Trouble in a Bottle
By Captain Eazy
College student Trina knows she wants an interview with the campus celebrity. And she knows there is no such thing as magic . . . or is there?
Disclaimer: If you are underage or if explicit sexual fantasy offends you, please read no further. This story is my intellectual property. You are welcome to copy it or print it out for your own reading, but do not repost it on any website that charges for the privilege of reading stories.
1
Trina Santford had never been in the Anthropology and Archaeology wing of Fenshaw Hall before. She was majoring in Media Studies, not Social Science. The opulence of the new building rather surprised her, for Holiwell University was an old school, prestigious but in truth rather shabby. Fenshaw Hall, only five years old, was by far the newest and flashiest building on a gently shabby and ivy-clad campus.
The directory sent Trina to the third floor, along a wide, well-lighted corridor lined with chrome and glass display cases stuffed with ancient green-tinged coins, broken urns, corroded bronze weapons, even human skulls. Office number 350 . . . must be at the end of the hall, she thought. She found it and smiled to herself. The closed office door looked forbidding, and the shiny brass plaque was not particularly inviting (DR. HARRISON SMITH, PROFESSOR OF ARCHAEOLOGY in imposing inch-high letters). Still, Trina had told Ed Wilson, the editor of the Holiwell Herald, that she would get an interview with the famous, reclusive scientist. She paused for a moment, hugging her portfolio against her breasts.
Okay, she thought. I’m wearing my pink cashmere sweater, no bra underneath and the top three buttons undone. I’m wearing a musky perfume. I’m gorgeous. If he likes blondes with sundazzled hair, strikingly blue eyes, shapely boobs, short skirts, long legs, then I’ve got him. If he’s a queer or uninterested, well, there are ways of dealing with that, too. Okay. Get the interview no one else can get.
She tapped on the door, and a brusque male voice from inside called, “Come in!”
Trina opened the door and stepped inside, taking a moment to sweep her gaze around the lair of the famous Dr. Smith. The general impression was clutter, the kind of clutter that marks the wake of a hard-working man: Smith, a good-looking, trim, muscular man (but old, Trina thought, probably forty-five!), sat in a swivel chair behind an expansive desk. He was pecking at the keyboard of a computer. The keyboard had to share the scant available space with stacks of books, piles of papers, a jumble of manila envelopes and multicolored folders, a coffee cup, a telephone, a ceramic mug in the shape of a human skull with the top sawn off, itself stuffed to overflowing with pens and pencils. Ranks of books crammed the shelves against the left wall, and the opposite wall could hardly be glimpsed between a display of framed photos of exotic locations: Mayan pyramids, the Sphinx in Egypt, Greek and Roman temples, other places that Trina couldn’t even begin to identify. “Dr. Smith?” she said.
He held up a hand briefly, dropped it back to the keyboard, rattled off a few more lines, and then sent the email he had been working on. He glanced at her. “Yes? Drop-add ended yesterday, so if you’re trying to get into one of my classes, you’re out of luck.”
“I’m not,” she said, sitting in the visitor’s chair, resting her portfolio on her knees, and holding her shoulders back, the better to display her assets. “My name’s Trina Santford, and I’m reporting for the college newspaper. I’ve come to interview you.”
He shook his head, the expression on his face neutral. He really wasn’t bad-looking, chiseled features, tousled brown hair, mocking and rather cynical dark-brown eyes. “Sorry, Miss Sanford.”
“Santford.”
“Sorry again. I don’t do–”
“Interviews, yes, I know. You turned down Time and Newsweek. Even the “About the Author” page in the International Journal of Archaeological Field Work gives only your name and the fact that you teach here. All the other archaeologists listed there have four or five column inches. You’re far too modest.”
“It has nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with privacy.”
“Did you really dig up all that stuff that’s on display out in the hall?”
He stared at her with such interest that she decided, No, he’s not gay. Patiently, he said, “Archaeologists don’t always do a lot of digging, Miss Santford, not with a shovel and pick, not even with dentists’ picks and paintbrushes. Yes, I found a great many of the artifacts that are on display in the hall, and that’s all I can tell you. I really don’t do interviews, so I’ll say goodbye now.”
