Chapter Text
In a clear green rock pool under a bright blue sky, somewhere remote and secluded in the hellenic mountains, a satyr was bathing.
Bathing isn’t the right word. Satyrs don’t care too much about hygiene. But they do enjoy splashing about and blowing bubbles in the water while lazily jerking off.
This satyr was doing just that. He loved to float on his back, cock pointing straight up like the mast of a trireme. It amused him to think of a ship made entirely of phalli, bobbing around on a sea of cum.
He was quite imaginative, as satyrs go, and more clever than most, but like all beasts of his kind, his only aims in life were to feast and fuck and revel and drink much as possible. Any intellect he possessed was dedicated entirely to those pursuits. Especially the fucking.
All satyrs have massive cocks, perpetually erect and ready to ruin whatever orifice they can find. They aren’t too picky about their copulatory partners. They’ll fuck anyone or anything that they can catch: human or beast, mortal or deity, man or woman, young or old, willing or unwilling and all the other possibilities in between. Their preference is always for nymphs, though.
The satyr in this tale had a particularly imposing cock, remarkable even for his race. As equine as his ears, and mane, and tail, his cock swelled to nearly two feet at full hardness. As a consequence, he didn’t get to stick it into anyone anywhere near as often as he’d prefer. If a would-be partner got so much of a glimpse of its length—let alone the flared head, medial ring, and sizeable girth, they always ran away in terror. As it had been some time since his last bacchanalia—where more daring and less discerning partners could be found—he was feeling increasingly eager to find a hole to stick it in.
He dunked his head backwards underwater, pondering whether it was possible to fuck a mountain. Then he thought about how great it would be if you could stick your cock in any crevice or crack and instantly get some oread pussy. Or ass. Mountain nymphs always had bountiful asses. And tits. If only they weren’t so hard to catch.
He brought his other hand to his cock, and began jerking faster and faster, fantasizing about fucking a giant oread, with tits and buttocks the size of hills, perfectly round and smooth. He opened his mouth to suck in a gulp of water. He liked to spit it out as he ejaculated. It amused him to watch the water and his cum spurting upwards like twin fountains.
To his surprise, he tasted nymph cunt.
Fresh nymph cunt.
Nearby. Sharing the same water.
He shot upwards, still jerking himself to completion. Instead of spraying upwards, his cum and spit shot out in perfect spirals as he spun around and around, searching for the nymph.
There was no one there. He was alone, in a pool at the foot of a cliff in the midst of a mountain gorge. The only other sounds came from the waterfall.
He looked up up up to the top of the waterfall, contemplating the climb. The cliff was steep, but not sheer. Its face was craggly and irregular, carved unevenly as the flow of the spring had waxed and waned over millennia. It would be a tricky climb, but not too hard.
He stamped one hoof-like foot in excitement, and flicked his tail, and dove face-forward into the water, swimming towards the cliff.
He swallowed mouthfuls of water as he swam, savouring the nymph’s taste and divining what he could about his prey.
He pondered what type of nymph she was.
Not an oread. They had an unmistakeable flavor, full of minerals and metal and moss. And not a naiad either. He would have known straight away if this spring had a nymph. And she wasn’t salty enough to be a nereid. They were rare to find this far inland, anyway.
He continued contemplating the question as he hauled himself out of the water onto the rocks, and shook himself dry. His mane and tail sent droplets of water flying. He didn’t bother untangling them, but began his ascent straightaway. He wasn’t as agile as some of his goat-cocked cousins who lived in the east, but all satyrs are suited to rough-and-tumble exploits. Scaling a cliffside is nothing compared to some of Dionysis’s wilder orgies.
He stuck close to the waterfall as he climbed, both so that the cascades would mask any sounds he made, and so he could periodically stick his head in to check if the nymph was still bathing in the springs above. Her taste had faded by the time he’d gotten a quarter of the way up, but a satyr doesn’t abandon the hunt so easily.
About halfway to the top, there was a large, craggy protusion jutting straight out from the cliff. He paused for a moment on it when he reached it, allowing himself a moment to stand up straight and stretch rather than clinging to the rock. He took a deep breath of the fresh mountain air, and caught a hint of the nymph’s scent on the breeze.
He was getting close.
