It was easy – too easy. Mara could not help feeling that fortune was smiling upon her a little too readily. Without a visa, carrying only a small rucksack, a passport and a crudely forged student ID card, Mara had been waved through the Romanian border crossing without question.
The car had been parked about half a mile inside the Romanian border, keys in the lock and no driver in sight. A couple of soldiers were chatting on the other side of the road, but nothing she did seemed to attract their attention. It was almost as if they were doing their utmost not to notice that she was there.
Trembling – after all, this was the first time she had stolen a car – Mara climbed into the driver’s seat, threw her rucksack onto the seat beside her, turned the key in the ignition and drove away.
Even the sound of the car’s engine wasn’t enough to make the two soldiers turn round, though they must surely have heard it. Mara began to wonder if fortune wasn’t so much smiling upon her as using her . . .
She glanced down at the dashboard. A full tank of petrol. On impulse, she opened the glove compartment and found bread, cheese, a road map and a fat roll of banknotes. A bottle of beer rolled out from under the seat and clinked against her foot as she swung the car round a corner.
She stopped for a while, pulling in to a narrow country lane and falling asleep. When she awoke, she ate the bread and cheese and studied the map. It would take about another day’s drive to get into Transylvania and – allowing for stops and getting lost – she ought to be in Burzenheim by early evening.
As she was drinking the last of the beer, a face appeared at the window of the car, making her start with fear.
It was a young man in rather ragged overalls and he was smiling at her in obvious appreciation.
‘English . . . English lady?’
Mara realised that he was looking at her passport, which was lying on the seat beside her. Hurriedly, she picked it up and put it into her bag. She wished fervently that she hadn’t wound down the car window to get a little fresh air, as a massive, hairy hand slipped inside and began, quite openly and unashamedly, to stroke her breasts.
It was not entirely unpleasant. The young man was gentle and his touch had a certain sensitivity; and Mara felt her nipples stiffen with involuntary pleasure. The farmer obviously saw this too, and chuckled with delight as he tweaked each of the nipples in turn, drawing gasps of pain-mingled pleasure from Mara.
‘You want . . . spend night at my farm? Have good barn, good soft straw – better than car.’
Mara didn’t know what to say. Here was a young peasant, quite clearly interested in her body, offering her a night’s lodging in his barn. She knew she ought to shake her head, wind up the window, stamp down on the accelerator and drive away – but what if he reported her to the authorities? After all, she was still driving a stolen car and she had no visa. And then there was the matter of the forged student ID card . . . And he was rather handsome . . .
Fully aware that what she was doing was madness, Mara got out of the car and extended her hand to the young man. He was tall and strong, and she knew he could break her in two with those muscular arms if he chose to. But he smiled and took her hand, shaking it with the enthusiasm of a child.
‘Come, lady,’ he announced. ‘I Miroslav. I show you where sleep . . .’
Mara followed the peasant up the dark, rutted track, his lantern casting an uncertain, yellowish light on the muddy ground. Miroslav led her through a rickety gate and up a shorter muddy track towards a tumbledown barn, not much bigger than a shed.
He removed the bar holding the door shut and indicated to her to go in.
The inside of the barn smelled strongly of chicken dung and Mara caught her breath as an enormous rat scuttled across the straw. In the corner of the barn, two horses were tethered together in a stall.
‘Look, English lady: horses fucking!’ Miroslav lifted the lantern proudly, to give Mara a better view of the entertainment he had provided for her. The mare – a slender, piebald creature with a gentle expression – was standing her ground patiently as a powerful chestnut stallion mounted her.
Mara was transfixed, she could not look away from the spectacle of the stallion thrusting into the mare and making her whinny with pleasure.
Mara gasped as, with a neigh of delight, the stallion ejaculated, his massive shaft juddering as the sperm raced up his penis and flooded the mare’s cunt.
Mara was panting, and her nipples were pressing hard against the soft fabric of her blouse. Glancing down, she saw the farmer’s penis was hard and doing its best to thrust its way out of his tattered overalls. With a start, she realised that she desired him; that she wanted him to play the stallion to her mare.
