Note: You may (or may not) want to read the entire Sexual tensions thread before reading this - as it is, apart from hopefully being amusing, a reply to the author of the thread…
Any resemblence to real people is non-coincidental, and fully premeditated… 
[size=150]The Knight, the Nymph and the Satyr… [/size]
[i]In days of old when Knights were bold and maidens fair and pretty…
Sir Tabula of the Blank shield didst lay reclined in his castle of traditional values, lost in a pervasive fog of ennui. The thread forest hadst been quiet most disturbing long.
“My lord ! A fracas is afoot within the realm of the Social…!”
“Great tidings stout squire” Spaketh the knight, leaping from his couch, “Put saddle to destrider and sword to scabbard, steel the sinews, gird the loins and gulp the vitamins, let us be about the hunt…!”
[b]“Boss…?”
“Thou lowly sluggard knave ! TO BATTLE…!”[/b]
The quiet light filtered verdant thro’ the lush foliage, leaves flittered down in lazy spirals. Sir Tabula, atop his faithful steed, did give pause to his adventuring - perchance to regain his bearing, for he was much turned about a as consequence of his headlong charge. At that very instant an ill-placed hoof-fall did betray the presence of another in the greensward…
“Declare thyself by God, else by my troth I shalt cleave thee most greviously…” Exclaimed the surprised knight as in one swift and practiced movement swept his bright blade of pointed rhetoric from it’s sheath of reason. “Verily, thou shalt feel one hundred and forty fingerspans of cold intellect thro’ thine kidneys lest thy dost not openly appear…”
“Hold… May the peace of Freud be uponst thee…”
Branch did crack and bush did bend as a most peculiar form did propell its passage thro’ the green.
“Gadzooks…! What strange manner of knight be thee…?” Exclaimed Tabula.
For the figure atop the horse was indeed an esoteric one: A cunning armour of the written word didst swathe the body and in its be-textbooked hands did a mirror, rather than a more conventional weapon, rest.
“Fie, good Sir knight, mistaketh me not for one of thy brothers in vapid procrastination, I am a follower of the mind, a Psychomancer, empathic in speech and manner, my deeds be good and my professionalism above rerproach by mortal man…”
“Odds bodkins - thine proflugate oration doth grate upon mine ears. Cut short and say simply - who art thou…?”
“I am Sir Psyque d’Canad, chevalier of the mental, banisher of illusions both fair and foul…”
“Hah…!” Snorted the less learned knight “And doth thee smite thine enemies with yon lady’s silvered bauble…? Methinks mine sword wouldst split thine liquid tongue beforehand… Begone…! I have no use for thee…!”
“Nay…! I dost not Shrink from battle…!” And with this bold challenge didst Sir Psyque cast forth the basilisk stare of his psychomancy, and reflecting it thro’ the mirror of his empathy, turn his gaze upon the chortling knight Tabula.
“I doth feel most surpassing strange” proclaimed Tabula, at once finding himself naked as a pewling babe, hands horny from the swordhilt hiding his not inconsiderable manhood.
“Hath I made mine point o’ mirthful knight…?” Enquired Sir Psyque archly, “Or shalt thee compell me to strip away even that which you hide away from me…?”
“Harumph” Tabula coughed (causing his ovum-seeking-seed-filled-unknowingly-female-dominated-testicles to quivver beneath his palms).
“Couldst thou restore to me mine armour…? Tis unbefitting to a knight to go so unclad…”
“A mere bagatelle my lord…” Winked Psyque, breaking the baleful stare.
At once did Tabula’s armour of blind optimism reappear as speedily as his muscle-bound mind could restorate its beloved illusions.
Thusly restored did Tabula entreat, “What say you fine Sir, shalt we not ride out forth together - mayhap to find an enemy worthy of our mettle…?”
“But soft.” Said Psyque (hurriedly checking his filofax) “I’m a bit busy in the office right now but… By the beard of Jung the Mighty, tis a fine day for intellectual jousting… ONWARD…!”
At that very moment a feminine screech of most dire need didst rend the quiet of the greensward. Making all haste did our heroes leap upon their steeds and rush headlong to glory…
A slouching beast, hunched and hairy rolled upon the emerald sod - locked in most fatal embrace with a Nymph of surpassing beauty, and of a most lavacious mein. Without merest glimmer of concious thought, Tabula did leap down from his steed, and with a blow both fell and true, hew the creature in twain. Of a sudden released from her assailant’s grasp, the Nymph sprawled sweaty and lay gasping. At once she turned her gaze most lewd upon her savior and spat:
“WHAT THE FUCK ART THOU DOING…! THOU… THOU… GREAT LUNK…!”
Sir Psyque didst remain aloof, lolling at rest upon his mount.
