This story is a prequel to the Disney animated movie "Aladdin." If you are
under 18, or upset by sadistic sex, etc., don't read any further. This story
is in no way endorsed by the Walt Disney Company, though you could probably
have figured that out after reading it. :-)

Aladdin: Jasmine's Year of Hell Part 1 - A Disturbing Dream
by Col. Kink ([email protected]) (Mf,M-dom,BDSM,tort,voy,ncon)

Jasmine was naked.

The room was soaked in darkness; she could see nothing, not even her own hand
in front of her face. She felt the cold stone beneath her feet. She could
smell the dry, stale odor of ashes. She felt a warmth, a source of heat, near

She felt hands grasping her breasts, squeezing, pulling. The hands were
burning, though she could see no flame. The pain was searing, and she
grimaced, choking back a scream. Yet she stood still, allowing herself to
be touched and examined.

Fingers like hot tongs brushed through her scant pubic hair toward her little
lips, and tears began dripping from her clinched eyes. Still, she made no

Then one of the fingers parted her opening and stroked at her most shameful,
secret part. She shook and sobbed from the pain of the heat and from her own
embarrassment, for she was beginning become very wet down there.

The Voice in the Darkness spoke to her, in deep, hard tones of command.
"Soon, you will come to me, child," said the Voice, as the finger worked
it's way deeper into her tunnel and the pain intensified. "You will come
to me and I will claim you and your body and your soul."

The finger pulled out of her slickness.

"You will be opened up for me and I will give you such pain as you have never
known," The Voice said. Jasmine, entranced, offered no resistance as a finger
was thrust into her mouth. Her tongue gently licked the finger, blazing as it
was, and she tasted her own moistness. The smell of burnt wood grew stronger.

"And when I have finished providing you with agony," the Voice said, "You
will beg for more."

The finger was removed, and her little tongue flicked desperately at the air,
seeking more. The girl felt hands gripping her on the shoulders and pushing
her to her knees.

"Give yourself to me," the Voice commanded.

Without argument, without protest, Jasmine lowered herself to her back, her
knees drawn up in the air. She spread her legs apart as far as she could, and
reached between them to pull her little folds open to expose her most private

She arched her back and finally screamed. The stabbing flame invading her
tender parts was like a blue-hot sword, scorching and piercing and burrowing
deeper. Her insides were ignited. She felt waves of pain tearing through her
torso. Her breasts were throbbing and bucking, like waterskins filled to
bursting, and her nipples were in torment from pinpricks of pain.

And as the flame thrust into her, harder and harder, hotter and hotter, and
as the pain became more intense, more agonizing, Jasmine found herself
desperately wriggling to push herself onto her attacker, trying to bury the
painful shaft deeper and deeper into herself.

* * *

"More," she half-croaked, between frantic gasps. "More ... more ... more ..."

Jasmine tossed and tumbled and gripped the sheets as daylight began peeping
through the window.

"More," she whispered in her sleep. "More, more, more ..."

Slowly, the room brightened, and Jasmine realized she was waking up. She saw
her divan, the silk curtains, her pet tiger sleeping on a rug in the corner.
It was her room. Her room.

She sat up, shaking the haze from her head. The dream again. She was ashamed,
for the same dream had brought such horrible thoughts to her in the last few
nights. Always, it was in the dark. And always, the mysterious voice said,
"You will beg for more."

She put her feet on the rug by her bed, and slowly stood up, stretching and
yawning. As in her dream, she was naked, for she had always slept that way.

The sunlight beckoned, and she walked over to one of her few openings on the
world. Her father, the Sultan of Agrabah, had never allowed her to leave the
palace grounds. Too dangerous, he said. She sighed inwardly and looked out at
the rooftops of a world she would probably never know.

The knock on her door was soft and respectful. Jasmine, startled, started
back to her bed to grab a sheet in case it was her father.

