The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  ‘Wank me off.’

  He rubbed at her juicy little rosebud and she felt her cunt begin to throb with the urgent need for orgasm.

  ‘Harder, harder!’ She thrust out her buttocks and he understood and began to fuck her with all his might, burying his shaft in her up to the balls.

  When they came, it was in unison, in a great flood of spunk and cunt-juice that seemed to make the whole world spin around them, divorcing them from the everyday laws of time and space. They slumped to the floor and Mara wearily rolled Heimdal onto his back, mindful of the one last task she must perform before the ritual could proceed.

  Climbing astride him, she pressed the juicy flesh of her cunt against his face, so that he was forced to feel and taste and smell her heady womanhood. With her right hand, she began to wank herself, realising that – far from being spent – her desire had now reached its peak and must flower in a final, overwhelming orgasm.

  Beneath her, Heimdal tasted the ever-greater flood of cunt-juice mingled with berries and spunk, and knew that her crisis was near. Putting out his tongue, he made contact with her clitoris and began to tease it.

  With a loud shriek of pleasure, she exploded into a rainbow-bright orgasm and fell forward onto Heimdal’s belly.

  In her half-conscious state, Mara hardly noticed as Heimdal laid her gently upon the velvet cloth, her legs wide apart and her hands crossed upon her breasts, like the hands of a corpse.

  ‘From death to rebirth,’ whispered Heimdal.

  When she opened her eyes and looked up, she saw a fearsome sight. Heimdal was towering over her, ferociously erect and hungry for her cunt. But the mighty weapon thrusting forth from his loins was horribly changed; upon it, he wore a thick leather sheath, covered in large metal studs. She wanted to run away, but somehow could not find the strength.

  ‘Be not afraid,’ soothed Heimdal and his voice was as smooth as honey. ‘It is all part of the ritual. As we lie together, our loins fused, we shall enter the limbo between life and death. There, I shall meet my spirit guide and together we shall go forth into the land of the undead, where I shall meet with the soul of your lover, Andreas Hunt. But first, there must be pain. Pain and pleasure . . .’

  And with these words, he lay upon her, belly to belly, prick poised at the gateway to her cunt. He looked down at Mara, and saw that she was weeping quietly. There was a faraway smile on his face; an unfamiliar, cruel twist to the corners of his mouth. Without further ado, he pressed the massive studded sheath against the entrance to her womanhood and thrust into her with one mighty movement of his loins.

  She tried to cry out but could not. The sound seemed to catch in her throat. And she was no longer sure if she was feeling pain or pleasure. The metal studs felt huge inside her, pressing cruelly against the walls of her cunt, distending her womanhood, threatening to tear her fragile flesh. Yet they were also intensely arousing . . .

  And she was floating now . . . She could hear the faraway voice of Heimdal, intoning a Nordic spell she could not understand. The world was spinning and she was falling, falling, into a many-coloured vortex where only her cunt existed.

  For a moment, she thought she saw a pair of glowing eyes staring down into hers, thought she heard the sound of distant, cruel laughter. And then came a far-away voice, a terrifying voice that seemed to come from the very wastes of Hell, a voice that spoke words she could not understand:

  ‘Seek the Talisman of Set.’

  When she blinked and opened her eyes, she saw that Heimdal was still above her, gazing down at her with apparent concern. He was shaking her by the shoulders and she could feel the sting of a slap across her face.

  ‘Mara! Are you all right? For a moment, I thought . . .’

  She nodded, though she scarcely knew if it was true. Heimdal climbed off her, the studded sheath still gleaming on his penis. She sat up, shivering with the sudden realisation of the cold. Her cunt felt sore but otherwise she seemed fine.

  ‘Andreas . . .?’

  Heimdal nodded. ‘I have spoken with my spirit guide. As I feared, your lover’s soul walks with the shades in the underworld, alone and afraid. But have no fear, there is yet a way to save him: a key which will unlock his prison and restore his soul and body to the world of the living.

  ‘I cannot tell you about it here – there are things I must show you. Secrets I must tell . . . Get dressed and get into the car. We’re going back to London. I will tell you everything there.’

