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The Satyr's Trade

by Declan Xavier

Two men stood in the clearing, the twilight's mist swirling around their ankles. One of the two, older and more nicely dressed, held the small tin lantern that held back the encroaching darkness of the surrounding woods, while the younger man shivered, though whether from fear or cold was a matter of debate. Every nightmare that Kethov had heard about the forest at night was coming true this evening.

“How much longer do we have to wait?” Kethov asked, impatiently.

“Until they arrive,” Reyndul snapped back, like a parent that had tired of scolding their child. “The creatures of Faerie are not renowned timekeepers.”

“Wish I had my knife,' Kethov muttered, turning away from his campaign to scan the surrounding woods for figures. It was silent, except for his chattering teeth and occasional shuffling. It had been a rule – no fire, no iron. Kethov failed to see the reasoning, they were about to truly offend the creatures of the forest anyway, why not be warm and armed while doing it?

His shivering stopped when he heard a snapping branch off to his right, from the opposite direction they had entered the clearing. Both men turned as two satyrs emerged fro the forest. The two creatures were six-and-a-half feet tall, dwarfing both men, even without the added benefit of the horns that curled from their scalp. As they stepped into the lantern-light, Kethov could see that they were both unclothed, and both were just...much larger...than either he or Reyndul. They were broader of shoulder, and while Kethov was proud of the physique that being a woodcutter had given him, the pair of them sported more abdominal muscles and thicker biceps and thighs than him. That was were the similarities between the two ended.

One of them had hair, beard, and furred legs the color of red autumn leaves. His horns (Kethov assumed they were male because he saw no breasts) stood straight up from his temples and then angled slightly back. His face was more goat-like than the other's, but there was something still unmistakenably human about it.

The other carried a small clay jar from which a soft light emerged. This one had black hair, beard, and fur, black horns that curled down around his ears, and a very, very human face. Kethov could almost believe he was in some elaborate costume if he hadn't seen the other, distinctly inhuman, companion. The one with the lantern bowed low, his red partner following suit.

“Well met, people,” the black-furred satyr spoke. “Forgive us our impudence, but we must be on our way to see Mayor Anreyn and should not be delayed.”

Reyndul stood up a little straighter, puffing out his chest. “My father passed from this world last summer. I am Reyndul, his son, and the new mayor of our village. Your business is now with me.”

If the satyrs recognized the show of bravado, they didn't acknowledge it. Instead, they both bowed their heads quietly for a moment before the lantern satyr spoke again. “I am sorry to hear of your father's passing, Mayor Reyndul, I am Dubh, and this is Dearg.” the creatures were surprisingly respectful for the tales of their kind. “Is this to be our gift this year?” he asked, motioning toward Kethov.

“No.” “Hey!” Both protests rang out at once, before Reyndul held up his free hand to silence the other man.

“First, this one is obviously no maiden. Second, with the passing of my father, I have decided that no longer will be sacrificing our people, regardless of gender or status.”

For a few heartbeats, silence reigned in the clearing again. Dearg and Dubh turned to one another, and wordlessly exchanged glances and head-tilts before Dubh ultimately shrugged. “Very well.”

Reyndul continued to hold his breath, not wanting to give out a sigh of relief that there was apparently going to be no violence. “So we are agreed?”

Dubh nodded. “I mean, yeah, an agreement needs two sides. Just want to make sure though, do you know why your father made the deal with us in the first place?”

The mayor tightened his grip on the tin lantern. Could he believe anything these creatures said? “He simply said it kept our village safe. We have iron and fire enough, we don't fear you.”

Dearg let out a barking laugh, but a scowl from Dubh silenced him quickly. “Uh, so, yes. An offering of a single virgin,” the said, giving Kethov a pointed look as emphasized that last word. “Would guarantee your village's safety and well-being for another year, but not because we were going to do anything to you.”

“Satyrs aren't combatants by nature, but the forest has dangers enough. Have any of your villagers ever been snared by a dryad? Did a falling tree ever crush one of your cabins? Have you ever gone a winter without ample game and fish?”

Reyndul swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. “N-no, but...”

“Your village has been very fortunate. Some would say blessed. If that blessing were to go away, we wouldn't need to go to war with you, and there isn't fire or iron enough to hold off a famine winter, or a crop blight. In fact, you would have...what has it been, seventeen years?” Dearg nodded an affirmative to his partner's question. “Seventeen years of ill luck to come roaring back. Or at least, it might feel that way.”

