The baby is healthy and beautiful. She names it for her mother, and she loves it with a fierce and cannibal cunning.
But the father is the one seduced and charmed. The child becomes his little sweetheart. He dotes on her and plans for her a future full of independence and achievement.
When the baby is a few months old, she sits beside the crib one night, admiring the beauty of her daughter’s face, her laughing eyes and guileless zest. Surely this child will have a charmed life – unlike her cursed one.
The baby frets as she bends over the crib. She has her father’s mouth. The mother feels a rush of loss and loathing. How dare his daughter look forward to the kind of life that she has forfeited. Black envy seethes inside her.
She searches her mind for a gift appropriate for the daughter of the man that she despises.
And it comes back to her – bitter and seductive, the words like licorice laced with strychnine, dark and sweet and sickening.
The words change, but the meaning is always the same: men are evil and lust-crazed and dangerous...women exist to be debased and defiled...
...but good girls never want this.
You must never want this.
And so the curse is passed.
That night, when she lies down next to her husband, her sleep is deep and dreamless.
The Mummy’s Curves
Ken MacGregor
Except for that one thing, Dr. Wylie was a thorough, careful and competent archaeologist. Certainly, Dr. Wylie had enjoyed a long and prestigious career in what was an often contentious field. That being said, the one thing was significant.
Once, Dr. Ernest Wylie’s face had graced the cover of National Geographic. The morning his neighbor Carl walked across the lawn and handed Dr. Wylie his advance copies remained one of the high points of his life. Despite the idiot mailman bringing them to the wrong house.
This bit of fame had come when Dr. Wylie had unearthed a tiny stone dwelling in Sudan. It was in remarkable shape: complete with crockery, rudimentary flatware and a child’s skeleton. The bones belonged to a boy who lived almost seven thousand years ago. That discovery launched a three-month lecture tour, which paid well, but Dr. Wylie was glad to be done of it. He itched to be back in the field.
Dr. Wylie had ancient artifacts to find, and he longed to mark his discoveries in his own special way. That aforementioned one thing.
Dr. Wylie always insisted on being alone with his discoveries, immediately after they are fully revealed. He told his colleagues and students that he had to meditate on the profundity of the find and would tolerate no distractions. Dr. Wylie knew they thought him eccentric, but he didn’t mind. Far better they thought him odd than them knowing the truth.
Dr. Wylie, as soon as he was alone on a site, would take his penis out and rub it on, or if possible, stick it into the relic. This act got him harder than anything, including being with a woman. It was intensely erotic for him. He saw himself as fucking history.
After, he would entice to bed a star struck archaeology student, if he could find one; he would buy a whore if not. Sliding in and out of a woman, Dr. Wylie imagined he could feel tiny particles of the relic creating electric friction. His orgasms were explosive.
He never lay with the same woman twice. He saw them as tainted.
Dr. Wylie and his team were on a dig in the southern suburbs of Amarna, not far from the house of the sculptor Thutmose, whose bust of Nefertiti is one of the great iconic images of Egyptian history.
Construction workers had been digging a basement for an office building when all work was called to a halt. The excavator had hit something made out of hand-carved stone.
The machines were quickly removed and the builder was informed that this was now a historical site and construction was suspended indefinitely.
Dr. Wylie was setting up his gear within 24 hours. The first day, the temperature hovered around 100. Coolers full of ice and bottled water were placed everywhere in easy reach.
On the fourth day of the dig, they had found a door. It took the better part of seven hours to remove enough dirt to see the whole thing. With great care, they opened it and revealed a tomb. It was tiny compared to most Egyptian burial structures: about the size of a one-car garage. Inside, an intact mummy lay undisturbed among gold and jewels and artwork; Dr. Wylie recognized it as being from the reign of Akhenaten – father of the better known King Tut.
Could this mummy be Akhenaten’s lost bride, Nefertiti? The location certainly fit, as did the artifacts. If so, Dr. Wylie’s immortality was assured. And, as a pleasant side-effect, he would likely be rich, too. Not that Dr. Wylie wasn’t comfortable now, but he wouldn’t mind an extra couple hundred thousand to play with.
