Agate Boyd - Revenge of the Satyr

Vulkan wound his fist into the rich, red mane and yanked her head up to peer into the tortured face. "You're out of shape." he opined bluntly.

The nobleman unhitched his horse and mounted up, walking the powerful steed up to the front of the coach.

"She's alright," he told Henrik, "just needs a little livening up that's all – give me the whip."

Moving like an automaton stuck in a bad dream, the slack jawed footman silently handed over the fearsome horsewhip and then, with a fatalistic shrug of his round shoulders, stirred the team into motion.

Vulkan waited until the coach rolled past and took up station a horses length behind the once more smartly stepping countess. After a hundred yards, or so, fatigue once again began to overcome her cramping thigh muscles and her stride again became erratic.

Vulkan began to play the tip of the long coach whip across the countess' as yet unblemished rump, stinging at the fabulous giggling globes to make her pick up her knees. His mighty cock once again beginning to stir as each excruciating bite of the lash caused the superb creature to yelp and leap forward with renewed, albeit short lived, energy.

From the front came the footman's warning shout.

"Sire, there's a hamlet coming up ahead!"

"Drive straight on through," the prince bawled back.

"But they'll recognise her, she's famous around these parts," came the anguished reply.

"Her own fucking mother wouldn't recognise her looking like this!" screamed back the laughing Vulkan, waving the enormous whip around his head. By which time they were trundling through the sleeping hamlet in a cloud of dust.

As luck would have it, it was chucking out time at the tavern and as the coach rolled past, a group of drunken peasants began to cheer. Applauding the fabulous, pale skinned Goddess prancing after the coach with the crazy nobleman, for what else could he be? Surging along behind her on his great midnight black stallion, stroking her with the whip for all he was worth.

It was a story they would all tell themselves over flagons of ale for generations to come. Until the tale reached truly epic proportions; with a troop of fairy princesses being pursued pell-mell through the sleeping hamlet by a posse of outriders from Hell – on their way to who knows where? To do who knows what?

A mile beyond the hamlet and it was obvious the countess was going no further. Her mouth gulped slackly for air and her eyeballs rolled drunkenly as her head lolled first forward then back. Her faltering gait now hopelessly erratic, her pounding body swaying from side-to-side, as her exhausted muscles began to collapse one-by-one.

Vulkan powered up to the front and pointed off to the side where the brilliant moonlight reflected on the surface of a small lake.

"Pull up over there," he commanded.

As soon as the carriage drew to a halt, the countess collapsed into the dirt, her dust covered body steaming faintly with perspiration in the chill night air. The prince stooped low, slashing carelessly at her bindings with his razor sharp dirk, nicking her skin here and there as he cut away the heavy chest that had so helped to sap her energy.

Next, he stripped off his own garments and picking her up, walked with the unconscious gentlewoman in his arms into the lake and when the icy, black water was up to his middle he plunged her under the surface.

It took only a split second for the unexpected shock to revive the weary countess, who leapt up on to her tip-toes, arms held high: the water cascading out of her hair and off her breasts, her breath coming in whooping spasms as the freezing liquid sucked the heat out of her body.

Vulkan laughed uproariously, plunging her under the surface time and time again as she struggled and spluttered ineffectually against his far superior strength. Eventually he took hold of her hips and threw her with all of his might out into the depths, bellowing with delight as she panicked and floundered about in a great splashing explosion of spume, yelling, "I can't swim! I can't swim! help meeeeurghhhh!…"

Vulkan breast stroked out to her, taking care to remain out of reach of her wildly flailing arms as the demented countess tried to grab hold of him as she went down for the third time.

On the lakeshore, the appalled footman ran back and forth in a blue funk, waiving his hands to no one in particular, finally letting out a great yell and running off toward the neighbouring woods rather than face having to watch the watery death of his mistress.

Vulkan could hardly speak for laughing and for the cold, which was making his teeth chatter uncontrollably.

"Kick out your bloody legs you silly bitch!" he called to her, "follow me, like this," and he sailed close by her so that she could see his action.

"Don't leave meeeeeeeeee!" she screamed, her voice echoing across the water in a shriek that had the fleeing footman picking up his rheumatic knees like a teenager as he ran helter-skelter for the woods.

Eventually, the countess mastered a rudimentary dog paddle and by dint of furious effort managed to follow Vulkan to the shore where he awaited her, lying on a large expanse of smooth sandstone.

For reasons best known to herself the countess did not go back to the relative sanctuary of the coach, but chose instead to lay down beside Vulkan on the smooth stone.

After a while, the prince levered himself up on to his elbow and looked down at her. He had to admit she was a 'cut above' he mused, as he trailed his finger tip over the bridge of her perfect nose, stroking the fine dusting of freckles she normally kept hidden with powder. He could not imagine another woman who would not have been reduced to a snivelling wreck by now.

Her delicate pink nipples had been turned almost blue by the cold and stood up like a pair of rivets from the mass of goose bumps covering every square inch of her flesh. He ran his palm over the plethora of cinnamon coloured stripes the flogging with the sword belt had left across her silken skin. Watching the tiny expressions of pain flit across her face as his fingers re-awaked the flayed nerve ending. He bent low to suck on her nipples, drawing them into his hot mouth, making her moan and arch her back as he worried the oversensitive nubbins with his rough, mobile tongue.

Predictably, his voracious sexual appetite began to rekindle itself and she demurred not one jot when he rolled her over onto her belly and pushed her knees forward so that the soft, wide pillows of her buttocks were exposed to him. Almost lovingly, he parted her whip-stung cheeks to expose the delicate pink bud of her anus. Sweeping his tongue over the hypersensitive tissue, swirling it around and around, penetrating the forbidden ring of pleasure, spearing her until she thrust back at him, uttering shameless grunts of pleasure and eventually, obscene entreaties for him to bugger her with his massive tool.

The satyr prince hardly needed another invitation. He slipped his hand under her damp crotch and raised her hips still further, shuffling forward on his knees he offered up the massive head of his cock to the saliva slicked anus. At the same time, he wrapped his forearm around her waist, pinning her nervous, fluttering belly to him. For even though, on one level she craved the act, on another she feared the brutal pain that would inevitably ensue from the invasion of such a monster and without suitable restraints to hand he knew he would needed to steady her.

The countess closed her eyelids tightly. Pushing her arms forward, she braced her palms against the coarse stone, easing herself backward until she felt the tip of the red-hot bell-end begin to enter her. But the satyr could wait not a second longer for his pleasure and with a great booming cry he thrust his hips forward, impaling her as the massive tool shrugged aside the trifling ring of muscle and filled up her bowels. The countess flung back her head and howled up into the night sky, her blue eyes popping with indescribable agony as he began to saw back and forth.