He could still recall his surprise, terror and delight as Martha had brought him to the very first orgasm he’d ever had at a woman’s hand. A pitiful thing by later standards, but a glimpse of a whole new, vaster world for an adolescent boy with an overdose of hormones. From then on, it had been their secret. He had grown to love and crave the touch of Martha’s fingers, the warm moistness of her lips.
And, a few weeks later, it had been Martha who had spread her legs for him, lying down on that same tiled floor and letting him enter her – his very first woman. His clumsy fucking had doubtless done little to pleasure Martha; but when she got to her feet and pulled down her dress, Royston was delighted to see a little pool of sticky semen, soiling the clean tiled floor.
But it was Ibrahim who was sucking him now, and it felt like heaven on earth. His tongue was winding round and round the tip of his still-hardening penis, teasing drops of clear love-juice from it, the harbingers of the great flood to come. Royston cradled Ibrahim’s head in his hands, stroking the blue-black hair, sleek with scented oils. He wanted to tell him to stop – stop, or there’ll be nothing left for later – but his resolve failed him, and he whimpered piteously as the spunk rose in his balls and pumped its creamy-white abundance into Ibrahim’s greedy mouth.
Immediately afterwards, he felt disconsolate. What was the point of accepting an invitation to an orgy if he was going to use up all his spunk on a casual encounter with a glorified cloakroom attendant?
Ibrahim must have read his mind, for he smiled and said:
‘Please do not worry, sir. You will enjoy great potency and pleasure this evening.’
He went away for a moment and returned with a glass full of a rich red liquid, a little like port, but mixed up with other, headier fragrances.
‘Our herbalist, Madame LeCoeur, has prepared this for the greater pleasure of our guests. Please drink it. It is entirely safe and you will enjoy the most potent of orgasms.’
Royston eyed the glass doubtfully, but decided to give Ibrahim the benefit of the doubt and drank the liquid down in a single draught. It had a kick like a mule and his head reeled for a moment with the power of it. Then a warm glow stole over him and he realised to his surprise and pleasure that his penis was hardening again.
Ibrahim smiled.
‘Please put on your robes and I shall take you to the Great Hall. The celebrations are about to begin.’
Royston recalled how nervous he had felt as Ibrahim led him, and half a dozen other men, into the anteroom leading off the Great Hall. All were dressed in Eastern robes and they obviously still felt some vestiges of self-consciousness.
Four pretty boys, entirely naked save for an abundance of gold jewellery, led them into the Hall, which had been decorated to resemble a Turkish harem. An assortment of beautiful women were sitting and lying around the central pool, their perfect bodies clearly visible through their diaphanous veils. A dais at the back of the hall had been arranged as a stage, with steps leading up to it from either side, and a dark, bearded man with a lame leg and evil, glittering eyes was standing beside it.
The man Royston knew as Anthony LeMaitre was sitting in the shadows, his robes parted to reveal a lively penis which two naked girls were taking turns to suck. LeMaitre’s face stirred memories somewhere at the back of Royston’s mind. He could have sworn he’d seen him somewhere before – but not as LeMaitre. He dimly recalled a cynical, indomitable journalist who’d made trouble for him a couple of years ago, sniffing around at the Birbridge factory for the scent of corruption. It was a good job they’d covered their tracks so well. Now, what was he called . . . Hartley? No, Huntley . . . Hunter . . . something like that. At any rate, the resemblance was uncanny.
LeMaitre spoke:
‘Delgado, you may begin the festivities.’
With a little bow, Delgado introduced himself, welcomed his distinguished guests – who included several MPs and TV personalities, and more than one senior academic – and then announced that the slave-market was open.
There followed a delightful pantomime, involving a collection of delicious young women, entirely naked, and chained together in pairs. They were to be auctioned off to the highest bidders. Naturally, with so much wealth about, the bidding was lively – but the auction had been carefully arranged so that each guest would end up with a pair of young women to attend to his pleasure.