The fame and money were secondary, however. Dr. Wylie, PhD, renowned archaeologist couldn’t wait to stick his dick in the mummy.
Most of the day was spent with the students cataloging the various treasures while Dr. Wylie examined the mummy. He was almost certain it was female based on the morphology of the skull and pelvis. Dr. Wylie put his hands in his pockets to hide his growing erection; he ordered everyone out.
Dr. Wylie gazed at the ancient, desiccated corpse lying on the massive stone slab. Gingerly, he turned the mummy over on her side. Dr. Wylie threw one knee on the slab and used his hands to pull himself up. He pulled the tab of his zipper, which got stuck halfway, infuriating Dr. Wylie. Yanking it side to side, he freed the zipper and pulled his thickening cock out of his pants.
Fully hard, Dr. Wylie carefully pushed himself into the mummy’s vagina, or the hole where it once was. It was dry and rough, like autumn leaves. This moment, this intimate contact with history was usually enough for him, and he’d withdraw, saving his ardor for the student or the whore. Not this time.
Dr. Wylie felt something when he entered her. A barely detectable sensation of movement. If it had been a less sensitive part of his body, Dr. Wylie would likely not have even noticed. It was almost as if she was responding, as if she were alive. Slowly, he withdrew himself, but not all the way. When just the tip was still in the mummy, Dr. Wylie slid back in all the way to the hilt. This time, he was sure. The mummy’s dry vagina contracted to squeeze him.
Dr. Wylie stopped moving. His scientific mind knew this was impossible. Yet, he felt it. He twitched the muscle that ran the length of his prick and waited. Pressure. She’s responding.
He tried to look at the mummy’s face, but he had turned her too far. Dr. Wylie leaned over to get a better angle, and felt resistance inside. Wetness, too, though from his own excitement or from hers he did not know.
She turned her head with a sound like crinkling paper. He was right. The woman’s breasts were visibly filling out atop the ribs. Dr. Wylie stared at the mummy. Her face was still desiccated, but her eyes formed as he watched. Black as shadow, they looked back.
The mummified woman’s dry lips twitched at the corners. Dr. Wylie couldn’t move. He stayed in the same uncomfortable pose, leaning over her as her body slowly regained life.
Dr. Wylie never lost his erection; he stayed painfully hard inside her. Dried leaves yielded to mulch, then loam and finally warm, wet, velvet moss.
A leg that had moments ago felt like a stick slid, long, lean flesh across Dr. Wylie’s chest and she lay beneath him, gazing up. Dr. Wylie held himself up off her and took her in with his eyes.
Deep brown skin; a rough black thatch of hair where his body met hers; that lovely little bump of a tummy; small but full breasts, the way he liked them; long, surprisingly muscular arms held now behind her head; face that was more beautiful than—
Dr. Wylie gasped. He knew her.
“You’re Nefertiti!” he said. “I’ve seen your bust.” He blushed, looked down at her chest. “No. I mean. Um. You probably have no idea what I’m saying.”
The woman didn’t speak. She was fleshed out now. Her eyes filled with longing and her body moved. Dr. Wylie held his position, pushing gently against her and letting her have control. Her
eyes never left his as she slid her pelvis up and down, riding him from below.
It felt great, but Dr. Wylie was all too aware of how bizarre this was. It made it hard to relax and enjoy. His professional mind also considered this a tragic loss: now he had no mummy.
She squeezed him inside her and brought his attention back where it belonged.
“I’m fucking Nefertiti,” he mumbled. “I brought a mummy back from the dead with my cock.” He shook his head, grinned like a kid and slid his knees to either side of her ass. This pushed him deep into her and she smiled like a cat.
Dr. Wylie reached between her legs. He slid his thumb around his cock, dipping inside her to get it wet. He found her clitoris and drew slow circles on it as he brought himself in and out of her, matching the rhythm she had given him.
