You wonder what Jeremy had planned for Doyle, he had mentioned his
plans for Boomer and Larry, but only had said Doyle's name. Suddenly,
your bottle rocks back and forth, and is hurling toward the wall. You
close your eyes expecting to break against the wall with a loud crash.
Instead you go through the wall and are flying across town. You
recognize Doyle's house as you careen in your bottle into the backyard
and under a bush.
"Now I want you to clean out all those leaves and brush. We need it
all cleared out before the earth movers come to dig the new pool,"
yelled Doyle's mother.
Doyle growled under his breath, and grabbed the bush your bottle was
buried under in his leather gloved hands and yanked. He uprooted the
bush, and you rolled into view.
"What's this?" he asked.
Doyle pulled out the stopper and sniffed.
Whoosh!
You rush out of the bottle.
"Thank gawd, it's you, Doyle. That dweeb Jeremy -oh no, not again - I
am the genie of the bottle, your wish is my command, Master Doyle!"
you say.
"Haha, so Jeremy turned you into a genie?"
"Yes, Master Doyle." You are nervous. You don't like the smile on
Doyle's face or the bulge growing in his jeans.
"And you're my slave now?"
"Yes, Master Doyle, your wish is my command."
"Damn, that's just what I was wishing for - you to be my slave. Not
really sure what else to wish for - but I'm sure I'll come up with
something. Uh, where are your legs?"
You shrug, and say , "Maybe the smoke that goes into the bottle?"
"Right, first off then, I wish you had legs and were standing on your
two feet in front of me."
You feel the muddy earth beneath your bare toes, and wiggle them in
the dirt, as you look expectantly toward Doyle.
He smirks, "Oh, yes, slave! But something's not right. I know. You
should be down on your knees worshiping me bowing."
"Yes, Master Doyle," you say dropping to your knees and bowing low.
Your chest and nose are covered with mud, as you repeat, "Great Master
Doyle, I worship you. Great Master Doyle, I worship you..."
"Yeah, okay, that's enough," he says kicking your side, "Get up. This
shrubbery won't uproot itself. I wish you would clear away all this
brush for me, slave."
You stand and cross your arms, and open your mouth.
"No, wait. Not with magic. I want to see you sweat, slave. With your
bare hands tear out and collect all this brush. Bundle it and stack it
by the alley. Oh, and I wish I had a plush lounge chair to put my feet
up on and a 12 pack of chilled Dos Equis beer to drink within arm's
reach of my chair - oh and with twist off tops, slave."
"Your wish is my command, Master Doyle," you say through gritted
teeth.
The lounge chair and tub of beer appear. You begin to clear away the
brush. Your hands and exposed arms, legs, feet and torso are quickly
scratched by twigs, thorns and branches and covered with mud. Doyle is
a real slave driver, and the way he keeps staring at your butt, well,
it's just downright unnerving. You toil away sweating like a pig. Your
grimy body glistens in the sun. Doyle's boner returns.