10/7/92
"DESERT SCHLONG"
As Queen Nefertiti looked into her chryselephantine hand mirror, her reflection looked back, a slight worried expression marring the exquisite perfection of The Most Beautiful Face Of All The Ages.
"Isis and Osiris! Was that not a fold, a tiny, tiny wrinkle?" She peered closer, turning her alabaster neck towards the golden Egyptian sunlight, streaming in through the palace window. There was no doubt about the reflection. There, at the corner of the mouth, was a minute rift in the satin expanse of flesh. But Horrors! There was another! On the other corner, not quite as long, but definitely, irrevocably there.
The Queen swooned back on her couch, the mirror dropping from her exquisitely manicured fingers, to land with a clatter on the marble floor. Her ladies-in-waiting, Charmian and Iris, dozing in the warm afternoon heat, jumped to their feet and hurried to their mistress.
"Your Loveliness" What is the matter?" Charmian asked. Nefertiti recovered herself. "Iris, run and get the Pharoah. Tell him I must see him at once."
Iris, thoroughly frightened, left the room. The Queen had not asked after her husband and half-brother since the last innundation of the Nile, months ago.
Nefertiti threw herself into the matronly arms of Charmian, sobbed two carefully spaced tears into Charmian's bosom, leaving two kohl rimmed stains on the old lady's sensible linen neckline.
"There, there My Precious" Charmian soothed, "What is the matter?"
"Something impossible has happened. I'm an Immortal Goddess. Right? Then I can't die and can't change from perfect. So what are these hideous chasms, these abysses on each side of my mouth?"
Charmian peered closely, lied expertly. "There are no wrinkles. It must have been a reflection off the Nile."
Saving her from further deceit, the young Pharoah slouched into the room, his enormous hips and buttocks quivering. "What's the matter Sis? Run out of Myrrh?"
Nefertiti stood up, her - still gorgeous - mouth drooping sadly at the corners "Akhnaten, are we, or are we not Gods? And if we are Gods, are we not perfect, unchangeable? So why is my face falling to bits?"
Akhnaten, scuffed his feet, looked shiftily out the window at the lanteen sails drifing up the Nile. "Well actually the whole thing was a bit of a P.R. scam to decrease the power of the Ammon mob. All that carry-on about the Ram God was getting on my nerves. Obsessed with sex, those priests."
Iris whispered to Charmian, "Just because he is not interested - and hung like a doormouse. No wonder the poor lady is getting those frustration wrinkles at the corners of her mouth."
Nefertiti was not soothed. "Well. What are you going to do about it? You never come in here any more. What am I supposed to do while you are outside, getting sunstroke talking to Aten. I'm a healthy young queen. I need some royal jelly."
Akhnaten was bored by the change from theology to sex. "I really don't have time for this. I'm busy designing a new city, up river. Why don't you go shopping? Help yourself to the treasury, buy yourself something expensive. Anything you like. We're loaded with Nubian gold." And he turned on his heel, knocking a table over with his left hip as he swivelled out the door.
Goddess, Nefertiti may not have been, but royal she certainly was. An ordinary Egyptian housewife might have given way to a temper tantrum; sob and scream, smash a few priceless alabaster urns. But a thousand generations of imperial Nile royalty restrained her from showing any more annoyance than a mournful sigh as she swept to the window and looked out over the river of her ancestors. Besides, that much emotion might lengthen the wrinkles that had caused the crisis.
Charmian hadn't been in the lady-in-waiting business for forty years without picking up a few wrinkles herself, wrinkles of know-how that is, "Nubian gold. His Royal Hippiness mentioned Nubian gold. What about Nubian Ebony? Something round, of the best possible thickness and length. If that doesn't remove the frustrated droop from the royal mouth, I'll hand in my peacock feather fan of office and retire to the family mausoleum."
Nefertiti turned away from the window, curiosity slowly replacing sadness on the royal visage, "Nubian ebony? Where is Nubia?"
Charmian explained, "Far up the Nile, beyond the Fourth Cataract, on the Isle of Elephantine which lies in mid-stream, there is a great slave market. Dealers in slaves from the Lower Nile meet the agents of the Great King of Nubia to buy those muscular black hunks who adorn Your Majesty's palace as guardians and decorations.
