The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  And it was not until Mara was almost sobbing with frustration that Ralf unzipped his pants and took out a good-sized, throbbing prick whose glistening tip bore witness to the urgency of his own desire. Mara’s thighs were wide apart now, straining to welcome him in, and her cunt glistened with little rivulets of agonising desire. Ralf thrust fingers knuckle-deep into her soft wetness and ground them into her flesh. She flinched a little as his signet ring bit into the walls of her cunt but the discomfort only added to the pleasure, the excitement.

  Ralf could wait no longer. Using his fingers to prise apart her sweet, soft flesh, he slid his hardness into her in one long thrust. He groaned with pleasure as he rammed into her, feeling her silken cunt-walls tighten instinctively around his shaft like iron fingers in a soft glove. And she responded to him as a thoroughbred filly who knows and obeys her master’s innermost desires.

  He rode her time and time again to a shuddering climax; and, when she thought he had sated her of all pleasures and desires, he flipped her over onto her belly and buggered her with all the enthusiasm of a man who has been deprived of sweet flesh for many months.

  As he climbed off her and his semen flooded out of her, soiling the expensive red carpet, Mara sighed contentedly, almost forgetting the pain of loss and fear which tore intermittently at her heart.

  Ralf helped her to her feet and she cleaned herself up a little before taking her seat in First Class. Only a few moments later, the cabin door swung open and the first of the crew members arrived. They exchanged knowing glances as they passed the beautiful woman sitting alone in the First Class cabin. She must be another of Captain Westerhof’s ‘close friends’ . . .

  The plane soon filled up with passengers and before Mara had time to think they were taxiing down the runway. They were on their way to Berlin.

  When she tired of looking out of the window at the dwindling trees and houses beneath them, Mara turned her attentions to her fellow-passengers. She found she was sitting next to a tall, quite distinguished-looking man who was working away busily on a laptop computer. As she watched him out of the corner of her eye, he looked up at her as though aware of her gaze.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ stammered Mara. ‘I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

  ‘Not at all,’ replied the businessman affably, logging off and snapping shut the lid of the laptop. ‘I was just entering in a few sales figures – very boring stuff, but it has to be done. I have an important Board meeting this afternoon so I must be well prepared.’ He spoke excellent English, but with the faintest hint of a German accent.

  He held out his hand. ‘Heinrich Kröll,’ he announced. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Mara Fleming.’ She felt very shabby and out of place in her simple sweater and cotton skirt.

  He leaned over her, as though to look out of the window, but instead whispered to her in conspiratorial tones:

  ‘You have very nice tits, Fräulein Fleming. Very nice tits indeed . . . In Germany, we know how to appreciate a beautiful woman, how to pleasure her body . . .’

  To her amazement, she found herself responding with uncharacteristic boldness:

  ‘And I should not be at all surprised to find that you have a fine, fat prick inside those hand-stitched trousers, Herr Kröll. I see that it is getting quite hard. Would you like me to suck it for you?’

  She heard a little sound, like a sigh of anticipation, as Herr Kröll’s hand strayed briefly between her thighs before returning to his lap. When he spoke, it was in such a quiet, matter-of-fact voice that Mara could hardly believe it was the same man.

  ‘Come to me in the toilet in five minutes’ time.’

  Kröll stood up, smoothing the creases from his trousers, and strode off down the gangway towards the lavatory. Mara looked after him, appreciating his tall, spare frame, his tight arse, the easy grace of his walk. She saw the door open and close and the sign flick from green to red.

  Her heart was pounding. She had fucked in many strange places before but never on an aeroplane. And yet, since sex was an essential part of her psychic growth, perhaps there was some psychic significance in her sudden upsurge of desire? Perhaps her psyche sensed that it needed more sexual energy to see her through the trials and tribulations of her quest? And if there was no mystic significance to the invitation, surely there could be no harm in a little innocent enjoyment?

