Blowback

by BRK   

Egyptologist Colin Quigley’s petty use of a mummy’s curse to turn his rival into a cum-craving libertine brings on unwanted consequences.

Colin Quigley snapped awake in his sweltering tent with the suddenness of a deadly rockfall. For once it wasn’t the uncomfortably dry, ovenlike heat of the Egyptian desert that wrested him prematurely from the cool, comforting arms of Morpheus. Something—a voice—had called to him.

He lay frozen on his cot, listening intently. There was barely enough of the arid night breeze to ruffle the heavy flaps of the team’s half-dozen war-surplus tents. Muffled stentorian snores drifted through the canvas, and Colin’s lips tightened. Everyone else was sleeping off the nightcap they’d shared earlier in celebration of Colin abruptly having broken through to the royal level of the long-lost tomb of the Mage-Pharaoh Smenkhkare. Ironically, Colin himself had abstained. He detested the loss of control that came with alcoholic indulgence and had vowed never to let a drop past his lips, for all the teasing he got from his whisky-loving peers.

The camp was still, but he had definitely heard something. Hadn’t he? “Hello?” he whispered tentatively.

Instantly, he felt foolish. What was the point of calling out to something, but doing so inaudibly? Next he’d be trying to light an empty pipe, or rowing a lifeboat over the endless sand-swells of Libya.

His self-annoyance stirring him to action, he stood from his cot in a single, fluid motion and, not bothering to pull on a shirt, bent and exited the tent into the hot, dry summer night. Normally he would not have risked such scandalous nudity even amongst his fellow men, but a strange, preternatural urgency and his own irritation itched at him, fraying his always-thin patience for social niceties. It was a modern era they lived in, after all. Humanity had (against all odds) reached the twentieth century. These were not the primped and costumed courts of Louis XIV or the effete, etiquette-obsessed secret chambers of Cathay’s Forbidden City. He could expose his manly chest to the Egyptian night without fear of retribution, either by Jehovah or the swells of Philadelphia.

Though he did not look upward, he was aware of the blazing riot of stars filling in the inky sky overhead, bright enough he didn’t yet need the already-lit lantern he’d brought with him to navigate through the camp as his feet took him toward the dig. He likewise spared no glance for the tent of his most esteemed colleague and greatest rival, Dr. Pier Giorgio Rivabianchi, though he felt his lip curl as he passed. The man had a reputation as a Casanova—and certainly looked the part—and yet he had more than once caught the swarthy, excessively handsome Italian Lothario possessively scanning Colin’s athletic physique even when they were both fully clothed, and once while bathing.

Colin had at first thought his respected and well-published compeer was endeavoring to shame him for daring to possess a slightly thicker accumulation of sculpted brawn, honed as it was through a long habit of racing crew in university and after, than was customary in an academic. Others had done so, back home in the salons of Society Hill. But then he had seen Pier Giorgio unclothed, washing for the first time in the waters of the Nile, and had learned that under his loose and heavy outer clothes Pier Giorgio’s musculature was even more well-formed and meticulously groomed than his own—though, perhaps surprisingly given the Mediterranean heritage so visible in his olive complexion, tall sturdy build, Roman nose, and messy, ink-darks curls, the Italian scholar was less encumbered with chest and body hair than the pale, lanky scion of the Celts that Colin was.

The revelation left him mystified as to Pier Giorgio’s motivation for his perusal of Colin’s masculine anatomy. Unless—was he perhaps a sodomite? Did he shamelessly desire the taste of Colin’s sweat, tongue, and seed?

A hot, moist sensation that had nothing to do with the desert summer night washed uncomfortably through him as he continued past the last tent, leaving his manhood oddly piqued and inflated. He stalked across the short, rocky expanse between them and the dig in a dudgeon. If Pier Giorgio were such a slave to lust, he had everyone else fooled. Imagine the scandal in academia if such base needs became known! It was bad enough the man had tried to lay claim to his success, claiming, in a louche moment at the party earlier that night, that Colin’s admittedly discovery of the south stair allowing potential access to the royal chambers was one he predicted. The gall of that swarthy hedonist, imbibing Colin’s egyptological success one day and his erotic spend the next!

