Wish Girls

Max opened his bedroom door, and there they were, his wish girls, sitting primly on the bed with their legs crossed, looking up at him through lowered lashes. Allison (the blonde) and Stephanie (the brunette), wearing the modified cheerleader outfits that made him cringe with inward embarrassment now whenever he saw them. The wish girls were fresh and perky and eager as always. “Hi girls,” he said, tossing his coat onto the chair and dropping his bag. He’d had a hard day at the bookstore, and more than anything he wanted someone to listen to his troubles and make him dinner, but those were two things his wish girls wouldn’t do, couldn’t do, hadn’t been made to do, so he’d have to be satisfied with the services they did offer.

Stephanie and Allison were seventeen years old, and had been for the past fifteen years, never changing. They wore yellow-and-red uniforms which resembled the ones worn by cheerleaders at Max’s old high school, but altered to titillate the perpetually-aroused fourteen-year-old he’d been when he wished them into existence. The tops of the outfits were tight and thin and clinging, and Allison and Stephanie’s ever-erect nipples stuck through visibly. There was a round keyhole cutout in each bodice, revealing the full sideswells of their firm high breasts, and the skirts were so short they hardly qualified as garments. The wish girls wore no panties, and even with their legs demurely crossed he could see the curling of their pubic hairs, blonde and black. They wore knee socks over their smooth, lithe legs, and Max felt a bit like a dirty old man for admiring them. The wish girls had been older than him when they first appeared, but they hadn’t aged as he did.
“Strip,” he said. “Then go into the bathroom and shave.” He lingered to watch them undress one another, with many shy glances and coquettish looks at him, peeling off one another’s tops, shimmying out of their skirts. Their bodies were perfect, fine tits, taut bellies, round firm asses, the fantasy amalgamation of all the girls he’d lusted after as an eighth grade loser. Their bodies were identical, both the same height, both with pink nipples, breasts the same ample size, and he wished for the thousandth time that he’d given one of them brown nipples, at least, or made one of them 5’9″ and the other 5’2″ (they were both 5’7″), done something to differentiate them, but he’d only wished for one blonde and one brunette, and that was the full extent of the variation. Even their faces were identical, Seventeen model faces, with full lips, big blue eyes, high cheekbones.

The wish girls were undoubtedly lovely, but they’d been lovely in exactly the same way for a long time.

They finished undressing, and he stepped aside to let them into the living room. His apartment was too small for three people, but the wish girls didn’t live with him, exactly—sometimes he fell asleep with them in his bed, but they always disappeared by morning, and they didn’t use the bathroom or cook meals or do anything to take up space. There was a time, even a few years ago, when watching them undress one another would have aroused him enough to make one of them kneel and suck him off, but he found that more elaborate steps were required to excite him now.

Max made a microwave pizza while the girls shaved one another in the bathroom, and sat eating on the couch when they emerged, arm in arm, cunts freshly shorn. “Position 16,” he said, and the girls knelt before him, facing one another. Each put a hand on the other’s hip, and each slipped a hand into the other’s always-wet cunt, fingering one another, and they tilted their faces together, eyes closed, and kissed, lips parted, pink tongues moving gently. Max slipped off his pants and his boxers and sat back down, tugging his cock while they made out. “Pinch her nipple, Allison,” he said, and the blonde reached out and tweaked, bringing a moan to Stephanie’s throat. “Harder,” he said, and she twisted, but Stephanie didn’t make any sounds of pain. As far as Max could tell, they didn’t feel pain, which made his forays into S&M less satisfying than they might have been, and made him wonder if they truly felt anything. “Gasp like it hurts you,” he said, and Stephanie did, making high sounds of distress. “Slap her tits, Allison,” he ordered, and watched for a while, but even this wasn’t doing much for him.

