of the egg. It seemed to come alive at her touch, quivering and buzzing and shooting strange sensations up her arm. Worried her grandmother would hear the noise, she clutched it in both hands and held it to her chest. The buzzing changed at once to a soft, continuous hum, and a gentle tingling flowed through her, looping over her shoulders and skittering down her back to her legs. She pointed her toes toward the foot of the bed, as though discharging the energy into the night air, for there was simply too much for her body to contain it all.

“My,” she thought, “this is very pleasant.”

Tentatively, she rolled the egg under her hand from one side of her chest to the other, over and around her nascent breasts. When at last she summoned the courage to press the stone against one hardened nipple, her entire body resounded in harmony with it.

The vibrations were strongest lower down, in two spots Esther had never thought about much, since, until this moment, they had been useful only for the sake of her dirty business. They seemed much less distasteful now.
She rolled the egg down her tummy (giggling when it caught in her belly button) and over her hips. She avoided her pee hole, because, mysteriously, it had begun to leak, and she was afraid she might soil her new toy.
Yet she was drawn to the spot again and again, coming closer with each pass, as if playing a game of dare with herself. How close could she get without actually touching? Something inside her seemed to be swelling, trying to break its way out between her legs.

The great leap, when it arrived, might have been an accident. Esther was grinding the egg into the hard mound at the tip of her notch. That was pleasant enough, and she would have lingered there awhile but for a twinge in her back. She shifted her bottom, and the egg tipped forward a hair.

Everything changed in an instant. Esther had never felt anything so wonderful. She curled into a ball, opening herself completely and rolling the egg down through a furrow of damp, softened flesh. Beneath all the ruffles and furls was a hole she had never found a use for — it was swollen shut, but brimming with a slippery wetness that seemed to pour out of nowhere. She had only to nudge the egg with the tip of her finger before it was swallowed up.

The vibrations filled her, surrounded her, became her. She was one with them. Her mind was empty, replaced by a buzzing sphere that rolled about the inside of her head. Stars danced before her eyes. She squeezed the egg from every side, sucking up the tremors, while her fingertips discovered another magic stone, tiny but every bit as potent, above her grasping hole.

The egg seemed to know what she was feeling, for the vibrations grew stronger, leading her to unfathomable pleasures, and then, just as her body bucked and trembled to the point she feared she would never regain her sanity, they began to subside. The excitement ebbed, her legs unbent, and she lay restfully once again, but with a more profound sense of calm than she had ever known. The egg continued to quiver inside her as she drifted happily back to sleep.

Esther had no idea what had happened to her, but one thing was for sure: she was never, ever going to give that old woman her egg back.

xxxxx

She awoke next morning to the sound of a gentle rain and the sweet smell of Grandmother’s pipe. Oh, she had never slept so well! Stretching indulgently, she clenched her inner muscles to reassure herself that last night’s raptures had not been a dream. There was the egg, still nestled in what Esther now thought of as her hidey-hole. It was dormant for the time being, but who could tell when it might come to life again? She decided to leave it where it was, just in case.
There was a knock at the cottage door.

“Esther, are you awake?” Grandmother called from the hearth.

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Greet our guest, would you please?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

Esther did not bother to cover herself. She was preoccupied with pondering the weight of the stone in her crotch. It was nice and snug in there, and the way it moved with each step she took promised yet another bout of the yummy feelings that had astonished her during the night.

More astonishment awaited her when she opened the cottage door, for there, standing on the damp earth, was the most stunning woman she had ever seen, thin as a willow and nearly as tall. Her skin was jet-black. Her shaved head gleamed in the rain. A red gown, embroidered with columns of silver, covered her to her bare feet, and on her high bosom there rested a golden medallion that held, at its center, a sky-blue, gray-speckled egg.

In her left hand, the black woman carried Esther’s cloak.

“Good morning, little Miss,” she said. “May a body come in out of the rain?”

Esther, dumbfounded, could only nod and step out of the way.

“Esther!” her grandmother called. “Who is—”

On seeing the black giantess, she stopped dead in her tracks.

The stranger, whose head grazed the rafters, spoke as if the sight of her were nothing to be marveled at.

“A friend of ours asked me to return this to you,” she said. “I have been walking through the woods all night.”

She held the cloak toward Esther, who took it without a word.

Her grandmother at last recovered her wits.

“Esther, what do you say?”

“Th…um, thank you, Ma’am,” the girl stammered.

“It’s we who thank you,” the woman said.

“Esther,” her grandmother went on, “do you have something of hers to return?”

The young girl was mortified. How could she reveal where she had hidden the egg, and how could she dig it out in front of company?

But the visitor waved the suggestion aside.

“The pretty blue egg? Oh, no, please keep that. It’s a small gift, and we have others.”

As if to illustrate the point, she laid her hand atop the blue egg on her bosom, and at the moment of that touch, the egg inside of Esther buzzed once again.

“What was that?” Grandmother said.

“I didn’t hear anything,” the visitor said. “Did you, dear?”

“N—no, Ma’am,” Esther said.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” the woman said.

“I’m about to serve breakfast,” Grandmother said. “Please join us.”

“That sounds tempting, and I have a long way to go,” the woman said. As she pondered the invitation, she absently fingered her medallion. With every stroke, the egg inside of Esther quivered and pulsed. A burst of pleasure brought the girl to her knees.

“Esther, what’s wrong?” Grandmother said. “You’re shaking all over!”

“Oh!” Esther exclaimed. “Oh! Oh!”

“Your child has a good heart,” the visitor said. “And she must be very clever, to have discovered the secret so soon.”

With those words, the giantess grasped her medallion tightly. Esther was wholly overcome. She thrashed about the floor, squirting in every direction and wailing terrible obscenities — words she had never heard from her grandmother, but which seemed appropriate under the circumstances.

“She’s possessed!” Grandmother cried. “What evil have you brought among us?”

“Nonsense,” the dark stranger said. She let go of the medallion. Esther grew still, and the little blue egg dropped from between her legs.

“Oh,” Grandmother said. “I get it now.”

Moral:
A random act of charity
May be repaid with ecstasy,
But any girl with half a mind to
Will find what she has long been blind to,
For every one who’s ever been
Has got enchanted eggs within.

THE END