From: stachys@eurobell.co.uk (Michael Gouda)
Subject: Story: The Sun Rises (M/t, M/t Historical)
Date: Sun, 08 Feb 1998 04:42:25 GMT
Approved: moderated.stories@bigfoot.com
Keywords: xmt xhist

THE SUN RISES

"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
as large as stars, expressionless, open mouth, waiting patiently, teeth
monoliths apart, tongue blood-red, covered with viscous oceans, endlessly in
motion, waiting, waiting as the orb of the sun sets, grows bigger in the
evening mists, disappears into that waiting mouth. Lips clamp shut.

"Holy One," repeats the voice.

Lips clamp shut. The world is in darkness. The journey, through that
darkness, through the 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 the 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 despoiler of his dream,
anxious yet determined, the alabaster pots of purified water and oils, the
folded linen garments. It is 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 massages 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 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 aureoles. 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 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, 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
Sanctus 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 the 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 line 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 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
it has come to this?"

"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 ballsack 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
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 he 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 rested lightly against Max's, an arm round him, the hand resting on
his shoulder. Through the djellaba and 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 ballsack 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 fulfilment.

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

-- 
Michael Gouda