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Read no further if you are under the age of 18 years.

The original features of this retelling of the Badr & Aladdin folk tale
is copyrighted and the sole possession of the author. The story is a
fantasy and offered purely for purposes of fantasy. If you don't know
the difference between fantasy and unacceptable behavior in real life,
please read no further. If you are younger than 18, resident in areas
where sexually explicit material is censored, or offended by fantasies
involving bondage, please read no further.

Any other reposting or archiving is forbidden without prior permission.
Comments are appreciated: qabalkar@my-Deja.com

THE PRINCESS SLAVE
Qabalkar

Jafar could not remember whether he had turned her eyes green or
Jasmine came that way originally. He could make them any color he
pleased, of course, and he had tried a variety of shades and hues. Just
now, he enjoyed them as sparkling green almonds, with dark emerald
smoldering in the center. They were set like lovely lighted jewels in
Jasmine's face, which was burnt-gold and heart-shaped, framed by the
Arab princess' thick black hair. The sharp tips of her almond eyes each
slanted upwards, the tear-shape of Jasmine's eyes most appropriate to
the apprehension simmering in them as she glided smoothly into the room
and stood before him now, her eyes darting briefly to the Guest who
reclined to Jafar's right, the only other occupant of the dinner
chamber. Jafar eased back on his divan, beaming as he let his gaze rove
over her freely. She was an important symbol of his power, or at least
her bondage was, and having reduced her to a sex slave, he had removed
her as a viable option threatening his imposed regime. The pleasure he
had taken with her was not incidental either.

"Good evening, Jasmine," the mage burred. "I trust you slept well today.

I know you were up quite late last night. But of course, that was
private--our own little game, played out in my chambers. It's time we
take this little romance public, my dear. Our Guest could use a
demonstration of the deep feeling that binds us."

The Guest grumbled something about "unnecessary," but Jafar paid no
attention. The Guest had grumbled rather a lot lately, which Jafar
thought rather unfair, given the fact that he had provided this
otherworldly man with a complete alchemical lab, the finest library in
the civilized world, and a beautiful doe-eyed concubine upon which he
worked sex magick for the Guest's portion of the Work, the great
project to which both were devoted. Jafar had owed this largess to him,
after the Guest saved his hide in the clash with Aladdin and the djinn,
and did not begrudge it of him even now. But the Guest's recent turn of
attitude was tiresome, especially as Jafar did not understand what had
caused it.

Besides, Jafar thought with a smile, he doesn't seem to protest the
display of our little princess slave too much. And this Jafar could
understand. His gaze across a pricelessly lovely face and trailed down
the short, slender but sweetly curved body with which providence had
gifted her. Jasmine wore a pale green vest that hooked together between
her breasts, pressing them together tightly. This halter left bare her
flat tummy and the sleek curve of her waist, bare to the hips, where a
knotted string held tight the upper hem of harem pants, modestly
opaque, but of sheer silk whose cling betrayed the slave's shapely legs
tapering down to small bare feet.

Jafar stood and held out an open palm facing the ceiling. "Behold my
little treasure," he said to the Guest, turning then to Jasmine. "Show
your tits, girl," he commanded with deliberate vulgarity.

Jasmine shook slightly, both from fury and with the frustration of
knowing that ultimately she was powerless-she was in his magickal
grasp, and would obey. She lifted her hands to the clasp and flicked it
open, the halter-vest springing back as her sweet breasts bounced once
and then settled high. She stood still, staring down at her breast
buds, which quivered with her fast shallow breath. Jafar cleared his
throat, and she frowned, shrugging the vest from her shoulders so that
it fell to her feet, and then she stood still again, face downcast but
shoulders obediently back.

It amused him and pleased him to see how desperately she wished to keep
her clothes on, how terribly shamed she was to be so much as bare-
breasted in front of this stranger. It pleased him, because this showed
that his enchantment remained finely tuned, balancing slavish obedience
with the continued embarrassment of a proud princess reduced to that
bondage. It amused him, because he had once been in virtual bondage to
her, the ever patient vizier often taken from matters of state to fetch
toys for the coddled palace brat, or cosmetics for the spoiled teenager.

All that had changed when the Guest appeared at the crucial moment of a
palace coup gone badly, and provided him the means to overthrow her
senile old father, banish the prince-ling pretender Aladdin, and seize
the palace as his own. The old ruler had been killed peremptorily, and
not by accident or the heat of passion. Jafar saw no sense in tempting
fate-or that latent loyalists in the palace guard.

