The basement door swung open easily and she aimed her flashlight down the rickety stairs. With a deep breath she forced herself to take the first step down into the gloom.
She had hated this basement, more a cellar to the old house, really, from the very first. Beneath the dank, musty smell and clamminess was a different, more subtle odor she could never quite identify. Sweet - but not floral; almost rotten, but not that either. Like incense, she had finally decided, really bad incense. As she made her way to the bottom of the stairs, she imagined that the smell was even stronger than she remembered.
Resentment quickly replaced apprehension as she picked her way toward the fuse box. A fuse box instead of the more modern, and in her eyes, normal, circuit breakers. "Rustic", he had said, which she soon discovered to mean that the plumbing rattled and clanged like an asthmatic steam engine. "We can make it our own", he had said, which really meant, "It's the fixer-upper from Hell". Then, with the renovations only half completed, he had suffered a fatal heart attack. It was easier to be angry than to dive head first into that bottomless well of grief that had swallowed her in the first two months of her widowhood. After all, it should have been him fumbling around down here in the dark, changing the damned fuse!
Arriving at her destination, she opened the small door and studied the fuses. He had, at least, shown her how to tell a good fuse from one that had "blown". Carefully, she pulled the main, as he had shown her, and began unscrewing the offending bad fuse. Suddenly, she was overcome by the dreaded certainty that she was not alone, someone was in the cellar with her. Her hands trembled so badly that she was afraid she would drop the new fuse and then have to spend even more time in this awful place searching for it.
She chided herself for acting so helpless. Hadn't she lived alone here for over a year now, since his death? And hadn't she done quite well on her own, thank you very much? She took several calming breaths and shook her head, imagining that the incense smell was even stronger. "Get a grip, for crissakes," she muttered to herself, and resumed the task at hand.
She replaced the worn fuse, then re-engaged the main, and was rewarded with the sound of her antiquated refrigerator humming to life. She realized, belatedly, that she had forgotten to light switch at the cellar stairs that would have made the return trip much easier.
Securing her grip on the flashlight, she turned to retrace her steps - and the beam of light fell on a face before her that was not quite human.
Terror stole the scream from her lips, as her eyes registered what her mind could not accept. The pointed ears and high, arched brows over tilted eyes with vertical pupils, like those of a cat, the sharp, beak-like nose, a slash of mouth and the incredibly pointed chin were all somehow familiar. As the flashlight fell from numbed fingers, she almost knew beforehand what she would see - the chest of a man, but where its hips began was a covering of fur.
"Impossible!" her mind screamed. This creature did not exist, had never existed! This was a thing of legend!
Without warning, the thing grabbed her wrists and bent her arms behind her. Securing both her hands in one of its own, the creature used its free hand to tear her clothes from her body as if they were of no more consequence than the cobwebs that hung all around her. Almost in the same motion, it forced her down to the cellar's cold earthen floor.
Then she did scream, a scream that came from the bottom of her lungs, primal and unending, but the creature paid no attention. It easily overpowered her as she fought and kicked like a mad woman. Indeed she thought she might be quite mad. It forced its way between her legs and at the same time wrenched her arms up over her head, holding them in place. When she opened her mouth to scream again, the creature clamped its own mouth to hers in such a way that she could no longer move her jaw to close it. She felt its rough, cat-like tongue begin to lick the inside of her mouth while the thing's free hand caressed her bare breast eagerly. The incense smell was so intense now that she thought she might faint. The creature pinched her nipple several times in rapid succession and a wave of desire stronger than she had ever known course through her. In one quick motion, the thing moved up, and then down and she felt it enter her.
Her mind screamed at her own traitorous body when she felt the walls of her vagina tighten involuntarily against the beast. It lay very still within her as it continued to lick at her mouth and squeeze her breast as wave after wave of unwanted passion washed over her.
Then she felt its member growing inside her, swelling to enormous proportions. Terrified, she renewed her struggles, but this proved to be her undoing, for every movement her body was rewarded with surge after surge of pleasure in her most private places.