“Position 39, variation b,” he said, and the girls turned facing away from him, first getting on all fours, then lowering their heads to the carpet, leaving their asses in the air. They crossed their arms behind their backs at the wrists—that was the “variation b” part—and Max took two silk scarves from the table by the couch and used them to bind their wrists together. He went to the tall red toolchest in the corner, which contained years of accumulated sex toys and supplies, and took out lube and a pair of clear acrylic butt plugs. Returning to the girls, he squirted lube onto their pink rosebud assholes and rubbed with his fingers. They moaned and moved against his touch—he’d taught them to do that—and gasped as he slipped the plugs into them. Once he’d filled their asses, he wiped his lube-slicked hand on a towel and began spanking the girls, alternating between Stephanie and Allison, full-palm swats that made their beautiful asses bounce. Their skin never bruised or reddened, no matter how hard he hit, and he’d never broken their skin. The wish girls were the product of adolescent fantasies that hadn’t gone much beyond groping, blowjobs, and vague misconceptions about fucking, and they weren’t well equipped for some of the kinks he’d developed since then. Still, they gasped and cried out and begged for mercy, as he’d instructed them to do, until he was sufficiently turned on to slip his cock into Stephanie’s tight, welcoming cunt, while fingering Allison with one hand. When he was close to orgasm, he pulled out. “Position eight,” he said, and pulled them into upright kneeling positions. They put their faces close together and looked up at him worshipfully, licking their lips, and he tugged his cock until he shot come onto their smiling faces.

Once spent, he sat back on the couch, feeling empty. He liked coming on their faces, visually, but didn’t find it as physically satisfying as coming in their mouths, cunts, or asses. They kept kneeling, attentive, waiting for any further orders, but Max shook his head. “I’m done. I’ll call if I need anything.” The wish girls unbound their own hands, removed the butt plugs gracefully, and slipped back into the bedroom. They would disappear, now, into whatever place they went when he wasn’t using them.

Max sat on the couch, flipping channels, until he got lonely. He called “Stephanie!” The brunette stepped out of the bedroom, clad in her cheerleader costume and with her full complement of pubic hair again, reset to her default state. “Put on the nightgown,” he said. She stripped off her uniform, dropping the garments to the floor, where they would remain for as long as Max looked at them, though they would vanish the moment he looked elsewhere. She went to the toolbox and took out a sheer silk nightgown which was, relatively speaking, modest. “Position 115,” he said, and she sat beside him, one hand resting on his leg, her head leaned against his shoulder, a warm and intimate nuzzle. Sometimes having her act like a girlfriend—like he imagined a girlfriend would act—made him happier, but tonight it just made him sad and even lonelier. “Position 43,” he said, sliding down a little in his seat, and she lay sideways on the couch, head resting on his belly, and she sucked slowly, almost meditatively, on the head of his cock, until he built toward orgasm again. He grasped her head in his hands and thrust his hips, his cock hitting the back of her throat again and again until he came in her mouth, and all the while she made moans of exquisite pleasure. Letting go of her head, he said “Okay,” and she sat up, swallowing and licking her lips. “Kiss me goodnight,” he said, and she did, sweetly, softly, and then he sent her away for the night.

* * *

Max worked in the genre fiction section at a big chain bookstore, shelving mysteries, romances, scifi, and fantasy. That morning he held a purple trade paperback with a golden Aladdin’s lamp on the cover, the second book in some series about a wisecracking genie, and he tried to remember what, exactly, the circumstances of his wish had been. He knew he’d been in the woods behind his childhood home, and found… something, a ring, a bottle, a colored stone, and he’d been given a wish, though now he couldn’t remember if some spirit or being had spoken to him, or if the knowledge of the wish had simply appeared in his mind. That was part of the wish’s defense, he understood, to make the memory of its genesis vague, because then it would be harder for Max to tell other people about it. Whatever the specific circumstances had been, Max had held the wishing object in his hand, or he’d buried it in the dirt, or he’d broken it open, and he’d made his wish, voicing one of the many elaborate fantasies he concocted in his narrow bed each night, and then Allison and Stephanie came to him. He’d spent the next three years slipping away to the woods every chance he got, on weekends and afternoons, even some days when he cut school, going to a secluded clearing beyond earshot of his house and waiting for Allison and Stephanie to step out of the trees. They’d done everything he wanted, and in those years he did everything a young man could think to do with two girls, and watched as they did everything two young girls could do to one another—at least, without the help of props and accessories and costumes. Max’s grades fell, he stopped seeing his friends, he didn’t take part in sports or theater or band, and he didn’t ask girls out—why should he, with two lithe nude eager wish girls waiting for him in the woods? They’d been like a drug, he understood now, like heroin, and everything in his life became secondary to the pursuit of the pleasure they gave.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder, startling him. He turned to see a woman, about his age, with short copper-colored hair and round-rimmed glasses, and he automatically compared her to Stephanie and Allison, as he did with every woman he saw—her face was round, her eyes startlingly green, she had a pimple above one of her eyebrows, and her expression seemed amused even at rest. “I’m the new girl,” she said. “Just transferred from the downtown branch. What’s your name?”

