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This story is based on true facts which were related in a BBC2 TV documentary though I have elaborated on these for my story.

*

“Holy One,” whispers the voice, low and deferential from out of the darkness.

Dreaming. The Goddess Nut, gigantic face, features spread over the sky, eyes the size of galaxies, expressionless, open mouth, waiting patiently, teeth monoliths apart, tongue blood-red, covered its viscous oceans, endlessly in motion, waiting, waiting as the orb of the sun sets, grows bigger in the evening mists, disappears into that vast waiting mouth and is swallowed. Lips clamp shut.

“Holy One,” repeats the voice.

Lips clamp shut. The world is in darkness. The sun makes its journey, through that darkness, through the giant body, down the oesophagus, stomach, guts and foulness. Death and corruption. Stink and contamination. Then the womb, to nestle there, comforted by placental juices and moist warmth before being expelled into the day again. But before then, the terror of darkness.

“Holy One,” a third time, accompanied by a gentle reverential touch on the shoulder.

It is still dark. Menkheperre stirs. He sits up in his wooden truckle bed, struts groaning at his movement. The sweat of his nightmare runs down the centre of his shaved chest and cools in the darkness. A guttering flame from a clay oil lamp reveals the youthful face of the merciful despoiler of his dream, anxious yet determined, the alabaster pots of purified water and oils, the folded linen garments. It is the boy, Ahotep.

“My Lord,” he says, now that he sees Menkheperre is awake. “It is time to prepare.”

Menkheperre swings his legs out and stands up. He is naked. The other looks at him, the tall figure from shaven crown, over the young face, but serious with the solemnity of the moment, the body, still angular with youth and the rigours of the regimen of training, to the long legs – but he spends most time on that which clusters in the fork.

“May I wash the Holy One?” Ahotep asks using the prescribed formula.

“Purify my body,” says Menkheperre, “so that it may be worthy to carry out the actions of the most High God.”

Ahotep dips his sponge in the water and washes away the sleep from his eyes and the sweat of the dream. Rivulets of water run down his body and reflect the flickering oil flame with points of light. Menkheperre gasps at the coldness of it. Then Ahotep washes the clefts and fissures of his body, cleaning out any dirt or uncleanness. As he passes his sponge over the genitals, the scrotum contracts forcing the testicles under, while the cock diminishes from its former distinction. Ahotep regrets this but knows that later actions will remedy the imperfection.

He dries the body with a linen towel.

“Who is the Receiver?” asks Menkheperre.

“The God has chosen me, Lord,” said Ahotep. “Unworthy though I am,” but Menkheperre looks pleased.

Ahotep pours some perfumed oil into the palms of his hands and commences to rub it onto the skin, over the shoulders and down the chest, across his narrow hips and over the limbs until his skin shines with a glowing luminosity. The air is full of the scent of jasmine, heady and intoxicating. As Ahotep reaches his genitals, he gently massages the scrotum until it hangs down, the balls heavy with their weight of sperm, then rubs the penis with long supple strokes and it grows, proud and tall under his ministrations, worthy indeed of the God himself.

Ahotep finds himself hardening in sympathy. He would like to continue the massage but time will not permit.

“May I dress the Holy One?” he asks.

“Cover my body,” says Menkheperre, “with the finest of linen, so that it may be arrayed in order to – ” he hesitates for a second and Ahotep holds his breath – Not a mistake, he prays – not this first time – ” – pay tribute to the Most High God.”

All is well. Ahotep breathes again.

He puts on the pleated loin cloth and ties it around Menkheperre’s slender waist. It hides the erection and again Ahotep is sad. Then comes the kalasiris, fastened high up under the arms and falling almost to the ground. It is made from material so fine as to be almost transparent. Ahotep can see the olive brown of his legs through it and the broad sweep of his chest, the nipples peeking through like two brown halos. He covers his shaven head with a black wig and Menkheperre is ready.

He stands in a hieratic pose, the new High Priest of the God, Amun Re, Lord of the Thrones of the Two Lands.

