It was 3:00 AM, and the Thief…opened the large, ornate door. That was it. He couldn’t believe it. If his trusted Agent of so many years hadn’t been the one to tell him, he wouldn’t have. They had met earlier that day, in the busy food court of the local mall, the smell of bad Chinese food heavy in the air, stale, tinny pop music playing from some hidden speaker above their heads.
“Some old rich bitch with more money than sense,” his Agent had told him, in his own customary, trademark way. “No security system, no dogs, no camera, no nothin’. And she’s down in Costa Rica for her annual vacation, at some swanky all-inclusive spa with a bunch of other bougie cocksuckers.”
“It sounds like a trap,” he had replied, deciding not to take offense at the “bougie cocksucker” line. He had been around the bend one too many times to just waltz right into an obvious FBI or Interpol honeypot, especially when he knew both organizations were actively pursuing him. Plus, personally, He had known too many “colleagues” who had gotten careless and done just that very same thing, overlooking obvious, blaring signs that they were being set up, until it was far too late for them.
But his Agent swore, over and over again, and on everything he knew and loved that the Client (what they always called the one who had hired them for any given heist) was on the up and up.
“Then tell me who they are,” he challenged, struggling to keep his voice loud enough to be heard by his Agent, and, at the same time, not overhead by the unwanted and uninvited.
But he knew he wouldn’t, because, in order for the Client to trust the Agent, their anonymity had to be protected, always. And so, the Thief, as frustrating as it could sometimes be, just had to trust that his Agent wasn’t sending him into the proverbial “Lion’s Den.” Ah, such a complicated web international, high stakes, crime could manage to weave!
But his Agent had never led him wrong before, had always stuck by his side through thick and thin and thicker and thinner. Through countless betrayals, double-crosses, triple-crosses, manhunts, and bounties alike, the Agent had never abandoned the Thief, even when it had been in his very best interest to do so. That counted for something, especially in this world, where, as the saying goes: if you want a friend, get a dog!”
So he agreed to take the job, prompting the Agent to give him all of the usual details: the who, the what, the where, and the when – all orally, of course, always wanting to avoid a paper trail. But the bottom line was this: this unguarded mansion and estate, all owned by the wealthy heiress of a shipping empire with no children of her own, housed close to 5 million dollars in jewelry, and all he had to do was walk in there and take it.
If the Thief had to guess, based on his experience, the Client was some jilted associate of the “Rich Bitch”, an ex-husband or an old friend she had had a falling out with, probably over some kind of stupid social faux pas that would only make sense to others in their obscene wealth bracket. But he knew that, in the end, trying to figure out the true identity of the Client was just a big waste of precious time. At the end of the day, once the job was done and the loot was secured, they, regardless of whoever they were, would get their cut, the Agent would get his 20%, and the Thief would get the rest. Everybody happy, win-win-fucking-win.
But there was one other thing that had stood out to the Thief about his debrief, he remembered as he walked into the foyer of the manor. Even under the stench of sub-par Orange Chicken and Beef Chow Mein, he had smelled something else, something that was lingering on the Agent like a spider’s web he had unintentionally walked through while out for a pleasant afternoon stroll.
Whatever it was - wherever he had picked it up - at first it had almost repulsed him, to the point where he wondered if the Agent hadn’t actually showered for a few days. But as their conversation wore on, the scent began to grow on him, and by the time they were parting ways, the Thief hurrying off to start getting everything ready for tonight, he had almost asked his Agent where he had picked up his new cologne or deodorant. But that was sort of a personal question for two people who didn’t even know each other’s real names, and he had let it go.
Before him now, in front of a winding white staircase, lit from above by the moonlight coming in through the glass ceiling, was a large statue of the god Dionysus. A lesser educated person than the Thief might have mistaken him for Santa Claus, on account of his long beard, but the Thief, like all children of the gentry, had been well-versed by his expensive schooling in all things Greek myth.
That had never been his thing, however. Education as a whole, really, had never excited or satisfied him remotely in any way. While his foreign professors had droned on and on about the Iliad or the Odyssey, he had instead planned out in his head how he was going to sneak into the girls’ dorms and knick their Birkins, or how he was going to swipe the Principal’s brand new Swiss watch.
But enough had still made it through to him that he could still recognize the God of Wine and Fertility when he saw him. He didn’t like this particular depiction at all, though. As he walked by it to the rooms beyond, he couldn’t help feeling like it was hungrily leering at him, his stone eyes following the Thief as he passed.
