Once upon a time, long ago in a land far, far away, there was born a girl of extraordinary beauty. Her parents named
her Amira, meaning Queen, because she was so lovely and they hoped her future would shine as brightly as her physical appearance.
Fate was not as kind to the fair maiden as her parents had prayed. Her silken, gold hair, delicate face, and slender form drew the attention
of not only those who truly loved her, but the unwanted attention of a powerful, evil sorcerer. The wizard Bakr desired the fair maiden and
wooed Amira with words plucked from a dead poet’s heart, and the finest silk woven by spiders, creatures created with his magic.
His final gift was a breathtakingly beautiful rose carved by trolls from blood-red rubies dug from the Earth’s belly.
Alas, the fair maiden was in love with a handsome youth named Omar. Being kind in spirit, Amira turned Bakr down gently, but a scorned
sorcerer is not to be reckoned with, and the earth trembled as the wizard’s anger spewed forth violently.
Bakr strove to create a unique and cruel punishment for the fair Amira, turning her into one of the djinn. She would not be an ordinary
djinn, like those who granted three wishes of a new Master, moving on to a new owner each time they were fulfilled. Amira would be forever
condemned to stay with a Master throughout his lifetime, fulfilling his or her deepest, darkest sexual desires.
Every djinn is governed by rules, set forth by the Master djinn, Hadji. A powerful sorcerer may succeed in changing the edicts slightly,
as Bakr did, adding one specifically tortuous command. Amira was compelled to watch the fulfillment of her Masters’ sexual desires
while she was forever denied physical release, unless it came by her own hand.
Throughout the endless centuries, Amira lived alone in her lamp, serving countless self-centered Masters, and long ago sickened by
their lustful, selfish fantasies. Oftentimes, sorrow overcame her and she dared to dream of the day a caring Master would release her
from eternal imprisonment. The fair maiden wept through the centuries and millennia, her tears sparkling like splintering diamonds
dropped from a dragon’s eye. Would any Master ever fulfill her wish?
-- Chapter One --
Nick finished his java at Starbucks, and then started for his car parked down the block. On the
way he passed Anne’s Antiques and Collectibles, a tiny shop crammed between a Krispy Crème and Carl’s Comics. It was
one of those places piled high with flea market finds, mostly junk, but a few jewels managed to shine amongst the clutter. Wryly, he
thought the sign should read Anne’s Junk and Collectibles. Just as many other pedestrians, Nick paused for a few seconds
and stared inside, his eyes sliding with disinterest over the items offered for sale.
Strolling on, he halted after he passed a few storefronts, then returned to examine the “collectibles”. He didn’t know
why he was pulled back, but it seemed an irresistible urge. After peering at the crudely made statues and commonplace glassware jammed
against each other on several end tables, his gaze landed on an old sofa behind the tables. Shaking his head at himself, it hit Nick
why he’d returned. The worn burgundy velvet settee with heavily carved rosettes on the back, looked exactly like the one his
grandmother had owned and treasured.
Recognition had drawn him back; curiosity pulled him into the shop. Feeling obligated to look around, he browsed the stacked shelves in a
few minutes, finding the old cups, saucers, and plates uninteresting. The knick-knacks were not the fine pieces of artwork his grandmother
had collected, but rough knockoffs, made in places like Mexico, Korea, and China.
Snorting softly to himself, part in disgust at calling such items antiques and part due to the gritty dust that lay over many items,
Nick wandered toward the front. His undirected steps took him back to the sofa. He stood behind it and ran a hand along the tattered
velvet, its texture evoking memories of flopping on grandmother’s settee, his feet propped up on the arm.
Nana would give him a gentle reprimand, but her chuckling smile always softened her firm words. How he’d loved his nana. Shrugging,
he turned to leave. Grandmother Adesso was long gone, and sentimentality had no place in his busy life.
An object sitting on the nearest table caught his eye—it stood out starkly against all the junk surrounding it. An old oil lamp,
the kind depicted in the Arabian Nights tales. The one found by Aladdin. His thoughts once again flitted back to summers spent at his
nana’s, how he loved her reading fairy tales to him at bedtime. One of his all time favorites had been Aladdin’s Lamp. This
lamp was no less dirty and scuffed looking than the collectibles around it, but it had presence. It looked out of place, a fish out of
water. He was compelled to go over and examine it and didn’t understand his own actions in doing so.
