At midsummer, the nymphs were in heat.
The woodsman knew this from the sweet smell of lilacs that seemed ever present in the forest, but even more so from the incessant giggling as the nymphs followed him on his chores. They left gifts at his cabin, fistfuls of berries and mushrooms, eager for his attention and allowing him glimpses of their ever-bare and youthful bodies. When he ignored them, they plucked at his hair with brambles and scattered his laundry in the mud.
When frustrated with their teasing, he obliged, seizing their thin hips in his hands. They made a show of whimpering and squirming, but he spoke enough of their language to know that they cried out for their god in ecstasy as his cock plunged in and out of their bodies. When he was done and panting, they scurried into the brush without glancing backwards, inevitably returning the following day.
It was a hot day when the woodsman was bathing in the stream. He climbed from the water, the water drying rapidly on his skin. When he reached for his clothes, they were gone.
He glanced into the trees, and rolled his eyes.