Nefertiti put one exquisitely manicured finger in her mouth and sucked it thoughtfully, "Yes, they are enormous. But they seem to be remote, unappreciative of Our Ethereal Beauty. Purely out of curiosity mind, I once commanded the captain of the Royal Harem to lift his military kilt. What hung there was impressive enough, long, thick, black, but no amount of squeezing or sucking changed either it's size, or more important, it's quite uninteresting softness."
Charmian nodded her wise old head, "That is because the Great King of Nubia is a very crafty monarch indeed, and removes the lower half of the merchandise before it is sold. If we had the complete articles we could breed them ourselves, and where would be the Nubian king's source of income then? There are plenty of ladies both black and white, up and down the Nile, to say nothing of the Sea People, who would gladly volunteer to help produce a large stock of these magnificent fellows."
Nefertiti sighed, the two tiny wrinkles reappeared, but were gone in a flash when she remembered to compose her face in godlike serenity, "But if the king of Nubia won't sell me a complete hunk, I'm no better off. You can't expect me to go traipsing up beyond all those cataracts."
"No, no. Of course not Your Gorgeousness. It would be most inap- propriate for the Queen of Egypt to go in procession up the Nile in search of huge schlong. Not that the dynasty can't do with a fresh meat injection. I don't want to be accused of lese majeste, but your husband leaves a little - and I mean little - to be desired, if Your Loveliness will excuse the impertinence."
"Not at all Charmian. I don't know how I could bear it here in this dreary palace if it were not for you and my darling Iris. I know what they call Akhnaton behind his back, "Pharoah Tinymeat." It's not his fault, poor pet. He has always been very sweet to me. But what is to be done? The King of Nubia won't release any of his subjects in one piece. I can't go there to sample a whole specimen." Nefertiti picked up her hand mirror, gazed into it, "All this incredible beauty, and nobody to appreciate it. What a waste!"
Charmian rubbed a finger against her nose, "If Your Exquisiteness will condescend to let me speak, I think I can see a way around this problem."
Nefertiti turned the full force of her royal beauty on her handmaiden, "If you can cure my yearning, the royal treasury is yours to choose whatever you want."
Charmian, a respectable married lady and quite straight, felt the full power of her sovereign's emotion and it moved her to the depths of her womb, "I want nothing but to be Your Loveliness' friend and servant, a treasure worth more than all the gold of Egypt. Here, My Darling, is my scheme. The King of Nubia is chosen by his people for certain qualities, the foremost of these being the the superior magnificence of his masculine attributes, which in this noble race also signify bravery in battle, wisdom in council, and fertility in the harem.
Heredity being as it is, his sons are usually blessed with the same equipment as their mighty father. The King's eldest son, M'huge, is his unquestioned heir, being even more lavishly endowed by the gods of the Nubians than his royal father, both of them from a family famous throughout Nubia as "The Three Legged Ones." For what it is worth, he is also a giant of a man, brave in battle, wise in council; and rumour hath it, a really sweet guy."
Nefertiti wiped a tiny drop of unroyal drool off her lips, thinking, "I can feel the saliva doing those wrinkles a power of good already."
Charmian continued, "Now, my idea is that we send an embassy to Nubia, offering to join the Egyptian and Nubian royal houses in perpetual peace by marrying young M'huge to one of your royal nieces. It would not be the first time that a flagging Egyptian dynasty has been revived with a good thick injection of healthy Nubian meat, and won't be the last. In fact if Akhnaton wasn't so obsessed with all this One-God crap, he would have thought of it himself.
The nieces, being only four and three will not be able to marry yet, besides it would be your royal duty to make sure that M'huge is suitable to be founder of a new Egyptian-Nubian dynasty. So, for ten or so years you will have to combine duty and pleasure by looking after young M'huge until princess number one is old enough to take the massive Nubian tribute. If it is a successful scheme, we can repeat it for the next princess.
By that time your Majesty will either have no wrinkles, or if they have the audacity to appear, Your Majesty will have more interesting things on her royal mind."
Nefertiti clapped her exquisite hands, "Oh Charmian. You clever Darling. When can we start? Who will we send?"
This was the point Charmian had been leading up to, "My nephew Gropi is the source of most of my information. His ambition has been to travel to Nubia ever since, like your Majesty, he discovered that the articles sold to us here in Thebes, are incomplete. He longs to sample the uncut, unedited version of Nubian manhood, even if only, as he so wittily puts it, "To nibble around the edges."
