Chapter 9: The Reign of the God of Shadows in Egypt (Part 2)
The nights became my private hunting ground.
While Khafre slept, his soul a beacon anchoring me to the world, my consciousness split. A part of me was traveling through the shadows of the palace, a silent spectator of the queens' decline. The other remained in the villa, my attention now fixed on a fascinating new study: my host's mother.
His name was Amunet. I watched her for weeks. His life was a tapestry of elegant solitude. She supervised the house with quiet efficiency, greeted her absent husband's messengers with stoic dignity, and treated her son with a distant formality. She was the perfect matriarch, a statue of composure.
But the statues crack.
I saw her in her private moments. I watched her stroll through the moonlit gardens, her hand often rising to brush her own throat, a longing caress. I saw her in her bath, the steam swirling around her, her mature and voluptuous body glowing, her eyes closed, not of relaxation, but of a deep and painful loneliness. Their hunger was different from that of queens. It was not a power play or a quest for dominance. It was a simple and human need. The need to be touched.
One night, the aroma of her longing became unbearable. It was a perfume so sweet and desperate that it drew me from the confines of the palace, forcing my conscience to return completely to the villa. I followed her through the shadows to her chambers.
The room was a containment studio. Unlike the silky chaos of Farah or the animal rawness of Opala, everything was in perfect order. But in the center of that stillness, Amunet sat on the edge of her bed, her evening robe unbuttoned, revealing the valley between her large, heavy breasts. In his hand, he held a small jar of scented oil.
I saw her pour the oil into her own hands. The scent of jasmine filled the room, a scent that was intended to be sensual, but was tinged with sadness. Her hands, trembling slightly, went up to massage her own breasts. His movements were slow, hesitant, those of someone trying to remember what touch feels like.
His eyes closed. A groan, so low and fragile that it was almost a sigh, escaped from his lips. "Please...," he whispered to the empty room. Only once...".
His hand slid down, disappearing between his thighs. His back arched, his head thrown back, his throat exposed in a gesture of utter vulnerability. Her moans grew a little louder, sounds of lonely and guilty pleasure echoing in the silence.
It was time.
The dam was at its most vulnerable, lost in the labyrinth of its own need. It was time for the predator to answer his prayer.
I did not emerge with the grandiosity with which I presented myself to Farah. There was no explosion of power. I simply let the shadow in the corner of his room, the one that lay at the foot of a large ebony closet, thicken. I let it spill on the floor like ink. And then, I got up.
The first hint he had of my presence was the sudden drop in temperature. An unnatural chill filled the room, extinguishing the warm light of the oil lamps. His eyes snapped open. His hand stopped between his thighs. She froze.
Slowly, he turned his head. And he saw me.
His face was drained of all color. Her lips parted in a silent scream that never formed. Pure, absolute, primordial terror paralyzed her. It wasn't the calculated fear of a queen facing a power, but the animal terror of a creature facing the impossible. A nightmarish monster, a horse-sized wolf made of pure night, had materialized in his bedroom.
I stood there, motionless, letting the terror do its work. Letting the reality of my presence settle in his mind. She could smell it, the sour, metallic smell of her fear, so potent that it almost drowned out the scent of jasmine.
"You've been calling," my voice echoed in his mind. It wasn't a grunt. It was a calm and cold statement. "I have come to answer."
The telepathic intrusion broke his paralysis. He let out a high-pitched, terrified screech and crawled back on the bed, trying to pull away, his body shaking so violently that the bed rattled.
I took a step forward. Then another. Every movement was slow, deliberate. He wasn't hunting her. He was cornering her.
"Get away!" he finally shouted, his voice a high-pitched, panic-filled shriek. "Guards! Khafre!"
"No one can hear you," I informed him calmly. "The shadows mampen your screams. We are alone."
I reached the edge of the bed. She was huddled against the headboard, trying to make herself as small as possible, her big brown eyes wide in terror. It was a vision of absolute vulnerability.
I didn't attack her. I simply placed one of my front paws on the bed. The mattress sank under my weight. Then, slowly, I climbed up, my huge body filling the space, my mass eclipsing his trembling figure.
I lay down next to him, my head level with his. I didn't touch it. I just existed there, a mountain of darkness breathing beside him. Time stopped. The only sounds were his terrified gasps and the frantic beating of his heart, which I could hear as if he were inside my own chest.
Minute after minute, I stayed there. And slowly, the terror began to change. His body couldn't maintain that level of panic. Exhaustion began to set in. And with exhaustion, came a strange form of resignation. He realized that if he had wanted to kill her, he would have done it by now.
