Work Text:
At this time of the year, it"s still warm in the desert even hours after the Sun has set. You toss and turn in your bed, sweaty, and feeling suffocated inside your thick canvas tent. The camp is quiet except for the snores of the locals hired for more demanding digs and some of your father"s fellow archaeologists. Your fellow archaeologists but your father is stubborn, refusing to acknowledge your honest interest in the work. He still hopes you grow out of it one day and marry someone of your rank; become the darling socialite the British public expected out of you. And even if you"ve shown you"re serious about the work, no matter how gruelling, and that you can stand your place in academic discussions, the only reason he was even willing to bring you along for the expedition is the lengthening war ravaging Europe.
You sigh; he won"t ever understand your interest, doesn"t want to. Hell, he barely even allowed you to be present when they unsealed the lower chamber of the mastaba. You sit and your cot gives a protesting creak as your weight shifts abruptly. The locals whisper about the curse of the Pharaoh but you"re determined now and won"t let some superstition to scare you off.
You don"t dress, only pull a sheer robe over your scandalously revealing nightgown and a pair of boots, before slipping out of your tent. Sand crunches under your feet as you weave through the canvas labyrinth with moonlight as your only guide; you don"t dare to use the lantern. There"s a soft breeze blowing but it"s just as worrying as refreshing — and you pray no storm is coming, leaving you stranded in the tomb til morning comes.
Cold air makes you shiver as you step past the threshold and it feels even more eerie than during the day. There"s only a thin stripe of moonlight illuminating a section of the antechamber — and you can barely make out the altar and the imposing statue behind. You hasten to have your lantern lit and there"s a surge of warmth as the wick finally catches. The sharp shadows are gone but the dance of flames now paint the illusion of movement. You step over statuettes and long-rotted offerings, leaving prints in the thin layer of sand that hasn"t yet been cleared.
The pigments are faded but you still see colours and your fingers trail a line of hieroglyphs; a name that"s been translated as Seti into English. A Pharaoh"s name though the tomb feels barren if the buried truly held that rank — though what decorations remained are still impressive and priceless. You can"t make out much more of the inscriptions; it seems like some funeral or ritual texts, some mentions of accomplishments perhaps. It"s nonetheless fascinating and you feel the tingle of thrill in the pits of your stomach.
Your attention shifts, now held by the Ka statue made after the likeness of the dead — and despite not believing in superstitions and the paranormal, you swear its eyes moved, following your every step. You try to ignore it but there"s a prickling sensation in the back of your neck that you can"t quite shake. You felt restless before but it"s making you wary now — but you won"t let it deter you from exploring the tomb in its entirety.
Most statues, ones easy to move, have already been transported to the tents for study and cataloguing and you decide to descend to the burial chamber. You breath a sigh of relief as the feeling of being watched is gone as you scale the ladder down; one step, two more and you"re on the ground. The flame stops dancing in your lantern as you creep toward the broken door slab. Your eye catches on a ceramic disc and the hieroglyphs that read some vague and cryptic warning. You scoff; it"s probably nothing more than what"s been interpreted as the curse of the Pharaoh throughout the centuries.
You"ve been to the lower room only briefly and you"re taken aback by its sheer size now that there aren"t half a dozen archaeologists crowding the sarcophagus. Your lantern casts warm light onto intricately carved stone; the dancing flames creating the illusion of life in the painted eyes. You know it"s not real, or at least try to reassure yourself with that after the experience with the Ka statue. It"s taller than you expected, the stone itself a good feet and a half taller than you. The crossed arms seem unmoving but they feel more tense, like flexed muscles, than rigid like the stone should when you trail fingers in the dust clinging to it.
There"s a story told in the registers of the sarcophagus and you notice how the image of Osiris, a symbol for protection on the journey to the Afterlife, is amiss. You wonder what caused the ancient to bury a Pharaoh without proper rites but the sarcophagus doesn"t give you any answer so you turn to the sparse murals. There"s word of conquest, wars won and lost and something about the gods sending a blight onto the people; an epidemic, probably. A prayer to Sutekh is partially carved and painted on another wall and you catch yourself muttering the words that would invoke the god.
You know the rest of the text, saw it on papyri and carved tablets and you feel it would be sacrilegious to break off just before the last verse. The words come easy to you, echoing around the burial chamber with your broken pronounciation. You never heard the ancient text spoken; there were no more than small pockets of fanatics still revering the ancient gods and some superstitions born from their once widespread worship.
You don"t expect anything to happen but you tremble with a chill down your spine as your words are followed by a rumbling noise. It"s too loud to come from the surface and you panic for a moment that maybe the structure is about to give up but the ground is stable under your feet and you don"t see any cracks along the ceiling or falling dirt. It takes you a moment to turn your worried gaze away from the ceiling, and another, drawn-out sound; almost like an eerie scream of the stone in protest.
