Wicked

WICKED

By C

 

PART I

 

We came out early to the customer’s house:  one of the larger and more elegant in an upper-class suburb north of Chicago.  It was just Dad and me, none of our employees.  I wore my backpack; Dad held in his arms what looked to all the world like a very large box, covered with a white sheet.

 

“Lizzie,” said Dad, “you might act as if you’re thirteen years old and ring the door for me.”

 

Knowing that I could carry passive-aggressive only so far, I did.

 

“Coming!” we heard from inside.  Then the door opened, and there stood an attractive blonde matron, somewhere in her forties, dressed in a grey blouse and black slacks, with pearls and high heels.  “Mr. McKenzie?”

 

“At your service, Mrs. Endicott,” said Dad.  “And this is Lizzie, my daughter.”

 

“Well hi, Lizzie, how are you?”

 

I muttered noncommittally, and turned away.  Dad gave me his “I’ll deal with this later” glare.  Mrs. Endicott seemed not to notice, and ushered us into her well-appointed living room.  As she did, she spoke about her problem.  “Well, most of it I told you on the phone.  They just . . . just get into everything.  Eat it all up.  I’m not bringing food home until this is dealt with . . . what would be the point?  And another, even more disgusting thing they do . . . .”

 

“Ma’am,” my father adroitly interrupted, “could you tell me again when you first saw them?”

 

“It was, oh, last Wednesday.”

 

“Hmm.  So they haven’t been here too long.  It’ll still be the initial swarm:   anywhere from 20 to 40 adults, maybe four or five times as many juveniles.  If much more time goes by, they’ll let others know what a nice place this is . . . and you won’t believe how many you’ll be saddled with then.”

 

“Well, you can solve the problem before then, can’t you?”

 

“Yes, if I’m right about the species we’re dealing with here.  Were you able to catch one of them?”

 

“No, sorry.  I did try; but they’re just too damned fast.  It’s frustrating:  they get within inches of you (really brazen, if you ask me); but they dart away like nobody’s business.”

 

“That’s all right; we should see a few before much longer.”

 

As if on cue, I heard a very familiar whirring noise, and into the room flew several small, blurringly fast figures.  They zigged here; they zagged there.  For a time, they spun around Mrs. Endicott’s head, till she shrieked:  “Stop it!  Stop it!”  Then they dashed off and alighted a few feet from us on a very expensive looking glass-fronted cabinet, loaded with bric-a-brac.

 

Only now, when they were still, could we get a clear view.  They were fairies, of course—four of them.  The largest stood about a foot tall.  She was small, obviously; but to call her “small” seemed entirely wrong.  She was a woman of Jennifer-Coolidgesque or Anna-Nicole-Smithian proportions:   ample of bosom, hip, and thigh.  Her face was full-bodied beautiful:  broad with generous cheeks and big, pouty lips; a face whose effect was sharpened somewhat by an expression of carefree impudence.  She was big-haired as well, with black tresses piled up on her head and reaching down to her waist.  She had two pink wings, rather like the wings of a butterfly, which nicely set off that black coiffure.  Clothing all this beautiful bigness-in-miniature was a sleeveless dress of gold lame, reaching not at all to her knees, and a matching pair of high heels.  The impression she gave was of completely unashamed sleaziness. 

 

The three creatures with her could not have differed from her more.  Each was a little, winged girl (looking about seven or eight years old, though in fact they had all hatched less than a year before).  All were clothed in puffy-sleeved party dresses (white, yellow, and pink, matching their wings), with white socks and black patent-leather mary janes.  All were black-haired, like their mother (the big fay had to be their mother), but each wore hers in a ponytail.  Where their momma was brazen, they were demure, looking out shyly at us from behind her.   Their eyes were very large—giving an impression of curiosity, and a bit of fear.

 

“Powder-Pidgins,” said Dad.  “Just as I suspected.

 

“Yes,” said Mrs. Endicott.  “They’re all like that:  grown-ups in tacky dresses, and (I must say) absolutely darling children—with ponytails!  Cute, very cute. If only they didn’t, uh, do the things they do!”

 

Momma and daughters were having a conversation.  I was trained in their language, and I had little trouble following what was said:

 

Daughter 1:   Humni-tassa, Ammai?  Pa-pi snaknaz thu!  (More Humans, Mommy?

                      These are even uglier!)      

Momma:        A, bamba.  Akka, thi-tlintima-wangi ukku! (Yes, baby.  Look, one of their  

                      little ones!)

Daughter 2:   Thu tlintima?  Ge snaknaz, Ammai!  (That’s a little one?  It’s so ugly,       

                      Mommy!”)

Momma:        A, snimpi bar-bin.  (Yes, sad to say.)

Daughter 3:   Ni pumpaz, Ammai . . . Saitai upitugu mumtaz ik thu-tassa.  (I’m a little

                      worried, Mommy. Maybe they’re not as stupid as that other one.)

Momma:       Chuch, bamba!  Gu-mumtazza thi-Humni gaga-zupaz.  Aishpaz.  Mumtazza             

                      thi-Humni pezd amtugu i baza-bin i pampuchi-baza-bin.  Thu, simbu gaga-

                      mumtaz, taiga!  (Oh, please, baby!  I know the stupidity of humans pretty                          

                      well.  I have to.  The stupidity of humans is a dear friend–to us and to our

                      panties.  Those folks, they look pretty stupid, I’d say!) 

Daughter 3:   Sardu, Ammai.  Tach . . . tach . . . pampuchi-nani . . . tudu inka-zimpi . . .                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                      sa tudu inka . . . shasti gartha. (OK, Mommy.  It’s just . . . it’s just . . . my

                      panties . . . feel a little tight . . . it feels a little . . . quivery down there.)

Momma:        Pittapar iye, taiga.  Nani tudu inka-zimpi, zassa, ze-chuja targ.  (Time to      

                       pee, I think.  Mine feel a little tight, too, probably for the same reason.)

 

So Momma crouched down, tugged a black thong to her knees, and released a stream of urine onto the cabinet.  Daughter no. 3 followed her lead, pulling down white panties and making her own tiny puddle.

 

“Uggghhh!” cried Mrs. Endicott, picking up a magazine and hurling it at the fairies, who shot up towards the ceiling in response, “that’s the most obnoxious thing they do!  They pee everywhere . . . and it leaves stains!  That, and all the food they eat . . . I can’t take it any more!  I can’t!  Please tell me you can help me!”

