Her eyes grew more accustomed to her surroundings, and she realised that she was not hemmed in by utter blackness after all. A glimmer of the palest light was filtering through a strange, twisted mesh above her head.
Moonlight. Moonlight filtering through a thick canopy of tall and ancient trees, casting strange patterns on the forest floor, awakening the nameless, formless shadows who dwelt within the deepest darkness and calling them out to dance before her on the night air.
Mara shivered, suddenly realising that she was naked. Her nipples were puckered hard with the cold and her smooth tanned skin had turned to gooseflesh under the chill breeze’s incautious caresses. Reaching out and taking hold of a low branch, she struggled to pull herself upright. She winced, for she was stiff and sore, with the soreness that turns to many-coloured bruises in the light of day. Accustomed though she was to walking barefoot, sharp little twigs were digging painfully into the soles of her feet and her first steps forward were difficult and uncomfortable.
Stumbling, she put out her arm to stop herself from falling and the moonlight fell across her hand, delineating a strange dark shadow, like a black pool staining her fingers. She brought her hand up to her face and examined it. A dark, dried-on deposit. Mud perhaps. She sniffed at it . . . no, not blood. Something familiar, something coppery . . .
She put out her tongue and licked at the stain. Salty, unpleasant, sickening.
Her hand was covered in dried blood.
The vile taste of the blood filled her head with a sudden image: the image of something she had seen, perhaps something she had done. She could not quite remember. All she could see was the body of her lover, Andreas Hunt, lying on the ground at her feet – very still, very dead. And she looked again at the blood and began to weep slow tears. For although she could not remember what had happened, or how he came to be lying there, she suddenly knew that Andreas Hunt was dead.
And somehow, she knew not how, she had been responsible for his death.
She stood there, clinging to the tree, for a little while, until she became calmer. Confusion filled her mind. She had a vague remembrance of leaving Hunt’s apartment, of walking down a deserted and dusty country lane; a faint memory of a big country house. But nothing more. It was as though some outside agency did not want her to remember.
Her thoughts began to crystallise. The autumn cold was eating into her nakedness. She must get help. Warmth and food and clothes. But which way to go? She looked around her, but there was no sign of light or habitation. She was utterly alone.
Instinctively, she placed her hands upon the trunk of the tree and directed all her thoughts into the heart of it, tapping into the earth’s natural lines of magnetism.
‘A sign, a sign,’ she murmured. ‘A sign to guide my steps, that is all I ask.’ And the power entered her hands and flowed through her body like a warm tide of sweet wine. Its mellow warmth flooded her, calmed her and then began to excite her, and she felt as though she were being stroked and kissed by all the spirits of earth and air.
All her discomfort seemed to ebb away as she felt herself become as one with the earth-spirits, and she grew as warm and relaxed as if she were swimming in the clear waters of some tropical lagoon. Slowly, she began to shuffle her feet apart as she felt the heat kindle in her loins; pressing the magnificent swell of her breasts against the rough bark and delighting in the harshness of its rasping kisses on her nipples.
Her cunt was on fire now: a fire raging in her belly. And all the copious juices she produced served only to fan the flames, exciting her throbbing clitoris to new crescendos of desire.
Strange how she had not noticed it before . . . But, as she ground her pelvis against the rough bark, she felt a hardness pressing back against her pubis. She slid one hand down the bark and sought out this new presence. It was a deliciously smooth branch – perhaps eight inches long and as thick as any man’s penis, jutting out obscenely from the trunk of the tree. Mara caressed it, and felt a surge of power, as she grew yet closer to the spirits she was evoking as her guides.
Knowing exactly what she must do next, Mara parted her legs still further, and eased herself onto the welcoming branch. It slid easily into her cunt, for she was deeply aroused and her womanhood was running with rivulets of love-juice. She gave a groan of pleasure and surprise as she felt the hardness slide home, pressing hard against the neck of her womb and sending shivers of ecstasy through her loins.
She lifted herself – just high enough to reach the very tip of the branch without allowing it to escape from her eager cunt; then lowered herself with a cry of joy as the hard surrogate penis filled her once more to the brim.
