Walk like An Egyptian

Author's note: This short vacuous stroker is fiction. People and places are made up. All players are over age 18. Tags: museum, mummy, sting, curators, remorse, Flame Game. Views expressed may not be the author's. Details may be incorrect. The naming convention is deliberate — see note at end. Enjoy!

A nemesis with a big cock stalks the museum.

The last stragglers of the day's crowds had been ushered out. The massive doors were locked. The storied Gothic halls and haunting galleries of Capitol City's tremendous Museum of Anthropology were largely emptied but still unquiet.

First came the Security sweep with a dozen guardians testing every locked door and panel. Every lock bore a code the guards ticked-off on their proprietary iPhones.

Right behind came the sanitation sweep with two dozen janitors loosing institutional-grade Roomba cleaning drones on the floors and lazily swabbing-out the restrooms.

And then the junior curators took to their tasks, one for each of the three dozen academic areas, reviewing and tweaking exhibits as needed. Senior curators, mostly dignified older men, ran their divisions and published research while the juniors, mostly harried younger women, performed the schlepping and shitwork. Ever was it so at CCMoA.

(Astrid, junior curator in the Urban Life division, certainly knew the old blues song CC Rider, and she spread her own lyrics to the other junior staff.}

You underpaid me, now my self-respect is gone

Sadie in Aztec-Maya, Beryl in Indochina, Isabella in Trans-Arctic, and Julia in Ancient Egypt had finished their tasks and now sat with beverages and snacks in the shabby break room only lightly gone-over by the janitorial Roombas.

Isabella in Trans-Arctic brought up the rumor.

"I hear sounds that shouldn't be there," she said, sipping the cola spiked with rum, an impromptu Cuba libre. "Footsteps. Shuffling. Not a damn Roomba. I check the security monitors but nothing shows. No intruders. No ghosts in the machine. Only my suspicion, especially if I'm not standing up straight."

Sadie in Aztec-Maya nodded over her hot tea. "I get weird stuff too, and never in offices, always out in the galleries. I'm on an exhibit, usually leaning over something, and I hear... little things. And I feel like I'm being watched. I try not to react but I'm getting spooked."

"I damn well KNOW I'm being watched," Julia in Ancient Egypt said, slurping cocoa. "And somebody or something IS in here. I find little bits of exhibits moved, out of place, like they've been handled, even though they're beyond public access. But the sounds and my intuition, yeah, it's mostly when I'm crouching. Have we got a peeping-Tom ghost?"

Did a shiver run through the room?

Beryl in Indochina giggled. "I felt weird too. You think someone dead or alive is peeping at our bodacious bods when we crouch or squat or lean back? Do we want to smoke it out? Maybe wear sexier rags. Overload its eyes. See if it manifests or just plain fucks up."

Thea in Pre-Humans had wandered in, leaned against the grubby staff refrigerator with a soda, and heard most of their talk. "A sting operation for a ghost, then?" she asked. "You may need more than just flashing boobage, butts, and thighs."

"We need a strategy," Isabella in Trans-Arctic said, "which needs a working hypothesis."

"You know there are little 360-degree cameras with wireless feeds," Sadie in Aztec-Maya said. "Cheap, too. I could hide one in a hair clip. It'll see anything visible in the vicinity and record on my phone for playback."

"That could get freaky, even weirder than what we know now," Beryl in Indochina said. "Suppose I'm in here one hot night and I'm down to a short skirt, bikini top, and hairclip, and I hear the sounds, get the feeling, but NOTHING shows up on the camera? Does that mean a real, live, fucking GHOST? I can't believe that."

"Okay, not ghosts," Julia in Ancient Egypt said, "no reincarnations or revenants, no ambling skeletons, just real person or persons unknown. Why don't they show up on surveillance? I bet it's some Security goon playing the system."

"Well, I can track them on... oh that's right, I only see what they want me to, and I can't get at the source videos," Isabella in Trans-Arctic said. She looked and sounded rueful.

"Seems simple to me," Thea in Pre-Humans said, chopping the logic. "Anything that shows on a hairclip cam but not on a CCMoA Security monitor is real, and anything else is a ghost. Anyone see a problem there?"

Nobody raised objections. Sadie in Aztec-Maya volunteered for a group buy of wireless spy cams, nicely discounted. The junior curators returned to their tasks somewhat distracted. You would be too, with their thoughts rebounding in your head.