But the ruler's daughter, Princess Badr al-Budur, had been left alive,
and this was no accident either, although some heat of passion was in
play. He had grown into middle age watching her grow into a shapely
young woman. For the twenty years since the birth of this girl, Jafar
had long been tormented by twin demons: one, the requirement that he-an
educated and powerful minister of the realm-wait hand-and-foot on this
spoiled child, and two, the fact that in recent years she had grown
into tasty morsel, always at hand but ever untouchable. Until his
seizure of power, at which time he had wrapped Badr in powerful
enchantments, sealed by binding sex magick on the fine chilled evening
a year before, when he had taken the crown in the late afternoon heat,
and then took her as his slave that night.

She was twenty now, a pretty little slave at his complete command. She
had stripped for him before; indeed she had been naked more than
clothed during the past year. And yet, again, just now, stripping
before himself and the Guest, she felt that special humiliation he
found so sweet. His magick held her well in the balance between
obedience and shame. Still, he had to admit this wasn't completely due
to his gift for enchantment. She had served nude in his private
chambers during her past year of slavery, but she had never been seen
that way by guests. Persons attending the palace had glimpsed nothing
more startling than a lovely black-haired houri slipping barefoot over
the tiles, dressed with relative modesty for a slave girl. He had never
displayed her like this before someone else before. Indeed, there were
rumors that Badr al-Budur had escaped him entirely, gone to the hills
where the rabble supposed Aladdin to be now.

It was this rumor that had brought the Guest to him in sullen anger.
They had argued, Jafar furious with the Guest's ridiculous failure of
nerve. The Guest knew well that he held Badr in thrall, both by
enchantment and as his legal slave, named Jasmine, her father's pet
name for her. And yet, the Guest had paced the room, babbling about
her, about her father, and about Aladdin.

So Jafar had sent for Jasmine, a short walk for the girl, who had been
waiting down the hallway to serve him after the meeting with the Guest.
And now he'd had her bare her breasts before a stranger for the first
time, a show to the Guest of the truth of her bondage.

"Well, you can see the girl," Jafar told him, rising to step around
Jasmine, and grip her shoulders. "You can see her quite well. And as
you can see . . . ." He traced a finger tip around her left nipple,
causing the flesh to pucker there. Jasmine's body responded as under
command, but she turned her face slightly, her cheeks gone the color of
red wine.

This was part of the spell--that her body respond helplessly to him,
her hated enemy, while she felt the disgrace within. "As you can see,
she is perfectly in my power."

Stepping back, Jafar snapped his fingers twice, a signal Jasmine
understood from experience and which she obeyed immediately by falling
to her knees on the carpet, her arms held behind her, hands gripping
her elbows, back straight, a posture that presented her tits for ease
of either view or touch. She had lovely breasts, small as befitted her
slender frame, yet perfectly proportioned to it, beautifully rounded
and firm, the brown of her skin creaming in the aureole around plumb
little nipples that burned a dark walnut brown as he tickled them
again. Jafar stepped around her and resumed his place on the divan.

"As for her idiot father," he said, "he is of no concern to anyone save
those he may be irritating in paradise." He glanced over at his
princess concubine, his belly warming at the slight tremor she forced
from her chin, which she up, so that her lovely face was presented for
his pleasure.

"And Aladdin?"

For a moment, Jafar wondered if the Guest had gone senile. Then he
became angry, wondering if the Guest questioned the power of his
magick. "But you know! I cast him into the Void-cursed to go to a time
and place of great chaos and little humanity."

"Ah, yes, of course! And where would that be?"

Jafar did not appreciate the mockery in tone. "It could be any number
of places," he said. "Hell being the most likely."

"He will have made his way beyond the Void."

"What could be beyond the Void?"

"What, indeed? That doesn't worry you?"

"Quite frankly, it does not," Jafar lifted his chin, trying to sound
regal.

"It doesn't occur to you," the Guest replied, face more dour yet, "that
Aladdin's particular talents, his special skills, might have made him
something quite fearsome in a world of anarchy?"

