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The sun beat down upon Set Maat, ending the relief of the night.  Wind whistled through the valley, carrying the sand of the desert into the village, where it gathered in every nook and cranny.  The cliff faces seemed to dance in the rising heat, taking on a semblance of life in the valley of the dead.

Isetnofret smiled as she wished her father farewell, but once he vanished into the morning bustle of artisans and laborers, she sighed.

Today, he would finish his painting in the tomb of an overseer.  It was a project that was no challenge to his skill, but a necessity if he wished to have the means to complete the preparations for his own journey into the afterlife.  By now, he should have been able to pick and choose only those jobs that indulged his passion for painting and increased his status, but such was not to be.

Though he didn’t blame her, Isetnofret certainly blamed herself.  Her wealthy husband had passed from sickness after two years of marriage.  Because she had not borne him a child before his passing, his family had cast her aside, forcing her to return to her father’s household.  She also felt responsible for the early death of her mother, who had never truly recovered from childbirth.  The cost of preparing her body had further set back her father’s plans.

Her mother rested in a small, temporary, but lovingly decorated tomb, awaiting the day when her final resting place would be complete.  Once, Isetnofret had thought she would give her parents a grand burial that would ensure their place in the afterlife, and now she was a burden instead.

Though she was a nearly unrivaled beauty, the wind whispered with rumors that she was cursed and barren.  No man sought her hand, though many still sought her body.  She had rebuffed them all.  Though she ached for pleasure, she would give herself to no man who would not relieve her father of the burden she had become.

Her heart heavy – as always – she made her way into the rising heat and the stream of laborers who ogled her with unabashed lust, on her way to her toil, baking bread.

It was near to the time of high sun when the women of the bakery glanced at each other, wondering at the nervous posture of their overseer.  He had stepped outside to speak to someone, and returned looking as though he had discovered a scorpion in his sandal.

Whispers traveled, as whispers do, and Isetnofret learned the reason for the odd behavior of the overseer.  The youngest son of Pharaoh had come to the valley.  The news left her with a mixture of fear and awe, as it did all in Set Maat.  Little was known of Dedumose beyond his name, and that his mother was a woman Pharaoh had bedded once on a hunting trip.

When the child was old enough to travel, his mother had journeyed up the Nile to present him to Pharaoh.  Despite his mother’s prior, humble status, she had been granted a place amongst Pharaoh’s concubines, when he saw the child.  Dedumose was an acknowledged heir of Pharaoh, and thus he had power.

None knew how he would wield that power over them.

When Isetnofret left the bakery, she took a moment to marvel at the young heir’s tents, set up far from the dwellings of the common people.  They were elaborately decorated, and trimmed with glimmering gold.  Servants scurried amongst the tents, attending to the wants and needs of the man who took shelter within their shade.

She turned away, as the opulence reminded her of her husband.  Though the marriage had been a practical means to advance her status, and that of her parents, she had grown fond of her husband in the end.  She thought that perhaps she had even loved him.  Surely she had mourned for more than her possible fate when he was laid to rest in the tomb her father had painted.

She returned to their small home, in order to prepare for her father’s comfort upon his return from the dark tomb in the valley.

Father and daughter both started some hours later, as the sun dipped toward the horizon in preparation to pass through the underworld.  A loud, brazen knock sounded on their humble door.  Her father shooed her away, and went to answer it.

Isetnofret peeked out from behind the reed mat covering the doorway of her room, and had to hold back a gasp when she saw the soldiers at the door.  One of them announced “Dedumose, son of Pharaoh...”

The rest of the lengthy introduction was lost on her as she stood frozen.  The fear and awe she had felt earlier filled her to overflowing.

The soldiers stepped aside, and her father bent his knees to abase himself before one of royal blood.

“Rise,” Dedumose said as he stepped forward.  “I seek your skill.”

Again, Isetnofret had to hold back a gasp.  Pharaoh’s son was clad in nothing more than a thin kilt of fine linen, trimmed with gold.  If any doubt that he was born of the gods had dwelled within her, one sight of his magnificent body would have carried it away as if a feather upon the wind.  Yet another emotion joined those roiling within her – intense arousal.  He was the most beautiful, perfect man she had ever seen.