Royston was unused to bondage but soon caught on to the idea. Supplied with two delectable young slave-girls, an abundance of chains, leather thongs and instruments of torture, he had soon devised a scenario to his own liking. The first girl, a small dark beauty with flashing black eyes and slender hips, he chained to rings in the wall, so that she hung by her wrists with her back to him. Then he forced the second girl, a tall Nordic wench with heavy breasts, to wield the whip on her sister-slave’s back and buttocks. How he laughed with pleasure to see the red welts raised on the dark girl’s flesh, and to see her twist and turn in a vain attempt to break free.
He took up the dildo – a fearsome object with hard rubber spikes – and thrust it into the blonde girl’s cunt, forcing her to go on whipping the first girl whilst he manipulated the instrument of torture in and out of her cunt. Evidently she enjoyed the pain, for she came to a noisy climax and cunt-juice dripped abundantly down her muscular thighs.
Unable to control himself any longer, Royston pushed her aside and thrust his engorged cock deep into the dark girl’s backside, ignoring her cries of discomfort as he grabbed handfuls of her martyred flesh.
His orgasm was even more pleasurable than the first, and he blessed the herbal cocktail which had rendered him so potent and so ferocious.
He barely noticed the blonde girl as she came up behind him and slipped her arm around his waist, nuzzling into the back of his neck in an irresistible, fatal kiss.
The sharpness of her little white teeth was so exquisite that he came to orgasm again, even as the sweet, welcoming darkness closed over him.
When he awoke, he had felt the great change in him immediately. He felt refreshed, renewed, cleansed of the human weaknesses of gentleness, compassion and fear. The kiss of death had awakened him to a new, exciting world where pleasure and power were the law, and where pain was something that happened to other people. He knew he would never be able to thank the Master enough for admitting him to the ranks of his immortal elite.
And now, this evening, he and de Lacy and Pembridge and Cheviot and all the other big cheeses had returned to Winterbourne: not invited this time, but summoned by their Master, who had an important announcement to make.
They sat in a semi-circle by the side of the pool, in the middle of which a dais had been raised to hold the Master’s golden throne. The Great Hall had once again been returned to its Egyptian splendour, for the Master was preparing his citadel for the return in triumph of his long-dead queen.
Elaborate paintings covered the walls, depicting erotic scenes: the Master and his Queen Sedet fucking beside the banks of the Nile; Sedet’s initiation into the realms of the Undead, as the Master fucked her and bit into her throat; men and women seduced and bled dry for the greater glory of the Master’s evil host; men, women and beasts, all fucking together to supply the Master’s legions with the energies they would need to establish their evil empire.
On the dais, on either side of the gilded throne, sat two naked girls, crystal collars encircling their pretty throats and concealing the scars of their initiation. They wore the heavy wigs and kohl eye make-up of dynastic Egypt, and each one was masturbating with a garishly painted wooden snake. As the serpents’ heads disappeared into their cunts, they chanted a litany of praise to their Master:
‘All praise to the Master, Lord of the Undead, Conqueror of Death, who fills our cunts with semen and our mouths with praise; who strengthens us with the blood of virgins and the death-cries of the unworthy.’
A curtain swished back and Royston Birbridge IV gasped in awe as the Master strode into the room, dressed in golden robes an
d wearing the golden death-mask of a pharaoh upon his head, covering his face. He was naked save for his cloak, which flowed out behind him, revealing the beauty of his strong, naked body, which age and death could never decay.
Six pretty boys with rings through their erect penises stood guard as he climbed the steps and took his seat on the great throne. One of the girls immediately knelt between his thighs and began to suck his penis.
‘My children,’ began the Master; and his words sounded strangely distant, muffled as they were by the heavy golden mask. ‘Tonight, we celebrate a great victory: the first step on our journey to universal dominion. Tomorrow, I leave for Egypt, appointed – through your many good offices – to the position of Ambassador to Cairo. From this beginning, I shall establish myself as a strong and charismatic public figure, worthy of yet higher office. Your work shall aid me in my endeavours. Children: you shall share in my glory, in the glory of my eternal dominion.’
