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Tummy Groans of the Tomb Guard
A commission for 
EbaandIna
Thumbnail art by
squiddy62
Unfortunately for Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle, Eba was the only sphinx on duty who was guarding their treasure-laden tombs tonight. And in all the history of mythic guardians, there probably wasn’t a more pitiable name.
Eba did her best to protect the tombs; she really did. But since birth, she had suffered a weak stomach that digested only quality poultry and milk well. Since she had neither the blood of high sphinxes in her veins nor the resume for such delicious accolades, she only tasted those when the repelling of some tomb raider was attributed to her by accident, or by one of the high sphinxes who felt sorry for her. As a result, she almost always ate low-quality beef, poultry, fruits and vegetables, and she drank saltwater and milk that sat in the sun for too long. Months would go by without a nip or a sip of her favorite delicacies. The absence of them left her with belly-aches of indigestion, dealing her so much abdominal hurt and discomfort, she could never concentrate on the task at hand. It was a cyclical cycle: always perform her job unimpressively, always receive low-grade sustenance because of it, always have tummy troubles, rinse and repeat.
At the very very front of the tombs-site tonight, there were two sleeping sphinxes: Gnarly and Cat-Claws. They were sprawled on top of a plains of sandy rock, on either side of a super long sandstone staircase whose triangular base made a super acute angle at the first step. Behind them, the colonnaded front facade of the lower tombs lay. Atop the lower tombs a plateau copied the layout of the aforementioned plains. The back of this plateau, or flatland, had its own tomb, a higher, double-decked tomb; and its doppelganger staircase led to its second tier, both tiers colonnaded.
It was this flatland that Eba was jolting as she tossed onto her back, belly then back again. She clutched her swollen tummy between her forepaws of light, tawny fur. It seemed she and her belly had betted on who could complain the grossest, deepest and loudest; and of course, both had bet on themselves, so neither wanted to lose.
“Gr-oah, oh pharoahs. Need to b-burp so badly … No Eba, musn’t wake the other sphinxes.” Musn’t stir the spirits of the kings, either, or they’d sneak out of their sarcophagi and haunt her with even worse belly-aches when it was her time to snooze.
Poor cuts of beef, old onions, rank celery sticks, pears, tomatoes and pineapples: Some of them had voyaged across long a sea; all of them had crossed many a sand-slope to get packed into crates for days. Only afterward did they find their way into Eba’s gut, curdling and suffusing and vaporizing in her enzymes as slowly and sourly as possible. The food wasn’t just overripe: The sole purpose of its kind was to sabotage her digestive system, cramp her internal walls and bloat her belly into the most round, rambunctious dome of crude, intolerable gas.
Curling and trembling, rigid with discomfort, she rolled onto her side, clamping hard on the outer curves of her gut, and pumping inward hysterically as though she were mustering the strength to budge a pyramid. Then a lump of gas rolled through her gullet, and her burden lightened tremendously with an involuntary heave of her shoulders.
The belch threw her onto her back. Her lower jaw flapped for the length of the voluptuous burst of vulgar, rattly burp. For three whole seconds the great beast’s gassy bleat rumbled the flatland and made stones skip about, breaking over the open desert with harsh resonance. The only barrier around to somewhat bar the spread of that crude noise was the crescent-shaped mesa behind the tombs-site. Rocks crumbled off of it. Gnarly and Cat-Claws wrinkled their foreheads, shifted in their sleep, but they had built a tolerance to Eba’s belches and refused to wake.
Eba gagged. She got teary-eyed from the malodorous fog of green fumes in front of her nose. The harsh aftertaste in her throat didn’t help to ease her suffering; she could blanch from that alone.
That little “urp” trumpeted over the the mesa, as if to say “Coast is clear!” to the thief who hid behind a rock up top. His name was Samone. Samone was a regular: The guy had made raiding the tombs guarded by Eba a nightly routine, one he took up whenever the sphinx’s gut was butchering her concentration. Every night, basically.
“Woot woot, gimme the loot!” Samone started down the steep rock face by kicking it with a rope and harness on.
It was a catch phrase he came up with a couple a’ years ago. The tombs of Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle had a fuckton of gold bars, trinkets and glittering jewels, a hard-earned wealth they had accumulated over the years of slave-trade and kingdom-conquering. Samone couldn’t hope to nab all the goodies in one go, so he’d been at it since the summer before last.
