(no subject)
Satyrnalia
"Where we do don bonnie brae," came the lilting dulcet tones upon the night air. "Where do we sit, waiting pondering, legs limbered accoutrements askew and heart heaving, fearful frettings and potent passion puddling betwixt and before wavering will?"
He leapt in a peculiar way, cloven hooves leaving deep impressions in the soil, occasionally creating showers of sparks when they caught against a bit of smooth stone amidst the loamy soil; yet gave little sound for all of this commotion, as if the forest scarcely dared to acknowledge his presence in any way. And as he moved, in starts and bounds, he continued to speak, his voice a husky contradiction to his seeming, belonging more to the tempting serpent or courtly seducer than to the wild, hairy creature his form portrayed.
"Ah, avaunt! Sight surrendered nothing, naught but boles, verdant vinage, gentle greenery, flower'd flora. Sound submitted insects' incessant creaking chorus and apace rages rattling, wind's whispers."
Nostrils flared, drawing in the night air, and a wicked smile split that horripilating visage, as he spoke again, knowing his quarry could hear, no matter how cleverly she thought she hid.
"Sublime! Scent ... scent speaks supremely, sings sultry songs, submissive subversion. That then twixt towers seeks succor sublimated, sheds sweet succor, for fulfillment foregone felt. And amicably, avidly, assiduously pursuit presently princeling produces, such sweet offerings occluded o'er trembling thigh."
"Yet ye yar, hare, hide and hem," he continued as he suddenly charged through a bramblebush, giving no indication of reaction to the briars that nettled his flesh, breathing heavy and anticipatory - and terminated in a derivise snort. She was not there ... but her scent had been - and strong. Heavy head turned from side to side, as he wuffed to draw in the odour of her fear and her sex. She had been here, and not long hence.
"Hem and halter, ye yowled, moon-struck, mewling, but batter, so soon drained, decanted, and denying desire. Yer bairnin' bits besotten, beholdin' and brimming, castrate cunning concealment, emasculate evasion, deman diversion."
Another long inhalation, cataloguing her like a vintage among the collection of thousands of other samples he'd gathered over the millenia he'd haunted Tugley Barrows - from the mountain slopes to the rushes that marked the borders of his territory and the lands of the Marsh Duchess to the west. Always, always, since the first time, there were women, and while the words and the clothes changed, the fundamental needs underneath did not. Some scant few submitted readily, most, appealing to broken half-stories or perhaps claiming misunderstanding, attempted to break away. He'd learned to savor the chase as much as the inevitable submission. In all the millenia, only three had ever managed to evade him the full fortnight. Some had tried to cheat of course, seeking protection from another member of the Courts, or attempting to lure him into ambushes led by others of their kind - then, he had to descend from his mountain, leave behind the verdant fields; his reputation demanded retribution, and villages of the humanfolk would be razed; the buildings torn down and desecrated. Memories of legendary debauch spun like finest diamonds in the tapesty of his memories, then melted away like snowflakes as the wind shifted, the smell of his elusive paramour filling his senses once more.
It had been eleven days - she was proving his most interesting pursuit in many centuries; always so close but slipping away like quicksilver; the chase was proving almost as arousing as the ruttage had been, before her mind protested the need her body had clearly craved, still craved, even as he pursued her, chased and hunted her.
A muted splashing as he leapt from one bank to the other of the Rusalkis' river; the drowning maidens held no fear for him, and they, in turn, held no flesh to hold his interest; just phantom fleeting chills and swirling water; too much the mortal lingered in them, made them too weak, too soft to grasp and handle true Glamour.
She was in the air. On the stones, in the soil; everywhere, almost miasma-like her scent ... so near, so near he could almost feel the sensation of her lips again. He lifted his head high, inhaling deeply again, then spoke to the crisp night air, velvet voice sliding between the trees, over the river, to all to hear and one to understand.
"Why wend widdershins woman? Yield, yes, burn bright, cry carnally, persistant pleasure, sublime satisfaction." He pushed aside a low-hanging branch, shouldered his way through a narrow game trail trammeled in on all sides by verdant greenery, until he found himself inside a small glade.
And there she stood, naked, defiant, Moonlight glittered off moisture that sheened her body. He towered over her, three hands taller, yet something in her gaze made their roles seem reversed, as if somehow that silence, that vulnerable, thorn-scratched nakedness, was somehow instead a pillar of iron, cold and immutable.
"Tend thy senses surely come clear, furlsomely, finally?"
She shook her head from side to side, but her hands beckoned him forward.
"Deny defiantly, yet yaw closer call plums presented," he murmured, moving forward with deliberate slowness, one hoofed leg then the other.
Closer, closer still. The air between them grew warmer by presence, indeed even the ground seemed to steam slowly. It swirled around them both, caressed wounded skin, thick fur, wild hair. As he drew nearer, his aspect shifted, slowly shrinking in on himself; the steam hid hooves from view and his gait shifted; three feet away now ... two steps, two feet, and he was now just a little taller than she; reached out to trace a smooth fingernail along the inside of her outstretched right arm; drawing from her a stuttered breath and a shudder.
Closer again, and his arms slid under hers, fingers splaying along her back; now she was the taller, and placed her left hand upon his shoulder, pushing him down to his knees.
She gave him her lips one more time, taking everything he offered, trembling even as her eyes, like placid pools, watched the final steps of the regression. Small and smaller he became, and she reached down to lift him up and hold him there.
Softly her moans became harsh cries of pain, lasting for about an hour before it was done.
Of her ravisher, there was no sign. Nothing ... but a warm radiant glow that seemed to suffuse her whole being.
At the last, she spoke sixteen words before going to explore her newest territory.
Man comes from woman and ultimately goes back to her. I've always rather enjoyed that story.
