A late start that morning meant that the sun was setting behind him by the time Davren reached the roadside shelter. He briefly squatted down to touch the hardpacked road in thanks that he found it before dark. You could find these respites everywhere the Pact held, built and maintained by the followers of the Horned Lord—a service that his patronage offered to the common good, paid for with traveler’s offerings, guide fees and the incomes from his festhalls and brothels.
Most offered little more than a flat dry area, fire pit and latrine; there’d be water—a rain barrel at the least; a well or spring if you were lucky. Davren had heard that further north there were shelters to keep from freezing in the snow, which was hard to imagine while sweating under the red-gold glare of the sun.
This one was set back a ways from the marker on the road, up a meandering path paved with rough cut stones. A wide brimmed hat kept some of the sun off and he paused to fan his face with it, looking up the path. Never one for modesty, and with no fellow travelers to mind, Davren had given up even the pretense of it to better endure the summer heat—he was shirtless, tanned and sweating, and wore nothing under the loose skirt of linen wrapped around his waist.
It had been years since he had heard the road’s call and set out, and he looked at ease standing there in his sandals with all his belongings on his back; even after spending all day walking, and the day before, and the promise of the same tomorrow.
He settled his hat back onto his head and began to climb.
As he ascended he could make out the occasional murmur of a voice; it seemed he would have some company for the evening, and perhaps on the road tomorrow if they were going the same way. The thought was pleasant; he had found most people he met in his travels were if not good company, at least tolerable. He bore the loneliness of the road with the same ease as his pack, but at the end of the day he’d left home to see the world and its people. News of what lay ahead, and the chance to speak was worthy of thanks. He leaned forward to touch the stone step ahead of him.
As he neared the top of the rise, he managed to make out the first clear words.
"Fuck, that’s good."
Davren paused with one foot at the top of the stairs, working out what he was hearing just in time for him to see the surprising truth for himself.
Two men were by the unlit fire pit, their gear laid out neatly close by and a bedroll laid out for the comfort of the one kneeling before the other. He was giving an enthusiastic blow job, and from the expression on both their faces they were having a great time of it.
There wasn't much that two men could get up to that would shock Davren at this point. Life on the road meant there often wasn’t a convenient bed when you found a willing partner, and Davren had done more than these two with less expectation of privacy, and more awkward outcomes than being stumbled upon. The thrill was often part of the pleasure. No what surprised Davren, as he took in the tableau, is that the men had the horns and legs of goats.
As a wanderer, Davren left his offerings at the shrine of the Horned Lord - a great spirit of dusty roads and self indulgence, travelers and fleeting pleasures. If any being touched by the spirit could be said to be commonplace, it would be the members of his court and their offspring with mortals. Satyrs, fauns, and others, it was in their nature to explore the world and enjoy what pleasures could be found there. He'd seen their like before in his rambling years, and had found them to be kindred spirits.
The one standing was gripping a horn with a muscled arm, hairy where it was not furred, and thrusting slowly into his companions mouth — head tipped back and eyes half lidded in pleasure. Davren must have made a noise because the satyr looked over and paused on the edge of thrusting back into his companion's mouth, cock hanging just short of his lips.
Their eyes met and he saw surprise and then curiosity. At a noise of protest from his partner, he released his grip on his horn to let him do as he pleased. As his partner took initiative to lick at the head of his cock, the satyr's gaze tracked approvingly down to Davren's exposed and sweaty chest and arms, to where his arousal would quickly become obvious through the loose fabric.
At the show of obvious appreciation, Davren's uncertainty resolved into anticipation and he stepped fully into the edge of the camp and returned it. Touching the road seemed hardly enough thanks, but he expected that Horned Lord's kin would be willing to accept a more personal offering in his place.
Both the satyrs were sun bronzed and thick with dark hair even where their appearance was not obviously more than human. They stood, or knelt, on hooved legs that were covered over in short fur that faded to skin around their hips and waist. A stub of a tail nestled at the base of their spines, and their heads were adorned with pointed ears and curling ram’s horns. Both were handsome in a rough hewn way that Davren favored, one blunt to the other’s sharpness but both lively with expression.
The taller satyr regarded Davren with a sort of speculative warmth. He was a head taller and thicker than the human, built like the kind of man who sweated for a living and drew favorable odds when he wrestled on the Day of Challenge. The other was closer in build to Davren; they both had the build of long walkers—strong legs and trim bodies shaped by and for endurance rather than power.
The moments passed as the satyr watched him and Davren watched the both of them. The only noise was the call of evening birds and an occasional greedy sucking sound. In an impressive display, the satyr on his knees swallowed his lover down to the root and held it there — face pressed into fur, throat visibly working. That pulled a reaction from both Davren and the bigger satyr, who looked down and let out a groan of pleasure. Davren shifted his weight, and the rub of cloth against his now hard cock made him adjust himself. His blood had been warm from a long day of walking, but now it roiled and anticipation had quickened his heart and breathing.
When his partner at last came up for air, the big satyr tapped him on the shoulder, eliciting a peeved and gravelly "what?" before a gesture in Davren's direction drew his attention.
