Year of the Inner Goddess

August 2024 – Audio Version

He seized her as she passed between two red oaks, crushing her lithe figure against the trunk of the nearest tree.

His despotic lips quickly stifled the Nymph’s cry of surprise as he claimed her struggling form. Ruthless hands clutched at her svelte body, barring her escape, as he pinned his astonishing physique on her. Her eyes wide, the Wood Nymph’s cry melted into a diminutive moan of meager surrender as his lips found the erogenous curve of her neck in subjugate conquest. The Wood Nymph ceased her pointless wrestling in his stalwart arms. The hypnotic notes from his enchanted reed flute had charmed her to the wooded lake, seducing her senses and lulling her into sweet capitulation.

The Nymph felt lightheaded by the unexpected ambush. She had been running towards the source of the ethereal music when she was abruptly accosted. Now, under his amorous spell, she wasn’t sure she minded. Satyrs were always chasing the Nymphs but rarely catching their prey. However, the things this Satyr was making her feel, his ravenous hands exploring her body through her chiffon gown, his indecent lips that were everywhere at once, and the broad hips with the iron rod between was grinding against her. How could she resist? The Nymph began to wonder why she and her sisters were perpetually running from the goat men. Or was this one particularly noteworthy? Her rebellious body said, yes!

Catching in the coarse goat hair of his legs in his possessive succor, the gossamer hem of her cobweb gown was migrating over her hips, exposing them to the cool evening air. It was of little consequence as the Satyr’s ardent lips found her collarbone, and upon discovering the strap of her gown, he used his teeth to drag it off her shoulder. The Nymph correctly doubted her garments would remain on her body very much longer. 

Carnal heat flared within her core. Wrapping one leg around his coarse hip, arms responsively intertwined about his sculpted chest. The Nymph delighted in this closer contact, massaging her intimate against his granite experimentally. The iron rubbed the growing ache just between her thighs in such a way the Nymph quickly abandoned all thoughts of escape and angled her hips to grind harder against the Satyr. 

The undulating action was not lost on the wicked Satyr. His broad hands thudded on her slim shoulders, pushing downward. She peered up at him, her shifting hazel eyes full of questions, not comprehending his intentions. 

“On your knees.” He commanded imperially. There was no space for whimsical romance in his baritone.

Her joints buckled and bent in prompt obedience. Obtaining her first sight of the glory that had been worrying her apex, her mouth watered. With its bulging crown, the straining rod had the Nymph mentally reviewing her oral skills. How much of his substantial length could she take into the recesses of her throat? Her cherry lips, already moist from his obscene claiming, parted as she guided the iron, inch by inch, into her throat. 

The Satyr restrained himself with Herculean difficulty, giving the Nymph a moment to lick and explore his eager glory and then acclimate her throat to his size at her leisure. One of her thin hands was wrapped in an unyielding ring around the base of his girth, while the other circled his body and clutched the back of his muscular thigh, clearly enjoying her ministrations. The Satyr’s eyes rolled back, and he tilted his chin to the darkening heavens, his breath becoming labored. 

Unable to curb his lust any longer and relishing the compact sleeve of her mouth, he repeatedly rammed his hips into her face, forcing his rotund crown to new depths down her gullet. Fixated on catching her breath between the fraught bombardment invading her narrow throat, the Nymph was oblivious to the shaggy hair of his legs rough against her cheek and the growing dampness on her thighs as she knelt before him on the rich earth. 

Thick fingers tangled in her sapphire hair, the mighty Satyr hauled the ethereal Nymph to her feet. With wicked glee, the Satyr noticed the jarred look on her flushed face and the glint of drool trickling down her chin. The poor thing had no idea what he had in store for her, but she would soon learn. With that devious thought cavorting with his wits, he twisted their bodies around and tossed her backward onto a plush knoll a few feet away. She bounced slightly, but there was no fear or trepidation in her liquid eyes, only challenge. He had coaxed her to his secluded glade and seemingly plucked her out of the air as she ran past; it was time to see just what the muscular Satyr had to offer. 

The Satyr lept on her, his atrocious intentions distinctly written on his bronze face. Parting her legs, the Nymph suppressed a giggle of delight at the aggression. She might be elegant and regal on the outside, but her succuba essence craved fierce assertion. 