The farmer, like the stallion, needed no encouragement. Talking softly to her in Romanian, he began to undress Mara. Stunned, she simply stood there as he peeled off her clothes, one by one, until she stood naked before him on the filthy straw.
Then he took off his overalls, his ancient sweater and his pants. Underneath these unprepossessing garments, his body glistened with all the muscular beauty of a Michelangelo sculpture. From between his strong thighs sprang a mighty, sap-filled bough and Mara knew that she must slake her thirst upon his sap.
She knelt before him on the filthy straw and he shuffled his feet a little way apart, the better to present to her the delights of his loins.
She began by running the tip of her tongue over his balls, between his thighs, around the root of his shaft, greatly pleased by the instant reaction she felt as his bollocks tensed and clear drops of a slippery liquid began to weep from the tip of his yearning penis.
And then Mara took him into her mouth, letting him thrust into her throat as hard as he wished, almost choking her as the tip of his thick shaft rubbed against the back of her throat.
He pulled her towards him, greedy for her, and the thick tide of his semen gushed out and bathed the warm moistness of her mouth in a silent tribute.
To Mara’s surprise and delight, Miroslav was not so easily satiated. His penis barely softened for a few moments before once again growing hard and eager for the fray. With a grunt of pleasure, he grabbed Mara by the waist and forced her to bend forward, supporting herself by taking hold of an old hay-manger which hung on the wall in front of her.
‘Little mare . . .’ he hissed into her ear as he pulled apart her arse-cheeks and, without further ado, thrust his penis into her well-greased cunt.
Mara shrieked with pleasure as Miroslav’s hardness burrowed into her and he fucked her as the stallion had fucked his mare. She imagined herself as the little piebald mare, standing patient and steady as the stallion mounted her. Had the mare felt the force of the stallion’s semen as he pumped his seed into her? Had her cunt blossomed into spasms of delight as the stallion’s orgasm tore through him?
Mara braced herself against the rail and imagined that it was not Miroslav but the stallion who was fucking her. It was such a powerful image that she felt her orgasm building up in her loins and she cried out in pleasure as wave upon wave of pleasure rippled through her.
Miroslav came with a savage roar and lunged forward, his teeth bared like the stallion’s, intent on biting his little mare’s throat.
But, at the very last minute, the voice in his head forbade him that ultimate pleasure.
‘No,’ repeated the voice. ‘She is the Master’s plaything. She is not for us. Let her go free . . .’
Mara was surprised when Miroslav pulled out of her, still erect, and seemed not to want to continue with their games of lust. He was polite enough, yet somehow distant, as though he had only just recalled some ancient taboo. He brought her blankets and coffee and then left her for the night, to share her dreams with the chestnut stallion and his little piebald mare.
In the morning, he gave her bread and coarse sausage, wrapped up in a cloth, told her where to find petrol and sent her on her way. As she drove back down the deeply rutted track, Mara could not suppress the powerful feeling that she
had just had a very lucky escape.
Delgado knocked on the door of the Master’s office, and waited.
‘Enter.’
He went in, signalling to the guards to wait outside with their charge.
‘Ah, Delgado. You have something to interest me?’
‘I think you will be pleased with this one, Master. I picked her myself. It was not easy . . .’
The Master put down the papers he was reading and gave Delgado his full attention.
‘She is a virgin?’
‘Most assuredly so, Master. And very young, as you instructed. Our agents kidnapped her as she was leaving school. A convent school, in fact . . .’
‘Good, good. Bring her in and let me see her.’
Delgado opened the door and called to the guards, who half-led, half-dragged the girl into the room.
The Master’s eyes narrowed with pleasure. Delgado had done well. She was exactly as he had hoped: a slender, almost frail schoolgirl just turned sixteen; small and vulnerable and very, very frightened. Her light-brown hair trailed down her back in a thick plait and she was still wearing her school uniform.
