RacingRodent
Consul
The RR'branding ! What a dream .......
He's overlooked an important point - when she stands up on her own two feet,
the RR brand will be upside-down
It's not an R it's a wabbit!
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For The Pleasure Of Prince Uday
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
It's not an R it's a wabbit!
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Alone ... dangerous!
Stuck in it now, she is. I like the Begum's subtle sinister friendliness. She could be a refuge or total destruction. She's definitely the femme fatale.
Your chapter isn't completely hopeless, eul.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
At least eul knows what that 'fun' will be. What happens when the Begum wants some fun?
26
Yasmin and Sima depart, Begum Raghida returns to her seat, eyeing my nakedness up and down. When she speaks, her voice takes on a harder edge,
“You’re Aziz’s brat, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes, Ma’am, I understand that General Aziz is my father.”
“Of course he is. So you’ve lived in his household all your life?”
“Yes Ma’am, I grew up in the slave quarters - with my mother – until I was thirteen, then I was honoured with a scholarship to the Masrur Academy. Since then I’ve just been home on our monthly leave days.”
“So you’ve seen quite a lot of life in Aziz’s house? Seen his friends and visitors, heard conversations, that sort of thing?”
“Er – well, Ma’am, this girl was only a slave-kid, spent most of her time in the slave-quarters...”
“But you worked in the house?”
“Yes Ma’am... the kinds of things a slave-kid has to learn – cleaning, fetching and carrying, serving...”
“So you saw and heard plenty. Now listen, eul, you’re a bright, intelligent girl, you won’t have missed much. You’re going to have to think long and hard and very carefully about all you can remember of General Aziz – things you noticed, things you happened to pick up, things you overheard. My husband will be inviting you soon for a little chat. You’ll be a wise girl, ready with plenty of interesting things to tell him – won’t you, eh?”
I’m shaking like a leaf, manage to stammer out, “Yes, Ma’am... this slavegirl understands...”
“You may go. Yasmin will take you for branding.”
“Thankyou, Ma’am.” I flex my knee humbly and turn to walk the distance to the door, when she adds an afterthought,
“You’ve got a sister, haven’t you?”
I turn and bow my head again. “Y-yes, Ma’am...”
“Name and number?”
“LAU492251, Ma’am – she’s in the Academy...”
She nods, I turn and leave the room, a feeling of deep foreboding weighing me down. Not Lau, please, don’t drag her here too...
Yasmin and Sima depart, Begum Raghida returns to her seat, eyeing my nakedness up and down. When she speaks, her voice takes on a harder edge,
“You’re Aziz’s brat, aren’t you?”
“Y-yes, Ma’am, I understand that General Aziz is my father.”
“Of course he is. So you’ve lived in his household all your life?”
“Yes Ma’am, I grew up in the slave quarters - with my mother – until I was thirteen, then I was honoured with a scholarship to the Masrur Academy. Since then I’ve just been home on our monthly leave days.”
“So you’ve seen quite a lot of life in Aziz’s house? Seen his friends and visitors, heard conversations, that sort of thing?”
“Er – well, Ma’am, this girl was only a slave-kid, spent most of her time in the slave-quarters...”
“But you worked in the house?”
“Yes Ma’am... the kinds of things a slave-kid has to learn – cleaning, fetching and carrying, serving...”
“So you saw and heard plenty. Now listen, eul, you’re a bright, intelligent girl, you won’t have missed much. You’re going to have to think long and hard and very carefully about all you can remember of General Aziz – things you noticed, things you happened to pick up, things you overheard. My husband will be inviting you soon for a little chat. You’ll be a wise girl, ready with plenty of interesting things to tell him – won’t you, eh?”
I’m shaking like a leaf, manage to stammer out, “Yes, Ma’am... this slavegirl understands...”
“You may go. Yasmin will take you for branding.”
“Thankyou, Ma’am.” I flex my knee humbly and turn to walk the distance to the door, when she adds an afterthought,
“You’ve got a sister, haven’t you?”
I turn and bow my head again. “Y-yes, Ma’am...”
“Name and number?”
“LAU492251, Ma’am – she’s in the Academy...”
She nods, I turn and leave the room, a feeling of deep foreboding weighing me down. Not Lau, please, don’t drag her here too...
Something tells me they need some dirt on Aziz ... what are you going to tell them? Yikes! We are moving into dangerous waters now ... mines floating everywhere!
These bastards!!! I assure you Tree is not involved with this treachery!!!
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
That was an unexpected twist, Eulalia, with plenty of potential for trouble ahead.