Trina gave him her most fetching smile. “Oh, please, Dr. Smith. It isn’t just a matter of privacy. You’re famous, or you ought to be! You’re responsible for this whole big building! You were the one who went on treasure hunts–”
“Field expeditions,” he corrected, wagging a finger. “I do science, I don’t hunt treasure.”
“Well, you brought it back anyway. Millions of dollars worth, and that let the University build this enormous building. But nobody knows the details of all your adventures, so–”
“I don’t have adventures,” he said rather impatiently. He shrugged. Like many of the teachers he dressed casually, in a blue chambray shirt with no tie. It looked good on him, Trina thought. He gestured at a photo of himself and a few other men in front of what looked like a pile of rubble beneath a burning sun. “I go to a hot, dusty, dry desert, I dig in the dirt for months with a whisk broom and trowel, and I record what I find. That’s what I do. It’s all I do. No adventures. I don’t even carry a bullwhip. Really, you ought to leave now.”
“No,” she said. “You’re going to give me an interview.”
“I’m not.”
Trina impudently set her portfolio on the corner of his desk, then reached up with both hands and seized the V-neck of her sweater. “In that case, I’m going to pull down, real hard, and the buttons of my sweater are going to rip off, and I’m going to yell ‘Rape!’ as loud as I can.”
He stared at her. “No one would believe you.”
“Oh, yes they would. This is an I Levrieri cashmere cardigan, selling for six hundred dollars, and when I scream and the people come rushing in, they’ll never, never believe I ruined this great sweater myself.”
“You’re bluffing. No, wait, don’t do that.” Smith sighed. “You don’t want to force me to give you an interview, you really don’t.”
“Try me. If I can get this interview, I get a guaranteed A in my Journalism class for the semester, and it’s only the second week.”
“A teacher would agree to that?”
“I got it in writing,” she assured him. “Everyone knows you’ve never granted an interview, so Dr. Radsley doesn’t think anybody can score the A he offered. I’m going to do it, though. It’s worth a lot to me.” She tugged her sweater, and another button popped open, though not off. Trina saw his glance and knew he had just realized the only thing beneath the sweater was her ripe young flesh.
He stared for a long moment and then nodded brusquely. “Very well, if you’re so determined. But it will have to be later. I’m due in class in a few minutes.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. Check the schedule on the door.”
“This is just a trick to get me out of the chair and out of your office.”
He raised his hands. “No. You don’t even have to go out into the hall, just open the door and look at my posted office hours. If you’ll check the schedule, you’ll see I have a class in ten minutes.” When she didn’t move, he said, “I really wish you’d take a look at the schedule and see that I’m not lying.”
Reluctantly, not trusting him, Trina stood and opened the door. She had overlooked the typed schedule posted just below the brass name plate. Sure enough, there it was: ARCH 4111/6111: Introduction to Field Archaeology, MWF 10:00-10:50. And–she glanced at her watch–the time was already 9:52. Trina made a face. She must have somehow missed that stupid class when checking Smith’s schedule online. “If I let you go, you’ll never give me the interview,” she complained.
Smith shook his head as he rummaged on the desk, looking for something. “If I said I’d do it, I’ll do it. You’re asking for trouble, but I’ll do it. Not at school, though. I’ve got too much on my plate today. Come to my house tonight for dinner and I’ll tell you all about myself, answer all your questions.”
Trina folded her arms, hiding her boobs and gave him a tired, knowing look. “Dinner in your house, alone with you? As if.”
“Why not?”
“You know.” She raised a challenging eyebrow. “I’m eighteen, you’re . . . older.”
“Oh, for God’s sake. Look, I promise nothing will happen–unless you start it.” He dug a card from a desk drawer and scrawled on the back. “This is my home address. Be there at six, I eat early. And I don’t want to hear any complaints about the food. It won’t be what you’re used to, but it’s good if you’ll give it a chance.”
“I said no.”
