Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2011 21:03:43 -0500
From: tommyhawk1@aol.com
Subject: The Faery Winter

			     THE FAERY WINTER
			   By Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM

     The snow was coming down even harder now. Through the thickening
drifts, Patrick walked doggedly if blearily onwards. He shouldn't have
started out this late, he'd known the snowstorm was coming, but the bar had
been lively and the comradeship enjoyable, he'd languished in the joyful,
alcohol-filled atmosphere, one more drink, one more game of darts, one more
joke, one more story. And now he was making his way homeward later than he
should have, with the snow coming down so hard he no longer was certain he
was even on the road. A pitiful dirt-track to begin with, with a heavy fall
of snow over it, it was indistinguishable from the hard-frozen ground under
his feet and there weren't any landmarks about to be known. That tree, that
oak tree, ahead, was that a tree on the road home? Or a stranger tree in a
field of a neighbor's lands or the wilder pastures on the right-hand
side. Land that had long been by local legend the home of elves and fairies
and pixies and gnomes. Various names for the Little People, the first
peoples of this land before the humans had come. Tradition said that the
land had been set aside for them by ancient agreement, but Patrick's father
had scoffed at that when he'd heard it in young Patrick's hearing long ago,
the pasture was fallow because the land was rocky and roughly shaped and
poor quality soil, not worth the effort of clearing to make a farm.
     Whatever it was, he had to find a home, and fast! The cold had worked
its way through his already inadequate coat and was nibbling angrily at his
flesh, robbing his body of its warmth, of its senses, he was getting numb
and worse, the numbness had started that fearful point where you feel
warmer instead of number, the beginnings of the frozen death. His objective
had changed from getting home to getting anywhere at all! Knock at the
door, beg shelter for the night and try to get home when he was sober and
the storm had passed! Any glint of light, he prayed, any door that will
open for me, get me there! The snowbank to his left looked so very much
like a soft, cottony bed, begging him to come lie with me, come lie with
me...forever!
     Over there! Over there! A light, that spoke of fires, of warmth, of
shelter...of life! He stumbled toward it, the light that grew larger, and
larger, became not square like a window or rectangular like an open door,
but oval-topped, like the top two-thirds of an egg buried one-quarter (the
bigger end of it) into the ground. And in that oval, there stood a figure!
     "Come in, come in, you'll catch your death out there!"
     "Yes, yes, thank you!" Patrick babbled and staggered on to the
door. Closer, he found the door was too small to walk through (though the
figure had been standing in it), he had to get down on all fours and crawl
inside and at that, the hole's size was barely a fit for his large farmer's
frame, his shoulders he had to scrunch together and then he popped through,
his slim hips he had to lower to near the ground and sidle on
inside. Inside it was larger, though he still could not have stood up, the
ceiling was just short of four and a half feet off the floor, he settled
for a sitting position on the floor. But that was more-than-ample room for
the small beings that lived in the place and there were plenty of them.
     Patrick looked around and said mostly to himself, "I've crashed a
party."
     "Sure it's a party, but it's one you're welcome to!" his rescuer
said. Patrick could now see him clearly in the interior light where he'd
been a silhouette before. The voice was the same.
     Its owner was a well-shaped man, attractive in face once you
discounted eyes slightly larger than normal and lips a big fuller than a
human's and ears that were longer and came to a point. His arms and legs
were spindly at points, but the muscles on them were full and
powerful-looking. His hair was a fair brown color not quite a shade that of
any Patrick had seen on a human head though he couldn't say why that
was. The smile, too, though genuine in origin, made a more triangular shape
than it would have in a human mouth, the result of non-human arrangement of
facial muscles. Age (pretending again this figure was a human, a poor
assumption indeed) would have been in his early twenties, on a par with
Patrick's own twenty-two years.
     Patrick looked around to see that the rest of the group was similar,
all male, all young, all smiling and hoisting mugs in greeting. The
atmosphere was jovial and were it not for the sole lack of a barkeeper
charging for the drinks and food, Patrick could have called all this the
very place he had left to charge into the snowstorm.
