His Black Pearl

by Jena Cryer

  ***

  When I wake up, Samson is gone.

  At first I think I’ve only been asleep for a few minutes. The sun still clings to the horizon. Only, I realize with a jolt, it’s the wrong horizon. A whole day has passed. The sun is setting once more, and I shiver as I watch the shadows grow longer.

  What am I going to do?

  At least when I had Samson, I had hope. Last night, I’d been so filled with adrenaline that I hadn’t noticed how close to dying I really am. Looking down at myself now, though, I cringe at how skinny I’ve become. My ribs press tightly against my skin, and my breasts don’t seem quite as full as they once were.

  No wonder Master finally gave up on me.

  That IV might have given me fluids, but it didn’t do much in the way of sustenance. I’ve been out of it for so long that for a time hunger was only a vague inconvenience, but now it presses upon me urgently.

  I’m starving. No, it’s more than that. I’m caving in.

  I stagger to my feet. I cling to the wall for support and search the barn. Everything here is old, though. Cobwebs drip from the rafters, and a pair of ravens flutter against the ceiling. I creep outside, and the landscape is much the same.

  Weeds. Untrimmed shrubs. Collapsing fences.

  The field is completely overgrown. Except for Samson and me, I doubt anyone has been here for years, maybe even decades.

  I stumble over a pile of stones, and when I fall, I don’t even think to get back to my feet. I just crawl. I’m halfway around the barn when I realize what I’m doing, and even though I’m shaking, I force myself back to my feet and stumble onward.

  Oh, God, if my parents could see me now.

  My dream still burns fresh in my mind. It never faded, not really. I know I’m just some disgusting creature now, that I have no right to expect my parents to love me, especially after what I’ve let myself become, but still, I can’t let them down so easily. My parents would want me to be human, so that’s exactly what I intend to be.

  I’m shaking hard when I finally stagger around the back of the barn, and then I see it.

  A crate.

  Several crates.

  They’re stacked upon the back of an old truck lying vacated across the yard, and my breathing turns fast and erratic. My heart pounds. All I can think of is that box the shopkeeper put me in. Is he nearby? Did I somehow wander onto his property? Is he going to find me here and box me up again only to sell me to someone else this time, a new master who’s hard and cold and mean and…

  Oh, no. No, no, no, no, no!

  I’m sobbing uncontrollably now. I don’t even mind that I’ve slumped back to my knees. What does it matter? I’ll be spending the rest of my life on them anyway. I’ll be the slave of some new man, some man who isn’t Master.

  Oh, God, I want my master!

  The thought’s so quick and heartfelt that the shock of it nearly pushes me over the edge.

  Don’t think like that, I tell myself. You can’t think like that. You’re wrong. Everything you’re feeling is wrong. Remember what Momma said. You’re sick. And if you stay here, you’ll always be sick.

  I’m on my feet again. I’m ready to bolt, but just as I turn to flee, a breeze carries the scent of something sweet and familiar. I freeze.

  Grapes. Those crates are filled with grapes.

  I creep forward.

  Looking at them more carefully now, I realize these boxes aren’t anything like the crate I’d been trapped in. They’re slatted, and lined with tarp. One of them sits partially open, and when I squint, I can just see the piles of black grapes waiting inside.

  My stomach growls.

  I cross the yard in less than a moment. I don’t know how I manage to climb into the bed of this truck, but somehow I do. I stagger over to the open crate, and before I can stop myself, I shove my whole head inside.

  Food. Wonderful, wonderful food.

  My teeth rip through the tiny black grapes, and I moan as their juices fill my mouth. My mother’s voice is in the back of my head. She tells me to slow down. Use my hands. Don’t just eat like an animal.

  I tell her to shut the fuck up.

  I’m starving, and no matter how much I’ve slept today, I’m still exhausted. I eat and eat and eat, and when my stomach turns, I retch over the tailgate before turning back and digging in for more.

  I have no idea how long I gorge myself.

