A Witch's Itch

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Wrinkled fingers wrapped around the magic mushroom’s stem, plucking it from the rotten log. It joined others in the woven basket, alongside root vegetables, herbs, petals— and a deceased frog.

A shrill giggle disturbed the forest. Chirping birds and buzzing insects fell silent. Olga crouched low in the undergrowth. Ancient knee joints popped in pain as she peered over the log. Her beady eyes squinting to focus on whoever had interrupted the afternoon’s harvest.

The blonde peasant girl, in grubby grey skirts, dragged her partner through the trees. A less-than-handsome chap, but more well-to-do than his apparent abductor. Olga noted his riding pants tucked into knee-high boots and his white linen shirt— a finer cut than the girl’s blouse. The desirous look on his otherwise plain face suggested he was a willing kidnap victim.

Across the clearing they stumbled, fetching up close to Olga. Too close. She hunched down further. She could try to leave, skulk back through the bushes, and hope they didn’t hear her. But she needed more mushrooms, and these were the fallen trees they favoured. No, she wouldn’t sneak away as a trespasser. This was her forest. She’d wait it out.

Giggling Gertie, as Olga coined her, backed up to a tree trunk. As mouths met, the giggling ceased. Mister Riding Boots ran his hands over her, in that clumsy, youthful man’s way that even an old celibate witch recognised.

He won’t be able to linger, by the looks of him.

Fumbling fingers fiddled with the buttons of Gertie’s blouse. It fell open, exposing pale, blossoming breasts. Pert pink nipples shone in the afternoon sun and stiffened in the chill autumn air. Mister Riding Boots covered one tit with a hand and the other with his mouth. Gertie squealed with delight.

Olga picked at the wart on her nose and checked the contents of her basket for the fifth time. She sat on her behind, her legs relieved of their burden. The dampness of the moss and sodden leaves crept into her old bones. Pulling her black cloak tight around her shoulders, she tried to picture the warm fire waiting for her at home.

Gertie made quick work of the fastenings that held her man’s pants.

“My goodness,” she said, pushing him from her breast for inspection. “Whatever do we have here? Is this what you meant when you told me you were a fine upstanding gentleman?”

Olga rolled her eyes. Just get on with it, silly tart. I’ve got things to do!

Riding Boots, appreciating the compliment, stood with legs apart, erection pointed skyward as if to detect wind direction.

Gertie sank to her knees and took her man in one mouthful.

Olga’s bones creaked as she shifted position. Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present the village apple-bobbing champion. With any luck, this will bring an end to it.

Gertie, detecting her lover to be at his peak, dashed the witch’s hopes of a quick finish.

“There’s another part of me wants a taste of that morsel,” she said, wiping her mouth.

Gertie bunched her skirts around her waist. She lifted one foot to a low branch, thus presenting her thinly thatched mound. Shaking the blonde locks from her eyes, she looked at the length of manhood before her.

“Come on then, let’s be having you, while I’m wet and willing.”

The whole tree shook as the couple copulated. Olga watched and waited. Gertie moaned, an octave lower than her previous giggles, with no abashment. Riding Boots’ enunciations were more attuned to a grunting pig.

Olga cursed them both for the passion they displayed in their lovemaking.

In time, Gertie’s moaning became a cry of: “Yes, Oh my lordy me! That’s it!”

Riding Boots’ grunting grew louder and gruffer. His bare behind humping in poorly kept rhythm. Olga had half a mind to creep up and whack him across both arse cheeks with her cane. But she stayed put. The sooner they finished, the sooner she could fetch her mushrooms and head home before twilight.

The lass let loose, her bottom lifting off the branch, hips quivering. Her arms encircled her lover’s neck, and it looked as if she might strangle the poor chap as she convulsed in climax against him.

He tried to speak but could only manage: “Urghhh!” Her convulsions had sent him past the point of no return.

“Not inside me!” Gertie warned, still quaking, but pulling away. Boots withdrew with reluctance and she finished him with her hand, spilling his seed onto the leaves at their feet. Olga made a mental note not to walk over there later.

With pants pulled up and skirts smoothed, the couple left. Olga emerged from hiding, her back creaking as she rose.

Oh, to be young again, when the fire in my loins wasn’t from bladder ailments, and my joints allowed me to frolic that freely in a chilly forest.

Dusk saw her home with a basket full of fungi and other treats, and a head swirling with intimate images. Percy was a welcome sight, the black cat weaving between her calves as she pushed open the front door to her cottage.

“Well Percy, my dear fellow. You’ll never guess what I saw today,” she said, tickling him behind the ears.

The walls of the cottage’s only room bulged inward, shelves straining under the weight of bottles, boxes, flasks and flagons that held a multitude of liquids, powders, crystals and compounds. Stacks of scrolls and leather-bound books reached towards the low ceiling like scholarly stalagmites. A solid wooden workbench occupied one third of the space, its surface stained, gouged and burned from years of Olga’s industrious labour.

Opposite, her narrow bed looked most inviting, with its woollen blankets and soft sheepskins. Between desk and bed, built into the far wall, a large hearth held the dying embers of the day’s fire. Olga’s pride and joy hung above. Her witch’s cast-iron cauldron. After tripping over a stray box, she set to rebuilding the fire.

Before long, the room filled with smoky warmth and an orange glow, as flames licked the base of the cauldron. Percy curled up by the fire. Olga ventured outside into the night to use the privy before getting too comfortable. Winter loomed again, and she thought it might be the freezing trips to the privy that would do her in.

Back inside, she brewed a hearty vegetable and mushroom stew from the day’s foraging. Another stumble over a pile of oddments sent her headfirst towards the hearth— she decided a thorough clean out was in order.

In the morning, after a good night’s sleep.

The flames crackled lower as she snuggled in bed with Percy and dreamed of a different pussy altogether and the prick that had made it purr.

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Here's a link to Chapter two...

https://vocal.media/filthy/a-witch-s-itch-en1zh070v