A Genie Story, Part 2 (Squire to Genie TFTG)

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

Part 2: The New Djinn

Richomer called out, coughing on the thick purple fog.

“M-Master! Sir Lothar, h-help me! I think a w-woman has p-poisoned me!”

But if Lother had arrived around the corner, he showed no signs of hearing his squire. Richomer tried to scream, but every time he opened his mouth more of the smoke poured in, and it was coming in his nostrils anyway. He coughed and gagged, but soon a more worrying sensation was developing deep within him. It was impossible to describe, but it was like there was a storm ravaging his insides, remaking him, suffusing him with its power and brilliance. 

Richomer groaned, falling back to the ground even if all he could see was the purple smoke and his own form. To his horror, the sensation of power and change danced along his arms and through to his hands. He lost control of them, and they shook automatically, clenching and unclenching as they shrank. Calluses disappeared, chipped fingernails became feminine in their length and perfection. Even the skin colour changed, becoming a dark olive like the Arabs and Seljuk Turks had had helped fight.

“No! No, this c-can’t be! God, help me! Save me from this - nnghh! - from this unholy terror! Please, I p-pray! Aahhh!!”

The power coursed up his arms, returning to the source in his stomach. As it did so, his arms shrank too, not just in length and size but the muscle redistributing so that they became lithe. His meagre arm hair fell away, disappearing into the fog. Worse, as the changes occurred his very armour began to give away, first along the arms and then around the shoulders as they too pulled inwards. 

“This cannot be happening, this simply cannot be happeninnnngggg!!”

More of his skin turned to that rich dark olive-brown tone. His cuirass was no longer in existence at all, instead replaced by the kind of feminine undergarment that was be utterly salacious and scandalous in any region outside of an Arabian harem! It had turned a rich turquoise, a harem top that exposed the greater part of his chest where already a pressure was making itself known. His midsection flattening, muscles dissipating though thankfully not entirely. It gave the young man an impression of a woman’s toned stomach, like that of the dancer he’d once seen in Byzantium as the Crusade collected its forces. 

“I can’t be . . . no!”

It all clicked together in his head at the very moment that the prominent cups of his new colourful turquoise top began to be filled. His nipples flared outwards, growing and darkening like the rest of his skin. In his panic he breathed in more of the purple smoke, and the energy within it seemed to flood directly to his chest, causing it to swell.

“Ohhhhh,” he moaned, voice cracking yet higher, sweeter. “You can’t unm-man me! I won’t be unmanned! Ugghhh!!!”

But he was being unmanned, and slowly enough to make the experience both a horror and a reluctant pleasure. His chest bloomed, gaining an impressive pair of woman’s breasts that grew and grew until they were sizeable indeed. They rose and fell with each breath, fully filling the cups of the squire’s new top, with much of their upper halves and and cleavage displayed quite delectably. 

“Oh God, no! Oh Go-ooooood!”

His neck slimmed, and though he could not see it, he could feel his face change with every panicked inhalation of the misty fog. His jaw rearranged, the bone flexing and changing shape. The warmth of the skin darkening reached up to his face, leaving him to clutch it in a panic. He was rewarded with the sensation of his hair changing, growing outwards until it was long and voluminous. But whereas his skin had darkened, his hair did not become the expected black of a woman of the desert, but instead an almost ethereal copper-blonde. It spiralled out, growing from his head so quickly that it left him gasping, feeling at his scalp in disbelief. His lips swelled just a little, his nose shrinking from its slightly bulbous shape to something far more small and cute. A flash hit his eyes, and though he could not see it yet, he had the distinct sense that they had changed colour. Certainly, his eyelashes were now long and perfectly curled. His hair, still growing past his backside, pulled into a knot at the back of his head, held together by four long golden pins and a golden circlet with gleaming white pearls. Now his hair was like a long tail, holding together almost perfectly and curling at the end. The hair was surprisingly heavy, but already Richomer’s concerns were going elsewhere.

