Eat and drink for now.

You take the gourd of wine and drink several gulps down. It tastes absolutely delicious on your parched tongue. You drink down almost half the wine before you seperate it from your lips and give a satisfying gasp.

In no time, you’re sitting at the stump, feasting on the fruits, cheeses, and meats alongside the satyr. You wash down each bite with a gulp of liquor, your self control waning with each sip of the stronger-than-you-thought ****.

Before you know it, you’ve grown drunk and find yourself dancing with the satyr in the clearing, arm in arm. You never expected it to come to this, but you should have known you’d find yourself frolicking with the faun the moment you took his wine. The stories always told of the satyrs’ desire to dance with young maidens; it’s too bad you didn’t remember those tales until you were already drunk and dancing.

“See? Isn’t it better when you strip away the worries of **** and simply enjoy that which is life?” The satyr says, spinning you in a circle that makes you slightly dizzy.

“Yeah!” you yelp drunkenly, dancing about. Your eyes occasionally find themselves wandering downward, seeing that the satyr is still fully erect. Perhaps the mythos of these creatures being cursed to show their readiness to mate were true after all.

“Even the baggage of clothes should be left behind! What is more celebratory of life than to be in your most natural state among nature? For is nature not the gods’ very expression of life?”

You continue to dance with the satyr, but you feel his fingers start pulling at your top, trying to roll it up your chest. In any other situation, you’d stop him. But tonight, you’re full of booze and excitement. You help him strip you of your leather top by raising your arms up.

Your young, pert breasts bare themselves before the creature who takes in their smooth, pale skin with hungry eyes. While the half-goat, half-man feasts his eyes on your chest, you kick off your boots and pull off your gloves. You stop dancing long enough to undo your shorts and let them fall down your tender thighs, revealing the soft, coppery patch of hair above your mound.

You resume dancing, now completely naked like the satyr who waltzes beside you. You’re enjoying yourself so much that you don’t even show a single freckle of modest blushing.

You keep spinning and spinning, laughter and cheering coming from your lips, sweat glistening across your bare skin. But when you do eventually stop dancing in circles, the world around you continues to spin on.

You find yourself falling, the satyr tumbling along with you. You roll on the grass below, giggling as the satyr fur tickles your bare skin. Your vision’s swimming. Your body’s burning. You feel kisses trace down your body as you lay on your back. A coarse tongue on your erect nipple, then on your taut belly, and finally between your legs. Your head shoots back as electricity runs up your spine.

“Oh, gods,” you gasp with eyes shut and body quivering.

“What’s your name?” the satyr asks between licks on your throbbing pearl.

“L-Luna,” you moan between hot breathes.

The creature’s expert tongue has your drunken body working into a frenzy, forcing your juices to flow freely across his bushy beard. But before you get too far into your pleasure, he pulls his mouth away and sits up.

“Don’t stop,” you gasp at him.

“Come this way,” the faun ignores your pleading and pull you up by the arm. He leads you to a nearby trunk of a fallen tree, sitting down on it and letting you fall onto his lap.

His lips contact yours, letting the faint taste of your honey reach your tongue. You feel his erection brush against your mound, the intent ever so obvious, even for your drunken mind.

The faun pulls his lips from yours and kisses your neck before whispering in your ear, “What is not the best celebration of life than the mating of a man and woman, the very act that helps create life?”

His words run shivers up your spine. Images of you mounting his hard shaft spring to mind. Your hips raise themselves instinctively, your hand reaching down to take hold of his shaft. You rub the wide head against your cunny, ready to drive yourself right onto him.

But something stops you from giving in completely. You’re incredible aroused. You want to feel him inside you, but the thoughts of your virtue and the consequences of sex run through your mind.

You run the cockhead across your cunny some more, making you bite your lip, but after a few strokes you run it across your tender pucker. Perhaps this way is safer, you think to yourself. It might not be as pleasurable, but you’re so far gone in your arousal that you’re eager to take this fantastical creature in any fashion.