Out of the Black Land - By Kerry Greenwood Page 0,160
been expecting this and gathered around Horemheb, thanking him, until he waved an arm and bellowed, ‘Food and drink, especially drink! I must wash. Go and prepare a feast!’ and they scattered like birds.
‘Who is coming to the feast, lord?’ I asked. His broad face split with a large grin.
‘You shall see, Mistress. Four persons, apart from us.’
‘Where is Kheperren?’ I asked gently, hoping that I did not have to hear bad news. ‘Has something…’
‘No, he’s gone to see the scribe of Sais.’
My heart leapt up and the general patted me. ‘Yes, the scribe is well, the woman is well, all is very well, and I need a real wash. Ipuy, where is the old scoundrel? I need a scrub.’
Ipuy had slipped out to talk to the guard who had come with Horemheb and I did not want to get him into trouble by noticing this. So I said to Horemheb, ‘If you will allow me, Master, I have washed a lot of people in my time.’
‘Come along then,’ he strode into the washing place, stripping off his armoured shirt and his breechclout. I had already ordered well-jars of warmed water and I knew that Ankherhau had assembled the pumice and brushes and soft soap which the general favoured. I stripped also, because I considered that I was going to get very wet before the general was clean.
He stood under the falling water until he was soaked, and I began to groom General Horemheb as though he were a horse. He was almost as big as a horse. His thighs were as broad as my waist, I could not get both arms around him, and none of this girth was fat. Scrubbing at the stubborn marks which the shirt left on his shoulders and neck felt like scouring a leather-covered rock. He sat down on a stool so that I could reach his back, and I lathered the expanse of scarred skin and muscle. He was very different from my Ptah-hotep or the scribe Kheperren.
He was relaxing under my attentions, though I was scrubbing him with a hard bristled brush as vigorously as I would scrub a floor. I leaned his head into my breast so I could get at the back of his neck when his mouth found my nipple. I kept scrubbing, though I was becoming aroused. One strong arm went around my hips, moving me until I was straddling his lap. One hand caressed between my legs.
He was not going to force me, though he could have; he was the strongest man I had ever seen. A finger slid inside me. My body was reacting. After all, he was a soldier, a man who risked his life for Egypt. After all, I had been a long time without a man.
After all, he was my husband.
Feeling down to position the phallus correctly, I lowered myself onto a hard spike, carefully so as not to hurt the delicate tissue. Horemheb gasped and threw back his head, so that I could kiss him, the scarred face, the broad cheekbones, the hard mouth, which sucked at my lips. His phallus fitted inside me, just fitted. I had never been so filled and the sensation was strange. I sat awhile joined to him, savouring the feeling.
Then I began to move. I had seen the dancers of Nubia revolve their hips, and Meryt had told me that her success in lovemaking was entirely due to this skill. She had taught it to me. A sideways flick, a return, then a rotation like the upper grindstone. I had seen the effect this had on susceptible Egyptian audiences, who often had recourse to putting plates over their rising laps. This had always amused the dancers, and this is what all those men were thinking of. A woman in the Isis position, rising and falling like a rider.
This had advantages. If Horemheb had descended to lie on me, I might have been crushed flatter than a frieze. This way I could control the depth of the phallus and its angle and something that was itching for attention; some place in my vessel of Hathor which did not ordinarily react. I leaned away from my lover to contrive that this itch should be rubbed, and I began to gasp, almost to sob, as a flood of sensation washed over me.
He seized my buttocks in both hands and I clutched his neck and the mating grew strong. I was not going to hurt Horemheb no matter what I