You watch as the sarcophagus rattles, frozen in place; you don"t even jump when the lid is tossed onto the ground, kicking up a cloud of dust and sand. There"s a groan, vaguely human but it echoes around the chamber with an otherworldly melody to it, as a gaunt figure clambers out. Only when it stands on the ground and you catch glimpses of gnarled, desiccated skin between loose layers of tattered gauze in the light of your lantern do you start retreating. Your back is against the wall soon and you try to skirt around the chamber before it can notice you. But your movements attract his gaze, glassy eyes in hollow sockets drawn to your form like moths to a flame.
You reach the door leading to the shaft just before the mummy lunges at you, almost falling through in your haste. Your heart beats violently against your ribs as your shaking hands try to find purchase on the ladder. It"s quite slow but you hardly make it up a few rungs when you feel it"s boney fingers dig into your flesh. The grip is strong despite the creature barely being more than skin and bone, growling into your ear as it drags you off the ladder. You trash in its hold but you"re unable to wrench your arm free and digging your heels into the ground doesn"t seem to slow or hinder it in any way.
"Submit to the will of your god, you insolent whore." You can see its lips moving but the sound feels like only a weak echo of someone not present — yet it still carries a level of threat that makes you shudder. Or maybe it"s the creature"s grip tightening around your upper arm that has you jerking and not the words that only form a vague translation in your mind. You don"t understand everything it says, talking in an archaic dialect that you assume was in use when the mummy was still a flesh and bone creature instead of a grotesque puppet of a self-proclaimed god.
However it clearly understands the commands, tearing at your robes when you make out the words for "bare" and "fabric". You try to fight against it, holding ragged pieces of clothes together on your body as it sinks sharp nails into the silk of your nightgown over and over again. It doesn"t take long for the creature to have you stand naked against a painted mural, sunkissed skin still pale in contrast to the ancient Egyptians. The empty gaze of hollow eyes roam your body in the faint light of your lantern, a low, animalistic growl in its throat as if body and will was separate.
"Submit or face my wrath." The voice echoes around the chamber and your mind at the same time and your breath shudders as you try to knock away the boney hands grabbing at you. It"s a futile fight and you"re reminded once again of its immense strength as it forces you down onto your knees. Fingers claw into your hair and you hiss in pain when it yanks you closer to its body.
Your nose is filled with the smell of rot and faint wafts of the embalming oils, and you gag, sucking in a lungful of stale air through gritted teeth. Your head spins, and you reach out to steady yourself on your knees — one hand grasping the edge of the open sarcophagus while the other fists into the tattered gauze that"s the only layer separating you from it"s shrivelled up skin. The worn-out fabric tears under the strain, leaving you with a fistful of rags; and its lower half exposed.
You refuse to raise your gaze higher but the fingers grasping your chin and clawing into your hair don"t allow you another choice. You hiss as pain sears through your scalp as it drags you closer to its shaft, the tip grazing at your parched lips. Its wrinkled and desiccated as every other part of its body; though it throbs with unnatural, otherworldly vigor. Hips snap forward and you barely have time to close your eyes as the creature rubs its length across your cheek a few times before settling against your lips again.
A yank of your hair, and the scream ripping from your throat, cuts short any attempt of refusal from your part; and your protests only come out as miserable whimpers. The shaft is bigger than you thought, both in length and girth, and your lips are spread wide around the bottom. The tip pushes just deep enough that taking the whole length makes you gag but the creature, or its puppeteer, doesn"t seem to care much about your comfort. Ashen taste invades your mouth and your tongue is trapped against the ridged shaft, rubbing bloodless veins as it chases a pleasure denied for millennia.
It bursts against your throat after drawn-out minutes of erratic trusts, and animalistic grunts answering your whimpers. Your knees hurt by the time the taste of its ethereal seed coats your tongue — almost disgustingly sweet with its imitation of milk, honey, and a spice you cannot recognise. There"s a bitter aftertaste you"re familiar with from past experiences and you want to spit; but its come is more smoke than fluid which you only inhale more deeply.
Heat blooms in your chest and your shallow exhales are slow enough that it feels like the breath is stuck in your throat. Your vision grows dark for a moment and you"re glad for the mummy"s strong grip still holding you in place. The heat spreads like a fever with a flush across your skin, and the cool trickle of slick down your thighs is a welcome but feeble distraction. Your eyes remain half-lidded even when your vision clears — the creature"s still erect, straining length bobbing in your lazy focus.
Its skin is still rough and wrinkled under your touch, but it seems to have softened up from your saliva still glistening between ridges of skin. Your finger traces along the uneven length with the same affection and attention you show ancient artefacts, mesmerised by the texture as if it was some intricate stonework or wood-carving. It"s hairless around the hilt unlike much of your past acquaintances and you can feel warmth radiate from heavy balls ready to spill again.
Holding onto the edge of the sarcophagus, you pull yourself upright, turning your back to the creature and bending over the stone in an invitation. Your lantern casts faint shadows and you watch as the gaunt form prowls behind you, drawing a shaky breath when its shaft settles in the valley of your bottom. It grasps at your hips just as tightly as it held your reluctant body on the floor, kicking your legs further apart.
