He lay down on the bed, and stretched out his naked body, closing his eyes, the better to enjoy all the sensations. Rather taken aback by this twist of events, Mara busied herself with sorting out what he had given her.
Taking up the thongs, she discovered that there were sufficient to bind him hand and foot; and she set about attaching his wrists and ankles to the carved bedposts. He evidently enjoyed this process, for he urged her time and time again to bind him more tightly, to make the thongs bite more cruelly into the flesh.
‘Bind me tightly – pull the knots as tight as you can . . . I want my desire to bleed for you . . .’
When he was secured, Mara took up the love-eggs and put them into her mouth, to wet them with saliva. Then – feeling beneath him for his backside – she insinuated first one finger, then two, then several, into his tight arsehole. He growled with pleasure as she forced open his intimacy and began to press home the love-eggs, ensuring that they went into him as deeply as she could possibly manage.
His cock reared up even more implausibly as she fitted the Arab strap about his shaft and balls: it was a little leather harness which she could adjust until it exerted just the right amount of pressure to provoke his prick into soaring rigidity.
‘Tighter, tighter!’ cried out Weits, twisting and turning in his bonds as she buckled on the harness and watched the leather straps bite into his most tender flesh. ‘Now bite me – sink your teeth into my flesh. Make me bleed!’
Baffled by Weits’s preferences, Mara bent to take his shaft into her mouth and nibbled gently at the very tip, terrified that she would hurt him.
‘Harder! Bite me till I bleed!’
Horrified, Mara obeyed, and was rewarded by a sigh of ecstasy as droplets of blood began to ooze out of the martyred tip of Weits’s penis.
Out of breath, she drew away and wiped the unpleasantly metallic taste of blood from her lips. Weits was still groaning with pleasure beneath her and babbling incoherently about blood and mortification. She began to understand dimly that he wanted her to do something with the dildo – but what?
Aroused, in spite of herself, by this bizarre interlude, Mara climbed onto the bed and astride Weits’s face. She pulled aside the gusset of her French knickers and – parting her plump cunt-lips – forced the ivory dildo up into her moist and fragrant cunt.
Weits was watching her now: gazing up, wide-eyed, at her cunt and watching the surrogate penis disappearing into the moist pink flesh. And it felt good, felt so good to feel the cool, rough surface of the carved ivory rubbing away at her cunt. With her free hand she exposed her clitoris, sliding back the fleshy hood so that Weits could not help but see the throbbing bud beneath.
She wanked herself with enthusiasm and, when she came, Weits put out his tongue and lapped up the fragrant juices which oozed out of her crack.
‘Fuck me,’ he pleaded. ‘Have pity . . .’
In a moment of inspiration, Mara forced the head of the dildo between Weits’s buttocks, sending it to join the love-eggs in his forbidden tunnel. It must have caused him the most intense and delicious pain, for he moaned and almost spurted off before Mara had had time to sit herself down on his rampantly erect penis.
She rode his shaft expertly, knowing that with each thrust of her hips she was forcing the dildo further into his arse and causing him more of the pain which he so desperately needed in order to obtain sexual gratification. Sinking her fingernails into the flesh of his bollocks succeeded in finishing him off; and his prick jerked convulsively as it poured forth a load of watery spunk into her cunt.
Weits lay in silence for a while, his eyes closed and his chest rising and falling rapidly as he fought to regain his breath. At last he opened his eyes.
‘You have done well, my dear,’ he smiled.
‘Will you then keep your side of the bargain, and give me the Phallus of Osiris?’
He laughed, and his yellow, parchment-thin skin seemed in danger of splitting, of giving way under the unnatural strain.
‘Give it to you, my dear? Would that it were mine to give! But I am an honourable man and I will give you what I have, which is some valuable information.
‘Many years ago, during the war, the Führer did indeed obtain the Phallus and entrusted it to me to safeguard until such time as his trusted inner circle of magicians might use all of the magical objects in his collection to ensure victory over his foes, the eternal rule of the Third Reich, and immortality for his own blessed body.