 

“Absolutely,” said Dad.  “I was pretty sure what you had here, on the basis of your description; but there are other species—harder to deal with--that resemble these ladies.  That’s why I had to see them.  No, Powder-Pidgins are no problem at all.”

 

“Powder-Pidgins . . . that’s what they’re called?”

 

“Yup.  Momma Pidgins and their children.  An all-female species, like a lot of them.”

 

“I was wondering . . . if the big and little ones could really be related.  They’re . . . so different.”

 

“They are at that.  The little ones are shy and  . . . sweet, really.  The adults are bold, brassy, and downright vulgar.  You see:  about a year out of the egg, a maturation phase starts (it’s called “sluttening”), and at the end of it, little Liza has become a . . . a Lulu.”

 

“Amazing.  Well, you’re going to take care of them, right?  Big and little?”

 

“I am, indeed.  I already took the liberty of putting a fay-seal on the house.  Not one of them can escape now.”

 

“Why do that?  I want them out.”

 

“Chasing them away just isn’t good enough.  Knowing what a nice setup you have here, they’d come back later for sure.  No, I’m afraid you have to isolate this lot, and then take care of every single one of them.”

 

“You mean . . . kill them?”

 

“Well yes, Ma’am,” Dad said, and put on his look of friendly but condescending patience.  “I’m assuming you had some notion of how fairy pest control works when you called me . . . .”

 

“W-well yes, of course.  I was just thinking that perhaps there was another way.  I mean

. . . look at them.  The adults are utterly revolting (do what you like with them); but those children . . . they’re adorable really . .  . I thought perhaps the little ones could be netted and set loose somewhere else . . . or, something?”

 

“Catch the little ones and let them go without their mommas (which will cost much more time and money), and most will fall prey to predators within a day or two.  And then, no matter how far away you’ve released them, the few survivors will make it back here.  And this time they’ll have a grudge.  Also, think of your liability if they spread to your neighbors’ fine dwellings—which they will.  No, a total dispatching is the cheapest, safest, and, if I may say so, kindest way to go.”

 

“Hmmm,” she said, “when you put it like that, it’s hard to argue with you.  You’re sure this’ll be humane?”

 

“My method’s the quickest, most compassionate there is.”  As he spoke, Dad peered beyond the living room, into what was obviously a very large dining room.  It was dominated by an enormous, lustrously polished table, at least 20 feet in length.  “Ah, just what I need.  I don’t want you wasting a good tablecloth, so we’ve brought one of our own.”  He nodded to me, and I pulled the desired item out of my backpack.  It was brilliantly white, very large, and of an unusually thick, absorbent weave.  He took it from me and inspected it for a moment.  “Yes, this one will do.  May we place this on that lovely table of yours?”

 

“Uh, certainly.”

 

Dad gave me the cloth, and I entered the dining room and draped the table.  The cloth covered the entire surface, with plenty of fabric to spare.  Then Dad picked up his big, sheet-covered box and set it on one end of the table.  We looked up at the same time:  hovering above us were about 30 Pidgins:  mommas in dresses of gold, scarlet, orange, and bright green; little ones in pink, pale blue, lemon yellow, lavender, violet, and the like.

 

Dad turned to Mrs. Endicott, who’d followed us into the room.  “I’ll bet you’re curious what’s in here,” he said with his “I’m a loveable rogue” smile.

 

Mrs. Endicott smiled back, brushed at her hair with one hand, and said “Yes.”

 

“Ta-dah!” he announced, and yanked away the sheet. 

 

The box was no box at all, but a metal cage.  Crowded together inside it were 25 Gryphocats!  They were grown up but kitten-sized, winged liked hawks, and gifted as well with very human-looking hands instead of forepaws (although still sharply clawed).  Otherwise, they were all cat.  (Beautiful colors, too:  orange, green, yellow, black; striped, or spotted, or with big patches of different shades.)  As soon as the sheet was pulled clear, a number of things happened very quickly.  Every Powder-Pidgin in the room, mommies as well as little girls, screamed in abject terror, and dashed away as fast as their wings could carry them.  They spread their panic to the adults and children elsewhere in the house, and soon the whole building resounded with little shrieks and wails.  The noise intensified as the fairies discovered that, try whatever they might, they could not get out.  Silent while the sheet covered them, the kitties commenced a racket of their own, slamming themselves against the roof of their cage and yowling to be released.

 

And that’s just what Dad did, unfastening a catch and taking off the top.  Out the kitties flew; and, hard as it might be to believe, they were even faster than the fairies.  Since their quarry had deserted the dining room, they left it, too, shooting out into every hallway.  Dad took up the cage again and laid it on the floor.  Our tablecloth was unencumbered, and ready.   

 

“Wh-what’s going to happen now?” said Mrs. Endicott.

 

“Just you wait and see,” said Dad, doing his “I’m an alpha male in charge” routine with consummate skill.

 

There was a brief interval of relative quiet, when the fairies recovered enough from their panic to realize they had to be absolutely silent, and hide, hide, hide.  It did them no good:  Gryphos have sharp eyes and keen noses; rarely do they fail to find what they seek.  Soon there was a new round of screams—each of unsurpassed bitterness and despair.  The cats were doing what they did best.

 

A momma and a little girl spun desperately into the dining room just inches above us.  Two cats cannoned after them, and plucked them from the air.  Two more of those terrible screams, as the hunters pierced their prey with envenomed claws and teeth.  The cats held on tight, till the poison began to tell.  Only then were mother and child laid side by side on the white cloth.  They were bleeding (of course).  They squirmed, and kicked, and trembled, violently and uncontrollably.  Their wings fluttered, but these two would never fly again.  I could hear the girl sobbing:  “Ammai!  Ammai!”  Her mother (I assumed it was her mother) just wept.  Mrs. Endicott stared at them with a mix of horror and fascination (I knew that fascination would soon win out). 

 

This was only the first installment.  Soon, one cat after another had swooped into the dining room and set his shaking, sobbing prize on the table.  Once his catch was safely bestowed, the little hunter would take off and rejoin the chase, to return some minutes later with new prey.  An odd thing about Gryphocats:  they always know who goes with whom.  So, when assembling their trophies, they very considerately line children up alongside their parents.  The table thus was dotted with several fast-growing clusters:  a momma as the nucleus, and, on either side of her, her little ones.  “Ammai!  Ammai!” they usually cried; and if she was not too overcome by venom, Momma would stroke the girls she could reach with hands that barely obeyed her will.

