The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  ‘Mara!’ he screamed. And he wondered if she would ever be able to hear him again.

  ‘I still don’t understand why we have to bring these foreigners into it,’ grumbled Sir Anthony Cheviot, sitting down in the comfortable leather armchair and parting his legs so that Madelon could suck his cock more easily. She was pinching his bollocks quite delightfully, such a talented girl . . .

  ‘I don’t quite understand either,’ agreed Meredith Parry-Evans, his hands thoughtfully caressing the blonde head of the girl who was fellating him. ‘I thought we were going to keep this strictly to ourselves.’

  ‘Have you no imagination?’ replied the Master, whose cock was already halfway down the delectable throat of Anastasia Dubois, currently his favourite whore and certainly an enthusiastic one: keen, but with that touch of aristocratic hauteur which flattered his self-importance. Her tongue, her lips, her fingers . . . all felt diabolically good on his new and vigorous flesh. He gave a sigh of resignation and continued: ‘The global power which we seek to achieve will only be ours through diligence and cunning. With Takimoto’s artificial intelligence corporation at our disposal, we shall have the potential to control millions through the power of the computer screen.

  ‘You are men who have both achieved a certain . . . preeminence in your own country,’ the Master went on, urging Anastasia to ever-faster movements of her pretty little tongue across the tip of his agreeably turgid prick. ‘And power excites you – you cannot deny it. Whether it be the power of a tyrant over his subjects or of a libertine over his favourite whore, it matters not. What matters is the immense pleasure of the power itself: the way it swells your prick to see terror in the eyes of those who must obey you.

  ‘Imagine then, if you will, the satisfaction you will experience when this, my kingdom, extends across every continent, and there is no authority but mine: an authority in which you, as my trusted followers, shall share. Now that Takimoto and his colleagues have been initiated into our cause, we are one great step nearer to achieving our aims. This time, I shall not fail.’

  It felt good to talk of such things. Meredith Parry-Evans gasped with the anticipation of orgasm as the Master graciously filled his obedient mind with pictures of a new world of infinite darkness: a world in which he, Parry-Evans, would be responsible for dispensing pleasure and pain. Cheviot, whose tastes were rather less straightforward, contemplated the exquisite enjoyment to be had in a regime which would allow him to be both the master and the slave, the torturer and the victim.

  Reading into the foetid darkness of Cheviot’s perverse imaginings, the Master smiled and bestowed upon him a deliciously vivid vision: Cheviot saw himself standing in a dimly lit dungeon, as naked as the woman before him, held by chains spreadeagled across the damp stone wall. He was whipping her naked flesh with a bundle of birch twigs, and with each shrill cry he felt his prick grow harder and more eager for the fray. Most delicious of all, a naked girl in leather mask and spike-heeled thigh boots was kneeling before him, sinking her glossy red talons into the tender flesh of his testicles, and preparing to take his prick into the depths of her hungry mouth.

  The pleasure of the pain was so enormous that Cheviot felt his spunk rising and groaned in ecstasy as it pumped out in great white gobbets onto Madelon’s waiting tongue.

  The Master grabbed Anastasia’s head and forced her to take his prick deep into her throat as he came to a thundering, seismic orgasm; shuddering slightly but giving no other outward sign of his immense enjoyment. He heard the girl give a low growl of pleasure as she tasted his sex-fluid and knew that, like him, Anastasia was still basking in the invigorating energies which had been released during the Japanese orgy.

  The businessmen had provided the Master and his followers not only with an entertaining diversion – how he had laughed to see the blood spurting out of Takimoto’s groin as the boy-whore bit into him, bestowing upon him that most precious gift, the kiss of death – but also a supply of the sexual energy which was so vital to their continued growth and ultimate victory.

  Cheviot and Parry-Evans left for the House of Commons, to take part in an important vote. That evening, on the Master’s instructions, several more influential MPs would receive a personal invitation to one of Winterbourne’s very special entertainments. It was happening at last. The Master’s powers, so long dormant, were beginning to fulfil their true potential. And, now that he had come into possession of Andreas Hunt’s fine young body, there could be nothing in the whole world powerful enough to withstand the force of his will. The realisation of his ambitions, the satisfaction of his appetite for power: all were within sight now.

