The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  She rolled up the ’chute, and chucked it into some bushes, feeling like a partisan saboteur out of a propaganda film, then slipped into sweater, skirt, boots and her warm leather jacket. It was dark and cold, and she was beginning to wish fortune had provided a more conventional way of getting to Hungary when a noise among the trees close by made her jump back in alarm.

  ‘Who’s that?’ she demanded, desperately looking round to see who – or what – was stalking her.

  More noises. Quiet rustling. An animal? No – too regular for an animal. More than one of them . . . Who . . .?

  Something touched her arm and, before she had a chance to scream, a hand was clasped tightly over her mouth and she was dragged backwards into the bushes.

  ‘You are lucky, little one, very lucky,’ said the gypsy chief, reaching out and grabbing Mara by the chin. ‘These hills are full of thieves and vagabonds and murderers. Any of them might have caught you and’ – he drew his finger across his neck with a fine sense of the dramatic – ‘slit your pretty little throat from ear to ear.’

  Seeing Mara still shivering with fright, he slapped his thigh and laughed loudly, his one golden earring dancing and glittering in the firelight as he shook his head.

  ‘No need to look so glum, little one. You are with friends here. For I see that there is within you the blood of the Romany and the power of the sight.’

  Mara looked at him, astonished.

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘I too have the power, child, as you do. I am the seventh son of a seventh son, just as you are the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Many things are known to me. I see into your heart and I know that there is something you seek . . . and a life you are trying to restore. I look into your heart and I see pain and confusion but also I see goodness. And it is because I see goodness that I will help you all I can. We shall all help you.’

  ‘And what can I do for you in return?’

  The gypsy chief smiled and ran a finger down the ample curve of Mara’s right breast.

  ‘You are very beautiful, my dear. There is royal Romany blood in you, as there is within me. Will you consent to become my gypsy queen for just one night?’

  Mara looked up into his dark eyes and knew that she could refuse him nothing. Already he knew the deepest, darkest secrets of her heart. He had looked inside her, and must surely have seen the force of her desires, the depth of the passions within her. And so he must already know how much she desired this swarthy, powerful man . . .

  ‘I . . . I accept your offer,’ she replied, her voice hoarse with emotion. ‘Your request honours me. Do with me as you will.’

  The gypsies lived a vagabond existence in the hills near Budapest, spending the autumn and winter months in the oak and beech woods around Hüvösvölgy and Kis Hárshegy, where they set up camp with their brightly coloured vans and tents.

  The chief, Janos, had a beautiful red and yellow van in the traditional style, outside which sat his three wives and numerous pretty daughters. They smiled graciously as Mara approached and seemed to wish her nothing but good.

  ‘It is the way of our house,’ explained Janos. ‘As chieftain, it is my sworn duty to take to my bed any true gypsy woman I desire so that the sacred blood of our house may continue throughout generations. And, since you are also of ancient gypsy blood, I am obliged to bed you and share my seed with you.’

  Mara nodded and made as though to climb the steps into the van but Janos shook his head and laid his hand on her arm.

  ‘The joining will take place here, in the open air, in full view of my wives and people. Among my people, nothing is hidden. They must see that my potency continues great – for, if I fail my people, they are entitled to depose me and appoint another to be their chieftain.’

  Mara waited, rather tremulously, as Janos went into the van and brought out a splendid, embroidered blanket, which he laid down on the ground beside the van. Already the rest of his people had gathered in the clearing, carrying lanterns to light up the ceremony. A violinist struck up a passionate gypsy tune and the spectators began to clap their hands.

  ‘You must dance,’ explained Janos. ‘It is our tradition. You must dance and kindle the flames of my passion. But first you must take off your clothes. It is an insult to dance before the Gypsy King unless you are naked.’

  Rather self-consciously, Mara got up and took off her jacket and boots. The ground felt damp and cold beneath her bare feet and she recalled a similar night, not so long ago, when she and Heimdal had fucked in the woods and he had travelled into the underworld, there to speak with the soul of Andreas Hunt . . .

