The Genie in the Lamp
My wife, Nora, walked by as I worked on my newest short story. She sighed, exasperated with my hobby, "What are you writing about this time?"
Concentrating I answered absently, "I'm writing a story about a genie in a lamp."
She gave a disdainful "hmmm." So that caught my attention.
"What? You don't like the concept?"
I'm sure it's fine but don't you think it's been done to death?"
"Except the guy's going to ask the evil genie for unlimited blowjobs. But being evil, the genie turns it around so that the guy ends up giving the blowjobs instead of getting them."
She repeated herself, "Done to death." And she gave me that disapproving look. She let me write these stories as a concession; to keep my lusty mind preocupied. But the closest we ever got to collaboration, or participation, or living any of it out, was her critiques.
"Ok, suppose he's gonna give his wife oral then she will magically grow a dick which he is compelled to suck?"
"That's got potential..." But her attitude was cool.
"What's wrong with it? And don't say it's been done."
She went into the bathroom to remove her make-up. "It's all plot but lacks poetic irony. And why does the magic have to hit the reader on the head like a brick? Let them wonder."
Going to my lovely wife I wrapped my arms around her waist, kissing her neck. Unfortunately, she rejected my advances yet again, "Oh Honey, it's late and I'm tired. Maybe we can do something tomorrow."
Back at my desk I sympathized with the motives of my main character that spurred him to ask for unlimited blowjobs. Without giving it much thought I casually stroked my very ordinary lamp with the very ordinary plug and the very ordinary lightbulb. I murmured, "I wish I had unlimited blowjobs."
No smoke emerged and no genie, evil or otherwise, offered me wishes.
In the morning she got up to make breakfast without offering any closeness. Over eggs she suggested that maybe a magical incident is too trite a plot device. She went on being a little condescending since she was the only one of us with a literary degree while I was an amateur. "The protagonists should be compelled to suck cocks in more metaphorical circumstances. Leave it to the reader to draw their own conclusions about why he does it. You might even get your stories published in a real erotic anthology instead of posting them for free online."
That afternoon I was typing away when she shocked me by coming in wearing sexy lingerie. She tapped one finger on her chin contemplatively. "I think you should reconsider taking your stories to a publisher."
I argued, throwing her words back at her, "My 'pathetic' stories aren't that good. It's not like you yourself aren't always criticizing them." (Secretly, another reason I preferred to publish anonymously online was that I didn't want the world associating my name with stories where there was always gay cocksucking.)
"Henry, it's not that your stories aren't good. And I didn't mean that your stories are pathetic. I meant it's pathetic that you use your talent the way you do."
She'd never admitted that before, "Do you mean it? My stories are good?"
Nora placed her hands on her hips defiantly and spit out the truth reluctantly, "Yes. They're good. I just said it didn't I? Now come over here and suck my cock."
I don't know what got into my wife but after years of denying me she was finally going to participate in my dom/sub fantasy.