‘Excellent,’ hissed the Master. ‘It has been too long since I tasted virgin blood, defiled virgin flesh.’ He strode across the room to the girl, seizing her by the chin and forcing her to look up into his evil, burning eyes.
‘What is your name, child?’
‘You can’t do this to me!’ screamed the girl, making a sudden attempt to struggle free. But the guards held her fast and all she succeeded in doing was pulling her neat, white blouse out of the top of her navy-blue pleated skirt.
‘She is called Alexandra,’ replied Delgado. ‘Is she not delicious? Why, I should very much enjoy . . .’
‘Yes, yes, Delgado. You have done well. And you shall have her to slake your own desires upon when I have finished with her. But for now, you must go – all of you. Leave me alone with the girl.’
With visible regret, Delgado retreated from the room and closed the door behind him.
The girl slunk back against the wall, arms crossed protectively over her small, pert breasts.
She was whispering ‘No, no, no . . .’ in a mantra of suffering innocence; she was crouching in the corner now, like the small and very vulnerable creature she was, almost whimpering with fear.
But the Master simply smiled and unzipped his flies.
‘My dear Alexandra,’ he murmured as he took out his erect penis. ‘I’m so very glad to meet you.’
The girl tried to escape him but he was upon her like a jungle cat springing upon its prey. His fingers tore at her clothes, ripping off her pristine white blouse and navy-blue skirt. Despite her protests, within seconds he had torn away her bra and her virginal white knickers.
‘Now then, Alexandra,’ hissed the Master. ‘Have you ever sucked a cock before?’
She shook her head, wide-eyed, as the Master advanced, his fat prick hard and glistening in his hand. Strong fingers prised apart her lips and he thrust into her.
He could not remember a more delicious feeling than the sensation of having Alexandra’s warm, wet mouth closing around his cock. And the knowledge that these pretty lips were fresh from speaking a young virgin’s chaste prayers gave the experience added piquancy.
What’s more, he could tell that the girl’s resistance was weakening. She made no attempt to bite him and her breathing was becoming quicker and hoarser – a sure sign of growing excitement. How he loved to corrupt such childlike purity, to sow the seeds of evil within the belly of innocence.
He held off for as long as he could, then allowed himself the luxury of his first orgasm of the day. The poor girl gagged on his semen but he made her swallow it down – every last drop.
As she lay, panting, on the floor at his feet, he wrenched her legs apart and – ignoring her pleas for mercy – ripped through her hymen with a single, violent thrust of his pelvis.
He was rewarded with a cry of terrible distress, followed shortly by moans of pleasure as the girl felt the approach of her first-ever orgasm. She would be an apt pupil, and an enthusiastic whore.
Things were looking good. And the Fleming girl was near to the prize, he could sense it. Very soon, everything would be perfect.
The tiny village of Burzenheim lay far off the beaten track, in the very heart of the lonely, wooded hills of Transylvania. What few signposts there were petered out long before Mara reached the village and she was reduced to asking – in phrase-book Romanian with hand-signals – for directions from the few peasants who crossed her path. Some were too frightened to speak. Others laughed at her confusion.
All seemed baffled that anyone should want to visit Burzenheim.
As she drove deeper into the Transylvanian heartland, Mara realised that what she had heard about the area was truer than she could possibly have imagined. She passed deserted villages, one after the other, lining roads already half-overgrown with weeds. In the last few months, hundreds of thousands of the exiled Germans who had inhabited these villages had taken advantage of the opening up of Eastern Europe and had returned to Germany, their ethnic homeland.
Even the villages retained German-sounding names: Felzburg, Kassel-am-Weser, Folgesheim . . . And Mara remembered with a wry smile all those old horror films set in Transylvania – where German-speaking peasants stormed the castle on the hill at midnight clad in lederhosen and brandishing burning torches.
Now that this once-thriving area was almost deserted, devoid of human life, Mara really could believe that a place like this might house vampires . . .