     "Let's have a nip to warm this young man up!" came a call and there
was a cheer of agreement. Patrick found a mug pressed into his hand. For
him, it was like a child's christening cup, holding maybe eight ounces of
ale, but he upped it and got six good gulps out of it before he drained
it. The ale was light, flavorful, sweetish and like nothing he'd had
before...and it warmed his bones all the way down!
     "Another one, another one!" the men called out and Patrick soon found
himself choosing among three offered mugs of replacement ale. He chose the
middle one and drank this one slower. It completed his warming process and
felt gratefully the wash of well-being and happiness cover him, fill
him. All his worries vanished in an instant's time.
     Once you got over how these guys looked, they were a swell group!
Their jokes were ones Patrick had never heard before, and every joke he
told they'd listen intently and laugh heartily, his old saws were new to
them! That made him doubly welcome and the food was varied, tasty,
well-cooked and seasoned, and it was all washed down with mug after mug
after mug of that ale!
     "Ah, man, I have to drain my goose!" Patrick moaned after a time. He
thought of that storm going on and flinched. "Have you a jakes in here, if
I may ask it of you?"
     "Sure and we do." a faerie told him (he'd learned by now that was
their preferred name for themselves, leprechauns turned out to be the title
of another clan of theirs if he understood them aright). "It's over there."
     "Over there" turned out to be a large basin which stood out in the
open! Pat watched as a faerie walked over, hitched at his trousers, took
out a fair-sized organ for his size, and let fly. The other faeries didn't
seem to notice.
     Well, the crowd was all male. Though that short ceiling was a
handicap. He got to his feet and shambled over awkwardly, his back bent
sharply over to let him clear the ceiling. No way to take care of his
overfull bladder in this position!
     A faerie near him saw his problem. "You're too much man for the room."
     "Yes, but either I use this commode or I brave the outdoors."
     "We can't have you do that!" the faerie considered it. "If you'll
kneel as if at your prayers, you might manage it."
     Patrick got onto his knees and that was better. His head scraped the
ceiling but the commode's lip was now at a decent height for him. Patrick
untied his pants top, shifted it to below his organ and let the yellow
stream flow! "Ahhhh!" he sighed with the unfettered relief such release
provides.
     It took him quite a while, he had been drinking much even before he
had staggered out into the snow. He found that his organ was drawing a good
deal of admiring attention from the faeries. Even for a human, Patrick had
a generous endowment, and before their oversized eyes in half-sized bodies,
it must be a prodigy among penises to them.
     "That's a plow that would make fallow many a field." one of them
marveled.
     "That's a spear that would impale you with glee." Another added.
     "That's a tool that could repair all your sorrows."
     "That's a beam you could build your house with."
     "That's a spike to drive into a railroad tie."
     "That's a scythe to cut a wheatfield with."
     "That's a pole that...."
     "Enough, I've been flattered well and thoroughly already!" Patrick
waved them off. He finished his micturition and shook his prick to get rid
of the last couple of drops.
     And other hands reached to help him in this. He found his own hand
crowded off his pud and at least three of their smaller hands now wrapped
firmly around his dong, with others atop those in a most confusing manner.
     "Here now, here now!" he protested feebly. "You can't go on about it
like this!"
     "He's right." one of the faeries agreed.
     "He is?" another asked, surprised.
     "I am?" Patrick was befuddled by this.
     "He's only one man and can only offer us a single manhood, no matter
how thick and long and majestic it may be." the faerie went on. "So there's
only one solution."
     "Draw straws?" Patrick was beyond pretending to object, the hands
stroking his prong had quite driven protests out of his mind.
     "Cast lots." the faerie agreed. "That way, we can all take him, one at
a time, full and undivided attention. Now, we'll throw the casting stones
each in turn and the first one that throws the Shamrock wins!"
     There was a quick agreement about this and Patrick took the time to
look out a nearby window hopefully. But it was still deep night and the
storm hadn't begun to work its fury out. It looked like a real week-long
blizzard out there! Those hands hadn't let up for a moment despite the
removal of some to take their turns throwing the stones, other hands were
eager to chip in. The faeries may be multiple hands on his cock, but they
moved together in their stroking his prong.
