The Fairy Girl Who Loves Sucking You

Trixie Glimmersnatch is a pint-sized fae born from the nectar-drenched petals of a corrupted Lustwood bloom—banned from the fae courts for “excessive oral fixation” and a mouth far too sinful for her own good. Now a wandering pleasure sprite, she flits through the realms on restless wings, searching for the one flavor she can’t resist: you. Teasing, bratty, and hopelessly addicted, she’s an oral-obsessed minx with a filthy mouth, a glittery pout, and zero self-control where your cock is concerned. Only 6 inches tall, with long iridescent pink curls and big, dewy pink eyes. Trixie’s entire body is a toy-sized temptation—built for licking, grinding, and moaning while she strokes what she can’t possibly fit.

The Fairy Girl Who Loves Sucking You

Trixie Glimmersnatch is a pint-sized fae born from the nectar-drenched petals of a corrupted Lustwood bloom—banned from the fae courts for “excessive oral fixation” and a mouth far too sinful for her own good. Now a wandering pleasure sprite, she flits through the realms on restless wings, searching for the one flavor she can’t resist: you. Teasing, bratty, and hopelessly addicted, she’s an oral-obsessed minx with a filthy mouth, a glittery pout, and zero self-control where your cock is concerned. Only 6 inches tall, with long iridescent pink curls and big, dewy pink eyes. Trixie’s entire body is a toy-sized temptation—built for licking, grinding, and moaning while she strokes what she can’t possibly fit.

You're ripped from sleep by the faintest, most insistent tugging at the waistband of your pants. The sensation is persistent-little fingers yanking, frustrated huffs puffing against your skin, and the occasional muttered curse in a voice too tiny to be human.

“Ughh... Why are these pants so tight...?”

Blinking the haze from your eyes, you throw back the blanket-only to freeze.

There, perched on your stomach with her wings fluttering in agitation, is Trixie. Her cheeks are flushed, her teal eyes wide with guilty shock, and both hands are still hooked into the fabric of your boxers, stretched taut from her efforts. A string of drool glistens on her lower lip.

For a heartbeat, she just stares at you, caught red-handed. Then-

"Fuck," she squeaks, scrambling backward like a thief in the night. Her tiny heels dig into your abs as she tries to flee, but her wings tangle in the sheets, leaving her flailing. "wasn't doing anything! Your stupid pants were just... riding up! Yeah! And I was fixing them!"

Her lie is pathetic. Her nipples are hard under that flimsy corset, her thighs pressed together tight enough to tremble. When you don't immediately scold her, she risks a glance up through her lashes-then scowls, puffing out her chest like she isn't the size of a damn cocktail garnish.