I am a farmer of fertile Kansas fields, considered by most to be a kind man with a welcoming smile. A pillar of the small farming community I call home, an elder at my church, and decent enough looking that women have commented on it over the years, particularly my blue eyes, which contrast with my weathered skin, I guess. I always choose my words carefully with men and women alike, and I like to think I am polite to a fault. I rarely touch wine or spirits. “Treat others as you would be treated,” my folks taught me, and that’s served me well enough.
In the final days of autumn I bring in the last crops of the year, working most days well past dusk, racing against bad weather. I have to be done not later than the Harvest Moon. Not just for the sake of a good crop, but each year since late puberty the Harvest Moon triggers what I call my inheritance. And then all hell breaks loose.
I’m not exactly sure why, but my wife and I have never spoken about the inheritance. For myself, I don’t have real clear memories of what happens, although for weeks afterwards I will have some pretty vivid dreams. The dreams are always about drinking wine and having wild sex with screaming women. I catch my wife checking the Farmer’s Almanac as September advances, but I pretend not to notice. We both know what’s coming.
Just prior to the full moon illuminating the chill dusk of October, my wife feeds me a very large porterhouse steak, cooked very rare and dripping red with blood, and pours me a large glass of red wine on the pretense of celebrating the end of the crop season. My head starts to lighten after the second glass and I start eyeing her ass, feeling a bit romantic. My wife has a nice broad behind that looks better the more I drink. She opens a couple bottles of wine, as if expecting company.
We’ve done this routine for over twenty years now. Finally, as I’m about ready to suggest a trip upstairs, she slowly lifts her skirt and shows me her shapely legs and naked thatched pussy, and then backs quickly out of the kitchen, into the barnyard and outward to the livestock pen. I follow her uncertainly, staggering a bit as if entranced. My brain feels fuzzy around the edges and goes dizzy with strange desires. The moon is just starting to lighten the Kansas sky. Once she leads me into the gated pen, she does a quick pivot away from me, quickly exiting the pen and swinging the sturdy gate shut, locking it with a huge iron padlock. She then runs like hell to my pickup as if chased by demons. She will go visit her mother in Topeka for the next couple days.
For when the bright harvest moon clears the trees that surround our farm, shining large and golden in all its glory, the goat in me rises as well, and the next hour is one of excruciating pain as the inheritance buried deep within my genes is triggered. Hard goatish horns sprout out of my forehead, and my body hair changes, becoming coarser and thicker, particularly on my legs and ass. A small tail emerges from the base of my spine. My ears grow lengthier and covered in fine fur. I was born without a fifth toe on either foot, and my toes impossibly merge until they fuse completely together and calcify into two blood-covered hooves. My leg muscles cramp and my posture changes as my spine compresses downward upon itself. My screams seem to sear my lungs. My penis lengthens and thickens, and while in this transformed state I sport a constant erection. Semen roils in my enlarged testicles, demanding release. Hormones go into overdrive. My mind is a mixture of unbelievable pain mixed with a demented delight that the wild goat-boy is being reborn and is nearly free. After the transformation is complete, I snort and stamp and prance about the pen, like a newborn kid. My eyes are bloodshot and red, tears of pain flow from my eyes and cloud my vision. Then I surrender my soul fully to the insatiable feelings of wine thirst and desperate lust.
My family lineage, you see, traces itself back to the ancient prince-god people now call Pan, and a satyr is loose in Kansas.
Each year it is the same result. Regardless of my human side’s diligent attempts at construction of a restraining pen, the goat gets free somehow. Some years it takes longer than others, but my lust is stronger than any livestock pen, and my sharpened sense of smell detects those open bottles of wine that my wife left me in the kitchen. Gods, do I get thirsty after the change. I run and drive my horned head straight into the confining barrier, the hard sinews in my legs slamming my head into the inadequate hardwood. The muscles in my shoulder and neck hammer at the goddamned gate, over and over. The more it resists me the madder I get. Finally, the bastard cracks and splinters, yielding just enough for me to wriggle through, and I am finally free to roam the countryside. My mouth drools as I prance toward the farmhouse, ripping off my goddamned store bought clothing, delighting in my fine-ass fucking nakedness as I empty the first bottle of red wine and grab the other bottle as I race through the screen door, nearly tearing it off its hinges. Now the bright full moon seems to shine down on me and me alone, for I am a perfect goddamn horny fucker birthed by an ancient coupling of god and woman, triggered by the bright supernatural light of the Kansas moon, sporting a fully erect cock that is hard as a hammer's head and ready to fuck. I race through harvested fields of dry cornstalks for the next farm down. I urgently need to fuck something soft and hairy, wet and tight, yielding and warm.