“How may I serve you, my lord?” her father asked.

Dedumose answered, “My mother beheld your work in the tomb of her father when she was young.  She said it was the most pleasing to the gods that was ever offered in their favor.  I seek such favor when I stand before them, and would have your work within my own tomb.”

Her father responded, “I would be honored to serve you so, my lord.”

Isetnofret knew her father well, and could hear the excitement in his voice.  It was entirely possible that the son of Pharaoh might expect the work to be done for free.  Still, the value of painting the tomb of a member of the royal family was priceless.  It would allow her father to attract wealthier patrons, which would in turn attract even more.  Surely the gods would reward him in this world and the next for serving the blood of Pharaoh as well.

Dedumose lifted a hand and beckoned someone who waited behind him.  A servant approached bearing a vessel.  Isetnofret’s father gasped upon looking into the vessel, and she barely held back her own.  The ground glass was normally reserved for the blue in only the most important paintings within the burial chamber.  The color symbolized creation and rebirth.  What was within the pot would be sufficient for every painting in a large tomb, even used liberally.

The young heir said, “It would please me for you to use this for the blue in your paintings.”

“With this, my work will have life of its own, my lord.  To paint with this is a blessing,” Isetnofret’s father said, and gave a bow.

Dedumose smiled.  “You will have servants to aid you, meat, bread, and beer made by those who serve me.  I would see to your comfort that you may devote your energy to the work.”

“When may I begin?” he asked.  His enthusiasm had grown to such a point that any could hear it in his voice.

The son of Pharaoh chuckled.  “It will be some time before the tomb is ready for painting.  I would have you oversee the plastering, to ensure you have a suitable surface upon which to paint.”

“That will serve you well, my lord.  If I may, my lord, I would like to sketch your likeness, that you may approve of my rendering before the true work begins.”

Dedumose nodded.  “This is the reason I sought you out.  My mother said you captured her father’s likeness, yet cast him in the most perfect light.  That is what I wish.  I am prepared to sit for such a rendering at this time.”

“Oh.  Oh, of course, my lord.  Daughter, fetch me papyrus, ink, and pen.”

Isetnofret’s heart skipped a beat.  Fear and anxiety swelled within her, but she mastered them to step out of her room and respond as appropriate.  “If it pleases my lord, I will do so at once.”

The young heir’s eyes widened, and his lips curled into a smile.  “It would please me greatly.  Join us as your father works.  How are you called, beautiful one?”

Warmth flooded her cheeks – and wetness gathered elsewhere – as she answered, “Isetnofret, my lord.”

“The beautiful Isis,” Dedumose said.  “It suits you.  Please, bring what your father requires and join us.”

“At once my lord.”

Isetnofret breathed a quiet sigh of relief when she stepped out of sight to gather her father’s tools.  The look on the young heir’s face had made her weak in the knees.  It had been some time since a man had looked upon her with such mingled admiration and desire, as opposed to pure lust.

When she stepped back into the main room, she saw that Dedumose’s preparation to sit for a likeness had included a chair brought from his tents.  While a pair of his servants remained, the soldiers had stepped outside.  The heir’s smile widened as she entered, and she found herself smiling back.

“Thank you, my daughter,” her father said when he took the implements of his art.

“Please, sit,” Dedumose asked her.

Isetnofret took her place at her father’s side, sitting upon the floor.  Her father was already hard at work, glancing up at the son of Pharaoh, and then making careful marks on the papyrus with a charred stick before committing with ink.

“I am a man of action,” Dedumose said, addressing her father.  “Is your daughter promised to wed?”

“She is not, my lord,” her father answered.

Isetnofret’s heart raced.

“Would you be pleased if I were to join the suitors seeking her promise?” the young heir asked.

Her father quickly answered, “Most pleased, my lord.”

Dedumose turned toward her, and Isetnofret’s next indrawn breath was a shuddering one.  He asked, “Would it please you, beautiful one?”

