old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
What an honour for the little piglet, no expense spared, the Masrur's are evidently exceptional rulers.
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For The Pleasure Of Prince Uday
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
What an honour for the little piglet, no expense spared, the Masrur's are evidently exceptional rulers.
thanks Tree - yes, I've grown fond of her -
this sort of perceptive, resilient, but totally bewildered girl
going through an underworld peopled by completely weird and wacky characters
has always resonated with me since I first read Alice in Wonderland!
29
I return to the dance lesson. After the worrisome afternoon, with my leg still burning quite a bit from the branding notwithstanding Yasmin’s soothing attentions, my dancing isn’t as sprightly as it should be, the Mistress snaps at me a few times.
“You must understand, His Highness may call you at any time – I mean, any time, day or night – to perform for him. And if your performance doesn’t please him, well, we know what that means, don’t we, rats?”
“Yes, Mistress,” the troupe respond grimly. I understand.
Over the next few days, I do improve. I’m teamed up now with Sami, Turi and a couple of other girls in a lively routine, we all enjoy practising it, and my solo act is becoming more disciplined, more coherent, for all her severity I’m grateful for the Mistress’s instructions. Should I be called to dance before Prince Uday, I’ll be glad she’s put me through the mill.
After three or four days, I’m called again to the Wardrobe Mistress, she’s got a mock-up of my whip-strip costume to try on me. I take off the little I’m wearing and hold my arms up, legs wide, while she tries the minimal bra and thong on my body. They’re certainly striking, made of glistening gold wire in a sheer net that will allow my skin to show through, offer me no protection from the whip-leather, yet it will be strong enough to stay put while my assailants try to tear it away.
The straps are for now just held with adhesive patches, but she pulls them tight, and flicks them to show how strong and springy the elastic is. She tells me to turn around, keeping my arms raised. Suddenly I hear a familiar voice,
“Yes, that looks quite promising. Just reduce the top edges of the bra-cups a little more, she only needs her nipples and below to be netted. And the thong can be moulded to the shape of her mound a bit more closely.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the Wardrobe Mistress replies to her phone, I realise I’m being watched through the video surveillance system by Her Highness the Begum. I try to make sure my posture and movements are as graceful and sensuous as the Dancing-Mistress has taught me. For all I know, Prince Uday’s watching too.
Prince Uday, the conversation he’s wanting about General Aziz.... it preys on my mind, but I hear no more about it, perhaps he’s forgotten? And what about Lau? Preparing for my ordeal with the Princes is scary but, it a funny way, I’m even beginning to enjoy it, at least it keeps my mind from brooding on so many unknowns. But I've a nasty sense that's not all I'm being got ready for...
I return to the dance lesson. After the worrisome afternoon, with my leg still burning quite a bit from the branding notwithstanding Yasmin’s soothing attentions, my dancing isn’t as sprightly as it should be, the Mistress snaps at me a few times.
“You must understand, His Highness may call you at any time – I mean, any time, day or night – to perform for him. And if your performance doesn’t please him, well, we know what that means, don’t we, rats?”
“Yes, Mistress,” the troupe respond grimly. I understand.
Over the next few days, I do improve. I’m teamed up now with Sami, Turi and a couple of other girls in a lively routine, we all enjoy practising it, and my solo act is becoming more disciplined, more coherent, for all her severity I’m grateful for the Mistress’s instructions. Should I be called to dance before Prince Uday, I’ll be glad she’s put me through the mill.
After three or four days, I’m called again to the Wardrobe Mistress, she’s got a mock-up of my whip-strip costume to try on me. I take off the little I’m wearing and hold my arms up, legs wide, while she tries the minimal bra and thong on my body. They’re certainly striking, made of glistening gold wire in a sheer net that will allow my skin to show through, offer me no protection from the whip-leather, yet it will be strong enough to stay put while my assailants try to tear it away.
The straps are for now just held with adhesive patches, but she pulls them tight, and flicks them to show how strong and springy the elastic is. She tells me to turn around, keeping my arms raised. Suddenly I hear a familiar voice,
“Yes, that looks quite promising. Just reduce the top edges of the bra-cups a little more, she only needs her nipples and below to be netted. And the thong can be moulded to the shape of her mound a bit more closely.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the Wardrobe Mistress replies to her phone, I realise I’m being watched through the video surveillance system by Her Highness the Begum. I try to make sure my posture and movements are as graceful and sensuous as the Dancing-Mistress has taught me. For all I know, Prince Uday’s watching too.