  Remembering her lover’s need of her, she tore off her sweater and skirt with a good will and began to dance, dance, dance as she had never danced before. Her beautiful, firm breasts quivered upon her chest as she leapt and pirouetted and undulated on the grass before her master for the night, to the ever-quickening beat of the gypsy dance.

  At last, she fell exhausted upon the ground, tiny beads of sweat standing out on her flesh. And she felt hands lift her up and then lay her down, on her back, in front of the gypsy king. He nodded to one of his wives and she took a tiny box from him and came over to where Mara was lying. At once, hands seized her legs and prised them apart, holding them still to prevent her closing her thighs. Mara wondered why they should think they needed to hold her firm.

  And then she felt the terrible pain in her clitoris, as something sharp burned its way into her. What were they doing to her? What were they doing to her clitoris?

  ‘No, no!’ she screamed.

  ‘Have no fear,’ soothed Janos. ‘They are not harming you in any way, though the pain you feel is intense. What my dear wife is doing to you is for your greater pleasure, I assure you. All of our favoured women have had their clitorises pierced, as you will see.’

  He clapped his hands and his daughters lifted their skirts and pulled apart their cunt-lips, revealing the tiny rings of gold wire passing through their clitorises. As she watched, they began to toy with the wires and she saw how their clitorises swelled with the pleasure they were bestowing upon themselves.

  The pain came again, terrible in its intensity, and Mara almost fainted. But within a few moments it had ebbed away and, as Janos’s wife toyed with the tiny golden ring, she felt the most exquisite of sensations throbbing through her whole body. She began to pant with the sheer pleasure of it.

  ‘You see, my dear? Did I not speak true?’

  Speechless with pleasure now, Mara nodded, her cunt overflowing with moisture as the waves of pleasure dulled her brain – a pleasure far more intense than the pain which she had just suffered. The pleasure seemed to take over her entire being, annihilating all pain and all fears.

  The music began again, slow and sensual this time, and Mara looked up and saw that Janos was unbuttoning his breeches and taking out a delightfully long prick, pierced at its tip with a thick golden ring.

  A pillow was placed under Mara’s head, raising it up, and Janos straddled her chest, thrusting his penis into her mouth. She thrilled to the strange and wonderful sensation of his penis-ring against her tongue and writhed in ecstasy as his wife continued to play with the tiny ring in her clitoris.

  Janos half-choked her with his spunk, then turned her onto her belly and set to work on her arse, loosening it with gentle strokes from the hilt of his dagger before plunging his hard dick into her soft flesh and riding her as he would ride some wild, gypsy steed through the forest.

  At last, when Mara was almost dying with desire, her clitty pulsating with frustration, he turned her onto her back and fucked her cunt, very gently and slowly, so that she would derive the maximum enjoyment. The tears ran down her cheeks as he thrust in and out of her, his pubis rubbing against her clitty-ring and awakening terrible, wonderful sensations within her that she had never dreamed of before. It lasted an eternity. Perhaps she would never come! Perhaps she would spend the rest of her life in an agony of ecstasy from which she could never escap
e . . .

  But her pleasure would be denied no longer, and they came together in a warm cascade of semen and cunt-juice.

  The cards were lying face-up on the upturned barrel.

  ‘There is no doubt,’ said Janos. ‘I have seen and touched the box, sensing its vibrations, and I have cast the runes and now I have read the Tarot. So many signs cannot lie. This box, whatever it is – and I have not the power to divine such a powerful magic sigil – was recently within an occult shop in the city of Budapest. The traces are still upon it.

  ‘I know of only one shop which would have an interest in such an object and it is on Úri utca – at number lla, close to the entrance to the network of caves underneath the hill. You must seek there, my little one, if you wish to find out more. But it would perhaps be wiser not to seek at all. Some knowledge is best left untouched . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Mara, getting up to leave before her resolve weakened and she abandoned herself to Janos and his seductive life of pure pleasure. ‘You have been very kind. I shall never forget the delights which you have shown me here.’

  Janos smiled.

  ‘Then won’t you stay awhile, my pretty? I have only three wives – another one would suit me very well and you could make me many fine sons . . .’