 

It took the cats about an hour to bag every Pidgin in the house.  I made a quick count:  25 women, 125 girls.  When that part of the job was done, the kitties lined up on the two long edges of the table, facing each other over what had been a white expanse.  They settled into a comfortable sphinx-like posture, and began to purr, quite loudly.  I know how their minds work:  they were resting--and admiring what they’d accomplished. 

 

Between them, in row after row, lay the mommas, flanked by their babies (anywhere from three to six girls).  They, and the tablecloth beneath them, were spattered with blood, but not so much that you couldn’t make out the wondrously bright variety of colors they wore.  A silly thought occurred to me:  if I hadn’t seen it, I would never have imagined that a woman could be beautiful dressed entirely in orange.  And yet it was so:  a Pidgin mother with chestnut hair, her face red and swollen with tears, her ridiculously big bosom heaving, the whole package wrapped in orange (bright orange!), left me quite abashed at her beauty.  The dress didn’t even match her wings (pale blue), and yet . . . I wanted her.

 

Mrs. Endicott was greedily taking in everything.  I’m sure she didn’t realize it, but her face was flushed; and her hands kept kneading and twisting the front of her blouse.  Certain chemicals had been released, certain magic was starting to have its effect.  Poor thing; she didn’t know what was about to hit her.  Dad knew it, though.  I could see he was getting ready.

 

The fairies kept up their trembling, and kicking, and crying.  But they also conversed, and I could hear some of it:

 

“Udu!  Udu!  Ammai, gla mesussitupuk!”  (“It hurts!  It hurts!  Mommy, make them go away!”)

 

“Thu-bin achuchchatai, tlintima.  Hastar iye.”  (“We’ve discussed this, little ones; it’s time to be strong.”)

 

“Upi, upi, Ammai!  Upipi gar-pampuchi-iye!  Upipi! Upipi!”  (“No, Mommy, no!  It’s not panty-down-time yet!  Not yet!  Not yet!”

 

“Hassupuk, bamba, hass!  Aithma iye . . . .” (“Hush, baby, hush!  It’s almost time . . . .”)

 

Momma clearly knew best.  Before much longer, the kitties had gotten their much-needed rest, and then came the second act.  They began to howl in unison, as tuneless and rending a sound as animals are capable of.  We all held our ears, but it came through anyway.

 

And the fairies, slowly, reluctantly, with much sobbing and many an “Upi!  Upi!,” raised their legs and drew back their knees, until their heels were kicking heaven-ward.  Then, shuddering to do so, they pulled back their dresses and slips.  Thus did mothers and daughters together make their surrender, their obeisance to the cats.  (They would keep this cat-friendly posture till very near the end.)  Their undies were now revealed:  the mommas’ black thongs; and their daughters’ white girl-panties, sometimes frilled at the legs. 

 

Oh, God!  Is there anything in the world prettier than that band of panty between a caught fairy’s thighs?  That tightly stretched membrane, trembling as the woman or girl beneath it trembles?  And in an odd way, is there anything more important?  Consider that this is all that separates her most vulnerable attribute from the hunter who has her.  Consider that he nonetheless pauses before that pretty bit of packaging, reluctant just to pull it away.  He wants to have her (he has to have her!); but it saddens him a bit, both her fragile beauty and that he’s the one who’ll destroy it.  And as for her:  she clings desperately to the short time her panties buy her, and (strangely, you might think) she weeps for their loss as much as for the loss of her life.  They have protected her throughout her life by masking her scent from countless predators; and when at last they come down against her will, she soon must die.  In her mind, she cannot separate them from life itself.

 

The Pidgins proved this, crying out en masse:  “Ai!  Pampuchi-nani!” (“Oh, my panties!”) and “Ai! Happampuchi-nani!”  (“Oh, my thong!”).

 

Seeing them all together, those pampuchi and happampuchi, white and black, peeking out between shapely, kicky legs--witnessing all that tearful heartbreak--I almost wet myself.  I got a little closer, knowing that if I came too close, Dad would have a fit.  All these garments were soaked through with fairy pee.  I could smell the sweet tang of it from where I stood.  The cats could smell it, too; and though they chivalrously held back for a time, their excitement quickly grew, and in an obvious way.  (Every one of them, of course, was male.) 

 

Mrs. Endicott leaned forward, breathing heavily.  Unobtrusively, Dad took her hand in his.

 

At last, the cats decided it was time.  Merciful in this regard, they started with the girls.  That way, the women could comfort them till the end.  The cat nearest me carefully approached a rosy-cheeked blonde in a pale green dress.  “Upi!  Upipi! Gla sutupuk!”  the little beauty cried (“No!  Not yet!  Go away!”).  Ignoring her request, he batted at her heels with one hand to make sure she couldn’t still kick out.  (He was ready to jump back if she did.)  But since all she could do was thrust at the ceiling, he now used his clever forelimbs to work her panties free and tug them to her frantically jerking knees.  “Aaaaiiiiiii!” she wailed in her bitterness, “Upi pampuchi-nani!  Gar pampuchi-nani!”  (“Not my panties!  My panties are down!”)  Really they were up; but it would have been cruel to correct her.  Knowing it would soon be their turn, her four sisters chimed in:  “Upi pampuchi-nani!  Upi pampuchi-nani!”  “Hastakimmutuk!” their mother cried (“Be brave!”), and then fell into wordless sobbing.

 

The blonde had a moist, pink, hairless mons veneris, neatly bisected by a tight, tight slit.  All over the table, pretty little pussies were coming into view, just like this one.  The girls cried for their mommas now, even more than before.  But all the mommas could really do was cry with them.  I felt a terrible pity then; but I was also so aroused, I wasn’t sure I could contain myself.  Dad and Mrs. Endicott, I was sure, felt something very similar.  

