‘Nue . . . elle est toute nue! Regarde qu’elle a de jolies fesses . . .!’
Torn between the desire to submit to these women’s lewd advances and the need to have the box at any price, Mara made a final lunge forward and succeeded in wrapping her fingers round the box.
She pulled it in triumph from the window and turned to face the three women, who were all smiling at her in a most disconcerting way. She looked down, and saw to her embarrassment that they had pulled up her skirt and tucked it into her belt so that she was naked from the waist down. And yet, she had not the will to cover her nakedness, for there was something in the women’s eyes, their need for her, which matched a need within her own body.
Mara found herself sliding her feet further apart, so that the entrance to her cunt was no longer barred to her tormentors. Their hands stretched out to her again, and this time they began to stroke her legs, her hips, the inside of her thighs, the incredibly sensitive spot where thigh meets the margin of the cunt-lips.
The old woman smiled toothlessly at Mara and for a second it was as though in the old woman’s eyes she saw the faces of all three women, all three ages combined in one, suddenly ageless, face.
‘Open it, my lovely,’ whispered the old woman. ‘Open the pretty painted box, my darling . . .’
‘Ouvre-la, ouvre-la . . .’ whispered the younger women.
Mara gazed down at the box. Her hands were trembling, not only with fear and sexual arousal, but with the power which was undeniably flowing into her from the box itself.
Could this really be it? Could she at last have found the box containing the Phallus of Osiris?
The box was about twelve inches long and obviously very ancient, for the wood was parched and cracked and the unwieldy hinges rusted almost solid with age. The painted surface was faded and worn away in patches, but the brightly coloured Egyptian paintings were still clearly visible: a tree, with a box caught up in its branches; a weeping woman straddling the dead body of her husband, a wooden penis sliding up into her cunt; a human figure with a greenish-black face and a huge penis, weighing the soul of a dead man.
Osiris. Osiris, lord of the underworld, god of rebirth. All-powerful Osiris, give me back the life of my undead lover . . . Surely this must be the box . . .
The old woman’s eyes were burning into her. Hands were sliding up her thighs, fingers exploring her cunt, probing deeper, toying with the swelling bud of her clitoris . . .
Taking a deep breath, and trying desperately to clear her mind of the clouds of sexual desire, Mara seized the lid of the box and pulled. At first nothing happened, for it was stiff with age. She tugged harder, and the lid snapped open.
The scents of age and the sickly sweet aroma of embalming oils rose up to meet her. Naked figures danced in bright profusion across the painted wooden interior, couples fucked and buggered each other in colours untainted by age.
But the box was empty.
In an agony of disappointment, Mara tried to fling the box to the ground. But it felt as though it were fused to her hands by some irresistible force; as though it recognised that here was its home, its rightful owner from whom it would not easily be parted.
And, as the lascivious fingers explored her cunt and arse, and pulled at her blouse, liberating her naked breasts, Mara felt a mist of confusion begin to surround her, making strange images swim before her eyes.
As physical pleasure overwhelmed her, Mara was borne away into a multi-coloured kaleidoscope of pictures and sensations which she only dimly understood.
The mist cleared and she realised that she was no longer in the tatty little shop on the rue de Velay. She was in a strange, white room with smooth walls and no windows. White walls and a rough, concrete floor. A single, flickering bulb swung slowly from the low ceiling, as though stirred by the distant rumble of heavy guns.
She was lying, naked, on a rickety iron bedstead, her legs outspread and her cunt gaping. Looking down at her body, she saw that her skin was snow-white, and long blonde tresses fell over her shoulders and arms. This was not her own body . . .
A tall, blond man in an SS uniform was standing at the end of the bed, his flies unbuttoned and his erect penis in his hand. He watched her with a cruel smile as she tried in vain to extricate her wrists and ankles from the leather straps.
‘Lie still, Liebling,’ he sneered. ‘It will be the better for you. The Führer has chosen to share his sacred seed with you. You, my darling slut, have been chosen to be the bearer of our beloved Führer’s sacred line.