The Egyptian queen purred in her throat, her body writhing under his. Her hands came out from behind her head and she touched Dr. Wylie. He rushed to take off his shirt so he could feel her hands on his skin. He lost three buttons in his haste.
Nefertiti caressed Dr. Wylie’s chest and ribs. The man undid his belt and pushed his pants down, getting as naked as he could. Dr. Wylie worked her clit with relentless gentle strokes. The queen cupped his ass with both hands and pulled him against her. She squeezed him inside her so hard it almost hurt.
“My God, woman!” Dr. Wylie tried to catch his breath.
“Mmmm,” she said. He needed no translation. Dr. Wylie lowered himself to kiss her. Her mouth tasted of cinnamon and allspice. Her tongue was lively against his. Her perfect breast pressed against his naked chest. Dr. Wylie raised himself again and watched as he slid in and out of her.
They locked eyes then and her mouth opened, breath coming in quick gasps. Dr. Wylie felt her quiver around him. Wetness flowed over his balls. She slid a finger into his anus and he gasped in surprise and pleasure. No one had ever done that. Her finger moved a tiny bit deeper and Dr. Wylie came.
It went on and on, pulsing out of him in waves of heaven. Nefertiti twitched her finger again and he pulsed into her once more, his whole body shuddering.
Dr. Wylie collapsed on the Egyptian queen. Their bodies were slippery with sweat and his heart was pounding. Dr. Wylie tried to raise himself up to look at her, but she gripped his arm with her free hand. Dr. Wylie could still feel her finger inside him, but now it felt awkward and uncomfortable.
“I need to get up, love,” he told her. “We don’t want to get caught like this, do we?” Dr. Wylie smiled. The woman said something to him, but he didn’t understand. Dr. Wylie knew some Egyptian, but this was a dialect so old she might as well be speaking Cherokee. Her tone was clear though; it was haughty and venomous.
Suddenly, Dr. Wylie flashed back to the old Hammer horror films where people who violated mummy’s tombs met horrible ends. He hadn’t believed in mummy curses since he was ten. Now, he wasn’t so sure.
The woman licked Dr. Wylie’s ear with a tongue that felt dry. He was still inside her, but flaccid now and his scrotum crawled with revulsion. The body beneath him became rough, but the arm holding him down was like a vise.
Dr. Wylie could only see her shoulder, which was turning gray before his eyes. He pushed against the slab with both hands, fighting her, but she held him tight.
The smell of chamomile and thyme filled Dr. Wylie’s nose, too intense to be pleasant. He remembered that ancient Egyptians used them as herbs used to make mummies smell better. Mingled with the herbs was the smell of decay and dust. It made him sneeze, which made his sphincter contract around her now bony finger. He slid an inch out of her drying snatch.
Dr. Wylie’s heart was slamming against his ribs. He had to pull air into his lungs by force. His left arm went numb and he knew he was in trouble.
Still, the bitch held him down. He screamed in fury and terror as the woman he had been fucking rotted away with him still inside her. Inches from his face, Nefertiti clacked her teeth together once, loudly. Dr. Wylie’s heart stopped. For a few seconds, his brain lived on. This is going to look bad, he thought. Then he died.
Words Unbound
Bear Weiter
The story does not always start where you would expect. This one began over a book, yes, but it was not the one in her hand. That the book she held was rare was what brought me to speak to her in the first place — but it was the hand holding it that grabbed my attention.
I was a book collector, a lover of all things written on paper and bound in leather — the rarer the book, the better. The caress of a leather binding, the supple roughness of paper, the way the inks flowed into the pages — of course the words mattered, too, but attraction is often the outward sensations first before the depths are explored.
I came to find that she understood this well, and in turn had a passion for those with mine. It was a symbiosis I did not question until the writing became clear.
But I get ahead of myself.