 

With her pants out of the way, the Grypho now drew his rough, venom-coated tongue over the blonde girl’s twat. He wanted to get all her sweet, pissy efflux.  She and 24 other children wailed with the sting of those kitty tongues (“Aiiiiiiii!  Udu!  Udu!), and kicked as best they could--and their sisters wailed and kicked, too.  (Their mothers, for the most part, were quietly keening now, their heads turned away.)  Starting to tremble a little myself, and feeling an ever-increasing tightness in my tummy, I had to get closer, had to catch every detail of it, so I leaned over the table—only to see my father make a furious, chopping gesture with one hand—the hand not around Mrs. Endicott’s waist.  I saw his familiar look of savage anger, and I quickly pulled back.  Did he really think anything could distract his precious cats from their business?  It might have been fun then to provoke an outburst in front of his twit of a customer; but I quickly dismissed the idea as unworthy.  I had to keep my focus.

 

Having gotten a first taste, the hunter wanted more, and thrust his tongue deep into the blonde’s vagina.  Oh how she carried on then!  But for all her screams, this, too, was a mercy; for he was trying to make her ready.  And he succeeded:  a clear, honey-scented lubricant began to drip from her pussy onto the cloth.  She moaned then, as pleasure got the better of pain. 

 

Finally, he deemed it time for his coup de grace.  He seized her panties again, pulled them past her pretty black party shoes, and tossed them onto the table.  Then he squeezed between her legs and lay upon her for a while, twiddling her ponytail with his hands and licking the tears from her face.  At last he entered her.  Her scream now was high and  shrill--much like the cries of the fairies when first they were caught, but even more piercing.  And 24 other screams just like it were erupting all over the table.  But these weren’t merely cries of agony:  each girl was beginning to feel the first of her death orgasms.  In just minutes—so tender were they between their thighs--they all began to groan as their little cunts gouted streams of fay-honey, along with the blood already seeping from them.  Their legs freed up, and their mary janes kicked hard, again and again, against the tablecloth. 

 

And they had much to say:

 

“Aiiii, snaptata, snaptata!”  (“Ohhhh, I’m caught, I’m caught!”)

 

“Gege snaptata!”  (“I’m so caught!”)

 

“Pattapamp-iye!  Gar-pampuchi-iye!”  (“It’s kicky time! It’s panty-down time!") 

 

"Uuuuuuu . . . gegemekme pattapampigaz!”  ("Oooooo . . . I'm so totally kicky!")

 

“Gar pampuchi . . . attar, attar . . . .”  (“Panties down . . . too soon . . . too soon . . . .")

 

“Ammai, taigachazzatupuk!”  (“Mommy, help me!”)

 

"Shasti . . . gartha . . . pamfna tudaz . . . .  Uch!  Uch!  Uch!"  ("Quivery . . .

down there . . . I feel strange . . . .  Ouch!  Ouch!  Ouch!")

 

“Barnimthupuk gu-lafashadda-nani!”  (“Stop playing with my ponytail!”)

 

They said a good deal else as they shuddered, and kicked, and spurted; but that’s what I principally remember.

 

They came anywhere from ten to fifteen times.  And then they were done.

 

The cats went to work on the next batch of girls.  And the next.  And the next.  And the next.  And when it was over for the children, I watched them all, still and pale and beautiful as only dead little girls can be, and I breathed in the sweet perfume of all those immature cunts, untimely killed.  It was an intoxicant, and an accusation, because of course I’d helped kill them.  And I said to myself:  Well, that’s sad and all, but I’m OK with it, because I love the sight, and sound, and scent of a good kill.  

 

And then it was the mommas’ turn.  The Gryphos tugged their thongs to their knees (“Happampuchi-nani!”  Happampuchi-nani!”).  Their pussies were plump and well-furred, and from them dripped a fragrant mix of pee and fay-honey, tangier to the nose and tongue than any efflux of baby twat.  (Believe me, I wanted a few licks, myself!).

 

The blonde girl’s mother was a redhead:  a green-clad bombshell, buxom even by Powder-Pidgin standards.  She mastered her weeping enough to speak a few words to the cat who’d dispatched her children:   “Gu-bamba-nani . . . amegdugastupu.  Taiga, taigaptupuk sai!  “My babies . . . you took your time killing them.  As for me, please make haste!”  He might have given some heed to her request; but Gryphos love a big, succulent, hairy pussy like nobody’s business.  So he and the others opted to maximize their pleasure.

 

This meant running their tongues over every inch of their victims’ twats again and again, till the women were gasping and groaning, and kicking harder than ever.  It was one half burn, one half orgasmic itch.  They began to come (“Uch!  Uch!  Uch!”)--not as hard as they would later when they were death-fucked, but hard enough.  Fay honey poured from them, and driven wild by its slightly gamey sweetness, the Gryphos plunged their tongues deep, deep into each cunt.  Which prompted further coming (“Uch!  Udu . . . pucha!”   “Ouch!  Pussy . . . hurts!”).  To keep up the tasty flow, the cats began to nip.  The women shrieked with each assault, and blood mixed with honey in a crimson ooze.

 

Then the cats took a gentler tack.  Each buried his face in his lady’s pubic pelt and softly nuzzled it, all the while breathing in her rich musk.  The little hunters prefer the scent, as well as the taste, of adult pussy, especially puss that’s been hurt a bit.  This was their chance to get their fill.  It also gave their victims time to brew more fay honey.  During their respite, the women sobbed quietly.

 

Eventually, the cats were ready to bring things to a close.  The redhead’s thong was pulled from her trembling knees and dropped to the table.  Her captor straddled her, then tore off the top of her dress to expose that proud bosom.   He released her breasts from the cups of her brassiere and bit her nipples a few times.  She shrieked obligingly.  Then, as he had with her daughters, he licked the tears from her face.  Finally, he entered her.

 

Momma was not nearly so tight as her babies, but it still hurt going in.  Her scream joined those of the other women:  a shrill and bitter chorus.  Then she cried out:  “O, gar happampuchi-nani . . . gar, gar, gar!  Aiiii, bamba-nani, bamba-nani!”  Then she screamed again.

 

After several thrusts, the women’s legs broke free, and their high heels began to tear at the table cloth.  Their big breasts heaved, their wings fluttered, the tears poured down their faces.  “Udu pucha!  Udu pucha!” many of them wailed.  Their death orgasms had commenced. “Unnnnnhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” the redhead groaned as she came, “Aisaman!  Aisaman!”  (“God!  God!”)  Her thighs squeezed together, almost breaking her captor’s hips.  His indignant “Grrrawwrrr!” was easy to hear.  Other fairies took up the cry:  “Aisaman!  Aisaman!  Amfwaz Aisaman!”  (“God!  God!  Dear God!”)  And they kept on kicking, groaning, and coming.

