The Phallus of Osiris
Page 1
The Phallus of Osiris
Modern Erotic Classics
The Houdini Girl
Martyn Bedford
The Phallus of Osiris
Valentina Cilescu
Kiss of Death
Valentina Cilescu
The Flesh Constrained
Cleo Cordell
The Flesh Endures
Cleo Cordell
Hogg
Samuel R. Delany
The Tides of Lust
Samuel R. Delany
Sad Sister
Florence Dugas
The Ties That Bind
Vanessa Duriès
3
Julie Hilden
Neptune & Surf
Marilyn Jaye Lewis
Violent Silence
Paul Mayersberg
Homme Fatale
Paul Mayersberg
The Agency
David Meltzer
Burn
Michael Perkins
Dark Matter
Michael Perkins
Evil Companions
Michael Perkins
Beautiful Losers
Remittance Girl
House of Lust
Michael Hemmingson
Meeting the Master
Elissa Wald
The Phallus
of Osiris
Valentina Cilescu
Modern Erotic Classics
Series Editor: Maxim Jakubowski
Constable & Robinson Ltd
55–56 Russell Square
London WC1B 4HP
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Headline, 1993
This ebook edition published by Robinson,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd, 2012
Copyright © Valentina Cilescu, 1993
Series Editor: Maxim Jakubowski
The right of Valentina Cilescu to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in
Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978-1-47210-558-5 (ebook)
THE PHALLUS OF OSIRIS
Selecting a jar of shimmering silver liquid and a Chinese paintbrush with a wickedly tapering tip, Heimdal the magician set about anointing Mara’s glorious naked body. He traced the shape of a pentacle in the centre of her back; opening up her buttocks, he outlined an exquisite silver rose on the sensitive skin around her forbidden gate; with infinite patience, he traced a filigree pattern upon her beautiful heavy breasts.
‘Now we must be joined,’ he explained, fingering a stiff, silvered nipple. ‘At the moment of climax I shall perhaps see into your past and future and maybe even see what has happened to your lover, Andreas.’
Heimdal’s heart pounded as he began to pay homage to Mara’s nudity – kissing each orifice in turn, pressing fingers into her most intimate places, anointing her with aromatic oils.
At last. At last he was going to have her . . .
Introduction
The Master is a vampire sorcerer who feeds and grows on human sexual energies, condemning his victims to join the ranks of the evil undead. Feared as the occult power behind Hitler, he was magically imprisoned by Allied sorcerers in a block of crystal at the end of World War II. He awakens in his prison, in the cellars beneath the country-house bordello of Winterbourne Hall, brought back to consciousness by the sudden emanations of sexual energy from the orgies in the Hall above. Immediately he sets about plotting his freedom and revenge.
His spirit seeks out the innocent but highly sensual psychic Mara Fleming and begins to manipulate her, with the hope of using her special powers to liberate not only himself but his long-lost Queen, an Egyptian priestess of Amun-Ra. Eventually, Mara discovers the crystal dagger and magical ring which are necessary to free the Master.
Cynical journalist Andreas Hunt becomes involved in the web of evil as he tries to investigate a series of bizarre sex-crimes involving MPs, media figures and other influential people. He becomes Mara’s lover and – when she disappears in mysterious circumstances – he is determined to discover what has happened to her.
Andreas is tricked by the Master into following Mara to Winterbourne, where he witnesses many scenes of violence and sexual magic. The Master magically tricks Mara into stabbing Andreas with the crystal dagger, releasing his own evil soul into Andreas’s body and condemning Andreas’s soul to take its place within the Master’s discarded and imprisoned body.
Suddenly emerging from her trance and seeing what she has done, Mara flees into the night, not realising that the soul of her lover lives on within the crystal . . .
1: Aftermath
It was dark in the room. Dark and strangely airless. But Mara felt no fear. She stretched out her hand and touched her unseen lover’s hand. Although she could not see him, she knew he was standing by the side of the bed; that he was naked, and ready for her . . .
‘Come to me . . .’ breathed Mara. And her fingers moved from her lover’s hand to explore his body – running down his flank, his thigh; searching eagerly for the warm weight of his testicles; seeking out his most sensitive and intimate places to tease and excite his flesh; and bring him to her.
She heard his breathing: hoarse and quickening now. And seconds later, she felt him sit down on the bed beside her, felt the soft coverings yield to his weight as he lay down by her side and pressed his hot nakedness up against her willing flesh.
He was by her side now, stroking her with knowing fingers that seemed to read her mind, divine her every dream and wish. His fingers slid down her body, as though taking the measure of her, mapping out the fullest extent of the bounty offered to them. They fluttered like butterfly wings, up from the firm roundness of her hips to the taut flesh of her tiny waist, and then up still further; until at last they found the swelling amplitude of her magnificent breasts, caressing their firmness appreciatively.