Both of the humans were stunned into silence. All this time, Reyndul had assumed his father had sold his soul and his villagers out as an act of cowardice. One person a year was a small price, when compared to letting the entire village fall victim to famine, or plague, or other misfortunes. How was he to comfort a mother when her son lost in the forest, fallen down some sinkhole or ensnared by hags? He felt the fingers clutching the lantern go numb as he tried to process this new information.

The two satyrs bowed once more. “Farewell, Mayor Reyndul. We wish you all the best, sincerely.”

As they turned to leave, Reyndul shouted at them to wait. All three of the other entities in the clearing turned to face the mayor. “You said this one was acceptable?”

Kethov blinked. “What?! You can't do this!”

Reyndul grabbed the other man by the shoulder. “Think about it, Kethov. It's either this, or everyone in the village suffers. Your sister, your widowed mother, your friends? I came here wanting to put an end to this, but if I do that, I'm damning everyone.”

Kethov clenched and unclenched his fists, alternating between wanting to punch his mayor in the mouth and seeing the validity. They hadn't really known true suffering in the village. Could he be the one to bring it about? Kethov's nostrils flared. “Three conditions,” he said.

Reyndul nodded solemnly. “Name them.”

“One, you care for my mother until the end of her days and my sister until her marriage.”

“Agreed.”

“Second, my sister, nor her kids, ever get put up to this. I am the only one of my family this happens to.”

Reyndul nodded. “You have my word. What's your third condition?”

“I get to punch you in the fucking nose.”

“Bu-”

Whatever was about to be said was cut off as Kethov landed a left jab on the mayor's nose, sending him sprawling to the ground, shattering the glass of the lantern but not putting out the little candle. Reyndul scrambled into a seated position, wiping the blood from his nose as it flowed freely and checking to make sure it wasn't broken. He scowled at Kethov. “You have my word,” he said, more nasal and sarcastic than before. He turned to the satyrs. “I will return this day next year.”

Dubh nodded and Dearg bowed low as the mayor retreated to the village. Kethov, for a moment, thought about taking off into the forest. Even dying at the hands of something out there seemed better than what the satyrs would do to him, but that might be the same as if he never made the agreement in the first place. He turned to his new...he did not have a title for them. Masters? Captors? Companions? The tales had only been whispered in the public house, and only the women had cause to fear during Anreyn's rule.

“Let's go,” Dubh said, turning and gesturing for Kethov to follow. “We have to make it to the halfway hut soon if you're going to eat before it's time for you to sleep.”

“What is the halfway hut?” Kethov asked, struggling to keep up with them as they had much longer strides than him.

“It's the hut that's halfway to our village. Non-satyrs cannot enter. They can't even see it. Keeps us protected mostly.” Dubh answered.

“Does he ever talk?”

Dearg turned back, nodding and smiling weirdly to Kethov. “Sometimes,” he said in a deep bass that sounded like a falling tree and rattled Kethov's bones worse than the cold did.

“Dearg's older, and wiser, so he talks half as much as he listens. When he sings though,” Dubh said, sighing wistfully.

The rest of the journey continued in the same way, with Kethov asking question while trying to dodge hazards and keep up with the satyrs, and with Dubh answering quickly. The only question that Kethov didn't want answered was what was going to become of him once they got to the village, but before long their destination was in sight, a small wooden hut tucked back farther than any in the village would dare wander. Considering how far he had already gone with Reyndul, were they really only halfway to the village?

Dearg and Dubh disappeared into the hut without much trouble, and Kethov, still somewhat reluctantly followed. His stomach hadn't stopped doing backflips all evening, and the prospect of eating anything didn't appeal to him at the moment. Still, whatever he faced would be easier on a full stomach than an empty one.

In short order, Dubh had a fire going over a hearth that held a large iron pot. If they hadn't promised to feed him, Kethov would have thought that the tales of people being dragged off and eaten were true. Dearg rummaged around in one of the other corners, retrieving a small stock of root vegetables and a skin full of something that sloshed as he walked. Dearg quickly added all of it into the pot, and the smell of alcohol and grapes started to fill the cabin, overpowering the ripe barnyard smell that the satyrs had brought with them, and that Kethov had only noticed now that he was enclosed with them.

