There was nothing for it. She must go through with the absurd pantomime. If she attempted to leave now they would know that she was an imposter, and they would kill her without the slightest hesitation.
She took off her clothes as bidden and laid them in a neat pile beside the door, then took her seat in the circle between blonde Gilde and a stunning redhead with emerald green eyes. All of the women were beautiful in their own way: some tall and statuesque, others tiny and fragile; but all remarkably lovely. Evidently the agents of this bizarre community had done their work well in selecting potential brides for their deceased Führer.
There were gasps of astonishment and delight as the priest took the Phallus from the dish and held it aloft for all to see. Its shiny, blackish-green surface was glowing with a phosphorescent green light, pulsing regularly, almost hypnotically. Some of the women began to weep quietly as they gazed upon this symbol of all their hopes and desires.
The blonde girl to the right of Mara knelt before the priest and held out her hands, cupped together as though she were about to receive the sacred Host. The priest also knelt, and touched the tips of her breasts, the triangle of blonde curls between her thighs and the furrow between her juicy buttocks with the tip of the Phallus. Then he raised it to her lips and she kissed it reverently.
The priest laid the Phallus in the girl’s hands and she carried it to the centre of the circle, and lay down among her sisters with her legs spread wide apart and her knees raised. Her cunt glistened with juice and Mara saw that the girl’s pupils were hugely dilated, as though she had been given some narcotic drug to relax her before her ordeal.
The other women began to chant and Mara moved her lips and made some semblance of a sound, hoping that her ineptitude would go unnoticed in the general excitement.
The blonde girl was placing the tip of the penis in her cunt now, just resting its blackish tip against the moist pink entrance to her womanhood. Already she was beginning to twist and turn, as though in agony or ecstasy, moaning wordless nonsense as she writhed. For a moment she paused and Mara wondered if she had lost the courage to proceed. But no: with a supreme effort of will, the girl thrust the penis into her vagina.
As the mighty shaft disappeared into her, she gave a high-pitched scream and began to convulse. A greenish aura surrounded her body, as though she were burning in a green fire. Mara turned to Gilde in alarm.
‘What is happening?’
Gilde sighed, patted Mara’s hand and smiled reassuringly.
‘Unfortunately, the poor girl is insufficiently strong to withstand the ordeal. She will die in horrible torment but it is well that the Führer should reject any who are not worthy to be his brides. Few are strong enough, most of us will die this night. But we are happy to die, joined with the body and spirit of our beloved Führer. What greater glory can there be in death?’
Mara watched in horror as the fire consumed the girl’s body, engulfing her in a veil of thick green smoke. The girl’s screams grew weaker and fainter, and when the smoke cleared, she lay very still and white on the floor before them, the Phallus still gleaming malevolently in her cunt. When the priest removed it, a foul, greenish-black slime oozed out of her onto the bare stone floor.
Mara was so far lost within herself that at first she did not notice the hand tapping lightly on her shoulder.
‘It is your turn,’ whispered Gilde. ‘Be of good courage, my dear, for the sake of the Fatherland and the Fourth Reich!’
Still dazed by what she had seen, Mara got unsteadily to her feet and walked across to where the priest was waiting, Phallus in hand. There was no escape now. If she did try to run away, she would be torn apart by the guards as a spy. And yet if she submitted, she faced the likelihood of a horrible, agonising death.
Summoning up the power and assistance of her mentor Heimdal, the leader of her coven and all her spirit-guides, Mara sent out a final message to the soul of Andreas Hunt: ‘I have done this for you, Andreas . . . if there is any way that you can help me, help me now. Join your soul to mine and help me combat this power, which is too great for me to bear . . .’
The Phallus touched the tips of her breasts and she felt a tremendous energy surge through her, almost painfully, like an electric shock; and yet with a seductive power which sent ripples of anticipatory pleasure through her body. Her cunt grew wetter and wetter as the Phallus slid down and touched, first the glossy black triangle of her pubic hair, then the tight amber furrow between her nether cheeks.
