Chapter Six
Four weeks later, Dimitri was far less sanguine about his chances of success.
They had not been bad weeks. Indeed, once Felicity was fully reassured that Dimitri held no ill will toward her for the dastardly crime of succumbing to his seduction (though he was careful not to phrase it so), they settled into a pleasant routine.
While Dimitri preferred the comfort of his well-appointed bottle for sleep and private relaxation, Felicity was adamant that as a roommate he deserved his own private space, and so she cleared the second bedroom of all manner of mystifying tools and half-finished projects, then set his bottle safely in one corner.
“That way,” she said with a faint blush, “you can come out of your bottle without worrying you’re going to appear in an awkward situation.”
“Ah,” he said dryly. “In case it is Naked Day. You know, if you wish to have a Naked Day, I am more than willing—”
“No more Naked Days!” Felicity squeaked adorably. “I’m just saying, like, if I’m doing yoga or... I don’t know. Privacy is important.”
“It is,” he agreed with a bright, non-threatening smile.
He was taking great pains to be extremely agreeable.
And so each morning he awoke early and slowly prepared himself a cup of coffee with freshly hand-powdered beans and a variety of spices.
Sometimes he would add rosewater, in the Algerian fashion; sometimes cardamom, as the Turks preferred.
But whatever his whim of the day, he emerged from his bottle with his fresh coffee, strong and hot in his favorite Amal porcelain, in time for Felicity to scent it at its freshest.
She would inhale, and sigh, and on occasion press her thighs together as if she were restraining arousal—which would inspire Dimitri’s cock to harden pointlessly—and then proceed to make mud from inferior, pre-ground “coffee” with Harold’s old machine.
She’d cleaned it, of course, but it still made mud, which she would then doctor with milk and sugar.
They would sit on the floor together, Dimitri thoroughly enjoying his perfect coffee while Felicity pretended not to envy him.
He offered her sips. She had yet to indulge. But she wanted to. So that was progress.
Once their fast was broken, six days a week, it was time for work.
Dimitri did not work, of course, but Felicity was a craftswoman, and she spent half of her workdays creating...
the things she created. And while Dimitri had been mystified by her craft at first, after a day of watching he offered to assist, largely out of boredom.
He was used to being at his master’s beck and call, and not being beckoned or called left him as bored as when he was imprisoned between masters.
She declined his assistance. Which was for the best. Dimitri was not at all artistically inclined.
And he was befuddled by the entire concept of bedazzling.
What was the point of encrusting objects with jewels that had no intrinsic value?
He could not deny that her work was appealing; she had a feel for color, and a way of creating intricate designs on furniture and household objects without reducing their functionality.
But the jewels were glass. They did nothing but sparkle in an inferior way.
Dimitri, of course, offered to provide diamonds and emeralds and rubies, and gold to set them in. All it would take was a wish.
Felicity muttered something about African mines and inhumane working conditions, and he deemed it wiser to remain silent and let her work alone, instead spending the days in his bottle reading more novels and watching television shows she recommended.
He was much enjoying Supernatural, though Felicity had hinted that he might be disappointed with the ending, as he—and she—had been with Vivi Jupiter.
She had, however, declined to wish harm to Bob Thompson. Pity. But he could wreak his own revenge when he was free.
The fourth day of her workweek was when she dealt with sales, taking photographs of her completed objets d’art with her cell phone and sitting for a few hours at her computer “listing” them (he did not bother asking her to explain how making a list led to sales).
She would then spend the rest of the day carefully packaging works that she had sold, then take them to the shipping facility.
The first week, he helped her load the boxes into her vehicle without her asking.
She glared at him. “I didn’t W-word for this.”
“Indeed you did not. I am bored.”
She regarded him suspiciously, but allowed him to accompany her to unload at the other end—though she insisted he remain in her truck while she paid for the shipments—then bought him a hamburger on the way back to her apartment.
“Thank you,” she said, not looking at him.
“It is my pleasure,” he said aloud. He didn’t say Mistress, but he thought it, and he was fairly certain she heard it from the sidelong glare she’d sent him.
Days five and six, though, were his favorite. The first week, he simply accompanied her to the door when she made to leave at an excruciatingly early hour.
“Where are you going?” she grumbled.
“With you.”
“I don’t need you to come.”
“But I’m bored.” He added a pout for good measure.