His ire compounded as he descended instinctively through the excavated tomb. By the time he reached the narrow south stair, the walls so close his shoulders brushed stone on either side, he was in an enraged and reckless state. Finally, he found himself on the chill, airless fourteenth level, in the corridor they knew must lead to the vault of the king.

Five paces from the stair he stopped without knowing why and turned to face a seemingly blank wall. Reaching out his hand he splayed it across the stone. Instantly the outline of a door appeared in the smooth, ruddy surface, and then it started inching inward, allowing access to a chamber none had seen before.

The vast, accumulated wealth of Smenkhkare stretched before him—jewels, gold, crafted luxuries beyond measure. He ignored all of it, drawn inexorably to the painted and gilded sarcophagus positioned on a basalt plinth in the center of the room. The air in the chamber seemed to become increasingly charged as he approached the ornate casket, as though the crackling presence of Osiris’s power awakened with the presence of a visitor to the king.

He stared down at the haughty, annoyed face of Smenkhkare decorating the lid of the heavy coffin. Then it seemed to open its painted mouth and speak to him, and the energy of the chamber had so unsettled Colin’s mind that this did not seem strange to him, any more than his flushed skin, his pounding pulse, or this fully aroused and engorged cock.

“You have heard my summons, foreigner,” the visage of Smenkhkare seemed to say, though he seemed more disdainful than pleased. “Only those with a deep desire to alter the cycles of the world may seek my will from the Field of Reeds.”

“Great Pharaoh, I would not disturb you,” Colin said, though in truth he was merely being polite. He would, definitely, disturb the sorcerer king.

“You have already done so,” Smenkhkare intoned, his annoyance clear. “Speak your change!”

Colin’s eyes locked with the painted ones of the king. Did he dare? Was it wise to trust this spirit? It did not matter. He was too worked up, too driven to irrational thought by his inflamed and aroused state. “Pier Giorgio,” he began. Then before he could stop himself he gave voice to his petty resentment of his handsome colleague’s academic and personal trespasses. “He craves male seed. Let him do so excessively, his thirst building and deepening more and more, his desire growing so that it cannot be hidden, until the very ends of time.”

The pharaoh held his gaze a moment. Was it just a lifeless painting after all? Had he been tricked by the weird, giddy atmosphere of the royal chamber, unknown to living men these three thousand years? Then the mouth twisted into a judgmental sneer. “By the will of Osiris, your change is granted.”

Colin’s rush of strangely erotic triumph was short-lived. He had enjoyed barely a moment’s gloating before the pharaoh spoke again. “And you, dark-haired one. What is your change?”

Colin’s stomach dropped. Slowly, he turned to see Pier Giorgio standing a few feet behind him amidst the prizes of Smenkhkare’s wealth, his comely musculature and golden-olive skin in the lantern light making him look like the most coveted treasure of them all. He, too, was shirtless, as if he had followed Colin here, or maybe he had been awakened from his cot by the same call.

Dark eyes blazed from under his loose curls as he stared hungrily at Colin. A heavy slab-like bulge pushed out the fabric of his camel-colored trousers along the left hip, speaking eloquently of the need Colin’s curse had suddenly and exponentially amplified.

Colin felt pinned in place. He gulped, and when Pier Giorgio’s feral smile came he shivered with epic anticipation.

Seven years later, Colin and Pier Giorgio returned to the valley Smenkhkare’s tomb and the unrelenting Egyptian sun. In the intervening time no other archaeological expedition had been able to discover the secret door to the pharaoh’s chamber, and the Royal Society had commissioned the now inseparable team of Quigley and Rivabianchi to replicate their earlier success.

With a groan, Colin dropped his rucksack full of tools on the floor of their tent (rather larger than the ones they’d occupied separately on the earlier trip) and turned to his too-handsome partner, who was coming in behind him, with a deep, resentful lust. “Four hours, Pier!” he complained. “You knew that was as long as I can stand without…” He trailed off, glancing down at himself, then back up at his compatriot.

