snapshots of arcadia: the goat



sil enus


The goat is lapping at the fresh stream that runs at the foot of the hill. He feels his thirst quenching as he digs his tongue deep into the ravine, enjoying the pleasure of the thick, honeyed nectar that he does drink. He nuzzles at the juice with his nose and laps down deeper. It has been sometime since the horned creature has taken the time to consume such a pleasure. The longer he sips at the juices, the more intoxicated he becomes. He plunges his head forward covering the front of his face in the elixir; slowly moving it from side to side. One of his horns brushes against the terrain below and for a moment he feels as if the ground moves around him but he pays it no heed: he is overwhelmed satisfying his dark desire; licking, sipping, sucking deeper into the flowing spring.

On this morn it is quiet in the valley. There’s a slight fog that hangs in the air; low, close to the ground. Various bugs of red and green, dragon and butter flies flutter about whilst crooked crows slink around on the lavish branches of the intimidating trees. A lone snake slithers its wicked way through the thick grass searching for a rodent, any rodent, to consume. Lush green hills roll in on all sides bringing with them glorious blossoms of yellow and white that sway in the autumn breeze. In amongst this Arcadian scene it is our dear goat that is making the most commotion with his face buried in the silken stream.

He feels a motion again but this time he is sure, it seems as if the hill is beginning to rumble. He lifts his head slightly and raises his eyes, as he does so one can notice that this goat’s head is of the human kind. Small horns adorn the top of his head while beneath bushy brows hover above dark black eyes. His nose flows down into a pointed peak accompanied by thick, blood-red lips that most often hold a grin. What else, but a beard of the goatee style hangs from his protruding chin. Indeed our horned friend’s torso is also made of the human kind: a broad, deeply browned chest covered in thick dark hairs that trickle down onto a firm, rippling stomach. Below the waist grow two hairy shanks with a great sack of balls swinging between.

As he looks up towards the hill with his face covered in fluid he notes that it is stirring. At that instant a great shrieking flies forth from atop and a most gorgeous face appears above: the face of a nymph. She… and it is oh so she, has the blackest locks of a thousand nights tumbling down the sides of her face that is overcome with the pleasure that has just been lapped out of her deep ravine. She is Ambrosia which means just because in the old language. And it is just for this because that Pan adores feasting at her fiery spring.

Ambrosia flies forward in rapture with a climaxing scream and then falls back resting the palms of her outstretched arms on the grass below her. As she does so she throws her head back gazing up towards the sky as heavy breaths shoot forth from her mouth. Her great bronzed breasts heave with the force of her breathing. In his position below Pan watches in exultation; he ogles these great forms with their large, rounded almonds.

As her breathing slows she thrusts her head forward and sees Pan grinning up towards her. She grasps at the back of his head and draws it in. She licks at the juice, sticky now, that covers his face in a shiny sheen. Then she plunges her tongue deep into the goat’s throat and the two of them share in the taste of her own together…