Pixie Feast

"Semen ejaculated in love's absence not only tastes virulent, it lacks nutritional value."

Wade, Queen of the Pixies

***

Stave I

Ista Artamir gilinarthdae tiros norol uthu! Oh my, Eldanaran tongue, the language of Pixies, is unfamiliar to you! I shall proceed in English!

Let us begin afresh. I am Ariel, a pixie girl from the land of Fey. I am gladdened you selected to read my story. Within, I tell a secret!

Be mindful of pixies, for here and there you come upon us. We trek together with gnomes, fairies, and others of like nature. Spending time in your midst, we appear as tiny whirlwinds, dust storms, and such.

Pixies bring enchantment through mischievous and childlike gaiety. Natural pranksters, we revel in annoyance, always with affection. Our queen commands that 'if a thing is not fun, do it not. If caught having fun—blame the nearest human woman.' Finally, says she, 'never tell the truth flat out!'

Pixie girls live life naked. For modesty's sake, we appear after dark where humans ofttimes mistake us for fireflies!

In height, we encompass three-and-a-quarter English-measure inches. Our fluttering betrays our presence—but only to women, whose eyes catch the moonlight's glint off our wings after they collect their lover's seed.

Pixieism started as all things start, at the beginning. Happening by chance, we, in a long-ago time, happened to have happened when we happened upon a couple whose copulation had only just happened!

In a flurry of licking and lapping, pixie girls turned addicted to the male's intimate juices, of which there are merely two, semen and seminal fluid.

Scavenging all the sperm they could scavenge, the three, Silvermist, Fayette and, Iridessa, spent hours, days even, consumed with chronic giggling and overall pixie rapture.

Sadly, they learned too late that sperm consumption harbors a deadly lure. Moments after swallowing, craving morphs to addiction, and within a soon after time, to survive, obsession replaces yearning as whole colonies seek after the sticky gist left betwixt the legs of equally addicted humanoid females, unsettled creatures whom we find unsettling.

Covetous and jealous, women are highly skilled ejaculate collectors. Were they not, we would ignore them!

What follows is our saga, the story of malnourishment, and the quest to sate a lust for gourmet fare. Once each year, and only on the holiday called Mid-Summer Eve, we feed. Today is that day, and our search is underway.

Sperm is either good—or bad. In these present days, and sadly, the bad outweighs the good. The good pours from good males, and pixie girls relentlessly search its source as one might El Dorado!

And good males? Good ones never discharge the precious fluid in love's absence. A single portion—even if shared—sustains a pixie girl for a full year! Such is our diet, and if human females, our archenemy, ever learn the truth, they will guzzle all, leaving us to waste away, our weighty weight withering to dusty dust.

There; now you know our secret. Do promise not to tell!

Stave II

It is late at night. We deliberately shun the deep woods and, instead, fly here. Silently passing under the slightly ajar window sash, we have stolen our way to the captain's cabin of the Jolly Roger, notorious pirate vessel anchored off a faraway place called Neverland.

Moonlight pours through the single window, and we, that is, Trista and I, are aloft, hovering above a handsome couple whose coupling is the object of our stalking. One, a male, the other, a human female, they are a dreadful sight.

This, notwithstanding, instantly, the captain's cabin is our new favorite haunt. Why? Because the male is cute though his myriad of encounters with females convinces us, he will never grow up! Yuck!

Peter is young. He is handsome in flight, this, despite our general aversion to betwixt-and-betweens, males who are half-human and half-animal. Still, since all males impart refreshment, for the moment, he will have to do.

Frantic and gasping, the naked woman's legs are widely splayed; her arm holds the male tightly to her opulent breasts. Her eyes labor to stay open, but mostly, they shut. From our hover-cover, we observe Peter's muscular back, his oft-tightening buttocks, signs things are finishing to a finish. With the pair so disposed, we dawdle, waiting—waiting—waiting.

Trista's hunger, her limited strength, and overly weighty weight prompt her to descend. As she does, she whispers, "When will these two make an end? It is time for us to feed."