27
The door opens of its own accord, Yasmin and Sami are prostrate outside, but are quickly on their feet as I emerge. We proceed back down from the palatial splendour to the functional foyer and further to our underground slave quarters. The girls say nothing, I’m crying softly, Yasmin holds my arm gently.
“You’ll be okay, Eul,” she whispers as we reach the foot of the stairs, “We’ve all been through it, and come out a bit stronger slavegirls.”
“It’s not the branding,” I sob, “I know what’s coming in the Chamber, I’ll cope... but it’s not knowing, there’s things going on I can’t get my head round, I just feel caught up in them... and now she’s asking about Lau...”
We’ve reached the Chamber, it’s along a passageway connecting to Yasmin’s little domain, the path girls are dragged along when Prince Uday’s finished with them. Yasmin activates an access system, speaks to the receiver, “Slavegirl Yasmin here, Sir, she brings slavegirl Eul for branding, at Her Highness’s command.”
The heavy steel door clunks and creaks slowly open, we step down another flight into even lower depths, then turn through another door into a hot, stuffy cellar, indeed a chamber. A huge, dark-skinned man almost as naked as I am is waiting, his teeth flash in a welcoming grin. He must be Moloch. We kneel.
“Welcome, young lady, it’s good to see a nice fresh skin ready to receive my works of art.”
“Her Highness commands she’s just to be given the Royal Masrur mark, at least for now.”
“Yes, I received her instructions. The brand’s nice and hot, all ready to kiss your thigh, my delectable one. Come and lie on my bed.”
I stand up and cross with him to the far side of the chamber, where a bright light turns on at our approach. There’s a metal bed-frame, simply a grid on legs, with anchor-points at the four corners. It’s obvious what I have to do, I sit on it, swing my legs up, lie back stretching out my limbs. He smiles.
“Good. A most co-operative maiden!”
Yasmin is evidently used to the procedure, she’s taken a set of shackles from a rack and is holding them ready for him. He clamps them quickly, very tight, on my wrists and ankles, and secures them to the anchor-points. I stretch myself, testing the restraints, feeling the hard metal against my bare back.
“Thigh-straps,” he orders Yasmin, she brings what’s required. He fits the straps over my thighs and secures them to the grid, so my legs are held now splayed wide, presenting a view of my private parts which he pauses to admire.
He now takes a tool, a kind of metal wand, from an apparatus at the foot of the bed, it seems to glow at the tip, a smell of hot metal reaches my nostrils. He nods to Yasmin,
“Get up and hold her.”
Yasmin hops up onto the bed, giving me a little grin. She kneels, straddling my waist, her behind towards my face, and takes hold of my left leg with her left hand, just above the knee, her right hand grips my groin, her middle finger mischievously curling back to wiggle between my labia, I squeak in surprise and wriggle under her thighs.
But my squeak turns to a shrill scream as Moloch presses his instrument against my skin at the top of my left thigh. It’s a sharp shock that fires through my body in a spasm of pain, followed by an unbearable slow spreading of a tide of burning heat from the spot where he’s pressing. Yasmin holds me firmly, my bondage and her grip are sufficient to prevent me from pulling my tortured leg away.
He presses the thing into my leg for seconds, probably not long though it feels so, then withdraws it. The scent of hot metal gives way to one of burning bacon, my skin. He puts the tool away, Yasmin gets down off me, patting my breast as she does so, her grin and naughty wink hardly help me cope with the pain that’s still spreading through my thigh down into my lower leg, up into my abdomen, but she’s teaching me the slavegirl spirit.
Moloch takes off the thigh-straps, unlocks the shackles, tells me to get off the bed,
“The mark is most becoming on the young lady’s leg,” he declares with a broad grin, “I look forward to adding more when we shall meet again.”
“Thankyou, Sir,” I say, with a bob of my knee, the movement of my skin increases the pain. He bows in mocking response, Yasmin leads me out.
As we return along the passage, she has her arm around my waist.
“I’ll put some cream on it, that’ll start to ease the pain. You did okay, pet.”
“I didn’t have much choice. But you’re a sneaky slut, fingering my cunt like that!”
She chuckles, “We slavegirls have to get our bit of fun when we can. Otherwise we’ll just go barking crazy.”
The door opens of its own accord, Yasmin and Sami are prostrate outside, but are quickly on their feet as I emerge. We proceed back down from the palatial splendour to the functional foyer and further to our underground slave quarters. The girls say nothing, I’m crying softly, Yasmin holds my arm gently.
“You’ll be okay, Eul,” she whispers as we reach the foot of the stairs, “We’ve all been through it, and come out a bit stronger slavegirls.”
