His Black Pearl

by Jena Cryer

  I fought against my restraints, but I was just too weak. I could barely even hold my head up by the time the shopkeeper slipped those leather greaves around my shins. I still couldn’t even understand what they were for? Each one stretched from toe to knee and they were so thick I couldn’t even bend my ankles. How would I ever be able to walk?

  My breath caught when I realized that might be the whole point.

  “Just little more, bella.” The shopkeeper stuffed my fingers inside those stubby leather gloves. “Then Pietro bring out you carriage.”

  He picked up his mortar again, and he rubbed more of that sweet-smelling poison all across my body. His fingers went everywhere. My throat. My breasts. My legs. When he finally rubbed the last of that warm lotion across my pussy’s inner lips, darkness danced at the edge of my vision.

  But I had to stay awake.

  As long as I was conscious, I still had a chance at freedom. I just had to be smart. I had to find the right opportunity and—

  The sharp, rusty squeal of old metal broke through my thoughts, and when the shopkeeper knelt in front of me again, his smile was even wider than before.

  “See, I told you no take long. Now look, bella. Pietro bring beautiful chariot for beautiful lady.”

  He tilted my chin to the left, and when I looked down, a giant, empty crate laid waiting for me. My heart raced. Oh no. No, no, no, no, no.

  “Is okay.” He wiped away my tears with those soft leather gloves. “No cry now. Is happiness I’m giving. No place for tears in happiness.”

  His hands moved to my waist, and he hoisted me up without ever unbinding my wrists. My body slumped across his shoulder. I cried harder when I felt my feet touch the soft padding inside the bottom of the box, but I couldn’t do anything to stop him. He folded my legs beneath my chest and pressed my head upon the pillows. He chained my still-bound wrists to my ankles. He tethered me to the floor of that crate in the perverted pose of a kneeling supplicant, and when he was done, he clapped his hands.

  “Bene, bella. Molto bene.”

  I shivered uncontrollably, but the leather bands holding me down hardly let me move at all.

  “Please.” I finally managed to whisper, but he just shushed me.

  “No more words, bella.”

  His gloved hands swept aside my hair, and when I opened my mouth to speak again, he slid a heavy rubber ball between my lips.

  I gagged.

  “Breathe, bella. Just breathe for old Pietro.”

  He stroked my hair gently, and slowly I calmed down. When I finally stopped choking, he strapped the gag in place and then held up the blindfold.

  I cried even harder.

  “It break heart to see you like this, mia bella… my pearl.” He traced his finger across the band of my choker before sliding the blindfold over my eyes. “But old Pietro no break promise. He know what you need, and he make sure you get it.”

  He stroked my ass. His fingers teased my cunt. Once more he reached inside me, and just like before the stirring was back. I knew I should fight, but I didn’t want to. The darkness was just too tempting. My thoughts slid away as the drugs finally overtook me, and all I could feel was the pulsing heat between my legs and the overwhelming hunger for more.

  I moaned into my gag, and the shopkeeper removed his fingers.

  “Not just yet, mia bella. Sleep now. In morning, you have new life, happy life, then all things better. Old Pietro promise.”

  And then he closed the lid.

  Chapter Four

  I’m sobbing.

  I was so stupid, so very, very stupid.

  Why did I go to that shop alone?

  Why didn’t I wait for Erica to get back?

  Why didn’t I just go straight to the police?

  Oh, God, I could ramble through a million whys, but no amount of second-guessing can change my situation. I’m trapped. I’m at the complete mercy of a perverted lunatic, and there’s nothing I can do. There’s nothing I can fucking do.

  For the millionth time, I test my bonds, but it’s no good. I can barely even wiggle an inch, and my fingers are tingling and useless inside those stupid leather gloves. All I can do is lay here and breathe. Just breathe. Just take in one breath of hot, humid air and then another. That’s what my life has become.

  Hours pass. I think nothing can be worse than this monotonous dread, but when the truck’s engine fades away, I curse myself for ever wishing this limbo to end. Hell awaits me. Only a demon would lock me up like this, and I cry harder just thinking about the misery to come.

