Stolen Wishes Ch. 1 (Stud) (Patreon)

Stolen Wishes

Chapter One:

Frances and Lincoln grew up together. They met when Lincoln’s mother, Shoshana, moved into the neighborhood while Frances was still very young. She was a single mother and black in a very white, very affluent neighborhood, and it was clear that she was unwelcome. Frances didn’t see any of that, and he hardly took notice as his own mother looked down her nose at their new neighbors. So few people in the neighborhood had children Frances’ age, and Frances was just happy to have a friend.

Their friendship followed them into middle school, and the two were seen as inseparable wherever they went. That sort of atmosphere does leave its mark, though. Frances’ dad was rarely home. He was always away on business, and so he spent too much time with his mother. He was not given as much love as other children, and fed on hate he grew hateful himself.

Frances didn’t mean to hate, but it did come out of his naturally. He spent as much time away from home as he could.  Shoshana welcomed him at Lincoln’s insistence, but as they got older, that welcome became an obligation. Frances’ became a vile little thorn that worked its way into the soft paw of their happy little family, and while they remained friends, their relationship grew strained as they entered high school.

As the two approached adulthood, they became very different. Lincoln was lean and tall, and by eighteen he had grown quite popular. He joined the basketball and football teams and made himself known as an athlete of considerable talent, and his mother pushed him to excel in academics. Exercise, and good genetics, gave him a lean, wiry look that he made work for him. He kept his hair close and tight to his scalp and gave a smile at every girl he passed in the hall and always got smiles in return.

Frances, meanwhile, seemed to become more like his mother every day. His skin was pale and pasty, and his body was getter bigger every year. He had a large, undulating belly and beady, dark blue eyes. The red of his face only drew more attention to the red-orange of his hair, and the bowl cut that his mother made him get never did anything good for his round place. Combine that with his sour, unpleasant attitude, and it became clear why he and Lincoln grew apart. What remained of their friendship by senior year was vestigial at best and, after a time, grew unwanted by both boys.

What really kept them together was their third musketeer: Autumn. The boys met Autumn in sixth grade, and the three became fast friends. Autumn’s feminine energy balanced out their rowdy adolescence, and her gentle kindness became the enduring lynchpin that sustained their friendship as they grew apart. As she entered adulthood, she had grown quite beautiful. She had thick chestnut hair, laughing blue eyes, and a friendly, easy smile. She lived a few streets down from them, but when Lincoln got his driver’s license, he took the time to visit her and always brought Frances at her insistence. Now that high school was ending and college was fast approaching, however, it felt to Frances like the trio was becoming a duo that he was no longer included in.

Though Autumn was the one who has sustained their strained friendship lately, she had eventually become the final wedge that forced them apart. It had become increasingly clear to Frances that Lincoln and Autumn had crushes on each other, and we join our characters on a warm, early spring day as Lincoln drove both himself and Frances home from school. The atmosphere in the car was tense, as it was always was when Autumn was not with them. She had to stay for an extracurricular activity, however, and so it was just the two of them. If Frances had known, he would have considered taking the bus home instead of riding with Lincoln.

Frances envied Lincoln, and he had also come to hate him. Lincoln was not the star athlete, but he was good, and with good grades and a winning personality, he had become quite popular on and off the field. He had dated around throughout high school, and for a time Frances had lived vicariously through his friend. Eventually, Frances realized that the stories that Lincoln told him were more like trophies, though, and they were things Frances doubted he would ever find himself. The voyeuristic pleasure he took in Lincoln’s sharing turned to bitter envy, and when Lincoln’s attention finally fell on Autumn as Frances always feared it would, that envy soured into fearful vengeance.

From Frances’ perspective, Lincoln had it all and was leaving Frances behind. Frances couldn’t do anything to stop him, and that was why he had gotten so bitter. So, when Lincoln had told him about his intention to ask Autumn out, Frances had not reacted well. He had began to cry and, once he was done crying, the car ride home had been tense. By the time they arrived, Frances hadn’t even looked at Lincoln once.