Prince Uday, the conversation he’s wanting about General Aziz.... it preys on my mind, but I hear no more about it, perhaps he’s forgotten? And what about Lau? Preparing for my ordeal with the Princes is scary but, it a funny way, I’m even beginning to enjoy it, at least it keeps my mind from brooding on so many unknowns. But I've a nasty sense that's not all I'm being got ready for...
We know better than that, don't we?
The thing to worry about is not whether it happens, but what it turns out to be in the end.
30
My daily medical inspections are another cause for my sleep in my cage to be shaken with anxious nightmares. The Doctor’s coldly efficient. His checks on my muscles and my whip-wounds are cursory, he’s obviously satisfied – undoubtedly I’m getting plenty of exercise, and Yasmin keeps me supplied with some massage oil and healing cream that are soothing and seem to drive out any aching or inflammation.
When I first present with my new brand-mark, he smiles slightly, prods it with his probe, it hurts, but it’s settling down to a rosy-red permanence.
But the sexual examination is every day more thorough, more invasive, fingering, probing, taking readings... I mention it to Yasmin, ask if it’s something that happens to other girls. She rolls her eyes,
“Well, all the men in this place have rights over all the parts of our bodies, it’s hardly unusual for a girl to get fingered and groped, and I’m sure the Doctor’s no exception. But all the same, it’s a bit queer him doing all that stuff every day – we’ve never had a whip-strip slave before, maybe it’s something to do with that, but I can’t imagine what...”
Neither can I, and the next morning I pluck up courage to ask, as he withdraws his hand from my vagina,
“Sir, please may this girl ask a question?”
He frowns, “What is it?”
“Well Sir, I can understand you need to check my body’s in good shape for my whip-stripping – and this girl’s grateful – but why do you need to examine my sex so thoroughly?”
I notice a slight hesitation, then he forces a smile,
“You’re body’s a package. The whole of you will be the prize, for Prince Uday or Prince Qusay, may Allah pour blessings upon them. We have to be sure the whole package is in perfect condition, and of course your sex is a very important part of it.”
“Thankyou Sir, this girl hopes she’ll give every satisfaction,” I respond, trying to sound convinced, but I’m not.
I’m even less so when he asks, a couple of days later,
“You’re getting near your period, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir, I think so.” I know I’m feeling that way!
“That’s perfect, couldn’t be better.”
He picks up his phone, goes to the other side of the room while the nurse clears away his equipment and I pull on my briefs, bra and t-shirt. I don’t catch all his conversation, but pick up enough to feel it’s creepy,
“Yes Your Highness, it’s time to proceed... I’m sure. The results from the laboratory have proved excellent – even better than the tests on rats... Very well, Your Highness, I’ll perform the procedure in two days’ time. Of course, I’ll continue monitoring her, and keep you informed.”
I flex my knee to say “Thankyou Sir,”and scuttle past him out of the clinic.
My daily medical inspections are another cause for my sleep in my cage to be shaken with anxious nightmares. The Doctor’s coldly efficient. His checks on my muscles and my whip-wounds are cursory, he’s obviously satisfied – undoubtedly I’m getting plenty of exercise, and Yasmin keeps me supplied with some massage oil and healing cream that are soothing and seem to drive out any aching or inflammation.
When I first present with my new brand-mark, he smiles slightly, prods it with his probe, it hurts, but it’s settling down to a rosy-red permanence.
But the sexual examination is every day more thorough, more invasive, fingering, probing, taking readings... I mention it to Yasmin, ask if it’s something that happens to other girls. She rolls her eyes,
“Well, all the men in this place have rights over all the parts of our bodies, it’s hardly unusual for a girl to get fingered and groped, and I’m sure the Doctor’s no exception. But all the same, it’s a bit queer him doing all that stuff every day – we’ve never had a whip-strip slave before, maybe it’s something to do with that, but I can’t imagine what...”
Neither can I, and the next morning I pluck up courage to ask, as he withdraws his hand from my vagina,
“Sir, please may this girl ask a question?”
He frowns, “What is it?”
“Well Sir, I can understand you need to check my body’s in good shape for my whip-stripping – and this girl’s grateful – but why do you need to examine my sex so thoroughly?”
I notice a slight hesitation, then he forces a smile,
“You’re body’s a package. The whole of you will be the prize, for Prince Uday or Prince Qusay, may Allah pour blessings upon them. We have to be sure the whole package is in perfect condition, and of course your sex is a very important part of it.”
