It is better to be a coffee shop civet slave-bard than to have the attention of Prince Uday focused on you...
...no pressure, Eul...
...no pressure, Eul...
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For The Pleasure Of Prince Uday
- Thread starter Eulalia
- Start date
I'm hazy about how you let fear flow into a dance... if I did that I'd fall over my two left feet. 
Actually, I'd fall over my two left feet anyway.
What the heck. I don't suppose Prince Uday would want to seem me dance anyhow. Whatever fear Eul may or may not have to flow into her dance, it won't be a fear of getting elbowed out by Wragg!
Actually, I'd fall over my two left feet anyway.
What the heck. I don't suppose Prince Uday would want to seem me dance anyhow. Whatever fear Eul may or may not have to flow into her dance, it won't be a fear of getting elbowed out by Wragg!
I was eating Tree's high-energy dinner (hotdogs slathered with onions and olive oil, chips, and French Onion dip washed down with Tree's favorite beverage) and wonder who the hell even think about wanting to watch Wragg dance, naked or clothed!!!I'm hazy about how you let fear flow into a dance... if I did that I'd fall over my two left feet.
Actually, I'd fall over my two left feet anyway.
What the heck. I don't suppose Prince Uday would want to seem me dance anyhow. Whatever fear Eul may or may not have to flow into her dance, it won't be a fear of getting elbowed out by Wragg!
33
After supper the next day, I report to the Wardrobe Mistress to be fitted with my minimal golden costume. It’s comfy now. I see myself in the full-length mirror, I look pale – maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s an effect of whatever the Doctor put into me, maybe it’s just living underground. Anyway, the gold net under my breasts and over my pussy suits the cream of my skin.
Sima accompanies me to the door out to the garden, Yasmin sees us as we pass her working area and gives me an encouraging smile, Sima wishes me the blessings of the Compassionate One, opens the door with the code, and tells me I must wait outside for the Guards.
I gaze around at the ancient trees and exotic flowering plants, the grand, rather daunting buildings – what must be the women’s quarters are to my right with a high wall enclosing their private garden, Prince Uday’s modern accommodation away on the far side, the windows brightly lit. The cool evening air’s refreshing on my skin, I do a few little exercises while I wait, stretching my limbs, easing my joints. The bikini costume rubs pleasantly as I move. The waist-band is the tightest part, I’m conscious of a slight lump in it like a little stud just over my right hip, though nothing shows on the surface – it must be where the seam is stitched for tightness.
Soon I see two Guards approaching, marching in step, resplendent in their dress uniforms, I fall to my knees and prostrate, ready for their command. They reach me, halt, turn with heavy stamping, one shouts “Up!” and they haul me by my upper arms onto my feet. Like when I was led to the Whipping Post, I’m almost running to keep from being pulled over as they quick-march across the grassed space to foot of the flight of steps leading up to the Great Hall, and half-carried up those steps, right-turn and in through the dark oak door.
Along the walls to my right and left long tables are piled with delicious-looking food and drink in priceless antique vessels, in front of them are couches on which a great many men are lounging, some in Middle Eastern dress, others in Western suits, all expensively made. At the far end, on a dais, even grander furniture is occupied by, no doubt, the most important guests, in the centre, under the brightest lights, His Highness himself. I am the only female in all this vast place.
The Guards fling me to the floor, I fall naturally in a posture of total submission. Where I am, the floor is bare wooden planks, worn and scented with ages of tread. There’s noise of chatter, clinking of glasses and cutlery, for a time I wonder if anyone’s noticed me, but I sense more and more male eyes turning my way, drinking me in. The noise gradually subsides, I hear a small bell tinkle.
Then the music starts, my music, quite soft and slow, though with an insistent rhythm. I kneel up, and begin my slow, sensuous movements, stretching and flexing my arms to my sides, front, back, above, my upper body swaying and turning, showing off my breasts, smiling as I glance around at the audience.
The music becomes a little more intense, I throw my head back, lift my self on my arms and legs in a bridge posture, swing my pelvis for a few bars then, as the beat begins to quicken, twist into a kneeling pose and begin to crawl, keeping time with the music, stretching my limbs, zig-zagging from side to side, showing myself to the watching men who are sipping sharāb on their couches, as I make my way onto a magnificent carpet that stretches up the Hall towards the royal dais.
When I’m well beyond half-way, I begin to direct my gestures and body-language towards His Highness, varying in response to changes in the melody with outstretched arms of passionate desire, playful, flirty coyness, cringing movements of fear – the music’s entering into me now, discovering, revealing, expressing my dark, conflicting feelings.