His breathing began to calm down. His tremors subsided. And in the stillness, he began to feel something else. The heat that radiated from my shadow body. The vibration of my breath. My power.
Slowly, very slowly, their fear was replaced by a terrified curiosity. He stretched out a trembling hand, not to attack me, not to push me away, but to touch me. His fingers brushed my shadow fur.
The sensation was like touching cold smoke and silk at the same time. She gasped, but didn't pull her hand away.
"I'm not going to hurt you," I said in his mind, my voice now stripped of threat, tinged with a strange, primal calm. "I've only come to give you what you've been asking for."
And then, I leaned over and licked her.
A single, long lick from his jaw to his temple. My tongue was broad and rough, and the sensation made her shudder from head to foot. A sob escaped him, but it was not from fear. It was shock. Of a surrender that I did not understand.
He did. His will had been broken.
My head descended, my muzzle sank into the valley between her large breasts, inhaling its aroma. Then, I took it.
There wasn't the brutality that I used with Farah. There was not the battle of wills that he would have with Opala. It was an act of silent and absolute dominance. I turned her over with almost gentle ease, put her on all fours, and penetrated her.
Her scream was drowned out by the sheets, a sound of pain and a strange, undeniable release. I fucked her with a slow, deep beat, a hypnotic movement that wasn't designed to break her, but to possess her. Every thrust was a response to his lonely nights, every movement was a balm for his hunger.
There was no dirty dialogue, there were no orders. Just the sound of our bodies, the rhythm of my possession and their moans, which slowly transformed from sounds of pain to gasps of an overwhelming pleasure I had never known.
That night, I didn't break it. I claimed it. And in the silence of her bedroom, the lonely matriarch of the House of Anubis discovered that the answer to her prayers was not a man, nor a god.
He was a monster. And now, it was his.
…..
The first night was a fracture. The nights that followed were the flood that swept through the cracks, drowning the woman Amunet had been and giving birth to a new creature.
The terror did not disappear. It simply changed shape. It was no longer the fear of annihilation, but the electric, addictive terror of anticipation.
Every night, after the servants had retired and the villa had fallen silent, she would begin her vigil. He no longer sat on the balcony sighing at the moons. Now, he was preparing his sanctuary.
She bathed, not in milk, but in cold water, to sharpen the sensitivity of her skin. He anointed himself with jasmine oil, not out of coquetry, but because he remembered that it had been the scent he carried the night he came. She put on the finest silk robe, knowing that she would soon be on the ground.
And then, he waited.
He sat in the darkness of his room, his heart was a drum that marked the passing of the hours. Every shadow that moved in the breeze, every creak of the house as it settled, made her hold her breath.
'Will you come tonight?'
'Please let him come.'
And I always came.
I needed it. Not like a man needs a woman. He needed it as a king needs to confirm that his dominion is absolute. He needed it like a predator needs the thrill of hunting, even if the prey was already caged.
He emerged from the same shadow, every night. And every night, the same reaction. A sharp gasp, a shudder ran through his body, but now, the fear in his eyes was tinged with overwhelming relief, a desperate welcome.
Our encounters in the villa were different from those in the palace. With Farah, it was a power game, a ritual of wills. With Amunet, it was simpler. It was more raw. It was hunger.
I would approach her, and she would not kneel like Farah. It just fell apart. His legs gave way, his body gave up, a trembling offering of flesh and need.
I took it right there, on the cold marble floor. There were no foreplays, there was no seduction. Just an immediate and brutal claim.
She tore off her tunic, the thin fabric tearing with a sound that seemed like music to her. He put her on all fours, her hands and knees slipping on the polished stone.
And he fucked her.
Our sessions were a frenzy of pure necessity. They were desperate. She was a woman dying of thirst in the desert, and I was the only source of water, a well of darkness and pleasure that never ran dry.
"Yes... please... Ahh, yes!" he gasped against the ground, his words a broken litany. "More... don't stop... Please don't stop!"
My thrusts were a punishment and a blessing. A relentless, hammering rhythm that shook her to the ground. There was none of the controlled elegance of my encounters with Farah. This was pure instinct.
'Deeper,' she thought, and I sank deeper. 'Faster,' I begged silently, and my rhythm became a storm. He could read his need as if they were words written in his soul.
She clung to her pleasure like a castaway to a board. Her orgasms were violent, disordered. He screamed in the palms of his hands, bit his own knuckles so as not to alert the house.
