Three More Wishes: Be Kind To Your Genie

by Doctor MC

Anna Kay was eating out Bellina; Diane was eating out Felicia, who was kissing Stephanie and stroking Stephanie’s pussy; while Elena and Kristin were sixty-nining each other.

  Reader, it warmed the cockles of my heart.

  I knelt down by Anna Kay and said to her, “You need directions to my party on Sunday?”

  ****

  The sun was barely above the treetops when I parked my clunker in the parking lot of Mr. Dodd’s law firm. Bridget’s car was the only other car there. Not a surprise—even lawyers like to leave the office on Friday afternoon.

  As soon as I stepped out of my car, the tinted-glass front door of the law office opened and Bridget stepped out. I was relieved that she didn’t seem annoyed by the long wait. In fact, she seemed excited and eager.

  I went back into my car, dug around in my book bag, and pocketed two condoms. Just in case.

  Bridget gave me bunches of keys to various parts of my inheritance: keys to the nine cars(!) that I wasn’t allowed to drive yet; house keys; the front-gate code; a user manual for the front gate; security-system codes; and user manuals for the security systems. In return, I ordered Bridget to my housewarming party on Sunday.

  But Reader, that isn’t what you’re interested in, is it?

  I took Bridget by the hand and led her inside, straight to the conference room where yesterday I had battled Aunt Esther. Bridget’s eyes got hopeful when I pulled the two condoms from my pocket and put them on the conference table.

  I began to pull her jacket down her arms. “Bridget, I’ve kept you waiting a long time on a Friday evening. You deserve a reward.”

  “Oh no, Mr. Harper, it’s—”

  Now I was unbuttoning her blouse. “Monday, I fucked Sherry and Virgilia, while you had to content yourself with giving me a blowjob. You deserve a reward.”

  “But I didn’t mind at all, Mr. Harper—”

  I cupped her tits inside her bra, then reached around behind her and unsnapped that bra. “So does that mean that you do mind fucking me? Because that’s what I intend.”

  She ran her hands up and down my chest and stomach. “Oh no, Mr. Harper, I don’t mind a bit, fucking you.”

  When we were both naked, I said, “Bridget, you have a choice: Fuck on the conference table, or fuck on the carpet?”

  “Well, the carpet is more comfortable—but every time I come in here to work, I want to see the place where we had sex. In fact—”

  She grabbed my hand and pulled me around to the other side of the table. Bridget stopped when she was standing by Aunt Esther’s chair.

  Bridget got on the edge of the table and lay back on the table. “Yesterday, it was right here where your Aunt Esther tried to screw you. So please, Mr. Harper, take me right here.”

  And I did.

  Then I swapped out condoms, then Bridget sucked me hard, then I fucked her again—but this time slowly. I got Bridget babbling as I drove her crazy with extra slow pistoning. She thrashed, moaned, writhed, clutched, scratched, and screamed.

  And in a moment when Bridget was everything but a staid and proper legal assistant, she called me “Master.”

  ****

  I walked Bridget to her car and watched her drive away, then I walked to my clunker. When I turned on my cel phone, I discovered that I had a text message—

  “IN HOSPL, VISITNG W AUNT CLAIRE. SHE BETTER!!! M&D.”

  When I got home, I found a note on the kitchen counter that explained more—

  “Marvin, great news! Aunt Claire called today. Nobody knows why, but she’s getting better! She thought something was happening on Monday, and she was sure on Tuesday, but she couldn’t convince the doctors to run new tests till yesterday. (Silly doctors.) The results came back today, and every test is better. Best of all, Aunt Claire is in lots less pain. Today, her doctor cut her pain prescription to half of what it was a week ago. Isn’t this great? Mom.”

  Below Mom’s handwriting, I wrote—

  This is so cool. I’m spending the night in my mansion, so enjoy having the house to yourself on a Friday night. (Can you believe me writing this, “my mansion”? I can’t.)

  Anyway, I’ll come over tomorrow for breakfast at nine and we can share our adventures.

  I was almost to the stairs when I turned around, walked back to the kitchen counter, and picked up the pen. I wrote—

  “P.S. Set an extra plate for breakfast. I’m bringing someone I want you guys to meet.”