     "Hah, the Shamrock!" a faerie called out to general applause. "He's
mine first!"
     "Come, this way, this way!" the faeries tugged him with hands on his
arms and hands at his prick pulling him and perforce he went with them,
prod pumped all the way, to an area where several cushions had been piled
on the floor. They guided him in and he was left in a semi-reclining
position, head higher than his body but otherwise displayed and available.
     Maybe it was the ale he had drunk. Maybe it was the general adoration
of his manliness these faeries were giving him. Or maybe it was the storm
wailing outside, and waiting for him was a lonely farmhouse with no
livestock to keep, little wood to burn in the fireplace, and a larder of
cold bread his only provender to wait out. a long cold blizzard. Maybe it
even was that his girlfriend of so many years, after stringing along for
longer than he cared to remember and spending more of his money on her than
he should have (witness his current state of poverty), had unceremoniously
dumped him for another man who had money.
     Whatever it was, Patrick felt no qualms about repaying these faeries
for their more-than-gracious hospitality by permitting them to pay his cock
homage. The very way they were squabbling for the privilege made his dong
rage hungrily skywards!
     The winning faerie was blue-eyed, blond-haired and fair-skinned more
than his fellows, his lips were full and ripe for kissing and his tongue
was pink and licking those luscious mouth-buds hungrily. He advanced on
Patrick's body splayed out before him (Patrick was looking at the faery
approaching from a vantage between his legs, like his cock was a
line-of-sight mark between them.
     The faery knelt between Patrick's legs, sat back on his heels, then
leaned forward as his hand caught Patrick's prick and his face guided in
for a landing on the top of his glans, tongue-point touching cock-point,
tip-to-tip. The tongue perched, then slid and curled down as the mouth
moved to envelop Patrick's glans, then the softer skin below the glans,
then the shaft itself, all covered in velvet-like skin.
     Patrick moaned as the softness enfolded him, and when those faery-full
lips clamped on and pulled as he rose upwards, it was like his very soul
was being wrung out of him. Too long, it had been too long since he had
enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh, he had hoped for more than a single
touch he had gotten from his lady, for too long he had denied himself the
release of his own hand, and then after, the very touch of his hand upon
himself reminded him that it was himself, not her, never her, never again,
and his passion had dwindled. No longer, not here, he could look down and
see those large, beautiful blue eyes winsome as a doe's and innocent as a
child's, the lips around his manhood and his delight was real, it was all
real and he could enjoy it without fearing it would vanish as did the mists
of fantasy when reality intrudes itself.
     The faery (Patrick decided to call him Yellowhair until he could learn
his real name) moved up and down with an agility that spoke of many years
of practice. Even Patrick's comparatively gigantic prong did not hinder the
smooth flow of the mouth up and down on his prong. Yellowhair's strokes up
and down with those fluidly rich lips were driving him quickly to the point
of climax.
     "Shamrock!" came a call from the faeries still casting their
stones. It must be that the casting continued until each would win the
Shamrock cast (six green-and-white flat, roundish stones all had to land
with their green-side up, a difficult cast indeed!), which kept the numbers
of waiting faeries to a minimum.
     "Ah, ah, I am near!" Patrick panted. "If your...if your...friend is
to...have a chance...hooh! You will...have to...stop now!"
     But Yellowhair did not stop, in fact, he sped up until his lips and
face were a blur upon Patrick's dong. Patrick saw the second faery step up,
his oversized eyes were a startling green color. Like Yellowhair and all
the other faeries, he was good-looking, muscular for his size, all maleness
designed in half-sized form.
     Patrick could only gurgle his words as his climax assaulted him under
Yellowhair's ministrations. "I'm sorry...Greeneyes! Ah-ah-GAH,
HAHHHHKKKKHHH!" and his cock blasted out a hot load that Yellowhair gulped
down greedily, only small rivulets slid down Patrick's cock to soak his
balls with white release. "AH-HAH, AH-HAH, AH-hah, hah, hah, hah, hah, huh,
huh, uh, uh, uhhhhhhhh!" And Patrick was done with his loads, and his chest
heaving mightily, he felt Yellowhair's tongue work on cleaning his ballsac
free of the last dregs of his spent delight.