As I near the dais, I lie for a few moments bent back like a taut bow, my legs flexed and stretched so my ankles meet my hair, the front of my body offered achingly towards His Highness. From this prostration I move onto my knees, again with gestures of submission, and at last to my feet. The music’s growing wilder now, I prance around, keeping my arms well out, twisting and turning in quick, sudden movements so my audience, especially the Prince, see a kaleidoscopic variety of aspects of my body flickering and glistening under the brightly glowing lamps.
As the music grows louder, the rhythm pounding stronger, I imagine myself back at the Whipping Post, responding to the blows of the lash, and let my body leap and jerk with movements of pain. In other passages I fall to the carpet again and writhe as if in agony, though still striving to keep my movements smooth and graceful.
We’re approaching the climax, and my whole body feels its orgasmic intensity in all its cells. My dance becomes more gymnastic, leaping, spinning... then, suddenly the mood changes, the quiet cadence brings me back to my knees, the shaking of my body, now panting and gleaming with sweat, reveals the rapid beating of my heart, but I let it blend with the music as I gradually subside to a final prostration immediately below the feet of His Highness.
After supper the next day, I report to the Wardrobe Mistress to be fitted with my minimal golden costume. It’s comfy now. I see myself in the full-length mirror, I look pale – maybe it’s fear, maybe it’s an effect of whatever the Doctor put into me, maybe it’s just living underground. Anyway, the gold net under my breasts and over my pussy suits the cream of my skin.
Sima accompanies me to the door out to the garden, Yasmin sees us as we pass her working area and gives me an encouraging smile, Sima wishes me the blessings of the Compassionate One, opens the door with the code, and tells me I must wait outside for the Guards.
I gaze around at the ancient trees and exotic flowering plants, the grand, rather daunting buildings – what must be the women’s quarters are to my right with a high wall enclosing their private garden, Prince Uday’s modern accommodation away on the far side, the windows brightly lit. The cool evening air’s refreshing on my skin, I do a few little exercises while I wait, stretching my limbs, easing my joints. The bikini costume rubs pleasantly as I move. The waist-band is the tightest part, I’m conscious of a slight lump in it like a little stud just over my right hip, though nothing shows on the surface – it must be where the seam is stitched for tightness.
Soon I see two Guards approaching, marching in step, resplendent in their dress uniforms, I fall to my knees and prostrate, ready for their command. They reach me, halt, turn with heavy stamping, one shouts “Up!” and they haul me by my upper arms onto my feet. Like when I was led to the Whipping Post, I’m almost running to keep from being pulled over as they quick-march across the grassed space to foot of the flight of steps leading up to the Great Hall, and half-carried up those steps, right-turn and in through the dark oak door.
Along the walls to my right and left long tables are piled with delicious-looking food and drink in priceless antique vessels, in front of them are couches on which a great many men are lounging, some in Middle Eastern dress, others in Western suits, all expensively made. At the far end, on a dais, even grander furniture is occupied by, no doubt, the most important guests, in the centre, under the brightest lights, His Highness himself. I am the only female in all this vast place.
The Guards fling me to the floor, I fall naturally in a posture of total submission. Where I am, the floor is bare wooden planks, worn and scented with ages of tread. There’s noise of chatter, clinking of glasses and cutlery, for a time I wonder if anyone’s noticed me, but I sense more and more male eyes turning my way, drinking me in. The noise gradually subsides, I hear a small bell tinkle.
Then the music starts, my music, quite soft and slow, though with an insistent rhythm. I kneel up, and begin my slow, sensuous movements, stretching and flexing my arms to my sides, front, back, above, my upper body swaying and turning, showing off my breasts, smiling as I glance around at the audience.
The music becomes a little more intense, I throw my head back, lift my self on my arms and legs in a bridge posture, swing my pelvis for a few bars then, as the beat begins to quicken, twist into a kneeling pose and begin to crawl, keeping time with the music, stretching my limbs, zig-zagging from side to side, showing myself to the watching men who are sipping sharāb on their couches, as I make my way onto a magnificent carpet that stretches up the Hall towards the royal dais.
When I’m well beyond half-way, I begin to direct my gestures and body-language towards His Highness, varying in response to changes in the melody with outstretched arms of passionate desire, playful, flirty coyness, cringing movements of fear – the music’s entering into me now, discovering, revealing, expressing my dark, conflicting feelings.