He was kneeling beside her: leaning over her, the better to toy with her. Mara gasped with pleasure as invisible hands cupped her breasts and kneaded their warm and yielding flesh. Skilled fingers searched out the budding hardness of her nipples and pinched them between finger and thumb, just hard enough to provoke an irresistible blend of pain and pleasure.
‘Take me!’ gasped Mara, reaching up and touching the hands which were so knowingly exploring her body. They were strong hands, hands she felt she knew well; hands that were strong and sinewy and capable of great violence – and yet gentle enough to tease, torment, arouse.
Strong, sinewy wrists and forearms . . . She could reach no further; so she stretched out her hand to the side, and felt for the body of her unseen lover. Her hand made contact with his thigh, muscular and covered with thick, coarse hair. She slid her hand upwards, upwards, letting her fingers glide softly over the hairs; and she felt her lover tremble at the exquisite torment of her touch. Bolder now, she let her hand move higher still, and shivered with delight as her fingers brushed against her lover’s testicles.
They were heavy, vital, pulsating with a raw energy that communicated
itself to her as she stroked their velvety pouch, weighing them in her palm. Then she let her fingers stray still further, and felt them slide deliciously along the smooth length of a hard and throbbing shaft that she knew yearned to bury itself in her.
And as she stroked it, she felt herself grow hotter and wetter, her juices welling up as though from some secret spring deep within her. It was as though she was melting from the inside outwards, as butter might melt in anticipation of the hot knife that would soon plough into its soft and willing depths . . .
The room was filled now with the fragrance of sex; the sweet, heady aroma of a cunt well greased, of a prick whose tip glistens with the first drops of semen, the first promise of the torrents to come. Mara slid her hand along her lover’s shaft and ran her fingertips gently over its tip: it was already slippery with love-juice and she shivered again with the delicious anticipation of its entry into her most intimate places.
The shaft was thick, smooth, heavy; and it seemed to grow longer and thicker still as Mara stroked it, wanking it slowly up and down so as to titillate and tease her lover without bringing him to the point of no return. She could hear his breathing growing louder now, and more laboured. She knew he was close to his crisis and yearning for her.
At last, she felt his hand upon her own: a command – to stop, now, before it was too late. Silently, Mara’s unseen lover drew apart her thighs. Mara did not even offer token resistance, for she yearned to feel his touch upon her womanhood, his prick within the depths of her belly. Once her legs were splayed wide apart, her lover knelt between them, as the faithful worshipper kneels silently to perform his devotions to the goddess.
He began by stroking between Mara’s thighs, gradually working his fingers up from knee to thigh, from lower thigh to upper thigh, to that warm, moist crease where the thigh ends and the groin begins. He tormented her for what seemed an eternity, letting his fingers roam gently across her pubic hair, brushing it as lightly as a summer breeze playing across a field of thistledown.
‘Harder, harder!’ she groaned, trying to make him rub less teasingly at her pubis, to answer the call of her madly throbbing clitoris. But he refused to give her the release she yearned – pulling his hand away and retreating to the distant ground of her smooth inner thigh.
Not until she was almost weeping with frustration did her lover take pity on her and slide his hand once more up to her pubic hair, this time wriggling his fingers between her rosy cunt-lips and seeking out the throbbing button of her clitty.
Skilfully, he began to wank her, his index finger on her clitoris and his thumb burrowing into the hot depths of her vagina, which seemed to her like some steamy underground cavern whose walls were dripping with fragrant moisture. She felt the pressure of his knees against the inside of her thighs, and longed for him to come into her, ram into her soft vulnerability like a rutting animal covering a female on heat.
‘Fuck me, fuck me!’ she sobbed. ‘Please, please . . .’
She thought she heard the merest breath of laughter, but no: her lover was silent still. Silent and strong and totally in control. She was entirely at his mercy, at the mercy of his pitiless finger and thumb, wanking her rhythmically and driving her to a distraction of desire.
Almost before she had realised what was happening, she felt another hand creeping up on her. But this hand was bolder still and knew no boundaries, no limits. This lewd hand was stroking the hidden valley between her arse-cheeks, as though it were looking for some secret entrance . . .
At last, it found what it was looking for. Fingertips nudged against the forbidden gate, seeking the concealed catch that would trigger it to open. Open sesame . . . yield, submit, give way . . . Mara heard herself silently praying for her arse to open up and welcome this eager, blessed visitor; to make it an honoured guest; to do its bidding in all things, no matter what it asked . . .
Her lover was scooping up the juices from her cunt now and using them to tease her perineum. Oh, how good it felt to have a finger skating smoothly across those secret places, to feel it gliding on a layer of slippery love-juice across her flesh.
‘Come inside me, I beg of you . . .’
Mara’s tone was almost panic-stricken now, filled with the hoarse urgency of unstoppable desire.
And her lover did not abandon her this time. With a deft thrust, he slipped his finger into Mara’s arsehole; and she cried out at the sudden intrusion – a great, long cry of satisfied yearning.