With a “Tralala,” he jumped his last arc off the rock face. It was only a half-arc, since he broke it when the heels of his boots hit the top of the entrance to the mesa-inset tombs.
Overlooking the courtyard of the third tier, he couldn’t see Eba, but he could hear her busy serving her sentence of stomach cramps on the second tier. He had so much time to filch the place, woot!
The sphinx groused and twisted onto her belly. She drove her cat claws into the hard earth then humped her swelling stomach against it, progressing into a grind accompanied by lewd moans. Her midriff had expanded into a plump, wobbly curve, and the crest of it swayed below the middle joints of her forelegs, denoting how much gas it had whipped up. Despite being a sphinx accustomed to sweltering heat, her brow now sweated from her restless tosses. Locks of hair, the brown shade of wheat bread crust, frizzed and fell over her face as she chuffed. The gurgly drumroll sped toward a finale at her middle, making her bounce on the firm ball of foul air and screw her face into a twister of folds.
“J-just one more belch, as quiet as can be, then no more for the night,” she whined.
The words let her roll her eyes in guilty bliss; let a bulge of air barrel through the sphincter of her stomach and geyser up her gullet. A force as supernatural as the underworld itself sundered her lips apart. Summoned from the ill, greasy depths of her stomach was a gigantic, cathartic belch. The purge of gas swelled her cheeks and beat them like dual drums, while she let the daemon roll through her with eyes wide, face flushing hard. The swollen dome of belly shrank more and more, while the belch hurled itself into its third second, fourth, fifth.
Definitely not “as quiet.” Probably as loud and as raunchy as can be. The belch could have frightened away armies that threatened Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle in their lifetimes. Heck—if the slobbery, obscene, fluctuating roar couldn’t scare off world leaders, the moss green miasma that festered over the frontlines would have sent them off with tails tucked, with the fear that the bits of food careening through the air were swarms of flies from some god-delivered plague.
Her relief was a speck of sand in an hourglass. From there her belches burst from her lips with less and less time between, starting as short, crass staccato burps then hulking up into long, heavy annunciations of her innate gastric disgustingness. Her belly ballooned with abandon. Its belching strength stat skyrocketed, creating eruptions of horror from her maw. Each one slapped her body up into sporadic flops then smote her down, as though the open hand of Anubis was having a hayday.
Crouched goofily, Samone held his hand over his head like a visor (even though it was nighttime), watching the sphinx flail about. He thrust an upward thumb in front of himself, the curled fingers of that hand holding an empty loot sack.
He sprung down into the courtyard, then whirled and careered into the tombs. His steps may as well have been spear-throws. Stepping to the bottom of a stairwell, he grinned at a naved room of columns and hieroglyphics and sparkly mounds of treasure piled high along every wall and edge. King Scorpion’s tomb!
The above-ground rumbles of Eba’s gargantuan belches served as his accomplices for the raid, telling him that the sphinx would be occupied for another half hour. So tonight he treated himself to some fun. He hurled himself at gold-mounds—made snow-angels amid the avalanches of coins; he even slid down from the tops of piles a couple of times.
“Wee!”
Cheerily, he rounded into his loot sack a cache of gold that’d make a dragon drool. The loot sack was dragging, clattering and clinking as he made up the stairwell. When he met the night air, he realized he took extra tonight. So much wealth was anchoring him down, he wouldn’t be able to climb the mesa in one go. More than one go, and Eba would settle down, patrol to the courtyard and catch him for sure.
Not wanting to abandon any of his riches, Samone flipped a gold coin. It told him to be risky.
He took a deep breath, then went twisting and tripping over himself, hauling that turgid sack across the courtyard and down to tier two. There, Eba was still cursed with burps. In fact, they had gotten so big, the sarcophagi of the kings were likely shuddering from them.
Samone at the bottom of the stairs to tier three grimaced, then, as if surrounded by a volley of spears, frantically heaved his loot across the land being smashed on in random places by Eba’s flopping body. He hared toward the last flight of steps with the panicked sluggishness of a snail on fire.
Just a few more minutes, and he’d be merrily going down that precious descent, unbothered by the miraculously sleeping duo of sphinxes! Adrenaline gushed through him. It lightened the load of that ginormous sack by half. Almost!
Then, an ugly, malodorous burp sent Eba plummeting in front of the stairwell. She splayed flat and blinked dizzily, then stood. Her stature loomed above the tomb-raider, whom she became tardily aware of. When she did, her expression was that of a cat who was gonna be kicked out of the house by her owner if she failed to catch another mouse.