Lincoln parked the car in his driveway, and the two sat in silence. When Lincoln turned off the car, he took the chance to finally clear the air. “Listen, man, I didn’t want to make things weird between us. We’ve been friends for a long time. All three of us have, and that’s why I had to tell you. I didn’t want you to end up feeling like the third wheel or something, but I think it’s important to remember that we’re seniors now, and times change. If I want this, then I’ve got to be brave and shoot my shot before we graduate, you know?”

“Shoot your shot,” scoffed Frances, and he glared at Lincoln afterward. “This isn’t basketball, Lincoln. It’s Autumn, and she’s not that type of girl. She’s not one of those loose whores who’ll let you fuck her on the first date.”

Lincoln didn’t know what he expected, but he didn’t expect this. The moment Frances started speaking, Lincoln’s entire body grew tense with barely restrained anger. “I didn’t say she was, Frances. You did, and that’s not even what any of that means!”

Frances rolled his eyes. “Oh, sorry I’m not cool enough to know all of your meathead lingo. Sorry I can’t be on your stupid sports ball team. Maybe you’d have better luck telling those knuckle draggers you call friends, and maybe they’ll lie and protect your little feelings and tell you that Autumn will say yes, but I won’t, Lincoln. She’s not that type of girl. She’s too good for you.”

It was not the words Frances said but the way that he said them that triggered Lincoln’s anger, and he punched his steering wheel before glaring at Frances. “The fuck you saying, Frances?”

Frances, suddenly frightened, nearly tumbled out of the car and began hurrying across the culdesac to his house. Lincoln followed him out and left his driver’s side door open as he stalked Frances across the street. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, Frances, wait a fucking minute. You’ve got to tell me, what the fuck do you mean she’s too good for me?!”

Lincoln pulled Frances to a stop and turned him around. Frances tried to yank free, but Lincoln stayed with him and towered over him. At a glance, Lincoln might have looked scrawny, but his body was strong and toned, and Frances had forgotten that. “I don’t want to talk about it,” said Frances, but Lincoln continued to advance on him.

“Too bad. I do!” Lincoln shoved Frances, and Frances stumbled away. “What the fuck do you mean she’s to good for me, Frances? You saying that because I’m a jock? Because she’s too nice? Or because I’m…”

Frances cringed and shied away as he finished the sentence in his head. They both knew what Frances meant, though Frances would never say it out loud. In the house he grew up in, they both knew that Frances had thought it many times. Early in their friendship, Frances had let it slip once that it was an act of charity to be his friend since Lincoln was the only black kid on the block. Now, Lincoln was doing the charity, and Frances couldn’t accept it. He had a lot of negative thoughts lately.

Lincoln gave Frances a big, hateful grin, like a warning in some animals. “You mean-spirited, fat little fuck!” He growled and closed distance between them before striking Frances hard in the stomach. Frances looked large enough to absorb the blow, but his fat did nothing besides slowing his reflexes. He doubled over the moment Lincoln touched him, and then Lincoln shoved him down onto the ground.

Frances landed on his face and gasped and wheezed. From there, Lincoln kicked him a few times while Frances cried out for help. “You think you’re better than me, don’t you?! Well, guess what!” Lincoln pinned Frances’ fat face to the pavement as he leaned down to whisper to him, “I’m going to ask Autumn out, and then I’m going to fuck her! Even if she IS too good for me, I’m still popular! After I’m done with her, I’m going to leave this fucking town behind and play college ball. She’ll leave eventually, too, but not before we find out if what they say about black dick and white women is true, huh? Either way, you’ll be stuck at home with your fat mama, useless, jobless, and single!”

