0 comments/ 17660 views/ 5 favorites Nebemakst Banished By: Rob_mDear This story belongs to three genres: Interracial, Fantasy, and Erotic Horror. The main characters are a white man and an African American woman. This particular story is actually an alternate version of the original, Nebemakst Bound. Each version of the story is very similar, so you can choose any one of them to read, depending on your personal preferences. The versions of the story are: Nebemakst Bound — father/daughter Nebemakst Buried — brother/sister Nebemakst Braced — black man/white woman Nebemakst Banished — white man/black woman Nebemakst Betrothed — older man/younger woman — The Author Annette sneezed once, her sinuses irritated by the four millennia old dust now stirred up in the ancient tomb. She avoided the bastard's glare, his silent admonishment at her disrespectful intransigence, as if she were a wayward little girl who had done it on purpose. She respected him less than just about any man, other than her own abusive father, perhaps. She certainly craved his approval as little, or even less. She hated when he made her feel young and inadequate, like this. He was nothing more than the big, arrogant, white head of the archeology department. He belittled her endlessly, often making her feel like she'd only gotten this posting, and perhaps even her entire education, through affirmative action. He was brilliant, or so they all said, but Annette intended to be better. She double checked all of the connections once, hurriedly, having spent too long positioning the transmitter and receiver around the bizarre sarcophagus, and connecting the generator and the computer and the monitor. She'd never really had the patience this job required. The professor teased her dismissively about it. The artifacts waited for thousands of years to be found, he'd said, and she couldn't wait five minutes. She scampered from one piece of equipment to the next, being sure that everything was properly set. Heedless, the professor's eyes roved over the faded inscriptions painted on the walls, calmly deciphering them in his head. He occasionally looked over at her with an air of quiet skepticism, obviously fighting back the urge to mutter deprecating remarks, while at the same time doing a poor job of hiding his own actual fascination with her efforts. Technology like this was going to change archeology. He cleared his throat, before the deep baritone of his voice echoed back and forth between the stone walls of the room. "You really think that will show us something valuable? You can't just wait to get it into a lab?" He knew damn well what it would do. He'd demanded a demonstration before he shelled out his precious budget money to buy the damn thing. The fact was, though, that even dentists were using digital X-ray machines these days. Between the speedy computer processors, the fabulous imaging software, and the dropping price of all electronics, the gizmo was both a steal and a godsend, and he knew it. "Professor, I don't know why you even come into the field with me anymore. You want to do everything in the comfort of the bowels of a museum." "Miss Bennings, you know that there's nothing like actual in-person grave robbing." She froze for a moment on her hands and knees, in the middle of struggling with a finicky wire, while sneering at his backhanded teasing. He'd figured out on this trip that this particular line of conversation really bugged her. "It's not grave robbing, it's archeology, and you know it." "We're in a secret, hidden passage off of an ancient necropolis, buried and forgotten for more than forty centuries. Something was so special about the deceased that his tomb was set hundreds of yards from all of the others, at the end of a meandering hall. It was so well hidden that even the real grave robbers never found him. We're the first. The first!" "But we're not grave robbers." "Oh? How much of this will be left here when we're done? When we're gone?" Annette looked about. The chamber was littered with gold and ceramics, from jewelry to urns to eating utensils. This was such a major find that they might even quickly get permission from the authorities to remove the sarcophagus itself. Certainly, before they were done, this entire set of rooms would be emptied. It was destined for museums, instead of for sale, but it was going to be taken from here, from the original owner, one way or the other. "He was rich and powerful," the professor continued. "And peculiar. Very peculiar." That was too true. The whole complex was a puzzle. The overlarge sarcophagus was like none anyone had ever seen. It depicted not one person, but two, entwined in an embrace, implying that perhaps two people were entombed within it, not only one. The inscriptions on the walls were unusual, too. "Look here. Come, Annie, come look." Annette rolled her eyes, grateful that no one else from the University was with them today. She hated when he called her Annie. They'd had that fight a hundred times. He'd started calling her that when she first started grad school, then continued as she had painfully earned first her master's degree under his tutelage, and then her doctorate. She wasn't even a little girl back then, but it was as if he couldn't hide his own disdain for her, and he thought it put her in her place to use such a diminishing name. But now she was the respected Dr. Annette Bennings, with a PhD in