Midnight in the garden of earthly delights

You dream of music.

It is a piping springy tune. It makes you want to move and dance. Carouse and play. It caresses your skin sinuously, sliding against you, exciting you. Your cunt dampens. You moan willfully. Hands dance across your skin as if your body were the instrument of this sinfully delightful music. You writhe and dance to it, leaning into the spectral touch as it runs across your hip, glides along the cleft between your cheeks, runs up along your spine, then parts, flowing beneath to cup your breasts, to pinch your nipples and tweak their buds. You cry and quiver, moan and writhe. But putty to these masterful hands who know the way of all flesh, and tonight, have shared the touch of pleasure with you.

But it teases. You can feel it would give you more. You know it has more. You rejoice in what it offers, but are helpless to demand. You cannot articulate your need. The music slithers across your bare skin in the realm of sleep, and in these nonsense worlds’, demands you ask for what you want, but your inexperience plays against you, and you can only slide deeper into its embrace, innocent of what you want, only aware of a burning need.

You wake suddenly in the dark. The cold stone puckers your flesh in goosebumps. You are unbelievably sensitive. The merest breeze excites your nerves like nothing else. You sit up and sigh as the milk within your belly settles, and from it you draw warmth that only makes the cold more acute. If only you had another body to share with.

It is then you notice you are alone. You start to your feet in the lonely shrine. Your eyes search among the columns, but the curvaceous figure of Brigette is nowhere to be found. Fear trills through you, but you quickly calm, are soothed of your worry. The music’s back…

You turn and step slowly from the chamber. You part the curtain of vine and flowers and step into the hall. Like beckoning fingers the fluted tune draws you back down the corridor towards the shrine of the goddess.

As your hand rises to part the veil of vegetation it brushes the pommel of the saint’s sword. You stop, poised. The tune continues to lure you with its alluring fluting, but some vague apprehension holds you back. Your fingers tremble midair, and you just part the curtain enough to see beyond.

The scene is lit by the moonlight, streaming down from above like a spotlight upon the stage. The white skin of the four armed goddess fairly glows in the ethereal light. The wine which spills from her bowls shines and gleams as if laced with silver, and splashing in the fountain pool, rejoicing beneath the waterfalls of intoxicating wine, gambols capering figures. All male, their upper body that of men, below the waist that of furred goats. Their cloven hooves splash as they frolic and roughhouse in delight. Horns curl like those of a ram from their wild red hair, the same kind which brushes their arms and coats their chins with a beard like a forked tongue.

Satyrs.

You watch, dreamily, as they raise goblets carved of wood to the eternal falls of wine and quaff the contents. They reel drunkenly, laughing and butting heads, their manhood thick and engorged between their legs. Several rest on the lip of the fountain, pan pipes at their lips as they play the tune to which this celebration moves to.

Then, you see Brigette. She lounges at the feet of the statue, several satyrs attending her. One bleats as he pistons his hips against her, rutting her frantically, the green woman moaning throatily as two other of the goat men attend her breasts, drinking greedily of her bounty. Brigette croons and pets the feral demihumans, her hair mussed, her eyes dim and glassy, drunk with delight and, perhaps, the wine which falls all around her.

A rage at seeing your sister so abused fills you. You grab the hilt of the holy blade just as the satyr’s tune ends, and a new one begins. You hesitate, the song they play deep and sensual, the song of your dreams slipping against your skin, coaxing your mind to release, let go, surrender inhibitions for the joy of the drunken revelry. Passion of two kinds war against the other. Your hand shakes on the sword, to draw or strip it from you and join the celebration of flesh.