  But there was one ambition which craved fulfilment above all others; and that was the Master’s desire to renew his sacred union with his chosen queen, the Egyptian priestess Sedet, who had been so cruelly sacrificed to a hell of living death four thousand years ago.

  For a few brief moments, when his soul had entered Delgado’s body, the white witch Mara had brought his queen to him, for Sedet’s soul had possessed Mara’s body; and through the sexual agency of their stolen bodies they had once again enjoyed the ecstatic mingling of their evil souls.

  But the glory and passion had been short-lived. Too soon, Sedet had been called back to her imprisonment, and he had lost her once again. Without her, his rule would be incomplete. He must find her. But still he knew not where her body lay, between life and death; for the spell which had bound her had also masked her from his sight. Sometimes, he could hear her soundless screaming, echoing across the astral plane.

  The only way to find his queen was through Mara, he knew that now. Only she had the gift of sight, the psychic powers necessary to the quest. And now he had discovered, to his delight, how responsive she could be to the skilful touch of a true Master . . .

  He smiled grimly to himself. It would not be easy to manipulate the witch, for her powers were almost a match for his own. But he would use her and obtain what he craved; and then he would break her, as easily as he might break an inconsequential little whore who had displeased him. Already, he had experienced the delight of forcing her to plunge the crystal dagger into her own lover’s heart – the fatal thrust which had damned Andreas Hunt to the crystal tomb, and freed his strong young body for a worthier guest.

  But the pain of Mara’s gradual realisation was as nothing compared to the pain that she would suffer when the Master had used her and cast her aside. Why, the delightful prospect of her future sufferings was so potent an image that the Master felt his prick swelling in delicious anticipation; and he called to Anastasia Dubois to come and part her sleek white thighs, so that he might slide his hardness into her wet and willing cunt.

  ‘Mara!’

  Mara awoke with a start, to find that she was lying on a sofa, naked and only half-covered by the blankets, most of which had slipped to the floor during what must have been a turbulent few hours’ sleep. Afternoon sunshine was filtering weakly through the light chintz curtains.

  A moment’s confusion and then she recalled the encounter with Geoffrey, her walk to the village and the friendly village constable and his wife who had taken her in, offering her their sofa to sleep on until she felt strong enough to tell them the rest of her tale.

  Constable Donaldson had been particularly kind to her, and she had almost begun to feel safe with him. Noticing the constable’s obvious interest in her body, she had even been prompted to offer him her favours in return for his kindness.

  But he had hushed her and told her to concentrate on assembling the details of her story. If she could only remember what they were . . .

  Why had she awoken so suddenly? She could have sworn she heard a voice calling her name, calling to her desperately, as though in terrible agony.

  The voice of her lover, Andreas Hunt.

  But Andreas Hunt was dead.

  Shivering with sudden cold, Mara gathered the blankets around her shoulders and tried to coax some warmth back into her frozen limbs. It was odd, really. Ther
e was a fire roaring away in the grate, the sun was shining through the window . . . and yet the room seemed in the grip of a preternatural coldness which owed nothing to defective central heating . . .

  ‘Mara!’ This time, the voice was so loud that it seemed to explode inside her head in a sunburst of pain and bright lights. She shook her head, convinced that grief was playing games with her head, muddling her psychic powers. But the voice echoed on inside her head, and the confusion of lights began to resolve itself into a picture.

  A picture of a big house, dark and sinister against the evening sky. Of a naked girl, her flesh torn and bruised, crossing the threshold and entering into the darkness within. Entering into something unspeakably evil.

  And another picture, very brief this time: little more than a snapshot. A picture of a tall man with a crystal dagger protruding from his chest, glinting blood-red as it caught the last rays of the setting sun. A glimpse of Andreas Hunt, standing before the door of the great house and beckoning to her, his mouth opening in silent supplication: ‘Mara!’

