The Prince Of As-Datan free porn video

Warning: The following story contains elements of bondage, mind control, and slavery. Don't read if those are elements you'd prefer to avoid. The teeming multitudes converged on the stadium, and Prince Aman let himself move with the flow. The Wizard-King Satim had decreed a week of celebration in honor of his seventeenth year on the throne, today being the fourth. After three days of games and feasting, the entire city buzzed with excited speculation about what would come next. Rumor had it that the King had procured three full teams of legendary tiger horses, and that they would race today. So Aman heard from the mouths of anxious spectators, each anxious to shove their way through the gates before the hippodrome had filled. Aman would not be joining them. The horses themselves had been sent as tribute from the defeated kings of Jolok, Melianis, and Kano, former rivals who had all prostrated themselves to the Wizard King's rule. People of the city called him Satim the Gamesman, restorer of the ruined hippodrome, and benevolent lord who had brought races and spectacle for all to enjoy. To the rest of the world he was simply The Conqueror, a sorcerous despot who had already crushed a dozen kingdoms and set his eyes on more. With the southern kingdoms cowed, there was no question where he would turn his attention next: As-Datan. Slipping from the crowd's edge into an unattended alleyway, Aman let the people pass him by as he cautiously made for the towering wall at the alley's far end. Keeping to the shadows, his eyes scanned the ramshackle houses for any signs of life. So far, his movements went unnoticed, but he couldn't count on that lasting. With the crowd spilling onto the streets, the palace guard was out in full force, and all entrances were heavily guarded. All except the hidden ways. Pressing his hands to the wall, Aman's fingers found the secret grips buried into the mortar. Checking once more that nobody had seen him, the prince began his ascent. It was no fault of the guards that had missed the hidden ladder. For anyone but the prince, there would have been nothing but smooth, unclimbable rock. Yet the palace knew him, and it answered the call of his royal blood. The time of the emperors was long passed, driven to ruin by civil strife and invasion, but the blood of old was passed unbroken through the line of Datian kings. It was their ancestors who had build the usurper's grand palace, and though the Wizard King proclaimed himself the emperor restored, the palace knew where its loyalties belonged. For this reason, and this reason alone, the Kingdom of As-Datan had risked its crown prince on such a daring mission. No lesser agent could do, the palace would not acknowledge them. The prince's younger brother Badur had dueled him for the honor, but Aman had emerged victorious. The fate of his people was now in his hands. His people were at risk, that much was clear. In the past decade, his kingdom had lost nearly half its territory, its people placed under the yoke of their foreign governor. Though their warriors were brave and fearless, they had been driven back step by step until only the fortified highlands remained. Even that could not last long. They would make the invaders pay for each step they took, but could see no hope in victory. How could they, with the Wizard King's potent magic raised against them? How can you fight against an enemy whose armies can march without fatigue thirty miles a day across enchanted roads, who can beguile your scouts to see friendly banners as enemies and foes as allies, who can spoil food and ruin equipment, or send doughty men into deep lethargy. Without magic of their own, what hope did they have to stand against him? His father the King was determined to hold until the very last, but without power their doom was inevitable. This was why Aman slipped over the crenelated walls, passing through hidden doorways and tunnels that would open only to him. Somewhere, hidden within this palace, was the foundation of the Wizard King Satim's power: the spellbook of Satarys the Great. The long dead Emperor had once been the greatest wizard the world had ever seen. Said to have ruled for over two hundred years, his quest for immortality ended not from age, but from the knife of an aging grandson who refused to die old and uncrowned. Much had been lost in the civil war that followed, including the Emperor's treasured spellbooks. Like so many other wonders of that age, it was thought lost forever until Satim found them. With luck, the spellbook would respond to his royal blood, divulging secrets that even the Wizard King was unaware. If not, its power would still allow them hope of an even fight. Aman strode though the hallways trying to suppress the self-conscious unease he felt at being in the open. Though it would have been nice to travel in secret, it wasn't possible. In some places, there were no passages to follow. Whether from defense or suspicion, the builders had chosen to limit their secret traffic. Other sections had been subject to renovation over the many centuries. Unwittingly, those new architects had paved over many an entrance, never knowing what their work sealed off. Eyes forward, face placid and determined, the prince did his best to remember his lessons. Gaze ahead, pace measured. Move with the crowd, neither hurried nor slacking. Act as if you belong, move with a purpose, and no one will think to question you. Wearing a plain, nondescript set of livery, it was easy for the prince to be mistaken as just another young functionary carrying out his duty. Especially today, when the celebration required so many preparations to carry out. He had unwittingly tensed as he passed the first guard station, but the soldiers gave him only the most cursory of glances. By the third or forth he paid them no more heed than they of him. Though it lacked the sheer numbers of the crowded streets, the palace thoroughfare was far from empty. Many others crossed back and forth beside him. Young, overworked pages hustled about carrying some burden or another, maids scurried past government functionaries, and a hundred others beside. Aman found himself easily distracted by the scantily clad serving girls who passed freely through the hallways, but that was true of most who saw them. As if he were just another functionary who had found his destination, Prince Aman turned from the main corridor down a hall of mostly unused offices. Following the ancient map he had memorized, the prince made his way into the third room on the left, searching