‘Mercy, mercy!’ cried the taller of the two women, clad in a yellow kimono embroidered with multi-coloured dragons. As she knelt before her captors, her skirt parted to reveal two delectable naked thighs and the shadowy suggestion of a dark triangle. No underwear . . .
‘We shall show you no mercy,’ replied the leader of the Samurai raiding party. ‘You are our prize and we shall do with you exactly as we please.’ With a swift, swishing movement of his sword, he slit the yellow kimono from neck to hem, slicing through the cummerbund which held it tight beneath her breasts; and the cut fabric fell in tatters to the ground. She was then bound hand and foot, and cast onto the ground to watch what the attackers would do to her companion.
Seeing what was happening, the second lady attempted to escape: but her attackers threw her face down to the ground and pulled her blue kimono up around her waist, exposing the prettiest pair of rounded buttocks for all to see. The watching businessmen nodded appreciatively, and one of them came in a flood of pearly white seed, just at the sight of so much beautiful naked flesh. To his amazement, within a few moments he was hard and yearning again, and his handmaid recommenced her ministrations with renewed vigour.
As the lady squirmed upon the gravel of the rock garden, the leader of the Samurai signalled to his companions to hold her down. Taking a bamboo cane from his belt, he flexed it approvingly, took aim and brought it down upon the lady’s backside. This evidently caused her much pain, and she leapt up – but was forced back down onto the gravel by the two Samurai. Looking on, the Master felt the spunk boiling in his balls, and forced himself to hold back for a little while so that he could enjoy the full pleasure of the lady’s humiliation.
The bamboo cane whipped down again and again against the lady’s soft flesh, and she cried out lustily and twisted and turned with all her might; but her tormentors held her fast and nothing she could do would allow her to escape from the hail of blows. Her poor backside grew redder and redder. And then a miraculous thing happened. The lady stopped struggling and her cries became gradually quieter, until at last they became a low moaning which might have been construed as the soft murmuring of a creature in ecstasy.
For the vicious searing of her backside had begun to be transformed into the deep, exciting warmth of carnal desire, radiating out from the centre of her being to inflame cunt and arse, and make the lady’s nipples stiffen and her breath quicken. She began to wriggle her legs apart, little by little, until there was an appreciable gap between her thighs – a gap amply wide enough to admit a bamboo cane . . .
How she started and cried out as her Samurai warrior thrust his bamboo cane into her cunt, as lustily as any true swordsman might run his opponent through with his well-honed weapon. And she writhed again, but this time she was endeavouring to impale herself more completely upon the bamboo shaft which was invading her soft wet cunt.
‘Whore!’ cried the warrior. ‘Thou art no lady! Thou art a little slut who likes nothing better than for a stranger to violate her upon the stones of her husband’s garden!’
Taking off his armour, he began to strip for the fray. His body was quite magnificent: well-muscled and glistening with the fragrant oils Madame LeCoeur had massaged into his flesh before the ceremony – secret, exotic oils which had their own very special function in hardening the prick and prolonging sensual pleasure.
His prick was beautiful, too: a full eight inches long and curving proudly upwards as though it were some deadly eastern scimitar.
Once naked, he signalled to his companions and they turned over the lady so that her legs were splayed wide apart, displaying the priceless treasures of her cunt to the watching businessmen. She gave token resistance, but her captors were implacable and overwhelmingly strong. Kneeling between her thighs, the Samurai leader gave a mighty thrust and rammed his cock into her, ensuring that at the same time he pushed a finger up her arse to make his ascendancy over her complete.
Thus humiliated and degraded, she lay still upon the ground and suffered the thrusts of the Samurai’s prick, feeling its hardness opening her up and wetting her despite herself; and she came with a great cry of anguish, inundating him and triggering off his own orgasm.
Meanwhile, the taller woman, who had already been stripped of her kimono, lay helpless upon the ground, watching in horrified fascination as her companion was abused and fucked before her. She now saw the warriors turning their attentions towards her once again, and cried out in terror as she saw that their leader’s prick was already returning to its former rigidity, his balls swinging heavy and hypnotic between his well-muscled thighs.
