PIC and FIC: This Secret They Call Sodomy, Jaffar/Princess (NC-17)
After years and years of writing about Jaffar and the Princess having passionate and sweet and lovely anal, I FINALLY got them to do it in Photoshop! FINALLY! And this manip turned out far better than I ever could've imagined. It was actually one of those where, initially, my heart wasn't in it, and I was just poking it because it gave me something pleasant to do. Aaaand then, after a few hours of poking, it actually started to hold together really well (which was a huge surprise, considering how many really big things I had to change in both the body-and headshots) and ta-dah! Jaffar finally, tenderly bumming Yassamin and Yassamin moaning in that overwhelming, shocking, unbelievable overload of pleasure only sodomy can bring. And as I usually write a little bit of fic to accompany each pic, I did so for this one as well--but it turned into the longest picfic I've ever written at about 1000 words. I almost posted it on Ao3, but as it repeats a lot of themes from my earlier fics, I didn't feel like it qualified as a proper fic as such, even if I was pleasantly surprised by the amount of poetry that poured out of me as well. And as it's an image that's bound to be shocking to most female viewers because women are pressured into it regardless of whether it hurts or not, I feel that this required a firm anchoring in the POV of Yassamin and her experience of it, of how anal sex feels for a woman--including the initial discomfort and HOLY HELL of it, and the eventual melt into pleasure. So that's why the fic became as substantial-for-a-picfic as it did. So, without further ado...
Click through for biggarz.
“Oh-” Yassamin’s entire body stiffens, locks up as Jaffar slides the heat of his prick inside of her body, the muscles finally giving up their resistance, their ache loud around his length and width. He is in, in, in; she wants to pull away, her hands patting at the sheets, clutching, oh-
She wants to escape, but she cannot; pain or no pain, she wants to learn this secret that they call sodomy, wants to experience it, had herself asked Jaffar for a taste of it after she had been told of the sublime pleasure of it. Yet this is nothing like she had imagined, so different from ordinary sex; now she knows why the poets had compared the act to impalement. She cannot move, cannot breathe; all of her body cramps around the invasion his cock. How can something that had brought her so much pleasure in her cunny now feel so hard, so brutal the way it stretches her flesh open wide, sending chills up and down her spine, making her stomach lurch with nausea?
“Am I hurting you?” Jaffar asks, his voice straining from the effort of holding back. “Tell me to stop, and I shall.”
Yet she is too overwhelmed to speak; she trembles around him and against him, gasping, but no words come out. There must be something wrong with her, she thinks, if mere slave girls and pages can take this and even boast of it-why, Jaffar had told her he himself had been taken in this manner as a youth! And yet she feels as if she will not live to tell the tale. And now she feels shamed by his patience, his care, his tenderness, his experience present in his every movement; in the way he still refrains from thrusting with his usual abandon. She cannot take this, yet knows this cannot be the full knowledge of it, that this is all there is to this act; he himself had told her the pain would pass and would be followed by a pleasure greater than that of any drug-
“Breathe, Yassamin,” he murmurs against her shoulder. “Stroke yourself.”
Out of sheer stubbornness, out of sheer defiance against her own body, she brings her shaking hand to her cunny, squeezing her clitoris between her fingers. And what she meets there astounds her: never has she felt herself so wet and so swollen, her mound hot and full underneath her hand. She rubs herself and breathes and there, there: underneath the overwhelming chaos of sensations, of nerve endings screaming and raw, a heat expanding, rising: pleasure. A pleasure unlike any other she has ever felt, a pleasure like lightning, so fast, so white, striking from her guts through her womb through her belly, knocking out the breath from her lungs and blossoming iridescent within her skull.
“Jaffar,” she moans, a woman who no longer sounds like Yassamin at all. Even her voice now sends another convulsion through her, the vibrations of it rippling around his cock, each one golden-sweet, her flesh turned to honey around each one, each one.
He chuckles, and again the ripples; she shudders against each one of his churrs, against his velvets now damp from her cold sweat. “Is that better, my sweet?” he purrs and rolls his hips, turning his strokes longer, into a sweet slide, and oh, he slides out of her and into her so easily now, so easily; her cunny trickles from between her fingers and she whimpers into the sheets.
“Yes,” she sobs and sobs, rubbing herself furiously, violently, her teeth chattering. “D-don’t st-stop.”
“I am glad to hear that.” A filthy noise, a disgusting noise as he pant-laughs against her ear, moving a little; she can hear him, feel him spitting on his fingers and sliding them all along his cock, slicking himself further. “You see, my dear, I intend to stay here for quite a while.”
The entire tent smells of her cunny, rich, sweet; his crooked teeth dip sharp into the flesh of her shoulder.
And now his slide is so long he has buried himself in her guts entire, entire: she howls, and that howl dies into the whiteness, again the whiteness, the waves he now pushes up and up and up through her body with each thrust. All her limbs jerk, and she tosses upon the bed as if in seizure, as if he were a demon that had possessed her as he had slid inside of her, making her convulse in pure pleasure, now nothing but pleasure, nothing else at all. Every hair on her body stands on end and she realises she is coming, coming; a disbelieving laughter dies in her throat-this cannot be happening!-and her vision goes black, then white, and again black.
“That was fast!” he laughs and hugs her, rocking her in his arms, his dragging laughter full of love, astonishment, delight. “The second time will be even stronger,” he whispers in her ear conspiratorially.
She stares into the darkness of the tent, panting against the bedcovers. “The second time?”
But then he is turning her onto her belly. “Ride your hands,” he snarls into her ear, gathering and looping her hair in his fist, bracing his thighs on either side of her hips.
She does, but now it is he who controls the pace, bolder, taking what is his; again, she is blown out of consciousness, again becoming but a mass of convulsing limbs, again so fast her every fibre is screaming with it, but now the pleasure lasts longer, the waves of it sharper as they lash through her flesh.
Dimly, she hears her own scream as she trickles, sprays her hands, thinking she has wet herself, shuddering in shame.
Yet he but laughs, laughs as her release sluices down his sack, drops of it spraying upon her thighs as he keeps on thrusting. “Told you,” he says, pulling back to scoop her wetness onto his fingers, smacking the taste of her in his mouth like fine wine. “Shall we try for a third?”
“You will kill me,” she moans weakly, crushed into the bed by his weight as he begins to move once more.
“Only a little death,” he kisses against her ear. “I promise.”
She turns her head, and from the corner of her eye, she can see the lantern light glinting through his irises, his smile so wonderful it twists her heart with joy. “Go on, then,” she whispers and rocks her buttocks a little. “Let us sin a little more.”
“To hear is to obey,” he laughs as he licks up the sweat from her back and begins to thrust once more, sweet and hard and slick and more, more, more.
Rebloggable Tumblr post here. I'm sorry the full story is there as-is since it's that long; I would've used the Read More cut if it worked for photo post captions, but apparently there's no such thing:/ I know it'll probably put off even more people from reblogging the thing, but... like I said, the story's important. Hope you'll enjoy it, and again, any comments and chatting about the pic/story are most welcome. The only thing I love more than Jaffar/Princess bumsex is Jaffar/Princess bumsex with bondage and telepathy, to be honest, so I could go on about it forever:)
Click through for biggarz.
“Oh-” Yassamin’s entire body stiffens, locks up as Jaffar slides the heat of his prick inside of her body, the muscles finally giving up their resistance, their ache loud around his length and width. He is in, in, in; she wants to pull away, her hands patting at the sheets, clutching, oh-
She wants to escape, but she cannot; pain or no pain, she wants to learn this secret that they call sodomy, wants to experience it, had herself asked Jaffar for a taste of it after she had been told of the sublime pleasure of it. Yet this is nothing like she had imagined, so different from ordinary sex; now she knows why the poets had compared the act to impalement. She cannot move, cannot breathe; all of her body cramps around the invasion his cock. How can something that had brought her so much pleasure in her cunny now feel so hard, so brutal the way it stretches her flesh open wide, sending chills up and down her spine, making her stomach lurch with nausea?
“Am I hurting you?” Jaffar asks, his voice straining from the effort of holding back. “Tell me to stop, and I shall.”
Yet she is too overwhelmed to speak; she trembles around him and against him, gasping, but no words come out. There must be something wrong with her, she thinks, if mere slave girls and pages can take this and even boast of it-why, Jaffar had told her he himself had been taken in this manner as a youth! And yet she feels as if she will not live to tell the tale. And now she feels shamed by his patience, his care, his tenderness, his experience present in his every movement; in the way he still refrains from thrusting with his usual abandon. She cannot take this, yet knows this cannot be the full knowledge of it, that this is all there is to this act; he himself had told her the pain would pass and would be followed by a pleasure greater than that of any drug-
“Breathe, Yassamin,” he murmurs against her shoulder. “Stroke yourself.”
