Pan.

The sunbeams poured down in their decant eminence on to the valley below. Swathes of diaphanous colours fell and flowed amidst each other. I was not afforded the luxury of the sunlight. I sat, only in shadow, playing delicately on my pipes to fuel the sensuality of the scene beneath me. The fingers were curious the caressed and pried. A hand brushed a leg, a thigh, a little too high for my liking… and I was taken.  My lips pursed ever tighter and my fingers pulsated with frenzy. Below the garments flew; perfect pastels strewn and blending in to sultry, sickening flesh. And all was beige and writhing, clawing. My senses were agitated. I played on, rousing their limbs. Ecstasy and terror echoed around me threatening to drown my pipes so I played louder. Their unfolding was desire but their pleasure was consumption. Roots were clawed from their bedding and soon the harpies pooled in crimson. And then they were quiet my music echoed hauntingly in the silence. Oh, such a revelry, such a feast. It was the greatest I had orchestrated to date, but not the only. There had been so many pale frames pierced at my hand. There would be another tomorrow night, and another and another gain. Their music would escalate, their sighs would be endless but it would never be enough.

 

Prompts: Beam, enough, (picture)

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