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Dedicated to Doctor F.T., a greedy hungry cum-slut with a marvelous and sexy imagination.
Copyright © 2016 Frenulum. All rights reserved.
I was walking home from the hardware store when I passed a neighborhood coffee shop and decided on a sudden whim to stop. It was an unusual impulse for a couple of reasons. One, that’s the sort of excursion that I typically enjoy with my wife, Tina, rather than solo. Two, the place was only about three blocks from home, and not a usual haunt of mine. After all, if I’m that close, I can just go home and brew a cup in my own kitchen.
Still, there’s no denying the cravings of a caffeine addict. In a minute or so I was seated at a tiny round table, sipping French Roast, black, from a well-worn ceramic mug, glancing around at the patrons and the passersby.
I peeked idly into my shopping bag of assorted hardware, as if in the intervening six blocks there might have been a change in its contents, somehow. Nope: three old-work boxes, one switch, two duplex outlets, three cover plates, a packet of Romex clamps, and an unrelated ball of sisal twine. Nothing magic.
It was all the more surprising, then, to look up from my shopping and find myself with company at the table. I hadn’t noticed anyone joining me. And even if I had, it’s not really the norm in this country for strangers to share tables without a word.
Seated across from me was a man, grey-haired but shy of grandfatherly; his face was lined, affable, and a bit hoary with day-old whiskers. He was clad in a tweed cap, and a much worn and little laundered rain coat from which peeked a checked shirt and a knit necktie. The cap sported a variety of stains: I could see mustard, motor oil, and what I imagined to be greasy-food fingerprints.
His outfit was remarkable, because it was too much for the warm, sunny day; all the more so, because both coat and hat were soaked from rain, with droplets still running down the folds of fabric. Even as I watched, I could see raindrops impacting his shoulders and his cap, bouncing and spraying as they struck.
In nice, clear weather. Indoors, in the coffee shop. Raining — just on the stranger.
He didn’t seem to notice.
I took a look around to see if anyone else was reacting to this apparition. Not a soul.
He had a cup of coffee as well, sitting on the table in front of him. It was in a tall clear glass, encircled by an ornately wrought silver zarf. That, too, struck me as odd, as ceramic mugs and paper cups were the only choices I knew to be available. The coffee looked darker than black, and steam clung to its surface like morning fog in an Appalachian hollow.
I glanced around the room again. No buzz, no reaction. I looked back; startled, I realized that the stranger was looking at me.
“I was in the ’alf-and-’alf,” he said.
“I, um…” was all I could manage.
“You were just wondering where I came from,” he asserted. Then he nodded toward the table. I noticed an open tub of coffee creamer, and an eddy of whiteness in my cup. I take my coffee black.
“It’s not all bottles and brasses,” he continued, as if we were in the middle of an ordinary conversation. “Boh’les” with a glottal stop, is how it sounded, and “brahhhh-ses.”
“In the old days, well… that was different, that was. You might fink nuffing of making yourself snug buried in a li’l glass bottle, waiting a fousand years for the wind to blow the sand away. But times change and it pays to keep up, I always fink. Mind you, there are some as hold to traditions, and I’m not a-judging of ’em, but as for myself, I do like to keep modern.”
He lifted his glass and took a long swig of hot coffee. I couldn’t help but notice that when he put the glass down again, it was still full, and still steaming. Mine was already tepid.
“Ah, that goes down a treat, it does, on a parky day like this.” He appeared oblivious to the highly local nature of his drizzly weather.
“I — I’m sorry,” I finally stammered. “Do I know — have we met? I’m sorry, but I can’t seem to place —”
“Oh, no,” he interjected, aghast. “That would never do. No no no — one visit only, that’s the rule, and a short one at that.”
I struggled to find some point of mutual comprehension that would allow me to get my mental feet underneath me. “It’s, um, it appears to be, well, raining. On you,” I observed.
The stranger chuckled. “It is that. And me wivout my brolly! Serves me right. Still, when I settled in to the ’alf-and-’alf, it was a nice day, if memory serves. Quite balmy.”
I’m no expert in British accents, so I couldn’t quite place his. Not Yorkshire, nor Newcastle, nor Liverpool — those are distinct enough for an American to recognize. But had he been a black cab driver in London, he would have fit right in, I thought. I half expected him to call me “guv’nor.”
“I don’t use cream,” I said, still terribly confused. “I don’t even remember opening this.” I picked up the tub, with its foil lid still clinging to one edge. “I don’t even come to this place.”
“Ah, well, yes,” my companion said confidently. He took another sip of his coffee. “That’s the serendipity, innit? Can’t find a genie by looking, can you — not at all in the spirit of the thing, really. No no no no no. Got to be quite accidental, one way or another: intervention of a blind and impartial fate, sort of fing, right?”
“I, uh… Genie? You said?”
He shrugged, and sent several new rivulets of water running down his raincoat. “That’s one name. My sort have been known by quite a few, quite a few over the millennia. But it’s as good as any. Call me Gene, if you like.”
“Gene,” I responded.
“Not my square handle, mind you, not what me mum calls me, but it’ll do for getting on wiff. So, now, standard offer, eh? Shall we get right to it, no time like the present ek-set-ra?”
I’ve heard people say “my head was spinning” and had always thought it merely idiomatic. But that’s exactly how I felt. “You’re a genie,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. “As in: rub the lamp, cloud of smoke, three wishes genie?”
