Chapter Text
After forty years of strategic rule, the fruits of his labor at long last began to bloom. What was once a coastline populated by only sea birds and the occasional fisherman was now a colorful, fragrant market rivalling those rumored to exist in China. Sweet perfumes and sweeter foods mingled with the salty sea air, the noises a constant hum of bargaining, oohing, and aahing, resulting in a chorus of indiscernible voices weaving together into a musical tapestry most pleasant to Jafar's ears. Jafar came alone to the market that day. He did not feel like ordering about droves of loyal but dim-witted men about the crowded marketplace. Besides, the walking would do him good. Of course, he wasn't about to walk into a busy place, where traitors and foreigners as desperate to rule as they were incompetent to do so, lurked. Luckily, being a sorcerer, the issue was easily rectified. In the place of the tall, imposing figure walked a short, stout man, who while clad in expensive garments and clutching a gold-plated cane on which he leaned with each step, could never be mistaken for any more than a low-ranking noble, the sort of person commonly seen at such markets. It was, Jafar knew, a perfect disguise. Indeed, few spared him a glance, far too preoccupied with the shiny baubles and strange meats littering the stands to notice just another nobleman. Though Jafar took his time browsing, sampling exotic foods and purchasing a few fabrics almost beautiful enough to disguise his wife's horribly aged body, he came to the coast on a mission. He was going to purchase a slave girl. A white slave girl. She wasn't to be for him, for Jafar wanted to see more of the light-skinned race before deciding which woman he was to bestow the honor of his ownership upon, rather, she was to be a gift for his son. Malik, being a proper prince in terms of breeding and temperament, was off conquering the last region of the Umayyad Caliphate which had eluded Jafar's influence. From the reports on the front, delivered by Iago, who despite the best medical care money could buy, seemed not long for this world, Malik was as skilled a commander as he was a scholar. For that, Jafar decided, his boy deserved a taste of the finer parts of conquest.
And he knew just where to find her. A small group of raiders, sent out on his commission, had recently captured a number of European slaves. Men, women, and children, people of every sort stood atop wood platforms awaiting auction. The males and females were displayed on separate platforms, either nude or in rags that would be stripped or torn away at the request of any merchant. Each type served a different purpose. Men and boys made excellent manual laborers, with the boys, being trained from a young age, would make for the most loyal servants or converts to Islam once grown, and as for women and girls... well, let us just say, Jafar wasn't the only man in Agrabah to desire a white slave girl of his own. However, he was the only man in Agrabah to get first pick of the selection. A facade had to be maintained, of course. From the outside, it appeared as if hundreds of men had got there before him, examining the girls in ways an ordinary as counting their teeth or as lewd as penetrating their vagin*s and anuses with various objects. None of them had the slightest idea that, if the nondescript looking nobleman fancied the woman in their arms, she would be snatched away from them no matter what price the fools were willing to fork out. Having worked his way into the crowd, Jafar took his sweet time glancing about from girl to girl. There was, after all, no rush. Initially, none of them interested him. They weren't unattractive per se, but neither were they fit for royalty. Some, much to his disappointment, weren't even virgins! Then he saw her. Off in the distance, barely visible behind the crowd of men pawing her, she stood. Jafar considered himself a composed man. Rarely was he ever taken off guard, yet the sight of her hair, a light, flowing yellow like the desert sand and sparkling deep blue eyes froze him in his tracks. It was as if the sun itself had intertwined itself in her locks, dazzling any and all who gazed upon her. Typically, he disliked his unattractive disguise. In this case however, he couldn't have been more thankful. A sultan's composure was never supposed to falter, and had his people seen such a display, it would've been an embarrassment to haunt Jafar for centuries. Naturally, Jafar wasn't going to purchase the girl just yet. He'd seen many a woman that looked beautiful from a distance, but upon closer inspection revealed herself as merely another mediocrity in the sea of woman who flowed in and out of the sorcerer's life, as he'd learned from Jasmine when he had tamed her forty years ago. At worst, she could even be carrying a disease. However, judging by the number of men examining her more 'sensitive' regions, Jafar doubted that was the case. As he joined the group of nobles and merchants oohing and aahing at the helplessly chained girl, Jafar shuddered at the manner in which they were 'examining' her. Here they had a truly beautiful exotic flower, and yet they pawed and groped at her in such a way that would soon pluck away all her soft petals. Tugging her hair, pulling clumps of shimmering straw strands to keep for themselves, gripping her small bosom in such a manner that would leave dark bruises on her pearl-white skin, shoving unwashed fingers down her throat, an act that could easily leave the girl horribly ill. Jafar had no issue with getting a taste of the product before purchasing it. That was common practice, and he planned to do so himself. This though... This was not sampling. This was savage thievery. Luckily, such problems were easily taken care of by the sorcerer. In a particularly callous move, Jafar deemed it appropriate that the men become attracted to the plumpest, most slovenly woman for sale. A pig for the pigs, it only seemed fair. Nobody noticed the slight red glow of the nondescript nobleman's cane. However, everyone noticed, with much surprise, a large crowd of men shouting ungodly expensive bids for a fat older woman. Her age and body type made her no good for work, and she, especially compared to the supple young girls surrounding her, was not the sort one would keep around to satisfy his carnal needs. Everybody was perplexed. Everybody, that is, except Jafar. The girl, a small, timid thing, recoiled at his approach. It was understandable, given the way in which she'd been handled. Still, it was an unacceptable response, one he would soon train out of her if she was to be his. Unlike the others, Jafar did not have the problem of a language barrier. His staff could translate any language, but that was something he seldom needed. Before and during his reign, he'd taken up foreign languages, partially as a hobby, and partially to aid in trading (foreign rulers and merchants were always flattered to hear their language spoken, and as such, offered better deals). However, from the girl's meek pleas earlier, Jafar couldn’t tell what language she was speaking. But, there was only one way to know for certain. As Jafar’s staff started to glow red, activating his ability to translate any language. “Hello, sweet flower,” He said, his speech only slightly tinged with an Arabic accent. Immediately, the girl perked up, gaze snapping to the man before her. It was likely, Jafar mused, that she'd not heard her native language since her capture. Oh, how her blue eyes twinkled with surprise, an expression of tentative curiosity and innocence, somehow untainted by the horrors she'd endured just seconds ago. “H-Hello..?” She stammered, her voice barely audible over her fast breathing. “H-How do you speak Welsh?” “Yes,” Jafar smiled, anticipating the girl's question. “I speak many languages. Though, you shall be expected to learn Agrabah's tongue if you are to be mine.”Welsh I see.Jafar thought to himself.A new language I have never heard of. Nevertheless, I will learn it if she becomes mine. “Be yours?” The girl gasped, reflexively attempting to bring a hand to her mouth. The chains, of course, prevented such an action. As such, all she managed to do was dig the hard metal painfully into her wrist. “Ah, ah, careful,” Jafar tutted, gently pushing her hand back to her sides. Her skin... Even after weeks at sea, it felt softer than that of any Arabic woman he'd ever touched. Perhaps it was the sun. It wasn't as harsh in her part of the world, so her skin needn't thicken to protect itself from the heat. Or perhaps white skin was simply softer by nature. Either way, had Jafar been a lesser man, he would've struggled to release her trembling hand. “You are a very valuable commodity. You should treat your body as such.” The girl, Jafar could tell, was confused. On the one hand, being called 'valuable' was something that would make any woman blush. Yet, her mind was conflicted about the term 'commodity', causing her to break eye contact and anxiously shift what little weight she had from foot to foot. Jafar smiled. Just the reaction he was looking for.