archeology and ancient Egyptian culture, a far cry from an "Annie," or some grimy little poor rural black girl. She deserved considerably better. It had been hard, harder than he'd ever had it, but she'd earned it. She looked at him in the dim lantern light of the underground chamber. He was a hulking giant of a white man, with wisps of gray hair and thick framed glasses. In any other darkened room she'd find him frightening, she thought. Growing up in the south had taught her to avoid white men, especially in dark, secluded places. Or, at least, her mother had taught her that. A white man in the south could get away with whatever he wanted, if it was going to be her word against his. She'd never been foolish enough to let herself get into such a situation. She brushed the dirt and dust from her knees before making her way to the old coot's side. "Annette, not Annie," she mumbled. "Or Miss Bennings. Or Dr. Bennings." He beamed a condescending, almost fatherly smile at her, which made her feel like grimacing. Instead she painted her own face with an awkard smile, almost like a cartoon mustache drawn onto a poster. He was an annoying pain in the ass, and she couldn't wait to make enough of a name for herself to be rid of him. "Yes, Annette, a formidable and accomplished African American woman of intellect and skill. You've had your doctorate for almost a whole year. Yes, yes, yes, I know. Now look here." He pointed to a familiar set of glyphs and pictograms beside the deceased's cartouche. The man's name had been Nebemakst. What followed that held the key to the mystery of the man's life. The professor was the expert at ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs, but she knew it well enough herself to read at least some of the ancient pictorial writing without a stack of books handy for reference. "The father and daughter, bound by rings, bound in matrimony... Wait, that doesn't make sense. The Egyptian males married their sisters to keep the royal blood pure, or to keep the wealth in the family, but never their own daughters." "I think he was a priest, of sorts, and a general, as well. And look, here..." "It looks like the usual stuff. Magic spells to help them pass their trials on their way into the afterlife. References to curses to scare away grave robbers." She gave him a sidelong look with that. "But that's strange. That warning curse stuff usually goes at the entrance, where it could do some good, not way in here with the entombed." "And this part?" "That's... what is that?" "It resembles the funerary spells." "But what's this word?" "'Vanity'. And 'awesome power'. Then 'forbidden'. Then 'to separate'. Well, not exactly. More like 'to drive apart'. Or maybe 'divorce'." "And this?" "'Two bracelets'. Or 'bands'. I'm not sure." "And this?" She pointed to an elaborate pictograph. In Egyptian hieroglyphics, the people and animals always faced the start of the sentence. That was how you knew which direction to read in, left to right, or right to left, or top to bottom, because it wasn't always the same. You had to look at the writing to tell where to start. But in this particular pictograph, two people faced each other, positioned a little too closely. "That one's beyond me. What does it mean?" she asked. "I don't quite know. I've never seen it, or anything like it, even. It almost looks like..." She knew what it looked like, and she didn't really want to hear the professor say it out loud. She turned away abruptly, before he could continue, to go back to the comfortable familiarity of her equipment. "Weird," he said from behind her. "Just weird." "Come on, old man, I'm ready to fire it up. Come have a look at the four thousand year old weird man. He'll make your own fifty six year old husk look young." "You love making me feel old, don't you, little Miss?" She bristled, but should have expected the retort. "As long as you keep calling me Annie, yes, I do." He smiled at her, the smile of a professional boxer who knew he'd just scored a hit. She tried to return his look, but found she couldn't, so instead she scowled into the dirt. He was probably the only man in her entire life, after her father, whom she couldn't easily look in the eye and tell to fuck off. Damn him, he always made her feel like a little girl, and part of the problem was, as often as not, she actually liked it. She fucking hated herself for it, but she liked it. Being an independent, full grown woman was all she had ever wanted growing up, and now the men in the department, black or white, all ran from her because of it. The professor was the one man that constantly made her feel like a little girl, and as much as she hated it, it sated a deep seeded need in her that she couldn't seem to fulfill in any other way. "Okay, ready?" she asked. "Please, just hit the button, or whatever it is you do." * * * Annette and the professor were checking the side passages, looking for clues. That in itself was a clue, that there were so many side passages. The guy had had a lot of money. He could afford side passages and extra rooms, and he could afford to fill them with a lot of expensive things. He was also powerful enough to be able to afford the strangest sarcophagus and burial practice anyone had ever seen. That sarcophagus was going to make them famous. On the outside, it depicted a man embracing a woman. The woman was young, petite, and attractive, while the man was mature, tall