Hot Stories for Cold Nights

by Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Nope,” he said, sounding a bit like Robin Williams. “Scout’s honor.” He extended two chubby fingers and saluted.

  “Riiight!”

  “You have three wishes. If you don’t care to use them, I can always give them to someone else.”

  Really! Did he expect her to believe him? “Come on, be real. You slipped out of a brass bottle I bought at Goodwill, for God’s sake. I didn’t find it on a beach or have it given to me by a wizard.”

  “I can’t speak for where or how you got it. I’ve been stuffed in here for, well, to me it seems like forever.” He paused then tilted his head to one side quizzically. “What century is it anyway?”

  “The twenty-first,” she replied without thinking.

  “Already? I was just in the middle of the French Revolution. They say time flies when you’re having fun.” He slowly shook his head. “Actually I wasn’t having any fun at all.”

  She snorted an exasperated breath. “Okay, let’s say I believe you, or at least I believe that you believe. Let’s just give it a test. Fix my broken vase.”

  “That’s a really puny wish,” the genie said. “You should think before you use up one third of your gift.”

  Audrey grinned. “Got you. You can’t do it. I knew it. I don’t know who or what you are but just beat it.”

  “If you really want to spend your wish that way . . .” He waved his hand and the little ruby glass vase was back on the shelf in one piece, right where it had been.

  Audrey put her hand over her suddenly pounding heart and dropped onto her sofa. It was true. She actually had a genie all her own. “Holy . . .”

  “Hey, Audrey, no more cursing. That’s my personal wish and it doesn’t use any of yours.” He stood tall and cleared his throat. “Okay, let’s get down to brass tacks, as it were. There are a few wish rules.” He held up one finger. “You can’t wish for more wishes. Several of my previous owners tried and merely wasted a wish.”

  He extended another finger. “Each new person who owns me gets three wishes, but you can’t just give me away to a friend, let them have wishes, then get me back. My bottle has to be owned by someone who doesn’t know its power.”

  A third finger waved in the air. “You have one week to use them or lose them.”

  A fourth finger. “Oh, and you can’t tell anyone about these wishes. It’s only between you and me. No outside advice.”

  He looked Audrey in the eye and smiled. “And this last isn’t a rule, but some advice from someone”—he pointed to himself—“me, who’s been granting wishes for many centuries. Hold the last wish aside just in case. Sometimes, if you’re not careful enough about what you wish for, you need to undo something.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it. Give it lots of thought. Everything has consequences. Lots of money brings the tax man. World peace, well, it’s a noble goal but that kind of peace lasts for about a nanosecond until someone decides he or she wants something the country next door has.”

  He shrugged. “It’s all been tried. Health for the world’s people? Puts doctors, hospitals, and insurance companies out of business. Wrecks the economy. Long life? Excess population, food shortages. The wish business isn’t as easy as you might think.”

  Audrey huffed out a breath. “I see what you mean.” She thought for a minute, then said, “You’re right. I’d better think about this carefully.”

  “Good girl. You have two wishes left, and you’ll want to save one until the last day in case of unintended consequences. So think seriously about how to spend the one you can use.” Then, with a wisp of smoke, he disappeared.

  Audrey thought of nothing else all evening. She didn’t sleep, just considered her wish. Over a bowl of Cheerios the following morning, she finally made a decision. She was in her early thirties and had had few boyfriends. She didn’t think she was homely, just ordinary. She wasn’t interested in the things guys liked: cars, computer adventure games, naked women. She didn’t know even the basics of how to talk to a guy. And she was skinny, all elbows and shoulder blades, and no boobs. Really no boobs. A guy had once commented that her chest looked like two raisins on a board. Another guy had told her that he wanted to hang her bra on the mantel at Christmas so Santa could fill it up. I want boobs! she thought. And guys. I want a sex life.

  “Genie,” she said aloud at about eight. “I think I’ve made up my mind, but I need help in framing the wish so I don’t get any unintended consequences.”

