Solstice Twas a warm day during the Summer Solstice. The heat enough to cause discomfort but not enough as to harm the fair skin. The nymph was most stressed, and needed to cool and rest. Happening upon a stream, she bathed in the glistening cool water and lingered for a time, enjoying the current caressing her body, moving between her thighs, rippling her supple breasts. Her nerve endings come to life, the electricity coursing through her as the sensations stimulated her nubile form. Not one to partake without a partner, she stepped from the water. Her body glistening with droplets she walked to a nearby clearing in the trees to lay, on her side, upon a bed of soft grass. The beautiful eyes closed, she releases herself and allows the dreams to take over. Her mind opens as her slumber comes. The beast. He has spent his day following the nymph. Following her at a safe distance, watching her ever move, adoring her beauty, longing to consume her. It has been the moons since the Satyr last feasted upon a wench and his urges drive him, causing him to take less care, at times throwing caution to the wind. The Gods have cursed this poor beast. Giving him such all consuming passion and lust that he knows nothing else when the inner spirit takes control. And here, to find this golden haired and fair skinned nymph traveling the woods alone, certainly the Gods have sent her for his pleasure. But then, this is no ordinary Satyr. He lives to give pleasure, as well as to receive. Pleasure is the food for his soul, nourishing him, given him renewed strength and fulfillment. He watched the nymph for a time, while hiding behind the trees. Her exquisite body bathed in the sunlight, her supple breasts swaying softly with each breath. Caution is no longer a thought to him as he carefully abandons his cover and moves around behind her, making little sound of his approach. He stares in sheer amazement at her beauty. Her skin fair, as if it were fresh cream, and most certainly as sweet. The well rounded buttocks, so succulent, the narrow waist a sure handhold while mating, the golden hair, cascading over her shoulders and the bed of grass. To taste of her will surely quench his thirst for at least some few days time. Unknown to him, the nymph does not sleep, she only feigns it. The trap set and the prey not her, but the beast himself. "Poor consumed fool", she thinks, "stricken with such wanton lust that all control is from his reach. I must know if the tale of the Satyr is true, and I pray he is the one I seek. Not a common Satyr, one who shares his passion and gives as he takes". Her body slightly quivering, feeling his gaze as he devours her with his eyes. The peaks of her breasts become taught, "easily blamed on the cool breeze with her damp skin", she tries to reason. But the moisture building within her something not so easily explained. Be it from her thoughts, her dreams, her anticipation, or from the wanton stare of the Satyr, her nectar flows unhindered. building in a luscious pool of sweetness in her inner cavern. "Will he instinctively know the passions that lurk within me? The need for fulfillment that I share with him? That delicate combination of love and passion that is for one soul only, mortal or God? Will I succumb to him willingly, or will my vanity and teachings as a child require that I be taken? I can only pray to the Gods that he will be all knowing or that he can see the signs as I display them for his consumption." The beast's thoughts are in one arena now, his concentration totally upon the nymph. He hears nothing other than her breathing, he smells nothing except her naturally sweet scent, he feels nothing other than the electricity in his flesh as he prepares for his meal of lust, he tastes nothing but the thought of her nectar filling his mouth as it quenches his thirst as only the nectar of a nymph can. He lowers his body to the grass, sliding across it slowly, mere inches separate the beast from his prey. He can see each pore of her flesh so perfect, the scars of times and battles for virtue long past are a sign of beauty to him. He consumes each minute portion of her with his eyes, remembering for an eternity such exquisite beauty. He moves slower, closer still, so close the hair of his unkept beard grazes her skin lightly and a noticeable tremor in her flesh occurs. Slowly, he moves upward, gazing upon her exposed neck, making mental note of the placement of each follicle of her hair. He kisses her neck so lightly, so gently, as if it is the wind itself. The nymph shudders again, quickly inhaling, almost giving away her conscious state. He notices the movement but his lust pays it no heed. Trailing downward his soft kiss caresses her shoulders, follows her spine, slowing at her most delectable buttocks. Carefully his tongue protrudes, lightly licking, tasting her flesh to determine it's sweetness. Ahhhh. the flavour so delicate, so natural. As the tremors consume her