Thousands of lumps erected on Samone’s flesh. He turned the colour of a mummy’s bandages. All reason fled him, and he pedalled gallumphingly with that bloated sack of his back to whence he came at the whopping speed of two miles an hour.
Eba whooped. Now was her chance to prove herself!
As intimidatingly as she could, she charged after him, but her belly halted her. The gassy midriff had bloated back up, so big now, it almost hugged the ground like the looter’s stash.
Air cannonaded through her sphincter; a gassy bulge stormed up her throat. The poor throat blimped to the size of a camel-riding high-born’s belly. Eba oofed, seized her neck in her claws and tried to withhold the rude bellow, but that reinforced its power when it broke free.
“BwwRrrrrrreeeEEEAaaAAAAahhhhhhhPPpppPP!”
The belch immediately threw Eba into a world of pleasure and relief. The belch just kept coming, growing and mowing away at the pressure of her gut. Her last earth-shaking belch was big, but relatively, this one went from big to huge to gargantuan in seconds. Her last explosion of fumes was nasty, but the hot mishmash of rotten, acrid stinks now rolling from her maw was downright deathly. The god of the underworld would have been proud.
Eight seconds passed. Her belly finally slimmed down, giving Eba a feeling of ease, one she had been wishing for all night. She sighed. Her posture melted into a relaxed mess.
Mission accomplished!
Or so she thought, until she remembered the looter.
She looked around, then saw him catapulting through the sky, bound to land back atop the mesa. Her belch had served as a geyser to propel him way the fuck up there. He had his loot in hand, and was happy as a damn slave-trader on pay day.
“Hyuk-hyuk, thanks for the gold bells n’ whistles, burp-face!”
From the night sky came his jolly cry: came the message announcing Eba’s failure to guard the sacred tombs for the seven-hundred-and-something-eth day in a row. She blinked at the deplorable haze of belch in front of her. The haze was a trophy whose glory had been diminished by the weathering of time.
Huff!
If it’s not her belly, it’s always some sort of kleptomaniac out to burst her bubble.
EbaandInaThumbnail art by
squiddy62Tummy Groans of the Tomb GuardUnfortunately for Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle, Eba was the only sphinx on duty who was guarding their treasure-laden tombs tonight. And in all the history of mythic guardians, there probably wasn’t a more pitiable name.
Eba did her best to protect the tombs; she really did. But since birth, she had suffered a weak stomach that digested only quality poultry and milk well. Since she had neither the blood of high sphinxes in her veins nor the resume for such delicious accolades, she only tasted those when the repelling of some tomb raider was attributed to her by accident, or by one of the high sphinxes who felt sorry for her. As a result, she almost always ate low-quality beef, poultry, fruits and vegetables, and she drank saltwater and milk that sat in the sun for too long. Months would go by without a nip or a sip of her favorite delicacies. The absence of them left her with belly-aches of indigestion, dealing her so much abdominal hurt and discomfort, she could never concentrate on the task at hand. It was a cyclical cycle: always perform her job unimpressively, always receive low-grade sustenance because of it, always have tummy troubles, rinse and repeat.
At the very very front of the tombs-site tonight, there were two sleeping sphinxes: Gnarly and Cat-Claws. They were sprawled on top of a plains of sandy rock, on either side of a super long sandstone staircase whose triangular base made a super acute angle at the first step. Behind them, the colonnaded front facade of the lower tombs lay. Atop the lower tombs a plateau copied the layout of the aforementioned plains. The back of this plateau, or flatland, had its own tomb, a higher, double-decked tomb; and its doppelganger staircase led to its second tier, both tiers colonnaded.
It was this flatland that Eba was jolting as she tossed onto her back, belly then back again. She clutched her swollen tummy between her forepaws of light, tawny fur. It seemed she and her belly had betted on who could complain the grossest, deepest and loudest; and of course, both had bet on themselves, so neither wanted to lose.
“Gr-oah, oh pharoahs. Need to b-burp so badly … No Eba, musn’t wake the other sphinxes.” Musn’t stir the spirits of the kings, either, or they’d sneak out of their sarcophagi and haunt her with even worse belly-aches when it was her time to snooze.