  My dad is really smart, and my mother’s no dummy. Still, I was absolutely sure that they would never guess in a million years who their breakfast guest would be.

  I broke down my computer, and carried the parts out to my clunker. Then I grabbed toiletries and clothes, and loaded those into the car. Finally, I grabbed the footlocker, loaded it into my car under cover of darkness, and drove away to my mansion.

  Chapter 21

  A Seventh Wish?

  Where in a mansion do you hide a brass genie lamp? I thought I’d hide it in the safe—till I actually opened the safe. It turned out that Uncle Warren’s safe was designed for storing flat things. Even with everything pulled out, there was no room for the lamp.

  But opening the safe wasn’t a total loss. Among the items I temporarily removed from the safe was $66,340 in small bills. I put a hundred dollars of that windfall in my wallet.

  I wanted to be able to rub the lamp anytime. So that meant not storing it off the property, in a safe-deposit box or some such.

  I thought of storing the lamp in the attic—till I climbed the attic stairs. Jeez, it sounded like I was walking on kettle drums! Scratch trying to sneak into the attic.

  I realized then that I wasn’t thinking fourth-dimensionally. I was both smart and strong now—how could I use that?

  In the end, I carried a ratty recliner from the Electronics Recreation Room up the stairs, and put it in the master bedroom, in a corner by a window. Then I grabbed a standing lamp out of another bedroom, and put that lamp by the recliner. (Did I mention that the mansion has twenty bedrooms?) I put the footlocker on the recliner’s left side. Anyone seeing the footlocker would presume that its only purpose was to be a side-table for whoever was reading in the recliner; and a scuffed-up footlocker suited a well-worn recliner.

  In short, the footlocker now was in my bedroom and was easy to get to; but nobody would wonder, Why is this old footlocker in Marvin’s bedroom?

  With the important problem of “Where do I keep Fatima’s lamp?” finally solved, I got out my key ring. I opened the footlocker’s padlock.

  ****

  I’m not sure if Fatima was excited because Uncle Warren’s mansion had lots of neat stuff, and she was seeing everything for the first time—or if she was excited simply because she was out of the brass lamp. In any case, excited Fatima was great company.

  Eventually Fatima and I wound up in the main kitchen. (Did I mention that the mansion had a main kitchen and a poolside kitchen? Did I mention that the main kitchen was as big and fancy as something in a restaurant?) I nuked some canned Chinese food, and set out some chips and salsa. I offered Fatima a beer; she declined.

  Then I looked around. “Wow, it’s too quiet in here.” I stood up again. “I’ll be back in a moment; let me get my boom box.”

  Fatima raised a hand. “May I do something about the quiet?”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “Show off for me.”

  “ ‘Show off’? I love it.”

  Fatima was thoughtful for maybe ten seconds, then she pointed at an empty section of the monster kitchen. Suddenly I saw and heard a dance band, complete with a young woman soloist. But everything about that band—the men’s hairstyles, the singer’s clothing and hairstyle, the microphone that she was singing to, and the Art Deco lettering on the music stands—was old-fashioned. From the Thirties, I guessed.

  “What am I seeing?” I asked. “Who are they?”

  Fatima said, “This is Warren’s memory. His parents took him to a speakeasy in downtown Chicago that was celebrating the return of le
gal beer. For eight-year-old Warren, the place was magical—and the singer fascinated him.”

  “So how are they here? Did you transport them through time?”

  “They’re illusion; nobody but us can see them or hear them.” She smirked. “You don’t need special glasses to see my illusions.”

  I replied, “This is all illusion? Really?”

  I was still standing, so I walked up close to the band. The men took no notice of me, but the soloist turned her head to watch me approach, and smiled at me (as much as her singing would permit).

  I reached for the microphone stand, curious what would happen when I tried to pick it up. The singer, who had been caressing the microphone stand, pulled her hands away and smiled at me.

  My hand went right through the vertical bar as if it wasn’t there, and I didn’t feel a thing. No matter where my hand went or what it tried to do, I couldn’t make contact. But the illusion held: During one moment, I had the microphone stand growing out of the back of my hand.