So, some weeks later, a long and magnificent fleet of feluccas sailed up the Nile towards the First Cataract. Ostensibly, the embassy was headed by Dodder-Amon, a sweet old uncle of Akhnaton's who found the whole new religious attitude of his nephew very confusing.
"Why can't he just go out in his war chariots, burning and killing like pharoahs are supposed to?" he asked, "Worshipping rams was good enough for his father. Why isn't he happy with rams? All this Sunshine nonsense. Moonshine, I call it."
The old boy had been told that his secretary, Gropi-who else?-was to run the sordid details of the expedition, while his Highness was to put on the various encredibly elaborate hats required by protocol, give out the glamorous presents supplied by the Egyptian Treasury, read out the various flattering diplomatic papyrus scrolls that had been composed by the Thebes Foreign Office, and generally give a gloss of sincere international negotiation to what was really an exercise in high-class procuring.
Meanwhile Gropi would check out the details of Prince M'huge and whatever other male members of the Nubian Royal Family who might be available for inspection of one sort or another.
Uncle Dodder-Ammon had asked for a peerage as a reward for his efforts. All the other members of the expedition had demanded Fourth Cataract Money, an extra amount granted to Egyptians venturing outside the Kingdom into Nubia. Gropi said he didn't want any special pay, that meeting the Nubian Royal Family and getting to know Prince M'huge really, really well, would be reward enough.
After the expedition had negotiated the Fourth Cataract, the Nubian border, they were met by el Lavish, the chief of the border tribes, a distant relation of the Nubian King, who had been told some weeks earlier to expect an important embassy from the Paroah of Egypt. The boats were left at the Cataract pending their return, and the whole party mounted camels to continue their journey.
Uncle Dodder, after the ceremonial greetings and gifts had been exchanged, retired to a camel-born litter of moderate comfort as befitted his age and eminence, but Gropi and the rest of the party rode their camels in the traditional style with both legs on one side of the hump, except that Gropi, being left-handed with the guide reins, was facing to the right. Gropi had taken an immediate liking to el Lavish, who had helped him to mount a splendid gift , a snow white camel with a scarlet leather saddle and scarlet woollen saddlecloth, the scarlet reins ending with a solid gold bridle.
el Lavish, a big man in his late thirties, seemed to be a mixture of the large muscular Nubian physique combined with the finer boned Egyptian type and was a dark tan rather than the deep blackish brown of the pure Nubian. He sported a thin rather elegant moustache but the rest of his face was clean shaven. All he wore over highly polished scarlet boots was a long white coarse cotton robe which kept the desert sun off his body, but was loose enough to blow open when there was a cooling draft.
Gropi, riding left-handed, was facing el Lavish as they loped along and when the sheik noticed Gropi's admiring glances at the rows of muscle the teasing breeze revealed, he grinned, showing a mouth full of beautiful white teeth. He was also showing glimpses of something thick and dark brown which seemed to be getting thicker and longer every time his robes blew apart.
Finally it got so hard that it poked out between the edges of his robe, jogging up and down stiffly with the motion of the camel. After a few vain attempt to draw the edge of his robe over it, with a laugh and a wink at Gropi, he got hold of it, managed to force the top of it under his belt, then trotted off to talk to some of his men.
Gropi, stimulated by the jogging camel and by the glimpses of the chieftan's person, had become so painfully hard that he thought he might faint. When the chief's brown member started to poke through the white cotton robe, Gropi felt dizzy, had to hang on to his camel with both hands. Finally, when the chief grabbed his own erection and tucked it under his riding belt, Gropi had an involuntary orgasm and nearly fell off the camel. The chief and the other riders were laughing and glancing back at Gropi who was concentrating on riding and not worrying too much about the mess in his clothes. Not one of these desert riders was self-concious about his body.
At sunset they camped beside the crystal clear waters of the White Nile, rushing over granite rocks and tumbling in and out of long shaded gorges and their icy cold pools, in a flurry of white spray. After the heat of the day the expedition found it exquisitely refreshing to throw off all their clothes to jump into the water, shouting and laughing with the shock of the chilly water on their sweaty bodies. Even dear old Dodder-Amon enjoyed the refreshing pause and made jokes about his distinguished elderly body,
"The embalmers won't have much work to do with this wrinkled old carcase. It's half mummified already."
