At moonrise, on a dare, I enter Witchwood. Leaves hiss, creepers finger me.

Leering satyrs emerge, shaglegged, horned, with stiff red pricks. Stripped, held down, legs splayed, spellcast lusts torment me until I beg. Grinning, they mount me, filling every orifice. All night in burning ecstasy I buck and writhe.

At moonset I stumble free, coughing their stinking seed; thighs slicked, skin roped with pearls, a single leaf covering my slit.

Insatiable now, I’ll return...