Her head was reeling as she used the branch to fuck herself. With each stroke of the curious dildo in her cunt she felt a picture growing in her head – at first indistinct, and then becoming sharper, more clearly defined. It began as a blur of light and then resolved itself into the image of something reassuringly familiar: a jumble of perhaps twenty caravans, nestling in the heart of the forest. As the picture grew more distinct in her mind, she felt a strong conviction that this was the nearest refuge for her, her best chance of finding what she needed.
Fucking herself faster now, Mara felt the climax building up in her loins. Her clitoris was aflame and she ground it ever harder against the surrogate penis within her. And it did indeed feel as though she had a penis within her – the hardness in her belly was the warm, throbbing hardness of engorged flesh, not the cold hardness of wood.
Gasping with ecstasy, Mara came to orgasm, her cunt opening and closing like some ethereal starfish upon the wooden shaft. And, as she withdrew, she was startled to see a flood of clear liquid gushing out of her cunt and trickling down her leg. Little droplets of the fluid were still glistening at the tip of the branch, and Mara tasted it. It was sap – the life-fluid of the tree, the spirit’s gift to Mara, its supplicant and high priestess.
Warmed by the tree-spirit’s gift to her, Mara turned three circles, clockwise, about the base of the trunk and then closed her eyes. Opening them again, she saw the direction she must take; and began to walk deeper into the forest.
The caravans were grouped together in a clearing in the forest, surrounded by a tumbledown fence of chicken wire and wood. The sign at the gate read: ‘Deepdene Holiday Village’. It was illuminated by a single lamp which cast an eerie, yellowish light upon the gateway to the site.
‘Maybe I’ll find help here,’ prayed Mara, hugging herself to keep out the cold and yet still afraid to walk through the gate. ‘If I don’t, I’ll freeze to death in the woods tonight.’
Just inside the entrance to the site stood an unattractive wooden hut covered in peeling green paint. A hand-painted sign read ‘Site Office’. A radio or TV was playing, and there was a light behind the dingy curtains.
Trembling, Mara made her way to the door and gave a timid knock. There was no response, so she tried knocking a little harder. After a moment, someone turned the sound down and she heard the sound of footsteps coming towards the door.
The door swung open. Shivering, Mara tried desperately to cover her nakedness; but the eyes were already drinking her in – enjoying her every curve, her every intimacy.
‘Well, well – what have we here?’
The two men were in their mid-forties, clad in greasy overalls and smoking cigarettes. One was dark-haired, the other greying at the temples. Both had the look of men too long deprived of female company . . .
Mara’s heart sank as she returned their lecherous gaze, wishing she had the courage to turn and run away, back into the forest; she merely stood there, rooted to the spot, shivering and begging for help and comfort. She knew that there would be a price to pay for such comfort: but the desperate do not name their price.
‘Please . . . I need help . . . I – I was attacked in the woods,’ stammered Mara, substituting a plausible lie for a truth so horrible that her mind seemed to have blocked it out almost completely from her consciousness.
‘
Come in, darling!’ replied the grey-haired man, visibly bulging at the groin as he extended a lascivious paw of a hand to take hold of her shoulder and draw her into the hut. ‘There’s always room in here for a little darling like you.’
As he drew her inside, she felt his sickly sweet breath on the side of her face, his bear’s paw hands brushing lightly against the flesh of her backside. And, in spite of her revulsion, her young woman’s body began to awaken to the promise of much-needed human warmth . . .
The door closed behind her and she realised that there was no escape. She was between them now – the grey-haired man in front of her, his mouth agape with ill-disguised lust, and his dark-haired companion bringing up the rear. Already Mara could feel him pressing his burgeoning hardness against the full curve of her tanned backside. And she wanted to run, to scream, to push these monsters away.
And yet, and yet . . . Her treacherous body was awakening, her breath quickening; and it was all she could do to control the rising tide of lust within her. For there is lust sometimes in revulsion: the desire to indulge the most base of impulses, to live only by animal instinct and to find comfort in mindless, shameful pleasure.
