VIGNETTE: THE GIRL WHO WOULDN'T CRY

By C

So far, it had been a pretty easy week for Sly Foxx. His assignment: bring down a gang of Full-Bodied Land-Fays who'd infested the woods and fields of Snootley-under-Throckmorton. These bad girls had devoured produce, drained the blood of livestock, and driven the occasional farming family to madness and death. But their fun was now over: for one by one, Sly had bagged them all. They were big and strong, but they had a weakness: the extreme tenderness of their quadruple D-cup breasts. Sly had leapt out at them from bushes, or fallen on them from branches overhead, or chased them until he cornered them—but the endgame was always the same. He'd sink his sharp, envenomed teeth into a big, trembling fairy bosom; the girl would scream in bitter hurt and despair; and that, as they say, was that.

It was noon on Sunday, when he returned to the clearing that served as his headquarters. With him he brought the ninth and last member of the gang, slumped unconscious over his left shoulder. With no small strain, he laid her out, face up, on the grass right next to her equally unconscious partners in crime. Standing back, he wiped the sweat from his brow and admired what he had wrought. These nine were the very bloom of Full-Bodied loveliness: heads full of long, brightly colored hair (red, golden, black, pale green, and deep blue); perfectly proportioned (albeit plump) faces; spectacular bosoms; full, soft tummies; and big, shapely thighs. Each fairy wore a waist-length tunic and high heels, both matching her hair--plus one more item of clothing: a tight, black thong. So snug were these undergarments that they revealed the exact swell and dimpling of each plump pussy. The sight filled Sly with lustful amusement, and the Lady Killer—his not-so secret weapon—stood up and saluted.

"Those can't be comfortable," the hunter said out loud, so he went down the line of girls and pulled their thongs to their knees. Thus he uncovered nine neat, surprisingly small muffs, all matching the hair on his victims' heads, but darker. The thongs were a protective measure, effectively masking a fairy's scent. Now, sweet and musky at the same time, that scent filled the clearing. "Awwwww," said Sly, "you hid your perfume so you wouldn't get caught! I'd say there's no reason not to share it now." The aroma so excited him that he seized each thong again and yanked it past its owner's feet. The undies were soaked through with pee and fairy honey, and he drew in whiff after whiff as he clutched them in his right paw.

After a while, he was ready to waken his guests. He tucked the thongs into the knapsack he always wore; then he clapped his paws sharply together. Moaning a little, the nine doomed fairies returned to consciousness. Then they began to cry: full-throated, heartbroken sobs. Well, all but one began to cry: the one he had most recently captured. She was a red-haired, freckled minx, with the prettiest pussy in the bunch. But her face was anything but pretty at the moment: a study in hatred and barely-contained rage. (Her scarlet tunic and heels fit her apparent mood to a tee!)

"You . . . fucking . . . furry . . . bastard!" she said through clenched teeth.

"Well, uh, yes," said Sly. "And what of it?"

"Ohhhhh! You . . . you took my thong, you big fuzzy prick!"

"Perhaps you don't quite appreciate the gravity of your situation, Miss. You see: I'm the catch er , and you're the catch ee , and that means, by the Ancient Right of Predators, that everything of yours devolves to me, and so . . . ."

"Oh, shut the fuck up! If I could just . . ." (and she struggled now, with little success, against the power of his venom) ". . . ohhhhh, I'd show you, you panty-snatching, pointy-nosed, furry-assed . . . oh, fuck!"

"So," said the fox-man with a smirk, "you're not as prone to tearful surrender as your comrades in crime. But you're still caught. Make it hard for yourself or make it easy--it changes nothing from where I stand."

"Give me back my thong!" the redhead screamed.

"Not a chance," said Sly. "You don't need it any more. I've taken it down and it's staying down. It's going on display with my other trophies back at Foxx Manor. Do you know how many foolish, wicked fairies I've caught? I wish you could see the trophy room: all the panties, thongs, bikini bottoms, high heels, and the rest. You're just one among dozens, so have a good cry, do all the kicking you can, and . . . ."

At that moment, the redhead jumped up, strode over to Sly, and punched him, very hard, in the stomach. "Ooof!" he said, and fell to the ground. Then she kicked him in the side. "Mphhh!" he replied. She was about to stamp on his back, when he forced himself up and took off, as fast as he could. She pursued him, and, injured as he was, she was gaining on him.

Luckily, Sly saw a big elm tree, in full leaf, just a few feet away. He dashed for it, then clambered up its trunk. The girl was too heavy, of course, to follow. She stood at the base of the tree, shouting: "Give me back my thong, you bastard!"