“It would, my lord,” she answered, thankful that her voice sounded strong, and carried none of the nervousness she felt.

Their eyes met, and she was lost within them.  Their souls silently whispered within that gaze – laid bare to each other.  Time was but one exquisite moment, stretching out into eternity within his eyes.

Dedumose and Isetnofret both started slightly when her father said, “It is finished, my lord.”

He continued as he held up the papyrus to present it to the son of Pharaoh.  “This is but an unrefined sketch, my lord.  May it please you.”

Dedumose took the sketch, shook his head and smiled.  “If this is what you believe is unrefined, your final work will surely inspire awe.  I am most pleased.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

“I will take no more of your time this night,” the young heir said.  “I will stay for some time to approve of other work in my tomb.  I will have it be known that you are welcome to deliver further work to my tents.  For now, I must attend to the duty I have forestalled, and deliver the word of Pharaoh to the overseer of his tomb.”

“I have this day completed my most recent work,” Isetnofret’s father said.  “My time shall belong to you, my lord.”

“Then, the gods have surely guided me to come at this time.”  Dedumose turned to Isetnofret and said, “It would please me to have you join me for my evening repast, beautiful one.”

“It would please me as well, my lord,” Isetnofret responded.

“Then I am doubly pleased,” he said as he rose from his chair.  He nodded to the older female servant at his side.

“I will convey you to my lord’s tents,” the woman said.

“And I will count the moments until I am free of my duty,” Dedumose said, and then caressed Isetnofret’s cheek.

She shivered from his touch.

The young heir nodded, and then took his leave.  Once he was outside, the older woman said, “Come.  I am Khepri.”

“Go with my blessing, daughter,” her father said.  He picked up a second sheet of papyrus.

Isetnofret could see the light of passion in her father’s eyes, and cautioned, “Do not stay at your work too late, father.”

“Yes.  Yes,” he said, already beginning a new sketch.

Khepri chuckled.  “I can send a servant to ensure he seeks his bed, if you wish.”

The woman’s demeanor was infectious, and Isetnofret’s voice carried notes of laughter when she said, “Perhaps that might be wise.”

Her father blew out a dismissive sound, but otherwise continued his sketch.

Khepri gestured toward the door.  When Isetnofret nodded, the older woman led the way.

“I will prepare you to dine with my lord,” Khepri said as they walked across the sand and stone, in the rosy light of the setting sun.  “I have served him since his arrival at the palace.  I believe he is smitten.”

“Do you think so?” Isetnofret excitedly asked.  “I mean...”

The older woman chuckled.  “Speak freely.  Yes.  I believe you find him pleasing as well.”

“I do.”

“This is good.  I am tasked by his mother with seeing to the matters of his heart, and heirs.”

Isetnofret swallowed hard, knowing that after a two-year marriage that had not resulted in a child, she might very well not be able to offer heirs.

Khepri continued, “To such ends, I am prepared with clothing and jewelry to present yourself to my lord in a manner befitting one of his blood.  I will assist you in bathing, shaving, and adorning your face.  Worry not.”

That was easier said than done.  At any moment, the knowledge of her widowing and rumors that she was barren could reach Dedumose, and all would be lost.

It was a wondrous scene that greeted Isetnofret when Khepri led her into a tent set somewhat apart from the others.  Several carefully worked pieces of stone formed a square of solid floor, around which servants were at work.  The men and women ever so slowly poured the water of the Nile through linen, filtering out the silt.  Jugs that stood near the stone floor contained the clearest water Isetnofret had ever beheld.

In the opposite corner of the tent was another stone floor, connected by stepping stones.  There, a low table supported numerous wooden boxes – all marvelously decorated with carving, gems, and gold.

Khepri inspected the jugs, nodded in approval, and then ordered all the male servants to leave, and continue their work in another tent.  Two other women remained.

“Bring the stones,” Khepri told one of the women.  She then turned to Isetnofret and said, “I will see that your wig and clothes are cared for.”