As she held the book I caught a glimpse of something traced upon the back of her hand, just peeking out from beneath her full-length sleeves. The book she held, an original Histoire de Juliette ou les Prospérités du vice, was special — but it was her markings that intrigued me beyond measure. There, upon the pale vellum of her skin, words had been inked in florid script. I was mesmerized — and she flattered.
We dined that night together, and throughout the week. We spoke of words and meanings, the roots of things — their starting and how they lead to different paths.
At first the topic of her personal words did not come up. She knew I had seen, and knew I watched again for any glimpse, but we danced around the topic. Besides, it was not only those marks that caught my eye — she, too, was a thing of beauty. Tall, graceful, elegant, and formal enough to make her flirtations seem innocent — all things I had always wanted for myself. Her flowing black hair matched the full-length dresses she wore — they were not always black, but always flowing and always long, covering her arms, neck, and legs in equal measure. Only hints of the markings could I catch, fleeting and rare, like stealing glances of exposed flesh.
Did I mention that I, too, am a woman? It should matter not, for I was not lesbian then and now, well…now does not matter. And what I was then was of no consequence — my real interest, my obsession, lay with her skin.
Her name was Raven, and she did not volunteer anything regarding her mystery.
By the end of the week I had finally decided to broach the subject. Her sleeve had slipped back while we slowly drank a bottle of Rioja, and the wine’s warmth bolstered my assertiveness.
“Are both arms tattooed?” I asked.
“Yes,” she answered immediately.
She made no move to pull her sleeve down like she had many times before, so I let my eyes linger. I could read several letters but no complete words; the most prominent were the letters “OVE” and I assumed the “L” lay just beyond the edge of cloth.
“What do the tattoos say?” I asked.
She did not answer right away, only smiled. I would come to find that many mysteries hid behind that devilish smile of hers. I touched her hand to reassure her — if she did not wish to answer it was fine by me. She took my hand and held it, there on the top of the table for the whole world to see, holding my fingers as if we were lovers. Shivers ran through my confidence but I did not pull away.
“There is no answer for your question,” she said finally.
I studied the markings I could see. These were not the marks of most tattoos — these were fine, delicate, a filigree of artistic vision beyond what normal tools could create.
“But there are words there, yes?” I asked.
“More than you can imagine.” Her smile broadened.
I touched her sleeve to reveal more, to at least see the next few letters and perhaps complete a word or two, but she pulled back quickly.
“Not like that,” she said, her voice lowered to a whisper. She took my hand and held it in both of hers. She raised it, as if to kiss, but instead squeezed it. Her
touch was warm, like the wine, and ever so soft.
My mind blanked. Flattered, excited, and confused…the way she held me brought words to my lips before my thoughts could catch up. “Would you show more in private?”
“Perhaps,” she said, giving my hand another light squeeze.
My mouth dried. I took my glass with my free hand and finished it. Do you know what you want? I told myself I’d be satisfied with seeing more of the tattoo, just a little more. If this is what it will take…
“Should we go back to your place?” I asked.
“Yours.”
I do not recall paying for our meal though I’m certain I did. Nor do I recall walking the few blocks back to my apartment. I do know she did not let go of me, even when we got to my door — forcing me to hold my purse and fumble the keys out with only one hand.
A jumble of nerves by the time we entered, I started rambling about the place, showing her the sparse kitchen and indicating the bathroom before entering the living room. I pointed out the wall full of books as if they were easy to miss — they ran floor to ceiling, ten feet in height, and took up the full length of the long wall. I thought we could dawdle here before she dragged me off to the bedroom. I started talking about the book collection, but she stopped me with a kiss.
I had never kissed a woman in such a way. Instead of the strength and eagerness of a man, she was soft and inviting, pulling me down into her. I followed willingly.
We ended up on the couch, side-by-side and still fully clothed. The wall of books looked down upon us, a personal intertwining of reader and text. I had looked upon those books so often it was only fitting that they would do the same to me.
I imagined what she looked like beneath her dress, if there were more words, if they varied in design, but mostly what the words might say.
Of Devils & Deviants: An Anthology of Erotic Horror Page 21