The Phallus of Osiris

by Valentina Cilescu

  Mara saw the gates not far ahead. The sight of Winterbourne Hall, dark and forbidding at the end of a long driveway, stirred memories which brought the tears stinging to her eyes. She fought them back, summoning up all her courage, all the strength of her occult knowledge and powers, all the might of her spirit guides. And she touched the crystal talisman about her neck, reassured by the unexpected sensation of warmth. It felt almost like touching some portion of living flesh . . .

  She took a deep breath, reminding herself of Heimdal’s reassuring words. Fortune had smiled on her so far, so why should it let her down now? She wondered again whether she ought to have told Heimdal about her plans to come to Winterbourne – why had she decided to keep quiet about it? Had she really sensed that there was something changed in him, something that she no longer felt able to trust? But that was sheer foolishness. Heimdal had been more than a friend to her. And now she wished he were here, to tell her what to do next.

  There were guards at the gates, just as Mara had feared. Two youngish men in dark uniforms. Not unattractive. She knew what she had to do. Seduction was the only weapon she had. Still, if her plan worked, fucking the guards would not be entirely unpleasant.

  Tucking the box beneath her cloak, Mara walked up to the gates, her speech ready-prepared in her mind.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she began. ‘My name is Tricia. I have an appointment at the Hall . . .’

  She was going to continue, going to tell the guards how she was a skilled whore from London who had been invited up to the Hall to display her skills for Madame LeCoeur. Would they like a little sample of what she could do? Would they perhaps like to give her a preliminary audition . . .?

  And then she was going to suck them off, one after the other. And if they wanted more, she would go with them into their lodge and fuck them on the bare wooden floor until they were too tired and too befuddled with sex to think of stopping her from going up to the house.

  That was her plan. But as she began to speak, Mara realised that neither of the guards was paying any attention to her. In fact, they seemed to be looking straight past her.

  She turned to look behind her, but the road was empty. She spoke again, but still there was no reaction. In desperation, she reached out and touched one of the guards on the shoulder. He did not even notice.

  Mara realised the incredible truth: the guards could neither hear nor see her. As far as they were concerned, she was invisible.

  Realising that the talisman must be responsible for this unexpected stroke of good fortune, and fearing that the effects of the charm might not last, Mara set off towards the house, half-regretting that she had not had a chance to fuck with the two young guards. If the circumstances had not been so grave she would have delighted in unzipping their pants, taking out their cocks and sucking them, even though they could not see her. And she smiled to herself as she thought of the expressions on their faces as they were brought to a juddering climax by an unseen woman.

  It was early morning and Mara knew that most of the whores – and those of their guests who had spent the night at the house – would still be asleep. Winterbourne’s security system would be at its most vulnerable. Yet she feared the terrible power of the Master, which had once before drawn her here and made a mockery of her powers. Could it be that he, and not Andreas, had called her to the hall? Had he brought her here to humiliate or destroy her?

  She decided not to risk the main entrance. Even if she really was invisible the sight of the front door opening and closing – apparently of its own volition – would be enough to arouse suspicions. Instead, she walked quickly round to the back of the building and slipped in through the open kitchen door.

  There was no one in the vast, oak-beamed kitchens. Copper pots and pans hung from the ceiling, spotless and gleaming. The wooden work-surfaces were scrubbed clean and the cupboards were empty. It looked as if little food was ever cooked in the kitchens at Winterbourne Hall. Did anyone ever eat at all?

  Hurrying through the kitchens, Mara stepped out into a long, panelled corridor which she recognised only too well. It was the corridor which had once led her to doom and despair. She shivered with recollected misery as she recalled how Delgado had taken her down that same corridor, and then down a flight of stairs into the gloom. The secret door in the panelling had slid silently across at his touch and he had pushed her through into impenetrable darkness.

  She remembered the secret workshop, lined with magical artefacts and dusty bottles; and the guilty excitement flooded back into her mind as she recalled how the spirit of a long-dead Egyptian priestess had entered her and joyfully fucked with the Master, who had possessed the body of his henchman, Delgado.