Sly climbed and climbed, until he reached a bough he knew would support his weight. He slipped out onto it and found as much leafy cover as he could. Then he caught his breath. How could he have been so foolish? Clearly, this one was resistant to his venom, or she couldn't have stayed so aggressive after he bit her. While he bandied words with her, the poison had worn off; and he was up a tree now because he'd been too arrogant to notice the signs.

She yelled up to him: "You can't stay there forever, you furry fuck! Drop me my thong, and I'll let you go. Otherwise, you're dead meat, one way or another!"

He thought he could wait till she got tired or bored, and then slink off. But his pride rebelled against so cowardly a course of action. And what of the rest of his catch? If he waited too long, they'd shrug off his poison, too, and get away. Could he ever live down such a defeat? There must be something else . . . .

He had an idea. She was resistant, but not entirely immune. He had gone for the breasts with these girls, because it was easy; but if they were like other fays, they were even more vulnerable somewhere else. He made sure he couldn't be seen from below, then pulled the thongs out of his knapsack. Which was hers? They all looked, smelled, and tasted the same. To hell with it! he thought, and he licked them all until they were saturated with foxy saliva. Next he waved them back and forth to dry them out. Fairies don't have a strong sense of smell, so if they were dry enough, she might not notice. Then he leaned out past his cover of leaves and called down to her: "Okay, okay! I'm dropping them all now!"

"I don't care about the others; I just want mine!"

"Fine, fine . . . but I don't know which one is yours. You'll have to find it yourself!" And with these words, he let the thongs fall.

She rummaged through them, till she discovered hers. She gave it a sniff, and Sly had a tense second or two. Then she spoke: "How you could possibly confuse this with any of the others, I don't know; it's obviously the sweetest smelling!" She quickly put it back on, tugging and fiddling with it till it was in its proper place.

"Oh, you're back! You're back!" she cried, and did a happy sort of dance. "Oh, I'll never let you get away from me again, I'll . . . ." And then she stood still for a moment.

"Funny," she said. "I'm feeling a little warm . . . I . . . Oh! Ouch! No!" She reached down with her hands and frantically rubbed her groin—but that seemed to accomplish nothing. "Oh! Oh! Oh my God, it stings! It stings!" She was dancing once more, hopping from foot to pretty foot; but this time she didn't look happy at all. Then, suddenly, she took off running.

Sly jumped down from the tree and followed her. She darted in one direction, then another, then in still another. Then she halted and tried to do what she should have done to begin with: pull off the thong. Alas, Sly's venom had weakened her hands: she could only fumble at it ineffectually. No effort of hers would loosen it now. She screamed in frustration, pain, and fear—and fell to her knees. By the time he reached her, she was on her back, trembling from her head to her heels.

"Oh God, it hurts!" she cried. "T-take it off! Take it off!"

"But you wanted it back," he said.

"Take it off, you son of a bitch! Take it off!"

"If that's how you feel now," said Sly, "but you know what you need to do first."

She looked at him for a moment . . . and tears at last filled her eyes. "There!" she sobbed. "Are you h-happy now? You . . . you win . . . you got me . . . and I'm c-crying now! I'm crying! I'm caught . . . I'm finished . . . I surrender . . . and I can't . . . can't stop crying

. . . Ohhhhhhhhhhh!" And then she just wept and wailed—for to have been tricked and caught again was bitter hurt indeed. Satisfied, Sly bent down and stripped off her thong.

The poisoned lingerie had made a good start on things, but the hunter was taking no chances now. He gave her pussy a nice hard nip—enough to make her squeal, but not to knock her out. Then he gathered her up in his arms and took her back to where the other girls still lay, crying and kicking as hard as ever. They all looked safely subdued; but he nipped their pussies, too—made them squeal just like their sister-villainess. This would be his practice from now on, no matter what kind of fay he bagged; for it was clear you couldn't rest easy with a bite to the bosom alone.

In the meantime, the redhead had softened up quite nicely; it was time for the Lady Killer to do its magic. "Unnnnhhhhh," she groaned as he slipped it in, "you . . . pussy-killing bastard!" But, along with abuse, she gave him plenty of tears and sobs. And she had one hard, whimpery, kicky orgasm after another: eighteen in all. When she'd kicked her last, he went on to the others; and he sent them off in much the same way.

Years later, whenever he thought of this exploit, he dwelt with most pleasure on the girl who (for a time at least) just wouldn't cry.

THE END