As she kissed the Phallus, she became vaguely aware of a green light dancing around her, isolating her from the rest of the world like a protective cocoon. At any moment she expected to feel the searing heat of the bright green fire raging through her body, reducing her to a cold and lifeless shell.
But she felt no pain, only a strange, sensual warmth which made her long to feel the massive shaft between her thighs, thrusting up into the depths of her belly.
She accepted the Phallus from the priest and lay down in the circle, on the exact spot where the dead girl had lain only a few minutes before. The ground was still sticky with the greenish slime which had oozed out of her cunt.
Drawing up her knees and spreading her legs, Mara abandoned herself to the mindless chanting around her. The forest of swastikas painted on the temple ceiling seemed to dance and spin above her, filling her mind with images of pain and sadism and death.
Taking a deep breath, she held the tip of the mummified penis against the soft, fragile flesh of her vagina and pushed it home. Immediately, a terrible pain tore through her, and it seemed to her that she was being ripped apart limb from limb, her cunt violated by some ravening monster with a fiery prick whose boiling seed would destroy her from within.
She clenched her teeth and stifled the scream that had gathered at the back of her throat. She would be strong. She would not fail. And, even as she told herself to be strong, she almost thought for a moment that the voice of Andreas Hunt was speaking to her through the green mists of her suffering:
‘They won’t destroy us, Mara. Somehow, I’m going to break free . . . Winterbourne, come to me at Winter-bourne . . .’
And the pain began to subside, giving way to a languid pleasure which washed over her like tropical sunshine, or warm Nile waters on a summer’s day . . .
The room was lavishly furnished, with a painted earthen floor and walls lined with ornate leather hangings, decorated with hunting scenes. She was lying on a low bed, her head on a wooden head-rest, naked, ready, full of desire. She was waiting, waiting . . .
A woman’s voice was calling out somewhere in her head . . . Osiris, Osiris, Osiris . . . At first it seemed very far away, but it grew nearer and nearer, until at last Mara realised that she was speaking the word, over and over again.
And he was there before her – a tall man, with his back to her. He was taking off his robes to reveal his beautiful nakedness. He was beautiful, so beautiful . . .
He turned to her, and she called out to him:
‘Osiris! You have come to me at last.’
But his face was the face of Andreas Hunt, full of life and desire and longing for her.
‘Isis . . .’ he breathed, and lay down on the bed, his hardness seeking entrance between her thighs. She slid her legs apart, so that his tongue could toy with her clitoris. She remembered the touch of that tongue – gentle yet firm, knowing exactly how to pleasure her and delay her orgasm until she could bear the waiting no more.
He brought her to orgasm three times, each successive orgasm greater and more pleasurable than the last, seeming to take hold of her soul and wrench it from her body. Then he lay upon her and fucked her, his massively hard penis burrowing into her flesh with instinctive skill, and his pubic bone grinding against the delicate nubbin of flesh that throbbed between her cunt lips.
As they came together and their juices mingled, dusk fell suddenly on the room and an eerie light flooded in through the windows, turning her lover’s flesh a macabre shade of green. A
s she gasped in horror, a tall, dark figure appeared in the doorway – a figure whom Mara recognised instantly. Her scream of terror dried to dust in her throat as the incandescent coals of his eyes burned into her, showing her no mercy.
The Master!
Powerless to defend herself or Andreas, Mara watched as the Master raised the sword above his shoulders and brought it swishing down upon the back of Andreas’s bare neck.
His head fell from his shoulders, like a ripe melon plucked from its stalk, and rolled onto the floor, glassy-eyed and bloody. The Master stooped and picked it up. He seemed pleased with his prize.
As he raised the severed head to show Mara the horror of her dead lover’s face, the Master’s own face seemed to distort and dissolve before her eyes. Paralysed with fear, she watched as the Master placed Andreas Hunt’s severed head upon his own shoulders.
Her last memory was of Andreas’s dead face, smiling at her with the Master’s evil eyes as the blood trickled down the front of his white tunic.