  And afterwards Delgado had taken her to the cellars. Her memory of them was fragmentary, as though she wanted to blot something horrible out of her mind. Her hands trembled as she recalled a coffin, naked bodies fucking like animals, the face of Andreas Hunt as she plunged a dagger into his chest . . .

  She couldn’t go down to the cellars. No, not there. The fear gripped her heart, squeezing all the breath out of her, making her gasp with terror.

  But she could sense the presence of Andreas Hunt all around her in this place. She knew that he must be here, somewhere, his spirit trapped and helpless. Only she could find him, help him, release him. And she knew that she must begin with the cellars, if only to exorcise the memory of her own humiliation and despair.

  Still dazed by memories, she stepped out into the corridor to be confronted by two naked bodies, still lying where they had fallen asleep, apparently in the afterglow of passion. The younger and prettier of the two women still had her fingers buried to the knuckle in her partner’s cunt and abundant juices still glistened on her hand. The older woman had taken the younger woman’s nipple into her mouth and lay half-underneath her partner, like a grotesque baby at her breast.

  As Mara stepped over the bodies, the younger woman moaned and reached out her hand but did not wake. The air was heavy with the scent of sex.

  She turned away and was about to walk down the corridor when she heard footsteps and saw three men coming towards her from the direction of the main staircase. It was too late to run. She must stand her ground and hope that the talisman would protect her.

  They walked towards Mara, talking and laughing, and apparently taking no notice of her. Good. So they had not seen her. But as they walked past her, one of the guards – a tall, muscular man with dark eyes – turned his head towards her, and Mara felt for an instant the power of his burning recognition. At that moment, she knew that she was doomed.

  Astonishingly, the guard turned his head away from Mara and continued down the corridor with his comrades, who disappeared into a room on the right-hand side, shutting the door behind them.

  A few moments later, the door opened and the tall guard emerged. He closed the door gently behind him and took a few slow steps towards Mara.

  As she gazed, terror-stricken, into his dark eyes, a wave of recognition swept over her, hardening her nipples and making her clitoris throb with anticipation. She had never seen the man before in her life and yet there was no mistaking the look in those dark eyes.

  ‘Andreas?’ gasped Mara; and the tall guard began to undress before her.

  The feeling of Mara’s presence was all-consuming now. It was destroying his peace of mind. Andreas tried to shut it out, to think of something else – anything else – but it wouldn’t go away. It felt exactly as though she were calling to him, coming ever-closer, smiling, reaching out to him, gently and suggestively stroking him . . . He could feel the exquisite touch of her fingertips as they slid over his groin, searching for the tag that would pull down his zip . . .

  He must stop fantasising! He must, or he would go insane. Sightless, he fought the overwhelming image of her face, her firm breasts, her warm, damp thighs; and his anger and desire grew immense.

  Just as he abandoned control of his emotions it happened again. The swirling colours and the spinning, spinni
ng through nothingness. Until at last the kaleidoscope slowed down and gave way to the ordinary brightness of electric light.

  He stood, blinking rather stupidly, outside the door to the guards’ rest-room, feeling awkward and disorientated in his military uniform. For a moment, he thought he was alone. But a voice called to him very softly and this time it wasn’t in his mind.

  ‘Andreas? Is it really you?’

  Mara was standing there in the half-light, the same beautiful woman he had so loved to fuck. And as soon as he saw her, he found himself frenziedly unbuttoning his tunic, flinging it to the ground; ripping off his shirt; fumbling with the belt-buckle on his trousers.

  Mara gently prised his useless fingers from the buckle and unfastened it herself, unbuttoning the waistband of his trousers and pulling them down, wrenching down his underpants and baring the swelling branch of his vigorous penis. He felt helpless as a child in her hands, surrendering himself utterly to her tender ministrations.

  Please God, he thought to himself. Let it last long enough, just long enough . . .

  He wanted to undress her but he was too slow, too clumsy. His awkwardness in this borrowed body frustrated his attempts to unfasten those tiny little mother-of-pearl buttons. He wanted to rip off her skirt, fling himself on top of her, enjoy her before the dream faded and he was back in the dark solitude of his imprisonment.

