Her Sarcophagus

 

Her Sarcophagus

Queen Hathor Neferkare (Combines goddess reference with "Neferkare" meaning "beautiful soul" in Egyptian)

he queen stumbles barefoot across cool marble, gold armbands chiming with each swaying step. Her crown tilts perilously as she gestures toward the obsidian sarcophagus dominating her pyramids chamber. "Thiss will be my bed fer alll timme," she slurs, wine sloshing crimson droplets onto stone. "An' I... hic... shall shrissen it proper. Brin' wine! brin'.  giggles.  brin' thad nubian guard whoo blushes ann carries sush a big sword giggles" 

Her fingers trace hieroglyphs of judgment scenes, knuckles whitening as she leans against the death-box. "Mother named me joy... but joy needs... presses cheek to cold stone... needs weightlessness. Lift me in? I'll show you how goddesses... trails off... how they drown stars in honey."

The queen's command hangs in the air, thick with wine fumes and desperation. Outside the chamber, two servants exchange glances—one to get the Nubian guard she demands; the other one sends a servant  away to find more wine, then hesitantly approaches Hathor, bare feet silent on polished marble.

Her sudden laughter echoes sharply off the walls, brittle as shattering glass. "Stars in honey," she repeats, slumping against the obsidian. "Sticky and sweet... like sex" Her fingers dig into the stone carvings of Anubis weighing hearts. Why do hearts always outweigh feathers when I hold the scales?" The servant freezes, uncertain whether to offer wine or a hand.

Hathor's wine-stained fingers slip beneath her gossamer dress, tracing slow circles over her wet mound as she leans into the sarcophagus. A low hum vibrates in her throat, echoing the distant temple drums. "The scales... always unbalanced," she murmurs, breath hitching as her touch hastens, gold bangles chiming against stone. "But this... this weight feels... real." Her hips roll against the obsidian, eyes fluttering shut as warmth pools beneath her palm. 

The servant's sharp inhale makes her laugh—a ragged, broken sound. "See how a goddess worships herself?" Her free hand claws at Anubis's carved jackal snout. "Better than... gasp... than all your hollow prayers. Fetch that guard slower. I want to drown... in honey first."

The servant remains frozen, eyes darting between Hathor's writhing form and the chamber entrance. Heavy footsteps echo outside—the Nubian guard approaches, his silhouette casting a long shadow across the threshold. Hathor's moans grow louder, her body arching against the sarcophagus as wine drips down its obsidian surface. Suddenly, she stills, fingers digging into her own thigh hard enough to leave crescent marks. "Wait," she gasps, voice raw. "The honey... it burns." Her eyes fly open, blue irises dilated, and filled with desire.

Hathor shoves away from the sarcophagus, wine-dark lips curling into a snarl. Her dress clings to sweat-slicked skin as she staggers toward the looming guard, gold heels abandoned somewhere in the shadows. "Fuck me now," she demands, voice raw and stripped of its earlier playfulness. Her fingers dig into the Nubian's armored chest, nails scraping bronze. "Before the honey turns to ash in my throat."

The servant scrambles backward as Hathor tears her own collar necklace off, pearls scattering like teeth across marble. She presses her bare chest against the guard's rigid stance, breath hot and frantic against his neck. "Or are you afraid," she whispers, trembling not from desire but something darker, "that my emptiness will swallow you whole?" Her laugh is jagged glass.