He laughed heartily, and gave me an indulgent look. “Oh, as for the rub, well, there is a certain branch of the family that clings to the old oil lamps. Mostly the desert folk. See sand, comma, buried under, as aforementioned. And since you brought it up, it might not be impolite of me to admit that they do tend just a bit toward the aerious or as you might say vaporous. But really, it’s only a matter of custom, you see, rather than what you might call your nob-less o-blige. Plenty of traditionalists around still, doing the curious brass figurine in the antique shop, or the will-o-the-wisp or Saint Elmo’s Fire, or p’raps even an old spinning wheel like, oh, what’s-’is-name… bother… well, it’ll come to me. And then there’s the Irish, of course. Say no more about them.”
He drank more coffee, and put the glass down full again. “Now, my lot, back to me great-great-gran or beyond, we’re more about the Common Household Items. Mum and Dad are in cocoa tins, as was me mum’s mum, but I’ve a brother who’s strictly viola cases wiff an occasional ’cello, and, well, there’s me. Something of a condiment pioneer, though I say it myself. I did ’oney-pots for centuries, but I tired of the stickiness after a bit.” He paused, blushing. “By ’oney-pots I mean actual pots of ’oney, mind you, not, you know… lady bits.” Another blush, and on he went. “I tried vinegar bottles, and brown sauce, but they gave me sneezing fits. So I’m in cream jugs and the like nowadays.” He nodded in the direction of the empty creamer packet. “These Eagleview Farms people, now, they do a very nice little ’alf-and-’alf: cozy, but plenty of light froo the sides and always fresh as fresh. I’ll give it a few decades’ trial and see how I fancy it.”
He appeared to be about my size, so I couldn’t help asking. “You were… inside this little cup?”
I got another indulgent smile in return. “Oh, I’m young — not even a fousand — unattached, as you might say. I don’t need much space, really. Just a place to ’ang me ’at, a gas ring for egg and chips, nuffing much at all.”
“And you were inside for… years?”
“Oh, no. Gracious me, no no no. What’s the sell-by?” He leaned forward to peer at the Half-and-Half container, and water cascaded onto the table. “June the second. So, no, can’t have been more than a few weeks, really, or it would’ve gone all clotted.”
To give myself time to think — a losing cause — I took a sip of my cold coffee. With, no mistaking it, cream.
“Well, lovely to chat and all, but I really can’t ’ang about,” said my table-mate. “So: three wishes, as per usual.” His speech grew flat and rapid as he began to recite. “No self-referential wishes, circular wishes, wishes about the number of wishes, wishes about genii, wishes about finding objects containing genii, ek-set-ra ek-set-ra. No wishing to be a genie, not that that makes any sense but people do try. No impossibilities up to and including time travel, changing history, teleportation, religious tolerance, or understanding women, that last one being my li’l joke. Nuffing global. No immortality or equivalent, though I’ll see you to quite a nice long life if you like. Nuffing deemed evil by yours truly or our lot in general.”
“Tradition.” He shrugged. “Some’ll give you just one, but three’s the usual lot and I’ve never really fought that only one was quite fair.” I must have hesitated too long, because he — Gene — eventually broke into my thoughts. “Fing is, you see, you have to make up your mind toot-sweet. If I was to ’ang about all day, you might turn up somefing clever, but the point is to see what’s really on your mind, ad lib or impromptu, kind of fing. Straight off the plum.”
I had no idea what to say. I had no idea if I was in the middle of the previous night’s dream, or present but hallucinating, or… or whatever. The least reasonable explanation was: genii are real, and this is one, and I get three wishes. But any more reasonable explanation didn’t seem to encompass the invisible storm clouds or the endless coffee or the absurdity of where I was and what I was drinking or even the elegant, filigreed zarf sitting on the table in a little puddle of rain water.
If this be insanity… make the most of it?
Gene reached inside his coat and hunted around until he found a fountain pen, a beautiful instrument in onyx and gold. He carefully unscrewed the cap, parked it on the back of the barrel, and began to write. He didn’t exactly write on anything. The nib of the pen hovered a few inches above the table top as he wrote in a neat and painstaking cursive — I could tell, because the pen left a wet, bronze-colored line in the air, which lingered briefly and then faded, so that I could never see more than a few letters at a time.
“Name… and today is…” Gene murmured to himself. “May, let me see, twelfth, no fifteenth already, one, five…” He made a few more notes silently, then looked up at me. “First wish?” he asked, all business.
It was all too fast, too much for me. “Um, I, well, you know… I hadn’t ever, um, thought…”
“No, of course not,” said Gene. I thought perhaps he was annoyed by my indecisiveness, but his voice softened as he went on. “People never do, really. Except children — they haven’t learned about impossible, yet, so their minds are a bit more bendy, kind of fing. Well, how about if I start you out wiff a standard prosperity package, would that answer?”
I remembered his earlier comment about immortality. “You mean, a long and healthy life, something like that?” Even as I spoke, the absurdity of the question was plain to me. Had I already accepted a completely new view of reality, one in which my very life was subject to a stranger’s control?
“A long life, yes: healthy, no illness or accidents, but if you do something bloody foolish like messing about with fireworks or driving in Florida you’ll have no more luck than the next bloke. You’ll age but stay… vigorous, nudge nudge wink, with mental processes and plumbing all up to the scratch and in like-new condition. Also, plenty of dosh, no as you might say material worries. All the basic comforts, sort of fing, wiff a bow on it.”
I tried to follow. “What, you mean… wealthy?”
