The Phallus of Osiris
Page 20
Sir Walter’s prick grew still stiffer in her hands and at length he drew away, mindful of the Queen’s commands.
‘So, my little jade, you like to fuck with brutes and beggars? I have a fine, fat prick – will you not fuck with me? Is it too rich for you after a pauper’s pizzle?’
‘I will fuck with you willingly, sir,’ replied Mara, pulling up her skirts to reveal creamy-white naked flesh beneath. ‘And to judge from the size of your pizzle, I have no fears of disappointment.’
‘Since it is my lady’s pleasure to fuck like a common slut, we command you to fuck her as a dog would fuck a bitch,’ announced the Queen, evidently greatly enjoying these spicy frolics. ‘And whilst you are entertaining us, we shall make good use of this new gift which you have brought us, Sir Walter.’
Sir Walter pushed Mara onto her hands and knees and lifted up her skirts, so that they rested on her shoulders like the upturned petals of some libidinous flower. To her mingled delight and dismay, Mara found that she was longing for him to enter her and she thrust out her creamy buttocks to accept his assault.
‘Excellent!’ exclaimed the Queen, as Mara felt Sir Walter’s prick ram up into her, its eager head battering against the neck of her womb. ‘Show the jade no mercy, Sir Walter, we command it.’
So saying, the Queen pulled up her own skirts, revealing a very pretty pair of thighs and a tight little cunt, fringed with chestnut curls. She picked up the phallus again, still marvelling at its greenish-black luminescence, and began to use its tip to toy with her clitoris.
‘Ah!’ she sighed. ‘Truly you have brought us a marvellous gift, Sir Walter.’
Mara watched entranced as the Phallus slid slowly and deliciously up into the Queen’s cunt, each stroke of Sir Walter’s prick mirroring the regular movements of the Queen’s hand as she thrust the Phallus in and out of her womanhood.
Mara felt her orgasm upon her and, with a cry of ecstasy, she thrust backwards, the spasms of her cunt stimulating Sir Walter’s cock to spurt its semen into her belly. When she looked up, she saw that the Queen, too, had been brought to the peak of pleasure. The Phallus lay in her lap, glistening with moisture, and little rivulets of love-juice were running from her cunt as though she, and not Mara, had drunk in Sir Walter’s seed.
‘You have done well, Sir Walter,’ announced the Queen, smoothing down her skirts and putting the Phallus back into its box. ‘This gift which you have brought us is a true instrument of power and we are greatly pleased with you.
‘Sadly, we fear that this gift is too momentous to risk anyone ever hearing of its existence. Therefore, Sir Walter, we must regretfully condemn you to death. You shall submit yourself to be taken to the Tower this very day.
‘And as for you, my little whore,’ she smiled, taking Mara’s chin in her hand and forcing her to gaze up into her cruel eyes. ‘You know too much and must also pay the price of your depravity.’ So saying, she took Sir Walter’s dagger from his belt and pressed it against Mara’s throat.
That was the last thing Mara remembered until she opened her eyes once more and saw that she was no longer in the magnificent Elizabethan throne-room, but lying on the floor of what seemed to be a mud hut. It was cold and she shivered, realising that she was naked save for a woven belt of grass and sea-shells about her waist. She looked at her hands and saw with a start that they were smeared with a bright blue dye.
She pulled herself to her feet and turned to look for a way out. But the only doorway was blocked by two guards, clad in long woollen robes and carrying spears.
Hearing movement inside the hut, they turned and saw that Mara was awake and addressed each other in a language Mara could not understand.
A few moments later, reinforcements arrived, led by a tall, dark-haired man in a rust-coloured woollen cloak, under which he was completely naked. From the authority which he was shown by the others, Mara guessed that he must be a chieftain or high priest.
On seeing Mara, he smiled, and his prick began to rise to attention. He seized her roughly by the arm and began to poke and prod her flesh as though she were some domestic beast, an ox or a horse, whose quality he was trying to assess.
