"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.
