The Forbidden Throne
Copyright© 2025 by Tharnoren
Chapter 5
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 5 - 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
The sun had already risen, but the royal chambers remained steeped in a heavy gloom. The linen drapes, drawn over the tall windows, smothered the golden light. The air still carried the lingering scent of spiced wine, mixed with the ashes of incense burned through the night.
Nakht hadn’t closed his eyes once. For hours, he had lain motionless, his gaze lost in the painted patterns of the ceiling. His skull throbbed like a sacred drum, his mouth was as dry as desert sand, but he paid no mind to his battered body. His whole being was chained to a single name: Merit.
He prayed in silence. That Amon might erase the night. That Hathor might cover it in oblivion. That it had all been nothing but a drunken nightmare. But every instant returned with the sharpness of ritual: his obscene words, his trembling hands clutching her, the horror flashing in his sister’s eyes. Nothing had been a dream. Everything had been too real.
A wave of dizziness hit him as he pushed himself upright. The linen sheets, crumpled and twisted, bore the scars of his turmoil. His bare feet touched the cold tiles—the stone bit into his skin, as if reminding him of his sin.
He forced himself up. In the polished copper mirror, he saw not a radiant prince, son of Re, but a wreck: bloodshot eyes, yesterday’s beard, hair in disarray. Nothing divine. Just a drunken, shame-stricken man. He turned away from the sight.
On an ebony chest lay a pale linen tunic; he grabbed it and slipped it on, fumbling at the belt with shaking hands. His throat burned with thirst, but what he craved was not water. He was starving for forgiveness.
Every step across his chambers rang against the stone like a sentence. The faint perfume of lotus and myrrh clung to the air, whispering of what he had tried to force upon her. His stomach clenched in disgust.
He knew he had to find her. Before the gods themselves turned deaf to his prayers. Before Merit severed forever the bond they had shared since childhood.
Nakht yanked the curtains open. The morning light flooded the room—merciless, blinding on his ravaged features. The palace already stirred: servants’ footsteps, priests murmuring prayers, the clatter of guards’ weapons.
He drew a deep breath, heart pounding against his ribs. Then he crossed the threshold, resolved to search for his sister, to beg her forgiveness—before it was too late.
Nakht strode through the palace, his pace sharp, his voice tense as he stopped every servant, every scribe, every priest robed in linen.
“Where is Merit?”
The answers never changed: puzzled looks, lifted shoulders. No one had seen her since dawn. Some assumed she still lay with him, as was expected after a royal first night. The surprise in their eyes cut him deeper each time—how could the king himself not know?
A weight pressed on his chest, as crushing as a sarcophagus lid. His temples hammered harder with each denial, each silence feeding the dread he tried to hold back.
In the great hall with its painted columns, he stopped dead. A group of priests stood with arms raised, chanting to Amon. Nakht waited until the hymn faded, then cut in, voice ragged with impatience:
“The Great Wife—have you seen her this morning?”
They exchanged uncertain glances. One finally bowed.
“No, my lord. We believed she was still in your chambers.”
Nakht clenched his fists, turning his face aside. The air seemed to thicken around him, suffocating. He left abruptly, his breath shallow.
That was when he ran into Tiaa. She was carrying a basket of linen scented with lotus, but froze at the sight of him—agitated, unmoored. Her eyes widened.
“Majesty? What is it?”
Nakht stepped toward her too quickly, his voice low but taut:
“Don’t call me that ... Merit—have you seen her?”
Tiaa shook her head, hesitant. “No ... not since last night. I thought she...” She stopped short, reading his face. Something was wrong.
“What happened, Nakht? Tell me.” Her voice trembled.
He turned away, jaw tight. Then, beaten down, he let the words escape:
“I ... lost control. The wine ... I was drunk.”
The basket nearly slipped from her hands. She covered her mouth, stifling a gasp. Her eyes filled with terror.
“By the gods...”
Nakht grabbed her wrist, desperate.
“Help me, Tiaa. I have to find her. I have to beg her forgiveness.”
She stayed silent, eyes cast down, before finally speaking—her tone heavy, grave:
“I think she knows. About us. About you and me.”
Her words struck him like a blow.
“How...?”
Tiaa turned her gaze away, ashamed. “That night ... when we were caught. I think it was Merit who saw us.”
Each word weighed on his chest, crushing him. The floor itself seemed to sway under his sandals.
He pressed his hand to his forehead, then his chest, as though trying to still the storm raging inside. Nothing eased it. His sister was gone. She knew. Perhaps she had fled.
“Help me find her, Tiaa. I beg you.”
The servant nodded, fear and pity mingling in her eyes.
Together they crossed the palace, questioning every guard, every servant. The hours stretched like endless columns, yet no trace of Merit appeared.
What had begun as a private dread was now spreading through the halls. Whispers rose like a tide. Priests muttered among themselves. Scribes shuffled anxiously. Guards scanned the courtyards and gardens.
And deep inside, Nakht already knew—the fault was his alone.
The sun had climbed past its zenith before rumor hardened into fact: the Great Wife was nowhere in the palace. Not in her chambers, not in the gardens, not at the temple. Every servant questioned, every priest consulted, gave the same answer — no.
Then worry spilled past the palace walls.
In the columned courtyard groups of priests murmured with grave faces, already calling it a sign from the gods, Amon’s wrath on the royal house. Servants scurried through the halls, peering into every shadow as if they could pull her out of one. The guards, summoned at once, were ordered to comb the streets of Thebes, out to the dusty outskirts.
Even the air felt heavy with foreboding.
Nakht walked without stopping, from room to room, unable to stand still. His tunic clung to his sweat-soaked back. Each passing hour carved a deeper pit inside him. He heard the whispers trail him — “the Great Wife has vanished,” “the gods turn their faces away,” “the union was not sealed” — and each word struck him like a blow.
He knew it all began with him.
When night fell over the palace, torches were lit and threw giant shadows across the walls. Squads armed for a sweep pushed through the gates and moved silently across the city. They searched emptied markets, the river’s cracked banks, and the narrow lanes where the smell of dried fish and dust hung thick. No trace of Merit.
Nakht stayed on the high terraces, scanning the horizon, his eyes raw with weariness and rage. His throat tightened every time a returning patrol had nothing to report.
By morning he had not slept. His lips were cracked, his eyes hollowed. The priests came to speak with him: they needed to calm the people before rumor ignited into panic. Some already whispered of conspiracy. Others spoke of abduction. Nakht no longer listened. Every gust of wind seemed to whisper the same verdict: it was his fault.
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