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Image Courtesy: Satyr & Bacchante by William Pradier 1834, Louvre, Paris, France

A Paranormal Flash Fiction 
Nicola E. Sheridan

Kim bleached her moustache that morning - not that she really had a moustache that needed bleaching, of course. One callous comment several years ago had ensured that the facial bleaching company would never go out of business whilst Kim Quinn was still alive and desperately single.
Her top lip itched a bit, burned a little and she knew without glancing at her reflection in the bus window that it was red and fiery. She sighed and returned to her book.  A sudden bang on the window alarmed her. She jumped, startled at the sweaty hand print that appeared there. Twisting her head around Kim saw a tall figure bolting behind the bus.
Something else sparked in her chest.
“Hey!” she called to the bus driver as no one else seemed to care, “someone’s trying to get on the bus!”
The bus driver grumbled and Kim was certain she heard an expletive, but the bus hissed to a halt.
The doors opened,and with an odd “clip-clop” the figure entered the bus. He was breathing heavily and his dark curling hair covered his face.
“Thanks”, he breathed, but the bus-driver made no comment and silently punched out a ticket for him.
The hum of conversation abruptly died on the bus as the passengers assessed the new comer. As confident as a model or actor, the newcomer assessed the passengers in return.
Kim felt her face redden as she fought to tear her eyes from his strong goat-like legs, burnished with an auburn pelt.
“Yes, I’m a Satyr,” he acknowledged to one elderly lady who promptly ceased whispering to her companion. “Take a photo – it lasts longer.” His voice was melodious but was cracked by what Kim could only assume was bitterness.
The bus erupted with the shuffling and scrunching of rearranging bags.
 Kim turned and glanced down the back of the bus. Every seat was now occupied by either a passenger or a bag. No one it seemed wanted to him to sit beside them.
Kim knew that discrimination against Magical Beings was illegal, but she knew that Satyrs – with an insatiable lust for human women, were occasionally responsible for some heinous crimes. Still, armed with this knowledge – Kim did not rearrange her bag.
The Satyr walked up the aisle. The elongated pupils of his amber eyes were narrowed and assessing. A small fountain of excitement bubbled deep within Kim’s body when those cool alien eyes suddenly met hers.
“Is this seat taken?” he asked, white blunt teeth flashing in the fluorescent glow of the bus light.
Kim’s throat felt dry, and other parts of her felt suddenly wet. “No,” she croaked and shuffled further towards the window, to allow him space.
“Thanks,” he said, and swiftly sat down. He smelled like fresh hay.
Kim eyed him covertly for a moment - noticing the modesty cloth that fell over his lap, covering those parts of him civil society required.  A smile tugged at her lips, she suddenly felt naughty.
Good girls do not talk to Satyrs.
“So... where are you going?” Kim asked, rubbing her reddened moustache self consciously.
The Satyr looked startled, and his brows furrowed before he answered. “Rockingham,” he replied.
Kim felt those caprine eyes run down her face and dwell for a moment on the swell of her cleavage, before flickering up to meet her gaze.
“Me too,” she whispered and looked away, her heart suddenly hammering. He made her feel sexy, she realised.
No one made Kim Quinn feel sexy – ever.
They fell silent, and Kim shuffled in her seat. The Satyr’s leg rested close to her own. She could feel the heat radiating from it, her hands twisted in her lap.
“Love, you can come and sit here, if he’s botherin’ you,” a desiccated voice called from the seat behind.
Through the corner of her eye, Kim saw the Satyr’s pointed ear twitch. Kim turned around. “No, I’m fine, thank you,” she replied gently to the elderly man.
“On your head, be it!” he warned, watery grey eyes turning steely.
Kim twisted her head away from him, unable to suppress a frown. How dare he? She thought, suddenly irked.
“It wouldn’t be on your head, anyway – I’d prefer it on your knees,” the Satyr’s warm voice whispered into her ear.
Kim felt goose-bumps prickle down her arms as his breath blew down the length of her neck. She gasped. “That sounds promising,” she said before she realised it.
The Satyr laughed richly, and the other passengers on the bus fell silent once more.
“I’m Kim,” she finally said thickly, rubbing her top lip again.
“Priapus,” the Satyr replied and captured her hand in his and a frisson of electricity spasmed through her body at his touch. Kim felt her eyes widen as the Satyr lifted her hand and kissed it. His lips were warm and impossibly soft against her hand.
“Oh now, come here girl! What the devil do you think you’re playing at?” the elderly man from behind growled. “These Satyrs! They’re a disgrace and use our women like toys! You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into!”
Priapus’ lips curved into a smile, “I think she does, old man,” he replied. His eyes held Kim’s with all the promise in the world. Words caught in her throat, and her hand curled tightly with the Satyr’s, she glanced at the old man.  “It’s all right,” her voice was dreamy, she wanted this.
She’d been alone too long.
The old man wasn’t to be placated. “Look here, you’ve got that lass under some sort of spell!”  He began to rage, a small fleck of spittle flew from dry lips and spattered on the seat’s handrung.
“I do not,” Priapus replied easily, releasing Kim’s hand and resting it hotly on her thigh.
Kim’s body responded – wildly. Her chest heaved and her loins liquefied.
“Bus Driver!” the elderly man bellowed, “Get security!”
“No! That’s not necessary,” Kim called her voice pleading, but the bus driver was already speaking into the radio.
“What a pity,” Priapus whispered into her ear. His lips caught her lobe and kissed. “What fun we could have,” he teased.
“Help me get him off her!” the old man yelled to the dull eyed youth who sat opposite.
Kim was not going to waste the moment. She twisted her head and hungrily met the Satyr’s lips with her own.
Hot, sweet sexiness rushed through her. He tasted good, he smelled good, she wanted him badly and he wanted her too.
Suddenly she felt arms pulling her away from the warmth that was Priapus. Sharp fingers dug into her shoulders tugging and yanking.
“Get off her!”
“Release the girl!”
“This is Security! Get off the bus, or we will call the police!”
Such a cacophony, but Kim heard nothing, she was deaf with lust and numb to anything but his kiss.
Then suddenly he was gone, yanked away by angry, fat security men.
Stunned by the sudden violence in the air, Kim looked around bewildered. “No!” she cried, “Priapus!”
There was nothing to be done.
 Kim watched with growing frustration as the tall regal figure was escorted from the bus. He didn’t struggle, but walked with quiet dignity away from the flashing lights of the security cars.
“Where are you going?” Kim called out the window, but he did not hear – the bus pulled away. The steel-trap hands released her.
“There, alls better now,” the elderly man said, patting her shoulder, “Good riddance to bad rubbish!”
“You’re wrong,” she retorted, twisting around to get a last glance at Priapus as he disappeared into the evening gloom.
The old man tutted, but remained clearly pleased his civic duty was done.
As the bus sped into the encroaching night, Kim felt secretly alive. She rubbed her reddened lips. The sweet taste of Satyr still lingered, and her mind raced with secretive plans. A smile curved the corners of her lips, she’d find him, or he’d find her. Kim gazed at the sweaty hand print on the window and knew it.

©Nicola E. Sheridan 2011

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