With little difficulty, the Satyr entered her hallowed sanctuary. Their joint gasp at their union was a moment of such significance that it silenced the chirping crickets in the shadows. Even the cicadas paused in their high-pitched whine in the branches above. Unspoken, they lay motionless, their connection needing no words, as their bodies adjusted to their amalgamation. His breath, warm and gentle, caressed her slender neck. Her sapphire waves, soft and fragrant, teased his sensitive nose. This was a holy moment, a split second wherein they both lived a thousand lives together. Their very ethos knit together in intimate union so tightly their tether could never be broken. 

By some unspoken agreement, the spell morphed, and the acute need once more permeated every breath and rapid heartbeat. Reckless hands and impetuous lips tore at each other in a desperate, urgent, almost violent attempt to fulfill some inarticulated prerequisite. The pressing compulsion bound them together as if their fabled lives depended on their imprudent actions. 

Rollicking against the mossy knoll like mad hatters, the Nymph began to scream as the Satyr’s prodigious girth orchestrated a climax of such magnitude she feared her already shattering body would be forever altered, unsated by god or mortal. Aided by his digitigrade legs, the Satyr’s impetus, agility, and velocity were unparalleled. The Satyr, a smug smile peeking out one corner of his lips, was merciless. The arduous hunt to capture her was over at last, and he fully intended to leave his prize a mulling puddle devoid of her senses and gossamer chiton. 

Having put the fair Nymph through a plethora of arduous positions on the null, the powerful Satyr was far from sated. To be fair, her sweet nectar was slowly soaking into the mossy earth, and her breath was coming in labored puffs. Nevertheless, he was unsatisfied with their current location. The Satyr grabbed the Nymph from her quadruped orientation, whipping her to a standing posture, and thrust her back against a mature white ash. The Nymph staggered, her eyes a little unfocused from the dizzying swirl of esoteric demands. 

The mischievous Saytr crouched low in front of the breathless Nymph, his curling horns at her midriff somehow managed to glint with roguish devilry. Postulating he intended to dine on her dewy slit, she parted her damp, trembling legs in invitation. The Saytr gripped under her thighs, but not quite in the manner the mystified Nymph expected. The great callous palms pressed to the back of her thighs and rather garishly on the curve of her derriere. In a feat of strength, the robust Saytr hoisted the aghast Nymph high into the air until her legs rested on the Saytr’s vast shoulders! Her tickled squeal of surprise quickly metamorphosed into a groan as the Saytr’s precocious tongue wasted no time dining on her succulent pearl. She had been partially correct. The Saytr was devouring her nectar, yet who could have predicted it would be such an exhilarating and spectacular height! 

With nothing to grip, no tousled bed linens or high branches to cling to, her manicured nails savagely bit into the flesh of the Saytr’s naked shoulders as she fought to maintain her balance and yield to the worshipping tongue. She did not muse on the precarious height of her position. Lost in the exuberant attention being administered, the Nymph did not feel the hard bark of the tree trunk digging into the ladder of her back. She did not question how she would transition to a safer arrangement. The petite Nymph’s only regard was surviving the catastrophic crest of each greedy orgasm. 

His face grew slick with her honeyed nectar, and feral need simmered in his dark eyes. Keeping the convulsing Nymph aloft, the Saytr took two steps backward, pivoted, and strode to a secluded glade to his bower nestled beneath the branches of an ancient oak. The structure was covered in heavy carmine curtains, ensuring their privacy and security, obstructing the setting sun’s intrusive rays and the spying eyes of curious wanders. It gave the space a sacred aura. Around the enchanted outskirts, the trunks of the surrounding trees began to darken, yet their leaves shimmered with a golden light in the evening glow. Inside, spread with linens of soft silver and overlaid with a stately violet coverlet, the luxurious pallet patiently awaited their arrival.

The Saytr transitioned the Nymph, laying her on the plush pallet with regal grace and effortless gentleness. The Saytr grinned at the Nymph’s bewildered look. If the skittish nymphs were not so stubbornly set on fleeing at the sight of his brethren, they might discover what consummate lovers the troupe of satyrs could be!