Opening her eyes, Mara found that she was still in the temple but that she was now surrounded by solicitous women, congratulating her on coming through the ordeal and eager to see that she had come to no harm.
But as Gilde reached out to touch her, green lightning forked out of Mara’s body and struck the woman, running up her fingers and her arm, surrounding her with the same terrifying green fire that had consumed the blonde victim. She shrieked in terror and pain as the fire enveloped her, turning her blonde hair into a raging inferno of greenish flame.
Lightning flashed round the temple walls and screams filled the air as the women writhed in the deadly clutches of the cold green fire that froze and burned and consumed. The guards ran forward to help and were themselves struck down instantly.
Only Mara remained unharmed, inexplicably safe within a cocoon of greenish light which seemed to offer her and her alone its protection.
The fire had caught the rafters now, and the whole building was burning with the same eerie, greenish fire. Soon the rest of the village would be consumed. There was nothing Mara could do now to save these people from the terrible consequences of their foolishness. Wrapping the Phallus in a cloth and picking up the pile of her clothes, Mara ran out into the night air, scarcely noticing the sharp stones as they cut into the soles of her feet.
She reached the car and climbed in, fingers trembling as she fumbled for the ignition key. As the engine started, she looked up and saw an enormous green fireball lighting up the sky.
Burzenheim was no more.
In the seclusion of his office at Winterbourne, the Master was listening to the hoarse breathing of the girl beneath him. He had enjoyed violating her. He would enjoy still more sullying every last vestige of her purity, and then throwing her to Delgado and the guards as an after-dinner treat.
As he prepared to wrench open her lips and thrust his hardness once more into her mouth, he felt the sudden surge of power, like static electricity running over his skin, making the hairs on the backs of his hands stand erect. The sudden meeting of minds, of time and space and destiny, took his breath away for a moment, and his mind reeled with the suddenness of it.
But he knew. At last, he knew for sure.
The Fleming woman had found the Phallus. And now three things had become inevitable: the resurrection of his dead queen, the consolidation of his evil empire, and the horrible, agonising death of Ms Mara Fleming.
He thrust savagely into the girl’s mouth. Now, his defilement of her purity had become a celebration.
14: Possession
What a weird dream. Andreas awoke from oblivion and tried to recall exactly what he had seen, heard, felt.
Mara had been there, he knew that. Mara in the centre of a strange round wooden building. It looked like a temple, but it was decked out in swastikas. Swastikas? And he was fucking her, on a cold earth floor, whilst naked women screamed ‘Heil Hitler’ all around them . . . It’d make a great scenario for some arty French film.
This bizarre captivity was beginning to get to him. And yet he was convinced that, for a brief moment, he had called out to her and she had heard him. Now he must just wait. He was doing a lot of waiting lately.
The Master pulled apart Alexandra’s arse-cheeks and inspected the tightness of her neat little virgin hole. The girl lay beneath him, quite still and submissive now, still panting from her last orgasm, and waiting to see what he would do to her next.
She had only just begun to enter the world of lust. Gently, the Master placed his cock against her arsehole and pushed it home. The girl groaned a little but thrust her buttocks out, the better to take him inside her. Just like all convent girls, mused the Master: they love to play the outraged little virgin, but they’re all whores at heart.
He grabbed hold of her by the waist and thrust harder into her, and was rewarded by a series of welcoming backward thrusts. There was no doubt about it: this one was young enough, succulent enough and randy enough to make an excellent whore. She’d be a great asset to the organisation.
Whilst teasing her clitoris with his index finger, the Master brought himself to the brink of orgasm, then nuzzled into the crook of her neck, as though to kiss her throat.
‘Welcome to the land where death is dead,’ he whispered, and bit savagely into the soft white flesh.
Her blood tasted sweeter than honey.
Gavin de Lacy nudged his neighbour with his elbow.
‘Do you know why we’ve been called here?’
Royston Birbridge IV shook his head.
‘It’s not our place to ask. The Master has his reasons.’
