The Fairy’s Peach

5 min read

photo: MetArt

The Fairy’s Peach

A certain guilt takes hold when an argument you’ve used against your spouse is adopted by your kids. I had spoiled many trips to the farm with comments that fruits at the grocery store were bigger, cheaper, or lasted longer.

But to hear it from your precious child…

My wife was kind of stubborn, so she headed to the farm alone on that Sunday morning. She loved to pick fruit and would never miss an opportunity to bite into a big, juicy peach or two.

I figured I should have dinner ready to go when she got home, but she wasn’t responding to my texts. It was starting to get dark and my worries finally went away when she barged through the side door with an oversized box of ripe peaches and an odd smirk on her face. She offered no explanation of why she was so late, and she was unusually quiet at dinner.

“You seem kind of happy,” I said.

“Well,” she said. “I got a glimpse of the Peach Fairy.”

The lack of response from the kids didn’t seem to bother her. The only time they thought about fairies nowadays was when they were negotiating the going rate of a lost tooth.

When they were younger, the kids were very curious about the Peach Fairy, a legend promoted by Peach Fairy Farm. They were always on the lookout for a woman with glittery skin, blazing red hair, and a stick wand stuck into a glowing peach.

We never told the kids the whole story. Like most fairytale origins, it was kind of creepy. It started when a woman in her early 20s went missing during the reconstruction era. Some of the locals blamed it on Grant’s men. More hateful men presented witnesses swearing it was the Freedmen. The family stepped in to prevent any bloodshed. They wouldn’t let hate claim their hearts. They had not lost hope even though the only trace of their beloved was a trail of half-eaten peaches leading into the forest.

“This land has been good to us,” her papa said. “It will bring her back.”

Each summer their hopes were infused with reported sightings of a woman with red hair — just like their Darcy — wandering the orchards. They would spend most summer nights on their porch surveying their land, and they wouldn’t go to bed until all the wax had melted away.

As generations passed, the legend evolved. It was glossed over and hijacked by the local chamber of commerce for marketing purposes. All the girls in the county, young and old, dressed up like the Peach Fairy to mark the end of the season. The “last peach” was offered up for the fairy after all the others had been consumed — peeled for cobbler, churned into ice cream, squished into wine, canned for colder times.

After dinner, my wife asked me if I could get the kids down so she could wash up. She was waiting near the door when I finally made it to the bedroom. Her naked skin was tight and covered in goosebumps.

“I didn’t just get a glimpse of the Peach Fairy,” she whispered in my ear. “I got a taste of her. And she tasted me.”

She gave me a peachy kiss and told me to come to bed with her. “Take your clothes off,” she said. “I want to tell you about her.”

We curled up under the sheets and kissed. My wife grabbed my neck and pulled me down her body. “You should have me while I’m still ripe,” she said.

She was sweeter than usual. As I ate her out, she told me the story.

My wife had been disappointed. She had barely picked any fruit as most of the good stuff had been picked over. Only the doughnut varieties were left and those were too sweet even for her. She found herself wandering the orchards when she heard a man yelling over the grind of a tractor. “Last call!”

She was breathing heavy and sweating when she took a seat on the wagon, trying to avoid a splinter. They passed row after row of peach trees when a flash of white caught her attention. Whatever it was, it was moving in the same direction as the tractor but from a distance. At first, she thought it was an animal. But it had a human form. It looked like a woman.

She took a seat on the wagon closest to the driver. “Did we get everyone?” she yelled over the motor.

He nodded.

“Can you stop?” she said.

“It’s almost three miles back,” he said.

She regretted the request as she walked a lonely row of bare trees, feeling the rot of wasted peach squish under her flip-flops. She was pondering her next steps with determined fists on her hips when a voice called from behind.

“You’re looking up the wrong tree.”

The woman’s voice was soothing, intoxicating almost. She was a bit of a shadow. The sun burned behind her, outlining the bright orange in her hair and bringing out the red in freckles that dotted her pale skin.

As my wife approached, she could see that the woman had no clothes on or shoes or anything. Her feet were curled around the rough patches of bark at the fork of a mature peach tree. Just a foot or two off the ground, her chest was level with my wife’s lips.

Looking up, my wife could see the woman had a beautiful face. She looked young but also ancient. Her skin was unblemished. Her eyes were emerald green. Her naturally red lips were thin and motionless. Her body was petite and wholesome.

The woman’s forearms covered what appeared to be small breasts. She had three or four peaches in her hands.

“Why are you here?” the woman asked.

“To pick fruit,” my wife said.

“The orchard welcomes you,” the woman said. “Whatever you like is yours.”

My wife was drawn to her. As she came closer, the woman added some fuzz beneath her midriff, squeezing a peach between her legs until its juices dripped down her inner thighs. The woman took two peaches into her open palms and held them at her breasts.

My wife savored them nice and slow. She had eaten through the flesh of both of them and was making a little bit of a mess when she got her first taste of nipple. She sucked the fairy tit, squeezing the woman’s precious cheeks as she smothered her face in peach.

“Her nipples were dripping juice.”

The woman let the peaches fall to the ground and gave my wife her fill. When she had run dry the woman bent over and started to lick the sweet spots off my wife’s chin, neck, and cheeks. They kissed long and slow, clamping their lips and letting their tongues move freely.

“She put her hands on my shoulders and pushed me to the ground.”

There wasn’t much left of the peach between her legs. The woman opened up and let the last peach drop to the ground. My wife sucked from the woman’s peachy fuzz until the sweetness went away. She let her tongue roam to find the sweet stickiness on her insides.

“Her clit was buried in my open mouth and I curled the tip of my tongue inside her until I found her pit,” my wife said. “She was easier to please than I thought she would be. It was like she’d been waiting for me for ages.”

With her elbows locked on the limbs of the tree, the woman screamed with delight. “I could feel her scream but no noise came out.”

The woman was slumped over in the tree for several moments before she told my wife to get naked in the grass. When she had complied, my wife was told to close her eyes. “If you open them I’ll disappear.”

My wife tried to explain the experience as I continued to feast on her cunt, but she had a hard time even thinking of what happened without reliving the experience. “I felt her all over my body. My hairs were electrified. Everything that could feel good did, it was like… oh. Oh my god,” she said.

Her juices exploded over me.

She had nothing left and was nearly asleep as the rest of the story drained out of her.

It felt like she was floating on the grass when the woman whispered into her ear. “Tell mama not to wait up.” My wife opened her eyes and nothing was there but a box of peaches.

The room went quiet and then I heard my wife snoring. I couldn’t take my tongue away. She still tasted sweet and I held off as long as I could. When it was time I pressed my dick into the wet sheets and soiled them with my seed. I crawled to her side and fell asleep still hard between her cheeks.

We believe in the Peach Fairy. She represents dreams that won’t die. She’s a taste that won’t go away.

We never miss peach season. The kids stay home and play video games.

Junkman (@slipperyjunk) | Twitter

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