The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  A man who looked exactly like Andreas Hunt.

  Mara lay upon the hard wooden bench, its surface rough against her naked skin. The crystal dagger lay upon her belly, its wickedly sharp tip pointing down to the perfumed garden of her pubic hair. She felt its coldness flooding through her, as though within its heart it burned with an icy flame; and she wondered how such a cold, evil, malevolent thing could hold the soul of her lover. Its evil touch froze her blood and yet also excited her, for the essence of its evil was sexual – she had felt that as soon as she touched it again – and in her, it sensed a pulsing, vibrant heart of physical passion.

  The heavy velvet drapes were drawn across, and the room was in complete darkness, save for the blood-red candles which burned at the head and foot of the bench. Heimdal stood beside her, his face seeming awash with blood in the ghastly candlelight.

  Mara could feel the power of the dagger already, knew that she had not been mistaken in fearing its touch. But there was pleasure, as well as fear, in the touch of that bright, crystal blade, that engraved silver hilt.

  Her clitoris warmed and began to tingle, as it always did when it swelled in anticipation of a lover’s touch – or her own. For Mara was skilled in all the arts of love, including the subtle art of masturbation, which she had refined since adolescence, until she was now able to control both the timing and the quality of her orgasm. As one of a long line of white witches, Mara knew and respected the power of sex; believing that through sexual pleasure and activity of all kinds, a mystic might attain greater powers and develop clearer astral vision.

  She reached out her hand and touched the dagger’s silver hilt, her fingers lingering on the strange hieroglyphics carved into the metal – signs and symbols which she had not the learning to read but which she knew instinctively were words of great power. Great power and great evil. And, as she smoothed the cool blade with her hand, she wondered if Andreas was aware of her, could feel her trying to communicate with him.

  Heimdal’s voice brought her back to her senses.

  ‘I must utilise your psychic energies now,’ he explained. ‘You are the person closest to Hunt. Your own soul has sought out his in locating the dagger; and now you must send it out onto the astral plane, there to search until it finds the whereabouts of Hunt’s body. There is no time to lose: for without the immortal soul which ennobled it, his body will be prey to any and all evil powers.’

  ‘I shall do whatever you say,’ replied Mara. ‘I am ready.’

  Unzipping his trousers, Heimdal took out his prick and began to masturbate it skilfully into rigidity. In fact it took little effort since the sight of Mara’s body, once again naked before him, had already caused Heimdal’s prick to twitch into insistent life.

  As he rubbed at his shaft, he looked down and admired the loveliness of Mara’s sweet young flesh. Even now, in the mournful depths of autumn, her skin was a uniformly golden colour, without telltale lines or white patches – testifying to the amount of time she spent naked. Heimdal’s cock surged into life as he imagined her stretched out in the sun like some exotic cat, stretching those long, slender limbs and rubbing coconut oil into her smooth, elastic flesh.

  It really was a remarkable body, as perfect as any he had ever seen, and in his long career as sex-show stud and, latterly, magical sex-guru to the rich and bored, Heimdal had seen an awful lot of very nice bodies. The most delightful aspect of Mara’s physique was that it combined slenderness with amplitude, firmness with graceful curves. Her belly was muscular and flat, her legs smooth and slender, and her waist tiny in proportion to her gently flaring hips.

  Most striking of all were her magnificent breasts, which soared above her taut belly like the graceful flying buttresses of some fairytale Gothic cathedral. Like some fantastical triumph of medieval architecture, their firm fullness defied gravity, and they seemed intent only on rising still higher, their long, hard nipples straining upwards as if towards not only physical but spiritual fulfilment.

  Heimdal was hard now and throbbing. He knew it would not take long to bring himself to the climax which he required in order to empower the ritual.

  Letting go of his shaft for a moment, he picked up a jar of ointment which he had prepared especially for the ritual. It had a heavy, almost hypnotic scent, for it contained a dozen costly Eastern incenses and many other secret ingredients with aphrodisiac qualities. It was most important that Heimdal – and especially Mara – must attain a peak of sexual desire so that, at the climactic moment of the ritual, the energies released might combine to produce a vision of Andreas Hunt.