  She checked her watch again. Another two minutes. One. The second hand ticked round the face with agonising slowness. Now it was time. Picking up her handbag, she stood up rather shakily and walked the longest few yards she had ever walked. Everyone seemed to be either asleep or engrossed in magazines and in-flight movies – but she still felt as though all eyes were on her. Had they overheard her brief conversation with Herr Kröll? Could they have guessed that this ordinary-looking young woman was going to the lavatory to fuck – to spread her legs for a complete stranger?

  She knocked gently on the door.

  ‘It’s me.’

  After a moment’s pause, the door swung open, just wide enough to let Mara slip inside.

  ‘I’m glad you decided to accept my little invitation.’

  It was a tiny, hot, airless cubicle, reeking of stale piss and disinfectant. Heinrich Kröll was sitting on the only available seat – the lavatory – with his flies unzipped and his prick protruding through the gap in his trousers.

  It was quite a nice prick, mused Mara, kneeling down silently before him on the damp vinyl floor and slipping her fingers through his flies, insinuating them inside his underpants and cradling his twin love-apples. A nice prick, good and stiff, and big enough to stretch my cunt agreeably. I’m still hungry for a good fucking. I shall enjoy having him inside me.

  Odd, that. All she could think about was fucking, fucking, fucking – like an animal. Mindless and entirely physical. It felt as though some quite different person had taken charge of her mind and was filling it with all manner of lewd thoughts. Where was the spirituality which she had always so prized in her sexual activities? She was so hungry for sex that she began to wonder if she might be turning into a nymphomaniac. It felt almost as though some external force was using her body for its own ends. For its own pleasures . . . With a twinge of unease, she recalled that she had encountered this feeling before . . .

  She shivered as she recalled the demonic possession of her body at Winterbourne Hall; the many men who had used her and mocked at her frailty; the evil female spirit which had briefly entered her and used her for its own physical delight. What did it all mean?

  Anxious to banish these dark thoughts from her mind, Mara set about sucking Herr Kröll’s cock with energy and enthusiasm. It was an appreciative subject, twitching and swelling and hardening under the touch of her tongue, her lips, her sucked-in cheeks.

  She felt his bollocks harden and knew he was close to coming.

  ‘No.’ He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder and drew his cock out of her mouth. She looked up at him in surprise. ‘That was most agreeable, Fräulein Fleming. However, I have a fancy to come to orgasm in your cunt. I take it you have no objection?’

  Mara shook her head, bewildered, and stood with legs wide apart, waiting for him to enter her. It was a tight fit, getting two people into this tiny compartment – let alone for those two people to fuck standing up.

  Kröll flexed his knees, adjusted his prick so that it was precisely positioned at the entrance to her cunt, and then straightened his legs. His cock slid up into her wet tunnel like a knife into butter and she had to hold on tight to her lover to prevent her knees from giving way with the sheer pleasure of it all. It felt wonderful.

  He slid a finger round behind her and burrowed it into her arse, completing the pleasure-circuit which triggered off an enormous orgasm. As the last, titanic waves rippled through her cunt, she felt Kröll spurt into her and she collapsed forward into his arms. Fear ebbed away in the glorious warmth of physical pleasure.

  When they had tidied themselves up and returned – se
parately, of course – to their seats, Kröll got out his computer and started tapping away again. Mara began to wonder if she had simply dreamed the whole thing: but her cunt was still dripping with Kröll’s semen and her clitty still throbbed dully with the memory of the orgasms he had given her.

  As they landed at Tempelhof Airport, Kröll turned to her and smiled.

  ‘My dear Fräulein Fleming, such a pleasure meeting you and . . . doing business with you. As a mark of my gratitude, I hope you will accept a little gift.’

  Seeing the questioning look on her face, Kröll went on:

  ‘I am the owner of a rather fine hotel in Berlin – the Hotel Kaiserhof. This card will entitle you to free board at the hotel for as long as you wish to stay.’ And he pressed the card into her hand and was gone.

  All in all, mused Mara, as the bus decanted its passengers at the airport buildings, this has been a lucky day. Wonderful sex, a first-class air ticket, and now free board and lodging in a luxury hotel! Perhaps Heimdal had been right. Fingering the crystal medallion, she felt a surge of power crackle through her fingertips. She wondered if luck like this could hold out for ever . . .