Landing behind the male's noteworthy scrotum, Trista hopes to catch a close-up of the finale of the couple's fanatical intercourse, a penetrating moment when neither Peter nor Wendy know whether, in fact, if—we even are, but during which we fully expect the Wendy girl will tumble to lunacy.

"Soon, pudgy one," I assure her. "Remember, patience is a pixie virtue."

My friend's disquiet is understandable. The hour is late, our vigor limited. The couple's in's and out's tarry interminably. On the upside, lengthy loving fashions heftier ejaculate!

"We should be off," Trista insists. "The Wendy woman is taking too long. Let's fly to the fast-food couple in the deep woods. Their ministrations happen post-haste. There, there is no waiting."

Trista's ears and eyelids droop, their deportment, a harbinger of bad things. "It is a too far journey," I caution. "That man's seed is fiendish. He mistreats Tiger Lily, forcing his ginormous member into her throat, ousting his seed directly to her digestion, leaving us nothing with which to nourish ourselves. She gulps, drinks down his life-giving fluid, indulges herself, is inconsiderate of others' needs. No, Trista, dear," I bewail, "a pixie's delicate digestive system cannot tolerate hostile seed. Hunger is preferable to bitter pabulum."

A grunt from down below where the couple still couples, draws us. Peter Pan is our favorite, and, together, we reposition ourselves at the foot of the bed to observe his impressive member disappearing into the Wendy woman as his thrusts intensify.

There, wide-eyed, we stand sentinel as the struggling lovers struggle—Peter's pace hastening apace. With eyes shut tight, the woman, her arm encircling his neck, her ankles secured to his waist, locks her lover in place. With her free hand, she reaches between their sweltering bodies where she grasps and fondles the source of our treasured sustenance, his beefy testicles.

The woman, smart, enhances her mate's fluid yield by manipulating both spheres. Like a skilled pastry chef, she kneads them while they, needing kneading—transform into the doughy dough of her desire.

Trista, with a look of anticipation, says, "Her attentions will incite a torrent of sperm." Joy fills us, for we know the impending release of Peter's brewing brew will soon sate our hunger—so long as it gushes to the appropriate place.

Sadly, and as happens with all males, his ending tactics are, at times, troubling. Why, I wonder, do males discharge their seed in different orifices?

What if, like Mr. Smee, the dweller of the deep woods, Peter ends in Wendy's mouth? Such calamity! Our feast will amount to naught, resulting in famine. If, on the other hand, he finishes betwixt her thighs, the place to which Wendy is partial, we, as she seeps, can swoop in, lapping ourselves silly with delight!

Wendy only recently granted her lover access to her vaginal depths, even allowing his full decant. With time's passing, her affections broadened, and she permitted greater latitude, meaning, additional ports of access.

Of late, and to our dismay, the woman has fallen into the habit of taking Peter in her mouth, swallowing his cherished 'cum-before-come,' a thin consommé she relishes—as do we. To the females of both pixie and human races, the distinctive fluid amounts to little more than a seasonal delicacy, an hors d'oeuvre, especially when measured against the banquet of the male's thick seminal bursts expelled at the close of copulation. How do I know, you ask? Pixie girls are schooled in such things!

Our want is for the Wendy girl to extract his full sperm, afterward, to let it spill from her vaginal port post-disentanglement, freeing the molten fluid's sweetness to our feasting!

Trista's weight is affecting her stayafloatedness. Will she sustain herself through feeding time? With a pleading look, I entreat vigilance, for I too am fatigued. A year has passed since our last nourishment. We must wait for the man's completion.

Pixie girls, especially the young, commonly err on the side of yielding to unspeakable pangs. Trista is known to drift to a couple's coupling empty of love. In such rendezvous, both partners demonstrate selfishness.

Trista, without thinking, ingested the resultant torrent. It left her fleetingly gratified but inevitably debilitated.