Jafar stroked his beard a moment, then laughed. "Why, let him reign in
hell, then! I had nothing against him, personally. It was a good fight.
Seemed a very fine lad, Ali did. I begrudge him no good fortune in the
outer darkness-provided he never disturbs the peace of this little
paradise I've made for myself-with your kind assistance, of course, my
noble Guest."

"If he has prospered," the Guest went on patiently, "then he may have
found some assistance himself. He may seek out the Art that dispatched
him." The Guest's voice grew shrill. "He might make his way back
through the Void. Back to here. Back to your throat, and mine."

"He is no mage."

"Sometimes I wonder about your own status, there."

Jafar said nothing, fighting his anger back down first, and then the
Guest spoke again.

"The Work goes slowly," he complained. "On your part, I mean. You
devote little time to your practice. Instead, you stay in your
chambers, dallying with this concubine."

"Emphasizing her reduction," Jafar said, "is necessary to secure the
throne to myself." But he couldn't look at the Guest as he said this,
knowing this had little to do with his fascination for toying with his
slave girl Jasmine.

"The Work is necessary," the Guest snapped. "Necessary for my continued
safety in this-place. And for your own safety, I might add. Your throne
is hardly secure otherwise, no matter how many times you take this
girl."

"Her father is dead," he told the Guest, "and she certainly can not
rule. Not after her reduction to what she is now."

The other chuckled, and when he next spoke his voice was warm, seeking
reconciliation. "I don't begrudge you, my friend," he said. "I
understand." He gestured toward the half-naked slave kneeling before
them. "She is a most delicious treat. And certainly tasty for you, I'm
sure, given your history with the girl. But I am concerned-deeply
concerned-about the danger that we may face a challenge to your
supremacy here before the Work stands its shield to protect us."

Jafar was puzzled. Wasn't the matter clear? His Guest had proved to be
many things, but he had never been dense. Jafar motioned Jasmine to her
feet. She rose smoothly, eyes clouded with apprehension. Jafar pointed
at her waist, then whipped his finger down toward the floor. She
understood. He saw her shake in a single tremor that waved her slender
frame from shoulders to ankles, her breasts lovely, quivering, blushed.

She closed her eyes, her hands shaking a moment, but Jafar muttered an
angry word that snapped the spell down hard.

Jasmine tugged the string at her left hip so that the knot broke free,
then grasped the band of the harem pants at her waist, and her slender
arms reached taut as she slid the pants down, stepping carefully out of
each leg, then tossing the filmy material into a heap just by her feet.

Irritated further by this graceless gesture, Jafar motioned her
forward, away from the pile of material, so that she stood on the
carpet quite starkly naked in the room with two richly dressed men.

"Posture," he chided her primly, and she blushed a deep mahogany, for
this was something he had once done when she was a child and he was her
father's vizier. Of course, she was then the richly dressed princess,
never shy to heap her scorn on her servant Jafar. He had been
constantly obliged to remind the little princess to stand regally
straight. More often than not she had stuck her tongue out at him,
laughed, knowing quite well he would be angrily criticized for her
failings.

His tone was a taunt to remind her of that time, impress upon her the
sheer pleasure he felt, eyes roving at will over the beautiful young
woman she had become, enjoying each curve, hollow and plane of her body.

He had explored them all at his leisure, his magick lashing his
pleasure into each pulse of her heart as his fingers ran over her
silken body. As he was fond of reminding her, things had turned out
very well indeed-for him.

"Your posture, slave!" he snapped, bringing her back from reverie, and
she shifted into the stance she knew he commanded. With complete grace
now, she shifted her body, one hand resting on a slightly out-thrust
hip, a knee bent here, her waist pulled just-so to emphasize its own
curve, her long legs taut. She flushed an even deeper red, considering
how she appeared to the man who had served her in her childhood and now
mastered her as a woman.

"Behold!" Jafar laughed. "The high and haughty Princess Badr al-Budur.
A ripe plum indeed."

He muttered in his native tongue, waving his fingers lightly at his
shoulders, and a subtle shift occurred within the room, the light drawn
toward the nude slave girl, pooling around her, highlighted the sweet
curves of her slender brown body. Insofar as it centered at all, the
light centered on the small triangle of curled black hair at her loins.

She blushed darker yet.

"She still feels shame," the Guest muttered. "It is apparent."

"Alas, yes," Jafar conceded. He allowed a pause for effect before
adding, "But how prettily it adds to her color!"

But the Guest did not join in his laughter.

Jafar sighed.