The Agent had told him that the loot he sought was just kind of “scattered around the place,” as he put it. The Rich Bitch’s carelessness regarding her valuables meant she didn’t even bother putting them in a safe (not that that had ever managed to stop before). Not having to worry about running into staff or security, then, he took out his flashlight from his black backpack, turned it on, and entered the first room he saw, figuring it was just as good a place to start as anywhere.
A moment of panic. In the double-sized bed in the corner of the room, a woman was sleeping, possibly the Rich Bitch herself. Clearly, the intel was bad, and somebody had fucked up, royally, perhaps even the Agent himself. Every instinct was telling him to bail out immediately. Fuck it: he didn’t need the money anyway. This was all just a bit of fun, at the end of the day, something to help pass the time. He didn’t need the money, at all.
He turned off the flashlight, and prayed the woman wouldn’t stir. But then, even through the darkness, he spotted it. On her bedside table was a small golden ring.
His body and his mind alike screamed at him to turn just around and leave, and tomorrow, seriously think about severing his ties with the Agent. But still, almost as if against his will, he began to walk toward the nightstand, gently so as to not wake the female form beside it. It was like he had teleported: never taking his eyes off the ring, he found himself suddenly right there in front of it. Transfixed, he picked it up and inspected it. It was beautiful, the most beautiful piece of jewelry he had ever seen in a life full of beautiful people and beautiful things.
Everything around him fell away – the woman who wasn’t supposed to be there, the creepy mansion, the effigy of the God of Madness it housed, even his Agent and the mysterious Client that he was acting as a go-between for. It was just him and the bright, brilliant yellow band.
Put it on. The thought startled him, seemed to have come from somewhere outside the confines of his mind. But it made so much sense, didn’t it? Sure, he could – would normally – place the item in his simple, nondescript backpack and move on. But what if he took it off for some reason and left it lying around somewhere on accident? Or, more plausibly, since he now realized that he was in more danger of being caught than he previously thought, what if he had to make a quick escape, and the backpack got caught on something in the attempt, and thereby was tragically left behind? That would make this whole thing pointless, wouldn’t it?
No, no, best to put it on. And he did, slipping it onto the ring finger of his left hand. It fit perfectly. He held up his hand, admiring how the circlet looked on his long, slender fingers, noting also at the same time how it complimented the lush pink nail polish he had carefully applied to each of his lengthy fingernails just that morning…
Wait – “long, slender?” He had always had disproportionately large sausage-like fingers, remembered being teased for it by his cruel older sisters countless times as a child. And nail polish? That was the sort of thing he and the lads would have done a lot more than tease for if any of the boys back at school had been caught sporting it. This wasn’t right, something was very, very wrong here…
But that’s when he noticed the smell. No, smell wasn’t the right word – it was a fucking musk. Breathing it in, his previous concerns were washed away, and in its place his mind, was flooded with images of pristine meadows, the ruins of an ancient temple on a hill in the distance.
He shook his head to banish the vision. This was no time to be mucking about - he still had a job to do. He slowly backed away from the table, through the door, and gently closed it. This was all much harder to do than something so simple should have been, because, the entire time, he was fighting the overwhelming urge to jump into bed with the slumbering woman, who, upon closer inspection, was in fact far too young to be the owner of the mansion.
Then it was on to the next room, the discovery of the ring having entirely erased the anxiety of continuing with the operation.
Again, a girl, likely in her 20s, slept soundly in her spacious bed, while, on the table next to her, lay another piece of regalia. This time, it was a silver bracelet, no less breathtaking than the ring before it. Once again, upon picking it up, he had the strong, strange notion that he should wear it, just for safekeeping. So he did.
He had no trouble at all getting his hand through it and leaving it to rest upon his dainty wrist (Dainty? He had spent countless hours in his private gym ensuring they were anything but dainty). But, as soon as he had, he couldn’t take his eyes off of it. It reminded him of a similar bracelet he had seen one of his aunts wearing when he was little, and he still remembered how much he had desperately wanted it. At the time, he would have traded anything for it, all of his pretty pink dresses and pretty pink dolls. He probably still would, he had to admit, though now his barter would be sports cars and expensive pieces of art by famous painters instead.