Pixie drunkenness followed. The cure meant hiding under the tiger lilies, the ones covering the dank bogs at the fringes of the bay, this until her delicate system cleared itself of foul pith too ravenously consumed. After partaking in the Twelve-Step Program, her spirit mended, opening the door to healthfulness. Through such means, our colony thrived, even as others vanished to the ether.

With Wendy's screeches flooding the little cabin, our attentions return to the goings-on in the bed. Flitting here to there and back to here again, we listen in on the copulatory act's finishing moments, and just then, the woman groans a frightening groan, splays her legs, lifts her pelvis, and holds her ankles! Oblivious to her surroundings and pinned by Peter, her body demands release as saliva floods our mouths in anticipation of what is sure to follow.

Peter's thrusts, increasingly violent, herald his onrushing conclusion as Trista darts about, hoping to experience the evolving eventuality from the most auspicious spot.

It is a classic cum-before-cum moment where the appearance of the man's clear-ish liquid signals the influx of the thicker, more nutritious main course.

Trista, somehow fending off fatigue, summons the wherewithal to draw a white linen bib from her pixie-purse. Whizzing my way, she swivels about, and I tauten the smock's strings to a tidy bow at the back of her neck. Grinning a pixie grin, she lifts herself to a higher high, this to better view the pending lovers' leap.

"Look, Trista," I call, pointing to the confused space 'tween Wendy's legs. "His member is so big! It will forthwith explode!"

Tiger Lily had once enticed Peter to squeeze himself into her tight backside. After shouting, 'Uga-mugga-wigwam,' six—no, seven times, she activated a flood of tasty sperm, which, to our delight, and after the duo's popping disengagement, jetted straight out at us, glazing our grins with sticky refreshment!

Tiger Lily's anal delights astonished us, her backside exhibiting tightness, thus constraining Peter's ins and outs. Nevertheless, she pleased him—us, since anal release, unlike vaginal, is immediate, abrupt—fine dining!

Wendy initially offered herself similarly but eventually permitted entry through her more loose-fitting forward-facing threshold. From there, we pixies found it easier to lap what needed lapping! Peter's sperm is sweet beyond that which is expelled from the less virtuous. How exciting!

"His ejaculate is pending!" Trista pants, "He's finally finalizing, Ariel!"

She is right, for Peter's pace predicts her panicked pleasure. Calling out, she shouts, "More! Deeper! Peter, fuck me, fuck me—there! Yes, please—there—deeper! Fuck me!"

Drooling, we pixies float nearer, our objective, access to the narrow space between the woman's legs. Soon, precious semen will trickle. Our sup will ensue in teensy weensy licks, our aim, to slurp white dollops before they dry to innocuous residuum, indigestible to pixies whose nutriment, to be nutritious, must be tepid, wet, and sticky. Anywho, we expect it will prove sufficient!

Lately, and sadly, Wendy's leavings has been less than generous. To her, his is a special fluid, whipped to frenzy via genuine love. The creamy cream's value speaks for itself, and fearing others might discover this place, we tell no one, making the couple's coupling our private stock.

"Can you stay a-flight?" I probe. A chronic overeater and weighing slightly above a full ounce and an eighth, Trista lacks resilience. Taking flight, let alone maintaining it, is hard labor!

"I cannot," she laments. "I am tired and need to land, Ariel."

"Don't!" I insist. "There might be leprechauns about..."

"...I'll be careful," she insists.

Helplessly, I watch as my friend drifts to the rumpled sheets, the flutter of her wings diminishing as she descends. However, just then, a groan from deep within the male prompts Trista to renew her efforts. She apprehends the time is near; that one can never be sure how much thrashing about will occur as ejaculate, presently accumulating in Peter's body, prepares to spurt.

Even as apprehension and excitement fill us, my thoughts drift to poor Gylfi. A long-ago friend, she was, at the moment of climax, kicked by an overeager bobbysoxer whose big toe jolted her through the air, upon which, like a common insect, she was driven through a whirling window fan—and splat! It was a messy ending unbecoming pixie dignity.

In virtual unison, the pairing pair cries out, and we float down to where we can better view the damp place of Peter's insertion. There we await the thick jism's influx, the transfer from male to female that happens when it happens; the moment sustenance is best ingested.