At length he seemed satisfied, and his prick certainly seemed to approve of Mara’s naked loveliness. He clapped his hands and the guards took hold of her arms, half-dragging her out of the hut and across the damp grass towards a rough platform, made from woven branches. Yoked to it were several naked boys, playing out the role of a team of oxen.
Throwing Mara down onto the hurdle, the guards set about lashing her to it, arms and legs splayed wide. Once they were satisfied that she was securely tied, they began to paint her breasts and cunt with a bluish pigment, which stung as it touched her sensitive flesh.
Almost weeping with cold and terror, Mara felt the hurdle begin to move. She was being dragged off across the marshy grass, she knew not where. All she could see was the lowering grey sky and the lustful, vicious smiles of the tribesmen who were pursuing her.
Her journey ended at last, as the team of young boys dragged the hurdle into the middle of the marsh. The tall man in the cloak came towards her, carrying a box. Even before she really saw it, Mara knew what it was. He was opening it, taking out something greenish black. It was glowing faintly and all about her the tribesmen were falling to their knees in terror and adoration.
He was in front of her now, the Phallus in his hands, pointing towards her. And he was kneeling on the marshy ground before her, and pushing the Phallus up into her cunt.
‘No, no!’ cried Mara; but the words turned to dust in her throat. And the exquisite pain of the Phallus flooded through her body, awakening the power of sensations too terrifyingly acute to bear.
The orgasm came swiftly, her cunt sucking greedily on the Phallus and floods of cunt-juice running down her thighs. The tribesmen were on their feet now and smiling, laughing, congratulating each other.
Their chieftain was cutting her bonds with his dagger . . . were they going to let her go free?
And then she felt the noose as it was slipped over her head and tightened round her neck. They were dragging her across the grass to a place where the marsh was deep and treacherous. If she fell in there, she would never get out alive. No one would ever find her body. Perhaps they didn’t want anyone to . . .
The noose tightened around her throat and her consciousness ebbed away.
When she came to, it was not to the sight of cold grey skies and fathomless marshes, but to the warmth of a hot noonday sun upon lithe brown flesh.
Mara opened her eyes and rolled over onto her side. The Nile waters were blue and inviting before her. If she just walked a few yards further, through the papyrus reeds, she would be there, at the water’s margin, and could cool her parched flesh in the limpid blue depths . . .
The white robe fell about her in diaphanous folds as she got to her feet, her tanned breasts and dark pubic triangle clearly visible through the gauzy fabric. Tiny insects buzzed through the sunlit air and the warmth of the day soaked into her flesh, dulling her brain but awakening her senses. Her clitty began to throb gently and her nipples hardened like ripening fruits in the summer sun.
The sound of voices awoke her from her reverie and she looked away into the distance, towards the temple of Ra, to see a procession of priests and priestesses approaching the river. They were wearing ceremonial animal masks and were naked to the waist, the women’s breasts bobbing invitingly in the sun, glistening with the sacred oils they massaged daily into their flesh.
As they approached, the main body of the party turned right and went down to the river, where they took off their robes and began to wash each other in the river. But two of the priests – a man and a woman – came towards Mara, walking past where she stood, apparently unaware of her presence as she stood among the reeds watching them.
They were wearing jackal masks which concealed their faces and lent them the air of mythical beasts. They undressed and laid their belongings on the river bank and Mar
a saw that their bodies were lithe and youthful, their flesh deeply tanned, supple and glistening with sweet oils.
The priest stepped thigh-deep into the warm, shallow water and beckoned to the woman to follow him. She did so, bringing with her an embroidered cloth which she dipped in the Nile waters and used to wash the priest’s powerful body. She began at his shoulders, chanting as she washed each new part of him, and began to work her way down towards his waist.
He had a flat belly and powerful thighs, between which hung a magnificent penis and two firm, hairy balls which were clearly bursting with spunk.