Her bafflement would soon give way to indignation however, as she heard what her well-dressed buyer said next. “Dance for me, if you'd please.” “Why! How dare you!” She huffed, blonde hair brushing upon her breast as she turned her head sharply away from Jafar's direction. It seemed that, while certainly meeker than many of the other women, there was still some fight left in the delicate young thing. Most women of her race would've merely been confused at the order. After all, dance was rarely sexualized in her culture. But Eilonwy wasn't most women. Prior to her capture, Eilonwy, a princess in her home kingdom, had spent years being groomed in culture and history. While it was not her job to lead, no prince of reputable standing would've wanted a dim princess by his side. As such, she knew of Muslim men and their proclivities. Surprisingly, this pleased the sorcerer. Not her insolence, that would have to be taken care of. But her physical appearance, combined with an indication of an educated background indicated royalty. “Very well. I have given you a choice,” Jafar nodded, a relaxed smile spreading itself upon his currently chubby face. Despite the expression's association with joy and friendliness, something about the way his lips curled told Eilowny his intentions misaligned with his warm appearance. “... As you have chosen not to take it, I am forced to do so for you.” Then, as a red glow bathed her body, suddenly all she could feel was warm. Discreetly, Jafar glanced side to side. While he doubted anyone would dare oppose him even if his identity was revealed, it wasn't something he wanted to have to concern himself with while examining his son's gift. “Now,” He sighed, lifting Eilonwy's chin to freely gaze upon her face once more. “Dance for me.” With a barely audible 'yes', the girl, all her self-consciousness (as well as most her consciousness itself) evaporated from the sorcerer's spell, obeyed. She would certainly require more training. While her arms floated gracefully, the sweet thing simply had no idea how to move her belly. Instead, she swung what little hip she had side-to-side in a manner both stiff and lewder than called for in the traditional erotic dance. Clearly, a few exaggerations were made in her education concerning the sexuality of Muslim men. Tempting as her nude form was, the moment her bottom pressed upon Jafar's waist, he retracted his mesmerizing spell. The girl needed to be taught obedience, yes, but she'd done nothing so egregious to deserve public humiliation. And, as wonderful as the heat of her soft flower felt through his thin robes, such a sensation told him nothing concerning the actual state of her most valuable region. “Oh!” Eilowny whimpered, chains rattling as she tensed. “My apologies for having to put you in such a state,” Jafar said, standing in front of the girl to allow her a brief moment of modesty against the now-staring crowd (all that was, except for the man Jafar had enchanted earlier). “I truly hope it will not be necessary in the future.” By her submissive nod, Jafar knew he'd gotten his message across. His will automatically overruled hers, and if she could not recognize that fact, her will would be silenced. And how fortunate that what needed to do next would confirm if her submission was true.
“While I do not doubt your morals, it's standard procedure for a prospective buyer to confirm the virginity of his new acquisitions. I'm sure you understand.” “I-uhm...” The girl stammered, face turning as pink as the flower between her legs. She knew she couldn't refuse. One way or another, the peculiar nobleman would have his way with her. Still, she could stall, buy herself a few more seconds of dignity before his wandering fingers stripped it away. “You want to... Buy me?” “Yes, and I'm sure I'm not the only one,” Jafar purred, gesturing to the gathering of men taking not-so-inconspicuous glances at the chained women. Most lacked both the dress and class of her current assailant, dirty robes and lecherous smiles topped off with grimy, calloused hands aching to take hold of something soft. While Jafar hadn't said it in words, his implication shone clear. If she had to be someone's property, he was her best option. Seeing he'd gotten his point across, Jafar ran a comforting (under different circ*mstances) hand down her hair, stopping mere millimeters before reaching her small, light colored nipple. Disgusted and terrified as Eilowny's mind was, nothing could stop her body's reaction. The only touch to ever grace her chest up until then was the soft linen of her royal dress. A warm tingle began in her nipple, its bud rising as the unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant feeling travelled down into the most sensitive region of her body. Soon, she became aware of a warm wetness sticking between her legs. For a moment, she feared she'd urinated, but she'd never felt that sort of tingle while relieving herself. “Ah,” Jafar smiled, never breaking eye contact as his hand traced down beneath her waist. “That will make penetration far less painful, my dear. Now,” He continued, another strange sensation radiating throughout her crotch as two long fingers spread apart her small, damp petals. “Are you quite ready?” Eilowny knew it wasn't a question. Still, she found herself surprised at the speed of her answer. This strange giddy warmth, this tingling force... It was as if something deep within was compelling her to submit, a promise of more pleasure if only she would say 'yes'. But, for a virgin girl like Eilowny, such pleasure was barred away by a strong, tight hymen. Just one thin (for Jafar discreetly shifted his hand back to its usual bony state for the girl's sake) finger brought the power of a knife between her legs. Reflexively, she tensed, only furthering her discomfort as her soft, wet walls clamped around the foreign object. “Relax,” Jafar ordered, his tone firm but not uncaring. “It will hurt less if you relax.” In her current state, relaxation was the last thing on Eilowny's mind, but the promise of relief was enough to temporarily snap her out of her pain-induced panic. Her fast gasps turned to slow, deep breaths, still occasionally interrupted by a shuddering spasm, her hands and feet uncurled and finally, after every other part of her body had released its tension, so too did her vagin*l cavity. It still hurt, but at least now she could keep herself from crying out. Jafar, not being the sort to waste an opportunity, examined her teeth and gumline as she bared them out of pain. While they were not as healthy as others he'd seen, their whiteness belying several cavities near the back of the mouth, that was, in fact, a good thing. That sort of decay came from a diet high in sugars, and the only sort with access to such things in Europe was the nobility. “Guh!” Eilowny groaned, a quiet popping sound emanating from her flower as Jafar carefully removed his finger. While he'd expected her to be a virgin, the way in which her vagin* clutched his finger revealed far more than just her lack of a male partner. No, between her tightness, and how easily her nethers dampened, he doubted she'd so much as masturbat*d once in her entire life. All she knew of pleasure, of sex, of org*sm, would be his to teach. She was but wet clay, ready to be moulded into whatever Jafar, or rather, his son, desired. Malik was lucky he'd been nothing but loyal all those years, otherwise his father might very well have taken the girl for himself. “Sssh,” Jafar soothed, running his finger, now wet with sweetness down Eilowny's neck. After the agony she'd just been through, his touch was almost comforting. “You are delicate. I will be careful bringing your flower to bloom, that is a promise.” Having usurped his former master, the sultan was hardly known for his honestly. Yet, that day marked one of the rare occasions he spoke the truth. He told himself it was to preserve her value, to not break the object he'd so desperately sought. Protecting a priceless commodity, nothing more, nothing less. Alas, the sudden, slight tremble of his hand, noticeable to nobody but shaking him to his core said otherwise. Despite having no need to, Jafar took his time bartering with the auctioneer. A fool the man was, utterly oblivious to the true value of his wares. To him, the girl was but a mere peasant, one of many abducted off the European coastline. For someone to possess that little knowledge, much less a slave trader, was inexcusable. Had Jafar not had his new purchase to look forward to, he might've been upset with how little challenge the dullard possessed. By the time they'd shaken on the deal, Jafar was to pay less than half of Eilowny's true worth. Unbeknownst to the seller, he'd've gladly paid twice her value if necessary. No price was too high for the sultan's son. Slowly, Jafar made his way back to the palace. Desperate as he was to plant his exotic bloom safely behind castle walls, one wrong step could send the chained girl sprawling onto the sand. While he'd never worn them personally, it didn't take experience to see how heavy the hot metal was. So why was she able to match his pace so well? The way she walked, while reluctant, seemed almost unburdened. Not once did she stumble; by Allah, her chains barely rattled!