‘Alas, Hitler’s entourage included many unprincipled magicians who thought only of their own glory. Although the Führer sought to keep the existence of his collection a secret from such men, some had begun to suspect. And one – Diedrich Theophanau – stumbled by accident upon the existence and location of the Phallus. In the confusion surrounding Berlin at the end of the war, I was not able to prevent this odious, self-seeking man stealing it from me.
‘Although Theophanau professed devotion to our beloved Führer, he despised me; and I knew also that his apparent devotion concealed a simple desire to acquire greater power and knowledge for himself. He saw clearly that the war was about to end in disaster for Hitler, stole the Phallus and fled into hiding. That was the last I saw of him or of the Phallus.’
Mara’s face fell. ‘And so that is all you can tell me – that the Phallus was stolen by this man and taken away from Berlin?’
‘Not quite all, my dear. This much I know: that Diedrich Theophanau fled to Lyon. It is there that you must go if you wish to seek the Phallus of Osiris.’
It was all very well, thought Mara, telling her to trust in fortune: but how on earth was she supposed to raise the money to get to Lyon? She had searched her purse and all her pockets, but no hundred-Mark notes offered themselves obligingly for her salvation.
At Tempelhof Airport she had discovered, to her despair, that the plane fare was quite simply out of her league – and no obliging pilots or hoteliers leapt to her rescue with offers of free flights and lodging. Hitching would take for ever and hiring a car was out of the question. Even the train fare was astronomical. Things were not looking good.
There had to be some other way.
Sitting in a cafe off the Unter den Linden, Mara pondered her next move. Cars rolled by and she began to fantasise about one of them stopping – a handsome man offering her a lift to Lyon in return for a few favours, easily and painlessly granted. The prospect was quite exciting. Her ever-eager clitty began to tingle with anticipation and when she came back to her senses it was with the keen disappointment of discovering that reality does not always match up to the substance of our dreams. If luck intended to bail her out – well, it was taking its time.
A group of English and American students were laughing and joking at the next table. They’d evidently had a little too much cheap wine and the conversation was becoming bawdy. Mara watched with interest and amusement as one of the girls took her shoe off and insinuated her foot between the thighs of the young man sitting opposite her. She was an attractive girl, dark-haired and slender, and with full, red lips which reminded Mara of her own sensual mouth.
The girl’s boyfriend slid down a little in his chair, to make it easier for her. Mara remembered with a pang of sadness how she and Andreas had seduced each other in the reading room at Whitby library and ended up fucking under the table, only yards away from where the spinsterly librarian was cataloguing Mills and Boon romances.
The other two were playing with each other now, oblivious of the sidelong glances of the other cafe patrons. Were those looks of disapproval, or of envy? The boy had succeeded in wriggling his hand surreptitiously inside his girlfriend’s jumper and was now stroking her right nipple, which showed clearly through the thin woollen fabric.
Meanwhile, the girl – a stunning blonde whose long, shapely legs were encased in tight black jeans – had unfastened her boyfriend’s zip and was quite blatantly playing with him inside his underpants. Mara remembered her own student days, not so very long ago, and the time she had almost b
een arrested for fucking on a Greek beach in the middle of the afternoon. But the policemen could be so understanding when you knew the right way to approach them . . .
Mara wondered idly if the girl would take out her boyfriend’s prick and suck it right there, in view of all the other diners. That fat old man over there – the one with the briefcase and the battered trilby – he’d choke on his Bratwurst if she did that.
But at that moment one of the boys leant across and suggested that they move on. Why didn’t they go back to the hostel? There’d be nobody there at that time of day . . .
And the four students staggered to their feet, tidied themselves up, collected their belongings and left – walking unsteadily round the corner into the Unter den Linden and out of sight.
It wasn’t until several minutes later that Mara noticed it. It was a small, blue vinyl wallet, like the ones meant to carry credit cards, and it was lying on the ground underneath the chair where the dark-haired girl had been sitting. What was it?
