They were cuddled together in bed, spending some time in erotic play before going down to breakfast. Finding the wishing ring had made their lives free; they had money, now, and time. They could indulge themselves in any way they wanted. Some people would have begun a destructive downward spiral of hedonism, but they hadn't. They had enough sense to use what the ring gave them responsibly.
She giggled as he playfully grabbed her breasts, mock-wrestling her onto her back. He kneaded the spectacular pair he had wished for her last night, making her shiver with pleasure.
"What is it with you and boobs, anyway," she said, playfully. "All you want to do is fondle and lick and squeeze them."
"I don't know," he replied, smiling, keeping his hands busy. "I guess it's just part of being a guy. All I know is I wish I could spend all day holding your tits."
There was a startled pause, as they realized that he was still wearing the wish ring. Then he gave a cry, which dwindled to nothing as his hands flowed across her breasts, turning white and flat and cottony, followed quickly by the rest of his body. The ring plopped onto the bed beside her.
She grabbed the ring in a panic, and jabbed it onto her finger, then paused as she realized two things. Though the ring might not give them exactly what they wanted, it could not directly harm them, as they were it's true owners. And he had included a duration. She grinned as she examined the new bra. It was warm and soft and fitted perfectly, and felt as if it were alive. An impish idea struck her.
"Well, dear, it looks like you're stuck for the day," she said, wondering if he could actually hear and understand her. She played with her large, shapely breasts, fondling herself through the fabric of her husband. "Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. I'll be your jock strap tonight."
This document is Copyright 1999 by Rodford Edmiston Smith, who can be contacted at: firstname.lastname@example.org by those wishing to arrange permission to reprint this story.