Like the first chamber, the wearing of the jewelry triggered his abrupt noticing of the musk that filled it. But this one was different. When he breathed it in, he saw vineyards and olive trees in his mind’s eye. Together with the first vision, it was obvious what he was imagining was Greece, but why? He had only gone a handful of times, mostly for work, and it had really left no impression on him at all. No, scratch that, he held a decidedly negative impression of the country. He had found only dirty people in dirty cities, a nation that was nothing but a fading shadow of its former self, the vaunted progenitor of all of Western civilization. Was it just because of the statue that had greeted him in the foyer? Was it acting as some sort of mental priming mechanism, acting on a level below the conscious?
But this time, he could pinpoint the source of the scent, and it was undoubtedly emanating from the girl in the bed, who was currently lying on her back, snoring softly. He examined her features: with her dark curly hair, sharp nose, and olive skin, it was easy to assume she was Mediterranean, probably, and not coincidentally, Greek. But who was she, and why couldn’t he stop staring at her plump lips, imagining himself bending over and placing a soft kiss upon them, just like in the old fairytale that had so enchanted him when he was little?
No, no, no. This wasn’t him. This wasn’t professional, and he was a consummate professional - the consummate professional. He had never slept with anyone before while on a job, and he wasn’t going to bloody well start now, when things were as strange as they were. Again forced to fight the powerful urge to join the woman between her sheets, he used every ounce of willpower he had to tear himself from her bedside, and stole into the tiled hallway.
Slumping against the wall and onto the floor, he decided to take a second and try to think through what was going on here. Who were these women? The granddaughters and grandnieces of the Rich Bitch, who was supposed to be down in Mexico, and, oh yes, supposedly didn’t have any heirs?
And what was that smell? Some kind of perfume? Or maybe it was natural, and this whole family suffered from some bizarre condition that caused them to exude an unusually pungent body odor?
With each question, doubt began to creep in again more and more. None of this added up, none of this made sense. At some point something had gone wrong, a mistake or miscommunication, and he had walked into something he was absolutely not prepared for. And being well-prepared was something he took pride in, even if the habit had been literally beaten into him back in grade school.
What it came down to was this: how many jobs had he taken that, like this one, had turned out to be founded on faulty intel? And had he not aborted every single one, very early on? Was he not still free, still living and breathing? Were these facts not inextricably linked?
But his gaze had already drifted to the door across from where he was currently sitting. This one was covered in intricate details: nymphs and naiads playing amongst a complicated latticework of raised vines. In fact, now that he looked, even the doors to the rooms he had already explored had similarly elaborate designs etched upon them.
The entry to the room he had just ventured into featured male centaurs with raging equine erections chasing naked, voluptuous mortal women through a meadow, while the one to the first chamber he had checked out displayed male and female minotaurs copulating in a variety of decidedly unchristian sexual positions.
How had he not noticed all of this before, especially with his trained eye? Was he just too focused on the task at hand? At least it partially explained why he kept thinking about Ancient Greece, even if he hadn’t registered it at the surface level of his senses.
But even this new revelation was quickly swept away by a much greater fixation: what new piece of treasure would he find hidden behind the door sporting the visage of the frolicking female spirits? A sparkling necklace or glittering set of earrings? He had to know. He had to have it. He discarded the backpack onto the polished floor. Why bother pretending anymore? Whatever it was, he had to wear it.
But there was one last piece of his outfit to shed before he found out. He took off his black balaclavas, revealing the sweaty, handsome face and messy hair underneath. It was far too humid in the mansion to keep it on for even a second longer, and he no longer feared being caught. To some degree, for a reason he couldn’t explain, he now craved it.
Good girl…beautiful young satyrs don’t cover their faces….
Another thought that didn’t feel like a thought. It felt like a message, a mantra. And like it was coming from his right hand and right wrist, where the ring and bracelet, respectively, now lay. But all he did in response to this discovery was to shrug his shoulder as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.
In the bedroom, he was a little disappointed to not find another exotic sleeping beauty. Instead, in the unmade bed that looked like someone had just gotten out of it, there rested an ankle bracelet, a counterpart to the one that had already found a welcoming home on his wrist.
Well, it was obvious what he had to do. Sitting on the still-warm bed, he untied the ugly, utilitarian boots he had on – both of them actually, for balancing purposes – and tossed them dismissively aside. Hideous things. Removing his black socks, he was surprised, for a brief moment, to see how small his feet were. But why should he be? He had always had small feet. His mother had even joked that he’d still be wearing children’s shoes at his Quinceanera!
A sense of relief washed over him: the pink nail polish he had applied to his toenails, the same color as on his fingernails, hadn’t chipped at all. Thank God - he had been worried about that for a while, since before he had first entered this bewitching palace. That now sorted out, he placed his left foot through the hoop of the piece of jewelry and moved it up so it would rest on his ankle.