“Thankyou Sir, this girl hopes she’ll give every satisfaction,” I respond, trying to sound convinced, but I’m not.
I’m even less so when he asks, a couple of days later,
“You’re getting near your period, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir, I think so.” I know I’m feeling that way!
“That’s perfect, couldn’t be better.”
He picks up his phone, goes to the other side of the room while the nurse clears away his equipment and I pull on my briefs, bra and t-shirt. I don’t catch all his conversation, but pick up enough to feel it’s creepy,
“Yes Your Highness, it’s time to proceed... I’m sure. The results from the laboratory have proved excellent – even better than the tests on rats... Very well, Your Highness, I’ll perform the procedure in two days’ time. Of course, I’ll continue monitoring her, and keep you informed.”
I flex my knee to say “Thankyou Sir,”and scuttle past him out of the clinic.
This is one of those 'uh-oh' moments, I think...
Lebensborn? Or something much more sinister....?
The way things are going, you'll need to order a heavy-duty loathometer
Amazon has its uses...
I hear they have management issues
I'll have 'management issues' if I keep messing about on Eul's thread!I hear they have management issues
View attachment 508397
31
The inspection the next day is as usual, though still more thorough and intrusive. But the following day when I report to the clinic, I’m met by the nurse who’s in full surgical gear, she beckons me to follow her to another room which is evidently a small operating theatre, the Doctor is waiting, likewise in surgical kit, mask, gloves and all.
I have to strip and lie on the operating slab, which for all its gleaming, hi-tech appearance, is basically no different from the branding bed. My ankles and wrists are fitted with tight bands, a bit less uncomfortable than metal ones, and attached to anchor-points at the corners so I’m spreadeagled. Then my thighs are strapped and fixed so they’re splayed wide apart.
I recall Yasmin crouching on me when I was branded, fingering my pussy, but evidently the nurse isn’t going to do the same. Instead she wheels across a trolley with equipment which is fitted into me and on the outside much as it was when I first met the doctor and he took those samples: thin cables worked into me so I feel them entering and working their way up my fallopian tubes, terminals of some sort stuck on my skin above my ovaries. I wonder if he’s going to take another sample?
But now the nurse brings a flask, steaming with ice-mist, just out of cold storage. The Doctor opens it very carefully, draws out a small tube, peers at it for a moment then fits it into a syringe, inserts the syringe in the apparatus from which the thin cables run, and slowly depresses the plunger.
I don’t feel much, just a sudden sharp stinging, I twist slightly, but the nurse has her hands on my hips now, holding me tight. Everything goes silent, the Doctor is peering at a small screen on the apparatus. Eventually he nods, “Good,” is all he says.
The nurse removes the terminals, withdraws the cables, releases my thighs and then my limbs. I step down from the bed and look to the Doctor for instructions, but he’s still studying his screen. I pick up my briefs, the nurse nods, I get dressed, say “Thankyou,” and depart, to find my way quickly back to the dancing lesson.
The inspection the next day is as usual, though still more thorough and intrusive. But the following day when I report to the clinic, I’m met by the nurse who’s in full surgical gear, she beckons me to follow her to another room which is evidently a small operating theatre, the Doctor is waiting, likewise in surgical kit, mask, gloves and all.
I have to strip and lie on the operating slab, which for all its gleaming, hi-tech appearance, is basically no different from the branding bed. My ankles and wrists are fitted with tight bands, a bit less uncomfortable than metal ones, and attached to anchor-points at the corners so I’m spreadeagled. Then my thighs are strapped and fixed so they’re splayed wide apart.
I recall Yasmin crouching on me when I was branded, fingering my pussy, but evidently the nurse isn’t going to do the same. Instead she wheels across a trolley with equipment which is fitted into me and on the outside much as it was when I first met the doctor and he took those samples: thin cables worked into me so I feel them entering and working their way up my fallopian tubes, terminals of some sort stuck on my skin above my ovaries. I wonder if he’s going to take another sample?
But now the nurse brings a flask, steaming with ice-mist, just out of cold storage. The Doctor opens it very carefully, draws out a small tube, peers at it for a moment then fits it into a syringe, inserts the syringe in the apparatus from which the thin cables run, and slowly depresses the plunger.
I don’t feel much, just a sudden sharp stinging, I twist slightly, but the nurse has her hands on my hips now, holding me tight. Everything goes silent, the Doctor is peering at a small screen on the apparatus. Eventually he nods, “Good,” is all he says.
