Season 1, Episode 1
Written by Tof Eklund
Read by Tawn Krakowski
She wandered the woods in the mist, tense and weary. The low, clinging fog about her matched the torn-cobweb fuzziness of her thoughts. Her heart was slow and heavy with concern even as her skin prickled nervously and her ears twitched at every noise. At times like this, being alone didn’t help, but company inevitably made things worse. A breeze wafted her full, ankle-length skirt about her legs, stirring the midnight fabric and the pale fog alike.
Passing under the canopy of a towering cypress, she saw the remains of an even older tree, one out of place in this near-jungle. It was the weather-worn stump of an old dead oak, its trunk and branches long gone. It didn’t belong here, but the fact that it was out of place suited her mood. As she approached the stump, its true size became apparent: more than twenty hands across, and taller than she was in places. The inside of the trunk had been hollowed out and the bottom was littered with recently fallen leaves. A gap in the canopy above let the late afternoon light in, which twinkled red and yellow upon the leaf litter. It looked very comfortable and so, after checking the leafy bed for bugs, she lay down, stretching her legs out and resting her head on a curl of ancient root.
The air was cool but the sun was warm. The bole of the worn stump broke the wind, and the leafy hollow was indeed comfortable, the faintest sound of pipes floated on the breeze as she drifted off to sleep. One kind of dream sifted into another and she awoke gently to the sound of a voice like rustling leaves.
“Who wakes me from my sleep?” it whispered in her ear.
It should have been strange, even frightening to have a stranger so near, but although she could not remember hearing the voice before, it sounded familiar, comfortable, and well-worn, like old shoes.
With a yawn, she opened her eyes to see that the root she had rested her head upon was actually a large, nut-brown arm, densely muscled and covered in curls of deep umber hair, and the bole of the trunk that had sheltered her from the wind was actually a pair of legs like those of a goat but much larger. Large hands, strong but delicate, the same nut-brown color, came to rest upon her knees.
“Why do you rouse me, pretty one?” came the voice again, but it did not sound upset, being instead a low, warm, curious rumble, that reverberated through her body. She realized that she’d been lying on the speaker’s chest, as he moved under her. Rather than rise, she stretched toward the source of the sound, the crown of her head brushing against a beard that felt at first like Spanish moss.
She turned and nuzzled against the bare, sun-warmed chest that supported her, and his strong arms wrapped around her, holding her close. He felt familiar, something long known and somehow forgotten. He ran his fingers through her hair, effortlessly detangling it and brushing out the leaf litter. He caressed her cheek and she kissed the palm of his hand. With a firm, steady touch, he massaging her shoulders, working slowly down to stoke her sides and belly before kneading her tired thighs. Even through her blouse and skirt, each touch left a soothing warmth. She spread her legs and sighed, a sound halfway between drowsy contentment and heated desire.
His hands became bolder, massaging her inner thighs until she started to squirm, her hips bucking once, twice, as she sighed again. His hands rose, lifting her shirt and sliding underneath to trace patterns on her belly and up her chest. Fingers traced spirals around her breasts, closer to her straining, erect nipples with every round. When those fingertips finally brushed her nipples, her back arched and she made a low noise in her throat. His hands slid back down her sides and stopped at her waist to untie the knot that held her skirt up. She raised her hips to help him slide it off.
As she lowered herself back down, something hard and hot pressed up between her legs. There, pressing against her thigh, was an impressive cock, long and particularly thick, dark brown up to the foreskin, which was lighter and shot through with veins. A word came to her lips, a word for a myth, and it escaped as a sigh.
“Yes, young one,” the low voice rumbled, “you have roused a satyr.”
“Ah, all the world is young to you.”
“I know not the age of the world, but I know beauty when it flowers before me.”
He caressed her now-bare legs, running his fingers up her inner thighs and she clamped them together, trapping his hands and pressing his erection up against her wet slit. He made a low rumbling noise, like the sound of a distant earthquake, and the tip of his shaft moistened. He then slid his hands free, pressing the one to her breast and catching her nipple between his fingertips, while the other tangled in the curls of her pubic hair. He began to make small circles with both hands.
She gulped in air, then gasped it back out, warm comfort and sudden shocks of pleasure coursing through her. Her thighs pressed tight against the satyr’s cock and her hips thrust as she ground her slit against that hard, hot length.
“Please,” she moaned.
“Yes, pretty one?”
“I want it, I want that glorious cock in my cunny.”
The satyr placed his hand on her hips, before effortlessly lifting her. He shifted to a sitting position, his goat’s legs crossed, then slowly lowered her down onto the girth of his cock. As he entered her, she gasped. She felt him stretch her—it was almost too much, almost, and she writhed and moaned, as he slowly pressed deeper into her.
He began to thrust, and she pressed against him in counter-time. They swayed and groaned together, she sweating with exertion, he creaking like a tree lashed by thunder and gale.
Sleep long gone, the gossamer cobwebs in her mind were blown away by a nearly intolerable sensation of pleasure and pressure as the satyr picked up the pace. She heard herself gasping at a distance. There was a sudden fury of quick thrusts and then the satyr’s cock pressed deep into her and stayed there, driving her to the brink of orgasm. She felt the satyr come, felt him jerk inside her, heard his long, low sigh of release.
She was still there, one breath away from glory or disappointment, when the Satyr’s fingers began to stroke around the pearl of her sex. The satyr played her clitoris with the skill and confidence of an artisan. She felt her cunt contract around his shaft and it, still deep and hard inside her, anchored her as she thrummed like a lute string, as she rose like a hawk, as she shone like a sun, as the orgasm took her and she screamed out her fierce joy.
Afterwards, she slumped against him, and he slid his slick and still-rigid member out of her, and they lay in the sticky drizzle of their commingled fluids.
“Ah, pretty one,” the voice rumbled, “thank you for rousing me from dire sleep.”
“Well met,” she replied muzzily, “you roused me too.”
“What is your name, fair maiden?”
“Agata, and if I’m a maiden, you’re a sawhorse.”
She nestled into his chest and fell asleep.
When she awoke, the light was dim and red-orange fading to indigo, the last gleam of sunset, with the gibbous moon already visible in the sky. She’d overslept, and dreamt overmuch, but she was lucky: it was going to be a warm night after all, one of the last of the year. She straightened her blouse and tried to pull her skirt back up, but it caught on something.
She looked down and inhaled sharply—there, between her legs, rising up out of the decayed wood and leaf litter, was an oak sapling, young but robust. Its leaves were a deep green, incongruous amidst all the fall colors, and its trunk was bedewed with sap. She stood up, and felt something sticky high on her inner thigh. More sap.
“Sap,” she said, tasting the word. “Ha!”
She smiled to herself and hummed a tavern song (whose words were too dirty to sing aloud) as she walked back. The night lay thick and warm around her, like a blanket. She had a thing or two to tell the Council.
© 2012 Copyright Tof Eklund
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