The protestations of her mind were pushed aside as her body sought what it needed, what it had been too long denied. This small piece of rationality was mortified as she bucked and writhed and matched the creature stroke for stroke as it moved its impossibly large penis in and out. Its smell threatened the edges of her consciousness, but heightened the physical sensations even more and when, finally, her orgasm overtook her, she did faint.
When she awoke she knew instinctively that she was alone. Her wobbly legs carried her up the stairs and into the small room he had called his study. She went unerringly to the bookcase along the far wall and, with trembling hands, took down a large volume entitled, "Mythology". She placed it on the desk and began leafing through the pages, not exactly sure what she might be looking for. When she finally found it, she had to grip the edge of the desk to keep from falling to the floor as her knees buckled. There on he page, looking up a her was an artist's rendition of the thing - the thing that lived in her cellar. The one-word caption burned into her brain and she began to cry.
"Satyr", it read.
Legend - Part 2
She sat at the bottom of the basement stairs, feigning sleep, and wondering for the hundredth time what in the world she thought she was doing. It had been well over a month since her first en-counter with the creature. She had stopped thinking of it as an attack early on. She had really had no choice in the matter. Her first impulse, of course, was to report the encounter to the authorities, but she hadn't traveled that road of thought very long before she knew that she would not only be disbelieved, but very likely be considered quite mad. As she had, indeed, thought herself, at first. Who, in his right mind, would believe that a lonely young widow living alone in the country had been attacked and sexually assaulted by a mythological being? A terrible thing. She went crazy out there all alone after her husband died. Completely delusional. A pity, really.
That's when she hit on the idea of the food. She went to the library and read everything she could get her hands on that had to do with satyrs and all related topics. She gathered all manner of exotic fresh vegetables from the local farmers' market and daily offered different foodstuffs to the creature. Although she could find no other exit in the old cellar, something was eating that food. Still, her rational mind told her, it could be a mouse or other vermin, so she had left an open bottle of wine with the food. The next morning the bottle lay empty. She thought it quite unlikely that a mouse would take a little wine with its meal, but try as she might, she couldn't catch another glimpse of the creature. This proved also, to her own mind, that the creature was not truly dangerous. In fact, it appeared to be downright shy, which she thought was fairly amusing, considering what the first encounter had entailed.
A rustling interrupted her reflections. She tried not to start at the noise; every nerve taut, as she opened her eyes just a slit. It was there! Her heart pounding hard in her chest, she tried to study the creature. From her vantage point there on the staircase, she noticed all the now familiar features of the beast, just the way she remembered it/him. Very obviously a "him", she smiled inwardly, remembering the feeling of how he had filled her. Her presence made him wary, continuously glancing at her. As he reached for the bottle of wine she allowed her eyes to open completely and his next glance met her frankly open gaze.
He turned quickly away, seeking his escape route. Then, as if changing his mind, he turned back again. Almost hesitantly, he pushed the plate of food toward her. Was he offering it to her? Slowly, she slid off the steps and smiled. She took a smallish bunch of grapes from the plate and nibbled at them. On impulse, she offered the remainder to him. He ate them from her hand and when they were gone he kissed her now empty palm. Her involuntary gasp came more from the sensation than from the powerful blast of his scent as his lips made contact with her skin. The sharp intake of her breath startled him and he was gone in a flash, leaving her feeling aroused, shaken and needful.
But he was gone, for now, at least. She had made contact with him again. That was the main thing. But how did one go about taming a Satyr? That was definitely not written in any book. No, she corrected herself, the creature could not be tamed. Perhaps gentled was a better or more descrip-tive word.
She turned to mount the stairs, her disappointment a dead weight in her heart. Well, maybe tomorrow, she thought. Now that she had gotten to see him again, shared food with him, there was a chance that the shyness was being replaced with trust, which was the complete reversal of roles to her mind. Well, not really, she argued with herself. He had won her trust by vanishing for such a long time after the first encounter. She had felt his strength, knew that he could have come out of the cellar at any time before or after that first meeting, but he had not. He had hidden himself away from her. Even after the food began to appear, he had avoided all contact. Almost as if he were ashamed of what had happened, she finally decided. Surely the creature had some intelligence, if it had been able to keep itself hidden away for all this time.