Arriving at the Jorgensen farm I note the rusting Studebaker truck parked beside the barn, looking abandoned and neglected in the waist high weeds. I love that old truck, but Ben Jorgensen was a greedy fuck who wanted way too much goddamned money for it.
In the final days of autumn I bring in the last crops of the year, working most days well past dusk, racing against bad weather. I have to be done not later than the Harvest Moon. Not just for the sake of a good crop, but each year since late puberty the Harvest Moon triggers what I call my inheritance. And then all hell breaks loose.
I’m not exactly sure why, but my wife and I have never spoken about the inheritance. For myself, I don’t have real clear memories of what happens, although for weeks afterwards I will have some pretty vivid dreams. The dreams are always about drinking wine and having wild sex with screaming women. I catch my wife checking the Farmer’s Almanac as September advances, but I pretend not to notice. We both know what’s coming.
Just prior to the full moon illuminating the chill dusk of October, my wife feeds me a very large porterhouse steak, cooked very rare and dripping red with blood, and pours me a large glass of red wine on the pretense of celebrating the end of the crop season. My head starts to lighten after the second glass and I start eyeing her ass, feeling a bit romantic. My wife has a nice broad behind that looks better the more I drink. She opens a couple bottles of wine, as if expecting company.
We’ve done this routine for over twenty years now. Finally, as I’m about ready to suggest a trip upstairs, she slowly lifts her skirt and shows me her shapely legs and naked thatched pussy, and then backs quickly out of the kitchen, into the barnyard and outward to the livestock pen. I follow her uncertainly, staggering a bit as if entranced. My brain feels fuzzy around the edges and goes dizzy with strange desires. The moon is just starting to lighten the Kansas sky. Once she leads me into the gated pen, she does a quick pivot away from me, quickly exiting the pen and swinging the sturdy gate shut, locking it with a huge iron padlock. She then runs like hell to my pickup as if chased by demons. She will go visit her mother in Topeka for the next couple days.
For when the bright harvest moon clears the trees that surround our farm, shining large and golden in all its glory, the goat in me rises as well, and the next hour is one of excruciating pain as the inheritance buried deep within my genes is triggered. Hard goatish horns sprout out of my forehead, and my body hair changes, becoming coarser and thicker, particularly on my legs and ass. A small tail emerges from the base of my spine. My ears grow lengthier and covered in fine fur. I was born without a fifth toe on either foot, and my toes impossibly merge until they fuse completely together and calcify into two blood-covered hooves. My leg muscles cramp and my posture changes as my spine compresses downward upon itself. My screams seem to sear my lungs. My penis lengthens and thickens, and while in this transformed state I sport a constant erection. Semen roils in my enlarged testicles, demanding release. Hormones go into overdrive. My mind is a mixture of unbelievable pain mixed with a demented delight that the wild goat-boy is being reborn and is nearly free. After the transformation is complete, I snort and stamp and prance about the pen, like a newborn kid. My eyes are bloodshot and red, tears of pain flow from my eyes and cloud my vision. Then I surrender my soul fully to the insatiable feelings of wine thirst and desperate lust.
My family lineage, you see, traces itself back to the ancient prince-god people now call Pan, and a satyr is loose in Kansas.
Each year it is the same result. Regardless of my human side’s diligent attempts at construction of a restraining pen, the goat gets free somehow. Some years it takes longer than others, but my lust is stronger than any livestock pen, and my sharpened sense of smell detects those open bottles of wine that my wife left me in the kitchen. Gods, do I get thirsty after the change. I run and drive my horned head straight into the confining barrier, the hard sinews in my legs slamming my head into the inadequate hardwood. The muscles in my shoulder and neck hammer at the goddamned gate, over and over. The more it resists me the madder I get. Finally, the bastard cracks and splinters, yielding just enough for me to wriggle through, and I am finally free to roam the countryside. My mouth drools as I prance toward the farmhouse, ripping off my goddamned store bought clothing, delighting in my fine-ass fucking nakedness as I empty the first bottle of red wine and grab the other bottle as I race through the screen door, nearly tearing it off its hinges. Now the bright full moon seems to shine down on me and me alone, for I am a perfect goddamn horny fucker birthed by an ancient coupling of god and woman, triggered by the bright supernatural light of the Kansas moon, sporting a fully erect cock that is hard as a hammer's head and ready to fuck. I race through harvested fields of dry cornstalks for the next farm down. I urgently need to fuck something soft and hairy, wet and tight, yielding and warm.
Arriving at the Jorgensen farm I note the rusting Studebaker truck parked beside the barn, looking abandoned and neglected in the waist high weeds. I love that old truck, but Ben Jorgensen was a greedy fuck who wanted way too much goddamned money for it.
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His widow has stubbornly stuck to old Ben's price, and won't budge despite my pleas for a reasonable trade. Ben was a fucking prick in other ways, too, and that’s a fucking accepted fact in these parts.