Then he got to work. Leaning down, he stuffed his face in amongst the used sheets, comforter, and pillows, and took a deep, greedy breath in. This third musk was as distinct as the first two had been to each other: he smelled anemone and pomegranate and narcissus this time. But it wasn’t enough for him - not nearly enough. He got into the bed, and covered himself in all the pieces that made up its whole. He wanted to live in the fragrance, to let it fill him up and replace all of the profane, ordinary gasses that currently resided within him.
He felt himself get hard…then soft again. The moment of ecstasy had passed just as quickly as it had arrived. Taking this as some sort of signal, he got out of the bed and left the room, not even bothering to retrieve his discarded boots. But it was funny – the aroma lingered in the hall. He lifted his armpit up and took a whiff. It was coming from him, he was happy to find.
Good satyrs always smell good….
He couldn’t have agreed more with his new anklet!
He didn’t even remember walking up to the final door in the hallway, he realized as he stared at the dueling griffin and hydra that adorned it. The two beasts were locked in a vicious battle, both having inflicted serious, maybe even mortal wounds upon the other in their fateful struggle.
It disgusted him. Violence always had. How much better, he thought, would it be if the two creatures had decided to make love instead? Blood still might be spilled, but it would be in the service of something much more beautiful! He sighed. He had often felt that many of the wars that man had waged could have been avoided with a simple release of sexual energy. Take for example that…mustache fellow…what was his name again? Oh, it didn’t matter. The point was: if he had some nice big blonde German woman with pigtails riding him, draining his balls each and every night, he very much doubted he would have gotten up to all that trouble!
He realized he was letting his mind wander again. His maestra had always said that his head was in the clouds too often, that he needed to focus on his studies if he wanted to ever make something of himself. Jealous old puta. She was just mad that she was shaped like El Spongebob!
He opened the door, and once again found a room lacking a physical female presence. Nor did he detect a new musk – he didn’t doubt that it was there, but the one he was producing himself overpowered it completely. But there was something on the unkempt bed again – earrings. He walked over, the cool carpet pleasing to his bare feet. He picked up the platinum trinkets, eager to add them to his new collection, but then remembered – his ears were not pierced.
He gazed at the earrings while he considered his next move, paying special attention to the sharp posts. It would hurt. But the design of them…the face of the benevolent madre Aphrodite… he had to have them, had to have them on him, a part of him, all pain be damned.
He braced himself, then stuck the first earring into his right lobe. Before he could scream, he quickly grabbed a nearby blanket and stuck it into his mouth. Now, with it so immediate, the fragrance embedded in it filled his senses, bringing to mind an image of a woman…turning into a tree. He thought he knew the story, knew the name, but it escaped him at the moment, the pain making it hard to concentrate.
Without removing the makeshift gag from his mouth, he picked up the second earring and pierced his left ear with it. This time, the pain triggered the resurfacing of a memory, the first time he could remember physical distress as acute as this. Back in his village, as a teenager, he had gotten into a fight with another girl – all over a boy, of course. He was beating her easily, due to the natural advantage his kind had when it came to strength. So the other girl, the little hijo de puta, had pulled out a knife and slashed his perfect, flat stomach with it.
This had enraged him, and he jumped atop the other girl and pummeled her until his padre came and pulled him off of her. Back in their home, he had explained that it was okay – that for them, their emotions, good and bad, always ran a little hot. It was their nature, as unmovable and unchangeable as the tall cordillera that encircled the valley they called their home.
The agony receded, and he found himself on the ground of the deserted bedroom. Removing the blanket from his mouth, he inspected the wounds only to find that he could not feel any blood. But why should he? He had gotten his ears pierced when he was 12 years old, had begged his madre until he was blue in the face.
Pretty earrings for a pretty young satyr…
Madre Aphrodite was softly whispering to him.
There were no more rooms on the lower floor to check. Before moving to the upper level, he found the kitchen, and it was just his luck – he was positively starving. When had he last eaten? Back at that disgusting food court, that didn’t even have a Mexican place? But his fortune continued - on the kitchen counter he found a pile of still-warm empanadas, both beef and chicken!
He devoured them all in a matter of minutes. He had never been so hungry. In his frenzy he had gotten sloppy, and as he began to rest and digest on a chair at the large kitchen table he realized that his black shirt and pants were covered in spicy detritus. So he did what only made sense – he took them off, and tossed them into a corner of the otherwise deserted kitchen. Having gotten rid of everything else, the only article of clothing he still had on were his boxers. But who cared? Was he afraid of the one of these little mamacitas not finding him decent? At this point, he would have welcomed it.
