Borrowed by a God

I'm not sure what pulls me from bed. I hear sounds at first... my husband's soft breath in my ear... Our beating hearts. But... was that our hearts? Or...? A drum beat? Slipping slowly and dreamily from my loving mate's arms, I move to the edge of the bed, listening. Yes, there it was... a soft, low beat. Like a drum beat, but a drum made of something natural, like elk hide or deer hide. Not something acrylic or modern, at all. Not at all uncommon sound in our home, but still...

I don't bother to reach for the light tartan shawl I keep at the foot of the bed as I tip toe into the hall. No sound from the other room and none in the office or bathroom. I walk into the dimly lit living room, glancing about, listening intently, and trying to echolocate the sound. My eyes pass over the living room, the couch, table, shelves, the mantle that had become my altar, it's edifices of the Horned God and the Goddess sitting there elegantly, regarding me silently. My other smaller statues of various other deities I paid homage to were placed reverently about them. I smirked at them and asked: "You guys see anything? Buddy?" I looked directly at my favorite version of Jesus, Buddy Christ. I'd been born and raised Catholic before I became pagan at thirteen, and Buddy was how I made a place in my current life for the faith of my upbringing and gave it its due respect; even if I wasn't a monotheist anymore I thought the historical Jesus was a pretty awesome guy, no matter if his real mom or dad actually were divine or not. Buddy regarded me with his usual enigmatic smile, wink, pistol finger and thumbs up.

"Hrm..." I turned to head back to bed and then paused at the sound of a chime. A tiny, tinny little metallic sound. It sounded just like it was coming from outside the sliding glass door in the living room beside the altar. I paused, and turned toward the curtained glass wall. Sometime later I would look back on this and wonder why I didn't immediately go get my husband, call the police... why I didn't even consider being afraid. It never entered my mind for a second. I just... knew that I had to draw back the curtain.

There was a scent of something in the air I couldn't quite put my finger on, but it smelled earthy, and rich. Somewhere between the raw amber I had once been taught to make incense with, and patchouli, which, as a rule, tended to give me terrible migraines. But this... this made me lightheaded. I couldn't see past the screen. It was like the little balcony wasn't even there. Like the fog had rolled in so dense that even the tiny balcony railing surrounding our first floor apartment in the hills of the Pacific Northwest was completely obscured by it.

"Sure," I say to Buddy wryly. "If we were in San Fran. But does it really get THAT foggy here?" I'm a California girl, born and raised and no matter how many years I had lived here, saw how the weather actually worked in this sun-deprived little wetland, I was never one hundred percent certain.

Sliding the glass door open, feeling a little giggly... feeling a little high, if I was honest with myself, regarding the tingly, lightheaded giddiness. But all I could think was that it smelled incredible with the door open... and I needed to know what was calling me.

Because that had to be the answer, didn't it? The beats and chimes only came when I was about to leave or return to bed. It's like they were drawing my attention until I followed, calling me back when I turned away. I drew back the screen, closing both doors behind me and turning, expecting to feel the cement of the balcony under my bare feet and the chill northwestern night air on my bare arms and legs, my nightgown little more than a tiny black babydoll chemise of silk. But as soon as I took one step from the closed doors, my feet instead felt the unmistakable cool press of fresh grass. Instead of the icy kiss of night air on my bare flesh, I feel no more than a light breeze.

Turning slowly, stunned, I look into the fog, and slowly, take another step. And then another. With each forward step, the fog lessens, making vision easier. Instead of the little balcony, parking lot and hillside of the little complex, before me was instead was a moonlit valley and set within the deepest, most central cleft was a standing circle of stones around what appeared to be a stone altar. Between the standing stones were large torches, casting flickering shadows over the table-like stone structure.

"And that's where the talking lion gets his mane cut, is killed by the white witch and then resurrected..." I muttered, absently, my usual habit of using sarcasm to battle fear and confusion running on all cylinders, clearly. I came to a grinding halt. "Holy shit, am I in NARNIA?"