The Guest had given him the magick to overwhelm Aladdin and his
faithful djinn, and for that Jafar was certainly grateful.  The Guest
knew what this still-spoiled former princess had not learned in the
course of her concubinage, which was that the original darkness within
the land had been within her father. Jafar had not seen any reason to
share the details of that past with her, preferring that she find the
severity of her slavery and the harshness of her punishments to appear
just as capricious as his own persecution, punishments and maltreatment
by her father had been. The failures of Princess Badr, and the Sultan's
tendency to direct his anger onto Jafar, had led to more than tongue-
lashings. The Sultan could not so much as frown at his beloved
daughter, but in the privacy of his study, furious at her misbehavior,
he would take a crop to Jafar in an eye-blink, Jafar's pride and skin
made to pay for Jasmine's arrogance and tantrums.

The Guest had appeared to Jafar after the worst-and the last-
flagellation. As always, Jafar had understood the Sultan's underlying
anger at Badr. She had just caused a war. Many fine young men would
die, soldiers the Sultan could hardly spare, as he was already fighting
another war caused by one of her taunting tantrums thrown hard into an
earnest suitor-prince's face. For Badr, of course, this was nothing;
she was daddy's little Jasmine, and he would fix things. But this
meant, in fact, that Jafar must fix them, and when he explained the
difficulties to the Sultan, recommending that Badr might for once in
her life apologize for her contemptuous abuse of others, he was
rewarded with a lashing that left him bleeding, his arms badly gashed,
as the Sultan stormed out.

And there, in the Sultan's wake, appeared the Guest. And the Guest bore
a fine healing magickal salve for Jafar's wounds, and answers to his
every prayer.

But the creature is so humorless! Jafar thought now, glancing over to
see that the Guest was not even looking at the splendid little beauty
undraped for his enjoyment. Jafar knew that the Guest was a man like
himself, or at least enough so that he made regular use of the
concubine Jafar had provided him. Yet now churlishness was his only
reaction to the sight of a beautiful girl stripped naked and displayed
like a bauble on a string. At times like this, Jafar wondered just when
exactly the Guest would leave as long promised. Ah, yes, Jafar thought
sourly, when the Work is done.

Meanwhile, perhaps a little demonstration would convince the worryful
creature that the slave he had named Jasmine-her late father's pet
nickname for her-was no longer a candidate for royal office. He raised
his hand.

"Come, my dear," he said, voice kindly. "Don't be afraid." But she knew
better, and her eyes grew more wary with each quiet step she took.

Following his gestures, she took her knees just before him, again
holding her arms behind herself, and lowered her head so that her full
raven hair fell as a curled curtain around her face and down onto her
breasts. He lifted her hair up and carefully placed it over each
shoulder, then idly twisted one nipple between his right fingers,
grazing the back of the fingers of his left hand against her other
breast, enjoying the pleasant plumb curve from the nipple to her chest.

"Do you recall being a princess, Badr?" he asked.  A tiny tear caught
in the corner of her eye. He reached it, perched it on the tip of his
forefinger, and then rubbed this salt water into the aureole of the
nipple which he again started plumping and pinching gently. He slid
down onto the floor, crossing his legs as if to meditate, but his gaze
was fixed on her luscious form.

"You were a very naughty little princess, as I recall," he said. He
pinched her nipple harder. "Ever so spoiled. Yes? Or no?"

"Yes, master," she whispered.

"You see," he glanced at the Guest. "She knew along. Took full
advantage." He looked back at Jasmine. "And yet you were never
punished. Spoiled badly. Unfit to rule. And so you do not rule. I do."
He pulled on the nipple with a little twist, drawing her toward him,
and then grabbed her at the hip and guided her body over so that she
lay on his lap, face down, her mid-section over his lap, her arms now
stretched out in front of her, palms braced on the floor, her legs
likewise stretched behind her.

Her hair had spread like a curtain over her back and reached down with
the shape of a flame, ending in a final thick curl that tickled at the
base of her backbone. He parted the hair, shifting it in equal halves
on either side of her supine form, and enjoyed the sight of her long
smooth back, eyes following the gentle sweep of silky brown skin down
to her firm round ass. He leaned down, lifting the hair from just
around her ear, and whispered, "You see, there is justice, after all."