Isetnofret removed her wig and undressed, eager to bathe.  One after another, hot stones from a fire outside were dropped into three jugs of water, warming it.  Khepri carefully folded her clothing, and sent the other female servant to attend to their washing.  Once nude, Khepri took Isetnofret’s hand and led her to the stone floor.

The two women lifted one of the jugs, and carefully poured it over Isetnofret’s body.  The shower was far more luxurious than what she was used to, and Isetnofret sighed in satisfaction as she rubbed her hands over her body, washing away the dust, grit, and sweat of the hot desert day that had accumulated since her bath upon returning from the bakery.

Next, Khepri provided a natron soap that had an exhilarating floral and mint scent.  Isetnofret scrubbed her body, and then two more jugs of warm, crystal clear water rinsed the residue away.  She felt cleaner than she ever had in her life.

Khepri helped blot her body dry with thick, remarkably soft towels of linen, and then she went to the table to retrieve something from one of the exquisite boxes.  Isetnofret regarded the implement with curiosity.  Projecting from a carved wooden handle was a stone blade of shiny black.

The older woman noticed Isetnofret’s stare and smiled.  “Obsidian.  You will see.”  She then directed the other servant to bring a chair, which was placed upon the floor of stone.

Once she was seated, Khepri spread a thin layer of scented oil on Isetnofret’s head.  Isetnofret braced herself for the scraping of the blade, but she was surprised to feel it gliding over her skin with almost no bite at all.  Khepri worked quickly and carefully, until she finished by wiping away the excess oil.

“Feel,” the older woman suggested.

Isetnofret ran her hand over the top of her head and gasped.  It was perfectly smooth, without the slightest hint of stubble.

Khepri chuckled and said, “See?”

“It is wonderful,” Isetnofret remarked, still caressing her scalp.

“Let us attend to the rest,” the older woman instructed.

Though it took a while, Khepri shaved away the stubble on Isetnofret’s body in a fraction of the time it would have normally taken using a copper blade.  Running her fingers over her freshly shaven, oh-so-smooth mound caused Isetnofret to shiver.  Khepri and the other woman then filed her finger and toenails into smooth, attractive hemispheres.

The two servants next anointed Isetnofret’s body with more scented oils, making her skin shine and shimmer.  Khepri led Isetnofret across the stepping stones, to the table, and then withdrew a wig from one of the boxes.

It was like nothing she had ever seen before.  The hairs were long, straight, and would fall over her shoulder blades.  Bangs hung from the front as well.  Khepri helped settle the wig in place, and then retrieved a polished silver mirror.  The look was exotic and stunning.

“Yes.  Perfect.  Beautiful,” Khepri remarked.  “Now, to your makeup.”

The older woman applied the kohl to her eyes, and then a dusting of some red powder to her cheeks.  Upon looking in the mirror, Isetnofret was amazed by the sharpness of the lines around her eyes.  The woman had a hand as steady and talented as her father’s.

“Should I redden your lips?” Khepri asked.

The wearing of such red lip balm was a signal that a woman was willing and skillful in the art of fellatio, mimicking how the goddess Isis had returned life to her slain husband Osiris.  Isetnofret nodded, and said, “Yes.”

The woman who had been sent to attend to Isetnofret’s clothing returned as Khepri finished painting Isetnofret’s lips, and said, “My lord is bathed and retiring to his tent.”

Khepri said, “Make ready for my lord’s repast, and let him know his guest will be with him soon.”  She then said, “Let us dress you.”

The older woman opened one of the boxes and withdrew a loincloth that was dyed to resemble gold, and adorned with ornaments of the real thing.  When Isetnofret slipped it on, the front piece barely covered her sex, while the back left the outer swell of her buttocks bare.  It was apparent that Khepri had specific intentions for how the evening would proceed.

“And one final touch,” Khepri said, while opening another of the boxes.

Isetnofret covered her mouth and gasped at the sight of the golden necklace within.  Braided chains of gold supported a wide collar necklace decorated with scarabs, discs representative of the sun, and ankhs.  A large golden scorpion was the focal point of the necklace.  Khepri settled the heavy chain over her neck, revealing that some of the ornaments were hollow, and designed as tiny, tinkling bells.  The necklace hung draped over the inner swell of her breasts, but otherwise left them bare.

