"Stuck"

You didn’t mean for any of this to happen.

That’s important.

Yes, you made the wish.

Yes, it was perverted.

But you weren't trying to hurt anyone.

All you wanted was to wake up every morning with a random woman glued to you, giving you a blowjob, all day every day.

That’s it.

Simple. Elegant. Horrifying in hindsight.

The genie had sighed. Actually sighed. And said, “I don’t grant purely sexual wishes. That’s tacky.”

And then it vanished.

Which brings you to now.

7:00 a.m. — Pop.

You wake up to a face in your armpit.

Not near it.

In it.

A warm nose. Damp breath. Angry muttering that echoes into the tender meat of your body like someone shouting through a rolled-up sock.

You jolt upright. She jolts with you—stuck. Mouth to pit. Like a failed CPR attempt on your deodorant gland.

“WHAT THE HELL?!” she screams into your armpit.

You scream too, mostly because her voice vibrates your entire torso like an emotional tuning fork.

“Stop! Stop yelling into the—ahhh!”

Every time she talks, it tickles.

She tries to yank away. You both nearly fall out of bed.

“I’m glued?! To a man’s armpit?! In my nightgown?!”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Sorry. There was a… genie.”

She stops. Blinks.

“A genie?”

“Yeah. Magic. He didn’t do the—uh—head part. Just the glue part.”

Her eyes narrow. “You’re disgusting.”

“Technically correct.”

7:20 a.m. – Terms and Conditions

She says her name is Melissa. She’s a lawyer. A good one. She reminds you of that every six minutes, like a LinkedIn profile with teeth.

She also informs you—through your armpit—that she was supposed to make partner today, and you have ruined her life.

Every word she spits into your underarm makes you twitch involuntarily.

“Stop talking!” you beg. “It’s not the words, it’s the airflow!”

She refuses.

You offer her clothes. She surveys your wardrobe like she’s considering a lawsuit against it.

“Is everything here made of depression and lint?”

“I have a nice hoodie.”

“I will bite you.”

8:30 a.m. – On the Street Like a Shame Parade

You try to walk normally.

This proves impossible.

Melissa’s head is fixed to your side like a judgmental Bluetooth speaker. Every breath fogs up your ribs. Her hair keeps brushing your nipple. You’re sweating. She’s seething.

“You smell like Axe body spray and sadness.”

“You’re inside my armpit!”

“Then maybe clean it better!”

A kid points at you. A man mutters “sinner.” A woman crosses the street.

Bryce from IT sees you and gives you a double thumbs-up.

You feel like crying.

9:12 a.m. – At the Office, In Hell

Linda from HR sees you enter.

Her expression cycles through all five stages of grief, then lands on “I don’t get paid enough.”

Melissa is still narrating your crimes against humanity into your skin. You are flinching every six seconds. The entire office now assumes you’ve developed some sort of deeply specific kink involving proximity, lawsuits, and mild body odor.

You trip into a trash can.

Melissa says “good.”

12:45 p.m. – Lunch & Legal Threats

You try to eat a sandwich. Melissa tries to file an imaginary restraining order using a napkin and a half-empty ketchup packet.

“I will sue you with everything,” she says.

You twitch.

She sighs.

“…You got mayo in your pit. I can taste it.”

You silently consider jumping into traffic.

6:00 p.m. – Détente

Back at home, you both collapse onto the couch. She's stopped talking. Your armpit is sore from emotional trauma.

You watch something forgettable on TV while she hums aggressively and types angry fake Yelp reviews into your Notes app.

“‘This man’s armpit ruined my career,’” she reads aloud. “That feels accurate.”

You nod. You’ve stopped fighting fate. You’ve become… pitbound.

11:32 p.m. – Sleep? Good Luck.

She lies flat. You lie weirdly angled.

“Don’t drool,” you whisper.

“Don’t move.”

“I’m breathing.”

“Do it quieter.”

You drift off with a stranger’s cheek mashed against your armpit and a prayer that maybe tomorrow will involve less oral warmth.

**7:00 a.m. – Pop. **

She’s gone.

Just gone.

No note. No apology. No refund.

Only a faint echo of legal judgment and a tiny lipstick smear in the curve of your underarm.

You sigh.

Then you check the clock.

And wait.

Because tomorrow?

It happens again.