FIC: The Garden of Gazelles (Jaffar/Princess, NC-17)
Title: The Garden of Gazelles
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)/original fic
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, PWP
Warnings: Anal sex, light BDSM, ravishment fantasy
Length: ~6000 words
Summary: By his witchcrafts he scents her heat, pursuing her into the moonlit garden; there, he ravishes her a man made of shadows, a demon, a ghost.
A/N: Part 12 of the Of Roses Unfurling series, but can absolutely be read as a standalone, even as an original erotic short story. It’s just as it says on the tin: Jaffar takes upon his invisible, ghostly form and delivers Yassamin a good old kaftan-ripping (in semi-public) while still in that form, using all his magical powers to ravage her raw and make her scream her master’s name. Short and poetic and luscious and lascivious and hot and wet and rough and sweet and all those kinds of things.
Also, anal.
(No matter how many years pass, there are still nights upon which their love is tempestuous, violent; where Desire will not wait a coy maiden but will surge forth the ravisher. It is the love of clashing teeth that cut the lip, of clothes burning the skin as they're torn, of mouths panting wet from blood and secretions, exuding moans strange and terrible like heathen incense.
Yassamin's heart races faster than her feet as she runs from Jaffar through the corridor; the shadows of pillars, lattices, bushes flickering about her as if hands, bodies reaching out to touch her: she is so heated she can feel each one a touch upon her skin, like a crowd of vulgar caresses. Shadows hot and crass and cool and tender, shadows bursting into flight as birds, now startled out of the rosebushes, flee before her.
Yet there is one shadow that is warmer than the rest, one shadow with its sweet cruelties familiar to her flesh, one shadow more alive than its brothers with its hands reaching out to squeeze her breasts, sore and heavy from premenstrual heat. She does not turn to look back--she has not seen him, heard him but she knows he is there: Jaffar, her sorcerer, Jaffar, her beast; Jaffar, her master, her king.
The moment she had stepped out into the garden that night, her nightdress sticking to her skin in the humid air, not having seen her lover all day, not having known him in her bed for days--oh, her need itself, the ache deep within the root of her cunny had summoned him as surely as a stag dominant finds from her scent-trail the female in heat.
Cunt-spoor, he breathes hot and wet into her ear, swirling the sticky words into her with his tongue dipping deep, sickeningly deep into her ear, oh, licking her eardrum; a chuckle rich pouring its vibrations down her jaw and rippling down her spine to her aching, pounding, squeezing sex.
Swift, his shadow is upon her before he himself has reached her: she feels his weight oppressing her, crushing her ribcage, pushing its fingers into her throat, a prick of spirit sliding into her cunny so that she staggers in her steps, her pelvis spread out by its width wedged into her. Her legs are nudged apart so that she nearly falls over, has to grab a pillar for balance: she has reached the end of the building, the arcade that leads into the garden.
And there, no one will be able to hear you scream, my sweet, Jaffar laughs, a laughter delirious and broken, a sodomite's giggle, the rustle of the leaves beside her like the sound of silks parted to lift out a prick. Yet still, she refuses to turn around, her face pressed into the cool stone of the pillar: it would ruin it all, ruin it for her to see him there physically, even if she knows he cannot be there; no, no, he has to have sent but his spirit to so hunt her.
Correct, he whispers within her mind, weighing his sack in his hand, letting her feel the heaviness of it, the thickness of his blood-fattened cock, the smooth-shaven skin of his genitals exquisitely sensitive as he now cups himself in his palm. Just tonight, I prepared myself for you, my love, my love, he breathes around her, sending a ghost-hand to cup her cunny from the front: Tell me, my sweet, is this little thing ready for me, too?)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)/original fic
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, PWP
Warnings: Anal sex, light BDSM, ravishment fantasy
Length: ~6000 words
Summary: By his witchcrafts he scents her heat, pursuing her into the moonlit garden; there, he ravishes her a man made of shadows, a demon, a ghost.
A/N: Part 12 of the Of Roses Unfurling series, but can absolutely be read as a standalone, even as an original erotic short story. It’s just as it says on the tin: Jaffar takes upon his invisible, ghostly form and delivers Yassamin a good old kaftan-ripping (in semi-public) while still in that form, using all his magical powers to ravage her raw and make her scream her master’s name. Short and poetic and luscious and lascivious and hot and wet and rough and sweet and all those kinds of things.
Also, anal.
(No matter how many years pass, there are still nights upon which their love is tempestuous, violent; where Desire will not wait a coy maiden but will surge forth the ravisher. It is the love of clashing teeth that cut the lip, of clothes burning the skin as they're torn, of mouths panting wet from blood and secretions, exuding moans strange and terrible like heathen incense.
Yassamin's heart races faster than her feet as she runs from Jaffar through the corridor; the shadows of pillars, lattices, bushes flickering about her as if hands, bodies reaching out to touch her: she is so heated she can feel each one a touch upon her skin, like a crowd of vulgar caresses. Shadows hot and crass and cool and tender, shadows bursting into flight as birds, now startled out of the rosebushes, flee before her.
Yet there is one shadow that is warmer than the rest, one shadow with its sweet cruelties familiar to her flesh, one shadow more alive than its brothers with its hands reaching out to squeeze her breasts, sore and heavy from premenstrual heat. She does not turn to look back--she has not seen him, heard him but she knows he is there: Jaffar, her sorcerer, Jaffar, her beast; Jaffar, her master, her king.
The moment she had stepped out into the garden that night, her nightdress sticking to her skin in the humid air, not having seen her lover all day, not having known him in her bed for days--oh, her need itself, the ache deep within the root of her cunny had summoned him as surely as a stag dominant finds from her scent-trail the female in heat.
Cunt-spoor, he breathes hot and wet into her ear, swirling the sticky words into her with his tongue dipping deep, sickeningly deep into her ear, oh, licking her eardrum; a chuckle rich pouring its vibrations down her jaw and rippling down her spine to her aching, pounding, squeezing sex.
Swift, his shadow is upon her before he himself has reached her: she feels his weight oppressing her, crushing her ribcage, pushing its fingers into her throat, a prick of spirit sliding into her cunny so that she staggers in her steps, her pelvis spread out by its width wedged into her. Her legs are nudged apart so that she nearly falls over, has to grab a pillar for balance: she has reached the end of the building, the arcade that leads into the garden.
And there, no one will be able to hear you scream, my sweet, Jaffar laughs, a laughter delirious and broken, a sodomite's giggle, the rustle of the leaves beside her like the sound of silks parted to lift out a prick. Yet still, she refuses to turn around, her face pressed into the cool stone of the pillar: it would ruin it all, ruin it for her to see him there physically, even if she knows he cannot be there; no, no, he has to have sent but his spirit to so hunt her.
Correct, he whispers within her mind, weighing his sack in his hand, letting her feel the heaviness of it, the thickness of his blood-fattened cock, the smooth-shaven skin of his genitals exquisitely sensitive as he now cups himself in his palm. Just tonight, I prepared myself for you, my love, my love, he breathes around her, sending a ghost-hand to cup her cunny from the front: Tell me, my sweet, is this little thing ready for me, too?)