Jafar’s

Note: All characters within this story are above 18 years of age. This is a fictional story and is meant to be read as a fantasy by adults (18+). Any apparent lack of consent is purely a narrative element within this fictional setting and is not meant to reflect acceptable behavior in real life. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Karim was busy kicking sand off his sandals when the lamp rolled out from a broken crate. Brass, dented, ugly. Curious, he picked it up, spat on it and rubbed the side with his sleeve, meaning to see if he could sell it for scrap if the metal wasn't too rusted.

The smoke hit him first, thick and red, stinking of burnt cinnamon. Then Jafar unfolded out of it, tall as a palm tree, eyes like hot coals. Karim dropped to his knees before he knew what his legs were doing.

“Easy, rat,” Jafar said, voice low, almost kind. “You rubbed the lamp. I was summoned. That’s how it works.”

Karim’s mouth opened, shut, opened again. “Three wishes, yeah?” he had heard of how the king of Agrabah had come across a similar lamp and how it had changed his life.

Jafar crouched, bringing his face close to Karim's. “Three. Then the lamp owns me again. For four years I’ve counted seconds in that prison. I can do a lot better for you since you’re the one who summoned me here out of the lamp.”

Karim swallowed. “Better?”

Jafar’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Here’s the better deal. Wish me free of the lamp. No lamp means no limits. I keep the power, you get your wishes. All of them.”

Karim squinted. “You’d do that?”

“I’m tired of cages, boy. Tired of masters who don’t know any better.” Jafar leaned closer; the heat off him made Karim’s sweat hiss. “Wish me loose and the first thing I do is fill your pockets till the seams split. Gold enough to buy every whore from here to the sea. You walk away rich, I walk away free. Fair?”

Karim’s fingers wrapped around the lamp’s spout. “If I say no?”

Jafar shrugged. “Then you get three wishes and I get another master. Your choice.”

Silence stretched, broken only by the wind hissing over dunes. Karim licked cracked lips. “You swear it? No tricks?”

“On my mother’s grave.” Jafar’s grin flashed white. “Say it, what’s your first wish?”

Karim’s voice cracked. “I… wish you free of the lamp, keeping all your powers.”

The lamp flared white-hot. The metal glowed, split down the middle and crumbled to dust. Jafar rose slowly, stretching until his spine popped. Power crackled around him, black lightning licking the air. He inhaled like a man tasting freedom after a decade in chains.

Karim reached his hand out for the promised gold. Jafar in reply just flicked a finger. The thief’s eyes went blank, memories draining like water through sand. Karim blinked, turned and shuffled off into the dark muttering about something irrelevant.

Jafar watched him go, then shot skyward as a ribbon of smoke. Four years. Four fucking years while that street-rat warmed a throne and a princess. Agrabah’s lights winked below, soft and smug. He angled straight for the palace, for the balcony where moonlight spilled across silk sheets and two sleeping bodies.

Jasmine had grown into the kind of woman wars were fought over. Twenty-two now, tits fuller than he remembered, waist narrow, hips flaring like an hourglass. One arm flung above her head, robe slipped off a shoulder, nipple dark against pale silk. Aladdin snored beside her, hand cupped possessively over the curve of her ass.

Jafar’s fingers curled around Jasmine’s ankle, warm skin under silk. One heartbeat later, they were in the desert.

Sand stung her bare skin as she hit the ground hard, ass first. Jasmine blinked, head thick with sleep, robe twisted around her thighs. “Aladdin…?” Her voice cracked, small and lost.

Moonlight carved Jafar’s smirk into his face. He bowed low and theatrical. “Your Majesty.”

Jasmine scrambled backward, palms sinking into cold sand. “No. No, this is a dream. You’re—”

“Real.” Jafar straightened, towering. “Scream if you like. Go on.”

She did. “ALADDIN! HELP—”

His hand clamped over her mouth, fingers rough. Her cry died against his palm, muffled, pathetic. Eyes wide, she stared up into his red eyes.

“Honestly,” he murmured, leaning close enough that his breath stirred her hair, “I wasted years on your father. Should’ve started with the prettier toy.”

The red flared brighter. It poured into her pupils, hot and thick, flooding every corner of her mind. Jasmine’s body jerked once, then stilled. Thoughts scattered: Aladdin, palace, crown, freedom. All wiped clean.

Jafar lifted his hand. Jasmine stayed on her knees, lips parted, eyes glassy and soft. A slow, empty smile curved her mouth, the kind that waited for orders.

He brushed a thumb across her lower lip. “Much better.”

Meanwhile, Aladdin’s arm flopped across cool sheets where Jasmine should’ve been. Empty. He sat up fast, heart already racing. The bed was still warm on her side, but the shape of her was gone, like someone had scooped her out instantly.

“Jas?” His voice cracked in the dark.