He returned to the foyer and the staircase. This time he noticed that the statue – of Senior Dio, as he thought of him, sported a massive, raging erection, and set of a testicles as large as persimmons hung under it. He couldn’t deny that the representation of the organ turned him on, and began to absent-mindedly play with his nipples as he gazed upon it.
But, what was this? Something was coming out of his nipples. He used one of his fingers to catch some of it, then stuck it in his mouth to taste it. It was milk, leche, and it was sweet, sweeter than any he had ever tasted in his life. He would have gladly stayed in the foyer, milking himself until the break of dawn, when he heard giggling coming from upstairs. His cock became hard again in response. The promise of sex was heavy in the air, he sensed, and not a moment too soon.
He took the stairs, two at a time, and burst through the first door he came upon, not even bothering to look at what scene of mythological debauchery had been welded upon it.
There, on yet another double-sized bed, was a woman: an awake woman. The most beautiful black woman he had ever seen in his life, she spread her thick thighs apart to present her moist, dripping, pink vagina to him. Using a single finger, she beckoned him to come closer.
He dropped his boxers on her floor, and presented her with his throbbing erection, already leaking pre-cum in excitement. She surveyed its length, and nodded her approval. With that, he nearly floated across the room and entered her, so smoothly it was almost as if her organ had been made custom for his.
What followed was, to put it mildly, the best sex he had ever had. Which was saying a lot, as he had been with women of every race, on (nearly) every continent. All of them had been beautiful and skilled in their own right, but it was nothing, anything like this.
They kissed deeply, her pierced tongue finding his and wrestling it like two anacondas fighting over a wild pig, while waves of intense, near-maddening pleasure shot through his penis and down into his balls. He wasn’t surprised, then, when he came shortly thereafter, shooting load after load deep into her tight, wanting vagina. But what did surprise him was that he not only stayed hard, but found the strength to keep going. Honestly, he doubted he could have stopped even if had wanted to.
Again and again he came, each time thinking that there was no more left of him to be spent. Until, finally, his strength gave out, and he collapsed back onto the bed. However, his partner felt no such fatigue, and she used her long tongue to lick every last bit of semen and pussy juice off of his ever-softening penis, her large afro tickling his stomach in the process. Then she moved on to his balls, and lapped up all of the sweat he had accumulated there in the frenzy of their wild rutting.
But just then, when he thought he might actually recover enough to go again, she, with, uncanny strength, pulled him off the bed, and shoved him back into the hallway. She slammed the door behind her, and he heard her lock it promptly, before letting out a burst of high, feminine laughter.
He was about to try the handle anyway, defying the mocking face of the horned figure that sat above it, when he noticed a new sensation coming from his chest. Not only were his nipples now puffy and engorged, but both were now pierced, and the leche was now flowing forth from both and dribbling down to his belly button, like sap on a tree.
But then, from the adjacent room, he heard more giggling – from two women. He forgot his newly penetrated nipples and barged into that room, finding two more women waiting for him for him – two Asians. He didn’t hesitate – he took them both, and they took each other.
First, one sat her thick ass on his face while the other rode him, while above, they furiously kissed. Then, he penetrated one, while her companion sucked on one of her nipples and rubbed her clit, never breaking eye contact with him. Finally, they got on their knees, and alternated between sucking his cock and balls until he exploded all over both of their beautiful faces.
He sat back on the bed and played with his sensitive nipples while they licked his cum off both of their faces, then spit it into each other’s mouths until they had each ingested their fair share. And he had made a new discovery while this was happening: right above his soft cock, two new breasts had sprouted, and these had been pierced too, at some point while he had been in the delirious midst of ecstasy. These new nipples, he was pleased to see, could also be milked, and he giggled as it began to flow from both of them, and down onto his shriveled penis.
The two women, having noticed what he was doing, crawled over to him and began sucking on and playing with his nipples too – all four of them. While they did so, they began piercing him again – his big nose, his thick eyebrows, his plump lips, and his cute navel. The new holes didn’t hurt as they were made – quite the opposite: each new invasion of his flesh only sent more waves of pleasure to every region and quarter of his toned, yet very curvy, body.
When they were done playing with him, done adorning his new body with even more charms than it had already exhibited, they too banished him, shrieking with laughter as they did so, before, just like the black woman had done, slamming the door abruptly in his face.