  Dipping a finger into the scented unguent, Heimdal smeared it liberally over the tip of his penis, his throbbing shaft and his spunk-filled balls, which felt already as if they were about to burst. He could not suppress a groan of pleasure as he felt the ointment begin to take effect.

  Next, he scooped up more of the ointment and bent over Mara. She felt a sudden coolness as the ointment touched the tips of her nipples, followed by a tingling and then a delicious, smouldering warmth which made her writhe with unexpected pleasure.

  Heimdal’s skilled fingers moved on, smoothing the ointment all over her breasts, then moving down her belly and foraging in the secret garden of her pubic hair; sliding further down and searching out the heart of her womanhood. Mara began to tremble as she felt the ointment slide over the delicate membranes of her cunt, kindling her flesh and making it pulsate with desire.

  And now he was smoothing the ointment over her clitoris, and she was crying out with the terrible, unbearable pleasure of it; the hellish, heavenly sensitivity of the little button of flesh as it caught fire and sparked into sudden, tempestuous life.

  Paying no heed to her cries, Heimdal took the dagger from her belly, seized her by the shoulders and made her roll over onto her front; whereupon he pulled apart her buttocks and set to work on her arsehole with his devilish ointment.

  As Mara writhed beneath his fingers, Heimdal felt his own desire reaching unbearable new heights. How he longed to do what would have been so simple: just to hold her arse-cheeks apart and spear her with his mighty prick. He imagined how hot and tight her arse would be, how welcoming it would feel as it caressed his cock; and he almost spurted at the mere thought of it.

  With a desperate effort at self-control, Heimdal succeeded in restraining himself. He must not weaken. For Mara’s sake, he must see the ritual through; he must conserve and direct his psychic energies.

  ‘Lie on your back,’ he instructed her, hardly able to speak for the all-consuming feelings of lust which were throbbing and surging through him like forest fire.

  Mara obeyed, almost crying with the exquisite torture of her body, awakened and enslaved by the aphrodisiac ointment with which Heimdal had anointed her.

  It was as though her nipples, her breasts, her cunt, her clitoris, her arse, had all been sparked into a new and infinitely more exciting life of their own; as though they were independent of the rest of her body and, from their new position of infinite power, were now dictating to her their terms for peace.

  Fuck. There will be no peace for you until you have fucked, little Mara. You know that what we tell you is true. Touch yourself, and feel that what we say is true . . .

  ‘Touch yourself,’ gasped Heimdal, touching her clitoris with the point of the crystal dagger and then laying it once more upon her belly. ‘Masturbate yourself. Hold back for as long as you can, to maximise the energies that will gather in the dagger. I too shall masturbate, and when my semen spurts out onto the dagger, you must make yourself come to orgasm.’

  Mara slid her finger between her cunt-lips, and moistened her clitty with a little of her copious cunt-juices. But when she tried to place her fingertip more firmly upon her clitoris, she cried out in pain – for it had become so sensitive that anything but the merest hint of a touch was now agony.

  She tried again, this time only brushing gently against her clitty; and felt the most delicious, overwhelming sensations flooding through
her loins, extending upwards and outwards throughout her whole body, so that her clitoris felt like the nerve-centre of some vast and complex network, whose only purpose was pleasure.

  Seeing the expression of wonderment on Mara’s face, Heimdal warned her:

  ‘No, Mara, not yet.’ Sweat was coursing down his face as he strove for self-control, desperate not to climax too soon. ‘You must hold out a little longer or the power will not be sufficient. Be patient, patient; fight the urge – overcome it with your own power. Allow your own psychic force to achieve mastery over your physical desires . . .’

  But, even as he spoke, he was gasping with the superhuman effort required to hold back from the brink of orgasm. A little longer, just a little longer . . .

  He looked down and saw to his amazement that the blade of the dagger was glowing with a strange inner phosphorescence, like bluish-white fire. It seemed to be pulsating, ebbing and flowing in time to Mara’s quickening breathing.