His body convulsed under my assault, dripping fluids onto the marble, creating a sticky, primal mess on the floor of his perfectly tidy room.
And I delighted in his fall. The lonely woman, the repressed matriarch, had become my most devoted whore. He didn't worship me like Farah. He needed me. She was an addict, and I was her only drug.
One night, as I fucked her against the wall, her body lifted off the floor, her legs wrapped around my torso, I felt her change. His desperate moans turned into muffled laughter.
"My son...," he gasped, his face a mask of sweat and ecstasy. He thinks he controls you... the little fool...".
He laughed again, a wild, liberated sound.
"He's the cage," I echoed in his mind, my voice a deep growl as my hips bumped against his. "You are my plaything inside her."
"Yes!" he shouted. "I'm your toy! Use me! Break me!"
He came at that moment, a spasm so violent that his nails dug into my shadow fur. I held her there, impaling her, feeling the aftershocks of her pleasure shake her body.
I lowered her to the ground, her body limp and without strength. He collapsed, a trembling heap of satisfaction. She lay in a puddle of her own fluids, her breath ragged, but for the first time since I'd known her, a genuine, lazy smile was on her lips.
'She's finally alive,' I thought.
His transformation was almost complete. The loneliness in his eyes had been replaced by the glow of a dark secret. His walk during the day had a new sway, a confidence he didn't possess before. Even Khafre, in his arrogance, noticed the change, although he did not understand it.
"Mother, you look like... different," he once told her over dinner.
She simply smiled at him, an enigmatic smile that left him perplexed. "Sleep suits me, my son."
'It's not the dream,' I thought from her shadow, feeling the echo of the pleasure of the night before still vibrating in her. 'It's the monster that comes to visit you while you sleep.'
My routine was consolidated. He visited Farah, played his god in the palace. And then, I would return to the villa, to my cage, and delight in the desperation of my most grateful toy.
The lonely matriarch had died. In its place, a creature of the night had been born, a woman who lived for darkness, eagerly awaiting every visit from her shadow god. The secret of the villa was safe, a nest of depravity that I had built in the heart of my own jailer's house.
…..
He had spent months watching her.
She had memorized every nuance of her hunger: the way her green eyes glowed with a predatory light when she watched the slave champions, the way her body tensed with pent-up energy as she was fucked by a stallion in the stables. She was a creature of instinct, a queen who bored with the power games of humans and sought truth in the brutality of the flesh.
She was a predator. And I, the alpha predator, had decided it was time for him to meet his superior.
I found her, like so many other nights, in the underground sanctuary. But tonight was different. He was not with his panther or a slave. He had summoned something older.
In the center of the arena, a beast god stood above it. It was a serpentine creature, a colossal basilisk with scales the color of rust and blood, and a crown of venomous horns. Opala was kneeling before him, her tongue licking the tip of one of her two reptilian phalluses, while the other curled up, ready to take it.
He was about to give his body to a lesser god. An offense.
I decided that the show had gone on long enough.
I didn't emerge slowly. There was no warning. I just showed up. One moment the arena was occupied by the queen and her serpent god, and the next I was there, interposed between them, a solid mountain of night that had sprouted out of nowhere.
The shrine froze. The basilisk hissed, receding, its multiple eyes fixed on me with primal terror. Opala, halfway through her act of submission, raised her head, her lips glistening with reptilian saliva. His face showed no fear. He showed pure and utter fury.
"Who dares interrupt my rite?" she hissed, her voice that of a queen whose worship had been desecrated.
"You've been worshipping fake idols," my voice echoed in the minds of everyone present in the chamber, a thunder of contempt. "The true god has come to claim his offering."
The basilisk, moved by a stupid and territorial instinct, attacked. It lunged, its jaws opening to reveal fangs dripping with a venom capable of dissolving stone.
I didn't move. I let him come.
Just as his fangs were about to dig into my neck, my own mouth opened, not to bite, but to inhale. I inhaled, and with that breath, I inhaled its essence. The shadows around me swirled, ripping away the magic, the life force, the very concept of the serpent god.
The creature withered in the air. Its scales lost their luster, its muscles atrophied, its colossal body shrank like empty skin. He collapsed on the ground in front of me, not as a defeated god, but as a pile of dust and dry bones, his power completely devoured by my darkness.
The silence that followed was absolute. Then, a laugh.
It was Opala. He slowly stood up, a low, wild laugh welling up in his throat. It was not a laugh of fear, nor of relief. It was a laugh of pure, unbridled excitement.