  My eyes went from the microphone stand to the singer’s face, which was less than three feet from my own. I could see the pores in her skin, individual eyebrow hairs that were painted over with eyebrow pencil, and flaws in her fire-engine-red lipstick that was highlighting her mocking smile. And even though I’d just proven that she couldn’t be real, I could smell her: something sweet (Hair oil? Shampoo? Bath powder? Perfume?) plus Ivory soap, plus a hint of sweat.

  The song went into an instrumental passage, thus idling the singer. She grabbed the microphone stand and pulled it aside. Her again-mocking smile said I can do something you can’t do, nyah-nyah-nyah! She leaned forward, lips puckered. I bent my knees to complete the kiss.

  Even when her face filled my entire vision, and her lips had to be touching mine, I didn’t feel a thing.

  She broke the kiss, leaned back, pulled the microphone back to upright, and went back to singing. She gave me a theatrical wink.

  Shaking my head, I walked back to the kitchen table. “I’m blown away,” I told Fatima.

  She grinned at that. Then my expression got serious, as did hers. She said, “Master, you look like you want to ask me something.”

  “I do. Right now, my wishes are granted, I’m not dead yet, the lamp isn’t swiped yet, and you’re out of the lamp. King Solomon made all those rules about wishmaking, so I presume he made rules for today’s situation too?”

  “Yes, Master. Like before, if you rub the lamp, I must come out; if you order me back into my lamp, I must go in; if you ask me a question, I cannot lie to you. If you order me to do something nonmagically, I must obey—”

  Now Fatima was looking at me nervously. “—but if you tell me to do something magical, now I may choose to say no.”

  Why is she so nervous now? I wondered. Then I realized why. If I’d give a magical order and she could say no, then the flip side would be...

  “Good grief,” I said. “You can grant me a seventh wish. Or a seventieth wish. Or a seven-hundredth wish.”

  “It won’t be a wish officially. But yes. Except that King Solomon set down rules about what I may say yes to.”

  “Go on.”

  “I may not grant you a throne, nor may I cloud men’s minds so that you wind up with a throne. I may not kill anyone magically on the date of their fated death, nor may I magically make someone so sick or injured that death soon is certain, even when the person’s fated death is soon. I now cannot—”

  “So King Solomon just shifted the thou-shalt-nots from me to you. That’s fine.”

  “But now I cannot postpone anyone’s fated death by even an hour. No djinni normally can do this. Such power I have only when granting a wish.”

  I nodded. “Then it costs the wisher.”

  “Finally, Master, I may not use magic to prevent another human from taking the lamp from you. If you would guard the lamp, you must do so on your own.”

  Now Fatima’s eyes were searching my face. Clearly she wanted to know, Will he be content with what he already has, or will he always be bothering me for more?

  I wasn’t yet ready to think about something so important. Instead, I said, “Let’s back up to the ‘nonmagical’ rule. Suppose I hand you a bucket of water and a sponge, and I show you where the garden hose is. Then I tell you, ‘Wash my car.’ I don’t say nonmagically, but that’s pretty much implied. Now suppose you think, Doing it nonmagically will take too long. May you hocus-pocus the car clean, even though I didn’t request this or suggest it?”

  “Yes.”

  “So if I ask you a question, you’re allowed to pop up a scrying ball to answer my question, even though I never mention using a scrying ball?”

  “Yes.” Then she smiled mischievously, adding, “Or I might Google the answer instead.”

  “One last question. You tell me you cannot postpone someone’s fated death. But what if you and I are with George, and it’s George’s day to die but you and I don’t know that, and George gets in a jam and you decide to save him. What happens then?”

  “Something goes wrong, seemingly accidentally. If I try to cast a spell that can’t fail to save George, then the spell doesn’t work at all. As if someone disconnected the battery.”

  I stared at her. “How awful you would feel, if you really wanted to save the person, and you found out afterward that all your efforts were doomed to fail. I hope that when it’s my day to die, you don’t have to suffer something like this.”

  “That’s easily fixed,” Fatima said brightly. She summoned her scrying ball, worked it for a few seconds, then looked at me. “Would you like to know the date of your fated death?”

  “Is it within the next ten years?”

  “No.”