The room was shabby, squalid even. A couple of rickety chairs and a Calor gas fire; an ancient black-and-white portable TV in the corner, on which Barbara Windsor was displaying her pneumatic tits in snowstorm effect. Half-eaten sandwiches and a pile of girlie mags on the office counter. The whole scene held a mesmeric quality for Mara, her brain numbed with cold and shock and her body only now beginning to return to a reasonable temperature.
‘My, but you look cold,’ remarked the dark-haired man, half-whispering the words in her ear. ‘But I’m sure we can find a thing or two to warm you up.’ And she felt him unfastening the buttons of his overalls, reaching inside, taking out something long and warm and so so hard . . .
‘Yes, my dear – let us warm you up,’ breathed her grey-haired tormentor, pulling out his own prick. Mara watched in horrified fascination as he began to caress it into impressive rigidity. For it was indeed a magnificent instrument, long and with a fine glistening purple head.
Then, with his prick still hanging out of his trousers, he began to stroke Mara’s body, which was already warming in the ferocious heat from the gas fire, not to mention the sudden warmth of a prick thrust into her innocently unsuspecting hands.
‘No . . .’, moaned Mara, very faintly, as the grey-haired man forced her to wank his prick and began to tease her nipples with his greedy tongue.
But he just laughed; because he and Mara both knew that her resistance was a sham. That she could no more refuse the call of her comfort-starved body than he could stop his member leaping to attention at the sight of her glorious nakedness. He seemed as dazed as she: oblivious to the blood caked dry on her hands, to the mystical symbols and obscenities still painted on her poor, misused flesh.
And his dark-haired accomplice was no less single-minded. He of course had the advantage of surprise, his attack coming suddenly and devastatingly from behind. Without any pretence at preliminaries, he took hold of her softly rounded arse-cheeks and pulled them apart, nudging the tip of his short, thick penis against her arsehole and ramming it home in one, ungentle thrust.
Mara was too dumbstruck to cry out, too aroused to protest. And she found herself thrusting backwards, accepting and even welcoming this uninvited guest, somehow comforted by the rhythm of a stiff prick in her arse. Having her assailant’s shaft inside her robbed her of the power of thought; and without thought there could be no sudden, terrifying memories, no pain. Only the slow, in-out, backwards-forwards movement of arse on prick, prick in arse.
As she joined her thrusts to his, the dark-haired man began to groan with pleasure, grasping at her hips and pulling her tightly to him, so that she must take every millimetre of his gift, every drop of his tribute.
The grey-haired man was still forcing Mara to wank his cock, his own hand on hers, dictating the rhythm. The motion was hypnotic, and Mara felt as though she were floating above her own body, looking down on this strange machine composed of cocks and hands and arses and pricks, all mystically joined in a harmony of movement.
The grey-haired man sucked harder at Mara’s breast, tweaking her other nipple between finger and thumb. Then his hand left her breast and moved downwards, burrowing into the dark and glossy fur that graced her pubis, entering the warm and secret cave where so many had left their seed.
The touch of his finger on her clitoris awoke Mara to the reality of the situation, and for the first time she began to cry out, half in pleasure, half in anguish: trapped as she was within a spiral of pleasure and degradation.
And it was as though that electrifying touch also awoke the power that lay within the men’s pricks for, as she raised her voice to cry out, they felt the spunk rising in their balls and prepared to jettison their foaming cargoes – one in Mara’s hand, the other in her arse.
At that moment the door to the hut swung open and the newcomer was treated to the sight of a woman crying out in agony or ecstasy – he could not tell which – and trapped between the bodies of two disgusting middle-aged men.
‘Leave her alone!’ cried the young man, pushing away her two dazed assailants and seizing Mara by the arm. Then he turned to Mara and spoke gentle words to her: ‘Come with me; don’t be afraid. It’ll be all right, I promise. I won’t hurt you.’