The laugh nearly made me jump out of my skin. It was low, deep, masculine. I wheeled around; stunned to be caught so unaware in such a vast, empty space. And the sight of the source of said laugh was enough to dump me on my ass. I don't know if my brain simply couldn't process what I was looking at, or just didn't BELIEVE what it was looking at. "No," he said, grinning in apparently genuine delight, reaching a hand down to me to help me up. "You're not in Narnia. And I most certainly am not Mr. Tumnus. Though, I will say that IF one of my fauns decided to appear and have a chat with C.S. Lewis when the Irishman was having his crisis of faith, I MAY have looked the other way..."

"You're—" I stammered, half unable to articulate what I was saying, and half wondering about the physics that worked in allowing a man with goat legs to pull a woman who was no lightweight to her feet. I mean, I'm not, like... Mama June, but I am most certainly not Kate Moss, either. I'm more of a Megan Trainor or Adele... And... hello? Cloven hooves. I mean... seriously?

He gave a little yank as soon as I was on my feet propelling me into his very hairy chest and I got another flash of white teeth as the grin widened. "Yeees?" His golden brown eyes danced in amusement. I had seen eyes like those before. In fact, I'd seen a God with eyes like those before. One with a similar set of headgear, but those had just been dreams... Right? I raised my eyes up and looked up at the slightly curving goat-like horns that created very unusual parts in his hair.

"You're..." I searched for the right thing to say and clearly what I came up with was not at all what he was expecting. "You're not dead."

"That's r—oh!" He let out a bark of laughter. "Not anymore. Don't believe everything that Plutarch wrote, either. Everyone thinks they know how it works with us." He rolled his eyes and continued conversationally: "You know who gets it almost right? The dreamers. Gaiman. That dude is totally getting some inside info, I swear! I want to know who is spilling company secrets! Maybe he really did have a sit-down with Odin... That guy would just LOVE it if he was loved and feared in the same breath again... between that and his kid getting all those comic book nods... I mean, you guys haven't dreamed the Gods of Twitter and Amazon into existence yet, but give it time..."

I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. He seemed to realize he was rambling, paused and looked at the expression on my face. With an indulgent smile, he reached up, and gently took one finger and gently raised my jaw back into a closed position... and then booped me on the nose. "You're Pan!" I managed, finally.

"And you're one of Herne's but you're also very, very interesting and I asked if I could borrow you." He replied with another flash of teeth. "You're doing some very, very interesting things and we've noticed."

"We?" I squeaked, concerned about the "borrow" comment.

"The ones you've invoked when you're... what did you tell that little shaman in there?" He nodded back in the direction I came from. I knew he meant my husband, who was literally a shaman. "Meditating?" His lips curved in a lascivious smile. No less than two days ago I had joked to my husband that since so much of my spells and rituals revolved around my using my sexuality and sexual energy, that when I talk about how I "meditate" it's really just code to say I'm most likely masturbating. Gathering energy by holding myself at the edge of orgasm while focusing on whatever my purpose for gathering that energy is, invoking the deities appropriate for the working... most often of course, since I had been just re-entering this world I had left behind in my youth for more "socially acceptable" forms of worship, gods and goddess of love, sex and desire, as most of my spells had been just getting reacquainted with my craft... and myself. "Me. Your patroness, Brighid. Aphrodite. Cernnunos... isn't your mate one of his? Oh, and of course, Venus. Isis. Eros. Bastet... she's not all about cats, but she's mostly about cats, you know what I mean? I mean, the pussy on that one... ehem... um... Cupid. Oshun. Freya. Ragaraja. Astarte. Pathos. Dionysus. Inanna. Freyr. Nanaya. Did you want me to keep going? I can. Haven't even touched Asia yet, really..."

"N-no, that's alright." I managed in a breathy voice, uncertain if I ought to be terrified or laugh. "I don't understand what I have done that could possibly be so interesting..."

"Well, walk with me and I'll explain," He said, wrapping an arm around my waist and leading me down into the valley below. His stride was remarkably smooth for someone walking on hooves rather than feet. I, in comparison, was an unsteady wreck. He was keeping me from falling over, I think, more than I cared to admit. He didn't seem to mind nor did he remark on it. "You've always had a theory about Gods, right? In fact, you're a fan of the Gaiman explanation, right?"