“Fuck you,” shouted Frances, and he tried to fight his way out of Lincoln’s grasp. Lincoln laughed at Frances’ struggle and then stood straight to watch Frances crawl up onto his hands and knees. Before Frances could escape, however, Lincoln kicked him again and then rolled him onto his back after he had collapsed. Frances laid there wheezing as Lincoln put one big foot on his chest. Gasping and sobbing, Frances shouted, “You don’t even like her like I do!”

Lincoln laughed. “And there’s you real problem, fatso. How I really feel about her doesn’t matter either way, cause you haven’t got a shot with her.”

“No!”

Frances struggled against Lincoln’s foot, and Lincoln shook his head. “Sorry to tell you, Frances, but you even if I don’t fuck her, you would never have a shot with her.” Lincoln leaned his weight onto Frances’ chest to stop Frances’ struggling. “Turns out, you’re not her type.”

“Shut up,” shouted Frances as he shoved ineffectually at Lincoln’s heavy foot.

“She thinks you’re gross and fat. She told me so.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Frances tried to reach up to strike Lincoln, but he is too heavy and too slow to do anything. Lincoln only had to lean into his leg again to hold Frances to the ground.

“She thinks you’re a pathetic loser with no future ahead of you.”

“I told you to shut up,” sobbed Frances again.

Lincoln had hurt Frances, but he had taken care to keep the damage superficial. Mostly, he wanted to exert power and embarrass his former friend, and having done that, he removed his foot and stood over him laughing. “Fucking pathetic,” he said as one of the neighborhood mothers, Farah Marwan, came out to check on them.

“What is going on here, young man? Fighting in the streets?”

Farah Marwan was an immigrant from Libya. She and her husband had moved into the house next to Frances’ nearly five years ago with their two daughters. Lincoln knew her but had rarely spoken to her. She came out to meet them in a drab gray hijab and abaya that showed off her face and hands but hung from the rest of her body. Even with her body hidden like that, it did little to hide the natural, supple curves she carried.

Lincoln regarded her with a calm grin. He had his hands in his pockets now and was standing at ease. “Nothing, Mrs. Marwan. We were just rough housing a bit.”

“Well, I think you have done enough today Mr. Washington. Please, return to your home so that I can attend to his injuries.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Lincoln, and he spit on Frances before slinking away and leaving him in Farah’s care.

Farah approached Frances quickly and put herself between the two boys, though Lincoln had left with the clear intent of returning home. He stopped only long enough to grab his backpack from his car before going inside. Farah kneeled beside Frances and put a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Frances, dear, are you well enough to stand?”

“Oh God, Mrs. Marwan, I think he broke something.”

“Come on,” said Farah, and he held him up and helped him inside. Though it had looked worse from her window, she could tell by the way he hobbled that he was exaggerating his injury. His lip was bloody, but the rest of it was theatrics. She assumed that most of it was in shock and let him hold her for support as she led him to her home.

They stopped together at the door, and Farah leaned him against the doorframe as she opened the door for him. Frances pressed his thumb to his bloody lip and looked at it, and he balked. “He beat the shit out of me, Mrs. M.”

“Language, young man!” Farah squinted at the small scrape on Frances’ lip. It was likely left by the pavement. The scuffle had looked worse than it was from the house. Lincoln was a strong boy, and he was clearly trying to intimidate Frances and not damage him. Farah assumed Frances’ quick surrender had also served to keep the beating short. “Come. Let us look at you inside. I’ll bandage you, and then we can put it all behind us.”

“That gorilla should be arrested,” muttered Frances as he followed her inside of her house.

The Marwan family’s home looked very much like Frances’ own. It had a similar design, as the housing development prioritized efficiency over quality. The differences were found in the details. The house was extremely clean and almost bare in its design. Everything that was inside of the home was a matter of function over, but even still it had a sterile warmth to it that Frances’ own home could not replicate.

The Marwan family was not close to any of their neighbors. They had moved there as immigrants when Mr. Marwan had gotten a decent job in the city. Their two daughters, Amina and Rahat, were well-liked at school but private. Amina was Frances’ age and went to the same high school as him. Rahat, meanwhile, had left home a few years ago to attend college in another state. While the whole family were practicing Muslims, on Farah dressed to in a hijab and abaya when she went out into the world but had never said a word publicly about her daughters having to do the same.