Poor cuts of beef, old onions, rank celery sticks, pears, tomatoes and pineapples: Some of them had voyaged across long a sea; all of them had crossed many a sand-slope to get packed into crates for days. Only afterward did they find their way into Eba’s gut, curdling and suffusing and vaporizing in her enzymes as slowly and sourly as possible. The food wasn’t just overripe: The sole purpose of its kind was to sabotage her digestive system, cramp her internal walls and bloat her belly into the most round, rambunctious dome of crude, intolerable gas.
Curling and trembling, rigid with discomfort, she rolled onto her side, clamping hard on the outer curves of her gut, and pumping inward hysterically as though she were mustering the strength to budge a pyramid. Then a lump of gas rolled through her gullet, and her burden lightened tremendously with an involuntary heave of her shoulders.
The belch threw her onto her back. Her lower jaw flapped for the length of the voluptuous burst of vulgar, rattly burp. For three whole seconds the great beast’s gassy bleat rumbled the flatland and made stones skip about, breaking over the open desert with harsh resonance. The only barrier around to somewhat bar the spread of that crude noise was the crescent-shaped mesa behind the tombs-site. Rocks crumbled off of it. Gnarly and Cat-Claws wrinkled their foreheads, shifted in their sleep, but they had built a tolerance to Eba’s belches and refused to wake.
Eba gagged. She got teary-eyed from the malodorous fog of green fumes in front of her nose. The harsh aftertaste in her throat didn’t help to ease her suffering; she could blanch from that alone.
That little “urp” trumpeted over the the mesa, as if to say “Coast is clear!” to the thief who hid behind a rock up top. His name was Samone. Samone was a regular: The guy had made raiding the tombs guarded by Eba a nightly routine, one he took up whenever the sphinx’s gut was butchering her concentration. Every night, basically.
“Woot woot, gimme the loot!” Samone started down the steep rock face by kicking it with a rope and harness on.
It was a catch phrase he came up with a couple a’ years ago. The tombs of Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle had a fuckton of gold bars, trinkets and glittering jewels, a hard-earned wealth they had accumulated over the years of slave-trade and kingdom-conquering. Samone couldn’t hope to nab all the goodies in one go, so he’d been at it since the summer before last.
With a “Tralala,” he jumped his last arc off the rock face. It was only a half-arc, since he broke it when the heels of his boots hit the top of the entrance to the mesa-inset tombs.
Overlooking the courtyard of the third tier, he couldn’t see Eba, but he could hear her busy serving her sentence of stomach cramps on the second tier. He had so much time to filch the place, woot!
The sphinx groused and twisted onto her belly. She drove her cat claws into the hard earth then humped her swelling stomach against it, progressing into a grind accompanied by lewd moans. Her midriff had expanded into a plump, wobbly curve, and the crest of it swayed below the middle joints of her forelegs, denoting how much gas it had whipped up. Despite being a sphinx accustomed to sweltering heat, her brow now sweated from her restless tosses. Locks of hair, the brown shade of wheat bread crust, frizzed and fell over her face as she chuffed. The gurgly drumroll sped toward a finale at her middle, making her bounce on the firm ball of foul air and screw her face into a twister of folds.
“J-just one more belch, as quiet as can be, then no more for the night,” she whined.
The words let her roll her eyes in guilty bliss; let a bulge of air barrel through the sphincter of her stomach and geyser up her gullet. A force as supernatural as the underworld itself sundered her lips apart. Summoned from the ill, greasy depths of her stomach was a gigantic, cathartic belch. The purge of gas swelled her cheeks and beat them like dual drums, while she let the daemon roll through her with eyes wide, face flushing hard. The swollen dome of belly shrank more and more, while the belch hurled itself into its third second, fourth, fifth.
Definitely not “as quiet.” Probably as loud and as raunchy as can be. The belch could have frightened away armies that threatened Kings Scorpion and Dungbeetle in their lifetimes. Heck—if the slobbery, obscene, fluctuating roar couldn’t scare off world leaders, the moss green miasma that festered over the frontlines would have sent them off with tails tucked, with the fear that the bits of food careening through the air were swarms of flies from some god-delivered plague.
Her relief was a speck of sand in an hourglass. From there her belches burst from her lips with less and less time between, starting as short, crass staccato burps then hulking up into long, heavy annunciations of her innate gastric disgustingness. Her belly ballooned with abandon. Its belching strength stat skyrocketed, creating eruptions of horror from her maw. Each one slapped her body up into sporadic flops then smote her down, as though the open hand of Anubis was having a hayday.