Delgado gazed up at his master, adoring and yet hating him for denying him his rightful place among the immortals. It was so hard to be patient, when all he longed for was a sound, young body in which to serve the Master for eternity. He looked round the assembled throng and anger surged up into his throat, choking him like bile. So many fat old men, initiated only because they had positions of power. So many pretty boys and girls, chosen only for their physical strength and beauty. How much more worthy would they be if only they held the evil, brilliant spirit of Delgado within their worthless frames!
As the anger blotted out all other emotions, he felt a curious numbness overcome him; and all sense of his self-identity faded away into the shadows of unconsciousness. The invader took control and Delgado lost all understanding of who he was.
Andreas blinked, tried moving first a finger, a hand, an arm . . . he could move! He tried taking a step forward, but a dull ache rippled through his right leg and he stumbled momentarily, unprepared for the jolt as the shorter leg almost buckled underneath him. Well, whoever’s body this was, he didn’t think much of it.
However, a body with a limp was still a body. He looked around furtively, wondering if anyone had noticed his arrival. But all attentions were focused on the strange masked figure seated on a dais in the middle of the pool. Andreas remembered the pool – so he was back in the Great Hall at Winterbourne. It looked different. He didn’t remember any of this Egyptian mumbo-jumbo.
He gazed up at the strange figure on the dais, hardly aware of the words being spoken. A golden pharaoh on a gold throne. Exhibitionist, or what? Andreas felt his borrowed cock twitch and stiffen as he watched the naked girl sucking the golden king’s prick, toying with his balls, almost teasing the spunk out of him. Strange, Andreas could feel every movement of the girl’s tongue, experience every caress she lavished upon the other man’s prick. And as the golden king spurted into the girl’s mouth, Andreas felt his own spunk rise and inundate the inside of his pants.
He glanced around, colouring momentarily with embarrassment and gasping with the pleasure of the orgasm – his first in . . . how long?
How long would his possession of this body last? Not long, if past experiences were anything to go by. He must use this opportunity to gather information, find out something – anything – that might help him to regain possession of his own lost body.
And where the fuck was his body? He felt like an unsuccessful shepherd, whistling helplessly on some barren hillside, whilst his sheepdog gambolled away over the fells, never to be seen again.
The man on the dais was speaking. Maybe if he listened, he’d learn something. And he mustn’t draw any attention to himself. If they realised what was going on, there was no telling what these crazy people would do.
‘I leave tomorrow for Cairo,’ concluded the Master. ‘And I shall have need of all the sexual energies contained within your bodies, and within this hall, to speed me on my way. So, for tonight, let the festivities begin! Fuck as you have never fucked before, for the greater strength and glory of your Master!’
The curtain twitched aside once again and Madame LeCoeur entered, pushing in front of her a naked girl, barely pubescent and with a long plait of light-brown hair. The girl seemed dazed and disorientated, and Andreas did not doubt for a moment that she had been drugged. As she turned her head, trying to work out where she was, Andreas noticed two small puncture-wounds on the side of her neck.
‘This is Alexandra,’ announced Madame LeCoeur. ‘She was a virgin until a few hours ago. She is the Master’s very special gift to you. He desires that you teach her all she needs to know to become one of Winterbourne’s finest whores. Do with her as you wish.’
A baleful chorus struck up, the sound sweeping around the hall like a desert wind:
‘“Do what thou wilt” shall be the whole of the law.’
They fell upon the girl like ravening wolves, tearing at her flesh and pulling her to the ground, squabbling amongst themselves as to who should be the first to defile her. A young woman whom Andreas recognised with a start as Anastasia Dubois sat gleefully upon the girl’s face, forcing her to lap at her cunt. A fat American knelt beside her, wanking over her tiny nascent breasts. A young TV presenter pushed aside his rivals and thrust his cock into the girl, her cunt still soiled with her own dried blood and the Master’s sticky semen.