 

Thus did the Gryphocats fuck 25 fairy women to death—slowly, lingeringly, but with no reprieve. A few last sobs and whimpers, a few last hard kicks, and they, like their babies, were still.  Mrs. Endicott fell gasping to her knees.  Dad solicitously helped her up.

 

“I . . . didn’t know it would be like this . . . I didn’t know,” she said, her face red, her forehead beaded with sweat.  “It was . . . so exciting!  So . . . exciting . . . .”  Dad helped her over to a well-stuffed chair and sat her down in it.

 

“Oh, Mr. McKenzie,” she gasped, “you’ve . . . eliminated a plague on this house.  A veritable plague!  I’ll pay you double!  You’re a lifesaver!  Oh, my, I . . . seem to be a little faint . . . .”

 

Dad knew just what to do:  “Tell you what . . . Gail.  Lizzie here’ll see to the clean up; then I’ll send her home, and you and I can discuss things further.  OK?”

 

“Oh . . . oh yes.”

 

Dad then nodded at me peremptorily.  I scanned the table to make sure the cats weren’t straying from the adults.  I needn’t have worried:  a big, moist, musky, hairy pussy is caviar to this crew.  The little guys had returned to their nuzzling and licking—to catch every drop of sweet, bloody nectar. 

 

When they’d cleaned the dead twats to their satisfaction, each cat went round to the other end, opened his jaws wide, and seized his victim by her pretty head.  Python-like, their jaws stretched even further.  Soon they were working their prey down their frighteningly expansive gullets.  It took about 15 minutes to get them all the way down, including their high heels.  Then the cats just lay there, in a sleepy, belching, spittle-dripping torpor.  It was no problem at all to pick them up now and return them to their cage.

 

Dad wanted each little dead girl preserved.  The easiest, quickest thing to do was just to roll the tablecloth up with all those baby-dolls in it.  When I got home, I could remove them, do the preservative number, and Dad could pin them later at his leisure.  My father pretty clearly wanted me to disappear soon, so in less than a minute I was returning the tablecloth to my backpack.  The table hadn’t suffered so much as one stain from the cats’ feeding frenzy.  Something else for that silly bitch Endicott to be happy about.

 

Out I went, with the backpack and the cage.  It was dark now.  It always disorients me a little:  the hours that pass when you’re in one of those erotic trances brought on by fairy-killing.  Afterwards, it never seems as if much time has gone by.  I shook off the strange feeling, and headed for our car.  (Yes, I can drive.  You just look as if you’re old enough to do it, and the cops never stop you.)  Dad would get a lift home from Mrs. Endicott—or maybe she’d lend him one of her cars.  Something like that always happened.

 

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to our own pretty big, pretty sumptuous dwelling.  First I went to the basement lab. I carefully unrolled the cloth and deposited its contents on Work Table # 1.  I then sorted the girls out into five rows of 25 each.  Next I made sure I had all 125 pairs of panties.  Those I laid in a little pile at one end of the table. 

 

Now came a break in routine that would have met, for sure, with my father’s disapproval.  I ran upstairs to the second floor, to my room.  There I found my black case, and came back with it to the basement.  I pulled out a syringe and unwrapped a sterile needle.  I attached the needle.  Then I picked up one of the girls and thrust the hypo, as far as I could, into her vagina.  I extracted about a teaspoon’s worth of blood and other fay-fluids.  I did the same with another fairy, and another, until I had filled the syringe.  Satisfied that I had enough, I found the usual vein on my left arm and injected myself.  This was the 100^th dose.  This was the charm, or so my sources indicated.

 

Now it was back to my appointed task.  Time for the preservative.  I got out the spray bottle and gave the children a good soaking, front and back.  Instead of disappearing into little poofs of smoke in the next hour or so, they would now last for years, maybe centuries.  The real fun was the next step, but Dad always took care of that.  He’d get a display case and, with slow, loving care, put each fairy in her proper place, with a long steel pin through her abdomen.  Typically he posed them face up.  With some girls, he’d leave their skirts in the normal position (after slipping their panties back on; this had something to do with “authenticity”).  With others, he’d put the panties at knee level, then pull back skirt and slip and glue them in place.  The former pose he called “just caught,” the latter “caught and then some.”  He could do nothing about the expressions, but that was OK.  He liked how a Pidgin girl’s face looked at time of death:  the eyes shut, a track of tears down each cheek, a solemn little cast to the mouth.  All of this had been frozen in place by the preservative--even the little tear lines, because the tears of a fay linger.

 

I left the girls on the table, packed my stuff back into my black case, and headed once again to my room.  I’d almost reached the top stair when the cramping started.  I made a mad dash for the room, and got the door closed just before I fell spasming to the floor.  It was happening about twice as fast as the last several times.

 

There was pain—terrible pain, so much that I couldn’t help crying out.  One part of my brain, the part not utterly confounded by agony, kept up a frantic whisper:  “Please don’t let him come home yet . . . please don’t let him come home!”  It had always hurt before, but never like this.  Every cell, every atom of my body seemed to double over.  I was filled with a wonderful certainty:  I had finally poisoned myself, and it would at last be finished.  “Oh, God!” I cried aloud, “make it soon . . . soon!”  Then I passed out. 

 

I came to.  I was lying face down on the floor, and the first thing I noticed was that the pain was gone.  I jumped to my feet—with surprising ease, considering what I’d suffered just a short time before.  I noticed another thing:  my clothes were very different.  Instead of my jeans and sweatshirt, I now wore a black halter top, extending no further than my ribcage, a G-stringy little white thong, and black high heels!  “My own happampuchi!” I said with a laugh.  As I did so, there was a funny feel to how my mouth worked, and my words were a bit slurred.  And I felt . . . something else.  I wanted to see it all . . . and I didn’t, not thinking I could bear the disappointment.  Keeping my eyes down, I walked over to my closet, which had a big mirror on the door.  I stood opposite the mirror, and raised my eyes.

