She hadn’t gotten used to it at all. Being the concubine of the young prince Cyrus was something profoundly strange to her—a mixture of duty imposed by the court and her family’s ambitious desires. The House of Azadi had been at the pinnacle generations ago, having sired more than one Shah, and her parents had seen in this selection an opportunity to reclaim their lost prestige. More than once, during family dinners, her mother had glowed with excitement while speaking of the royal harem, already imagining the jewels and titles that might come if she managed to capture the prince’s attention… someday. Though her sister was far more excited about reading books in her lap while eating meat, in a very unladylike manner.
For now, she had reached that dangerous age when a woman fully awakens to her own femininity. Her breasts swelled with a new and exquisite sensitivity, her nipples hardening at the slightest accidental brush of the fine silk covering her skin, sending sparks of pleasure straight to the core of her being. Between her thighs, a persistent warm wetness appeared on lonely nights, when her fingers—almost without conscious permission—sought to relieve that growing urgency. Sometimes in the bath, with the steam from the hot water enveloping her like a forbidden caress, she would lose herself in playful touches against the cold wall, a towel in her mouth; other times in her bed, biting hard into a pillow to stifle the moans escaping her lips as her hips instinctively moved against her own hand.
But when she thought of Prince Cyrus, she still imagined him as an innocent child: laughing uproariously in the perfumed gardens, training with wooden swords under the relentless sun, or resting peacefully in the shade of tall cypresses. She had never caught in his eyes that voracious gleam of lust that she was already beginning to recognize in the men of her household—in the servants who glanced at her sidelong, in the guards who lingered as they passed. The prince seemed to enjoy himself far more spending time with her younger sister, Ariadna—that mischievous eight-year-old girl with tousled short hair.
She stood watching them from the threshold of the salon, barely concealing her curvaceous figure behind a carved marble column. Ariadna was reading a book with childish attention, her legs crossed on the silk divan, while Cyrus devoured an ice cream with an almost insulting tranquility. Licking the cream with deliberate slowness, his pink tongue tracing the cold surface again and again… unwittingly, it made her bite her lower lip hard, holding back a sigh. “He’s just a child,” she repeated to herself over and over, but her treacherous mind already imagined him in a few years: taller, more muscular, a true Persian like his father the Shah. She knew the sovereign well—his imposing bearing and that sharp gaze that could freeze or ignite; Cyrus inherited that, though for now he seemed bored. In a few years, he would be a powerful reflection of his lineage: broad shoulders, deep voice.
Two eunuchs then guided her through the intricate hallways of the harem; she touched their cold bracelets, sending shivers that contrasted with the heat already boiling inside her. She had arrived there by royal order, one more among the concubines selected for the prince’s future, though he still seemed to notice them only with childish, distracted courtesy. Unease gripped her stomach like a tight knot, but a burning curiosity also consumed her: when would that devouring fire awaken in him, the one that already burned uncontrollably in her?
They led her to one of the private training halls, illuminated by torches and ventilated by perfumed breezes. There awaited Mariane, her teacher: a beautiful, deeply sensual woman with bronzed skin that gleamed like honey in the sun, without a single scar to mar her perfection, but with a penetrating, warrior gaze that seemed to strip her bare at the same time. Mariane was legendary in the kingdom as an expert in spear and sword, but she soon proved to be an absolute genius with the bow as well.
The first archery duel was intense and electrifying. Arrows whistled through the charged air, striking near the center again and again with lethal precision. She managed to keep pace for a long while, sweat beading on her forehead and slowly trickling down the neckline of her tight bra, causing the fine fabric to cling traitorously to her newly blossomed curves, outlining her nipples that marked themselves boldly. But when they moved to hand-to-hand combat… Mariane overwhelmed her without mercy, with a feline grace that left her breathless.