The chief and his companions, generously endowed when they first took off their sweaty riding robes, all shrunk to seven or eight inches when they hit the cold water, causing a lot of pointing and ribald laughter. Gropi, not in this league at all, found that he had shrunken in a dramatic way which had never happened in the warm waters of the Nile at Thebes.
Self-conscious, he quickly sunk to his waist in the icy water until he could stand it no longer and then made a dash for his clothes
Meanwhile others had put up various sleeping tents and a larger dining tent, while another group were turning various succulant pieces of meat on spits over fires made from the aromatic desert shrubs.
The Egyptian contribution to the desert feast was in large jars of beer and wine which had been cooled in the icy river water.
After the servants had cleared the meal away, Dodder-Ammon excused himself, after complimenting his hosts on the delicious repast. This left Gropi with the chief, el Lavish, and some five of six of his lieutenants all of whom were lolling around on the cushions and rugs, picking their teeth, swigging the wine and beer and making remarks in the desert dialect to each other which Gropi didn't understand. Each comment was greeted with roars of laughter as they rolled their eyes and grinned at Gropi.
Thinking to make a little light conversation, Gropi topped up the chief's wine glass and asked, "How is it you gentlemen have to come out in the desert without your wives?"
el Lavish replied for the group, "They would have to bring the kids, they would need at least three extra camels each, for twenty changes of clothing, their make-up and so-on. This way we get a break, they can go see their mothers, we don't have to. Everybody's happy."
Gropi asked, "But what do you do for sex?"
This produced more roars of laughter. El Lavish smirked, "We manage somehow. Especially if there is a cute stranger in the caravan."
By this time most of the men's white riding robes seemed to be either making pyramids which twitched every few seconds, or were not sticking straight up because they were being held lightly against their stomachs and smoothly caressed by one or both of their big brown hands. Three or four ignored all attempts at concealment, allowing their robes be forced open by the swiftly burgeoning brown organs, which didn't grow steadily but rather throbbed then expanded, in time to the rythmic beat of the young men's hearts. Meanwhile they held glasses of wine or beer in one hand, talking and smiling, with maybe a long kif pipe in the other and carelessly ignored the monsters growing out of their robes like so many brown king cobras.
Being an Egyptian, and circumcised as was every man on the Nile, Gropi was fascinated by the way the desert riders' dicks started off looking like the sort of fat blood sausages with a pointed end that his mother made for feast days, but once they started to grow, the pointed end gradually got forced open and stretched out by a shiny plum coloured head which finally emerged from it's lair. From a gaping slit in the end a shiny drop of clear sticky liquid oozed and grew until it could no longer stick to the opening then slowly descended on a thin thread of mucous unless it was picked up by the owners finger and popped into his mouth, which was grinning lasciviously at Gropi.
The young Egyptian thought to himself, "To Isis and Osiris with it. What if I am secretary to the ambassador. This is what the embassy is for. It is a fact finding mission."
So he stood up and slowly let his own robe fall to the floor. Maybe he was rather modestly equiped compared to these desert kings.
Nevertheless his hosts obviously found Gropi attractive, his pale tan, slim body and finely muscled buttocks being the reason for their sexual excitement in the first place.
One of the men picked up a flute, another drew sticks across a pair of small drums, and to this subdued accompaniment he stepped lightly around the tent, first caressing one dick, then another, then stroking a particularly handsome face, but always diplomatically ending up with both hands and mouth giving pleasure to the chief, el Lavish. Finally with a groan of pleasure, the chief gave everything he'd got to Gropi and lay back exhausted, watching Gropi attending to his men one after the other until all but one had been satisfied.
By this time el Lavish had recovered somewhat, and remembering the laws of hospitality, covered his hands with scented oils, and gently penetrated Gropi's sphincter with one finger while he rubbed the boy's rock hard prick with the other. The last man and Gropi almost delirious with the evening's entertainments, exploded together, with a shower of hot juices all over their sweating stomachs and chests.
Gropi, lying back satiated between his sweaty hosts, thought to himself, "My boss, Akhnaton is crazy. Fancy bothering about whether there is one or more gods when there are one or more desert hunks like these to play with." Finally, before he dozed off, he said, "Good night, sweet dreams, noble desert warriors. Your hospitality is legendry. But I must rest. Good night. Good night."
The next day Gropi, with the resiliance of youth, felt absolutely marvellous, and after everybody had another invigorating swim in the icy waters, they mounted their camels and set out for the confluence of the White and the Blue Nile.