“You have been bound before, have you not, Princess?” “Huh?” Eilowny gasped, her startled, wide eyed expression a lovely change from the gloomy, teary eyed malaise he'd seen moments ago. “How... How did...?” “I have taken a great many prisoners in my time. Some of war, some of... pleasure,” Jafar explained. While he stretched the truth about the second part, Jasmine having been his only true 'slave' (for, while none of his Arab female servants were paid, they found themselves more than happy to serve a man of the sultan's standing), the girl had no reason to call his bluff. Stretching truths was, after all, the sorcerer's specialty. “I recognize very well how a newly chained body moves. Stumbling about, struggling, not necessarily on purpose. You, my dear, are hardly newly chained.”
“I.. Yes,” Eilowny gulped, too startled to put up any sort of witty retort (though the more Jafar conversed with the girl, the more he saw she'd the feminine intelligence not to behave in such an unwomanly manner). “I have... Had past ordeals. But how did you-”
“-Know you were a princess?” Jafar smiled, standing still for a moment to stroke the young flower's cheek. She flinched, but much to his delight, did not pull away. “Truthfully, it was a suspicion. I am glad to hear you confirm it.”
Jafar was pleased. They'd not even reached the castle, and yet he'd already managed to assert a natural dominance over the girl, letting her know of both his innate knowledge and ability to read her as easily as a book, all without being for a moment ungentlemanly. Which was why he found himself all the more surprised with what she'd to say to him next.
“I...” She murmured, her voice soft, unassuming, and sweet, unbecoming of the mighty claim she was about to lay. “...Know something about you too.”
“Oh?” Jafar raised an eyebrow. The girl seemed calmer... no, more than that... While her eyes still gazed submissively to the sand beneath her feet, the delicate pink corners of her lips pointed skyward. Perhaps he was going to have to deal with a 'witty retort' after all. It was a shame, he really though her above such a thing-
“...Yes. You're a sorcerer,” Eilowny replied at last, her knowing gaze and smile, showing only a hint of her well-aligned teeth, meeting his.
It wasn't so much a witty retort, for Jafar enjoyed people's recognition- and fear- of his abilities, but it certainly took wits. Yes, he'd placed her in a trance, but hypnotists were hardly uncommon, especially in the Arab world. Many men did the same, taking advantage of pendulums, canes, or any other glittering object that might distract one's attention for a moment's notice.
“I'm...” Jafar paused momentarily, not a moment his captive, or anyone else, had they been around on the little-known pathway leading back to the palace, would've noticed, but a moment that rocked always self-certain sultan deeply. “Indeed I am.”
While being caught by surprise naturally made a man such as Jafar uneasy, nothing made a man of his deserved ego so comfortable as to cast aside the inferior face he was forced to wear to stay under the radar of his (mostly) adoring public.
“Now,” He purred, voice settling nicely into the smooth, deep hiss in which he truly spoke. The more his timber fell, the more his body seemed to rise, the mass which had once fallen around his waist shooting upward, turning him from a small, stout man into the thin, yet immovable towering man he was. “I believe it's my turn to ask how a lovely Western girl such as yourself might know such a thing?”
“I-I...” Eilowny gasped. While it took her a good thirty seconds for her stammering to return to something resembling human speech, Jafar was nonetheless impressed. Several of his servant girls had fainted at the transformation alone. “My land... a sorcerer, he... He lay claim to it a-and... myself. These robes...” Despite having withered from his touch only an hour ago, the girl, captivated as she was frightened by the transformation, found herself reaching to grasp the fine, dark fabric, rippling like an ocean despite the desert wind's faintness. “They're... this material, why... it's too fine for a noble. Are you... ? You're the sultan... No.” A small bead of sweat trickled down the girl's unblemished brow, barely missing her eyes, wide with recognition, and dripping instead to her right nipple, where it hung momentarily before falling once more, greedily devoured by dry desert sand in mere moments.
“You're THE sultan... Sultan Jafar.”
While Jafar knew rumor of him had spread throughout the continents, for an insignificant (he assumed, for no angered soldiers lurked the markets in search of their lost royal) princess all the way from Prydain to know of him by name... Clearly, he hadn't only solidified himself in Arab legends.
Alas, the realization proved too great for the princess. While her wits remained far longer than any common servant, she too fell at last into overwhelmed unconsciousness, the sorcerer's levitation spell catching her just in time to keep her delicate features from slamming against coarse ground.
Or, that was what Jafar assumed until he touched her forehead.
From swooning to fits of laughter, even sudden loss of inhibition, women reacted many ways to the grand sultan. But, as much as Jafar's underlings might've jested about his ability to light a fire within the fairer sex, he knew for a fact no amount of fear or attraction could make such a figure of speech a reality. Yet, her flesh burned beneath his bony palm.
Despite having garnered immortality, Jafar still saw it imperative to preserve his health. Walking multiple hours every day was as much a part of his routine as sleeping or eating. Yet such thoughts didn't so much as enter his head as he, cradling the hot yet somehow clammy body of his new purchase, called upon his genie-bestowed powers to whisk them into the palace in seconds. Whether it be a valuable silk, a rare spice, or a precious Macedonian ruby, the sultan tended carefully to his prized possessions. A living possession, especially one as rare as her, was no exception.
She'd not been sick at the market. Jafar's examination proved that much, and he knew himself far too wise to err in such judgments. Yet something had happened, something that was enough to set her small frame ablaze, something he'd never seen from an Arab woman.
White women had many things Arabic women lacked. Eyes and hair of many colors, petals of pink and spoken tongues unlike anything spoken in the Middle East, soft tones and gentle sighs entrancing to both Muslim and European men alike. But for all their unique virtues, so too, Jafar learned as he set her unconscious form upon the softest bed in his sizable private quarters, did they suffer unique flaws.
A weaker man might've been discouraged. Perhaps these pale, blushing specimens, lovely as they were, simply were not worth the effort they took in comparison to their readily accessible native counterparts. Jafar saw better. While he did not tend his own gardens, he knew a few things about what lay rooted within them. The most beautiful blooms, the most priceless flowers and statuesque trees were the most difficult to grow. They did not thrive naturally in the arid desert climate, and, if the constant hustling and bustling on the grounds was anything to go by, required constant watering and pruning merely to remain alive. Yet only they, the finest plants filled Jafar's garden. If that was the philosophy he kept for mere greenery, only a fool or a madman would think anything different applied to his, or in this case, his son's, slave girls.
