Part I- Bold
“Mistress! Please, I beg you! Don’t punish the wench.”
Lady Helen Paris didn’t bother turning. She knew exactly who would dare burst into her private chamber. Ol’ Nan raised Helen since childhood, sitting on her father’s dock as the seasons drifted. Teaching right and wrong. Once Helen got a little older, the wily old woman shielded the rebellious charge from encouraging various fishermen. Big men, rough, and not inclined to gentlemanly advances. Foolish Helen thrilled at their leers and whispers. Their calloused hands sent a primal instinct pulsing between properly crossed legs. At night, she imagined their coarse fingers molesting every inch of flesh.
Fortunately, Ol’ Nan prevented Helen from ever acting on those fantasies. She chased off the riffraff and introduced the local beauty to a higher class of suitor.
“Those dreams are for ya husband,” she instructed when Helen brought up the growing sweet discomfort. “He’ll fix that. But stay strong, Mistress. Cause sinners needs be punished. It’s the way of the world.”
So, it was a slight surprise to hear Ol’ Nan defending an adulteress.
“Nan,” Helen adjusted the hat upon her head, the small black veil falling in front. “Part of my duties as Lady Mayoress requires enforcing the social and moral fiber of our community.” The Brunswick coat fit tightly over her dress; despite the conservative choice, it still highlighted her figure. Helen’s youthful voluptuousness had grown into a practiced statuesque beauty. To dress modestly with her full breasts, round ass, and hourglass proportions required more effort than she’d ever admit. Especially as her husband, Lord Mayor Raphael Paris, did not want her dressing like some dowdy spinster. 'I married a beauty to enjoy the view,' he quipped once at a dinner party. The men all laughed.
“Besides, she’s been quite the hypocrite.” Helen continued. “Wouldn’t you say? Acting the Saint at town meetings.” She picked up two pairs of gloves, showing them to her oldest co-conspirator. “What do you think? Ivory? Or cream-colored.”
“Listen to me,” Nan pointed instinctively to the ivory gloves, which Helen began to slip on. “I’d be glad to put the whore in the stocks myself. Sullying their marriage vows with a blacksmith! Filthy. But to chastise her… now! Far too dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Nan, I’m not frightened of witless Minne Weaver-”
“Not from her!” Nan went over to the window and peered as if worried some Tom might be watching. “Have you not heard the music on the wind these last four nights? Felt the rhythm?”
Two nights ago, Helen did awake to a low melody, a simple series of notes which slithered inside her brain. But the flute played so faintly, she wasn’t sure of its reality. Even still, she could feel the thrill from the dream: her chest aching, nipples hard, and throat parched. The Lord Mayor Paris awakened from the same vision. She hadn’t felt him this hard since their wedding night. He pulled up her nightgown without a word, and she wrapped her legs around his waist. She’d never been so wet.
“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re referring.” Helen turned, raising an eyebrow at Ol’ Nan. “Or what this has to do with the slut.”
“A satyr,” Nan closed the window, bringing her voice to a whisper. “Named Capricos. He’s traveled in these woods long as there’s been trees. A wicked creature. Hedonist. Reprobate. He considers himself the protector of the drunken, the debauched, and the desperate. The tales of his seductions and the ruined virtue of maidens, wives, widows, even nuns could fill a library. Men too. None are safe from his ravenous appetite.”
“Fiction,” Helen pushed open the shutters again. “Stories to justify bad behavior. I swear, Nan, you’d believe anything if you heard it round the well.”
The old woman looked Helen directly in her field green eyes.
“If you punish Minne Weaver while Capricos visits… I’m afraid he’ll mark your ladyship.”
“And what? Eat me? Turn me into a tree? What’s this monster supposed to do?”
“He’s… like I said, earlier… seduction-”
“Right. And what does this charmer look like?”
“He’s a furry beast, with cloven hooves, curved horns…”
Helen put a gloved hand on her former guardian’s shoulder. “Nan, I promise you. I will not fuck a goat.”
Nan gasped at the language, and Helen smiled that her rebellious spirit hadn’t completely evaporated over all these years.
…….
