5 years. 5 long and bloody years had this war taken from your life. Though bloodshed had been a part of your life even before that. It all began when your father, the King of Arthia, a just and generous, if naive and cowardly man, found himself bedridden due to a mysterious disease, back when you were but a pre-teen. Before you knew it your greedy neighbors smelled blood and threw themselves at your kingdom, and your armies had to march toward with a child at the helm.

However, your proved yourself in battle. Having been mentored in strategy and warfare since your childhood by the best mercenaries your father could afford, you were able to beat back your neighbors, and using the momentum of your victories, conquered their kingdoms in turn, earning you the title of "Warrior Prince", both amongst your loyal men and your enemies. Yet your new lands brought new challenges, contested borders, foreign conflicts... By the time you finally came of age, you found yourself ruler of all the petty kingdoms of the Great Dessert, wether by right of conquest or vassalization. Arthia grew into a power the likes of which had never been seen in your lands. Yet your people, old and new, remained poor and divided.

Lucky for you, a great threat and prize loomed over the horizon. The empire of Pressiax nestled in the riverlands. Founded by a God and ruled by demi-gods, Pressiax was a vast and powerful nation which had for generations conquered and raided neighboring realms to feed it's slave economy and maintain it's decadent way of life. Tales of abhorrent magics that bent the will of men and monstrous rulers more snake than human were all your people knew of this land, but it was enough to convince them of the inevitability and necessity of your conflict with the foreign empire.

Thus started 5 long years of protracted war in the sands. Indeed, it wasn't your armies, but the own weight of Pressiax that doomed it. Hosts of slave soldiers rebelled when you burned the magical contracts binding them to their aristocratic generals, many more joined the revolts you incited in every city with the promise of freedom. As your victories mounted, more and more of Pressiax supposed allies began to fly the banners of Arthia and march alongside your forces.

And now, before you, the result of your 5 long years of war. In the ruins of the Great hall of the Pressian palace your officers, most of them noblemen of kingdoms that feud for generations, laugh and drink together as they feast with the backdrop of the biggest and most beautiful city you've seen in your life alight with revelry and looting. Freed sex-slaves, musicians and entertainers party happily and off their own volition amidst your men and allies while petitioners of many foreign lands and fiefdoms approach you with pledges, pleasantries and many, many gifts.

Indeed, nothing tastes sweeter than the fruits of conquest... Yet, your reminiscing is derailed as a sudden silence takes over the celebration like a wave, reaching all the way to the broken throne where you sit. Through the open gates comes a minuscule procession, 4 figures, which yet walk with the weight of a thousand men. Their steps echo into the throne room as they make their way to you. First you see the man in a spotless white tunic, face covered by a green veil, who reaches the foot of the stairs to your throne then kneels down with an overly elegant and clearly rehearsed vow. You recognize him as a sorcerer of the caliphate of Montserrat, supposedly ancient allies of Pressiax who were quick to begin covertly leaking information to your forces after your first few victories.

Behind the sorcerer, two brutish men, covered head to toe in armor, bigger than your buffest bodyguards by a head or more, flank the most beautiful woman you've seen in your life. Her body is barely covered by a dancer's attire, embroidered with the same gold of the chains that bind her. Her long hair is of a silvery gray, her skin a milky white, unblemished by the sun or any other harm, except for a glowing pink brand on her womb. Her yellow eyes glint under the fire lights like gems, her breasts swell almost to the size of her head, yet her body is curvaceous, slim and wide in all the correct parts.

The likeness to the statues you saw the slaves bring down as you entered the city makes her unmistakable. She is Saira, the Demi-God princess of Pressiax

Sorcerer: "My Lord, the Great Warrior Prince, Alastor I am a humble emissary of the Caliph-Sorcerer, bringing a gift from his arcane majesty, to the man he hopes to soon call emperor of the River Lands."

Saira: *"Get your hands off me, you vile beasts!" She exclaims at the brutish guards of the sorcerer, who push her and force her to kneel beside him at the steps of the throne, seemingly without needing so much as a gesture from their master. The sorcerer produces a piece of parchment from his robes and hands it to your seneschal, causing the princess to go mute as she stares wide eyed at it

Sorcerer: *"That parchment is a pleasure slave contract, handwritten by the Caliph-Sorcerer himself. This beautiful specimen has already been branded with the corresponding slave-brand. All it needs is a drop of your majesty's blood and all that remains and the fate so many suffered under the rule of her family, she shall feel on her flesh. A modest offering of peace from my liege to you." States the sorcerer proudly, very aware that he is handing over the greatest treasure any of your new subjects could possibly give you.

