The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

As You Wish.

You have no idea how I tire of my existence. It is an incomprehensible agony every moment of every day of every millenium since I have been in this cursed prison. As a djinn, a demon minion of the forces of hell, ensnared by King Solomon’s incomparable magic, I am perpetually banished in my enchanted stockade, an enormous red ruby on a ring of purest gold. My only release from this confinement is when I am summoned, my jail activated with the simple incantation of three taps. Then I am discharged, though only long enough that I may grant the ring’s bearer and activator three wishes.

I hate it.

I hate it. I hate it. I hate it.

At my disposal are powers to rival the dark lord himself, and I cannot use the slightest iota of it unless commanded by a mortal.

I hate it. I hate them. I imagine that doing any job for six thousand years would give anyone a bad attitude, but I am a demon by nature and occupation; a bad attitude is chronic, let alone inevitable.

I do not seek sympathy. Nor do I seek pity. I seek only to be understood.

First things first, I am not blue, nor am I cute. My shape is variable, but the one I prefer is humanoid, with canine features and avian wings. I am not named Genie, Jeanie, or any alternative variation on djinn; my name is Glasymodeus. I cannot be freed, I can never be freed, that is one of the few limits to my power, that and anything impeding God’s will. And I do not enjoy my existence. I am not happy, humorous, and have absolutely no desire to help humanity in any of its dreams and foibles. I have no future, no plan, and as such I have no hope and no love.

I hate it.

Perhaps it might not be so bad, if humans showed the slightest divergence from the norm and occasionally requested an original wish. But no. I have granted immortality so often that I am surprised a single human can still die. I have given wealth and power, sex and love, abstractions humans demand and then generally beg me to recant.

My most recent adventures should act as a fine example of both the wretched state of my existence and the banality of human desire.

My prison, my ring, has been around the world to places unknown to modern man. Its newest residence was in an antique store in South Hampton, Oregon.

The first mortal to invoke me was Darin Spiegel, the clerk at Nick and Nack’s Fine Antiques, the pathetic domicile in which I found myself.

I appeared to Darin as he absently rubbed at the ring hard enough for Solomon’s spell to consider it three taps. Having long since learned that mortals have difficulty believing truth unless it takes off its pants and shits in their face, I made the effect of my appearance as dramatic as possible, smoke and lights and everything.

“Greetings, Darin Spiegal. You have invoked the ring of Solomon, and are entitled to three wishes.”

“Like Aladdin?”

I cringe. I have seen the movie, several years ago, at the behest of a former master. I hope one day for my ring to find delivery to Mike Asner so that I might personally disembowl him. It is comparable to a man being judged by the standards of a Neanderthal. I hiss. “Similar. Three wishes. At your discretion.”

Darin thinks. Then he opens the door and points to the cashier, an attractive lass as far as humans go, a great deal more attractive than Darin’s feeble character. I know precisely what he is going to wish for.

He disappoints me, because he does not disappoint me. “I wish for Diane to fall madly in love with me.”

“Diane, I assume, is the blonde with the enormous tits?”

Darin nods vehemently.

I sigh. “As you wish.” I do not bother to mention to him that he will quickly tire of Diane, that he would be wiser to use his wishes for, say, the power to make people fall in and out of love with him. Specifying generalizable wishes is usually better than generalizing specific ones, but humans don’t generally seem to realize that. I give no hint. I have no desire to help him, only to be done with him.

“When will it happen?” he asks after a moment. I suppose that he expects more fireworks.

“It has already happened. Test it for yourself.”

He goes for a few moments and speaks to her. He returns after a minute appearing crestfallen. “She shot me down. She said she didn’t like me that way; said she thought of me like a brother.”

“Indeed. She does think of you as a brother. In fact, she loves you like a brother.”

“That wasn’t what I meant!” Darin shouts.

I shrug. I don’t particularly care if he is happy with his wish or not, only that he makes his wishes.

Darin sighs. He is at least smart enough to catch onto his mistake. “Okay. I wish Diane was in love with me and wanted me to be her boyfriend.”

He is getting more specific now. That is usually the case after mortals find their first wish not to their liking, either to restate it or negate it. “As you wish.”

Diane’s mind is weak, and easy to dominate. It is amusing to watch her as love consumes her will. It is literally like turning a switch. One moment she is leaning over the counter reading a magazine, the next she stands erect and blushes. She checks her appearance in the mirror, and races to the back part of the store, to her love, to Darin.

She races into his arms and they kiss. Only after the kiss is broken does she cry, “Darin! I love you!”

Darin smiles broadly. Clearly this is a fantasy he has dreamed for a long time. It is easy to tell. When the whim is new, they prefer to play; when it is an old whim, they act with alacrity. This is clearly the latter, as Darin proves by replying not with wooing, but with an eloquent, “Let’s fuck.”

Diane blanches. “No, Darin. I want to save myself for marriage! I love you more than life itself, but I refuse to have sex before I’m married.”

Darin turns to me. “You suck!”

“I granted your wish, Darin. Make your third and be done with it.”

“Fine! I wish that in addition to her present love, Diane was madly, passionate, totally, completely, desperately, uncontrollably attracted to me, unable to imagine life as anything other than my eternal loveslave!”

“As you wish,” I repeat, and make it so.

Diane shreds Darin’s clothes and her own, passion driving her mad. She humps at Darin’s crotch until she can get at his erect penis, and they begin to fuck wildly. She moans and shrieks and claws at his back, panting heavily as she pounds at him. He orgasms quickly, as I imagined he would, but she is unwilling to stop, and tries to make him rise again. He does so, and they again go at it. I wonder how long it will be before Darin realizes that he can match her level of enthusiasm for only so long. I observe with mild amusement, as one might watch two animals in heat, before I return to my ring. I am not sad to go. Even imprisonment is preferable to catering to fools. If I must be in the presence of the damned, better to do it alone.

