Gather round, and hear ye here, the tale o' the Cursed Pumpkin Patch.

Tis not a tale for the faint of heart, and there are many who would gainsay this story. Talking of faerie folk, or psychedelics or other such nonsense. But tis true.

On the outskirts of town it will come, with the turning of the seasons. A patch filled with all manner of greenery and richly grown pumpkins, plump and ripe gourds fit for any Halloween decoration. Yet herein is the trap, for those unwary folk not forewarned of the peril they might find themselves in. For inevitably the Patch will attract the unwary...or indeed the unwise. Those who have been dared, or dare themselves, to venture out and challenge its perils. It is these unfortunate souls that will be ensnared on Halloween Night.

For as they approach, these brave yet foolish men and women, they'll begin to hear the Song o' the Patch. A haunting tune, so it is said, filled with longing and lust. Provoking an answering yearning in turn from those hearts and minds not prepared to forestall such feelings. And so they will be propelled into the Patch, compelled by a song not their own, yet one that worms its way into mind and heart, and pierces their very soul.

So now the unfortunate stands, amid pumpkins, those weighty orange gourds, and all the leafy greenery and vines of their most fecund growth...and it is that moment that the Patch will truly make itself known. Vines will slither up and ensnare wrists and ankles, legs and arms. Prickly feelers will slice clothes, irritate and agitate flesh, and push the now captive explorer into paroxysms of struggling. Suddenly aware of their peril, but helpless now to prevent what comes next.

The vines will add themselves, ever further engulfing them in tight cords of living plant life, lashing limbs together and covering over bodies. Pulsing in the rhythm of the Patch...and then entwining themselves yet further around the squirming forms of their capture. Pulsating vines will push and worm their way ever inwards, breaching mouth, and pressing themselves between bucking legs...filling every hole available...and then beginning their age old dance. Calming the yet panicked victim with the sustenance of the patch. Some foul concoction that stirs the loins and inflames the mind. Makes it utterly impossible to think of anything other than sex and climax and pleasure...escape becomes a burdensome chore, and one easily sloughed off.

For now the unfortunate is brought firmly to the ground, utterly engulfed by vines, plugged in every witch way, and capable only of moaning in ecstasy as their minds are conquered by the Patch. Pulled into a weltering whirled of lust and aching need...and where pleasure is held off. Denied...for the Patch is not yet done.

Oh no friends, for a final indignity awaits. They are pulled ever deeper into the mass of greenery...and sucked down into the earth...until only their heads remain...and then the orgasms begin. Only then once fully immersed does the pleasure begin...for the Patch has plans for the excretions of pleasure that its human catches provide. It is from such fertilizer that the Patch renews itself...and grows. It is from such fertilizer that new pumpkins are born in the Patch...and sculpted around the frantic, lolling heads of its human prizes. Its human captives.

The terrible truth, leery listeners, is indeed that. Every Pumpkin in the Patch conceals a human head, one that might have been there for months...or years...perhaps even decades. For the Patch keeps them preserved somehow, in its devilish manner. For its prisoners, time ceases to pass. There is only sensation. Only the constriction of the vines...the pulsing and thrusting...the pleasuring and aching...and the quivering release. Nothing else passes through what remains of their minds...and the Patch feasts upon the released energy.

And every year, when the Patch appears...it is bigger. Larger in extent. Richer in Pumpkins...and in captives.

'ware the Patch, canny listeners, lest ye be snared...

Happy Halloween!