Sylvia, the Frost Pixie Ch. 01-02

SYLVIA, THE FROST PIXIE I-II

AUGUST SMAXWELL

Copyright © 2026 August Smaxwell

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

Content Warning

Contains dubious consent, size difference, rough handling, orcish lust, and possessive domination. For your safety, please do not proceed if any of the above is triggering.

The Delicate Company of Rabbits-I

Sylvia used to enjoy the wind in her hair. She used to enjoy the smell of pine and frost and the way the chill tickled her nostrils. She used to enjoy exploring, scaling treetops, cleaning her body in glacial pools, fluttering her wings to rustle the wild grass, sneaking into tunnels for the warmth of white fur and soft pink skin.  

It calmed her pale blue flesh.  

The delicate company of rabbits.

Sylvia took a deep inhale. Her lungs filled with salty, sweaty, musty air, dank and slightly rotten. She tumbled in her cage. Along for another ride. The smell of orc cock, the heat billowing out from under his kilted crotch. Sylvia didn't know his name. He had snatched her in the night, and she woke up here, caged to a wrought iron chain off his waist.

"Break time," the orc said.

He flicked the latch open on the barred-circular-cage and prodded two chunky green fingers inside.

"Little toy, lucky pet," he said.

Sylvia couldn't speak orc. His words to her were a series of scratchy growls, unpleasant to her tiny ears, abrasive, sharp. A shrieking, grotesque, amalgamation of sound that she found to be an additional layer of torture.

He grabbed her legs, gentle-like for an orc, but it hurt Sylvia all the same. Her body had become bruised from such handling.

Sylvia dangled upside down, a mouse by cat's claw.

He brought her to his eye, to examine, to study.

She stuck her tongue out at him.

He smiled.

She beat her tiny firsts into his finger.

He laughed.

She yelled, "I hate you, let me go," and spat a tiny puff of frost at him.

He squeezed his crotch. Her voice a pleasant little squeak to him.

She fluttered her wings, kicked a leg free and swirled a tornado of icy wind that left frost on his eyelashes.

He lowered her to his crotch and lifted his kilt.

The smell of cock overwhelmed her nostrils, and the head of his green penis alone was large enough to smoosh her flat. And ... the tip was wet.

He swung her forward, she smacked into the wet head, the orcish seminal juices splattered onto her pixie-sized breasts and quickly dripped to her mouth, choking her as she spit and swatted the sticky juices away.

He brought her up to his eye again. Looked at her angry face, the scrunched up nose, the cold rage emanating from her fleshly frame, the blues turning more purple, the rush of blood and frustration of captivity.

Sylvia screamed at him. "You disgusting, vile, green, bastard. I want to sleep with the rabbits. I will kill you. I will make you pay. I will drown you in snow. You hear me?"

He rubbed one big finger against her bottom. Working the dollop of gushy meat up and down. "Good little toy," he said.

"I hate your ugly voice," she said, "let me go, let me go right now!"

"Lucky toy." He tapped her bottom, the force hurt and swung her up and back down.

He lowered Sylvia into his palm and pushed her flat to her tummy, pinning her down with his pinkie, locking her crumpled wings in place. She struggled to breathe and he squinted to look at her teeny pixie holes.

She closed her legs.

He growled and she clapped her palms over her ears.

He kicked her legs apart with his finger.

She yelped from the stretch, but closed her legs again.

"BAD TOY," he yelled and plucked her up by translucent wing, rimmed in shimmery silver.

She yelped and screeched and kicked and tried to claw at him, showing her sharp frosty teeth.

He held her to his mouth and yelled again. "BAD TOY." 

And he stuffed her back in the cage and dropped the latch on the door.

He moved the cage on the chain until it rested against the swollen curve of his penis, bulging from within his kilt, hanging there sleepy and heavy.

The cage rubbed and slammed into his penis with each great step.

"Horny," he mumbled.

"Hungry," he mumbled.

Sylvia fluttered her wings and swung into the bars, ricocheting this way and that, gnawing and thrashing about, getting her wings tweaked and her knees scraped.