  Outside, heavy footsteps pace the ground. Voices emerge. I try to listen to what they’re saying, but I can’t make out the words. Are they even speaking English? I can’t tell. I think it might be easier if I could understand them, but then again…

  My crate moves.

  I suck in a quick breath when I tip forward, but my bonds hold me in place. I’m being unloaded. Deep grunts and more muffled words filter through the boards surrounding me, but my heart’s pumping too hard to hear much of anything.

  Where are these monsters taking me?

  I sway back and forth for what feels like hours until finally I feel the bottom of my crate settle solidly against the ground. I can’t stop shaking. The voices are louder now. I think I recognize shopkeeper’s nasal tenor, but there are others, too. Are they all…are they all here to break me in?

  I think I’m going to be sick.

  Wood cracks above me, and I scream uselessly into my gag. What’s going on? Did that old shopkeeper actually nail my crate shut? Lord, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had. I wouldn’t be surprised at much of anything now.

  There’s a final crack, and then fresh air streams across my naked skin. A hand touches my head. Another rests upon my shoulder. My pulse is so loud I can hardly hear their words. I just tremble as they pull my pallet forward and pray that my agony won’t last long.

  Someone removes my blindfold.

  I blink up at my surroundings, but the light is too bright. I can’t see anything. My eyes burn, but I refuse to close them for more than a second at a time. I need to know what’s going on. I have to see where I am, and then, maybe, just maybe, I can figure out what to do next.

  The voices are low, almost whispering, and when I look up I see rough shadows at first and then sharper silhouettes. There are three of them. The one nearest has to be the shopkeeper. His gloved fingers rub my back as he speaks to the shadow beside him. This one makes only a few clipped replies, and his bare hands roam across my legs, my ass, even my breasts with almost clinical detachment.

  I shiver harder.

  Directly ahead, the last man kneels on the floor, but he doesn’t say a word. He’s still just a blur, but I know he’s watching me, assessing me like some sculptor might evaluate a piece of marble.

  Is this my master?

  I squeeze my eyes shut at the thought. I’m not a slave. I’m a free woman. I’m Adair Bartlett and nothing these monsters can ever do will stop me from being who I am.

  Fingers brush my cheek.

  I try to jump back, but my bonds hold me in place. Oh, God, it’s starting already. My breaths quicken. Darkness eats away at the corners of my vision, and just when I think I’m about to pass out a warm breath caresses my ear.

  “Shh.”

  I freeze.

  Soft words rain down from the man sitting beside me. He wipes the tears off my cheeks. I can’t understand what he’s saying, but his touch is so kind, so gentle that I almost forget where I am.

  When I finally look up at him, I lose my breath.

  Oh, God, he’s so beautiful.

  I’d expected a monster, not the god I see before me now. Wavy blonde hair hangs down across his temples, and his body might as well have been sculpted by Michaelangelo himself. He doesn’t look much older than I am—27, possibly 29 at the most—but his face has the same knowing serenity that I saw chiseled upon the statue of David, and his eyes…

  His eyes are like liquid sky, the bl
uest blue I’ve ever scene, and when he smiles down at me my heart quickens for reasons completely unrelated to my capture.

  Oh, Lord, I’d almost forgotten about my capture.

  My breath hitches when I remember where I am, and I’m sickened by my weakness. This man isn’t someone to lust over. He’s a perverted psychopath. He’s going to rape me, probably even kill me, and here I am swooning over his good looks.

  When he unbuckles the belts holding me down, I expect him to flip me over and take me here and now, but he doesn’t. He just releases my wrists and ankles. He helps me onto my hands and knees before he pushes back my sweat matted hair and whispers a single word.

  “Isa.”

  I don’t know what that means.

  He strokes my cheek one more time, and then he backs away. They all back away. I don’t know what’s going on, but as soon as I have room, I bolt. I scamper across the floor on hands and knees, but the tiles beneath me are slick and my limbs are still so weak. I tumble forward. My head smacks the corner of an antique table, and a vase crashes to the floor. I expect a beating, but when the blue-eyed god rushes towards me, his hands merely probe my head for lumps before he gives my back a reassuring pat.