  It was happening. It was happening.

  ‘Now!’

  He rubbed his cock a fraction harder and the world seemed to slip out of focus, blurring at the edges as he fought to maintain concentration.

  ‘Now, Mara! You must come now!’

  Looking down, he watched in fascination, almost detachment, as the flood-tide of pent-up semen gushed out of his penis and onto the bluish-white blur that was the dagger’s blade.

  Obediently, Mara applied a little pressure to her clitoris and felt the abyss of pleasure open up before her, like a multi-coloured chasm into which she leapt joyfully with no thought of fear.

  The crystal dagger flamed into life, a blinding bluish-white light surrounding and engulfing both it and Mara.

  She cried out in fear, caught in the midst of the blue-white mist which felt as cold as ice as it swirled about her naked flesh. She was snow-blinded by the brilliance of the light, and at first saw nothing beyond the swirling mist.

  But it began to clear and, blinking in confusion and disbelief, Heimdal made out the blurred image of a man.

  A man, expensively dressed and getting out of a long, black limousine. Talking to two men. Walking with them towards an ornate, Gothic-style building. Turning back to say something to his companion . . . A man with a look of pure, cold evil in his eyes.

  ‘No, no!’ cried Mara. ‘The pain – it’s too much!’ And she fell back, unconscious, upon the wooden bench, the dagger cold and lifeless upon her belly. Her flesh seemed to shimmer like a frosty pavement in the candlelight, and when Heimdal touched her he found that her body was covered in tiny, white ice crystals.

  He wrapped a blanket around her to bring warmth and life back into her body and drew open the curtains, still troubled by what he had seen. When Mara at last revived, still cold and shivering, he told her the news:

  ‘Andreas Hunt’s body is alive, Mara. I have seen him. I don’t understand . . . but he is at the House of Lords. You must go there quickly, today: now is your chance to save him.’

  Anastasia Dubois stepped elegantly out of the limousine, nodding to the driver to pull away. She opened her handbag and took out lipstick and a mirror. She had to look her best if she was to carry out the Master’s instructions to his complete satisfaction.

  Such a hunger raged within her. But soon it would be sated. Those who followed the true Master were never allowed to hunger for long.

  Got to fuck.

  Heimdal’s mews cottage was just around the corner. She unfastened her top button and checked that the seams of her stockings were straight. Her dark hair fell in seductive waves about her shoulders and her nipples pressed urgently against the tight fabric of her thin, gauzy blouse. She never felt the cold, not any more.

  She was looking good. But she had no time to waste now – mustn’t be late for the appointment the Master had arranged for her. The appointment with Heimdal. Heimdal the Destroyer.

  She laughed. For destruction does not always present itself with a fiery sword. Sometimes it has firm breasts and a tight, wet cunt. Sometimes it has succulent red lips and sharp little teeth.

  She rang the doorbell and waited for the maid to answer. And the November sun shone cheerfully in a powder-blue sky, as though trying to convince itself that nothing was amiss.

  Heimdal had given Mara all the instructions she would need. All she had to do was persuade or trick Andreas into holding the crystal dagger, and his soul and body would be reunited.

  It seemed too easy somehow. Flawed, because it was just too flawless. All Mara’s instincts shouted out that there must be more to it than that – but she did not want to hear. Everything was going to be all right at last. Soon Andreas Hunt would be restored to her and they would once again fuck in Andreas’s king-sized bed.

  She crossed the road outside the House of Lords, the dagger cold and inert in the pocket of her coat. For the first time it struck her that she really hadn’t the faintest idea how she was going to carry out her plan – if you could call it a plan. What if they searched her? How was she going to explain away the crystal dagger? How was she going to get into the House of Lords? And if she did get inside, how would she find Andreas?

  Not that it was Andreas. Not the real Andreas. She shivered to think of her lover’s body, zombie-like and empty of the spirit that had been Andreas.

  She wondered what evil could have enslaved it and pressed it into service. What purpose could it have in luring Andreas Hunt’s body to the House of Lords?

