Touched - Part 5 Added 02/03/20

Story by eccentricman

Here's a story based off an idea in my poll thread... has the legs for a series I think, but I'll let the people who are interested in it decide where you want it to go.

Anyway; here it is - Touched – A Story About Genies

"So, wishes and stuff - yep, I do those," said the genie as she crossed the inside of the hurricane lamp, scratching her ass and taking a long draw on a tiny little joint. There was a little huff and a small hand slapped a miniature television into life.

"Uh, ok" said Sandy, looking through the glass at the back of the high, chilled out genie, watching the blonde, dreadlocked head tilt this way and that at the fritzing screen.

"Ummm, three wishes?" Sandy tried again.

"Three, five, ten - I don't know. Just keep wishing and I'll let you know when we're done," came the laconic reply from over a small shoulder, before the genie turned and regarded her with squinting eyes, "DON'T BE BORING!"

"Huh."

"Yep."

"So... not boring."

"Yep. And - fuck it - not more than one a day; if I've got some good gear, then wait a week. Don't be a buzzkill."

"Ok. Will try."

"Golden."

"Can I have my first wish then?"

"Shoot," the genie was visibly holding herself up on the TV now, her lips curling up into a lazy, high smile.

"I want to be able to touch a woman or girl and make them grow like super big and strong and swole - like huge huge."

There was a pause and the two people in the room, well, one genie and one person, stared at each other expectantly. The silence, dragged on for a second before the genie smiled widely and gave Sandy a wink.

"Not a fucking caveat in sight: I think I'm gonna like you, Sandy-baby!"

The genie took a toke, frowned, and then clicked her fingers.

/////

Sandy stood slowly and gently flexed her leg, grunting a little bit in discomfort as the straps near her knee bit in a little bit. Stiffly, and with a little bit of care, she smoothed the heavy fabric of her long skirt, adjusting the thick belt she wore so that it hung a little askew on her hips.

She sniffed and nearly sneezed as the scent of the furnace and the tang of machine grease in the air nearly made her sneeze. Satisfied that there would be no nasal detonation, she turned to retrieve something big and bulky and warm looking from the pile of clothes and sleeping bags on her mattress. Sliding her slim shoulders into the thick padded jacket she looked in the old mirror she'd strung up from some thick pipes and watched as the huge coat hid her cut-off band t-shirt and the stud adorning the pale flat flesh of her belly.

The reast was autopilot: blue lipstick, black eyeshadow, black nails and a quick smooth of short, dark purple hair. Standard Sandy, Mistress of Emo: hot, edge-lordy. Looking like a hard-bitten survivor from a glam rock apocalypse. It was the kind of look that made her almost wish she smoked – well, more than just the occasional blunt.

Her phone went and she checked it. The message was from Hot Legs.

“Legs are feeling bigger today. Need your tongue on them after my lecture,” it read. It was cool. Hot Legs knew – and Hot Legs was safe.

Her straps creaked and Sandy had to look up at the clothes she had slung from the hot water pipes for long, long seconds, breathing slowly. Eventually, she puffed out some air, and grinned.

“Got a surprise for you...” she texted back.

Picking up her books, she stepped carefully over her laptop and last night's dinner, big boots clomping - before waving to the genie sleeping in the lamp. She gingerly navigated a couple of knots of pipework and limped slowly towards the heavy steel door.

Opening it quietly and stepping out into the dorm corridor – and danger - she took the building superintendent's key and locked it behind her. With a smirk, she blew a kiss at the "Danger: Boiler Room – Authorised Personnel Only" that was effectively her room number and rammed her hands in her pockets.

She looked around cautiously and started making her way to the back stairs – she was in alpha bitch territory now.

/////

She tried to be as quiet as possible as she swayed down the stairs, accommodating her strapped leg, but she knew her heavy boots were going to be heard by anyone on the stairwell. It was still safer than the lifts at this time in the morning. She knew most of the girls in the block would be going to and from the communal showers now – only the early birds would be properly up and about.

A door below her, 5th floor, slammed open. Not good news.

A strong looking guy holding the various bits of his hockey uniform in a bundle over his bare abdomen, was squawking in protest as a tall, honey-haired goddess gave him both barrels.

“You couldn't even keep it from goi

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