To the Victor

BY : EllyGreen
Category: Fairy Tales, Fables, Folklore, Legends, and Myth > Myths
Dragon prints: 6184
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance of characters to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The Author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

The emerald irises of her eyes rolled back into her head at the sensation of his cock thrusting past her slick petals. She had never been so filled. Her ivy-bound braids hung in long ropes, swaying side to side with each pump of the satyr’s coarse-haired thighs. He worked his masculine rod within her tight walls, deeper and deeper with each plunge. His thick, yet surprisingly gentle thumb rested perched on her clit. With each thrust up into her, he pinched and flicked her nub. His gaze widened at the sight of her body undulating under his ministrations.

Sitting atop his lap, she bounced, her hands gripping his human shoulders in an effort to lift herself from his engorged cock before succumbing to the need and falling back down to impale her sheath on his staff.

Slamming back down, taking his whole length within her core, she bent to bathe his small, peaked nipple with her tongue. The human half of the forest creature was nearly as hairy as his caprine half and she had to sift through the dense hair to reach what she wanted. His skin tasted like the sap of the pine trees that stood proud on the rise of the mountain. The difference between the flavor of his human half and animal half always surprised the nymph. Moments earlier she had had his red and raging erect flesh between her pink lips and on her sweet tongue. Then, he had tasted of raw, barely controlled lust and the heavy musk of an aroused buck.

The satyr’s lusty, rumbling bleat of pure goat from her mouth’s labor made her womb flutter and the passion build. The noises of their coupling filled the immediate area, masking the usual sounds of chirping birds and humming insects. She shimmied on his groin, using her tight inner folds to massage and milk her captor’s cock. They were both close to climaxing. Both worked for their own conclusion, oblivious to the needs or wants of the other. This was not a mutual fucking. This was primal. Natural.

Daphne had been hiding and running from the satyr’s raging desire for days. He had stumbled upon her snoozing in the shade of her tree, drawn by the scent of her recent orgasm. Beside her rested her friend, a naiad of the local stream that trickled through this forest. Both were sleeping, snoring slightly, wrapped around each other in a tangle of feminine limbs. Daphne’s leafy eden glistened with her honeyed dew. Her lover’s moist finger still rested on her sensitive bud, a barely-there caress. The chests of both nymphs heaved with the aftershocks of their recent orgasms.

The satyr’s nostrils flared at his luck. His upper lip curled under his nose, his jaw spasmed and drool seeped from the corner of his mouth. The scent of a doe in heat, no matter the species, had him hard in moments. Two in heat and he was primed twice as fast. Urine spurted from his erect staff, wetting the bristly hair of his upper groin. He was unable to control the beastly reaction, signaling his readiness and masculine potency.

His short tail wagged and he stomped a hooved foot. He craved both, wanted both. But, he was alone. His brethren were elsewhere, drawn by the flutes and drums of Dionysus in a far-off grove. He had forgone the god’s invitation to an orgy. He was not in the mood to share. Not this time. Not ever, if he was honest with himself. Deciding that the naiad was the far slipperier of the two—they were an inherently shy and reclusive race—he had grabbed her first.

Wrapping his meaty arms around her middle, he had hauled her to him and pinned her beneath his hairy, smelly bulk. Grasping her by the ankles, he had lifted and spread her legs wide. He lowered his mouth to her dewy breast and suckled. The naiad’s eyes flew open, the round O of her mouth following.

Daphne had taken the opportunity to flee, awakened by her lover’s shriek. A shriek that quickly became the cooing of a woman in passion as the naiad succumbed to the natural order of the woods. With a masterful push of his already ready cock into her dripping sheath, she relented to his masculine mastery. Once caught, a nymph, whether dryad or naiad, desired only the taking of her welcoming cunt. The thrill was in the chase, the game of hide-and-seek that occupied the satyr and nymph’s immortal lives.

The satyr ravished the naiad quickly and left her to rest in the bloom of her second orgasm, then had taken off with the roar of a horny buck. Daphne doubled the length of her strides and laughed, sending the melodious sounds of her delight to the heavens above. She was the fleetest of the dryads. They would have a grand time as he tried to keep up, reach, and capture the nymph.

* * * *

Reclining on the marble bench in his garden, Apollo was surrounded by all the heavily-scented flowers of the world. He held his lyre in one hand with the other clasped around his erect cock. His golden eyes were closed against the warmth of Helios’s rays. Singing a seductive melody, he suddenly quieted mid tune. The whispering hum of the heavenly song died on a non-existent breeze. Tilting his head at the light, melodic, soothing laugh of a nymph—a sound he had never before heard and now was unable to forget—he placed his instrument in the mossy grass.

He continued to stroke the long length of his golden-skinned staff. Quickening his pace and tightening his grip, he brought himself to an abrupt climax, letting his milky seed spurt into the air and fall in a cascade to the ground. Sitting up, he swung his tanned legs, long and toned, to the ground. Sliding his feet into his sandals, he reached down to tie the strands, interlocking the thongs of leather up his calves.