  Heimdal took the weighty, leather-bound volume from the shelves and laid it carefully on his desk.

  ‘This is a rare Victorian translation of the Egyptian Book of the Dead,’ he explained. ‘More properly, it is called the Chapters of the Coming Forth By Day. It is, as I am sure you know, the most sacred book of the ancient Egyptians.’

  Mara nodded, at a loss to imagine what relevance it could have for her present plight.

  Heimdal leafed through the book until he came to a chromolith depicting the gods and goddesses of ancient Egypt, then turned the book round so that the illustration was facing Mara.

  ‘This is Osiris, god of vegetation and rebirth,’ he continued, pointing to a human figure with a greenish-black face. ‘And here is his wife and sister, the goddess Isis. Many scholars believe that Isis and Osiris were not formless spirits but real people who ruled Egypt in pre-Dynastic times. This,’ he indicated a black figure with a malevolent expression, ‘is the god Set, Osiris’s brother, who envied him his power and wished to govern Egypt in his place.

  ‘Such was Set’s envy of his brother that he plotted to kill him. He invited him to a great banquet whose centrepiece was an ornate box fashioned in the shape of a coffin. Set invited his guests to try the box for size. One by one, they all tried in vain to fit into the box and at last it was Osiris’s turn. He of course fitted into it perfectly and when he was inside, Set locked up the box and had it thrown into the Nile. Eventually the box containing Osiris’s dead body was recovered by Isis, but it was stolen again and the body carved up into thirteen pieces, which were distributed throughout the land.

  ‘Eventually, Isis succeeded in tracing all but one of the pieces of Osiris’s body: his penis. In despair, she fashioned one out of wood, and added it to the reassembled body – with such success that, by copulating with it, she was able to conceive a son, Horus.

  ‘The missing penis, mummified but still magnificent, was lost to the world for centuries. Think how great its power must have been, if even a poor wooden representation of it could impregnate Isis! Magicians have known for millennia that the Phallus of Osiris – or the Talisman of Set as some call it – has great powers of life and death and they have pursued it across the globe. Many false imitations have been made to deceive the foolish but the true phallus still exists somewhere in the world.

  ‘It is this which you must seek if you wish to restore Andreas Hunt to life, to reunite his soul with his body. For only the Phallus of Osiris contains sufficient power to raise the dead.’

  Mara looked crestfallen.

  ‘But how am I to find this . . . talisman, if so many magicians have tried and failed? Where am I to begin?’

  Heimdal smiled reassuringly and laid his hand upon hers. His flesh was cool, almost amphibian, and for a moment she flinched. Then the power of his gaze began to warm her once again, moistening her cunt with reluctant desire.

  ‘Have no fear, Mara. For I know of the Phallus’s last reported location. During the last War, Allied and Nazi magicians strove relentlessly to acquire the Phallus, which they were convinced would endow them with the power of life and death, and perhaps even ensure victory. Eventually it was acquired by Hitler and kept in his personal museum of magical artefacts, in his bunker deep beneath the streets of Berlin.

  ‘Unfortunately, no one seems to know – or admits to knowing – what happened to the Phallus at the end of the war, when the Russians invaded Berlin. You must go to Berlin and seek out some of the magicians who used their powers for – and against – Hitler: only
they can help you now. I have the names and addresses of a few sorcerers who may be able and willing to offer you their assistance.’

  The colour drained from Mara’s face.

  ‘Berlin? But that’s crazy! I have no money, no resources. I don’t even speak German! How can I just set off for Berlin?’

  Heimdal was closer now and more attentive than ever, his hand sliding down from her shoulder to her breast, fingers skilfully unbuttoning her shirt and slipping inside, cupping the firm, warm flesh and beginning to stimulate the nipple into yearning hardness. Mara’s breathing was becoming hoarse and he noted that she had relaxed her knees and they were moving slightly apart.

  ‘I could give you money aplenty,’ he breathed into her ear. ‘But you will have no need of money. For I have a gift for you which will protect and assist you throughout your quest.’