In the open air her fragrance was unmistakably sharp and green. She was a tree nymph. He was surprised; he didn’t think this peak was heavily forested. Her scent was familiar, but he couldn’t place her specific tree. He ruled out dryad; oaks had a deeper, woodier scent. Meliae, too; ash trees smelled grassy and sweet. This nymph’s scent was was earthy and fresh, like pine mixed with citrus.
He returned to the climb with renewed vigour, powering his ascent with lungfuls of nymph-perfumed air. The higher he climbed, the stronger her scent. By the time the satyr reached the top, he could barely think straight for the strength of his lust.
Still, he was stealthy as he poked his head over the edge of the cliff. He knew that rashness was the main culprit when a satyr failed to catch a nymph. His kind would surrender to their bestial side, blunder in too eagerly, and the girl would notice them in time to slip away. He was determined not to make that mistake.
To his delight, he spotted the nymph immediately when he peeked above. Just a stone’s throw away, no more than a plethron, was a little rocky knoll beside the stream, crowned with a single tree laden with verdant fruit. The nymph lay beneath it, nude; she appeared to have fallen asleep while sunbathing after washing her clothing. Her peplos was draped over a low branch of her tree, drying in the gentle breeze, her girdle hanging alongside it. He recognized it as a maiden’s zónē.
The satyr’s mouth watered. By her belt, this nymph was both ripe—or nearly ripe, anyway—and pure. Not just fresh. Virgin.
He’d never tasted virgin nymph cunt before.
Though it took all the self-control he could manifest and more, the satyr did not release a whoop. Nor did he charge headlong towards the nymph. No, he crept forward, quietly, cautiously, patiently. He held his breath as he stepped up to her tree, and reached for her belt. He looped it through itself, then draped it over his shoulders.
And then he pounced on the nymph.
She woke instantly as he grabbed her, shouting, “Foul brute! Release me!” She kicked and squirmed and flailed and fought and tried to wrench herself free.
But the satyr was as strong and stubborn as a feral stallion, and as eager to fuck as a standing stud. Standing next to each other, the nymph’s head was at the same height as his nipples, and his shoulders spanned twice the width of her waist. She stood no chance of escaping now he’d caught her, though she persisted in trying.
The nymph attempted—futilely—to knee the satyr in the groin. The satyr huffed angrily and snapped and gnashed his teeth next to her face, making clear the damage he could do to her. She winced, and quick as a wink, the satyr slipped the loop of her belt over the nymph’s head and pulled it tight around her neck.
Both the breath and the fight went out of her instantly.
“Please don’t,” she pled, “don’t hurt me.”
The satyr nickered and laughed. “Oh, little nymphlet, I’m definitely going to hurt you. But you’ll learn to like it.”
She sobbed and trembled as he maneuvered her where he wanted her. Her scent grew sharper with her distress. He wrangled her to her knees in front of the tree, and tore her garment into long strips of fabric. He bound her forearms to either side of the trunk, immobilizing her from wrist to elbow, in a position reminiscent of prayer. The tree shook as he restrained her, sending a few of its fruits flying to the ground. They were dense, round, and green, and rather reminscent of the nymph’s high, perky breasts.
As he contemplated the fruit, the satyr finally recognized the nymph’s species.
“Karyatid.” He nipped at her ear and snorted. “How exciting. I’ve never raped a walnut before.”
The nymph’s cries turned to wails. “No! You mustn’t! I’m sworn to Artemis! She’ll cast me out if you defile me!”
The satyr licked his lips and huffed, and probed the entrance to her cunt with a single finger. The nymph sobbed.
“Don’t worry. Dionysis will take you, and all my brothers too. You’ll always have someone to defile you after we make you a maenad.”
The nymph shrieked, and in vain resumed her attempts to escape. The satyr sucked her nectar off his finger, and licked the tears from her face.
“So sweet. Still green, but you’re almost ripe, my lovely. I’m going to have so much fun ruining you. I’m tempted to eat you first, but I really can’t wait any longer to fuck you.”
She struggled desperately, but there was no stopping the satyr now. He braced one arm on her back, his hand right between her shoulder blades, and forced her to lower her head almost to the ground. With the other hand he reached beneath her, and mauled first one tit and then the other, leaving them purple and bruised. Then he yanked her hips up and back, pushed her knees apart with his legs, and mounted her.