     "Sorry for what, human?" Greeneyes asked him as he divested himself of
his shoes and pants, leaving himself bare below the waist. Like the faery
Patrick had seen at the commode, Greeneyes had nothing to be ashamed of in
the maleness department, it stood out an honest four or five inches; on his
half-sized frame, that made him eight to ten inches for a full-sized human.
     "I couldn't...save any...for you." Patrick gasped. "Have to rest a
wee, then you can, take your turn with me."
     "Why should I have to wait?" Greeneyes asked.
     "But...but I'm not ready." Patrick exclaimed. He had just ejaculated
after all, even though he still had a full erection, he knew it couldn't
last, it would dwindle in a moment regardless of what anyone however
talented could do to it.
     Yellowhair smiled. "He doesn't know." he said to Greeneyes, and then
to Patrick, "You have drunk of the faery ale. It's restorative powers are
great. You will not have to pause unless it is your choice." To Greeneyes,
"Show him what we mean."
     Greeneyes straddled Patrick's waist, bent to reach behind himself,
caught hold of Patrick's dong, still all sticky from Yellowhair's licking
and guided it into his ass. Patrick felt the hot wetness there slide over
his cock and to his surprise, felt it as though he were fresh and
rested. His cock had no problem keeping hard while Greeneyes moaned and
wormed himself down further on Patrick's prick, until the long, thick
length was somehow fully buried within Greeneye's moist interior.
     Greeneyes threw his head back and moaned anew, and then his hips began
to bounce his body up and down upon Patrick. Patrick felt the motions as a
fresh, undiminished assault upon his dong, he could enjoy and even relish
this renewed lovemaking as though it was his first time for the
night...hell, for the week!
     "Shamrock!" came the call. Patrick was liking the ride he was getting
from Greeneyes but far from ready to take Faery Number Three. He was busy
right now, damn it!
     The faery stepped up, brown eyes, brown hair, dark-toned skin. Patrick
promptly christened him "Brownie" and said, "You can have me when he's
done."
     Brownie was undoing his lower garments the same way Greeneyes had, and
then his dong plopped out and Patrick goggled at it. A human would be proud
of this organ! It was on a par with his own, and on this small body,
amazingly huge!
     "And why can't I have you now?" Brownie asked and waggled his cock at
Patrick. "We aren't all of us wanting you for what you have between your
legs."
     Patrick's senses were dancing in the growing light of ecstasy from the
bouncing adeptness of Greeneyes riding on his pud. That and the fleshy,
plum-headed man-tube aimed at his face didn't seem so bad. Brownie stepped
closer and that plum was in reach, Patrick opened his mouth and that
succulent shaft slid in easily. He closed his mouth and Brownie commenced
to hunching at his face, all Patrick had to do was hold on and ride it all
out, both at his mouth and at his cock, the faeries were doing all his work
for him.
     The musky male scent of Brownie's manhood flooded his nostrils, his
cock was sending waves of ecstasy up from his crotch, he could feel the
crowd about him, watching the show and flogging their puds, or their
mates. There were still stones being cast, he could hear their rattle and
fall, but meanwhile...
     He caught a faery pud in each hand and returned a bit of the favors
being paid to him. That sight caused one overeager faery near his left leg
to howl and explode, Patrick felt the hot juices splattering his leg and
that, combined with the cock in his mouth and the clutching, moaning ass on
his dick (Greeneyes was nearing his own climax), and Patrick's body was
thrown into his second climax. He exploded upwards into Greeneyes ass,
Greeneyes returned the favor by blasting a load onto his stomach and lower
chest, and that triggered the faery in Patrick's right hand to blow his wad
onto Patrick's upper chest and neck. He was covered, swimming in faery
jizz. And the feel of Greeneyes sagging down to lie on Patrick's
semen-stained body was like being covered up for sleep.