*****

The Flame Game, named by Julia in Ancient Egypt to cast light on the mystery without revealing anything if overheard, began two nights later. Beryl in Indochina recruited a few more junior curators with similar experiences: Astrid in Urban Life, Eloise in Sexology of course, Aria in Sub-Sahara, and Audrey in Industrialism. Nine harried, underpaid women with a mission. And sexy rags.

Every mission needs a leader. Audrey in Industrialism seemed sane so the Flamers elected her. She shrugged her slim shoulders and setup communications protocols.

"We only talk or text encrypted," she said, "and never on Museum grounds. This should stymie Security goons if they're involved."

The Flamers hatched a plan. All dressed as normal when arriving for work and only revealed themselves after admins left. Each night, some went bra-less, some wore miniskirts or tight bike shorts, in no set pattern. Commando was an individual option. Inconspicuous cameras mounted in varied small hairclips topped nine heads. Astrid in Urban Life judged their selfies and declared them passable.

*****

Thea in Pre-Humans got the first hit the next night. She mentally noted the time she heard vague sounds while she hunched over a replica Lucy (Australopithecus afarensis) exhibit. She casually shifted her crouch and raised her head just enough to capture full-circle images.

She stood and stretched, half-twisting, bare arms overhead, taut ass in, unbound boobs out, before smoothing and brushing her miniskirt and straightening her tight top. She pressed below her navel as if judging her bladder's fullness and nonchalantly hoofed to the ladies' room without waggling her hips and butt too obviously. Stay cool, now.

Safely in a stall, she fast-forwarded the phone video to the time marker and saw... a humanoid shadow moving between vitrines on a wall behind where she first squatted. So the watcher liked her ass and legs! Or maybe that was merely a good access point. She recalled a service door near there.

The shadow remained still during her stretch-and-twist show. No, wait — she zoomed in and saw that it seemed to be jiggling slightly. Tremors? Self-abuse? Parasites? Whatever. The video showed it was REAL — but HOW real was still a question.

"Do ghosts cast shadows?" she wondered to herself. The Flamers might find out, even without a research grant.

She heeded Audrey in Industrialism's protocol and attached the trimmed video clip to a brief text to be sent encrypted to the Flamers after they left the Museum. She proposed a name for the mysterious entity: Zen, because unconnected with events.

*****

Julia in Ancient Egypt got the next substantial hits, plural, on three successive nights. Was Zen the mystery entity stalking her? No, its shadow appeared fleetingly on other cameras, but her videos were by far the longest. Maybe it appreciated her lace-up sandals, packed bike shorts, and generous unrestrained boobs in a sleeveless bike vest or the tank-top on a warmer evening.

"Stay calm," she told herself. "That detail in one clip can't be what it looked like: something humanoid wrapped in old linen strips. Like a New Kingdom mummy's wrap. No, of course not." She forwarded the video to the Flamers with a skeptical comment.

Eloise in Sexology and Beryl in Indochina both recorded jiggling shadows but nothing more. Aria in Sub-Sahara and Isabella in Trans-Arctic also saw shadows — and captured a moving form what could have been wrapped in pale cloth strips.

Julia in Ancient Egypt caught Zen again, shadows and form, maybe a bit of shoulder and upper arm, and definitely wrapped. Calm, calm... ommm... She needed a mantra.

Yes, Zen appeared on the Flamers' hairclip cameras but not on the Museum's monitors so CCMoA Security goon involvement was a reasonable hypothesis. But why would a goon stalk like that? Surveillance cams could show much more flesh, zoomed in closer than eyeballs.

So, another question, not just WHO? and HOW? but WHY?

*****

The plot thickened.

Julia, the sexy but nervous junior curator in the Ancient Egypt division, was aware of Zen's attention again. The next night's video clip showed a shadow. And a wrapped form. A humanoid form, wrapped head-to-toes in what looked like linen strips. A mummy's wrap. She tentatively identified it as Dynasty XIX, maybe Ramesses II

But most preserved mummies do not display a long, dark, flaccid penis. Zen did. And in a remarkable state of preservation! Yes, Zen was definitely male.

This became the new normal. Flamers recorded brief and not so brief videos of a mummy with a long cock. And it was not always flaccid. It occasionally thickened without swelling to a protruding erection but whatever humanoid bore it showed signs of life.

And he was not only on video. He started to appear before their very eyes and then fade into a convenient shadow. Flashed by a mummy!

"Can you believe this shit?" Beryl in Indochina asked in an after-work conference call with the Flamers all safely in their homes. "Guy's running around with his cock hanging out! Sure, it's an impressive cock, ha ha. But can't Security see him?"