  With a great rush of agonised realisation, Mara remembered Winterbourne Hall and what had happened to her there – the ways in which Delgado had abused her body; the ways in which the Master had manipulated her psychic powers; and worst of all, the ceremony at which he had tricked her into taking up the crystal dagger and . . .

  Forced her to kill Andreas Hunt.

  The rest, she did not understand. Somehow nothing else mattered very much. If Andreas really was calling out to her from beyond death, then she must somehow find a way to answer his call.

  ‘The woman Mara has left for London, sir. I thought you’d want to know.’

  ‘Thank you, Constable Donaldson,’ replied the Master. ‘You have done well.’

  This helpless young woman was no match for the awesome power of the Master. He summoned Ibrahim and watched him ram his magnificent ten-inch penis into a succession of pretty boys and girls, delighting in the growing heaviness in his own balls. Takimoto would be arriving soon, and the Master looked forward to watching Ibrahim fuck him, too. Why, he might even join in.

  Things were looking good.

  3: Heimdal

  Mara closed the door of the flat wearily behind her and went into the bathroom to wash her face. A discarded sock hung limply over the side of the bath, reminding Mara of that last crazy evening when they had pounced on each other like wild beasts in the rutting season. That was one of the great things about Andreas Hunt: he might be less than enthusiastic about washing his socks, but he was never halfhearted about sex.

  The empty whisky bottles; the half-eaten peanut-butter sandwich, now curling at the edges; the girlie mag lying open at a sex aids advert . . . all derails that made it seem impossible that Andreas Hunt wouk not be coming home.

  Despite the melancholy jumble of Hunt’s possessions, Mara felt better, surrounded by his things. They reinforced the feeling she had – the feeling that Hunt’s death might not be quite as final as it seemed. It didn’t make sense – once you’re dead, you’re dead, Hunt would have scoffed – but that’s how it felt. Mara knew she had to get some expert help.

  Exhausted from the events of the last twenty-four hours, Mara went into the bedroom, undressed and lay down on the bed where she and Andreas had enjoyed such enthusiastic sex so often. The sheets still bore the heavy scent of that last night’s lovemaking. She recalled the feeling of his beautiful stiff cock burrowing into her, his fingers skilfully teasing her clitoris to another orgasm, and another . . .

  The memory of fucking with Andreas was so powerful that Mara closed her eyes and tried to imagine that he was there. With a little effort of imagination she could really believe he was lying on the bed beside her, his hot eager flesh touching hers, his breath urgent in her ear:

  ‘Want to fuck?’

  And already, without waiting for her so-predictable yes, Andreas was upon her, his lips fastening on her right nipple whilst his fingers toyed with the left. He knew how much she loved him to play with her breasts – it made her crazy with lust for him, sent her cunt-juices into overdrive. She could feel the familiar prickling sensation just before her clitoris began to swell into a taut pink flowerbud, as sweet and firm and juicy as any fragrant young rose.

  ‘Fuck me, Andreas, fuck me . . .’ Her lips formed the words instinctively. She could feel his arms about her now, his hands stroking her large firm breasts, tracing the generous curve that led from breast to tiny waist and flaring out again into womanly hips. With her own fingers she simulated the sensation of Andreas’s touch, caressing her in ways that were known only to them.

  A hand insinuated itself between her thighs, moving slowly and slyly upwards until at last the edge of the palm lay against her dark and fragrant curls. It pressed so insistently that she sighed with pleasure and, smiling, parted her legs to make room for its incursions.

  Fingers; bold, exploring fingers that opened up the petals of her blossom and revealed its pulsating heart: a trembling pistil waiting for the male to come and fertilise it. The butterfly touch of fingertips now, and then something even subtler: his tongue. Andreas was licking her clitty, and she was laughing and shouting now; shouting at him to stop – no, never to stop, for she wanted this exquisite agony to go on for ever.

  And at last, his low, lustful growl as he climbed astride her, his prick knowing instinctively where to find its home: one hard thrust and he was inside her, fucking her like no one else had ever fucked her in her life.

