By kbrown
Surrounding a purple-golden mountain, shrouded with glistening mist, lies ArcadiaÉs valley. Green and moist are the acres, peppered with grassy knolls and crocus buds, feathery soft ferns and moss-mittened stones. Streams and still ponds, some hiding quietly in private groves or grottos, ripple cool and translucent, nourishing the mountain's protective marsh with anonymous living wealth.
Arcadia, paradise lost; Arcadia, a veritable Garden-f-Eden; Arcadia, amusement park of the gods. It is here that Apollo and Poseiden talk sports; that Athena and Aphrodite giggle about how-big-it-was; that even big-daddy Zeus himself has a coke and a smile. And it is here, in this Utopian get-away, that one finds the god of laughter, the god of lust-the delightfully decadently mischievous god Pan.
He stands on the lip of a low mountain cliff, gazing upon his ethereal valley. The continuous, caressing breeze blows kiss-like upon the musty sweat of his hairy belly. He glances, grinning, at the dazed she-goat he has only just deflowered. He sighs, then frowns; he remembers the ewe's startled bleats as he had thrust himself upon her. Her cries had been soft, long, mournful yet sweet, sensual´her breath had been irregular and her moans had come together, like´like´rhythm, like´passion, like´? Snorting, stubbing his dung-covered hooves in the yielding, cool earth, Pan shakes his shaggy head and rolls his roguish eyes in frustration. The lack of, the lack of´he thinks. It is there, but what could it be? The gooey throb of his relaxing testicles makes him moan, and he stretches his wooly arms up over his head. The she-goat eyes her shaggy molester apprehensively.
Fear not, sweet one,he smiles, scanning her petal-pink genitals. There is plenty more from whence thy pleasure came. While his mind helps itself to sloppy seconds, Pan spies a slight stirring in the marsh reeds below. He squints, attempting to locate the cause of his cattail soft rustling. His vision yields nothing, though his olfactory eye discerns the source immediately-the musky, sweet-and- sour, potatoscent-of female.
Yes, female-but the smell is neither gamy nor salty, denying her identity as either animal or human. Pan, intrigued by the idea of a goddess wallowing in the green-muck mire of his swamp, leans forward, peering intently. And then he spies her: a young nymph, goddess-in-waiting, fresh and sugary, ripe and juicy, like a bursting, succulent apple. Smelling her excitement of the hunt, Pan watches her stalk a nibbling-nosed rabbit. She holds her bone and catgut bow-and-arrow tensely in her white-knuckled hands. PanÉs divine rod wavers toward the swamp.
Ho! Pan bellows severely through the craggy cliffs. You below! Hast thou no manners? Werest thou raised by Caliban? What be thy name? Present thyself to the great god Pan!
She gasps and loses her balance, though she is able to right herself in an instant. The rabbit, darting quickly, disappears into the lush reeds of the marsh. She gazes up in fear. The great Pan! She gulps with a futile attempt of bravado. ÊIt is I, Syrinx, a nymph.
Pan admires her, and shrewdly, sexually, assesses her physical charm. Her yellow-gold tresses are coiled and roped atop her head with strands of pearl, as is goddess chic. Her face, pale like white marble (myths don"t tan), looks back at him, frightened, confused, and trying desperately to act unafraid. Her cobalt-blue eyes are wide and stricken; her pretty pink lips apart and gaping. She is the newly born impwomanchild Syrinx, handmaiden to the huntress Diana. She is known as a stubborn, tomgirlish beauty; chaste as is role-model Diana, but Pan, that horny little devil, has no patience with virtue.
Syrinx! Pan cries, thou dare to hunt in the sacred groves of Arcadia? Pan has never been accused of being a gentleman.
ÊPan, she whispers, frightened by the horned god, ÊForgive me. In error IÉve become lost in your marshes. Please understand that the hunt is part of my very nature.
Pan laughs, decadent, sarcastic, mirthful, mischievous. ÊThy nature? He queries. ÊThy very nat-ure? Again he laughs, jauntily scratching his scrotum. ÊAnd does thy know of my very nat-ure?
Down the rocks and crags he lunges, arms outstretched. Syrinx darts away, discarding her beloved bow-and-arrow. Back through the marsh she runs, though the reeds and frothy mud sucks at her sandalled feet, slowing her stride to a crawl. Pan catches up to her in an instant. His large, hairy fingers reach for her as his mind races with carnal abandon. As his hands close around her thin forearms, he is instantly blinded, paralyzed and stunned by a scintillating explosion of divine, sparkly-golden light.
Pan stands motionless with eyes squeezed as the light fades. His ever-present hard-on has shrunken back in full-turtle retreat. He cringes like a dog in a bathtub. He has in his hands something soft and cool: it is SyrinxÉs tunic. He opens his eyes.
Clenched between his palms he also finds several long yellow-green reeds. The girl has disappeared. Syrinx, he murmurs, brushing the reeds against his lips, what have I done?
A guilty sigh of regret escapes him, and as his breath passes through the many reeds, there comes the sound of caroling birds and singing crickets, the lowing of sheep and the humming of cattle, and of the laughter of dancing nymphs and young gods.
Music, from laughter and lust, is born to Arcadia.
Blatant rip-off of Tom Robbins? But, of course! Hell, in this day-and-mega-sampled-age itÉs called a TRIBUTE! Curious? Send comments to kbrown
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(Created ???/Modified: Sunday, 18-May-97 08:09:05 PDT)
15th hit.