Meanwhile, her nights had been filled with dreams of the creature, so vivid, so sexual in na-ture that they had been impossible to ignore. Many nights she had awakened in a sweat to find her hand buried in her sex and her need a cavernous void. Many the times she cried out her need, damning the creature that had exposed the raw edges of her loneliness, only to disappear and leave her doubting her sanity. She doubted it still. What are you planning to do, she asked herself, harshly, make a pet of the thing? That was ludicrous, but there was that something inside her that wanted, needed, to re-establish contact.
She had taken only a few steps when the pungent scent of him overwhelmed her once more. Gripping the handrail for balance, she turned around to see him there in the shadowy corner of the cellar. He looked apprehensive, almost frightened, as she retraced her steps to the forgotten meal. She retrieved the bottle of wine as she passed it. Satyrs were notorious for their love of good wine, accord-ing to the legends. She stopped well away from him and held out the bottle, knowing that to take it, he would have to come a little farther into the light.
One step, then another and he took it from her, sipping warily, his cat-like eyes never leaving hers. When he made to pass it back to her she reached out and touched his hand rather than the proffered bottle. Displaying a bravery she in no way felt, she stepped toward the creature, running her hand along his arm. He stood still as a statue and felt much like one, the musculature of his upper arm so well defined beneath the deceptively soft skin. Much emboldened, she stepped closer, allowing the palm of her hand to brush his jaw and continue on, tracing the outline of this incredible face, a face that had been woven into tapestries and marked into the histories of ancient Greece. Standing there before him, she still could not quite believe what her senses told her.
She gazed, mesmerized, at the astonishing vertical pupils of his eyes; amber prisms floating in a sea of ebony. Absently, she noticed that there was only the slightest suggestion of the smell she had identified as his scent as she reached up to trace the line of the highly arched brow above those amazing eyes. She allowed her fingertips to glide down the side of his face to his throat and further down, inscribing little circles down his chest. With the palms of both hands flat against his belly, she pushed up and out at the rippling muscles she felt there, across the chest and shoulders and down his arms again. Still the creature did not move, did not take his eyes from hers. Its only concession had been to lower the arm that held the wine bottle.
Thinking that she had committed some sort of social error, she took the bottle and raised it to her lips. She drank deeply of the sweet liquid before offering it back to him, but he made no effort to reclaim it. Slightly puzzled, she placed the bottle on the floor nearby. His eyes followed her every move, but he made no effort to touch her. In his eyes she fancied she saw a silent plea, but a plea for what she could not imagine. Again, she placed her hand against his cheek, trying to fathom what it was he required from her, for there was something in his expression that made it obvious he required something.
"What is it?" she whispered, softly. "I am not afraid. Are you?"
The barest tremor of a smile as his hand came up to capture hers. Turning his face into her palm, he placed the gentlest of kisses there. The slight contact left her trembling and a little breathless. He turned his gaze back to her, looking deeply into her face. In a flash of insight, she knew what he required. That which had been taken by force must now be freely given. But why? Yet she knew beyond all doubt that this was the course she must take. She repeated his actions, kissing his palm as gently as he had kissed hers.
"Please," her voice trembled and broke. "Please don't stop."
The smell of him assailed her as she was swept into his arms. She breathed the pungent aroma in eager gulps, knowing the effect it would have on her, as he pulled impatiently at her clothing. As it was, she was barely able to slip out of them before he bore her to the dirt floor of the cellar. Her hands traveled the length of his back and her legs spread in wide welcome as she continued to breathe deeply of the heady scent. She felt his stiffening penis brush against her swollen sex and she lifted her hips to meet him, but he grabbed her legs and pushed them together, trapping his member there. His powerful thighs along the outside of her legs held them closed when she would have opened them. Seizing her hands, he placed them between her legs and his, holding them just as surely as if she had been tied. His hands encircled her head so she could not move it, either. Completely trapped, she became terrified, fighting against his superior body strength as well as the desire that coursed through her.