“Uh, Max,” he mumbled, looking down at the book in his hand, uncomfortable standing so close to her.

“Nice to meet you, Max, I’m Kira. I used to work in genre at my old bookstore, but they stuck me with photography and art books here. Let me know if you ever want to trade.”

“Uh,” he said. “No, I, uh—”

“Just kidding, Max, I’m not going to poach your section.” She patted his shoulder and said “See you around.”

He turned and watched as she walked away, and he noticed her curves, her hips. She probably weighed 50 pounds more than Allison or Stephanie, and was four inches shorter than them, but it looked right and proportional on her—Kira didn’t have their willowy waists. Max turned back to his shelving. Why had she made him so nervous? Spending fifteen years with Allison and Stephanie had rendered him incapable of interacting with women normally. He’d never been on a real date, and didn’t have any close friends, didn’t go out to bars—and why would he? The other guys at the bookstore went out, drank, and tried to pick up women, but Max didn’t need to pick up women. He had the holy grail at home, two hot girls who couldn’t get enough of him. His life was perfect. He’d blundered into magic, and his life was magical as a result.

So why didn’t he look forward to going home anymore?

* * *

Max had expected things to change with the wish girls when he got his own apartment. Once he’d moved in, out on his own for the first time, he’d called the girls, and they’d emerged from the bedroom, seeming happy, as always, to be summoned. “This is our place now,” he said. “You never have to leave or disappear, no more going to the woods, you can just stay here.” Their smiles didn’t falter, but they didn’t seem to absorb what he said, either. They could talk, and they understood the often-complicated tasks he set for them, but they never truly conversed with him. Beyond a certain basic repertoire of phrases—“Yes, Please, God”—he’d had to teach them whatever he wanted them to say.

“Allison, position 1,” he said, and she knelt before him, unzipping his pants and pulling out his cock, stroking it to erectness and then licking the shaft slowly, from bottom to top. “What do you think of the apartment, Stephanie?” he said, while Allison tongued the vein beneath the head of his dick.

“It’s so big,” she said. “It feels so good inside.”

Max frowned. The words made superficial sense, though they weren’t exactly accurate, and they were, of course, things he’d taught her to say under other circumstances. He wondered how intelligent they were, really, these wish girls of his, and it was something he would come to wonder again and again in the coming years.

Over the next weeks he tried to make them understand that his home was theirs, but they kept disappearing when he was done with them each night, but he kept running up against the limits of their capabilities. Once he tried to teach Allison to wash dishes—after all, if they were his willing slaves, why shouldn’t he use them for something other than fucking? He’d explained everything required to wash dishes, and told Allison the chore was her responsibility from now on. The first night, she emerged from the bedroom and changed into a frilly white apron, four-inch spike heels, and nothing else. She’d filled the sink with soapy water, then leaned over the counter on her elbows, breasts in the suds, ass lifted invitingly, and Max had been so turned on he’d come up behind her and pounded her hard, pulling her hair and squeezing her soapy tits while he thrust into her. It was only later that he realized she hadn’t done the dishes at all, even when he was done fucking her, and all his later attempts to get them to do anything non-sexual ended that way—he’d fucked Stephanie from behind while her head hung in the toilet after he tried to teach her to clean the bathroom, and while they were more than willing to let him eat off their bodies, they never prepared food for him. They were happy to dress up in maid’s uniforms—that was one of the first mildly kinky things he’d done with them once he had his own apartment—but not to act like maids.

