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My Wish Is Your Command	By : GeorgeGlass Category: +S through Z > Simpsons Views: 60500 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 6
Disclaimer: I do not own The Simpsons or its characters. I made no money from writing this story.

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My Wish Is Your Command
by George Glass
Summary: Twenty-three-year-old Bart Simpson is a convicted sex offender, living in an abandoned trailer and barely getting by—until he stumbles onto a magical object that enables him to rewrite his entire life. Now, starting at age ten, Bart has ultimate power, and he’s taking being a sex offender to a whole new level.
Note: This story is not intended to be compatible with Simpsons canon or to accurately represent the characters. It is inspired more by Simpsons-related r34 art than by the show itself.
Note 2: If you are kind enough to review this story, I will respond to your review here: http://www2.adult-fanfiction.org/forum/topic/69395-review-responses-for-my-wish-is-your-command-the-simpsons/

Prologue
Bart Simpson, age twenty-three, sighed as he walked up the dirt road toward his isolated trailer. Being a registered sex offender meant there were a lot of things he couldn’t live within 500 feet of: schools, daycares, and playgrounds, among others. This had left him with a very limited selection of places to live in the city of Springfield. His status had also rendered him unemployable, forcing him to scratch out a living salvaging car and motorcycle parts at the dump and wherever else he could.
The funny thing was that although his life circumstances sucked ass, he didn’t totally regret the choices—choice, really—that had led him here. Terri Mackleberry might have been drunk off her ass when he’d found her alone in the back yard at Nelson Muntz’s house party, but she’d been a good fuck. Not because she’d participated in any way, other than moaning weakly for him to stop, but because her pussy was virgin-tight.
He could hardly blame himself for his indiscretion. Bart’s first overtly sexual thought had happened when he was a prepubescent ten-year-old, when he saw Sherri and Terri climbing out of a public pool. Their wet swimsuits clung to their asses, and Bart had wondered what it would be like to grab a handful of each one. And then to pull those swimsuits off and see what other fun could be had with the twins’ young bodies.
At the party, Bart had given it to Terri three times before leaving her in a half-naked heap in the bushes, his cum leaking from her well-used pussy, while he went back inside for another beer—and to casually look around for Sherri, as he was idly curious to know if her snatch was as tight as her sister’s.
Terri had eventually called the cops on him. But she hadn’t wanted to go on the witness stand and testify, so even Bart’s cheap-ass lawyer was able to whittle the charges down to something with the word “indecency” in it. As a result, Bart spent only 30 days in jail, but he’d still had to register as a sex offender. Hence his living out here in the goddamn woods.
The site he’d chosen for his battered trailer was strategic. Being fairly deep in the forest and far from everything, it was a popular spot for illegal dumping. Bart didn’t have much use for the moldy old sofas, but people dumped cars and trucks here, too. Those he could scrounge from.
Jesus, he wished he had someone to fuck. Sometimes, groups of teenagers came into these woods to party out of sight of the cops and other adults. What Bart wouldn’t give to find a high school girl who’d gotten massively stoned and wandered off, one whose equally stoned friends wouldn’t realize she was missing until she crawled back hours later with cum dripping from every hole. He could get away with it if he was careful; it wasn’t like Springfield’s inept cops had Bart’s DNA on file.
Bart was coming around a curve in the road when he noticed a flash off to his right, somewhere in the trees. Something metal had caught a ray of sunlight. He left the dirt road and wended his way between the thick tree trunks to take a look.
He found the remains of a car that had rusted to almost nothing. But the gleaming object Bart had spied through the trees wasn’t a shard of a broken side mirror or a bit of chrome from around the headlights. It was a little gold oil lamp, like something out of a fairy tale.
“What the fuck is this, a carnival prize?” Bart murmured as he picked up the lamp. Then, just for the hell of it, he rubbed the lamp and said, “O powerful genie, come out and grant my wishes.”
Suddenly, blue smoke billowed from the mouth of the lamp. Bart dropped the lamp with a shout and stepped back, and a moment later, there hovered in front of him a turbaned man—or half a man, as he was pretty much all smoke from the waist down—with jet-black skin and flashing eyes.
“Who summons me from my lamp?” the genie demanded.
Bart quickly composed himself. “I’m Bart Simpson. Who the hell are you?”
“I am the genie of the lamp,” the being proclaimed. “And for releasing me from my long confinement, I have it within my power to grant you a single wish.”
“Hey,” Bart said indignantly. “I thought you guys were supposed to grant three wishes.”
His voice no longer booming, the genie replied, “We do, but that’s not per customer. Each genie can grant three wishes total, and another mortal used up my first two wishes back in the ‘70s.”
Bart’s eyes narrowed. “What did he wish for?”
“His first wish was for all his debts to be paid off. Not too imaginative, especially when he could have wished for unlimited wealth, but I figured, hey, maybe the first wish was just a warm-up.
“But then his second wish was for a Ford Pinto. Which is frankly the most stupid thing anyone who ever picked up a lamp has wished for. So I made the car appear right above his head, and it fell and crushed him. I should have thought that through a bit, though, because my lamp ended up under the car with his corpse, which is why I am still here in this godforsaken junk-forest forty-five years later.
“So you may make one wish. And for fuck’s sake, make it a good one, or the last thing you’ll ever learn in life is what the underside of a ‘76 Pinto looks like.”
The funny thing was, during his many hours of picking through trash, Bart had often fantasized about what he would ask for if he’d been given just one wish. In fact, he had put quite a lot of thought into it. So he knew exactly what to say.
“I wish,” he said, “for ultimate power. Not just now, but right from the beginning…”
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My Wish Is Your Command