Preview: Request Rough Draft (Patreon)

this is the (very) rough draft of the requested story in the $5 tier.  i am about 5 chapters in of 9. names and content are subject to change.

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Chapter One:

Frances and Lincoln met young when Lincoln’s mother, a single black woman recently out of college, moved into the very affluent, very white neighborhood where Frances lived. They were both only children, and they became fast friends, spending most weekends with each other and hanging out every afternoon after school.

Their friendship continued into middle school and even into high school, though the two of them grew up to be very different. Lincoln was a tall, lean young man by eighteen. He kept his dark hair in tight, neat rows and joined the basket ball and football teams after a sudden growth spurt in his junior year.

Frances, on the other hand, had always been pasty and heavy with a red-orange bowel of strawberry blond hair and beady dark blue eyes. His big body only got bigger as he got older, and his round, piggy face only got redder when he exerted himself. He was not a pleasant boy, and he never learned to be, but he and Lincoln remained close friends even into their senior year despite the differences between them.

In middle school, the two friends added a third musketeer to their band. Initially the feminine third wheel to the boys’ rowdy adolescence, Autumn became the enduring lynchpin of their friendship. She was a pretty girl with thick chestnut hair, laughing blue eyes, and an always ready smile. She lived a few streets down from them, but as they entered high school, they would roam the town together joking and flirting as both boys developed visible crushes.

In time, the friendship that Autumn maintained was actually torn apart by these crushes, and that is where we join our characters on a hot September day after school. Lincoln drove them home in silence after an argument at school. A basket ball start, Lincoln had been slowly growing a new friend group for the past three years while Frances had only had him and Autumn. During that time, Frances had lived vicariously through Lincoln’s stories about parties Frances would never be invited to and girls Frances would never fuck.

From Frances’ perspective, Lincoln had it all and was leaving Frances behind. That is why his jealousy got the better of him when Lincoln had told him quite directly that he was going to ask Autumn out at school the next day. The ride home had been tense, though Lincoln had seemed self-assured as he drove. Frances, on the other hand, was shaking the whole way home and could barely look his longtime friend in the eye.

Lincoln parked in his driveway, and the two sat for a few minutes in silence as the car idled. When Lincoln turned the car off, he looked at Frances and said, “Listen, man, I didn’t want to make things weird between us. That’s why I had to tell you. It’s been just the three of us for a while now, and I didn’t want to make you feel like you were the third wheel or nothing, man, but times change, and I’d feel like a fool if I didn’t shoot my shot before we graduated, you know?”

“Shoot your shot,” Frances scoffed, and he glared at Lincoln. “This isn’t basketball, Lincoln, and Autumn isn’t that type of girl. She’s not some loose whore like the girls you’ve fucked before!”

“I never said she was, man! That’s not even what that means!”

Frances rolled his eyes. “Sorry that I’m not cool enough to know the lingo all of you meatheads on the sports ball team throw around, but maybe you’d have better luck telling them. Maybe they’d lie and tell you that you have a chance with a girl like her, but Autumn isn’t going to date you, Lincoln. She’s too good for you.”

Lincoln frowned when he heard Frances say that, and it set alarm bells off for Frances, who quickly escaped the vehicle. Lincoln followed him out of the car. Leaving his driver side open, Lincoln rounded the car and met Frances in the street between their houses. They lived in a rounded cul-de-sac, and Frances lived across from Frances. Lincoln caught Frances by the hand and pulled him to a stop.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait a minute. What do you mean that she’s too good for me?”

Frances yanked his hand free and rubbed his wrist. Lincoln looked scrawny but was very strong and he towered a few inches taller than Frances, who was short and round by comparison. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Too bad, I do,” shouted Lincoln, who then shoved Frances. Frances stumbled a few steps away, but Lincoln stayed on him. “What do you mean by she’s too good for me, Frances? Because I’m a jock or…”

Frances shied away and cringed when he thought the word was coming. They both knew what Frances meant. Though Frances would never say it out loud, they both knew he had thought it many times. Early in their friendship, Frances had often let slip that his friendship was an act of charity for the first and, at the time only, nonwhite kid on the street. In reality, it was that Frances couldn’t make friends with anyone else and that the two of them were trapped together because of it.