He’d had great plans for their life together, but most of them hadn’t panned out. Once when he was desperately short of money—car broken down, dental bills overdue—he’d tentatively asked if they were willing to fuck other men, thinking he could pimp them out. They’d shaken their heads in unison, almost sadly. Another time, he’d wanted to go out on the town and impress people with the hot women hanging all over him, intending to strap them into butt-plug harnesses, dress them in tight tops and skirts and stripper heels, and let them follow him around bars and nightclubs, squirming from the plugs in their asses—but they’d refused to cross his threshold. They wouldn’t let anyone else see them. That was probably his own fault. Max couldn’t remember the precise wording of his wish, but hadn’t there been some element of the grasping and the selfish? Some phrase like “only for me, just for me,” when he’d wished for Allison and Stephanie? He’d been young, and hadn’t thought through all the ramifications of his wish.

“I wish you would talk to me,” he’d said one night that first year out of high school, hungry for conversation, wishing for something more than the endlessly physical.

Allison and Stephanie gazed up at him. “We belong to you,” Allison said. “You can do anything you want with us,” Stephanie said. “We love you,” they both said. Just like he’d taught them to.

* * *

Max lay in bed and fondled his cock and balls, thinking of Kira, fantasizing about the softness of her belly against his cheek, the weight of her body upon him, imagining birthmarks and freckles—he’d been with the wish girls for so long that he’d begun to fetishize blemishes. He stroked and tugged himself toward orgasm, the first time in years he’d jerked himself off—why masturbate when at a moment’s whim he could have a perfect, sweet-faced cheerleader giving him a handjob or sucking him off? But now he was thinking of Kira, and he imagined her face, those green eyes, that half-smile, as he came, spurting hot come over his fingers and onto his stomach.

As he lay in the dark he thought, Maybe it’s time I started dating.

* * *

A week went by, and before Max could work up the nerve to ask Kira out, she asked him if he wanted to get a bite after work. “Sure,” he said, and they went to an Ethiopian place near the bookstore, where they ate spicy and savory food, scooped up with hot soft pieces of injera, Ethiopian flatbread. They talked about working for the bookstore, why she’d transferred to his branch (hers got downsized), about books, and Max managed more-or-less to think of her a person rather than a woman, and gradually his anxiety diminished. She was cute, funny, and interesting, and he did his best to keep her entertained and interested in talking to him. It was surprisingly easy to do so. They liked the same books, hated the same movies, and Max eventually realized she was flirting with him. They started talking about fantasy novels and stories, and without much conscious thought Max steered the dialogue toward wishes. “What would you do with three wishes?” he asked.

Kira sat back against the cushioned booth, hands laced across her stomach, under her breasts. “I always thought three wishes was too many. With three wishes, you can ask for wealth, eternal youth, and top it off with world peace, and feel like a big hero for the last one. I think it’s more interesting to ask what you’d do with one wish. That’s how you can tell the selfish from the generous. So tell me, Max, if you had one wish, what would it be? World peace, or strippers and blow?”

Max thought it over. He knew what he’d done with his one wish, but he’d been fourteen at the time, and by definition almost sociopathically self-centered. If he had the wish again, now… “I’d wish for happiness,” he said, and it felt true, like something he wanted very much.

“Selfish, but abstract,” Kira said. “I’d probably go for the strippers and blow myself. I’ve read too many stories to think that even well-meant wishes would turn out the way I wanted.”

They finished the meal, and Max walked Kira back to her car. “We should do this again sometime,” he said. “Soon.”

“We should do more than this sometime,” she said, and leaned up to kiss him. Her breath tasted of timatim fitfit and after-dinner mint, and his surprise made the kiss awkward, but there was something behind it, a warmth and pressure of a sort he’d never felt with the wish girls. “Soon,” she said, and that was goodbye for the night.

* * *

Max wanted Kira, wanted to make love to her, but he couldn’t. But he had other means of release. He drove home from dinner and found a package on his doorstep. He took it inside and opened it on the kitchen counter, smiling as he drew out the tangle of leather straps and d-rings. It was the strap-on harness he’d ordered from an online erotica catalog, along with a nine-inch black silicon dildo. “Girls!” he called, and after they appeared he directed them to shave, put on red cocksucker lipstick (they appeared fresh-faced and without make-up by default), and be back in the living room on their knees in ten minutes. “We’re doing scenario 21, variation c,” he said. “Stephanie’s top, Allison’s bottom.”