"Highness?" came a muffled feminine voice from the other side of the door.
Jasmine relaxed and let go of the sheet. It was only old Moseles, the
maid-servant she had known all of her life.

"Come in, Moseles," the girl cried, confident no one in the hallway could see
her from where she stood.

The old woman entered, quickly closing the door behind her. Her old, cracked
face was wrapped with a simple shawl pulled up high. "I tried to wake you
earlier, highness, but you seemed ... disturbed."

Jasmine sat on the edge of the bed. "I had a bad dream, Moseles. I ... didn't
get much sleep."

Moseles sat down beside her. Since the death of the Sultana many years ago,
she was Jasmine's closest confidant. Before she could speak, she noticed
something on the sheets.


Pulling the sheets up where she could examine them, she furrowed her brow.
"Just what kind of 'dreams' have we been having, young lady?" she asked
Jasmine with an arched eyebrow.

Jasmine had not noticed the stains before, and she started to blush. "I ...
I don't ..."

"Well, I do," Moseles said sharply. "Stand up and put your feet apart, girl."

Jasmine was royalty and Moseles was an old servant, but the Sultan had made
clear long ago that a princess' position only went so far in his household.
Reluctantly, she did as she was told.

The old woman reached between the girl's legs and quickly probed her
privates. She found the child slick, almost dripping. As she pulled free,
she brushed Jasmine's clitoris, and the girl gave a momentary jerk. It was
full and tough.

"Hmmph," the old woman said disapprovingly. "You're as wet as any Agrabah
alley-cat. And that little nubbin of yours! I don't know why your father
didn't have that thing sliced out when you were a child."

Jasmine flinched at the thought. Having something cut out, even out of her
filthiest and most sinful spot, was so awful to think about.

"Well, there's nothing for that, at any rate," Moseles said, wiping her
fingers on her clothing. "Well, you've slept through breakfast and morning
prayers already; why don't you bathe and you can tell me about your dream.
Maybe we can figure something out."

Jasmine smiled and stepped into her bathing room. It was an ornate little
chamber, with gold trim and tracery, a large mirror to examine herself in
and a large ceramic basin in the middle of the room. Jasmine carefully
stepped into the basin as Moseles lugged in a pot of warm water the kitchen
servants had left outside the bedroom door.

In few moments, Jasmine was slick from head to toes, her olive skin
glistening in the morning sunlight streaming from her bedroom. As she
crushed rose petals to scent the water , she began telling Moseles about
her dreams.

"You mustn't think me sinful," Jasmine said as she rubbed some of the crushed
leaves into her breasts. "I don't know where these dreams are coming from."

"You'll be 15 in a few days, child," Moseles said as she worked oils onto
Jasmine's backside, "and you're not the first young girl ever to have
fantasies about a man."

"That's just it, Moseles," Jasmine said, bending over to scrub her calves.
"It's not a man."

Moseles stopped what she was doing and looked at Jasmine wide-eyed. "I knew
he should never have bought that tiger," she whispered.

"Oh no, no, not like that," Jasmine said, half-chuckling, "I meant, I suppose
it's a man, but I can never see him."

Moseles was relieved to hear that. "Well, how does your dream start?" she
asked, working the oils into Jasmine's shoulders.

"Well ... first, a little water down there, please, Moseles," Jasmine asked,
bending over again and pulling her buttocks apart.

* * *

Sitting quietly on the other side of the mirror, in a tiny chamber known only
to himself and his accomplice, Jafar, the Grand Vizier, watched Princess
Jasmine attending to her bathing with a mixed fascination.

Jafar, scholar and mystic and trusted adviser to the Sultan of Agrabah for
many years, was enjoying the show immensely. The girl was blossoming
magnificently, and would one day surely be a prize catch, given in marriage
to some prince, general or other high-ranker in an arranged marriage. Until
then, the Sultan had ordered her kept a virtual prisoner in the palace, to
protect her virginity.