Crouched goofily, Samone held his hand over his head like a visor (even though it was nighttime), watching the sphinx flail about. He thrust an upward thumb in front of himself, the curled fingers of that hand holding an empty loot sack.
He sprung down into the courtyard, then whirled and careered into the tombs. His steps may as well have been spear-throws. Stepping to the bottom of a stairwell, he grinned at a naved room of columns and hieroglyphics and sparkly mounds of treasure piled high along every wall and edge. King Scorpion’s tomb!
The above-ground rumbles of Eba’s gargantuan belches served as his accomplices for the raid, telling him that the sphinx would be occupied for another half hour. So tonight he treated himself to some fun. He hurled himself at gold-mounds—made snow-angels amid the avalanches of coins; he even slid down from the tops of piles a couple of times.
“Wee!”
Cheerily, he rounded into his loot sack a cache of gold that’d make a dragon drool. The loot sack was dragging, clattering and clinking as he made up the stairwell. When he met the night air, he realized he took extra tonight. So much wealth was anchoring him down, he wouldn’t be able to climb the mesa in one go. More than one go, and Eba would settle down, patrol to the courtyard and catch him for sure.
Not wanting to abandon any of his riches, Samone flipped a gold coin. It told him to be risky.
He took a deep breath, then went twisting and tripping over himself, hauling that turgid sack across the courtyard and down to tier two. There, Eba was still cursed with burps. In fact, they had gotten so big, the sarcophagi of the kings were likely shuddering from them.
Samone at the bottom of the stairs to tier three grimaced, then, as if surrounded by a volley of spears, frantically heaved his loot across the land being smashed on in random places by Eba’s flopping body. He hared toward the last flight of steps with the panicked sluggishness of a snail on fire.
Just a few more minutes, and he’d be merrily going down that precious descent, unbothered by the miraculously sleeping duo of sphinxes! Adrenaline gushed through him. It lightened the load of that ginormous sack by half. Almost!
Then, an ugly, malodorous burp sent Eba plummeting in front of the stairwell. She splayed flat and blinked dizzily, then stood. Her stature loomed above the tomb-raider, whom she became tardily aware of. When she did, her expression was that of a cat who was gonna be kicked out of the house by her owner if she failed to catch another mouse.
Thousands of lumps erected on Samone’s flesh. He turned the colour of a mummy’s bandages. All reason fled him, and he pedalled gallumphingly with that bloated sack of his back to whence he came at the whopping speed of two miles an hour.
Eba whooped. Now was her chance to prove herself!
As intimidatingly as she could, she charged after him, but her belly halted her. The gassy midriff had bloated back up, so big now, it almost hugged the ground like the looter’s stash.
Air cannonaded through her sphincter; a gassy bulge stormed up her throat. The poor throat blimped to the size of a camel-riding high-born’s belly. Eba oofed, seized her neck in her claws and tried to withhold the rude bellow, but that reinforced its power when it broke free.
“BwwRrrrrrreeeEEEAaaAAAAahhhhhhhPPpppPP!”
The belch immediately threw Eba into a world of pleasure and relief. The belch just kept coming, growing and mowing away at the pressure of her gut. Her last earth-shaking belch was big, but relatively, this one went from big to huge to gargantuan in seconds. Her last explosion of fumes was nasty, but the hot mishmash of rotten, acrid stinks now rolling from her maw was downright deathly. The god of the underworld would have been proud.
Eight seconds passed. Her belly finally slimmed down, giving Eba a feeling of ease, one she had been wishing for all night. She sighed. Her posture melted into a relaxed mess.
Mission accomplished!
Or so she thought, until she remembered the looter.
She looked around, then saw him catapulting through the sky, bound to land back atop the mesa. Her belch had served as a geyser to propel him way the fuck up there. He had his loot in hand, and was happy as a damn slave-trader on pay day.
“Hyuk-hyuk, thanks for the gold bells n’ whistles, burp-face!”
From the night sky came his jolly cry: came the message announcing Eba’s failure to guard the sacred tombs for the seven-hundred-and-something-eth day in a row. She blinked at the deplorable haze of belch in front of her. The haze was a trophy whose glory had been diminished by the weathering of time.
Huff!
If it’s not her belly, it’s always some sort of kleptomaniac out to burst her bubble.
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Category Story / Inflation
Species Exotic (Other)
Size 120 x 120px
File Size 461.7 kB
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