Mr. Mushroom Traps His Dinner

Everyone (and everything) in this story was over eighteen years old at the time of writing.

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He was new to the town, having moved for work, and he had moved into the apartment six weeks before. His wife would follow in another two long weeks. He was lonely, but he consoled himself with lengthy ambles through the Mid Western town's abundant forested parkland. The man lived on one side and worked on the other side of a particularly large and beautiful park, which stretched nearly to the downtown area, and split right through the most direct routes from work to home, and home to work. Everyday after work he walked home, every few days picking a new route through the intervening wooded park, along well worn trails made by joggers and dog walkers, which left the paved path for the innocent depths of the urban forest.

On this particular day, a fine breezy warm day of the type only seen in early spring, the sun shone hot on his shoulders as he left the office, warming him almost to the point of breaking a sweat, but not quite, so that he had a surge of energy. What a feeling after the cold of winter! He briefly felt an urge to shed his clothes right there in the street and run in his underwear, and jump up and down on some patch of fresh lush winter grass.

In a fit of ennui this morning, when the sky looked like freezing rain, he had driven to work. So he left his car in the employee lot with his jacket tossed into the back seat, right where it sat. And he walked towards the town park, whistling a tune. Spring fever fell on him wet noodle, fresh out of the boiling pot.

The park was humming with insects, the early comers, and a college coed skated by him, as though gracefully swimming in the air which seemed warm and cool at the same time. Her little butt, taught in the black spandex, slipped back and forth in a hypnotic rhythm, and he could see her breasts just peep into view under her white t shirt, on one side, then the other, in the opposite rhythm to her butt. The dark edge of a nipple became briefly visible under the sleeveless shirt, as she swung out her arms to power each stroke of the skates.

He was aware suddenly of a little erection, and at the same time a little gaggle of laughing school girls headed toward him on the paved path, so he jumped off the track, embarrassed, and headed like a shot into the woods.

Very soon he noted that he was lost. He had not taken one of the jogging trails he was accustomed to, and with the snow melting from the branches, the forest looked different, almost strangely different. He followed this trail and that, sticking himself with thorns, even tearing his slacks on a bramble. But the branches arched over each trail seemed to get lower and lower, until he was stooped over after a few yards and stuck again. Game trails, he thought, because the park was full of deer and other critters who had adapted to urban life. The trails were muddy and the forest floor covered with little puddles of melting snow. His shoes were slick and spattered with goo. He could not tell the direction out because he had no landmarks and could not even see the sun. The bugs, mostly flies he now noted, throbbed about him with a hum now verging on maddening. An almost threatening hum, he imagined. A dog barked somewhere, menacing, far away. He almost panicked.

Instead he slipped.

And fell into mud and brambles.

His hands were in the mud, the knees of his trousers caked and wet, his shoes full of cold water, and surrounding him in a net, grabbing stabbing brambles.

He was on a little slope which lead up a little hill. On the top of the hill he fancied he could see a ray of sunlight, and a possible clearing. From there perhaps he could see a landmark, and the way home.

He crept up the hill on his hands and knees, not able to stand and barely able to crawl through the crisscrossed wires of the sticker bush. Again the path he followed seemed to be slowly pushing him into more and more of a crouch, so that eventually his head was below his shoulders close to the soppy ground. Two yards, five yards, seven yards he struggled. Then, carefully looking up to see where he was headed, he had a shock. The clearing he hoped for was not as big as he thought. It was no more than three feet across, but (and he would have rubbed his eyes if he could move his arms freely) from a little chimney, built right out of the ground, issued white smoke. Cooking smoke, by the smell of eggs and onions wafting down the hill. The chimney was only ten inches tall and four inches wide, and made of tiny dirt colored bricks.

He stopped dead in his tracks. The chimney was only three or four feet away. Where did it lead? and what was it doing there? Mud from his forehead dripped in his eye, which clamped shut in a hurry. He reached a hand carefully up to wipe his brow. Except his hand did not move. It was stuck in the mud, about six inches deep. He tried to use his other hand to free himself but that hand was eight inches deep. And he realized he was stuck fast and slowly sinking deeper.

