Autumn's Harvest

Michael Colter walked by the pumpkin patch every year, and every year he wondered how Old Man Wittig managed to make those pumpkins grow so big.

There were those that said Wittig sold his soul to a spirit of the Wire Woods. And true, there was always some poor sod that seemed to vanish along that road as the years grew long. But Michael put little stock in such tales. There'd not been a witch in the region for eighty years, and the cursed lands had been pushed back far beyond the borders of their village. The wards on the distant posts that separated the fields from the forest glowed hot with power, strung along the distance like a ribbon of stars, and not a devil, sprite, or any other fey thing could cross that boundary.

But when he walked by the patch and saw those orange gourds growing ripe and heavy, and when the wind whistled through trees growing thin of leaves and a sky overcast with a steely grey, he recalled the rumors of the missing, and shivered in the cold.

He was on his way back to his family's farm that late night, later than he should have been. He'd spent overlong in the town's library and hadn't realized the time until the librarian had told him they were closing. The air was growing dark, the moon yet to rise, and even as he walked the night closed in more and more. A time the old folks knew as the Whispering Hours. Back when the forest grew closer, it was said the spirits of the Wire Woods would tempt men and girls of marriageable age to cross beyond the borders of the wards, and find their destiny in the arms of giggly sprites and hungry alraunes.

Michael shrugged off such talk. Superstitions were not for him. He was a man of education. His family did well enough. His brother would inherit the farm. His sisters went off to marry some of the tradesmen in town, and he was to go to the Academy in Morrinton come spring's breaking. He had the mind of a scholar and no small skill in magic, and life on the farm had given him the build of a workhorse, which stretched his coat comfortably over his chest. He was meant for greater things than to be a farmer. Greater things indeed.

Come to me.

Michael stopped dead and looked out over Wittig's fields. He noted with some interest that the pumpkins hadn't been coming in as well as other years. The rinds were still pale and nestled in their vines like eggs waiting for a broody hen. Michael rubbed his chin, wondering, then shrugged and started off again.

Here.

He turned to the patch again, his eyes roaming across the field. He hadn't imagined that one. He was sure of it. A plaintive whisper hanging in the wind. A woman's voice that tickled his ear and made pins and needles dance up and down his arms.

"Hello?" he called.

No answer came but the soft sigh of the wind and the rustle of leaves blown across the acres. But as he stood there, he saw something glowing through the gloom. A flicker of a lamp swaying out among the fields. Michael leaned over the fence, trying to see who carried it, but the green flame merely hung in the air, swaying softly.

A new sensation came over Michael as he watched that distant glow. He felt again that tingle in his arms. A strange sense of vertigo gripped him, making him lean against the fence. He shook his head, banishing the momentary befuddlement, and tried to spot who it was that carried the lamp, but the gloom had only grown deeper, and the lamp seemed to recede further.

Michael drummed his fingers on the fence, then climbed over and began to make his way across the patch.

He was careful not to tread on the vines or pumpkins. He knew the labours involved in growing such crop, and it would shame him greatly to damage anything of another man's harvest. "Hello?" he called again. "Who's there?"

The flame retreated as he approached. Or perhaps it was further away than he expected. In no time, he found himself moving beyond the pumpkin patches, and towards one of the small shelters of willows that grew in tangles on every farm. The glow of the lamp danced between the trunks, flickering as if through the bars of the cage. As he approached, he spied a trail that wound into the trees.

Come here.

He paused then, uncertain. Uneasiness rose in him. Something was wrong here. Though he was still some distance from the ward posts, something made him wary of what lay before him.

Help me.

The words held such a pleading tone that it made Michael nervous. There were many rumors about Wittig. A man secretive, churlish. Quick to anger and jealous of his lands. Could he have harmed a woman who'd been walking by? Dumped her body among the trees thinking she were dead? Or had she escaped here, and was waiting for a rescuer?

His stomach clenching, but his mind made up, Michael moved down the narrow path through the trees.

Now, at last, the light of the lantern grew closer. The glow grew brighter. Brighter. Its flames fluttered, and Michael swore he could make out a figure among its embers. A feminine form that swayed and danced and spun in dizzying patterns of ragged green. A heat that burned bright and hands that swung and beckoned and-

Michael's foot hit something, sending him crashing to the ground. He hit it hard, bruising his palms and knees, his brain seeming to rattle in his skull. The shock cleared his head and he shook it, looking back to see what it was he'd tripped on.

