Myra Nour - As You Wish (Ellora's Cave) Read online

  AS YOU WISH

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, March 2004

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  PO Box 787

  Hudson, OH 44236-0787

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-84360-814-6

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  AS YOU WISH © 2004 MYRA NOUR

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Raelene Gorlinsky.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  AS YOU WISH

  Myra Nour

  ACKNOWLEDGMENT

  Thanks to Raelene, my new editor, for being so helpful and talented.

  Prologue

  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 Kreme 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 had 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 s
peak. 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 reverie. 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.

  Chapter Two

  Setting the purchase on the green granite countertop, Nick scratched his fingers furiously, and then picked up the crumpled bag. But, then his palm itched like crazy. Scratching his hand until it reddened, he stated out loud, “Okay, you’re not going in the trash.”

  Chuckling at his idiocy, Nick fished the lamp out of the bag and then threw the bag away. This time his palm remained calm. Sitting on the couch, Nick plopped the old lamp on the coffee table. What was it with this ugly thing? Why did he like it?

  Everything in his apartment was modern, from his furniture to his abstract paintings, courtesy of an interior designer he’d fucked one weekend. Luckily, she’d been like-minded and demanded no further “dates”. Of course she did demand payment for her services, which he agreed with, until he saw the results.

  The clean modern lines were all the rage with his business peers. The modern furniture looked cold to him, the predominant white not adding any warmth. He was convinced, too, that whoever created the pieces didn’t keep comfort in mind. Personally, he’d preferred a comfy recliner and a thickly padded couch to lounge on. But as a successful investment broker who often had business dinners to host and frequent women visitors, he was forced to keep up appearances. He had to wear the persona that others expected of him, even in his own apartment.

  The paintings that hung on his walls were the worst. Nick never understood the globs of paint that flowed or splashed across abstract artwork. They looked like an angry child had painted them.

  Nick knew if he were honest with himself and true to his own personal tastes, his apartment would be furnished with antiques. Not the “fru fru” embellishments of his nana, but elegant pieces, such as Queen Anne style.

  Picking up the old lamp, Nick blew out a breath. Maybe that’s why I bought this. Because he really did like its old world charm. But if he were going to keep it as an objet d’art, it was going to have to look presentable. Setting it back down on the counter, it took him a few minutes of rambling through his kitchen drawers to locate the polish he’d purchased to clean the sterling silver frame that held that god-awful abstract above his couch. He hated polishing that frame and it usually turned a dark gray before he tackled it. His weekly maid, Maria, would probably polish the frame if he asked. But for some reason, he felt it was his burden to bear.

  He read the jar label. Good, it would work for most types of metal, including brass. Thumping his jaw, he stared at the dirty lamp. He needed something to rub the polishing cream on with. Maria brought her own cleaning supplies, so no dirty rags would be left in his apartment. Going quickly to his bedroom, Nick grabbed one of his neatly folded T-shirts. Soft cotton. An ideal polishing cloth.

  First, he squirted out a good dab of polish onto the lamp, then spread it with one corner of the shirt. He stuck two fingers under a folded layer of the material and rubbed vigorously. The scrubbed area came out a dark golden-red. It was the lovely patina of old brass.

  As Nick examined the cleaned spot, an eruption of blue smoke suddenly shot from the spout. Startled and confounded, Nick flung the lamp away from him. It landed in the middle of the room, in an upright position. Fumes of blue mist billowed from the spout, gliding swiftly upward and forming a tornado shape. Nick sat stunned and immobile.

  Abruptly, a dark shape began to solidify within the smoke. A woman’s figure. The mist slowly dissipated, leaving a gorgeous young woman standing in front of him, her hands clasped together in a prayerful attitude. She was dressed in a harem outfit, which reminded him of the costume worn by Barbara Eden in that old TV show.

  Even her long, silky gold hair was drawn up in a fashion that imitated the TV genie. Her costume was made of velvet and silk, the color a pale blue with navy trimming the edges. Blue fringes hung just below her bust, swinging gently as she moved. An intricately woven silver belt hung low on her hips, resting at the waistline of the pants. She was breathtaking.

  “How may I serve you, Master?”

  Nick had sat dumbstruck while the smoke erupted from the lamp. At the softly spoken words, his bottom jaw dropped. Was this…could this be real? Finally, sanity returned and he said, “What’s going on here?”

  The woman’s lovely brow knit slightly. “You have called me from the lamp to serve you.” Her sweet smile lit her whole face and she gently added, “I am your genie.”

  “But…but…that’s not possible.”

  “Am I not here?” She cocked her head at him, looking cute and mischievous.

  “Yes.”

  “Do I not look real?” She ran one hand slowly down her sleek thigh.

  Nick’s throat went dry and his cock hardened instantly. Those luscious curves certainly looked real.

  “Of course you look real…but you can’t be. There are no such things as genies.”

  Her chuckle vibrated through him with its feminine appeal.

  “Few mortals think we are real, until faced by our essence.”

  She strolled over to the couch and Nick found himself scrunchi
ng down into its hard back.

  “Touch me.” She held out a delicately shaped hand.

  His momentary fright disappeared. He wanted to touch more than just the proffered hand, but restrained himself. Her skin was warm and soft. She felt real.

  Coming out of his fugue state, he said firmly, “Wait a minute, this is a joke.” Glancing around his living room, he asked, “Are we on Candid Camera?”

  Shaking her head and smiling, she said, “No, and you do not really believe that.”

  She was right. He didn’t. No magic mirrors or special effects could make a gorgeous creature slip out of a small lamp in a plume of smoke. “You are an honest to goodness genie?”

  Covering a giggle, she responded, “I am, Master, although not always good. But, yes, I am a genie.”

  “And what should I call you?” He smiled encouragingly.

  “Amira.”

  “A lovely name.” His voice had grown husky and his cock hardened just looking at her. His attention refocused on the fact that he was faced by a genie.

  “So…you grant me three wishes?”

  “No,” she shook her head, sending her silken ponytail swishing back and forth. “I grant your wishes as long as you are my Master.”

  “Really.” Nick rubbed his chin. “This is starting to look up.” Staring at her lush curves, his thoughts flew here and there. “All right, I wish for a million dollars.” He tapped the palm of one hand. “Right here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, Master. I can only grant certain kinds of wishes.”

  “Wait a minute, you’re setting conditions. I thought I was the Master,” he chuckled.

  “You are.” She executed a graceful bow of her head and upper body. “But I am restricted by rules.”

  Folding his arms, Nick stared at her. “This sounds fishy, but go ahead, give me the bad news. You’re probably going to tell me I can only use my wishes for the good of mankind, or maybe I can’t wish for things like material gains.”