“Not filthy rich, mind you. Not as you might say stinkin’. Not a yacht in every port, sort of fing. More like: if you’ve the one yacht, see, and feel you need to trade up to more staterooms or a larger wine cellar, well then you’ll find that the necessary happens to be in your account just when called for.”
I tried to imagine that degree of financial independence, even as the slower bits of my brain were still catching up to his quick allusion to my love life. At the same time, apparently taking my lack of instant objection for approval, Gene began writing “Wish Number 1” in evanescent glitter.
Tina is never far from my thoughts; magical life alterations only focused them. “I’m married,” I began.
“Yes indeed,” said Gene, looking up from his mid-air notes. “Quite a lovely lady she is, too.”
His knowledge hardly surprised me. “Would the longevity and so on extend to Tina as well?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he answered, looking down again and resuming his writing. “Not a bit.” He seemed content to end the discussion there, leaving me hanging for a moment. But it didn’t take all that long for my thoughts to catch up.
“Then, for my second wish, I’d like the same for Tina.”
Gene looked up with a broad smile. “Ah, that’s what I like. True love. Warms my heart, it does, love, and I could ask no better sign of it than a chap who wants to spend another eighty or ninety years with just the one girl.” He looked sharply at me, perhaps for a sign that putting the proposition in such bald terms would cause me doubt. But seeing none, he grinned again and bent to his notes. “Wish… Number… Two…” he said, writing the words to match.
I watched the pen-and-air work for a few seconds. Then a thought, brewing quietly for a while, bubbled to the surface. “Should I be on guard for, well… traps, I guess, for lack of a better word? Like, you know, Midas gets his wish for the gold touch, but then starves because of… well, not being specific enough, or… a sort of gods-humor trickery?”
“Oh, tricks.” He looked rather uncomfortable, perhaps even embarrassed. “No, no tricks. You’re finking of the old days, I expect. Time was, my sort were always up for a spot of… well, creative interpretation, you might say. So, say you wished to live a ’undred years in a ’arem, then, well, it might be strictly within the letter to give you, just for example, a permanent case of soldier-at-ease. Or a ’arem of ’arridans. Or lots of sweet and beautiful girls but a fancy only for blokes. So yeah, you got your life, you got your ’arem as per wish, but oops, no joy after all.” He sighed and then looked back at me. “That’s mostly over with, these days. The Irish folk will —”
He blanched. “Don’t call ’em that. Not ever. They don’t like it one li’l bit. Just say Irish folk.”
“I’ll be careful,” I assured him.
“Never the L-word,” he repeated. He took a very starchy snow-white handkerchief from his trouser pocket, and dabbed at his face for a moment. “Well, any road, now we just offer prosperity, complete package, no strings or gimmicks. All the usual wishes with all the proper charms and clauses to make it snug and seaworthy. No worries, then?”
“No.” What good would distrust do me?
Gene wrote another word or two, then returned his attention to me.
“Last but not least,” he said.
“Third wish.” I thought quickly, mindful of Gene’s warning that spontaneous wishes were better — or at least more welcome — than planned ones. As I looked at him, a sudden gust of wind turned up his coat collar and set the fabric to fluttering. Raindrops sprayed off to one side. He put a reflexive hand to his cap and held it for a few seconds, until the gust subsided. Otherwise he didn’t seem to notice, any more than the other patrons of the coffee shop did.
“Well, it might be a little hard to explain,” I began.
He waved my hesitation away. “Just speak your mind,” he said, “And I’ll get the picture. You’re never the first one, you know, so there’s no need to be shy about anyfing.”
I gathered my thoughts for a moment. “Well… my relationship with my wife, Tina, it’s… I don’t know, this is hard to put into words… we have an understanding of a certain way that we like to express our love, and it’s… well I think not exactly unusual but… um…”
“Oh, yes,” Gene interrupted. “She’s a good submissive girl, she is, and you are her Owner, or Daddy, or Master, or Dom, or what you may call it.”
“Yes!” I exclaimed in relief. “You… it’s not, you know, like leather and handcuffs and dungeons and that sort of thing.” I felt myself blushing — I hadn’t ever talked about our relationship with anyone except Tina. “Not like most people would think. It’s just that — she likes me to be in charge, and I like to take care of her, and…” Words were hard to come by. “We just have a sort of… reciprocal nature.”
“Equality, not equivalence,” said Gene.
“Exactly!” I was astonished at his terse and accurate summary, and I expect it showed.
He smiled. “Oh, you’re not the first, nor the only,” Gene said kindly. “That’s been a basis for couples froughout history. Quite a common or garden fing, actually. Mind you, times being what they are, people rather fink they have to hide it, but private is not the same as rare, not by a chalk as long as your arm.” He seemed pleased with his own turn of phrase, and quietly repeated, “Private is not the same as rare.”
I was encouraged, even delighted, by Gene’s apparent understanding. “Right,” I said. “If we let on how we are together, people would think Tina was weak or helpless, or some sort of… gender-traitor throwback. But she’s not at all — she’s strong, independent, decisive, self-assured. It’s just that… when she gives up all control, all of herself, to me, then she feels safe and adored and cared for. Cherished.”
Gene smiled. “Quite so. This relates to your third wish then?” He sipped hot coffee again. Mine was a lost cause.