Even as outsiders, the Marwan family took care in how they presented themselves to their neighbors, and Farah in particular has always shown Frances kindness. This has made her the subject of many of his private fantasies, fantasies that now replay in his mind as he follows her into her home. He could not keep his eyes from roaming the shape of her supple curves as she moves in her abaya. Even with her body covered, she was a deeply sensual woman. In fact, the act of hiding her curves only made her more erotic to Frances, whose animal lust could barely be contained in her presence. Were he a braver young man, he might try to see what she kept so carefully hidden from the world, but he was not.

Farah led Frances to the couch and was oblivious of the joy he took in the feel of her womanly body against him. Their house was clean and polished, and Frances knew why. Farah stayed home to keep the house while her husband went out to work. Frances didn’t know what Abdul did, though he did know it had something to do with computers. Frances’ own father was often out of state and sometimes out of country. Wherever he was, he was never home. His own mother worked, too, though she did not have to. Like his father, she was rarely home with Frances, and even when she was, she was not keeping house.

Frances sat on their pristine couch and held his lip. The whole house smelled strongly of exotic, foreign spices. Farah went to gather bandage for him, and Frances sat quiet and looked around for anything to pilfer. He liked to take small things and keep them, and he had secretly been doing it for years. Things that were personal or private were the most valuable. His parents had no idea. No one did except for Lincoln, and Frances had his former friend’s word that no one else knew. For years, Frances had been looking for a way into the Marwan house to take something, but this was his first opportunity. He would not allow it to be squandered.

Farah returned before he could grab anything and kneeled in front of him to check his lip. She moved carefully to hide her figure and tucked the abaya under her body to keep it from riding up. “Let me see,” she said. Her voice was smoky and her scent exotic like the house. She examined his face, and as she did, Frances’ gaze fell upon what appeared to be a simple, polished stone kettle at rest on the mantle above the fireplace. Farah tsked shortly after and stood with her hands on her wide hips, and she offered him a wetted towel for his lip. “Unfortunately, there is little in the way of mending that we can do other than apply cold and pressure as needed.”

“What’s that?”

“What is what,” asked Farah, and she moved sideways and followed his gaze to the mantle. “Oh, that old lamp?” She allowed a soft smile, and she blushed. Frances could tell immediately that she was hiding something. “That is simply an old family heirloom from Libya. It is beautiful, is it not? It may not look it, but it is quite old and quite fragile. We have no use for it except to decorate our mantle.” She meant in front of him, and her heavy breasts visibly hung as she scooped up the first aid kit she had brought and closed it before standing. “Allow me to put this away, and then I shall walk you home.”

“Sure,” said Frances, but he did not look at her. Even her ass could not pull his interest away from the polished stone on the mantle. She had only just left the room when Frances stood and grabbed it, and he was gone before she returned.

Farah paused as she entered the room, and she frowned and shook her head at the rudeness of his behavior, but she said nothing. Frances was fine, and she assumed that he was embarrassed for having exaggerated his injuries to begin with. He would make it home just fine, and she had done what she could as his neighbor to help.

It was only a short time later that she realized the lamp was missing. She had not yet removed her abaya or hijab, and she was grateful for that, because that made it easier to follow him to his home.

Frances hurried home and left his backpack at the door along with his shoes. He ran straight to his room before anyone could stop him and stood in the doorway, gasping, as he held his prize out in front of him. Farah had said it was a lamp, but it looked more to him like a kettle made of baked and polished clay. It was undecorated, white and unadorned, but the design and skill made it doubtlessly beautiful and its age made it rare. He could tell just by looking at it how important it was.