His mouth dropped open as he saw the prone figure laying on the ground. Though wearing a heavy brown coat with a high collar, it was near three sizes too big for the body it garbed. Wrists thin as twigs and twisted fingers clawed for the heavens. A face as wizened and wrinkled as the bark of an oak tree stared up, mouth and eye sockets gaping at the world with the dumb idiocy of death. But Michael could still make out, just barely, the familiar features of Old Man Wittig.

It was only then that Michael realized he could see easily despite the dark. He turned back towards the source of the light, and his shock was only compounded by what he saw.

Before him, nestled in the middle of the willows and atop a vast, sprawling tangle of green vines, sat the biggest pumpkin Michael had ever seen. It swelled in a huge orange orb, and several vines grew high around it, their tips curving outward like birdcages, and within them danced the fluttering green light of witchfire.

A creaking groan came from the pumpkin, and from its top leaves rustled and stretched apart. Michael stared, stunned as a figure rose out of the pumpkin. Skin a pale orange. Hair a bright green. A face radiantly beautiful, and breasts as large as the pumpkins in the field yet so much softer. Her hips plugged the pumpkin's top as she stretched from the peak, her eyes opening, glowing the poisonous green of the witchfire as she looked down on him with a smile.

"Hello," she crooned.

Michael slammed his jaw shut and scrambled to his feet. An alraune. A dryad! A creature of the forest. Winsome and cunning, he had heard countless tales of the fates that awaited those they tempted into their groves. He reeled back from the figure, only to trip again on the corpse of Old Man Wittig, this time finding himself on his rump.

"Oh dear!" the pumpkin alraune giggled. "You are a clumsy one. Here, let me help."

"I ah!" Michael gasped as vines pushed against his back, twisting under his arms and hoisting him to his feet.

"There we are. Much better," she said, then put a coquettish finger to her lip. "Hmm, although we aren't quite on the same level, are we? Why, you're just tall enough to talk to my big melons, aren't you?"

Michael stared as she hefted her impressive bust, giving those plush, orange orbs a bounce in her hands, the shadows of the lanterns fluttering across them in a way that made his head spin. He shook it off, trying to take a step back. "I... who... you can't be here," he said.

"Can't I?" the pumpkin woman said. "But I've been here for such a very long time. I am Cucuria. A pleasure to meet you."

"But... the barrier..."

She giggled again. "Ohhh, I've been in place much longer than your silly barrier. But I'm a... seasonal spirit. I only get big... and strong... and jiggly now," she cooed, giving her breasts another teasing wobble.

Michael swallowed, trying not to look at those impressive tits. "I uh... I don't..."

"Ohhhh, but let's not talk about me," Cucuria said sweetly. "Let's talk about you. And what we can do together."

"S-sorry?"

"Oh," she said, cocking her head. "Didn't you come here for me?"

"N-no! I thought I heard a woman in... in distress."

"How fortunate!" Cucuria giggled, sending her melons bouncing with mirth and the lanterns bobbing around her. "Why, that's exactly what I am. A pretty damsel in distress."

"You... are?" Michael said dubiously.

"But of course, silly! I'm in ever so much need of a handsome, strong young man. One who loves big... soft... breasts..."

She gave her bust another jiggle, but Michael managed to avoid staring at them this time, focusing instead on her face. Lit by the green lamps, there was something menacing in the light of her eyes and turn of her lip. Something that made his stomach flip and his pants feel tight.

"You..." He cleared his throat. "You needed help?"

"Oh yes! It's been such a terrible season this year. I fear poor Walter simply didn't have it in him to help me."

"Walter? You mean..." Michael looked back at the shriveled corpse and felt another shudder.

"Poor soul," Cucuria sighed. "He tried to give me his all, truly, but I'm afraid he was just too old now."

"Y-you mean, you..."

"It was a mutual arrangement," Cucuria said, touching her impressive chest. "I give him the biggest pumpkins around, and he gives me just a little taste of his lifeforce. Just a quick nibble. And I make the meal... mmm... so very good..."

So that was the secret. Michael knew that alraunes could feed on the essence of their prey, though some preferred to keep their thralls in a permanent state of love-drunk, perfumed submission. But he had never heard of one like Cucuria.

"You killed him," Michael breathed.

"Oh dear, but I didn't. He killed himself. Poor thing," Cucuria sighed, once more fondling the plump orbs of her breasts. "He was just obsessed with pumping into me. Just pumping and pumping his needy cock into my flower. All so he could make these girls even... mmm... bigger."

