The whip was made from strands of pliable hide plaited together and studded with animal teeth to give it a deadlier sting. Delgado flinched as she swung it down upon him, unable to cry out for she had gagged him with a strip of leopard-skin, tied tight across his mouth.
She whipped his belly and his chest, carefully directing the lash so that it fell just short of his penis, its tip just gently stinging his balls. He rolled about in a delirium of pain and pleasure, fearing he would spunk off before she had even ridden him. How he longed to feel his semen jetting out and into the welcoming belly of this hot little jungle-cat.
He need not have worried; for as soon as she was satisfied with the welts she had raised on his skin, Geena pulled up her leopard-skin, revealing powerful thighs and a shaven pubis. Delgado was crazily excited by this sight of her bare cunt-lips, marking the shameless entrance to her palace of pleasure. If only his hands were free and he could reach out and thrust his fingers into that divine wetness . . .
She pulled apart her cunt-lips, the better to display to him the delights within. He groaned quietly as she gradually slid first one, then two fingers into her tight hole, stretching the flesh, showing him how difficult it would be to penetrate her, for she was so, so tight . . .
Grinning, she pulled back the little pink hood which hid her clitoris, and the hard button of flesh sprang into view, engorged with blood and eager for the fray. She began to sing to herself – some barbarous jungle song – whilst she rubbed on her clitoris; and Delgado moaned as he saw the juices collect at the entrance to her vagina and begin to trickle down her leg.
At last she took pity on him and straddled him with her powerful thighs. Taking the knife from her thigh-strap, she slit the gag and he began to babble nonsense, desperate to feel the silken warmth of her flesh around his.
She silenced him by bending forwards and thrusting her bare nipple into his mouth; and whilst he was thus occupied, she took the opportunity to seize his penis and guide it into her hole. It was a tight fit, but with one mighty thrust of her powerful hips she took him deep inside her.
The thunder outside the windows joined with him in a great roar of pleasure and the whole world seemed to tremble as Geena rode her captive to orgasm.
Delgado felt the sperm rising, and thrust harder with his hips to bring Geena off with him. As she fell forward in orgasm, she caught sight of the crystal ring and the light from its many facets seemed to hypnotise her.
‘Do it, Geena!’ cried Delgado. ‘Bite into my throat, give me that one, last pleasure . . . Think of the exquisite taste of my warm blood, gushing into your mouth, gulping down your throat, trickling down your chin . . .’
She seemed to struggle for a moment, as though fighting back the urge. But the scent of fresh blood filled her mind and, with a ferocious growl, she bared her teeth.
Just as she bent to kiss his throat, a terrible flash of lightning struck the conservatory, shattering the glass and sending a gale-force wind swirling around, ripping the leaves from the plants, making the birds shriek with terror and flee for shelter.
The second fork of lightning hit home only feet away from the metal pillar to which Delgado was tied. Geena forgot her bloodlust and leapt back in alarm. Delgado tried to wriggle free, but to no avail.
‘Cut the bonds, Geena! Cut me free, I command you!’
But Geena simply threw her head back and laughed, oblivious to the lightning fizzing and crackling around her.
As lightning struck the pillar, it seemed to Delgado that the entire world was pain – nothing more and nothing less. His last thoughts framed a curse – a curse on the greed that had brought him to this terrible fate – as the fireball flamed out from the crystal ring and engulfed him, consuming him and purifying him of all his unclean desires.
Rain drove into the conservatory through the broken windows and fell silently upon the blackened shell that had once been a man.
Only the crystal ring remained untouched: a ring of sparkling white light upon Delgado’s charred finger.
No one thought to look for Delgado until the following morning, when they found his charred body, still chained to the pillar, and the body of the whore Geena beside him. The woman’s body was strangely unmarked but her face was a mask of sheer terror.
A freak accident, obviously. And a tragic loss to Winterbourne. But, after all, a whore is just a whore; and Delgado’s death would not linger long in the memory.