  The sky darkens. A bright moon hangs high above me. In the distance, an owl hoots, and I jump. Behind me, the barn is just a dark outline. A cool breeze caresses my skin, and I shiver. My nipples are hardened nubs.

  I need to find shelter. I need to go back to the barn.

  As if to press the point, several fat drops of rain pelt my skin. A clap of thunder echoes across the hills and lightning brightens the sky. I can’t stay here. Last night was warm, but tonight doesn’t look so hospitable.

  Still, the thought of curling up in that dank barn with its rodents and ravens and spiders is almost as repulsive as the journey I would have to take to get back there. And besides, what would happen to my grapes if I left them unattended?

  I’m not sure when I decided it, but my leg is already inside the crate before I realize what I’m doing. The small fruit squishes around my skin. Stems tickle my back and thighs. I sigh as I sink down further. Grapes roll across my belly and chest. My chin dips beneath the surface, and when their plump little bodies press against my lips, I can almost feel Master’s fingers gently stroking my cunt.

  My eyes pop open.

  I know I should chide myself for the thought, but I’m just so tired and full and content. Surely one little slip up isn’t all that bad, is it?

  I don’t have the energy to dwell on the matter any further. My eyes drift shut. A single grape slides between my parted lips.

  As I fall asleep, I try to tell myself the wetness between my legs is just from the fruit.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The roar of an engine wakes me up, and my head bumps against the side of my crate.

  The truck is moving.

  It’s moving!

  Oh, God, how stupid could I be? Crates of fruit all stacked upon the bed of a motor vehicle, of course they hadn’t been abandoned. Someone must have picked those grapes. I hadn’t noticed any nearby vineyards, but I was so out of it yesterday that a concert could have been playing behind me and I wouldn’t have heard a note.

  The truck hits another bump, and I bounce.

  Should I make my presence known?

  I’ll be found no matter what. I can’t imagine how anyone could overlook a naked woman lying chin-deep in a crate of produce. Still, I have no idea who this driver is. What if he doesn’t want to help me? What if he just takes me back to Master?

  Or what if he takes me for himself?

  Shivering, I reach up, and pull the half-opened lid soundly shut. No, I can’t say anything now, not when I’m so vulnerable. Better to just wait, see where we’re going, then I can make a decision.

  I rip a whole in the tarp lining my crate and peer outside. Hills and vineyards roll past as the driver turns onto the same road I’d taken with Samson only two nights before.

  God, had my freedom really been that short-lived?

  This man must be taking me back to Master. Surely he saw me lying here in the back of his truck. He wouldn’t just drive off without checking his cargo, now would he? No, I bet he saw me. I bet he knows Master, and now he’s taking me back, probably expecting some sort of reward for his trouble.

  All I can expect is the crop.

  I’m a huddling, shivering wreck as the truck bounces and dips along the road. For a brief moment, I wonder if I should try to make a run for it. Could I survive a fall from this speed? Surely we’re not going any faster than 30 miles-per-hour. I could live through that, right? I might have a few broken bones, but I’d be alive, and I’d be free.

  My heart is pounding. I glance outside again, but confusion overtakes me as I stare down at the road.
r />   Cobblestone?

  Where did cobblestone come from?

  I think back to my escape two nights ago, and I’m sure that Samson’s feet never hit any cobblestone. We’d ridden across a dirt road, so where did this street come from?

  My transformation into this semi-animal state must have made me stupid, because it takes nearly a full minute before realization hits. This truck isn’t taking me back to Master. It’s taking me away from him. It’s taking the same route I’d planned during my impromptu flight, a route that will take us straight into town.

  I smile so big it hurts.

  Freedom, rescue, salvation, they’re all so close now.

  I can hear the mull of people outside. Other cars drive past us. The steady clop of hooves echoes through the narrow streets. Voices rise and fall as they pass by in Doppler-like fashion.

  I can’t see much, not right now. We’ve pulled into town and the streets are painfully narrow. All I can see are sun-baked brick walls as I peer between the slats of my crate.