Alone in his room, Frances began thinking about Farah’s frantic search after he left and grew aroused. More specifically, he began to fantasize about how her body moved underneath of her abaya as she panicked. He imagined her beautiful face and her dark hair underneath her hijab, and he imagined her drinking tea from this kettle with his semen still stuck inside of it. He grew stiff, and he undid his pants to live out at least a part of that fantasy.

Frances has always liked to take things, but he did not often make a habit of soiling them. He might break them and keep a chunk of them, but he did not like to keep the evidence. This was different. Farah had always been kind to him. She was a kind person. Her daughers, Amina and Rahat, had both treated him with unkindness but then most people did. This was not revenge on them, but the idea that it was turned him on even more.

Frances was painfully erect as he removed the lid and began stroking himself. He thought about Farah and remembered how soft her body was and how nice she smelled. Her scent was spicy and floral, and he held the lid tight in one hand and shook as he touched himself. The lamp sat open on his bed while he panted and wheezed above it. He had just started and was already sticky with arousal because the mere taboo of what he was doing helped him along.

He was almost to climax when he heard a knock at the front door and insisting ringing of the doorbell after. Farah called to him from outside and the urgency in her voice helped him along. “Frances? Frances, are you home?! Please! I need to speak with you very badly!”

Her voice fed his fantasy, and Frances closed his eyes and stroked faster as his breathing began ragged. He was nearly there, and in his fantasies, Farah was beside him and helping him. In his fantasies, she praised his hard, white dick, and she told him that she would drink his semen eagerly from the source instead of from this kettle.

His fantasies felt real to him and were so intense that he hardly heard Farah rounding his house. There was shifting in the bushes outside, and then he saw her appear in the window just as he fired. She saw him, too, and they made eye contact as Frances unloaded into the lamp and across his bedspread. “What are you…Ah!!!” The orgasm was so great that it nearly took his legs out from under him. His entire body shook and he shot, and afterward he felt dead and weightless.

“I…I’m sorry,” whispered Farah through the closed window, and she began to cry. “No,” she whispered to herself, but it had already happened. Frances had finished and was feeling very, very small now as she wept. He pulled the blinds and found a towel to clean himself with, and then he put the lid on the kettle and took it out into the living room to return it to her.

Frances let Farah in after he put the lamp on the coffee table in the living room. He had considered trying to hide it from her and denying what he had done, but she had seen it all and was already crying. What he had done did not seem so bad to him, but her horror and sorrow was enough to make him feel guilty anyway. They sat together in the living room, and he stared at the floor while she gathered herself with deep, calming breaths.

Once she was settled, Farah wiped her eyes on her abaya. Frances gave her a tissue, and she blew her nose and stared fixedly at the lamp. “I am sorry for spying on you like that,” she said, but her voice was hollow and distant. “I am sorry for intruding upon such a private moment. You are a young man, and I understand that this is one of the many ways in which a young man relieves stress in America, but when I realized that you had taken my lamp, I had to come looking for it.”

Frances managed to look at Farah, but he could not hold her gaze. He looked away, but not before he noticed something different about her. Even with tears in her eyes, Farah was devastatingly beautiful. He stared at the front door and said, “You did seem very upset.” After a deep breath, he looked at her again and found her still staring at the lamp. He used the distraction to appreciate her feminine figure and commit it to memory. “You had said that it was an old family heirloom, so I thought it didn’t matter.”

“I lied,” she confessed. Farah felt dizzy and slightly flushed. She bit her bottom lip as she tried to gather her thoughts, and she wondered if this was what intoxication felt like. She had never drank before, and she shook her head to clear the cobwebs but only found herself dizzy afterward. “That lamp is no heirloom. It is a magic lamp, you see, and I am forever bound to it.”

The sentence sounded crazy when Frances heard her speak it and it took him a moment to catch up. Once he understood, however, he peeled his eyes away from her body and stared at the lamp. There was semen stuck to the outside of it. He laughed. “You’re bound to the lamp,” he asked. “Like, what, some kind of magic, wish granting genie?”