"Basically," I said, fear ebbing as my brain began working. If I loved anything, it was discussing religion, theology, philosophy and metaphysics. The balance of faith and the lifespan of a god was a little of everything. "I have always personally thought it made sense that all faiths are real, all gods, but they are only as powerful as their followers allow them to be. That's why when a religion dies, so does its gods. The followers give them no power as they no longer have faith. Otherwise, one figures a god would rise up and strike down the faithless. But that never happens. We always rationalize it - free will, divine intervention in far more subtle ways, etcetera. But few gods are TRULY dead and gone. Most gods have some believers. And some have a billion. I have always believed some version of that. That's why Buddy is on my altar. I don't NOT believe in God and Jesus. They just aren't the right deities for me. Jesus was an awesome guy. But..."

"Your spirit is too wild, too pure to be caged in puritanical marble and stain glass walls?" He asked, as we came to stand on the edge of the standing stones. His tone was light, but there was a serious tone in it that said it wasn't entirely a question, or that it was rhetorical.

"Something like that," I said honestly. He smiled down at me, and raised a hand to caress my cheek lightly, his honey gold eyes looking into mine. I couldn't breathe for a moment. He was good looking. I mean, I wasn't shocked. But this wasn't the guy you see in marble statues; short, bearded and curly haired, cute and sporting a reed pipe. This was a man. A man who managed to be taller than I, by a good hand span, with shoulder length dark brown hair, a beard, yes, but well-kept and attractive that trailed into one of the furrier masculine chests I had seen, and I had seen a few! And I wanted to run my fingers through it... to see if it felt as soft as it looked. I did so without even thinking it through, still looking at him as he continued:

"You're putting so much lust into the world, my little one. So much energy, so much passion. Creatures like me... we notice. Many of us may be old, forgotten, or sleeping. But we notice." His thumb caressed my lower lip. "I know you don't always believe... not entirely. You want to. Deep down, you want to believe that your faith isn't fruitless. And even though you will just see this as another dream or fantasy as you always do when you visit Hearne's Grove and he takes you upon HIS altar, I still wanted to see you. To touch you. To taste you. To give to you a small gift of my own. Because while you may bow first and foremost to the gods whom you are bound to by blood, your spirit... your wild, untamable, firey, passionate spirit... that I do believe I shall claim a small portion of for myself, if you don't mind."

I wasn't entirely sure what to say, so I said the only thing I could think of, the most honest thing. "That isn't really a request for permission, is it?"

The laughter and mirth completely melted from his face and I did see something wild there. Maybe even something dangerous. But it wasn't a frightening dangerous. Not really. Or, at least, if it was, my reaction wasn't fear. I felt myself get wet, and a shiver run down my spine, and the breath catch in my lungs. "If you need it to be," he said, very softly, his eyes moving to my lips, as his hand slid down the side of my neck and his thumb stroked the hollow of my throat. "I know you've been hurt before. But if you want honesty... no, it's really not." He pulled me forward, against that warm, furred chest and kissed me passionately, his tongue dipping past my lips as I gasped a little in surprise. I trembled in his arms, melting into the kiss, my head spinning. I mean, I was as weak against a powerful man as any red blooded woman... well, ones that liked men, at any rate, and I very much did. Women, too, and just about every shade in between, but that was neither here nor there...

The sudden giggle was nearly a wet spray since we were still kissing, and I clapped a hand over my mouth, eyes suddenly going wide in embarrassment. He arched a brow and his lips twisted in a wry smile. "Oh, no. Whatever caused that, you HAVE to share."

I could feel a hot flush run up my face. "I was thinking about how any woman would be attracted to you... If they liked men. And I do! But I also like women. But I also like gender fluid people, and... really, it's more the spirit of the person, and my sister told me that technically made me PAN-sexual, and then... you know, you were kissing me, and I was thinking how funny if I suddenly identified instead of as 'bi' but 'pan-sexual'... while being SEXUAL... with Pan."

He facepalmed. Seriously. I made a deity slap his face down into his own palm with my stupidity. Then I saw his shoulders shaking and heard the slow rumbling laugh. And then he pounced me. We tumbled back into the lush grass, with me on my back, looking up at this strange being grinning down at me. "You're a funny little witch," he said.

"We're not gonna get up on the altar?" I asked, genuinely surprised. Pan shook his head still smiling down at me as he brushed strands of my flyaway red hair off my cheek.