Standing, he sighed heavily. Apollo straightened his white thigh-length tunic and adjusted the gold-braided belt. Attired properly, he strode to the edge of the garden and peeked down through the clouds, which seemed to hang interminably around the peak of Olympus, hiding the immortal kingdom from the mortal gazes of Hellas’s inhabitants.

He searched the hills and valleys stretched out before his bronze-speckled eyes. Laugh again, my sweet nymph, summon me from Olympus to your side, he begged the land below.

On the edge of a white-yellow field of softly waving grain, where the verdant, dense forest met, ran a ditch of irrigated water surrounded by a tangle of berry-brambles and thorn hedges. At that exact moment, as Apollo’s gaze slipped along the seam of civilization and wildness, Daphne emerged, leaping gracefully across the ditch. Like a deer, her long, tanned legs allowed her an ease of flight not common to lesser mammals. Falling to her hands and knees she wiggled beneath the clinging brambles and slowed to glance over her shoulder.

The satyr was panting heavily, his furred body drenched with sweat, the hair plastered to his muscular, bestial form. Apollo’s upper lip rose in a sneer. Even from here, he could smell the stench of the horny goat-man. With a muddy splash, the creature fell into the ditch and clawed its way back out with the stubs of a human male’s fingers. Instead of yielding to the tangled thorns, it crashed through them, pulling the strands of berry-laden branches along with it. Smears of juice from ripe red berries tattooed his chest and arms.

Daphne watched, letting another laugh flow from between her perfect, lush lips. Reversing direction, she easily climbed the thorny brambles and disappeared back beneath the lavish foliage of the woods. The satyr bellowed and followed. The chase would not last much longer.

* * * *

Apollo alighted on the earth, feeling the warmth and power of his grandmother Gaia pulse and thrive beneath his sandaled feet. Following the sounds of the crude and ungainly satyr as he trampled through forest’s olive and avocado-colored undergrowth, a complement to Apollo’s own golden and bronze-colored skin, he tracked his nymph easily.

When suddenly the satyr’s rampage hushed only to be replaced by the squeal of a young woman caught by surprise, Apollo grinned. At last, she was in reach. He slowed his pace, eyes searching the ground for the cloven marks of the satyr’s passing. Even without his sister, Artemis’s, training, this was an easy trail to follow. Tracking the path, he sidled up to an expansive meadow. Blooms, not unlike the ones back in his garden, filled the verdurous glen. In the middle of the field, the dark form of the goat-man stood solitary like a statue, motionless as though frozen in time. There was no immediate sign of the nymph. Apollo hesitated. He should go. No doubt, she was long gone from here now.

But then a snort of muffled glee reached his ears. Squinting, he stepped out from under a leafy bough and into the bright sunlight of Helios’s chariot. Keeping close to the edge of the meadow, he walked around the figure of the satyr. There, in the softness of the spring grass, the nymph squatted on her knees. One slender hand, like a tender branch of new growth, wrapped around the satyr’s meaty rod. The other disappeared in the mossy covering of the dryad’s private eden. Her maidenly lips were stretched wide as she took as much of the satyr’s cock as she could.

Apollo’s eyes were transfixed on the scene laid out before him. He could almost imagine the nymph’s tongue as it licked the underside of the plunging staff. The suction of her mouth, the heat, the moisture. He could almost smell the freshness, like a forest after a spring rain, of the nymph’s approaching climax. Could almost hear the growling of the rutting goat-man in his own chest. Dropping a hand to the hem of his tunic, he lifted the woven linen away from his now stiff cock and stroked himself. He drew out the final ecstasy of his own climax as he witnessed the nymph release the satyr.

Lifting her willowy form by the arms, the satyr tossed her easily to the ground and flipped her over. Slapping one giant hand on the center of her back to push her down while the other hand grasped her hip and pulled her up to meet his thrust, he drove his staff as deep as possible into the nymph. Riding her like the animal he truly was, he claimed Daphne.

Apollo basked in sight, the weariness and satisfaction of his own coming easing him down to the grass. Propped on one elbow, he watched. He enjoyed. Never before had he admired the art of animalistic fucking. Now, he had to admit there was a certain freedom in the action, a certain symmetry, a certain perfection to the act.

The satyr didn’t come, grunting or bleating, atop the nymph, though she cried out her finish multiple times to the wonderment of Apollo. He was a beast. Pulling out, feeling the slick slide of his cock as her folds clutched at and trembled along it, he tossed her to her side. She wiped sweat-soaked tendrils from her forehead with a shaking hand. Smiling through half-closed lids, she climbed onto the satyr’s lap—spread wide and eager—to be filled and taken again roughly in the meadow. Neither was done yet.

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