How She Met Her Mother

The phone buzzed in Stacy's hand, shrill against the evening calm. She had just finished getting ready to meet her mom, her mind a whirlwind of anxiety and anticipation. The screen lit up with Carl's name, and for a moment, she considered letting it go to voicemail. With a sigh, she swiped to answer.

"Hey," Carl's voice came through, tinged with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. "I know I'm the last person you want calling you, but... I just wanted to talk."

Stacy rolled her eyes, though a part of her tightened at the sound of his voice. "It's not a good time, Master. I have somewhere important to be."

"Important?" There was a pause, and then his tone shifted, a familiar edge creeping in. "More important than us? Then... what's between us?"

She could almost hear the smirk in his voice, and it sent a shiver down her spine. Instead of a response, Stacy hung up.

But then, as if she had a direct connection to the cell towers, she felt Carl’s phone trying to reach her again moments before it happened. She sensed the familiar tug of the ring after a wish, the compulsion that she couldn't resist. When the phone buzzed again, she had **** but to answer.

"Master," she said, the word bitter on her tongue.

"Good girl," Carl purred, his voice low and commanding. "I was thinking about us. You know, we could have so much fun together, Stacy. But I'll give you some space tonight if you agree to one simple request: be my girlfriend. I won't bother you tonight, and then we can talk more about it tomorrow." His words dripped with a false sincerity, but Stacy could hear the underlying desire.

Stacy hesitated, her mind racing. She detested the idea of being Carl's girlfriend, but the opportunity to meet her mother was too crucial to pass up.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice firm but laced with ****. "I'll be your girlfriend, Master. But no more wishes tonight.... and don't think this changes our deal. It just means you can call me your girlfriend... and… I guess I won't deny it."

Carl chuckled, clearly pleased with himself. "Oh, it means much more than that, Stacy. But I'll let you have your evening. For now, let's enjoy our newfound relationship. I’ll be thinking about ways we can take things… to the next level. Goodnight, sweetie!" His tone was playful, yet there was an edge of dominance that Stacy couldn't ignore. She knew she had to tread carefully, lest Carl's desires spiral out of control again.

Stacy hung up on Carl, the phone's screen dimming as she let out a sigh of relief, though the residual annoyance still prickled at the back of her neck. She pushed it aside with a practiced ease, focusing on the task at hand. With a soft creak, she pulled open her closet door, her fingers instinctively finding the smooth, inviting fabric of the black dress. It slipped on like a second skin, hugging her curves in all the right places, a tantalizing glimpse of décolletage hinting at more. A surge of familiar confidence bubbled up as she zipped it closed. She looked sexy.

The bar was a dimly lit sanctuary she hadn't graced in far too long, but tonight, the air thick with the murmur of conversations and the faint tang of stale beer felt strangely appropriate. She scanned the room, her gaze locking onto her mother instantly. An older, more elegantly world-weary version of herself, with the same piercing eyes that could cut through pretense and a jawline that spoke of unwavering resolve. Her mother offered a small, knowing smile as Stacy approached.

"Mom," Stacy said, her voice a touch softer than usual as she slid into the plush leather booth. It felt cool and familiar beneath her, a small island of comfort in the brewing storm of her life. Her mother leaned back, her expression settling into a mask of thoughtful contemplation.

Just then, a young server with an earnest smile and slightly tousled hair approached their table. “Evening, ladies. Can I get you started with some drinks?” He seemed to linger a moment longer than necessary, his eyes flicking between Stacy and her mother with an appreciative gleam.

“Oh, hello,” Stacy’s mother said, her voice a low, melodious drawl, as if addressing a particularly slow-witted waiter in a high-end restaurant. “Perhaps a very dry Gibson? Unless you don’t have any onions, then I’ll take a Gin and Tonic. And darling?” She turned to Stacy with a raised eyebrow.

“Just a water for me, thanks,” Stacy replied, a small smile playing on her lips as she caught the server’s fleeting glance.