Notwithstanding, his vitality was palpable, his stamina unmatched. The Saytr did not wait for an invitation before thrusting inside the recovering Nymph. Her ruby lips parted in a cry, half elation, half pain, as her slender waist elevated off the mattress. The delicate curtains of her slit were tender and swollen from the earlier barbaric treatment. Her fingers reflexively curled around the linens as if gripping a tether for dear life. The keen eyes of the rampaging beast did not miss the visual declaration of the Saytr’s viral perversion. The sight of the Nymph succumbing to her covetous lust and at his hands provoked the Saytr to an unholy madness. Compounding his onslaught, he slammed his glory deeper into the Nymph, invading beyond her inner gate, causing only the whites of her hazel eyes to show and her shrieks to rise as a sacrilegious offering.

The combination of the Saytr’s demanding force on her body and soul triggered every nerve and rigidify the muscles of her body, working the incognizant Nymph into near hysteria under the infinite waves of her orgasms. She alternately clung to the fine bedding, and when that was insufficient for her thrashing body, she adhered her naked form to the Saytr’s, her arms wound around him. Subconsciously, the Nymph could feel the rippling, straining muscles being taxed beneath his bronzed skin. Below, the rough goat hair scratched at her milky legs, yet even this discomfort reinforced the intemperate tenor of their affair. Rashly, the Nymph tightened her willowy legs about him, angling her hips and subsequently intensifying the reach of the indomitable glory wreaking havoc on her maidenhood. 

The Nymph’s alteration was their ruin. The Saytr’s eyes glazed over, his desires intensified, and his pants grew sonorous, even ferial, causing a sliver of fear to run through the Nymph and the hair on her arms to stand at alert. In her desperation, she yearned to visually attune to the wild Saytr, to understand his passion, but under the echos of her own distress and reverberating orgasms, the Nymph was unable to open her clenched eyes. 

Instead, she leaned into the fire of their passion and welcomed it, allowing the flames of need, desire, and gratification to engulf her immortal essence. Her soul screamed in triumphant victory as she embraced the fire of her inner conflict. The Nymph no longer felt the mushrooming barrage ramming her, the Satyr’s fierce grip about her waist as he burgeoned within her, nor the ache of her white, clenched muscles. Her mind was free, soaring in her surrender.

The Satyr, his capriform legs unsteady, lay on top of her, the weight of his heaving torse resting against her bosom as he panted in sublime conquest. His vision swam with the magnitude of their inexpressible moment. Gods, he needed that. How long had it been? Weeks? Months?

As if sensing his pondering, the Nymph below him giggled. The vibrations against his cheek made him smile down at her in delight. The Nymph returned a beaming gaze, partly at the musing look on the Satyr’s face and a little at the sheer spectacle they must make. A depleted Satyr, sapped of his zeal atop a limp, tousled Nymph, the fresh lines about them thoroughly ruined and soaked in the Nymph’s nectar. They lay unmoving as lovers entwined in a reverent bond that transcended their mere physical forms.  

Feeling lightheaded and unsteady from their passionate encounter, the Nymph was a picture of vulnerability. She blushed at the sight of his ruined bedding, her cheeks crimson with embarrassment. All the Satyr’s hard work in preparation had been undone in the space of an hour, and she felt a pang of chagrin. The Satyr, a pillar of calm composure, thought nothing of the mess, pulling her into the safety of his arms until she forgot about all else, her cheek neatly tucked over his beating heart. 

Later, they lay together, entombed under fresh silk sheets. The Nymph, her heart glowing with an ethereal incandescence, closed her eyes, her breath as light as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings as she surrendered to sleep in her lover’s arms. Like a delicate flower, her body drooped in Satyr’s embrace, her breathing slowing to his rhythm. The Satyr smiled and nestled her graceful form a little closer, spooning his body protectively about her inert form. The fingers of the arm, not resting beneath her head, brushed an errant curl away from her luminance cheek. The Satyr nuzzled her neck, ignoring the tickling of her sapphire halo as he inhaled her scent of vanilla and cherry blossoms. She was his at last, and he would do everything in his power to ensure it stayed that way until his last breath. The Satyr, overwhelmed by the depth of his love and abiding devotion, meditated on the profound emotions swelling his heart to overflowing before he, too, drifted off into well-deserved sleep.

Until next time, XO. Elsie