Nebemast Banished

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.