There was, however, one intriguing fact which no one could quite explain. For some reason, there was a single band of perfect, white, untouched flesh about the third finger of Delgado’s left hand: the only flesh on his body that had not been charred by the fire. Only a ring could have protected his flesh from the lightning.
But if he had ever worn a ring, there was no sign of it now.
19: Rebirth
Mara screamed as the Master approached her, the light of triumph in his eyes.
‘A fitting end for you, my sweet,’ he hissed. ‘A fitting end for one so meddlesome and so beautiful.’
She tried to kick out, to fight him off, but Heimdal and Geoffrey held her thighs apart, preventing her from evading his terrifying desires. The vampire-woman Anastasia looked on, a secret smile playing about her lips as though she felt a very special hatred for this young witch-woman whose pursuit had so preoccupied her beloved Master.
‘You cannot . . . You cannot use the Phallus on me!’ she gasped, as she felt the Master’s fingers opening up the flower of her womanhood, ready to pierce and violate her. ‘It has protected me! It will not harm me . . .’
The Master sighed and shook his head.
‘Poor, misguided child,’ he replied. ‘The Phallus will protect only the one who has the power to possess it. All others, it will destroy. Since my powers are infinitely greater than your second-rate talents, it will now protect me and destroy you. What could be more natural and more logical than that?
‘Farewell, Mara Fleming. In death, your body will be infinitely more beautiful and more useful than it was in its miserable life. Your insignificant death shall restore glorious life to my Queen.’
The Phallus entered her like a burning brand, searing her delicate flesh and making her cry out with the terrible, delicious pain of it. The Master’s finger was on her clitoris, rubbing it, making it swell in spite of her terror and pain.
She realised, in the midst of her confusion, that she was more excited than she had ever been before in her life. She yearned to be penetrated and violated and fucked by this inhuman, disembodied penis, whose fiery-cold and ancient power was seeping into her, making her tremble with the anticipation of unholy, unearthly pleasure.
Mara felt the juices flowing from her cunt, moistening her cunt-lips; and a single tear-drop of cunt-juice was trickling down the inside of her thigh. The walls of her cunt were pulsating gently, in anticipation of her orgasm. Their taut velvet rings tightened gently about the monstrous shaft of the Phallus, and she began to moan quietly, knowing that she was lost – now and for ever.
The Master’s triumphant gaze was burning into her and she was unable to turn away, was forced to look deep into those pitiless eyes. As she watched, a picture began to form behind those eyes. The figure of a woman – very tiny and very distant. But she was walking towards Mara, getting larger and more distinct with each step she took. Her slender nakedness glistened, her tanned flesh smoothed with a thin film of oil, and she was running her hands lasciviously over the taut flesh of her firm but heavy breasts.
She spoke, and there was a bitter irony in her voice, in the curl of her full red lips, in the glint of her large, violet eyes.
‘Mara, sweet child. So very like me, and yet so unlike. Did you think that the Phallus could harm me, that in killing my body my immortal soul would also be destroyed? Did you perhaps think that you might take up the place which is rightfully mine, at the right hand of my beloved Master? How fitting that your frail and unworthy goodness should be made whole and powerful by the Master’s grace.<
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‘Mara – I shall utterly destroy your pitiful little soul, but your body shall live on for ever, ennobled by the beauty of sublime evil. This, child, is a far greater immortality than you deserve. Take comfort in that thought as I end your miserable life.’
As Mara watched, helpless, the figure of the Queen seemed to come nearer, seemed no longer to be contained within the compass of the Master’s burning gaze. She unfastened her crystal collar and Mara clearly saw the two little white scars on the side of her throat.
As she stepped forward from within the encircling tongues of flame, Mara saw that from the dense black hair at the base of her belly protruded a bizarre limb of flesh: the greenish-black Phallus, with two massive, blackened testicles hanging obscenely between her thighs.