He'd many servants who'd have gladly watched over his new purchase, yet he sat alone next to the princess's bedside. It wasn't that he did not trust them, the women had no interest in tainting the girl's form, and the men knew better than to cross their sultan. However, if he allowed the care of his slaves to be delegated to servants, he would never learn how to properly take care of white-skinned women. Jafar enjoyed having others do his bidding, but he depended on nobody. A mere servant possessing more knowledge than him, that simply could not be allowed. As the hours passed, a strange change unlike anything he'd observed before passed over the woman's body. Her pale skin slowly turned pink, then red, small blisters forming around her otherwise impeccable nose and dainty shoulders. It was as if her flesh was being scorched by an invisible flame, the burning process which typically took mere seconds taking several hours to unfold. While the source of these burns remained a mystery, their treatment was not. Aloe vera, a well-known remedy for burns and other skin ailments, was one of the few plants that grew plentifully in the desert climate. Within its leaves sat a cool, clear fluid, which regardless of the cause of her injury, would relieve the girl's pain when she finally woke. Though Jafar's many talents did not include doctor, he felt no need to call a physician. Running his hands over such a thin, supple body, making sure each crease and crevice was thoroughly lubricated by the natural ointment was a pleasure in every sense of the word. His self-control was far too great to indulge himself in her flesh, bringing his exotic flower to bloom once more was his primary concern, but he gave silent thanks to Allah that her bosom was the most afflicted by the peculiar ailment. Having applied the first coating of aloe to the princess, he took a moment to admire his handiwork, and his purchase. Her body, beautiful even in its injured state and glistening with ointment reminded him of a glazed lamb, its tender, soft flesh prepared to perfection. Yet, his mouth watered more at the sight of her than it would've for the most delicious feast. Unlike the glutton who preceded him, Jafar knew Allah had blessed mankind with far greater pleasures than food. It was only as he reached within her thin thigh to rub in the second layer of aloe that the princess began to stir. Barely conscious, her first instinct was to bring a hand down to protect her flower. A natural response for a Christian girl, still, Jafar found himself slightly disappointed. He'd far too much self-respect to take her by force. It was much more rewarding to train a girl into giving herself willingly. “Please...” She murmured, eyes clenched shut as she struggled to form words within her parched mouth. “Don't... Don't...” “Relax,” Jafar soothed, gently but firmly placing his hand, still warm from her thigh, against her brow. “I assure you I have not sullied your purity.” “But you...” She coughed, what little bosom she had bouncing with every heave. “You were...” “If you'll simply open your eyes Princess,” The sultan replied, waiting patiently as the girl's terrified lids slowly parted revealing the blue seas held inside. “See?” He smiled, doing his best to strike a warm expression, though he was well aware his imposing figure made interpreting it as such more difficult. Before Eilowny was a room with trappings unlike anything she'd ever seen. She'd known a life of luxury back in Europe, but as she would soon learn, the finest things on the continent paled in comparison to that of a wealthy Arabic ruler. Bedposts encrusted in golden leaf and rubies, matching perfectly with the richly painted red walls and various carvings, yet all arranged with an air of taste preventing the sort of gaudiness she'd seen in many of her prospective suitors' castles. With all that to take in, it took her a good minute or so to notice what her new owner was trying to direct her attention to. On her bedside sat a peculiar plant, its leaves cracked and dripping like milkweed might, though that was where the similarity between the two ended, for this new plant's excretions bore the appearance of thickened water. Only then did she notice a cold, but pleasant dampness coating her from head-to-toe. So soothing was the strange balm that it took her seeing her reddened hand to become aware of her burns. Frightened as she was, it did not take long for her to put two and two together regarding the predicament she'd awoken in. “I'm afraid there was no other way to apply the aloe,” Jafar lied. His trusty golden snake would've done the trick, but to behave so impersonally was an insult to the princess's beauty, even if she herself would not have wished it. “Oh...” She mumbled, attempting to sit up just to have her head softly forced back against the small pile of feather pillows. “I see. My apologies.” Despite having been kidnapped, stowed away like cattle on a cramped ship to be sold in a market completely foreign to anything a western women would've known only to be purchased by a sultan so intimidating word of him had spread across the seven seas, the girl still retained her manners. While she'd been sorely misled in terms of religion, clearly her upbringing had some virtue. A European girl, born of a society with significantly looser moral expectations of the fairer sex, yet her etiquette and values far outshone that of the brash, opinionated Agrabah-born Jasmine. Jafar had not thought it possible to think any lower of his deceased rival's daughter, yet a slave girl, a mere possession had proven herself more noble than the official Sultana of Agrabah with only two words. “There is no need,” Jafar replied, removing his grip on her brow only when he was sure she would not exert herself by sitting up. “Simply tell me your name and where you’re from, and all is forgiven.” “I'm Princess Eilowny of Llyr,” The princess answered, dry tongue running over her rose-colored lips in a vain attempt to feel some sort of moisture. “I come from a land known as Prydain.” “An exotic name for an exotic jewel,” Jafar nodded. Then, his soft Welsh tone, that which had given Eilowny some comfort despite the traumas she'd faced reverted back to the harsh Arabic shouts she'd heard oh-so-many times over the past few months. A chill ran down Eilowny's spine, but unlike the aloe, its coldness was not pleasurable in the slightest. Every time she'd heard that strange tongue spoken, she'd been with at best a leering gaze and at worst the lash of a whip or the violation of a rough hand. Jafar had suspected she might've formed a sour association with the language. Unfortunate, yes, but easily rectified. It would take time, but he was confident she'd eventually form a positive relationship with his mother tongue. And what better way to start than by the words she feared so much delivering to her what she most desired? In less than a minute, a short, female servant came bustling into their chambers with a pitcher of the finest grape juice and one of the castle's many golden goblets in hand. Back in Eilowny's kingdom, the servant class was known to drag their feet, but those lucky enough to work under Jafar knew better, whether through fear or respect, to keep him waiting. Despite herself, the Arab women felt a pang of jealous as she poured the new slave a cool drink. Many women, herself included, would've given anything to serve as the sultan's, or his son's, concubine, and here the ungrateful girl lay trembling! Stronger than her jealousy however, was her shame. It was not her place to question Sultan Jafar's judgment, even within her own mind. The second she'd completed her duties, she'd excuse herself to pray the Salat al-Tawbah, vowing never to let such thoughts infect her soul again. With Jafar's help, Eilowny managed to raise herself enough to drink. The goblet was far heavier than she'd expected, and in her weakened state, it took both hands for her to get it to her lips. The second it washed down her throat though, Eilowny was in heaven. Juice had never tasted so sweet! If not for Jafar easily prying the goblet from her hands, she'd've surely drank herself nauseous. While she did not realize it, already was her apprehension of the foreign language fading. “Thank you,” Eilowny gasped, setting her left hand on her chest while pulling a blanket over it with her right. Though Jafar missed the sight of her form, today was not the day to push such matters. There would be plenty of time for the harsher aspects of her education once she'd recovered her strength. “Oh.. Oh dear,” Her brow furrowed as she ran the light sheet between her thumb and index finger. “This... It's silk. I'm... the, um..” “Aloe Vera?” Jafar prompted. “...Aloe Vera... It will surely stain!” A captive's first instinct generally wouldn't be to worry about their captor's possessions, but Eilowny, knowing well the worth of fine fabrics, couldn't help but be appalled at the damage she'd caused. “Don't insult me,” Jafar replied, expression turning dour. “I-Insult you?” “Do you think me not wealthy enough to replace such insignificant things?” He asked, gesturing at their glittering surroundings. “N-No, but-” “Then you will speak no more of it. Your bedding will be replaced for however long your treatment takes. A flower like yourself is not as easily replaced as mere silk. Do you understand?” Intimidated and awed, Eilowny could only nod in response. “Good,” Jafar's face softened once more, hand coming to rest on her bedside. “Speaking of your treatment...” He paused. As much as he hated to admit ignorance, the information he lacked was vital. “Do you know what caused your affliction?” Eilowny giggled slightly, a sound she'd nearly forgotten how to make. “Why, you don't know?” Had anyone else said such a thing, Jafar would've reacted with rage. But, to see her comfortable enough to laugh... Again, the more disciplinary parts of her education were better tended to later. “I'm not in the habit of asking questions I know the answer to.” “It's only a sunburn!” The princess replied, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. “It will peel away in a week or two. Haven't you ever had one?” “No,” Jafar replied honestly. Odd as being burned by the sun's gentle rays might've seemed, it made sense in hindsight. The northern regions were far cooler than Agrabah, and anyone who'd watched meat cook over a fire knew it was easier to see scorching in lighter flesh than dark. “You say it will... Peel away?” “Mhm!” “How curious. I will have to see such a thing for myself to believe it, you understand?” Eilonwy nodded. As obvious as the concept seemed to her, the idea of skin peeling away to reveal undamaged complexion beneath would certainly seem strange to anyone who'd never heard of such a thing.” “Very well,” Jafar said, thin body raising from the bed, robes looming over her like a shadow. “I will leave you to rest now. If you are in need of anything, clap your hands and a servant shall be by your side. I have...” He paused, fingers rapping upon his intricately carved staff. “...Taken care of the language barrier. Do not become accustomed to it; you will be expected to learn Arabic once you are well. Also...” Jafar trailed off. It had been mere seconds, but the princess had already fallen deep into slumber. He was not angry. As much as he hated to be ignored, it was clearly a result of exhaustion, not inattentiveness.