Lincoln gave Frances a big, hateful grin, like a warning in some animals. “You mean-spirited, fat little fuck,” he growled, and he closed distance between them and struck Frances hard in the stomach. Frances looked large enough to absorb the blow, but his fat did nothing to slow anything other than his reflexes. He doubled over while Lincoln held him there, and when Lincoln dropped him, Frances fell onto his face wheezing.

From there, Lincoln kicked him a few times in the stomach while Frances cried. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you? Well, guess what!” Leaning down, Lincoln pinned Frances’ fat face to the pavement and whispered to him, “I’m going to ask her out, and she’ll say yes because I’m popular, and then I’m going to fuck her, Frances. I’m going to fuck your precious little Autumn and stretch her out, and then I’m going to leave this fucking town behind and play college ball, and then we’ll see if what they say about black dick and white women is true, won’t we?”

“Fuck you,” shouted Frances, and he tried hard to fight his way free. Lincoln laughed as Frances struggled and then stood to let the smaller man crawl up onto his hands and knees. Before Frances could recover completely, however, Lincoln returned to kick him in the gut and then rolled him onto his back after he collapsed again. Frances laid on his back wheezing as Lincoln stood over him. “You don’t even like her like I do!”

Lincoln laughed. “And there’s your real problem. You think you have a shot with her.” Lincoln shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, fat boy, but even if I didn’t fuck her first, you would never have a shot with her.” Standing over Frances, Lincoln glared down at his former friend and said, “Turns out, you’re not her type.”

“Shut up!”

“She’s told me so before. She thinks your gross.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Frances tried to lunge up, but his body was too heavy, and all Lincoln needed to do was put a foot to his chest to hold him in place.

“And she thinks you’re pathetic.”

“Shut up…,” sobbed Frances as he now wept on the pavement. Though Lincoln had hurt him, Lincoln had been careful to control himself. He wanted to embarrass Frances, not break him, and he had succeeded in doing so.

Lincoln laughed and shook his head as one of the doors in the neighborhood came open and one of the mother’s of the neighborhood, Farah, came rushing out ordering him to step away. “Fucking pathetic,” he said, and he gathered saliva before spitting across Frances’ red, sweaty face.

Farah came sprinting out and put herself between Lincoln and Frances as Lincoln stepped away from his victim. Farah looked between them and said, “What is going on here, young man?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Marwan, we were just rough housing. That’s all.”

Farah’s concern and disbelief showed in the pretty frown she wore. She adjusted her hijab and her abaya, and then gave Lincoln a withering, maternal stare. “I think you have done enough for the day, Mr. Washington. Please, return to your home so that I can attend to this young man myself.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Lincoln, and though he tried to act cool, he slunk away with a guilty expression on his face as Farah turned her attention back to Frances.

“Frances, dear, are you well enough to stand?”

Frances stood with Farah’s help and held his thumb to his bloody lip. He had not been hurt as much from the punches, though they had hurt. The only blood drawn was from his landing on the asphalt when Lincoln let him fall. Mostly, he was just shocked. He held out his bloody digit for her to see and said, “He beat the shit out of me, Mrs. M.”

“Language, young man,” said Farah, and she squinted at the small cut on Frances’ lip. It had looked quite bad from inside of the house, but now that she looked at the big boy, she wondered how much of it was him surrendering to make it easier on himself. “Come. Let us look at it inside. I’ll get you a bandage, and we can put it behind us.”

“Gorilla should be arrested,” muttered Frances as he gathered his backpack and followed Farah back to her house.