Still bound hand and foot, she found herself hauled to her knees, and forced to kneel there with her hands tied behind her back. Before she had time to wonder what her tormentors intended to do with her next, she felt cruel fingers prising apart her lips and something hard and salty being forced into her mouth.
Try as she might, she could not free herself of the prick which had so lately been toiling inside her companion’s cunt, and which was now forcing its way down her throat, half choking her.
She was forced to suck upon it, nonetheless; and was rewarded for her efforts with a flood of milky white semen which she had to fight hard to swallow, so abundant was the tide.
If she had thought this was the end of her torment, she was soon to be disabused. For the other two Samurai were undressing now, exposing their equally magnificent bodies and cocks which were nothing if not eager for the fray. Their weapons were unsheathed and glistening, and it only remained for them to dispute who should have her first. Since neither would concede that right to the other, the solution was clear: they must take her together.
Takimoto and his aides watched in delighted silence as the whores rubbed their pricks, gently but so arousingly, whilst they were treated to the spectacle of an apparently high-born lady, being laid down on her side on a rough gravel path so that two magnificently endowed Samurai warriors could violate her cunt and arse with their spunk-filled pricks.
‘Most satisfactory,’ was the only comment Takimoto allowed himself as the warriors gave a final thrust into the girl and the spunk overflowed and ran down her abused flesh. ‘Do you have other entertainments for us?’
The Master smiled:
‘My dear Takimoto-san,’ he breathed in a voice as seductive as double cream. ‘The night is young; the entertainments have only just begun. First you shall watch, so that you are at the peak of arousal; and then you yourselves shall become part of this great pageant which we have created to serve your needs and desires.’
He nodded again to Delgado, who signalled to the monks in the temple that this part of the orgy should now begin.
The temple was an ornate structure which had taken weeks to design and construct, decorated with erotic pictures taken from Japanese mythology. Before the altar knelt two shaven-headed monks in saffron robes, the bare flesh of their shoulders oiled and supple.
Before the temple danced a troupe of lithe young girls, clad in diaphanous veils and with their white-powdered faces garishly painted to represent the heads of mythical beasts. Their bodies were small-boned and slender, their breasts like rosy bobbing apples behind their gauzy robes. They performed their dance before the Master’s illustrious guests – a knowing dance, in which they exposed their bodies in a series of lewd, sinuous movements calculated both to inspire and to excite.
Takimoto and his henchmen watched entranced, their eyes glazing over with lust unsatisfied, lust which demanded its price. Lust which would serve the Master very well . . .
Dancing into the temple, the girls began to remove their veils one by one, letting them flutter to the ground like the many-hued leaves of a tree as the autumn breeze catches its branches. The monks knelt silent and still at their devotions, their heads bowed as though in mute reverence.
But the dancing girls had other plans for them. Their leader, a tall, willowy girl with her face painted to resemble a dragon-beast, came towards the monks and addressed them:
‘Brothers, will you not rise and do battle with us? For we are the demons of lust and you must overcome us if you are to attain true spiritual perfection.’
The monks turned round and replied:
‘You cannot overcome us, unclean spirits. For we are pure of heart. We accept your challenge.’
At this, the dancing demons seemed greatly pleased; and they swooped down upon the hapless monks, plucking at their robes and in a moment undressing them. Then, as if from nowhere, they produced disciplines with supple leather thongs, which they used upon the monks’ backs and buttocks.
‘Mortification of the flesh!’ breathed the dragon-woman, fire in her eyes as she brought the whip down once again upon the proffered flesh. ‘Only through the path of suffering shall you attain purity!’ And she laughed wildly as she chastised her victims with the cruel discipline.
At last, the monks slumped to the ground, breathing heavily and their flesh reddened from the lash. The dancers rolled them over onto their backs, and it was plain to see that they were not indifferent to their punishment. Indeed, they were most eager for it to continue, to judge by the turgid state of their pricks.