“I wish you’d reconsider. Anyway, I’ll expect you at six, so if you want the interview, show up then. Now I really have to get to class.” He snatched up a red folder, a thick textbook, and stood up. “So I’m kicking you out. If you don’t want to come, don’t come. Makes no difference to me. In fact, I wouldn’t even advise you to do it, but if you really want me to answer your questions, show up at my house at six sharp. Out, out, out.”
Oh, well. She took the card from him and stepped into the hall. He closed his office door and made a point of locking it before setting off down the hall at a lope. Watching him go, Trina found herself half hoping that he might even want to sex it up a little. Good ass on him. Come to that, Smith wasn’t an unattractive man, not at all. Too bad he was so damn old, though. . . . Trina tossed her head and smiled. This dinner thing might not be so bad after all. They’d have more time to talk–and she’d not only get her A, but would undoubtedly win the senior-class college journalism award for cornering the uncornerable Professor Smith. All in all, a worthwhile day. Cindy buttoned and then tugged her pink cardigan into place and set off down the hall, back toward the elevators. Yeah, all in all a good Friday morning’s work.
2
So. . . . what do you wear when you’re going to a real old guy’s place for dinner? Late that afternoon, Trina went through her closet and settled on an outfit: a sleeveless silk dress, a dark red, nearly maroon; black opaque tights and black pumps with three-inch heels; silver earrings and a silver choker. She checked herself out in the mirror and liked the look: sophisticated, sexy, impudent. She decided against taking the portfolio, too bulky, too schooly, but in her sleek black Chanel bag she packed a mini voice recorder, battery good for four hours. She wondered if he would be good for four hours and smirked. He’d probably like to find out! But Trina had determined that she’d flirt and tease just enough to get him talking. He was old, after all.
Trina Googled the address and to her surprise learned that it was in an upscale part of town. Funny, she’d always thought of teachers as inspired but poverty-stricken losers, people who couldn’t make it in the real world. Maybe Smith’s family had money, or maybe some of those old pots and helmets and things had real value. Made it more interesting, anyway, she decided.
At six p.m. the sun wasn’t even down, and she felt a little overdressed as she pulled up in the drive of a very impressive residence, a Tudor-style house that looked big enough for a family of ten. The driveway led through a gate in a tall brick fence–he must have been watching her, because the gate swung shut behind her car, though it might have been automatic. Then the drive ran to the garage at the side of the house, or she could follow a big circle right in front of the house with flower beds lining it and a fountain in the green space at the center. She took that and parked almost in front of the main door. As she got out of her convertible, she glanced at the fountain, and then did a double-take. It was old–no, not just old, but ancient. She walked to it and stared. A god of the sea or something stood waist-deep in the water, or so it looked, and held aloft a big conelike thing from which a pulsating stream of water jetted. In his other hand he wielded a trident. The stone statue was definitely a relic of some kind, maybe Greek or Roman or something, because the features had been softly eroded by centuries of running water. “Huh!” she said, then turned and walked back past her car, up the front steps, and to the door.
Smith opened it before she could ring. “You’re almost on time,” he said.
“I stopped to look at the fountain. Is it a real antique?”
He shook his head, rolling his eyes a little. “I don’t like the word antique.. It’s an artifact, part of a Roman fountain in Tivornium. Town was buried in a landslide in 12 BC. The fountain was pretty much wrecked, but I salvaged the figure of Triton. Come in, come in.”
She had expected more cases, more artifacts, but the living room was modern, clean, and expensively decorated. “Dining room’s this way,” he said, showing her through an arched doorway. The dining room had a big bay window that looked out the side of the house over a flower garden. Though it was already September, the beds were full of late-blooming flowers, purple asters, golden heleniums, pink Japanese anemones, others. The oval table, heavy glass over chrome tubing, would have accommodated six. He held out a chair for her, and she slipped into it, opening her purse as she did. He took the next chair, at one end of the table. Place settings were already there, and heavy earthenware serving dishes. Smith poured two glasses of pale wine. “This is very dry,” he warned. “But it will complement the foods nicely.”
“I like dry wine,” she said, taking a sip. He hadn’t lied, it was almost astringent, but she enjoyed the crisp taste. She held up the recorder. “Do we talk as we eat?”