The Marwan lived next door to Frances’ family and had moved in only two years ago or so. They had two daughters, Amina and Rahat. Amina was Frances’ age and went to school with him, while Rahat attended college a city away. Farah was a devout Muslim mother and wife and wore her body and head coverings, while her daughters did not. Her husband, Abdul, did not require it, but she felt it was important to keep her modesty regardless.

Farah had always shown Frances kindness and had been the subject of many of his private fantasies. Following her now, he could not keep from watching her supple curves flow and move through her abaya. Even with her body covered, she was an object of animal lust with a shapely, womanly figure that many women her age or even younger would covet. Frances, personally, hungered to see what she kept so carefully under wrap and made very little secret of it.

Frances followed Farah inside and let her station him on her couch. The house was clean and polished. While Farah stayed home to keep house, her husband went out to work. He did something with computers, though Frances did not know what. Frances’ own dad worked out of state and sometimes out of country and was rarely home. His mother worked, too, though she did not have to. She, like his father, hardly spent time with him.

While Frances sat holding his lip on a pristine white couch, Farah went to fetch bandages for him. Alone in their home, Frances looked for anything he could take or pilfer. He liked to collect small things and keep them, and he had been doing it for years. If they were personal or private, that made them even more valuable to him. His parents had no idea. Only Lincoln did, and he had told no one. For years, Frances had wanted to take something from the Marwan home but had never been allowed inside their home before.

Farah returned before he could find anything and kneeled before him with her abaya tucked up under her. “Let me see,” she said, examining his lips while he stared over her head at the mantle above the fireplace. His gaze fell upon what appeared to him to be a simple, polished kettle made of stone. Farah tsked and stood with her hands on her hips as she provided him fabric to hold to his lip. “Unfortunately, there is little we can do in ways of mending other than apply pressure and cold when you get home.”

“What’s that?”

“What is what,” asked Farah, and she moved sideways and followed his gaze to the mantle. “Oh, that old thing?” She allowed a soft smile which Frances immediately recognized as fake. “That is just an old family heirloom. It is quite beautiful, is it not? It may not look it, but it is an oil lamp that has been in my family for some time. We have no use for it except for it to decorate our mantle.” She packed her first aid kit up as she spoke and then latched it as she finished. “Allow me to put this away, and then I shall walk you home.”

“Fine,” said Frances, but his eyes were fixed on the lamp as she left. She was not gone for long, but Frances had left before she returned. Farah shook her head in disbelief at his rudeness but sad nothing to herself. She figured the boy had exaggerated his injuries anyway and trusted him to make it next door.

It was only shortly after that she realized he had left with the lamp in arm and rushed out the door to stop him.

Frances had made it home in a hurry and left his backpack at the door along with his shoes. He returned to his room immediately before he stopped, and he stood gasping as he held his prize in his hands. Farah had said it was a lamp, but it appeared to him to be a kettle made of baked and polished clay. It was undecorated and unadorned but doubtlessly beautiful, and as he held it in his hands, it felt important.

He thought about Farah’s frantic search for it after he left and grew aroused. More than that, he began to fantasize about what she hid underneath her abaya and the beauty she restrained with her hijab. He imagined her drinking tea from this kettle with his semen in it and grew stiff, and he undid his pants to live out at least a part of the fantasy.

Frances liked to take things, but he did not make a habit of soiling them. This, he decided, would be special. While Farah was always kind to him, he knew that she was a kind person. Her daughters, Amina and Rahat both had treated him with unkindness in the past, and he viewed this is a subtle, private revenge against them. He removed the lid on the kettle and unzipped his pants.

Frances was painfully erect as he took to stroking himself, and he thought of how nice Farah had smelled when he was close to her. Her scent was both spicy and floral, and he held the lid tight in one hand as he pleasured himself with the other. The lamp sat open on his bed while he panted, and already he was sticky with arousal from the mere act of what he was about to do. He had not made a point of defiling what he stole in the past, but if it felt this good to him, he thought he may begin doing so in the future.