"Where we do don bonnie brae," came the lilting dulcet tones upon the night air. "Where do we sit, waiting pondering, legs limbered accoutrements askew and heart heaving, fearful frettings and potent passion puddling betwixt and before wavering will?"
He leapt in a peculiar way, cloven hooves leaving deep impressions in the soil, occasionally creating showers of sparks when they caught against a bit of smooth stone amidst the loamy soil; yet gave little sound for all of this commotion, as if the forest scarcely dared to acknowledge his presence in any way. And as he moved, in starts and bounds, he continued to speak, his voice a husky contradiction to his seeming, belonging more to the tempting serpent or courtly seducer than to the wild, hairy creature his form portrayed.
"Ah, avaunt! Sight surrendered nothing, naught but boles, verdant vinage, gentle greenery, flower'd flora. Sound submitted insects' incessant creaking chorus and apace rages rattling, wind's whispers."
Nostrils flared, drawing in the night air, and a wicked smile split that horripilating visage, as he spoke again, knowing his quarry could hear, no matter how cleverly she thought she hid.
"Sublime! Scent ... scent speaks supremely, sings sultry songs, submissive subversion. That then twixt towers seeks succor sublimated, sheds sweet succor, for fulfillment foregone felt. And amicably, avidly, assiduously pursuit presently princeling produces, such sweet offerings occluded o'er trembling thigh."
"Yet ye yar, hare, hide and hem," he continued as he suddenly charged through a bramblebush, giving no indication of reaction to the briars that nettled his flesh, breathing heavy and anticipatory - and terminated in a derivise snort. She was not there ... but her scent had been - and strong. Heavy head turned from side to side, as he wuffed to draw in the odour of her fear and her sex. She had been here, and not long hence.
"Hem and halter, ye yowled, moon-struck, mewling, but batter, so soon drained, decanted, and denying desire. Yer bairnin' bits besotten, beholdin' and brimming, castrate cunning concealment, emasculate evasion, deman diversion."
Another long inhalation, cataloguing her like a vintage among the collection of thousands of other samples he'd gathered over the millenia he'd haunted Tugley Barrows - from the mountain slopes to the rushes that marked the borders of his territory and the lands of the Marsh Duchess to the west. Always, always, since the first time, there were women, and while the words and the clothes changed, the fundamental needs underneath did not. Some scant few submitted readily, most, appealing to broken half-stories or perhaps claiming misunderstanding, attempted to break away. He'd learned to savor the chase as much as the inevitable submission. In all the millenia, only three had ever managed to evade him the full fortnight. Some had tried to cheat of course, seeking protection from another member of the Courts, or attempting to lure him into ambushes led by others of their kind - then, he had to descend from his mountain, leave behind the verdant fields; his reputation demanded retribution, and villages of the humanfolk would be razed; the buildings torn down and desecrated. Memories of legendary debauch spun like finest diamonds in the tapesty of his memories, then melted away like snowflakes as the wind shifted, the smell of his elusive paramour filling his senses once more.
It had been eleven days - she was proving his most interesting pursuit in many centuries; always so close but slipping away like quicksilver; the chase was proving almost as arousing as the ruttage had been, before her mind protested the need her body had clearly craved, still craved, even as he pursued her, chased and hunted her.
A muted splashing as he leapt from one bank to the other of the Rusalkis' river; the drowning maidens held no fear for him, and they, in turn, held no flesh to hold his interest; just phantom fleeting chills and swirling water; too much the mortal lingered in them, made them too weak, too soft to grasp and handle true Glamour.
She was in the air. On the stones, in the soil; everywhere, almost miasma-like her scent ... so near, so near he could almost feel the sensation of her lips again. He lifted his head high, inhaling deeply again, then spoke to the crisp night air, velvet voice sliding between the trees, over the river, to all to hear and one to understand.
"Why wend widdershins woman? Yield, yes, burn bright, cry carnally, persistant pleasure, sublime satisfaction." He pushed aside a low-hanging branch, shouldered his way through a narrow game trail trammeled in on all sides by verdant greenery, until he found himself inside a small glade.
And there she stood, naked, defiant, Moonlight glittered off moisture that sheened her body. He towered over her, three hands taller, yet something in her gaze made their roles seem reversed, as if somehow that silence, that vulnerable, thorn-scratched nakedness, was somehow instead a pillar of iron, cold and immutable.
"Tend thy senses surely come clear, furlsomely, finally?"
She shook her head from side to side, but her hands beckoned him forward.
"Deny defiantly, yet yaw closer call plums presented," he murmured, moving forward with deliberate slowness, one hoofed leg then the other.
Closer, closer still. The air between them grew warmer by presence, indeed even the ground seemed to steam slowly. It swirled around them both, caressed wounded skin, thick fur, wild hair. As he drew nearer, his aspect shifted, slowly shrinking in on himself; the steam hid hooves from view and his gait shifted; three feet away now ... two steps, two feet, and he was now just a little taller than she; reached out to trace a smooth fingernail along the inside of her outstretched right arm; drawing from her a stuttered breath and a shudder.
Closer again, and his arms slid under hers, fingers splaying along her back; now she was the taller, and placed her left hand upon his shoulder, pushing him down to his knees.
She gave him her lips one more time, taking everything he offered, trembling even as her eyes, like placid pools, watched the final steps of the regression. Small and smaller he became, and she reached down to lift him up and hold him there.
Softly her moans became harsh cries of pain, lasting for about an hour before it was done.
Of her ravisher, there was no sign. Nothing ... but a warm radiant glow that seemed to suffuse her whole being.
At the last, she spoke sixteen words before going to explore her newest territory.
Man comes from woman and ultimately goes back to her. I've always rather enjoyed that story.