“Oh, right. Well, since you seem to understand, this might not be so hard to say. What I wish is that, since I have so much control over Tina’s will and mind and body —” I felt another blush, but continued. “I’d just be devastated if I chose wrongly for her. If I — see, she has absolute trust in me, she would do anything at all that I told her to, without even a pause to question. Obedience — to me, only to me — is simply her nature. Well, what if I made a mistake, chose something that would hurt her or distress her or… just, you know, would be a bad idea? Can you make it so that I always make the right decisions for her? As my third wish?”
I sat back. I felt that I hadn’t stated my ideas well after all, and watched Gene’s face carefully for doubts or questions.
He was still for a moment, and then he began to write, speaking the words softly as he did.
“Wish… number… three… Inspired… caretaking… of… another… soul…” He looked up. “That should do it,” he said, looking rather proud of himself. “But don’t you worry a bit. If there’s any misunderstanding, I’ll be quizzed about your intentions — a sort of probate kind of fing — and I believe I can explain very well indeed.”
“Thank you,” I said. I felt a growing sense of peace. Either this was all fantasy, dream, hallucination, insanity — in which case, no harm — or I had just arranged a long and happy and safe and loving life for myself and my belovèd. With proof against the ordinary mishaps of life, and enough funds never to skimp or worry. The odds seemed heavily in favor of the former case — craziness — but I realized that in the short time I had spent with Gene he had become more and more authentic to me.
An actual bona-fide genie? Well… maybe?
Gene screwed the cap back on his pen, and was just sliding it into his pocket when letters began to appear in the air, just over the table, on the non-existent surface he had been writing on. They were more golden than bronze, and the script, such as I could make it out, was strange to me. I was startled, and when I looked at Gene’s face I saw a quizzically raised eyebrow.
His lips moved as he read the glowing words silently to himself. As with his writing, the text lingered for a few seconds and then faded out of sight. I couldn’t imagine what was going on, but held my tongue so that Gene could concentrate.
The last letters faded away.
“Well, I’ll be dipped,” said Gene.
“What was that?”
“Message from… well, for the sake of your understanding me, let’s just call it Headquarters. The Home Office, kind of fing.”
“About my wishes?”
“Was there a problem?”
Gene didn’t answer immediately, and I began to worry. “No, not a problem,” he said, losing his thoughtful look and refocusing on me. “Not at all a problem. Bit of a bonus, actually. Hasn’t happened to me but, oh, six, p’raps seven times. Very rare fing, it is.”
“An extra ’alf wish. Apparently, because you used two of your three effectively to see to someone else’s happiness, the Powers That Be decided to grant you three and a ’alf wishes.”
“I’m honored, I guess,” I said. “But… what in the world is half a wish?”
Gene smiled. “It does sound daft, dunnit? But it’s not a wish that only works half way, or half the time, kind of fing. More of an accounting term, actually, the ’alf bit is. It means a wish that’s more focused, less shall we say consequential — somefing tailored, more personal-like.”
I didn’t quite understand, so I asked for an example.
Gene thought it over for a moment. “I had one chap, wanted to be wizard at that game you play over here… can’t fink of the name. Oh, what’s it called… it’s the one what smells like everyfing in the fridge has gone manky all at once, and then the whole family’s gone sick on top of it. Oh, it’s just at the tip of me tongue…”
I confessed perplexity, trying hard to think of a game noted particularly for malodorousness.
“Got a big sheet of ice, blokes sliding all —”
“Hockey?” I exclaimed.
“That’s the bunny! Hockey. Hockey. Smells like wet hounds left for dead in the garden bin. Hockey. I should make a note.” He found his pen again, unscrewed the cap, and wiped off the engraved gold nib with a paper napkin from the dispenser on the table. Then he carefully wrote “Hockey” in mid-air.
“Any road,” Gene continued, “He didn’t want to be the world’s best ’ockey player, or a star of any kind, or even play with a professional club. He just wanted to be the best amongst all of his mates, you see. Leading his eleven to another rousing victory on the pitch, kind of fing. Celebrate at the pub after. See? Not a big fancy wish — just play at a game better than his chums.”
“I think I understand,” I said.
“What’ll it be for you, then, guv’nor?”
I smiled at having my mental prediction come true. And all of a sudden, I knew what to wish for. Spontaneous and unrehearsed, just the way that genii like wishes to be.
“Well, you see,” I began, “Tina has always had this sort of fantasy, and we talk about it sometimes, just for fun, because it’s absolutely not possible. Or, normally it wouldn’t be. But — ok, this might sound nuts.”
Then I told Gene about Tina’s long held and quite impossible desire. He paid careful attention.
“Would that be the sort of thing that falls into the half-wish category?” I concluded.
Gene looked thoughtful. “As for size or as you might say scope, I do believe it would qualify,” he said slowly. “I’m just a bit puzzled as to how to bring it off. There are some limitations, after all. Starting with the question of storage… where it’s to be kept at the ready, sort of fing.”
I mulled that over. “Couldn’t it be a case of supply on demand?” I asked. “Just-in-time delivery — like in factories? You don’t need much storage space for widgets if widgets arrive just as fast as they’re used up.”
“I see… I quite take your point.” Gene stared off into space for a few minutes. “It just might work. Then there’s the matter of how to control it all…”
We debated various aspects of the implementation for a while. Quite a pleasant discussion, about Tina’s and my private fantasies, our intimate life, conducted with a supernatural stranger who sat in an indoor rainstorm drinking from a bottomless cup. Perfectly normal.
