The Power of the F*ck

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

As wonderful as it was to grow up without shame, the lack of it had its annoying consequences.

Ordinary people thought us a bunch of whores.

It grew tedious to be stared at through narrowed eyes and whispered about from prim lips.

Except for me, of course. I was pointed at for other reasons. But I’ll get to that in due time.

The good-looking rogue didn’t prove he was a Pan by shapeshifting. I think Mamie had always been disappointed by that.

Perhaps he wanted to stay handsome as he f*cked Mamie.

Shapeshifting into a half goat would have distorted his face enough to wipe it clean of beauty.

Or perhaps Great-Aunt Dottie was right that he was second or third generation Pan, and thus less likely or less able to shapeshift.

As Pans always did, whoever seduced my grandmother left her after a full night of the raucous, unrestrained F*ck. 

Mamie tried desperately to stay awake to make the night last as long as possible. But eventually, the F*ck exhausted her and she passed out.

As was the usual way, she woke up to an aching c***, shaking limbs, and very alone beside the riverbank where she had enthusiastically given up her maidenhead.

But Mamie never got over her night with the maybe Pan.

Most women didn’t.

Pans were notorious for the siren call of animal lust they awakened in women, as well as their ability to satiate the hunger hidden between a woman’s legs.

No woman who ever crossed their paths was able to resist the sudden urge to f*ck and be f*cked senseless.

The only problem was that stirred up a lifelong craving. For the women would never know such carnal satisfaction again.

They only got to have that one night.

I was sixteen years old the first time I met a Pan.

I was also a virgin at the start of that adventure, and I wasn’t by its end.

But things didn’t go as they usually did, maybe because the Pan was in the middle of the F*ck when I came across him.

I saw him in the oldest parts of the forest. Of course, that’s where I found him.

Most of the stories about Pans took place in the natural wild – in the woods, near rocks and cliffs, beside rivers and creeks, and even under waterfalls.

Where else could Pans feel most comfortable shedding their human forms, to don their animal selves, and let the horny half goat live, breathe, and f*ck?

I was in the woods hiking with the girl I considered my best friend at the time.

Adele was a pretty girl, who I both loved and hated in equal measure.

I always yearned for more of her, more of her time, more of her attention than she was willing to give.

My treacherous best friend liked the shape of triangles, especially of the human variety. I rarely had the pleasure of enjoying Adele to myself. There was always another best friend or her boyfriend joining us.

On this particular day, we had gotten an early start to go hiking.

Her new best friend of the moment – and my least favorite – was with us. Adele insisted Lise was necessary, for she was the one who had a license and a car, and could take us to the oldest part of the woods.

Reluctantly, I agreed.

I found her personality close to unbearable, and I didn’t understand what Adele saw in Lise, with her simpering smirks, and a grating voice with an insipid tone that worked on my last nerve.

But Adele had a taste for malice, and girls like Lise were made for that kind of poisonous indulgence.

Since triangles are always two sides against one, it was hardly surprising I was on the outs that morning.

Adele and Lise walked arm in arm, either in front of me or behind me, whispering secrets in each other’s ears, and giggling.

I fumed, which is exactly what they wanted. I even realized that at the time, which made my impotent wrath even more palpable.

The forest saved me that day.

To keep from losing my temper and my dignity, I forced my attention on the beauty around me.

The woods were particularly exquisite.

It was the middle of spring, right after the rainy season. The moss covering the trees and ground was resplendent and heavy with ample moisture.

The powerful softness of morning light highlighted the forest canopy of dark green, yellow green, bright green, the colors most vivid right after the rains.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply through my nostrils.

The aroma of the last rainfall permeated the earth below, and fed the leaves and budding blossoms, the hint of spice in the air around me.

I also heard the creek in the distance. The sound of riotous peace of a waterbed streaming fat with fresh, luscious water brought me back to myself.

As the great-great-granddaughter of a water nymph, this was my favorite element.

Water was my savior that gave me strength and power during times of stress.

I opened my eyes again. I could finally notice the flurry of squirrels, the wing-flap and songs of the birds.

Everything pulsed with life and my heart beat strong inside my breast.

I turned around and faced the ugly nasty of Adele and Lise, sniggering at my expense. The malice gleaming from their eyes was undeniable.

Suddenly, I knew I was played for a fool to accept the role they gave me.

It’s incredible how quickly love-hate can dissolve in an instant.

Adele caught on to my indifference immediately. The vicious glee in her face disappeared and her brow furrowed.

If I had possessed less inborn composure, I probably would have laughed out loud.

Adele and Lise seemed so dull and ordinary in that moment.

Really, what was I doing with these silly girls? I’m descended from the magic of nymphs.

