The Forbidden Throne
Copyright© 2025 by Tharnoren
Chapter 4
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 4 - After their parents’ murder, the priests crown young Nakht pharaoh and force his sister Merit to become his queen. To end famine and restore the Nile, they must conceive a pure-blooded heir—an unholy union that will twist duty into forbidden desire.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual NonConsensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Incest Brother Sister MaleDom Rough Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Oral Sex Pregnancy Royalty
Nakht’s seat remained empty. Merit sat motionless, her fingers locked around the rim of her cup. The air, thick with myrrh and crushed lotus, made her stomach turn. A hard knot swelled in her belly, rising all the way to her throat.
She stood abruptly. Her veils brushed the floor, her step faltered. The painted columns seemed to sway in the torchlight. She crossed the space in a daze until she reached the shadow of a pillar, where the air felt a little cooler.
“Merit...”
Tiaa’s voice—low, hesitant—slipped in behind her.
Merit turned her face away. “Leave me.” Her lips trembled but her tone stayed sharp.
The servant stepped closer. Her delicate hands twisted against each other, but her voice was soft. “You look pale. Let me bring you water, I’ll fetch a jug...”
Merit recoiled, hitting the cold pillar behind her. A shiver ran down her spine. “Don’t touch me.”
Tiaa stopped, startled, but didn’t retreat. Her gaze stayed fixed on her mistress, worried. “I don’t understand ... but I can see something is crushing you. Just tell me if there’s a way I can help.”
Merit wanted to shove her away again. Her breath came faster, her chest tightening like an iron band. The banquet’s clamor faded, replaced by a dull roar in her skull. She raised a hand to her mouth, but the sob broke through, unstoppable.
Her strength gave out. Her shoulders collapsed, her forehead pressed into Tiaa’s shoulder. Tears burned her cheeks, soaking the light linen.
“I don’t understand anymore...” Her voice cracked in a whisper. “Nakht ... he knows this won’t save anything, and still he accepts ... he accepts...”
Her fingers clutched Tiaa’s veil as if she might crumble entirely.
The servant’s arms wrapped around her. At first her touch was hesitant, then firmer, almost maternal. Her hand stroked slowly along Merit’s nape. “You don’t have to carry this alone...” she murmured.
Merit closed her eyes. Her throat burned, sobs shook her body. And despite the rancor still tearing at her belly from what she had witnessed the night before—despite the image of Tiaa in her brother’s arms—she gave in. She knew the servant had no idea what she was guilty of. But Merit felt it with every breath. Even so, she surrendered, vulnerable, clinging to the one she longed to push away.
Baki was waiting in the corridor, leaning against the wall. When he saw Nakht approach, he muttered,
“Well? How are you holding up?”
Nakht shrugged. “I don’t know ... My head’s on fire. This is all too much.”
They slipped into a small side chamber. Nakht slumped onto a chair, still clutching his cup. Baki sat across from him, elbows braced on his knees.
“You’re drinking too much,” he said flatly.
Nakht gave a tired smile. “It’s that or collapse.”
Baki shook his head. “You think that’ll help you hold up? All you’re doing is giving the priests exactly what they want—showing weakness.”
Silence. Nakht stared into his cup as if an answer might be hiding there.
“I feel trapped, Baki ... Like I have to say yes to everything. Like I can’t ... choose anymore.”
Baki leaned closer. “You’re the pharaoh, not them. You choose. You want to keep going like this? Or do you want it to change?”
Nakht sighed, his eyes bloodshot. “I’m not afraid of the crown, not of the priests. I’m afraid of ... of what’s waiting for me tonight.”
Baki’s gaze hardened. He understood perfectly, even if Nakht didn’t have to spell it out. But he didn’t press.
“Then stop running. Stand tall. If you want this to work, you need to take control.”
Nakht lowered his eyes, nodded slowly.
Baki’s tone shifted, darker. “I’ve also got news about ... the assassination. Rumors, names being whispered.”
“Not tonight.” Nakht cut him off with a raised hand. “Not now.”
Baki studied him a moment, then nodded. “As you wish.”
Nakht straightened, set his empty cup on the table. “Come on. Let’s go back.”
Together they retraced their steps toward the banquet. Music and chanting still filled the great hall. Nakht returned to his place ... but Merit’s seat was empty.
He froze for an instant. His gaze swept the hall, but she was gone. So he snatched a brimming cup from a servant’s tray and downed it in one long swallow.
The steward stepped into the center of the hall, staff pressed to his chest. His voice cut through the murmur of conversations:
“Let us follow the order of the rites: prayers to the gods, offerings, libations, chants. Let each give according to his rank.”