'That old butter-tub of a fool,' Jafar thought, letting his mind stray for a
moment. If Jafar could ever make all the arrangements, he would depose that
roly-poly buffoon and take over the kingdom. The first thing he would do upon
conquering Agrabah, Jafar thought, is send the clownish ex-Sultan to the
deepest levels of the darkest dungeon of the kingdom, left to rot.

Just then, Jasmine bent over for her servant to pour warm water down her
crevice, which she pulled open. Her buttocks were facing the mirror at the

Jafar took a long, hard look into her lovely, virginal opening. He also
noticed the tiny knot of her anus.

He knew what the second thing he would do upon taking over the kingdom was.
It involved sending this delicious little girl-child into a dungeon, but for
quite a different reason than for her father.

"Whoa, willya take a lookit THAT!" snorted Jafar's accomplice, who was
sitting on the Vizier's shoulder. "Polly wanna piece of pie!"

"Shut UP, you fool!" hissed Jafar, grabbing the parrot and clasping his beak
shut. Iago could be a fowl little bird at times, and was quite useful to
Jafar's spying and scheming, but the bird could talk too much at times. Often
at the wrong times. "Do you want her to hear us?" he whispered.

Jafar had been eying the girl in her nudity in this quiet fashion since she
was 11. He had the two-way mirror installed, at fantastic out-of-pocket
expense to himself, when the princess' suite of rooms had been her mother's
private chambers. And the workmen who had installed it had such misfortune
to encounter accidental deaths soon afterward. Most unfortunate.

The Sultana had been a devastatingly beautiful woman, and her daughter was
growing up to be the very likeness of her late mother, Jafar noted. Left to
her own devices, the Sultana would have had no problem finding any husband
she wanted.

But she was the daughter of a potentate of a distant land, and been given to
Old Butter-Tub in an arranged match. Jafar had installed the special mirror
not long after the Sultana had been moved into the palace. With it, he not
only had the private opportunity to view the woman's naked beauty, but to
see some very interesting and profitable things - such as the Sultana's
occasional illicit liaisons with some of the strong, beefy palace guards.
Indeed, Jafar personally suspected that Jasmine was much more likely fathered
by one of the guards - there were several possibilities - than by that
comic-relief husband of the Sultana.

Twice, he had even witnessed the Sultana engaged in the most interesting
activities with other women. Jafar wouldn't mind seeing the young princess
follow in her mother's footsteps.

Yet there was now more than simple lust in Jafar's mind. With the mention of
a bad dream about a man she couldn't see, his professional suspicions as the
royal seer were aroused. The reading of dreams often provided hints of things
to come.

As she described to her old maid the dreams that had come to her several
times, little beacon-flares went off in Jafar's mind. Yes! Yes! It was just
possible! He had read of such things before; could it be this innocent little
woman-child had been Chosen?

By the time Jasmine had finished her bath, and Moseles was helping her pick
out an outfit for the day, Jafar had hurriedly but quietly left his little
hidey-hole and was heading down the secret passage back to his private
chamber in one of the palace's deeper levels. Iago, knowing enough to keep
quiet when Jafar's mind was in a feverish mood, kept up behind him, beating
his wings for all they were worth.

* * *

Late that night, Iago was finishing a few leftover crumbs from the evening
meal, delivered by a guard who had left the plate and bottle at Jafar's door
and hurried off. The Vizier had a well-earned reputation as mysterious, a
dabbler in the black arts, and many people felt ill at ease around him.

Jafar had wolfed down the bread and meats and swigged some of the juice
in only a couple of minutes, rushing back to his books. By flickering
candlelight, he was seeking one obscure passage he had read years ago.

Iago looked up to see a slow, thin smile creeping across the vizier's face.
His eyebrows lowered menacingly.

"That's it," he said. "That's it! Iago, I see opportunity at hand," he

"Opportunity?" mocked the parrot, who waddled across the room to his master's
chair. "Opportunity for what? The girl had a bad dream. Unless you're gonna
tell her, 'C'mere, honey, you won't have a bad dream in MY bed,' what's it
gonna ..."

