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.