But he was fine with that now. He knew where he had to go next, and it would be a place capable of inducing in him more change than any of these paltry little rooms ever could.
Down the hallway, each door he passed now was wide open, displaying beautiful women of all races engaged in passionate lesbian lovemaking. But he ignored them all, found the stone stairs to the roof, and climbed them.
He emerged into a lush garden. All around him were flourishing plants and flowers being attended to, even at this early hour, by an army of butterflies, bees, and other assorted insects. He might have known their names, but he was never good at Biology. Or History, or Math, or Reading, or Writing, for that matter.
He could hear birds singing from the trees that lined the edges of this rooftop oasis, and spotted little fountains scattered here and there among the foliage. But what he was headed for lay in the dead center of this elevated estate: a temple.
He walked up the cracked stairs of the holy place and into the shadows cast by the columns that held up its tiled roof. All of his new adornments were telling him the same thing, singing it: go to the center…good satyrs go to the center…pray to Senior Dio.
And that is just what he did. He got on his knees, and prayed…by stroking his once-again enlarged cock.
He could hear the gentle wind as it whistled between the columns and caressed his naked body. He could feel the cold marble under his aching knees. He could still taste the sweet milk – the sweet milk of his own making – on his tongue.
And he stroked.
He heard an owl hoot from somewhere on the roof of the temple. He could feel a dull ache where each piece of jewelry had joined with his body.
And he stroked.
He could hear a harp being played, from somewhere deeper in the mansion.
And he stroked.
His testicles began to rise in his scrotum, and rose, and rose, as they entered his body completely. Finally, he came, and every last ounce of semen that they had held ejected from his glans like a harpy in flight and splattered onto the sacred floor.
It was his cock’s final act, and it now hung limp and useless.
Push it in…
He pushed his penis down until it became a tiny, cute clitoris. Then he took his empty, pathetic ball sack and pushed it up too, and it became his labia. His testicles, he somehow knew, had already become his ovaries.
Something was glinting on the tile before him. He picked it up, and joined it in painful matrimony to his clit, sending a sharp pang of pleasure through his crotch and up into his brain.
Touch it…rub it…
He didn’t have to be asked twice. He began rubbing his clit with his right hand, not even bothering to pick himself up from off his knees.
Good girls love to be on their knees…
And he was a good girl, a very good girl. With his left hand, he stimulated his right upper breast, causing it to produce even more leche, which he periodically brought up to his desperate lips, the taste of it causing his eyes to roll back into his head in pure bliss.
He rubbed, as the owl hooted again, then swopped down from its perch, and with a scared squeak, caught a small white mouse, and carried it up into the many-starred sky.
He rubbed, as his already swollen upper breasts grew and grew, going from an A cup, to BB, to CC, to DD, to EE, and finally settling at a staggering FF. His nipples widened and darkened.
He rubbed, as his hair turned from blonde to a raven-black, and grew until it almost reached his ass.
He rubbed, as his thighs and ass thickened with fat, in the way he had always hoped and prayed would happen when he was still a little girl, envying the sheer voluptuousness of his madre, tias, and abuela, the matronly curves that attracted the attention of seemingly every man in their village.
He rubbed, as his skin darkened, turning from lily white to a rich caramel coloring, the product of his proud Latin American heritage, itself an unbroken line of American Indian and Spanish Settler ancestors.
He rubbed, as two black, budding horns began growing from his scalp, quickly pushing past the mess of curly black hair he got from his padre’s side of the familia.
He rubbed as fine brown hair sprang up all over his body, from just above his thin ankles to his youthful face.
He rubbed, as the brown hair on his legs darkened further, while his ears began to grow outward, into a distinctly animal shape.
He rubbed, as his feet fused together, and became hooves, while his legs bent, permanently, at an inhuman angle.
He could feel the orgasm began to build from deep within his new vagina, which had begun leaking a torrent of fluid onto the temple floor below him. The sensation crept up into his stomach, and then into his chest, which now sported a distinct tuft of soft fur. It then climbed further still, up his newly slender neck, and into his head, atop of which the ebony horns had reached their curved zenith.
Suddenly, and all, at once, he came, like an earthquake, like the eruption of a mighty and ancient volcano. He thrust his head back and screamed at the roof of the temple, at the god of Olympus that hovered invisibly above it.
The chattering unseen birds in the trees outside took flight. All four of his breasts shot milk outward from his brown nipples, landing on and mixing with the last of the semen he would ever produce in his life. His pussy squirted as well, and the discharge landed and added to that divine mix (and woe to anyone that came across it and foolishly decided to lap it up, as they would be transformed too, though into something far stranger than a satyr!).
