FIC: The Earth's Turning (NC-17, Jaffar/Princess, Fadl/Zainab)
Title: The Earth's Turning (part 1/7, completed fic)
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, OMC/OFC (Fadl/Zainab)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, Historical Romance, Fantasy
Warnings: Extensive anal play, light bondage, mentions of past violence/horror imagery
Length: ~48 000 words
Summary: The autumn stars always drive Yassamin mad from desire, mad: this year, her frenzy is of an altogether sodomitic nature. Jaffar, of course, is only glad to experiment with various treatments to help assuage her 'fever.'
However, come Mehregan, the bloodstained memory of Harun al-Rashid arises to torment both Jaffar and Fadl: they are unable to hide the truth of the Barmakid tragedy from Zainab and the children any longer. How many Barmakids did die that day? How did Jaffar and Fadl survive the massacre? And how did they enact their revenge?
Meanwhile, Fadl and Zainab's relationship deepens in unexpected ways, their pleasures given altogether new dimensions by sexual spells gifted to them by Jaffar.
A/N: 20th (!) installment of the Of Roses Unfurling saga. You wanted more Zainab; you'll get more Zainab. No orgies this time, however; a surprising plot twist diverted this into "just" Jaffar/Pwinzezz and Fadl/Zainab. But there's plenty of bedroom fun to be had, as usual. Also, we finally get to hear what really took place during this particular universe's version of the Barmakid tragedy.
(Come here, Yassamin asks him, her face pressed into the pillows; she feels so fragile, now, that she cannot look at him. Please, she asks, feeling guilty for this aching need inside of her, always so aware of his age and his declining stamina.
Yet it is an ache no toy can fill, a desire no mere plant gum or beautifully coloured stone could sate; Jaffar knows this, too, and her need spills into the cup of his heart a wine, making him glow inside.
"Oh, my love," he says, his voice soft and breaking from tenderness as he comes to cover her. "As you can see, I am not lacking in anything this very moment," he murmurs with a little wistful smile as he slides his erection between her buttocks, gently seeking permission with his touch. "Except for Love to envelop me, the most perfect love I know of upon this earth," he whispers into her ear as he laces his fingers with hers. "The love of my lady Yassamin. Would you let me?"
"Please," she but says again, hating the way it comes out a whimper; she thinks she will die if he doesn't take her now. "Please, husband," she sighs, biting her lip.
And he slides inside of her guts so easily, now, like silk; she is so open wide, now, so relaxed, that his very first stroke makes lights dance in her eyes. All of her made a prism, he turning her slowly with his thrusts, she reflecting and refracting and scattering the piercing hot white beam of his love. Her teeth chatter, only his weight holding her down--oh, but she loves the way he holds her down, this so much better than any toys now that she can enjoy his full weight atop her body. That she is being loved not by some small object, but the entirety of another human being, and the human being she loves the most in the world at that. The bones of his hips pressed into the softness of her buttocks, that sensation she has never not loved and will continue to love until her dying day; the firm, strong beats of his heart against her back as he lies there, only moving his hips in the shortestmost of strokes while he's inside of her.
She is weighed down by his love, immersed into it, now set free from this terrible weightlessness she has had to suffer with the toys; it is the little, heartbroken noise he makes in her ear as he hears her thoughts that makes her cunny now clench far more violently than the toys had made it do, makes her womb lift with such force that her entire body is now lifted off the bed against his weight. She clutches his hands and tosses herself up into him, now trying to take him with her hips in turn. Her desperation rises fast, swift, quick; words gallop out of her mouth, stumbling over one another as she ruts back against him in her need.
"This is what I need, husband, this, this; this is what I want. Only you can cure this fever--please--"
"Mm-hmm?" he purrs in challenge, now letting go of her hands, lifting her so that she is now balanced on her knees, her face and shoulders against the bed. The bed creaks as he shifts position, too, finding the right one from which to thrust; he has not taken her with his prick like this in a week and now has plenty of energy to spare. For a brief moment, he toys with the idea of teasing her, of stirring her further with dirty words; yet she is past such games, he can tell, so he only brushes this idea against her mind, another caress upon the skin of her self, making her shiver in delight at what he has planned for her the next time they play. He sends to her flashes of flickering tongues, of costumes, of the whip's sweet and sharp sting; of toys of ever-increasing sizes, his entire hand nestled inside of her.
But on and on through all these acts, running through all his perversions runs the blazing core of his love, his love taking her just as he is now taking her with his prick; him making of her pleasure his ornament, them so entwined no one would know where he ends and Yassamin begins.
"Would you like that, my sweet?" he now purrs in her ear as he leans over and cups her breasts in his hands, rolling his hips in a slow circle. "Perhaps I shall make you write me love letters, like those early days," he says, with a great fondness even as he begins to thrust into her in earnest; "make you give up all--your--dirty--little--wishes," he now stutters as his own blows break up his words. "As tribute from a queen conquered," he snarls, taking her by the hair, sliding another hand to her cunny; "exacting from you what is my due.")
