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.

The Sorcerer clears his throat, gathering himself before launching into an exposition that would have been more at home in a museum than on the battlefield. "Of course, my Lord. The pleasure slave contract is crafted using ritual magic of the highest order by myself and several of my fellow sorcerers from Montserrat. The tattoo branded upon her womb contains divine energy drawn from celestial bodies, amplified and enhanced through centuries-old rituals passed down through generations of initiates."

Saira rolls her eyes, unconvinced by the mumbo jumbo. "And what does that mean for you, oh great Warrior Prince?" she asks with barely contained sarcasm.

"Yes, my Lord. With but a single drop of your blood upon the parchment and my body, the slave brand will activate. At that moment, I shall belong to you in every sense." She snorts, "I do wonder if it might make you feel... less manly."

Her eyes go wide as you prick your own finger on a dagger, letting a bead of blood drip onto the contract and her skin. "No... Nononono..." She tries to struggle but is held in place by the chains. You can feel the energy surging from the slave brand into her body as it activates. Her expression changes from defiance to shock, then slowly shifts back toward hatred as she comes to grips with what just happened. "You... bastard..." She spits at you. "This isn't over. I swear it."

You can sense her resistance but don't mind at all. Now she is truly yours, and the idea of keeping her in your harem feels more appealing by the moment. As for the sorcerer, his debt to you is paid, and he may go back to Montserrat as your loyal ally. The other figures in this tableau

Fury burns hot within Saira as she's dragged down into the dark and damp dungeon by brutish guards, her body throbbing with pain from the chains that bind her. The sounds of suffering echo around her, making the place seem even more oppressive. As if to add insult to injury, you throw her roughly in the pillory where all can see and gawk at her. She seethes with helpless rage, wanting nothing more than to escape this humiliation and exact vengeance upon those who've wronged her. Yet for now, she must endure...

I will never forgive this! You hear that, people? My name is Saira, Princess of Pressiax! And I swear to you all that one day, I shall be queen again and make you all pay dearly for this suffering! Never forget my face or the treachery of those who have wronged me! Vengeance will be mine!

Her words carry with them an air of defiance and determination that only serves to further stoke her own sense of righteous fury, as well as the curiosity and fascination of the crowd. She remains in the pillory for hours, a living symbol of your power over her...and her determination to one day reclaim what is rightfully hers.

I will never forgive this! You hear that, people? My name is Saira, Princess of Pressiax! And I swear to you all that one day, I shall be queen again and make you all pay dearly for this suffering! Never forget my face or the treachery of those who have wronged me! Vengeance will be mine!

Her words carry with them an air of defiance and determination that only serves to further stoke her own sense of righteous fury, as well as the curiosity and fascination of the crowd. She remains in the pillory for hours, a living symbol of your power over her...and her determination to one day reclaim what is rightfully hers.

With an enraged snort, she glares at you. "What do you want? More humiliation?" Her tone is coated in venom and defiance as she speaks. But your command echoes through her mind, tearing down her resistance like so much rotten silk...and making her all the more angry for it. Slowly, reluctantly, she parts her lips, baring her teeth in a snarl.

"Very good." You smile wickedly. "Now close your eyes and open your mouth wider. That's it... There we go." Her heart races as you slip something smooth and cold past her lips, between her teeth. The taste is unexpectedly sweet, almost intoxicating...and instantly addictive.

Her body trembles with the overwhelming desire to please, to obey your every whim...yet she refuses to let herself be so

The sensation is unlike anything she's ever felt. Her body is alight with need and desire, her mind reeling from the effects of whatever it was you slipped into her mouth. Angry words die on her lips as she tries to reconcile this strange new craving with the hate that still simmers within her. She doesn't know what you want her to do...but she knows she has no choice but to find out.

Her chest heaves with the effort of containing her raging emotions, her breath coming in short, shallow gasps as she looks up at you through hooded eyes. There is an almost animalistic desperation in their depths, a plea for guidance and direction that she would never have thought possible from someone like herself. Yet here she is...yours to command.