The Egyptian Princess
Copyright© 2025 by Drcock666
Chapter 11: The Seal of Forgotten Queens
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 11: The Seal of Forgotten Queens - This is the story of my life. I am Mutnodjmet, and when this tale begins, I am fifteen years old, on the very day of my wedding. I am to marry Pharaoh himself: my father. The year is 1350 BC, in the ancient city of Luxor, Egypt.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Teenagers Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction High Fantasy Incest Brother Sister Father Daughter Black Female White Male
Night after night, Isis’s dreams grew stronger, more insistent. Each time, she was drawn beyond the veils of sleep into a world that felt more real than waking. There, she stood in shimmering linen, wearing the White Crown of Upper Egypt, and felt the sun-god Ra’s warmth pour over her skin as though he were blessing her personally.
She dreamed of crocodiles bowing their heads in the river, of falcons screaming her name from the cliffs above the Nile. The gods themselves seemed to whisper to her, weaving their voices together into a single message:
“You are divine. You are chosen. You shall rule.”
Isis began to believe her blood carried the essence of the great Hatshepsut herself, reborn in this slender, fourteen-year-old girl’s body. She believed her spirit was no longer just a princess, but something holy, something destined to rise higher than any woman of her house had risen before.
By day, she hid these visions behind obedient smiles. She let Mutnodjmet think of her as the loving little sister, loyal and sweet. But inside, she felt something electric coiling in her belly, like the strike of a cobra ready to leap.
At night, she knelt before the statues of Hathor and Hatshepsut, whispering fierce prayers, promising that she would build them new temples, that she would bring Egypt to glory, if only they guided her path to the throne.
Each morning, she woke with certainty burning in her chest:
She was not merely a girl of the royal house; she was Isis, named for the goddess herself, and her destiny was to rule.
No one would keep that from her.
Not even Mutnodjmet.
Sometimes, when the castle was silent and the sun dipped low, I’d hear voices, soft, like the rustle of dead leaves, calling my name. Not the gentle calls of my family, but something darker. A voice that promised power and pain, whispered of secrets buried beneath the earth, where the blood ran like rivers and the dead never truly rested.
I tried to speak back, but the words caught in my throat, tangled like thorns. The fear wasn’t just outside me, it was inside, growing like a shadow in my heart.
My nights were haunted by visions. Faces blurred with anger and grief stared back at me from the darkness. I saw my own reflection twisted and cracked, a child caught between worlds. I wanted to run from it all, to hide beneath the covers and pretend it wasn’t real, but the fear always found me. It curled in the corners of my mind, a predator waiting for the moment I let my guard down.
I was too young to understand, but even then, I knew something terrible had chosen me. That the blood spilling over the world was not just a curse, it was a call. A promise that I was marked, bound to a fate darker than any nightmare.
And every time I closed my eyes, I saw those black waters rise again, thick and heavy, swallowing everything, drowning light and hope beneath an endless night.
I was only seven, but the darkness had already found me.
The fear that crept inside me didn’t just haunt my dreams; it sharpened my senses, made me see the world through a lens of shadows and whispers. I learned to move quietly, to watch the smallest flicker of light or sound like a hunter stalking prey. Every rustle of leaves, every crack in the night felt like a warning, and I listened.
I stopped trusting the warmth of the day. The sun’s light seemed weak, unable to touch the dark corners inside me. Instead, I found comfort in the cold, in silence, in shadows where I could hide and watch without being seen.
One night, I had a dream. The dream. I was just a little girl, seven years old, standing on black sand that felt cold and rough beneath my bare feet. The desert stretched around me, endless and silent, like the whole world was holding its breath. The cliffs towered like giants, and somewhere deep inside them lived my ancestor, Hatshepsut. I didn’t understand everything, but I knew she was watching me. Not like a ghost. More like the earth itself, alive and waiting.
The sun was gone, swallowed by the dark sky that felt like it could swallow me too. Stars blinked like tiny fires, but they weren’t friendly. They hid secrets, eyes watching from the shadows, things that crept just out of sight. I shivered, but I didn’t move.
Suddenly, I wasn’t alone. Hatshepsut was there, tall, still as a statue, her eyes glowing like coals in the dark. She didn’t speak out loud, but I heard her words inside my head, like a whisper I couldn’t escape.
“Come,” she said. “I’ll show you the secret of our blood.”
The world twisted and shifted, and suddenly we were inside a great stone temple. The walls glowed with strange pictures, gods and monsters, stories much older than my time. They moved, like they were alive. I reached out, but the walls burned my fingers.
I saw her, little Hatshepsut, just like me once, drinking milk from a goddess. Her mouth was full of magic and danger. I felt like I was staring at a secret that could swallow me whole.
“Your family is touched by the Gods,” the voice inside my head said. “Amun made me special, he made us special.”
I wanted to run, but I was frozen. Around me, painted eyes stared, unblinking, like they knew everything, my fears, my secrets. They reached for me, and my heart pounded so loudly I thought it would burst.
Hatshepsut disrobed, and there she stood, entirely naked, and for a moment I could only stare, utterly spellbound by how breathtaking she was. Her skin seemed to glow in the lamplight, smooth and bronzed like polished sandstone. Her shoulders were broad and powerful, shaped by years of carrying the burdens of rule, yet softened by an unexpected, graceful curve that stirred a strange tenderness in me, an almost painful ache.
My gaze traveled lower, drinking her in. Her breasts were full, rounded, the color of warm honey, crowned with dusky nipples that had tightened slightly in the cool air. They looked impossibly perfect, heavy and natural, and I felt an almost electric pull in my belly as I imagined what they might feel like beneath my hands, how they might yield to my touch.
Her belly was taut and graceful, leading down to a perfectly smooth mound between her thighs, bare and vulnerable. The slight pinkness there made me catch my breath, a reminder that beneath the legend, she was flesh and blood, a woman who could be touched, could be loved, could even be made to tremble.
Her legs were strong, sculpted, and elegant, and the sight of her standing there with no shame, no veil, made my heart pound. There was something so powerful about her nakedness, like a goddess made real, and yet so achingly human that it stirred something deep in me I could barely name.
Heat rushed to my core, a shameful, thrilling heat. I was a woman, watching another woman, and I was not supposed to feel this way, but I did. Desire tangled with awe inside me, confusing and intoxicating.
Seeing her like this made me feel both afraid and fascinated. I wanted to touch her, taste her, worship her the way one worships a living goddess. I was terrified of that impulse, yet it burned through me, unstoppable.
In that moment, as I looked at Hatshepsut naked and unguarded, I felt as if my soul had been cracked open. She was a queen, a legend, but also a woman of flesh and heat, and I was powerless before the force of my longing for her.
Then the pictures changed again, and I was somewhere else, a great palace with shining gold and gods watching from shadows. A queen named Ahmose lay still, waiting. A god named Amun moved toward her, powerful and terrible, and I could feel the magic twisting and wrapping around her like snakes.
“He is the father of queens,” the voice whispered. “And you are his daughter, too.”
I didn’t want to believe it, but the magic was in my blood. It made me feel bigger, but also small, like I was a piece of something I couldn’t understand.
I woke up choking, my skin slick with sweat like I had been drowning in the desert night itself. My heart hammered like thunder in my chest, wild and unsteady. Was it the scream that tore me awake? Or something darker, something real?
I didn’t know if it was my son or my daughter, the ones I never got to hold, the ones who were taken from me during childbirth, their tiny bodies lost in a flood of pain and silence. Sometimes, when the night was too quiet, I could still hear them crying, faint and desperate, like ghosts trapped just beyond the edge of the world.
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