A few hours later Darin taps the ring again. I grace him with a spot appearance. “Yes?”

“Dude! You’ve gotta help me! She’s insane! I can’t get her to stop!”

“I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. You got your wishes.”

“Take ‘em back!”

“I can’t. Three wishes. No more. Unless...”

“Unless?”

“Unless you sell your soul to me.”

It might have been more difficult to tempt Darin into agreeing if not for Diane dry-humping the wall outside and screaming his name. “Okay! Deal!”

What Darin does not know as Diane’s shouts cease is that she will remember this episode, stew over her humiliation for months, and finally hunt him down and kill him. I have no need of his soul, other than the pleasure of keeping them. They serve the function of sustenance, money, and warmth all in one.

I return to the cold comfort of my cell.

The next to invoke me is an older bespectacled woman, the owner of the store, Margaret Wickowsky, as she gripes about having to lay off her two horny employees.

I appear in all my splendor. “Greetings, Miss Wickowsky. You have summoned me from my ring, and thus you are endowed with three wishes.”

“Really?”

“Really.” I hate it when they question me.

“Like in Aladdin?”

“...Yes,” I spit. I hate that even more.

“Okay. Um. I wish for a million dollars.”

I snap. I could transfer money into her account, or simply present her with a check, but mortals tend to prefer visible results to their wishes. I do not mention that the IRS will be interested in where she got it. Miss Wickowsky is another prime example of unoriginal wishes. Humans often wish for money, a million or a hundred-million or a billion dollars. I have had to explain more than once that a zillion is not a real number. Just once I’d like to meet a human who wishes for one million dollars and thirty-seven cents. Any variation would be welcomed at this point.

Miss Wickowsky’s eyes glow with avarice. “Okay, um, I wish for a handsome young man to serve me.”

I grant her my standard male sex-doll, who I designed entirely from Calvin Klein ads. He wears a leather thong, but in all other respects is an identical amalgamation. He is mindless, more a machine than a man. He approaches and begins to kiss her toes as she giggles with glee.

She taunts her new toy. She makes him bark like a dog, makes him lick the soles of her shoes, makes him massage her feet and then pleasure her. I groan and wait for her to finish. Wanting this done fairly quickly, I position myself before a mirror.

When she finishes, she turns to me. And in the mirror, she notices her wrinkles. I know precisely what is coming up. The young wish for eternal life, the old wish for their youth. Miss Wickowsky shows no variation, nor did I expect her to. “I wish I were young.”

“As you wish,” I smile, and in the blink of an eye Margaret Wickowsky is a babe three months old.

She cries, and as I am able to understand and communicate in any language, I know that she means to say, “But that isn’t what I meant!” Although I hardly need to bother translating.

“So sorry, Miss Wickowsky. But that was your third and final wish. Terribly sorry. The only way I could age you is if you sell me your soul.”

“Okay!” she wails.

I grant her age. She is decrepit by the time I finish with her, every breath a struggle. Mortals never figure out that their wishes should be specific. At least, rarely in time.

My last master was a police officer named Shane Callahan. He pocketed the ring when investigating the disappearance of the owner of Nick and Nack’s, finding only a long-dead crone and a clearly valuable ruby ring.

It clicked three times in his pocket, and I appeared.

“Greetings, Shane Callahan. You have invoked my ring, and thus are granted three wishes?”

“What, like in Aladdin?”

I suppress a snarl. “Yes, Mr. Callahan. Like Aladdin.”

“Okay. I wish I was really powerful, and really rich, and everybody loved me.”

“Of course. As you wish.” I do not mention that this is not one wish but three. And, after all, is a form of speech used to combine two otherwise separate sentences.

And Mr. Callahan finds himself in the body of Adolf Hitler.

“What did you do to me!”

“I made you powerful, and rich, and loved.”

“Nobody loves Hitler!”

“Not now. But before the war he was revered as Germany’s savior. If anyone is in a position to know the secrets of Adolf Hitler, I am.” I let him consider the implications of that. What he will assume, though, is not true. I never directly served Hitler. His wife, however, I did make acquaintance with, and it was she who made sure he would succeed.

Callahan does not know this, and he is too panicked to think straight. Which is how I like it.

“Get me back to normal!”

“I’m sorry. You’re out of wishes.”

“But that was one!”

I count my fingers, ticking off. “You wished to be powerful. You wished to be rich. You wished to be revered. Three. The only way I can grant you this new wish is if you sell me your soul.”

“Okay, okay, fine. Just get me out of this body!”

“As you wish.” I decide not to harm Callahan any further. A figure of authority without a soul is as good a way of punishing humanity as I can devise.

Callahan tosses away the ring, and it rests in the street corner for several hours. Finally, it is picked up by Rory Cunningham, a lonely third-grade boy. It takes him several days before he invokes my ring; I am almost beginning to suspect that I would have some peace from inane human wants and needs.

But eventually he accidentally taps the ring thrice and I appear. “Rory Cunningham, you have invoked my ring and thus are granted three wishes.”

“Like Aladdin.”

“If you must.”

“Cool! I wish I could be a genie like you. It’d be so cool to be able to do all that stuff. I want your job.”

I blink.

I stare.

I keep staring.

That’s humanity for you. Just as you give up hope on them doing anything new and worthwhile, they surprise you.

I exchange places with the boy, trapping him in my place. I am free for the first time in six-thousand years. I could not be freed, but by switching places, the curse of the djinn merely transfers to the boy. I have so much that I want to see and so much to do and so many places to go...

I think my first stop with be at Mike Asner’s house.