He was almost at climax when he heard a knock at the door and an insistent ringing of the doorbell. Farah called to him from outside. “Frances, dear? Are you home? Please, I need to speak with you very badly!”

The urgency in her voice aroused Frances and fed into his fantasy. He closed his eyes and stroked faster as his breaths became ragged. He was nearly there, and in his fantasies Farah was helping him and praising his big, hard white dick as she milked him into her lamp. After that, she would drink his semen from the lamp and show it off to him before she swallowed.

With his fantasies so real and intense, Frances did not hear Farah open the front door, nor did he hear her calling from the living room. He most certainly did not hear her approach to his bedroom, but he became aware of her just as he finished inside of the lamp. Farah watched with wide-eyed horror as Frances unloaded into the lamp and across his bedspread. He gasped and screamed, “What are you doing here?!” But he could not stop. The orgasm was too great and nearly made him collapse from intensity.

“I’m sorry, I was just…” Farah stared at the lamp with tears in her eyes. “No,” she whispered to herself, and Frances, panting and feeling very, very small now, closed the door on her face while he took the time to clean himself up.

Frances toweled himself off and put the lid on the lamp. He considered hiding it from her and pretending that she had not seen what she saw, but her continued sobbing outside of his door made him feel too guilty for that. He did his pants up and carried the lamp out to her in the hall, and the two of them walked to the living room where the lamp sat between them on the coffee table with his semen inside of it.

Farah slowly gathered her wits while Frances sat staring at his hands. He gave her tissues to blow her nose with, and she dabbed her eyes while staring fixedly at the lamp. “I am sorry for barging into your home like that,” she said. “And I am sorry for intruding upon your private moment. You are a young man, and I understand that there are many ways in which young men relieve their stress, but when I realized that you had taken my lamp, and I had to come looking for it.”

Frances managed to look at Farah but looked away when she met his gaze. There was something about her that was different. Even after crying, she remained devastatingly beautiful. Staring at the front door, he said, “You did seem very upset.” He chanced a look at her and found her staring at the lamp again, and he took the time to examining her feminine figure and commit the details to memory. “You had said it was just a family heirloom, so I thought it didn’t matter.”

“I lied,” confessed Farah, who felt dizzy and slightly flushed. She bit her bottom lip as she tried to gather her thoughts and wondered if this was what intoxication felt like. She shook her head. “That lamp is no heirloom, you see. It is a magic lamp, and I am forever bound to it.”

It sounded so crazy to Frances that it took him a moment to catch up. He peeled his eyes reluctantly from her figure and found her watching him again, and he noted a subtle flush to her cheeks and an almost glazed expression to her eyes. He looked at the lamp again afterward and saw some of his sticky semen still clinging to the outside of it. Inside, there was even more of his essence hidden from view by the lid. “You’re bound to a magic lamp?” He laughed in disbelief and said, “What are you, some kind of wish granting genie?”

“No,” said Farah quietly, and she shook her head. “Djinn do not grant wishes, but they are powerful and if you are good enough they may grant you boons, while the wicked get terrible curses. That is what happened to me. My parents had wronged my husband’s family, and so a Djinni used their magic to bind me to this lamp. I was meant to be given to my husband as a concubine, but he instead chose to take me as his bride against his families wishes.”

Frances stared at the lamp and listened to her words like they were distant echoes. He could hardly hear them save for those which he wanted to hear. The thought that her husband had been given a woman as beautiful as her to keep frustrated him, and the thought that he had refused her calling for her galled Frances.

“As a result, my husband left his family and took the lamp with us to keep it safe. We cannot destroy it, and if it fell into the wrong hands, well…” She looked at Frances with disappointed understanding. “As it is now, you have nearly bound me to your service as he was supposed to.”

“I have,” asked Frances, and he sat up suddenly. His dick was aching again, even with his orgasm only moments before. Farah nodded delicately, and he asked, “And how have I done that?”