Author: Snowgrouse
Fandom: The Thief of Bagdad (1940)
Pairing: Jaffar/Princess, OMC/OFC (Fadl/Zainab)
Rating: NC-17
Genre: Erotica, Historical Romance, Fantasy
Warnings: Extensive anal play, light bondage, mentions of past violence/horror imagery
Length: ~48 000 words
Summary: The autumn stars always drive Yassamin mad from desire, mad: this year, her frenzy is of an altogether sodomitic nature. Jaffar, of course, is only glad to experiment with various treatments to help assuage her 'fever.'
However, come Mehregan, the bloodstained memory of Harun al-Rashid arises to torment both Jaffar and Fadl: they are unable to hide the truth of the Barmakid tragedy from Zainab and the children any longer. How many Barmakids did die that day? How did Jaffar and Fadl survive the massacre? And how did they enact their revenge?
Meanwhile, Fadl and Zainab's relationship deepens in unexpected ways, their pleasures given altogether new dimensions by sexual spells gifted to them by Jaffar.
A/N: 20th (!) installment of the Of Roses Unfurling saga. You wanted more Zainab; you'll get more Zainab. No orgies this time, however; a surprising plot twist diverted this into "just" Jaffar/Pwinzezz and Fadl/Zainab. But there's plenty of bedroom fun to be had, as usual. Also, we finally get to hear what really took place during this particular universe's version of the Barmakid tragedy.
(Come here, Yassamin asks him, her face pressed into the pillows; she feels so fragile, now, that she cannot look at him. Please, she asks, feeling guilty for this aching need inside of her, always so aware of his age and his declining stamina.
Yet it is an ache no toy can fill, a desire no mere plant gum or beautifully coloured stone could sate; Jaffar knows this, too, and her need spills into the cup of his heart a wine, making him glow inside.
"Oh, my love," he says, his voice soft and breaking from tenderness as he comes to cover her. "As you can see, I am not lacking in anything this very moment," he murmurs with a little wistful smile as he slides his erection between her buttocks, gently seeking permission with his touch. "Except for Love to envelop me, the most perfect love I know of upon this earth," he whispers into her ear as he laces his fingers with hers. "The love of my lady Yassamin. Would you let me?"
"Please," she but says again, hating the way it comes out a whimper; she thinks she will die if he doesn't take her now. "Please, husband," she sighs, biting her lip.
And he slides inside of her guts so easily, now, like silk; she is so open wide, now, so relaxed, that his very first stroke makes lights dance in her eyes. All of her made a prism, he turning her slowly with his thrusts, she reflecting and refracting and scattering the piercing hot white beam of his love. Her teeth chatter, only his weight holding her down--oh, but she loves the way he holds her down, this so much better than any toys now that she can enjoy his full weight atop her body. That she is being loved not by some small object, but the entirety of another human being, and the human being she loves the most in the world at that. The bones of his hips pressed into the softness of her buttocks, that sensation she has never not loved and will continue to love until her dying day; the firm, strong beats of his heart against her back as he lies there, only moving his hips in the shortestmost of strokes while he's inside of her.
She is weighed down by his love, immersed into it, now set free from this terrible weightlessness she has had to suffer with the toys; it is the little, heartbroken noise he makes in her ear as he hears her thoughts that makes her cunny now clench far more violently than the toys had made it do, makes her womb lift with such force that her entire body is now lifted off the bed against his weight. She clutches his hands and tosses herself up into him, now trying to take him with her hips in turn. Her desperation rises fast, swift, quick; words gallop out of her mouth, stumbling over one another as she ruts back against him in her need.
"This is what I need, husband, this, this; this is what I want. Only you can cure this fever--please--"
"Mm-hmm?" he purrs in challenge, now letting go of her hands, lifting her so that she is now balanced on her knees, her face and shoulders against the bed. The bed creaks as he shifts position, too, finding the right one from which to thrust; he has not taken her with his prick like this in a week and now has plenty of energy to spare. For a brief moment, he toys with the idea of teasing her, of stirring her further with dirty words; yet she is past such games, he can tell, so he only brushes this idea against her mind, another caress upon the skin of her self, making her shiver in delight at what he has planned for her the next time they play. He sends to her flashes of flickering tongues, of costumes, of the whip's sweet and sharp sting; of toys of ever-increasing sizes, his entire hand nestled inside of her.
But on and on through all these acts, running through all his perversions runs the blazing core of his love, his love taking her just as he is now taking her with his prick; him making of her pleasure his ornament, them so entwined no one would know where he ends and Yassamin begins.
"Would you like that, my sweet?" he now purrs in her ear as he leans over and cups her breasts in his hands, rolling his hips in a slow circle. "Perhaps I shall make you write me love letters, like those early days," he says, with a great fondness even as he begins to thrust into her in earnest; "make you give up all--your--dirty--little--wishes," he now stutters as his own blows break up his words. "As tribute from a queen conquered," he snarls, taking her by the hair, sliding another hand to her cunny; "exacting from you what is my due.")