along the wall until he found a secret lever which would open the passageway to the first of the great vaults. Each of the vaults was a node of power and enchantment, among the strongest in all the empire. They were all but impregnable to either force or skill. Only the original key could open the great vault doors, and the Wizard King had gathered those long ago. There were three of them in total. One for the city treasury, one for the empire's, and one for the emperor's personal use. Or so it had been in the old days. Now, the Wizard King had co-opted all three, and it was said that he'd amassed a great store of artifacts, hoarding anything that appeared to carry even a sliver of power. The sole weakness of the otherwise impermeable vaults were their back entrances, offering unrestricted access to anyone who possessed the blood to use them. Why had the builder left such an opening? Prince Aman had no idea, the records showed only their presence, not their purpose. Perhaps there were once enemies more ferocious than anything his family could produce, or had he genuinely believed that his descendants could remain peaceful and united? Whatever the reasoning, Aman suspected that this vulnerability had much to do with the brutality and finality of the later civil wars. Whatever the reason, it now served as a great boon to Aman, and he blessed their foresight as he opened the door into the first vault. Just one glance inside left him awestruck at the marvels held within. He had expected just another dusty storeroom, however secure it was. Or perhaps an armory, sterile and orderly. Instead, he had entered into a treasure hall beyond his wildest dreams. From the first glance, it was clear that the lightstone he had paid so dearly for would not be necessary. What need did he have for it when so many of the artifacts glowed and twinkled like tiny stars brought back to the earth. Overwhelmed by the majesty of it all, he spent awestruck, silent minutes just staring before remembering his purpose. Wondrous though the collection was, there were no spellbooks there. Or any books at all. Though as he stared at the assembled wonders, he wondered how necessary the book was. With so much power here, could one of these artifact save his people? His eyes scanned down the rows of shelves, wondering at each and every treasure he saw. What did they do, what purpose were they created for? Would they held defeat his enemies, would they save his people? He wished he had some way to know. There was a remarkable diversity to the collection. Dusty potware stood side by side with glowing crystal. A short sword seemed promising, until he noted the spiked protrusions rising hungrily from its grip. What toll would it take from its wielder, he wondered, and would it be worth it? His duty was to his people, and he would bear any price for them, but never unknowingly. He could not afford the risk. There were idols too, holy symbols and figures of long faded deities. Forgotten, but perhaps not stripped of all power. One in particular drew his eye, a bronze statuette roughly half again as tall as his hands. Modeled after some beautiful dancer caught mid pose, its ruby eyes sparkled with an inner light all of their own. It was beautiful, an artifact of such wonder and grandeur that he could scarcely believe it. His eyes latched onto the idol, unable and unwilling to force his gaze from it. From the moment he first caught sight of it, all the other treasures seemed like cheap tin. Step by step, its obvious and terrible power drew him in. Who are you? he wondered. What do you do? Can you save my people? His hand closed around it, and from the moment of first contact he was overwhelmed by its power. Though it burned hot as a glowing coal, the pain never came. Only a scalding, roiling intensity as power flooded through him. This was it. This was what he had been searching for without ever realizing it. He tried to lift the statue from its shelf, but his hand refused to obey. No. Something was wrong. It was too much, too fast. Growing by the second, the power threatened to overwhelm him. He tried to force his hands away, but found himself utterly immobile, frozen in place as torrents of energy consumed him from the inside. His mouth opened, and he let out a wordless scream. There was no sight now, nor scent or touch or sound. Only power, burning white hot through his very being, consuming all sense and awareness. He blinked, realizing that he had been awake for some time, utterly senseless to his surroundings. His muscles ached, as if he had held the pose for untold minutes, but how long he could not say. I am alive! he marveled, remembering the inner fire that had consumed him. Then the statue had not- In that moment, he realized what had been bothering him. He was still staring up at the statue. Staring UP. A moment ago it had been below eye level. Now it looked down on him, its once glowing eyes inert and lifeless. The power was gone, and so was the beauty. Where was the captivating spectacle that had drawn him in? Surely not this cheap and tawdry idol? Then he noticed his arm, and gasped in shock as he saw the tiny, hairless hand still wrapped around the statue. It's turned me into a boy! he gasped, shocked by the change. It seemed impossible, but who could deny what had been wrought. He was shorter, his slight arms all but hairless, the muscle definition he had trained so hard for nowhere in evidence. A powerful magic, that was certain, and a boon. If it could grant youth to his aging father and make him into the mighty warrior he had once been, it would be a tremendous blessing to his people. Yet even that would not be enough, Aman realized. Even at his greatest, his father was just one man. To preserve his people, Aman would need some power greater still. Boy or not, he would have to continue. Perhaps if he disguised himself as one of the pages? It was only when his chest unexpectedly bumped the shelves that he realized the truth. Hissing with disbelief, he sprang back, but could not deny the reality that his hands discovered when they pressed against his chest. "Impossible," he said, but it was true. The statue had left him not a boy, but a maiden. Rushing back to the statue, he stood on his tiptoes and grasped the it with both hands. Finding it unexpectedly weighty, he shook vigorously, willing the magic to return. "Change me back," he demanded, unnerved by the voice which passed his lips. Its call was high and pure, ringing with an almost playful lift despite the gnawing terror he now felt. "Undo this," he cried, "Fix me!" But the statue