He could hardly believe that he was speaking those words. Why, only a few short weeks ago, he’d been the ultimate lord of his own destiny – a hard-drinking, hard-fucking, autocratic young American dragging an ailing British automobile company into the twenty-first century. He took orders – and shit – from no one.
But an invitation to one of Winterbourne’s special evening entertainments had changed his life.
He remembered that cold, rainy October night vividly. He’d been in a terrible mood after a day of bad sales figures and unsatisfactory meetings; and he’d been in two minds about whether to turn up at all.
Luckily, his old Etonian sales manager, Piers Thornecroft – whose effortless English style Royston grudgingly admired – had already spent an evening at Winterbourne. Ever since that day, Thornecroft had seemed brighter, punchier, altogether a more formidable character. Something in the course of that one evening at Winterbourne had altered him, visibly and irrevocably.
Thornecroft was so persuasive that Birbridge had grudgingly agreed to take up the invitation. His chauffeur-driven Rolls had pulled up outside the house at about eight o’clock, and Royston remembered peering out through the rain-streaked windows into the gloom beyond and wondering why he’d ever agreed to let himself be brought to this corner of a Godforsaken craphole that was forever England.
He got out of the car, dismissed the chauffeur, and watched the car disappear down the drive, the wheels making a quiet swishing noise on the wet gravel.
A tall black man was waiting for him at the top of the steps. Powerfully built, muscles oiled and glistening, he wore nothing but a white loincloth and – although he wasn’t normally that way inclined – Royston began to experience the first stirrings of interest in his underpants.
‘My name is Ibrahim,’ said the negro with a respectful bow, his voice silky smooth and seductive. ‘I am here only to serve you. Will you permit me to take you to the robing room?’
Quite unaccustomed to such servility – and a little unsettled by it – Royston followed Ibrahim down long, wood-panelled corridors and into what had obviously once been the master bedroom at the Hall. The huge four-poster bed remained as a central feature but the room was now decorated as a comfortable sitting room, lined with rails on which hung row upon row of costumes. Several men were trying on Eastern-looking outfits and Royston thought he recognised one of them as the po
rn magnate, Alan Freestein.
‘Your costume, sir.’
Ibrahim took a set of heavily embroidered robes from one of the rails and handed them to Royston.
‘Would you like me to undress you, sir?’
Royston felt an unexpected thrill at the words; and was surprised to hear himself say yes, he would like to feel the handsome negro’s slender fingers unbuttoning his shirt, unzipping his flies . . .
He slipped off his jacket and tie, and Ibrahim got to work on his shirt, easing open the little mother-of-pearl buttons with agonising slowness. Royston realised with a start of pleasure that the negro was teasing him, deliberately augmenting his desire . . .
And now he was naked to the waist, and Ibrahim was on his knees before Royston, unzipping his flies and helping him to step out of his trousers. His cock felt painfully erect as it pushed its head against the inside of his boxer shorts.
Ibrahim took hold of the elasticated waistband and pulled down Royston’s pants. It took him right back to the days of his childhood when Martha, the family’s black housemaid, used to take him to the john, pull down his pants and hold his prick over the bowl so that he wouldn’t splash the nice tiled floor. His mom and dad had been kinda fanatical about their nice clean all-American dreamhouse.
He’d been a strangely precocious kid. Even then, as a young boy, he’d had erections just thinking about Martha’s gentle touch. When he was older – an insecure adolescent with a wallful of pin-up posters and yearnings he didn’t know how to satisfy – Martha had started coming to his room and ‘helping’ him undress for bed. On one occasion her strong black fingers had strayed to his prick and it had hardened immediately in Martha’s hand. God, how he’d blushed with shame as she held the fruit of his adolescent desire, too young and inexperienced to understand what was going to happen to him but knowing somehow that it wasn’t right to be like this. To his surprise, Martha hadn’t laughed or scolded him. She’d simply smiled, closed her fingers about his shaft and begun to slide them very gently up and down, causing him the most delicious sensations.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 24