  I want to pop out of this box so badly. There are people here, people who can help me, and naked or not, it’s all I can do not to leap from this truck and throw myself at their feet.

  Hold me. Save me. Tell me I’m human.

  I need so badly to feel human again.

  The truck turns a corner, and I take a deep breath. It’s now or never. The vehicle’s brakes whistle as we come to a halt. Behind us, the steady clop of hooves goes silent. Slowly, I ease open the top of my crate.

  Only my shock keeps me from screaming.

  I’m staring past the back bumper of the truck now, but I can’t focus on anything except the tall woman standing in the center of the road.

  Only she’s not really a woman.

  Naked, her ebony skin glistens in the sunlight. I watch the rise and fall of her breasts and hear the jingle of the tiny gold bells hanging from her pierced nipples.

  She stares at me, but she doesn’t speak. She can’t. What looks like a horse’s bridle is strapped around her head. A heavy bit pulls back her lips, and the blinders pressed against her face force her to stare directly ahead.

  Directly at me.

  A squeak escapes my throat. I clap a hand over my mouth and duck back inside my crate. I’m shivering. I can’t stop shivering. I can barely breathe as I rip away more of the crate’s inner tarp and stare through the back slats.

  I keep waiting for the woman to give me away, but she does nothing. She just stands there, her back straight, chin erect, arms bound tightly behind her. In the background, a man sits perched atop a small, single person carriage. He shouts out what sounds like a greeting to the gentleman across the street and then gives the reins in his hand a swift tug.

  I watch the woman’s head jerk back. I see her pivot. The thin leather harness that binds her to the carriage pulls taut against her skin. She raises one foot and steps forward.

  And that’s when I see the boots.

  Oh, God, I hope they’re just boots.

  Brown leather wraps her legs from hip to ankle only to end in what looks like glossy black hooves that envelop her feet. No human foot could fit in such a small enclosure. I cringe as I realize her bindings must keep her on permanent tip-toes, and suddenly my old greaves don’t seem nearly so bad.

  She brings her knee up to her pelvis with each step, and as she pulls her cart around the truck, her strides slowly building into a trot, I see the long, black horse-hair tail hanging from between the cheeks of her ass.

  Oh, sweet Lord, what kind of fucked up world is this?

  I can barely breathe. The truck pulls forward once again and an avenue of perversion opens up before me.

  More vehicles pass by. I see several trucks, a handful of topless cars, but mostly, I just see carriages. Small, light carriages, all with these…these ponygirls attached to the reins.

  White. Black. Brown. Bronze. Skin color doesn’t matter here. It’s equal opportunity debasement.

  Across the street, several girls are tied to a hitching post of sorts. Each one has her arms strapped behind her in long, leather sleeves, and several lower their lips to the trough in front of them as a man in overalls rings out a sponge and starts to wipe down the tall Nordic woman on the end.

  His hand disappears into the slit between her legs. She stomps her hoof-bound foot on the ground several times before arching her back and letting out a deep moan.

  This is so, so fucked up.

  Surely a whole town couldn’t be this deranged. I mean, this can’t actually be normal, can it?

  The truck turns around a corner. We pull down a street lined with wide sidewalks and tall store fronts. I see men walking now. Several are dressed in suits nearly as nice as my master’s, and at the end of their leashes collared women crawl by their side.

  I’m whispering “No, no, no…” over and over in my head as I watch a red-coated gentleman pause in front of a bakery. A tiny Asian girl crawls at her master’s feet, and when the old baker comes out with a tray full of bread, she pops onto her ass and whimpers until the shopkeeper slides a piece into her mouth.

  The old man fondles her breasts, and she leans into his touch.

  This is way, way beyond fucked up.

  Not a single woman wears clothes. Not a single one speaks. None of them are really human. They’re all just naked, subservient animals.

  They’re all just like me.

  A sob boils ups in my chest. I bury my teeth in the heel of my hand as a line of ponygirls trot past the open slats on my left. The steady clop of their feet mixed with the soft jangle of their bells covers the sound of my retching.