“Ears - my ears!? What in the name of unholy hell!?”

He touched them, feeling them grow to longer points, like the elves of local folklore from his Frankish town’s legends. Little golden caps topped them, and hanging jewels sat from the earrings that suddenly punctured his lobs. He squealed a little in pain in response to this, increasingly reminded of how feminine his voice was becoming.

“I won’t become a woman, do you hear me!?” he cried, but even that attempt to be bold and obstinate in the wake of his changes only brought on more: he was suddenly speaking not just with a fully female - and quite sensuous - voice, but one that had a very exotic eastern accent.

“You won’t take my voice,” the changing man whimpered, even as his hips slowly and uncomfortably pushed outwards. “You won’t take my voice.”

Of course, his voice was already gone, replaced with that of an eastern temptress, the kind of which men of the west sang lustful songs about, much to Richomer’s new shame. More evidence of such a stereotype now appeared on his arms; a dark tattoo of some ancient glyph or rune upon each upper arm, followed by a golden band around them as well. A necklace with gleaming blue sapphire appeared on his neck, and his lower armour shrank and melted away, becoming a turquoise dancer’s skirt with golden coins hanging around the hem. They dangling and clicked and jingled as he swayed his wider hips in a panic, and the effect was further completed by the expansion of pantaloon pants, white and semi-transparent, around his new shapely legs down to just below his knees. His feet became dainty and soft, adorned in rich slippers of that same turquoise colouring, and sapphires laid in golden anklet bracers wreathed themselves into existence from the smoke too.

“I won’t be a - I won’t be a - no! NO! I already am! When did that happen!?”

He was patting his hands, both of which now had golden bracelets around the wrists, over his crotch, feeling at the soft, silken material in a maddened panic. His penis, his manhood, his cock, was gone! In all the discomfort of the growth of his large breasts and the changes to his skin and even the increasingly rondure nature of his behind (was it still expanding?), he had only felt a tingle and then . . . nothing.

“A c-cunt. I’ve got a fucking cunt.”

It was the foulest sentence he had ever conjured, one he would never have dared to say before, even when his blood was up in the heat of battle or lust, but with his new voice and accent it somehow sounded libidinous and sultry. The young man coughed on final time, drawing in a last puff of purple smoke. The final parts of his changes - his fine eyebrows, his slim frame, his gorgeous legs and the outer features of his feminine flower - all completed themselves.

And then, like the magic that had changed him, the smoke suddenly dispersed away, leaving the confused and terrified new woman in the alley all alone.

“A dream!” she declared in her accent. “This has to be a dream.”

Voices of partying crusaders came past, and he determined that this was most certainly not a dream. He pressed his slimmer female body back against the wall until they passed, terrified of how they would see him, and what they might do. She looked down at her breasts as she breathed rapidly, still unable to believe she had breasts now, with their own distinct weight and bounce. The kind of breasts that would make any man go hard with desire, including Richomer if he had anything to be hard with still. His entire outfit was showy; his entire midriff exposed all the way up to the bottom of his breasts, his calves entirely exposed, and his shoulders bare but for the inch-wide strips of blue fabric keeping his harem top up. And the cleavage!

“There must be a way to turn back. God, there must be a way!”

“There is not,” came a voice, echoing from the entrance of the alley.

Richomer squeaked like a woman, holding his beautifully lithe dancer’s arms up in front of his new face to protect himself, until he realised who was talking: the old woman from the store.

“What did you do to me?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said, stepping in just after making sure no one else was looking into the alley. “You did this to yourself, you foolish young . . . well, you are hardly a man now, or even a boy, are you?”

Richomer bit his fuller lip, instinctively lowering a hand down to his crotch before pulling it up out of embarrassment.

“I didn’t know! You have to change me back! I’m not meant to be this eastern slut, this eastern temptress!”