As I near the dais, I lie for a few moments bent back like a taut bow, my legs flexed and stretched so my ankles meet my hair, the front of my body offered achingly towards His Highness. From this prostration I move onto my knees, again with gestures of submission, and at last to my feet. The music’s growing wilder now, I prance around, keeping my arms well out, twisting and turning in quick, sudden movements so my audience, especially the Prince, see a kaleidoscopic variety of aspects of my body flickering and glistening under the brightly glowing lamps.
As the music grows louder, the rhythm pounding stronger, I imagine myself back at the Whipping Post, responding to the blows of the lash, and let my body leap and jerk with movements of pain. In other passages I fall to the carpet again and writhe as if in agony, though still striving to keep my movements smooth and graceful.
We’re approaching the climax, and my whole body feels its orgasmic intensity in all its cells. My dance becomes more gymnastic, leaping, spinning... then, suddenly the mood changes, the quiet cadence brings me back to my knees, the shaking of my body, now panting and gleaming with sweat, reveals the rapid beating of my heart, but I let it blend with the music as I gradually subside to a final prostration immediately below the feet of His Highness.
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Sensual choreography. Wonderful depiction, Eul. One almost wishes one was the prince, except for the being a total despotic monster, of course.
except for the being a total despotic monster, of course.
Oh yes, that would be just awful!
34
For a long moment, all is silence, save for my panting breath, I feel how warm my body is against the pile of the carpet. Then I hear the Prince rise, “Good!” he says, and at once the whole audience break into enthusiastic applause. I’m almost dizzy with relief, half-sobbing.
For what seems several minutes the clapping, stamping, even cheering continues. I kneel up, shake my hair and body, turn to left and right to acknowledge the applause with gestures of humble gratitude, then place my hands together and offer my obeisance to Prince Uday, who is standing smiling down at me. He taps the crown of my bowed head with the sole of his shoe.
“Up, slave!”
I rise to my feet, he beckons, I follow him out through a grand doorway between two Guards, into a richly-decorated antechamber where he sits on a couch, I kneel on the gorgeous rug.
“So, you are the rat I whipped the knickers off?”
“That was this slave’s honour, Sir.”
“You danced well to the Whip. You’ve danced well in the Hall. And you’re going to dance well for my brother and me when we whip these kinis off you, aren’t you?”
“Your slavegirl will do her best.”
“She’d better. But I have other things I require of her before that. Information. About your owner who fucked your mother and made you.”
My heart sinks. He hasn’t forgotten. He taps his hand-screen, immediately four more men enter the chamber, a stern-looking, grey-haired one in a suit who takes his place next to the Prince, another with a lap-top who sits on a chair in a corner, and two hefty-looking brutes in working clothes who stand behind me.
The interrogation begins. Although Prince Uday starts the questioning, the grey-haired man soon takes a more active role, and the one with the computer, as well as – I suppose – taking notes of my answers, quite often intervenes with comments and queries.
They ask me about my whole life in General Aziz’s household, from my very earliest memories, about my mother and my sister and the work we did. But they focus most closely on recent times, when my only visits have been one weekend per month’s leave from the Academy, and my time in the General’s house has been spent helping mum with her tasks.
And they keep on asking me about the General’s friends and visitors. I’ve certainly seen, and served (at the table, not in bed), a good many, some of them no doubt important and powerful figures, but it’s not a slavegirl’s business to inquire, simply to assume all her Master’s guests require her utmost respect. I certainly wasn’t introduced to them by name!
I make a bit better progress when they show me pictures on a handscreen and ask if I recognise the people. In many cases I do. I feel a bit uneasy, I may be incriminating people I hardly know, and certainly giving information about my Owner’s household affairs. As a slavegirl I’ve always been warned I must never do that – but it’s Prince Uday’s who’s asking, and anyway, although General Aziz is my natural father, he’s never been more to me than a distant, stern and quite brutal Master – my most intimate contact with him has always been at the wrong end of the whiplash!
I’m kneeling up, still nearly naked in my golden whip-strip bikini, breathless, sweating and tired from my exertions in my dance. My hands behind my bum, fingers clutching nervously at the hem of the thong.
I’m afraid – they’re sounding increasingly impatient, dissatisfied with my asnwers, I’m trying all I can, but they keep pressing me with ones I simply can’t answer. No point in lying, I know that will only make matters worse. I hang my head, almost in tears,
“I’m sorry, y-your Highness, I’d tell you if I knew...”
He thumps the arm of his couch in frustration, and snaps,
“Take her down!”