  The Master put away his pen and closed his briefcase with an authoritative click.

  ‘So I can be sure of your support, gentlemen?’ He scanned the figures sitting round the polished mahogany conference table.

  Heads nodded.

  ‘I am sure it will be a mutually beneficial arrangement, Mr LeMaitre,’ replied Lord Westfield, who had a crumbling stately home and was always short of ready cash. ‘Money from your . . . charitable foundation will come to us for . . . good works; and in return, we will undertake to support you in any candidacy for public office.’

  ‘You will not lose by the arrangement.’ The Master was on his feet now and Lord Amberley was helping him on with his cashmere coat. ‘And, as a mark of the great respect and gratitude which I feel towards you, I should like to invite you all to a little soiree I have planned in a couple of weeks’ time. Dinner and an evening’s entertainment at my country estate – Winterbourne Hall. My personal assistant will send you the details. And now, gentlemen, I must bid you good day.’

  As he turned to leave, a hand caught his sleeve.

  ‘I hope you won’t mind my mentioning it, but you do remind me very much of a journalist who interviewed me once,’ remarked old Lord Spenthorne, amiably. ‘Can’t quite remember the fellow’s name . . . Hunter or Huntley or something. You wouldn’t be a relative of his, by any chance?’

  The Master’s frozen smile left the decrepit old peer rooted to the spot and wondering what on earth he had said to upset him.

  Mara had almost given up hope of getting into the House and saving Andreas when she glanced up and saw a tall familiar figure coming out of one of the side entrances. The clothes were all wrong – far too smart, too expensive; and there was no light or warmth in the blue-grey eyes. But there was no mistaking him.

  Andreas!

  He had not seen her standing there and Mara knew that she must exercise the utmost care if she was going to be able to carry out her plan. She mingled with a crowd of camera-wielding American tourists, intent on getting a lot closer to Andreas before she risked being seen.

  But he was moving away from her now – towards a long, black, shiny limousine parked beside the kerb. Frantic not to let her opportunity slip away, Mara struggled to break free of the jostling hordes and run after him, throwing caution to the winds.

  As she pushed and shoved her way out of the crowd, Mara felt a burning sensation gnawing at her hip. Glancing down, she realised that it must be emanating from the dagger in her pocket. Unthinking, she plunged in her hand and pulled it out.
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br />   Its hilt was glowing red with heat and she cried out in pain, letting go of it and clutching her burned fingers. The tourists glanced at her momentarily, then carried on taking pictures as if nothing had happened.

  The dagger fell to the ground with a clatter and, as Mara watched in horror, it glowed incandescent red and began to melt. In seconds it was reduced to a few drops of a molten, glass-like substance, soiling the paving stones.

  Shocked to the core, Mara stood in silence for a few moments, unable to pull herself out of her trance. Then she remembered Andreas and looked up, searching frantically for his familiar outline beyond the hordes of tourists.

  As she watched in silent desperation, he turned for a moment and she found herself looking straight into his face, into the cruel eyes that were not his, set in a face she had known so well. And he opened the door of the limousine, climbed inside, and was gone.

  ‘I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr Heimdal,’ breathed the glossy-lipped brunette, easing down his zip and insinuating a cool, delicate hand through his flies. ‘I’ve heard so much about you.’

  She smiled and, as her lips drew back, he couldn’t help noticing how her teeth glistened with saliva. Curious little pointed teeth she had, like some beautiful carnivorous beast. A handsome, sexy woman like her had no need of a magician to conjure her up a sex-life. Heimdal wondered vaguely what bizarre whim had drawn her here.

  He kissed her and her flesh was cool and smooth as alabaster.

  ‘May I suck your cock, Mr Heimdal?’ Already she was on her knees before him and her tongue was teasing the tip of his eager member.

  He needed no further prompting.

  6: The Phallus of Osiris

  It was Heimdal himself who opened the door to Mara. Mara sensed immediately that there was something strange about him but nothing that she could quite define. He had the same easy manner and tireless sexual charm but for a moment she thought she glimpsed a disturbing, almost fanatical, look in his eyes.