"We have a guest."
The kneeling satyr regarded him with interest but also annoyance at having been interrupted, then glanced at his fellow. Something unsaid passed between them, and then he cleared his his throat and clipped out his verdict.
"If you don't plan on leaving or seeing to yourself, hurry up and get over here."
Davren's stomach flipped, but he didn't need to be told twice. He set his pack down with less care than it deserved and unbound his skirt, grin wide and cock bobbing as he strode over to stand beside them.
"This day has taken a turn for the better. I'm Davren."
"Vern, and the one with the mouth is Marrol."
A wry impulse had Davren offering his hand to the satyr, and they shook in an oddly formal gesture considering their dicks were out. His hand was huge and surprisingly soft against his, and his grip strong.
Marrol rolled his eyes and then slicked his hand on Vern's dripping cock and gave Davren a thorough stroke from head to base. The human grunted; the cool wet slide was a shock after the rougher friction of his skirt.
"Summer gets everyone so damn sweaty. You're both rank. Scoot closer and spread a bit. Wider."
Marrol arranged them to his liking, snug against Vern—thighs brushing, the feel of fur strange to Davren; his tone was aggrieved by the situation, but he shoved his face into the crease of Davren’s thigh to smell and lick told a different story. The noise he made sounded approving, and after a few more strokes he took Davren's cock into his mouth with no more preamble.
Davren liked to draw things out when he could; take his time to explore and wring pleasure out of the other man. The satyr worked him aggressively with his tongue and lips, most of his shaft gripped firmly in place. If not for the moments when the satyr would sit back and stroke him for a while to gauge Davren's reaction, Marrol seemed determined to wring an orgasm out of him with the speed and efficiency of one of the Steel Queen’s machines.
Beside him, Vern kept up a slow and steady rhythm on his own cock, watching his partner pleasure Davren. The relentlessness of Marrol’s work drew throaty grunts out of the human, which were egged on into less restrained groans by smug looks from below and rumbling encouragement in his left ear.
In only a few minutes Davren was panting and could feel the coil of pleasure in him winding tighter, getting close to the edge. The next time Marrol pulled off of him with a wet pop, his hips jerked forward to chase the sensation, causing his balance to sway for a moment. Vern's strong arm wrapped around his shoulder and pulled him flush against his side and under his arm, steadying him.
Davren could feel himself twitch where the kneeling satyr's fist, and gasped open mouthed and gave a full body shudder when he brushed a slick thumb under the head while intently studying Davren’s face. He nodded, satisfied.
"There, I think he's caught up."
Marrol released him, sitting back on his haunches. Davren was strangely bereft and exposed at the sudden lack of sensation after being nearly overwhelmed by it. He felt, as much as heard Vern's chuckle through where they were pressed together.
"He's something, huh?"
Davren could only nod mutely and watch as Marrol stoked his own pleasure, slicking his cock with the hand wet from a mixture of his own spit and Davren’s precum.
"You two think I’m gonna do all the work? Touch each other for a bit."
Davren's right arm had settled on the big satyrs waist by reflex, and the other was cocked at his hip like he was trying to catch his breath after a sprint. He still felt right on the edge, cock bobbing and leaking onto the ground. Vern caught his gaze and twisted his hips as though to offer his own cock to Davren.
The human spit in his right hand and then wrapped it around the satyr's cock, appreciating the weight of it and the sight of skin rolling back and forth over the flushed head. Vern took his right arm which had been across Davren's shoulders and brushed it down the human's chest—tickling the hair there and brushing a thumb across his nipple.
Vern slid his hand lower, resting a broad hand on Davren's abdomen just above his cock, and leaned close. The feel of breath on Davren’s face pulled his focus from their hands on each other, and he met Vern's hot gaze.
Davren was close enough to kiss him, and could feel the pull, but he let the moment pass looking back down to the work of both their hands. It did not feel right, not yet; the night was young, and a pleasure delayed could be sweeter when you finally tasted it.
He turned to face Vern more, and explored what he could feel with his left hand more deliberately. He could feel the solid muscle under the fur and fat that softened but did not hide the strength of his body. At his waist, the transition from skin to fur was not abrupt, but included a gradient of texture. Davren wanted to feel it with his tongue, and whatever part of his body it might be brought to slide against or thrust into.
For a time, Davren was consumed by the feel of their hands on each other—unhurried in contrast to the rapid pace that Marrol seemed to be setting for himself. He interjected with questions and commands for them from below; touch him there, how does that feel, would you like, have you ever? Eventually Marrol leaned forward to insert himself back into the proceedings with already familiar bluntness.
"Alright boys, time to pay attention to me again."
They moved back to how they were before, thigh to thigh, and Marrol took each of them in hand and began to work them over. First one, then the other, alternating. It was good, dizzyingly so; less of a gallop than those first few minutes when Davren had had the satyr's full attention but still intense.
He would drive Davren to the edge only to leave him twitching futilely in the air and turn his focus to Vern. Back and forth between them, the swell of pleasure rising a little higher each time but receding before it could crest. Before long both men were breathing heavily, groaning half curses when their release was delayed.