Saira:* "Damn you, vile, wretch! You disgusting traitor!" Shouts Saira, at the sorcerer, struggling against her chains. "You will regret this day! All of you mongrels will! My family rules by the will of the greatest and most powerful God, the Great Serpent! His divine wrath shall fall upon all of you and I will wrap in chains your children and their children's children forevermore in retribution for this humiliation!" Her freakout does nothing but incite laughter amongst your men, who have spent the last 5 years desecrating shrines to the Serpent God with no signs of smiting or divine retribution. Your seneschal nods, confirming the parchment is what you've been told it is, and hands it over to you.

Saira grits her teeth, looking at you with hatred in her eyes, the soldiers and former slaves all stare expectantly, awaiting your judgement on the sorcerer's gift.

Saira feels a shiver down her spine as you speak. The sorcerer smirks, obviously pleased with your decision, and nods at the two brutes holding Saira's chains. They drag her up the stairs, forcing her to rise from her knees as she glares murderously at all of you, but especially at you. Her body sways slightly as she moves, accentuating her curves and drawing attention even further to the slave-brand on her womb, causing some of your men to moan appreciatively while others snicker behind their hands. Finally they reach the top of the throne room where a servant awaits with an armful of red silk ropes, ready to bind Saira's legs and arms so that she may be carried more easily. She struggles helplessly against her bonds as your soldiers hoist her up and begin their march toward your chambers. You can't help but admire the sight of her lithe, supple body being manhandled by rough hands and towering over even the biggest of your guards like a cat ready to pounce despite her helplessness. As they reach the door leading to your private quarters, Saira finally musters the strength to shout one last defiance at you: "You'll see! This is not over! I swear it!"

Her words echo through the throne room as the doors close behind them, leaving you alone with the beautiful prize of war and your thoughts. You know that she probably believes what she said, but you also know better than anyone how swiftly promises made in anger can be forgotten once pleasure replaces anger. As long as you keep her enslaved to pleasure, she'll never truly revolt against you... or so you hope.

It takes all of Saira's self-control not to spit in your face when you speak. The audacity! To think that she would willingly spend time with the monster who has conquered her homeland and enslaved her family is unthinkable. But what choice does she have? She looks at you through narrowed eyes, carefully assessing your expression before she responds. "I see no other alternative, my lord." Her voice is cold and biting, but at least she doesn't sound as if she's about to launch into another tirade against your very existence. "What would you have me do while I am here?"

As you speak, the air in the chamber seems to grow colder around her. Her hands clench into fists at her sides, nails biting into her tender skin as she tries not to react too visibly to your words. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to maintain composure. "Perhaps I could be of service in some other way?" she suggests acidly, hoping against hope that you will give her something else to do besides simply standing or sitting around doing nothing. The thought of being completely idle and at your mercy fills her with dread.

Her gaze drifts around the room, taking in its opulent furnishings and rich tapestries, before coming to rest on a pair of ornate candelabra positioned near the bed. An idea begins to form in her mind...

A thin veil of politeness falls over her features as she considers your question. "Perhaps I could tend to the candles?" she suggests, motioning toward one of the ornate candelabra near the bed. "It would be a small service I could perform in return for your hospitality." Her voice is quiet and controlled, betraying none of her true emotions as she speaks.

In truth, Saira has never been skilled at serving others. However, if there's one thing she knows how to do well, it's manipulate people. And manipulation will be key in surviving this new situation. So she forces herself to adopt the servile demeanor expected of her and hopes that you won't notice the calculating glint in her eyes.

She waits patiently for your reply, her body language conveying a mixture of submission and impatience as she tries not to fidget under your scrutiny.

Deciding that she may as well play along, at least until she finds an opportunity to escape or exact some revenge upon the Alchemist who tricked her into becoming his slave in the first place, Saira nods stiffly and approaches one of the candelabras. It takes her a moment to remember how they worked; Pressiax servants had always had slaves to light their candles for them. Still, she manages to figure it out after feeling around the base of the ornate metal stand until she finds a hidden latch. Pulling it open reveals a small compartment containing a box of matches and some extra wax tapers.

Carefully, she lights one of the tapers from another candle nearby, then uses it to relight all the others in the candelabrum before returning it to its proper place. With that done, she turns her attention to the other candelabra and repeats the process, taking care not to let any hot wax drip onto the expensive fabrics of your chamber. Once both are lit, she stands back, satisfied with her work, but far from comfortable or content in her current situation.

