A Genie Story, Part 3 (Squire to Genie TFTG)

Just a short instalment this time! I've attached the story so far below.

By FoxFaceStories

A Commission for CreepyJ

It is the Siege of Antioch in the First Crusade, and the young squire Richomer is following his master knight’s example in raiding the city after it has fallen. But when he takes a valuable bottle, ignoring a woman’s warning, he is shocked when he opens it and he is instead transformed into an attractive Arabic djinni! The new djinn must grapple with her changed gender, species, and powers as she hopes for a master to let her out.

First Part

Previous Part

Next Part

Part 3: A New Home

Richomer shouted and wailed, bashing his tiny fists against the glass wall of his prison. As usual, it was useless. He had been stuck in the bottle for well over a week, and there was nothing but desert outside when he chose to look. His djinn power still resided with himself, but it also spread throughout the strangely magnificent interior of the bottle, and this too was partly subject to his will. He could make the walls return to a fully opaque purple glass, or have them draped in fine silk and cloth curtains, or simply make them provide windows to the outer world again to check on its progress and mark the changing days. There were other tricks he could indulge in as well: he could make the lighting dark when he wanted to sleep, or have it light up like the night sky to give the appearance of such, so that he could reimagine camping under the stars. Or he could make it bright with eastern lanterns, as if a festival were occurring within. He could not conjure food or drink as far as he could tell, but perhaps such things were not beyond Saida, were he to ‘let her out,’ so to speak, and embrace his new djinn - or djinni - nature. 

He would rather die.

The same was true of exploring his female form. The potion bottle had many rooms and chambers, some of which he could summon adjacent to the central one, as if deciding upon a door’s nature would change its destination. There was a sort of heating room where he could relax with nothing but a towel, pouring water on hot embers, as well as a magnificent walk-in wardrobe that was incredibly expansive. Unfortunately, the hundreds of outfits within were just more expressions of a scantily clad djinn, some even more scandalous than his own turquoise outfit. He tried a few on just to see the colours and attempt some kind of magical alteration to himself, but all he succeeded in was looking utterly luscious and libidinous in the massive reflective mirrors by his new change rooms. The red satin one expressed his cleavage and hips far, far too much. The worst part was that while he knew he was incredibly attractive - even with the fae-like ears - he was not actually aroused by his own appearance.

Indeed, little aroused him, nor did he want it to. He explored his new womanhood briefly, but refused to give it attention beyond that. Occasionally, when he slept upon a mound of plush purple pillows, he dreamed of strong arms and muscled figures, but he always awoke gasping, casting the Saida part of himself from his mind and refusing to acknowledge the dream’s substance. In such moments, his nipples throbbed, his large breasts aching to be touched. But when he thumbed his soft fingers over his nipples, he would always catch himself moaning like a whore in heat, and quickly stop. 

“Lothar would enjoy this sight,” he grumbled, putting his small harem top back on and adjusting his ludicrously long hair. “Stupid old man. I miss him. But I wish I never listened to him. I’d still be a man. Still be human. Still have my manhood!”

He sighed, flopping back. He had barely explored half the bottle’s interior in the time he’d been trapped, but his lethargy grew each day. Why explore? What was to be gained? God had seemingly forsaken him, leaving him incredibly female and otherworldly, a strange spirit of the east, trapped in the sands of that region. At times, he found himself talking to old figures: his parents, Lothar, other crusaders, his childhood dog, even imaginary friends he conjured to be invested in the various outfits in the change room, the ones adorning the mannequins in various sensual poses. It was just a way of passing the time, particularly as days stretched on, becoming weeks. 

He continued to explore after this period, though talking to himself did help; it reminded him of who he was, that he wasn’t truly female. It particularly reminded himself not to touch himself down there, no matter how much he dreamed.

“I shall dream of food and drink only,” he said, touching his flat stomach as he moved, wearing little but his skirt and harem top, through the halls of his new realm. “And maybe one day I shall actually feel hungry or thirsty again. Did she say I was immortal, or was I imagining it? Surely no being under God would be. Surely not . . . and if so, why this torment?”

He sagged, drooping his shoulders as he entered another room he had missed, one that was almost invisible due to the bright mosaic upon it that merged seamlessly with the wall around it. His breasts drooped too as a result, hanging like two ripe melons from the North African coast. He’d never get used to the feeling of those breasts, he swore.

But he forgot all about them as he entered the room and saw what was within.

“A library!” he declared, staring up at the largest such institute he’d ever seen. It was immense, with spiralling staircases, rows upon rows of books in numerous languages and archetypes and thicknesses and subject matter, scaffolding up several stories in height and far into the distance. “Finally, I won’t be totally alone! Thank God I learned to read, and to think Sir Lothar mocked me for my learning!”

He practically danced forward, uncaring how feminine his movements were, or how his hair swished from side to side and his breasts bounced heavily in his top, his chest straining against its containment. He finally had something to do beyond trying to relax and ignore his new feelings, emotions, and womanhood. He ran from section to section, recognising some texts, not knowing others, and seeing that others still would require him to learn a new language; a daunting but possible prospect. The new djinn laughed, finally feeling a small but powerful relief, but even as that reached a crescendo, he stopped before a single purple covered tome, ancient and marvellous, that stood upon a stand in the very centre of the library. It was in the most ancient script, pre-Arabic. Something far older. Something primordial.

And he could read it.

“The Magic of the Djinn and its Four Elemental Aspects,” he read. “An Instruction on the Nature of the Power of the Djinn, their Wishmaking, and How it Can Be Wielded.”

His eyes widened as he realised what he was looking at: an actual guide to djinn magic, one that he could finally learn from and use to his advantage.

“I can use it to escape,” he said. “Perhaps even transform back. Zaira was wrong: I won’t have to become Saida!”

He moved his dainty hand to the tome, prying it open after undoing the latch, and carefully looking over the pages. There were numerous instructions on spells, powers, wish-granting and limitations, and even matters of transformation.

“Yes,” she gasped, heart beating in his immortal and very fine chest. “Yes!”

But then suddenly there was a rumble. A surge of power. Automatically, Richomer flicked his hand and allowed himself to see through the walls of his prison. To his shock, a hand was clutching at the bottle and beginning to rub it. Beginning to activate it.

“No! No! Just wait! Wait one more moment!” he cried in his high voice.

But it was too late. Richomer was already being summoned as Saida the Djinni, his form turning to mystic smoke - now turquoise in colour to match his essence - as he was catapulted out of the bottle and into his new reality upon the sands.

Out to meet his new Master or Mistress.

To Be Continued . . .