The nurse removes the terminals, withdraws the cables, releases my thighs and then my limbs. I step down from the bed and look to the Doctor for instructions, but he’s still studying his screen. I pick up my briefs, the nurse nods, I get dressed, say “Thankyou,” and depart, to find my way quickly back to the dancing lesson.
32
I don’t feel any definite after-effects of this strange medical procedure, a few twinges, bit of cramp, could be just period pains. But I’m hardly on top form and once again I get a telling-off from the Dancing Mistress. And this time it’s more threatening,
“Tomorrow evening Prince Uday’s commanded you to dance for him wearing your whip-strip costume, it’s almost ready now.”
This makes me feel a lot worse! I try to pull myself together, and make a better shot with a second attempt at my solo routine, but I know I won’t get a second chance before Prince Uday. But there’s still not enough life in it, I don’t need telling.
“Please, Mistress, might this girl be allowed to come in here during qayloulah to do some extra practising?”
She looks a bit surprised, frowns, but I realise that it’s not going to be good for her if one of her girls disappoints His Highness.
“Well... Sima knows the combination to let you in here – Sima, are you willing to give up your rest time to let this lazy runt get her act together?”
“Of course, Mistress,” Sima replies with a head-bow.
“You’d better do it a bloody sight better next time I watch you,” she growls at me.
So after the mid-day snack, Sima and I return to the Dancing School. She’s quiet, so are all the girls, they know the seriousness of a command from Prince Uday, there’s no point in being falsely optimistic, but I feel their loving support and encouragement.
Sima lets me into the room, and starts the music playing, I try to focus and let it flow into me, there’s no point in thinking hard while I’m dancing, my body has to have the programme running and then my muscles play their part.
Yet there are points I can consciously improve, Sima’s good, she makes a few very helpful suggestions, joining in the dance herself, coming up with a few new or slightly different moves.
“The Prince likes us to be sexy, of course,” she advises, “sultry and alluring, but submissively so – you’re frightened of course, you’ll be very frightened when he’s watching you, don’t try to fight that, let your fear flow into your dance, that’ll gratify his love of power.”
After a couple more tries, I’m feeling more confident, and Sima’s smiling.
“Let’s go now,” she says, “We should get half and hour’s rest at least.”
I feel so grateful, I give her a hug before she unlocks the door and we return to the rest area.
I don’t feel any definite after-effects of this strange medical procedure, a few twinges, bit of cramp, could be just period pains. But I’m hardly on top form and once again I get a telling-off from the Dancing Mistress. And this time it’s more threatening,
“Tomorrow evening Prince Uday’s commanded you to dance for him wearing your whip-strip costume, it’s almost ready now.”
This makes me feel a lot worse! I try to pull myself together, and make a better shot with a second attempt at my solo routine, but I know I won’t get a second chance before Prince Uday. But there’s still not enough life in it, I don’t need telling.
“Please, Mistress, might this girl be allowed to come in here during qayloulah to do some extra practising?”
She looks a bit surprised, frowns, but I realise that it’s not going to be good for her if one of her girls disappoints His Highness.
“Well... Sima knows the combination to let you in here – Sima, are you willing to give up your rest time to let this lazy runt get her act together?”
“Of course, Mistress,” Sima replies with a head-bow.
“You’d better do it a bloody sight better next time I watch you,” she growls at me.
So after the mid-day snack, Sima and I return to the Dancing School. She’s quiet, so are all the girls, they know the seriousness of a command from Prince Uday, there’s no point in being falsely optimistic, but I feel their loving support and encouragement.
Sima lets me into the room, and starts the music playing, I try to focus and let it flow into me, there’s no point in thinking hard while I’m dancing, my body has to have the programme running and then my muscles play their part.
Yet there are points I can consciously improve, Sima’s good, she makes a few very helpful suggestions, joining in the dance herself, coming up with a few new or slightly different moves.
“The Prince likes us to be sexy, of course,” she advises, “sultry and alluring, but submissively so – you’re frightened of course, you’ll be very frightened when he’s watching you, don’t try to fight that, let your fear flow into your dance, that’ll gratify his love of power.”
After a couple more tries, I’m feeling more confident, and Sima’s smiling.
“Let’s go now,” she says, “We should get half and hour’s rest at least.”
I feel so grateful, I give her a hug before she unlocks the door and we return to the rest area.
And there do seem to be a lot of reasons to be afraid here.
You're in your stride. Let the story take you.