and kingly. Even back then there were gold diggers, she thought to herself, young women that married older men for their money, and older men that wanted the beauty and charms and affection of a younger woman. What was odd was that the depiction of the woman's legs were wrapped around his in a very suggestive way, which was unusual for the Egyptians. They were actually quite fond of representations of overlarge phalluses in their religion and culture. There were a number of myths and rituals that involved them. But depictions of sex acts were completely unheard of, except in one surviving papyrus scroll now found in Turin, Italy, a sort of Kama Sutra of the Pharaohs. Such graphic sexual depictions had certainly never been found in a tomb. That by itself would make them famous. But the clincher, the most amazing thing, was the contents of the sarcophagus. The portable X-ray machine showed it clearly. The old codger had made her take a number of shots after the first, all from different angles, to be certain. There was no doubt about it. It contained not one mummy, but two. More than that, the two were locked in a sexual embrace, arms and legs entwined, just as depicted on the sarcophagus itself. But there was more. The X-ray had clearly showed it. There was no doubt, and no denying it. His penis was actually still inside her. Mummified, yes, probably the longest lasting erection in the history of sex, Annette thought to herself, fighting back a sinister grin. They were going to be the most famous archeologists in the twenty first century, and the poor stodgy old professor was never going to be able to live with the shame of it all. She grinned to herself as she explored, imaging him sweating and fumbling through conference presentation after conference presentation about the Egyptian pharaoh addicted to sex, and his mummified penis. * * * The walls of the next room were covered in murals. A variety of scenes depicted the departed general's victories in battle, and feats of daring. Here he conquered a great army. There he battled a ferocious lion, armed only with a spear. There, a crowd of exotic, dark skinned women lavished themselves on him, depicted as a virtual giant in their midst, as the vanquished dead lay scattered about his feet, dripping with blood. Over there, a group of rebellious priests cower on their knees before him, with some of their fellow priests slain at his feet. In the distance, one sinister figure points a crooked finger the general's way as he reads from a book, with the gods gathered about him, scowling. He was quite the action hero, Annette thought to herself. He would have made a Hollywood director very proud, and a lot of money. The man's entire life was a story of courage and power and domination. She wondered how much of it was true. * * * "Annie! Annette! Bennings! Damn it, Bennings, get in here! Now!" "Where? Where the hell are you?" "Fourth turn, second room, second door, at the end." Annette mumbled the instructions over and over as she made her way through the maze of rooms. It was really very, very elaborate, far beyond what was usually done for anyone but a pharaoh. She wondered who the hell this guy had been. Annette walked into the chamber and stopped cold in the entrance. This room was clearly unlike the others. The others were filled to the brim with all sorts of things, from stacks of cloth and food for use in the afterlife, to wealth and jewelry and even the remains of dogs, cats and monkeys, a whole menagerie of favorite pets he couldn't bear to be parted from in death. This room was empty. Well, almost empty. In the center was a raised stone dais, and on the dais were two simple gold rings. The professor stood beside them, grinning at her like a little boy. She'd never seen such a look on his face. "No one has worn these rings in four thousand years!" "Grave robber," she said accusingly, trying to get his goat, but her own academic interest quickly took over. "Why are these in here, all by themselves?" "Obviously there's something special about them. Remember the inscription in the main room? 'Two bracelets'? Or 'two bands'? I think it was 'two rings'. These two rings." Annette looked from the professor, to the rings, to the professor again. He had a strange cast to his expression, to his entire demeanor. He'd actually been sort of fading in the past year. Since his wife had died, he'd withdrawn. He'd lost energy. He'd lost his zest for life. She sensed that she was the only thing that kept him going now, the only thing that brought him to life, his need to constantly subvert her and establish his dominance over her. She kept telling herself that she needed to find a man of her own, not that she needed a protector, but just to give the bastard a reason to think twice about heaping constant abuse on her. And then she would answer herself that she would find a man in her own good time. She was more than attractive enough. Every graduate student new to the department hit on her within a week, then recoiled in shame and fear when he discovered that she was the department head's favorite target, and that she herself was only interested in old, really, really old men, anyway, meaning mummies and such. There was too much bad karma associated with dating Dr. Annette Bennings. After that, they kept their distance. They all did, because of how the professor saw her, and what she said she wanted for herself. She