Mr. Ginger and the Djinn

Zazzomathad coughed and Miss Paisley turned her attention back to the djinn.

"That's your three wishes all used. I hope you are satisfied. May I wish you both long and happy lives. Farewell," he said giving them a little bow. Then, slowly at first but more and more rapidly as the breeze caught him his smoky form dispersed until there was nothing left.

Mr. Ginger took a step forward and Miss Paisley raised her eyes. She saw his groin area and averted her eyes but couldn't help taking a second look. His penis was splendid being a good six inches long and nice and thick, the shaft gradually narrowing before swelling out to his heavy bell-shaped glans. His cock rested against a thick nest of dark orange pubic hair and was slightly darker than the rest of his skin.

It was the best she had ever seen. After retiring but before her eyesight started letting her down, she had joined a life drawing art group where they had sketched or painted nude models; both male and female and from memory this penis before her was easily the most attractive -- especially as it was all for her. Miss Paisley felt the dampness in her rejuvenated slit increase until she was definitely dripping wet down there. But, to her disappointment, the man's cock remained limp and hung loosely down before him. There wasn't even a twitch.

Mr. Ginger caught her eye and gave a rueful half smile.

"Bet you wish now you'd never had me doctored when I was a kitten."

Miss Paisley then used a word she'd never used in all her eighty-one years of life.

"Oh, fuck," she said.

And the moral of the story is: Always be careful of what you wish for as it might come true.

The End.