He sat up straight again, running his left palm down the beautiful
sweep of back and then squeezing her left buttock, working it in a hard
massage. Jasmine moaned, shifting slightly, but not daring to move
away. At his thigh, he felt her throat constrict as she swallowed, and
her chin set hard, getting ready for what was coming. He smiled
brightly at the Guest, still giving her ass-cheeks as hard massage.

"No discipline, you see, as a little girl," he said. "And indulged
terribly as an adolescent. Only proper, and completely necessary, my
friend, that she receive some drastic correction as an adult. And we
manage to provide that, don't we, my dear?" He flattened his palm at
the center of her butt, and ran his eyes slowly from the tip of her
curly black head down the pleasant curve of her waist, the tight but
well-rounded ass, and on down her shapely legs, stretched taut down to
the toes that were already white at their tiny knuckles, braced as they
were against the carpet.

"If providence has presented me this chore," he murmured, "who am I to
refuse? And if providence has brought her to this punishment in a form
that makes the task pleasurable for me, is the duty any less required
of me?"

He struck, his flat palm snapped up and back down at the center of the
girl's bottom-cheeks. She jumped slightly, the muscles along her waist
flexing, her breath trapped in lungs held tight, then released in a
quick sigh. Her head twisted slightly, lifting her left ear, as if
listening for the air to swoosh again, so as to brace herself for the
blow. But Jafar had been pleased to become quite adept at this light
punishment, concentrated so much more in humiliation and psychological
domination than in pure pain. Jafar did not find delivery of pain
itself pleasurable, and between his magic and his mastery of her mind,
he had not needed it to control her.

He spanked her joyfully but carefully, measuring the swats, never
striking that hard, but always hitting firm, and timing the strikes at
random, so that she never quite knew when she'd be made to gasp and
squirm again. Watching her hips writhe, her tan bottom cheeks jiggling
with each swat, he felt himself growing taut beneath the trousers, and
shifted his balance slightly so that his erection pulped up against the
girl's belly. Jafar smiled as she groaned at the intrusion of this
foreshadow of the rest of her evening duties.

He could see his handprint on her bottom now in several places, at
least a rough outline of the palm, each a warm dark burgundy. He paused
for a moment, toying with the idea of branding her in the morning, or
tattooing her, then he shrugged and went on with the night's little
ritual. He varied his shots so that both cheeks took on the shine of
warm red wine, then concentrated on the area just where the buttocks
dipped down to join her thighs. He gave her ten, then fifteen hard
shots in this same area, until finally she was jumping with each shot,
her shoulders shaking, and he felt her sobs by the quake of her rib-
cage against his legs.

"There, my dear," he cooed. "That's enough. For now."

He rubbed at her sore buttocks, then reached back to a little bucket
he'd kept to his side. His fingers drew out a glob of creamy paste, a
salve with a most pleasant aroma, and he began to work this into the
tender flesh of Jasmine's ass and upper thighs. Now the Guest showed
interest in the ritual for the first time, his nostrils flaring at the
magickal scent of the balm that brought supernatural levels of relief
and healing. The mixture was also an aphrodisiac of no small power,
against which Jasmine had always proved helpless despite determined
resistance. Even now, she sighed from the cooling relief on her ass.

Jafar slid his fingers down the crease between her buttocks, and forced
his hand between the thighs she had clenched tightly together. He
rubbed the balm against her nether lips gently, the magick drawing
forth a sweet and sticky dew despite the tense resistance apparent in
her ass-checks. She held tight a breath, then relaxed her thigh
muscles, and indeed her entire body, letting herself settle against him
limply, her palms coming together, fingers intertwined. The pretty
slave knew quite well what was coming, knew she was helpless against
the arousal being rubbed into her flesh.

Guided by Jafar's hand on her hip, she turned onto her back. Now her
belly and the small triangle of black curls below was lifted up on his
lap, her legs draped down on one side, and her head resting on the
carpet on the other.  Jafar's left hand dipped out a creamy dollop of
the balm, and with cupped palm rubbed this, then pumped this against
her body's lips, working her slowly, but building the heat inside her.
She began to twist her hips deep into his lap, grinding against his
stiffness just there, her face flaming at this unwilled wanton act.

"You see?" he smiled. He pulled his hand back suddenly. Instinctively,
she lifted her hips, bringing her thighs closed quickly, as if to trap
his hand, then gasped in shame at her own action, and turned her face
away, staring at the far wall. He reached to her chin and forced her
gaze back to meet his.