"That guy might BE Security," Eloise in Sexology reminded her. "They'd cover for him."

"Or he's gone rogue," Astrid in Urban Life suggested. "Has fun and covers for himself."

"I take it there are no votes for him being a resurrected Grand Vizier or something," Sadie in Aztec-Maya said. "For sure he's not an Aztec or Guanajuato momia, not with that wrapping. And Mexican mummies don't rejuvenate."

"Any mummy would need weird magic to escape Museum monitors but not our cameras or eyes," pointed out Audrey in Industrialism. "I tweaked my cam's frame rate and other frequencies some nights and he came in just as clear. So it's magic with a hole in it."

.

"Our sting operation worked," Thea in Pre-Humans said. "We smoked him out. What do we now? Wait for his next trick?"

"We play our own trick," Isabella in Trans-Arctic announced. "We double up, make teams of two when we're working. I'll recruit Naomi in Amazonia; she'll be good at this."

"No no no," objected Beryl in Indochina, "that'll take too long. I work faster by myself."

"I know an Android app that'll help," Aria in Sub-Sahara offered. "We setup our phones and a single button press routes the encrypted sound and video feed to all linked phones. If one of us sees him, we can all see what she sees. And she can call for help; we'll all hear and come running."

That app and strategy sounded good to everyone. The game was afoot!

*****

Isabella in Trans-Arctic downed two of her make-do Cuba libres.during break because tonight's task was tedious and trite. When she heard sounds behind her in the exhibit space, she turned, stared, and clumsily punched her phone's button.

Zen stood not fifteen feet away. His body was tightly wrapped in linens like old ivory His long, dark cock was not flaccid or even cozily thickened. He sported a thick, throbbing pillar of manhood, the engorged veins standing out in three dimensions, the circumcised head so swollen, so angry red and demanding.

Not only his magnificent cock entranced her. His scrotum hung from that gap in the wrappings. A bulky, hairy scrotum, one ball larger, that seemed to pulse as she watched, throbbing in rhythm with the vein pounding in her forehead.

Isabella stood spellbound. She marveled at the size, shape, color, intensity. She wondered at the heat, texture, taste. An image struck her of a bird hypnotized by a predatory snake.

She looked up from his cock to his eyes. Dark eyes; wide pupils. Eyes that enslaved her.

With no word, no sound, no gesture, no motion of hand or head or limbs, nothing but the sight of demonic cock and eyes, he drew Isabella to him. She shuffled forward. Looking into those damn eyes, she unsnapped and tossed aside the top that had bound her boobs.

Tearing her eyes from his, her gaze fell to that enthralling cock, and she dropped to her bare knees and licked his rosy dickhead. Her hands cupped his hairy balls. They felt alive.

The floor was not very dirty. Contact with bare knees did not bother her much.

Isabella was pretty well practiced at cocksucking — a few cousins had advanced her education — and his was a pretty great cock to suck while it lasted. Zen may have been dead or alive, resurrected or faking, but he was horny as hell. Plus, she knew how to play a cock. He filled her in under two minutes.

She held him in her mouth, her tongue tickling his urethra to pull out every droplet of cum, and such good-tasting cum to savor and swallow! She was not so drunk that she only imagined it.

Isabella held his cock and balls in her hands and, still on her knees, looked up into those black pits of eyes, eyes that drilled into her brain. She released his package, put her hands to her throbbing forehead, and when she opened her eyes, he was gone, faded into shadows, only a soft susurration from an unknown direction as evidence.

Some sort of sense returned to her. She found and donned her discarded top, zipped her boobs back inside, and retrieved her phone, its app still running. "Hey guys," she hoarsely whispered, "did you see or hear anything?

"Yes we did," Audrey in Industrialism said from the phone, "and we'll talk about it later, Flamers. Anyone want to quit early and head home?"

Audrey's hint was well-received. No serious work remained for the nine. Home called each. And all ran the conference-call app from home.

"Good thing your hairclip was pushed forward," Astrid in Urban Life said. "That put events right in front of your face in focus. We saw you look at him, and kneel and blow him, and then he vanished while you blocked the cam."

"Didn't take much work to get him off, hey girl?" Eloise in Sexology said, "You must know good tricks."

"I've been around," Isabella in Trans-Arctic admitted. Somebody laughed.

"So what did it feel like? What did it taste like?" Aria in Sub-Sahara asked.