His pen got busy with drawings and notes, and next to the bronze traces from the nib there appeared an occasional bit of gold. Comments from the “Home Office”? Gene drank coffee, occasionally stared thoughtfully into space, exchanged ethereal messages, muttered to himself, and once or twice hummed a bit of a tune.
I just waited. It’s not as if I could help.
Finally, Gene capped his pen once more. “That’s that,” he declared, looking satisfied and rather proud of himself.
“Not as easy as being a hockey ace?” I ventured.
“No, not at all.” Gene grinned at me. “Yours was a first, by the way. First time I had heard it, first time the… they had heard it. Now that’s a story to tell the kiddies some day, when you get round to it.”
“So… it was possible?”
“Oh yes. Yes indeed. My lot ’ave been at this since the dawn o’ time, you know — there’s not many wishes as might find us wanting.”
“And it works…”
“By your thoughts. Starts when you like, doesn’t when you don’t, continues at will, ek-setra. Just as per spec.”
He patted his pockets, glanced around the table, nodded once. Then he looked me straight in the eye. “Cheerio, old bean,” he said. And then he wasn’t there.
He didn’t vanish. Vanishing to my mind is a transition, with some actual duration, even if infinitesimal. Gene didn’t disappear, he just wasn’t in the coffee shop.
“Thank you!” I said, too late. A few heads turned at nearby tables: people wondering why I was grateful to myself, I suppose. Nobody had paid a scrap of attention while I was talking to the man in the private rain storm.
My coffee mug was on the table. So was the cream packet. So was the crumpled napkin Gene had used to clean his pen.
I rubbed my eyes, looked around, remembered.
I was definitely awake. Not a dream then. Insanity, without a doubt. I had opened the cream, I had scrunched a napkin, I had imagined the impossible.
I stood, grabbed my bag of hardware goodies, and took a step toward the door. Then I turned back to the table, and looked at the floor around Gene’s chair.
Madness might have been the likeliest explanation for my experience, but even the craftiest of lunatics can’t create a puddle of rainwater simply by wishing it to appear.
So he was there. And did come and go magically. And did write in the air, and live in a tublet of cream, and read my mind and know my family and grant incredible wishes.
I felt my smile grow until it threatened to wrap around my head. Genii. For real. How about that?
I headed out again, stopping to mention to one of the liberal-arts-graduate baristas that there was water on the floor. She gave me the same disdainful look that she dispensed to people who order black coffee — in a coffee shop, of all places — and went to get a mop. I walked out into the warm sunshine and turned toward home. Once away from the outdoor seating, I pulled out my cell phone.
“Hi!” Tina answered my call on the second ring.
“Almost home,” I said.
“Wait for me, please.”
“Yes, Sir,” she replied, with a hint of excitement in her voice.
I hit disconnect and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
There’s a special significance to “waiting” for Tina and me. I didn’t mean “don’t go anywhere” or “don’t start something until I get there,” as it might ordinarily be construed. Instead it’s a sort of shorthand for: I want to find you eager and available and hot and excited and ready for me to use your wonderful body. So as I strolled home I could picture Tina changing into something sexy — or nothing at all — and picking a location and a pose to delight me. Would she be on her knees just inside the front door, mouth open, drooling in anticipation of service? Prostrate on our bed, face down, ass high, ready to be fucked or fingered, spanked or sodomized? Maybe in her skimpy maid’s outfit, standing by my chair, holding a glass of wine ready for me to sip during her lap dance? Or perhaps just where she had been when I called, in the kitchen: clothes tossed aside, fingers up her quim, needing only my word of permission to cum?
Such thoughts had their usual side-effect, and my cock was thick and heavy by the time I got home. Tina wasn’t in the hall, so I put my sack of hardware down, slipped off my shoes, and took a quick tour. Not downstairs. I headed up the stairs, facetiously calling “Hi, honey, I’m home!”
I found my lovely wife in our bedroom, supine on the bed, with her legs spread ninety degrees apart and her hands stretching to the headboard. She wore a pair of black leather pumps that we call her “trainers” — because the five-inch heel is too steep for her to wear except from the closet to the bed — and a black ribbon around her neck. That last touch sent another pulse of stiffness to my cock, because we had been talking about getting a collar for her, and it was my first glimpse of how one might look.
Her face was turned toward the door, and it was lit up by her beautiful smile. Her sapphire eyes sparkled at me as she slowly, dramatically ran her little pink tongue across her lower lip.
“You delight me,” I said, returning the smile as I started unbuttoning my shirt.
“Thank you, Sir,” she answered in her soft, feminine voice. “I do love to please you.”
I tossed my shirt onto a chair and started on my pants. “Mmmmmm,” Tina purred. “I can’t wait to see what you have for me.”
“Oh, just the usual,” I said, and we both laughed.
“I love your usual, my Sir. Especially if you use your good submissive girl.”
I tossed my trousers on top of my shirt. My shorts were tented by my almost full erection. “Play,” I said.
Instantly Tina’s right hand was on her bare pussy, fingers stroking her labia. In only seconds I could hear the squick squick squick as her fingers grew wet with cunt-honey.
I slipped my shorts off and my cock leapt with relief. “Oh, yum!” said Tina, eyes flashing between my cock and my face.
I sat on the bed between her wide-spread legs, and leaned over to bring my face closer to Tina’s busy fingers. “Don’t stop,” I said, knowing both that she would not have stopped, not without new orders, and that my close scrutiny of her open, dripping pussy still brought a deep blush to her face, despite all our years of intimacy.