He heard the owl hoot again, this time in satisfaction after consuming its prey, as his blue eyes turned brown and his pupils flattened and widened.
Then he passed out.
When she awoke, it was still dark. It could have been 2 hours just as easily as it could have been 12 hours, but, judging by the deep, dreamless sleep she had just surfaced from – the kind that could only be induced by sheer physical exhaustion - she had a feeling it was the latter.
When she had first arrived at the brothel, her new sisters had told her that it was customary for all of the new girls to come up to the rooftop and pray to their patron god Senior Dio (her name for him, as she had always found his full name hard to pronounce) in the way he most preferred – by masturbating.
And so she had, but, apparently, had gotten a little carried away with it, and not for the first time! But she shrugged her shoulders: she was a satyr, after all, and therefore always totally dedicated to the pursuit of pleasure above all else. It would have been unusual if she hadn’t prolonged her self-love session!
That’s how she had found the brothel. On her much-anticipated 18th birthday, she had left her home in the remote jungle of South America, in search of new carnal horizons – the typical coming-of-age journey for all satyrs, both male and female alike. She didn’t get much further than the biggest city that was closest to her puebla, however: the first night in the hostel she was staying at she had met the recruiter, a beautiful, red-haired, pale-skinned white girl named Samantha.
Samantha was a fellow satyr, though, like herself, she was using the natural enchantments their species had available to them to conceal their more animal features while out in the mortal world. Samantha could tell she was a satyr by her signature musk, however, which humans might accept as an exotic perfume or cologne, but other satyrs knew was the unique scent that their kind naturally produced.
Walking around on big flat feet, hair confined to only certain parts of her body, had been weird for her at first, because, back in the village, it wasn’t necessary – her family had founded the town over a hundred years ago and even the humans that lived there knew of their true nature – had known for generations - and accepted it, even sometimes worked to conceal it. Samantha, however, was a natural: if it hadn’t been for her odor, which brought to mind a vision of pristine virgin springs with bright blue water, she wouldn’t have suspected anything at all.
Samantha had explained that her Mistress had long suspected that there were hidden satyr tribes in Latina America, and had deployed a few of her girls to the region to find them. Find them, and invite them here to the brothel in America, wherein they would work as camgirls.
Samantha wasn’t sure if she would know what that was, but she did: her village might have been isolated, but with smartphones, they could still access the Internet. It wasn’t the Stone Age!
How fortuitous this had been! She had planned to do it all – prostitution, porn, random hook-ups (had already screwed a few cute guys that very day in the city), relationships both short and long term – and so why not start with a few live streaming shows? The only question she had for Samantha was how they concealed their true identity, since their charms didn’t work with cameras?
It was simple, Samantha explained: the website they had built themselves explained that all of the girls were just using elaborate make-up and costumes to offer a “special” experience to the “discerning” customer! How ingénue!
Her days could be her own – she was free to stay in and “play” with her sisters in the mansion, drinking, and eating, and screwing, or, she could go out and find some human companions to drink, eat, and screw with in the surrounding area. As long as she did her nightly show, she could still live in the manor, and would be still under the protection of the Mistress – a long-lived, powerful satyr (one of the first made by Senior Dio, rumor had it).
Eventually, though, she would return to her village, wherein she would be married to one of her primos, a very handsome, very hung young satyr that was off on his own little rumspringa right now. She wondered where he was at that very moment: he was eager to do porn himself, and she wouldn’t be shocked if he was already shooting his first “film” right now, no doubt themed after Ancient Greece or Rome, as he plowed some bleach-blonde white woman with big fake tits and a BBL in a robe.
This type of intra-familial marriage might seem shocking to humans, but for the satyrs, it only made sense: there simply weren’t that many of them in the world, and even fewer than that that they knew they could trust. Not that humans and satyrs couldn’t mate and produce offspring – that was certainly possible (and a story for another time) – but, even still, it was only natural for them to want to continue to breed new generations of their ancient, privileged race.
Back on the floor of the rooftop temple, she had rolled onto her muscular back, and was busy exploring all of the new piercings and jewelry that had been adorned on her shortly after she had come to the brothel, the usual welcoming gift, the sisters had told her. She even rubbed a few more out, remembering the journey she had taken from South America back to the United States on one of Mistresses’ private jets, during which she and Samantha had fucked the whole way, now free to expose their true, bestial forms to one another. Disappointingly, though, none of those orgasms were as powerful as the one that had so thoroughly knocked her out before.