  Smiling at Mara’s questioning expression, Heimdal reached into his pocket and took out a crystal pendant, very similar to the one which Mara had lost in her confusion and terror at Winterbourne. Swiftly and silently, he slipped the chain over her hair and let it fall into place round her neck, multi-coloured light flashing from its many facets as it swung, invitingly, between her magnificent, tawny globes.

  ‘Trust in fortune,’ he breathed ‘and it will smile upon you. Trust in the power of this crystal amulet and it will bring you all that you need upon your journey. No need will be left unsatisfied. No need . . .’

  And, feeling the urgency of his own need, Heimdal finished unbuttoning Mara’s shirt, his enormous prick straining against the tight leather of his trousers. His right hand slid along Mara’s thigh and up to the delicious surprise of her naked cunt. No knickers. Good. Fragrant, warm and wet from her ordeal in the forest. Still better. He reached for his zip and tugged it down, so that his prick sprang out, exuberantly ready for the fray.

  He lifted up her skirt and picked her up bodily in his strong arms, easing her thighs around his hips and lowering her gently onto his soaring prick, feeling her shudder with silent pleasure as his hardness forged deep into her belly.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mara,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘You won’t really be alone on your journey. There’ll always be someone watching over you . . .’

  ‘You have done well, Heimdal,’ remarked the Master, inviting the magician to choose a whore and avail himself of her soft wet mouth or tight, tender backside. He himself was settled in his favourite armchair and enjoying being fucked by a tall Zulu warrior-woman, who was sitting on his lap and raising and lowering herself upon his penis.

  ‘Thank you, Master,’ replied Heimdal, casting an eye round the room and selecting a tall, leggy whore with waist-length waves of blonde hair.

  ‘Go to him, Sonja,’ the Master instructed her. ‘Give him all that he desires.’

  Sonja crossed the room obediently to where Heimdal was standing, and peeled down the front of her strapless dress, so that he could enjoy a preliminary feel of her small but juicy tits.

  ‘Bend over,’ Heimdal commanded. ‘I want to bugger you.’

  Obediently, Sonja leant against the back of an old leather armchair, and thrust out her buttocks. They were lily-white and as smooth as satin. He peeled apart her arse-cheeks and was delighted to see that she had a very tight, very tiny hole which would take quite a lot of forcing before his mighty weapon could enter. Heimdal was going to enjoy himself.

  ‘Because you have done well,’ continued the Master, making a conscious effort to retard the moment of orgasm to increase its eventual intensity, ‘I shall explain the significance of what you have done.

  ‘Through skilful deception, you have convinced the witch Mara that her lover’s soul dwells in the underworld and that, in order to reunite it with his body, she must find the Phallus of Osiris. It was a nicely staged deception, and I particularly enjoyed the mumbo-jumbo in the forest.

  ‘Naturally, my true intent is to use her considerable psychic abilities to locate and raise the body of my lost queen, Sedet, who sacrificed herself for me so many thousands of years ago. For only the Phallus of Osiris has the power to raise her inanimate flesh and restore her to her rightful place beside me.

  ‘It is my belief that this woman, Mara, is the only one capable of performing these tasks. Already, she has shown that she has a latent ability to communicate with Sedet and I have found none other with this gift. For the time being she is useful to us. We must ensure that she comes to no harm.’

  But, as he spurted his semen into the Zulu girl’s cunt, he was thinking to himself:

  How I despise the witch Mara Fleming. How I long to destroy her, and the powers she carries within that frail little body. When she has served me, I shall allow myself the considerable pleasure of watching her die. But for now I must be patient and use her as my pawn.

  Heimdal entered Sonja Kerensky like a bull mounting a cow: without gentleness, but with a raw sexual power which made the girl roar with the pleasure of his violation.

  It was a pity about Mara, he mused. But let’s face it: the girl had expected way too much from him by way of gratitude. In the world of magic she was a mere amateur, trying to play in the big league. And her death would simply be the inevitable consequence of crossing swords with Heimdal the Destroyer.

  7: Berlin

  Mara walked down the steps of the plane at Tempelhof Airport and got onto the bus with the other passengers. As they rattled across the tarmac towards the airport buildings, she pondered over the incredible good fortune which had accompanied her on her journey so far.