The woman screams, her mate, in a boyish voice, groans, and, making no particular sense, they convince us the time for cum has come!

Contractions of their sphincters announce the event, and we count, "one-two-three-four"—and more, with "five" pronouncing the ferocity of Peter Pan's release.

Gazing into Trista's smiling eyes, I too, smile and, holding hands, we giggle and glide together onto the end of the bed as the wild vibrations of past moments simmer, and the couple, breathing heavily, calms to an eerie silence.

Peter kisses Wendy, and I glance Trista's way, impatiently rolling my eyes in jealous disdain. Moments later, as he pulls his softened member from her depths, we nod, admiring its glistening sheen, a lustrous sight against a backdrop of near darkness.

Bowing in celebration, our time has come. Excitedly, and with our nostrils rich with the bouquet of sperm, we move a tad closer to the woman's shaven slit. All seems perfect until, horrifyingly, she reaches betwixt her legs, tightly pursing her nether lips! Then, the hateful woman stretches her free hand to the night table, feeling for an object resting there.

"Now what?" a gloomy Trista questions. "I hope...I hope she is not keeping the ejaculate for herself!"

Shrugging, I point my finger upward, and we lift ourselves, determined to determine the nature of the object of Wendy's search. A glance reveals the horror, for it is none other than a bejeweled vaginal clip, which she expertly slips between her legs, sliding it over her bloated clitoris and equally bloated vulva, the vile fastener sealing her cunt against seepage!

Smiling up at the man, Wendy selfishly sucks what we know to be enchanting seed from gooey fingers. Kissing him and nestling her face in his shoulder, she drifts off to sleep.

Exhausted, Peter's tired blue eyes eventually close, and breathing deeply, he too, descends to slumber. With her vagina thusly fortified, we scoot to work on Peter's soft but shining member, succulent from the evening's passionate wickedness. But, as expected, there is little residue for consumption.

Pushing with her tiny hands, Trista, groaning, fights to move aside his enormous testicles.

First prodding one, then the other, she does her level best to stimulate a veneer of the arousal the Wendy girl commanded. I, conversely, struggle against the weight of his immense and rapidly softening member. Pushing with all my pixie might against the sensitive and veiny underside, my efforts force a single drop of lingering fluid to the tip.

By turns, we glug, relishing the taste of the translucent nectar. After my lick, Trista, her eyes ablaze, lies on her back and opens her mouth, accepting from me a dribble of yummy sperm.

Like a hungry child, she savors her reward—but swallows not. Instead, she shares the deliciousness, gifting it back to me, driveling the hottest of the hot from her tongue to mine before turning to recline, whereupon she accepts it back again.

Rolling the thick affluence with our tongues, we relish its sweetness, gulp, and then lick each other's lips clean. Sadly, the feast is what it is, a less than lavish buffet, inferior to our hope.

It is an infuriating occasion. "All this for a solitary drop!" Trista yaps. "That Wendy girl has some nerve, Ariel!"

Flying upwards again, we carefully touch our tongues to the rapidly parching tip of Peter's meaty shaft. "She's kept his man stuff for herself, perchance to make a child," I grouch.

Our disparagement, perhaps unfair, is no doubt due to the peptides just then seizing our swirling thoughts. Instantly regretting my unfeeling remark, I sagely add, "We must remember she knows not a pixie's necessities."

Grinning to each other and nodding a knowing nod, we opt for fun and wing to the lobe of the somnolent woman's ear, and just as she rests her head to her lover's shoulder, in unison and at the top of our tiny lungs, we shout, "FUCK YOU, WENDY, YOU FUCKING SLUT!!"

Sitting up with a start and with fright seizing her otherwise after-glowing face, the astonished girl's eyes hastily rummage about the cabin. By then, we are off, and laughing pixie laughs, we glide under the quarter-inch crack of the window, and returning to the darkness of the night—determined to reappear on Mid-Summer's-Eve, one year hence!

The End