Mara screamed, but it was too late. And no one who heard had any intention of helping her. The Queen’s death-cold, encircling arms were already about her, suffocating the life from her body; and the Phallus was thrusting into her, again and again. And with each thrust, her orgasm grew nearer; and a little more of her soul drained away, until at last it seemed that she was no more than a shadow, clinging on to life with the last of its strength.
A final thrust brought her to orgasm and her cunt contracted in a long series of delicious spasms. She cried out her ecstasy and terror as the life was wrenched from her body, and her soul was cast out into the void.
‘Andreas . . .!’
The darkness lasted for a long time. Darkness and silence that were not quite oblivions. It seemed to go on for ever. Was she dead?
And then she saw it, coming towards her from out of the blackness. A scaly, snake-like monster with the face of a woman. The face of Anastasia Dubois. The woman’s mouth opened, to reveal wicked fangs, dripping venom, and she hissed and lunged at Mara, evidently bent on killing her.
The serpent had short forelegs covered with iridescent scales – blue, red, green, violet . . . The colours flashed and gleamed as the monster reared up and tried to slash Mara’s throat with its wickedly curved claws, crystal-clear and sharp as daggers.
Mara looked for a way of escape, but all around her was blackness. She knew that if she turned and ran, she would be running towards certain death and destruction. What was she to do?
A voice, clear and strong, spoke from behind her.
‘Use me, Mara. Use my strength.’
It was the voice of Andreas Hunt. She turned, but there was no one there. On the ground beside her lay a dagger – pure, white crystal, with an engraved silver hilt. She bent and picked it up, ducking swiftly to avoid the swipe of the snake-woman’s talons.
And Mara lunged at the monster’s throat, slitting it from ear to ear. The blood that poured out was not the crimson of life, but a foetid, greenish-black liquid whose stench made Mara’s head reel.
The monster slumped to the ground, and a great magnesium-flare of white light burst around her, annihilating the darkness and dazzling her so that she no longer knew who or where she was. The ground began to tremble beneath her feet; cracks appeared, and she stumbled, falling onto her hands and knees.
The earth yawned wide, like the maw of a ravening beast, and she fell, fell, fell into the heart of the burning white light.
When she opened her eyes, she was back in the tomb. But something was different, very different. She looked down at her body and saw that she was wearing the clothes of Anastasia Dubois – the same red shoes, short white skirt . . . even the same bracelet: a gold circlet depicting a snake with its tail in its mouth.
And she looked across at the pale figure, still chained to the wall; and realised that she was gazing at the dead body of Mara Fleming, a greenish fluid oozing from her cunt and the Phallus still lying between her thighs.
If that was Mara Fleming, who was she? Who had she become?
She felt a hand on her shoulder and found herself looking into the concerned face of Heimdal.
‘Are you all right, Anastasia? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’
She nodded silently, only too sure now of the role that she must play. And she must be word-perfect – or die. The pain of realisation hit her like an express train. Her body was dead. Somehow, in the void between life and death, her spirit had overcome that of the vampire-woman Anastasia Dubois; and now she had taken possession of her body.
Would she now also become a vampire, forced to feed on sexual energies and the blood of innocents?
The Master was stroking the face of the dead Mara Fleming, intoning soft and gentle words, in a language she could not understand. He removed the Phallus and hastened to unlock the manacles about the dead girl’s wrists.
The dead lips were moving soundlessly. Colour was coming back to the pallid face, animating the bloodless limbs.
The eyelids flickered open, violet eyes glinting with the cold, hard light of evil. The full red lips curled into a smile and Sedet, Queen of the Undead, spoke once again:
‘My Master and my eternal lord,’ she sighed, pressing her lips to his in a joyful kiss. ‘At last you have found me, released me, summoned me to your side.’
The Master took her hands and helped her to her feet, steadying her in her weakness.
‘See with what joy your subjects greet you!’ he cried, and Geoffrey and Heimdal fell to their knees, Mara following suit for fear of discovery. He turned to them and commanded:
‘Celebrate the rebirth of your Queen. Fuck, my children: fuck and deny all that is good and contemptibly frail and mortal. Fuck, so that the energies of your copulation may strengthen and refresh your Queen.’