Pier Giorgi leered at him from under his dark curls and fastened the flaps of the tent. Their workers were well paid and loyal enough to know not to disturb the Sotpei (the locals’ obscure name for the pair—Colin thought it was related to a word for ‘touched’ or ‘chosen’) when their tent flaps were closed—just as they knew not to notice or remark upon the large, 12-inch log of Dr. Quigley’s, the constant thrusting up of which from his trousers he was in no way able to conceal or mitigate. Dr. Rivabianchi had no such inhibitions, and gazed hungrily at the massive bulge and the wet spot staining Colin’s unfortunate shirt. “I need your incredible spend just as much as you need to make it, my Ganymede,” he purred, advancing on Colin with unfathomable lust in his eyes.

“And whose fault is that?” Colin argued petulantly, reluctantly starting on the buttons of his shirt.

“Yours,” Pier Giorgio said, his eyes fixed on the pending reveal of his heart’s desire.

“No, it was that dashed pharaoh,” Colin said irritably. He released the last button and pulled his shirt open, exposing his bulging chest and chiseled abs—and, yes, his massive erection. Over the last seven years he had worked hard rowing every river he lived near to improve his upper body and was now as muscled as Sandow, all in the vain hope that his cum-obsessed partner would notice anything about him before he orgasmed beside the massive, permanently hard organ that had been minutely but steadily expanding in length and size—and most of all quantity of output—since the minute they’d left the presence of the cruel dead king. “If we ever find that doorway again, I’ll give that old fellow a piece of my mind.”

“It was still you that said it,” Pier Giorgio said distractedly, falling to his knees in a well-practiced motion. It was a familiar argument, and his attention was elsewhere.

“Yes, well, if you hadn’t kept looking at me, I—oh, by Horus!” he shouted suddenly, as Pier Giorgio’s talented mouth engulfed the head of Colin’s prick. Almost instantly he started erupting, despite his actual climax being at bay at least for a few moments. He produced so much cum these days that expending it only at the time of release didn’t seem to be enough. As Pier Giorgio was utterly devoted to taking inside himself as much of Colin’s seed as possible, the amount of pleasure being produced for both of them was off the charts.

Pier Giorgio’s hands did find their way up Colin’s unprofessorly thick and hairy chest, even finding Colin’s damp nipples as he sucked expertly on his cock like a master sybarite. Colin groaned loudly and suddenly he was blasting his spend at ten times the volume and pressure he had been this whole time. He watched his lover’s tanned and manly throat work convulsively as he got down almost all of the thick, scalding liquid. As soon as Colin’s eruption started to ebb, Pier Giorgi slid up the tall, sculpted body in front of his and locked lips with the surly American. Colin pretended to object to kissing and made as though he were allowing it grudgingly, but the truth was his lover’s deepening addiction to his cum made him crave the taste of his own spend ever so slightly, and the best way to experience this was from Pier Giorgio’s own mouth.

“How many today, do you think?” he mumbles against Colin’s lips, kissing him messily.

“Are you kidding?” Colin growled. “I’m not nearly done using that mouth. I’ve got four or five more loads at least, you Apulian libertine.”

Pier Giorgio moaned into Colin’s mouth, sliding the shirt off his brawny shoulders as he did so. “I don’t know why you still wear these,” he said indistinctly, casually worshipping Colin’s upper body with his roving hands as they went on kissing. “Everyone can see it anyway.”

“I believe in at least some decorum,” Colin protested, though he was having trouble concentrating—his next orgasm was already rapidly building in his orange-sized balls.

“Hm,” Pier Giorgio said as he pleasured them both. “And what about when it reaches 16 inches? Or 36? Will you still wear a shirt then?”

“That’s why we have to find the doorway,” Colin insisted. “To undo these curses once and for all.”

“Never happen,” Pier Giorgio murmured. He was already sliding down to find the hefty, wrist-thick tool that never stopped leaking and already mostly hid the abdominal muscles he’d worked so hard to perfect. He sighed. As though it were yesterday he heard the words Pier Giorgio, in his haze of urgent lust, had offered the pharaoh, a cruel echo of Colin’s own. Colin craves the swallowing of his male seed, the Italian sex god had said. Let him do so excessively, his production of spend building and deepening more and more, his cock growing so that it cannot be hidden, until the very ends of time.

Colin hoped Smenkhkare had taken the “ends of time” bit in both their curses figuratively. Otherwise, he thought with rapidly eroding clarity as Pier Giorgio made passionate love to his enormous, ever-eager member, he might just end up very big indeed—and producing more spend than Pier Giorgio, or the universe, knew what to do with.

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