Dusk was drawing in as she reached the outskirts of Burzenheim. At first glance it seemed to be a ghost-town, as deserted as all the other villages for miles around: tumbledown cottages whose doors swung crookedly from broken hinges; abandoned farm-vehicles, rusting quietly in the autumn drizzle; empty streets where children had once played. Deadwood City. Mara could almost imagine the tumbleweed rolling down the main street.
She parked the car among some trees, on the outskirts of the village. You couldn’t be too careful. Best to cover her retreat, just in case.
Walking towards the centre of the village she realised that there were increasing signs of life. A neatly painted cottage here, a few chickens there. And there, in the middle of the main square, was a curious small wooden building, a little like a church. It was freshly painted and – to Mara’s astonishment – surrounded by a shallow, water-filled moat on all sides except in front of the main entrance door, which was reached by a small footbridge.
But this was not the most curious feature of the building. Above the door hung a red banner bearing black insignia – insignia which Mara recognised only too well and which sent a shiver running down her spine.
A red banner bearing a black swastika. The insignia of the Third Reich.
More than that, Mara could feel an unmistakable power emanating from within the building. Something so powerful that it felt like an irresistible magnetic force, dragging her towards it. She glanced down and saw that the crystal pendant around her neck was beginning to glow faintly. Could it be that the Phallus of Osiris really was here? Or was she about to suffer yet another crushing disappointment?
Guards stood on either side of the door dressed in a simplified version of the familiar black SS uniform. Mara knew it was far too late to turn back and make her escape, they were sure to have seen her approaching. Best to put on a brave face and march boldly up to the front door.
At her approach, they crossed their bayonets to bar her way and began to question her in rapid German. Her heart sinking, Mara looked the taller of the two straight in the eye, and replied:
‘Englisch.’
‘Good day,’ replied the guard, lowering his bayonet – much to Mara’s relief. ‘You have been sent from England to take part in the ceremonies?’
‘Yes,’ replied Mara, hoping that she had given the correct answer.
‘They have chosen well,’ remarked the guard, eyeing Mara’s breasts ap
provingly. ‘Though you do not comply to the classic Aryan physical type, you have a fine, strong body, worthy to bear the Führer’s sacred offspring. Through you, our cause will be greatly advanced in England.’
Baffled by such talk, Mara smiled and thanked the guard, and allowed herself to be ushered into the building.
Inside, she was surprised to see about a dozen naked women sitting in a circle around an altar draped with a red cloth embroidered with swastikas. A priest was chanting an invocation over something which lay in a golden dish on the altar. Something which Mara recognised instantly, though she had never seen it before . . .
The Phallus! These people were worshipping the Phallus of Osiris! But how was she going to take it from them?
Her train of thought was interrupted by a tall, blonde woman who was introduced to her as Gilde.
‘I will look after you, my dear,’ she explained, with a smile. ‘I can see that you are nervous – so are we all! For how few of us are fortunate enough to be chosen to receive the gift of the Führer’s virile penis within our unworthy bodies! Is this not a wonderful day for the Fatherland and for the glorious cause?’
The Führer’s penis? Did these people then believe that what they had in their midst was the Führer’s mummified phallus? Mara would have laughed, were she not so frozen with terror.
‘What . . . what will happen?’ she enquired, her voice shaky with emotion.
‘Why, you shall take your turn in the circle, with the rest of us. The priest will bless the Phallus and it will be passed to each of us in turn to use upon our bodies. It is said that we shall experience the most exquisite bliss as we couple with our beloved leader. And if the Führer wishes it, our bodies shall be made fruitful so that we may bear the offspring of his sacred loins.’
Mara stared at Gilde, open-mouthed. The woman was assuredly deranged. And yet what she said had a bizarre ring of truth to it. A group of exiled Nazis, up in the Transylvanian hills, believed that they had been granted custody of their dead Führer’s penis: what could be more natural than that they should also believe it to have magical powers – especially the power of fertility?
The Phallus of Osiris Page 23