She might have wondered why that was, but honestly, she wasn’t all that smart. Satyrs could be intelligent, yes, but she definitely was not counted among them. Not that she cared: mental adeptness simply wasn’t that valued a trait among satyrs, when, even among the intelligent ones, the highest pursuit was still the simple bliss of the eternal orgasm. And it wasn’t like she had ever seen any evidence that being smarter made you a better amante.
She could again hear the sound of a harp coming from somewhere back down in the building. It was time for her to finally meet the Mistress.
She left the temple, made her way through the garden, and walked down the stone steps back into the interior of the mansion. She again traversed the length of the upstairs hallway, her goat feet tapping against the tile, while, to either side of her, all of the doors that had been previously open on her first pass were now shut tight. But she had an idea of where she could find their prior occupants.
She descended the spiral staircase behind the statue of Senior Dio, but still could not find the source of the ethereal sound she had first heard on the rooftop. She listened again, more closely, and realized it was coming from what must have been the basement. But where was the door?
It was at just that very moment that she heard a sound like the grinding of large rusted gears, as a recess in the wall to her right opened. Warm light spilled out of it, along with the sounds of women laughing, and the sought- after, elusive harp.
She walked to the uncovered threshold, only to find yet more stairs. But she had no intention of turning back now, having come 5,000 miles just to be here, far from everyone she had known and loved. So she again descended, deeper and deeper into the earth. Down, down, down she went, even past sea level, until, at last, she reached the steps’ terminus.
She passed through an archaic archway and entered into a massive grotto, which, by the look of it, had been carved out of the very bedrock that supported the mansion far above. On one side was an expansive pool, steam rising from the water. But it was here she found the bulk of her missing sisters: they swam, played, conversed, and, in some of the more shallow areas, had sex with each other.
But what was most extraordinary to her was the variety of the girls. She didn’t mean their race, as she had expected to find satyrs here of every color, and she did. And she didn’t mean their age, as they looked to all be in the range of 18-35, the prime camgirl demographic.
What stood out to her was the diversity of their lower halves. When she had first arrived at the brothel, and had been greeted by a few of the girls tasked with meeting her and Samantha at the front door, they were all still using their magic to conceal their animal aspects. But now, with those affectations done away with, she could see just how many different satyr ethnicities (for lack of a better word) there apparently were out in the world (and here in the mansion).
Back in the village, she had only known of the “goat” variety, of which she and her sprawling family were a part. Here, though, and everywhere she looked, she seemed to see a new kind of satyr. There were more goat-bottoms, yes, but also sheep-bottoms, cow-bottoms, horse-bottoms, camel-bottoms, bison-bottoms, deer-bottoms, and even pig-bottoms.
“Maria!” someone called from across the alcove.
For a second, she didn’t register the name as being her own. But then she remembered, and chastised herself for being such an airhead. Of course her name was Maria! It had only been what her padres, tias, tios, hermanos, and primos had called her her entire life!
She looked to see who had cried out her name, and found Samantha standing on a raised platform across from the pool. And, sitting on a damaged, marble throne to her left, was the Mistress.
The Mistress wordlessly beckoned to her with one long finger, and Maria promptly obeyed.
As Maria approached the Mistress, the other satyrs began to take notice and cease their frolicking and fornicating, and turned to watch quietly, a hush spreading over them.
The closer Maria got to the Mistress, the more she realized how big she was. The Mistress, though having a goat-bottom like Maria and Samantha, was easily 7 feet tall, and as wide as two lesser satyrs placed side by side. And she was thick, and not just with fat, but with muscle, too. And the vagina her dense thighs had been spread to reveal: it was positively gargantuan!
The musk that spread up from it too, overpowering any of the weaker scents around it…to inhale it was to see Mount Olympus itself, the home of the gods. Maria got on her knees before the Mistress, and, without being asked to, completely unable to resist, began to attend to it.
She licked, kissed, and bit the Mistress’ supple pussy, while, around her, she could hear the other satyrs approach. Most merely watched, but others decided to participate. Her eyes were closed, but she could feel deft hands all over her body, seeking her own tits, anus, and vagina. One (she hoped it was Samantha) even began to lather her horns with a sensual mix of olive oil and honey.
The Mistress – her Mistress – said nothing, only moaned and occasionally ran her fingers through Maria’s curly hair.
Maria didn’t mind. She had a feeling she was going to be there for a long time.