  The genie appeared. “You don’t have to say it. I know what you’re thinking. You want to be attractive to guys, both in body and in attitude. You want to know how to meet them, talk to them, get them to want to take you to bed. Right? And you want big breasts.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Okay, I’ve got it. And so have you. Check yourself out in the mirror.”

  Audrey dashed into the bedroom and looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the closet door. She had boobs. Tits. Knockers. And cleavage. She sighed and almost wept with joy. “I’ve always wanted cleavage.”

  “Now you’ve got it.”

  She continued to gaze at herself. “My waist is slender.” She pulled off her jeans. “And I’ve got great legs.”

  She yanked off her T-shirt and pulled off the push-up bra she found beneath. “Sh—”

  “Watch the language.”

  “I mean, gosh. Look.” She turned this way and that, admiring her new body.

  Finally, breathless, she put her clothing back on. “What about talking to guys?”

  “I’ll give you a few pointers when you get home from work, and you can go to someplace local and try out your new personality. Count on it.”

  “Work! Damn. I mean drat.”

  She checked her watch and quickly realized that she had only five minutes to make her bus. Grabbing her purse, she ran out the door.

  On the bus, she sat next to the good-looking business type she frequently ran into. New personality. Okay, genie. Do your stuff. “Good morning,” she said to the guy, his nose buried in his newspaper.

  He looked up. “Well, good morning to you. You’re very cheery this morning.”

  “I guess I am.” She heard the genie in her mind. You can’t tell anyone about me. “It’s such a beautiful morning, why not celebrate it?”

  “Why not, indeed. And the Yankees won last evening and Boston lost.”

  Baseball? Genie! It’s okay to ask questions. Men like to teach. “I’m not much of a baseball fan, but I do know that the Yankees are pretty good.”

  “Pretty good? They’re going to run away with the American League.”

  “Really?” she said, looking him in the eye and pushing out her new breasts.

  With only a little encouragement, the guy spent the next ten minutes telling her about the pennant race. “You should be glad you’re a Yankees fan,” the guy across the aisle said. “I’m a Mets fan and it’s a sad year for us.”

  “There’s always hope,” the guy in the seat behind said.

  Soon they were all chatting about baseball. Holy cow, she thought, I’m in the center of a bunch of really nice guys. My wish is working!

  It seemed that during the day her breasts kept growing. Only a tiny bit at a time, but by the time she got home, she had D-cup tits. She had stopped at a store on the way home and bought three new bras and a new sweater, one more suited to her new body. Tight. Almost formfitting.

  “Okay, genie,” she said as she put on the sweater and a short skirt, “what do I talk to guys about?”

  “You discovered that this morning,” the genie said. “Don’t try to learn what guys like, just ask questions. Be interested in what interests them. Encourage them to talk about themselves. That really works. Oh, and use some makeup.”

  In the bathroom, she rummaged in a drawer and found some liner and mascara, which she applied reasonably competently. “Lipstick and cheek color,” the genie advised, and she added that, too.
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br />   All made-up and looking pretty good, if she did say so herself, she grabbed her purse and headed for Hansen’s, a bar about a block from her apartment. She’d never been there before, so there was no danger of meeting someone who’d remember her flat chest. Her clothes had obscured her new figure to her coworkers, and she planned to keep it that way—office romances were too messy.

  The after-work crowd was bunched at the bar, but guys made space for her. “I haven’t seen you in here before,” one said. “Do you live around here?” another said. “My name’s Bernie.” “Mine’s Frank.” “What are you doing later, gorgeous?”

  She was overwhelmed. As the evening progressed, she narrowed the crowd down to three guys. She followed the genie’s advice and asked a few questions, then listened. It worked better than she could have hoped. Guys talked with her and seemed to enjoy her company. Eventually she and a guy named Seth wandered back toward her apartment, his arm draped over her shoulder. He was just walking her home, but as they reached her building, he said, “I’d really like to come up to your place.”