“I’m done,” I said.

“What are you talking about, Dusky?”

“I don’t want to hike with you and Lise anymore. I’m going my own way.”

“Are you nuts?” protested Lise. “We’re more than an hour’s drive from town.”

“Then I’ll be home by nightfall.”

I took off at a violent run.

I became giddy with each stride that took me away from them.

The delirious freedom borne from liberating myself from invisible shackles that rendered me powerless only because I had allowed it to be so.

Adele and Lise didn’t bother chasing after me, because what’s the point of futility?

My father was tall and lean, with far more physical power in his physique than his appearance implied.

I took after my father in that way. I was several inches taller than Adele, with longer, stronger limbs. There was no way either she or Lise could keep up, much less catch me.

They shrieked after my departing back.

I didn’t hear all of what Adele said, something innocuous like calling her when I got home.

The euphoria of freedom kept me running hard for nearly twenty minutes.

The forest was a blur of green, while leaping over rocks, cracking twigs, and the earthy spice in the air.

Then I hurled through the trees to the creek bed where I intruded on the Pan in the F*ck.

That stopped me in my tracks.

Adrianna's Dance

Image by soundsonic from Pixabay

The Shepherd gazed at the double doors on the east side of the foyer, the doors to the cavernous theater.

He had loved the vastness in there.

Feeling hesitant without understanding why, the Shepherd turned the knob of one of the doors and entered.

Adrianna was there, dressed in pristine white bloomers and camisole, her long thick hair hanging in a long braid to her waist.

As the Butler said, she was taking her evening exercise.

Caught off guard, the Shepherd was embarrassed.

Stripped of her usual glamor, her simple garments were more intimate even than the revealing gown she had donned for dinner the previous night.

In this moment, Adrianna seemed more human, more vulnerable, more easily seen.

Yet Adrianna was clearly at ease. She waved when she saw him, without missing a step in her ritual.

“I beg your pardon,” the Shepherd said, turning to go. “I don’t mean to intrude.”

“Your presence is hardly an intrusion, my darling Shepherd. You can even join me if you like. I prefer to finish before supper.”

With her arms outstretched, Adrianna swooped low as she spoke, bringing her right shoulder down, the length of her arm reaching for the floor before she completed her turn with a rounded kick of her left leg in the air above her head.

Then her arms floated to her sides, as she sidestepped across the floor with long strides and a casual undulation in her hips.

Suddenly, she lunged forward with her right leg crooked at the knee, her left leg long behind her, her back arched and head thrown back as she stretched her arms toward her back leg.

Breathing in deeply and sighing audibly, she held the pose for a moment.

Then she swung her left leg forward and up, knee bent to her chest before lunging to her left side, her arms swinging over her head as she reached for the air beyond her grasp.

The dance was both graceful and peculiar in the silence that echoed through the theater.

“I think I prefer to watch,” the Shepherd replied.

“As you wish, dear Shepherd.”

Adrianna laughed, without missing a beat.

Her voice breathier than usual as she transitioned to the next leg of her choreography, abruptly coming out of the side lunge to jump high, bringing her knees to her chest before her feet came down with a soft thump.

Her grace was astonishing.

The legendary Courtesan became a dervish, moving with the agility and nimbleness of a woman more than half her age.

Within moments, the Shepherd was forgotten.

He could tell Adrianna had retreated into a world where nothing existed beyond motion.

Her lovely face was blank as she twirled, lunged, leaped, and spun around the magnificent space of the theater.

The Shepherd now understood how the legendary Courtesan maintained the youthful contours of her face and figure.

Watching Adrianna move to her internal rhythms was captivating in the quietude of a nearly empty theater.

She seemed to grow younger as the dance went on, years coming off her face that glowed from the bliss of freedom of motion. 4

It took strength and concentration, yet also surrender, to dance as she did.

There was so much beauty in the serenity and ecstasy of her expression, in the incandescence of her sparkling golden eyes, the simplicity of the black and silver braid falling to her waist.

Adrianna the Beautiful was exquisite.

That image seared itself into his mind, and the Shepherd picked up his sketch pad and started drawing furiously.

But he only needed to be reminded of the curve of her cheek, the muscles in her calves, the line of her arms stretched out.

He continued drawing even when she moved with the speed of a wood sprite, nimble enough to avoid getting caught.

The Shepherd didn’t look at the parchment at what he drew, so riveted was he by the dance of silence.

Suddenly, she was finished.

Adrianna became still and closed her eyes, her lower belly billowed as she breathed deeply and slowly.

Then she opened her eyes and took a long drink from a pitcher of water that had been left for her. She offered some to the Shepherd, which he accepted absently with a vague nod, finishing his sketch with a few bold strokes.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” she said, breathing deeply.