remained inert. Releasing the statue, he slumped to the floor, his head in his hands. How could this have happened? He was a prince, a warrior, not some slight maiden. Once again, magic had cursed their kingdom, this time taking its toll on him personally. It took several long minutes before he regained control over himself. Gathering his mettle, he stood up once more. "No matter what form I wear, I am a prince of As-Datan," he said resolutely, ignoring how his feminine voice gave lie to those words. "I have come here for a purpose, and will not rest until it is complete." Besides, what power could this curse have compared to the mighty spellbook he sought. With that in hand, surely it would be short work to break the enchantment. His circumstances had not changed just because his body had. The only way forward was to retrieve the spellbook and save his kingdom. He could not leave until that task was complete. As he left behind the vault full of perilous artifacts, another truth became plain. He could not return to the palace thoroughfare as he was. A nondescript man wearing plain but tidy clothes was absolutely unremarkable. A wild eyed woman wearing barely fitting male garb would be spotted in an instant. Even with the belt cinched all the way, his trousers threatened to fall with every step. The tunic was far too baggy, hanging near his knees even as the sleeves spilled over his hands. One step in public, and he was sure to be taken for questioning. Thankful that the passage opened into a little used wing of the palace, Prince Aman searched through the vacant rooms trying to find something more suitable. Mostly they proved useless. Offices, record rooms, clerking stations, they all lacked even a shred of clothing, much less something that would fit his new frame. It was towards the end, when began to grow discouraged, that he chanced upon a room that held something of interest. The low, wide couches and lavish cushions immediately marked this as a pleasure den. Not the most lavish in the palace, considering the worn look to the furniture and the unimportant corridor where it stood, but unmistakable nonetheless. Believing this another useless room, it was only completeness that had led him to open the wardrobe, and it was there he found the feminine clothing he had searched for. Yet wearing what he found within was unthinkable. Almost literally so. He, the prince of a proud and noble people, could not possibly wear something this. The gauzy, transparent garb of a palace pleasure slave. But what other choice was there? Anything for my people, he reminded himself, trying to dispel the knot of disgust that congealed in his stomach. Reaching out his hand, he took the blue set from its carefully hung hook. Thin, smooth, and nearly weightless even to his tiny hand, it hardly seemed like clothing. Yet in all his searching it was the best he could find. Without it, he could not seek the next vault and his mission would be doomed. "Anything, right," he said with a sigh, shucking the oversized shirt which had fit so well earlier and letting gravity win the futile struggle over his trousers. If he had tried to ignore his new body before, it was impossible to do so now. The snug pantaloons clung tight to his hips and crotch, only to flare out into gauzy semi-transparent wisps. Pulled tight, they offered incontrovertible proof of the newfound flatness between his legs, rubbing against his new crotch with every step. The top was brief, breezy, and almost unbearably exposed. Leaving so much uncovered, it reminded him more of days spent practicing shirtless than it did of clothing. Except that no vest had ever clung so tight to his chest, nor been so constraining. As he pulled it close around him, he marveled at how it tugged against the very foreign weight on his chest. Lifting and supporting, yet, but also revealing and displaying. Consciously reminding him of his newfound breasts in a way that the shapeless fabric of his discarded tunic never had, he found himself constantly aware of the way they hung. Held high and tight in the constraining fabric, it felt almost like a pair of hands gripping his chest to hold them in place. There was a nagging sense that he was forgetting something, and just as he prepared to leave the thought struck him. What could he do with his oversized clothing? He dared not leave them here where they might be. The room was small and sparse, with hiding place in evidence. In a panic, he tossed them down the waste chute, consigning them to the rubbish bin, but protecting himself from discovery. It was only after he watched them vanish that he realized he could have left them in the secret passageway. "Too late for that," he told himself, "I can worry about that when I've recovered the spellbook." The exit almost broke him, the almost unbearable shame at being seen in such a demeaning outfit. It was only the sure knowledge that any other clothing was lost that prevented him from turning back. There was nothing behind him, all his hope lay ahead. As he stepped into the hallway, heads immediately turned. For one terrifying moment, he feared discovery, that his spell enforced disguise was as transparent as the clothing he wore. In its own way, the truth was almost as bad. Blushing scarlet, he realized how closely the looks mirrored those he had earlier directed towards the pleasure slaves. Walk like you belong, he told himself, forcing a blank smile to his lips as he joined the rushing crowd. With each step he took, he grew more conscious of how his reshaped hips had altered his gait, giving it an uncontrollable swing that accented his behind. A trait he could cure, with effort, but not without drawing unwanted attention. With people surrounding him, he was once again reminded how little he wore, his body so uncovered compared to everyone that passed him. The women were disdainful, if they bothered to acknowledge him at all. The men appeared almost hungry, like he was the prize treat on a dessert platter laid before them. More than once he was openly groped on the way to the second vault. The prince fumed - he had dueled people for far less back home - but there was little he could do about it here. Alas, the second vault proved no more useful than the first. This time, the artifacts were joined by potions and elixirs, stacked beside baskets and jars full of unfamiliar herbs. More prudent this time, he left the unmarked containers where they lay, caring only for the spellbook that was to be his prize and salvation. Though somewhat discouraged by his lack of success, he looked towards the third and