Jafar stroked the side of her face with the back of his fingers,
reached back to trail his fingers up her moist slit, then rubbed her
juices between his thumb and forefinger, and painted a little tear-drop
beneath her eye.

"You can not suppose," he said to the Guest, 'that the people will ever
accept her as queen? She is only what I have made of her--a luscious
little plaything."

"This is how you use the gift?" the Guest asked him.

"For pleasure, yes," Jafar said. "My pleasure."

"You mean a never-ending revenge."

"Initially, perhaps," Jafar shrugged. "But if it has escaped your
notice, my esteemed Guest, she happens to be a beautiful young woman,
and as a woman, she was put on this earth for the pleasure of men, and
as my slave girl, she shall most certainly serve that purpose without
question."

"Pleasure?" the Guest scoffed. "You humiliate her."

"Surely," Jafar answered, "But that is a matter of righteous revenge.
And in the end, she quite often has her pleasure, too."

"Oh, is really so often?" the Guest scowled. "And even then, it's all
part of the humiliation, that she receive her pleasure only at the
command of a sworn enemy."

Exasperated, Jafar threw his hands up and let them fall back on his
knees, looking skyward, from whence came the Guest. "But there is no
pleasing this one!"

"And all that the people know," the Guest went on, "is that their
precious Princess Badr al-Budur has been held prisoner by you. They do
not know of her reduction in status."

"For that, I have the Mirror," Jafar snapped back. "I really have
thought this through, my Guest."

"The Mirror is a toy," the Guest muttered.

Now Jafar was particularly angry. The Mirror of Memory was a favorite
conjuration of his. The Mirror recorded all things that happened in the
palace and showed them in its surface at Jafar's command. No secrets
could be held from him.

"The Mirror is an instrument of policy," he replied to the Guest. "I
will invite influential members of the populace here and replay for
them the conquest of Badr. I'll show them Badr, as I've shown her to
you. And they'll leave here bearing the word that Badr is no longer
royalty--indeed, is no more, for all legal purposes! In her place is
only the lovely slave Jasmine, reduced to a bobble, serving as a sex
toy. And I shall see to it they have no doubt she is a slave."

"They do not trust you," the Guest answered. "And they fear your
sorcery. They've no wish to be enthralled by your magick. They will not
come to the palace."

"But I will give them my most solemn vow!" Jafar spread his hands
widely, then clapped his hands together. "And a promise of
entertainment. Something they can not resist." He chuckled. "You
forget, my acquaintance with many of the elders of the city goes back a
good while. Many of them felt this little beauty's scorn. They'll rush
into this palace at so much as the whispered rumor of seeing her as you
have."

The Guest stood abruptly, shaking his robes, then smoothing them down
with his palms. "Nonetheless," he said. "You have difficulties on the
horizon. And you will do well to stop toying with this girl, and return
your full attention to government."

"So be it, then," Jafar said. "As I would never ignore your wise
counsel, my lord. But surely this can wait until the morning?"

"Yes, of course," the Guest replied angrily, striding to the entrance.

"I would not dream of interfering with another session of humiliation
for the unfortunate Princess Badr." His last words reverberated in the
outer hallway. Jafar listened to his steps grow more faint, then
motioned to Jasmine, who lowered her eyes and crawled naked to him as
he leaned back on the cushions.

"I will admit," he says, twirling her hair in his hands, then pulling
her face down to his lap. "In the beginning, humiliation was a prize to
itself." He eased back further on the cushions, another hand loosening
the flap at which his flesh now bulged, pulling the flap aside.
Jasmine's tongue did its duty and found her master with a long warm
swab around the head, causing him to moan. "Now simple pleasure, dear
girl, endears you to me."

The mirror on the far wall showed him the curves of her lovely ass, his
own face high above. As her tongue slathered patiently, he whispered a
phrase in Sumerian and the glass went pale, then jet black. He muttered
a few more words in Sumerian, lashing these together with Akkadian, and
the mirror added to the pleasure pooling in his lap. He had pulsed
hard, tickled harder still by the flickering tip of her tongue, and now
she gloved him with her moist hot mouth. The glass came to life with
images from the beginning of his mastery, the nights when he first
plunged into the pleasure of owning his long-time nemesis, drawing his
revenge from her body with long measured thrusts.

Finis

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