For the second time that day he panicked, and he began to struggle, which only made things worse. His feet to the knees were stuck fast, and his arms were sucked in now to the elbows, now past the elbows, now past the biceps, and now to the chest. He turned his head to the side and lay with his cheek on the mud. How could it get any worse than this?

He rested a moment to think. Then the little chimney rolled out a little more smoke, and he heard some clinking and banging below him, coming from within the hill.

Then he felt something tug on his shoe, hard, and the shoe popped off under the mud. Something was snaked around his ankle, and another behind his bent knee. Then the other shoe was tugged off and the leg grappled like the previous. He began to struggle violently and cry out, but he realized his hands had already been pinioned below, and were being somehow dragged through the mud towards his feet, until he was hogtied underground, with his feet and hands on one side trussed together, shoulder width apart from the other pair. Before he could start to cry like a baby, something grabbed his hair and tugged his face deep into the mud.

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And with a pop, he left the mud (at least his face did), and he was looking dimly around a cozy kitchen, carved out of the dirt of the hill, while a woman repeatedly licked her hands and with them scrubbed the muddy crust from his eyes. She mumbled to herself while she worked. Her hands, about the only thing he could see, were likely once beautiful but had been worn broad and calloused by hard work. The fingers were long and deft, flitting here and there, cajoling the dirt from every crevice with mischievous pokes and caresses. Then one poked him in the eye.

"Hey!" he yelled.

"Hey yourself," cackled the thing

cleaning him. "Hold still and and it will all be better once I get you cleaned up," she then said in a much softer tone, as one might speak to a child. Then she began to mumble to herself once again. Every few words he could pick out a phrase: "my pretty . . .", "I can't wait . . .", and "when will he be . . .".

His eyes cleared, she began to gently work on his face, constantly licking her hands, and now occasionally his face. Her breath smelled like lavender. His cheek was cool in the warmth of the hearth fire when her soft tongue flicked off a pine needle like a prehensile finger, leaving a spread of soft saliva. Her feet were beautiful little human feet, as were her hands, long and graceful, soft and agile. Her hair was a torrent of nut brown silk curls, her face the face of an innocent young girl of college age, her lips succulent and large, her teeth uniform and white, her neck a slender trail to the large white bosom below. The bosom hung weighty and firm on her willow slender frame; and below her frame did indeed become willow, because everything below her rib cage down to her human feet was like bark that had lain the winter under a blanket of leaves. Her limbs were shrunken, and her skin was wrinkled, and patch worked with veins and blotches of moist fungus and gossamer molds.

And she was only thirty inches tall.

He was hanging from the roof of her little abode, his face sticking out from her ceiling, about twenty inches from the packed straw lined floor below. Next to a warm hearth sat an old iron soup pot, scaled to her size, and next to that a block table with some onions chopped and a little chopping knife. He had clearly interrupted her preparations for dinner.

He had an instant burst of fear and then a lingering hope that he wasn't on the menu.

The hag (with the face, bosom, hands, and feet of a beautiful young girl of college age) was forced by her low ceiling, to bend her head to stand, which she accomplished by holding her head bent all the way back, so she was forever looking at the ceiling. She stopped cleaning his face, and stood under him, with her hands on his cheeks, to survey the result. "Oh my, you are a pretty one. You poor thing! You slipped in the mud and fell, my poor thing. But I will help you out of your hole in a jiffy. Let me just clean you up a bit."

She looked him up and down, and then he realized that only his knees and his crotch and his head had made it into the kitchen ceiling. His head was bent a bit with fatigue, so his chin rested near his chest. She moved down towards the crotch of his pants and his bent knees and began to scrape the mud off his trousers. When ever she touched the mud, it did not stain her, but disappeared in a poof of vapor. "Let me clean you up. And let me introduce myself!" she suddenly exclaimed. "How rude of me. I am Mrs. Mushroom." And with that, she busily began to clean him and mumble to herself.

Her hands were magical cleaning his pants, rubbing to and fro, caressing and squeezing. The warm fire on his cheeks and knees a was a nice contrast to the cool wet air he could feel on his butt through his pants above. He felt suffused with peace during the massage. Then he realized he had another erection tenting his pants, and his fear of becoming dinner returned. She saw his erection at the same time as he did, and she leapt on it with her active hands, cooing and laughing to herself, and freed it by yanking back his zipper and opening his fly.