The woman scoffed, folding her arms. “No, you are not. But you did bring this upon yourself. I told you not to take the bottle, and you did. I told you that it carried magic, and you ignored me. I told you that it was intended for another to make her ascend, and now you have ascended instead.”

Richomer gestured to his nubile form. “This is ascension!? This is not like Christ the Redeemer returning to heaven! Or Enoch and Elijah! This is . . . a humiliation! Unholy!”

The woman smirked, her aged wrinkles on display as she did so. “Oh, I imagine many a man would view you as holy, and many more in Arabia. You are, after all, no longer human. You are now a djinn.”

“A djinn? What in hell is a djinn? And how come I can understand your accent?”

The woman chuckled. “It is easy to understand me, when we are both speaking Arabic.”

Richomer’s eyes went wide. “We’re speaking Arabic right . . . now?”

They were. The new woman realised she had been speaking - and thinking - in that language without meaning to the whole time. Her Frankish language was still thankfully with her, but it was . . . secondary, now.

“By God . . .”

“And the power of a djinn,” the woman said. “I am Zaira, and I came across that bottle many years ago, slowly translating its script and preparing to work its magic so that I could be rewarded with youth and prosperity. That was the deal I made with the Seljuk ruler; I would be granted extension of life if a worthy noble vessel was transformed into a djinn to fill the bottle’s emptiness. Only one of noble blood can become so, such as a fine wife or daughter of a Seljuk, but . . . evidently you must carry enough nobility to satisfy. Hmm. I wonder if I can get my wishes from you instead.”

Richomer’s rage increased. Despite his smaller body, he was prepared to attack this woman if it meant getting what he needed back again. He shifted forward, his numerous bells and coins clacking together in a symphony of his dancer’s sashay. His hips shifted from side to side easily, and his fine breasts bobbed while his hair swayed, trailing as it did past his own behind in length.

“You will turn me back!” he nearly shouted. “Or else I will - ngh!”

He stopped even as he reached out to grab the woman. The braces on his wrists glowed a heated orange as if they were in the middle of a smelter, though it did not hurt. He simply could not shift them any further forward. He growled, shrieking like the angered woman he now was, but nothing could bring him to harm this woman.

“What do you know?” the woman said. “It seems that I was the one that wasted time, believing I needed to go so far as an empire’s ruler when some low noble’s son would truly suffice. You cannot harm me, djinn.”

“What - what is a djinn!?”

She chuckled. “You have not heard the stories? Surely your people would know of them? Or do you know them as the genie?”

Richomer’s eyes widened. “The genie . . . eastern spirits who grant wishes. Who serve . . . masters.”

“And it appears I am your master now. Or mistress. Oh, this is a wonderful day. According to the translation, you are bound to the lamp and those braces. You cannot harm humans, only grant their wishes. There are limits, and I’ll leave you to discover them, but for now, you should recognise me as your mistress.”

And in that moment, as if being told it made it so, Richomer did. 

“Y-yes, Mistress,” he said almost demurely, as if this woman and not Lothar were the individual he served.

“And you should be given a new nature. I imagine the magic will work slower there, but all genies have a djinn name.”

Richomer searched deep within himself - within herself - and found the truth. She didn’t want to admit it, or acknowledge it, but a new name was bubbling up from that deep and trying to encroach upon the surface: Saida. Saida the gorgeous Djinn.

“N-no, Mistress. Please, just change me back!”

The woman shook her head. “You have looted your last store, barbarian. At least you intended no harm, so I shall be sympathetic, and after my wishes are cast, your new home will find a new place in the desert, waiting to be discovered again. So let’s make this quick, before your crusaders find us.”

Richomer strained, but couldn’t help but say, “yes, my Mistress.”

The woman looked around, checking no one else was coming. “I shall make my wishes then, and let you come to know your new life. First, new djinn, I wish to be young again - in my early twenties - and deeply beautiful.”