  The room was every bit as luxurious as Mara had hoped, and she spent a lazy hour wallowing in a hot bath, scented with the jasmine bath oil she had bought at the airport.

  Strange how, just when she thought there was no more money in her purse, she would put in her hand and take out another ten-mark note – a hundred, even. Someone – or something – really was watching over her.

  After her bath she rang round the contact numbers which Heimdal had given her. The first two sorcerers turned out to be dead; the third had moved to Stuttgart and become a dentist; but the fourth showed some interest and said he would ring back later.

  What to do now, while she waited? She tried to read a magazine, but the words just seemed to dance in front of her eyes. In the end, she took off her bathrobe and lay down on the bed, making the most of the centrally heated luxury.

  She was feeling sexy again. Very sexy. She closed her eyes and let her hands roam over her freshly bathed skin. It was still damp and fragrant, as though she had been swimming in a perfumed sea. Her mind wandered and she became a mermaid, swimming naked through a scented ocean, her long dark hair streaming out behind her.

  She pressed a finger to her clitoris. It was hard and almost painful to the touch. Lubricating her finger with her own cunt-juices, Mara returned to it a second time, this time rubbing so gently that her finger passed across it almost like a whisper, or like warm, fast-flowing water.

  Her desire grew more urgent and she rubbed harder. Now she was back in her own, familiar body, but still naked and swimming amongst the coral and the sea-anemones. The warm water showered lascivious caresses upon her, awakening clitty and nipples to new heights of sensual desire. Shoals of multi-coloured fish wove patterns around her. Here was one fish, larger than the rest and more audacious, passing between her thighs and now burrowing into her pubic fleece, nibbling greedily at her little clitoris. How delicious it felt!

  As her orgasm approached, a strange vision entered her head and would not be banished. She was swimming into a patch of coarse, dark seaweed, and there was something caught up in it. Something . . . a long, narrow wooden box; a box large enough to contain . . . She came closer, and stretched out her hand to touch it, and the lid slid across, and floated away into the darkness.

  Her orgasm was almost upon her now, she could feel the mounting tension in her loins, the delicious suspense before the fireworks . . .

  She bent over the open box, curious to see what lay within. And as the orgasm took hold of her body, racking it with delicious, agonised spasms, her mind screamed silently for the horror of what she had seen:

  A dead man, his flesh greenish-black with decay. A dead man only just recognisable as Andreas Hunt.

  The phone rang, and she shook herself back into wakefulness, almost sobbing with fear and exhaustion. Trying desperately to control herself, she picked up the receiver and answered in a trembling voice:

  ‘Hello . . .?’

  ‘Guten Tag, Fräulein Fleming. Did you find your interlude agreeable? I most certainly did! Though I was a little confused by your underwater exploits . . .’

  ‘What do you mean?’ demanded Mara, suddenly aghast.

  ‘Come now, my dear Miss Fleming. I am, as you well know, a magician with many years of scholarship behind me. I am also a seer, a true seer like yourself. I simply tuned in psychically to your thought-waves.

  ‘But enough of this idle banter. I have considered your proposition, and I am willing to meet with you. Meet me at the Cafe Kranzler, on the corner of the Kurfürstendamm and Joachimstaler Strasse at two-thirty this afternoon and we shall discuss the matter further.

  ‘But . . .!’ protested Mara.

  ‘Auf wiederhören, Fräulein Fleming!’ A tiny click, and the phone went dead.

  Mara glanced at her watch. Almost one-thirty already. No time to lose. Throwing on a few clothes, she grabbed a warm shawl and set off for the Kurfürstendamm.

  The Cafe Kranzler, once a hotbed of radical intellectuals during the 1848 revolution, looked more like a harmless tourist-trap than the sort of place where two magicians might meet to discuss the most powerful magical talisman the world has ever known.

  It was a chilly day and most of the cafe’s patrons were huddled inside the building, hands wrapped round a steaming cup of coffee, or drinking endless beers to help them forget November and the approach of winter.