was too much of a woman for them, she told herself, a beautiful, intelligent, independent black woman, and she was happy with that. So, as much as she hated him, the professor was her sole male companion, and he had no reason to back down from his constant abuse. But he'd been worn down by the years, and his loss. He was becoming like an old clock, slowly winding down, in some ways merely passing the hours until the mechanism finally stopped. And then came this find, this whole series of puzzling, wondrous finds. The professor was beaming. He radiated an energy and a vibrance that she guessed he hadn't had since he was an undergrad himself. It pissed her off. If this find had come just a few years later, it might have been hers alone, and she'd get all of the credit, instead of having to stand in the big white bastard's shadow as he claimed it for his own, another gift in the easy path he'd had to the top. Annette moved to the dais, beside him, to try to claim her own rightful share of his moment of glory. He picked up one of the rings. She bit back the automatic recrimination for disturbing an artifact before it had been properly photographed and cataloged. He should know better, but she didn't need to give him more reason to attack and heap scorn on her. "Four thousand years," he said, looking through the center of it at the far wall. On impulse, Annette picked up the other ring. If he could, she could. They shouldn't be doing this, she thought. It should all have been photographed, first. They were trained archeologists, professionals entrusted with a sacred duty, and they were behaving like sinister children that had found their christmas presents hidden under their parents' bed. She looked through her own ring, as he did through his. In the exact same instant, they looked at each other, scowling. They didn't have to say it. They were thinking the same thing. If he did it, she was going to do it. He started to. "Why not?" she said, as her right hand slowly, inexorably guided the ring toward the ring finger on her left hand. The professor did the same, his dark eyes staring into hers in the flickering lamp light, and hers into his. The cool metal slipped easily over her finger, over the first knuckle, then over the second, to fit snugly on her hand. The metal strangely warmed quickly, turning from cool to hot. Her entire body warmed with it, as if hit with a sudden fever. She felt a bead of perspiration trickle down her temple, which was odd in the cool, if dry, underground air. Four thousand years, she thought, with her eyes still locked on the professor's. That couple had been making love for four thousand years. * * * Smooth dark skin, deep, dark eyes, black hair, everything about her was dark, forbidding beauty. She was the living lure of the darkness. She was so exotically beautiful, more beautiful and sexually alluring than his wife had been long ago, when they'd been young. He'd always thought so, although he'd never dared to let her or anyone know it, but in this moment, in this place, in this light, her beauty magnified for him a hundred fold. His wife had never shared his interests, his eccentricity, the way Annette had. Indeed, he often felt his wife was jealous of the young black girl. As much as they hated each other, the professor and the student shared something the husband and wife never had. Nebemakst Banished His wife had respected him. She had loved him. But they were different souls, sharing a life together in very different ways. She wasn't an academic herself. She was a wife and a lover. She wanted to socialize and to travel, but not to study. She didn't understand the thrill of discovery and understanding the he loved, and Annette loved, too. The girl, though, she was a bewitching woman, callous, impulsive, and insulting, yes, but young, beautiful, and intelligent, and as curious as he. He watched almost jealously as man after man sought after her. Eventually one would interest her. Soon one would snare her heart, and he'd lose her to him. But until then, she was his, a sparring partner, an attractive if intelligent bauble, and in a strange way a consort of sorts. He couldn't touch her, or even speak to her with any affection, but he coveted her none the less. Annette was so very beautiful. * * * She looked up into his weathered eyes. He held a power and arrogance that no man she'd ever met could match, but with a boyish flair and charm that rivaled the best of them. He had a life about him that the youngest man could never match. She'd never told him, too, how handsome she found him. In her head she called him an old coot, a big white slaver, or an old white bull, but he was no such thing. Not many men his age could hike in the desert heat, or live day after day in a desert encampment, and then rummage their way on hands and knees through cramped, meandering, long dead passageways. And he not only did it, but he did it with intellect, and passion, and a lust for adventure. She felt an odd charge whenever he took her hand to help her through a tight squeeze. He was the strongest man she'd ever known. She hated admitting it to herself, but it was true. He was everything she was ever taught to fear and despise, and she was oddly drawn to him. Now he stood before her, looking at her, melting her with his domineering gaze. She'd never let herself admit how brutally handsome and imposing he was, like no other man ever