"So... you are Khafre's shadow," he said, his green eyes shining with a maniacal light. "My mother talked about you. A real power."
"Khafre is my cage. I am the power," I corrected, taking a step towards her.
"You are," he admitted, his breathing quickening. "What you just did... that is dominance. That's what I've been looking for." His gaze swept over my form, not with Farah's submission, but with the evaluation of an equal. "But I won't kneel like my mother. If you want me, you'll have to take me."
It was a challenge. The first creature in centuries who, after witnessing my power, did not shrink, but challenged me.
'This ... it is worthy prey.'
In the blink of an eye, he was on top of her. I threw it into the sand, my weight crushed it. She fought. Not as a victim, but as a predator. Her nails, sharp as claws, scratched my shadow fur. His teeth tried to bite my throat. It was useless, but it was glorious.
I pinned her down, one paw on her chest, my muzzle inches from her defiant face. He could smell it: sweat, excitement, and the fury of an alpha who refuses to submit.
"You fight well," I conceded in his mind. "Now, learn to surrender."
And I fucked her right there, on the golden sand, on the dusty remains of the god she had just annihilated.
It was not an easy surrender. It was a battle. Every thrust of mine was answered by an attempt by her to push me, to dig her heels into my flanks. He bit and scratched, cursed, his body writhed beneath me, not to escape, but to find an advantage, to turn the act of his submission into a form of combat.
"You're not my god!" he shouted, his voice drowned out by the rhythm of my thrusts. "You're just a bigger beast!"
I took it with a brutality that I had never shown Farah. I fucked her like a rival, not like a priestess. The sound of our fucking was that of a war: the clash of flesh, the grunts of effort, the cries of defiance and ecstasy.
I picked her up, smashed her against the wall of sand, impaled her against the cold stone, reflecting her mother's first night, but this was not submission; it was a siege. She wrapped her athletic legs around my torso, her muscles tensing, trying to crush me, to match my strength.
It was at the peak of her defiance, when her body was tense, her teeth clenched in a growl, her green eyes burning with lustful hatred, that I finally broke her.
Instead of matching their strength with more strength, I changed tactics. I stopped. In the midst of an onslaught, I stood completely still, buried deep in it.
The abrupt cessation of the movement confused her. "What... what are you doing?" he gasped.
"Listen," I commanded in his mind.
And then, I let him feel. Not my strength. My essence. I let the darkness inside me seep into her through my member. It was not an attack; it was a flood. He could feel my millennia of loneliness, my hatred for my creator, my absolute dominion over the void. He could feel the truth of what I was: not a beast, but a concept. A law of nature.
His eyes widened. The fury in them faded, replaced by overwhelming understanding, by an astonishment bordering on terror. He noticed. He wasn't fighting a wolf. I was fighting the night itself.
"You...," he whispered, his body completely loosened. You are...".
And in that moment of conceptual surrender, I fucked her into oblivion.
Her orgasm was a silent detonation. His body convulsed, but his scream was a muffled gasp. His mind, which had been fighting for dominance, surrendered to the overload. There ran, and it ran, and it ran, a flood of pleasure born not of lust, but of the realization of its own insignificance.
I gently lowered her into the sand, her body limp like a doll's. He lay there, trembling, staring into the darkness of the cavern ceiling. Their battle was over. Her predatory pride had been shattered, replaced by the ecstatic peace of a prey that has finally found its master.
It had been conquered.
...
My nights were fractured into a triptych of lust.
It was no longer a simple routine of visiting a queen. I had become a god of three cults, a juggler of secrets who fed on the devotion of three very different women. Each one offered me a different flavor, a different facet of female hunger.
And I, in my infinite indifference, took them all.
My nights often began in Khafre's villa.
Amunet was despair. His longing was a bottomless pit, and my visits were the only water he knew. There were no games, there were no rituals. He would emerge in the darkness of his room, and she would crumble. It was a storm of need, his hands clinging to my shadow fur, his lips searching for any part of me he could kiss.
She took it with brutal speed, on the cold marble floor, against the wall, on the same bed in which her absent husband should sleep. It was a raw fuck, an act to satisfy an animal hunger. Her orgasms were sobs of gratitude, her body convulsed under my assault, grateful for the brutality that made her forget her loneliness.
'You're mine out of necessity,' I thought as I sank into it. 'An escape. Nothing more.'
Then, he traveled to the palace. My second act was often with Opala.