He swung his legs over the edge, bare feet hitting marble. Moonlight poured through the open balcony doors. She did this sometimes: slipped out to watch the stars when the palace felt too big. He padded over, pushing the curtains aside.

Nothing. Just the city sleeping below, minarets black against the sky. No jasmine-scented hair catching the breeze. No soft laugh when she caught him staring.

He heard a low whoosh behind him, like wind through a bottle. Aladdin spun.

Genie hovered in the middle of the room, blue skin glowing faint, arms already open. “Kid!”

Aladdin crashed into him, arms locking around Genie’s wide back. Genie’s hug lifted him clear off the floor, squeezing the air from his lungs.

“Easy, easy, you’re crushing the merchandise,” Genie laughed, setting him down. He guided Aladdin inside with a gentle hand between the shoulder blades, pulling the balcony doors shut behind them. “Sit. We gotta talk.”

Aladdin dropped onto the edge of the bed, rubbing his arms. “You cut your world tour short. What happened?”

Genie’s face went serious, which on him still looked a bit goofy. “Jafar’s lamp. It popped back into existence, three hours ago. I felt it like a kick in the gut.”

Aladdin’s stomach dropped. “He’s out?”

“Was. Then poof, gone..” Genie floated closer, voice low. “He’s loose, Al. And he’s coming.”

Aladdin stood, fists clenched. “Let him. We beat him once…”

“Yeah, with my lamp and a whole lot of luck.” Genie snapped his fingers. A silver lamp materialized in his palm, sleek, set with sapphires that caught the moonlight. “This time we won't wait. Meet Plan B.”

Aladdin took it. The metal was cool, heavier than it looked. “Another genie?”

“Top shelf. One rub and she’s yours to command.” Genie’s grin flashed. “Go on. Wake her up.”

Aladdin did as his old friend asked of him. Blue smoke poured from the silver lamp, thick and sweet, curling around Aladdin’s ankles before climbing the walls engulfing the room as it started spinning. It spun faster, tighter, until it snapped into shape right in front of him.

She was a wet dream. Hourglass waist, skin like polished bronze, black hair yanked up into a high ponytail that swayed like a whip. Gold snake armlets coiled up both arms, matching gauntlets glinting at her wrists. A thick gold choker hugged her throat. Nothing else. Her tits sat high and proud, nipples hidden under thin gold discs that caught the lamplight. Below the navel, her body melted into a ribbon of smoke that poured straight into the lamp still clutched in Aladdin’s hand.

The face formed last.

Aladdin’s fingers went numb. The lamp clattered to the marble, bouncing once. “Jasmine?!”

She dipped into a playful bow, ponytail flicking forward over one shoulder. “How may I serve you, Master?” Her voice was Jasmine’s, but syrupy, eager. She shot a quick giggle toward Genie, eyes sparkling like she was in on the joke.

Aladdin spun. “Genie, what the hell—”

Genie’s blue bulk rippled, stretched and twisted. The goofy grin sharpened into something cruel. Skin darkened to desert bronze, a turban unfurling into existence along with a black cobra hood.

Jafar stepped forward, boots clicking where Genie’s had been. “Surprise, street-rat.”

This couldn't be happening, he thought as he stepped back. Aladdin’s back slammed the dresser. He had to fight. His fingers closed around the sword’s hilt, the sword on the dresser that had been gifted to him by Jasmine’s father. He yanked it free, blade flashing.

Jafar’s laugh rolled out, low and filthy. One sharp clap and the sword crumbled, grains of sand hissing through Aladdin’s fist and pattering to the floor.

Aladdin didn’t think. He lunged, bare feet skidding across marble, diving for the silver lamp where it lay on its side. Jasmine’s smoke-tail still poured from the spout, thick and glistening.

“Jasmine!” he barked, snatching it up. “You’re bound to this lamp, I’m your master. Seize Jafar. Tie him up.”

Jasmine turned, ponytail flicking. She dipped into a graceful bow. “Yes, Master.”

Aladdin’s chest swelled. Still got it, street-rat.

She glided forward, smoke tail trailing, towards Jafar. Jafar in reply just opened his arms, smirking.

Jasmine leapt. Not at his throat, but into his arms. Her mouth crashed against his, tongue first. Jafar’s hand shot up, palming one heavy tit, thumb flicking the gold disc aside so her nipple peeked dark and stiff. He stared straight at Aladdin while he squeezed, slow, deliberate.

He raised his free hand and Snap.

The lamp in Aladdin’s grip turned to sand, pouring between his fingers, gone.

Aladdin’s knees buckled. He knew, bone-deep, the fight was already over.

His fists clenched, sand still trickling from between his fingers. Jafar’s laugh filled the room.

“Did you really think I’d hand you a genie, you filthy gutter rat?” Jafar stepped forward, boots grinding the fallen grains. “You were lucky once. That’s all. And even if you’d somehow leashed her, I forged her. She’s nothing against me.”