she fights her urge to grab the beast and beg that he mount her, or, even more unspeakable, that she mount him. Quivering, waiting, barely able to accept the time that is passing. Wishing the beast were less patient yet at the same time praying the sensations will never end. He is adept, moreso than myth or legend gave credence to. Longing to reach between her thighs she decides to accept his ministrations and to stay as motionless as possible. Her mind shouting, "By the Gods! Can he not hasten things and consume my soul? Must this pleasure be so torturous?" No longer able to contain his desire, due to such a great span of time since his last fulfillment, the Satyr abandons all precaution and seizes the nymph turning her onto her back. Seemingly shocked by this assault she screams aloud, but not so loud to go beyond the immediate area. She is coy indeed, careful to make a show of things, but not enough to cause rescue by some puny mortal male with too large an ego. She wishes this moment to come to its natural end. She must know if these myths are true. "Take me" she thinks, "show me that which no legend could begin to describe". The beast thrives on such a battle, not to rape, or to take the unwilling, but to cause the inner will to abandon all misgivings by giving such pleasure that the soul of the prey yields to him, opening, accepting his passion and all else her offers. Quizzically, he notices something so different about this nymph yet is unable to determine the nature of the questionable acts. Losing himself in his passion once again her holds her forearms to the ground, his fur covered thighs pinning hers, his hooves dug deeply into the earth to maintain his position. Her eyes open wide to feign fear, a glare evident as if she is challenging him, he gazes deeply into them, momentarily lost, almost transfixed by the beauty and curiosity of this nymph. There is something so different, so unusual, so exquisite about her. But what can it be? He again ignores his thoughts and releases control to his passion. Leaning down, his nose to her hair, he smells her as she writhes about. The neck fully open to him, so exposed, so vulnerable, it calls to him and he answers, moving lower, licking then gently biting as he explores. Her lips so full, so soft, unlike his own. Her screams only an octave above normal speech intrigue him. He kisses her. at first roughly, then yielding and changing to a passionate, deep, soul searching kiss. One lovers share, not predator and prey. This sensation confuses him and he rises on his hands, legs keeping her pinned to the ground. He stares at her, wondering, what are the secrets this wench holds that causes such feelings in him? Her eyes glazed, she speaks no words, the only sounds filling the air are from their labored breathing. As his gaze openly travels over her he studies each movement as her supple, yet heavy, breasts rise and fall rapidly. the rose peaks taught, lower still her beautiful and soft abdomen quivering. His ego gains charge as he feels the tremors are of fear, not realizing they are from her own excitement. He warns her to lay still, unmoving, or surely the Satyr will devour her slowly, painfully, she will know the meaning of a slow and excruciating death. Her look at these words seems to be one of amusement, not fear. She had never heard tales of one being eaten by a Satyr, but then, who would live to tell such a story? Either way, her goal was not to be a meal, but to enjoy the passions of one so knowing. Feigning fear, her arms relaxed, depicting that she has succumbed to his wishes, unknown to him it was simply another part of her wonderfully decadent plan. A role well played, but his suspicions high, but not so high that he ignores his natural desires. Lost in thought she was taken aback as she felt the warmth of his breath over her right nipple as his mouth lowered to encase it. The sensation most enjoyable, his teeth grasping the aureola gently as his tongue dances over the risen peak. He suckled like a babe, not like many mortals who act as if they are a newborn calf nursing. She closes her eyes and loses herself in the feelings, hoping the beast will believe this act is out of pain or disgust but her loins betray her as her thighs tense and her hips move upward attempting to grind against his heated member that rests between them flaccid, yet full, only partially awakened. Although the Satyr is thought to be totally consumed by passion he is not such a fool as to not notice a movement portraying that his prey has succumbed to him. This wanton wench however, doing so quickly, so unlike the others in his memory. What is so different in her, he continues to asks himself. His passion still rising, his member beginning to throb, he knows he cannot return to rational thought until he has completed the total consumption of his prey. As he stiffens, his length probes between her thighs, still pinned open and held firm by his