“It’s not the branding,” I sob, “I know what’s coming in the Chamber, I’ll cope... but it’s not knowing, there’s things going on I can’t get my head round, I just feel caught up in them... and now she’s asking about Lau...”
We’ve reached the Chamber, it’s along a passageway connecting to Yasmin’s little domain, the path girls are dragged along when Prince Uday’s finished with them. Yasmin activates an access system, speaks to the receiver, “Slavegirl Yasmin here, Sir, she brings slavegirl Eul for branding, at Her Highness’s command.”
The heavy steel door clunks and creaks slowly open, we step down another flight into even lower depths, then turn through another door into a hot, stuffy cellar, indeed a chamber. A huge, dark-skinned man almost as naked as I am is waiting, his teeth flash in a welcoming grin. He must be Moloch. We kneel.
“Welcome, young lady, it’s good to see a nice fresh skin ready to receive my works of art.”
“Her Highness commands she’s just to be given the Royal Masrur mark, at least for now.”
“Yes, I received her instructions. The brand’s nice and hot, all ready to kiss your thigh, my delectable one. Come and lie on my bed.”
I stand up and cross with him to the far side of the chamber, where a bright light turns on at our approach. There’s a metal bed-frame, simply a grid on legs, with anchor-points at the four corners. It’s obvious what I have to do, I sit on it, swing my legs up, lie back stretching out my limbs. He smiles.
“Good. A most co-operative maiden!”
Yasmin is evidently used to the procedure, she’s taken a set of shackles from a rack and is holding them ready for him. He clamps them quickly, very tight, on my wrists and ankles, and secures them to the anchor-points. I stretch myself, testing the restraints, feeling the hard metal against my bare back.
“Thigh-straps,” he orders Yasmin, she brings what’s required. He fits the straps over my thighs and secures them to the grid, so my legs are held now splayed wide, presenting a view of my private parts which he pauses to admire.
He now takes a tool, a kind of metal wand, from an apparatus at the foot of the bed, it seems to glow at the tip, a smell of hot metal reaches my nostrils. He nods to Yasmin,
“Get up and hold her.”
Yasmin hops up onto the bed, giving me a little grin. She kneels, straddling my waist, her behind towards my face, and takes hold of my left leg with her left hand, just above the knee, her right hand grips my groin, her middle finger mischievously curling back to wiggle between my labia, I squeak in surprise and wriggle under her thighs.
But my squeak turns to a shrill scream as Moloch presses his instrument against my skin at the top of my left thigh. It’s a sharp shock that fires through my body in a spasm of pain, followed by an unbearable slow spreading of a tide of burning heat from the spot where he’s pressing. Yasmin holds me firmly, my bondage and her grip are sufficient to prevent me from pulling my tortured leg away.
He presses the thing into my leg for seconds, probably not long though it feels so, then withdraws it. The scent of hot metal gives way to one of burning bacon, my skin. He puts the tool away, Yasmin gets down off me, patting my breast as she does so, her grin and naughty wink hardly help me cope with the pain that’s still spreading through my thigh down into my lower leg, up into my abdomen, but she’s teaching me the slavegirl spirit.
Moloch takes off the thigh-straps, unlocks the shackles, tells me to get off the bed,
“The mark is most becoming on the young lady’s leg,” he declares with a broad grin, “I look forward to adding more when we shall meet again.”
“Thankyou, Sir,” I say, with a bob of my knee, the movement of my skin increases the pain. He bows in mocking response, Yasmin leads me out.
As we return along the passage, she has her arm around my waist.
“I’ll put some cream on it, that’ll start to ease the pain. You did okay, pet.”
“I didn’t have much choice. But you’re a sneaky slut, fingering my cunt like that!”
She chuckles, “We slavegirls have to get our bit of fun when we can. Otherwise we’ll just go barking crazy.”
Last edited:
Repertor
Artifex Imaginum
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
At least she was warned to be prepared about questions about Aziz. Better to be able to have some answers ready rather then to go in cold!
Eul smelled more like napalm in the morning than bacon...
good point Gibbs, keep it in mind...
Gibbs505
SERVORUM DOMITOR
Oh yes, another day in the snake pit!good point Gibbs, keep it in mind...
28
In the recovery area, Yasmin’s very gentle touch with her herbal cream brings a delightful coolness to my burning thigh, and tremors of pleasure into my groin and loins. Yes, it’s tormentingly strange, but this experience of being clamped naked on the branding-bed in that oven-hot cellar, grasped by Yasmin’s mischievous fingers, assaulted with sudden, unimaginable pain, has aroused my womanly urges in ways I can’t understand, never mind control.