“Absolutely,” the Shepherd agreed. “Where did you learn to dance like that?”

“An indirect consequence of one of my favorite lovers of all time,” she said.

“One of the luckiest moments of my life was meeting him. We called him the Chinaman, even though he said he was Burmese. But it was the business of his life to travel all over the Orient and then the far parts of the world.”

Adrianna took another look drink from the pitcher before she continued.

“The Chinaman taught me some lovely forms of exercise he learned during his travels. Yoga and tai chi. Very exacting disciplines. Over the years, I found I enjoy them so much more if I use the postures as a dance.”

The Shepherd's Moment of Truth

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

Where was that shaking coming from?

The Shepherd tried to pull away, but the hands gripping his shoulders were strong.

“Shepherd!”

There was the Wanderer! At last! Why couldn’t he see him in that riotous tower of stolen hearts?

“Wake up, Shepherd! You’re having a nightmare!”

The Wanderer shouted in his ear.

Finally, the Shepherd was able to force his eyes open.

The Wanderer leaned over him, quaking his shoulders until the Shepherd sat up and brushed his hands away.

He was trembling. That dream really had been a horror. He shook his head and rubbed his face.

“From what I heard you say, I take it you were back at the tower.”

The Wanderer’s voice was gentle.

Suddenly flooded with shame, the Shepherd looked away.

Even if the Wanderer had already figured out there was far more to the story the Shepherd had told him of the night he saw Woman kill the Sorcerer of the Caverns, his friend still must have been shocked from the revelations of the night before.

They had had no chance to talk it over. They had been so exhausted after the elaborate dinner and Adrianna’s tale, both retired to their quarters and their beds immediately.

“Yes, I was. What did I say? If I may be foolish enough to ask?”

“You were pleading with her to spare my heart. Where was I?”

“I don’t know. I wondered the same thing in the dream.”

“I take it you lost the fight.”

“I did,” the Shepherd replied. “Fortunately, you woke me up before your heart got eaten.”

The Wanderer smiled.

“I’m sorry,” the Shepherd said in a quiet voice. “I should have told you the truth years ago. All of it.”

The Wanderer took in the Shepherd’s apology for a moment, nodding slowly. Then he shrugged.

“Thank you, but it hardly matters now. I suspect everything went for the best – or as good an outcome as could be hoped for. We may not be here now if you had. I’d probably still be your talking Wolf.”

The Shepherd paused, then admitted his friend had a point.

The Wanderer nodded again, then hesitated with a subtle frown crossing his face.

“Are you ever going to tell me about her?” the Wanderer asked softly.

“I don’t know.”

The Wanderer smiled again and pointed to his breast.

“This heart wants to know. And this heart has a right to know.”

The Shepherd smiled.

“Such an obvious truth is impossible to argue with. But I wasn’t joking when I said I never talk about her.”

“Whether you like it or not, I don’t think you have much choice. Adrianna is relentless when it comes to getting what she wants.”

“So what if she is? I’m leaving today.”

“You would be a fool to do that, Shepherd.”

“I have to get back to my sheep.”

“I can take care of your sheep,” the Wanderer retorted. “How long were you with Ella Bandita?”

“She was not that wretched creature when I knew her!”

The Wanderer’s eyes widened at the hard edge that had come into the Shepherd’s voice.

He looked away from the Wanderer staring at him with raised brows.

“How long?”

“Five years.”

“Was this was the love ‘that wasn’t meant’ as you once put it.”

“Why must you ask the nosiest questions?”

“Why won’t you answer them?” the Wanderer retorted. “So, was my Ella Bandita your woman?”

“Yes.”

“Am I also correct in the assumption that you haven’t known a woman since?”

“Now that is none of your business.”

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’ You’re staying. You need this.”

“The last thing I need is to keep company with a courtesan. I’m not a fool.”

“I insist you stay, Shepherd.”

“Last time I checked you were never the master of me.”

“In this particular instance? Like Hell I’m not. That very partial truth you told me was partial enough to be a lie. You owe me.”

“A lie for which I just apologized for. Since the greater good was served – and you said so yourself – I owe you nothing.”

“That’s a paltry way to pay a much larger debt. Not just to me, but to yourself. This part of your life has been chasing you since the day I found your drawing of Ella Bandita.”

The Shepherd was silent.

“It’s time for the story to come out,” the Wanderer persisted. “You might as well get lots of practice in with Adrianna before you tell it to me.”

“How many times do I have to say no?”

“This is not for you to refuse, Shepherd. I demand it of your integrity.”

The Shepherd swore under his breath.