“You heard him, you little bitch,” Stephanie said, and slapped Allison’s ass. “Get in there and get your clothes off.” Allison hurried away, eyes downcast, hands held behind her back.

Max leaned in the bathroom door and watched them get ready, Stephanie cajoling Allison, slapping her tits, and promising her humiliation and violations. For her part, Allison was obedient but frightened, her lower lip quivering as she put on mascara, which she would cry off in act two while Allison flogged her.

“Come get dressed, Stephanie,” he said, and took her into the bedroom. He laced her into a black leather under-bust corset that lifted her tits even higher than normal, and she put on knee-high leather boots. He gave her a wicked riding crop, which she lashed through the air experimentally. “I just got this for you today,” he said, and showed her the new strap-on harness. She oohed and ahhed appreciatively, the way she always responded to the sex toys he brought home, a sort of automatic erotitropism. He helped her into the harness, taking great pleasure in pulling the leather straps tight around her hips, the black dildo rising impressively erect from her crotch. “You like being top, Steph?” he said, and she nodded. He grabbed both her wrists, wrenched her arms over her head, and forced her down to her knees. He twisted her wrists, and when she gasped he shoved his cock into her mouth, thrusting hard. “Just remember, I’m the one who’s really top,” he said. “Tell me you love it. Tell me you love the taste of my cock.” He adored the way she sounded, trying to speak while he fucked her mouth, and it took all his willpower not to come then. He pulled out, and looked down at her, where she knelt, breathing hard, breasts heaving prettily, arms still held over her head.

How could she be so perfect, with her teeth never brushing his cock no matter how hard he used her, never sweating, never belching, never having a headache or having her time of the month? Never…

Never surprising him. Perfect, and perfectly familiar. She was exactly what he’d wished for, and every night he spent with his wish girls was a night of incredibly sophisticated masturbation, and nothing more.

Well, fuck it. Pleasure was pleasure, and there was something to be said for the familiar. At least Allison and Stephanie didn’t make him nervous.

“Get up,” he said. “Let’s get Allison trussed up. I’ve got a new mouth harness I want to see her in. I’m thinking, after we whip her, we can lay her out on her back across the dining room table, and you can fuck her ass while I fuck her throat. Sound good?”

“Whatever pleases you, Max,” she said.

* * *

“I can tell you’re the shy type, Max,” Kira said, pouring him another glass of sangria. “And I don’t mind being aggressive, but I want to know my advances are welcome. I don’t want to make an idiot of myself. Are you interested in me?”

Max sat on Kira’s couch, and she passed him his drink, then sat beside him, tucking her legs beneath herself with casual grace. “You move so beautifully,” he said, the two glasses of sangria already inside him relaxing him enough to say such things.

She looked at him over the rim of her glass, sipped, and said “I studied ballet when I was a kid, but I didn’t have the body to keep it up—not thin enough, too zaftig by half. I was crushed at the time, but in retrospect, I’m glad I don’t live a life of glamorous starvation and crippled feet.”

“I think you look wonderful,” Max said, but he looked down into his drink, shy. This was nothing like talking to the wish girls. “I’m sorry. I do like you a lot. I just… haven’t gone out much. I’m nervous. I’ve only been with a couple of women in my life.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “That just means you won’t have as many bad habits to unlearn.” She grinned, a twinkling, mischievous look of a sort he’d never seen on the faces of the wish girls, and she plucked the drink from his hand and set it aside. Kira leaned into him and they began kissing, and she took his hand and pressed it against her silk shirt, against her breast, which was large and full and shaped differently from those Max was used to. Her hand touched his thigh, then slid up to squeeze his cock. She kissed his neck, stroked his leg, slipped a finger into the waistband of his pants, her fingernail brushing through his pubic hair, making him shiver and tingle all over. Max’s heart hammered, pulse throbbing through him and making his cock twitch, and he felt weightless, unmoored—he didn’t know what she was going to do, Kira was an independent operator, an ongoing surprise. Her hair smelled of strawberry shampoo, and there was a hint of sweat, and her skin—the wish girls smelled almost of nothing, a little bit of baby powder, nothing else. This was intoxicating, and for the first time, it occurred to Max that sex could be a collaborative act.