final vault. Surely that was where his objective lay, the greatest of the treasures hidden in this last and greatest vault. By this point, he had grown almost used to the stares his body drew, nearly accustomed to the propositions and unwelcome comments. Oh, the guards scrutinized him all right, but never with any suspicion. Almost, he made it to the vault's passage unopposed, but alas, it was not to be. "You! Girl!" A voice called from behind. He paused, looking around helplessly, the words were calling for someone else. "Yes, you! Come here," he turned, finding a stocky, hamfisted woman in royal livery. A sinking feeling in his stomach, he tried to stall as he considered his options. His first instincts were towards battle, seeking ways to overcome his adversary without alerting the ever present guards. Yet the moment the woman's thick hand closed upon her dainty wrist, Aman realized how futile that would be. It was almost laughable. Just an hour earlier, this woman would have been nothing for him, an unimportant functionary that would prove absolutely no challenge whatsoever if he wished her removed. Now, though, her grip was like iron, and Aman's finely tuned warrior senses told him that she would easily overpower him if he tried to resist. "Come, girl, your king desires your service." "Me?" Aman asked, supposing that he had been mistaken for the serving girls whose garb he wore. "There must be some kind of mista-" Her slap bit into his cheek. It was heavy and full handed, its impact sending Aman reeling. Only the grip on her wrist kept him from falling to the ground. Anger blossomed inside Aman, an utter and complete outrage that this lowborn servant had dared lay hands on him. He would kill her, destroy her. Frail body or not, he would show her that size was not the only determinant of prowess when he... called down alarm and attention onto himself. He could end her, but he could not do so quietly, and once he did, the mission would be over. Failed, because he had to revenge himself over some petty slight. Anything for your people. The words ran through his head once again. Unwilling to risk his still uncertain voice, Aman nodded demurely. What other choice did he have? Any other path would risk discovery, and at least he would get a chance to spy upon his hated enemy. To his horror, the woman brought out a collar, and before Aman could do anything she had snapped the band around his throat. Shuddering, he could not help but let out a high pitched squeak of protest. The woman ignored it, taking hold of the leash and dragging him onwards. Trailing behind like a prized pet out for a stroll, he marched helplessly to the king's observation box. With a sharp snap of finality, the chain clicked shut against a latch on the king's chair. He gave it a quick tug when he thought no one was looking, but it was no use. He was stuck here, with no chance to slip away until they were finished. Someone thrust a large fan into his hands- a sprawling, ornate thing made from the multicolored feathers of some exotic bird - and ordered him to keep the King cool as he watched the spectacle below. There were two others with him, not counting the guards and various other attendants. High officials of some sort, judging by their dress. The one on the right looked vaguely martial, while the lefthand's garb was clearly civilian of some sort. It was possible he knew of them by name or reputation, their sources within the Usurper's kingdom were solid, if incomplete, but he had no way of recognizing them by sight. The king, by contrast, was immediately recognizable. It wasn't just the small throne he sat on, though it raised him a full head over his companions. It wasn't even the crown, a relatively thin circlet laid across his brow. No, there was something about him, a sense of power, of innate regality. Perhaps it was something in his bearing, or some manifestation of the power Aman knew the Wizard King wielded. Aman had no way of knowing. Under the guise of dutiful obedience, Prince Aman carefully scrutinized his enemy. As with so many men today, Aman had to remind himself that the king was no giant, just a regular man viewed from his newly diminutive perspective. Though the King's face was beginning to show weathering from the many months he spent campaigning, Aman was surprised by how young he looked. Throughout Aman's life, it seemed like the Wizard King has always been present in the background. A distant, omnipresent threat that had existed in perpetuity. Though he should have known better, Aman always pictured someone like his father, an elderly warrior consigned to dispatch armies he was no longer hale enough to join. Instead, he found a man in the prime of his life, mid to late thirties at most. It was easy to forget that the Wizard King had been but a youth on his first military outing when he had stumbled across the spells that would let him conquer nations. Though the King conversed pleasantly with his ministers, it was clear that his heart was not in it, and even less so in the lavish games that played out below. He stared absently, as though distracted by some intractable problem. Aman wished he would speak. What use in being so close to the King if he learned nothing worthwhile? If he had to be bound and chained to the throne of his greatest enemy, at least let him learn something. Alas, whatever had occupied the king's thoughts, he chose not to share anything besides meaningless pleasantries. From time to time, he played with the small ruby ring worn around the pinkie of his right hand, but of the spellbook there was no sign. Aman's dainty arms soon grew tired from waving the massive fan, but there was little he could do but grit his teeth and continue. The hot sun overhead beat down against his bare skin, a constant reminder of how scantily clad he was. It warmed the exposed top of his breasts, a further reminder of his unnatural changes. He still burned with shame at being in public dressed like this, exposed in front of not just the King and his ministers, but a crowd of thousands. He told himself that nobody was actually paying attention. Their focus was on the games, not on some random girl waving a fan for their king. Indeed, the ministers had paid him little mind when he entered, and the king even less. To them, he was nothing but furniture, another background element. You might display passing appreciation for a well caved table, after all, but you would never make it your center of attention. So too with him. In a way, that rankled more than his transformation. Well used to being the center of attention, a