  For a moment, she almost thought of saying yes, of forgetting this whole mad crusade, but the memory of Andreas Hunt’s screaming, agonised face made her turn her back on the gypsy camp and begin the long walk down the hill towards the city.

  Budapest in the weeks before Christmas is a beautiful sight. But Mara had no time for sightseeing and barely noticed the castle, towering above her as she passed through the Buda fortress walls and into the Tóth Árpád sétány, with its rows of chestnut trees. No time to visit the famous public baths or eat sticky chocolate cake in some cosy coffee-house. No time either to rub shoulders with the literati at the Café Korona. She turned into Úri utca and looked for number lla, the key to that vital piece of knowledge.

  She passed a variety of houses – romanesque, gothic, baroque – and then spotted number nine, with its entrance to the cave complex and its exhibition on the history of Hungary. So where was number lla?

  There: a tiny, half-hidden shack, strangely out of place in this dignified district, and hardly visible amongst the grand houses on either side.

  She stepped up to the door. ‘Arcady’, it read. She took a deep breath, pushed the door open and went in, wind-chimes softly jingling as the door closed behind her.

  The shop was dark and filled with the heavy scent of incense. Joss-sticks burned in every corner. To her right, a shelf groaned beneath the weight of garish wooden folk-dolls and occult effigies. At first, Mara could see little else in the dimly lit shop beyond the shelves of shiny crystals and bottles of occult essences. But a shadow, a little darker than the rest, moved to one side and, with a click, switched on a light.

  ‘H . . . hello,’ began Mara, suddenly feeling foolish at her total ignorance of Hungarian.

  ‘Good day,’ replied the young man in excellent English, much to her relief. ‘American?’

  ‘English,’ replied Mara. She was amused to see an unmistakable flicker of relief pass across his face. ‘I have something I’d like to show you.’

  She rummaged in her bag, and took out the box.

  ‘You sold this to a man who was travelling to Vannes?’

  The young man looked at her doubtfully.

  ‘I sold it in good faith. If it was stolen, I had no idea . . .’

  ‘No, no; you don’t understand,’ replied Mara, urgently. ‘I’m not blaming you for anything – I’m just trying to find out more about it. You see, a friend’s life depends on my finding what was inside this box. You’ve got to help me, please!’

  ‘I’m sorry. I know nothing about it. It was empty when it came to me.’

  Mara’s face fell and she slumped into a chair in the corner, underneath a pair of carved voodoo masks. Was this the end of her quest? Was this the end of Andreas Hunt?

  ‘But I do know where the box came from, if that’s any help.’

  Mara leapt up and grabbed the youth by the lapels of his tatty corduroy jacket.

  ‘Tell me, tell me!’

  ‘It was brought to me by a group of Germans returning to their homeland from exile in Transylvania. They came here from a village called Burzenheim – that is all I know. If there is more to be found, madam, it is there that you must look for it.’

  13: Ghosts

  Oh shit, thought Andreas Hunt. I wonder if anyone knows what’s happened to me. I bet the Editor’s bloody livid. I’ll have got the sack by now. What’s going to happen when things get back to normal? Am I just going to walk into work one day, Mr Laid-Back, and say, ‘Hi guys, I lost my body for a while but it’s OK ’cos I’m back now’? Am I fuck . . .?

  When things get back to normal. Will they ever get back to normal? Will I ever really be Andreas Hunt again and take Mara home and fuck her and make her scream for more?

  Andreas was puzzled, frustrated . . . and getting angrier by the minute. If there was one thing he hated, it was being fucked about. Every now and again, he’d almost be getting used to being trapped in nothingness and then – pow! He’d find himself in someone else’s body once more. It could last for anything from a few seconds to half an hour but always in the end he would feel himself slipping away and, like water down a drain, he’d be sucked back inexorably to the darkness of captivity.

  It wasn’t as if it was even the same body each time.

  Mara. Can Mara hear me when I call out to her? It makes no sense yet sometimes I’m sure she can. I can feel the surge of energy as her mind meets mine. And yet she still doesn’t come.