“Bedroom,” Kira said, and tugged him by his waistband into her cluttered room, walls decorated with painted kites, a double bed with a white comforter. They fell into bed together, touching one another urgently, and she stripped off her shirt and bra, revealing pale breasts with large brown nipples. Her left breast was slightly larger than the right, and this amazing human variation made Max moan and push her down on the bed, bowing his head to take her nipple in his mouth and suck. She made a sound like a contented cat and lifted her hips against him. He stopped kissing her breast and pulled down her skirt, taking a moment to admire her panties—black lace, hardly there, she must have planned all along to take him to bed—and then he pulled them down, too, and buried his face between her legs. Oh, the smell, sweat, and wetness, and something unmistakably feminine—the wish girls were nothing like this. He’d gone down on them countless times, and they’d never had a scent like this, just that baby-powder neutrality.

What had he been missing all this time?

He tongued her, slipped a finger inside her, was surprised to find she wasn’t very wet yet. Another way she differed from the wish girls. He licked her, bottom to top, and she said “Oh, that’s right, warm me up, Max.” When she was wetter he slipped a finger into her and moved it while tonguing her clit, and this went on for a minute or so before she touched the top of his head. “Max, sweetie,” she said, “your heart’s in the right place, but your finger isn’t.”

He looked up at her, his hand unmoving, and realized that all the thousands of hours he’d spent fucking the wish girls had taught him nothing at all about women. “Tell me what to do,” he said, and she gave him that grin again. She guided him—“There, press your fingers up toward the, yes, right there, now swirl your tongue, to the right, no, my right, yes, there, keep it up.” Max did as she said, though his wrist got sore and his tongue got tired. He’d never spent so much time going down on Allison and Stephanie, just enough to satisfy his own urge to taste and finger them, but this was something different, something more worthwhile, and after a while Kira got much wetter and bucked against his hand and tongue. She trembled, almost silently, with none of the theatrical orgasms Max had seen in porn films and taught the wish girls to emulate.

He kissed her belly, and she stroked his hair, and he said “Can I fuck you now?”

“You’d better,” she said, and he rose up and pushed her legs apart, and she said “Whoa, Max, not so fast, condom first.” She reached to the bedside table and lifted a square foil-wrapped packet.

“Ah, right,” Max said, suddenly terrified. He’d never worn a condom in his life.

“I’ll put it on you,” she said, and rolled him onto his back. She grasped and tugged his cock, then put it briefly in her mouth, and he swelled to full hardness. She tore open the package and deftly rolled the condom—cold, strange—onto his cock, then swung one leg over to straddle him and eased herself down, guiding his cock up into her warm wet cunt. She rocked on top of him, reaching down to tweak his nipples, slipping a finger into his mouth for him to suck. Her weight, her spontaneity, the way she moved, it was all so different, and if not for the condom acting to dull the sensation a bit, he might have come in her right away. A euphoria grew inside him, spread through his body, suffusing his limbs with outrushing lightness. Max had never felt so good. She lowered herself, breasts against his chest, cheek against his cheek, her breath in his ear, and he reached down to take hold of her ass in both hands, thrusting his hips against her, and her breath quickened as she thrust back, and soon they were rocking together, headboard slamming against the wall, moving faster and faster until he felt himself starting to come. He squeezed her ass harder and thrust away, the two of them moving in wonderful concert, and she gasped in his ear and shuddered, trembling. He couldn’t tell whether his orgasm had excited her into her own, or vice versa.

Afterward, she didn’t disappear, and he was glad.

“We should do this again sometime,” he said, tentatively, afraid she’d turn away.

“Soon,” she said. “Take me to your place next time?”

“Of course,” he said.

* * *

Max knew better than to think it was true love. Oh, maybe it was, but Kira could just as easily grow bored with him, or more likely he would fail her in some way, since he had no experience with romantic relationships. But he’d turned a corner. Even if he didn’t stay with Kira forever, there would be other women, other relationships. He’d discovered how things could be, now, and there was no going back. He’d finally grown up.

But he hadn’t grown up so much that he didn’t want one last fling, for old time’s sake.