When his mouth wasn’t full of cock, Marrol rasped half taunts, taking obvious pleasure in leaving them waiting for release. Davren felt tempted to take things into his own hands; it would only take a few quick pumps to spill over, but he knew seeing this through to the end would be more than worth it.
Marrol moved from Vern back to Davren for what felt like the hundredth time. The human was already anticipating that feeling of being left standing on the edge before the satyr’s lips even closed around his cock. Amid the familiar slick slide and mounting pleasure he could feel it that moment approaching, a kind of hot tensing in preparation for a leap. When it arrived and Marrol did not stop, he sucked in a startled and let it out in a low moan of fevered anticipation. He clenched his fists at his sides and his voice rose to shout as his pleasure barrelled past the breaking point—ripped out of him and shooting down the satyr’s throat.
"Lords beyond. Fuck."
He might have fallen, if Vern's arm was not wrapped around him. Davren let himself slump against the satyr's strength as Marrol teased him through the aftershocks of his orgasm. When the satyr sat back, licking some cum off of his hand and looking satisfied, Vern chuckled in his ear.
Davren hung there, panting, and laughed as well. His whole body buzzed, and he felt both torn and fuzzy soft like the ends of a snapped rope. He deliberately coiled himself back to sense, and stood under his own strength. Vern inspected him and seemed satisfied Davren wasn’t going to keel over, and then Davren might as well have not existed for all the attention either satyr paid him. He wobbled a few steps to where he had dropped his kilt, spread it out over a flat stone and collapsed to watch.
Vern stroked Marrol's flushed cheek and then took a loose grip on one of his horns while still letting Marrol set the pace. He was no less intense, and if the Vern’s larger cock posed any additional difficulty then Davren couldn't tell; he'd spend some time focusing on what he could fit in his mouth, stroking the shaft in time and plying with his tongue and lips; then swallow the whole thing down as easy as anything.
The sounds of Vern's pleasure descended from guttural comments of praise and encouragement to inarticulate groans of pleasure as he approached his climax. It was fascinating to see what Davren had just felt looked like on another man; what did they do with their hands? What was their expression, in that moment where all consideration was surrendered to experiencing?
Vern's jaw clenched and he bared his teeth, and grip on Marrol's horn tightened as he thrusted down the kneeling satyr's throat. Davren counted three, and on the fourth Vern held Marrol's face pressed to his crotch and bellowed loudly as he came.
Vern's chest heaved as he panted, seemingly lost to pleasure for a long time, mouth open and eyes shut. For Marrol’s part, his eyes were shut and expression smoothed in a mix of satisfaction and pleasure. When Marrol finally pulled away, a final spasm splashed his cheek, and his sharp, challenging expression had returned. Vern playfully reached down to pat Marrol’s tousled curls, like one would a favorite pet, but the kneeling satyr jerked back to avoid it—smacking his arm out of the way with a laugh.
"Alright, get up here."
Vern didn't wait for Marrol to stand, bodily lifted him to his hooves, and pulling him close. They traded open mouthed kisses while Vern slicked his hand on his softening cock and began to jerk off his partner. There was a petulance in Marrol’s provocations now that he wasn't setting the pace. He tugged on Vern's ear, pinched his nipple, tried to bite his jaw, until Vern huffed and shifted his hold so Marrol was facing away from him, crushed tight against his body with an arm across his chest.
Marrol writhed in his grip, seemed to do his best to test Vern's strength—shoving his weight back and pulling at his arm. It might have worried Davren if both of them weren't so clearly enjoying it, gasps interspersed with the occasional chuckle. Finally Marrol went completely slack and quiet in his partner's grip and tilted his head to the side so Vern could hook his chin over the other satyr's shoulder.
Both the satyrs watched Vern work Maroll’s cock with long steady strokes. Davren was just as riveted, distracted out of cleaning himself up. He felt like if Marrol had been any less thorough in wringing him of pleasure he'd already have his hand on himself and making progress towards a second climax.
Marrol's breathing quickened in contrast to the steady pace of Vern’s hand, until Vern muttered something low enough that Davren couldn't hear. It pulled a groaned affirmative and jerky nod out of Marrol, and then Vern's hand moved hard and fast as he pressed kisses to the other satyr's neck.
Davren blushed brighter than he had since before he left home, maybe since before his first few fumblings with other men. He suddenly felt like he was intruding, but couldn’t tear his eyes away.
Marrol came with a long, low groan, jerking against Vern's strength again—this time in the unconscious rapture of his orgasm. Ropes of cum arced out into the grass, eventually leaving Marrol a panting blissful wreck.
Vern spoke first, among the three of them.
"Good?"
Marrol grunted, then tapped at the hairy forearm still wrapped across his chest.
"Obviously. Put me down you oaf."
Vern obliged, but then the two satyrs shared a lingering kiss that belied Marrol's prickly tone.
"Clean up, then dinner," he added decisively once they broke the kiss. They separated and both seemed startled to notice Davren sitting there, forgotten in each other and their shared pleasure.
Davren waved, grinning awkwardly, and Marrol amended his previous statement.
"Clean up and proper introductions, then dinner."