“Coming right up,” the server said, his smile widening before he retreated to the bar.

Stacy’s mother turned back to her, her expression now serious, though a faint hint of amusement danced in her eyes. “You’re here about the ring, I presume,” she stated, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And ‘Master’? Honestly, the melodrama. But yes, honey, that unfortunate appellation signifies that someone has your rather inconvenient piece of jewelry.”

Stacy nodded, the knot of anxiety in her stomach tightening. “I can’t take this anymore, Mom. He’s pushing too far, and I honestly don’t know how much longer I can keep up with his… demands.”

Her mother reached across the table, her perfectly manicured hand resting briefly on Stacy’s. “My dear, you possess the inherent power of a thousand suns, yet you fret over a boy with a trinket. The ring doesn’t dictate your destiny; you, my love, are the architect of your own magnificent chaos. Remember who you are – a genie, imbued with the wit of Dorothy Parker and the tenacity of a particularly persistent weed.”

The server returned with their drinks, placing the gibson delicately in front of Stacy’s mother and the water before Stacy. “Anything else for you ladies?” he asked, his gaze lingering on Stacy’s neckline for a moment before flicking back to her mother.

“Not at the moment, thank you,” Stacy’s mother said, taking a slow, deliberate sip of her cocktail, her eyes never leaving the server’s. “Though perhaps you could bring us another round in… oh, say, five minutes? Unless, of course, you have more pressing engagements involving the unraveling of the space-time continuum.”

The server chuckled nervously. “No, ma’am. Five minutes it is.” He gave them another quick, admiring glance before heading back to the bar.

Stacy’s mother sighed dramatically, swirling the garnish in her drink. “Honestly, the youth of today. So easily distracted by a bit of… well, never mind. Now, where were we? Ah yes, your unfortunate predicament. First, tell me everything, darling. Every excruciating detail. How in the name of all that is magically binding did you manage to lose the ring?”

Her voice, though laced with a hint of theatrical exasperation, held a genuine undercurrent of concern. Stacy sighed, launching into the tale of Carl’s petty theft, his accidental discovery of the ring’s power, and the increasingly outlandish and inconvenient wishes that had followed. Her mother listened with rapt attention, her expression shifting from dry amusement to thinly veiled concern with each passing word.

“This Carl seems like quite the sexual pervert,” her mother finally quipped, taking a long sip of her Gibson.

When Stacy finally finished her somewhat frantic recounting, her mother leaned back, tapping a perfectly painted nail against her glass. “You must grasp this, Stacy. The ring, while annoyingly adhesive to its current bearer, also serves as a conduit, amplifying your own innate abilities. Think of it as a particularly gaudy microphone for your inherent power. You have already shown the capacity to subtly… influence these wishes, to introduce a certain level of creative interpretation that might just serve your purposes.”

Stacy nodded, a spark of understanding igniting within her. “I have been… bending the wishes!”

“Precisely!” her mother exclaimed, her eyes widening with mock enthusiasm. “Think of it as improvisational theater, darling. Carl may think he’s directing the scene, but you, my dear, are the masterful playwright. Continue to compose each scene to your benefit! And speaking of playwrights…” She trailed off, her gaze drifting towards the bar.

The server, as if summoned by her thoughts, reappeared at their table. “Another round for you ladies?”

“Why, how wonderfully prompt!” Stacy’s mother declared, her voice dripping with faux surprise. “Yes, I believe I will have another of these delightful concoctions. And you, my dear?”

“I’m good, thanks,” Stacy said, a wry smile on her face.

As the server headed back to the bar, Stacy’s mother leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. “Now, pay attention, my little sorceress. The Right of Interpretation is your most potent weapon in this ridiculous little drama. It allows you to shape the wishes to your advantage, to introduce nuances and… as you've no doubt realized, unexpected outcomes. Remember, the ring may be on his finger, but the power flows through you. And then there’s the Right of Contractualization. Any agreement, any deal you strike with this… Carl… is magically binding. Use that to your advantage, my sweet.”

