Shane Whistler; Overworked Teacher

Hi everyone, just pitching in to this story. Should be a good romp. I'll make some decent fantasies and maybe I'll even be able to create some conflict, too!- - - - - -

Secret Service. It's a funny term considering like 80% of them are completely known. The KGB, the CIA, MI6, whatever. The only one I don't know is probably the Chinese. Those guys are actually secretive. But the CIA undercover base in my neighborhood is about the most conspicuous hideout possible. First of all, they're the only ones that don't mow their own lawn. Everyone else in the neighborhood gets Cecil to do it, bless that guy. Second, they always have black SUVs with out-of-state license plates parked out front. And third, there's new people in suits going in and out of there constantly. One time I even saw them with those stereotypical secret service earpieces in before he realized it and took it out. I heard one of them even admitted to it when talking to a neighbor, but that's just a rumor.

There was a theory at first that they were mafia, but frankly that's not likely; they never sell anything to anyone. It's just a house populated entirely by glowies. Not that the neighborhood ever really minded their presence. We kind of figured they had a good reason for being here, ironically enough. Besides, they're so clumsily disguised that it's made for a fun neighborhood gag. It helps that they're reclusive and don't actually bother people in the neighborhood. Maybe they're off whacking some bad guys in the city instead of here in the suburbs, so we don't feel any shadow government oppression.

Now why am I talking about this? Normally it's not exactly at the forefront of my mind. My mind is filled with packing my moving boxes. I'm finally getting my own apartment in the city instead of having to commute from home and listen to my little sister's bitching that she has to arrive at the high school an hour earlier and leave an hour later than everyone else because she carpools with me, a teacher. She's had her own license since she was 16 (18 now) but is finally getting her own car so she doesn't have to keep borrowing mine and can go to and from the school on her own time. My mind is filled with doing taxes, getting new furniture and dishes for my new place, rejoicing about never having to do yard work (except mowing, thank you Cecil) in exchange for having to deal with stairs up to what will be my new apartment, so on and so forth. My mind is filled with lesson plans and upcoming video game releases, normally.

Again, that's what's normally on my mind. What isn't normally on my mind is why there is a woman in my kitchen holding a glowing knife to my throat. "Don't move a fucking muscle... except to talk," The voice sounded a little older than me, maybe she's late 20s or early 30s, "I don't have long, and if I don't like what I hear then neither do you."

I was freaking out. This wasn't the first time I've had my life threatened; I am a teacher after all. But It IS the first time I've ever been jumped in my own home. I decided not to tempt fate here, "Jesus; just calm down. I'll do whatever you want, just don't hurt anyone." She seemed to believe I was being genuine, because she released me, shoving me into one of my kitchen chairs.

I got a good look at her for the first time. She wore a suit, had sunglasses on and an earpiece in. She was kind of pretty, albeit nondescript. Probably about 5'8", brunette, reasonable curves from what I could tell (I didn't want to piss her off by ogling). But I doubt I'd be able to recognize her without the secret agent getup she had on. My eyes were drawn to the knife. Actually, "dagger" is more accurate. It was long, glowed blue, and its hilt was ornamental gold. There was something REALLY funky about it. "I don't have long," she said, a **** tone in her voice, "The PCA is after me and when they find me they'll take this back," she said, presenting something to me. "They can't be allowed to have it."

She held what appeared to be a bronze lamp toward me; like the kind of shit a Genie would pop out of. I only recognized it because of film tropes, I would've guessed it was a teapot or something otherwise. Confused out of my mind, I had to get some answers, "What are you talking about? Who are you? PCA?" She was in a hurry, so I kept it succinct.

She looked out my kitchen window and my gaze followed. There was no one outside, but she was clearly convinced there was someone hot on her heels, "Just those three answers. This lamp can't be allowed into anyone's hands. When they catch me it can't be in my possession, you must keep it safe. The PCA, the Paranormal Closure Agency, is a CIA subdivision for disposing of, containing, or using supernatural, paranormal, or otherwise scientifically inexplicable phenomena." That sounded like it was straight out of their manual or something. "I have to move, they'll track me here. When they come, DO NOT mention the lamp. Just keep it buried in your drawers or something."

That was... quite the exposition dump. "Make sure you tell them I was here, in fact call the police and tell them. It'll make you look less suspicious." She then broke a window and ran away. It was such a bizarre situation that I genuinely didn't know what to do beyond call the cops, regardless of if I believed her or not.

"Listen, officer, I told you already," I said to the man in the uniform. I understood his duty, but damn if it wasn't annoying to give him the same story three times, "I was putting some kitchen supplies into boxes last-minute for my move today and suddenly this lady had a knife to my throat."

He was writing stuff in his pad when behind him I saw frowning men in suits arrive. Shit, this must be the PCA. On one hand I was tempted to give them the full story, on the other hand, what if they ghost me for even knowing about it or something? "Then what happened?" the officer asked, again.

I sighed and spoke (loudly, hoping the suits overheard), "Look, man. She was terrified; constantly checking out the window and over her shoulder. She told me to stay quiet and not tell anyone about her," I said, thinking it was plausible, "But screw that! She broke into my house, my mom and my sister were upstairs while this lunatic was here!" The officer nodded at my explanation. We were in a relatively low-crime neighborhood, so my reliance on the police must have seemed plausible.

The officer thanked me and went outside to greet the men in suits, who then approached me. They were both tall white guys in suits and sunglasses with the same haircut. Just as nondescript as the woman from before. "Shane Whistler?" one of them said, looking up from his tablet. I nodded at him, trying to look annoyed and exhausted. "I'm Agent Brown, FBI. This is my partner, Agent White." I nearly guffawed at their lack of subtlety, but managed to rein it in. I'm a traumatized break-in victim, after all. "We'd like to ask you some more specific questions than the police."

