Your life had never been better. Being a satyr agreed with you, according to Zekias. And you had never had so much fun - or sex - before in your life. Life became a blur, the orgies were amazing, and you knew you made the right choice. You reached new sexual highs every day, a beastial animal rutting and thrusting your wild oats wherever your cock lead you. Having the lower half and horns of a goat actually enhanced the experience far more than you could have possibly imagined. And now mere mortals looked at you with wonder whenever you seduced them, practically cumming just from seeing you. Yes indeed, life was good.
One day, after a particularly hot and sexy month of wonderfully endless orgies of sexual buffets, you lay with your latest conquest, rubbing bodies lazily, when you noticed your skin was a little redder than usual. You must have gotten a little too much sun on the beach the other day, but no worries - being a wild and crazy sex animal like yourself, you'll get used to the sun and it won't be an issue.
In the weeks that followed, you rubbed cocks with a bunch of college frat boys, and even a few more satyrs. Each one was hotter than the last, and you couldn't believe how sexy life had become. After a particularly sexy and animalistic orgie one saturday night, you lay back on the hot muscular bodies around you, sighing contentedly, idly playing with your softening cock. It had been one hell of a workout, and you had the achy muscles to prove it. But it was so very worth it, you wouldn't trade it for the world.
Two days later, you were in the middle of your favorite number - 69 - when your throat got sore from so much face fucking. You finally gave it a rest, thinking you best let your poor throat recover - even though there was nothing like a big cock in your mouth. So you took the next day easy, but that night you felt cold. You fell asleep, shaking. This had never happened before, but you suppoed even satyrs have off days and can get cold now and then. Your dreams became dark and fevered, and when you woke up you had chills and were shaking even worse than before.
Zekias came by later that day, and took one look and insisted you go to the doctor. So you decided it couldn't hurt - after all even mythological and magical creatures could get sick, you suppose.
Doctor Gnash was used to seeing magical creatures and didn't bat a lash. He did a battery of tests on you and took some samples of your blood. You had to wait a few days for the results, but you were feeling better, so that was a relief.
When you saw the doctor next, he sat you down with a very serious look on his face. You started to feel concerned about what was going on. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," Doctor Gnash said slowly and clearly, every word hitting like a bat, "But I'm afriad you're very ill."
"Ill?" you asked him, with a gulp.
"Yes. You have something called BOGUS, it's a venerial disease that satyrs who don't use protection can catch."
"Okay," you say, never even having thought once about venerial disease. You thought satyrs were immune, and said so."
"A common myth," the doctor said. "Unfortunately, even satyrs can get sexually transmitted diseases. And I'm very sorry to say that the prognosis isn't good."
You felt like your head was spinning, as if you'd been sold a bill of bad goods. All that incredible sex, all those carefree orgies... you're a mytholigical magical sex animal, for gods' sake! And now you have an std??? "What is the prognosis?"
"It's a terminal disease," the doctor said soberly. "We have no cures, no treatments."
You gulped. Terminal. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is... the rule of life, and so it seemed to hold true to mythical beings as well. You had had your fun, and how it was time to pay the piper, it seemed. "How long do I have?" You ask mechanically.
"If you take it easy and take care of yourself, you could have as long as a year."
"A year?" you ask incredously.
"At the most. Though typically satyrs like yourself succomb to the illness in half that time."
You gape, mouth hanging open, unable to to think of anything to say. A voice in the back of your head that thought this whole thing had been increadibly selfish and wrong, seemed to be unsually unresponsive now, as if it had given up on you when you had agreed to being transformed, and simply left you to your own devices.
"I can give you some literature about things to do, and not to do," the doctor continued, but you were only half hearing him. "And you will want to get in touch with everyone you've had sexual intimacy with in the last two weeks."
You groaned inwardly... that would easily be a thousand people, and tracking all of them down would probably take more time than you have left. But you only responded, "Of course."
When you finally left the doctor's office, your realized it was the first time in a long time that you didn't have a boner. And your mind was as clear and sober as a preacher on Sunday. You realized you were a satyr with a fatal venerial disease, and you had six months to a year to live. And for the first time in a very long time, you wished you had just said no.