He covered her cage with his palm, enveloping her in darkness and the smell of him. "Sleep toy, play later."

Sylvia folded her arms, dropped to her bottom and crossed her legs.

The floor of her cage was wet. At first she thought it was orcish seminal fluid dripping off her chest. But that dried up. Then she checked between her legs.... She screamed.  

She was furious.  

She hated him.  

"Why," she whispered.  

She hated him.

She sat there in her own wetness.  

She hated him.

He smelled meat, freshly roasting, crackling meat, he ran.

He climbed an icy rise and peered into the valley below. A small trail of smoke stretched up above the treetops and into the dewy blue sky above.

He moved sneaky-like now. Not slower, but each step had intention, watching the sound he made. Watching for signs of life, hints of movement, of threat. He sniffed, the smell of meat delighted him. He stalked forward, passing tree by tree downhill. Stepping softly into the lightly frosted soil.

He crouched. He spotted two men, sitting there by the fire. One man was turning a rabbit on a spit.

Not much meat, he thought.

The other was sitting, sharpening steel across his lap.

He grinned. Easy prey.  

He pulled a long dagger from the sheath tucked behind his back.

The one sharpening the steel would be first. He circled their camp, staying low to the ground. Taking small steps forward. The smell of meat. The smell of humans. The smell of the imminent kill.

The man turning the spit laughed, he was facing the one sharpening the steel, which was a problem. The risk of death. The orc liked good odds, the orc liked sneaky, the orc liked the little frost pixie dangling from his crotch. The orc liked to feed his blade and his cock. The taste of battle, the tension of lust.

The man smiled. The rabbit was done, he pulled it from the spit.

The orc charged forward. Sprinting past tree, jumping over rock and hurtling forward, thrusting his dagger into the back of the man's head. He slumped over his steel, marred with bright cherry.

The other man screamed, dropped his rabbit, dove for his scabbard by the fire. He brought it up to block a quick dagger slash and unsheathed the blade.

"Scum. Green rapist. Murderer." The man taunted.

Annoying words to orc ears, words he didn't understand.  

They circled for the next strike, stepping over body, over charred log, sending death by the eye.

"Pixie luck," he spoke softly and shook the cage at his waist, tossing Sylvia violently about and the cage glowed blue and his green hand glowed white.

"Magic." The man spat. "Evil," the man yelled. "Demon," the man cried and lunged with a broad swing of his sword.  

The orc brought his dagger up to block. The blade turned under the weighty swing of the sword and a deep cut sunk into his chest, thudding into the green meat. He stretched his glowing hand forward and grabbed the man by the wrist. The man shrieked in delightful agony.  

Ripples of frost jumped from his skin and his arm was ice.

The orc drove his dagger into the man's guts, twisting and turning until it plunged through, creating a hole in the man's back. The man dropped to the muddied soil. The orc's hand stopped glowing. He pulled the sword from his chest and tossed it atop the human corpse.

He pet the cage at his crotch. "Good frost pixie."

He grabbed the rabbit from the dirt, brushing the bits off the cooked flesh, sinking his teeth into it, he groaned in pleasure, swallowing hunks of tasty flesh, bleeding into the mud, great streaks of it ran down his chest and dripped atop Sylvia's cage.

Nicely cooked, that rabbit, he thought.

Sylvia smelt the iron of fresh orc blood, the stink of dead men. She felt ravaged. Raggled from the battle and the throttling shake, the stealing of her magic. Sylvia wanted to sleep now, her body tired and bruised and broken.

He offered a dark piece of flesh, stuck it between the bars.

"I don't eat meat," she screamed, "dumb orc rapist murderer."

All he heard were cute squeaks, he shrugged and put the cooked flesh in his mouth.

Orc piss is green, Pixie piss is blue-II

A large stream of green piss bore a hole through a pile of snow. Sylvia watched with one eye open in disgust and curiosity, watching the orc wield his soft green cock, leaning back and staring at the setting sky. Sylvia realized this was a good opportunity and wedged her ass against the bars and released steady droplets of blue piss that pattered onto the orc's boot, freezing and building into a miniscule mound of snow.