Opala was the challenge. His submission was never complete. Every encounter was a battle. He found her in her private shrines, often fresh out of a rite with some beast or slave, her body still smelling of another's lust.
He did not receive me on his knees. He greeted me with a predatory smile, his green eyes burning with a territorial fire. He was trying to dominate me. She would ride on me as if I were one of her stallions, her hips moving with wild force, trying to dictate the pace, to be the queen even while being impaled.
I let her play. He let his arrogance grow, his cries triumphant. And then, he reminded him.
He tore her off, turned her over, immobilized her. He fucked her with punishing violence, each thrust a reminder of who the real alpha was. Her grunts of defiance turned into shrieks of forced ecstasy, her warrior body surrendering to a force she could not match.
'You're mine out of pride,' he growled in his mind as he took it. 'You fight because being dominated is your deepest pleasure.'
Finally, I ended my night with Farah.
Farah was the power. Our encounters were a game of chess played with flesh and souls. They were rituals, yes, but each one was a negotiation. She offered me her body, her knowledge of magic, in exchange for proximity to my power.
He received me in his chambers, the air dense with incense and enchantments. He offered himself in positions of worship, but his violet eyes never lost their calculating brilliance. While I fucked her, she talked to me about politics, about her plans, looking for my approval, looking for an advantage.
I used her as my source of information, and I fucked her with a coldness that infuriated and aroused her in equal measure. It was a battle of intellects as well as of bodies. She tried to seduce me, to manipulate me. I simply took it, an act of domination that transcended its intrigues.
'You are mine out of ambition', he told her in his mind. 'You think you can use me, but you are only my most cunning priestess.'
This was my kingdom for months. Three secret queens, each ignorant of the others. A perfect balance of need, pride and ambition.
And then, I decided that balance was boring.
I started the game. Deliberately.
One night, after a particularly desperate session with Amunet, its jasmine scent and submission permeating my fur, I didn't clean myself. I traveled directly to the sanctuary of Opala.
She was waiting for me, reclining on a pile of cushions, with Sebastilion at her feet. As I emerged from the shadows, his predatory smile froze. His nostrils dilated. The panther at his feet let out a low, menacing growl.
"What's that smell?" he hissed, his voice like an ice knife. "You smell... another female. A weak and frightened female."
"An appetizer," I replied in his mind, my indifference a calculated insult.
A pure, animalistic fury exploded in his eyes. She pounced on me, not like a lover, but like a lioness defending her territory. "No one else touches you!" he roared, his fingernails scratching my face. "You're mine!"
I subdued her with brutal ease, crushing her to the ground. And I fucked her right there, with a violence that made our previous encounters seem tender.
His fury turned into his lust. Each onslaught was a punishment, and she received it with cries of hatred and ecstasy. He writhed beneath me, not to escape, but to rub against me, to erase the smell of the other woman with his own sweat, his own fluids.
"Mine!" she screamed, her body convulsing in a furious orgasm. "Only mine!"
I left her in a trembling mess, her scent of wild lotus and fury now mingled with that of Amunet. And, without cleaning myself, I went to Farah's chambers.
Farah stood by her brazier, dressed only in her gold chains. When I materialized, his welcoming smile instantly faded. His nose wrinkled, not with the animal fury of Opala, but with the cold precision of an analyst.
His violet eyes narrowed. He took a step toward me, inhaling deeply.
"Wild lotus and sweat... my daughter," she whispered to herself. Then, he inhaled again, deeper. "And... jasmine. And desperation. The Woman of Anubis".
There was no outburst of fury. There was not a cry of jealousy. He stood there, silent, processing the information. Betrayal. The insult. And the truth.
He was watching me, his calculating mind working at breakneck speed. He noticed. This had not been an oversight. It had been a message.
'I'm not yours. You are mine. All of you.'
He looked up, and the look on his face made me stop. The hurt and anger were gone, replaced by a cold, terrifying resolve. I had understood the rules of my game. And instead of flipping the board, he had decided to learn how to play.
She was no longer just a priestess vying for her god's attention.
In that instant, she became the High Priestess, determined to rule over the other acolytes.
The game had changed. And she had just made her first move.
- - - - - - - - - -
A/N
Hello everyone!
Sorry for not uploading a chapter yesterday, I've been very busy.
Today I will upload 2 chapters to make up for yesterday's.
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I would like to know what you think of the fic, what you would change, if it goes too fast, slow, etc. I read your comments.
Mike.
@Patreon/iLikeeMikee