Fucking a Mysterious Stranger

By | November 27, 2008

While walking across the office car park at lunch yesterday I wondered why, after ten days of feeling so utterly dejected I suddenly felt my spirits rise.

It was the sun. Yes we do have sun in England. At this time of year in particular it’s of a weak insipid variety. But the light does have a certain quality to it that you find nowhere else in the world. It may be the “Diet Coke” of sunlight, but it’s good British sunlight. A welcome relief from the actual and metaphorical grey bleakness of recent days.

So, with what I’ve decided is the first breath of spring, heralded by Apollo’s rather understated arrival, I wandered off for a walk around the landscaped area of the business district where I work. Don’t get too excited, we are not talking “Capability” Brown here, just lots of birch, blackthorn and willow planted along the side of a stream that runs for about two kilometres at the edge of the business park. Hidden from the road and rarely used.

In fact very rarely used as I discovered as I walked along the path. The track quickly turned from a beaten earth walkway surrounded by lush vegetation to a muddy, overgrown, treacherous path, hiding tree roots and a multitude of low growing sharp and stinging plant life.

At this point a lesser man, or some might say more intelligent man would have turned back. That man was not me. I was enjoying the solitude and the sunlight streaming through the bare branches.
Only the occasional muffled passage of a car reminded me that I was close to civilisation. But I find total solitude inviting when I’m in a pastoral setting, so I pressed deeper down the path.

The undergrowth in front of me stirred. Blackbird? Rabbit? The top of a furry head was visible briefly, topped with two bumps that might one day be horns. It disappeared below the level of the vegetation. I followed as stealthily as I could, watching for the telltale disturbances.

CRACK. So intent was I on my quarry that my head collided with a branch. Dazed and quite literally seeing stars I shook my head to clear it. Bad mistake. I cursed as the pain intensified, things started to get colourful, my vision distorted and I leant against the offending tree for support, rubbing my forehead.

“Are you alright”, said a quiet, but rich voice.

Startled, I dropped my hand and opened my eyes to be greeted by the sight of a dark haired girl, around 25 with warm brown eyes. And a nice pair of legs.

“I’m fine”, I replied, “Just clumsy, I was following something. Small furry, two little horns, you haven’t seen it ha…”. I stopped realising she was smiling at me, humouring me? “I must have hit that branch harder than I thought”. Beautiful full lips.

“It was probably a satyr, they are a nuisance at this time of year.”

“Pardon? A satyr?”, I asked, thinking I’d misheard her. That cleavage looks inviting.

“Satyr, companions of Pan …”, she said. The aroma of spring flowers and spring sex seemed to be emanating from her.

“I know what satyrs are, they aren’t real.”, I said petulantly, the pain in my head making me wince. Her sandals displayed her suckable toes beautifully.

“I think he’d disagree.”, she said nodding to my left shoulder. I felt a sharp pain as needle-like teeth pierced cartilage. “Aaargh!”

I grabbed the impish little creature and threw it across to the other side of the stream. It squealed and glared at me. I would have felt sorry for the child-like wood spirit, were it not for the blood that coloured its lips. My Blood.

A warm sticky sensation on my neck prompted me to raise my hand to my ear. She got there first, her delicate fingers caressing my wound. Her other hand slid around the back of my neck. I don’t know if she was doing something miraculous to my ear or I was distracted by the gentle touch of her fingers at the base of my skull, but the pain disappeared as she worked on me.

She moved closer and, standing on tiptoe, she brought her lips close to mine. Not touching yet, but close enough so that I could feel the heat of her body. Her succulent lips parted, ever so slightly. I pulled her to me. Through her white dress, light as gossamer I could feel her fresh, firm form. I could taste her, smell her, like I was part of her. She was at once both newborn and yet far from naïve.

My hands stroked her back and pulled her too me, lifting her from the floor. Her legs wrapped around my waist. Her hands worked quickly, deftly on my trousers. They fell to the floor exposing my obvious desire.

She raised herself up, pulling her dress to one side and lowering herself down onto my shaft. As I slid between her virginal lips she threw her head back and drew in a slow breath, only stopping when she had settled fully onto my sex.

With my help she began to move on me, tossing her dark hair from side to side. The sensation was overpowering, how I did not loose my balance I will never know. Every nerve ending was firing adding to the tsunami of tactile pleasure. Waves of colour washed over me, colours for which I don’t even have a name.

We looked into each other’s eyes, feeling the rising climax. Too soon? No, I couldn’t stand this intensity of pleasure for much longer. As she impaled herself on me for the final stroke I buried my face into her soft bossom and held her tight, growling with the intensity of the orgasm.

I looked up at her, still inside her. “What’s your name?”


“Don’t you have six sisters?”


“Are they all as generous as you?”

She kissed my forehead and I slumped against the tree. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them the throbbing in my temple had returned. But Maia had gone.