“If you want. It’s going to be more a conversation than an interview, though, I warn you. I’m not used to talking about my work, and I’ll just ramble.”
“I’ll straighten you out later,” she said without cracking a smile.
“You do that.” He began to serve them both. “Now, this is roasted beet soup, and the salad is beet greens. It’s a Middle Eastern specialty.”
She sampled the soup. “It’s good.”
“For a main course, we have a dish of chicken breasts with walnuts, a sauce of pomegranate-infused molasses. This is eggplant flan. Yellow beans, very tasty. Butternut squash with leek cream.”
“And for dessert?” she asked impishly.
“Chocolate ice cream,” he said. “I’m not a purist.”
“Did you cook all this yourself?”
“Of course not. Yasmin did.”
“Oh. Your wife?”
He laughed. “Not hardly. Yasmin cooks for me and . . . does other things.”
“Can I meet her?”
“She’s gone home for a while. But maybe later.”
“Okay. Tell me first, what got you interested in archaeology?”
“Well, I–” He paused while she switched the recorder on. She nodded, and with a sardonic look, he said, “Well, I was always interested in history. History major in college, then went into archaeology in grad school as a way of seeing things first hand. First year in grad school I signed on as a student assistant to Professor Charles Willoughby. British, Cambridge, then he moved to the U.S. and taught at Harvard before coming to my school. That summer we went on a dig on the island of Iskara. You’ve never heard of it. Tiny island in the Mediterranean, well off the west coast of Greece, practically uninhabited now except for the odd fisherman heaving to for repairs–no fresh water there now, though there is one ancient dried-up stream bed that shows the place once had a good supply. The Army Air Force used it as an air base during World War II for a few months but abandoned the landing strip, too much trouble to bring in fresh water. Anyway, Professor Willoughby had it in mind that Iskara was the same as the island of Skheria ruled by Alkinoös in the Odyssey. You can’t spell that, so look it up. Most scholars identify Odysseus’ Skheria with Corfu, but–don’t bother yourself with that, though, because it doesn’t really matter. Thing about Iskara, earthquakes have actually made the land there rise. Lots of ancient seaports in the Med are underwater, but on Iskara, we found the ruins of the Bronze Age town and its harbor are now about six feet above sea level. . . .”
They ate as he talked. Trina had to admit that the strange Middle Eastern dishes were tasty, though unusual to her palate. She found herself liking the old man a little more. He so obviously was doing what he loved, and as he spoke of that first expedition, of his finally discovering the corner of a foundation that turned out to be a major Bronze Age structure, she caught glimpses of what he had been at twenty-one, an eager, smart young man. Handsome, too, she thought. He was still striking.
They had finished the ice cream and were sipping Kahlúa-laced coffee when she asked him, “And what was your most memorable find?”
He took a long drink and then grinned at her. “You sure you really want to know?”
“For the interview,” she said.
“You’ll never believe it.”
“Maybe not,” she said with a challenging smile. “We’ll never know until you tell me, will we?”
The grin left his face, and he gave her a skeptical, considering gaze. “Fair enough. I have to admit, you haven’t been as hard to take as I thought you’d be. Okay, so you won’t believe it, but here goes. . . .”
And he began an incredible tale.
The place (Dr. Smith said) was Aqbara, a dig located on a plateau in what is today a mountain range in Turkey. Not much there now, but in the past, as satellite imagery indicated, Aqbara was a Bronze Age trade center, the juncture of two camel trails, one running roughly north and south from the south coast of the Black Sea down into Persia, one even more roughly east and west from Damascus to the west coast of the Caspian. All sorts of goods must have flowed through Aqbara in ancient times: barley, wheat, and other grains, olive oil, wine, lead, copper. Jewels. Silver. Gold..
Slaves.
No researcher had ever dug on the plateau. Just negotiating for the right to explore the area took over a year. But at last, the year Smith turned thirty, everything was worked out and he led a team of a dozen on an exploratory dig, just to see if further investigation was warranted. They found the usual stuff: potsherds, middens, foundations of storehouses. And one day Smith, who said, “I’d developed a kind of a knack for finding obscure relics,” stayed behind on a day when all the rest of the crew had gone fifty miles over rough country to the nearest settled town for a little R&R. He had an idea that a low mound just might be a site of interest.