‘You must show you are not unworthy of the Reichsführer’s trust. Terrible things happen to those who cannot show themselves to be worthy, my little dove . . .
‘And whilst we await the Führer’s magnificence, shall we amuse ourselves in some agreeable preliminaries? You have such a pretty little cunt – but so very tight. It would be an act of Christian charity for me to grease it well for my Führer’s cock, would it not, Liebchen?’
Mara tried to scream, but the SS captain placed his leather-gloved hand over her mouth, silencing her cries. Tears began to well up and spill onto her cheeks.
‘You must not weep, my pretty,’ hissed the captain. ‘Tears might spoil your looks for the Führer. And he might wonder what I had been doing to you to make you so unhappy. Hold back your tears, tender one, or I shall be obliged to have you killed . . .’
Mara fought back her tears, her breath coming in painful gasps. The SS captain was upon her now. She could smell the mingled scents of leather, motor-oil and stale beer upon him, and his rank breath almost choked her as he pressed his face close to hers. His hard leather gloves chafed her sensitive skin as he gripped the flesh of her forearms, raising fierce red welts. But she dared not make a sound, for fear that he would take out his Luger and press it against her temple.
His penis pressed insistently against her groin, searching for the entrance to her palace of desire. And indeed she felt desire mounting within her, in spite of her revulsion. She could not suppress the sudden pulsing of her cunt as it anticipated the imminent invasion, releasing a flood of pent-up cunt-juices.
The captain let go of her right arm for a moment and fumbled for his prick. With a swift, savage movement, he steered it towards Mara’s hole and pressed it home. The vicious thrust made her moan quietly, for he tore into her without gentleness.
He took his pleasure quickly, like a man who is afraid of being caught fucking his master’s wife, and paid no attention to Mara’s throbbing clitoris. Pumping into her with a series of long, hard strokes, he pulled out at the very last minute and watched his semen spurt out all over Mara’s belly. Clearly his courage did not quite match up to his boasts and he was careful to wipe away the evidence of their copulation.
Mara lay panting and unsatisfied on the bed, gazing up resentfully into the face of her tormentor. He was still wearing the same cruel smile.
‘Now, my Liebling, let us see how well we can prepare you for your moment of glory. I see that your cunt shows a proper respect for our Führer, for already it is running with juice. Let us see if we cannot make you even readier for your moment of ecstasy.’
He took the whip from his belt, and Mara began to cry out in fear:
‘No, please, no: don’t hurt me . . .!’
‘Silence, my sweet little fount of corruption: and taste the delights of pain!’
He brought the lash down hard upon her right breast, and her body convulsed as the pain stung her. Again and again he whipped her, so skilfully that the pain was always mingled with the beginnings of a terrible, fearsome pleasure. As the lash fell between her thighs, Mara felt a delicious burning in her clitty and knew that this monster of depravity was taking her to some terrifying new summit of pleasure which she had never known before.
But, just as she was sure of the approach of her orgasm, he stopped whipping her and put the lash down.
‘You are ready now,’ he decreed. ‘It is time for you to meet your destiny.’
He opened the d
oor and went out, leaving Mara alone in her bare, white cell, shivering with mingled fear and desire as she listened to the sound of the guns. They were distant, but they were coming nearer.
After what seemed an age, the door opened again and a rather insignificant man walked in. Insignificant but for his eyes, which gleamed with a fanatical zeal. He looked old and tired and his uniform stank as though it had not been changed for weeks.
Hitler. Adolf Hitler. And he was going to fuck her.
He spoke not a word but examined his prize minutely, peering intently at her most secret places and verifying that she was, indeed, worthy of being joined with his flesh.
Then he reached into his pocket and took out a small bottle, filled with a pearly white fluid. Semen . . . And he opened the leather bag he had brought with him, and gently removed a box, about twelve inches long and three inches thick. A painted wooden box, very ancient and whose hinges were almost rusted shut.