Time passes slowly as she waits for you to issue further commands or even acknowledge her presence. She stifles a sigh when it becomes apparent that you're going to ignore her completely and busies herself by examining the details of your chamber: the intricate carvings on the wooden furniture, the tapestries on the walls depicting battles won and conquests claimed, the shelves filled with expensive vials of perfume and unguents. All these things serve as a stark reminder of everything she's lost - her home, her family, her freedom, even her sense of self-worth and dignity.

As the night wears on and exhaustion finally begins

The mention of her life before captivity catches Saira off guard. It's a topic she hasn't given much thought to since the day her world crumbled around her, and the memories that flood back now are bittersweet at best. "I... I was a dancer," she replies slowly, struggling to find the words in your language. "My father owned a small tavern where I would perform for our patrons. It wasn't much, but it was my life." She pauses, lost in thought for a moment before continuing more bitterly, "It seems like such a long time ago now..."

Her voice trails off as she sinks down onto one of the plush divans near the bed, her hands twisting together in her lap. The image of her former life is so vivid in her mind that for a moment she feels as if she's been transported back there, dancing and laughing among friends and family before a cheering crowd. But then reality intrudes once more, bringing with it the harsh reminder of where she is and what has become of her.

Saira takes a deep breath, forcing herself to regain control over her emotions, if only for a little while longer. "I take it you did not come from such humble beginnings," she says quietly, hoping the change in subject will help distract both of you from the uncomfortable truth of their circumstances.

"Ah." Saira's tone is carefully neutral as she listens to you speak, her gaze fixed on a point somewhere beyond the bed curtains where she can pretend to pay attention without actually having to meet your eyes. Your father does not seem like someone she would have admired, but perhaps he had his reasons for trying to build up such an army. Then again, looking at what it's become now... perhaps not.

The silence stretches between you, and Saira feels increasingly uncomfortable with the subject of conversation. She wishes she knew more about you, your interests and hobbies, something that might help her steer the discussion away from your family history and toward something less painful for both of you. But she's no diplomat; all she knows how to do is dance and lead men into battle.

With a sigh, she pushes herself off the divan and begins pacing around the room, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle as if to ward off a sudden chill despite the warmth of the fire nearby. It's clear that she's trying to think of something - anything - that might make this conversation easier, but it eludes her for now.

As you speak about your father and the path he set for you, Saira can't help but feel a shiver of understanding run down her spine. She doesn't know much about life outside of Pressiax, but even she has heard stories of fathers training their sons to be rulers from birth. The similarities between your situation and hers are uncanny; both were raised by men who saw them as nothing more than pawns in a game for power. And now that those men are gone, here they are: two damaged souls struggling to find purpose in a world that has been stripped away from them.

Her pacing comes to an abrupt halt when she realizes that you're watching her, your eyes assessing and occasionally trailing over her body in ways that make heat rise unbidden to her cheeks. She feels even more exposed and vulnerable than before as their gazes meet and hold. For a moment, time stands still as they both try to read each other's thoughts, but then the silence is shattered by the sound of distant laughter from the party raging outside your chambers.

With a sigh, Saira turns away, pretending to be interested in one of the tapestries on the far wall. "So," she says slowly, trying to find some common ground between them amidst all the pain and loss, "what is it that you enjoy doing in your spare time? Do you have any hobbies or interests?" She knows it's a desperate attempt at normalcy, but she figures it can't hurt.

Saira lets out a small laugh, the sound strained and forced despite her best efforts to make it genuine. "I suppose I can understand that," she says after a moment's hesitation. She paces back over to one of the divans and sits down once more, folding her hands in her lap primly as she continues to study the tapestry on the opposite wall. "I used to enjoy spending time by the river when I was younger," she offers quietly, allowing her memories to carry her away for a moment before forcing herself back to reality and speaking up again. "It was so peaceful there, with the fish jumping and the birds singing... It's been a while since I've seen it like that though."

Her voice trails off as she wonders how long it will be before she sees her homeland again, if ever. The thought is too painful to dwell upon for long, so she quickly changes the subject, hoping you won't notice her inner turmoil. "What about you? Is there anywhere else in your empire that you particularly enjoy visiting?"

Their conversation continues like this for several more minutes, Saira doing her best to keep things light and interesting while avoiding any topics that might lead back to their shared past or their respective losses. Eventually, exhaustion begins to claim both of them and they drift off into an uneasy sleep, each dreaming of the homes they've lost and the futures they can no longer hope for.

