FIC: The Hand That Waters the Vine (Jaffar/Princess/Sexbot!Jaffar, NC-17), part 1/3
Title: The Hand That Waters the Vine (part 1/3, completed fic)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/Princess/Sexbot!Jaffar
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance, Erotica, Queer Het, PWP
Warnings: Sex robots, threesome, anal sex, anal-oral, anal fisting, light BDSM.
Length: ~16 000 words
Summary: Jaffar and Yassamin build themselves a clockwork pleasure-doll, taking great delight in playing with their new silver lover long into the night. But eventually, even magical lovers must be laid to rest: for tonight, the time has come for Jaffar to finally take Yassamin's hand.
A/N: A variation on the theme of Jaffar building a sexbot to pleasure Yassamin and himself, previously featured in The Silver Bridegroom. While that particular story was a standalone one-off, unrelated to any of my other ToB stories, Sarosh is now fully integrated into the Rosesverse. The last third of the fic is dedicated to Yassamin finally fisting Jaffar--something they had both wanted to do for a long time, but had to get all kinds of other adventures out of the way first to gather experience and trust.
Happy seventh anniversary, you wonderful medieval Persian dorks.
(For an entire week, Yassamin watches him burn. She denies him her caresses, turns him from her bed, feeding that part in him that so thrives on anticipation, denial. And his fire stokes hers in turn, rippling into her body through their psychic bond: even as he tends to his affairs, plays with his children, works on his devices, she can feel the pulse of heated blood in his cock, the tightness in his sack, the stray moans held back in his throat. The heat that the retained sperm brings to the body as it rises up his spine, the magical power it builds up in the flesh and the nerves, all of him vibrating and humming with it, his touch electric: oh, but he is beautiful.
Yet this is no ordinary denial-game, no ordinary lovers' tease: for now, at Yassamin's behest, Jaffar has started to stretch himself, make way in himself to finally take her hand. Thus, he spends hours each day wearing beads, plugs in his guts, cries hoarse into his pillows as he takes himself with his own fingers: Yassamin can feel this all the way from her own bedroom, her own body tensing as her husband forces himself to open for her love. During the day, she can always tell when he is wearing something inside of himself: if it is a larger, leathern plug, he sits down with great care so as not to injure himself. And when it is a set of jade spheres--ones he had stolen from Zainab when her back had been turned--his walk is even more catlike and lascivious: just upon the edge of her senses, she can smell his pre-ejaculate.
After morning prayers, he demonstrates to her how he is tying down his prick with straps, rings so as to keep himself from growing erect, so as not to be conspicuous: this torture, too, he enjoys enormously, his trapped genitals swollen from blood, swaying heavy between his thighs.
"And it is all for you, my sweet Yassamin," he whispers hotly in her ear as he walks past her, sending to her the fullness that is growing within him, a quick flash to jolt all her nerves with. "All for you to drink from, all for you to sup upon," he says as he kisses her ear, then again leaves, she now left more frustrated, heated than he.)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, Jaffar/Princess/Sexbot!Jaffar
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Romance, Erotica, Queer Het, PWP
Warnings: Sex robots, threesome, anal sex, anal-oral, anal fisting, light BDSM.
Length: ~16 000 words
Summary: Jaffar and Yassamin build themselves a clockwork pleasure-doll, taking great delight in playing with their new silver lover long into the night. But eventually, even magical lovers must be laid to rest: for tonight, the time has come for Jaffar to finally take Yassamin's hand.
A/N: A variation on the theme of Jaffar building a sexbot to pleasure Yassamin and himself, previously featured in The Silver Bridegroom. While that particular story was a standalone one-off, unrelated to any of my other ToB stories, Sarosh is now fully integrated into the Rosesverse. The last third of the fic is dedicated to Yassamin finally fisting Jaffar--something they had both wanted to do for a long time, but had to get all kinds of other adventures out of the way first to gather experience and trust.
Happy seventh anniversary, you wonderful medieval Persian dorks.
(For an entire week, Yassamin watches him burn. She denies him her caresses, turns him from her bed, feeding that part in him that so thrives on anticipation, denial. And his fire stokes hers in turn, rippling into her body through their psychic bond: even as he tends to his affairs, plays with his children, works on his devices, she can feel the pulse of heated blood in his cock, the tightness in his sack, the stray moans held back in his throat. The heat that the retained sperm brings to the body as it rises up his spine, the magical power it builds up in the flesh and the nerves, all of him vibrating and humming with it, his touch electric: oh, but he is beautiful.
Yet this is no ordinary denial-game, no ordinary lovers' tease: for now, at Yassamin's behest, Jaffar has started to stretch himself, make way in himself to finally take her hand. Thus, he spends hours each day wearing beads, plugs in his guts, cries hoarse into his pillows as he takes himself with his own fingers: Yassamin can feel this all the way from her own bedroom, her own body tensing as her husband forces himself to open for her love. During the day, she can always tell when he is wearing something inside of himself: if it is a larger, leathern plug, he sits down with great care so as not to injure himself. And when it is a set of jade spheres--ones he had stolen from Zainab when her back had been turned--his walk is even more catlike and lascivious: just upon the edge of her senses, she can smell his pre-ejaculate.
After morning prayers, he demonstrates to her how he is tying down his prick with straps, rings so as to keep himself from growing erect, so as not to be conspicuous: this torture, too, he enjoys enormously, his trapped genitals swollen from blood, swaying heavy between his thighs.
"And it is all for you, my sweet Yassamin," he whispers hotly in her ear as he walks past her, sending to her the fullness that is growing within him, a quick flash to jolt all her nerves with. "All for you to drink from, all for you to sup upon," he says as he kisses her ear, then again leaves, she now left more frustrated, heated than he.)