 

It was me of course, but paler, with a strange new gleam to my blonde hair.  More striking, though, than that change were the scarlet butterfly wings that sprung now from my shoulder blades.  I had felt them already, but couldn’t be sure without seeing them.  I opened my mouth—to exhale in relief, and saw that my upper canines had grown to twice their previous length.  I had put fluids from some of the more predatory fays into the mix from time to time—in what the treatise had told me were the correct proportions--and it seemed to have worked! 

 

More tests were in order.  I got a hand mirror and lay on my back on the bed.  This was tricky at first with the wings, but I soon realized they were much sturdier than they looked.  I could either rest on them, extended to full length for comfort, or I could bend them forward to make a nice protective shield for my front.  I chose the latter arrangement, then tugged my thong to my knees and went exploring with one hand and the mirror. 

 

My little 12-year old tuft was gone.  I was as bare as the day I was born.  The naked mons confirmed for me what the teeth had already suggested:  I wasn’t just a fay; I was some sort of succubus.  And no more anus!  What fay needs one of those?  I checked my high heels, and, sure enough, they were a part of my feet now, not just an article of attire.  I pulled my thong back into place and jumped up.  Now I just admired myself for a while in the big mirror.            

 

Questions zoomed through my head.  Could I disguise it all?  Return to my quote-unquote normal appearance?  Yes, though it was a strain at first.  Then I brought all my fayness back, and wondered about the fangs.  Could I retract them, and bring them back out when needed?  Yes.  Did they inject a powerful toxin, as with most succubi?  I bit into a handkerchief, and left drops of a clear liquid there, with a scent like sassafras. 

 

At last, I couldn’t contain myself.  “It worked!”  I cried.  “It worked!  It worked!”  The treatise, which Dad stupidly thought he could hide from me, had gotten everything right.

 

Time for an inventory.  If the treatise was right in every respect, I was a hunting fairy now, as deadly to other fays as to human beings.  That’s just how I wanted it.   I could fly, as fast as most birds.  I had the strength of a very fit man.  And only a short list of things could catch or kill me:  weapons tipped or edged with silver; snares, nets, or nooses with silver threads woven in; and about ten species of fay-predator.  No fay is ever at the top of the food chain; but that was OK.  I could have a lot of fun before it was time to turn my toes up.

 

For the rest of my life, I’d have the nubby little breasts and boyish figure of a twelve-year old.   That was OK, too.  I could lure a lot of men that way; even some women.  Dad was a good teacher in that regard.

 

Ah, yes . . . dear old Dad.  I turned off the light, lay down on the bed again, and waited.  An hour or so later, the front door opened, and I heard his characteristic sigh.

 

I got up, went to my bedroom door, cracked it open a bit, and called down to him.  “Daaaaaad . . . .”

 

“Uh, Honey,” he said, “I’m a little tired.  I think I’m gonna have to turn in early.”

 

“Oh, but Daddy, I want to talk to you.”

 

“Not tonight, Sweetie, OK?”

 

“Daaaaaddy,” I wheedled, “I’m wearing the new white nightie.  Don’t you want to see me?”

 

Another sigh.  “Just for a minute,” he said, “then I’ve got to get some sleep.”  And up he came. 

 

He walked through the door.  “Could you turn on the light, for Christ’s sake?”

 

“Oh, Jesus has nothing to do with this,” I whispered.

 

When he saw me, when it finally dawned on him just what was up, can you believe he had the gall to be surprised?

 

PART II

I’ve kept Dad’s house.  It makes an excellent headquarters, an excellent trap for the unwary, desperate perverts who’ve come to make up a large part of my diet.  But it could prove a trap for me as well, so I never stay there more than a week at a time, never visit it on anything like a regular schedule.

 

Otherwise, I step past the humdrum reality of the North Shore of Illinois and spend my time in the Fayland Forest.  There I find more excitement, and more danger.  I prey on the other supernaturals who live there:  everything from little Powder-Pidgins and Warblers to the greatest of Great Landfays.  A Pidgin I’ll usually snatch while we’re both on the wing.  Unlike the Gryphocats, I prefer the little girls, even though they have less meat.  It still saddens me to see them cry, but they’re so damned yummy!  As for a really big fay, I’ve found the safest method is to swoop down behind, grab her by the shoulders, and sink my fangs into her neck.  If I can get a good dose of venom into her before she flings me off, I usually win. 

 

And, as I hunt, I also watch out for those who hunt me.  There are of course those ten species of fay-predators to worry about.  Would you believe a fay-lynx can take my panties down for good--if he's bitten me just right? 

 

Lynxes are no mere abstraction for me.  There’s a grizzled old male, who lives near Lilith Lake.  One day, in a clearing, I stumbled on him after he had just brought down one of the biggest Landfays I’d ever seen:  a 12-footer for sure.  She was a busty blonde in a pink camie, with matching thong and heels.  What most struck me about her was the surpassing beauty of her legs—very very long, and smoothly but powerfully muscled.  (It sounds crazy in this context, I know, but I felt a twinge of envy, seeing them.)  Anyway, she was on her back, bleeding badly from bites to her bosom and left thigh.  Trembling and in tears, she clutched protectively with one hand at her wounded front and with the other at her groin.  Her captor was crouched down before her feet, probing with his paws to bring on one energy-wasting kick after another.  Clearly he was going to let her wear herself out in this way, and then finish things with a nip to the mons veneris.  Then he looked up and saw me.  His eyes were a bright green.

 

“Well, hello there,” he said.  “I don’t get much company.  Let me finish up here, and then I’ll see to giving you some proper hospitality.”

 

“I . . . don’t think so, but thanks,” I said.

 

“Are you sure?”  As if he had completely forgotten the Landfay, he got up and came a few feet nearer to me.

 

“I’m sure.  And don’t come any closer.”

 

“Of course not,” he said.”  He never took his eyes off me.

 

Just then, it was as if I heard an urgent voice from far away, telling me to fly! fly! fly!  I spread my wings, but that was all I could do.  I thought that I should be terrified now—but instead I just felt . . . detached.  I knew then that this was how he’d caught the big fay.  I knew also that the hypnotic trance I was in would pass . . . after he’d bitten me.  I should have been clawing my way into the air (I knew this), but I just stood there, impassive.  He was going to line me up, right next to the big girl; and we’d both share a good hard cry.  But for now I didn't care . . . .