She didn’t take her hand away, but did stop stroking her pussy for a moment to spread the inner lips open for me. They kept slipping away from her fingers, so she brought her other hand down and opened herself for a nice clear view. “Do you like your pussy, Sir?” she cooed.
“I love my pussy!”
“Would you like to play?”
“I would like to watch you.”
Tina slid two fingers of her right hand half-way up her cunt, gasping as they worked inside. With the middle finger of her left hand she drew back the hood of her clit, showing me her unprotected pearl; then shrouded it again and repeated the process over and over. Her fingers traveled deeper inside, and her body started to tremble. I knew every sign perfectly well.
“I love to watch you frig your hot little snatch,” I said, knowing that my explicitness would deepen her blush and heighten her arousal. “I love to see you finger your clit and spread your lips and fuck your fingers up your cunt. I love to see how wet you get, girl-goo running down to your little asshole.”
“You’re so wet I bet I could fuck your tight little ass with nothing for lube but your own juice.”
She groaned, low and loud. Her fingers sped up.
“Or I could bury my face right in your quim and eat you until you begged me to stop.”
“But you wouldn’t,” Tina said in a gasp.
“But I wouldn’t. I’d eat your sweet hot delicious ripe juicy pussy until I had enough. And that could be a long time.”
“Please Sir!” said my good submissive girl.
I didn’t respond.
“Please, Sir, please?” she said more urgently. I knew exactly what she was asking for, of course.
“Sir! Please oh please oh please may I cum for you please?”
Tina is not allowed to cum without permission. Nor, for that matter, may she ever fail to cum when I order her to, an erotic skill that took years to develop. I watched her carefully, measuring all of her telltale signs, until I knew that holding back any longer would be torturous.
“Cum,” I commanded.
Tina’s fingers disappeared up her cunt, her hips rose off the bed, her head rolled back, and she screamed as she began to orgasm. I watched up close for the first few seconds, listening to the symphony of her wordless cries, loving the sight of wet fingers, wet pussy; her beautiful pink folds and valleys glistening, her French-manicured nails incongruously elegant atop her clit, her hips rocking and thrusting as if meeting my pounding cock.
Just as she rode over the peak of her orgasm, I pulled Tina’s hand away and replaced her fingers with my face.
I lapped at the vestibule of her vagina, I stuck my tongue up her flowing fuck-hole, I did everything I knew that would keep her locked in orgasm. Her voice grew even louder as the second wave broke; her fingers tangled in my hair, and as she bucked up against me I sucked her clit in between my lips.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa SirSirSirSirSir aeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
Peak number two. I hung on to Tina’s hips for the ride. My head rose and fell with the rocking of her pelvis, keeping my mouth pressed firmly against her pussy. I stilled my tongue, letting her motions determine how much direct pressure there would be on her clit, slurping up girl-cream and feeling my face get glazed. One of Tina’s hands tried to push my head away, but in a very familiar case of one hand not knowing what the other is doing, she was simultaneously holding me close.
I figured a triple was in the cards, gauged my moment, and pressed my middle finger deep into Tina’s asshole just as my tongue resumed its assault on her clit.
The cries accompanying her third orgasm were a well-known admixture of pleasure and exhaustion, a celebration of erotic love and arousal at the same time they were a plea for an end to the spasms and ragged breathing and sensory overload. So as Tina finally began to come back down to Earth, I turned my head and rested, using her gooey quim as a fragrant pillow.
Her cries and thrusts abated. In time her breathing grew more steady. I could still feel ripples of involuntary contractions deep in her body.
I waited for Tina to speak, knowing exactly what I would hear.
“Thank you, Sir,” she whispered, “For the opportunity to serve you.”
“Good girl,” I replied. And a good girl she is, to know that her climaxes are a service to me, a gift, a performance to arouse, delight, and satisfy me. A good girl, who cums not from mouth or hand or cock, but from obedience and service.
We lay there quietly together for a few minutes.
“Your, um… you seem to have left your… um, finger… in my, uh…”
“In where?” I asked, because making Tina blush is my favorite pastime.
“In my asshole!” she blurted, and then covered her rosy face with her hands. As soon as she did so, though, she tore her hands away, since not hiding blushes is a firm rule of mine.
“Oh?” I said, as if puzzled that I could overlook such a thing. “This finger?” I asked, wiggling it inside her.
“Must be that one,” I told myself. “But better make sure.” I twisted my hand back and forth, rotating the ass-embedded finger.
“Definitely the one. What, don’t you like having my finger buried deep inside your tight tiny private asshole?”
“Siiiiir!” she protested with an ever redder blush. “I do love it, but I can’t reach your cock while you’re holding me like that.”
“Oh, looking for my cock, are you?”
“Please, Sir? I want to lick it and love it and suck it, and lap at your balls and eat your dark furry asshole and come back up and suck your cock again, and adore it and worship it and take every last millimeter all the way down my throat. I want to suck you and gag on your cock until tears run down my cheeks and I want to choke on it and I want you to decide when I breathe, Sir, please oh please may I suck your cock for you, please?”
“That’s a good reason,” I replied cheerfully.
I popped my finger out of Tina’s anus, though not without a few farewell wiggles. In a flash she slipped off the bed to kneel beside it. I scooched over until I was seated right in front of her. My erection had half subsided, so she engulfed the whole of it in her mouth immediately; her tongue and lips got busy with the enthusiasm, love, and skill I was so fortunately familiar with.
