This sunny scene changed suddenly, as the lights dimmed and the Club Za-Za was launched into the middle of a wonderfully theatrical storm: thunderflashes, distant rumbling, sudden flashes of multi-coloured light across a dark sky, and glitter dropped from the ceiling to imitate rain.
Oh, how the silly little girls squealed as this was joined by other, distinctly wetter rain, soaking their flimsy little frocks and drenching their frilly blouses. And how the wet fabric clung to their bra-less breasts, which were ripe and heavy as every good Teutonic maiden’s breasts should be.
Whilst the girls were fooling around, trying to pat each other’s breasts dry with their aprons and handkerchiefs and generally making matters worse, the pièce de résistance was being prepared up above the audience. The thunderclaps grew louder and rainbow-flashes of lightning illuminated something mysteriously large and bulky, being lowered down on heavy chains from the ceiling.
This mystery object was in fact a wire cage, decorated to resemble a thundercloud. And in the middle of the cage stood Jürgen Kaas – now metamorphosed into Heimdal the Destroyer – the very picture of Teutonic wrath.
Heimdal remembered how he had loved that moment when the audience realised what was happening, saw him above them and gasped as they realised the full magnificence of this blond god who was descending among them. He had certainly presented an imposing sight: horned helmet crowning long blond hair and beard; chest bare and well oiled to show off his musculature to best effect; golden bracelets on his arms and goatskin leggings strapped from ankle to knee. His loin-cloth was bulging already with the excited anticipation of the fray.
The ‘cloud’ descended to the ground and Heimdal stepped out onto the stage, his double-headed axe held aloft, and roaring with predictable ferocity as his eyes lighted on the two succulent milkmaids.
The girls made a feeble attempt to run away, but Heimdal always succeeded in catching them without the slightest difficulty. With a few deft swishes of his axe – which was quite genuinely sharp and required an expert’s touch – he succeeded in divesting the maidens of their flimsy robes – not too quickly, as the punters loved to see the girls struggling to cover their protesting modesty with the remaining vestiges of their shredded garments.
When both were naked, Heimdal made great play of choosing between them: feeling the plumpness of thigh and upper arm, looking at their teeth as though selecting prime livestock, squeezing their firm titties and even slipping a hand between their thighs to judge the size of their cracks. In point of fact, it mattered little how well endowed the fräuleins were, since Heimdal’s prick was big enough and fat enough to stretch even the most spacious of cunts.
Having selected his first victim, Heimdal would throw the other girl into the cage and lock her inside it with an immense golden key. He would then turn his attentions to the first girl.
Stripping off his loin-cloth, he would make sure that everyone in the club got a really good look at his mighty weapon. Why, he had even the blokes longing to feel it thrusting into them – it was enough to make you want to turn gay. And Heimdal was pretty adaptable. He’d screw anyone – or anything – for a price. He loved his work.
Casting aside his axe, Heimdal set to work on his chosen victim. Generally, he made great play of forcing her to suck him off, roaring oaths at her: ‘By the mighty cock of the great Thor!’ he would cry. ‘Tour lips are like a butterfly’s upon my manhood! Suck me harder, faster, or I swear you shall suffer . . .’
He did not usually allow the girl to swallow down his semen, as he liked to withdraw at the last moment and wank himself to orgasm, watching the spunk fountaining out in triumphant spurts all over the girl’s face and breasts.
To give himself time to recover, he would then indulge in a little pantomime of spanking and light torture, biting and pinching the girl’s breasts, sticking the handle of his axe up her cunt, which she would obligingly display for all the world to see. By this time, most of the audience were wanking too; and the lucky ones, who had brought a sexual partner with them, were getting ready to have sex. The management of the Za-Za Club were extremely tolerant about such things, and indeed outside the front door of the club the manager had displayed a series of explicit colour photographs of the punters fucking and buggering each other. It was great for business.