And the dancing demons fell upon them with lips and fingers and teeth, teasing and tormenting and exciting their flesh until they could take no more. They lay broken before their tormentors, panting and moaning as their cocks strained for release. And the demon-dancers laughed to see such sport, such humiliation of the holy and the pure.
Two of the dancers straddled the monks, taking their hard pricks easily into their well-greased cunts – for Madame LeCoeur had prepared them well for this lavish display, douching their intimate parts with sweet and aromatic oils which mingled now with the ready moistness of their own desire. Other dancers sat astride their faces, forcing them to smell their heady fragrance and lap up the sweet and abundant juices as they cascaded out of their cunnies. The remaining demon-dancers fell upon each other with cries of lust, licking and biting at each other’s flesh, probing deep into secret places with fingers and practised tongues.
And the watching Japanese businessmen observed with impassive faces, though their cocks told a very different story: twitching and spurting forth their pearly foaming tribute again and again, only to return almost instantly to a state of rigidity so painful that the only way to relieve it was to come once again . . .
And to their silent ecstasy were added the shrill, agonised cries of the monks, ravished so perfectly that at last their pricks fell into flaccidity upon their tormented loins, for even Madame LeCoeur’s alchemy could not last for ever.
The delightful pageant over, the dancers and their victims lay panting upon the temple floor, wave upon wave of incense wafting through the Great Hall until the watchers’ brains grew dulled, their thoughts confused by the overwhelming tide of lust which was filling their bodies, driving them to one single thought, one single impulse: they must fuck, fuck, fuck and be fucked – and if they fucked until they died, that would not be long enough to quench the lusts which had taken over their minds and bodies.
The Master looked on, well satisfied. For in the glazed expressions of Takimoto and his aides, he read what he had hoped to read: the abandonment of control, the loss of will, the total victory of lust over reason. Now he could make his move.
‘Takimoto-san,’ he breathed in the businessman’s ear. ‘Let me show you the next part of our entertainment. I promise you that it is more exciting, more satisfying than everything you have seen so far.’
‘And shall I . . . shall I fuck?’ gasped Takimoto, his erect penis sliding rhythmically between the silken fingers of the lotus-eyed girl still kneeling beside him.
The Master smiled. When he smiled, his face was transformed utterly: he was no longer the living image of Andreas Hunt. For his was a smile imbued with the most radiant, flawless, magnificent evil.
‘You shall know the most exquisite pleasure,’ he replied. And he did not lie. His only sin was the sin of omission. ‘Come with me.’ And, signalling to the geishas to bring the other guests, he took Takimoto’s hand and led him towards the mysterious geisha house, whose inner shadows seemed to gather together expectantly as the little procession wended its way towards the door.
They entered the house and the panel slid shut behind them, leaving them apparently alone, in an empty room. But there were dancing shadows around them, in the rooms beyond, like the phantasms created by a mind enslaved by unstoppable but unattainable desires. The Master guided Takimoto until he found himself standing in front of an apparently blank and featureless screen wall.
‘I . . . do not understand,’ stammered Takimoto, his shaft throbbing now with the pain of denied release, for his geisha companion was highly skilled in the games of love.
‘Strike three times upon the gong,’ replied the Master, handing Takimoto a wooden drumstick, padded at one end. Uncomprehending, Takimoto obeyed, striking the stick three times against the tiny gong which stood beside the screen.
As the last reverberations died away, a small panel slid across in the centre of the screen, and a pair of hands appeared. They were tiny hands, exquisitely manicured and with long, painted nails, each one bearing a miniature erotic picture in the traditional Japanese style. The hands took hold of Takimoto’s straining prick and pulled him gently towards the screen, so that his prick passed through the panel and into the unseen world beyond.
The inscrutable mask falling away, Takimoto gasped out his delight as soft, moist lips fastened about his prick and a hot, muscular tongue flashed across the tip of his yearning hardness.
‘Suck me . . .’ he breathed; but his unseen fellatrice needed no instruction. She was already working upon him with all the skill and devotion of a high priestess, her lips and tongue stroking and moistening his shaft whilst her exquisite hands lavished knowing caresses upon his balls.