Dearg took a swig of the wine from the skin, wiping his mouth before passing it to Dubh, who also took a healthy drink before handing it back. The red satyr walked over to Kethov. “Drink,” he rattled, his tone filling the room and leaving no room for argument. Kethov took a drink, the sweet liquor hitting his tongue and warming his mouth and throat. It tasted better than any wine or beer he had back in the village, and it brought water to his eyes with even the first mouthful.

With the wine and the fire warming him, and the smells of supper being cooked, Kethov started to relax a little. Dearg and Dubh went about cooking dinner and preparing the large bed on the opposite side of the cabin from the hearth wordlessly, only sharing glances and other gestures. The human kept out of their way, in the shadows. Maybe he would sneak off in the night. Could he find his way back to the village? Was it even worth the risk? What would the satyrs do if they caught him, or worse, if he was successful. He thought about his family back at the village, and he felt the rising tears again, this time having nothing to do with the wine.

Dearg nudged Dubh with his elbow and jerked a thumb back at Kethov, taking over the stew stirring duties while the younger satyr knelt to talk to the human. “Hey, so...uh...a lot to take in today, huh?” Dubh scratched the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable with trying to cheer someone up. The previous offerings all had time to prepare mentally and accept their fate.

“What's going to happen to me?” Kethov asked, finally deciding to break the tension.

“You're joining our herd.”

Kethov blinked. Out of all of the possible answers, that was not one he thought he would hear. “Come again?”

Dubh laughed, a little bit of a goat bray leaking in. “You're joining our herd. I guess your mayor didn't tell you since he wasn't initially planning on giving you up. Hells, he probably didn't even know himself, considering what an asshole he was.”

Kethov let out a single sharp laugh despite himself, then started laughing full and strong in earnest. “So...I mean, I get to live, and I'm not a slave?”

Dubh and Dearg both stared at Kethov. “What kind of stories have they been telling you?! Why would we drag you halfway through the forest if we were just going to kill you? And we're not monsters enough to keep slaves. Stars above. Dearg, can you believe this?”

Dearg just shook his head. “No,” he said, rattling the walls of the cabin with his voice and causing Kethov to snap out of his mirth.

Dubh offered the wineskin to Kethov again, who took another swig but with sufficiently more enjoyment this time. His head swam with relief, excitement, and not a little bit of the alcohol in his blood. “I did tell you that non-satyrs can't see our village, let alone enter it. That's why we stop here for the night, to prepare you.”

“Prepare m-” Kethov's question was quickly silenced by Dubh planting his lips over the human's mouth, tongue questing in to taste the wine he had so recently savored. Kethov pushed back out of surprise, breaking the kiss and wiping his mouth on the back of his head.

“Relax,” Dubh said, obviously not flustered at the rejection. He stood, and as he did so, Kethov saw a shadow move between the satyr's legs. Then, realization dawned on him that it wasn't a shadow, but rather two long, black-furred balls that hung nearly down to the satyr's inverted knees. He had noticed that neither of the satyrs were clothed when they arrived, but his mind wasn't on that area. Kethov swallowed, his mouth still tasting of wine and satyr tongue, and he found himself not minding the taste.

“So you won't let me kiss you, but you won't stop staring at my bits?” Dubh laughed, turning a bit so the firelight showed the outline of his sheath and balls, and Kethov's eyes followed. “Why don't you take off those clothes of yours, make everything fair?”

Kethov stood by sliding himself up the wall he had been sitting against, looking between the door, Dubh, and Dearg. Maybe it was the wine, or the fact that he was being an opportunity to live rather than face the horrors he had grown up hearing, but the thought of running no longer appealed to him, and if he was going to stay...

Before he even had conscious thought to do so, his fingers were untying the cords that kept his shirt tight to his neck, widening the hole large enough for him to pull his head through, even with the thick mop of wild brown hair he had. There was little ceremony and no art to the undressing, like he was coming home from a day of work and shedding his rags before washing for dinner. A hand under his chin stopped him as his thumbs hooked into the band of his burlap trousers.

Dubh looked down at the human in the firelight. With his chest bare and his pants nearly the same color as his hair in the low light, it was the closest appraisal he would get before the transformation. He felt his sheath stirring as he looked down and what was about to make a fine addition to the herd.

“Proceed,” he said, removing his hand from Kethov's chin. Kethov blushed hard at the attention, pulling off his trousers and stepping out of them before kicking off his sandals. He wore only a breech cloth beneath his pants, and they did nothing to hide the fact that the environment and the view were having an effect on him. Standing straight out from his body and taking a bit of the cloth with it was his own erection, and he watched as Dubh eyed that too.