After abusing the girl for a while, Heimdal would sling her into the cage and drag out the other girl instead. This one would put up a stiffer resistance, and for her pains would receive a thorough beating, plus a taste of Heimdal’s whip up her arse. Strangely, this seemed not to chasten but to excite her . . .
The climax of this little playlet came when Heimdal asked for volunteers from the audience to restrain the little vixen whilst he gave her a really good seeing-to. There were always plenty of volunteers, several of them women; and soon the poor girl would find herself spreadeagled on the Astroturf, with her legs held as far apart as they would go by willing volunteers. Heimdal would then fuck her as though his life depended upon it, and would sometimes follow this up by buggering her for good measure.
The sex-show went down best of all on the nights when the manager succeeded in finding a real live virgin willing to be deflowered on stage in return for a fat fee. More often than not, this meant scouring the Hamburg schools, or tracking down an unscrupulous mother happy to sell her daughter’s virginity. Virgins were pretty hard to come by, even in those days.
Happy days, thought Heimdal, wanking himself up to a quick climax and growling with satisfaction as he watched the creamy spunk spurt out. Happy, yes; but not as happy as these days . . . He collected the semen carefully in a small green glass bowl, for it was a valuable fluid, of great power and significance in magic rituals. Heimdal was no longer a sex-show stud; no longer a two-bit Tarot reader; no longer just a minor psychic, even. These days, Jürgen Kaas was a serious magician too.
One day, around five years ago, Heimdal had had a psychic experience whilst fucking one of his mistresses. At the moment of orgasm, he had had a vision of her past and future. Highly sceptical, he had told her what he saw and, to his amazement, the events of his vision had proved to be true. Within a week, the poor girl from the East End had won a top modelling contract with a major international agency. Other paranormal experiences followed; and suddenly the bizarre events and feelings of his childhood had begun to make sense.
Heimdal realised that he had psychic powers and that he had two gifts in particular: that of divining the past and future through sexual conjunction; and that of locating missing objects and people. The second gift brought him fame through his successes with the police – helping them to catch a notorious serial killer, in particular, as well as locating several important caches of stolen property.
The tabloids had loved him ever since: this Nordic giant with the steel-blue eyes and the long blond beard; a man who had enormous sexual attraction and – it was rumoured – equally enormous physical accoutrements. His use of sex in magical rituals, and in particular his gift for fortune-telling through sex, had made him an instant hit on the society scene. Overnight, everyone wanted a session with the great Heimdal, if only to find out if the rumours of his wondrous sexual potency were to be believed. Heimdal liked to think he never sent anyone away disappointed.
One person who had been there at the very start, when he was only just becoming aware of his powers, was the white witch Mara Fleming. He owed Mara a great deal. She had taught him how to understand his powers, how to channel them and not simply become their victim. A deeply sensual young woman herself, she had spent many hours with him, exploring his body and teaching him to explore hers.
But, oddly enough, for all their intimacy, he had never fucked Mara Fleming. He would have liked to fuck her. She had told him that, at that time, when his powers were at a nascent stage, it would have been wrong for them to have joined their bodies; for the superior strength of her psychic energy might have destroyed his own before it had even had a chance to develop fully.
And no
w she had made contact with him again. A mysterious message, saying very little. She needed his help, that was all. And he would be glad to help her, if he could. Nevertheless, Heimdal couldn’t help wondering vaguely if this time, the rules would be different. This time, now that he was a fully fledged magician, would Mara let him fuck her?
Mara stood outside Heimdal’s mews cottage and rang the doorbell, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. It was a long time since she had seen him, heard from him, even. How could she expect him to remember what she had done for him now, after all those years?
The door opened, and Mara was surprised to see not Heimdal but an elderly woman.
‘Miss Fleming? Herr Heimdal is expecting you.’ Seeing Mara’s questioning look, the woman smiled and explained: ‘I am Frau Kluger, his housekeeper. Please follow me and I will take you up to his consulting room.’
Mara followed Frau Kluger obediently up the intricate wrought-iron staircase, marvelling at the wealth so much in evidence around her. When she had last seen Heimdal he had been struggling to find the rent on a tatty flat in Camden: now he was rubbing shoulders – and no doubt other, more intimate parts of himself – with the glitterati.