The Blue Nile had wound it's way through the High Forest Lands of Ethiopia while the White Nile had traversed the deep canyons it had cut in the Desert of Sudan after rising in the Fountains of the Nile, huge lakes far to the south at the foot of the Mountains of the Moon, mountains so high that their peaks were perpetually covered with snow although right on the equator.
Where the two rivers met lay a day's ride away at Omdurman. Here the Great King of all Nubia was wintering in his ivory and gold palace built on the very tip of the peninsular where the two great Niles joined to start their thousand mile journey North through the Nubian desert, through the six great cataracts, past Hundred Gated Thebes, through the great Kingdom of Egypt to separate at the Delta of Alexander before emptying a myriad channels into the Mediter- ranean sea.
Omdurman was a dry city, hot during the day but cool at night. The Great King's guest palace had marble swimming pools filled from the Blue Nile, considered cooler than the other river. At night the White Nile terraces were warmer since the river had picked up much warmth on it's way through the Sudan.
Finally the day set aside for the formal meeting with the king arrived. Dodder-Amon wore a complex diplomatic hat, decorated with symbols of the gods of Egypt, fabricated out of a light, scented cedar from Lebanon but weighed down with intricate inlays of lapis- lazuli, pearls, rubies and other precious stones. Two of the stalwart desert riders were needed to support him in the formal procession which wended its way through marble colonnades to the throne room.
Gropi, in his guise as the scribe, or secretary, was dressed in a simple white semi-transparent linen cloth around his waist which concealed yet revealed his various parts, including his really cheeky little buns. This sheer cloth, of a fine gauzy quality reserved for the Egyption Royal Family had been a present from his Auntie Charmian, the originator of the whole caper.
Just so he didn't look too much like somebody's trick, and would be taken seriously, he wore around his neck a wide Disk of the Aten, Akhnaten's new divinity, a heavy, solid gold necklace representing the disk of the sun emanating a hundred rays, each ending with a tiny hand, blessing the Two Lands. This trinket had been a farewell gift from Nefertiti and was worth the tribute of a years gold from Nubia. He carried in his hand the tablet and stylus of his profession, also carved out of solid gold.
But all this glitter was probably wasted on the Great King, who, as the owner of all King Solomon's Mines, was able to upstage any visitors who might have ideas of presenting a rich image. When the Egyptian embassy first entered the Hall of Audience, thronged with all the aristocracy of Nubia, they got the impression that they were in the temple of a fabulous golden idol. Enthroned on a high platform above a flight of steps was an immense figure . The massive torso, legs and arms of the figure appeared to be made of ribbed gold, glittering in a shaft of sunlight from an opening in the roof. About the ebony head was a wide gold band with some twenty phallic knobbed spikes, each sporting a spray of white ostrich feather increasing the height of the whole apparition to about eight feet, as far as it seemed from the throne room floor.
As the Egyptian party approached the throne, they realized that the ebony head, hands and feet of the idol were in fact the head, hands and feet of the Great King, who was unable to move, but was smiling down at his visitors in the friendliest way. The reason why His Majesty couldn't move was that his clothing was actually soft, pure gold rod, about the thickness of a pencil, which had been carefully wound around his limbs and torso to form a solid sheath from neck to ankles.
Gropi was impressed, perhaps stunned would be a better word, but then he had faintly irreverent thoughts, "What if His Nibs needs to go to the bathroom? It must take hours to unwind all that gold." Then he noticed that the king held what Gropi had thought was a small child on his lap, also wound around in gold with just the ebony head exposed. This was no child, although it was the source of all the royal children, being His Majesty's symbol of Power, the Royal Dong. Wow! Nefertiti was going to have to bite her lips and grit her teeth if the Crown Prince, M'huge, had inherited anything half as monstrous. And it wasn't even angry.
Perhaps it would be better not to tease it. Better to leave now while everybody's crutch was still in one piece, settle perhaps, for the perfectly sweet, more than adequate el Lavish or one of his jolly men.
Meanwhile Dodder-Amon was droning through the prescribed speech, of friendship between their two great nations, respect for the Great King's Prowess, an admiring glance at the Black Baby and an ad lib regarding the potency of the Royal Family's Prowess, finally ending up with an offer of marriage to one of Akhnaten's daughters if the Crown Prince liked the look of her.