The other woman held up a long robe of linen.  Khepri said, “To hide you from those unworthy to see.”

Her heart pattering, and a chill of anticipation running all through her, Isetnofret allowed the two women to slip the robe over her, and tie it closed.  Khepri handed her a mint to freshen her breath, and then led the way.  The walk between the smaller tent and the large ones at the center of the encampment felt as if it took an eternity.  Reed mats had been spread upon the sand, guiding her toward where Dedumose awaited.

The young heir lounged in a nest of cushions, sipping from a cup, when Khepri led Isetnofret inside.  Pharaoh’s son had a sheen of scented oils on his body, making his already godly form even more magnificent.  Dedumose smiled and said, “Please, join me.”

With that, Khepri untied the robe, and slipped it off Isetnofret’s shoulders.  The eyes of Pharaoh’s son widened, and the cup he had been attempting to place on a table tumbled to the floor.

“None but the gods have ever beheld such a vision,” Dedumose said as he gestured for her to approach.

Isetnofret sauntered across the cushioned floor, letting the cloth hiding her sex dance back and forth, almost – but not quite – revealing what was hidden beyond.  Her necklace tinkled, drawing attention to her bared breasts.  Dedumose’s eyes took in the flutter of that cloth and the jiggle of her breasts, his eyes filling with the fires of desire.  She lowered herself to the cushions at his side, and noticed something.  His kilt was rising – and kept rising – to such a point as to instill a touch of fearful fascination within her.

“Would you like some fruit, beautiful one?” he asked, looking deep into her eyes.

Isetnofret shuddered, for there was far more than lust there.  In his eyes, she saw the same awe she felt upon looking at him.  Her arousal, which was already building, swelled one hundred fold.

“There is something I would much rather taste, my lord,” she said, and then licked her bright red lips.

Dedumose let out a quiet growl, and then reached for the hem of his kilt.  He lifted it, and Isetnofret drew in a shuddering gasp.  The rising of cloth had barely prepared her for the truth.  The length and breadth of his phallus surely rivaled that of the gods themselves.

His voice deep with desire, Dedumose cupped her cheek in his hand and said, “Then breathe life into me, beautiful one, as did the goddess for whom you are named.”

A moment of panic gripped her as Isetnofret leaned into her lord’s lap.  Her husband had given her ample opportunity to practice and learn, but his manhood had been nothing compared to that of Pharaoh’s son.  She fought through the anxiety as his cock loomed ever larger in her vision.  Mint and myrrh mingled with his manly scent, making her feel light-headed.  Her tongue snaked out, and brushed over the tip of his hardness.

Dedumose groaned and reclined on the cushions.

Isetnofret whimpered when the darting of her tongue brought forth an offering.  Gathering up the clear drop set her taste buds alight, made her mouth water, and  her body tremble.  She slathered her tongue over his manhood, wetting it in the water of her hunger, and then parted her lips wide.  His growl as she engulfed him in her hot mouth made her spirit soar.

She curled her fingers around the root, feeling skin as smoothly shaven as her own.  The thick shaft was a challenge for her fingers, let alone her mouth.  She bobbed her head up and down slowly, able to take only a fraction of his magnificent cock.  The hairs of her wig swayed from the motion, and the golden necklace about her neck jangled musically.  Though she felt a burn in the corners of her mouth and her jaw muscles ached, she kept her lips tightly sealed around him as she sucked.

Dedumose grunted and growled, voicing his pleasure.  He slipped a hand between their bodies to find her taut breast and squeeze it.  After thoroughly exploring the globe and its stiff point, his hand moved along her side, to her back, and then brushed aside the loincloth to caress her bare buttock.

Isetnofret ignored her discomfort to suck him faster, and his hips began to rise toward her.  Though she occasionally choked and gagged, she was quick to suck her cheeks back in and resist her rebelling stomach.  Her saliva dribbled in thick streams down his huge erection.