Jafar ignored Iago's prattle.

"Long ago," he said, reading from the musty tome, "Shaitan found a beautiful
woman he craved, and he raped her mercilessly."

Iago drew in a sharp breath. "Shaitan? Like, isn't that ..."

"Yes," Jafar said. "He impregnated her, and forced her to give birth to six
demons, the Shaitan-i."

"The whatsis?" Iago asked.

"Shaitan-i" Jafar repeated. "They have power both in the world of mortals
and in the world of demons. They have bodies as men yet can call on the
power of Shaitan."

"So whatever happened to mommie dearest?" Iago asked.

Jafar smiled. "It seems the stress of birthing demons was too much for the
poor woman. In the process, her body exploded." Jafar picked up a grape from
his plate, and gently squeezed it until the skin split and the soft pulp
spilled out.

"The Shaitan-i are immortal, yet their identities are unknown, for they can
will themselves to look like ordinary mortal men when they wish. Yet they do
have an interesting distinguishing trait," Jafar said, closing the book.
"Born of rape and pain, they insist upon the same when they seek mates. They
must breed with mortal women, in order to produce more demons."

Iago whistled. "They must have trouble getting dates on Saturday night."

Jafar stood up, taking his book back to its slot in an alcove. "According to
the histories, the Shaitan-i will only mate with virgins, because of their
demonic natures as despoilers. Apparently, they go to great lengths to pick
desirable females."

The parrot scratched his head. He was putting two and two together. "You
think one of these demons has the hots for the princess ..."

"... and has started using his demonic powers in an attempt to lure her to
him," Jafar said. "Iago, it might be in our interests to facilitate such a

Jafar started pacing back and forth, talking aloud to himself. "For years, I
have sought the Book of the 60 Sages. Only one copy was ever known to have
been made, and it alone holds the key to finding the Cave of Wonders. But
that one copy was lost long ago.

"I can offer a bargain to this Shaitan-i: In exchange for obtaining for me
the Book of the 60 Sages, I will deliver unto him the Princess Jasmine, for
her rape and summary impregnation."

Iago fluttered up to eye level with the vizier. "Waitaminit, waitaminit. If
Mr. Demon-guy is so powerful, why all the business with dreams? Why not just
pop into her room in a puff of smoke and ream her over the edge of the bed?"

"Apparently there are limits to the powers of the Shaitan-i on the mortal
plane," Jafar said. "I do not understand all of these limits - yet - but I
will. Meanwhile, it would seem that he is simply not able to go where he
pleases in a bang and a flash, if he must resort to seducing her by her
dreams." Jafar then casually batted Iago aside as he would a flea.

Iago grumbled, rubbing his head as he settled on a shelf. "Yeah? What about
Poppa? Even that tub of lard'll have the guts to send the troops after us
for something like that. 'Pardon, yer rotundness, we need to borrow your
beloved virgin daughter for nine months so she can be raped by hell-spawn
and impregnated with demons.' "

Jafar paused, stroking his thin beard. "Yes, that may pose a challenge. It
will require careful planning and ... wait. Wait! Iago, the little strumpet
has a birthday in only a few days. How old will she be?"

Iago answered "15. Surely you ain't worried about her age by now?"

Jafar began pacing again, flexing his fingers together as he began some
truly devious plotting. "My feathered friend, her father is about to hand
her over to my personal care for an entire year ... and far, far from the
palace at that."

"This I gotta see," Iago mumbled. "Besides, you're going to a lot of trouble
to help some other guy poke her when you've been wanting to get her on your
own shaft for years."

Jafar paused in his pacing. "The sight of that fresh, delicious girl being
deflowered in the most unholy way should produce its own delight. Besides,"
he said, stepping into a shadow, "her own mother proved that having one mate
does not preclude having others. During the nine months that she will serve
as a demon's broodmare, she will be - how shall we say it - available for
other duties."


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