Out of sheer stubbornness, out of sheer defiance against her own body, she brings her shaking hand to her cunny, squeezing her clitoris between her fingers. And what she meets there astounds her: never has she felt herself so wet and so swollen, her mound hot and full underneath her hand. She rubs herself and breathes and there, there: underneath the overwhelming chaos of sensations, of nerve endings screaming and raw, a heat expanding, rising: pleasure. A pleasure unlike any other she has ever felt, a pleasure like lightning, so fast, so white, striking from her guts through her womb through her belly, knocking out the breath from her lungs and blossoming iridescent within her skull.
“Jaffar,” she moans, a woman who no longer sounds like Yassamin at all. Even her voice now sends another convulsion through her, the vibrations of it rippling around his cock, each one golden-sweet, her flesh turned to honey around each one, each one.
He chuckles, and again the ripples; she shudders against each one of his churrs, against his velvets now damp from her cold sweat. “Is that better, my sweet?” he purrs and rolls his hips, turning his strokes longer, into a sweet slide, and oh, he slides out of her and into her so easily now, so easily; her cunny trickles from between her fingers and she whimpers into the sheets.
“Yes,” she sobs and sobs, rubbing herself furiously, violently, her teeth chattering. “D-don’t st-stop.”
“I am glad to hear that.” A filthy noise, a disgusting noise as he pant-laughs against her ear, moving a little; she can hear him, feel him spitting on his fingers and sliding them all along his cock, slicking himself further. “You see, my dear, I intend to stay here for quite a while.”
The entire tent smells of her cunny, rich, sweet; his crooked teeth dip sharp into the flesh of her shoulder.
And now his slide is so long he has buried himself in her guts entire, entire: she howls, and that howl dies into the whiteness, again the whiteness, the waves he now pushes up and up and up through her body with each thrust. All her limbs jerk, and she tosses upon the bed as if in seizure, as if he were a demon that had possessed her as he had slid inside of her, making her convulse in pure pleasure, now nothing but pleasure, nothing else at all. Every hair on her body stands on end and she realises she is coming, coming; a disbelieving laughter dies in her throat-this cannot be happening!-and her vision goes black, then white, and again black.
“That was fast!” he laughs and hugs her, rocking her in his arms, his dragging laughter full of love, astonishment, delight. “The second time will be even stronger,” he whispers in her ear conspiratorially.
She stares into the darkness of the tent, panting against the bedcovers. “The second time?”
But then he is turning her onto her belly. “Ride your hands,” he snarls into her ear, gathering and looping her hair in his fist, bracing his thighs on either side of her hips.
She does, but now it is he who controls the pace, bolder, taking what is his; again, she is blown out of consciousness, again becoming but a mass of convulsing limbs, again so fast her every fibre is screaming with it, but now the pleasure lasts longer, the waves of it sharper as they lash through her flesh.
Dimly, she hears her own scream as she trickles, sprays her hands, thinking she has wet herself, shuddering in shame.
Yet he but laughs, laughs as her release sluices down his sack, drops of it spraying upon her thighs as he keeps on thrusting. “Told you,” he says, pulling back to scoop her wetness onto his fingers, smacking the taste of her in his mouth like fine wine. “Shall we try for a third?”
“You will kill me,” she moans weakly, crushed into the bed by his weight as he begins to move once more.
“Only a little death,” he kisses against her ear. “I promise.”
She turns her head, and from the corner of her eye, she can see the lantern light glinting through his irises, his smile so wonderful it twists her heart with joy. “Go on, then,” she whispers and rocks her buttocks a little. “Let us sin a little more.”
“To hear is to obey,” he laughs as he licks up the sweat from her back and begins to thrust once more, sweet and hard and slick and more, more, more.
Rebloggable Tumblr post here. I'm sorry the full story is there as-is since it's that long; I would've used the Read More cut if it worked for photo post captions, but apparently there's no such thing:/ I know it'll probably put off even more people from reblogging the thing, but... like I said, the story's important. Hope you'll enjoy it, and again, any comments and chatting about the pic/story are most welcome. The only thing I love more than Jaffar/Princess bumsex is Jaffar/Princess bumsex with bondage and telepathy, to be honest, so I could go on about it forever:)