Stacy’s eyes widened, the possibilities swirling in her mind. “So, I get that I can twist his wishes, make them mean something completely different… But if we make a deal, he has to stick to it?”

Her mother nodded, a sly, almost predatory smile gracing her lips. “Precisely. You have the power to turn his infantile desires against him. Let him believe he’s conducting the orchestra, while you are, in fact, composing the entire symphony.”

Stacy felt a surge of renewed determination. She wouldn’t be a victim any longer. She would reclaim her power, using Carl’s own foolishness against him. And with her mother’s delightfully devious guidance, she knew exactly where to dig in: the details of the deal they made!

Stacy’s mother leaned in closer, her voice taking on a more serious, almost theatrical warning. “Now, my dear, should our young Carl decide to renege on any magically binding agreement, or if he has already proven to be an unreliable deal maker, well… let’s just say there are entities who take such matters rather seriously. Powerful beings, both ancient and possessing a distinct lack of a sense of humor, will come knocking. You must ensure he understands the gravity of any… contractual obligations you two arrive upon. Or perhaps,” she added with a mischievous twinkle in her eye, “we simply neglect to mention that particular detail.”

At that moment, the server returned with their drinks. Stacy’s mother took a sip of her gibson, her eyes never leaving Stacy’s face.

“Now, my dear, is our Carl an attractive young man? One who would be worth... negotiating with?"

Stacy felt her cheeks flush. “He’s not really that good looking, just average. But he’s incredibly persistent, if that counts for anything.”

Her mother let out a soft chuckle. “Well, persistence can be...rewarding. Especially when there’s more than meets the eye. And our Carl, well... it seems there's quite the rut beneath his surface."

Just as Stacy was about to respond, a sharp, unfamiliar ping resonated in her mind, followed by a distinct, intrusive feeling. It wasn't a sound she heard, but a sensation, like a mental tug, a telepathic call reaching across distance. *Stacy! Where are you?* It was Carl’s voice, not spoken aloud, but projected directly into her consciousness. The feeling intensified, a growing pressure that suggested he was frustrated, impatient. She knew that feeling. It was the precursor to him reaching for the ring. If she didn’t respond, if she didn’t return to him, he was going to make a wish. A ****, uncontrollable wish.

Stacy gasped softly, her eyes widening in alarm. She instinctively placed a hand over her own stomach, feeling the familiar warmth of her genie core stir in response to Carl’s mental prod. “Mom, I… I have to go,” she stammered, her voice tight with urgency. “He’s… he’s calling me. I think he’s going to make a wish if I don’t get back.”

Her mother’s expression shifted, the dry amusement replaced by a look of keen understanding. She nodded slowly, taking another long sip of her Gibson. “Ah, the umbilical cord of magic,” she murmured, almost to herself. She reached across the table and squeezed Stacy’s hand. “You have everything you need, darling. Remember what we discussed. The power is yours. You compose the symphony.” She offered Stacy a small, encouraging smile. “Good luck, my dear. And one more thing,” her voice dropped, becoming chillingly serious, her eyes locking with Stacy’s. “Never, ever, ever engage in… intimate relations… with your master. It complicates things in ways you cannot possibly imagine.” She leaned in and placed a swift, cool kiss on Stacy’s forehead. “Now, go. Before our young maestro decides to conduct a full-scale opera.”

Stacy didn’t need to be told twice. She shot up from the booth, grabbing her bag. “Thanks, Mom,” she said quickly, already backing away.

“Go, go!” her mother urged with a dismissive wave of her hand.

Stacy hurried out of the bar, the urgency of Carl’s telepathic call pushing her forward.

As the door swung shut behind Stacy, her mother watched her go, a complex expression on her face. She took another long, slow sip of her Gibson, the ice clinking softly in the glass. “Hmm,” she murmured, a faint, melancholic smile touching her lips. “This is just how it happened with your father…”