Curious to know what the girl had left behind, Mara picked up the wallet and opened it. It contained a student union card, with a photograph of the girl smiling out at her. She looked astonishingly like Mara. She read the girl’s name: Maria Fenning. A couple of deft pen-strokes and that could easily be made to read: Mara Fleming. And with a student card, she could buy cheap rail travel. Maybe her money would just stretch far enough for a rail ticket to Lyon?
She knew she ought to hand in the card to the authorities, own up that she’d found it. What would the girl do without her card? But somehow it just seemed so inevitable.
She paid the bill and took a taxi to the Bahnhof-Zoo.
The 135 Deutschmarks Mara miraculously found in her purse did indeed buy her a one-way ticket on the overnight train from Berlin to Paris. Nothing luxurious – just a couchette in the standard class accommodation – but at least she would be on her way.
She boarded the train just after six in the evening, and stowed her luggage in the compartment she would have to share for thirteen and a half hours with a garrulous family from Aachen. In an attempt to escape their well-meaning but noisy company, she decided to squander a little more of her money on a proper evening meal in the restaurant car.
Dinner was served at eight and Mara was engrossed in the menu when a pleasant voice broke into her reverie:
‘Excusez-moi, mademoiselle: do you mind if I sit here?’
Mara looked up and saw a tall, red-haired woman with greenish-brown eyes and soft, full lips. She was smartly dressed in a suit and Mara guessed that she must be returning to France after a business trip.
‘No, not at all . . . Please, do sit down.’
The woman hitched up her tight pencil skirt and squeezed into the seat opposite Mara. She was a most attractive woman, athletic, yet with a hint of womanly curves beneath the tailored green jacket and skin-tight skirt.
‘Je m’appelle Sophie Delaine,’ smiled the newcomer. ‘And you are called . . .?’
‘Oh . . . my name is Mara Fleming. Are you travelling on business?’
Sophie nodded and picked up her menu. ‘I do so hate these international trips – they leave me feeling so tired. And the men! Businessmen are so tedious! A few days of talking money with them and they leave me longing for some intelligent female company.’
The significance of her smile was lost on Mara until Sophie reached across and touched her hand: her fingers lingered longer than they ought to have done on her tanned flesh, as though they were seeking to establish some deeper, more intimate contact.
Mara returned the smile and felt a treacherous warmth spreading through her loins. Almost without thinking, her hand strayed to the top button of her blouse and unfastened it, presenting her new acquaintance with an excellent view of the bare, tanned cleavage beneath. At the same time, quite unconsciously, her knees began to move apart, as though begging to embrace someone, something . . .
She watched with mounting interest as Sophie ordered dinner for both of them, the very point of her moist, pink tongue passing over her lips as she darted glances at Mara.
As they were sitting back, waiting for the meal to arrive, Sophie gave an exaggerated sigh of annoyance.
‘See what I have done!’ she cried. ‘How silly of me – I have dropped my purse under the table.’
And Sophie slid down onto the floor, ostensibly to pick up her purse. But she did not simply retrieve the purse and then regain her seat. Instead, Mara felt butterfly-soft fingers stroking her ankles, her calves, her knees; easing apart her thighs and working their way up her thighs, towards the inevitable discovery of her glossy black pubic hair, her naked cunt’s only covering.
Glancing around her furtively, terrified that someone would see what was going on, Mara nevertheless felt her body gradually abandoning itself to Sophie Delaine’s angelic caresses. Her hands felt so cool, so very cool against her flesh as they worked their way up between her thighs and brushed, gently but insistently, against her pubic curls. Mara could sense the woman’s delight as she realised that her conquest was wearing no panties beneath her short skirt; and a few seconds later, she felt her cunt-lips being gently pulled apart and a warm, muscular tongue insinuating itself in between.
As the woman lapped at Mara’s clitty, her fingers went on another short journey, at last discovering what they had set out to find: the hot, wet tunnel of Mara’s cunt. And two of the woman’s fingers disappeared inside, so smoothly and sensually that Mara almost cried out with the ecstasy of the feeling.
It took all of Mara’s considerable energies to maintain an expression of relative calm, in the hope that her fellow-diners would not realise what was going on. Would Sophie stay down there for ever? Would she not abandon this madness and return to her seat opposite Mara?