would be to her. She stepped up to him. Her hand reached out to take his. It met hers half way as they once again shared the same thought. Flesh touched flesh, and gold touched gold. His ring was hot, like hers, pressing against the skin of her fingers. She looked up into the whites of his eyes in his intense, creased, pale face as their lips drifted closer together. * * * Her hand was warm to the touch, and soft. It had been so long since he'd felt the touch of a woman, let alone one as young and as vibrant as Annette. He'd never had a black woman in his life. Her breath brushed his lips like a warm evening zephyr. One little kiss couldn't hurt. It was his right. A man of his power and standing could show his lust for a young woman in his charge with a kiss. She'd be lucky to have the experience. * * * His hand snaked around the small of her back, pulling her close. The kiss had started innocently enough. She wanted it that way, at first. But now his firm lips were strong and masculine, almost overpowering. They moved over hers as a newlywed husband's would. His kiss was intensely, inappropriately sexual. She liked it. She wanted more. She parted her lips, inviting him in like a shy lover. He pulled her harshly into him. Her breasts crushed flat against his strong chest. She smelled the sweetly musky sweat from his day's labors wafting up to her nose, as his tongue entwined with hers, moving into her mouth to mimic the other, even more wicked act she secretly desired. Her hips burned for far more than just a kiss. * * * The hand that held his own released it, to slip up behind his neck. With it she pulled herself up to his full height, helping to press her delicious full lips more firmly against his. For his part, he let his freed hand drift into her unbuttoned shirt. She'd loosened it earlier in the day, shamelessly, discomforted by the heat on the hike to the entrance. There was no one there to see but him, and he always behaved so stolidly and properly and dismissively that she must have believed he would never look. He had, furtively, then, discreetly admiring the curve of her coffee colored flesh disappearing into the shadows of her shirt, but he didn't look now. Not yet. First his hand crept inward, to touch and to fondle and to explore her exotic brown flesh. It was his right. She was his for the taking. * * * The awesome strength behind the large hand on her breast sent shivers through her. No other man had ever shown the power the professor had. His strength, his pompous presumption, everything about him projected masculinity like no other weakling of a man ever could. He was like a god to her. She pushed her body up into his, trying to press her tit into his hand, trying to make him feel and enjoy the hardness of her nipple digging into his palm. She wanted him to know how much he excited her, how quickly and completely he'd brought her woman's body to life. She was no longer a young, naive co-ed, cowering in fear of him. She pressed her hips hard against his, feeling the bulge there. Even that was powerful. The feel of his engorged, white cock against her own wet, lonely pussy excited her like nothing she'd ever felt. She sinfully pictured it in her mind, a cock like none she'd ever had, foreign, almost alien in appearance. Only he had the strength to satisfy her. She knew it in her heart. She'd never properly considered it before, because she was a young fool of a girl. She wanted and needed a man, but not just any man, a strong, powerful white man. She wanted and needed a white man. She'd never admitted to herself how much she wanted and needed a white man inside her. She'd hidden in books and scrolls and artifacts, hiding from what she truly desired. But what she truly desired was always there, right there, with her. She wanted the only man that could sate her, right here, right now. She wanted the grumpy old white bastard to take her. She wanted him inside of her. She broke the kiss to look up into his eyes, pleading with him to take what he wanted from her. * * * He felt a strength coursing through him, in a way he hadn't felt since his youth, if ever. She was fragile and pliant in his arms, as she should be, his student, his supplicant and his slave. He squeezed her breast tightly, as if taking it for himself and owning it forever. She moaned under his touch, as she should. He looked into innocent, frightened, dark brown eyes set in a caramel colored porcelain doll face. She knew what she wanted, even if she was too shy to admit it, to him or to herself. He could give it to her, and he would. It was natural that she should want him. She probably always had, and should have. It was undeniable. His hand released it's hold on her waist to move to her crotch. He let one finger touch her, pressing firmly upward below the opening of her pussy, to give her an early, easy thrill, and to hint of so much more to come. She gave him a delightful, high pitched moan in return. His hand slid upward from there, over the course fabric of her field shorts, pressing against the inviting depression between her cunt lips, implying his entry into her. She quivered under his touch, biting her lip, until his hand reached the snap at the front, removing his touch from her only to expertly release it. * * * Before her shorts had reached the sandy ground, in the same moment that she stepped quickly out of them, she ardently, almost frantically eased herself