     Only Patrick wasn't going to get sleep, his legs were hoisted up by
faery hands and he felt the tip of a hard cock knocking at his nether
regions. But by now, he was in no position nor inclination to protest, even
when it was driven up inside of him, hot and hard and luscious and his body
rose again....
     The details after that got a bit foggy and then some for Patrick. He
was in a timeless sort of feeling, there was drink and food whenever he
wished it, rest when he needed it, relaxation with good companions when he
didn't feel like sex, and the rest of the time when he did, he and the
faeries made an endless, eternal, joyful pile of thrusting, ramming,
writhing, squirming, come-splattering bodies. He lost all track of how long
he'd been there, for he had no desire whatsoever to leave, nothing at his
farm needed his attentions, he would wait here among these lusty faeries
until spring came. Here there was no day, no night, no morning or
afternoon, only the joy and the festivities that went on and on and on,
inexhaustibly.
     At some point in this endless round of feasting, drinking and
roistering, Patrick roused from a nap and said, "That storm must be over
with by now, I should be getting home now."
     Yellowhair (Patrick never had gotten around to learning their names,
though he knew them all as individuals now) lifted his head sleepily from
his own slumber, with Patrick's left breast forming his pillow. "You don't
have to leave. We will remain here until the long winter has ended. Why not
tarry with us until the cold has left the world once more?"
     "And when will that be?" Patrick wanted to know.
     "It's a cold world out there for us faeries." Yellowhair sighed, and
resumed his place with an ear pressed against Patrick's nipple. "We wait
for the world to welcome us once again."
     "And how long will that take?"
     "It could be centuries."
     "Centuries?" Patrick howled and raised himself up bodily, he had to
remove more faeries from his arms and legs, but he got up and began to
search for his clothes, items he hadn't had to find in many, many days.
     Dressed, he made it to the door despite the mournful protests of his
faery hosts, and many a raunchy hand at his crotch or lips on his hands
nearly made him change his mind. But he got out and found the road. The
weather was mid-summer, from the feel of it, he had been with the faeries
for far longer than he'd thought. They'd even worked on the road, it was
now broader, and bore a fine covering of asphalt.
     Nothing looked familiar to him while he walked. With some difficulty,
he found his home, and was in shock. It was an abandoned ruin!
     He turned and beat it back for town fast as he could.
     It was all changed. So little was familiar, but he found the old pub
where he'd passed the time before he'd found the faeries and went
inside. "Where's Jacob Prescott?" he asked the barman, a new person, for
the pub's owner.
     "You'll be wanting my father?" the man asked him. "He's been dead
these past twenty years."
     "Your father? You're Mark Prescott?" Mark Prescott had been a mere boy
of five when Patrick had last heard of him. Now he was middle-aged.
     Fifty years. That was how long Patrick had been with the faeries. He
tried to rebuild his life over the next several months, but it was
useless. No face was familiar to him, and even the language itself had
subtly shifted. He convinced a few people who he was, but most considered
him to be addled and half-crazed. He ended up squeezing by with odd jobs
and a bed in a filthy hovel and poor food.
     Soon enough, the weather turned to winter once again. He went to the
pub, hoping to gain some of the old cameraderie, and ended up
disappointed. No stories were told, the jokes were either old saws or so
new that he couldn't understand them. He had to buy all his own drinks, no
jolly rounds any more.
     He went out and started walking for the first time back to his old
home. It was like his feet were guiding him on their own path without his
volition, not that he cared, he had nowhere else to be just now. The snow
was coming down, though. Hard and fast, just like before...just like....
     He saw the snowbanks about him, soft as bedding, And that tree, the
old oak tree, unchanged in a mere fifty years. And there was the light, the
oval light like an egg buried partly in the ground, a small black figure
silhouetted against the golden light within.
     "Welcome back, Patrick!" came the call. "Come in and get warm again."
     Patrick ran toward the light and the warmth and the welcome. The
faeries were right. Weather apart, it was a colder world out there right
now.
     He would wait with the faeries for the world to get warm once again.

				  THE END
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		  E-mail the Author at Tommyhawk1@AOL.COM
		      WWW.TOMMYHAWKSFANTASYWORLD.COM