She stood next to him, her face upturned and his down, and both looked back at his hard dick rammed through the ceiling of her house, his balls drooping down on each side.

She then looked back at him. "You know, I may have forgotten to tell you something." and she patted him on the head. "You you didn't just fall into any old hole. You fell into my husband's dinner trap, and I expect him home soon to check his trap."

He was flabbergasted, and his imagination ran wild. Not wild enough it turns out!

She pointed towards a wall directly in front of him, and on it to a row of picture he had not noticed before. In each picture, Mrs. Mushroom and Mr. Mushroom stood hugging arm in arm and smiling at the camera. And behind them and between them could be seen the proud catch, a prick hanging down from the ceiling behind their backs. Some flaccid, some hard, some small, some large, but all trapped just as he was, in the dinner trap!

Now perhaps I should take a moment to tell you what Mr Mushroom looked like in that photograph, and please forgive him if he forgot to tell. I think the memory is one he doesn't like to recall. Mr Mushroom was a tiny troll, about twenty inches tall, with a big spherical head topped with ragged dirty black hair, little beady bloodshot eyes set close together, a mouth like a slobbery wet slash across his face, and a shriveled body much like a gnarled mountaintop pine tree. The only other feature to note were his tight little buttocks, his tiny sack like two peanuts in a tea bag, and his gargantuan dick, hard as a rock, shaped like a long thin mushroom. At least it was gargantuan for him: it was about one inch wide, by about four inches long. Remember he was only twenty inches tall!

"I must get you ready, and quick!" and with that, she shoved a kitchen rag in his mouth, and went to work cleaning his package. Soon she had it sparkling, and even though he was quaking in fear, her administrations had polished the knob so well that it hung down with quivering fervor, an expectant drip hanging from the very tip. Her tongue shot out like a frog's on a fly and licked the drip. "Oh my I am naughty," she said with a laugh, "I'll spoil my dinner!"

"First, a spot of tea, then I'll set up for dinner before he arrives." She busied herself about the cabinet behind the block table and pulled out a teacup, a sugar cube, and a tiny spoon. Then she came back over to him, her upturned face breathing her hot lavender breath on his down turned face. And she began to kiss him, until she popped the sock out from between his lips, upon which she slithered in her tongue and began to caress the inside of his mouth with her soft wet muscle. She tasted like a raspberry, and with her pushing and caressing, he began to salivate. The saliva dribbled down her tongue and into her mouth, and when she had enough, she stuffed the sock back into his mouth, and let his spit pour from her mouth into the teacup. She put a hand on his cock, then moved it down and over until her fingers encircled his testicles. And squeezing gently, she pulled his testicles away from his cock and slid the teacup over his balls until they were immersed in his own warm saliva. She then held the cup in both hands and rubbed it back and forth in her palms, warming it and the liquid within with her magic friction. When steam came from the cup, she released him, and, dunking in the sugar cube, sat down to drink her ballsack tea.

After a while, she glanced at a clock he could not see, then put the cup down and stood up. She unbuttoned his slacks and, with her lovely face, all the size of a baby sized doll's head, smooshed against his pubis, she reached her arms up over his hips to grasp the back of his pants, and with one deft motion, bracing her head into his crouch, she jerked his pants off. He could suddenly feel that it had started to rain, a cold fresh spring rain. His butt was now completely exposed above. At that moment he heard a deep whoop from above and his diminutive hostess gave a leap in her delight. Master Mushroom was home!

He felt a little gnarled hand slap his right buttock and heard a guffaw in a gruff voice. The hand began to inspect the exposed cheeks, and the other helped it pull the buns apart and wiggle them in delight. He felt something blow forcefully on his stretched anus and he began to fear. He was very aware he was in a vulnerable position. And some very virgin parts were what were most exposed! He then felt one hand pressed on his lower back, and the other slid its way into the mud following the crevice of his cheeks to the base of his balls. He could then see the wrinkled little hand poke through the ceiling between his legs, covered in mud. It squeezed his balls, then opened and the little Mrs Mushroom grabbed the hand in hers and kissed it.