“Not bad,” Dubh said, crossing his arms over his own barrel chest. “Not bad, but not done.”

Kethov started to work on the knot to the last bit of his clothing when something wicked sprung to mind. “Fair's fair,” he taunted. “I haven't seen yours yet, not truly.”

Dubh smirked. “Plenty of time for that, new blood,” he said, stamping a hoof. Dearg turned, nodding and letting the stew to simmer while he headed over to the bed. Big enough to support the three of them, and more, it was the only piece of furniture in the room. Dubh grabbed Kethov by the wrist, walking him over to the bed to join the other satyr.

Before Kethov had the chance to size up Dearg in the same way as he already had Dubh, he was lifted off his feet by his thighs. He felt Dubh behind and underneath him shift somehow, but when all was said and done, he was sitting with his own crotch at Dearg's head level while the red satyr was seated on the bed. If his own undressing was functional, Dearg's finale was nearly feral, as he wormed a single finger between the cloth and Kethov's skin and snapped the thread holding the last barrier to Kethov's modesty.

Now on full display and feeling like he was being presented before the old satyr, Kethov sputtered a bit as he felt his thighs being pulled apart by Dubh's strong hands. As if on some unheard cue, both sides of the human's hips were assaulted by satyrs at once. Dearg moved his caprine face forward, lips parting just wide enough to fit the mushroom-shaped tip of Kethov's member into his mouth, peeling back the foreskin a bit as he moved down the shaft. Meanwhile, Kethov felt a hot puff of air against the virgin pucker, followed quickly by a hot, wet something that he realized was Dubh's tongue. The black satyr's muscle spent a little bit of time teasing the area around Kethov's back entrance before finally spearing him, starting to spread the tight ring apart. The human moaned and bucked uselessly as he felt the sensations collide in the middle and send him to dizzying heights of pleasure almost instantly.

Dearg focused on the task at hand, or rather, in mouth, as he quickly brought the human's cock into his muzzle, dragging his tongue along the underside and putting pressure on the bulge that ran the length. Then, wrapping his lips tightly against the sensitive skin, started to withdraw and pulled his breath in. The force and the friction made it feel like it was going to get sucked off, and he let out a panting moan of relief when Dearg started reversing direction again.

Meanwhile, Dubh's tongue expertly stretched and slicked up Kethov's backside, lapping at the edges of a tunnel that had never known such ministrations. The human's body moved automatically,, his brain currently trying to process the sensations and situation, and his anal ring clenched against the intrusive muscle. The satyr worked slowly and carefully, pushing in deeper despite the tightness and opening up new depths with each passing second. Then, Dubh hit something.

It felt like a fire had flared at the base of his spine. Kethov felt his tool spasm within the confines of Dearg's muzzle, and the floodgates opened. Kethov cried out as his orgasm started, sending a jet of his hot seed firing against the back of Dearg's throat. The satyr just drank down the gift without hesitation, wrapping his hand around the base of the human's knob as if to steady it as the cum continued to flow.

As quickly as the festivities had commenced, they seemed to end as Dubh removed his face from Kethov's ass and lowered him to shaky legs, and Dearg pulled his lips free from around Kethov's rapidly deflating member. The human collapsed against the side of the bed, panting heavily, the sweat that covered his pale skin glittering in the firelight.

“Stars above,” he panted. “I am so, so sorry,” he started, looking up at Dearg. Dearg merely smiled and licked his lips slowly.

“Don't worry about it. We asked for a virgin, remember? It'll get better.”

Kethov turned to address Dubh, but stopped when we noticed that the proceedings hadn't just affected his body, but the satyrs' as well. Standing out against the black fur of Dubh's legs was a huge pink erection, and in keeping with the satyr pattern, just bigger than Kethov had ever seen on any human. Not that he had terribly much experience with other guys' penises, but he was sure that Dubh would shame all of the men of the village, and maybe even some of the colts.

Dearg's was even more impressive and, like the rest of him, more animalistic, with a tapered tip. The barnyard smell in the hut was back, but was more pronounced, with an additional spice that Kethov had never experienced before, but was doing his pleasure-addled brain no favors in recovering. Dearg snorted through his nostrils, giving Dubh a look that Kethov couldn't interpret.

“Hold still,” Dubh said as he pulled Kethov back into a semi-seated position in front of Dearg, before climbing onto the bed to join the other satyr. “Dearg wants to give you a lesson. Just do to him what he does to me.”