The first contact was swift—a flash of pleasure mixed with pain. Mariane took her down with a smooth but implacable hold, her body pressing against hers on the marble floor. She felt the delicious weight of those firm, full breasts against her own, the heat of her teacher’s breath on her neck as she whispered corrections in her ear with a husky, loaded voice: “Relax your hips… let them flow.” Every block, every grip, was an intimate and painful lesson: Mariane’s expert hands running along her arms to correct postures, brushing—perhaps unintentionally, perhaps not—the sensitive sides of her breasts, sliding down the pronounced curve of her waist to her wide hips. She noticed then her own lack of flexibility: when Mariane forced her into a low guard with legs spread, she felt a burning pull in her inner thighs, and a treacherous blush rise to her cheeks as she realized how exposed and vulnerable she felt, with the heat of her core throbbing dangerously close.
“You’re stiff… here,” murmured Mariane with a wolfish smile, her thumb pressing right on the inner thigh, dangerously close to the wet center of her heat. “We need to work on that. A lot.” And immediately, without giving her time to protest, she guided—or rather forced—her into a full split that stretched her muscles to the limit, leaving a sweet, persistent ache that had her walking strangely, legs trembling, for two full days, each step reminding her of that forced opening.
Later would come deeper, more intense trainings: advanced hand-to-hand techniques where bodies inevitably tangled in a sweaty, tension-filled dance; strategies for not relying solely on the bow; personal defense methods that included precise pressures on sensitive enemy points—points that could give lethal advantage, annihilate and kill quickly. She had to be cruel and cunning, swift as a serpent; women have certain advantages in agility and surprise, but in prolonged combat against stronger men, only cunning and intelligence could save her… or destroy the opponent.
She learned expert knife handling—how to slide the blade with lethal precision across skin, or with bold movements that raised the hairs on the neck; swords that danced dangerously close to the throat and pulsing veins; spears that thrust with controlled force, simulating penetrating wounds that left the air charged.
At the end of each session, she was covered in bruises that bloomed like violent, passionate kisses on her pale skin: on her delicate arms, sensitive ribs, inner thighs where Mariane had insisted again and again on “opening” her more, stretching her to the limit. She was exhausted, her body trembling from fatigue… and from an unspeakable desire that built like a storm. But also stronger, more confident in herself. And, in the deepest secrecy of her chamber, more aware of her own desire: the constant rub of fabric against her swollen erogenous zones, the heat that kept her from sleeping. Each night she touched herself desperately, fingers buried in her wetness as she relived Mariane’s touches, thinking of those desiring gazes, biting pillows or sheets to silence the moans that threatened to betray her to the other concubines.
The days of intense training intertwined with humble, domestic tasks, part of her education as the perfect concubine. She had to clean the prince’s room: sweeping the marble floors with movements that made her hips sway, mopping until sweat beaded her cleavage again, hanging jasmine-scented sheets—already imagining how they would smell impregnated with something more than innocence—changing heavy blankets, placing fresh fruit in silver bowls, handling dirty clothes with hands that trembled touching fabrics that had brushed young Cyrus’s body. She was educated for that and more: to serve, to please, to be the perfect shadow in his life.
Additionally, every time she arrived at the harem or returned from training, she had to submit to deep massages that relaxed—and aroused—every aching muscle, expert hands coated in warm oils sliding over her naked or semi-naked skin. And dawn yoga sessions, guided by instructors who forced her into postures that opened her body in unimaginable ways: downward dog with buttocks high, the bridge that arched her back and exposed her breasts, the butterfly that pressed her open thighs to the limit… all under Mariane’s approving gaze, who sometimes joined in, correcting with precise touches that left her skin burning for hours.
If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.
Today, a curiosity burned inside her, an insistent tickle running down her spine and concentrating, as always, between her thighs. For the first time in many weeks, the eunuchs did not lead her to the usual training halls: those spacious chambers where she emerged exhausted, body beaded with sweat, muscles trembling from fatigue, skin marked by bruises and intense rubs, inner thighs burning from the deep stretches Mariane imposed with that low, authoritative voice. Nor did they take her directly to the more intimate bedrooms of the eastern wing, where in recent days her proper “sexual trainings” had begun.