The priests of Amun took their places. Servants laid lotus flowers before the statues, filled tall cups for libations. The sistra kept the rhythm, harps added a somber thread. Smoke thickened the air. Everything continued ... yet the seat of the Great Wife remained empty, and eyes kept returning to it.
Nakht sat. A servant offered him lotus wine, which he drained too quickly. On his left, Baki said nothing, watchful, his gaze hard. When a chamber officer leaned in, panting, Baki stopped him with a curt gesture.
“She’s not in the women’s wing, my lord,” the man whispered. “Tiaa is missing too. We’re searching the gardens.”
Nakht’s neck stiffened. “Search the court of the sycamores, near the pools. Quietly.”
The man bowed and slipped away.
The steward, unshaken, guided the flow of the rites. Platters of offerings passed from hand to hand: date cakes, jars of beer, small bowls of perfumed oil. In the back, a priest chanted, the choir answered. Dignitaries murmured among themselves, low enough to avoid rebuke, but loud enough to feed unease.
Nakht forced smiles when spoken to, clasped hands, blessed a platter with a sign. But he drank more than he spoke. The wine warmed his chest, blurred the edges of the hall. Twice he glanced at the entrance. Nothing.
Time stretched. Prayers repeated to Amun, then Mut, then Khonsu, as if trying to trap the heavens in words. Young boys brought scented water for libations, pouring it in thin streams into copper basins. The dancers returned, slower, their veils drawn tight, gold bracelets chiming like restrained rain. The conversations had lost their spark; people spoke just enough to cover the emptiness at the king’s right.
A messenger came quietly to Baki. “We’re searching the outer porticoes, the paths behind the northern garden. They say ... they say someone saw pale veils by the orchard wall.”
Baki looked at Nakht. A beat. “They’ll bring her back as soon as they find her.”
Nakht set down his cup, hesitated, then picked it up again.
In the hall, the steward raised his voice once more:
“May the gods receive our libations until the setting of the disk!”
More pouring, long and slow. The light through the high openings shifted from yellow to red. Shadows stretched across the frescoes, the day’s heat receded by degrees. The music slowed, heavy, like bare feet dragging on stone.
The sky beyond the columns burned purple. More torches flared, resin smoke briefly covering the stench of wine. A final chant rose, deep, to guide the disk’s fall.
Still, Merit’s chair stood empty. Baki didn’t move. Nakht gestured for another refill. Then another. Dusk settled. Night was close.
Nakht was already wandering the chambers. His steps dragged, his breath short. He staggered slightly, cup in hand, which he drained before setting it down. The lotus wine’s cloying sweetness stuck to his tongue, and he knew he’d had too much. Still, his hand kept reaching for the jar by instinct.
He stopped before the chests, the fabrics, the ornaments lined up by servants. Everything felt misplaced. Just days ago, these rooms had belonged to his parents. He could still sense them—their perfumed oils in the air, the way their voices had filled the wing. His eyes settled at last on the great wooden bed at the center. He froze, head heavy, as if staring into a tomb.
He drew a breath ... but his thoughts were no longer clear, and Merit’s image forced itself onto those immaculate sheets.
A sound in the corridor jolted him. First a rustle, then footsteps. He thought it a drunken illusion, but soon Merit’s voice rang out, sharp, irritated:
“ ... your prayers, your fabrics, all of it is nothing but a farce...”
A priest answered her in hushed tones, urging restraint. Nakht felt a pang in his chest. Hearing her reject so fiercely what bound their fate cut him—yet part of him savored the moment she would step through the door.
The door opened. Merit entered, followed by the priest who bowed and slipped away. Nakht lifted his eyes to her. Time seemed to halt.
She wore a garment he had never seen on her: sheer linen, almost transparent, cinched at the waist with a gold belt, shoulders bare, her breasts half-revealed by a carefully draped fold. Her legs showed faintly with each step beneath the fabric, and the heavy collar at her throat made the curve of her chest stand out even more. Her braids fell over her shoulders. She had never looked so much a woman to him.
He devoured her with his eyes, breath caught in his throat. His gaze slid down her hips, lingered on the swell of her breasts, and the more he drank her in, the more the desire he had caged for years flared out of control. The wine dissolved all restraint.
Merit frowned, staring hard at him. She saw his gaze, understood instantly. Annoyance flushed her cheeks.
“It’s a ceremonial robe, chosen by the priests,” she snapped.
Then, sharper: “Stop staring at me!”
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