  Should she? On a first date? She hadn’t had a guy up to her apartment in, well, pretty much in forever. Seth turned her to face him and leaned forward. His lips found hers and his hand found her breast. “Mmm,” he purred. “Nice mouth.”

  Audrey could tell that her mouth wasn’t really what was attracting him to her. His hand slipped beneath her sweater and slid up her ribs. When his fingers reached her bra, he cupped her silk-covered breast and squeezed her already erect nipple. She almost swooned.

  They didn’t stop in her living room, but rather want directly to the bedroom. He quickly pulled her sweater off over her head, removed her bra, and buried his face in her cleavage. Fingers pinched each nipple. Her knees buckled and Seth almost had to carry her to the bed.

  Quickly he dragged off his clothing, put on a condom, and slid his erect cock into her waiting body. It was heaven. He pounded into her, hands still on her breasts, mouth moving from one area of flesh to another. He thrust harder, then flipped over onto his back and settled her astride his erection. “God, I love your tits,” he yelled, filling his hands with her large breasts and putting his nose between them.

  She bounced and wriggled, taking all the pleasure he could give. “You feel so good,” she cried as she reached down and rubbed her clit, as she did so often in bed, alone. Arching her back and stroking herself, she came and, with a roar, so did he. Limp, they both collapsed on the bed and lay there, trying to breathe.

  “That was great,” he said eventually as he got up and stepped into his shorts and slacks. Leaving her on the bed, he finished dressing and, saying he’d see her the following evening at Hansen’s, he left.

  She was totally satisfied. “Thanks, genie,” she whispered as she fell asleep.

  The following evening the scene was repeated, only with a man named Pete. And again the next night with Timothy.

  On the fourth night of her changed life, she arrived in the apartment with a hunk named Connor. Her boobs had grown to almost mammoth proportions and she knew that Connor couldn’t wait to get his hands on her. “You know,” she said as her apartment door closed behind them, “I’d love to pour you a beer. Then maybe you could tell me a little about yourself.”

  She watched the frustration flood his face. “I’m thirty-six, divorced, no kids. I work at an insurance agency. That enough chit-chat?”

  “I just thought . . .”

  “Don’t think,” he purred, grabbing her breasts. “Just feel.”

  “You’re doing enough feeling for both of us,” she said, a nasty edge creeping into her voice.

  “Your boobs are so soft. I thought they’d feel fake . . .”

  “Listen, Connor,” she said, fed up with guys wanting only to touch her breasts, “let’s slow down a little.”

  He looked deeply disappointed. “Several of the guys said . . .”

  They talked. Of course. She should have known that. “They talked about me?” she said to see what the conversation had been.

  “Well,” he hesitated. “They just said that you were such fun.”

  “In bed.”

  “Well, sure.”

  “Not tonight,” she said, now disgusted with herself.

  “Come on, honey, what’s the harm? You were attracted to me in the bar. I’m good in bed and I can give you a good ride.”

  She slowly shook her head. “Not tonight.”

  “But, baby . . .”

  “Honey. Baby. Okay, what’s my name?”

  “Uh . . .”

  “Out, Connor. Now! I’m not interested.”

  Reluctantly, Connor left. “Genie!” she called. She hadn’t seen him since that evening four nights ago when he told her about her wishes.

  “Yes, Audrey. See, I remember your name.”

  A slow smile softened her face. “I’ve been a jerk, right?”

  “Partly,” the genie admitted. “You wanted to be popular, have guys. Good sex. I don’t fault you for that. It’s just that big boobs aren’t the answer, as I think you’ve found out.”

  She let out a long breath. “Yeah, but it started out so well.”

  “Your newfound self-confidence isn’t misplaced. You’ve had some good conversations with guys and you’ve learned how to talk with them.”

  “That was fine the first night, but since then all they are interested in is my chest and my bedroom.”

  “Want the chest back to the way it was?”

  She grinned. “Well, a B-cup wouldn’t be all bad. But the rest? Not so much.”

  “Now you see what you saved the third wish for. We can put your body back, with a few minor modifications, if that’s what you want.”

  “What about talking to guys?”

