Someone who knows exactly how he got that car.

"Huummmm!"

Hum?

But the noise that escaped his visitor was the second-most confounding thing about her, because first and foremost was the question: why was the hostess of the party he just left now standing on his doormat? His had been a token invite... so why was she here, with one hand leaning on his doorframe while her face was red? Moreover, why was she dressed in significantly sluttier version of her cheerleader outfit, complete with a few inches off the skirt and a drop-V top that nearly sheared itself in half to show the sides of her gorgeous, unbound breasts? Was this an elaborate prank? This might've been Ernest's natural line of questioning, given his social standing and awkwardness... but the wish from just a moment ago was too fresh for this coincidence to pass unnoticed.

"Huuuhmm... you..." was all she managed as she trembled at his door, her extended arm still keeping her upright as she crossed her legs.

"Did you... hurt yourself?"

"Yes-!" she too desperately moaned before stopping herself. Jessica cleared her throat, wiped her brow, and didn't dare uncross her legs. Why? The thought was all she could manage as she came down from coming. Why was she here, where did she get this hideous version of her uniform... and where were her panties?! The wave of pleasure from the latest wish began to subside, though her groin felt like it was glowing with the heat of Ernest's bumbling wishing.

"I just... s-stubbed my toe."

Ernest did his best to not let his eyes drift from hers. He was a polite enough boy--he tried not to ogle women, he just didn't have the sort of social credit that could take that sort of rumor--but even without glancing down he knew she looked good. In fact, she might even have looked better than normal: despite running a party for some hours now, she looked freshly bathed, made-up, and with her perfect blonde hair just straightened. He smelled something flowery, but spicy rolling from her. Her tits looked fantastic in her top, and her youthful perkiness made it almost impossible to believe they were natural.

Ernest's eyes shot up in alarm; he had dropped his guard. Crap, did she notice?

Luckily, she was still getting over the pain in her toe; and yet she still looked beautiful. How couldn't she? She was the cheer captain... gorgeous, voluptuous, and possessed of the social grace that made her the presenter of their project. He had longed for more contact back then, maybe a few more studious nights together... only she had never had the time from practice to do more than memorize the materials he had researched and prepared. Ernest was never bitter about that juxtaposition; they worked well together... and he had, in his most impossible of fantasies, imagined they would work well together in other ways. But they were just fantasies... dreams.

The girl of his dreams. Was... she the one? Ernest nearly laughed; here he was expecting his famous crush, Selena Gomez, or someone like that... but that was Ernest's mind tried to normalize the madness of real-life wish fulfillment. It was impossible, after all... unless she came with something to say about the car. A small eureka began to build inside Ernest, and he needed just one more push to finally realize the 'impossible' that was real.

Conversely, Jessica was desperately trying to remember what the wish even was. She had heard it at the party... and suddenly she was leaning on this door, fighting an orgasm as someone unlocked the door to witness it-

I wish someone was here to explain to me where that car came from... and that it was the girl of my dreams.

Terror filled Jessica. She couldn't explain where this damn car came from; it would reveal that it came from a wish, and that would reveal... everything! She braced for it, she prepared for her mouth to blabber on its own, or some other terrible, cruel self-enslaving outburst...

... but no compulsion came. Jessica stared, bewildered, as she continued to silently ogle the holder of her ring.

Ernest stared back... and sighed through his nose. Of course it wasn't real; she wasn't here to explain how he got this car. Did he... could they have really snuck a fob onto his keychain at that party, though? If this was a prank, it was the sort of prank only rich jerkass kids could produce... and there lied the most reasonable explanation, the one he hadn't truly eliminated in a Holmes-esque style: Ernest had just come back from a party chock full of those, and they must've been preparing this prank since he got invited. He had kept his head low, so... why all this?

"So did you organize this?" Ernest asked with a long, tired breath.

"Organize... Organize," Jessica repeated, realizing that, perhaps, he really hadn't caught on. Would she accidentally spill the beans if she tried to speak? Or was the ring just not capable of forcing her to say or do what she didn't want? She decided she didn't care right now; she just had to count her lucky stars and get through tonight.

"What... well, what are you... what do you think you mean by... that?" Jessica stumbled as she tried to get her adrenaline and horniness under control. His wish--at least the important part--hadn't come true! She could use this! "And- hey! What are you doing... with my ring?" Jessica's feigned anger suddenly became real. The indignation, after all, of someone leaving her party with stolen property. The first assumption should've been that it was hers or should be left with her! What sense was there taking it like he did?!

"...Wait, what? This?" He flashed the green stone at her. "This is my ring... wait, is this part of the prank?"

To think she trusted him enough to invite him. He was a thief! It was the most dominant theory in Jessica's mind; the strict logic of the ring, while sound, had escaped her capitalist sensibilities. She looked beyond him into the humble house behind him: kitschy decorations that screamed middle-aged mom dominated the walls of the foray-hallway, and dim lights showed no signs that there was anyone else inside to interfere. She just had to play it cool and get her ring back!

"This isn't funny," she said as she uncrossed her legs to assume a more powerful stance, "and you're going to return-"

Flap. It was a soft noise, but neither teenager missed it in the dead night. Both looked down... at a folded piece of paper that fell from between Jessica's legs. She hadn't felt it there... no, she was sure it wasn't between her thighs, or how else would it have gone unnoticed? She wasn't even wearing panties, thanks to her pervert Master, and... and then her hastening train of thoughts derailed and violently crashed into the note that unfolded itself into a standard index card.

A number of famous advertisers, including David Oglivy of 20th-century corporate advertising fame, outlined a rule of thumb as to the font size to use based on the distance between the reader and the subject. A simple font, such as Arial or Times New Roman, permits an easier reading experience throughout, leading to the boom of standard or italicized Times New Roman being used in ads throughout the 1980's. But size was the most crucial: an 8-pt. font, for example, is only good if the reader is barely more than a foot away; a 12-pt. font permits a comfortable reading position, such as one reading a magazine on one's lap; and for readers about five feet or more away, or roughly the height of a normal human being, a font size of or north of 32-pt. can prove-

YOU GOT THE CAR BECAUSE YOUR RING GRANTS YOUR EVERY WISH THROUGH A GENIE NAMED JESSICA EDWARDS

... quite eye-catching.

Although Oglivy might have scoffed at the use of capitalization, such was the case--and font size--of the crotch-moistened note on the ground.