I lift my head and peer at the mark which is quickly turning a deep crimson. The electronic branding iron is sophisticated, it doesn’t just sear the skin, it pierces with thousands of tiny, but ultra-hot, pin-pricks, creating a clearly defined pattern. On my leg it is, as the Begum ordered, simply the Royal Badge of Inglistan, familiar on property, vehicles, documents, anything belonging to the government of Sheikh Masrur – as irreversibly I do now – a heraldic rose within the curving horns of the moon of Islam.
After a few minutes she says I must go. I hurry along to the Dancing School, still feeling strongly the symbol of my slavehood on my thigh. The lesson is well underway, but Sima has explained to the Dancing Mistress about the Begum’s orders. While the other girls continue with their exercises, Sima takes me up to a room on the ground floor of the Women’s Quarters more or less above the Dancing School.
A woman in there, in a plain but well-made tunic, pants and headscarf, is the Wardrobe Mistress. She looks at me with amusement,
“So, you need some kit that the gentlemen can whip off you?” she chuckles,
“Er, yes please Mistress.”
“Well, let’s get you measured.”
She takes a measuring tape, winds it around my bust, waist and hips, it reads automatically, 34B:24:35, and she even checks from my tummy-button under my groin to the back for the thong, that’s 18.
Sima finds me a white bikini and black t-top the same as the rest of the Dancing Troupe, I pull them on, the sensation of clothes on my skin is already strange, I’ve got so used in this last couple of days to being nude, but it’s nice to feel that, for the time being at least, I’m part of that team and not just ‘that naked kāfira who’s going to be whip-stripped’.
“We’ll need to use elastic that’s strong enough to take some whipping, we don’t want to make it too easy for them, do we?”
The Wardrobe Mistress’s grin is evil, I shudder, but answer,
“Mm, I suppose not, Mistress.”
“Still, we’ll make you look pretty – something simple but showing your best bits to advantage, making good targets. Her Highness says she has some ideas, she’s got good taste, and won’t spare expense. I’ll call you for a fitting when we’ve stitched up something.”
In the recovery area, Yasmin’s very gentle touch with her herbal cream brings a delightful coolness to my burning thigh, and tremors of pleasure into my groin and loins. Yes, it’s tormentingly strange, but this experience of being clamped naked on the branding-bed in that oven-hot cellar, grasped by Yasmin’s mischievous fingers, assaulted with sudden, unimaginable pain, has aroused my womanly urges in ways I can’t understand, never mind control.
I lift my head and peer at the mark which is quickly turning a deep crimson. The electronic branding iron is sophisticated, it doesn’t just sear the skin, it pierces with thousands of tiny, but ultra-hot, pin-pricks, creating a clearly defined pattern. On my leg it is, as the Begum ordered, simply the Royal Badge of Inglistan, familiar on property, vehicles, documents, anything belonging to the government of Sheikh Masrur – as irreversibly I do now – a heraldic rose within the curving horns of the moon of Islam.
After a few minutes she says I must go. I hurry along to the Dancing School, still feeling strongly the symbol of my slavehood on my thigh. The lesson is well underway, but Sima has explained to the Dancing Mistress about the Begum’s orders. While the other girls continue with their exercises, Sima takes me up to a room on the ground floor of the Women’s Quarters more or less above the Dancing School.
A woman in there, in a plain but well-made tunic, pants and headscarf, is the Wardrobe Mistress. She looks at me with amusement,
“So, you need some kit that the gentlemen can whip off you?” she chuckles,
“Er, yes please Mistress.”
“Well, let’s get you measured.”
She takes a measuring tape, winds it around my bust, waist and hips, it reads automatically, 34B:24:35, and she even checks from my tummy-button under my groin to the back for the thong, that’s 18.
Sima finds me a white bikini and black t-top the same as the rest of the Dancing Troupe, I pull them on, the sensation of clothes on my skin is already strange, I’ve got so used in this last couple of days to being nude, but it’s nice to feel that, for the time being at least, I’m part of that team and not just ‘that naked kāfira who’s going to be whip-stripped’.
“We’ll need to use elastic that’s strong enough to take some whipping, we don’t want to make it too easy for them, do we?”
The Wardrobe Mistress’s grin is evil, I shudder, but answer,
“Mm, I suppose not, Mistress.”
“Still, we’ll make you look pretty – something simple but showing your best bits to advantage, making good targets. Her Highness says she has some ideas, she’s got good taste, and won’t spare expense. I’ll call you for a fitting when we’ve stitched up something.”
Naraku
Draconarius
I thought she was gluten free.