A low bleating sound comes from my throat as I pass the Studebaker, an ancient call to mate. There are always women here that welcome my visits each year. I bleat loud enough to draw their attention, for they also have been anticipating the Harvest Moon.
The moon fills the barnyard with a muted silver light, giving the scene an incandescence that is strangely surreal and otherworldly. The night is cool and my cock stands straight up, as if it is an obscene lure enticing my prey. I hear a tinkling giggle through a screen window on the main floor of the farmhouse. I grunt in lustful anticipation as Sally Kruger, a schoolteacher in town, poses naked behind the screened window and offers me a view of her firm youthful breasts and ass. Her ivory nakedness fairly glows in the night, and I hear the widow Jorgensen whisper like an excited schoolgirl. Sarah Jorgensen is standing behind Sally, lustfully looking at my cock over the bold schoolteacher's shoulder. Every year since Jorgensen died I make this farm my first stop on my horny pilgrimage, and the widow started inviting her schoolteacher friend after the fourth year of my transformation. I think I wore the widow out and she sought reinforcements. I also think the widow likes the schoolteacher in a manner far different from regular friendship, but what the fuck do I care? They are both enthusiastic and willing, and they both enjoy grabbing at my horns in delight as I ram my thick hard prick into their hairy wet honeypots.
The women appear on the porch moments later, letting the farmhouse door slam shut. Each of them bear bottles of the widow's wine, and they wave them at me while swaying their womanly hips side to side. I sniff the night air and my hard cock jerks, sex juice flowing copiously out of my cockhead when I detect the sharp musky odor of sexually aroused women. I paw the dirt in front of the barn and take a long pull at my bottle of wine, draining it. They stand on the porch, backlit by the porchlight, and I can see their shapely legs through their opaque summer skirts. I quickly advance on them, and the widow unbuttons her blouse and cups her unfettered full breasts, offering them to me. Her nipples are dark and beckoning. Her long blonde hair bespeaks of her Scandinavian ancestry, and as I get nearer the porchlight and the moonlight combine to reveal the thick patch of curly dark hair between her legs.
I wish I had a flute that I could play as they back slowly into the house, my cock pointing lewdly at the moon and twitching and dripping in anticipation.
Once inside, not much time gets wasted in preliminaries. I watch their asses and tits shake like homemade jam as they ascend the stairs up to the master bedroom, and they position themselves invitingly on the over-sized mattress of the four poster bed as I start in on them, hungrily kissing their eager mouths, licking and lapping at the moistening slits between their legs, fondling and squeezing breast flesh both firm and sagging, pinching and teasing at their aroused nipples. I make beastly noises of lust as I devour their lady parts in turn as they alternate sucking on my dripping cock and kissing me with uncontrolled passion. The young schoolteacher is the more aggressive, elbowing the widow aside so that she gets fucked first. She screams in wanton delight as I give her the fuck of her life, and the widow feels us both up as I mount Sally and fuck her like a goat-god in full rut.
The women lick and moan over my swollen goat cock and I’m in a satyr’s glory, frantically fucking them both while getting my balls licked and kissed by whomever it is I’m not fucking. They pour long draughts of wine into my mouth, laughing at my sloppy eagerness as it spills down my chest. The widow loves pulling at my tail while I fuck her friend. I particularly relish fucking the farmer’s comely widow while eyeballing that Studebaker through the bedroom window as it shines dully in the moonlight. I love that truck and Jorgensen knew it, the cocksucker. I bellow in ecstasy from wine and hot pussy in a sad imitation of singing, braying triumphantly at my inner satyr's annual return. Sally strokes my cock to its fully erect state, cooing as she sucks it into her mouth before shoving it inside her hot dripping snatch for a second go at it. My semen splattered crotch reeks of fresh cum, and after I unload my hot seed into Sally, the widow pleads with me for just one more tumble, so I fuck her fast and hard until she is spent and babbling, senseless and content.
After the women are fully serviced, they plead with me to leave them be as they collapse into each other's arms on the cum-soaked sheets. I stand beside the bed, finishing off the wine, reveling in the satisfied smiles that my engorged cock has wrought on their flushed faces.
Soon after, my cloven hooves loudly clop down a paved Kansas country road, my fevered brain recalling a fine middle-aged housewife I always visit just outside of town. I’ve got one half-finished bottle of cherry wine left, and my next conquest always treats me to the expensive stuff. Her snatch will be trimmed and smooth in the the modern fashion, her body freshly bathed and fragrant with perfume, and her lustful screams as we fuck furiously in her back yard will inevitably wake her neighbors. Each year since the onset of my inheritance in late puberty I have repeated this ancient dance, and I’ll repent what sins I remember come the dawn. Tonight, however, my ancestor Pan’s blood is dominant and demanding of me, and the silver October moon lights my path.