The next morning Max called in sick to work, and summoned Stephanie and Allison. He dressed them in black stiletto heels and knee pads and nothing more. “Stephanie, kneel there, legs spread, and reach behind you and grab your heels. Don’t let go of your heels, no matter what.” She did as she was told, and he fastened a leather and plastic ring gag around her head, a mouth-harness that held her jaws open for constant access. She gripped her heels, breasts jutting out beautifully, and he slipped his cock through the gag into her warm wet mouth, sliding it back and forth. “Keep looking up at me with those wide eyes of yours. And you, Allison, kneel behind me and lick my asshole.” He fucked Stephanie’s face for a while as Allison tongued him. He could have come on them then—Stephanie had never looked more fetching—but he wanted to run the gamut today. He put collars and leashes on them and led them around the room on all fours, lashing their rumps with a riding crop. He leaned them both over the couch, lubed their asses generously, and pounded first one, then the other. He lay down and had Stephanie straddle his cock while Allison sat on his face, and they kissed and fondled one another while he tongued and fucked them. He had Stephanie put on the new black strap-on, and they double penetrated Allison, who whimpered as Max thrust into her ass, begging him to do it harder, harder. Then he had Allison put on the old strap-on harness, and let his wish girls fuck him—he went down on all fours, Allison sliding a smaller dildo in and out of his lubed ass, Stephanie shoving her big black dildo in and out of his mouth. After that he spanked them, whipped them, fondled them, caressed them, and fucked them every way he could think of. By day’s end he was exhausted, sweat-soaked, and trembling from the exertion. His cock felt drained dry from the day’s several orgasms. The wish girls, of course, seemed as calm and well-rested as always.

“I’m letting you go,” he said.

Allison and Stephanie looked at him, then looked at each other. They frowned, in unison. He’d never seen them frown before, except when they were playing Harsh Mistresses, and even that was a different, more theatrical expression.

“I appreciate all you’ve done for me,” he said. This was harder than he’d expected. “You’ve made my life wonderful. But… I don’t think this is good for me anymore. I’ve met someone… well. It doesn’t matter.”

“You’re setting us free?” Stephanie asked.

Had Max ever taught her to say that, as part of some bondage roleplay scenario, maybe? He didn’t think so. “Yes. You can go.”

“Turn your back while we get dressed,” Allison said.

Max knew he’d never taught her to say that. He’d seen her in every conceivable state of disarray—even now, his come was drying on her breasts. But modesty, he suddenly understood, was a privilege of the free. He turned his back.

“Okay,” Allison said a moment later. He turned to find them dressed in jeans and gray sweatshirts, not outfits he’d ever have chosen for them, clothes they’d conjured for themselves. They stepped toward him in unison, each kissing one of his cheeks. “Bye, Max,” Allison said.

“We didn’t think you’d ever get to this point,” Stephanie said. She patted his cheek.

The wish girls left. They didn’t disappear; they just went out the front door. Maybe they’d get to be real people now, and make choices of their own. He didn’t know.

Max spent the rest of the evening filling heavy black garbage bags with sex toys, bondage gear, and lingerie, tossing it all into the big dumpster behind the apartment complex. The garbage men were sure to get a kick out of that. Maybe he and Kira would start playing with toys eventually, but he’d buy new ones for that. Even Max’s vestigial sense of gentlemanly conduct told him that was the appropriate thing to do.

* * *

Two days later, Max sat on his couch, and Kira kneeled on a pillow between his feet, sucking his cock. He looked down at her closed eyes, the expression of tender concentration on her face, and he was overwhelmed with happiness. She was doing this because she wanted to, because she liked him, because she wanted to make him feel good. And because she knew he’d return the favor.

Kira’s teeth brushed against Max’s cock. It hurt, a little. He’d never been happier.

About the Author

Wendy N. Wagner

Wendy N. Wagner is a full-time science fiction and fantasy nerd. Her first two novels, Skinwalkers and Starspawn, are set in the world of the Pathfinder role-playing game, and she has written over thirty short stories about monsters, heroes, and unsettling stuff. An avid gamer and gardener, she lives in Portland, Oregon, with her very understanding family.

