His Wish Is Your Command

Your best friend, Steve, has found a strange little trinket at a street fair, earlier today, from a vendor whom he describes as being of oddly uncertain nationality. It's a rotund little human figure, somewhat resembling a hybrid of a genial Buddha and an African fertility statue, carved out of smooth, dark stone... its tiny arms held, palms-up, over its head in presentation, as though supporting a large, invisible sphere. Carved into its belly, are three identical notches, for reasons unknown.

Hanging out with you now, as he often does, in the relaxing shade of the common courtyard patio area of the apartment complex that you call home, Steve sits there, fumbling with his exotic, pocket-sized prize, dropping it a few times. "This would make a cool key-chain, if it had a hole in it or something", He mutters. "Not that I have a lot of keys for one... just my crappy used car and crappier apartment, thanks to my dead end job at the Shop 'n Save... God, I wish I was rich..."

The trinket suddenly flies out of his hands, as Steve is startled by the sight of the first carving in the miniature's belly, brightly glowing white, which then quickly subsides. Suddenly, he perks up, and holds out his left hand, as a solid gold Rolex miraculously materializes on his wrist. Incredulous, he stands up and feels in his pockets, pulling out a fat roll of cash, no bill smaller than a twenty. His wallet, now expensive-looking leather, contains several major premium-membership credit cards. A quick run to the street reveals a new, top-of-the-line sports car, where his old, rusted-out clunker once stood. Additionally, his battered, nearly-obsolete iPhone has been replaced with the latest model, with every app imaginable already installed. He does a little checking, from some banking websites and private passwords that he says have just now popped into his head, and triumphantly announces that his bank account shows that he's a multi-millionaire, all legal an above-board. Neither of you have any memories of his being wealthy --or being anything more than a struggling slacker-- before this moment, but it's clear that he is, now.

"Aladdin's Lamp, buddy, that's what this is! Woo-hoooo!", he shouts, laughing and slapping you on the back and practically dancing a jig in front of you. "Let's see what else this thing can do!"

He quickly pops into your apartment and checks himself in the mirror, and while running back out --trinket clutched tightly in his fist-- says aloud, "I wish I had a permanently buff and healthy, ripped physique --no matter what I eat-- six inches taller, with a monster 8-inch cock and powerful balls, that can last as long as she can!"

Now, both the first and second carvings on the little figure glow blindingly white, and for a second, a white aura flashes around Steve's body, like the sun's corona. Looking down at himself with the joyous awe of a small child on Christmas morning, Steve begins to grow, every second adding an inch to his normal five-foot-ten-inch frame. Flab, from years of corn chips, pizza and diet soda, melts away, his body re-sculpting itself into a tight, built, impressively-chiseled figure of prime masculinity. Six-foot-four... a beer belly replaced with six-pack abs... twenty-inch biceps, with rippling pecs, traps, triceps, deltoids, and iron quads in his thighs, to match them. Seriously, if this was the 1980s, he could probably give Dolph Lundgren a run for his money. Our eyes both travel down to his crotch, normally the domain of a somewhat sub-par three-inch member, which Steve has often complained about, as an unmistakable bulge strains against the fabric of his jeans, growing larger and longer as it snakes a good way down his right inner thigh.

Steve is ecstatic, striking an assertive pose of self-presentation. "Yeahhhhhhh! Who's The Man? Has to be me, right? Haha! I feel incredible!"

Again, as with the money, you have no memory of him previously being this tall and built, but you just know him to be this way now. It just, strangely, seems normal. No doubt, like his bank balance, all of his records have altered to reflect his new appearance. You both look at his driver's license, listing him as 6' 4, which confirms your assumption.

You're happy for him, of course. In a matter of a few minutes, he appears to have gained everything, going from a pathetic pauper to a pumped-up prince... but you wonder how well he'll deal with all of this. Good looks and big money can open a lot of doors, to be sure, but they are still surface qualities. You've known Steve long enough to understand his life history and his faults. His social skills are practically non-existent. It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that you're his only friend, and that's mainly because you took the initiative and drew him out of his insular, sulky routine. He's never been on a date, not even trying to ask a girl out, due to his massive insecurities. You also remember catching him on some pretty strange fetish websites a couple of times, the sort of things that probably wouldn't exactly endear him to a potential girlfriend. Everybody's got their personal quirks, right? So, who are you to judge? That's been your philosophy all along.

Steve does love the ladies, though, as stroke mags are nearly his only material possession. In fact, his former iPhone was loaded with pin-up images... particularly with coy, "babygirl" blondes, usually trying to emulate a vaguely "Marilyn Monroe" look, wearing nothing but sheer black stockings and garters, oozing sex and looking adorably needy. He was always showing them to you, excited when he'd find an exceptionally hot new addition to his collection. You figure it won't be long before he uses his wealth and his body to get one or more such women hanging on his arm and riding his cock, but you predict a rather shallow, empty life for him, if he takes that path. You also feel a bit resentful that he's used two wishes entirely on himself, when he could've just as easily made both of you rich and hunky.


As you complete these thoughts, you look up and notice that Steve is giving you a weird look, his mouth curling into a subtle smirk. "Three notches, three wishes, that's how this must work... I'll use this last wish for both of us!", he says with enthusiasm... mixed with a trace of mischief in his eyes, his smirk widening into a grin.