“No,” Farah said quietly, and she shook her head again. “No. Djinn do not grant wishes, but they are powerful, and if you are good enough, they may grant you a boon. They punish wicked people, too, and curse them. That is what happened to me. My parents had wronged my husband’s family, and so a Djinni used its magic to bind me to this lamp. It was meant to be given to my husband so that he could use it to make me his concubine. My husband, kind as he is, chose instead to make me his bride and ran away with me when his parents expressed disapproval.”

Frances stared at the lamp as he listened to her words. Everything Farah said sounded like a distant echo. He could hear her, but he did not fully understand. The thought that her husband had been given a chance to own her but had chosen not to frustrated and upset him in ways that he didn’t fully understand. It seemed to him like the most tragic waste in all of history.

“When my husband left, we took the lamp with us to keep it safe. We cannot destroy it, and neither can we let it fall into the wrong hands.” She looked at Frances with disappointed understanding and said, “As it is now, you have very nearly bound me to your service as he was supposed to.”

“I have,” asked Frances, and he sat up suddenly as disappointment turned to aching indignation. He was hard again, and he only got harder when she gave him a delicate nod in return. He wet his lips and asked with quiet, careful excitement, “And how have I done that?”

Deep down, Farah knew that she should have kept quiet, but Frances’ seed was still warm inside of the lamp, and that alone made her dizzy and honest with him. She shifted in her seat and confessed her deepest, most-guarded secret to him. “With your seed inside of the lamp, I am beholden and obedient to you, but I am not yet burn. Once you burn my hair within the lamp as your ‘wick’ in the ‘oil’ of your essence, I am yours, but until then I can still be freed.”

She shook her cloudy head again and pinched the bridge of her nose as she frowned. “Abdul had thought that hiding it would only draw more attention to it if it were found, so we instead tried to hide it in plain sight. It was a foolish mistake.” She gave Frances a gentle smile and said, “We very nearly lost everything over a simple misunderstanding, but as you can see, I truly must take that lamp back now.”

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

“Y-You’re quite welcome,” she whispered, and she felt horny but did not know why. “So, please, Frances, if you could, return the lamp. I know that you are a good boy, even if you make mistakes, but I need it. Please.”

“You can have it,” he said, and he saw Farah visibly relax. Then, he stood. “But first I need you to pull a hair while I go get a lighter.”

Fresh tears came to Farah’s eyes as she moved on instinct to obey. She took a single dark hair from her head and held it in front of her between her fingers. “Please, Frances, no…”

“You said it yourself, Mrs. M: I’m a good boy, but I sometimes make mistakes.” Frances left the room while cradling the lamp and returned with a lighter from the kitchen. He held the lamp out in front of him and said, “Go ahead and put your hair in there however you need to, because this is one mistake that I am making.”

Farah worked with care as she threaded the hair into the wick hole of the lamp, and she kept working until only the darkened tip of her hair was still exposed. Then, she met Frances’ gaze with renewed desperation and begged, “Please, Frances, stop. Stop now before it is too late.”

“It’s already too late, Mrs. M.” He handed her the lighter and held out the lamp to her. “Light it for me.”

Unable to refuse his direct command, Farah took the lighter and flicked a flame to life. Then, staring him in the eyes, she guides the flame to her hair and held it there until the hair caught fire. An ethereal smoke rose with a rainbow sheen, and she removed the lighter and set it aside.

Frances released a breath that he didn’t hadn’t realized he was holding and regarded her with a grin. “You know, I’ve watched you for years wondering what you looked like under all of that.” He felt her abaya lightly, and when she didn’t stop him, he groped her arm and shoulder. It was the first time he had touched someone like this, and judging by her distant stare, Farah did not seem opposed to it so much as numb. Frances noticed a subtle quiver move through her and smiled to himself. “Show me.”