* * * * *

It was still dark but the Professor hadn’t been able to sleep. And the little that he had been able to catch had been troubled with strange dreams, dreams of darkness where the sun sets and never rises again. Now he was fully awake. He rinsed the crust from his eyes yalova escort with the water from the ewer which stood in the corner and wiped clean with soap and a cloth his armpits and groin. It was almost a ritual with him. He was a fastidious man and though he knew he would soon be sweaty and grimy again in the heat of the day, he preferred to start the day with as clean a body as possible, however primitive the conditions.

And some of the conditions Professor Maximilian Pontifex had been in had been primitive indeed. Although only twenty four years of age and the youngest Professor of Middle Eastern Archaeology ever, he had already been on a number of digs which would have satisfied many an archaeologist twice his age.

But this one, the excavation of the temple of Amun Re at Thebes, or the Southern City as the Ancient Egyptians would have called it, would be his greatest triumph. He was certain that he was on the brink of discovering the Sanctum Sanctorum, the Holy of Holies of the God itself. No longer would he have to wear a pair of (plain glass) pince-nez and struggle to cultivate a moustache to make himself appear older than he was. (He gave a wry smile as he thought of his jejune attempts at obfuscation.) His peers would now have to respect him for his achievements. The year of grace A.D. 1883 in the reign of her Majesty Queen Victoria would go down in Archaeological history as an annus mirabilis.

The previous evening they had worked right up to the very doorway of what he really believed was the inner sanctuary. Only the waning light and the reluctance of his native workers to continue had stopped him excavating the whole night through. He put on his fine linen shirt and tied his tie around the starched collar. It was hardly the sort of clothing that helped excavation in this land of scratchy sand and burning sun but a certain standard of decorum was expected of British scholarship. He put on his frock coat and took up an arc light from the pile of equipment. He hesitated with his pince-nez but finally decided to leave them behind. Without them he looked young and vulnerable.

Outside the tent flap and wrapped in his djellaba was Achmet, his young Egyptian assistant. The Professor tried to step over him without disturbance – he could do with his sleep certainly, he had never known a more willing and co-operative worker – but Achmet was up and ready, his eyes shining in the starlight and lips smiling to expose regular white teeth, an almost fluorescent gash in his olive brown skin.

“Early start today, effendi,” said Achmet, and touched the Professor companionably on the arm.

They set out across the sand to the dig together.

* * * * *

Menkheperre and Ahotep set out together though once outside Menkheperre’s room they are joined by the prescribed number of junior priests and acolytes who will accompany them along the way.

In daytime this will be a sunny courtyard fronted by the two mighty towered pylons, the wooden doors plated with the gold and silver alloy, electrum, and flanked by pillars shaped and coloured into the likeness of lotus flowers. The walls will be bright with painted images of the God in his glory and inlaid with lustrous stones and glistening glazes. Now it is full of dark shadows and the sound of bare feet slapping on the stone. Above them the stars flare.

As they go further down the straight processional way, the lesser priests and their attendants drop away, their part in the ritual over. Only the ritually pure can proceed to the Holy of Holies and eventually, at the door, there are only the High Priest, Menkheperre, the Receiver, Ahotep, and four Watchers or Witnesses.

The Sanctuary is a small chamber with no windows and only a narrow doorway, at the moment closed. This part of the immense temple complex is not meant to be impressive, but its holiness means it will never be violated. At the doorway the little procession of six halt while Menkheperre reads from the painted inscription on the wall.

“Hail to you, Amun Re, Lord of the Thrones of the Two Lands, foremost in the Southern City and the Northern City, you of the massive thighs and member, wide of stride which encompasses the earth, foremost in Nubia, Ruler of Punt, most ancient in Heaven and eldest in all the world, whose mighty orgasm creates all things and makes the sun to rise.”

The door is opened and they enter.

* * * * *

“Well, Achmet, what do you think of the work of your mighty ancestors?” asked Professor Pontifex. He gestured at the ruined remains of the pylons and rows of half columns that lined the processional way down the centre. They made a curious couple, the English Professor in his correct coat and trousers and the Egyptian in his loose hooded cloak which edirne escort reached to the ground. It was probably the more practical of the two and certainly, at this time of the day, the warmer. Despite their differences, however, in colour, race, religions, there was a certain similarity between the two, a compatibility that transcended all else.