He kissed her over and over again. Sometimes several in quick succession, sometimes long and deeply and she felt his rough tongue exploring her mouth. Occasionally, his hips would rise and fall, his penis barely making contact. To her heightened senses the touch was like an electric shock. She squirmed and bucked and moaned her need, sucking greedily at his mouth at every chance.
Then everything stopped. Light-headed and burning with passion, she looked up at him, confused. He was smiling. Feeling more than a little like a schoolgirl, she smiled back, shyly. He laughed, several quick barks of laughter, and even more quickly he was up and gone and she was left crying the denial of that act. She screamed and sobbed and pounded the ground with her small fists in sheer frustration.
Two days later, she found the collar; the day after that she found the wrist cuffs.
She turned the leather collar over in her hand, examining it closely. It was deepest black, "black as sin", the phrase came unbidden into her mind. The collar looked very plain except for its small buckle and a ring that was attached so ingeniously that she could not fathom it. They looked to be made of solid silver. Under careful scrutiny, however, one could discern the intricate patterns carved into the leather itself. A single rope that was folded and looped and woven through itself until it was impossible to follow. She had tried.
In fact, she had, out of curiosity, taken a sheet of paper and, with the aid of a soft lead pencil, had made a rubbing of the design. First with her finger, then with her trusty pencil, she had tried without success to trace its path across and around the leather. It looked ancient, but that was not surprising, considering where it had come from. She could tell that the wrist cuffs were a perfect match before she ever picked them up.
She allowed her eyes to scan the dark recesses of the dimly lit cellar, wondering if he was hidden in the shadows, studying her reaction to the discovery of the cuffs.
Bringing the plate of assorted fresh fruits and vegetables down to the cellar each night, along with a bottle of wine, had become routine for her. The wine, in particular held a great amusement for her. A satyr's love of wine was legendary, and hers (she had come to think of the beast as "hers") consistently preferred the heavier, more fruity selections. The dry wines were taken with his meal, but the bottle and the remainder of its contents were always left behind, whereas the sweeter wines disappeared, bottle and all. She had found the cuffs lying on the cardboard box where she always placed the meal and recognized them immediately as the match to the collar that had appeared two days earlier.
At first, she thought the collar to be a gift of some sort, or perhaps a trade for the food she consistently presented to him, but the appearance of the wrist cuffs belied that notion. Oh, he meant for her to wear them, of that there was no doubt, but the purpose of such gear filled her with trepidation, anxiety and excitement in equal portions. It was the rings that bothered her the most. Their only function was too obvious. He meant to tie her to something with those rings. The prospect chilled her while her nether regions reacted in a totally opposite manner.
Again, she looked down at the collar in her hands. She had tried it on several times in the three days she had owned it. Now she raised it to her neck once more and fastened it. She similarly applied the cuffs to her wrists and looked around expectantly, her heart pounding in her chest. Nothing. Puzzled, she sat patiently, waiting. Still, the creature made no move to show himself. Perhaps he truly wasn't there in shadows as she had imagined. Perhaps she had committed some sort of faux pas by putting them on. But surely, he meant for her to wear them. Surely he would be pleased to see her wearing his gift. Her mind flitted from one possibility to the next and time passed. It was late evening before she gave up in frustration and sought her bed. She could just as easily have stayed in the cellar awaiting his appearance for her sleep was filled with dreams of the creature, dreams that awakened her sweating and aching with need.
When several days had passed with no sign of him, she took to wearing the leather whenever she went down to the cellar, hoping that he would see her with them on and show himself. Her heart was filled with disappointment when she finally concluded that they were very likely a parting gift and that the creature would not return to her sight. He was returning, though, because the food was being eaten. Why, then, did he avoid her presence? Her mind looped and curved around all the possibilities until it very much resembled the carefully tooled design that had become so familiar to her.