part of him demanded acknowledgement from the people he was being forced to serve. Some word of appreciation for him, or for the service he provided. He knew it was a silly impulse and tamped it down. He was here a thief, attention was the absolute last thing he needed. Yet he felt it all the same. On the bright side, he was able to see the tiger horses perform after all. They proved handsome beasts, interesting and exotic, but were also ill tempered and unfit to the harness. The people loved it, and he had to admit that it made for an interesting spectacle. Even if a team of third tier racehorses would have easily put them to shame. The fatigue in Aman's arms finally relented when a group of attendants came bearing trays of appetizers for the officials to dine on. Though this brought an end to the prince's toil, it came at the cost of new indignities to his pride. Although the ministers were expected to simply reach over and take what they desired from the trays, that was beneath the Wizard King. Instead, the prince was expected to hand feed him bite sized pieces of whatever caught his fancy. It proved a disturbingly intimate experience. After pointedly ignoring Aman for so long, the King now turned towards him, tugging on the prince's chain until he found himself seated on the Wizard King's lap. Their forced proximity drove home how much Aman had changed. The King absolutely dwarfed him now, making the prince feel childlike and helpless as he sat atop the King's lap. But there was nothing at all childlike about the way his arm wrapped possessively around the prince's bare midriff, nor in the way his fingers casually caressed her smooth skin. He sat through the next round of races, answering each wave of the King's hand with another morsel delivered straight to his waiting lips. As the King grew sated, his urges turned increasingly playful, much to Aman's chagrin. Instead of simply taking the food as offered, he would slowly nibble at it, forcing the prince to stay close while he ate. When the King was finished, he didn't simply let the prince leave. No, he took hold of Aman's dainty fingers, bringing them to his mouth as he cleaned away the last of the lingering crumbs. As the King nibbled on his slender fingers, Aman felt a sudden jolt. His body tingled, first down his arm, but soon all over. Most especially, he felt it gather in his chest and between his legs. A raw, insistent sensation that drew plaintively at his focus. Suddenly, the prince was very aware of the large, powerful hand wrapped around his midsection. Noticing in great detail how rough and strong his fingers felt against the Prince's smooth skin. Stop that! He told himself, cursing his traitorous feminine body for responding so inappropriately to his hated enemy. When he lifted the next delicacy, the King chose not to eat it. Instead, he lifted it from her hand and brought it up to her own surprised mouth. Unsure of what to do, the confused prince accepted the morsel, his grateful stomach reminding him that it had been hours since he'd last eaten. The food was sweet and delicious, a flavorful confection made with honey and some undiscernable spice. His gratitude waned when the King insisted that Aman lick his fingers clean, but he had come this far and it was only a small indignity to lap the remaining honey up as the King demanded. While he was licking the Wizard King's meaty fingers, the King's other hand moved its way up her belly until it rested on his bosom. Casually kneading his breasts, the King forced a very unwelcome gasp of pleasure from Prince Aman. The tingling had returned tenfold, bringing with it a renewed awareness of how close their bodies were. Despite his most fervent desires, Prince Aman felt himself responding to the ministrations. This is madness, he thought, I am a man! A warrior! Not some blushing maiden to be disarmed by a single caress. The king's fingers left Aman's mouth with a soft pop. He realized that they had been clean for a while now, but he had continued to suck out of habit. Through the insubstantial material covering his ass, Aman felt the Wizard King's member stir to life. He felt disgusted. Sullied not only by the touch, but by the anticipatory reaction it evoked from his body. Though Aman had never imagined such a thing in all his worst nightmares, his body knew where it belonged, and readied itself for that emptiness to be filled. Though Aman had hoped to escape once the Wizard King was finished with his food, the King had other hungers for Aman to sate. Taking hold of Aman's chain, he motioned to his lap. "Now it is time to put your mouth to better use. Pleasure me, my sweet." Aman recoiled in disgust, wishing now to flee, but held tight by the chain that bound him to his enemy. "H-here?" he said, looking uncomfortably at the curious ministers who sat on either side of the King. "Did you not hear my orders, slave?" the king asked dangerously, and once again the Prince was reminded that this was a man who had conquered lands and scattered armies before him. "Obey!" With another tug, Aman was pulled to his knees. Looking up, he found himself between the Wizard King's splayed legs, a look of bored expectancy on his enemy's face that grew more displeased by the second. Afraid of giving himself away, Aman reached out for the King's lap, pushing aside his robes of state and untying the laces of the Wizard King's trousers. I can't do this, thought Aman, This is wrong! I am a man, it is obscene, I cannot- For your people, Aman reminded himself. They would suffer far more than this, if the mission were to fail. Was this so much to ask, for their sake? Reaching into his pants, Amam pulled his member free. It pulsed at his touch, and Aman could feel the heat radiating from it. Almost, he balked, but his purpose prevented him. Held in his dainty hands, the beast seemed monstrous, the large, turgid organ like some creature from a frightening tale. Up close, he could see all the small details that had been so easy to ignore when he'd still possessed one of his own. Aman leaned forward, bringing it ever closer to his face. This all seemed so unreal. Veins pulsed along the shaft, the hole in the front seemed to gape endlessly. There were only inches separating him from it, and the King was growing impatient. How had it come to this? It was madness! Absurd! They couldn't possibly expect him to- Your people, he thought again. This was all for their sake, and he couldn't let it be for nothing. Like it or not, he had a duty to fulfill. Swallowing his pride, the prince's opened mouth moved forward. It was not the