Mara scarcely knew what to do, but Geoffrey and Heimdal made her decision for her. They tore at her clothes, rending the fabric and stripping her down to her pale yellow silk bra and French knickers. Not even bothering to take off her underwear, Geoffrey reached into her bra-cups and roughly pulled out her breasts so that they hung over the top. He bit into the flesh, making Mara gasp and flinch.
In a moment, they had laid her down on the cool stone floor, amid the dust of ages. Geoffrey unzipped his pants and straddled Mara’s chest, his thighs and arse pressing down hard upon her martyred breasts and his weight almost squeezing all the breath out of her. He took out his prick, supporting Mara’s head in his hands and thrusting his hardness between her lips. He tasted strong, potent, the flesh of his prick strangely cool and inhuman. But wasn’t she inhuman now, too . . .?
Heimdal did not even think to take off her panties. Instead, he unbuttoned his flies and, taking out his magnificent penis, simply pulled aside the gusset of her French knickers. Mara knew that she must not resist. She must seem to be enjoying this as much as Anastasia would have enjoyed it. With terror in her heart, she sucked at Geoffrey’s cock and spread her legs wide to let Heimdal into her cunt.
Two men were fucking her. Or were they fucking Anastasia Dubois? Tears glistened between Mara’s closed eyelids as she experienced the bittersweet pleasure of copulating within the body of another woman.
It felt so strange, to have a different cunt throbbing and pulsating around Heimdal’s shaft; different breasts, the long, pink nipples hard and eager against Geoffrey’s thighs; different lips, closed so tightly around Geoffrey’s eager prick.
She came, and as her body convulsed with pleasure she felt Heimdal’s spunk jetting into her tight new womanhood, inundating her with its pearly abundance. Geoffrey was not long in climaxing and she swallowed down his semen with an eagerness that was not entirely feigned.
To her surprise, neither Geoffrey nor Heimdal needed more than a few seconds to recover. Within a minute, they were hard as iron again, and seeking new ways to take their pleasure.
And the strange thing was that she, too, felt more eager than she had ever done for sex. She not only wanted to fuck: she needed to – needed the taste of semen and the feel of a hard prick inside her. Was this more than just desire? Was this the beginning of a terrible need which she would never again be able to control?
Already Heimdal had rolled her onto her bell
y and was exploring the exquisite tightness of her arsehole. She felt the flesh stretch with an undeniable frisson of pleasure.
‘You’re a divine fuck, Anastasia Dubois,’ he breathed in her ear.
The pictures had first distorted, then disappeared. Andreas did not know whether to be distraught or relieved. He had watched in helpless horror as his lover, Mara, was horribly violated with a macabre severed phallus – and at the moment of her greatest agony, the link had gone. The sight had been taken from him.
Something had happened to Mara. Something he couldn’t quite understand. But he knew it was something bad, very bad. He had called out to her to take his hand, to let him help her – but had she heard him? He had no way of knowing. Her terror echoed through the emptiness, reverberating incessantly in his brain.
He lay in a limbo of darkness and frustration, wondering how he was ever going to get out of this mess.
And then a picture began to form again. It was Mara! She was walking towards him, her arms outstretched, in all the glory of her nakedness.
‘Fuck me, Andreas. Fuck me now.’
His spirit entwined with hers, and he felt a wave of tranquil ecstasy surge over him as they were joined together. At the summit of their ecstasy, her face seemed to blur and fade and distort, and he cried out:
‘Don’t leave me . . . not now . . .’
But as her features swam into focus once again, Andreas realised that they were radically changed. He was no longer looking into the face of his lover, Mara Fleming.
He was looking into the face of the vampire woman, Anastasia Dubois.
He tried to push her away but she held onto him with desperate tenacity, her lips framing the same words over and over again, urgently, desperately:
‘It’s me, Andreas! Can’t you see? It’s me, Mara . . .’
The Phallus of Osiris Page 31