Picking it up, Nick was impressed by its heaviness; perhaps it was better quality than it looked. Black coloration ran rampant on most
of its surface, only a few places gave evidence to its metal origin—brass. Flipping it over, he was pleased to find the underside
less tarnished. Strange writing scrolled around the circular bottom, some of it obscured due to age or rubbing.
The writing looked Arabic. He knew this because one of his coworkers was from the Middle East, and a secretary had recently asked him to
scribble her name in Arabic so she could see what it looked like. After one person had asked, it became the craze in his office—to
have Mohammed write everybody’s name in Arabic. He’d not asked, or cared, but his personal secretary had taken it upon herself
to do it for him, bringing the slip of paper excitedly to him just last week. She was such a sweet elderly woman and thought she’d
done something he’d appreciate, and he didn’t want to hurt her feelings by showing complete lack of interest. Taking it with
a slight smile, Nick waited until she left before sticking it in a drawer. It’d been totally forgotten until today.
He was shaken from his thoughts when the only shop employee in the place came up to him, putting on a helpful face as she asked the
inevitable question, “Can I help you?” A hopeful gleam shone in her eyes and Nick thought she was probably the owner. He
had a friend in the antiques business, and even though he sold fine quality items, it was still a tough business.
“I’ll take it.”
The woman took the lamp from him, walked briskly to the beautiful old cash register and rang up the purchase. Twenty dollars, plus tax,
was a pretty good buy. While she wrote out the ticket, his thoughts idled over the lamp. Why am I buying it? He couldn’t answer
his own question, other than to figure it was a spontaneous purchase, something he didn’t normally indulge in.
His busy life was ordered, scheduled, and pigeonholed—except when it came to women. Only with the opposite sex did he enjoy
spontaneity, allowing himself the luxury of making instantaneous decisions to go home with someone he’d just met. Vacations were
also centered around this impulsive thinking, or not thinking, so to speak. The rest of his life was taken over by controlled thought
processes and major decisions. He enjoyed these breaks from the rigors of his career. True, his two-week vacation was chosen
carefully—anything from a cruise to a trip to Europe. But once at his destination, he let instinct and feeling take over instead
of planning every detail.
The other few weeks he received as hard-won compensation, for all the overtime and responsibilities of his profession, were completely
spontaneous. Either he just jumped in his car and drove to a state he’d never visited before, or hopped a flight to a strange
destination. Meeting women from around the country was exciting; each state had its own unique flavor. Tanned beauties along the sandy
beaches of east, west, and southwest coastlines; dark-eyed Senoritas from the southwest; aggressive career women of the east coast;
soft-spoken southern belles; lovely buxom gals from the mid-west; and the athletic women from northeast America—his list could go
on and on.
A throat clearing shook him out of his revere. The middle-aged shopkeeper was gazing at him strangely. He was probably staring into
space with a lascivious look on his face. Just thinking of his conquests made him hot. Thanking her politely, he grinned to himself
as he left. If the conservative-looking owner knew the true track of his thoughts, she’d probably be mortified.
Once outside, he walked with brisk steps to his yellow Viper, pitching the bag onto the floorboard of the passenger side. Taking off
with a more than normal spurt of speed, he headed the long nose of the car toward home.
* * * * *
Without being aware of it, Nick ignored his purchase, perhaps forgot it. The crumpled bag sat on
the car floorboard for weeks, until a date exclaimed when her feet landed on it one night. Scrounging beneath her four-inch heeled shoes,
he withdrew the bag and took it upstairs with them.
Nick pitched the bag onto a chair once inside and proceeded to move forward with this night’s true purpose, to work lovely Diana
out of her clothes and her pretend modesty. A sweaty, pleasant sexual session followed, and he outright lied when he promised to call,
as they kissed at the door.
At the click of the lock, Nick’s thoughts were already on his next conquest, a sweetmeat of a sexy lady who happened to be a
new employee. He barely recalled the departing woman’s name. Certainly, he had no intention of calling her; one-night stands
were more his style. His answering machine would cover him if she phoned, while his well-versed and experienced secretary took care
of stray phone calls from the irate females who bothered to call him at the office.
There were women he had longer relationships with, but none of these women were interested in a commitment and their interactions were
solely based on both participants attaining sexual satisfaction. The beer he’d grabbed from the fridge was downed before he noticed
the out-of-place brown bag lying in the middle of his favorite leather chair. Annoyed, he picked up the bag and headed for the kitchen.
His foot had punched the lever to open the aluminum trashcan when his fingers started to itch.