For a long moment, all is silence, save for my panting breath, I feel how warm my body is against the pile of the carpet. Then I hear the Prince rise, “Good!” he says, and at once the whole audience break into enthusiastic applause. I’m almost dizzy with relief, half-sobbing.
For what seems several minutes the clapping, stamping, even cheering continues. I kneel up, shake my hair and body, turn to left and right to acknowledge the applause with gestures of humble gratitude, then place my hands together and offer my obeisance to Prince Uday, who is standing smiling down at me. He taps the crown of my bowed head with the sole of his shoe.
“Up, slave!”
I rise to my feet, he beckons, I follow him out through a grand doorway between two Guards, into a richly-decorated antechamber where he sits on a couch, I kneel on the gorgeous rug.
“So, you are the rat I whipped the knickers off?”
“That was this slave’s honour, Sir.”
“You danced well to the Whip. You’ve danced well in the Hall. And you’re going to dance well for my brother and me when we whip these kinis off you, aren’t you?”
“Your slavegirl will do her best.”
“She’d better. But I have other things I require of her before that. Information. About your owner who fucked your mother and made you.”
My heart sinks. He hasn’t forgotten. He taps his hand-screen, immediately four more men enter the chamber, a stern-looking, grey-haired one in a suit who takes his place next to the Prince, another with a lap-top who sits on a chair in a corner, and two hefty-looking brutes in working clothes who stand behind me.
The interrogation begins. Although Prince Uday starts the questioning, the grey-haired man soon takes a more active role, and the one with the computer, as well as – I suppose – taking notes of my answers, quite often intervenes with comments and queries.
They ask me about my whole life in General Aziz’s household, from my very earliest memories, about my mother and my sister and the work we did. But they focus most closely on recent times, when my only visits have been one weekend per month’s leave from the Academy, and my time in the General’s house has been spent helping mum with her tasks.
And they keep on asking me about the General’s friends and visitors. I’ve certainly seen, and served (at the table, not in bed), a good many, some of them no doubt important and powerful figures, but it’s not a slavegirl’s business to inquire, simply to assume all her Master’s guests require her utmost respect. I certainly wasn’t introduced to them by name!
I make a bit better progress when they show me pictures on a handscreen and ask if I recognise the people. In many cases I do. I feel a bit uneasy, I may be incriminating people I hardly know, and certainly giving information about my Owner’s household affairs. As a slavegirl I’ve always been warned I must never do that – but it’s Prince Uday’s who’s asking, and anyway, although General Aziz is my natural father, he’s never been more to me than a distant, stern and quite brutal Master – my most intimate contact with him has always been at the wrong end of the whiplash!
I’m kneeling up, still nearly naked in my golden whip-strip bikini, breathless, sweating and tired from my exertions in my dance. My hands behind my bum, fingers clutching nervously at the hem of the thong.
I’m afraid – they’re sounding increasingly impatient, dissatisfied with my asnwers, I’m trying all I can, but they keep pressing me with ones I simply can’t answer. No point in lying, I know that will only make matters worse. I hang my head, almost in tears,
“I’m sorry, y-your Highness, I’d tell you if I knew...”
He thumps the arm of his couch in frustration, and snaps,
“Take her down!”
xso
Tribune
Great story, thanks! I like very much this slavegirls submissivnes !
Down! Down where? Surely he won't damage her before the big performance.
Good tension, Eul. Thanks for the cliffhanger.
A seriously tense chapter. 
Well, at least it sounds as though she's shafted General Aziz.
So go on out to the lobbyAnd at this anxious moment, there will be a short interval
Well, I probably won't be continuing the story for a few days,
RL will keep me away over the weekend,
but we'll learn what happens next week....
go on out to the lobby
go on out to the lobby
and get some 7 up!!!
Tree hates intermissions...
okay, normal service resumes...
35
The two brutes behind me grab my arms, jerk them into a lock and quick-march me out through the door at the back of the room, sharp left and down some stairs, half pushing, half carrying me, and along a rather wider, higher and brighter-lit passageway than the one that winds through the cellar under the Women’s Quarters. They swing me into a room whose function is all too obvious, furnished with shiny metal chair, bed, frame and hanging chains, various pieces of technical equipment and storage cabinets, and seats for my interrogators. Prince Uday, the grey-haired man, and the guy with the computer take these.
Okay, I tell myself, don’t try to play the heroine, no point in that - just obey. The guards have released my arms, I’m standing as a slavegirl should, facing my staring captors, at the ready.
“Strip!”