Deep down, Farah knew that she shouldn’t, but his seed was still warm inside of the lamp, and it dizzied her. She shifted in her seat as she confessed her deepest secret to him, “With the seed inside, I am beholden to you but not yet bound. Until you burn my hair like a ‘wick ‘in the ‘oil’ of your essence, I can still be freed. Abdul had thought it would draw more attention in our home if we hid it as valuable. Now, I see how foolish a mistake that was.” She gave him a gentle smile and said, “We very nearly lost everything over a simple misunderstanding, but as you can see, I truly need to take it back…”

Farah reached for the lamp, but Frances it pulled it into his lap first. He sat holding it and caressing it in his hands while Farah stared at him with rising horror. He looked at her, and he smiled, and she did her best to mirror that smile as he said, “Thank you for trusting me with his.”

“Y-You are quite welcome,” she whispered. “So, please, Frances, I know you are a good boy, even if you make mistakes. Please, return my lamp to me.  I need it.”

“You can have it,” said Frances, and he stood. “But first, I need you to pluck a hair from your head for me while I go and grab a lighter.”

Fresh tears came to Farah’s eyes as she moved to obey. She took a single hair from her head and held it pinched between her fingers. “Frances, please, no…”

“You said it yourself, Mrs. Marwan, I’m a good boy, but I just make mistakes.” Frances grabbed a lighter from his kitchen and returned with it in his hand. Holding the lamp out in front of him, he said, “Go ahead and put your hair in there however you need to, because I’m making this mistake.”

Farah winced as she removed the hair and shook as she threaded the freshly taken hair in through the wick hole. She kept working until only just a bit of her dark hair was sticking out from the opening, and then she looked at Frances with renewed desperation as she begged, “Please, Frances, it is still not too late.”

“It will be soon, though,” he said, and he handed her the lighter. “Light it for me.”

Farah, unable to refuse him, took the lighter and flicked a flame to life on it. Then, staring him in the eyes, she guided the flame to her hair and held it until the hair caught. An ethereal, rainbow smoke radiated from the flame as she moved the lighter away.

“Good girl,” said Frances, and he stood. “Now, leave the lighter there and follow me to my room.”

Farah obeyed and followed Frances to his room. She closed the door after him and watched as he removed his soiled bedspread. He sat on his dingy, dirty mattress, and she stood among unwashed dishes and dirty clothes while he stared at her. He had set the lamp aside, but with the hair burning inside of it, she could do nothing more than obey him while the magic took hold.

“I’ve wanted to know for years what you look like under all of those rags,” he said, and he touched her abaya lightly. It was the first time he had ever touched her, and Farah shivered with delight as his fingers grazed her thigh. Frances seemed to notice and smiled at her response before he said, “Show me.”

“Y-Yes, master,” she said, and it felt almost natural. She removed her shawl quickly, stripping it down and standing before Frances in her underwear. What she wore was plain and dark, and he could see a hint of her pubic hair peeking out around the crotch. She removed her hijab next and folded it neatly before leaving it on the floor with her abaya. Her bra and panties followed, and her heavy breasts swung and she stopped before him.

Farah was thicker than Frances had imagined, but that only made her more beautiful to him. He salivated over the shape of her large, round breasts and her dark areola. Her nipples were long and stiff and stood out from her breasts as she stared at him. Her dark hair was a mess of waves now hung down her shoulders now that it was freed. Frances stammered when he saw her, and Farah smiled despite herself.

“You are beautiful,” he whispered, and Farah laughed quietly to herself. She should have taken the compliment in stride considering who it came from. Few women would be interested in someone like Frances, but that didn’t matter to her. She could smell his essence in the air and feel it flowing through her, and it fogged her brain and made his words as sweet as honey to her.

She sighed. “Thank you,” she said, and he took hold of her by the hips and pulled her to him. “What are you…” Her words died as he took to kissing her belly, and she held him by his head and ran her fingers through his greasy red hair. The lamp was still burning, though it cast little light. She could smell it, though, a phantom smell which distorted her perception. She smiled down at him as he kissed her and said, “You needn’t do this, you know.”