down and back onto the floor. The hunger in her body was like none she'd ever felt. Her pussy burned and dripped with excitement beyond any she'd ever considered. She felt she couldn't wait another moment. The cool, sandy floor touched the flesh of her ass. It would provide an unyielding platform to withstand his powerful thrusts. The thought excited her more. She ached to feel the awesome strength of his plunging pale cock, and his ravishing white hands, and his consuming master's mouth. His strength was captivating. She wanted him to take her, totally and completely. She spread her legs for him in needless, shameless invitation, as she watching him hurriedly drop his pants, exposing to her his fully erect, burly, beckoning white cock. * * * Her impassioned screams echoed about the chamber, starting the first moment he entered her. He should have been gentle and tender, like a guardian, or a mentor, but he didn't feel like a gentle, tender man, or lover. His thick fingers gripped her shoulders like talons, almost ripping into their curving flesh, perfectly shaped to provide purchase with which he could leverage his body, and the driving, skewering thrusts of his inexorable cock. He mercilessly spread her smooth dark legs and filled her in one fast, brutal stroke. His cock was magnificent. It was living power, and virility, and domination. He filled her, and fucked her, with one long, fast, invasive thrust after another. She was so beautiful, so fucking beautiful. He needed to please her. He needed to please this sweet, young black girl, to make her come. He knew he could better than any man, and would. He was too strong for any woman to resist for long. But she was so marvelous, so exotic, so enchanting, so perfect, she deserved him at his best. He withdrew his cock, then plunged into her again, drawing another delightfully loud scream, followed by resounding echoes reverberating off of the walls, as if he'd fucked her with the strength of a dozen men, and she responded with the pleasured cries of a hundred rapturous women. * * * The professor filled her body in ways she'd never imagined. His strong hands pinned her tiny frame in place beneath his bulk as his cock, his long, thick, trespassing cock stretched her beyond her limits. "Professor..." she panted, trying to form words. "Professor... your cock, your beautiful white cock..." Each time she spoke, he filled her again. His cock would be yanked from her, then shoved deliriously up inside her, as his grip pulled her down onto it. He threatened to rip her apart with his power, and yet she lay entirely submissive beneath him, trusting him as she trusted no man to take her and pleasure her and meet her needs, without any fear of injury or loss. He would never hurt her, or leave her. He was her mentor, the professor, her master. Now he was her lover, and she was his toy. He wielded the most incredible cock any woman had ever experienced. "Professor... Professor... Oh, God! I love your fucking magnificent white cock!" she screamed, filling the chamber with repeating, accusing echoes of her pleas. "Fill me with white cock and white cum." Her mother had warned her away. Now she knew why. Her eyes opened wide, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, as his forbidden, stiff, elitist cock raged into and through her body, bringing her wave after trembling wave of orgasms. * * * She convulsed in his embrace, her small legs wrapped tightly around his back, screaming incoherent expressions of love and lust straight into his ears. He grinned madly as he felt his cock surging with power and filling with his incomparable wealth of masculine seed. She needed his love. She longed for his love. He knew it, and he gave it to her, with his mouth and tongue all over her neck and shoulders and delightful dark skinned breasts, and with his cock plowing into her tight, pink, heavenly cunt, and then, in a moment of godlike exhilaration, with wave after pulsing wave of the torrential flood of his cum. His body seized up like a mighty, ancient machine suddenly frozen in action. His hips were held against her own, bone on bone, imprisoning his enraged cock deeply inside the blazing embrace of her pussy. His fingers felt like they were tearing at her flesh, yet he couldn't relax his grip. His teeth bit into her shoulder, gently, he hoped, but harshly, he knew, as the strength of his orgasm shattered his thoughts into tens of thousands of spinning stars in a black, desert night sky. He stayed there, buried inside her, just as they were buried together under the earth within this tomb. He stayed still as he emptied himself into her with a feeling of ultimate release, only now finding the cohesive thought to speak to her in a deep, breathless voice. "My woman, my Annette, my sweet darling, my baby..." * * * She smiled as she listened to his words. Once the mind conquering sensations had passed, once she was able to control her own body again, her hands began to move over his broad back, tracing erotic paths up and down and across and back with her fingertips, seeking to give him the slightest of pleasures in compensation for the series of thunderous climaxes he'd given to her. Her lips found his ears and neck, bathing him in warm, light kisses. She whispered into his ear. "Thank you, Professor. Thank you, thank you." His finally relaxing form stiffened again at the words. She stiffened too, as her mind