Every wiggle of her tongue, twist of her head, or squeeze of her hand caused it to throb between her lips.  To have one of such rank become a slave of her mouth was intoxicating, and she sought his ultimate surrender with vigor.  More than anything, she wanted to feel him swell and pulse, flooding her mouth, and filling her belly with his royal seed.

Such was not to be.

“Beautiful one,” he said, his voice tight with pleasure.  “The seed should be planted in a fertile field, and you are near to spilling it.”

Isetnofret winced as his strong hands tugged her away from his throbbing cock.  She knew there was every chance her fields would remain forever barren.

“But first, I would drink the nectar of your lotus.”

A whimper escaped her as his meaning dawned upon her.  Her husband had never wished to taste of her, but she knew of the act, and had often dreamed of it in the silence of the night as she quelled her passion with her fingers.

Dedumose sat up, pulling her to him, and she could feel his hot, minty breath washing over her skin as they rubbed their noses together.  Their hands roamed over each other’s smooth, slippery bodies, and Isetnofret reveled in the feeling of his steely muscles twitching from her touch.

He guided her to lie down, and nuzzled her breasts with his nose and cheek.  Then he moved lower, and lower still, until his hands slid in behind her knees.  He pushed them up and out, opening her to him.  Isetnofret stroked her hands over his cheek, up to the perfect curve of his bald head, and tugged ever so slightly.

The son of Pharaoh smiled, brushed her loincloth aside, and lowered himself to her treasure.

Isetnofret let out a keen not unlike a soaring hawk when his tongue parted her pink petals.  Her hands knew nothing of tradition, rank, or protocol when they moved to the back of his head, holding him against her sex.

Still, she had not the strength to resist his powerful neck muscles when he lifted his head to say, “Such sweetness, beautiful one.”

“Drink deep, my lord.  Quench your thirst, and my own.”

And so, he did.  Isetnofret writhed on the cushions, losing her wig in only a few seconds.  His lips and tongue seemed to have been created by the gods solely for her pleasure as he drank from the font of her bittersweet nectar.  He growled and moaned – his tongue ever in motion – sending her soaring high and fast, until she was certain she would have needed to look down upon the hawk whose keen she had embodied in her first cry.

She yelped, whimpered, and moaned, relieved of any potential shame at her loud vocalizations by the intense pleasure.  Never had her husband made her feel such ecstasy.  Truly, his tongue was a divine thing, making her nearly senseless to anything but the swelling, chill-shot pressure building in her loins.

The blessing came upon her with the swiftness and fury of a sandstorm.  Her orgasm ravaged her mercilessly, making her thrash and flail about as she screamed to the heavens above.  It was pleasure beyond pleasure – more than she had ever dared imagine – and refused to let her go.

Slowly but surely, she broke free, and her senses once more recognized the wider world beyond the beautiful agony he had given to her.  Dedumose knelt above her, wiping away beads of sweat threatening to trickle into her eyes with a soft cloth.

“Oh, my lord,” she weakly moaned when their eyes met.

“Water,” he called out.  A woman stepped into the tent almost before his voice had faded, bearing a pitcher and cup.  There was longing in the serving woman’s eyes as she beheld his throbbing cock and Isetnofret twitching in sweet satisfaction.

The servant poured the water while Dedumose slipped and arm behind Isetnofret’s back, and easily lifted her until she was seated.  He took the cup from his servant’s hand when the woman approached, and brought it to Isetnofret’s lips himself.  She drank deeply and gratefully, cooling the great heat that seemed to permeate every bit of her.  When she finished, he handed the cup back to his servant, who filled it again.

Strong enough to sit on her own, her eyes smiled at him over her cup as he took one of his own, retrieved from where it had spilled on the floor, and refilled.  He nodded toward the tent flap, and the woman quickly took her leave.  They took their last sips together, gazing into each other’s eyes.  Both cups tumbled forgotten to the cushions when they embraced to nuzzle noses once more.

“When the Nile has flooded, and receded, the fields are fertile,” he said in a deep, suggestive voice.

“And it is time to plant your seed,” Isetnofret responded in a voice full of equal passion.