He opened up the box and took out a object which, although Mara had never seen it before, she recognised instantly. It was almost a foot long, greenish-black and shiny, and as hard as polished leather. At one end were two wrinkled, leathery pouches. It glowed with a greenish luminescence.
The Phallus of Osiris!
Almost forgetting her fear, Mara watched intently as the Führer smeared the tip of the phallus lovingly with the semen from the bottle. His own semen? What was he going to do next?
Taking up the talisman as though it were a sacred chalice, the Führer approached the bed on which Mara lay.
‘Nicht zu spät . . . es muss nicht zu spät sein . . .’ he murmured.
Silently, he climbed onto the bed and knelt between Mara’s thighs. He made no attempt to kiss or fondle her, and approached her with an almost businesslike coldness.
The phallus gleamed more brightly as he brought it closer to Mara’s cunt and she shivered – half in fear, half in fascination – as she gazed upon it. So this was what she had been searching for, for so long! This was what she needed to rescue Andreas – and it was still beyond her reach . . .
Her cunt was still pulsating with the desperate need to fuck, and it grew wetter still at the approach of the sacred Egyptian phallus. Though she twisted and turned in an attempt to evade her torment, Mara’s body longed for the touch of that massive hardness, for the feeling of delicious fullness as it violated her fragile womanhood.
The semen-drenched tip of the phallus nudged against her labia, and instantly Mara felt a terrible pain coursing through her body. A terrible pain, mingled with a desperate yearning for more, for the pain was the precursor of the most exquisite pleasure.
The Führer pulled apart Mara’s cunt-lips, and with a single thrust the phallus was inside her. Though she knew her life might depend upon her silence, she could not suppress a scream as the fiery dart lodged in her belly, kindling her wildest and most base desires.
Her lips parted and she heard a voice which was not her own whisper:
‘Fuck me, mein Führer. Fuck me, for the destiny of the Fatherland . . .’
The dizzying currents of pleasure and pain which racked her body culminated in a series of ferocious spasms, which tore through Mara and left her exhausted and near-unconscious.
When she opened her eyes again, she was looking upon a very different scene.
A sumptuous room: the grand hall, perhaps, of some noble house or palace. The gleam of carved and polished oak was everywhere, and golden light filtered in through tiny panes of irregular glass.
She was kneeling before a tall, red-haired woman on a large, gilded chair, and they were alone save for two men in archaic dress who guarded the door. She glanced down and saw that she, too, was dressed in the same fancy-dress costume. Her waist was tiny, tightly nipped-in, and long full robes of silver-grey satin, embroidered with pearls, flowed around her knees. She could barely move her head for the stiffly starched ruffle about her neck.
A door opened at the far end of the room and a tall, darkly handsome man strode in. On seeing the woman, he removed his feathered cap and bowed low.
‘Your Majesty.’
And Mara heard the woman reply:
‘My dear Sir Walter. And what have you brought to show us today? What glittering treasures have our new dominions yielded for our royal pleasure?’
‘Your Majesty, a treasure far beyond my power to name its price. A treasure which, I have no doubt, will appeal to Your Majesty’s supremely sensual nature.’
A flicker of interest passed across the Queen’s face, and she turned to the two guards:
‘You may leave us now. Wait in the ante-room and ensure that no one disturbs us.’
Mara made to rise to her feet and leave but the Queen stopped her:
‘No, not you, child. You shall remain with us. We may have other uses for you. Now, Sir Walter, show us this marvel that you have brought for our amusement.’
The bearded man smiled and reached into the large leather travelling pouch slung from his belt. He took out a painted box which Mara recognised instantly.
‘This is a pretty toy from the land of the Pharaohs,’ announced the explorer. ‘But it has been lost for centuries, and has only now been discovered, in a pagan temple in the New World where it was being used in a crude fertility rite.’
He opened the box and revealed the phallus within, its phosphorescent glow eerie against the spring morning sunlight.
The Queen’s face lit up with sudden, unfeigned interest, and she reached out a ringed hand to touch the gleaming surface.