  But Mara had arranged to meet Otto Helsing on the terrace where there was less chance of their being overheard. Scanning the other patrons, she saw only two women with young children and a handsome man in his mid-thirties who seemed to appreciate her obvious curves. No sign of him yet, then. She sat down at one of the tables, drew her shawl round her and prepared for a long wait. Perhaps he wouldn’t turn up at all. A white-aproned waiter brought her coffee, and she let her mind wander as she sipped the scalding liquid.

  ‘Have you changed your mind, Fräulein Fleming? Do you no longer wish to speak to me?’

  The familiar, mellifluous voice brought her back to her senses and she looked up to see the handsome young man smiling down at her, a little patronisingly, she thought.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she replied. ‘I’m waiting for someone.’

  ‘As am I.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Otto Helsing, at your service.’

  Mara’s jaw dropped. Otto Helsing? But he had worked as one of Hitler’s black magicians. At the very least, he must be nudging seventy . . .

  ‘I can see that you are sceptical, Fräulein Fleming. And that is understandable. After all, I do not “look my age” as you English say – is that not so? Well, Miss Fleming, do not look so disbelieving. I am a magician, after all. There are secrets which even you, my little white witch, are not privy to. Dark secrets which would curl your beautiful black hair, my lovely . . .’

  He patted her hair with his too-smooth, too-perfect fingers and she wanted to recoil from him, from this abomination of a man who had devoted his entire life to working for evil.

  But she must be strong, resolute. Now that she knew of his telepathic powers, she must block him from her mind, so that he could not fathom the lies she was about to speak. She remembered Heimdal’s words: ‘Trust to fortune and it will smile upon you. Trust in the crystal . . .’

  Surreptitiously, she slid her hand beneath her shawl and touched the crystal lightly. She could tell from the sudden look of bafflement on Helsing’s face that he was having no success in reading her mind.

  ‘Herr Helsing,’ she began. ‘I am a member of a neo-Nazi group and have been entrusted with a mission of vital importance. I must find the Talisman of Set – the Phallus of Osiris – in order that we may bring the body of the Führer back to life.’

  Helsing’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘The body of the Führer was destroyed by the Allies in 1945, my dear. Burned a
fter death in his bunker, along with the corpse of his little slut, Eva Braun. Any fool knows that.’

  ‘So everyone thought until recently. But it has now been revealed that those loyal to the Führer succeeded in smuggling his body out of the country and it is now being preserved within a magically protected coffin somewhere in Bolivia. Only a privileged inner circle knows exactly where. Sorcerers have determined that the Phallus of Osiris may have the power to restore our beloved Führer to life.’

  ‘I see,’ replied Otto. ‘And just supposing I did have information on its whereabouts, what would be the benefit to me?’

  Mara slipped the shawl from her shoulders, to reveal the low-cut blouse which she had carefully selected.

  ‘I think I can persuade you that it’s worth your while,’ she heard herself reply.

  Helsing paused for a moment, as though weighing up the bargain, and then beckoned to the waiter to bring the bill.

  ‘Come, my little temptress,’ he said, his thin lips curling into a smile. ‘And we shall see if the wager is worth the game.’

  Otto Helsing lived in a small house beside the Grünwaldsee, on a path which led from Pücklerstrasse into the dense pine forests of Wilmersdorf.

  He parked the car beside the lake, got out and unlocked the front door to the house, which looked as though it had once been a huntsman’s or ferryman’s lodge.

  Inside, it smelt odd: like a museum. The air was full of the mingled scents of ancient things, of half-forgotten incense, of magical and alchemical substances whose origins were too horrible to bear contemplation.

  Eye of newt . . . Mara shivered, and allowed herself to be ushered into the main sitting room, which had been converted into a black-magic shrine. Above the black-draped altar hung a Nazi flag, tattered and stained with brown patches which Mara realised must be dried blood.

  ‘The standard which the Führer himself blessed before it was carried in the Münich putsch of 1923,’ explained Helsing. ‘It was carried by Horst Wessel and after he was killed it was used to wrap his body. It is a very potent symbol . . . and a very evil one, of course!’