own. Shifting slightly, he releases his mouths grasp on her right breast only to quickly move to her left to taste and tease and test it's nerves. To determine if it too is as willing as the right. Her hips rise again and he feels his manhood graze her, barely parting the petals of her moisture, the warmth and wetness washing over the tip of his member and causing him to snort gruffly at the most pleasurable sensation. The warmth is incredible and so individual in it's nature. Many times he had taken a nymph of the woods. This, however, the first that has been so moist and warm. The others were awkward and most annoying to be sure. The satisfaction he derived from being with them was short lived and not fulfilling. As she acts the part of the struggling maiden she is careful to roll her rounded hips in a way that causes his now throbbing member to caress her nub, then moves lower again so the top of it enters her quickly, but only partially. They share the heat of each other for a moment and both must fight to ignore the sensations and become lost in its beauty. She enjoys the intrusion immensely, more than she had imagined. The mild pressure against her maidenhead not enough to tear, but sufficient to cause more pleasurable feelings. Hearing her soft, melodious, yet throaty voice as she voiced her willingness to please him the Satyr drew back his head and looked deeply into her eyes. She was clearly in need of release already, much more quickly than others. this was a trait he found to be most favorable. Could her passions come near matching his own? Doubtful, yet willing to explore the possibility further, he listened to her soothing, sensual words as they slid fluidly from her mouth.. her lips pursed sensually as they formed each syllable. Leaning lower, closer, his nostrils flared as he drew in and sampled her natural scent. He enjoyed the way natural compliments had been applied to her. Then, assembling pieces to the puzzle in his mind, the Satyr began to believe she had prepared in advance for this meeting. He began to wonder who was truly the prey..and who the hunter. The turn of thought, the touch of her hand, the softness of her voice, the fresh scents applied to her body. the obvious became clear as the newly polished crystals of the local sorcerer. The Satyr roared loudly voicing his disapproval at such an attempt. So. he thought silently. this nymph feels she can best me does she? He gazed into her eyes once again and smiled, his lips curled back to expose fangs glistening in the natural light. Grasping both wrists and placing them into his massive left hand he held them to the earth above her head. Then, slowly, he leaned to her face and whispered deeply, "You think me to be easy prey it seems. We shall see who cries aloud, begging for release of their pent up passions". his voice almost too confident for her previous security. Then his mouth opened further as his head moved back from her ear. The serpent unfurled, danced before her face, living on its own it seemed. She realized then that it was no myth. As this Satyr's sex grew full and long, so did his tongue. From a distance of at least a foot from her exposed flesh his lead rolled easily about, guiding the tongue in a general direction so that it might complete the motions by curling itself against each hardening nipple of her soft breasts, sliding up her chest and dancing along her throat, slipping higher to lick and play at her mouth and muffling the moans she emitted. The texture of his serpent was incredibly smooth. Where it joined his mouth a normal width, the length straight certainly 16 inches, tapering to a point at the end no more than on half inch wide, she thought of the pleasure it could bring to her being. Reaching down with his free hand his fingers found each dampened, taut nipple.. Tweaking it between thumb and forefinger. lightly grazing it with his long nails.. Tugging it gently until it popped suddenly from his ministrations to return to her chest. He kept mental notes of the way she seemingly enjoyed the light pain of the nipple tugging and continued on. His fingernails were dragged across her right side from her underarm to her waist, then, shifting, he left side was mirrored, a bit awkward but effectively. She moaned and writhed beneath the sensations as her skin cam to life on it's own.any will she had to resist the new methods failing quickly. Raising her wrists he took one in each hand and allowed his tongue to escape again as it wrapped around first her left wrist sliding further down.past her forearm.. Taking his time at the sensitive flesh of the underarm, only to resume the same pattern on her right wrist and terminating lower.. *** Just a taste dear.... *S*.... it seems we have much the same flavor.*** In closing, my lovely nymph, I feel this is sufficient for the time being. One must never reveal all that is to come for then the surprise, the wonder, the enjoyment of the unknown is lost.