‘Tell me more of this strange relic,’ she commanded. ‘And of its purpose and function.’
‘Your Majesty, this is the lost Phallus of Osiris, the penis of the Egyptian god, severed by his brother Set and lost for generations. It has great magical properties. It is said that all who possess or use it shall enjoy long life and the power of life and death over others. It also endows the user with great physical pleasure – and knowing, as I do, how much you value your reputation as a virgin queen, Your Majesty, methinks this little gift may find favour with you . . .’
The Queen took the box from Sir Walter and removed the phallus, which she began to stroke and explore with her eager fingers. It seemed to hold an infinite fascination for her and Mara could see her trembling with excitement.
After a few moments, the Queen turned to her visitor again and announced:
‘We shall not fuck with you today, Sir Walter. Today we shall watch you fucking with the Countess Derby. Methinks this shall inspire us . . .’
With a gracious bow, Sir Walter laid down his cap upon a convenient chair and unfastened the buttons which held up the front of his breeches. Out sprang a most impressive prick, worthy of a great explorer, for Mara could see that it craved the scent of new flesh to explore.
‘Unfasten your bodice, Countess. We wish to see Sir Walter playing with your bubbies,’ instructed the Queen. ‘Fie! You are too slow!’ And she drew Sir Walter’s sword from its hilt and used it to slice through the laces of Mara’s bodice. Dutifully, she pulled back the sides of the material, so that her breasts would be exposed to the Queen’s critical gaze.
‘The flesh is agreeably white and taut. Have you been massaging them daily with rosewater and oil of cloves, as we instructed you?’
‘Yes, Your Majesty. And I have been masturbating as you taught me, to increase the power of my desires and strengthen the muscles of my womanhood.’
‘Good, good. Now we wish you to offer your bubbies to Sir Walter for him to suck. And whilst he is doing that, you may toy with his prick a little – but beware: you must not provoke him to his crisis until we give you the sign that we are ready. Do you understand?’
Mara nodded and turned to Sir Walter, offering him her breasts like exotic sweetmeats for the tasting. He took her right breast between his hands and felt it, not ungently, doubtless enjoying the touch of firm white flesh between his fingers. Then he bowed his head and took the nipple into his mouth, crushing it a little between his te
eth before beginning to suckle like a greedy babe.
Mara realised what was required of her and slid her hands down to Sir Walter’s groin. His prick was already agreeably hard, its tip moist and weeping slippery tears of unsatisfied desire. Mara released his stones from their breeches and squeezed them carefully, just hard enough to cause him a frisson of delight.
‘Egad!’ cried out the explorer. ‘You have taught the hussy well, Your Majesty! She is indeed her mistress’s pupil! For I can feel the firmness of your touch in her fingers.’
‘We have spent many long hours instructing the Countess in the ways of the flesh,’ replied the Queen in self-satisfied tones. ‘She is an apt pupil and an excellent cunt-licker. There are no limits to the girl’s depravity. She is a born whore.
‘Why, we have set her to sucking the cocks of all our courtiers, and yet she does not tire of it. It is a diverting sport and we have spent many amusing afternoons with Lord Essex, watching the jade sucking off half the court, one after the other.
‘We have bound her hand and foot and commanded her to fuck with the filthy beggars and cripples who ply their trade outside the palace gates, and there seems no end to the pleasure she derives from it.’
Such talk would normally have revolted Mara but in this new body she felt the woman’s excitement at the remembrance of her depravity: the way the blind beggar had pawed at her and whimpered as she straddled his foul, ulcerous body; her delight when she had been tied and bound and buggered by the Queen’s brutal guards; and the enormous orgasms that had shuddered through her as the soldiers violated her frail woman’s body, again and again.
To Mara’s consternation, the memory of such horrors did not sicken her; rather, it excited her – and she felt her cunt growing hotter and wetter beneath her heavy silk robes. Sir Walter was bringing her such an intensity of pleasure that she forgot who she really was and slipped seamlessly into this borrowed life of joyful depravity.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 19