horror he had anticipated it to be. In truth, Aman wasn't sure exactly what he had expected, but he had always pictured something more dire. Some stark, defining moment where he forever changed from a normal man (albeit one under a terrible enchantment) into a willing cocksucker. Now, the difference seemed far less clear. In a way, it was little different from sucking on the finger that had been forced into his mouth, although the King's tool was quite a bit larger than those had been. In a way, it was almost enjoyable. The act itself proving almost relaxing, letting his head bob and suck almost by reflex as the King's hand absently stroked through his lengthy hair. Everything about this made him feel soft and feminine. The long, smooth hair tickling his back, the summer breeze blowing onto his smooth legs, the everpresent feel of his breasts, bound and contained within his silken top. The hard cock pulsing in his mouth. To Aman's surprise, he found himself almost enjoying it. As a proud warrior, he knew he should detest it, every last bit of it, and yet he did not. What was wrong with being a little girly? Why not let go a little, and enjoy the frilly, feminine softness that had been forced on him. "So, my liege," said the minister on the King's left. "I hear that we are nearing an end to our little Datian problem?" Aman nearly froze at the mention of his people, and only the fear of discovery kept him from reacting. So they were going to attack, then? So long expected, the news still shook Aman with a sense of impending doom. There was little hope for his people this time, not unless they had some means of combating the Wizard King's magic. Aman listened carefully, hoping for any news that would help his people prepare, futile as it might prove if he failed in his task. "Oh yes," the King said cagily, not quite admitting to the impending attack. "I have a wonderful little surprise in store." Just tell me your plans, the Prince inwardly raged, mentally begging for some useful scrap of information. They already knew that an attack was in store. What was this secret? The King would not say, however, and Aman's unspoken pleas went unanswered. Never before had he felt so powerless. The fate of his entire people was being discussed, their ultimate doom being pronounced, and all he could do was meekly slurp away at his enemy's cock. Coming to his senses, Aman was overwhelmed by shame at the memory of his reaction. That just a brief moment ago, he had actually been enjoying himself, that the situation had excited him. Now he remembered the true horror of his situation, his stomach wrenching at the degradation he had participated in. Yet at the same time, he was forced to continue. Too terrified of giving himself away, he had no choice but to continue pleasuring his worst enemy, even as he laughed about the fate of Aman's homeland. The king still held his grip on Aman's hair, forcing him to gag helplessly as the King guided Aman's head up and down the length of his shaft. "Are you ready to swallow, pretty slave," the Wizard-King said, laughing has he looked down at Aman. No, this couldn't be happening. The prince tried desperately to think of a way out. To stall, to get away from the King. To do anything besides suffer yet another indignity, but it was too late. Though he tried to struggle, the King's hand held him fast, forcing his full length past Aman's dainty lips. Just when he thought he could take no more, it was over. Something broke in Aman as his mouth filled with the torrent of hot, salty fluid. Sobbing, he wanted nothing more than to expel it from his body, erase all evidence of his terrible shame, but there was nowhere for it to go. Tears trickling down his pretty face, Aman allowed the warm liquid to flow into his stomach. The King withdrew from Aman with a final wet slurp, forcing him to look down and see the flaccid shaft he had so recently fellated, still wet and slick from a mix of saliva and cum. Spent and hurting, the Prince did not resist as the King pulled him closer, taking his limp cock and wiping it clean on the flimsy material of Aman's top. "Guard! This slave has proven adequate and I will have more of her later. Clean her, and send her for special training." The prospect of "training" should have terrified him, Aman knew, but it was hard to care next to the indignities he had just suffered. If nothing else, it would get him away from the clutches of his hated tormentor and from the place of his humiliation. Surely he could escape once they were out of sight, or failing that, at least he could be man enough to bear it. Once they had finished he would be free to escape and continue his all important quest. Unfortunately, escape proved impossible before reaching the palace's dreaded dungeons. They led him deep into the bowels of the structure, into places so old and twisted that there was no map to guide the way. Into the oldest, darkest foundations, long forgotten by the softer generations that followed. Aman did his best to remember, planning to add it to their knowledge after he escaped with the spellbook. They took him to a large room deep within the earth. Dark and cut from the rough granite bedrock, but not so damp as the newer places above. His arms were gripped in two high chains, raised up above his head until he could scarcely stand even on his toes. His legs they left unfettered, all but dangling as he tried in vain to support himself. Four blank-eyed slaves knelt against the wall. Like Aman, they were scantily dressed, wearing little more than loose black loincloths around their waists and a thin strip of cloth holding their breasts. One clap of the guard's hands, and they rose silently, circling Aman on all sides. Without a word, they moved in and began tugging away Aman's pantaloons, soon leaving him bare from the waist down. This time Aman did react, struggling and screaming at them, but with his arms secured over her head there was little he could do. He cursed them, demanding that they release him, but the black clad servants refused to speak. In a way, that was far more unnerving than if they had responded to his shouts with threats of their own. Never before had he felt so helpless. Even when he was leashed and bound to his enemy's throne, the prince had possessed the freedom of his hands and feet. In theory, he could have fought back, attacked his oppressors, even though his body and their numbers made it a futile gesture. Here, he was truly and utterly helpless, his feminine body completely exposed to his captors, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. A hand reached out from behind him, trying a leather strap across his forehead, binding tight on either side so that he could look nowhere except straight ahead. There was a great rumble down below, a harsh grating sound like the half-rusted gears of a fortress gate grinding open. He tried to see what it was, but no matter what he tried his face was bound too tight to look. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the floor opening up all down the length of the room, but whatever rose from the depths below, he had no clue. Then he felt it, a broad, circular weight pushing apart his already strained legs. Some sort of long, metallic tube was positioned underneath him. It paused before it had risen all the way, and for a moment he felt a sense of relief. That was when the servants grabbed him by the hips. Pushing, pulling, guiding him without any clear purpose, Aman stared forward without comprehension, demanding to know what they were doing. The servants, as always, remained silent. Then he felt it. A pressure between his legs. Hard, unyielding, and very phallic. Now Aman did scream, his determined stoicism thrown aside as he felt it push against his as yet unviolated entrance. He begged, screamed, pleaded with them in every way he could, but it had no effect whatsoever. Aman gasped in shock as it inexorably rose up inside him, filling him in ways no man should ever know. He howled, trying desperately to escape its clutches, but it was no use. The rod was so deep inside, and his legs so overextended, that all he managed was to bounce futilely up and down the shaft, stimulating him in ways that man was never meant to experience. Sinking back upon it, all he could think about was the uncomfortable fullness of it. Pushing through his insides, it felt as if it threatened to split him in two, all the while providing an all too stimulating sensation against his nub. The smooth granite wall in front of him shimmered, wavering like the distorted air of a trackless desert. This was no false oasis in front of him, however. Instead, the image resolved into a true mirror, showing for the first time what had become of him. He was lovely, that much was no shock. With large, full breasts held high by the chains, yet threatening to burst from the silky confines of his top. The long, reddish brown hair was a rough approximation of his own russet locks, save that they shone lustrously in wild ringlets all the way down his lithe back. The mirror showed a wild, desperate expression, that on his transmuted face promised the most enticingly lovely vulnerability. The stoic resolution Aman had intended was instead revealed for a look of close mouthed uncertainty. Gasping, he watched the figure's mouth open in a pouty, full lipped O that would have stoked the libido of any man in possession of a pulse. The irony was not lost on Prince Aman. Just a day earlier he would have delighted at the image of this splay-armed beauty chained before him. Those high seated breasts which hung so heavily on his chest would have driven him to distraction, demanding that he possess her. How could this fragile figure in the mirror possibly be him? He stared at the image, trying to understand. He felt drawn to it, staring hard as though there was some understanding waiting just out of reach. Some greater reality that lay behind if only he could gaze hard enough to pierce the illusory veil in front of him. The image seemed to waver and bend as he looked, and Aman focused all the harder as his mind grasped for the truths that lay beyond it. Aman sneezed, courtesy of the dust still lining the little used chamber. The motion sent spasms across his body, pressing him against the hard rod still burried deep inside him. He tried to shake his head, but found it still held fast. When his eyes opened again, he found that the image's distortions had not been his imagination at all. Instead, he found in front of him a slowly shifting mural, multicolored and swirling constantly towards the center of his gaze. He found himself drawn to it, staring once again at the all important image played out before him. No! He shook, forcing himself awake. Whatever was happening, he would not succumb. He was Aman, Prince of As-Datan and no mere simpleton to be defeated by such tricks. Though the glowing patterns called to him, he resisted, forcing his eyes shut even as they demanded to witness the spectacle before him. Closing tight, he steeled himself against whatever new trickery the Wizard-King had in store. Though he had made a fool of Aman earlier, he would not give in so easily. He would defeat this new devilry, and then he would- THOOOOOOM! Like an oversized gong, something struck the tube Aman straddled. Ringing loudly, he felt the vibrations pulsing through him. All throughout his body. It buzzed through the rod that impaled him, buzzing insistently against him, filling his entire body with the strange, stimulating sensations. Aman's eyes shot wide in absolute shock. The patterns caught them immediately. No! He had to close them again, he had to- THOOOOOM It rang again, pulsing and buzzing through him, ringing hard against his aching pussy. The sensations he felt was utterly alien to the former man, so absolutely, undeniably feminine, yet all the more delicious for it. An aching, hungry need rose in him, and he found himself pressing harder against the metal cock he was speared upon, moving his hips against it. Not to escape, as he had done earlier, but to milking every bit of sensation from that wonderful fullness. Still the colors swirled in front of him. So pretty... THOOOOM There were hands on him now. Soft ones, so gentle against his skin. Touching, teasing, they roamed every part of his body. Stoking he new feminine desires, but never delivering. Never satisfying that ache he felt between his legs. THOOOOM They were speaking now. Soft whispers just barely in his ears. Important ones, he knew he should be paying attention, but the colors were so captivating it was hard to focus on anything else. Wait, were they speaking Datian? Why wouldn't they speak their own- THOOOOM All sensation now. Watching, listening, rubbing his body up and down on the hard, thick shaft. Hungry, always hungry for more, but it never quite came. There was something else, something missing. He needed to learn, needed to understand, and only then could he be complete. He needed to be good. THOOOOOOM Needed to be a good girl. THOOOOOM She was a good girl. THOOOOOM She always would be. THOOOOOM Aman woke on a hard tile floor, cool a night's breeze, though the soft morning sunlight