“It is impressive, effendi,” said Achmet, “but at the same time a little sad.”

“Sad that they should expend so much effort on a mistaken idea, or sad that the magnificence has come to this ruin?”

“Perhaps a little of both, effendi.”

The Professor took a breath. “You could call me, Max,” he said. “It is what my friends call me.”

Achmet appeared to be trying the strange-sounding name over to himself. Eventually he said, “Max,” and laughed.

“How many years – er – Max, has this been here?” he asked.

“Well this part, according to the wall inscriptions was erected in the XXIst Dynasty, the reign of King Psusennes I (1041 BC – 993BC) and the High Priest was a man called Menkheperre. It is after the great period of Egyptian history, the time of the Rameses, but to rule for 48 years shows a time of stability and strength.”

They reached the small, square building which they had been digging out from the sand over the past few days. Professor Pontifex lit the arc lamp and by its flaring light they could see the inscriptions and the doorway, now blocked by some pieces of stone which had fallen from the architrave.

“See,” he said, “Here is the Royal cartouche of King Psusennes and here – ” he pointed lower down ” – is the name of the High Priest.”

“Can we open the doorway by ourselves?” asked Achmet.

“Though we are only two, we have the strength of a hundred.”

Achmet looked puzzled.

“It says so here,” and Pontifex pointed to yet another inscription.

They struggled with a large piece of limestone and eventually got it free. The Professor was sweating by the time and, casting convention to the winds, he took off his coat and his detachable collar and tie. He opened the buttons of his shirt. Achmet looked at him. “You have a good physique, Max,” he said. Pontifex felt a little embarrassed – one doesn’t make remarks like that to another man – but all the same, pleased.

After the removal of the large piece, the rest of the stones came away easily and soon they could peer, or indeed crawl into the building. He shone the light through. On the walls were illustrations in colours as bright as the day they had been painted, the glazes clear, the outlines sharp.

* * * * *

The Witnesses carry oil lamps. These are the only lights and just illumine the wall paintings but their bright colours stand out anyway. Here is the Great God in all his sexual prowess and glory, the phallus erect and far beyond the dimensions of mortal man.

Ithyphallic Amun Re frots, sucks and ruts and his seed spurts forming the world, creating the everlasting verities of Egyptian life, the daily passage of the sun, the annual flooding and irrigation of the fields by the Nile and, of course, the mysteries of the After-Life.

Menkheperre bows low to the images and prays that he may be allowed to undertake the duties of the God. Every day of every year for millennium after millennium, in the shadowed chamber of a perfect elegance, at the temple’s core, the priest administers the offices of the cult. Now it is Menkheperre’s turn.

Ahotep kneels before him and opens the kalasiris, then unties the fastenings of his loincloth. It drops to the ground, never to be used again for the God has worn it and it is holy. He takes the penis of the God reverentially into his hands and in their warmth and movement, it enlarges and stiffens. He pulls back the foreskin so that the glans appears, a drop of crystal fluid at its head.

“I take the member of the God in my hands,” Ahotep says. “And it is good.”

He gently rubs the ball sack and reaches under it to massage the perineum. The God’s member twitches and Ahotep knows it is time. He puts more scented oil on the cock now engorged to its fullest extent and then lays himself on his back on the altar stone. He raises his knees so that the access to his body can be seen and entered.

Now the God moves to him and presses his penis to the offered hole.

“I take the member of the God into my body,” says Ahotep and Menkheperre pushes himself, oiled and willing, the full length.

Ahotep tries to restrain a cry of pain. He manages to turn it into the ordained response. “And – it – is – good.” The words are choked out.

Now Menkheperre withdraws and then plunges in again. Ahotep speared beneath him looks into his eyes, but they are glazed and unseeing. He has become the erzurum escort God and it is Amun Re who pushes the prick of heaven into the earthly anus. The tempo quickens and the God’s head suddenly jerks upwards. Now Ahotep must remove himself from the God’s thrusting and ejaculating member for the Watchers must witness the Holy emission.

