The Egyptian Princess
Copyright© 2025 by Drcock666
Chapter 25: The Guarding of the Seed
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 25: The Guarding of the Seed - 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
As the smoke curled and thickened, blurring my vision, I awoke with a start, heart pounding, breath ragged. The dream was a warning, a curse, or perhaps fate itself, binding me to a path I wished I could change.
The prophecy did not come unaccompanied by signs; ancient rituals whispered through the palace like ghostly winds, each ceremony steeped in meaning, designed to appease the gods and, perhaps, to alter fate itself.
On the eve of the new moon, I was led to the Temple of Sekhmet, where the air hung heavy with the scent of burnt myrrh and crushed lotus petals. Draped in linen woven with threads of gold, I stood before the altar, flanked by the high priestesses, their eyes hidden beneath veils as black as the night itself. They chanted in low, mournful tones, an incantation meant to call forth the protective spirit of the lioness goddess, to guard the unborn, to shield the innocent from death’s cold grasp.
The ritual was called the “Guarding of the Seed,” a ceremony lost to many, yet preserved in whispered scrolls and oral tradition. I held in my hand a small vessel of Nile water, infused with pomegranate seeds and saffron, symbols of life and rebirth. As the priestesses poured the liquid over my palms, they murmured blessings, their voices weaving a spell of protection. This water was said to carry the power of the gods, to cleanse the bloodline and shield the future from shadow.
Yet, despite the prayers and the offerings, a chill lingered in the temple air, an invisible thread of fate tugging, reminding me that even the gods could not undo the prophecy.
Another ritual, the “Weeping of Hathor,” followed on the third day. I was taken to the sacred lake, its surface still and glassy beneath the pale sun. There, I was to offer libations, milk and honey poured into the water, to soothe the goddess of love and motherhood, whose tears were said to flow for every child lost before their time. The priestesses sang the “Lament of the Lotus,” a haunting melody recounting the story of a mother who mourned her child’s untimely death, beseeching Hathor’s mercy to spare me the same fate.
I remember the weight of the silence that followed, broken only by the distant cry of a lone ibis. In those moments, I felt both cradled and cursed by the hands of tradition.
These ceremonies were more than rituals; they were desperate acts of hope against a fate that loomed larger than life itself. I was caught between the promise of future queenship and the shadow of a prophecy that threatened to unravel everything I held dear.
I had always known the palace walls held secrets darker than any shadow, but that night, the weight of betrayal pressed down on me heavier than ever before. I sent my most loyal servant, a whisper in the dark, to watch my brother and our sister. The ones who should have been family, allies ... but I feared they plotted against me.
The servant returned pale and trembling, eyes wide with the horror of what they had witnessed. They crept silently to the chamber, where the heavy door was cracked just enough for candlelight to spill into the cold corridor. Through that narrow slit, they saw what should never be seen by anyone but the gods.
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