“Milady,” Stuttered the stunned Knight Tabula "I did but think to your rescue…"
“Art thy blind…? Art thine perceptions occluded by a surfiet of physicality…? I DIDST HAVE THE BEAST BY THE BALLS…!!!” She said. And indeed, the huge hairy bollocks of the beast did lie betwixt the slender fingers of the naked nymph.
“By my troth , thou art a fiesty wench indeed…!”
The nymph stood, plucking grass-blades from her pearly thighs, presently she curtsied,
“My thanks good sir, for thy most timely of rescues. I am Shy by name, though mayhap as my lack of attire wouldst demonstrate, not shy by nature…” She turned her attention more fully to the Knight still winded from his exertions. “My-my, what a fearsome weapon you bear good Sir knight… How long is it - pray tell…?”
Vaulting from his stallion, the Psychomancer strode forth. “Much as it rankles with mine nature, I feel behooved to intercede betwixt thine jaunty banter, and draw our collective eye toward our fallen foe…”
For unoticed previously by our happy trio, the Satyr - for that was the nature of the beast - had been quietly restoring itself, sending skeins of poison prose to reknit its cloven form. Sir Psyque examined the tricksy beast with a quick and practiced eye:
“How peculiar it doth fall upon mine eye, this seeming most base of creatures is indeed not as we are - the very fibres and threads of its argumentative form do not find foundation in our logic or reality - and such is proof against our individual armament… It will not surrender so easily to our deathly suit.”
Tabula too felt drawn toward the fallen Satyr… He spoke to psyque:
“Thou dost seeming cast an approving eye upon it good psychomancer…”
“I admire its… purity…” Spoke Psyque, his voice of a sudden metallic…
Tabula drew closer still, and whispered, " Thou spakest true, [size=75]though I might add, this is not Alien, and we should probably stay in character.[/size]…" Tabula coughed, and continued, “It doth exude the most wonderous of scents…! Gadzooks - I doth feel renewed virility surge within my aging veins, I am mightily enhanced…!”
“Ahh… In the teachings of my order we have learned the way of the Satyr - its power lies in its heady musk. A pheremonic warlock’s brew of pure-distilled masculinity…”
“Alas, my friend, from your tone I detect a note of doom, doth not this creature still have a place…? Is not the broad land of Merrie England yet wide enough to offer such a beast succor, mayhap in some lost valley in the wilder isles…?” But Psyque did not answer, and soon both of our headstrong heroes fell under the spell of the Satyr’s scent.
“Boys…? Oh boys…?” The heads of the befuddled heroes swivelled as if jerked on strings toward the Nymph, her fey form exeeding wonderous lit by the reddening sun, her curvaceous hips and ample bosom limned by a soft scarlet fire…
“Only but slay the beast and I wilst give you pleasure such that mere mortal man hath seldom encompassed within his meagre imagination…” She purred, “But finish the vermin and I will permit your seed to wax fruitful within the ruddy niche of mine womb and give you sons fit for kingdoms… Awake, my heroes - and kill the beast.”
Staggering like youthful wine-sotted squires, Psyque and Tabula arose and turned toward the silken voice…
“HOLD.” A sudden half-growl issued from the wounded Satyr, “HOLD YOU FOOLS - DO NOT SUBMIT TO THE WILES OF THE TEMPTRESS HARLOT… BECOME ONE WITH ME, AND RAVAGE MOST TERRIBLY ACROSS THE WILDS - FREE OF THE COMPROMISED FEMININE… BE HEROES LIKE THE DEMIGODS OF OLD , NOT THE SLAVES OF SOME DOMESTICATED TART…”
Like moths trapped between two flames of equal measure Tabula and Psyque wavered first one way then the other…
Ego clashed with fruitful servitude…
Instinct grappled with social decree…
The savage freedom of the masculine battled with the calm fertility of the feminine…
Suddenly, Tabula wrenched free his sword and swung a flat arc of sharp fatality into the neck of the crouching Satyr, and almost at the same instant, Psyque caught the last rays of the setting sun and cauterized the wounds, sealing them beyond the barest hope of speedy repair -
- And thusly dear reader was the dominion of the Satyr ended upon the thread [cough] Earth…
Armour and weapons strewn, discarded in their wake, the Nymph led her two brave heroes out of the forest… She said,
“You know what your problem is boys…? You think too much… Here,” She tossed them a book, “A new book for you to study - its easy, there are pictures…”
And the pictures were most exceptional lewd…
Much later - in the Nymph’s underground fortress of fornication, in a state of utmost satedness, Tabula and Psyque waved away the concubines the Nymph had provided.
“Tabula old chap - did we choose right…?”
[b]"We chose as we had to my friend…
[size=134]…When All is said and done with war, and instinct proved a traitor,
One must at last look to one’s loins, for one cannot shag a Satyr…[/size]"[/b]
And they all lived happily ever after…
[But what of our priapic friend the Satyr…? I hear you ask, gentle reader…
Well - he opened a male-self-rediscovery centre in the wilds of Nebraska - where he lives on to this very day…][/i]