All were gathered round her, struggling to fuck her, to bugger her, to soil her breasts and belly and face with their semen, whilst the masked figure on the dais looked on, his penis thrusting in and out of the slave-girl’s eager mouth.
Those who could not reach the girl resorted to fucking each other. Three men were buggering each other, the first pressed face down on the ground whilst the others lay on top of him, ramming into each other’s arses. Two middle-aged female executives set about masturbating each other with wine-bottles. And Winterbourne’s whores, in the guise of Egyptian temple prostitutes, filed into the hall and fucked whoever would have them, with the fervour of religious zealots.
A girl approached Andreas, semen trickling down the furrow between her breasts. She was laughing, the deranged laughter of the insane, and in a moment she was on her knees before Andreas, fumbling with his flies and taking out his penis. Now she was sucking him and God! it was divine, so unbelievably divine. He had almost forgotten what it felt like to know real, physical sensations. He was going to come! Oh God, he could feel the spunk boiling in his bollocks and he didn’t give a toss about anything any more – only that wonderful sensation he had almost given up hope of ever enjoying again.
She sucked him to a climax, and he felt as though his entire being was flooding into her on the creamy tide of his spunk.
‘Did you enjoy that, Delgado?’
Delgado? Surely the girl wasn’t talking to him! But yes, she was looking up at him, the remains of his semen still visible on her little pink tongue, and she was smiling again and calling him Delgado . . .
Something – the glint of lamplight on gold, perhaps – made him look up. The figure on the dais was standing now, his still-erect penis springing proudly from his loins, a drop of semen clinging to its tip. He was raising his hands to the heavy golden mask, taking hold of it, lifting it up, over his head, to reveal his face.
Unmasked, the Master smiled down upon his people, and blessed the fruits of their lust, for they had refreshed his spirit.
Andreas stared blankly up at the face he knew so well. The stubborn chin that had greeted him every morning in the shaving-mirror for God-knows-how-many years. The lips that had so often savoured the delights of Mara’s fragrant cunt-juices.
The face that had once been Andreas Hunt’s.
The shock of confronting his own, lost self was sufficient to break the fragile link which held his spirit within Delgado’s body. And the vortex gripped him once again, tore him away from the world of pleasure and pain, and back to the bitter comforts of his dark prison.
15: The Return
Mara parked the old VW halfway up a secluded cart-track, and walked the rest of
the way.
It had taken courage even to think of returning to Winterbourne Hall; for the memories were strengthening every day, and she often awoke in the middle of the night, terrified by dreams of the Master’s burning eyes.
But how could she ignore the message which she was sure she had received from Andreas Hunt? The words had cut through her mind with all the sharpness of surgical steel and their imprint still remained.
‘Come to me, Mara, come to me at Winterbourne.’
Was it a trick? She had to accept the possibility that it might be so. But the stakes were high. If Andreas’s spirit really was trapped within the walls of Winterbourne Hall, she might well be the only living person able to help free him. She clutched the painted wooden box to her and walked on resolutely towards the gates of Winterbourne Hall.
Andreas felt himself dragged into wakefulness, by what he at first thought was the physical sensation of someone’s hand on his shoulder, lips kissing his closed eyelids.
Then, with a silent sigh, he remembered. The world of sight and touch were lost to him. And someone, someone desperately, magnificently evil, was using his body; had stepped into it as easily as he might try on a new suit. Andreas craved another few moments of lucidity within some borrowed body, just so that he might find out more about the power which had dispossessed him. Only in that way might he learn some way of getting his body back.
But the memory of the hand on his shoulder, the lips against his lips, haunted him, tormented him with a conviction he dared not believe was true.
Mara was near. Mara was coming to rescue him. He could feel her presence, getting closer with every moment.
And he cursed himself for a gullible fool. Did he really expect the Seventh Cavalry to come riding over the horizon, just in time to save Andreas Hunt? No one was coming to save him. No one even knew where he was.
The Phallus of Osiris Page 25