  “More careful, bella.” The shopkeeper kneels down beside us. “Vase can be replaced, but master already too taken with his Isa to lose her now.”

  His Isa?

  So that’s what I am to this man, just his slave girl, his Isa.

  I shake even harder. I really am a slave. The suspicion was enough to send me into fits, but the confirmation nearly undoes me. I back away from the man I now know to be my master and don’t stop until my back hits a wall. No one stops me. They all just watch. My master. The shopkeeper. The man in the white coat.

  I hadn’t given much attention to the last stranger, but when my eyes settle upon him, I notice his thick build first. Heavy muscles strain against his thin jacket. Russet hair tops his head, and a short leather crop hangs from one arm.

  My eyes widen.

  For some reason I hadn’t expected a crop.

  I shove my hands against the wall behind me and struggle to get to my feet. I have to get away. I have to run. Bad enough to be naked and bound, but to be beaten, too?

  I crumple to the ground over and over again, but I still don’t give up. Those shin guards, those greaves, those…whatever in the hell they are, they’re as inflexible as steel. I try to bend my ankles, but I can’t. My feet are locked ballerina-like beneath me, and I can’t even bend a toe for support. It’s almost as if they don’t want me to walk, as if… as if…

  As if I’m meant to crawl.

  My gut churns.

  I want to tug them off—I have to get them off—but when I reach for the buckles, my hands are beyond useless. Fat, stubby fingers stretch out from inflexible leather gloves, and I go cold. Did that bastard chop off all my fingers? I’m halfway to clinical shock before I realize that no digits are severed. They’re all just curled up. Each one is bound into a tightened little U, and my top knuckles are pulled back so that all I’m left with are a pair heavily padded palm heels.

  Sweet Lord, my hands are no better than paws. Why they—

  Understanding finally kicks in, and I slump to the ground. Oh, God, what do these people plan to do to me?

  More talking emerges, but whatever language they speak, I can’t understand it. I can’t make out much of anything right now except the most basic of information.

  I’m in a room. A big room. The shopkeeper and his cohorts stand on the other side, but I can’t focus on them now. No, I need to figure out a way out of here. There’s a heavy oak door on the far wall and a long corridor to my right. A huge marble staircase rises up behind me.

  Wait a minute. Is that really marble?

  I’d expected to find myself locked inside some dusty basement but this…this is pure luxury. Handmade tapestries hang from the walls and frescoes cover the ceiling. Far above me a giant gold-leaf chandelier lights the room.

  Dear Lord, this place makes the Palazzo Vecchio look like a pauper’s den.

  If not for the adrenaline still burning through me, I might have might lost myself in the details of this gorgeous prison, but I force myself into action. Futile as it may be, I have to at least try to escape. The door is only a few yards away. If I can just get to my feet…

  I wobble onto my toes, but my legs fold after only one step. My chin bounces against the tile. If not for the ball gag, I might have bitten through my tongue, but thankfully all I’m left with is a sore jaw and a couple of aching knees.

  All three men hurry towards me.

  My master reaches me first. Once more he examines me for injuries, but I’m not bleeding, and I’m pretty sure I’m not concussed. When he’s done he just shakes his head. He addresses the men behind him in a clipped voice, and then the shopkeeper and the man in the white coat move to my legs.

  My heart beats faster.

  What are they doing? Oh, God, why are they holding me down?

  I try to kick out, but the shopkeeper’s hands are like vises around my ankles. I thrash out with my arms, but my master grabs my elbows.

  “Ki,” he says.

  I’ve never heard the word before, but from the sharpness of his tone, I know it can’t be good.

  I go still.

  Tight leather bands bite into my upper thighs, and when I hear the rattle of a chain, I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m shaking hard. My master releases one of my arms and reaches up to stroke my hair. He cups my face in one hand and whispers soft shushing sounds into my ear.

