As a satyr originating from the Feywild, Willo was exquisitely sensitive to the corrupting filth spread by these demons. For months, she’d wake from nightmares drenched in sweat, her mind boiling with violent, murderous urges. Her tribe, the Green Vines, once peaceful for decades, had seen over a hundred brawls erupt in mere weeks. Fortunately, satyrs’ gentle nature prevented bloodshed—a small mercy, or she’d have drowned in regret.
To cope, she’d purge the worst of her rage, carrying the residual demonic taint through the mountains, rallying allies to eradicate the corruption. The Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers was her brainchild, born of painful compromises. But suppressing the pollution came at a cost: dormant for over a decade, her carnal desires now roared back, a relentless inferno scorching her sanity.
I need it... she silently begged, tossing restlessly. Her fingers brushed a cold emptiness beside her—Nidalee was gone. Willo stilled, ears twitching. Faint moans echoed from afar.
Memories of Nidalee’s shameless plea to share Charles’ tent flooded back. The satyr matriarch flushed crimson. Could they be...?
Her pulse hammered. Normally, such things wouldn’t ruffle her. But tonight, desire was a live wire. Just one look. No one will know. Trembling, she slipped from the tent and peered toward Charles’ shelter.
A flickering glow painted silhouettes against the canvas—Nidalee on all fours, rounded hips thrust high, Charles pounding into her from behind. His thick cock pistoned relentlessly, stretching her slutty hole with each brutal thrust. Nidalee’s full breasts swung wildly, nipples taut as she gasped, "Harder, Master! Breed your bitch!"
Shadow play, Willo reasoned—a trick of the light exaggerating his size. Yet the vision seared her brain: What if it were me? Her throat parched, body ablaze. One hand cupped her massive breasts, fingers pinching a stiff nipple—
"Nngh!" A ragged gasp escaped her. Ten years untouched, the sensation was electric. Enough suffering. Tonight, I end this.
Her hands moved with desperate purpose, kneading her full bosom. She dared not squeeze too hard, fearing the milk swelling within would spill as it had in her dream. Yes, she had milk—a humiliating legacy.
Tribal lore spoke of a heroic male satyr from the Feywild who saved refugees, loved a maiden, and founded the Green Vines. A pretty lie. Their true origin? Livestock.
Generations ago, vile warlocks abducted satyr maidens, selectively breeding them for maximum lactation. They raped the best milkers, culled the weak, and sold the milk for profit. Adventurers eventually freed them, but by then, the satyrs were bound to the material world. They wandered until settling these mountains, burying their shame beneath a noble myth.
Willo inherited that curse: once a mother, her breasts overflowed eternally. Her tribe embraced it—daughters nursed well into adolescence, easing their mothers’ ache. Willo’s own fifteen-year-old still suckled at her chest. But trapped underground, relief was impossible. Without her daughter, her breasts throbbed, heavy and desperate.
"Aaah! Yes, fuck my slutty cunt!" Nidalee’s cries crescendoed—louder or just clearer to Willo’s heightened senses?
As the silhouettes shifted—Charles hauling Nidalee onto his lap, her legs splayed—Willo’s fingers plunged beneath her leaf tunic, questing toward her hairless pussy. Finally!
"Ohh..." She arched her swan-like neck. Ten years of neglect vanished in a heartbeat. Bliss threatened tears as her fingertip circled her swollen clit. But clumsy strokes only teased. The ache deepened, a wildfire begging for rain. Give it to me!
She rubbed harder, frantic, the friction stinging more than satisfying. Frenzied, she plunged two fingers into her sopping slit, vaginal walls clamping down. It wasn’t enough—not compared to the brutal rhythm hammering Nidalee just yards away.
"Woo—?!" Druidic instincts screamed danger. Willo whirled.
Theresa stood frozen nearby, eyes wide, hands covering her mouth.
Seen! Shame detonated in Willo’s chest. She yanked her dripping fingers free, hiding her face. "Don’t look..."
The Matriarch trembled, crimson staining her cheeks. If she vanished, would it undo this?