 

The big girl saved me.  He must have thought he’d hurt her worse than he had.  While he was concentrating on me, she twisted ‘round, onto her tummy, then staggered to her feet.  He turned from me, and my mind began to clear.  Obviously a quick thinker, he leapt at the Landfay’s derriere, caught the waistband of her thong with his teeth and claws, and furiously wrestled it down her thighs.  Screaming, she pitched forward onto the grass.  Then he plunged his teeth into the soft curve of her bottom.  She screamed again, and rolled over in an effort to crush him.  Evidently, he was waiting for her to do just this, and deftly jumped clear.  The poor thing had exposed her pretty blonde muff; now, before she could roll back, his jaws closed on it.  Another scream—this one a long, high wail of the purest heartbreak.  Out of foolish curiosity, I had paused to see this much; at last I cannoned up into the air.  It was safe to presume he’d gotten his girl.

 

I flew and flew, to what I thought was a safe spot, high in the hills.  Then I just lay there, face down, shuddering and crying, for an hour or more.   

 

Not all my enemies walk on four feet.  About a month after my meeting with the talkative lynx, I was chilling out on a log in another clearing, when I heard a wsssshhhhhhh! noise, very close to my head, followed by big, meaty thunk!  An arrow had buried itself in one of the tree trunks behind me.  No hypno-hesitation this time:  I hauled ass out of there. 

 

An hour or so later, I very gingerly scoped out the path of that arrow (silver-tipped for sure; otherwise, I wouldn’t have trembled so much every time I looked at it).  I found a little patch of dirt, behind a tree stump.  I saw footprints, candy wrappers . . . and a sheet of paper.  Glancing around me nervously, I picked up the paper and began to read what was written on it:

 

April 1, 20__

 

Dear Prey to Be:

 

Let me introduce myself.  I’m a hunter of long experience, with an especial liking for, and especial skill in catching, youngsters.  Don’t try to pick up my trail from here; there is none.  [He was right about that.]  I’ve seen you several times, and though you’re at the older end of what I like to hunt, you’re just so cute I’ve decided to make you mine.  Here’s how it’s going to be:  I’ll give you a year.  Just be breathing a year from today, and I won’t bother you again.  Though I’m exceptionally talented, I’m not omniscient.  For all I know, you may escape me, though I think you won’t.  To be more sporting about it—and, more important, to enhance my thrill—I’m giving you this head’s up. 

 

Sincerely,

 

Tom “Babycatcher” Smith

 

P.S.  Wipe the dirt away from where you found this letter; you’ll see some proof of what I can do.

 

“As if!” I said.  “As if!”  But I bent down and scraped the soil from what turned out to be the reverse side of a photograph.  When I turned it over, I saw a large, glossy color print of a roughly handsome man in camouflage get-up, holding a bow.  He had a big smirk on his face, and was crouching behind what I had to assume was his catch:  five Birthday Girls, lined up next to each other on their backs, each with an arrow protruding from her chest or tummy. 

 

A Birthday Girl (if you don’t know) looks a great deal like a young Powder Pidgin, the wings included; but she’s as big as a human female of eight to ten years, and keeps that little-girl appearance her whole life long.  She always sports a pageboy, never a ponytail.  Like a baby Pidgin, she wears a party dress (thus her name), but shows less variety of color:  just pink, powder blue, lemon yellow, pale green, and lavender--always matching her wings.  Like a Pidgin, too, she always has white socks and bright black mary janes. 

 

These Birthday Girls were all blondes.  From nearest to farthest, they wore pink, blue, pink, pink, and yellow, each with a big bloodstain where the arrow had hit.  They had been packed close together, so their wings (where I could see them) were all bunched and crumpled.  (Since my transformation, I’ve grown especially sensitive to the mistreatment of fairy wings.)  Their slips and dresses had been pulled back, and their panties (each pair as white as snow) were at their knees.  Thus were exposed five dainty, hairless twats.  Evidently, when the picture was taken, the girls were still alive:  some showed tearful resignation; some sobbed with abandon.  At the bottom of the photo, a hand had written these words in ink:  “All in a Day’s Work!”

 

Could he have caught five in a single day?  Perhaps not, but what did that matter?  Unless it was staged, the picture did seem to bear out some of what he said in his letter.  If he could bring down so many with arrows (in a day, a week, or a month), he was clearly a threat.  The realization then struck me like a blow:  he had meant for the arrow he shot at me to miss!  He wanted me to live, for the time being, and see his little message.  Otherwise, I might at this very moment be in one of his trophy lines.  I felt a sudden faintness and had to sit down.

 

When I’d recovered a little, I looked again at the letter.  The date was correct:  April 1.  Did it have some additional significance?  Surely it did not mean that this was all some nasty joke, and he in fact wished me no harm.  More likely, the April fool here was his promise that if he didn’t bag me in a year, he’d leave me alone.  No, he was going to keep after me, if it took him one year, five years, or ten.  He belonged to that obsessed class of pervert I’d come to know and love long before—but this time with hunting skills.

 

“OK then, motherfucker,” I said, “it’s going to be you or me.”  Because it would be foolish to linger there much longer, I clutched the letter and picture firmly in one hand and took to the air.  I made my way to another corner of the forest and rested in a ravine I’d often used as a shelter.  After a few hours of shut-eye, I resolved to head back to Illinois, back to the relative security of my house and the resources of my computer.  But I’d gotten hungry in the meantime, and night had come.  Many fairies bed down around dusk, and so I had excellent chances if I could just find one of their sleeping places. 

 

I looked at a few promising spots, and at last I saw what I wanted:  a large patch of forest litter (twigs, dead leaves, and the like) that seemed just a little higher off the ground than the other detritus.  I very quietly approached . . . then threw my full weight on top of it, rolling back and forth to make sure I’d crushed every inch.  I was rewarded with several shrill little screams.  Next, while I knew they were still stunned, I thrust my hands into the woody, leafy mess and pulled out, one after the other, six juvenile Powder Pidgins.  (That was all I could find; their momma must have been away on an errand.)  As I seized each girl, I gave her a little jab in the tummy with my fangs.  That made them all scream again, and kick as if kicking were going out of style; but there’d be no flying away for any of them.

 

I lined my prizes up.  My eyes are much sharper than they were before my change:    even in the dark, I had no trouble making out the girls’ hair color (auburn) and the shades of their wings and dresses:  red, aquamarine, lavender, pale orange, pale green, and peach.      