She seemed to know all the arts of love; all the ways to bring a man to the very brink of orgasm and hold him there, refusing to allow him the mercy of release. And surely therein lay her power, her delight: to have a man in the palms of her hands, the soft wet cave of her mouth; and to know that he was hers to reprieve or to condemn as her fancy took her.
Takimoto knew that he was in the woman’s power but he no longer cared. His arrogance had deserted him. He was no longer anything more than a throbbing prick, a bundle of sensations begging to be allowed expression.
And when, at last, she pressed the tip of her perfect tongue a little harder into the weeping eye of his prick, he came to a huge and shuddering orgasm with all the gratitude of a penitent whose soul has been spared damnation. He could have wept for joy. If only he had known what awaited him next he might have wept for very different reasons . . .
As his crisis ebbed away, the screen slid back and Takimoto saw with horrified realisation the whore who had brought him to such a crescendo of pleasure: not, as he had thought, a beautiful woman, but a beautiful boy: a naked boy with kohl-rimmed eyes and painted fingernails, with a thrusting prick and such sharp teeth . . .
Weakened and dazed by his orgasm and by the aphrodisiac drugs, Takimoto had neither the will nor the strength to save himself as the boy’s teeth buried themselves in his groin. Strange how he felt no pain. Strange how a dark strength seemed to seep into him like storm clouds pushing back the sun. Stranger still how he welcomed the transformation . . .
Before they had quite realised what was happening to their leader, Takimoto’s companions heard the gentle swish of paper screens sliding back, and turned – too late – to find that they were surrounded by the most exquisite of oriental whores: the most beautiful and skilled that Winterbourne could offer. Almond-eyed women with pert breasts and flat bellies, their glossy pubic hair scented with aphrodisiac oils; and the prettiest of boys, slender-framed with delicate hands and heavy balls, surmounted by arrogant, curving pricks.
Why, so bedazzled were they by this feast of nubile flesh, that Takimoto’s companions hardly noticed the sharp little teeth behind
the rosy red lips, the pure and exultant evil behind the Master’s ingratiating smile.
The sudden surge of energy hit him like a bolt of lightning, as though someone had suddenly flicked on his consciousness like a light-switch.
Oh my God, thought Andreas Hunt. Where am I? Who am I?
What am I?
He couldn’t see, couldn’t hear, couldn’t move – no matter how hard he tried to, his body wouldn’t respond. And was it his body? No, don’t be bloody daft, of course it was his body. And if it wasn’t, whose was it, for fuck’s sake?
He was panicking. Mustn’t panic. Got to work this one out rationally. You’re a journo, remember? Don’t lose your cool now, Hunt, you old bastard.
What happened? He couldn’t quite remember. Wait a minute though . . . He remembered the big house – Winterbourne, that was it. He’d come to rescue Mara. And he’d found her, at last, but there was something wrong with her, he couldn’t get through to her. And suddenly there was a sharp pain in his chest and . . . nothing.
Just the fear. The darkness. The wondering.
Mara. She had looked so afraid, so . . . different. He knew she was in terrible danger. He must help her. But how? He didn’t even know where he was. Maybe he was dead. But he didn’t feel dead. He felt alive and if not kicking, well, bloody angry anyway.
There was just one question that kept on nagging at him. His body. What had happened to his body? Because he couldn’t feel it. He couldn’t feel anything except the pain. The pain of being imprisoned within a body that wouldn’t respond, wouldn’t do his bidding, wouldn’t even let him see or feel or hear, for pity’s sake! A body that, for some unaccountable reason, just didn’t seem to fit . . .
There it was again: a sudden surge of energy, like plugging your fingers into the mains and feeling the electricity fizzing and bubbling through them.
Hunt couldn’t feel his fingers, though. Maybe they weren’t his fingers anyway.
As the energy surged through him again, he wondered in anguish what was happening to him, if this was perhaps some message to him from Mara, Mara in trouble, Mara needing him desperately and he wasn’t there. Mara with the luscious breasts and delectable thighs and warm, wet, welcoming cunt . . .
The Phallus of Osiris Page 4