The Satyr Saga #3 - Satyrday Night


[hardcore sex, incest, mother-son, brother-sister, three-way, FFM, groupsex, urban fantasy, gods and goddesses]

Owen Howard is starting to panic. What seemed to him to be an innocent gift has turned his entire world sideways. Pursued by the women he meets, unable to understand what is happening to him, he turns in desperation to the woman who gifted him with the bracelet the night before. What she tells him is a revelation that will change his entire life.

How will Owen adjust? Will he embrace his destiny as a god's chosen vessel? Or will he deny the pleasures of the flesh which are waiting for him on…Satyrday Night??


      Isabel took a sip of wine, her eyes bright. This was how things were meant to be. Her son beside her, eating a meal as a family.
      “Oh!” Owen said, brightening. “It looks like Anaya and I might be going out sometime soon.”
      “Really?” Isabel asked. She had to close her eyes briefly as a tide of jealousy surged through her, bitter as gall. How dare she try to steal my Owen away from me! She smiled at her son, hiding her pain. “How did that happen?”
      Owen laughed. “God only knows. We were talking in the office this morning and something just...clicked...between us.” He opened his mouth as if to continue, but dropped his head, blushing as he took another bite of food.
      Below the table, a knuckle cracked as Isabel clenched her fist. She raised her shaking hand and took another sip of wine.
      Filthy tramp! I know what she did. She pulled down her shirt and flashed her Indian tits at him and he couldn't help himself.
      He's mine, damn it. Mine!

      She took a last bite of rice, then reached for a piece of bread, sopping up the juice on her plate.
      Two can play your game, Anaya. Without even thinking, she pulled the straps of her dress down, letting the top half of her garment fall to her waist. Unbound, her breasts sprang free, her dark nipples crinkling, fat and cheerfully erect.
      “Mama! What the hell are you doing?” Owen's voice was a breathless shout of horror.
      She lounged back in her chair, her stiff buds pointing at her son. She raised her glass to her lips and took another swallow of wine. She tried to appear calm, but her hand shook slightly, and a trickle of wine ran down her lips and dropped onto her chest. To Owen's eyes she looked free, fierce, and slightly mad.
      Quite a bit, the thought came to him, like Phoebe had, the night he first met her.
      “What are you so worried about, mi corazon? It is night and the doors are closed. Who is to know if I choose to eat in comfort, rather than staying sweaty and hot in this dress?” She picked at the thin cloth on her lap disdainfully. She shot him a wicked look from under her lashes. “Perhaps you would prefer to be comfortable, too? Why don't you take that shirt off, mi vida? Or even better, your pants?” Her tongue came out and delicately wet her lips, licking off the wine. She deliberately raised her hand and smeared the wine into the brown skin of her chest., holding his gaze as a muscle jumped in his jaw.
      “Mama,” Owen's voice was hoarse. “I want you to calm down. I want you to think. You shouldn't be doing this. If Samara comes home, how will this look?” His fork clattered on his empty plate and he looked at her, eyes haunted. “I shouldn't have come home with it,” he muttered. “I should have thrown it away and damned the consequences.”
      What is he talking about? Silly boy. Doesn't he understand how wonderful this is? She cupped her breasts in her hands, offering them to him. Her fingers came together, pinching the sensitive nipples, and she had to bite her lip to keep from screaming as lust boiled in her belly. Her hips rocked in slow circles on the chair.
      Owen made one last, desperate attempt. “Mama, stop it! Please! Get hold of yourself,” he hissed, trying to break through the wall of desire.
      She stood up. “Oh, it is too late for that, mi vida. Far too late.” She could feel the moisture gathering inside her, the changes, as her nether lips opened shyly, unfurling like a flower in springtime. She walked to her son, then around behind him, a fingertip trailing across his shoulders as he hunched and shuddered.
      Let him tell himself he doesn't want me, she thought wantonly, as the blood rushed to her breasts and her aching, engorged nipples. It will make his surrender all the sweeter. She spun and sat in his lap, looping her arms around his neck, her face only inches from his. The tips of her breasts rubbed lightly on the thin cloth of his shirt, and she moaned softly as she looked into his dear, confused eyes.
      She glanced down between them, sensing the heat of his organ. She dropped a hand into his lap and squeezed slightly, her small hand not quite able to encircle his thickness. The material of her dress had hiked up, exposing her warm brown thighs as she spread her legs to straddle him, and the moist humid air felt wonderful on the shaved flesh of her mound.
      She nuzzled in closer to him, then tilted her head sideways, nose sniffing, darting in for a kiss where the delicate skin of his neck met his shoulder. She licked him, tongue sweeping up from his neck to his jawline, then up to his ear, sharp teeth setting themselves painfully in the lobe.
      He hissed, whether in pain or pleasure she could not tell. His hands came up and bunched in the tangled cloth at her waist. What would he do, she thought desperately. Would he throw her down and walk away, horrified and disgusted?

Word Count: 13,300

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