Helen finished reading out the copious list of Minnie Waver’s sins as two guards locked the former wife and mother into the stocks. Most jeered, some laughed, but all would be reminded of the price for unacceptable behavior. Helen nodded in satisfaction until a sharp note cut through the air. No one else seemed to perceive the high pitch whistle as they grinned and threw tomatoes toward the captured harlot. Helen slowly turned as if bound by hemp rope until she faced the neighboring field.
A creature unlike any other stood among the animals. A beast, no doubt, but imbued with humanity. The curved horns caught the light emerging from curled light-brown hair wet with dew. Shamelessly, he wore nothing. Bare-chested with powerful muscles sculpting his human dimensions. Equally shamelessly, Helen stared. At first at his broad chest and defined stomach, but her gaze continued to fall. His legs had short, clipped fur, and the hooves glistened black as if recently shined.
Then there was his cock.
Helen could see it from a field and a half away. A third limb hung between his legs, touching his knee. Thick enough to provide perspective.
He blew a kiss, leapt into the air, clicked his hooves, and vanished. No lights. No sound of thunder. Simply gone.
Her breath needed a few more minutes to return.
Part 2- Bawdy
Three Weeks Later
The cider did nothing to help the growing fatigue draining the Lady Mayoress. Still, the sweet, fermented juice did calm her nerves a tad. She looked into the mirror. You couldn’t tell she’d been losing sleep. False humility was not her sin. But that silly daydream conjured by Nan’s wild stories had a greater effect than she’d admit.
Helen had subtly asked about town if they’d heard rumors of this goat man. The younger generation knew nothing, but the elders of the town all shook their heads and peered around corners.
“Careful of them questions, My Lady,” Gregory the Falconer warned. “It’s been many years since he’s been spotted but can’t be too careful. Ol’ Capricos is a capricious spirit, and it's best never to catch his attention.”
But none would say what precisely the satyr would do.
Still, days passed, the harvest season continued, and other than a silly case of anxiety, the lewd beast of the field came to nothing.
Well, almost. She had not been able to forget that perverse expression on Capricos’ face, the powerful form, the inhuman cock. Helen could not ignore the profound disappointment that night when her husband stripped naked before bed.
Which was ridiculous; the Lord Mayor hunted, competed in jousts, and even trained with the guards. He’d kept himself in excellent physical condition. She’d always enjoyed their evenings. But since that day, whenever he reached under their covers, cupped a breast, and squeezed, Helen felt unsatisfied. And when he threw the sheets aside, gripped her ankles, and thrust into his once squealing wife, she literally felt unfulfilled. Like his dick could do nothing more but tickle, get her hunger going, and leave her body craving more.
“This too will pass,” she muttered, sipping more of the cider. Helen got up and moved towards the mirror. “We’ll be fine.”
She tried to remember that night not so long ago. When both Lord and Lady escaped sleep, desperate for each other’s body. A song playing gently on the wind. How did it go?
Helen peered again at the mirror. Something about this felt dangerous. She pursed her lips together and whistled. It had not been a difficult melody, the kind of thing which sticks in your head.
“Mmm,” she enjoyed another sip, her tongue touring every inch of her own mouth to absorb the flavor. “That was it.”
As she continued to whistle the tune, a flute not far away joined, as did a set of drums. Helen felt the rhythm immediately. Her hips swayed, at first gently side to side. The music intensified, and the coarse, limiting fabric held her body prisoner as she tried to spin. The woman in the mirror copied every movement. The beat raced onward. Helen’s fingers gripped handfuls of hair to free her curls. Then she tore open her blouse, displaying her corset and full breasts, already glistening with sweat.
“Faster,” she mouthed, and the music obliged.
She squeezed her chest together and bent forward, giving her reflection a full view; a wicked grin smiled back. She flung her now wild hair back, arching her spine and letting the curls taste the floor. Her legs spread open, then flew closed, gyrating to the building rhythms. Hands reached towards the ceiling before slowly tracing down her body, undoing each corset clasp. Freed from the prison, she pulled herself tall and erect, holding the binding above her head. Every part of her body would have its moment. Her hips shook, one side then the other. Her stomach writhed like a flickering candle, every muscle coming to life. She threw the garment into the fire.
