Rachel was on her way home from Egypt. It had been a fantastic trip, with more pyramids and camels than she could shake a stick at. Not being too bright, Rachel had forgone the guided tours, preferring to look at the pretty pictures. There had been some wonderful outfits on display, and she was sure she could persuade her photographer to sort her out some wonderful fashion shoots when she got home, with beautiful backdrops of the great pyramid to set it all off.
Then there was the artifact. She’d found it, half sticking out of the semi-solid sand at the foot of one of the lesser pyramids, and five minutes work with her nail scissors (they were getting too loose for proper grooming anyway) and she’d got a genuine part of Egyptian history all on her very own. It had almost been saying to her “Take me.” A little figure, broken at the lower waist, of a man with a dog head. It looked like a lot of those other men with dog heads in the picture writing the ancients had used, and she was amazed that no one else had found it or that it had been trampled into dust by countless tourists as they tramped around the pyramids. She’d looked around for the bottom half, but had no luck.
They’d had questioned it at the customs, but she’d claimed it was a replica and she’d bought it in the market. Then she’d give her smile, her best feature, and the security man had gone all weak at the knees and let her through. Who needs a super brain when you can achieve what you want with a smile and maybe a slight adjustment of your clothing? And now she was on the plane home. It had been a super three weeks!
At home, Rachel set the figure up on the shelf in the bathroom as she showered, so it could watch her and see what a wonderful physical specimen had claimed it for herself. Forget Indiana Jones! Little dog-man, enjoy yourself care of a 21st Century woman!
That night, Rachel relaxed in her own bed and thought of her little dog-man, now on her dresser aimed so he could see everything that went on. It didn’t occur to Rachel’s little collection of brain cells that this was just a bit out of character, even for extrovert Rachel. She just went with the flow, and was looking forward to telling everybody (that would listen, and even those who wouldn’t) all about Egypt and her special memento.
It was about three in the morning (her clock was set to the nearest ten minutes or so) that Rachel was woken by a slight pain in her upper chest, just below her windpipe. She felt there and found a swelling, with a lump at the top. Turning the bedside light on, she picked up her hand mirror and had a good look. It looked like a flat breast. As if triggered by the light, it visibly grew, and within a couple of minutes she had a third breast, identical to her main two. She felt no horror, to her surprise, but a quiet acceptance. Then a row of three aches across her belly attracted her attention, and as she looked three more breasts swelled and took their place.
A couple of minutes passed. Then Rachel touched the nipple of the top one again, and an electric thrill of pleasure blasted her. She touched the lower three, one at a time, and a different kind of thrill pulsed through her nervous system. Thinking quickly, she worked out she could play a turn-on tune on her new nipples. Her normal nipples – better check – were not… oh yes they were! All were different notes of turn-on. The bottom three were ‘bass’ turn-on – deep and full and satisfying, the middle two were ‘midrange’ turn-on – mellow and powerful and smooth, and the top one was a full-pitched high screamer – energetic and far-reaching, like a scream across a still lake in the mountains at sunset.
And so the night passed. Rachel playing chords of turn-on, trying out combinations for effect. If she’d looked at the little dog-man she’d have seen – or was it the morning light? – a slight smile on his lips. A nasty, evil, powerful and revengeful smile.
In the morning Rachel was mindlessly delirious. In fact, all sense had been burned out of her brain – she was just a automaton, desperate for the next turn on from her breasts. All she was interested in was stimulation – total, and irreversible, addiction to pleasure. Her lateness for work at the salon caused her boss to send someone round to see if she was all right, as she wasn’t answering her phones. That person found a grinning, manic, face flushed with blood, single-minded obsessive, fingering at her flat-chest above her breasts, then her breasts, then at her flat belly below, giggling horribly and excitedly. She’d messed her bed.
The dog-man figure was gone. He’d done his work. Not all traps in the pyramids were of the simple enter-the-room-and-get-crushed-by-a-ten-ton-block. There were other ways to punish a thief. He was set to trap a thief in, and of, the mind – a person who would steal something if it was invitingly lying there for them to take. If she’d taken the figure to a museum she’d have received a proper reward, but now the endless manic pleasure was starting to turn to pointlessness, then sadness, then depression, then suicidal, but she wouldn’t be able to stop. If placed in a strait-jacket she screamed the place down, and it took powerful drugs to make her sleep. She was fed intravenously, but it was a downwards slide, and an inevitable outcome.
Rachel was now a pathetic and totally self-obsessed husk of a woman. Trying desperately to find the chords, the music, all the pleasure that had turned viciously sour. In Egypt of the pharaohs, the high priests smiled at the justice they’d inflict. They were brutal times, but the pyramids were the vehicles to carry their gods on the long trip through eternity, and they were not to be robbed from. Not now, or next year, or any time from now to eternity.
Rachel fiddled while her brain burned.
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