warmed her skin. She rose, shaky and sore, trying to piece together the strange dreams and images that swirled throughout her mind. Her chest shifted in its silky prison, and she realized that part had been no dream. Then what of the rest of it? The room, the device- the things she had felt? What had they done to her? Aman searched through his head, trying to put it all together. Had they changed her somehow? She didn't think so. She felt nervous, happily giddy as if floating on a cloud, but otherwise unchanged. Surely their intentions had failed if she still felt like herself. "How are you feeling this morning, Prince Aman?" Aman turned to face the King, and as she caught sight of him she was filled by a new and unaccustomed sensation: submission. Her knees lost their strength, and she sank to the floor before him, compelled to prostrate herself before the lordly man before him. She shook her head, trying to clear away these unwelcome sensations. This was her enemy, the scourge of her people. She should be fighting him, not granting him homage. It was no use. Whatever she thought of him, what she believed was an entirely different story. She knew, to the core of her being, that she owed this man her utter and complete subservience. He was so high above her it was almost unfathomable, and though she tried to banish these unwelcome feelings, she also craved his approval. "I feel wonderful, my lord," she answered instinctively, before realizing what he had called her. She gasped at the realization. Surely she had heard him incorrectly. She looked up, fighting to meet his eyes even though her every instinct told her to bow her head in the presence of such an illustrious being. It was true, she could see the knowledge written clear across his face. "Oh yes, I know exactly who you are. I've known who you were from the moment you set foot in my city." "Impossible!" she cried in horror. If he had known all the while, then those things he had made her do... "That's right. Even then. I wonder what your brother will think, knowing that it took only the faintest prompting before the great warrior Aman had his lips wrapped around my cock. To think, that fool just expected me to execute you." "You lie!" she insisted, though her every instinct railed against contradicting him. "Do I?" he asked. "After all, he cannot inherit with you in the way. He quite liked the idea that you should be captured on one of those secret missions you took so much pride in. Of course, he expected me to take your life, but I had other uses for you. I find you much more pleasing as my devoted servant, and you love being my obedient fucktoy, don't you?" "Very much so," Aman said, and meant it too. Though this man had so recently been her enemy, she found the thought of refusing him anything completely foreign to her. The truth behind that thought dismayed her, but only when she concentrated on it. More and more, it required an act of will to remember why she should feel anything but delight at being mastered by such a domineering man. He knelt down, lifting her chin lightly and guiding her to her feet. Aman melted at his touch, placidly complying with her enemy's every whim. Her breathing quickened, and she was keenly aware of the full weight of her breasts beneath his gentle touch. Her breath came out in ragged gasps now, moaning openly as his hands explored her nubile form. With each touch, she surrendered more fully to the aching, yielding need that had begun to consume her. "Do you know why none of your sisters were ever consecrated?" he whispered in her ear, though he did not bother to wait for a response. "Because of this, because your long forgotten ancestors knew what was lurking in the basements of their palace. Because any female in its grasp could be turned towards the path of obedience and surrender their family's secrets. Because they never knew that transformation magic could be used thus." His hands stripped away her clothes, just as hers took his. Aman reveled in her nakedness, all thoughts of shame long banished. Her earlier reluctance now felt silly, and her new body undeniable in its rightness. His form, by contrast, was desirable beyond understanding. Those days when the male form had held no desire for her seemed a lifetime ago. Their bare bodies pressed against one another, and she reveled in the contact. "Even after all my research, so many secrets lie hidden, so many great powers of the lost empire that will respond only to a consecrated heir of the imperial bloodline. Secrets that you will unlock for me, won't you." "Yes," she cried eagerly, even as a renewed horror swept through her. With the full force of the empire's ancient power behind him, none would be able to oppose his rule. Her family would be deposed, her people subjugated under an empire reborn in fact as well as name, and he wanted her to help him do it. His teeth nibbled against her earlobe, and she cried out in pleasure. Her hands twined around his body, her mouth tasting his swarthy skin. She would do it, she realized. It burned her with shame, but there was no strength within her to resist his will. There was nothing she would not surrender to this man. Not her home, not her people. All that he asked of her, she would provide. Yet still a part of her that was the prince railed at this fate, even as she was overwhelmed by the blissful need of his touch. A part that hated him as he lowered her pliant form onto the soft bed. That despised what she was made to do even as her legs parted eagerly. His weight pressed down upon her, and Aman's entire body ached with a longing emptiness that was soon to be filled. "You may have lost your kingdom," he whispered into her ear. "but take solace, my sweet princess, for one day our son shall rule the world." Her eyes widened in frightening realization that she could now become pregnant. At the strange, ultimately feminine idea of carrying a child within her body. At carrying his child, the enemy of her people. Then he pushed into her waiting opening, and all was well. A warm glow overcame her, quite apart from the burning pleasure of their coupling. Some primal, buried instinct that had been called to the forefront by the man thrusting inside her. Motherhood beckoned, and for some reason the prospect excited rather than disgusted her. It was yet another thing she could give him, something unique to herself. A part of him and her inexorably intermingled, now and forever. Besides, she thought as his mouth descended on hers. Whatever else might come, she knew should would enjoy the process greatly. Mmmmm.... So very much.