I Dream of Jeannie/Bewitched: Crossed Signals (Patreon)

Darrin looked about the thrift shop. His wife Samantha found it simply wonderful, but it was a bit too hippieish for him. He couldn’t understand why anyone would want somebody’s old junk when they could afford something new, but everywhere Samantha looked, there seemed to be something quaint or darling.

It seemed almost unamerican to Darrin. The day that the US was making new things that couldn’t stand up to the old things, that was the day he might as well pay a visit to the Soviet Embassy and see if they had any vacancies in East Berlin!

“Look at this, isn’t it just the most?” Samantha asked him, holding up a cuckoo clock. “You think it’s really from Sweden?”

“I’m sure they’ll charge you enough for it to be,” Darrin answered.

Samantha tapped on it. “It seems built well enough to be Swedish at any rate. I just wish I could know for sure.” And her nose twitched a little bit.

“Now, Sam, don’t you—”

“I wasn’t,” Samantha interrupted him. “So long as he’s honest. If it’s not an authentic cuckoo clock, I think the least the man could do is give us a discount.” She took a few steps towards the sales counter. “You should get something too. Doesn’t anything strike your fancy?”

Darrin thought about it. Not much of this junk looked like something he’d want in his den, even if it were new, but you couldn’t let your wife have her way all the time in decorating. Pretty soon she got ideas and went overboard and you ended up inside a life-size dollhouse, pinkness and ruffles everywhere, without allowance for so much as a beer can.

Well, Darrin would put a stop to that before she got any designs on replacing his good college easy chair with some French chaise lounge.

“This,” Darrin said, snatching up an old lamp or bottle or… maybe a bong? Darrin didn’t know about those things. His nephew knew the difference between bongs and joints and pipes. Darrin didn’t even know how to spell marijuana; that silent H always threw him off. “Make a good paperweight.”

Samantha looked over the lamp with an amount of feminine disapproval; it was old, but not darling. Still, she inwardly shrugged her shoulders. “If you have that many papers, dear.”

Darrin looked over the lamp as Samantha flew to the counter. He wondered if it even worked. Or, if it worked, what it did. He supposed you had to uncork it, assuming the cork still came out.

He gave it a pull. It refused to move. He exerted himself a little. Still the cork was firmly stuck in there.

Darrin worried a little about breaking the damn thing if he applied much more force, but it wasn’t like he really wanted it anyway. Samantha would probably be overjoyed if he accidentally smashed it and the shop owner wouldn’t care, so long as he made a sale.

Darrin trapped the body between his thighs and pulled with both hands on the cork until finally it came free—

Smoke filled the vicinity. Darrin felt a note of panic. What had he let out? Some kind of acid that was setting the store on fire? Napalm like those godless Commies in North Vietnam were getting?

He frantically tried to shove the cork back into the bottle, but it was like trying to hold his hand down on a fire hose. That smoke was coming out like Ol’ Faithful and Darrin was about to call on Samantha was help—where was her witchcraft when he needed it?—when the smoke was gone. And instead, there was a girl.

There was a lot of girl.

Not much clothes, but a lot of girl.

She wore pants from her waist to her ankles, but they were harem pants… big, baggy puffs of fabric too sheer to hide any of the svelte, sculpted length of her legs. Only the girdle that held them up gave her any sense of modesty. Her midsection was bare up to a sort of halter top, or closed vest, that covered her breasts and the beginnings of her arms. It held as tight to her proud breasts as a cheerleader’s sweater, only with a plunging neckline that showed off how no tissue paper went into the fullness of her cleavage. And lastly, she had some kind of fez with a veil attached to it, hanging down about her throat as if that needed to be covered, of all things.

All the smoke seemed to be stinging her eyes, because she waved it away from them with her eyelids squeezed tightly shut. “Oh, thank you, master, thank you, thank you, thank you! Finally, after three thousand years--!”

And she coughed, stretching and turning her body as if she’d been watching a Biblical epic for four hours without so much as an intermission. Ending up facing away from him, which did not cause the view to suffer one bit.

“Master? Where are thou, master? Don’t be shy, I am thy humble slave, ready to fulfill the smallest of thy desires—or the larger ones!”

She minced forward, unaware of how Darrin’s helplessly lustful eyes fastened on her wiggling ass. All he could do, looking at her, was savor the sight of her long, slender legs flashing through that thin layer of gauze that covered them about as much as saltwater at the beach. He didn’t think he missed a single detail of the smooth play of her muscles under her creamy skin.

She turned around and Darrin nearly shrieked, feeling he’d been caught in the act of appreciating her—and some parts of him more than others.

Having a witch for a wife kept Darrin young and in shape. As giving as Samantha was normally, she was a greedy little creature in the bedroom, and he had to be in top condition to keep her satisfied. They made love two or three times a day—although by the third time, Darrin didn’t know if he could describe it that way. ‘Love’ wasn’t the four-letter word that sprang to mind when Samantha wanted seconds of her seconds.

Maybe that was why he never felt bored with her. Samantha always wanted something new and outré, some new experiment that—according to her—was just how witches did things. She actually thanked him for bearing with her when she took it in the ass or had him come in her hair; all very traditional in witch circles, of course.

Knowing all it would take to satiate her, all Samantha had to do was show off some leg or put a bare foot up on the coffee table, and he leapt to attention like a soldier getting an order. An hour in bed with Samantha was like a drink from the Fountain of Youth. She was his own personal piece of the Rock. And that was why Darrin was never tempted by other women.

Until the other women looked like this woman and she looked at him like a geisha girl who’d needed to hari-kari herself for any relief for a full year.

“There you are, master! Thou are the one who freed me! After all these eons…” She looked around. “Is this what harems look like now? Where are all the other women? Why are there so many clocks? Have thou been getting enough sun—you look like a Crusader!”

“You… you’re one to talk!” Darrin replied. The woman looked like she could be right at home on a plantation, if only she dressed sensibly, with her fair skin and golden hair.

The woman flounced up to him, paying no mind to his protests. “And can thou not grow a beard? Oh, but I do not care either way, master! Thou are handsome indeed, and so bulbous!”

No married man, not even President Kennedy, could be capable of disliking the way her breasts bounded when she walked. Swaying gently from side to side and wobbling when she came to a stop in front of him.

“B-bulbous?” Darrin asked belatedly.

The woman reached out to squeeze his bicep through his sleeve. “Oh! It is thick as a pillar, master! My poor master—thou must have no slaves at all to do thy labor for thee! Do not worry, master! A djinn is as good as a thousand slaves!”

“Cuter too,” Darrin said… it just slipped out.

The genie’s eyes darted downward. “And thou are even more bulbous than I thought!”

Darrin quickly sat down and crossed his legs. The kitchen chair he perched himself on groaned unsteadily—no wonder someone had sold it. “Now see here, alright, you just see right here… I know how all this magic stuff works! It all starts off sounding good and then it goes wrong and causes all sorts of problems! I have a wife and she’s a witch, I’ll have you know, and that’s enough problems… I don’t need anymore problems… I’ve got an uncle and a mother-in-law and those pricks at Sterling Cooper are stealing all our clients… I don’t need a genie on top of all that!”

“I do not have to be on top, master,” she said innocently. “Thou may be on top all you like, and side to side too!”