  But Mara made him take things more slowly, stand back whilst she undressed herself for him, peeling off her sweater and blouse with agonising slowness, baring her wonderful, glowing, tanned flesh inch by tantalising inch.

  Her breasts bobbed free, their large pink nipples already stiff with desire, like the stalks of luscious twin fruits. Andreas groaned, longing to reach out and touch them, taste them; but she smiled and shook her head. She must be naked first.

  The skirt yielded at last and slid to the floor. Mara kicked off her shoes and stood before him in her glorious nakedness.

  ‘Got to have you, got to have you . . .’ moaned Andreas, very quietly, for fear of discovery.

  Mara put her finger to her lips.

  ‘Hush,’ she whispered. ‘Someone might hear.’

  And she silenced him by pulling his face down to the level of her breasts and filling his eager mouth with a hard, pink nipple. His hands roamed over the surface of her breasts, delightedly, as though rediscovering a lost land of pleasure and plenty. They were not Andreas’s hands but it was Andreas’s touch upon her flesh.

  There was no mistaking the firm gentleness of those fingers upon her breasts, or the exquisite sensitivity with which he sucked at her nipple. Mara slid her hand down Andreas’s belly. It seemed strange to stroke this unknown flesh, and yet to sense that somehow, inexplicably, it housed the spirit of her lover.

  She teased his pubic curls for a little while, determined not to give in and touch his shaft until she had brought him to the very summit of desire. He groaned quietly as she teased his balls with the very tip of her fingernail, running it oh-so-lightly across the surface of the goose-pimpled flesh, and making it tense in accustomed readiness.

  Andreas, too, wanted to explore. He was beginning to learn the skill of this borrowed body. Carefully, he let his right hand drop down and stroke Mara’s beautiful flat belly, her tuft of glossy black curls.

  She shuffled her feet apart to let him in and he delved into the very heart of her womanhood. Her inner thighs were warm and moist, as he knew they would be. He ran a finger over her pubic curls and rejoiced to feel the slippery juices that hung like dewdrops on an exotic flower.

  Her cunt was dripping wet. Parting the outer lips with his finger, Andreas dived into the ocean of her womanhood, sighing with pleasure at the remembrance of her wonderful taste, her own intimate fragrance . . .

  He was almost sobbing with desire now, his finger in Mara’s cunt and his thumb teasing her clitoris into throbbing wakefulness.

  Mara seemed to sense his desperation and sank to her knees in front of him, taking him into her mouth. He could hardly suppress a cry of mingled anguish and joy as her lips closed around his shaft, and he knew for the first time how much he had missed her. His fingers toyed with her breasts as she sucked him off, greedily now, forgetting how she had wanted to make it last.

  He couldn’t hold back any longer. The sperm was rising in his shaft, it was going to spurt out and it would all be over . . . no, no, please . . .

  As though sensing his anguish, Mara stopped sucking his prick and looked up at him questioningly.

  ‘Would you like to fuck me now?’ she whispered.

  She knew that she need hardly wait for his answer, and indeed she was already lying down on the polished parquet floor, her legs spread wide for him and her black-fringed moistness gaping wide.

  He lay down upon her, his borrowed penis searching desperately for her. But she had to take his shaft in her hand and guide it herself to her tight, wet cunt. Andreas gave a groan of delight as his hardness slid smoothly into her.

  They fucked not desperately, but luxuriously, suddenly oblivious of the danger, the shortness of time, the fear. Mara had the curious sensation that she was fucking two men at once, and this heightened her desire to such an extent that she climaxed within seconds of his entering her.

  He rode her to a second climax, and poured out his tribute as her cunt opened and closed in a series of delicious spasms.

  Almost as the last waves of pleasure ebbed away, Andreas felt the familiar pain surge through him and darkness closed in at the edges of his world.

  ‘Mara . . . don’t leave me; don’t let go . . .’