Obey. I flick off the gold-net bra, slide down the briefs, noting how tightly they cling, belying their delicate look. Conscious that they’re valuable, I look around wondering where to place them, Prince Uday seems uninterested, just impatient to get on, so I toss them onto a bench alongside the wall,
Although my dancing kini was so scanty, and I’ve got quite used to being a naked slavegirl, I feel horribly conscious of my vulnerability now, my breasts already anticipating the electric search. Don’t let him see it, I tell myself, it’ll just excite his lust even more. Best not to look at them, or at their instruments. Keep my eyes lowered. Hold out my wrists for shackling.
The guards quickly fit steel restraints on my wrists and ankles, and a set of kit on me – a flexible metal collar around my neck, another around my temples, the two are hinged together; a slender steel cable hngs down my back. Then one thrusts a hook-shaped object towards my mouth, I open my lips, he clamps it over my lower teeth, a cable hangs down from that. The two cables are tugged uner my groin, my head’s forced back, my jaw open, the cables are connected, front and back, so I’m held in this position.
The computer man holds up a hand-screen, he’s photographing me, Prince Uday looks at the computer screen, he’s please with this trophy of his prey. He nods towards the steel-framework chair. Again, I don’t wait to be manhandled, I cross to it and sit myself, my flesh blends on the unwelcoming steel rods, my body yielding to their metallic will. Now a belt’s put round my waist, locked tight together with my shackled wrists behind the back of the chair. While these things are being fitted by one man, the other clamps my ankles on to the chair-legs, so my knees are forced wide apart. Finally, my breasts are coated with a chilly grease, then sharp metal clips like talons are clicked onto them, biting into the aureoles, they hurt, I wince with a little squeal. There are electric cables attached to these, they run back to a control unit near the interrogators table.
There’s a pause, the man takes more photos, I count each endless moment - my world’s shrunk down to this, the Prince’s Torture Chamber: men, me, my nakedness, my pain ...
35
The two brutes behind me grab my arms, jerk them into a lock and quick-march me out through the door at the back of the room, sharp left and down some stairs, half pushing, half carrying me, and along a rather wider, higher and brighter-lit passageway than the one that winds through the cellar under the Women’s Quarters. They swing me into a room whose function is all too obvious, furnished with shiny metal chair, bed, frame and hanging chains, various pieces of technical equipment and storage cabinets, and seats for my interrogators. Prince Uday, the grey-haired man, and the guy with the computer take these.
Okay, I tell myself, don’t try to play the heroine, no point in that - just obey. The guards have released my arms, I’m standing as a slavegirl should, facing my staring captors, at the ready.
“Strip!”
Obey. I flick off the gold-net bra, slide down the briefs, noting how tightly they cling, belying their delicate look. Conscious that they’re valuable, I look around wondering where to place them, Prince Uday seems uninterested, just impatient to get on, so I toss them onto a bench alongside the wall,
Although my dancing kini was so scanty, and I’ve got quite used to being a naked slavegirl, I feel horribly conscious of my vulnerability now, my breasts already anticipating the electric search. Don’t let him see it, I tell myself, it’ll just excite his lust even more. Best not to look at them, or at their instruments. Keep my eyes lowered. Hold out my wrists for shackling.
The guards quickly fit steel restraints on my wrists and ankles, and a set of kit on me – a flexible metal collar around my neck, another around my temples, the two are hinged together; a slender steel cable hngs down my back. Then one thrusts a hook-shaped object towards my mouth, I open my lips, he clamps it over my lower teeth, a cable hangs down from that. The two cables are tugged uner my groin, my head’s forced back, my jaw open, the cables are connected, front and back, so I’m held in this position.
The computer man holds up a hand-screen, he’s photographing me, Prince Uday looks at the computer screen, he’s please with this trophy of his prey. He nods towards the steel-framework chair. Again, I don’t wait to be manhandled, I cross to it and sit myself, my flesh blends on the unwelcoming steel rods, my body yielding to their metallic will. Now a belt’s put round my waist, locked tight together with my shackled wrists behind the back of the chair. While these things are being fitted by one man, the other clamps my ankles on to the chair-legs, so my knees are forced wide apart. Finally, my breasts are coated with a chilly grease, then sharp metal clips like talons are clicked onto them, biting into the aureoles, they hurt, I wince with a little squeal. There are electric cables attached to these, they run back to a control unit near the interrogators table.
There’s a pause, the man takes more photos, I count each endless moment - my world’s shrunk down to this, the Prince’s Torture Chamber: men, me, my nakedness, my pain ...