Isabella pinched her lips. "He doesn't eat onions or beef or asparagus, doesn't drink whiskey or much coffee, but does seem to have a note of rhubarb. As for the feel — that is one gnarly hunk of man there. If he's not alive he's a great simulation."

More laughter. More chatter of what was witnessed. All the Flamers heard and saw the wordless approach; Zen's deep wide eyes peering through gaps in the wrap; his mighty cock and balls, and her hands; 100 seconds of close views of the linen wrap above the protruding cock as she presumably mouthed him; the release; and the disappearance.

They saw it all. You can guess at their reactions and contemplations.

Julia in Ancient Egypt said, "Look real close at that linen. Yeah, zoom in more. It doesn't look right, wrong color and texture." She kept a professional attitude.

Sadie in Aztec-Maya went straight to the point. She asked, "Do you think you'd do it again, like tomorrow?"

"Oh shit, I don't... oh shit, let me process that. Sorry," Isabella said.

The conversation dropped off from there. Another day was dawning. Time to sleep

*****

Zen did not manifest the next night, nor the next. Junior curator gals took their midweek days off, an inconvenient Tuesday-Wednesday 'weekend'. Ever was it so at CCMoA.

Junior curators' work was usually straightforward on Thursdays, to merely prepare for the upcoming crowds on the Friday-Saturday-Sunday 'normal' weekend, a tough time with much to repair and restore. The paying public was hard on the place.

Zen did manifest that Thursday night near the end of the work shift. Julia in Ancient Egypt heard soft padded footsteps approach from behind her. She turned and faced the mummy with the fierce eyes and demanding genitals standing motionless a dozen feet away. She punched the button her phone.

Julia was not drunk but she felt a compulsion. She was not averse to sucking this cock, based on Isabella's description. Julia's boyfriend ate and drank stuff that made his cum bleachy, beefy, burning, just not worth tasting. At least he gave nice oral sex. But he had been away "on assignment" for a couple weeks. This mystery cock would be worth a try.

She discarded the halter top restraining her boobs as she strode to the motionless mummy and his prominent package. She stared into Zen's dilated pupils — pretty intense.

She knelt before him and fondled his raging hard-on and puffy scrotum, kneading each ball in turn. Her hand stroked the vein-distorted shaft; she wetted him with her tongue and stroked again. He throbbed. She took him in her mouth and gave suck.

He lasted maybe 90 seconds. His cum did taste pretty good. She drained him, unmouthed him, held a good grip on that entire package, and called out, "OKAY! NOW!"

Zen tried to pull back but Julia's hands were strong and well-placed. She risked that he might hit her to escape but he did not. The eight other Flame Gamers ran in and grabbed him, holding him securely. He struggled briefly but then stopped.

Julia in Ancient Egypt giggled. "Well, let's see what we have here. I knew the linen was wrong. This is modern stuff. And looky-looky at these! Mummy wraps don't include Velcro. We don't have to unwrap this guy. Hold him tight while I—"

"Don't bother," Zen the mummy said with a downtown Lebanese accent. "You don't have to strip me. Unless you really want to, sure. But just take this headpiece off, it opens in back, and you can see my face and I can talk easier."

Beryl in Indochina peeled his headpiece off and said, "You look kind of familiar. But you're not CCMoA Security. Do you work in the Museum? And who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Delano. I'm a janitor. I'm here every busy night." He was sweating. "Ummm, can you ladies let me go? I won't try to run off. Wouldn't do me any good."

They released him. He stuffed his genitals into the crotch opening, Velcro'd it shut, and moved slowly to a nearby visitors' bench. He sat and faced the nine harried, underpaid, disrespected Flamers.

Astrid in Urban Life asked, "How did you manage this shit? Appear and disappear like that? Never show up on the monitors? We thought you were a Security goon."

"I had a friend," Delano said, "he was in Security but he was fired for bullshit reasons, racist reasons, and he was pissed, so pissed he left without turning in his Security cell phone with all sorts of apps on it. He showed me how to use it. Here it is."

He slowly reached in his pocket for an iPhone. He handed it to Audrey in Industrialism.

"It can make the surveillance system do anything you want. Loop a recording so monitors show what happened THEN, not NOW. Track anyone's movements, just tag them and they can be found anywhere the cameras cover. The cameras sort of suck, they're older tech, and they're not really placed for full coverage, so there's lots of holes in the net."

"So you do this on your own?" Aria in Sub-Sahara asked, "No help from the goons?"