Dodder-Amon then produced an exquisite portrait of Nefertiti saying the girl takes after her Auntie and we will send a portrait in due course. A sneaky bit this, but there was obviously no point in having the hunky prince transported all the way to Thebes, only to find he didn't fancy Nefertiti.
Dodder-Amon held out the portrait. His Majesty couldn't move, but from behind one of the great marble columns flanking the steps in front of the throne, stepped M'Huge, heir to the throne of Nubia and all-round nice guy. What can I tell you? He was perfect. Unlike his royal sire, the prince was dressed very simply. All he wore was a strip of the same royal semi-transparent linen gauze around his trim hips as was Gropi, and absolutely nothing else. No gold, no jewelry of any kind. Yet there was something in his rippling muscles, his imperious bearing, his height, the set of his head on his wide shoulders which said "Royal" There was something else too, but we will get to that in a minute.
With an enchanting smile he took the portrait of Nefertiti from the hand of Dodder-Amon and gazed at The Most Beautiful Face of All the Ages. Well! Akhnaton may not have appreciated Nefertiti's amazing loveliness, but there, in front of the whole court of Nubia and the Egyptian embassy, Prince M'Huge made it quite clear that he was prepared for something more than a platonic relationship with Egypt's lucky, lucky Queen.
Something really frightening stirred behind the flimsy gauze of the Prince's loincloth, a dark mass started spreading across both his thighs and extending rapidly down towards his knees, pushing out the flimsy cloth as it grew. Then it poked past the bottom of the kilt and started outward, those standing in front of the prince backing away to give it more room. As the monster swung up to the horizontal, the Prince's loin cloth hung in graceful folds each side of it, then the cloth bunched up and slid back towards his stomach, as the pole continued to grow upwards until it reached the prince's chest where it paused, pulsating gently.
The ladies of the court, who had been emitting little shrieks of wonder, were now moaning softly, drooping and being supported by their eunuchs, who were round eyed with envy and amazement. Even the assembled nobility and gentry of the country, every one of them fabulously endowed, murmered with admiration and pleasure, then broke out in spontaneous applause.
M'Huge, examining the portrait, then rested it on the head of his dick, now at chest height and convenient as a lectern.
"Yes," he said, "I find her very attractive."
That evening, after the engagement feast, the Prince invited Gropi to join him in his private apartments. The swiftly flowing White Nile, bubbled and swirled around the marble steps at the edge of the terrace. Across the water the lights of Omdurman glowed softly, eclipsed by the white glare of the hot African moon. The two men lay on heaps of cushions and silk rugs from Samarkand, sharing a pipe of kif.
This was, of course, no casual encounter. Nothing is ever casual in high Diplomacy. The Prince wanted to make quite sure that he wasn't being sold a lemon. Diplomatic portraits of proposed wedding partners being notoriously flattering, even in 2000 B.C. Also he wanted to make sure that he would have frequent access to his bride's Auntie Nefertiti, his real motive for agreeing to the union, as everybody had seen that morning.
Gropi assured him that the whole point of the Egyptian expedition was to bring this about, which the Prince believed, since even the ibis birds up and down the Nile knew the Pharoah was a dud lay.
Gropi, for his part was more than satisfied that the Prince's equipment would give royal satisfaction to Nefertiti, in fact he thought the Queen was fortunate in that she had already given birth to a couple of princesses and so should be able to cope with the sheer size and stiffness Prince M'Huge was offering, without tearing something.
But, what hadn't been checked out was the plumbing. Tactfully Gropi asked the Prince how he managed for sex. The Prince sighed. It seemed, there were disadvantages to the Royal Attribute. Any young virgin he fancied had to be weaned on a series of ivory knobs increasing in size from normal to gigantic until she was able to struggle onto it. By this time the girl and the Prince had usually both lost their enthusiasm for the whole excercise. What M'Huge really liked was a young mother who was experienced and physically able to cope. Then M'Huge mentioned, with a bashful glance at Gropi, that surprizingly enough, he had sometimes found young men who were uninhibited and elastic enough.......