Theresa’s shock shifted—part feigned, part genuine amazement. Agatha’s dream-weaving worked better than she’d dreamed! Willo’s pent-up hunger was a powder keg, and Charles’ tent was the spark. Perfect. Time to harvest.
Softening her expression, Theresa glided forward, enfolding Willo in her opulent arms. "I mock you not, dear Matriarch," she murmured. "We women all know this hunger. And you? Forbearing for so long... how you must ache."
As Life Goddess’ servant, I implore you: embrace the bliss of your flesh. Only then does life hold meaning."
Guiding Willo into the tent, Theresa sealed them in darkness. Willo remained rigid, unresponsive. With a conspiratorial whisper, Theresa leaned close:
"Truth? Their cries stirred my hunger, too. This sleepless night... Matriarch Willo..."
Her hands drifted down Willo’s body. "Shall we heed Life Goddess’ design? Two lonely souls, soothing each other’s fire?"
Willo stiffened. "You... I..."
Theresa’s eyes gleamed—clear, not lust-drunk. She’s sacrificing her dignity to help me. Tears welled in Willo. Life Goddess’ faithful truly were saints.
"But... my skills are rusty," Willo whispered.
A hidden smile touched Theresa’s lips. "No matter. Rusty hands beat empty nights."
Her fingers danced—decades of teasing Charles’ nuns perfected her craft. Willo stood no chance.
Caressing satin skin, Theresa nipped Willo’s ear. She palmed full breasts, thumbs rolling nipples until they peaked. "So beautiful..." she breathed, one hand sliding down to cradle rounded hips.
Willo gasped as fingers brushed her thighs, then traced her plump labia majora. "Open for me," Theresa urged.
Shuddering, Willo spread her legs. Theresa’s fingertip parted fleshy lips, gliding through slick folds to find her clit. "Nngh!" Willo bucked.
"Sensitive little pearl," Theresa purred. She rubbed tight circles, her other hand squeezing a milky breast. Twin sensations—nipple and clit—sent Willo spiraling. Her moans grew jagged. "Please... inside!"
Theresa obliged. Two fingers speared her wet slit, curling to stroke her G-spot. "YES!" Willo’s vaginal walls clenched, spasming. Her honey pot gushed.
"Mmm, a fountain," Theresa teased, pumping faster. "Does being watched make your hairless pussy weep?"
Willo cried out, hips pistoning. Theresa captured her lips, tongues tangling as her fingers pistoned. Overwhelmed, Willo shattered—body taut, juices soaking Theresa’s hand.
"Again," Theresa commanded. Teeth grazed Willo’s neck. Fingers drove deeper, hooking ruthlessly. She pinned the satyr’s thigh and sucked a nipple hard—
"I’M CUMMING!" Milk sprayed, dousing Theresa’s chin. Willo’s scream muffled in the nun’s cleavage as her pussy clamped down like a vise.
Panting, Willo slumped—a spent rag doll. Theresa slowly withdrew glistening fingers. "Thank you, Matriarch. I feel... unburdened." She wiped her hands. "Our secret, yes?"
Nodding weakly, Willo watched her vanish into the dark.
The tent flap rustled. Nidalee crept in, radiating Charles’ scent—sex and sweat. Willo feigned sleep as her pulse raced. Read complete versıon only at 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭·𝔣𝔦𝔯𝔢·𝗇𝗲𝘵
That smell... Images flashed—Charles gripping Nidalee’s hips, slamming into her. Willo bit her lip. Then she saw it: a leopard tail curling from beneath Nidalee’s blanket.
Willo frowned. Nidalee wasn’t a shifter—druidic senses confirmed that. Curiosity burned. She slid downward, lifting the blanket.
Horiz stretched. The tail wasn’t fur—it was a metal plug embedded deep in Nidalee’s asshole.
Willo froze. That place... used like...?
Nidalee hadn’t stirred. Eyes clenched, Willo retreated. City youth... truly shocking.
Unseen, Nidalee smiled. She’d smelt Willo’s arousal the moment she entered. Tonight, sleep would evade them both.
--------------------------------------
Enjoying the story? Get early access to 150+ Advanced Chapters!
👉 Support now: /TransFic
--------------------------------------