“Rest well, my flower,” He whispered, permitting himself a kiss on her cheek, but no more, before quietly slinking out of her room. Once out of hearing distance, he picked up the pace, striding swiftly back to the throne room. There was an important letter he had to write Malik, something about a surprise waiting, a reward for his toil on the battlefield.
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With a firm step, Jafar walked until he reached his throne where he sat ready to write the letter. However he still needed a pen and paper; although Jafar could use his magic to easily conjure objects, he preferred to use the power he had as sultan. After all, he had fought for that position and now he would enjoy it to the fullest, clapping to summon a vassal.
"Quickly, bring me a table, pen. and paper!”
“By the order of the Sultan! Alhamdulillah!”
Without delay the servants placed in front of Jafar all the items that he ordered .
“Order completed, would you desire anything else my Sultan?"
“That is all. For now you can leave, I wish to be alone while I write the letter.”
"Inshallah!"
All the servants disappeared from Jafar's sight as he began to write.
My son Malik,
Today I have heard the news of your great victories on the frontline and that is why I have decided to reward you with your first slave, a beautiful maiden from the northern lands who is not only beautiful but also a princess, making her perfect for you to tame. I have purchased her at the slave market and I have confirmed that she is a pure maid, with a smooth and hairless body and voluminous blonde hair to accentuate her beauty, making her ideal for your pleasure. I plan to train her in different arts of seduction, belly dancing, and other methods of pleasures so that she will be a perfect slave, fulfilling any desire you have for her or any order you have for her the moment you return victorious from all the battles and wars that lie ahead. For now I must say goodbye, but I hope to hear more news about your victories on the front. I hope you do not disappoint me. May our Prophet keep you in his grace.
Alhamdulillah,
Sultan Jafar.
After sealing the letter with his personal sigil, Jafar summoned a servant.
"You summoned me, your majesty?"
The Sultan's hand extended towards the servant.
“Deliver this letter as quickly as possible to my son.”
“Yes my Sultan, Inshallah.”
As the servant left to deliver the message, Jafar observed him like an eagle before smiling. He realized that he would need to continue his duties as a Sultan in addition to properly educating the blonde houri he had secured for his son. He turned to another servant who arrived in the throne room
"Servant! Bring the blonde beauty I secured at the slave market to my throne room as soon as she awakens!”
The servant, being a woman herself, merely nodded though she was internally jealous of Eilonwy's inevitable fate. She quickly left for the Welsh slave's room.
“Now I'll take care of my business while I wait.” Jafar muttered to himself as he contemplated his next move. When he seized the throne several decades ago, he not only took the title of Sultan, but also the privileges and duties that came with the position. Thus he now had to see issues such as the country's economy, health, and national security. Although this last issue made him laugh a little since it reminded him of his old rival Aladdin for being a street rat who stole to survive and dreamed of one day living in the palace, a pathetic dream for someone of his rank, who was now all but dead and rotting away in the dungeon. And Jafar had since then seen to it that such street rats were either rounded up and pressed into his army or if they were young enough, simply taken in by local mosques to be raised and given proper food and education; cruel as he was, Jafar was still a pragmatic ruler who knew that a resentful populace would produce individuals like Aladdin who'd seek to overthrow him. And though he could easily use his sorcery to destoy any threat and also loathed the idea of letting any excess wealth go anywhere besides his own pleasure, he considered it a necessary evil.
But I have no time to think of all that. The final provinces of the Caliphate will soon know my authority. The Sultan continued perusing documents and letters from dignataries and allies. Hours passed while Jafar assumed this role until he heard a soft sound that was the door of the room opening followed by a small voice that seemed more like a breeze which reached his ear like a silent whisper.
"I can enter?"
It was the delicious Welsh blonde princess Elionwy who had finally woken up from her slumber. She wore nothing but a modesty towel on her body.
"Ah, my ravishing houri. Do not be afraid I was awaiting your arrival. I hope that the servant I sent you has behaved well."
Elionwy entered the throne room very slowly before closing the door, with a smile she looked at Jafar as she approached the throne.
"Oh she treated me quite well.:
"Marvelous! But I hope that you have learned the way from your room to this place since it will be the first and last time that I entrust someone to guide you, it is your duty to learn about the locations of the palace, I can understand that you have many things to learn but something tells me that it won't be impossible for you.”
Jafar's words were a combination of firmness and encouragement towards Princess Elionwy, she was still nervous but this time she felt a little more confident with Jafar since since she was trapped and turned into a slave he was the only one who had treated he. kindly and had cared about her.
"No! I will strive to learn everything! I promise you."
"Marvelous! Because now, even though it grieves me, I feel the need to tell you that I will train you to become a good slave for my son, the prince.”
The girl looked at Jafar with her confused face.
"Your son?"
“Yes my son Malik.”
Jafar's moved in circles to use his magic to summon his staff, which he then raised to make an image of Malik appear in front of Elionwy.
"Here is my great pride, as you can see he is quite similar to me in terms of appearance and in cunning he is not far behind either, he has won several battles in my name and as a reward for his hard work and loyalty I have decided to reward him with his own slave. And that is where you come in, as you will become his slave the moment he returns to the palace but before that happens I must train you so that you become a perfect slave for him. Though appearance-wise you are already perfect.”
Elionwy looked at the image of the prince before looking at Jafar.
“Then… I will be his property and not yours?”
The girl's face blushed as she asked, inside her mind and soul she thought she would be the servant of the man who took care of her and treated her well.
"Indeed, the Prophet (Peace Be Upon Him) was kind enough to grace me with Agrabah itself, so it's only proper that my progeny receive a blessing in the form of a virgin so lovely that she might as well have come from paradise itself. But don't worry, he's as kind and courteous as I am, after all, he's my son, but of course only with those who are obedient and useful, so you'll be taught to be such a slave."
"Oh okay."
Elionwy was a little sad and bewildered but understood that her destiny was not to serve Jafar but instead his son.
“Very well, now that you have understood it perfectly, it is time for us to start your training. Come closer”
The Welsh blonde nervously approached her master. Jafar stood up and approached her.
"Remove your towel unless you want me to remove it myself. I want to see if your sunburn has healed.
Eilonwy blushed in response and reluctantly let her modesty towel fall to the floor. She stepped onto it and obediently stood at attention, much to Jafar's delight. The Sultan began to examine the young girl, his eyes ran over the entire front of her body, carefully examining it in search of any mark, and to his delight saw that her earlier sunburn had completely healed. “It seems that everything is in order for this part of the body. Now it's time to check the back.” Eilonwy obediently turned around. “Wonderful, it seems that the medicine really worked and has healed all your burns but has also made your skin more resistant to the heat of the desert… now everything seems to be in order. Your body has healed and I truly see the extent of your radiant beauty. My son is lucky he has remained nothing but loyal to me.”