You hear his third wish, but it doesn't quite register at first, as you are rocked by a quick, white flash and a strange tingling sensation throughout your body. As it passes, you look over at Steve, and he's still smiling, only now more broadly. The white glow, predictably emanating from all three carvings on the sculpture, now turns a crimson red, then subsides, and the trinket itself fades... and seemingly disappears from existence, its wish-granting purpose apparently completed. Standing up, you suddenly realize that something else is happening... you feel a slow, deliberate sinking sensation in the core of your body, and Steve seems to be gradually growing... taller? Why? Isn't he tall enough, already? No, wait... the room's perspective also seems to be subtly changing, too... you're shrinking!

Every few seconds, you are clearly losing an inch of stature, as your legs and torso shorten. It's not just overall height, either, as you glance at yourself in the nearby reflection of a sliding-glass door, to see that you are rapidly losing body mass, especially from your upper body, making you resemble little more than a skinny teenage boy... one who is still struggling, unsuccessfully, through puberty. Your hands and feet become small and delicate, with your hands now as slender as your narrow wrists. What the fuck???

Everything about you seems to soften... your muscle definition, your hair, your skin... you try to voice your incredulity at what's happening to you, and hear the pitch of your speech rising, becoming disturbingly sing-song in its delivery, with a slight whisper and a hint of a lisp. Oh God, you sound like a total sissy! And now you start to realize what's actually happening to you, as budding breasts begin to develop, tight knots of flesh under tender, expanding nipples. Your tits swiftly increase in volume and heft, pushing out noticeably under the thin cotton weave of your t-shirt, their pendulous gravity now a reality, as they rest proudly upon your now-slighter chest, with the points of your nipples just as clearly defined.

You feel your face and it is both shockingly silky-smooth and evidently more refined, if your fingertips are accurate in their assessment of your nose, brow and cheekbones... and your jawline, likewise, feels different, too. Your mouth seems puffier, as your probing tongue slides in a complete, counterclockwise arc across your upper and lower lips, which taste of waxy gloss and are quite obviously fuller. The soft, tickling creep of lengthening hair crawls down over your temples, ears, the sides of your cheeks and the back of your neck, its soft weight brushing lightly against the junction of your neck and upper back. Grabbing a lock of it, you hold it into view... to find that it is becoming a light, honey-blonde. You suddenly fear for what you might see in a mirror. 

Your penis and testicles rapidly reduce and regress, shrinking down, transmogrifying into their female counterparts, and retreating into the soft, vertical cleft that is swiftly forming below them. This is evident not only from your internal sensations down there, but also from your little hands reaching down under the elastic of your briefs and furtively grasping around for what is no longer there, other than a highly-sensitive little nub hidden inside your new pair of nether lips. Touching it makes you gasp out loud, which obviously pleases Steve, who continues to observe your progress with both wonder and obvious glee.

Your ill-fitting clothes suddenly fade away like specters, exposing your soft, creamy skin to the open air, its relative coolness raising goosebumps and triggering your enlarged, protruding nipples to stiffen like fleshy gumdrops. What you'd been wearing seconds before is replaced only by a snug, elastic garter belt in black, connected to a pair of sheer, silky black stockings that envelope your increasingly-shapely legs. You are otherwise as naked as a newborn baby, your swelling ass in full view, as its cheeks increase in weight and volume, following the steady expansion of your hips and upper thighs and the shifting angle of your pelvis and lower back. And the words of his final wish come back to you, this time with sobering clarity: "I wish my best friend here would transform into my totally hot and sexy, devoted, cock-craving, forever-young-and-beautiful dream girl, right before my eyes!"  

You lash out at him, letting him know how unbelievably pissed-off you are at his selfishness and complete betrayal of your long friendship, only to be taken aback by the breathy, little-girl soprano ringing in your ears, speaking your words... like an air-headed Playboy model throwing a silly tantrum. It holds no threat at all, and could almost be considered amusing. Not only is it coming out of your mouth, but it is now the voice of your inner thoughts, as well. You try to summon your familiar male voice to your  mental narrative, but it stubbornly won't return. That's it, then; the son-of-a-bitch has obviously subverted your entire being to conform to his sick little fantasy. You're still you, as far as you can tell, but Steve's wish has apparently blocked off all avenues that would allow you to express your male identity, apart from your memories. You assume that, like his wealth and physique, the past hasn't changed for you, but you will nonetheless be accepted simply as this girl you appear to be, unquestioned by the world, with all your records altered to reflect your new state of being. Oh Fuck!

As furiously angry as you are with him, so very close to wanting to kill him, it is superseded by your utter physical need of him, which seems to come out of nowhere. A deep, instinctual desire for him to hold you... and caress your new body, all over. His fingering your soft, wet pussy, while you clutch his hot, rock hard penis in your soft little hand and-- No, dammit! You're not gay! You like girls, not guys! --But, still, you need him... need his formidable cock thrusting deeply in and out of your tight little snatch as much as you need food and water to survive. That's what it feels like, anyway. You can't get these thoughts, these burning desires, out of your mind, try as you might.

You find yourself standing differently, trying to entice him with a girlishly seductive pose, inwardly torn between loving him and hating him for what he's done. You absently suck on a slender, manicured finger, wishing instead that it was the velvety tip of his erect penis brushing against your pouty lips, seeking entry. You'll make him pay for this, somehow, the bastard... but first, you hope that your incredibly nice ass is inviting enough that he'll soon want to take you, hard, from behind...