 

“Ammai!  Ammai!” they all wailed. 

 

“I’m your Ammai now,” I told them in their language.  “And I’m putting you to bed in a special kind of way.”  Then I tapped at their heels with the nail on my right index finger and said:  “Legs up, pretty ones!  Show Ammai your pampuchi!”  Since I had captured them, they had to obey.  With many a sob and whimper, they raised their legs and pulled back their dresses, until the damp membrane of panty between each chubby pair of thighs was plain to see.

 

I dabbed those little white expanses with the tip of my tongue, coated with just a drop or two of my venom.  The panty-taste was sweet, with a hint of vinegar.  The sting of the poison made them all wail (“Udu!  Udu!”), but it brought them pleasure, too:  their fay-honey soon began to flow.  I wanted a direct taste now, so with my fingernail, I carefully, gently drew their panties to their knees.  Then my tongue went to work on each tight little honeypot in turn.  The sweetness before was like nothing compared to this!  They trembled, and kicked, and cried, and carried on—and, such was the power of my venom, they began to come.  With each orgasm they spurted about half a teaspoon of nectar, and I greedily gulped it down each time.  When their legs at last freed up, and they began kicking against the dirt, I just sat back and waited until they died.

 

I was about to lick up the last efflux, when I heard above me:  “Aiiiiiiiii, bamba, bamba-nani, aiiiiiii!”  It was their momma, back from her errand, whatever it had been.  With hardly a thought, I shot straight upward and seized her with my left hand.  She screamed of course, and twisted madly in my grip; it did her not a bit of good.  I noted that her hair was auburn, just like her girls’, that her wings were pink, and that her dress and heels were silver; and then I plunged my fangs into her madly heaving breasts.  She gave another high, bitter scream as I brought her to earth.  Before much longer, her thong was at her knees, and she was kicking her life away, much as her daughters had before her.  When she was through, and when I had licked every pussy clean, I swallowed them all whole, both mom and the kids.  Then I went back to the ravine to retrieve the letter and photo; and then I went home.

 

You’d think that being a fay was just one long, anarchic party.  You’d be wrong.  There are plenty of rules we have to follow; if we don’t, our pants come down for good in pretty short order.  One rule has to do with tools and weapons:  if we want to kill someone or something, we can’t make direct use of any technology more complex than sticks or stones.  (Magic is another matter, of course.)  I learned early on, however, that I can sit at the computer all day long, looking stuff up; that’s perfectly OK.  This was a real mercy for a nerd like me!

 

Anyway, back at the house I fired up my PC and got online.  I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised:  this bastard Tom Smith had his own website!  It included pictures (among them the one he had so generously shared with me).  It appeared (unless the website was one big fake) that the claim of five in a single day was true.  There had been a competition, with hundreds of Party Girls and other fairies released in a big game preserve.  The man (or woman) who caught the most in one day was the winner.  Tom Smith was last year’s champion, and his feat was commemorated in a long series of photos.  Most poignant to me were the individual shots of the five victims after Tom made them raise their legs in surrender.  It wasn’t hard at all to imagine myself in that pose.  The pictures also made clear that he liked to get very up front and personal when dispatching his prey.  I knew that a condom, properly treated, was an effective safeguard against the poisons in a fay’s pussy; but there was always a risk, and only a few humans were willing to take it.  Tom seemed to feed on risk.  Knowing pretty well now what he had in store for me, I had to pause for a while, until I stopped shaking. 

 

I went through every inch of the website for any information that might help me.  He didn’t say where he lived, unfortunately; nothing obvious and easy like that.  And he was clearly computer savvy; I wasn’t going to learn a useful IP address.  But I did get a better feel for old Tom.  A good shot to be sure; but his arrogance was so breathtakingly over the top, it might be possible to use it against him.  And his fixation (there was no other word for it) on child-fairies, or childlike fairies!  That could be a weapon, too.    

 

Next, I looked up the old fay-lynx.  He didn’t have a website, but there were a few devoted to his kind.  It seemed that the males of his species developed hypnotic power at a fairly advanced age.  As I had already seen, they could use this ability to bag fays much bigger and stronger than themselves.  One photo showed a lynx resting on the tummy of a mermaid he had captured; she was easily 25 feet long!  Apparently, he had gotten her attention and convinced her to beach herself.  Seeing the picture induced in me another fit of shaking.

 

So, I knew of at least two guys who wanted to make my closer acquaintance.  Of the two, the lynx seemed more of a gentleman; but for the time being, I was happy to let them both admire me from a distance.   

 

That’s my life as a fay so far.  I love tricking perverts and draining their essence.  (Oh, all right!  I kill humans who aren’t perverts, too; when the hunger hits you, slaking it is principally what matters.)  I love making meals of other fays, even if I feel a lingering sympathy as I do it.  As for my own eventual capture:  when I first changed, my attitude toward the prospect of being caught was “that’s OK.”  Having almost been caught a few times since then, I can now say:  “That’s not OK, except . . . .”  And I think that’s how it is for all of us:  the thought of it makes us tremble, with fear . . . and a hurtfully eager anticipation.  After all, a fay will never feel greater pleasure than at the hands (or claws) of the hunter who dispatches her.

 

Still, I’m not going to make it easy.  I’m going to be hard work; maybe the hardest work that lucky bitch or son of a bitch ever has.  And I do not want the lucky one to be some arrogant thug like Tom Smith!  No, the old lynx would be much better.  To incapacitate his prey, he bites hard, and he bites again and again.  But when he hears those sobs of despair that say:  he’s won, and she’s lost; he’s the cat of the hour, and she’s just one more out-of-luck, outsmarted fairygirl . . . then, magnanimous in victory, he turns gentle.  And once again I think of that Landfay with a bit of envy.  If he was the victor then (and I’m sure he was), here’s how it went.  She cried as a fairy does who knows her time has come.  Then he, assured of her surrender, slipped her thong all the way off.  He nestled in between those splendid, trembling thighs; and tenderly, oh so tenderly (with a stroke of the tongue here, and a very light nip there), he teased the life out of her in one kicky, tummy-tightening, shuddersome, thunderacious spasm after another!  Yes   . . .  when at last it’s my kicky time, my time for tears, my gar-happampuchi-iye . . . I’ll count myself lucky . . . lucky if I’m his prize.

 

THE END