“Fine.” She looked him up and down. “Can you wear something less...”
He ran a hand down the center of his chest. “Perfect?”
“Obvious.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes. “I’m not saying I don’t like it. But if you wear that, people are going to bid against me just because you’re so...”
“Perfect.”
“Okay, fine. Perfect.” She opened her eyes again, regarding him seriously. “We’re going to garage sales, and then an auction. I need to be able to bargain.” She gestured at her own worn overalls and stained T-shirt. “Do you think I dress like this because I want to?”
Dimitri frowned. She had worn ripped jeans or overalls and T-shirts every day he’d known her, except when she was naked. “...No?” he ventured at last.
“Damn straight. I wear this because I don’t want people to think I’m rich and they can scam more money out of me.”
“Ah.” He glanced down at his own attire. “And I appear rich?”
“Yes.” She stared at the ground. “Also, your pants are...”
He grinned. “Flattering?”
“Indecent.” She rolled her eyes. “People are going to think I hired a Chippendale to be my boytoy. If they don’t actually call the police.”
“Do I appear as a boy, then?” He was tempted to cup his cock for emphasis. Offer it up as a toy.
“No!” She let out a wordless growl of frustration. “Can you wear something, I don’t know, normal?”
“Only if you wish it,” he purred.
He could see her warring with herself, but finally she sighed. “Fine. I wish you would dress like a normal person today.”
“And what does normal mean?” he pressed, reveling in his small victory.
“I don’t know. Jeans. Sneakers. Flannel over a T-shirt. Replace the fez with a beanie.” She bit her lip anxiously. “But something you want to wear. I’m not the boss of you. Just...normal. Like, um, the guys on Supernatural?”
Dimitri bowed. “Your wish is my command.”
He dissipated into smoke on the sound of her frustrated growl and reapparated to her pleased gasp.
“Does this meet your needs, Felicity?”
She gulped. “Yeah,” she said faintly. “Yeah, that’ll do, pig. That’ll do.”
“Am I clothed as a pig now?” He tugged the cuffs of his flannel shirt over the shackles he could not remove.
“Only if you’re also a male chauvinist,” she muttered. “Let’s go.”
They traveled a circuitous route through the town, occasionally pulling up at a house that had tables of random goods set out in the yard or driveway.
At each, Felicity would make a few selections, bargain with the homeowners, then load her purchases in her trailer and move on to the next.
Shortly before noon, they stopped at what she said was a “food truck” for surprisingly delicious shawarma and falafel before driving to a lot that seemed to be nothing but garages with no homes attached. It was oddly familiar.
“Follow my lead,” she said. “And whatever you do, don’t raise your hand.”
Dimitri trailed after her and a large group of people as door after door were opened, their contents displayed, and numbers shouted by all and sundry, including Felicity.
“What is this?” he whispered.
“Storage unit auctions. People stop paying for storage long enough, their crap gets sold.”
“And you buy the crap.”
“Some of it is good crap.” She slanted him a wry glance. “It’s how I found you.”
Dimitri looked around with interest. Ah, yes. Now that she had reminded him, it was familiar to the setting where he had first met her. How strange to be part of the proceedings instead of something being sold.
He shivered. Were there other genies waiting to be discovered? He didn’t sense any, but that didn’t mean there weren’t. Or that they weren’t trapped in other storage facilities, in this town or others.
There was nothing he could do, either way. A genie could not become another genie’s master, even if they had been freed from their curse. But it ate at him, thinking about it.
He pushed the thoughts away for the moment, burying them deep. He had to free himself before he could hope to help others.
The auctioneer led their group to another unit, rolling the door up.
“What are you trying to buy?” he whispered to Felicity, who was scanning the exposed contents with narrowed eyes.
“Mostly things I can refurbish and bedazzle,” she murmured back. “I mean, there’s always the hope that there’s something really valuable tucked away, but that’s super rare. Most people put their really valuable stuff in a safety deposit box or someplace there’s more security.”
Dimitri stared at the open storage unit, trying to see what Felicity saw. There was no furniture in this one. Just boxes. But there was something...
He closed his eyes and let himself feel the aura of the objects in the space. Brown and grey, mostly, but there at the back...
“Buy this one,” he whispered into Felicity’s ear.
She frowned up at him. “Why?”
“Trust me.”