“I want to,” he told her, and he parted her womanly cleft and tasted her. Frances was clumsy and without skill and experience, but it felt good to Farah anyway. She parted her legs for him because this was what he wanted, and the moment he expressed it to her, she wanted it, too. She held him by the head and urged him with coos as he tasted her, and she came for him on instinct because as the flame burned out in his semen she had become his.

Frances had done very little to appease her, but when he sat back with a gleaming chin and a wet smile, she could not help but smile, too. “You’re mine now,” he said, and he nodded toward the lamp. Farah, still staring him in the eyes, only smiled and nodded, and she stood still as she slid back on the bed and pulled his pants open to reveal his stiffened cock. “Your turn.”

“Yes, master,” she said, and she kneeled at his feet. Once on her knees, she took hold of him with one hand and stroked him from crown to root. Even without the magical spell affecting her, Farah would be very impressed with Frances and had been shocked from the start at how large he was. Frances was quite well endowed, being likely around ten or maybe even eleven inches and very thick. He was, as might be expected of a boy of his poor hygiene, quite unwashed but still very fragrant to a woman of her current disposition.

Farah had never done this with her husband before but saw no reason in refusing Frances the first time in her mouth. Holding his rigid dick steady with both hands, she stroked him up into her mouth as her lips fitted around him, and she was surprised by how natural it felt to her. He was unclean and had been for some time, she imagined, but he tasted good to her, and she was eager to clean him herself with her mouth. More than that, her body seemed primed to take him, and she bobbed her head on him while he gasped and twitched beneath her.

The hair had all but fizzled out completely as Farah held him by the root and throated him to her fingers in a show of skill. What she lacked for in experience, she made up for in compatibility. The magic had taken complete hold over her and refined her for his use. There was no part of her that would refuse him, and there was not part of her that she would refuse to him.

Frances was floored, though, and would have come then if he had not come earlier. To keep from wasting his load, however, he yanked her off of his dick by her hair and held his spittle-slick shaft to her cheek as she smiled. “I apologize, master, have I offended you?”

“No!” Frances laughed while she kissed and licked the side of his veiny shaft. “You’ve been incredible, but I want to fuck you!!”

“Of course, master, I apologize,” she whined, and she crawled onto the bed naked and planted her wetted, opened pussy up against his shaft. She ground against him while her breasts swung in his face and said, “Is this how you wanted me, master? Or would you rather I lay beneath you like the beast I am?”

Leaking precum at a rapid rate and afraid he would soon shoot, Frances scrambled and said, “Mount me! Mount me right now, you Muslim bitch!”

Farah glanced at the lamp and found the smoke gone. The ritual was complete as he lifted herself on him and eased him into her. She opened readily for him but hugged him tight as she swallowed him to the root. Only yesterday, her husband could have filled her. Now, her body belonged completely to Frances and made that fact known through a body shaking orgasm that consumed her as she settled on him.

Seated on him, Farah smiled and leaned forward to kiss him. Their lips met, and their tongues danced as they tasted themselves on each other. Her large breasts were heavy against his chest, and her soft body jiggled as she rode him. Frances, overwhelmed with pleasure, laid flat with his hands at his side as he stared wide-eyed up at this raven haired beauty riding him. Farah, meanwhile, was possessed by her pleasure and moaned like an animal, and she clawed his chest gently as she came for him.

It was easily the best sex of her life, and it changed her completely. She knew that it was the magic that made her feel this way, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was that she could feel this way, and all that mattered was that Frances was the one who made her feel it. She rode him easily and willingly, and she came for him because that is what she was meant to be. All of those years spent without this pleasure seemed silly to her, and she regretted not having her husband burn her hair in his seed and seizing her for himself.