  Why is he doing this?

  He doesn’t look like a monster, and he doesn’t act like one either. Well, not unless you count the kidnapping part. He holds me gently. Tenderness fills those blue eyes, and even though I can’t understand a word he’s saying, I’m comforted by every syllable he speaks.

  Sweet Lord, what is wrong with me?

  The men behind me bend my knees, and after a final rattle and click of the chain, they step away. My master strokes my cheek one last time before following them. When he stops halfway across the room, he drops to one knee and holds out his hand.

  “Alore.”

  I don’t know what he wants.

  I try to go through all the Italian phrases I memorized, but his words have none of the familiar cadences I remember hearing in Florence. The dialect is too hard, too primal, and I wonder if he’s even speaking a Romantic language at all.

  He beckons me forward. “Alore.”

  Okay, so he wants me to come.

  I clamber onto my hands and knees, and when I crawl forward, I nearly fall on my face. What in God’s name…

  I look behind me. Thin silver chains stretch from my ankles to the bands wrapped around my upper thighs. I can’t stretch out my legs. I have just enough slack to crawl, but any hope of standing is completely gone.

  Sweet Lord, these bastards have hobbled me.

  I try to pull off my newest bonds, but as soon as my hand touches the chain, a sharp sting bites my ass.

  “Ki!’

  The man in the white coat holds his crop above me, and I cower against the ground. Tears fill my eyes.

  Please don’t hit me. Please, please don’t hit me again.

  I keep my hands far away from the chains on my legs, and slowly he retreats. A snap to my right turns my attention back to my blue-eyed master.

  “Alore.”

  I rush forward before the man in the white coat can lift his crop again.

  My master hugs me when I reach him.

  “Sona,” he says. “Sona. Sona. Sona.”

  His fingers dance across my scalp, my back, my neck, and for a moment, I almost feel…good. The thought sickens me, but it’s true. This man’s praise—at least I’m guessing that’s what sona must mean—is a welcome relief compared to the whipping I’d just received.

  His touch almost makes me forget where I am, but then I hear a snap beneath my chin, and when I look down, another silver chain hangs fr
om my neck.

  My breath catches.

  He put a leash on me. This man actually put a leash on me.

  I jerk away, but the lead is short and his grip is tight. My leather choker digs into my neck, and the pearl bounces against my throat.

  My pearl…

  I’d wanted it so badly once, but that was before I had any idea of the horrors to come with it. I sob. Only a few days ago it was just part of a beautiful necklace, but now I can see it for what it really is.

  A collar.

  And not just any collar. My collar. The only piece of jewelry I ever wanted, and the very one I sold my soul to attain.

  Oh God, how stupid am I?

  My breath quickens. I struggle for several more seconds, but it does no good. That god-like man is holding the other end of my leash, and no matter how much I try, I know I’ll never be able to fight my way free.

  For all the trouble I give him, though, he doesn’t yell at me. His eyes are calm. He holds out his free hand and once more says that word single word: “Alore.”

  I crawl forward obediently.

  More sona’s fill the room. Master’s hands consume me. The shopkeeper laughs. Even the man in the white coat smiles.

  Each one of them pets and praises me, and even though I know I should feel disgusted to be treated like some animal, a small part of me feels almost…proud.

  I shudder.

  Dear Lord, where did that come from?

  I’m not this man’s slave or his pet. I’m a woman. A free woman. I just have to figure out how to get out of here, and then everything will go back to normal.

  And that’s what I really need right now. Normal.

  The shopkeeper places a bowl of water in front of me, and my master removes my gag. I know what they want me to do, and I know if I had any self-respect I wouldn’t do it, but I can’t help myself. I’m thirsty, so thirsty, and the water’s right there. I lunge forward, and when I dunk my whole face in the bowl, more sona’s surround me.

  I guzzle down every last drop.

  My face and hair are drenched by the time I’m done, but no one chastens me. My master just pulls me into his arms and lays my back across his lap. The shopkeeper hands him a towel.