awakened, and she realized what she just said, and what they'd just done. The big fucking white monster had just fucked her. * * * The guilt attacked him, devouring his soul like nothing he'd ever experienced. As the fog eased from his mind, he forced himself to think the words. My God, he thought. My God. The poor, sweet, innocent girl. What had he done? He moved his hips to withdraw his still hard cock from the sweet embrace of her teasing cunt. As he moved, his cock resurged with life. Most of the shaft was withdrawn. Her illicit body held only the head of his prick, when he paused. His mind focused on the bathing warmth of her loving, wet pussy just kissing the head of his cock. He felt the tremendous beauty in the act, and in her. His still hard cock felt as if it hardened further. His balls tightened, as if resisting his exit themselves. He held himself poised, inside her, ready to release her, ready to free her from his wicked grasp. * * * The sudden fury with which he plunged back into her shocked and thrilled her. She'd held her tongue, panicked and sad that he was taking his marvelous cock from her, but too ashamed and guilt ridden to plead with him to stay inside her. She wanted to tell him it was where he belonged. She wanted to tell him that she desired it more than anything. She hated herself for thinking it. She wanted to tell him to fuck her again. And then he did. He filled her and stretched her like before, with the same mighty strength and power and indomitable passion. He fucked her over and over, sending her quickly into the throes of ecstasy, making her beg again and again for more and more of his wild, white, wonderful cock. She pictured it in her mind. She was a slave to it. It was all that she ever wanted. * * * He'd come four times now, already. He had no idea how much time had passed as he thrust in and out of her. She was pinned to the ground beneath him, spent and exhausted. Her lips were almost parched, even though her cunt was as hot and as wet and as enticing as when they'd started. He gazed at her with a mix of animal lust and professorial arrogance and fatherly compassion. He couldn't stop. He didn't want to, but he did, and he couldn't. Every time he came inside her he felt a moment of clarity, a moment when he knew who and what he was, and what he was doing, and that he had to stop. But it didn't last. He couldn't withdraw his cock from the precious, fantastic, bathing warmth of her petite, beautiful dark skinned body. He fucked her over and over again, with complete, unending abandon. She screamed for him, and she loved it, and so did he. * * * She lay panting, recovering, as much as she was allowed. Was that the eleventh time, or the twelfth? She'd lost count. In the brief moment of clear thought that she attained after he'd come inside her, after the warm, glowing, triumphant feeling of having him fill her with his seed, she tried to say what she had to. "Professor, please..." She wanted to ask him to stop. That's what she meant to say. She wanted to help him to find the will to end this. The words came out all wrong. "... Fuck me again. Please, Professor, fuck me again with your fantastic white man's cock..." He was so fucking strong, the most powerful man on earth, and he sought only to please her, and it was all that she wanted. * * * Fifteen, he thought. The hours were passing. Soon they would be dehydrated. He thought they'd pass out by now, but that showed no signs of happening. They were going to die this way. He'd come to that realization some time before. They were going to die in each other's arms, just as Nebemakst and his own pitiable daughter had. In the scraps of time that he had to think while his body recharged and resurged, he remembered the inscriptions. He remembered the spells. He remembered the symbols, if not entirely their meanings. He couldn't think clearly enough to find a way out. Nebemakst never had. He almost surrendered to the crushing thought. His bag of tools lay just beyond her head. He didn't try to withdraw his cock this time. He didn't try to stop. He grabbed the bag. He reached inside to quickly grab the sturdy scissor shears. He had them in his hands when the passion took him again, and he fucked her like no other man ever could or would. * * * Sixteen. He wasn't sure he had the strength. He fought in the fleeting moment he had to take his hands from his lover, to extend his one hand, pressing his ring finger between the blades of shears. He doubted that he had the strength to do it, either the physical strength, or the courage. "I love your fucking cock, Professor," she whispered into his ear. "But we have to stop. Please, you big white bastard..." Her taunt, an echo of the rebellion he knew in his heart she thought every time he spoke to her, gave him the strength. He felt his cock surge again, coming back to life, growing and hardening. He felt the power in him, the insatiable lust, with the indomitable feeling of absolute, unconquerable strength. In that last moment of lucid thought, he knew without question that he could do anything. He pressed on the handles of the shears, feeling the blades dig into his flesh, and hearing the crack of the bone as it snapped under his own awesome strength. His screams and whimpers echoed through and around the walls of the tomb like an army of scarabs, scrabbling about in search of a way out to the desert. * * * Annette scrambled out from