He turned to Jasmine, voice dropping to a purr. “Aren’t you, my dumb little princess slut?”

“Yes, Master Jafar,” she breathed, eyes glassy with worship. “I don’t know what I ever saw in that street trash Aladdin. You are all-powerful, my lord and master.” She sank to her knees beside him, palms pressed together in prayer, tits rising and falling with each reverent breath.

Jafar’s grin widened. “Don’t worry, street-rat. You won’t be lonely for long.”

He flicked his wrist. A black lamp materialized in his palm, obsidian curves studded with blood-red rubies. He tossed it underhand. Aladdin’s hands snapped up on instinct, catching it.

The lamp sucked.

A roar filled his ears. The world inverted. Black smoke erupted from the spout, coiling around his wrists, his ankles, his throat. It yanked him forward, hard. His feet left the floor.

His last glimpse filled him with helplessness, Jasmine on her knees, lips stretched wide around Jafar’s cock, cheeks hollowing as she sucked with **** devotion, eyes rolling back in bliss.

Then the lamp swallowed him whole.

It hit the marble with a hollow clank, rolling once before settling.

Five months later:

The throne room of Agrabah gleamed like a dragon’s hoard. Gold leaf dripped from the vaulted ceiling; silk banners in Jafar’s new crimson-and-obsidian colors hung heavy with embroidered serpents. The air was thick with incense and the low thrum of drums.

Jafar lounged on the throne, carved ebony and inlaid with rubies the size of quail eggs. His black robes pooled around him. One boot foot rested on a velvet cushion; the other stretched out so a kneeling servant could polish the gold shoes.

At his right shoulder, Genie Jasmine knelt on a plush cushion of her own. Her belly swelled round and taut beneath a sheer sapphire veil, the curve of Jafar’s child inside her pushing proudly against the fabric. Gold cuffs still circled her wrists and ankles, but now a delicate chain ran from her choker to a ring on Jafar’s thumb. She plucked a grape from a silver bowl balanced on her thigh, rolling it between her fingers before slipping it past his lips. Her other hand kneaded the knotted muscle of his upper arm, slow, worshipful circles. Every so often she leaned in, pressing her swollen breasts against his bicep, lips brushing the shell of his ear with a murmured “My lord”.

Across the marble floor, gifts arrived in an endless parade. Chests of sapphires from Sindhara. Bolts of cloth-of-gold from Qamir. A pair of white tigers from the east, their handler prostrate, forehead grinding into the tiles. Jafar barely glanced at the loot; his eyes were fixed on the dancer.

She moved like magic. Dusky skin oiled to a gleam, long black hair braided with tiny bells that chimed with every sway of her hips. Her pregnancy was further along than Jasmine’s, her belly a ripe, heavy dome that swayed when she spun. A crimson veil barely clung to her stomach; below that, her legs dissolved into a coiling ribbon of red smoke that poured from the mouth of a black lamp chained to the dais. Gold nipple discs flashed as her full, milk-heavy breasts bounced in time with the drums. The face, if anyone could tear their gaze from the hypnotic roll of her hips or the way her tits strained against gravity was Aladdin’s, softened, sharpened, perfected. High cheekbones, plush lips painted scarlet, kohl-lined eyes that had once sparkled with street-rat mischief now smoldered with vacant devotion. Genie Alia.

Jafar crooked a finger. “Alia. Closer.”

The dancer’s smoke-tail shortened, drawing her across the floor until she knelt at his left foot, palms upturned on her thighs. Her belly brushed the cool marble; a bead of sweat slid between her breasts.

“Kiss her, entertain me.” Jafar ordered, voice lazy. “Make it pretty.”

Alia rose on a ripple of red smoke. Jasmine set the grape bowl aside and met her halfway. Their pregnant bellies pressed first, soft, warm, skin sliding over skin. Then their breasts, Alia’s heavier, darker nipples peeking from beneath the gold; Jasmine’s still pert, leaking a single pearl of milk that caught Jafar’s eye. Jasmine’s fingers threaded into Alia’s braid, tugging her head back gently. Their mouths met open, wet, no hesitation. Tongues tangled slow and deliberate, a soft moan vibrating between them. Jasmine’s free hand slid down to cup Alia’s ass; Alia’s arms looped around Jasmine’s waist, pulling their swollen stomachs tighter. The kiss deepened, messy, hungry, the kind that left strings of spit when they broke for air only to dive back in.

Jafar watched, cock thick against his thigh, one hand idly stroking Jasmine’s hair where it spilled over his lap. The drums faded to a heartbeat. The gifts kept coming, but no one dared look away from the throne.

Two genies. Two broken enemies. Two swollen bellies carrying his heirs.

Agrabah was his.

As it was always supposed to be.