Geoffrey Potter was renting a caravan on the Deepdene site in order to finish his novel in peace and quiet, well away from the nagging of his mother, his sister and her three revolting children. The novel was his big chance. He knew it had a good chance of making it big, if only he could finish it . . .
It was a horrible camp site – he’d expected as much when he’d seen the low prices – but it had everything he needed: peace, quiet and a roof over his head. He’d just popped in to the site office for a canister of camping gas, and what had he found? The two louts who worked in the office practically raping a poor naked girl who looked like she’d been through a pretty terrible ordeal already.
Summoning up reserves of chivalric bravery that he had never dreamed he had, Geoffrey had rescued the damsel in distress and brought her back to his caravan. The only question was: what was he to do next?
‘Are you OK in there?’ he enquired timorously, neck craned towards the tiny shower cabinet which graced the otherwise Spartan van.
‘Fine, thank you,’ Mara called back. ‘I’m so grateful to you for bringing me here. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t come along just at that moment.’
I do, thought Geoffrey, blood boiling with righteous indignation as he thought of those two scoundrels and what they had been doing to this poor girl. Not that he could blame them for desiring her though. She was a most attractive young lady . . . He shivered slightly as he recalled the warmth of her naked skin against his arm as he had half-led, half-carried her back to his van.
At that moment, Mara emerged from the shower cubicle, pink and flushed and clean, the towel wrapped round her torso barely concealing her nipples and the dark, glossy bush of her pubic triangle. She had washed her long black hair and was busily towelling it dry.
She smiled as she saw Geoffrey doing his best not to look at her too closely.
‘Don’t be shy!’ she urged him. ‘After all, what is there to see that you haven’t already seen?’
True, thought Geoffrey, remembering her magnificent nakedness and wishing profoundly that he didn’t.
‘And you must have seen dozens of women naked – a good-looking young man like you!’ she continued, folding up the towel and hanging it over the rail.
You must be joking, thought Geoffrey gloomily, recollecting that the nearest he’d ever come to losing his virginity had been that time on the works outing when the women from Packing and Despatch had torn down his trousers. And even then, his sister had come along at the crucial moment and spoilt his chances of being ravished.
‘Actually . . . no,�
� replied Geoffrey hoarsely. ‘So I hope you won’t mind my being a little embarrassed at seeing you . . . well . . .’ He blushed crimson, and looked away.
‘Naked?’ Mara was smiling now, could not resist the irresistible upturn of the corners of her mouth. ‘And what is so terrible about my nakedness, pray? Am I so very dreadful to look at?’
‘Terrible? Oh no, not terrible at all!’ stammered Geoffrey, in complete confusion now. ‘I only meant . . .’
‘Don’t worry. Everything is all right,’ Mara soothed him, sitting down beside him on the single bunk bed, and putting her arm around his shoulders. She felt him start at her touch, his breath quickening, his heart racing. ‘I’m so very grateful to you; I want you to know that. Let me show you just how grateful.’
And she began to undress him, very gently and slowly, as a mother might undress a beloved child; kissing each inch of his flesh as she exposed it; licking and stroking and loving his body with every ounce of her gratitude.
Geoffrey could scarcely believe his amazing good fortune. Here he was, in a grotty caravan on a seedy camp-site, and now a beautiful young woman was making love to him. A woman was making love to him for the very first time in his young life.
‘Lie down now,’ breathed Mara, removing the last of Geoffrey’s clothes. He had a nice body, she mused: making love to him would not be a chore.
He obeyed, stretching his lithe frame out on the narrow bunk bed, oblivious now to the grubby blankets, the lumpy mattress and the creaking springs beneath him. He gazed up into the clear pools of Mara’s violet eyes and longed to drown there: to immerse himself in their liquid light and never more emerge to do battle with the uncharitable world.
Slowly, she began to stroke him from head to toe, missing not an inch of his smooth young body. His flesh had the ivory whiteness of a young noblewoman’s, sensitive and cool to the touch, but with a hint of muscle beneath the smooth lines of thigh and forearm and calf. His skin was taut, firm, with a downy covering of very blond hairs: the bloom on a firm, yet ripe and juicy, peach.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 2