Jafar stepped closer, his eyes still scanning Eilonwy’s form with an intensity that made her skin crawl, though she had remained outwardly composed since she had entered the throne room, her resilience was beginning to falter at the humiliation of being examined by the lustful Sultan. Her heart pounded in her chest, and despite the soothing balm that had healed her sunburns, she felt a different kind of heat rising within her—a blend of fear, anger, and confusion. How had her life come to this? Only a few months ago, she was a princess in her homeland, with dreams and duties befitting her noble birth. Now, she was nothing more than a piece of property, her fate sealed by a man who viewed her as an object to be molded and controlled.
She wanted to resist, to scream, to fight against the chains that bound her both physically and mentally. Yet, Eilonwy knew that such defiance would be futile. Jafar’s power was absolute, his will unbreakable. Inwardly, she wrestled with the reality of her situation, trying to find a way to survive in this new, horrifying reality. Perhaps if she obeyed, if she played the role he expected of her, she could buy herself time—time to think, time to plan, time to find a way out of this nightmare. Though she knew that getting back to Prydain from Agrabah would be a pipe dream.
Jafar, noticing the subtle tension in her posture, gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. He could sense the turmoil within her, and he reveled in it. The process of breaking her spirit, of transforming her into the perfect, obedient slave, was as much a psychological endeavor as a physical one.
“Now, my dear,” he began, his voice low and commanding, “there are certain things you must learn if you are to serve my son well. Obedience is paramount. When you are given an order, you must follow it without hesitation, without question. Your thoughts, your desires, they are irrelevant now. Only the will of your master matters.”
Eilonwy's fists clenched at her sides, though she kept her expression neutral. Jafar’s words cut deep, each one a reminder of the life and freedom she had lost. She was a princess—no, shehadbeen a princess. Now, she was being told that her very thoughts were meaningless, that her only purpose was to serve another's whims. But she couldn’t let him see her fear, her anger. She had to be smart, had to keep a clear head.
Jafar continued, his gaze never leaving her face as if searching for any sign of defiance. “A slave girl must also be pleasing in her demeanor. Your actions should always reflect grace and submission. When you are in the presence of your master, your eyes should be lowered unless given permission to look up. You will address him with the utmost respect, and you will anticipate his needs before he even speaks them. And if he decided to enjoy your lovely body, you must show no resistance.”
Eilonwy’s mind raced as she absorbed his instructions. The thought of lowering her eyes, of submitting to such degrading treatment, made her stomach churn. But she nodded, doing her best to keep her voice steady as she responded, “I understand, my lord.”
“Good,” Jafar said, pleased with her response. He reached out, tilting her chin up with a single finger, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Remember, your beauty is not just in your appearance, but in your compliance. The more you surrender to your new life, the easier it will become.”
As Jafar’s words echoed in her mind, Eilonwy struggled to suppress the tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. She knew she couldn’t afford to show weakness, not now. She would play the role he wanted, at least for now. But deep within her, the fire of resistance still burned, even if it was only a small flicker. She would survive this, she promised herself. She would endure whatever Jafar and his son demanded of her. And one day, she would find a way to reclaim the freedom that had been stolen from her.
Jafar, satisfied with her outward submission, stepped back, allowing Eilonwy a moment to breathe. However, he could sense that she wasn't completely ready to submit. Though he internally commended the girl for having kept her cool for so long after entering the throne room. Perhaps I can enjoy her a bit myself.
"Now then, as part of your training, I wish to enjoy you a bit myself. Your virginity will be safe as I intend to keep you pure for my son. I can tell that you're nervous, so let me help with that." Jafar then lifted his staff and put the cobra-like tip before the Welsh princess' face. Soon Eilonwy's face stopped being a face of confusion to a face of fascination as she stared at the spirals, little by little she began to notice how her body began to become heavier, including her jaw, causing her mouth to no longer It could remain closed but despite this she felt relaxed.
“That's it, keep looking and don't worry about anything, let me take good care of you.”
The girl's pupils had transformed into spirals equal to the spirals of the eyes of the cobra figure on Jafar's staff, now her eyes were synchronized with the eyes of the snake figure, soon she felt a desire to repeat the same words of Jafar as if she were the one speaking and affirming Jafar's words.
“I won't worry, master....I know you can take good care of me.”
Eilonwy nodded as she stared at the spirals, her mind was gone and she was just like a parakeet repeating the words of the staff's owner. Jafar watched with satisfaction as the spirals in his blonde slave girl’s eyes deepened, her mind fully succumbing to the power of his staff. Her expression, once filled with subtle fear and resistance, now reflected only blank obedience. The sight pleased him greatly. She was his to mold, to bend to his will in every way imaginable.
With deliberate slowness, Jafar reached out and gently cupped her chin, tilting her head slightly so that he could observe the glazed emptiness in her eyes. "Such a beautiful flower," he murmured, his voice low and soothing, "and now, so perfectly docile."
Without breaking the hypnotic connection, Jafar's hand moved from her chin to trace along her collarbone, slowly descending toward her chest. His fingers trailed down her soft skin, savoring the warmth beneath them. He also took the time to brush against her smooth and hairless armpits. "Now, my dear," he whispered, "let's ensure that everything is in perfect condition for my son."
Eilonwy stood still, her body responding only to his touch, her mind too clouded to resist. The Sultan brushed over the Welsh girl's chest, enjoying the feel of her small but beautiful breasts, taking time to twirl and pinch her bright pink nipples, before leaning forward to kiss one of said nipples, enjoying the squeak that came out of the princess' mouth. Jafar's hand continued its descent, sliding down her torso until it reached the soft flesh between her legs. He gently parted her thighs, his fingers probing her virgin flower once more, not out of necessity, but purely for his own pleasure.
As he pressed into her, Jafar watched her face closely. The hypnotic spirals in her eyes quivered slightly as a low, involuntary moan escaped her lips. "That's it," Jafar coaxed, his voice laced with dark satisfaction, "enjoy the sensation, my dear. Let it consume you. For when my son returns you will experience this joy every day."
Eilonwy's body responded automatically, her hips shifting slightly, pressing closer to his hand. Another moan followed, this one deeper, as Jafar’s fingers continued their exploration, finding every sensitive spot within her. He relished the way her body betrayed her, offering no resistance, only submission. After a few moments, Jafar withdrew his hand, satisfied with the results. He let her stand there, breathless and dazed, before stepping back slightly. "Now, Eilonwy," he commanded, "it’s time to see how well you can dance. A slave girl must know how to entertain her master."
Jafar’s staff glowed once more, and the spirals in Eilonwy’s eyes seemed to pulse in response. Her limbs moved on their own, driven by the magic that controlled her every thought and action. She began to sway her hips, slowly at first, her movements clumsy and uncoordinated. But as the magic took hold, her body began to move with a grace that she had never known, each motion flowing into the next.
Her arms lifted, fingers extending delicately as they traced patterns in the air. Her hips undulated rhythmically, the muscles of her abdomen tightening and relaxing with each fluid motion. The soft curve of her waist swayed seductively, drawing attention to the gentle rise and fall of her chest. Her legs moved in time with the rhythm, stepping lightly and gracefully, as though she were floating on air.
Jafar stepped back and sat on his throne as he watched, entranced by the display of beauty and obedience. The dance was mesmerizing, a perfect blend of sensuality and submission. Eilonwy’s body moved with a fluidity that belied her innocence, each step a testament to her growing subjugation. The hypnotic spell had turned her into the ideal slave, one who could entertain and please her master without question or hesitation. And though Jafar had had local females dance for him in similar ways, both willingly and under hypnosis, none had managed to give him the joy he felt wathing Eilonwy dance.
As she danced, Jafar spoke again, his voice cutting through the trance. "Tell me, Eilonwy," he commanded, "what are you feeling inside? What thoughts are hidden in that pretty little head of yours?"