As I grew fully hard again, less and less cock fit into Tina’s avid mouth. She slid a slow, licking kiss down the shaft and another back up, then tongued the head for a while before descending to assure my balls that they hadn’t been forgotten. And although Tina must ask permission to rim me, her tongue quite characteristically wandered lower and lower until it was very definitely in ass territory. I let a short time pass.
“Yes, Sir?” came muffled and innocent from below me.
“That’s not my cock.”
“Sorry, Sir.” She lingered for a few more seconds, finding the line between playful indulgence and dreadful spanking, before moving back up, licking and kissing her way up my cock until she could wrap her mouth around it again.
I felt myself leak a drop just as I heard my belovèd say “Mmmmmmm.”
I reached down, used both hands to gather Tina’s hair behind her head into a makeshift ponytail, then gripped the root of it tightly in my right hand. Despite her very recent activities, Tina slipped one of her hands down to her pussy, knowing full well what my grip on her hair portended.
Her eyes were wide, adoring, full of lust and love, as she gazed into mine and sucked my cock.
I pressed Tina’s head down into my lap. I felt the resistance with my cock; saw her body spasm; heard her gag. Her determination combined with my unrelenting pressure finally forced my stiff cock to bend down into Tina’s throat — a sensation like nothing else in the universe — and as I thrust forward Tina’s nose touched my belly. I put my left hand behind her head and pulled her another half inch toward me, her nose denting me as the last little bit of my cock disappeared into her head.
“Good girl,” I praised her. The hand on her pussy sped up.
I held my belovèd by hair and hand while my cock pulsated in her too-tight throat. Cunts and asses are made to be stretchy: not so the throat, which squeezed my cock in its unyielding confines. Tina’s eyes brimmed with tears, which then began to run down her cheeks. That old saying about cocksucking — If you’re not crying, you’re not trying — has certainly proved true for us.
I pulled her head back by the hair. My cock slipped out of her throat and into her mouth, where after a quick gasp for oxygen she fervently sucked it. I let her catch her breath, but only just, before forcing her head down and my cock into it once again. And again, that marvelous feeling of riding over the gag threshold and into paradise.
I face-fucked my beloved fast, hard, and deep, jamming my cock into the back of her mouth and then forcing it into her throat, over and over and over again. I drove her, pulling her hair for guidance. From time to time I pulled out to see a torrent of pent-up saliva spill out of Tina’s gaping mouth through puffy, reddened lips, falling to dangle from her hard nipples and puddle on her thighs. Her tears, her gagging, her choking, her gasps for breath, her messy face were precious signs of our love.
For the first time since coming home, I remembered Gene.
And Tina’s long-held fantasy of the impossible.
Tina felt me drawing close to orgasm. Her eyes, locked on mine, were full of passion and purpose. She knew that her praise was on the way — tangible, unforgeable, unmistakable proof that she had served me well. “Good girl” in liquid form.
I dropped the ponytail. I pulled my cock one last time out of Tina’s throat, back into her mouth. I formed a certain thought in my mind, and started to cum.
Splurt! A thick, heavy jet of semen erupted from my cock into Tina’s hungry mouth. She kept her lips a tight o-ring while she sucked me, to keep any of her precious praise from being wasted. Splurt! I pulsed again. Splurt! Again. Tina’s devoted mouth was rapidly filling with hot, spicy spooge. Splurt! Another shot, thick and voluminous and traveling at speed.
Tina’s eyes were growing wider. A usual orgasm for me is two or three forceful eruptions before dwindling to more of an ooze; this had been four already. Splurt! Splurt! Five. Six. She was starting to have trouble holding all the cum while still sucking me; a milky film appeared on her lips and then, with the tight seal breached, cum started to ooze down her chin.
One corner of my brain had time to think “Whaddaya know — it works!” The rest of it was memorizing the most erotic sight I had ever enjoyed.
Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt!
Cum jetted again and again from my pulsing cock. There was no way for Tina to cope. She had to swallow, but choked on the unusual volume of thick, sticky semen. Half of it spilled out of her mouth and down her chin, where streamers began to form; as she swallowed the rest it made her gag a little bit and she coughed, sending two rivulets of spooge out her nostrils and onto her lip.
“Wha—” was all she managed to say before the next half dozen powerful jets flew from my cockhead and into her open mouth.
You don’t need storage space for widgets if they arrive as needed. You don’t need a reservoir for cum if every blast is brewed in half a second.
Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt!
Tina was valiantly trying to swallow. She is by nature a greedy little cum-slut and hates any thought of waste. How often, in fact, had she followed up some cock-worship by wishing for more? How often had she said: I wish I could shower in it, swim in it, drink you by the gallon; I wish you could glaze me, coat me from head to toe; I can’t ever get enough?
Wishes do come true.
Tina bent her head down while trying to swallow another overflowing mouthful of cum. My ejaculations never diminished, and one jet after another hit her at the hairline. Some raced over her hair to decorate it like a jeweled tiara, most pooled on her forehead and began to run down her face.
Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! Splurt!
She looked up at me, then, and caught two giant gobs of semen right in the eye. As she blinked and squeezed it shut, provoking rivers of cum that followed the trail of her earlier tears, I filled the other eye. The next ten or twelve spurts landed variously on her face, coating her cheeks and nose, eyes and forehead, mouth and chin. More cum landed in her hair until it was crisscrossed with pearly ropes — my Tina looked like a princess! Some even found its way to her ears, from which spooge dangled like sparkly earrings.