  No one’s eating these grapes now.

  I know that everything I’m seeing is sick. It’s twisted and perverted. It’s nothing like the wholesome Baptist life my parents raised me to live. I should hate it all.

  But if that’s so, why are the sights around me making my pussy throb uncontrollably?

  My hips thrust against the grapes. I can’t stop them. There’s no denying the wetness between my legs now, and it’s not the grapes. It’s me.

  I sob again.

  Daddy has every right to hate me.

  I should kill myself now. I should use whatever little bit of coherent thought I have left to just end this. Better to die half-human than to live as one of those beasts forever. Right?

  Outside a pair of women splash through the leftover puddles from last night’s thunderstorm. There’s something vaguely familiar about the sway of the blonde’s hips as she rubs her body against the redhead beside her. It’s not until she snatches her neck out of her partner’s lips, coy detachment playing across her every feature, that I finally realize why.

  It’s Miss Priss.

  The man with the handlebar mustache holds her leash loosely in one hand as he talks pleasantly to the redhead’s owner. At his feet, Miss Priss prances. With a haughty glance at the woman behind her, she lifts her ass in the air, and the redhead’s face disappears between her legs.

  Even from the truck, I can hear her heavy pants.

  Her master chuckles as he looks down. The man beside him shakes his head and smiles. I watch the redhead dig her face further into Miss Priss’s clit. The blonde moans low and deep, just like she did when my lips touched her back in Master’s villa, and I breathe faster just remembering our times together.

  Her back arches. She’s just about to come. I expect a cry of ecstasy to rip through her throat, but instead, all I hear is a squeal. She whirls on the ginger and bares her teeth.

  “Not so hard you little cunt!”

  Her body stiffens. Her eyes go wide, and no one moves. Even my truck cuts its engine.

  Outside, heavy footsteps break the silence. The redhead scurries to her master, but Miss Priss doesn’t move. Fear lines her face. The man with the handlebar mustache drops to his knees and wraps his arms around her.

  She’s shaking hard.

  I’m frozen in place. Everyone is. All eyes are on the trembling woman and her master as
a man in a black uniform slowly approaches them.

  Miss Priss is sobbing now.

  Her master pleas with the uniformed man. He’s holding Miss Priss tightly. He shakes his head over and over again, but the official above him just holds out his hand.

  Within seconds, more uniformed men arrive.

  They pull the mustached man away form a now-hysterical Miss Priss and jerk the leash out of his hand. Several hold him back before the rest of them turn on my former playmate.

  The girl’s heaving sobs fill the otherwise silent square. The man in black raises his voice to speak to the crowd. I can’t understand what he’s saying, but he pulls a rolled-up poster out of his briefcase, and when he holds it up, I can see the picture easily enough.

  There are two images on the sheet he holds. One is of a woman sitting at a table. She’s wearing a heavy sweater and blue jeans. Hardly a speck of her skin shows. In her hand, a fork dangles from her fingers as she leans forward to speak to the man across from her.

  A giant red X superimposes the image.

  Beside it, the same woman lies naked at a man’s feet. Her mouth is gagged. Her hands are hog-tied to her feet. With one hand, the man holds her collar so that her back arches painfully before him. With the other, he cups her breast.

  A permissive green circle surrounds this picture.

  Two men now hold Miss Priss to the ground. Her breasts spill out across the sidewalk. One of them grabs a clump of her hair. He yanks back her head.

  My heart is hammering along with hers.

  The man in black lays his case on the ground. He opens it. Stainless steal gleams in the sunlight. He pulls out a pair of forceps and a thin scalpel. Miss Priss shakes her head back and forth, back and forth, but the officer just grabs her chin. He forces open her jaw. His forceps dig out her tongue, and when he lowers the scalpel, I close my eyes tight.

  Miss Priss’s scream is loud and terrible against the silence of the square.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t move. Fear silences me just as soundly as the blood now gurgling down Miss Priss’s throat.

  Dear God, if you lose your tongue for speaking, what do you lose for running away?