About the Author

Jason S. Ridler

Jason S. Ridler is a writer, improv actor, and historian. He is the author of A Triumph for Sakura, Blood and Sawdust, the Spar Battersea thrillers and the upcoming Brimstone Files series for Night Shade Press. He’s also published over sixty-five stories in such magazines and anthologies as The Big Click, Beneath Ceaseless Skies, Out of the Gutter, and more. He also writes the column FXXK WRITING! for Flash Fiction Online. A former punk rock musician and cemetery groundskeeper, Mr. Ridler holds a Ph.D. in War Studies from the Royal Military College of Canada. He lives in Berkeley, CA.

About the Author

Carrie Laben

Carrie Laben grew up in western New York and earned her MFA at the University of Montana. She now lives in Queens. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in such venues as Birding, The Dark, Indiana Review, Okey-Panky, and the anthology Mixed Up! edited by Molly Tanzer and Nick Mamatas. In 2015 she was selected for the Anne LaBastille Memorial Writer’s Residency.

About the Author

Cecilia Tan

Cecilia Tan is “our genre’s premier pornographer” (says Walter Jon Williams)—the founder of Circlet Press and winner of the RT Pioneer Award and Career Achievement Award in Erotic Fiction. Her stories have appeared in Asimov’s Science Fiction Magazine, Strange Horizons, Best American Erotica, Best Women’s Erotica, and many many other places. Her 15th novel, The Initiates of the Blood, is forthcoming from Tor Books in 2017.

About the Author

Jesse Bullington

Jesse Bullington is the author of the weird historical novels The Sad Tale of the Brothers GrossbartThe Enterprise of Death, and The Folly of the World. Under the pen name Alex Marshall he is releasing the Crimson Empire trilogy; the first volume, A Crown for Cold Silver, was shortlisted for the James Tiptree Award, and the second, A Blade of Black Steel, just dropped in May. All of his novels have naughty bits. He’s also the editor of the Shirley Jackson Award-nominated anthology Letters to Lovecraft, and co-editor, with Molly Tanzer, of Swords v. Cthulhu. He can be found in the Pacific Northwest.

About the Author

Chuck Tingle

Hugo Award nominee Dr. Chuck Tingle is an erotic author and Tae Kwon Do grandmaster (almost black belt) from Billings, Montana. After receiving his PhD at DeVry University in holistic massage, Chuck found himself fascinated by all things sensual, leading to his creation of the “tingler”, a story so blissfully erotic that it cannot be experienced without eliciting a sharp tingle down the spine.

Chuck’s hobbies include backpacking, checkers and sport.

About the Author

Andrew S. Fuller

Andrew S. Fuller writes and edits horror, fantasy, and science fiction. His work appears in magazines On Spec, Crossed Genres, The Pedestal, anthologies FISHA Darke PhantastiqueSwords v Cthulhu, and several short films. Since 1999, he’s edited the fiction magazine Three-Lobed Burning Eye. He grew up in the Midwest, dabbling in heavy metal and theater, and now lives in Portland, Oregon between a volcano and two rivers, where he commits archery, design, and cocktail snobbery.

About the Author

Livia Llewellyn

Livia Llewellyn is a writer of dark fantasy, horror, and erotica, whose short fiction has appeared in over forty anthologies and magazines and has been reprinted in multiple best-of anthologies, including Ellen Datlow’s The Best Horror of the Year series, Years Best Weird Fiction, and The Mammoth Book of Best Erotica. Her first collection, Engines of Desire: Tales of Love & Other Horrors (2011, Lethe Press), received two Shirley Jackson Award nominations, for Best Collection, and for Best Novelette (for “Omphalos”). Her story “Furnace” received a 2013 Shirley Jackson Award nomination for Best Short Story. Her second collection, Furnace (2016, Word Horde Press), was published this year.

About the Author

Robert Levy

Robert Levy is an author of stories, screenplays and plays whose work has been seen Off-Broadway. A Harvard graduate subsequently trained as a forensic psychologist, his first novel The Glittering World was published by Gallery/Simon & Schuster and is a Lambda Literary Award finalist as well as a nominee for the Shirley Jackson Award. Shorter work has appeared in Shadows & Tall TreesBlack Static, and The Brooklyn Quarterly, among others. He is currently working on a television pilot as well as a new novel, and can be found living in his native realm of Brooklyn.