"B-bigger?" Michael said, again caught by the bobbing of her breasts.

"Oh yes," Cucuria murmured. "So much bigger. Do you really think this is as big as I can make them? My breasts can grow so much... mmm... bigger. So heavy. So soft. So big you could bury your head between them and just... mmm... rest..."

Michael blinked. The lanterns were swaying around her again, their glow framing her, illuminating her as her hips began to slowly sway from side to side. He felt a pull towards the alraune. As if the world were bending around her. Twisting and shaping itself to draw him in deeper and deeper towards her.

"I... I sh-should go," he gasped, turning.

"Are you sure?" Cucuria said, one of her lanterns suddenly dangling before him, the flame within swaying, captivating his eyes. "But I haven't even made my offer."

"I uh... I don't think..." Michael said distantly as he watched the lantern bob, the green flame flickering and dancing. Fluttering and swirling...

"But you haven't even heard what it is," Cucuria said, her lantern moving around him, pulling him as if his eyes were tethered to the flame, compelling him to again face the pumpkin girl, her pouty lips filled with a smile, her lidded eyes gleaming with glowing promise. "Shouldn't you hear my offer first?"

"I don't... I don't think..."

"Would it really be so bad?" Cucuria said.

Michael hesitated, his eyes following the lantern as it swayed, the witchfire again vaguely resembling a woman. A woman with big... soft breasts...

Would it be so bad? Just hearing her out surely wouldn't... wouldn't be a problem. "I... I suppose I could listen..."

"What a good boy," Cucuria cooed, her words sending shivers up Michael's spine. "I knew you would. Such a clever man knows a good deal when he hears one. And it is suuuuch a good deal. I'm sure you'll absolutely love. It."

"Uh huh," he said, watching the flickering green flame sway, her tones rising, falling, like the ticking of a clock with every pendulous sway.

"It's very simple, my handsome human. You give me some... mmm... of that wonderful lifeforce of yours, and make my breasts... mmm... all big... and soft... and you can do just... anything with them."

"A-anything?" Michael said breathlessly.

"Anything," Cucuria crooned.

Michael... Michael knew something was wrong here. And yet... and yet he couldn't look away from her. From her chest. From her big, soft breasts. And to make them bigger... it stunned him to imagine. Those ripe melons growing heavier. Softer. Big as his head. Bigger than his head. Big enough to bury his head between them.

And yet... and yet...

He forced himself to remember Wittig's body, because he couldn't quite seem to move his head and look at it. Not while that lantern flame was swaying above her big orange breasts. Not when the shadows danced and chased each other over those curves with the swing of the lantern. He licked his lips. "I... I can't... Wittig..."

"Was so veeeeery old," Cucuria said, her voice like the whisper of an autumn breeze. Dripping with honeyed condescension. "So old and... used up... And it took him ever so many years to get so... drained... And you're so very young. So very strong. So very..." Her tongue flicked across her lips. "Virile. Not to mention your magic. Why, I bet I won't even need to touch your lifeforce. I bet I can just drink that sweet magic of yours. Just a quick sip, and you can do anything with my breasts. Why not sample them? Why not see if it's worth it? Would one try really be so bad?"

Michael knew it would be. Instinctively he realized this. Yet he couldn't seem to look away. He felt the warmth in his veins. The tingling arousal and heaviness of his balls. Gods he was warm. Gods he was horny. And what was a taste? A sample? Would it be so bad? Wittig had lived for decades. What was one quick try?

"I... I suppose... suppose a taste..." he said softly.

"Attaboy," Cucuria said, her eyes shining in the glow of the lamps. "Now, take off those silly pants. You don't need them."

"Don't need them...?"

"That's right."

Michael's hands moved slowly, as if still not quite believing he was doing this. But he was. And it was fine. Everything was fine. He'd just get a taste. See what happened. Then he could head home. He could go home and... and forget all this happened.

But only after.

Only after...

He shucked his pants off, his cock tingling in the cool autumn breeze, his balls aching in the fondling of the wind. Cucuria's eyes lit with anticipation.

"Good boy. My my! That's a lovely cock. So big and thick. Mmmm. I can't wait to give it a taste."

Michael flushed with embarrassment and pleasure. His eyes were caught as a vine twisted up from the base of Cucuria's pumpkin, the tip ending in a large bulb. As he watched the bulb opened, revealing a slick hole, drooling with sap.