under him, suddenly free of her feelings and passions. She sobbed as she looked down at the finger, mangled and lying on the ground beside his ruined hand. Blood poured from the stump, pooling and sinking into the layer of sand on the stone floor. The ring glistened on the severed finger in the lamplight. His pained cries filled the room. She hurried to find the medical pack, and water, stumbling to the ground with her own weakness along the way. He lay on the floor, unmoving, utterly spent, probably dying, back in the chamber. She pushed herself up. She pushed herself forward. She cried tearlessly as she ran through the halls, frantic to save his life. * * * He lay on his bed, still weak, his hand finally showing some warmth in hers. She'd recovered quickly, and well. Her dehydration was minor. It really hadn't been long at all, four or five hours, although the ordeal had seemed to last for days. They could have died. She looked away, out the window. Every time she thought about it, she had to look away. At first, they'd been silent, completely avoiding the subject. They danced around it. They pretended it hadn't happened. When they tried to talk, she'd cried unstoppably. It embarrassed her. She scolded herself for letting him see weakness in her, but she couldn't stop herself. She looked at her own hand. The ring was still there. It wouldn't come off, and probably never would, until she'd died. To protect her, the professor had hidden the other. At his instruction, before leaving the tomb, she'd placed another trinket on the dais, one selected from another room. It was a shame, an act of academic and historic sacrilege, to mislead and betray the archeological community that way. But it had to be done. He'd said he wouldn't risk letting another man ever put on the matching ring. Nebemakst Banished She owed him. She smiled at him. To the end, he was strong and brave. He said he'd failed her, as a teacher and a guardian. He'd betrayed, and abused, and failed her. She held her own tongue, staring stoically back at him. She should have used it to her advantage. She should have finally turned the tables, and in so doing been totally and completely free of his tyranny. She should have, but she didn't. She was too shy and embarrassed to tell him some of the things she really felt and thought, and certainly too overcome with emotions to spar and play games with him now. Annette stared out the window into the bright light of the day. They'd both need so much therapy to overcome this, she thought, but whom could they ever tell? How could they be honest? A magical pair of rings, buried for thousands of years, had slain its first bearers, and forced them into a painful, almost deadly, unwanted, passionate, seemingly unending union. Whom could they tell? The secret was theirs, alone and forever. That secret, and others, like the one she kept from him. She could never admit it to him. She felt a crushing pain when she admitted it to herself. But she had enjoyed it. She wanted his affection. She wanted his approval. She'd never really thought about it, but he was always the most powerful, trustworthy man left in her life. He always was, and always would be, until the day he died, and being taken and pleasured by him was a sensation that could never be matched by any other man. "I'm so sorry, Miss Bennings. Annette. I failed you," he'd said. "No, Professor. No. Nebemakst was the richest, most powerful and courageous man of his time. He was a mighty warrior and priest, with magical powers. But what did the ring do to him?" He hesitated, searching her eyes for the point of her question. "It killed him. Shamefully. And his beloved daughter, with him," he said to her, his voice almost cracking with the unspoken thought that they could have shared the same fate. "But it didn't kill us," she told him, "because of you. Nebemakst was powerful and courageous, but not as powerful and courageous as you. He couldn't make himself do what had to be done. What you did. For me. Professor." She said that last word with an adoration and pride she had never before voiced, and it melted him before her eyes. For the first time in her life he seemed to look at her with some fondness. She squeezed his hand then, feeling the stump of his bandaged finger in her grip. She smiled timidly into his sad eyes, and he smiled weakly back into hers. She had her secret, the one she couldn't bring herself to share with him, not yet, maybe never. She had enjoyed it. She told herself it was only the ring still on her finger that made her think that, but she didn't really believe it. The nightmare of that day was a memory she would cherish forever, recalling it fondly, in private, in the darkest of nights. And, deep in her heart, she secretly hoped that he had enjoyed her as well, and as much. She'd never find the courage to admit it to him, or to anyone. She could barely admit it to herself. Maybe some day he would tell her that he had, and then they wouldn't need the damned rings to do it again. @ @ @ — From the author — Please remember to vote or leave a comment. Please, too, take a moment to look at and vote for any variant of this story that hasn't earned a red "H", probably because it's not getting enough votes, because people read the others instead. If you really liked this story, please favorite me as an author. It helps me to get more readers, and gives me a reason to keep writing. — Rob