“We had trenched up to it,” he said, refilling his coffee cup. “I was at the very end of the trench, scraping some small pottery fragments with a trowel, when the earth gave way beneath me.”
He fell a dozen feet, landing hard but not breaking any bones. When the dust had cleared, he saw he was in a catacomb. “Skeletons were mostly in the last stages of disintegration, so I knew it was very old. My flashlight had fallen out of its holster but didn’t break, so I took a look around. At the far end of the tunnel, between two floor-to-ceiling ranks of carved stone ledges where the skeletons stretched out, I found a massive chest, carved like the shelves from the living rock. The lid looked loose, but it was too heavy for me to lift. I tried to see if I could tug it off–and it pivoted. Damndest thing I’d ever seen. Perfectly balanced and still in working order after five millennia.”
Inside it was nothing at all except one little item . . . “This,” he said. He opened an armoire and took out something that looked like a bottle, but it was not made of glass. It was shaped like an elongated teardrop, and it was about a foot tall. The body gleamed with an antique patina; criss-crossing the bottle was an intricate mesh of delicately curving gold wire. A stopper inlaid with gold crowned the piece.
“What is it?” Trina asked. “I mean, what’s it made of?”
“Alabaster. It’s roughly similar to some ancient Egyptian work, perfume and cosmetics bottles and so on, but on a larger scale. I date it at 3000 BC, give or take five hundred years.”
Smith had wanted to examine his find in detail, but he had a problem. The old exit from the tomb had collapsed. The only way out was through the ceiling, the way he had fallen in. But he couldn’t leap high enough to climb back out again. He could clamber up the stone shelves, but then he was too far away to try the jump, with no way to get a good purchase for a start. “It was looking pretty rough,” he said. “I didn’t expect the crew back until the next morning. No food down there, and worse, no water. It was summer and hot as hell. I spent a few hours being clever, but nothing I tried worked. Looked like I was stuck. Then I noticed the inner lid of the chest had carvings on it–an old dialect of Egyptian, oddly enough, and one that I could make out. It warned about the thing the chest contained, told how dangerous the bottle was, and advised any finder not to open the bottle.”
“So . . . what did you do?”
“I opened the bottle.”
“And how did that help?”
“I let the genie out, of course. And the genie granted my wish and then got me the hell out of there.”
Trina set down her coffee cup and gave him a disgusted look. “A genie.”
He smiled mildly back at her. “You don’t believe me.”
“Well, of course I don’t! How did you get out, really?”
“I told you,” Smith said. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me.”
But, he insisted, that was exactly what happened. He unstoppered the bottle; a cloud boiled out and solidified into a genie (the Arabic djinn, he pointed out pedantically, was more nearly the correct word). “So you got like three wishes?” asked Trina skeptically.
“Don’t believe fairy tales, kid. A djinn is a spirit of great magical power and abilities. There’s no true limit on what a wish can be. Just the simple requirement of expressing one’s desire as a wish. But djinn are notoriously dangerous and devious; you have to phrase a wish just right in order not to have it backfire on you. A human who accidentally makes himself vulnerable to a djinn is like a mouse who decides a cat would make a great bed for the night.”
Smith said his single wish had served him well, hiding all traces of the collapsed trench, guaranteeing the success of the expedition, garnering wealth and comfort for himself. And that, he said, was how he had become the famous Dr. Smith, how he had brought home all the archaeological (and other) treasures that had built Fenshaw Hall and had allowed him to pursue his studies with success and with unlimited funds. “Put that in the college paper,” he said with another grin, leaning forward to tap the recorder.
Trina shook her head. “You know I can’t. People would laugh. They know there’s no such thing. Look, maybe I could just say that you have uncanny luck at finding ancient things. That’s true, isn’t it?”
“I have a djinn,” he corrected. “Anyone with a djinn on his side is going to be lucky.”
“But there’s no such thing,” said Trina, frowning.
Smith shrugged. “Okay. You’re hard-headed, and I knew it would come to this in the end. See for yourself.”