"Come closer," Cucuria said, her voice a whisper tickling in his ears. "Come closer, and let me show you... some fun..."

Michael nodded, drawn forward by the bobbing lamp. He found himself right before the alraune, her impressive breasts before his eyes, wobbling tantalizingly in the fluttering shadows of the witchfire lamps.

"Good boy," Cucuria crooned.

"Ah!" Michael gasped as the bulb engulfed his cock, swallowing it in the warm tightness of its embrace. He groaned, his legs wobbling as the bulb gave a hungry suck, rippling around his manhood, sucking him like the most wonderful pair of lips he had ever known.

"Mmmmm. That's it," Cucuria breathed. "Goooood boy. Oh, I can feel how virile that big, thick cock of yours is. And those balls!" She giggled as vines slithered around his groin, cupping his balls in their twining grasp. "Mmm. So very full. I can't wait to get a taste of that cum."

Michael panted, barely able to process her words. His cock throbbed, needy, desperate. The flutter of the lamps sending shadows spinning around his eyes, their glow washing over his rapturous face as he thrust shamelessly into the hungry bulb, the slick sap making his cock so sensitive. So slick. "Ah!" he gasped. "Ah... ah... nnnnn! G-good. So gooood!"

"I know, stud," Cucuria said, her hands gently cupping his cheeks, tilting his head back so he was looking into her glowing eyes. "It's so good. So good for you. I'll be so very good for you. And all you gotta do is pump. Pump that thick, manly cum for me. Pump for my tits. Pump it, stud. Pump. Pump!"

Michael obeyed. He couldn't stop. Couldn't dream of stopping. The feel of her bulb sucking his cock was beyond anything he'd known. The sap oozed down his shaft, warm on his balls. His body ached. He could feel his cum churn. His pleasure grow. His orgasm growing nearer. Nearer. His balls fit to burst! Just a little more. A little more...

"O-oooooooh!" Michael groaned, his body shuddering, his orgasm surging up from his heavy balls, pounding through his veins, rushing into his cock and exploding into the waiting flower. He shuddered as he pumped, as the bulb swallowed, thick bulges working down the vine and feeding into Cucuria's base. He sagged, eyes fairly rolling back, body shuddering in unspeakable pleasure as her bulb drank down his cum, only remaining standing by the vines supporting his back and her hands on his head.

"Oh yesssss!" Cucuria moaned, her eyelids fluttering, lashes beating like leaves caught on an autumn breeze. "Oh baby yesss! So mmm... so goood! So much better than Wittig's watery seed. Mmm. And look... ah... look at that."

She tilted his head down, and Michael gaped as he watched her breasts bulge, swelling with every swallow of her stem, her orange tits growing so big and heavy he could fairly hear them slosh with her sap.

"Oh... Oh g-gods," he breathed.

"All thanks to you, handsome," Cucuria cooed. "Quite the taste, hm? And you're still so hard! So vigorous. Do you want another taste?"

"A-another?" Michael gasped. "B-but..."

"Pleeeease?" Cucuria cooed, easing him forward, burying his face between those swelling orbs. "For meeeee?"

Michael's eyes rolled back as those massive breasts engulfed his head. Perfect. Flawless. Soft. Firm. A farm boy like him knew the quality of good produce, and the melons engulfing his head were blue ribbon winners for sure. He shivered in the cool autumn night, but not from the cold. Another teasing suck engulfed his cock, and Michael groaned in delight.

"Y-yesssss," he gasped.

"Good boy," Cucuria giggled. "We'll make a wonderful farmer of you yet."

Michael could only moan as he found himself bending his knees, kneeling against the pumpkin of her lower body, his hips working, pumping him into the milking bulb. His hands cupped her massive breasts, squeezing them around his head, bouncing them, nuzzling them, his lips kissing those orange tits. Adoring them. Entranced by him.

By the witchlight of the pumpkin girl, Michael rutted into her, every spurt of his cum swelling the breasts around his head, yet never blocking out Cucuria's words. Words that slithered into his helpless mind, wrapping up his thoughts in their dulcet tones and gentle instructions.

After all, there would be no question as to him taking over Wittig's farm. His family would be delighted he was staying in town. Wittig had no heirs, so there would be no question of his ownership. Most would simply chuckle and shake their heads, saying that to farm was in the blood.

And his pumpkins would be even bigger than Wittig's ever were. Even heavier. Even plumper.