  With one finger on her clitty and the other inside her hot, wet cunt, Mara frigged herself to a warm, expansive orgasm that seemed to last for ever, each successive wave carrying her a little further out to sea; until at last she came crashing back on the final breaker that left her washed up on the shore, dizzy and helpless with pleasure.

  Opening her eyes, she was at once transported back to the reality of an empty bed, a lonely pillow, an empty space – and a gaping cunt which yearned for a stiff prick to end its loneliness. Her thoughts turned to the recurring dream which had started just before she awoke in the wood, and which returned now every time she fell asleep: a dream of fucking the unspeakably evil creature she knew only as the Master.

  She knew that it must be some kind of warning: her psychic powers telling her to be careful, to beware endangering herself; for she sensed that, if Andreas had met a terrible fate, her own escape had been achieved more through luck than design. And yet – what could the Master possibly want of her now? He had tricked and abused her and succeeded in getting what he wanted. Surely she was safe from now on . . .

  She showered and washed her long dark hair. As she dabbed the towel over her wet skin, she eyed herself critically in the mirror. The ordeal of the last few days had left a few marks upon her flesh – bruises on her arms and thighs where the guards had handled her roughly; a few scratches on her legs and sore feet from her trek through the woods; but the woman with the extraordinary violet eyes who gazed back at her was still the same Mara Fleming who had merrily fucked her way from Glastonbury to Stonehenge a dozen times and left her men wanting more.

  Mara had always lived life according to her own rules. She wasn’t going to start playing by someone else’s now. She had a score to settle with the Master, and if there was any way that she could help Andreas, she was going to find it out and do it – no matter what the danger or the cost to herself.

  Pulling her dark green velvet cape tighter about her shoulders, Mara stepped out of the front door of the apartment block and into the watery autumn sunshine.

  Jürgen Kaas lived the sort of playboy lifestyle that was more typical of pop singers and film stars than psychics. When not away at his country mansion, he held court in his Notting Hill pied-à-terre – two Georgian mews cottages knocked into one – and boasted at least one princess among the wealthy and famous who beat a regular path to his door.

  Kaas – or Heimdal, as he was known professionally – was a millionaire psychic with an even more lucrative sideline: his own
unique brand of psychic sex-therapy. Bored housewives whose rich husbands were too tired to raise more than a smile; couples whose sex lives had lost their spark . . . Heimdal received them all with a smile and a promise to help them – for a fee.

  It was congenial work. Some astrological mumbo-jumbo, a ceremony with crystals and incense; and then he would get down to some serious screwing, which was really all they wanted from him. It was a pity really seeing as, ironically enough, he did have some genuine psychic ability.

  But, let’s face it, he did have a beautiful cock. Long and thick, even in repose, it twitched at the merest thought of sex and swelled into a mighty wand of which any magician would be proud.

  Heimdal stood before the mirror and gloried in his own nakedness. A blond giant well above six feet, his broad shoulders and well-formed muscles testified to successful careers in professional wrestling and modelling before he had found his true vocation. He smiled as he slid the palm of his hand down his hard, well-toned stomach and under his testicles, which were large and heavy and hung low between his stocky thighs.

  He cradled his bollocks and enjoyed the growing sense of heaviness in his loins as he recalled the job he had once had in a Hamburg nightclub, where he had been billed as ‘Heimdal the Destroyer’ – a key role in the midnight sex show. It had been easy work. All he had been asked to do was what he did best: fucking.

  Just before midnight a circular space was cleared in the middle of the dance-floor. This served as a stage, and some small attempt at scenery was made: a few cardboard mountains and a little Astroturf helped to create the overall impression of some fairly vague Aryan rural paradise. And, in the midst of this bucolic homeland, two little blonde milkmaids in dirndl skirts sat giggling together on a grassy knoll, their too-short skirts giving tantalising glimpses of the delights beyond their stocking-tops. Anachronistic and just plain daft, but the punters loved it.