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****No One Ever Thinks to Wish for the Genie**** The Genie's Embrace - Ryan’s Brooklyn loft smelled of takeout and regret—until he polished the tarnished lamp. Pink smoke, sweet as spun sugar, exploded from the spout. It coalesced into Zahara: six feet of divine curves draped in iridescent silk, skin like molten bronze, eyes holding supernovas. Her laugh chimed like shattered crystal. "Three wishes, oh Master of Dusty Antiques." Wish One: "Make everyone I know—family, friends, exes—stupidly rich. Like, 'never-work-again' wealth." Result: Zahara snapped her fingers. Across the globe, trust funds bloomed. Ryan’s mom texted: "Sweetie? Why is there a gold toilet in my trailer?" Wish Two: "Now make us all forever fit. Eat triple cheeseburgers daily? Stay ripped." Result: Zahara waved her hand. Ryan scarfed a pizza. Abs materialized beneath his shirt. His beer-gut uncle posted gym selfies. "Metabolism? I AM metabolism." Wish Three: Ryan stepped closer. Traced Zahara’s collarbone. Solid. Warm. "No more 'Master'. I wish you’d choose me. Freely." Zahara’s smile faltered. "I’ve granted 8,042 wishes. Not once—" "Because they saw a fantasy," Ryan interrupted. "I see you." He kissed her—slow, deep—and tasted eternity. She shuddered. Silk robes evaporated. Bare skin pressed against his jeans. "Five millennia imprisoned," she gasped, grinding against his hardening cock. "Touch me. Own this wish." Against the fridge, Zahara’s legs hooked around Ryan’s waist. Her breasts crushed against his chest, nipples pebbled tight. "Here?" Ryan groaned, fingers digging into her ass. "No bed—" "Fuck beds." Zahara’s hand ripped his zipper down. His erection sprang free, thick and eager. She impaled herself in one slick thrust. "I want you against this goddamn IKEA countertop." He hammered into her—each stroke trailing pink sparks. Her cunt clenched like a vice, milked him raw. "Yes! Fill your genie!" When they came, her scream shattered every lightbulb in the loft. Darkness. Panting. Glowing pink afterimages. Ryan woke alone. Empty lamp on the pillow. Then—steam curled from his shower. Zahara’s voice echoed: "Wishes end. This doesn’t." Her silhouette formed in the fogged glass. Handprint. Then lips. Then tongue tracing where his cock stirred beneath sheets. He grinned. Best. Wish. Ever.
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