I told them to go ahead, but that I really don't remember anything else about her. I couldn't tell them her name or eye color after all, "Well, sir, we'd like to know if she said anything 'odd' to you," I raised an eyebrow, "Anything that you might not expect out of a break-in."

"I don't exactly get broken-in very often, fellas." I tried to make eye contact with them, as much as could be expected with guys who had sunglasses on, "She just held me up with a weird glowing knife and left. Said she didn't have long and to do exactly what she asked." They looked between each other and shrugged. I hope they found that answer satisfactory.

The rest of the day was stressful, but uneventful. My mom and sister didn't see anything, but gave brief statements regardless. I was more preoccupied with getting my stuff to my new place... so I could rub what was obviously a genie's lamp. Yeah the PCA might be watching me still but come on, man. I wasn't just going to not rub the lamp. I was even pretty confident that it was genuine since the agents asked if she offloaded anything onto me. Not to mention the knife.

And eventually I finished moving in at 2 AM. At least the “moving” aspect of it. As in everything was still in boxes and I was sleeping on a mattress on the floor since unpacking the bedframe and setting it up was definitely not happening tonight.

But I made sure to keep track of one item through all of this, and withdrew the genie lamp. I looked out of my window at the somewhat sleeping city below me, and closed the blinds. I didn’t know what awaited me once I rubbed this lamp, but it was definitely something. I took out a rag and applied some polish to it, then rubbed the lamp.

A puff of purple smoke suddenly filled the room, then vanished just as quickly. In its place stood: her. The woman in front of me was definitely my genie, or whatever was sealed in the lamp. She was tall, a feature exaggerated both by her high heels as well as the fact that she was floating. She was dressed as a belly dancer, with a long flowing scarf following the contours of her body and provocative, risque clothes of bright blues and purples. Those contours were outrageous, with enormous breasts, an incredibly thin and toned waist, and exceedingly wide hips. I couldn’t tell from this angle but I was willing to bet she had a sufficiently fat ass back there, too. Her skin was a dark, and yet regal brown; her features were a vague mixture of caucasian and middle eastern, betrayed only by her outrageously long, snowy white hair, purple sclera, and elf ears.

She held her arms together over her head and stretched, letting out a satisfied grunt in the process, “mmmhhah…. Wonderful,” she said, in a distinctly… English accent. Hot, but I don’t know why she’d be English. She looked right at me, “Hello, husband,” she said, seductively.

My mind was blank. She was super hot and we were married, apparently, “Uh… hi.”

“I know what you’re thinking. ‘There couldn’t possibly exist a woman of such sublime, ethereal beauty,’ but I must apologize,” she said, flicking her hair and frowning.

She hovered toward me and reached her hand out. I reached mine back toward her, almost reflexively. But my hand passed right through hers, “Unfortunately I can not as yet take physical form,” she said, dejected, “but when I can we will share many a passionate night, I assure you.”

Well if I’m not getting lucky anyway, might as well pick my jaw up off the floor, “Sorry, but I’ve never summoned a genie before. I think you think I know more than I do.”

She scoffed, “Please, my love. No one has summoned me before,” she said confidently; proudly. “This lamp was designed to detect a man worthy of me. It is how I know you will be an exemplary king one day.”

“... King?”

“For now, husband, let’s lay down some ground rules.” She said, laying on the mattress, “I can see into your mind; you have a faulty idea as to how my powers work. I am not interested in granting you three omnipotent, yet rigged, wishes and then vanishing just as when you must deal with the fallout of these wishes.”

“Oh good,” I replied, sitting against a wall, “I was worrying about that.” I decided to joke with her, “So you’re going to stick around and watch the fallout, then?”

She chuckled, “You adapt well. That will be important for your quest,” she said, again ominously, “Discard your fears. I have an honest desire to support you."

I nodded, believing her.

“I, Samira the Immaculate One, will provide you with a wish daily," Ooh, I like that name, "My powers are limited at the moment, which is why the quest will be necessary to restore them,” I gestured to her to continue, “You must make a wish every day, or I will make one for you. But I don’t want to do that; I’m actually quite a sub.”

“Really? You seem so confident.”

“I will confidently create my perfect man to dominate me… and other women.” … What? “That is the quest. In addition to making a wish every day, you will be required to conquer an additional woman every week. Doing so will restore my powers eventually. My wishes will increase in scope and number. My body will eventually return to this world.”

“You want me to bang other girls to restore you?” I asked, confirming.

"Not 'banging', conquering," She said, as if it was an obvious distinction I had missed, "Any man worthy of be will be able to, with my assistance of course, **** many women to so deeply belong to him that she becomes physically incapable of being attracted to or love anyone else but him."

“That... doesn't sound like me," A harem. That sounds exhausting. Mentally.

"And if you don't agree, I will ensure you explode."

"What? Why?"

"Because you would not believe how long I was sealed in that lamp. It has judged you worthy, I will NOT give up easily.” She was pouting. Oh man, this was going to be a headache. But... a harem would actually be nice. I was pretty inexperienced in general picking up girls, but I love girls.

I sighed, resigned, "You might be doing all the heavy lifting. I'm not nearly confident in my abilities to provide you with a... tribute every week." She nodded in understanding, "This is kind of complicated, I wish there were a way to keep track of this…”

She perked up at that, and her eyes flashed with an otherworldly light, “Your wish is my command, Husband!”