They reached a door on the first floor landing: it was painted glossy black, with an exquisitely enamelled miniature from the Kama Sutra inlaid into the wood. It had been cleverly positioned at eye level, just like all the other erotic pictures which Mara had noticed lining the stairwell. Tasteful, but explicit enough to arouse even the most frigid of maiden aunts. Why, despite her anxieties about Andreas’s fate, Mara was beginning to get the hots . . .
Frau Kluger knocked on the door, and a familiar voice answered, powerful and resonant as a mighty foam-flecked wave rolling onto some northern sea-shore:
‘Enter.’
The old woman indicated to Mara to go in, and then turned and wended her way slowly back down the staircase. Mara wondered what on earth brought a respectable old Hausfrau to work in a place like this.
She pushed open the door and stepped into another world.
The room was a shrine to the act of sexual union, and to the magical arts in which Heimdal had immersed himself during the past five years. All around were fetishes, paintings, bottles filled with sweet oils, and the air was filled with the heavy scent of burning incense – a fragrance which Mara recognised instantly as one used by her own coven to produce sensual awakening.
At the far end of the room stood a small altar consisting of a plain hexagonal plinth about four feet high, with what appeared to be four silver snakes coiled about its length. There was a shallow depression in the top, in which wood was burning beneath a dish of sweet-smelling liquid. The walls were hung with erotic pictures and ornate gilded mirrors, and painted in deepest crimson.
‘The colour of living flesh, of passion, of the beating heart,’ explained Heimdal, signalling to Mara to take a seat beside him on a pile of softly padded cushions and animal skins. His steel-blue eyes surveyed her appreciatively from beneath his mane of corn-blond hair. ‘You are more beautiful even than I remember you, Mara Fleming.’
Mara was accustomed to compliments, but was nevertheless surprised to feel herself blushing. She gave a little cough and changed the subject:
‘I need your advice. If you’re willing to give it.’
Heimdal laughed: the genial roar of a contented bear, and the warm sound melted the ice between them. ‘Could I ever refuse you anything? You were always able to wrap me round your little finger.’
He caught hold of her slender hand and pressed it lightly to his lips. She shivered with the sudden pleasure of it. Too long without the touch of a friend, she responded quickly to Heimdal’s uncomplicated warmth.
‘Now, tell me what ails you, little pussycat. You sounded very distressed on the telephone.’
Haltingly, Mara began to tell Heimdal all she knew: the sense of a dark presence stalking the edges of her dreams; her meeting with Hunt; her ordeal in an unknown house of pleasure and pain; awakening amid naked, blood-spattered bodies beside a massive sarcophagus, with Hunt’s dead body slumped at her feet – her only certainty the conviction that the Master, this mysterious face of evil which haunted her waking and sleeping, had somehow tricked her into murdering her lover.
‘I don’t remember it all – only glimpses of what happened, like snapshots of something I can’t quite recall. I think perhaps I don’t want to. I remember looking down at Andreas, seeing the dagger sticking out of his chest. And his eyes were still open, gazing up at me. He looked . . . surprised, as if death was the last thing he’d expected at my hands. Oh God, I killed him. I must have killed him.’
Her head in her hands, she wept out the fear and the pain for the first time since she had fled the scenes of carnage in the cellars at Winterbourne.
Heimdal put his arm around her shoulders. Mein Gott, he thought as his fingers brushed lightly against her flesh, she’s got the most wonderful titties. He stole a sidelong glance at them and felt his ever-eager cock leap to attention at the sight of those boldly swelling curves, standing proud above a tiny waist, taut belly and womanly hips.
Her legs were crossed, so that her wrap-over skirt fell like stage curtains on either side, revealing the entirely diverting spectacle of a pair of tawny thighs, still tanned and bare-skinned, despite the autumn weather. She was a morsel fit to whet any Norseman’s appetite. The memories came flooding back now, reminding him of just how he had felt that first time he saw her, clad in that diaphanous sari and not much else.