Dearg reached out, wrapping strong fingers around the base of Dubh's rigid member, his other hand reaching up to gently grip the black furry balls that hung underneath. While the instructor was focusing on the task, the 'assistant' looked down at Kethov, giving him a smile and a nod. Kethov took his eyes away from the pair, and to his own lesson that was staring him in the face. He, too, grabbed a hold of the hot member. He was surprised to feel the pulsing of the satyr's heart through his organ. As Kethov laid a hand on the red-furred balls, he felt their heat as well.

The human watched as Dearg opened his mouth wide, tongue lolling out, and gave Dubh's cock a long and languid lick, starting at the base and working it along the shaft. Dubh let out a little bleat of pleasure, giving an expectant look to Kethov, who followed his teacher's example and added satyr cock to the menagerie of tastes that crowded his mouth. It tasted musky, and the smell of it filled his nostrils as he ran his tongue along the shaft.

Dearg moaned above him, and the human looked up to watch his tutelage continue. Dearg took the more human-like dick of Dubh into his mouth, lips tightly wrapped around the tip. The tapered form of Dearg's erection made it easier, and the musky smell became a musky, thick taste in his mouth as he pushed more into his mouth. Breathing through his nose only brought more of the scent into his nostrils, and the human's own flagging erection was revived.

The red satyr rubbed the black satyr's balls gently, but in the dim light Kethov couldn't see that, and merely held on to the creature's testes. Dubh's moans got faster and louder as Dearg started relishing the 'lesson' more, his goat-like muzzle accommodating even the larger penis of the satyr easily. His student's enthusiasm mirrored his own, putting more of the throbbing rod into his mouth, his stomach stirring a little as it started to tickle the back of his throat.

With only a grunt from Dearg, something new started to leak into Kethov's mouth, mixing with his saliva. It was salty and slick, like raw olive oil, and it lit up the human's tongue as it coated his mouth. He felt Dearg's balls in his hand churning, pulling and tightening up against the satyr's sheath.

As much as he was enjoying it, Dubh tapped Dearg on the shoulder. “Hey, he's not up to doing that yet.” Kethov looked up as the black satyr removed his rod from the mouth of his older partner, climbing out of the bed. Dubh's cock glistened with Dearg's spit in the firelight, and Kethov got to admire it as Dubh sat next to Dearg while the new blood continued his lesson.

The thick syrup continued to leak into Kethov's mouth like a leaking tap, and he felt some dribble down his chin and fall to the floor of the hut as he continued to try and make the satyr pleased with his efforts. Thick fingers wove into his bush of brown hair, guiding the lesson with some hands-on instruction for a few minutes. He felt the tip tickle the back of his throat once again, and the hands held his head still as the cock in his mouth surged.

Dearg let out a howling bleat of pleasure, and suddenly, Kethov's mouth was full of something that was salty and bitter, and he had to swallow just to prevent from choking. The volume was too much, and it started to leak out from Kethov's lips. It was pearly white, and caused the heady scent to greatly increase, and it just kept coming. More went into Kethov than fell out, and he could feel it fill him in a way that the wine had not done.

Dubh watched as the human sucked satyr jizz, his muscles starting to twist and grow, and dark fur like a shadow fall across his legs. He wrapped his arm around Dearg's shoulder as the orgasm fed the new addition to their herd. With one final spurt, Kethov pulled his mouth free of Dearg's member, coughing and sputtering up some of the hard-earned opalescent liquid.

The black satry stood, rounding the soon-to-be-former human, gazing at that backside where a small nub of a tail had begun to emerge. He licked his lips, rubbing his own erection back to full hardness. He hadn't done all that work preparing the human's backdoor not to go knocking. Besides, one dose wasn't going to be sufficient for the transformation, and the stew was far from ready...

With the morning light came birds, and Dubh stepped out of the hut to greet the new day, stretching as he did so. He hadn't gotten much sleep, and was owed a nap once he got back to the village.

“Dearg, Donn, let's go!” he barked impatiently. “I want to get to the village before lunch.”

Dearg stepped out of the hut, followed shortly by a smaller satyr with thick curly brown hair that matched the fur of his legs. A pair of small brown nubs at his temples showed where his horns were going to be, one day, perhaps one day soon. There was a bounce in his step, and a slight limp, as he followed his two herdmates away, leaving the hut empty save for some discarded clothes, some leftover soup, and the smell of sex and goat.