Free His Black Pearl by Jena Cryer Page A

groan in the wind. I watch it sway back and forth for several
minutes and already I’m in love. It’s old and beaten, but still
strong. The wind may strike it, the rain may pelt it, and even God
might occasionally curse it for what it is, but still it endures,
and all for just one simple purpose: pleasure.
    My breath catches.
    Master lifts me into his arms, and I don’t
fight him. I stare up at those blue eyes, each one as bright and
clear as the sky above them, and when he lays me across his lap, I
just bask in the warmth of the sun-baked canvas beneath us.
    Oh, God, I really do love a swing.
    His arms encircle me. His fingers caress my
cheek, my breasts, and as we rock back and forth, all of my worries
roll away. He strokes my hair. He says a hundred words I can’t
possibly understand, and when he points to something far off in the
distance, I follow his gaze.
    Sweet Lord, this view alone could make me
want to be his prisoner.
    Below us, the rolling Tuscan countryside
rises and falls from my view. Olive fields and vineyards weave a
tapestry of color no Texas land could ever share. Cottages and
barns spot the earth, while a twisting river snakes through the
sunlight and shadows.
    Far away though, miles and miles from where
we sit, another hill rises almost as tall as ours, and straddled
upon it are the watchtowers and walls of a crumbling Italian hill
town.
    My eyes widen.
    I almost expect it to be deserted, but no,
those ant-like specks in the distance have to be cars, trucks, and
isn’t that smoke rising up from those pillars? People live there,
real people, free people, and if I could just get to them…
    Master tilts back my chin, and when I look
up, his eyes are forceful if not a little sad.
    “Ki, Isa.” He points out to the city once
more. “Ki.”
    Tears well up in my eyes, and I want to
scream. I want to bite and kick and cry and just make him pay for
ever bringing me up here. What in the hell is the point in showing
me how close freedom is if he never intends to let me go? How
sadistic can this man get? Bad enough I have to prance around naked
and shamed every minute of my life, but to be taunted by even the
slimmest hope of escape is almost unbearable.
    My breaths come out hot and angry, and Master
pulls me closer. He rests his cheek on the crown of my head. He
speaks more of his incomprehensible foreign words, and his voice
sound almost…regretful.
    I can’t understand it.
    One minute I expect this man to fuck me, the
next torture me, and now comfort me? None of this makes any sense.
Is he deliberately trying to keep me off balance? If so, I guess
it’s working. I can’t decipher anything that’s going on, least of
all my master’s true nature.
    I’m calmer by the time he finally releases
me, and when he plucks a tiny blue flower from the base of our
swing, I’m not even angry. I can’t think of this as a setback. No,
if anything I should be thrilled to know that hope is not only out
there, but so close at hand. I can escape. I know I’ll escape. And
once I do, I’ll run right up to those big city walls and scream out
for help just as loud as I can.
    Now all I have to do is figure out how to get
away.
    Master traces the tiny blossom across the
edge of my lips, and its fragrance is temptingly sweet. The petals
are just as blue as his eyes, and when he twines its long stem
through the braid of my hair, I steal a quick peak at his face. His
lips are taut, his expression pensive. He’s lost in thought, and I
can only imagine what he must be thinking about me.
    Does he realize what I plan to do? Was this
all just a test of my loyalty? Did I just blow my only chance of
ever gaining his trust?
    I try to stay calm, but it’s so hard to hide
my feelings, and this man is so perceptive. He hasn’t ever truly
spoken to me, but I feel like he knows me better than I know
myself. Surely he knows how badly I want to get away—he has to—and
that means he’ll have to change tactics, right? A light