Tina’s face was a spa-like mask of white, her hair plastered. I shoved my still-stiff cock back into her mouth and Splurt! Splurt! Splurt! refilled it. As I pulled out I noticed that Tina had overcome her initial shock and while of course still flabbergasted, was warming up to the program. She cheerfully gulped down the fresh mouthful and gave me a slime-faced grin.
“Sir?” she managed to choke out.
“Just enjoy for now,” I answered. Explaining was going to take a while, and it’s not polite to interrupt a fellow mid-orgasm, even one that lasts as long as he wants.
I moved back a little, pointed my spurting cock upward, and shot a salvo of spunk high into the air. It came splashing down on Tina’s head and breasts and thighs. There were cummy pendants from her nipples, rills and rivulets in her cleavage running down toward her pussy, and huge pendant sheets of sperm hanging from her face.
In a bit of a daze, Tina lifted her hands to her face and began to scrub cum into her skin. “I wish I could wash with it.” Her hands filled with spooge and she bent her head to lap it up from her palms and suck her fingers, at which point I started to fill in the few blank spots in her hair.
She looked at me, eyes wide, grin wider, and let out the purest, happiest giggle I had ever heard.
“Oh, Sir! It’s wonderful! It’s a dream come true!”
To show agreement I shoved my cock down her throat again, pulling her cum-soaked head inexorably toward me, and when there was a straight path from cock-head to stomach I let loose another dozen bolts.
When I pulled out she gasped for breath, as her hands wandered over her body, spreading cum to hidden places like her ass and back, returning to fondle her gooey breasts and flooded pussy.
As her orgasm washed over Tina, so did my essence. She screamed and squealed her way through it, her eyes on mine conveying love and gratitude, and all the while I kept re-coating her face and body and hair with rope after rope of praise, my adoration for her now expressed not in milliliters, but in a flood.
When Tina’s orgasm ebbed, I decided that I wouldn’t cum any more either, at which instant my orgasm stopped.
I was drained. I don’t mean in the liquid sense, for that huge volume of essence had never been inside me in quantity. But the minutes-long episode of pumping had been truly orgasmic — I had in effect had a few hundred orgasms consecutively, which it turns out is quite a strain on the system. Perhaps Gene had his little bit of a prank after all.
Tina knelt before me, frosted like a cupcake. Sapphire eyes peeked out from a sea of cloudy white. Her eyelashes were a solid gooey mass. Her rosy lips were barely visible through their glaze. There was bare skin visible on her body in various spots, but it didn’t add up to much. What had once been a black ribbon around her neck looked more like a choker of pearls. Struck by a sudden thought, Tina sprang to her feet and, unsteady on her trainers, tiptoed over to the mirror.
“You’re beautiful, my own,” I said.
I just grinned.
“This isn’t a dream, is it?” Tina asked, her voice reflecting both the vigorous throat-fucking and all of the jizz she had swallowed. “I mean, I’ve had this dream a million times, but…”
“Not a dream, belovèd,” I assured her.
“Not to sound like a greedy hungry cum-slut,” she said, “Which I am, but… that aside… is this… can you…”
“Whenever we want some extra cum-play, my love.”
She looked at her reflection for a while. Then she began tracing lines on her face with a fingertip, stopping every few seconds to suck the cum off her finger.
“I am such a mess,” she observed.
“You love me messy! So you must love me a whole lot right now!”
“Every bit as much as always, belovèd, which is in every way and measure that I can.”
“Awwwww.” She turned, tottered over to me, and embraced me. That hug was probably the strangest thing I had ever felt. Squish!
Tina ended up taking a long shower. She was sad about wasting until I reminded her that she could now be a satiated cum-slut rather than a hungry cum-slut, which struck her as delightful. While she was in there I took a stab at cleaning the floorboards and the little bedside rug. We didn’t have any cleaners specifically labeled for large volumes of semen, so I did the best I could.
Eventually we were dressed again, more or less put together. I offered to make dinner, but Tina said she wasn’t hungry, another consequence I had failed to consider. So I made myself a snack, and we snuggled up with some wine, and I told the whole story, in as much detail as I could master, to my lovely wife. Having seen — and swallowed — such clear proof of magical things, she absorbed the tale a lot more easily than I had lived through it.
We talked about the prosperity wishes. I told her about my third wish, to be a careful master for my good submissive girl, and she cried a little bit at the thoughtfulness of it. But she also chided me, in fun: “You wasted a wish — you were already the best Sir ever.”
Talked out, tired, we finally settled into a companionable silence, sitting on the couch, knees touching, sipping wine, watching the room grow dark.
“That genie was a genius,” I thought.
And I could swear I actually heard the answer. “Call me Gene.”
Author’s notes on Coffee and Cream:
This tale has been brewing (hah) for a year or so. Scene one, coffee, came in spurts (hah), while scene two, cream, was written in a long afternoon. The phrase “off the plum” is my own invention but does follow the rules of Cockney rhyming slang. I’ll let you work it out.
Gene mispronounces most unvoiced inter-dental fricatives: fink for think, for example. Probably he should also say free and fird for three and third, but it just didn’t scan well for me. Sorry for the inconsistency.
The fantasy of having enough cum to bathe in, swim through (with open mouth), and so on is the product of the inventive imagination of the dedicatee, Dr. F.T. I hope she finds this solution to her liking, though of course a mere story is a poor substitute for splooge by the tanker-load.
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