  Heimdal had had his work cut out, persuading her to come on this wild goose chase. Even at the last minute, as he bundled her into the taxi, she had had serious misgivings. In the end, she had arrived at Heathrow with barely enough money in her pocket to pay for a standby to Berlin. Mara smiled to herself. She was becoming as cynical as Andreas Hunt. And, of course, Andreas Hunt was the reason she had come.

  She checked in at the desk and put her name down for a standby economy ticket on the morning shuttle. Then she went off to buy a coffee. As she was about to pay for it at the counter, a hand touched her lightly on the shoulder.

  ‘Can I buy that for you, Miss Fleming?’

  She turned round and found herself looking into the warm brown eyes of a Lufthansa pilot, his flight bag slung over his shoulder. She had never seen him before in her life but he was smiling at her as though she were a long-lost friend . . . or a lover.

  ‘I read your article on crystal therapy in Oracle magazine,’ he explained, his voice full of genuine enthusiasm. ‘Very scholarly, very impressive. And your photograph – stunning! Though, of course, it did not do you justice. I would have recognised you anywhere, Miss Fleming – may I call you Mara?’

  She nodded, and he went on speaking as they carried their coffees over to a table by the window. The thick, plate-glass windows only just managed to mask the deafening whine of jet engines as planes taxied past and manoeuvred onto the runways.

  ‘My name is Ralf Westerhof,’ he explained. ‘But you must call me Ralf. All my friends do.

  ‘I was walking past the check-in desk, and I heard you ask for a standby ticket to Berlin. Surely such a beautiful woman should be travelling first class!’

  ‘I wish I could afford to!’ laughed Mara, making circles in her coffee with her spoon. He was a very attractive man, and she could feel his desire for her burning into the side of her face. She could hardly bear to look at him, for fear of trembling and lapsing into gibberish.

  ‘Well, I think I can arrange it, Mara,’ Ralf reassured her, abandoning any pretence of drinking his coffee and placing his bear’s paw of a hand upon hers. ‘If you’ll allow me to! You see, I can arrange anything for a . . . friend.’

  She looked up at him and the magnetism crackled between them as though they were two electrical terminals.

  ‘I was wondering – would you like me to fuck you, Mara Fleming?’

  By way of reply, she stood up and lifted his hand to her breast, so that he could f
eel the budding nipple stiffening and straining under the soft cashmere of her sweater.

  ‘Come with me,’ he breathed, taking her by the wrist and leading her out of the restaurant and across the tarmac. ‘I know somewhere where we can be alone.’

  It still seemed so unreal, when she looked back on it now, hours later. First, Captain Westerhof had arranged for her to have a seat in First Class, complete with champagne breakfast. And then, whilst her mind was still reeling and her body still yearning for him, he had taken her out to the aeroplane – the very one she had been planning to travel on.

  The plane was deserted, with an hour to go before the crew were expected. Ralf ushered her on board, past the ranks of mechanics and cleaners who were fussing about outside, and closed the door behind them. It was eerily quiet inside the plane – warm and soft and silent – except for the gentle, rhythmic hum of a nearby tanker. It was just like being inside the belly of some fantastical beast.

  He had kissed her passionately, then laid her down gently on the lush, red-carpeted floor of the First Class cabin and unfastened her blouse, so that her ripe, unfettered breasts sprang out for the joy of freedom and fucking.

  With the gentlest of movements, he stroked their smooth, tanned surface, then knelt between her thighs and bent to kiss her nipples. They sprang into obedient life, enraptured by the velvet touch of his muscular but gentle tongue; and Mara could not help but relax and allow herself to float away on the swelling tide of sensual pleasure.

  Sliding his hand down from her breasts, Ralf took hold of the hem of her skirt and raised it high above her waist, revealing the naked beauty of her loins.

  ‘Such loveliness . . .’ he gasped and, parting the lips of her cunt like the petals of some exotic flower, he bent to savour her fragrance, to drink at her ever-renewing spring of secret nectar.

  ‘Fuck me,’ sighed Mara. ‘Please fuck me. I need to feel you inside me . . . now . . .’

  ‘Patience, little one,’ he replied and continued to stimulate her clitoris with his knowing tongue. ‘All in good time.’