Evidently the woman intended to make the most of her position of advantage, for she was now working her fingers in and out of Mara’s cunt, wanking her and licking her with an almost fanatical zeal. And Mara was trembling and helpless beneath her caresses, unable to push her away or to make her excuses and leave.
The orgasm, when it came, tore through Mara’s body with all the ferocity of the Mistral shrieking across the marshy wastelands of the Camargue. Desperate not to cry out, she bit into her lip and a little trail of blood trickled from her mouth.
Her task accomplished, the lascivious Sophie emerged from beneath the table, with not a hair out of place. She was brandishing her purse.
‘It took me a while but I got there in the end!’ she remarked enigmatically as the waiter arrived with their soupe de poissons.
Sophie toyed for a while with her soup, apparently not hungry; and then got up from the table, scribbling a note which she pressed into Mara’s hand.
When she had gone, Mara read the note. It said:
‘CABIN 501. HALF AN HOUR.’
Scarcely able to take stock of this new and bizarre development, Mara finished her meal in thoughtful silence.
‘Chérie! I thought you would never arrive!’
Mara stepped self-consciously into the sleeping-compartment, and Sophie closed and locked the door behind her, before returning to her bunk and slipping between the sheets. She was naked, save for a diaphanous nightgown that emphasised far more than it concealed, and an ornate collar studded with crystals – which stirred something deep but formless in Mara’s memory.
‘I wasn’t sure whether or not to come,’ replied Mara. And it was true. Although she had enjoyed the occasional lesbian liaison, and thought nothing of it, she felt a nagging sense of doubt about the perfect and devastatingly attractive Sophie Delaine. It was nothing that she could quite define but something – perhaps her psychic sixth-sense – told her that Mademoiselle Delaine was not all that she seemed and indeed was rather more than she professed to be.
But Mara had been instructed to follow the dictates of fortune; besides which, the succulent French business-woman had stirred deep longings within Mara: the longing to lie naked against soft flesh, to worship and
be worshipped.
‘Couche-toi, chérie.’ Sophie lifted the covers and wriggled over towards the wall, making a space for Mara to lie down beside her. ‘Take off your clothes, my dear, I shall keep you warm.’ And, as if to show her the way, Sophie lifted her own nightgown off over her head. She had a slender, almost spare frame, but her breasts were unexpectedly full and womanly. She looked almost regal, sitting up in bed dressed only in her jewelled collar.
Mara felt an irresistible stirring in her cunt and her hands hastened to free herself of her impeding clothes. Off came the sweater and the skirt, off came the shoes, and she was naked once again: naked, as she loved to be.
She climbed into bed beside Sophie and was surprised to feel how cool the Frenchwoman’s flesh was against hers. It was evidently Sophie who needed warming up, not Mara.
‘Lie close to me,’ whispered Sophie, her fingertips roaming over Mara’s lithe nakedness. ‘Lie close, so that I can adore your loveliness.’ She turned until she lay on her right side, with her left leg across Mara’s body, the knee drawn up onto her thigh. Then she took hold of Mara’s right breast, very gently, and slipped the long nipple into her mouth. It hardened instantly and Mara gave a long sigh of delight as Sophie worked her tongue round it, teased it with her teeth, sucked on it like an innocent babe.
Sliding her knee down Mara’s belly, she insinuated it between Mara’s legs, forcing her to open her thighs and allow her cunt to be titillated. Sophie’s own thigh made contact with Mara’s pubic hair and with the fragrant inner sanctum between her plump cunt-lips; and for the second time that evening, Mara felt her clitty swell.
Sophie was on top of her now, playing the man. Her right hand was exploring between Mara’s thighs, acting out the part of the eager penis, searching out its home. Her legs were between Mara’s thighs, the tips of her breasts rubbing against Mara’s nipples.
She found Mara’s hole and slipped her finger inside. A second finger disappeared into Mara’s arse and she lay beneath her lover, as helpless as any child, while Sophie brought her skilfully to orgasm.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 15