  The words gasped from him as blackness tore him from her sight and returned him to his captivity.

  Mara pushed the unconscious body of the guard away from her and onto the floor. She had shared the moment of pain and loss as Andreas’s spirit was torn from its body and knew now that the guard had been nothing more than a temporary host.

  And yet, Andreas’s spirit must still be within the walls of Winterbourne, perhaps disembodied and aimless; or even within some other host. She sensed its presence all around her but the vibrations were coming most strongly from beneath her feet.

  She must brave the cellars once again.

  No one saw her and no one stopped her. It was easy to find the secret panel and step into the darkness of the magicians’ workshop. Gratefully, she saw that the lantern was still there and she switched it on, illuminating the dusty darkness with a dull, orange glow.

  Immediately, her heart sank. The hole which had been knocked through to the cellars had evidently been bricked up again, for only a blank wall greeted her. The job had been skilfully done and it was impossible to see exactly where the doorway had been. An old carved oak cupboard had been pushed in front of it and had been made to look as if it had always been there. Clearly the Master was anxious to hide something down there in the cellars. But what?

  She laid the Phallus in its box on the ground and, without much hope in her heart, Mara set about trying to move the cupboard. It was heavy and took all her strength to slide it across until it was a couple of feet forward of the wall and she could slip behind it.

  The wall had been smoothly replastered. There was no sign of any way into the cellars. She was far too weak to attempt to batter down the wall. It looked very much as if she would have to give up and leave.

  At that moment, Mara heard a high-pitched, almost electrical whine, and turned round to see what was causing it. The painted wooden box which held the Phallus was glowing with the same green phosphorescence which had proved so destructive at Burzenheim, and Mara feared that the Phallus was about to use its power to destroy her.

  But, as she watched, Mara realised that something quite different was happening. The high-pitched whine grew louder and more distinct and the wall in front of Mara began to glow a faint green. As she looked on in astonishment, it grew strangely transparent.

  Picking up the box and the lantern, Mara knew what she must do. She stepped towards the wall and – wi
th only the slightest feeling of resistance – felt herself walk straight through it. When she turned and looked back, the wall behind her glowed like liquid green glass.

  The cellar lay before her, a dark, inhospitable, featureless place in which a thick layer of dust lay over everything. It could not quite obscure the dried blood-stains on the floor and walls, nor the outline of a pentacle, deeply engraved into the cellar floor.

  Memories crowded unbidden into her head. She realised with horror that she was standing on the very spot where the dagger had robbed Andreas of life, her heels grinding into the dried blood that had once pumped through that savagely butchered heart.

  But another feeling was enveloping her now. A feeling of welcome, of protection, of joy even. She realised with a start that she could feel Andreas’s spirit all around her. It felt as though a thousand hands were running wonderingly over her flesh, exploring her, worshipping her body and drawing her closer in.

  ‘You’ve come at last . . .’

  The words echoed silently through Mara’s brain. Andreas was speaking to her, communicating with her with the power of his own mind!

  ‘Come to me . . . I’m very near. Come to me . . . I want you, Mara . . .’

  An overwhelming surge of sexual desire hit her, like a surf-crested wave breaking on a tropical shore, warming her, awakening her body once again. Andreas was making love to her with his mind . . .

  She looked around her and saw a dusty chair and, beside it, a long-handled whip. She knew immediately what Andreas wanted her to do. Sitting down on the chair, she picked up the whip and turned it round so that its handle pointed towards her cunt.

  ‘Want you, Mara . . .’

  With an almost religious reverence, Mara thrust the handle of the whip into her cunt. It slipped in easily, for the guard’s semen was still trickling out from between her cunt-lips. She unfastened a few buttons on her blouse, and slipped her hand inside, cupping her right breast and pinching her nipple between thumb and finger.

  Slowly, she began to wank herself with the whip. But she was not masturbating. It was not the handle of a dusty bullwhip that was entering her slippery cunt but Andreas Hunt’s penis – long and thick and virile, just as she remembered it. Andreas Hunt’s gloriously randy, ever-hungry prick.