"No. No, you... you, I just want here, in the grass. I want you as if you were one of those pretty little nymphs I like to chase. But I don't have to chase you, do I? You want to be caught." I bit my bottom lip, feeling my heart give a tiny leap and nodded silently. He was very correct. I didn't want to run. I didn't know if this was a dream or reality, and honestly, it didn't matter. If it was a dream, by the Gods, I was gonna enjoy it! And if it was reality... I am sorry, but when a God implies he wants to fuck you, to paraphrase the Ghostbusters, "you say YES!"

My eyes finally lowered to where I hadn't allowed them to go before... to the scrap of leather that covered him from mid-waist to the tops of his animal-furred thighs and a fleeting tremor of worry spiked through me. I tried to remember what I knew about Pan. God of the wild, animals, herds, and fertility. Very much a sex symbol over the centuries. I remembered an oddly cute but bizarre statue of Pan fucking an actual goat... But I could not remember if he was formed like a man himself in the... "man" department or not. Tentatively, I reached out and unfastened the garment at his waist, letting it fall. Not only was he very much a man in the "man" department, he was an impressive one. I had to blink for a moment, and try not to contemplate that and oral sex. Or anal sex. Oh boy...

"Shhhh," he murmured, as if he could hear the runaway train that was my overactive brain, and he leaned down, kissing a wet path from the side of my face, down trembling shoulders, over the breastbone, which was all but vibrating with each slam of my heart against my ribcage. He nudged aside the black silk with his lips and took my right breast into his mouth, causing me to arch and moan in shock, wrapping my arms around him in reflex.

"Omigod!" I gasped, and I could feel my nipple between his teeth even as he grinned around it and slipped at hand between my thighs and moved my panties out of the way to slip a finger inside my ever-moistening depths.

"No need to call me 'God'," he said softly, catching the arch of my spine against his left forearm while his right hand's fingers plunged into my core, coaxing yet more slippery wetness from me. "You may use my name. Or, for tonight, call me 'my Lord'... I'm not picky." He curled his fingers inside me, stroking me, watching the play of emotions across my face, as if the flickers of passion in my eyes were more arousing to him than the hardening bud of my exposed pink-tipped nipple, or the flood of slick moisture his fingers were coaxing forth from my heated pussy. His thumb found my clit and I arched against his hand, crying out: "My lord Pan!"

With a low, throaty growl, and a fierce grin, he descended between my ample thighs, spreading them, sweeping aside the scrap of my panties so quickly that it was nearly a blur. He buried his face between my thighs and gave the entire length of my cunt a long, playful lick of his tongue, then, looking up at me over the length of my body said with that same heated tone: "Yes. I like that. You may call me that, little witch. And for now, I will simply call you... MINE. My little witch. My little busty, lusty, sexy, hedonistic, wonton little minx. Your words are making people cum all over the world. Your fantasies, stories... your moans and the sounds of your climaxes. And all that lust... you can taste it, can't you? I know we can. It's what made us pay attention. But that wouldn't even matter... you just like to be a little exhibitionist, don't you?"

I felt like my brain was short circuiting. I felt like my worlds were colliding. I felt like my body was going to catch fire. I could hardly breathe. "Y-yes." I managed to whisper. He gave the length of my pussy another long, teasing lick that did nothing to satisfy me but made me shudder in pitched desire.

"Yes... what, little witch?"

"Yes... My lord Pan." He said nothing more, then. He merely gave me a mischievous wink and disappeared between my thighs, this warm mouth and tongue doing things to me I was certain no human man could do. I couldn't wrap my head around the sensations I was feeling. Fingers inside of my cunt, stroking me, thrusting inside of me. A tongue on my clit and around it, warm and moist, and velvety. Amazing, intoxicating sensations. Then his mouth replaced the thrusting fingers and his tongue slid inside me... inside me in a way that made me think of either Gene Simmons or something animal. And it felt incredible. I began to shake, on the brink of orgasm. Out of instinct, I started trying to calm myself down, to keep control over it.

"No," he almost snarled, raising his head. His eyes had changed. They were still golden, but now they were like amber... a dark, dangerous dark honey. He tore the thin nightgown from my body with a terrifying sound that should have scared the hell out of me. And honestly, should have hurt. But neither was the case. "Not this time. I don't want you to hold back."