  He remembered that night in the woods, when they had fucked inside the magic circle, symbolising their joining. They were one now. He wasn’t going to be defeated so easily, oh no, Andreas Hunt wasn’t going to give in.

  Hunt raged silently within his crystal prison. I’m not going to let this happen to me, I’m fucking well not. Somehow, just somehow, I’m going to learn how to control all of this. And I’m going to find a way to get out of here, out of Winterbourne, and back to Mara.

  The Master withdrew his still-hard penis from the geisha’s cunt and nodded to her to stand up and get dressed.

  ‘A most agreeable gift. Your girls are a credit to you, Mr Takimoto. And I am sure they will prove to be a credit to our . . . organisation.’

  The Japanese businessman bowed, a half-smile of pleasure on his thin, cruel lips. The tiny puncture-wounds had almost healed now, and there had been no pain since that moment when the Master had admitted him to the ranks of the elect. No pain; only the enormous pleasure of knowing that he was, at last, serving the most sublimely perfect evil.

  ‘What would you have me do now, Master?’

  ‘You must return with your colleagues to Tokyo and resume your research on the Logos project. It is of the utmost importance that the system is perfected and in place before the next General Election. And you must seek out new converts to our cause. But remember the rule: only those who are in powerful or influential positions are to be initiated; or those who are physically beautiful and therefore of use to our organisation. The power is to be used sparingly and with wisdom.’

  Takimoto bowed and left, Delgado closing the door behind him.

  The Master turned to Cheviot.

  ‘How is our plan progressing?’

  ‘Your name has been put before the standing committee. I, Parry-Evans, Eldridge, Lord Stourbridge and the Bishop have all spoken in support of you, but there are other strong contenders. The appointment is to be announced in one week’s time.’

  The Master’s eyes narrowed and his knuckles whitened as he clutched at the arms of his chair.

  ‘My candidacy must not be successfully opposed,’ he hissed. ‘Do you understand? You must not fail. Do whatever is needful to ensure that I am the one appointed to the post.’

  Cheviot nodded, in no
doubt as to the likely consequences of failure. The Master’s anger was undoubtedly to be avoided at all costs. He looked across the desk into the face that had once been Andreas Hunt’s – a little cynical, maybe, but open and full of good humour – and saw the twisted mask of impatient evil, lips twisted into a parody of Hunt’s ever-present half-smile.

  ‘Master, your success is assured,’ replied Cheviot. ‘None shall stand in your way.’

  The Master relaxed back into his chair and folded his hands in his lap.

  ‘See that it is so. And now I feel in need of sexual refreshment, some pleasurable diversion to revive my flagging spirits.’

  Delgado stepped forward, ingratiating as ever.

  ‘We have two pretty youths,’ he suggested. ‘Fresh from the streets of Istanbul and barely eighteen years old – yet wise in the ways of the flesh. I brought them back with me from my last trip to Turkey, to find new whores for Winterbourne.

  ‘Their arseholes are deliciously tight – and I myself can testify to the efficacy of their moist little tongues. And their cocks! So beautiful, big and hard, and so young that they can stay hard all night long. They are but newly initiated and so very eager to serve their Master . . .’

  The Master shook his head.

  ‘I tire of boys, Delgado. They preen and simper like young girls, but they have no tight, wet cunts for me to stretch and their hardy flesh does not redden and bleed so easily when I put them to the lash.

  ‘No, today I have a fancy for some delectable little virgin. A young girl as pure and unsullied as January snow. You shall find me one and bring her to me, Delgado. I have a thirst which only virgin blood can slake.’

  Delgado bowed and turned to leave.

  ‘Wait, Delgado. I have a message which I wish you to pass on for me. A message for the Romanian prince. Tell him that the Fleming woman is not to be harmed. She is to pass through the borders unhindered – or he will answer to me. Mara Fleming is my toy and my prize. Her life – and her death – shall be mine and mine alone.’

  Delgado closed the door behind him, leaving the Master gently stroking his testicles and dreaming of the undisputed power that would soon be his.