He wanted her then. And he wanted her still. The difference was, this time he was going to have her.
‘So tell me: what do you want from me?’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow.
‘I don’t understand it really . . . but somehow, I feel Andreas is . . . not dead. I don’t think it’s just wishful thinking., I’m convinced I’ve heard him calling out to me for help.
‘I know you have an ability to read the past and the future, and also that you have ways of finding missing people. I want you to look into my soul and read my past, tell me what really happened to Andreas and what – if anything – I can do to help him now.’
Heimdal nodded gravely. Himmel, it was difficult hiding that broad inner smile. It really was turning out to be his day. First the randy TV producer who wanted to do a documentary on him, and now this! Not only was he going to be able to help her – he was going to get what he wanted as well.
‘You know my methods?’
Mara nodded.
‘But I have to remind you of what you told me at our last meeting, all those years ago. You told me then that my psychic powers were insufficiently developed to permit us to join our bodies and souls – such an unwary conjunction would harm me, perhaps even overwhelm me and destroy my powers.’
‘You were a mere novice in those days,’ replied Mara. Was that a note of desperation in her voice? Why, she’d be begging him to screw her before he’d finished. ‘Your powers were in their infancy. But you are now a magus, a scholar magician. Your psychic energies are the equal of mine now. In some respects they are superior – and that is why I have come to you for help. Won’t you help me?’
If he had had any genuine misgivings (and let’s face it, Heimdal knew darn well his psychic abilities were too lucrative to risk losing them) they melted clean away as Mara gazed deep into his steely eyes and began to undress before him.
The velvet cape she had already cast onto the floor, revealing a long-sleeved shirt in softest woollen cloth, which held her delicious body snug as any lover’s embrace. Her generous breasts pressed against the fabric, straining it so severely that the pearl buttons seemed to sigh as she released them, one by one.
She peeled the shirt down over her shoulders, and dropped it to the floor. Braless as usual, she was wearing only a tiny blue T-shirt underneath, moulding her firm breasts like a second skin. Her large nipples were already stiff and clearly visible through the thin cotton fabric, and Heimdal longed to tear off that T-shirt w
ith his teeth, rend the fabric until it fell away in tatters and then bite on the nipples as though they were ripe hazelnuts. He imagined their toughness between his teeth, the expression of discomfort and pleasure on Mara’s face as he pinched and nipped at her sensitive flesh; and his manhood yearned for release from his tight leather trousers, through which the outline of his massive erection pulsed frantically.
Mara took hold of the hem of the T-shirt, and without further ado pulled it up over her head. Her breasts sprang into view, jiggling delightfully as they popped out from under the tight material. They were even more beautiful than Heimdal remembered: lightly tanned and firm, yet as soft as clouds to the touch. Heimdal recalled the nights he had spent exploring those breasts with fingers and tongue . . . but never had she allowed him to fuck her, not until now.
‘Do you like them?’ breathed Mara, as though echoing his thoughts. ‘Do they please you?’ She placed her hands underneath them, as though offering her twin delights to him upon some exotic platter.
‘Beautiful . . .’ murmured Heimdal under his breath; and he put out his hands to touch them, but Mara drew back.
‘No, no,’ she hushed him with a kiss upon the forehead. ‘Remember the ceremony. We must do everything according to the ceremony.’
Heimdal shook himself mentally, remembering that he was supposed to know what he was doing. He sat back on the pile of animal pelts, his crotch aching with lust, and prayed that she would stop tormenting him, undress quickly and let him get on with what he really wanted to do. A thousand times he had fantasised about sticking his big stiff cock up into her tight wet womanhood.
Mara kicked off her shoes and then turned her attentions to the cotton wrap-skirt, knotted over her left hip. The knot seemed to take an age to yield and, when it did, there appeared to be yard upon yard of material wound around her. At last she peeled away the fabric to reveal – to Heimdal’s delight – that she was wearing nothing underneath.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 6