Farah remembered him when she heard his command looked him in the eyes. “Y-Yes, master,” she whispered, and it felt natural from her lips. Frances stepped back, and she stood and removed her abaya quickly. Soon, she was before him in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. She removed her hijab afterward and shook her dark hair out for him.

Frances regarded her clothes with a frown. “…Wait a minute, what is that?”

“What is what,” asked Farah, and she stared down her body. The lamp was still smoking, and the smell of it was intoxicating to her. The dizziness was stronger now, and she felt foggy-headed as she looked at her own body. She looked at Frances and asked, “Have I offended you?”

“No but…” Frances’ frown deepened.  “I didn’t know that you wore clothes under that thing.”

“Oh.” Farah tilted her head to one side in confusion. “What else would we do?”

“…Be naked?”

Farah gave a broad, womanly laugh at the simple innocence of his statement. “Oh, no, no, master…” The word really did come naturally to her. “No, we only wear the abaya and hijab in public to keep the eyes of other men from coveting us. At home, with our husbands, we dress as a woman normally does.” She blushed and stared at Frances, and she whispered, “Now that I think about it, however, you’re the first man to see me like this since before Rahat was born.”

Frances gave her a grin in response, but his disappointment was clear on his face. He is still holding the lamp, but it is growing warm in his palms as the flame blazes inside of it. Like her, he could smell her burning hair, but the scent is spicy and floral like her and his dick aches to smell it. “I want more,” he told her flatly, and Farah nodded and lifts her blouse up and off of her body.

Farah stripped down to her underwear and then stripped that, too. Soon, she stood naked in front of him and let him stare at her without hiding her body from him. She was thicker than Frances had imagined, but her dramatic, ethereal curves only made her more attractive to him. He salivated over the movement of her heavy, swinging breasts and the shape of her dark, puffy areola. Her nipples were long and stiff, and her dark hair hung over her shoulders in dark waves when freed.

Frances stammered as he stared at her, and Farah smiled despite herself. “You are beautiful,” he said at last, and though he could not bring himself to look at her pussy, he did mean the compliment.

Few women would be glad to have Frances’ interest. He was not a handsome man, and he was not kind or giving, either, but Farah had never felt so excited to hear a man’s praise in her life. She could smell him in the air, and she could feel him running through her. She felt foggy-headed and horny, and the magic made it so that his words were sweeter than honey to you.

She took a deep breath and sighed afterward. “Thank you,” she said, and she smiled as he reached out and touched her on the hips. When she didn’t fight him, Frances moved her and pulled her after him. “W-Where are we…” Her words died as he fell to his knees and began kissing her belly, and she put her hands on his head and stared down at him with her fingers in his greasy hair.

The lamp gave little light and was mostly smoke now, but she could feel the warmth of it in her bones regardless. The smell was strong and pungent, and it stuck in the air. She smiled down at him as he kissed her, and she played with his hair as a lover might as she told him, “You needn’t do this for me, master. I am yours, but you are not mine. You command me.”

“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, 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 he 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 have been impressed with Frances and was shocked to see how large he was. Frances was quite well endowed, being likely around ten or maybe even eleven inches long and very thick. He was, as might be expected of a boy of his poor hygiene, 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 his leaking crown, 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 Frances by the root and throated him to her fingers in a show of unexpected 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 back at him. She spoke breathlessly as she asked, “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 naked onto the bed 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 she 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 the life changing 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 as she clawed his chest and 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 to him. She rode him while staring him in the eyes, and she smiled because even in 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, 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 and panted 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 sent her home. 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 about 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 of the former. As a show of submission and obedience before she left, 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 at having reduced a woman of her beauty to this was intoxicating for her, and that alone was her only reward.

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 told her 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 or correct it.

He swatted her across the bottom one more time before he sent her home. Farah returned to her house with his 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 with Abdul, though, and Farah slept with her back to her husband. Every time she saw her lamp for the rest of the evening, 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, and she nearly burst out laughing at 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 that made his every wish her command from that day forward.