Gropi felt his own sphincter twitching at the very thought as his cock slowly hardened. The Prince stared at this movement lifting the young man's kilt, leaned forward and felt the boy's hard-on saying, "I really like this fine linen. You can't get it here." Meanwhile the Royal Monster had stirred and unfurled itself like some boa constrictor. By the time Gropi had taken off the Prince's loin cloth and M'Huge had gently ondone Gropi's clothing, both men had erections equal in stiffness if not in size. Gropi, wiggling his jaw to unhinge it wide open, stretched his mouth over as much of the head as he could, meanwhile weighing a mango-sized ball in each hand. If the heavyness was any indication, there was enough juice there to keep the Egyptian Royal Dynasty going for a thousand years.
Like many massively hung men, M'Huge was gentle, almost femininely passive, with nothing to prove except that he didn't want to hurt his partner. He lay on his back while Gropi slithered on top of him, the Prince not moving except for his large hands, rough skinned from war and hunting, which glided down Gropi's back, enjoying the smooth Egyptian skin all the way to the boy's buttocks until he had them both cupped in one large palm. The other hand gently held Gropi's iron-hard dick and balls as Gropi rubbed himself against the faintly abrasive palm of the Prince's hand.
Reaching for a bowl of Myrr scented ointment, the Prince slowly lubricated the whole of the crack between Gropi's cheeks, gently rubbing the outside of the sphincter but not venturing his finger any further in. Gropi had both hands around some of the Prince's cock and his mouth covering most of the head. The head now had a faint taste of Alpine truffles, moist and fragrant. When Gropi stretched his mouth off it, he found it was split at the top into two shiny plum-coloured hemispheres. From the pink fleshy split between these two globes oozed a steady stream of clear viscous liquid, which dribbled down the shaft, parting on each side of the thick tube which bulged from the underside of the main cylinder.
"No question about the plumbing," thought Gropi, "we're awash and he hasn't even blown yet. But somehow I don't think even Nefertiti would expect me to stop now. In fact it is my duty to give a full report. Gods, life can be tough."
Gropi's sphincter had been gently massaged and the Prince now had slowly inserted first one finger, then two, then the rest of his hand, which surprised the Egyptian, who had no idea that he could relax so completely. On the other hand - Heaven forbid - he had never been this brought-on in his whole twenty-two years.
While M'Huge lay on his back, his arms thown out each side and his eyes turning up in his head, the young Egyptian grasped the Prince's prick in both hands where it throbbed on his stomach and chest and gently pulled it up into a vertical position, the Prince screwing up his mouth with the slight pain of having it bent.
"No pain without gain, Your Highness", said Gropi, "besides, any agony you are suffering is nothing compared to what is about to happen to me." And with that Gropi pulled apart the cheeks of his cringing little ass and sank down onto the top of the Royal Shaft. Surprisingly enough, the Prince was right, all the careful finger and hand work he had done on the boy had relaxed everything enough for the pain to be eclipsed by the pleasure.
But all the preliminary rubbing and squeezing proved too much for both of them. Groppi felt hot liquid flooding his insides, holding the shaft of the Prince's dick in both hands he could feel hard surges of liquid pumping along the great tube on the underside. As he sank ever further onto the pulsating shaft, he shot convulsively himself, gobs of mother-of-pearl spattering all over the Prince's chest and face. "Good thing he is a really amiable guy", thought Gropi, "Another royalty might have me punished for lese majeste."
After three or four more sessions during the night, taking longer and producing each time, a little less in Gropi's case, the boy eventually begged his host for mercy . "Please Your Highness. I'm only a simple Egyptian nobleman. We don't have the stamina of Nubian Royalty. I beg you, let me sleep." So they slept, with the Prince's still-hard dick between Gropi's legs. During the remainder of the night, Gropi vaguely sensed that the monster had been rubbed between his smooth skinned thighs a few times more until it had flooded the sheets yet again, but he was too exhausted to care.
In the morning, the Prince carried the unconscious youth through the palace to the guests' bedrooms, past the envious glances of male and female courtiers alike.
The journey back to Thebes was mostly without incident, except that Gropi had to be carried in another litter, feeling too weak to ride a camel. He slept most of the journey, waking occasionally to think, "What I do for my country, my Queen." When the Prince shared his bed at night, he was gentle, loving and considerate, knowing the boy couldn't cope with too much more Nubian meat. Also the Prince was getting a little distracted as the caravan got closer and closer to Thebes where he was about to meet the incomparable Nefertiti.
The meeting was completely successful. To celebrate the event Akhnaton had the Royal Sculptor create the famous alabaster bust of Nefertiti which you can see to this day. Look at it closely. Not a wrinkle.