He positioned his enormous cock at her unprepared entrance, and pushed unrelentingly forward. She tried to clench her pussy and keep him out, but she was no match for a cock like his. She screamed as his flared head penetrated her with a pop, and then screamed louder as he tore through her maidenhead and stole her from her goddess.
She was deflowered before his cock was even a third of the way in. The pain of losing her virginity and her chastity made her go nearly rigid, squeezing around him so hard that it hurt.
He groaned in pleasure, and felt his cock release a brief burst of fluid, the first of many—many—measures of seed that he would fill her with.
He was determined to bury his cock in her to the hilt before he really came, though. Given how divine her no-longer-virgin pussy felt, he knew it would have to be sooner rather than later.
He renewed his assault on her cunt with a vengeance, forcing his dick into her little by little. He was holding both of her hips now, gripping hard enough to leave handprints for days. As he thrust and rammed his way to her womb, he also forced her back to arch and her hips to splay, training her body for her new destiny.
Through these efforts, he managed to get nearly half his cock into her. Her body was still fighting him, but her spirit was wavering, overwhelmed with pain and despair. He planned to give her pleasure, too. Eventually. He wanted to break her by making her enjoy it.
But first, he had to make her take his cock’s widest point.
The satyr was blessed—or cursed, from the nymph’s perspective—with a particularly prominent medial ring. It was just a bit wider and taller than his thumb, and he could barely touch his fingers together when he he gripped his cock above and below it. It was far too large for the nymph’s poor, inexperienced pussy. He was going to make her take it anyway.
The nymph’s body had fortunately (for her sake) begun producing copious lubrication. An instinct to minimize physical injury, perhaps. It wasn’t helping her stretch enough to take the ring, but the slide in and out of her cunt was slick and smooth.
Changing tactics for a moment, the satyr stopped thrusting. Instead, he gently but firmly pressed his cock as deep as he could, and lingered there. He felt the nymph tense, and waited until she slowly relaxed.Then he began to grind his hips, slow but deep, coaxing her cunt to yield inside.
Then, without warning, he pulled out a little and then slammed back in. And did it again. And again. And again.
On the fourth try, he succeeded. Suddenly, he was three fourths of the way inside her.
He reached one hand under her stomach, and found it bulging with his cock. The nymph sobbed wordlessly as he fondled himself through her.
He hummed to himself as he explored the depths of her vagina with his dick. He rubbed his head along her spongy front walls, and enjoyed the way her legs shook when he pressed on it from outside. He adjusted his angle, thrusting more upwards, pushing his cock into her core rather than out her stomach.
Eventually he found the spot he was looking for. The final hurdle to traverse on his quest to penetrate her completely. The gate to her very womb.
The satyr began to wield his cock like a battering ram, pounding her cervix like he was trying to break through it. The nymph squealed with every impact. The satyr roared with mounting glee and increasing pleasure. With every thrust, every bruise, every dent, her womb’s last defense weakened. Eventually it would have to relent.
The speed and force of his thrusts continued increasing. The violence of his lust shook the entire tree, triggering a heavy rain of walnut fruits. The green orbs pelted the ground, the stream, the rocks, the satyr, and the nymph herself, leaving green smudges where they struck.
And then, with one last terrific thrust, the satyr conquered the karyatid entirely. The head of his cock burst into the innermost chamber of her cunt and filled her womb. He drove it up towards her chest, to displace other organs just like it would when she was heavy with his spawn. As his hips finally—finally—made contact with her ass, his orgasm tore through him, and he pumped a hekteus of cum directly into her womb. An instant later, the nymph came too, pushed over the edge when the satyr’s balls smacked against her clitoris.
The nymph’s orgasm rippled up and down the satyr’s dick, clenching and massaging and milking a second massive load of seed out of his still-full, still eager balls.
As the satyr’s cock was quite effectively plugging the nymph’s womb, his spend had nowhere to go. Her uterus ballooned outward, inflating her belly until she looked at least seven moons gravid. Her taut skin was covered with golden fractures, stretch marks announcing her disgrace.
She gazed at her swollen stomach and moaned, a primal, euphoric groan of agony or ecstacy or both. When the satyr resumed thrusting, she came again, and wept.