Those had started subtly, almost innocently. At first, only prolonged gazes: Mariane or the veteran concubines would slowly undress in front of her, letting the few silk fabrics fall until they were completely exposed, high heavy breasts swaying with each breath, dark erect nipples in the cool air, depilated sexes glistening with aromatic oils. “Look at us without averting your eyes,” they ordered in soft but firm voices. “One day the prince will watch you like this, and you’ll have to hold his gaze while he decides whether to take you or make you wait.” Then came oral practices: ripe, juicy fruits with phallic shapes—figs, pomegranates, mangos, bananas, or cucumbers—that she had to suck with obscene slowness, circling the fruit with her tongue, sucking until the sweet juice ran down her chin and dripped onto her own naked breasts. The veterans guided her, correcting the pressure of her lips, the way she plunged her tongue, until applause of approval filled the room.
But today it was none of those familiar places.
They led her into a wide circular chamber with a domed ceiling covered in golden mosaics that reflected the light like an indoor sun. In the center dominated a huge, low round divan covered in crimson velvet cushions and black satin sheets that invited one to sink into them.
In this place there was an immense amount of lingerie on display, arranged on carved ebony shelves, pink marble tables, and hanging from golden hooks that gleamed under the warm lamp light. It was a paradise of silk, lace, and transparencies designed to drive any woman mad trying to choose just one set… and to prepare them to drive a man insane.
There were panties in every imaginable color: immaculate whites evoking virginal purity, but cut so high on the hips they barely covered the mound of Venus; translucent emerald greens that let the bronzed skin beneath show through; intense yellows like desert sun, with delicate embroidered filigree drawing open flowers right over the clitoris; soft sweet pinks so fine they became almost invisible when wet; fiery oranges with golden threads woven in that brushed the skin like constant caresses. Some had embedded gemstones: small jewels woven to cross between the buttocks when walking, or pearls sewn in a row that slid between the folds of the labia up to the hip straps with every step, causing constant torturous friction.
The bras were true works of art of desire: balconette cuts that pushed the breasts upward until they nearly spilled over, leaving nipples barely covered by transparent lace; demi-cups that only supported the bottom, exposing the upper curve and hardened nipples to the air; extreme push-ups that created a deep tempting channel between the breasts, perfect for getting lost in. There were versions with underwire that molded perfectly, others wireless for a natural playful drop, and some merely strappy: thin straps of leather or silk crossing the torso, encircling the breasts without really covering them, only framing them like offerings.
There was a wide variety of lingerie collections, from the simplest and most tempting—like delicate lace panties that fitted perfectly to the curves, enhancing the intimate outline with subtle transparencies, paired with push-up bras that lifted and accentuated the bust with a deep provocative cleavage—to more complex and seductive sets that included high-cut panties exposing the hips, bras with translucent lace details playing with skin visibility, elastic garters that clung sensually to the thighs adding a touch of playful domination, and accessories like delicate armlets wrapping the arms with soft ribbons and leglets climbing the legs, evoking an aura of refined eroticism and uncontrollable desire.
“To protect your virginity, Roxana, you will be given these SSS-level magical garments. These enchanted panties will prevent anyone from depriving you of your purity, no matter what they attempt,” announced the head eunuch in a solemn voice, as one of the eunuchs stepped forward carrying a black velvet case.
He opened the case and revealed the complete set: panties and a bra in deep emerald green, woven with magical silk that felt gelatinous to the touch, soft as a forbidden caress, but with an elasticity that melted between her fingers, molding to every curve like a possessive second skin. The embroidered filigree was exquisite: delicate forms of intertwined vines and thorns that gleamed with emerald glow under the light, evoking a wild dangerous garden where beauty mingled with the threat of pricking the bold who tried to profane it.
The set was completed with thin but unbreakable metallic garters forged in enchanted silver, which would fasten to the thighs with a subtle click, holding invisible stockings of magical energy. Delicate anklets with stylized thorns, bracelets encircling the forearms like protective embraces, a high armband accentuating the elegance of her movements, and a fitted choker around the neck with a central leaf-shaped gem that pulsed faintly.