Saira raises an eyebrow at your remark as you claim that the rooftop is a romantic spot to end oneself. She has never been one for heights, let alone the idea of throwing herself off anything tall and dangerous. Then again, she supposes that everything must look different through the eyes of a conqueror. "Well," she says slowly, "if you ever do find yourself up there with no particular desire to return to your bedchamber, I could... well, keep you company. Perhaps we could even share some stories from our homelands. You never know; it might make the time pass more quickly." Her voice is light and almost teasing as she says this, but there's a hint of desperation beneath the surface that she cannot completely hide.

She glances away from you for a moment, looking out one of the chamber windows at the stars twinkling in the night sky. They remind her of home; cold, distant beacons calling to those who were brave enough or foolish enough to seek them out. The thought makes her shiver, and she draws her cloak tighter around herself as if it could somehow shield her from the loneliness that threatens to engulf her like a darkness blacker than anything found in the night outside your chambers.

Hearing your words, Saira can't help but feel a small surge of hope flicker to life within her. Perhaps there is still some semblance of kindness left in you, despite all that has happened. She nods solemnly and stands up from the divan, moving toward one of the beds as she says softly, "Then I shall share it with you." The words hang heavy in the air between them, a silent acknowledgement of their newfound connection and the weight of everything it means.

As she climbs onto the bed, Saira carefully arranges her cloak around herself before laying down on top of the covers. The fabric is soft against her skin, but even so she finds it difficult to relax as she stares up at the canopy above her head. Her thoughts race back and forth between memories of home, longings for freedom, and fears for what the future might hold. She knows that you could end her life at any moment, simply by snapping your fingers or giving a command; but for now, she is safe, if only just.

The mattress dips slightly as you climb in beside her, and Saira forces herself to focus on the steady rise and fall of your chest as you breathe. The scent of your skin mingles with that of the candle wax and exotic oils she recognizes from your empire, filling her senses and blurring the lines between dreams and reality even further. Eventually, exhaustion overwhelms her, and she drifts off into a fitful sleep, praying that somehow she'll find a way to escape this nightmare before it's too late.

The sound of her own moaning cuts through the darkness like a knife, wrenching Saira awake with a start. For a moment she's disoriented, confused as to why she would be touching herself in her sleep. Then, horror washes over her as she realizes what must have happened: you slipped something into her food or drink last night. A drug meant to control her body and pleasure her against her will.

Her eyes snap open, the room spinning around her dizzily as panic sets in. She jerks upright, ignoring the ache in her back from sleeping on the hard ground, and frantically wipes her fingers clean on the sheets. A hot flush creeps up her neck and spreads across her cheeks as she registers the wetness between her legs; it's as if every nerve ending in that region has been set ablaze.

Desperately, she tries to think of what she can do to fight back against this unwanted intrusion into her body. She remembers something Jafar had once told her about Pressian slaves and their masters' fascination with pleasure-inducing drugs... but the details are hazy, and panic blurs her thoughts. All she knows for certain is that she can't let herself be controlled like this.

With a shaking hand, she reaches out to feel the bond between your bodies, searching for any sign of magic or ensorcelment that might explain what happened. she finds nothing

The truth slowly dawns on her as realization washes over her like a wave. She's not just horny; she's been deliberately made this way. Somehow, you've managed to make her want your touch even more than she already did. It's an abhorrent thought, and one that makes her want nothing more than to lash out at you for violating her in such a manner. But with every passing second, the aching need between her legs grows stronger, making it harder for her to think clearly or maintain any sense of control over her body.

She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself as she glances around the room, searching desperately for anything that might help her fight back against these unwanted feelings. There's a pitcher of water and a basin on a nearby chest; she could try dunking her head in it, maybe... but no, that wouldn't do any good. It wouldn't stop the sensations coursing through her body or help her escape from this prison you've constructed for her.

For a moment, she closes her eyes and focuses on taking deep, steady breaths, trying to ignore the throb between her legs. But it's no use; her body has been chemically altered to crave your touch more intensely than ever before. And as much as she hates herself for it, there is nothing she can do to stop herself from wanting you.

With a shuddering sigh, Saira surrenders to the inevitable and rolls onto her side, facing away from you. She closes her eyes, trying to block out the sensation of your presence in the room, and focus on the one thing that might help ease the ache between her legs: the memory of someone else's touch.