Dedumose lowered her to the cushions, his sweat-slick, oil-infused skin slipping over hers.  She parted her legs wide in invitation, though she trembled in somewhat fearful anticipation of what was to come.  His cock was significantly – frightfully – larger than her husband’s had been.  Dedumose caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, while the other arm slipped behind her back.  Her erect nipples tickled his broad chest as he looked into her eyes, and shifted his hips.  Isetnofret drew in a deep breath as she felt the tip press against the entrance of her canal.

Her head snapped back in a silent scream when he penetrated her.

With barely more than the tip inside her, she felt filled to her limit.  A slight stroke of his hips caused her to lurch, and pushed the massive invader just a tiny bit deeper.  Over and over again he thrust, opening her up with slow, but insistent pressure.

It was overwhelming.  She could feel deep, animalistic sounds rumbling in her chest and throat – bursting from her lips – but she couldn’t hear them over her heartbeat thundering in her ears.   She thought that she must surely split in half, broken by the stone-hard, thick phallus diving into her hot, wet depths.  Barely there at first, she felt something else join the ache of him stretching her.

It was a warm tightness, growing and pulsing behind her mound.  Though she felt a tickle in the swollen button at the apex of her widely stretched nether lips, something stronger – deeper – was swelling inside her.

She heard his grunts and growls as she grew accustomed to his girth.  She saw the wonder and pleasure in his features when he lifted his head, and knew it must be mirrored in her own face.  Her legs curled around him, feet settling on his back, even as she pulled him closer with her arms.  Joined together, skin-to-skin, dripping with sweat, they soared together.

It came upon her not as the rushing water of the Nile, but as the rumbling of the earth.  Slow, relentless, and powerful was her ecstasy, building until she thought she would burst.  Finally, her orgasm crashed down upon her in a wave that shot from her depths to the tip of her toes, to the top of her head, and then crashed back inward to begin the cycle anew.

The growls bursting from Dedumose’s lips grew louder, and his cock thrust harder into her.  She could feel him swelling, knew he was close, and cried out, “Yes, my lord!”

Isetnofret let out a screech when he surrendered to his need, driving his full length into her for the first time.  She reached a new plateau of sweet surrender when his balls slapped repeatedly against her skin a dozen times, and then he froze, buried to the hilt inside her.  He gave a roar that would have caused a lion to cower, and his seed erupted deep inside her.

The couple writhed, thrashed, and screamed as their orgasms ripped through them, until they were utterly spent.  Gasping, sweating, and breathless they slowly settled into the afterglow, sharing a laugh when their eyes met, and they saw each other’s exhausted, but deeply satisfied faces.

Not long after, the son of Pharaoh’s huge phallus once again straightened beneath her touch.  He filled her twice more before the sun’s light brightened the face of the mountains and the desert once more.

**

Though she wept as she watched the huge stone seal the corridor of her mother and father’s tomb, her heart also leapt with joy.  Thanks to the patronage of her royal-blooded husband, the tomb of her parents was the finest that their station allowed, and would surely see them swiftly to a place of honor in the afterlife.  The paintings, done in her father’s own hand, and finished only days before he died, were a cut above what even most of noble blood would have enjoyed.  He had spent his final years comfortably indulging his passion, in pursuit of his family’s afterlife.

Her own tomb, also painted with her father’s hand, was with her husband, and ready to receive them.  She hoped that would be many, many years in the future.

Seven of their children stood respectfully behind them – four boys and three girls – watching the ending of the funeral, and weeping for a grandfather they loved as dearly as they had the Pharaoh, who had gone into the afterworld a few years before.  Their youngest son, born just in time for her father to lay eyes upon him before he passed, suckled at her breast.  That very first night had proven she was not barren, and she had proved it many times since.

Though Dedumose was far down the line of succession, and would likely never take the mantle of Pharaoh, he was an important man in his oldest brother’s court.  Their children would be priests, warriors, and wives to the elite.  Their future was assured, and bright – in this life, and the next.

Her husband had given her the gift of eternity, which they would share forever more.