And he unstoppered the alabaster bottle.
3
She was gorgeous. Dark of skin, dark of sloe-shaped eye, her hair an inky cascade of jet-black midnight down her bare back, her round breasts bare and pinkly tipped with nipples always erect, smelling of sandalwood and musk, eyes so green, so deep, like oasis pools....
“A pretty plaything,” Trina heard the creature say in purring tones.
“I thought you would like her.”
“You are so sweet.”
Trina could not move. She sat frozen in place at the table, hands in her lap, chin up, her face blank. She knew she should be feeling panic, but oddly there was only a deep inner calm, as if she were waiting for something that had been approaching for her whole life. The nude woman-creature that had boiled out of the bottle beckoned her, and she felt herself rise. Smith put his arm around the–djinn’s–waist and the two led her into a bedroom, richly furnished. The bed was very low, in the Middle Eastern style, and hung with opulently brocaded curtains. The walls were covered in a deep crimson flocked wallpaper, with an intricate gold pattern weaving through it. The air smelled of musky incense, provocative, lulling. On one wall was a full-length mirror. Trina could see herself in it, young blue-eyed blonde, very good posture, dressed well, looking sexy, but . . . empty eyes. Waiting eyes.
“Stand easy,” the djinn said softly, and Trina did, with her arms down at her sides, hanging loosely. The warm light in the bedroom came from clear-burning lamps, Aladdin’s lamps, a-ha, little joke there, hanging by thin golden chains from the ceiling. Mellow. Yellow and mellow. Hypnotic.
“This is Yasmin,” Smith said. In the mirror he was standing beside Trina, on her left. She could not see Yasmin, who stood on her right. Yasmin seemed to have no reflection, wasn’t that odd? “Yasmin,” Smith repeated. “Nod if you understand.”
Trina obediently nodded, idly wondering why she couldn’t speak, why there was no need to scream in terror.
Yasmin stepped close to face her, stared deep into her eyes. “Yes,” she said, and her breath smelled of cinnamon and spice. “A good choice.”
Trina felt Yasmin reach right into her mind. Felt her rummage around.
“Your mother and your father and your brother,” Yasmin said softly. “I see them, your family. We will not hurt them, though, for they have done nothing to us. I will merely change their minds a bit. Very well, it is done. They now have no memory of you at all. Nothing of yours remains in their home, no image of you remains in any photograph there. You do not exist for them. You never existed.”
And she felt her own memories of family flicker and fade out. Father, mother, brother, just words, that was all.
“Your friends. Your professors at school. Everyone you know. You never were to them. You never existed. They do not remember you. They will never think of you or even dream of you. You are gone from their minds.”
Her college life dissolved from memory, her roommate, everything.
“Good,” Yasmin said. “Good.”
Trina felt herself smiling. She had pleased Yasmin. That was nice.
Yasmin stepped around her, and again Trina could see herself in the mirror. Beside her, Yasmin waved her hand. “I will undress you.”
Her clothes shimmered away, like mist when the hot sun hits it. Trina stood calmly, shoulders back, on display. She gazed serenely at the pale naked girl in the mirror, shapely but so pasty compared to the lush, dark Yasmin.
“Do you like her body?” Yasmin asked Smith in an indifferent voice.
“She could be better shaped. I like women with fuller hips and bigger breasts.”
“It shall be so.”
The oddest feeling, of sudden swelling, tingling. Trina was aware that her tennis-taut butt was now a few inches larger, that her C-cup breasts had become D-cups. She felt her nipples stiffen and prickle. In the mirror the girl suddenly looked sexier, with rounder, fuller breasts. Her lips tingled, too, and became pouty, swollen, flushed a deep lusty red.
“Darken her,” suggested Smith. “Skin and hair and eyes.”
“It does not matter. No one will remember her.”
“Still. Not as dark as you, of course. Not so exotic. But a honey-toned tan, perhaps, and fuller, longer hair. Mm. Maybe . . . chestnut?”