Forcing backwards with his legs, he groans as he feels the twitching cock leave him and then the warm semen spatter onto his stomach and chest. It is a goodly discharge and the Watchers take note and approve.

Menkheperre grasps his own cock and holds himself while the spasms jerk and the last drops are caught by the chosen Receiver.

In the Eastern sky the sun rises.

* * * * *

They clambered through into the room and stared round at the glorious riot of sexual extravaganza.

It took Pontifex a few seconds for their import to register and, as he did so, he gasped. In scene after scene a Godlike form, wearing the headress that identified him as Amun Re, sporting an erection which defied belief, fucked, frotted, rogered and sucked with an assortment of slender young ephebic partners. Embarrassed the Professor tried to look elsewhere but the sexual marathon continued all around him and despite himself, as he made out the pictures, he felt a pleasurable stirring in his loins.

Achmet showed no such inhibitions. He danced from one scene to the next, alternately crowing with delight or gasping with happy amazement.

“Look, effendi Max. Look what they are doing. Is that possible?” Laughing with the irrepressible humour of the young. Max envied him. He was scarcely a year or two older than the boy but his own strict education and upbringing had loaded him with inhibitions so strong as to make him feel generations older.

“They are – ,” he searched for the word, ” – incredible!”

“And the two there – ” Achmet was at his shoulder, his breath warm on the side of his face, laughter and – was it excitement – in his whispered words. “I think they are – enjoying themselves.”

His body leaned lightly against Max’s, an arm round him, the hand resting on his shoulder. Through the djellaba and his own cotton shirt, Max could feel the youthful litheness of his torso which touched him from chest to hip. He felt he should step away but wanted the contact to remain – for ever? What was happening to him?

“I wonder what it would feel like to do that,” said Achmet softly, his breath a tender caress.

“It would be very very – wrong,” the statement started firmly but faded into indecision.

“But perhaps pleasurable.”

Max’s erection grew. It would be obvious, he knew, within the confines of his tight trousers. Achmet’s djellaba hid all.

Max turned inwards to break the contact of the arm around him but found his face was just inches away from Achmet’s, the eyes bright and shining, his lips, full and inviting. He could not help himself. He kissed the lips, – and was lost.

Their bodies were pressed together and Max knew what the Arab cloak had hidden – that Achmet sported an erection as great as his. The spear of hard flesh pushed into his groin. Achmet’s arms and hands were holding him, stroking his back through the thin material of his shirt and then going down to cup his buttocks and pull him into even closer contact.

Achmet’s kiss was strange. His mouth blocked the air and then he suddenly sucked so that the breath was out of Max’s mouth, out of his lungs. He experienced slight pain but immense eroticism and had to pull away to breathe.

Then Achmet slid down his body, covering with light, feathery kisses the exposed flesh of his chest and abdomen, the flat surface of his stomach. His fingers felt for, found and swiftly undid the buttons on his trousers, releasing his stiffness and then his lips were on his penis, taking it into that warm, moist place with the fibrillating tongue. The pleasure was almost intolerable. He groped for Achmet’s groin, wanting to feel him, to do the same for him. He staggered and fell and the two of them were struggling together on the sandy floor. Achmet’s djellaba opened. Max’s shirt torn off and his trousers kicked away.

Then they found the position, mouth to groin, groin to mouth – and it was good. There was a scent of jasmine from the boy’s body and the cock in his mouth was both rigid and silky soft, the ball sack in his hand, full and virile.

The mouth on his cock lunged up and down and he knew he would come. He could not – nor had any wish to control himself. Achmet was making strange whimpering noises and he heard other sounds which he knew must come from himself.

Suddenly his mouth was filled and knowing it was Achmet’s semen, drove him over the top. He came, again and again, the pleasure pulsing from his loins, his legs, arms, his whole body until he thought he must be drained dry, a desiccated husk. Then he swallowed what had been given to replace the loss and knew fulfillment.

The rays of the morning sun touched the entrance to the Sanctuary.

Gloriously in the Eastern sky, the sun rose.

* * * * * *

FIN

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