  “Ask me again, ten years from now. But telling me right now? No way!”

  “May 14, 2020, ask you again. Got it, Master,” Fatima said. Then she vanished the scrying ball, and then she went back to searching my face.

  So I thought about the question that was so worrying her.

  After a time, I said, “Right now, I’m worth thirty-two billion dollars. I can’t wrap my brain around that, it’s only a number to me. I’m getting all the sex I want. My favorite relative is getting well, and my parents’ marriage is strong. Why would I want a seventh wish, whether it’s called that or not?”

  I saw Fatima relax.

  I added, “So if you ever get a chance to drop a different magic lamp in my lap, don’t. Give the new lamp to someone who needs it.”

  Fatima replied, “Except that I can’t hand you the lamp if I find one. No djinni can touch a bound djinni’s Vessel. Our hands turn to smoke when we try.”

  “Wow. Really?”

  “That’s why you humans must rub the lamp or bottle to make the bound djinni come out. Only a human can grasp the Vessel, and only a human can rub his other hand solidly against the metal. King Solomon made sure that no bound djinni could have a djinni for a master.”

  Then Fatima gave me a sunny smile, and toasted me with a can of Dr Pepper. “I’m so glad that you are my master, Marvin Harper. I don’t know of many masters who, given a chance to own a second bound djinni, would say, ‘No thank you.’ ”

  I shrugged. “As far as me asking you for magical favors, I’m sure I’ll ask for little things. ‘Fatima, I left my umbrella at home. Would you pop it here, please?’—that sort of thing.”

  I yawned then. I looked at Fatima and asked, “Genies don’t sleep, do they?”

  “No, Master.”

  “Then let me connect my computer up, so you won’t be bored tonight.”

  She smiled at me. “Don’t worry, Master, I’m sure I won’t be bored.”

  We both stood up from the kitchen table. Fatima gestured, and the dance band vanished, except for the singer. The now-solo soloist blew me a kiss, said “That’s all,” then she too disappeared.

  I laughed, slipped my arm around Fatima’s waist, then the two of us walked into Uncle Warren’s computer room.

  For the time being, I
set up my computer on the same desk where Uncle Warren had his. Sometime while I was connecting cables on my computer, I said, “If you leave or enter the house, don’t let the neighbors see. Wherever you go, be here with me by 8:15 tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  Once my computer was assembled, Fatima and I went upstairs, hand in hand. As I brushed my teeth, I got a thought.

  After I spit and rinsed, I asked Fatima, “Normally a djinni can’t kill a human when it’s not the date of his fated death?”

  “Nope!” she said cheerfully. “So we djinn aren’t scary after all.”

  “Not you, not Ashnadim, no djinni can?”

  “Nope! Neither can Kharmesh and neither can Jerngert.”

  Rather than ask Who’s Jerngert? I said, “But when you’re granting wishes, you’re able to change the date of someone’s fated death. So if your master were tricky in his wording, he could wish someone dead? Even when it wasn’t the victim’s time to die?”

  Fatima thought it over, then smiled at me. “I don’t see how. King Solomon forbade me to kill anyone, anytime, except to defend my master or myself.”

  “Good,” I said, “You don’t deserve murder on your conscience.” I yawned.

  I undressed to my briefs, then climbed into Uncle Wal—into my bed.

  I pulled down the coverlets and patted the mattress next to me. “Snuggle with me till I fall asleep,” I ordered.

  Fatima and I kissed for a while, till I got too sleepy. When I broke the kiss, she remarked, “I’ve never done this before.”

  “Done what?”

  “I’ve never seen my master fall asleep.”

  “Mm,” I replied, being too sleepy to say more.

  She pulled my head to her bosom. “Sleep well, Master. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life.”

  Chapter 22

  Lingerie For A Sultan

  I woke up in a strange bedroom, with Fatima’s green-veiled face only inches from mine. My cock was getting lightly stroked, and was having a grand time.

  Fatima asked, “Do you wish me to let you sleep, Master, or may we scorch the sheets?”

  By then I’d remembered whose bedroom this was, and why Fatima was here. I glanced at the bedside clock. It said 7:16—a full hour before I had to jump in the shower.