I hate fishing, but my uncle made me do it. Standing on the dock, babysitting a rod while he does his thing behind the bushes. I fuckin’ hate this.
Then the line jerked.
I reel it in, and my eyes nearly explode. It’s not trout. Not carp. Not even one of the vile catfish. No—it’s goldfish. But not goldfish gold. Like, actual gold. Shiny. Metallic. Blinding.
And then it speaks.
The bastard thing speaks.
I almost throw it back in the lake. “What the fuck?!?”
“Release me from my form,” croaks the fish in a raspy, annoyed voice, “and I will grant you a wish, young man.”
“Holy shit.” I blink. “You’re like, a genie fish?”
“One wish,” it snaps.
“Just one? I thought I should have three.”
“One,” it growls.
I scratch my chin. What do I even require? Money? Forget it, I’d blow it on junk food and Funko Pops. A girlfriend? Sure, but she may dump me, and fat guys like me don’t exactly have doorlines full of people waiting.
“What do you want most?” the fish groans, exasperated.
I think. My favorite. The only thing that never lets me down. Chocolate. Rich, dark, smooth chocolate. Better than sex. Not that I’ve ever had sex. But still.
“Fine!” I shout. “I want to cum the world’s best chocolate instead of. you know, regular stuff. Forever.”
The fish stares at me. “You’re a weird little perv.”
“Don’t mind,” I grin. “Choco-jizz, baby.”
Heat radiates throughout my crotch as if my balls have reached the divine. I say the words under my breath: “I hereby release you from your form.”
Poof. Poof. The fish is no more.
I sprint in, close the door, and bring it out. One quick yank later, and—holy crap. Chocolate. Smooth, gloopy chocolate all over my hand. Not Hershey’s swill, either—this is Godiva straight from the fountainhead. I lick it. Oh. My. God.
Then the doorbell rings.
She’s my neighbor. She’s hot, older, with a rep. Not saying it out loud, but, you know, she gets around.
She smirks. “What’s up?”
I’m still radiating excitement, so I just come out and say it. “I can shoot chocolate. Off my dick.”
She laughs. “Yeah right.”
Five minutes later she’s on her knees, testing the merchandise. Her eyes widen. She swallows. Then swallows some more. “Holy shit, this is incredible.”
Word gets around. Quick.
Before you know it, I’ve got girls at my door, begging for a taste. High school girls. College girls. Moms. MILFs. It’s like Willy Wonka’s secret factory.
You begin with blowjobs, three a day, as if I’m maintaining an appointment book. Then one of them asks, “Why don’t we do the whole thing?” and I’m no longer a virgin anymore. And another. And another.
Turns out chocolate jizz is addictive. They’re hooked. They’re addicted.
And me? I’m bingeing like a fiend. From fat kid to svelte sex machine. I’m radiating health. Even Coach gives me a nod of approval as I stroll by.
But there’s a downside.
See, they can’t get enough. Ever. Every woman, every girl, they need more. They queue up, scratching at my clothes, begging, moaning, screaming for a taste.
I don’t know how much longer I can handle.
I woke up one week ago with five girls in my room, licking me to death. Yesterday I stumbled in the locker room after getting attacked by the cheer squad. And tonight—well, I can barely make it on my own. I’m so tired. Drained of all energy.
On my bed, trembling and pale, looking at the ceiling, I think: maybe I should have wished for money.
Or a PlayStation 5.