A low bleating sound comes from my throat as I pass the Studebaker, an ancient call to mate. There are always women here that welcome my visits each year. I bleat loud enough to draw their attention, for they also have been anticipating the Harvest Moon.
The moon fills the barnyard with a muted silver light, giving the scene an incandescence that is strangely surreal and otherworldly. The night is cool and my cock stands straight up, as if it is an obscene lure enticing my prey. I hear a tinkling giggle through a screen window on the main floor of the farmhouse. I grunt in lustful anticipation as Sally Kruger, a schoolteacher in town, poses naked behind the screened window and offers me a view of her firm youthful breasts and ass. Her ivory nakedness fairly glows in the night, and I hear the widow Jorgensen whisper like an excited schoolgirl. Sarah Jorgensen is standing behind Sally, lustfully looking at my cock over the bold schoolteacher's shoulder. Every year since Jorgensen died I make this farm my first stop on my horny pilgrimage, and the widow started inviting her schoolteacher friend after the fourth year of my transformation. I think I wore the widow out and she sought reinforcements. I also think the widow likes the schoolteacher in a manner far different from regular friendship, but what the fuck do I care? They are both enthusiastic and willing, and they both enjoy grabbing at my horns in delight as I ram my thick hard prick into their hairy wet honeypots.
The women appear on the porch moments later, letting the farmhouse door slam shut. Each of them bear bottles of the widow's wine, and they wave them at me while swaying their womanly hips side to side. I sniff the night air and my hard cock jerks, sex juice flowing copiously out of my cockhead when I detect the sharp musky odor of sexually aroused women. I paw the dirt in front of the barn and take a long pull at my bottle of wine, draining it. They stand on the porch, backlit by the porchlight, and I can see their shapely legs through their opaque summer skirts. I quickly advance on them, and the widow unbuttons her blouse and cups her unfettered full breasts, offering them to me. Her nipples are dark and beckoning. Her long blonde hair bespeaks of her Scandinavian ancestry, and as I get nearer the porchlight and the moonlight combine to reveal the thick patch of curly dark hair between her legs.
I wish I had a flute that I could play as they back slowly into the house, my cock pointing lewdly at the moon and twitching and dripping in anticipation.
Once inside, not much time gets wasted in preliminaries. I watch their asses and tits shake like homemade jam as they ascend the stairs up to the master bedroom, and they position themselves invitingly on the over-sized mattress of the four poster bed as I start in on them, hungrily kissing their eager mouths, licking and lapping at the moistening slits between their legs, fondling and squeezing breast flesh both firm and sagging, pinching and teasing at their aroused nipples. I make beastly noises of lust as I devour their lady parts in turn as they alternate sucking on my dripping cock and kissing me with uncontrolled passion. The young schoolteacher is the more aggressive, elbowing the widow aside so that she gets fucked first. She screams in wanton delight as I give her the fuck of her life, and the widow feels us both up as I mount Sally and fuck her like a goat-god in full rut.
The women lick and moan over my swollen goat cock and I’m in a satyr’s glory, frantically fucking them both while getting my balls licked and kissed by whomever it is I’m not fucking. They pour long draughts of wine into my mouth, laughing at my sloppy eagerness as it spills down my chest. The widow loves pulling at my tail while I fuck her friend. I particularly relish fucking the farmer’s comely widow while eyeballing that Studebaker through the bedroom window as it shines dully in the moonlight. I love that truck and Jorgensen knew it, the cocksucker. I bellow in ecstasy from wine and hot pussy in a sad imitation of singing, braying triumphantly at my inner satyr's annual return. Sally strokes my cock to its fully erect state, cooing as she sucks it into her mouth before shoving it inside her hot dripping snatch for a second go at it. My semen splattered crotch reeks of fresh cum, and after I unload my hot seed into Sally, the widow pleads with me for just one more tumble, so I fuck her fast and hard until she is spent and babbling, senseless and content.
After the women are fully serviced, they plead with me to leave them be as they collapse into each other's arms on the cum-soaked sheets. I stand beside the bed, finishing off the wine, reveling in the satisfied smiles that my engorged cock has wrought on their flushed faces.
Soon after, my cloven hooves loudly clop down a paved Kansas country road, my fevered brain recalling a fine middle-aged housewife I always visit just outside of town. I’ve got one half-finished bottle of cherry wine left, and my next conquest always treats me to the expensive stuff. Her snatch will be trimmed and smooth in the the modern fashion, her body freshly bathed and fragrant with perfume, and her lustful screams as we fuck furiously in her back yard will inevitably wake her neighbors. Each year since the onset of my inheritance in late puberty I have repeated this ancient dance, and I’ll repent what sins I remember come the dawn. Tonight, however, my ancestor Pan’s blood is dominant and demanding of me, and the silver October moon lights my path.