The words flowed from her lips, unfiltered and honest, as the magic stripped away any ability to lie or withhold. "I...I am afraid, master," she confessed, her voice soft and devoid of emotion. "I fear what will become of me, but I know I cannot resist. I want to escape, to return to Prydain, but I...I know it is impossible. I feel...trapped."
Jafar smiled at her honesty, his satisfaction growing as she revealed the depths of her internal struggle. "Good girl," he praised, "you are learning your place well. The sooner you accept it, the easier it will be for you."
As the dance continued, Jafar gestured for her to approach him. Eilonwy obeyed without hesitation, her movements as fluid as water as she glided toward him. He reached out and pulled her onto his lap, positioning her so that she straddled his legs, her body pressed close to his.
With one hand resting on her hip, Jafar’s other hand began to explore her body once more, fingers tracing over her bare skin, caressing her curves, and fondling her breasts with a possessive touch. Eilonwy’s body responded instinctively, her breathing shallow and quickened, though her mind remained clouded by the spell. She could do nothing but comply, her thoughts a jumbled mix of fear, confusion, and helplessness.
Jafar took his time, savoring the control he held over her, enjoying the way her body reacted to his touch. "You will make a fine gift for my son," he murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "But until then, you are mine to mold, mine to enjoy."
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Jafar pulled back slightly, his hand moving to gently lift her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Now, my dear," he commanded, "return to your room and sleep. Rest, and remember everything that has happened here tonight. Let it sink into your mind, and know that this is only the beginning of your training."
With a wave of his staff, the spirals in her eyes intensified for a moment before fading, leaving Eilonwy in a dazed but compliant state. She nodded slowly, her body moving on its own as she slid off his lap and began to walk toward the door. As she left the throne room, the magic of the staff ensured that every detail of the night, every word, every touch, would remain etched in her memory.
Jafar watched her go, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. He had planted the seeds of obedience, and now, he would watch them grow.
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A few days had passed since the evening of Eilonwy’s initial training, and the palace buzzed with its usual activity. Servants scurried about, tending to their duties, while guards maintained their watchful stance. For Jafar, it was a typical day of governance, filled with meetings, decrees, and the endless paperwork that came with ruling Agrabah. Yet, there was a quiet sense of anticipation within him—a lingering thought of the Welsh princess and the next phase of her conditioning. The air was thick with the heat of the midday sun, and Jafar sat alone in his private chamber, his mind restless despite the luxuries surrounding him. He had anticipated this day with excitement—his son Malik, his pride and joy, was to return soon, victorious and ready to claim the prize Jafar had so meticulously prepared for him. But the day took a sudden and dark turn.
But that morning, as he sat upon his throne, a royal messenger entered the room, his face ashen and his hands trembling. "My Sultan," the man stammered, bowing low before Jafar. "I bring urgent news from the battlefield." Jafar’s interest was piqued, but he remained composed. "Speak," he commanded, his voice calm yet authoritative. The messenger swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously to the floor. "It is about your son, Prince Malik. He… he fell in battle, my Sultan. The enemies were fierce, and despite his valor and skill, he did not survive." For a moment, the room was deathly silent. Jafar’s expression remained unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on the messenger. Inside, however, a storm began to brew. Malik was his pride, his legacy, the one who was to carry on his rule. The news was like a dagger to his heart, a sensation Jafar had never felt before. Grief—an emotion he had seen in others but had never truly experienced himself.
The messenger remained kneeling, his head bowed, waiting for Jafar’s command, but Jafar could not speak. His mind, so used to calculation and control, was overwhelmed by the raw pain of loss. He had never known such sorrow, never felt the emptiness that now consumed him. His entire life had been built on power, on dominance, on the pursuit of his ambitions. But this—this was something he had no power over, something he could not control or reverse. His son was gone, and with him, a part of Jafar’s own heart. He dismissed the messenger with a wave of his hand, his voice tight. "Leave me." As the doors to the throne room closed, Jafar sat in stunned silence, the weight of the news settling over him like a dark cloud. It was the pain of loss, of realizing that the one he had shaped and molded was gone forever. Eilonwy, who had been confined to her quarters as part of her training, had sensed something was amiss when she wasn't summoned to Jafar's throne. The usual noise and bustle outside her room had quieted, replaced by a heavy, almost oppressive silence. She hesitated at her door, her hand hovering over the handle. Would she dare to leave without permission? Yet, something compelled her forward, a mix of curiosity and concern. When she stepped into the hallway, a guard moved to stop her. "The Sultan is in mourning right now. He has received news that Prince Malik has fallen in battle." The Welsh princess was shocked. She considered going back into her room but hesitated. Eilonwy met his eyes, her expression calm and sincere. "Please," she whispered, "let me see him." The guard, unsure, nodded slightly. There was something different about her today, something less like a captive and more like a caretaker. He stepped aside, and Eilonwy made her way toward the throne room, her heart heavy with a strange sense of foreboding. When she entered, she saw Jafar sitting there, his head bowed, his normally fierce eyes clouded with a pain she had never seen in him before. But the sight of the Sultan's grief-stricken face, so unlike his usual cold and calculating expression, stirred something within her. For a brief moment, the barriers that had been erected between master and slave began to crumble. "Master," she said softly, stepping closer to him. Jafar looked up, surprised to see her there, a pretty blonde slave girl wearing nothing but a modesty towel, but he did not move to stop her. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the vulnerability he was trying so hard to conceal. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry for your loss." Jafar's gaze softened, a rare gentleness entering his features. He didn't know why, but her presence, her simple words, seemed to ease some of the heaviness in his chest. "You are... a strange one, Eilonwy," he muttered, his voice rough with emotion. "You speak as though you care." Eilonwy hesitated for a moment, then took a bold step forward, closing the distance between them. "I do care," she said softly. "I know what it's like to lose someone you love." Her eyes met his, and for the first time, she saw something other than cold calculation in them. She saw a flicker of something human, something she could almost relate to. Jafar was taken aback by her sincerity. No one had ever spoken to him like this, not with such honesty, not without fear. He felt a strange warmth spread through him, something he hadn’t felt in years—compassion, perhaps, or something akin to it. He had always been the one in control, the one who commanded and dictated. But now, in this moment of vulnerability, he found himself drawn to her. Usually he saw females as a tool for pleasure and reproduction and accordingly felt drawn to them for that reason alone. But now he felt a longing for the Welsh slave girl in front of him that went beyond reasons of lust. Eilonwy, seeing the change in his demeanor, felt a surge of boldness. She gently placed a hand on his arm, her touch light but reassuring. "You don’t have to face this alone," she whispered. "Grief is... it is heavy, but it is lighter when shared." Jafar stared at her hand on his arm, feeling the warmth of her touch seep through his skin. He didn’t pull away. Instead, he found himself leaning into it, his rigid posture softening. "Why would you...?" he began, but his voice faltered. Why would she, a captive, a slave, offer him comfort? Eilonwy looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and understanding. "Because I see a man who is hurting," she said simply. "And because... because perhaps I am not as different from you as I thought." Jafar's gaze held hers, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other, two souls bound by fate and circ*mstance. He felt something shift within him, a crack in the armor he had built around his heart. He had never allowed himself to feel this way, never allowed anyone to see his true self. Yet here she was, a mere slave girl, breaking through his defenses with nothing more than a few kind words and a gentle touch. In a moment of unexpected vulnerability, Jafar pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her waist. Eilonwy did not resist. Instead, she rested her head against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart. She could feel his pain, his confusion, but also a hint of something else—a desire for connection, for comfort. Gradually, Jafar’s grip tightened, and he tilted her chin up with his hand, his gaze searching hers for any sign of fear or deceit. But all he saw was genuine concern, a softness that tugged at something deep within him. He leaned down, his lips brushing against her ear. "Stay with me," he whispered, his voice raw. "Just for a while." Eilonwy nodded, her breath hitching slightly. "I will," she replied softly. "I will stay." As they stood there, the tension between them shifting into something new, something unexpected, Jafar felt a strange calm settle over him. For the first time in years, he felt a sense of peace. And in that moment, he knew he could not treat her as he had before. She was no longer just a slave girl to him—she was something more, someone he did not wish to lose.