The new djinn felt a sudden urge to express his power flowing through him. 

“Your w-wish is my command, m-mistress!”

He clicked his fingers and folded his arms across his breasts, letting the trailing transparent silk from his wrists wreath through the air artfully. Suddenly, before Richomer’s eyes, the woman reverted in age quickly, becoming young and beautiful.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” she declared in her younger voice. “Though you look still better than I. I am almost jealous. I now wish that I shall live a life of noble prosperity and good fortune, free of sickness and ill health.”

Again, the new genie granted the wish. It was impossible not to; the power that emanated from Richomer’s female core pushed out of him - her - like it needed to be released. Or birthed.

“It is done, Mistress,” he purred automatically.

“And lastly, I would like my aging to be much slower. Ten times as much, but people are incapable of noticing this so that I am not harassed over it!”

The final surge of energy, the final release. For a moment, Richomer has the sense that this wish could be twisted in some way, perhaps by interpretation, but such power was as-yet beyond the transformed former male. It was something that could only be unlocked by embracing his new identity as Saida, and that was something he absolutely refused to do.

“It is done, Mistress,” he said again, “your three wishes are fulfilled, and now I must return to my bottle and find a new Mistress or Master in another corner of the world.”

The woman smiled, tears in her de-aged eyes. “Thank you, Saida. And though I am not unglad about this, I wish you well in your new life! I’m sorry to say it is yours!”

Richomer snapped out of it as a new, stranger form of power overcame him. He gasped in terror as his legs began to thin and turn to the same smoky material he had inhaled before, as if it had suffused with his essence completely. He did not fall as expected, but floated on the spot, even rising up into the air over the captivated Zaira, who beheld his form with awe.

“The legends were indeed entirely true,” she said.

“What legends!? What is happening to m-me!? My legs!”

They entwined together like those of a mythical siren’s tail, only this tail was made of the purple fog, and the end of the tail drew towards the bottle upon the ground, hovering at its open aperture. Somehow Richomer felt a connection to that bottle in that very moment, an instinctive understanding that it was tied to his power, part of its source . . . or containment. And that’s when he remembered one of the other famous parts of the genie legend that had managed to trickle to his far western homeland, the part about how genies - male and female - were enslaved to their lamps or bottles, cursed to reside within them until discovered by mortal hand.

“God, help me!” he cried, shrieking with his female voice. It was loud enough to gain the attention of those outside the alley, and suddenly there were shuffling boots upon the ground.

“Silence!” Zaira hissed. “You do not want this attention.”

“Then change me back!” he screamed hurriedly as his hips became smoky, his entire lower half now drawing into the bottle, slowly circling into its opening.

“I cannot! Nothing can, as far as I know! You must accept the fate you brought upon yourself with your looting.”

“But I’m just a squire! Sir Lothar needs me! He-”

“You are not a squire anymore, child. You are a djinn. A beautiful one at that, blessed in looks and body, immortal and powerful. I wish you well, truly. Your power has granted me the life I desire, so I hope that one day you can accept your own. For now though, there is nothing that can be done.”

“No! Noooooo!”

But his screams grew ethereal and faint as the bottom began to suck him in, drawing his essence into its aperture. His entire form turned to that purple smoke, though his upper half remained at least far more identifiable until it reached the glass, at which point his shape thinned, pulled through the thin tube rapidly. For the merest moment he could see through the purple glass, staring up at the gargantuan form of his former Mistress Zaira. But then there was a flash of that power, this time emanating from his braces and the bottle itself, and the environment around him changed completely to one of a blazing orange desert in the middle of the far east. The middle of nowhere. The last thing he had seen was Zaira moving away in a hurry, and Sir Lothar approaching in surprise, uncertain of what was going on. Richomer wasn’t certain if Lothar had seen him at all, but if he had, he wouldn’t have recognised Richomer.

He would only have seen Saida.

To Be Continued . . .