Another wave of Yasmin’s hand, and the mirror-Trina acquired a sunny glow. Her skin really did look like honey, deep amber honey, and her hair sprouted, curled down across her shoulders, became a tawny-chestnut mane, lovely, lovely. Trina looked on with mild interest. In the mirror her reflection’s eyes had become round chips of intense sapphire, so pretty.
“Now,” said Yasmin, circling her, chin lowered, giving her a green-eyed stare that spoke of wicked pleasure. “The most pleasant changes. The ones on the inside.”
Trina shivered as she felt Yasmin in her head again. She felt as if she were being . . . re-wired. As if her priorities were being changed, inhibitions removed. “I’m going to make her very, very eager,” purred Yasmin. “Very responsive, too.”
A wave of hot lust swept through Trina, nearly buckling her knees. The golden girl in the mirror swayed, and her sapphire eyes became hungry with desire, darkening, becoming almost liquid in their strong need. She gasped, and her chest heaved, and her wonderful new breasts bounced. She felt her pussy clench and unclench, felt serious moisture flowing, dripping down the insides of her thighs, and she heard herself moan. “What do you want?” whispered Yasmin, her breath hot against Trina’s cheek.
“Want . . . a cock in me,” groaned Trina. “Want to fuck.”
She felt Yasmin’s hand glide slowly, teasingly over the gentle swell of her belly, felt her fingers play with the little strip of pubic hair that Trina had allowed herself at her last wax job. “Are you wet?”
“Oh, God, yes, I’m so wet!”
She was trembling. The fingers were so soft, so teasingly slow. Trina wanted Smith to see how wet, how pink she was, wanted him to take her then and there, to plunge hard into her again and again. Oh, God, Yasmin was teasing her nether lips with the tips of her fingers, stroking so softly, like puffs of heated air. “Nice? Is that nice?”
Trina could not reply. She wanted Smith to fuck her.
“Would you lick me?” asked Yasmin.
With a shudder, Trina tried to shake her head. “N-nngh . . . that’s . . . dirty . . . .”
“Do it,” Smith said.
Trina felt another wrench in her mind, and then she somehow was kneeling, and Yasmin was standing over her with her legs spread apart, and Trina tilted her chin up and smelled the delicate musky aroma of Yasmin’s arousal, and it was wonderful. She tentatively licked, her tongue finding the bare lips of Yasmin’s pussy (completely bare, no hair at all), and Yasmin tasted perfect, so devilishly delicious. Immediately Trina shook with a mind-numbing orgasm and pressed her mouth against Yasmin’s welcoming, open cunt and sucked and licked. She took the swollen clitoris between her lips, so springy, so salty-sweet, and flicked her tongue across it, hard, nibbling the hot flesh and greedily swallowing the juices that flowed from Yasmin. She felt the other woman’s hands in her hair, stroking, guiding, encouraging.
“You love eating pussy,” Yasmin said.
Trina growled and, her words muffled by the slippery, intoxicating flesh, she said, “Yes! I love eating pussy! Oh, God, I’m c-cumming again!”
“But we’re leaving the Professor out. He will fuck you from behind while you make me cum, yes?”
“Yes!”
“You will be like a bitch to him, won’t you?”
“Yes!” sobbed Trina happily. “Let him fuck me now!”
Yasmin backed to the low bed, still open for Trina, and Trina crawled after her. It should have been ludicrous, but in Trina’s mind the whole thing had its own weird, languorous beauty, like a slow-motion ballet. Yasmin sank back onto the bed, legs spread wide, and Trina never let her lips lose contact with Yasmin’s delectable pussy. Somehow she knew just how to poise herself on her knees, ass high, thighs spread. She felt the head of Smith’s cock press against her moist and eager slit, and she thrust back as far as she could, trying to impale herself on it, to engulf it. He took the hint and plunged hard and deep into her, his swollen cock–God, how big, how firm it was! Yasmin must have enhanced him–stabbing into her heated, welcoming depths.