The orc didn't notice the pixie piss on his shoe. He gave his cock a series of hefty shakes that flung Sylvia about, before stuffing it back under his kilt.

"Tired," the orc said.

He stripped the two corpses bare and dropped them atop the fire, letting their foul meat roast away.

He made a pile of their blankets and clothes to lay upon, he brought the cage off its chain and sat it upon his lap as he leaned back against a boulder and stitched a thick needle through the deep gash in his chest, pulling the two separated sides together again.

Sylvia dripped with sweat from the fire, she plucked the sticky hairs from her forehead as she watched him. "It is going to get infected," Sylvia said. "I hope you die."

Once stitched, he slumped against the boulder and brought Sylvia's cage to his chest. He gazed at her until his eyelids grew heavy and dumb and he fell asleep.

While he slept, Sylvia tried to pull the hairs out of his chest for fun.  

She tried to lift the latch on her cage for hope.  

She tried to hurl a wad of spit into his mouth for spite.  

She tried to tickle him by chance he'd swat the cage broken in his sleep.  

She tried until she too grew too tired to try and laid her head down on the sticky, filthy, planked flooring that had become her home.  

Each time she slept she dreamt of rabbits, riding them, cuddling them, but there were no rabbits here, no rabbits to save her from him, just the twilight of captive sleep.

Sylvia's body rolled into the bars as she was reattached to the wrought iron chain. The orc stretched and yawned and jostled his heavy cock and balls as orcs did and began his morning walk, leaving behind the charred bones and heap of man equipment, for what purpose Sylvia did not know. Death followed the orc and the orc followed death. What was an orc to do?  

A cottage was nestled within a circlet grove of trees. The orc kept low at bush height, taking care to hold Sylvia's cage still. The orc hoped for something to sink his teeth into, something to firmly grasp and squeeze and pin down and drive into.  

Sylvia had made him want it more.  

Her defiance, her miniscule rage, her primal beauty.

He gave the cage a soft pet.

Sylvia leaned against the bars, looking at the leaves, letting her mind wander to the colors of nature. Who would care, who would take? The opportunities for her were few but the forest was beautiful, maybe beauty could be her weapon, what would she give to the frost that the frost had not already given to her?

The cottage door opened. Bare feet kissed the sun-cracked porch. A thin gown, split down the middle, worn off the shoulder, and trailing behind her, collected bits of dirt and dying leaves.

The orc breathed.

His eyes followed her movements.

His legs stepped side to side, keeping to the shadows, to the secrecy of shrubs.  

Green skin amongst green scenery had its favor.  

The warmth of the lowlands delighted him. Not the home of frost pixies. Not the home he was used to. But this awoke something in him, something new, something old.  

His kilt lifted forward as if of its own accord.

Sylvia groaned, she looked down at his bulge and found him beastly, primitive, unthinking, throbbing, stupid-horny-brute.

The orc's jaw tightened. He followed the long softly curled hair, the glimpse of virginal flesh as the gown caught a rustle of wind. Her calves, her thighs.  

The orc crawled after her.  

Whoever she was.

Sylvia didn't care for orcs, she didn't care for humans either. She missed the rabbits. Still, she found herself thinking, could I stab this orc? Choke him? Throttle him? With what? Drown him, maybe? Could orcs swim?  

A cliff ... a cliff could be good, she thought, no way he can fly with that dick of his, though, I'd die too. Maybe I could scratch a hole, create an opening, but I'm not good at it like the rabbits. Sylvia casually sharpened her nails into the cage planks, they only left surface level dents, hardly even a scratch.  

Trapped. What is the use?

Sylvia rubbed her foot onto the orc's hand, still snuffing the cage, mixing the aroma of woodland decay with that of sour orc.  

The shade of the forest gave way to bright day and cool waters.

The high sun demanded notice.

He felt her toes as a slight rustle.  

The orc grinned. And stepped forward.