Mara had the curious impression that she had seen those balls before, cradled their wrinkled purse in the palms of her hands, and felt the flesh tense; that she had felt that thick, hard penis burrowing its way into her soft, willing flesh. Her cunt began to ooze love-juice as she watched the priest’s prick grow increasingly erect at the priestess’s careful caress.
As she reached his prick, the priestess dipped the embroidered cloth into the river once again and this time squeezed it over his flesh, so that the warm, clear water ran in rivulets down his shaft, dripping into the river and forming little eddies around his calves. Little droplets clung for a moment to his testicles, glittering briefly in the fierce sunshine, before they evaporated and were gone.
Mara felt desire rise in her loins as the priestess took out a small bottle of oil and poured a few drops into the palm of her hand, using it to smooth across the tip of the priest’s penis; and she pulled up her shift and, standing with feet apart on the burning sand, she began to finger her own clitoris.
The priest’s prick was glistening with oil now, and seemed on the point of pouring forth its semen. But at the critical moment, he pushed away the priestess’s hand and instead began to anoint her body with the oil, beginning with her plump, firm breasts and working his way down her taut belly until he reached the pleasure-garden of her loins.
His hand worked its way between her thighs and she moaned softly as his finger worked away tirelessly at her clitoris. Mara, too, had to work hard not to cry out, for her own desire was reaching a peak and she longed to be satisfied by the priest’s fingers, by his straining prick.
Without warning, the priest waded to the shore and picked something up from the pile of belongings on the sand. Mara recognised the box instantly, and mingled fear and longing washed over her as he took out the Phallus, its smooth surface gleaming in the powerful noonday sun.
Intoning words of power which Mara could not understand, he slid the Phallus between the priestess’s thighs and she gave a low cry – of pain or pleasure? – as the massive shaft slid home and the priest worked it in and out of her with grunts of lustful determination.
The priestess’s sudden ecstasy shook her body with terrifying spasms as Mara felt the approach of her own crisis bring the juices flowing into her cunt and down her thighs. She watched the priestess fall forwards into her lover’s arms, her red-painted talons digging into the flesh of his shoulders as she clung helplessly to him.
When he slid the Phallus from her cunt, it was dripping wet and glistening.
Coming to her own crisis, Mara gave a little involuntary cry of pleasure and the priest and priestess turned their heads swiftly towards her hiding-place, suddenly alerted to her presence.
They were upon her in seconds, ripping off her robe and pinning her to the ground, where she gazed up at them in terror as they slowly removed their masks and began to force apart her unwilling thighs.
Their faces terrified her even more than the power of the Phallus. For she was looking up into the eyes of the Master, and of the young and beautiful priestess whose terror she had so often looked upon in visions, as the woman was violated and buried alive by vengeful priests. The priestess who wore the face of Mara Fleming.
And Mara screamed in terror as the Phallus slid into her cunt and the pain surged through her body, washing away the last vestiges of her consciousness.
The coffin drifted down the river and Mara stood on the riverbank, watching helplessly as it floated out of sight. The dying cries of the man inside filled her mind. Osiris was dying, Osiris was screaming for help, Osiris was struggling for air and the water was filling his lungs.
Silence covered the Earth. A great blackness filled Mara’s mind and the chill of fear clutched at her heart.
Osiris was dead.
And Isis would never find that most precious, most sacred, most potent fragment of his dismembered body.
Only the Master knew where to find the Phallus of Osiris.
As the pictures faded, Mara was left with one final vision, clearer and more enduring than all the rest: the picture of a deserted mountain village, huddled defensively beneath a lowering black sky, yet ringed with a mantle of purest power. As the dizziness caught her, and flung her through time and space, she wondered what it might signify . . .
‘Elle souffre . . . regarde, qu’elle souffre!’
‘La pauvre petite . . . elle a mal au con . . . ’
‘Sois sage, sois tranquille, rien de mauvais ne va t’arriver, ma belle . . . ’
The voices wove a net around her and as she opened her eyes Mara felt their presence like an impenetrable barrier between herself and escape.