Trina could not keep track of her orgasms. She came again, and again, and then continuously, out of her mind with the pleasure of it, and she knew that her life had changed. This was what she wanted, all she wanted, and this was what she was and would be: a fucktoy, a willing slave to Smith and Yasmin and to her own uncontrollable desire. Smith fucked her hard, slapping his balls against her firm ass, and she reveled in the fullness of her cunt, in the fantastic glide of his ridged cock into her slippery, clenching pussy. She eagerly drank the honey that flowed so freely from Yasmin, made Yasmin purr and hum, fucked her with her tongue, thrusting it as deep into the hot secret slit as she could, wishing it were longer, thicker, more rigid, wishing it were a prick protruding from her mouth, so that she could fuck Yasmin.
Her wishes were not the ones coming true, though . . . .
4
Late that night she lay in Smith’s bed, happily sucking his cock, accepting his cum when it jetted hot and salty into her mouth, swallowing it, dutifully licking his softening member clean. She relished everything, the smell, the feel, the taste. It fulfilled her, made her feel sexy and made her cum and cum again. “Mm,” she said through sticky lips. “Mm, I love when you shoot into my mouth.”
“Look,” he said. “I can make you cum just by doing this.” He pulled her gently atop him until she sat astride his flat belly and reached up playfully to tweak her hard and swollen nipples.
“Oh, gawwwd!” She jerked and whimpered and felt a gush of her juices flowing out onto him. “Oh, yes! Oh, it’s so good!”
“Let me fuck your tits,” he suggested.
“Yes,” she agreed, slipping down in the bed, moving her belly against his, her own spilled juices lubricating the movement, and then trapping his cock between her mounds, holding her breasts together with her hands, teasing her own nipples, beginning to move. She felt his rod harden again–he was inexhaustible, insatiable, he could cum again and again, just like her–and as it grew nice and stiff, she sensuously pressed her breasts tight around it, kneading her own flesh, willing them to be hot and pleasing to him. “Nice?” she whispered. “Is it nice?”
“Faster,” he said, and she complied.
She obediently increased the intensity of her movements, then bent her head, and when the huge purple helmet of his cock emerged, she gave it a quick lick, a quick suck. That made her cum. Oh, she hoped he would shoot a scalding load right into her mouth, it tasted so great.
You are addicted to his cum, Yasmin had told her before dissolving into mist and pouring herself back into the bottle, and she was addicted to it, she needed it so badly, she yearned for it, would do any dirty thing he asked if he would just ejaculate in her or on her.
“Good, good,” he whispered. “Finish me off with your mouth.”
“Yes!” She stretched her lips wide and took his member deeply, sucking, letting him fuck her mouth. And she came from that. She gratefully cuddled the warm sac of his balls in her hands, feeling how heavy they were, feeling them tighten as his release began, and that made her cum, too. And when he blasted a great jet of his hot semen into her mouth, when she felt it thick and creamy and tasted its strange spiciness, that gave her the best orgasm of all. She gulped and gulped, swallowing, and then again licked him clean.
“Where’s Yasmin?” she murmured later, when they lay pressed against each other, spent at last.
“She can’t stay outside her bottle very long,” Smith told her. “It’s a–portal, a gateway, to her own dimension. If she stays in human form in our world for more than a few hours at a time, she finds it difficult to tear herself away and return to her own realm. But she’ll be with us every night. She loves so much to be loved. You two will enjoy each other’s bodies in all sorts of ways you’ve never even dreamed of.”
“You’re so clever,” sighed Trina, stroking his chest. “She’s so lucky to have you as her Master.”
He chuckled. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“You–you found her bottle, you released her, she gives you wishes.”
“One wish,” he corrected. “When she first appeared to me, she told me I had only one wish, and if she could take advantage of it in any way, she assured me she would do so. I told you the inscription warned it was dangerous to open the bottle. Girl, do you really think that a being with such superhuman powers would submit to being ruled by a mere man? No. I had to think very carefully though, had to come up with the one binding wish that would get me out of that trap and make it impossible for her to turn on me or to make my wish go wrong.”
“What did you wish?”
“That she would love me,” Smith said. “That the djinn would fall completely, hopelessly, utterly, devotedly, eternally in love with me and always want the best for me.”
“Oh, and that’s why–”
“That,” he said, his voice deep with his undying devotion, “is why she became my Mistress.”