  “That’s been all you, and my suggestions, of course,” he said, buffing his nails on his shirt front. “I’m pretty good with socializing.”

  She thought back on the past week. He was right. She’d spent some quality time with a few people at the office and one or two at Hansen’s. But the tits had to go. “I wish . . .”

  “Got it. Spending the third wish,” the genie said, and her breasts slowly deflated to a lovely, soft B-cup, which went well with the few curves he’d left her.

  In the bedroom, she checked the mirror and smiled. She liked what she saw. “Thanks, genie, for the education.”

  “Unintended consequences. You just never know. Now you might want to donate my bottle back to Goodwill so someone else can get wishes.”

  “Right you are. But if you don’t mind, I’ll keep you on my shelf for a little while to remind me of everything. I hate to think of you all cramped up in that bottle, though.”

  “I don’t really mind. However, if you could give me something soft to cuddle with, that would help.”

  Laughing, she strode into her bedroom, opened her lingerie drawer and pulled out one of her size-D bras, a particularly satiny one she’d never worn. A pair of scissors made short work of detaching one of the cups.

  In the living room, she handed the bit of silky fabric to the genie. “Fabulous,” he purred.

  Still stroking his cheek with the cloth, slowly, the genie became smoke and the smoke curled back into the bottle and she put it in the shadow box beside the ruby vase. “Thanks, genie,” she whispered, “for everything.”

  Good Hands

  OKAY, I’LL FESS UP. OCCASIONALLY I GO TO A MASSAGE parlor. I do get a massage, of course, but it’s always followed by some hanky-panky. I’m a pretty attractive guy, but I love the no-fuss idea of paying for services rendered. No hassle, no worries about who calls whom the following week. I just pay for it and get my rocks off.

  Several weeks ago I wanted a slow, drawn-out orgasm, just the thing that Good Hands can give me. Good Hands is a massage parlor that gives real folks real massages, by licensed massage therapists. It also gives special services if you know how to ask. Of course, by now they know me and know what I want. That evening they suggested a very special kind
of massage. The booking lady gave it an Asian name, but she explained it involved being massaged by two women.

  As she talked my cock got hard. Two women, four hands, a dream come true. Pay extra? Sure. Why not? Book’em, Danno.

  After she swiped my credit card, she directed me to suite seven. It was always a suite. The term might be a little upmarket, but the rooms were, in fact, lovely. They all had the de rigueur leather-covered massage table with the special headrest with the opening in the middle so that when you’re facedown you don’t mash your nose. Pictures hung on the walls. Some were watercolor landscapes; some were deeply erotic scenes of sex in every conceivable position. There was usually an overstuffed sofa and several lamps that cast a pastel glow, and most rooms also had candles that could be lit to increase the ambiance. Got that? Ambiance. Upscale word for an upscale place.

  I’d been in suite seven before so I wasn’t surprised by the living-room atmosphere, except for the fornication photos on the walls, that is. It also had several large mirrors on the walls and the ceiling was mirrored as well. Classical music played quietly in the background. It was very warm in the room, and I wanted to quickly remove my clothes, but I waited. The masseuse usually removed my clothing, very slowly, touching and stroking each part as she uncovered it.

  I waited for no more than a minute, then two women walked in. I guess many men want gorgeous women in their early twenties with long blond hair and silicone breasts. Me, I want women who know their way around, if you get my drift. Maybe closer to my age, women who haven’t giggled in many years. I’d been with Maryanne before and she smiled. “Welcome, Don.” She’s maybe thirty, with a relatively pretty face, the bluest eyes, and a great, welcoming smile. She had on a short, lightweight robe that showed off her long legs. She indicated the woman standing beside her. “This is Gloria.”

  Gloria was a little younger than Maryanne, maybe late twenties, with short, curly red hair, green eyes, and the most beautiful hands, long fingers with bright red nails. “Nice to meet you, Don,” she said, her voice soft and melodious.

  I really love this place.

  “Now,” Maryanne said, “let’s get you undressed.”