He toyed with her for a while, moving his finger inside her with a circular motion, stretching the walls of her arse; amusing himself – and her – by letting the finger in her arse and the finger in her cunt enjoy a tactile communion with each other across the fragile partition which separated them.
And all the while he kept on rubbing slowly and lasciviously at Mara’s clitoris, teasing and tormenting the swollen flesh and delighting in her groans of pain and pleasure.
And when Mara was once more on the point of tears, her lover withdrew his finger and thumb from her cunt and clitty, and – silencing her despair – thrust his magnificent manhood into her cunt, ramming it home up to the hilt, so that she writhed in an ecstasy of torment and began to babble nonsense like a mystic speaking in tongues.
For it truly was a mystical experience to have this massive and exquisite prick inside her: to feel it pressing against her cunt walls. And all the time her lover’s finger was toiling away inside her arse, its thrusts keeping time with the rhythm of pulsating prick and cunt.
Silently, he fucked her. Silently, there in the darkness; his body moving against her, his prick within her cunt. And, thus joined, it felt as though his very soul was also within her, thrilling and stimulating and possessing her; climbing with her towards the very summit of pleasure, where joy explodes into a sunburst of many-coloured light.
As the orgasm tore through her body, Mara thought for a second that she saw the face of someone she knew, loved, yet did not quite remember: a man’s face with closed eyes. Eyes closed as if in death . . .
Her lover withdrew from her and lay down by her side. Shaken, she lay for a moment in silence and then rolled over to switch on the bedside lamp.
She fumbled briefly for the switch; then the lamp clicked on, flooding the bed with a pool of sallow, yellowish light. Mara turned back to her lover, meaning to kiss him, but recoiled in horror.
For the man beside her, the man who had just fucked her passionately and brought her to ecstasy, wore the face not of her lover Andreas Hunt, but of one whose cruel, sardonic smile brought a terrible fear to her heart.
She was looking straight into the fiery-red burning gaze of the Master.
With a shriek of terror, Mara tried to pull away from him, but he had her fast, his claw-like fingers digging into the soft flesh of her tanned arm. And he took hold of her chin, forcing her to look at him, to watch and behold the gift which he had brought her.
As she looked on in horror, Mara saw the Master’s face and form change horribly. This was no longer the darkly handsome face of seductive evil, but a grotesque caricature, a parody of sexual attraction. His face became the face of a demon: dark-skinned and ugly, his features distorted into a lewd grimace, saliva drooling from the corners of his lips, which drew back to reveal rows of sharply pointed teeth.
‘No!’ screamed Mara, struggling in his terrible embrace, the memory of his lovemaking still warm and trickling from her distended cunt. ‘I will not submit to you . . . you cannot harm me . . .’
But all her white magic could not protect her now. For the Master was growing, his body expanding, swelling, deforming, until at last he towered high above her, filling the room, his evil eyes still fixing her with that fiery red gaze.
And as she watched, unable to turn away for he still held her fast, she saw the Master’s prick also begin to change its form, swelling, lengthening, growing beyond all belief until it became the parody of a penis – a prick as thick as a man’s torso and as long as a limb.
The Master’s
mouth opened and he began to speak, his voice hoarse and rasping, like the voice of a serpent turned into a cruel caricature of human form:
‘Little slut,’ he hissed, ‘I have you now, and I have you for ever. You cannot escape me.’
‘No, I will not do your will!’
‘Silence, mortal whore! Lest I tear your body apart and feast upon your puny soul. Look at my penis. Is it not beautiful?’
He leered at Mara and she shivered but was unable to look away.
‘My darling,’ he hissed, ‘it is all for you. Will you not take it into your cunt? Why so reluctant? You were eager enough for it but moments ago . . .’
And he presented his prick to Mara, thrusting it at her so that she could not avert her gaze, or see that it was now black, like polished stone, and gleaming as though exposed to the ethereal glow of moonlight.
As she screamed, the Master began to laugh. It was a humourless, chilling sound filled with evil and the foetid air of the tomb. His laughter echoed around her, bouncing off the walls and forming a web from which there seemed no escape.
Hands over her ears, Mara tried to shut out the terrible sound of the Master’s laughter but, try as she might, it echoed on, growing louder and louder and more hysterical with pleasure, to see her in such terrified confusion.
The room began to spin and Mara’s head was filled with a kaleidoscope of changing colours. The colours of fear . . .
As the room spun out of control and Mara fell sobbing on the bed, she heard a distant voice calling to her from very far away; a voice full of sadness and despair that, even as she heard it, faded away into the distance:
‘Mara! Mara! Come back! Don’t leave me here . . .’
The voice of Andreas Hunt.
With a final cry of terror, Mara felt her consciousness ebbing away. And all was darkness and release.
When Mara awoke she was dazed and disorientated. Where was she? Why was it so dark and cold? What had happened to her tormentor, the hellish chimera who had peopled her dreams and waking fears for so long? What had happened to her over the last couple of days? She could remember nothing save the terrible dream that had seemed so real.