"Honey's home, young man! This will all be over soon enough. We will have our dinner, and you can go on your merry way." As she then went over to finish chopping onions, with her sharp little knife, like a good little old housewife with moldy sticks and branches for limbs and lower torso, he was not comforted. Meanwhile above, Mr Mushroom dropped his pants and prepared to harvest the game in his trap.

I should give you one more note about Mr Mushroom. As can be clearly seen in the forty some odd photographs on the trophy wall, Mr Mushroom is up side down. What I mean to say is that where his arms and hands should be were legs and feet and visa versa, so that when he walked, his head hung down between his feet and when he pooped or peed, he had to stand on his hands or risk an accident dribbling down onto his face, which did happen every now and again. Mr. Mushroom was not nearly so neat as the Mrs! So if you can imagine for a moment meeting Mr. Mushroom in an amorous mood, when he hugged you to him with his wiry arms wrapped around your shoulders, his dick would be shoved in your face, and his face, hanging between his thighs, would be sucking heartily on your package, that being the kind of guy Mr Mushroom was.

In the present case, things were a little different, he being trussed up like a captured hog and half in and half out of the ground. He felt Mr Mushroom's wiry arms encircle his hips, and the arms were long enough on that little monkey troll of a man that they probed down into the cozy warm kitchen until they grabbed him by the base of his dick, one on each side. Then he felt the arms steel up like a noose around his hips, he heard a throaty sigh, and he felt something hard, smooth, and warm enter his rectum. At first he did not know what it was, but as it slowly advanced, accompanied by grunts and groans from above, and gripping squeezing pulling hands below, the wedge shaped prick from the photograph fucked his behind. He tried to cry out in pain, but the woman below took out his rag gag, and with one gentle hand on each side of his face, gently wiping him with cool damp rags, she began to kiss him gently, and coo to him that everything would be okay. When he heard a sound, like something being forced through the mud between his legs, he could only catch the briefest glance, because Mrs. Mushroom kept her the lips on her upturned face firmly on his, and those gentle hands caressing his cheeks were strong and commanding. What he saw was Mr. Mushroom's head thrust through, and the mouth with its slobbering lips sucked up his cock like a candy. And, cheeks billowing and sucking, the whole of Mr. Mushroom rocked back and forth, dick and balls pulled tight into his ass by the groping hands, lips pistoned up and down his package, propelled by the legs, which must by now be scrabbling in the mud for leverage. And all the while she kissed him gently, with her lavender smell and soft strong hands.

The groaning from above increased and the rhythm quickened. He could not longer feel the pain of the anal banging, but a pressure was building in his testicles, mounting higher with each push on his rectum, each squeeze of his shaft, each suck on the tip, each thrust of her tongue. Then as the pitch increased, the face pulled off his cock and ascended out of view, grunting quickly. He felt his buttocks pushed flat over and over, harder and harder. The woman below quickly stopped kissing the young man, and with a suck and a pop, took his erect member wholly into her mouth. She also pushed up on his knees, forcing him to fold up with his butt stuck out even further. While still sucking him, she reached out with practiced hand and grabbed the iron pot, hugging it to her below. Above, with a final deep thrust, Mr Mushroom finished, shooting his watery load like an enema in his behind. At the same time below, he came, and the whole wad was deftly caught in the pot. She squeezed out the last bit, like milking a cow of the last drops of milk, and set the pot on the stove. As she threw in the chopped onions, he could hear the master of the house greeting her below, taking off his boots, telling her about his day. He heard Mr. Mushroom sit at the table and pour a drink. The pot started bubbling. The little woman with the perfect white bosom and bark for a lower trunk kissed him on the tip of his dick, and with one movement, pushed him with a pop out of the ceiling and into the forest. A little smoke tumbled out of the tiny chimney. Night was falling and so was a light chill rain. A trail lead down the back side of the hill, and that led back to the paved path. There was no one in sight when he emerged, clothes torn, bedraggled and muddy, happy as a fucked clam.