A hand guides the shaft between your folds and your knuckles pale from the strength you"re holding onto the stone when it drags against your skin. Drool gathers in the corner of your lips as it keeps flicking the rough tip against your bundle of nerves and you have trouble forming thoughts as it keeps tormenting you with a promise of pleasure.
It finally draws back one last time from your swollen nub, and another moan falls from your lips as the head finally rests against your dripping quim. It shoves into you rough and without warning, and, while the ridges make for a momentarily painful stretch, your mind and body only care about the feeling of fullness. Completely bottomed out, the tip rests deep between your walls and its girth makes for a fit so divine as if you were molded for its shaft. The texture scrapes against your sensitive spots with each twitch of nerves and veins pulse with the rhythm of your own heartbeat.
Your whimper echoes around the burial chamber as it pulls out, but the last dins haven"t settled when your moan marks another deep thrust. It"s slow but forceful and you"re made aware of each wrinkle of its shaft as it works you with the deliberate pace. A selfish part of you wants it to hurry up, to bring upon your climax — but the one finding pride in being called a whore by the disembodied voice wants the bittersweet pleasure of buildup to last for an eternity. A hand wanders between your folds, boney fingers rolling your nub as heavy balls slap against the curve of your body — and you fall apart before you could be told not to.
"We are not finished with you, whore," you hear through the fog of bliss; a threat that sounds more like a promise to your addled mind. The ridges scrape against your clamping walls, and an odd discomfort laces your pleasure that seems to only heighten the intensity. Your eyes, though barely open before, now shut close and you slump over the open sarcophagus, glad for something to hold you up, legs trembling and buckling under you. Moans turn into eerie wails as it mixes with your whimpers of oversensitivity, and its grunts of effort to keep thrusting into your tight quim.
It stops moving for just a moment, two, and you suck in a much needed breath of air, still stale — now mixed with the stench of sweat and come. Most of your slick is trapped within by its shaft, squelching with each sluggish thrust and sway of hips. It keeps a hand on your side, bruising and almost possessive as it holds you down, and your body rocks to his rhythm. It"s hunching over you now, humid, rotten breath fanning your neck below your pinned up hair as a gauze-wrapped, boney hand gropes along your body.
It flicks at your nub, pinches the swollen flesh but it"s not enough to coax another high from you yet and its hand drags on. You jerk as it tickles up your side, pressing more into its chest as you try to avoid the feathery scrape of fingers and you swear it huffs out a laughter at your discomfort. It fondles your breasts with no less harshness, but even then a louder sound or two escapes your lips; parted, with drool dripping down your chin. More dribbles as it shoves two fingers into your mouth, driving into you at the same pace its shaft pumps into your wet quim.
It slams into you with a steady rhythm from both sides and you struggle to keep pace before it grasps at your throat, pulling you with itself as it straightens. You pant and sputter as its shaft drives into you hard, not leaving even a split second to catch your breath. The head rams against your sensitive spots, and you sink against it deeper, hips circling to find the right angle again. It drags you along its length once, twice — and by the third time it bottoms out, your quim spasms around it with an uncontrollable spray of your slick.
Your moans are shrill and your unintelligent whimpers are begging it to stop. Its pace slows but never truly stops sloppily thrusting up into you until you go limp in its arms with a giddy smile plastered on your face; its shaft buried as deep it can reach. Warmth assaults your quim as its seed gushes from the throbbing, engorged head; much more reminiscent of come than vapor. It feels like minutes before the last spurts coat your walls, excess already trickling down your thighs as the limp shaft slips from you.
You slump to the ground, sand sticking to your sweaty and damp skin but you feel too exhausted to care. You"re naked and you know you should get back to your tent before dawn, before the men awake and you can"t hide your shame but your body refuses to do your bidding. The chill air feels soothing against your heated skin and your battered bundle of nerves, bruised skin, and folds rubbed near raw ache just with the thought of clothing. Eyelids feeling heavy, you curl against the desecrated sarcophagus, blinking up sluggishly at the creature. It"s bathed in a pale golden light and you need to hide your already squinting eyes behind a dusty hand.
When you look again, you realises it"s the rising Sun you"re shielding your gaze from, bright even through the canvas of your tent. Your covers are tangled around your body, nightclothes pulled aside haphazardly and clinging to your feverish, sweaty skin. Your thighs are wet with more than just sweat, come pooling on and even soaking through your cot. Your fingers are wrinkled from the same dampness that coats your folds and you breath a sigh of relief that it was just a dream — until you feel something hard poking at your flesh.
You twirl an ushabti between your fingers, the figurine one of the smallest, barely even the length of your hand; though one you haven"t seen catalogued as a discovery from this mastaba. The crevices of the intricately carved figure glisten with residue of your slick, a testament to your sacrileg — but even the alleged Curse of the Pharaoh can"t stop you from sinning the same again.