“M-master…I can dance for you if you’d like…” Jafar's eyes widened with surprise at Eilonwy’s offer. It was not a command she was responding to, but a genuine, voluntary gesture. The girl he had once seen only as a tool, an object to be trained and molded into a gift for his now-dead son, was now showing him a side of herself that was both surprising and deeply moving.
"Do my ears deceive me?" Jafar asked softly, his voice betraying his astonishment. "Or did I truly hear you offer to dance for me of your own will?"
Eilonwy nodded, a faint blush coloring her cheeks. "Yes, my lord," she replied, her voice steady despite the fluttering in her chest. "I... I wish to bring you comfort in your grief. I want to help in any way I can."
Jafar studied her face, searching for any hint of deception, but found none. There was only sincerity in her eyes, a softness that was new to him. For the first time, he felt a connection with her that went beyond the boundaries of master and slave. It was a strange sensation, one that stirred something deep within him.
"Very well," he said, leaning back in his chair, his voice tinged with curiosity. "If that is what you wish, then dance for me, Eilonwy. Dance and show me your heart."
Eilonwy nodded again, feeling a surge of both fear and excitement. She knew what she was about to do was beyond anything she had ever imagined. She took a deep breath and let the towel around her body drop to the floor, revealing her bare form. Her skin, smooth and untouched, glowed softly in the dim light of the chamber. She felt a moment of vulnerability but pushed it aside, focusing on the intent behind her actions.
She began to move, her body swaying gently at first, testing the waters. Her hips rolled in slow, deliberate circles, her hands gliding over her own skin as if caressing a lover. Her movements were fluid, graceful, and as she danced, she felt a strange sensation of freedom. For the first time, she was not dancing out of obligation or under the control of Jafar's magic. She was dancing because she wanted to, because she needed to express the swirling emotions inside her.
Jafar watched, transfixed by the sight before him. Eilonwy’s body moved with a grace that seemed almost ethereal, each motion more sensual than the last. Her hands traced the curves of her waist, her fingers dancing along the line of her hips before moving upwards to her breasts. Her eyes remained on him, holding his gaze with a mixture of boldness and vulnerability. She spun around, her hair flowing like a golden river, her movements a perfect blend of innocence and allure.
As she continued, Jafar felt his own breath quicken, his chest tightening with a mixture of desire and something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name. He had seen many women dance before, had enjoyed their bodies, but this was different. There was a rawness to Eilonwy’s dance, a purity that he had never experienced before. It was as if she were offering herself not just physically, but emotionally, laying herself bare before him.
When the dance finally ended, Eilonwy stood before him, her chest rising and falling with each breath, her eyes locked on his. Jafar could see the faint flush of her skin, the slight tremble in her limbs, but there was no fear in her gaze, only a quiet determination.
Without a word, Jafar rose from his throne and stepped towards her, his hands reaching out to cup her face. He tilted her head upwards, his eyes searching hers once more. "You are... remarkable," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Never have I seen a woman so willing to offer herself, so pure in her intent."
Eilonwy’s lips parted slightly, her breath mingling with his as he drew closer. "I want to be here for you," she whispered, her voice trembling with emotion. "I want to be more than just a slave. I want to be... someone who matters to you."
Jafar’s heart swelled with a warmth he hadn’t felt in years. He leaned in, capturing her lips with his own in a deep, passionate kiss. Eilonwy responded immediately, her arms wrapping around his neck, pulling him closer. The kiss deepened, their tongues intertwining, exploring, savoring each other's taste. There was a hunger in Jafar’s touch, a desperation that mirrored the emptiness he felt inside. But there was also tenderness, a desire to connect on a level he had never known.
He scooped her up in his arms, carrying her to his own personal chamber and then towards the large, plush bed at the center of his inner sanctum. Eilonwy’s heart raced with a mix of fear and anticipation. She had never been with a man before, had never experienced the full depths of physical intimacy. Yet, in this moment, she felt a strange sense of peace, a trust in Jafar that surprised even her.
Jafar laid her down gently, his hands moving over her body with reverence. He kissed her neck, trailing his lips down to her collarbone, then further down to her breasts. He grabbed the Welsh girl’s mammaries, twirling her bright pink nipples. “Why by Mahomet, how deliciously formed you are, the bright pink of your nipples is so deliciously tempting….” Eilonwy blushed in response and then squeaked as she felt his mouth closed over one of her nipples, sucking gently, while his hand caressed the other. The blonde moaned softly, her body arching into his touch. She had never known such sensations, had never felt such pleasure coursing through her veins.
Jafar moved lower, his lips trailing down her stomach, his hands parting her thighs. He paused for a moment, looking up at her. "Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice husky with desire. "I do not wish to force you." The Sultan himself was shocked he felt any sort of hesitation, as normally a slave girl’s opinion would be irrelevant to his desires.
Eilonwy nodded, her breath hitching in her throat. "Yes," she whispered, "I want this. I want... you."
Jafar smiled, his heart pounding in his chest. He lowered his head, his mouth finding her most sensitive spot, his tongue flicking against her folds. Eilonwy gasped, her hands gripping the sheets as waves of pleasure washed over her. She had never felt anything like this, never known that such ecstasy existed.
Jafar took his time, savoring every moment, every sound she made, every shiver of her body. When he finally moved up to join her, his body hovering over hers, he looked into her eyes, his own filled with a tenderness he had never shown before. "I will be gentle," he promised, his voice thick with emotion.
Eilonwy nodded, her eyes filled with trust. "I know," she whispered, her hand reaching up to cup his cheek. "I trust you."
The Sultan materialized his staff and raised it. Within seconds he himself was naked. He then got onto the bed and straddled the delicious Welsh virgin before him. He first decided to touch her virgin temple and gently penetrated it with his fingers. The resulting squeals and moans only served to excite him. “Allah may have been cruel to take away my son, but he has compensated me by giving me a virgin as lovely as you.” Eilonwy blushed in response and spread her legs further. With a slow, deliberate movement, Jafar positioned his manhood and then thrust himself inside her, feeling her body stretch to accommodate him. Eilonwy winced slightly, but the discomfort quickly melted away, replaced by a warmth that spread through her entire being. Jafar moved slowly, his movements careful, measured, ensuring that she felt only pleasure.
“Holy Mahomet, how tight she is! You are mine now forever!” As they moved together, their bodies entwined, Jafar felt a connection unlike any he had ever known. It was not just physical, but emotional, a deep bond that seemed to transcend the boundaries of their roles. He had never felt so close to another person, never felt so vulnerable, yet so complete.
When they finally reached their climax, it was a shared experience, a merging of their souls. Jafar held Eilonwy close, his body trembling with the intensity of their release. She clung to him, her breath ragged, her heart filled with a strange sense of fulfillment.
As they lay together, their bodies entwined, Jafar whispered softly in her ear. "You are no longer just a slave, Eilonwy," he said, his voice filled with emotion. "You are my concubine, my chosen companion. And I will cherish you as such."
Eilonwy smiled, a tear slipping down her cheek. She knew that her life had changed forever, that she had found a place where she belonged. And as she looked into Jafar’s eyes, she knew that he felt the same.