“What curious clothing,” she thought, not understanding the complexity of her attire.
.
.
Ariadna was in her room that night, as she almost always was before going to sleep. The girl—or rather, the former boy—of eight years old had her favorite ritual: curling up on the bed, her back propped against a pile of soft pillows, knees bent, and an illustrated book open on her lap. The dim light from an oil lamp on the nightstand cast a golden circle over the pages.
Her light white cotton nightgown wrinkled slightly with every movement as she turned the pages. At first, she had sat as she always did: with her legs naturally and carelessly spread, the soles of her feet almost touching in the center, forming a kind of wide diamond on the sheets. It was the posture she liked best for reading, because it allowed her to rock gently and feel comfortable for hours.
However, that night, while resting between chapters, she hadn't noticed how her body began to protest in a subtle way. Her back arched slightly, seeking relief without her consciously commanding it. The brush of the nightgown against the skin of her shoulder blades and the middle of her back was becoming somewhat uncomfortable: a mild itch, as if the fabric was too tight or the night air was making her skin more sensitive. She frowned for a moment, shifted positions several times—first leaning forward, then reclining more—until she found the perfect pose: her spine a little more arched, her hips slightly raised on an extra pillow, and her knees fallen to the sides. Suddenly, the discomfort vanished. The nightgown no longer rubbed insistently against that sensitive area; only a soft contact on her shoulders and nape, while the cool air of the room caressed the skin of her lower back directly. Ariadna let out a small, satisfied sigh without interrupting her reading, and continued turning the pages.
And what about that other sensation she had started to notice in recent weeks when sitting with her legs spread. Before, that posture was the most natural thing in the world: on the floor playing, on the sofa reading, or now in bed. But lately, a slight discomfort appeared in her legs, a subtle pull in the inner thighs, as if the muscles and tendons were protesting the wide opening. It wasn't pain, just an uncomfortable tension that made her fidget after a while.
That night, without realizing it, something changed. She had started sitting as always, with her knees well apart, forming almost a right angle between her legs. But as the reading absorbed her and her body sought that perfect comfort, her knees gradually moved closer imperceptibly. It wasn't a conscious movement; it was Ariadna's body adjusting on its own, responding to that new sensitivity. When she finally found the ideal position—back arched, hips slightly raised, book steady in her hands—she vaguely realized that she no longer felt that pull in her thighs.
She had gone from sitting with her legs spread wide open... to closing them by about four degrees, just enough for the tension to disappear. Her knees now formed a narrower angle, her slender little legs relaxed, the soles of her feet still touching but with less effort. It was a minimal change, almost invisible, but enough for everything to feel better. Ariadna didn't question it; for her, it was just part of finding the perfect spot to read until her eyelids closed on their own.
In the quiet of the night, he couldn't fall asleep. Strange, soft, and rhythmic sounds were coming from the adjacent room, filtering through the thin wall that separated their bedrooms. At first, he tried to ignore them, covering his head with the pillow, but curiosity—or perhaps something more, since his sister always made a lot of exercise noises and panted heavily—overcame him. He got out of bed stealthily, his heart beating a little faster than normal, and headed to the next room, where his sister Roxana slept.
He opened the door carefully, just enough to peek in. Moonlight filtered through the half-open window, illuminating the scene with a silvery and ethereal glow. There she was, deeply asleep... or so it seemed. Roxana lay face down on the rumpled sheets, in a pose that left him paralyzed: on her knees, with her hips slightly raised and her rear in the air, like an involuntary invitation.
She moved restlessly in her sleep, gently swaying her hips from side to side, emitting small muffled sighs that were precisely the sounds that had woken him. Her hands clutched the pillow, and her body arched from time to time, as if trapped in an intense and forbidden dream. It was a vision that seemed taken straight from one of those erotic dreams.
He closed the door while the lingerie and objects on his sister's body glowed with magical runes, for the harem his women outside or inside never stopped training.