A wetness in her cunt testified to the sexual pleasure which the three women had given her. Had they drugged her? Or had the pictures she had seen truly been visions of the past life of the Phallus?
Mara struggled back into consciousness, into the world of reality, where visions are only hallucinations, and where three strange women display nothing more sinister than a remarkable family likeness.
‘What happened . . .? Please, tell me where you got the box . . . comment . . . obtenu la boîte . . . je vous en prie. C’est tellement important . . .!’
The old woman smiled.
‘Have no fear, child. You are a true seer. There are always answers for those who truly seek.
‘The box came to us only a little while ago, brought to us by travellers from Budapest. Et voilà tout . . . that is all we know, ma belle enfant.’
‘How much . . . combien – pour la boîte?’ she gasped, pulling down her skirt over her knees.
The old woman took her hand and kissed it, her dry reptilian lips making Mara shudder with repulsion.
‘You are a true mystic, a true seeker, ma belle,’ she replied. ‘Take the little box, and may all the great spirits go with you on your quest.’
Mara needed no further encouragement. With murmured thanks, she took the box and fled into the gathering dusk. She did not look back.
The next day, realising that she had been foolish to be so frightened, she decided to return to thank the three women for their kindness. It was strange but no matter how hard she looked, she couldn’t find the shop. It had disappeared so completely that it might never have been there.
12: Answers
She slipped away in the night, making sure that she did not disturb Geoffrey. He was a noisy sleeper and grunted as she gently lifted his arm from her waist and laid it on the pillow, but to her relief he did not wake. She did not fancy having to spend hours explaining to him why she didn’t want his company on a trip to Budapest. Funny, but Geoffrey had become really weird over these last few weeks.
The thousand-franc note she’d taken from Geoffrey’s wallet would help, but it would hardly get her to Budapest. Mara wondered vaguely what she was going to do . . . but the first priority was to put some distance between herself and Geoffrey Potter.
The first question was what to do for the rest of the night. She could start walking, but in which direction? She hardly knew the place and she didn’t even have a map. So she would have to wait and see if fortune would smile on her yet again – this time in the shape of a passing motorist.
Wandering through the streets of Vannes, she turned a corner and came face to face with an all-night bar. There was little else to do, so she decided that she might as well have a drink before setting off on her journey.
A drunken gendarme lurched towards her, bottle in hand and a lecherous grin on his face. He grabbed at her breasts as he staggered past and raucous cheering accompanied his uncertain progress across the room to the bar.
Mara began to wonder if it had been such a good idea after all. A group of American servicemen were drinking in the corner by the pinball machine, eyeing her up slyly whilst pretending to be more interested in a nearby poker game. She edged past them towards the door marked ‘toilettes’, resolving to tidy herself up and then get out of this place.
The cafe’s toilets followed the typical French unisex arrangement and Mara had to walk past a line of men peeing to get to the cubicles. They were used to women in this place but nevertheless they watched appreciatively as Mara passed and one of them – a fat, middle-aged policeman – turned and made an obscene gesture, pointing his rapidly stiffening prick in her direction. His words might mean nothing to Mara, but there was no mistaking the gesture.
She closed the door of the cubicle behind her with a sigh of relief and sat down to pee. There was no point in hurrying – she might as well wait here a while until those drunks had finished and gone back to their equally drunken comrades.
After about five minutes, all had gone quiet outside and Mara judged it safe to emerge from the cubicle.
She opened the door and was horrified to see that three of the men were still there only this time they were waiting – and they were waiting for her. Their flies were unzipped, their penises hard and threatening.
The man who had shown her his erection was still smiling in that disgusting, gap-toothed way which had so revolted her. He stank of cheap wine, garlic and sweat, and the very sight of him turned Mara’s stomach. She tried to back off but his two friends were too quick for her. Already they were behind her, blocking off her escape.