Regrets aside, she enjoyed Frances. His dick was bigger than her husband’s. He reached deeper into her, and he opened her. Even without magic, he would have reshaped her. The magic only made this easier for her, and so she was grateful for it. She rode him while staring him in the eyes, and she smiled because even with the regret, she was happy. Their lips met again, and she sucked his tongue as he thickened inside of her.

Frances was young and inexperienced, and once the initial shock wore off, the supple beauty of the woman atop him set in. He couldn’t last long, and as the reality of the situation settled in for him, he quickened, and he came. Frances wailed and gripped the sheets tight, and he thrust his hips up into her as his cock spewed. Farah was also smiling as she pinned her pelvis to him and held him inside of her while she flexed around him and milked him into her.

It felt right to be seeded by him, and she mewled in climax while clinging tightly to his shoulders. She took care not to hurt him. He was her master, after all, and all of this was for him. Still, her orgasms were not unpleasant, and each one that danced up her spine made her feel closer to him. As he finished, she sat on him panting while he stared up at her in breathless ecstasy, and she felt closer to him than she had ever even felt to her husband. She laid atop him flexing and listening to his heartbeat as it hammered his natural rhythm into her heart and into her soul.

They stayed together for a few minutes longer before Frances stirred Farah and told her to leave. He was not unkind as he spoke to her, though he did seem distant. Farah understood. On an instinctual level, she could feel his needs in a way which she could not feel or understand her husband. She was bound to him, and she knew his fears and desires better than she knew her own. The lamp made sure she knew him, and that made things easier.

Frances was worried what his mother would say when she got home, and Farah understood that. Her own family was either waiting or would be home soon, and she prepared excuses in case the former came to pass. As a show of submission and obedience, Farah made a point to clean Frances with her mouth, and he watched her in awe as she did so. She couldn’t help but smile around his slimy, spent dick. The look of pride he wore on his face having reduced a woman of her beauty to this was intoxicating for her, and it was a reward by itself.

She dressed back into her hijab and abaya, and she let him walk her to the door. He stopped her in the doorway to return the lamp to her. She took it in her hands, but she knew that it was not hers any longer. The lamp, like her, belonged to Frances now, and it was so full of his seed still that it felt heavy to her. The lamp would preserve his seed for later use, if he had interest in that. She smiled as she cradled it to her belly.

They stood at the doorway, and she smiled like a schoolgirl as he eyed her. Then, feeling bold, Frances took her by the hips and pulled her to him. They kissed, and though she couldn’t imagine him to enjoy the taste of their combined juices still lingering on his tongue, she kissed him back with great enthusiasm while his hand found her plump rear and gave it a hearty shake and squeeze. “You are mine,” he said as they parted, and Farah nodded demurely while staring him in his dark eyes.

Still holding her by her bottom, Frances stared her in the eyes and said, “No sex with your husband.” The decree landed hard and reminded Farah of everything that she had lost in becoming his. Despite that, she understood his command and, even without it, she would never have made love to her husband again. It wouldn’t have felt good for her, and it definitely wouldn’t have been right. Her love was taken from him, and though it was a grave injustice, it was too late to combat it.

He swatted her across the bottom once more time before he sent her home. Farah returned to her house with semen dribbling down her shapely thighs, and her family returned only minutes after she had arrived. Her lamp was back where it had always been and looked no different from how it was before they left. Her husband would have no idea that anything had changed at all, but everything had changed for them both.

They had supper together, and they went to bed. It felt wrong to share the bed of another man, and Farah slept with her back to her husband. Every time she saw her lamp that night, she felt a deep stab of arousal as her pussy flexed to hold Frances’ thick seed inside of her. She had compared Abdul to Frances as they went to bed that night, and she nearly burst out laughing as her full-grown husband who had given her two children failed to measure up to the chubby boy next door.

Farah thought of Frances as she drifted off to sleep and was alarmed to realize how much she missed him, and she secretly looked forward to seeing him again the next day and to servicing him however he pleased. After all, she was his genie now, and his every wish was her command from that day forward.