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It is cool in the glade of the forest where Irish lies bathing. The heat of the midday Mediterranean sun has receded, and the warm evening glow shines on the waters of the pond, and on the sleek damp skin of Irish. She shivers at the breeze. Goosebumps on flesh.

She feels safe here.

The small villa, her husband's by right, but which she has made her home, stands across the water. Cocooned in the forest greenery, she can't imagine how life could be better, or how anything could make it worse. Her husband will be back soon from collecting firewood.

How do I know all this? I have been watching. Its been many, many years since the villa has been fully occupied. It dates back, as I do, to Roman times. Even prior to this, a Grecian house stood here, but that was burnt in the wars. Not that you would know about them.

My name is Satyricon. That is not the name I was born with, but it is a name I have earnt. I am the last of the Satyrs. Half-man, half-beast, we would roam the forest of old, serving our lord Dionysus. I recall the feasts of old, food, fun, frolics: ferral, canine, ursine, lupine, coupled, tripled together. The grandest orgies the world ever saw.

We were built, you see, for pleasure. And I have been alone so long now...I wonder whether I truly remember the heights we reached...but I digress.

I'm looking now at what will be, for the satyric race, the saviour. Dionysus visited me in a dream, and told me to return to this place, for there I would find...the mother. Yes people, the gods have decreed our return. Adam and Eve, Pandora and Epimetheus, Satyricon and Irish.

I watch her now, as I have watched these months passed. She splashes water against her small, perfect breasts, and her nipples stiffen in response. Her dark hair is damp so it appears black. Below her midriff, she has her legs crossed demurely, hiding the pleasures within. She's caressing her breasts! Cupping them, massaging and tweaking her nipples - I feel myself grow hard. Great Zeus it has been so long!

I am half feline, panther-like. Not a simple melding, top half human bottom half cat, my body consists of randomly placed features of the two. Sharp teeth, human head, human hands, a panthers legs. And my manhood - a cathood would be more accurate. It is hard now, nine inches long and dark, its needles a product of a perfect evolution. Its head shines nearly as much as the black fur which covers my feline legs. My human hand strokes my fur and wraps around my cock. On impulse I throw my head back, and let out a half-human growl of pleasure, until...

"Who's there!?"

Damnation! She has heard. She's wary now, and picks up her clothes, pulling them on over her damp body, glances around the glade.

"I heard you, now come out where I can see you!" The uncertainty in her voice belies the strength of her words, "Please come out... darling if that's you, this isn't funny..."

Her eyes dart around, looking for her husband through the leaves. How wrong she is. Suddenly, I become very aware of my nakedness, of my erection. There's only one thing for it really...

I step out from my hiding place, and her head whirls to catch my motion.

"Who are you, what are you do-" She breaks off as her eyes take in the rest of my body. They grow wide as her fear expands. She jerks into action suddenly, trying to race around the pond to the villa. But I'm half-cat: she can't outrun me.

And so I'm holding her by the shoulders before she even realises it. For two seconds our eyes meet, before she tries to break my grasp. She's too weak to escape though, and she knows it. I speak to her in my deep throated voice. "Stay still girl. Stay still and quiet." She struggles one more time, and then gives up. Her body shakes in my arms.

Sobbing she asks, "W-w-what are you...w-w-what...please let me go...please!"

"Be quiet!" I growl, "Silence!"

She tries to restrain her sobs, barely succeeding. She looks so vunerable, so afraid. The smell of the salt in her tears reaches my nostrils, and against my will, my sex begins to rise again. Bending my head to her face, I lick the tears from her cheek. Calmer now, but still sobbing, she looks questioningly into my eyes. Unable to resist, I gently kiss her forehead.

"Who are you?" she softly asks.

Passion breaks my voice as I answer, "I am Satyricon." I renew my kissing with fervour, spurred on by the salt of her tears. She struggles slightly, and asks with more force:

"But what are you?"

"I am a satyr." I barely stop my caress to answer, and I can see she is begining to be affected. Her breathing is becoming shallow as she says: