There was once upon a time a lonely young man named Michael. Ever since his mother died, Michael's father had been sunk in a misery that none could lift, and more and more it fell to Michael to manage the family's small carpentry business. His days of playing make-believe amidst the looming wood piles were long gone, and Michael rose early each morning and stumbled to bed with exhaustion and a growing certainty that his entire life stretched before him in a predictable, depressing pattern.
At nineteen years, Michael had never known the pleasures of lying with a woman, though he'd heard enough to fill his nights with a burning desire. If only he had a woman to share his loneliness with. A wife. Father had been happy until Mother died, and Michael had not been so innocent that he didn't understand the joyous noises he'd heard from their bedroom.
It is a sad feature of loneliness that the more one has, the more difficult it is to find the relief of companionship. Other men and women could sense the dark cloud following Michael, and they instinctively stepped a bit further from him on the street or at the tavern. The only constant was Cindy, a young woman near Michael's age who cleaned the workshop and of late helped Michael with the accounting. Cindy always had a good head for numbers.
Something more might have come of their relationship, but for two factors: first, Cindy had been coming around the shop for so long that her newfound womanhood seemed to fade behind a long series of childhood memories. And second, Cindy had a foul disposition. She had always been this way, ready to pick a fight with the world, and in the past Michael had been a target of some of the worst of it. She was smart, and her insults were the type that twisted and grew in Michael's mind as he came to understand them properly. The last year or two she seemed to have given fewer of these insults to Michael, but he suspected he was just too stupid to understand most of them at all.
"Lame Cindy," people would call her, and worse, on account of an old injury and the limp it gave her. Michael had never called her thus except once, many years ago, and only because he'd been particularly upset by one of her gibes. The quick look of betrayal on her face was something he didn't like to remember at all.
Despite the sadness that lined his face, Michael was not a bad-looking man. There had been a time that the girls had mooned over him, and some of them were still curious about this shadow of the gregarious boy they once knew. And for a certain type of woman, there was a draw to the very idea of his desperation.
One of these women was named Josephine, and on a particularly desperate night, Michael found himself asking her to dance. It is here that our story begins.
* * *
"That is not the worst dancing I've seen, but it was close," said Josephine. Michael nodded sadly, accepting the truth of it. To cover his embarrassment, he retrieved another two ales for them. He'd drunk quite a lot already, enough that he didn't notice how little Josephine sipped from her mug.
"It's noisy in here," Josephine said when he'd finished downing his drink. "Let's find somewhere quieter. Do you remember when we all played in the Paulsons' hay loft?"
Michael nodded vigorously, the room tipping slightly as he did. That was a happy memory, from the time just before his mother died. They'd been a group of boys and girls, full of restless energy and the beginnings of romantic tensions. Josephine had kissed him back then, on the lips, and even though they'd all laughed about it, he still remembered the tingling feeling.
He nearly slipped getting up the ladder, and he was no help to Josephine, but she managed it as though she went up every week. Which, on later reflection, he suspected she did.
The loft was much smaller than he remembered, and the hay smelled of mold. But he pulled off his jacket for Josephine to sit on, and then she kissed him once more.
It was as though they were thirteen again, and Michael froze even as the blood pounded in his veins. Josephine was pretty, with curling black hair and a full figure, and he'd wondered more than once exactly what she looked like when she was taking a bath. To his shock, she was unbuttoning her blouse, a broad smile on her face. His cock swelled uncomfortably, and he didn't know what to do.
But Josephine did, and in little time he found himself kissing and nuzzling those great creamy breasts, hoping he didn't reveal the depth of his inexperience. After a few minutes, Josephine pushed him away and smiled even more broadly.
"Do you want me to show you how you really make a woman feel good?" she asked.
Michael nodded again, staring at her fat nipples, erect and goosebumped in the cool air. He was feeling less woozy, but there was a dreamlike quality to all of it. His discomfort only increased, as he realized how much he needed to relieve himself after all that ale.
Josephine drew up her skirt and began pulling off layers of fabric underneath. Finally she hiked it above her waist, and Michael stared.
He'd never seen anything like it. There was hair everywhere between her legs, covering the slit that he knew women had. Josephine spread her legs wider and showed him the pinkness hiding between her lips. She shivered when her fingers touched herself, and with the other hand she pointed at a small bit of flesh near the top of her cleft.
"Lick me," she said. "Especially right here."
He hesitated. It seemed remarkably obscene, even more than his vague understanding of the usual act of sex.
"Lick me," commanded Josephine. "Or go home lonely tonight."
He nodded and awkwardly lay forward between her legs. She grabbed the back of his head and practically mashed his face into her.
Gasping a deep breath, he began to lick. She was sticky, and she smelled and tasted of — he wasn't quite sure. It wasn't precisely bad, but it was unexpected, and it was all over his nose already. He coughed slightly.
"You can do better than that," Josephine chided, and he did his best. When he got his tongue to the special spot she'd pointed at, he felt a little bump of flesh. Josephine gasped when he touched it, and since she didn't complain, he supposed he was doing it right.
His own excitement began to increase along with his confidence. Josephine was making grunting noises that sounded promising, and the little bump of flesh had gotten harder. Boldly, he touched a finger to her, and she didn't stop him.
He found the hole where his cock would go, and he slipped his finger in easily. Josephine coughed and then moaned gently, squeezing her legs tightly around his head. To his surprise, he felt her insides squeeze his finger as well.
All of a sudden, she gasped loudly, and then began to shake. Hoping this was a good sign, he licked her faster and faster, even after she stopped making the noises.
He found himself shoved away rather roughly.
"Ugh, stop it, Michael. I'm done. But I have to admit you're better at that than I expected. Now, let's see what you have in your breeches."
He got up on his knees, and she deftly began to unlace him. His blood pounded in anticipation. He was sure his cock had never been so massively erect, and it was with no little pride that he helped her pull it from his smallclothes.
"Well," she said. "At least I won't have trouble getting that inside."
He wasn't quite sure what she meant. Was she saying it was small? Surely he'd misunderstood.
She lay back, skirt hiked well up, and looked at him with a kind of bored expectation. He struggled the rest of the way out of his breeches and lay atop her, but his cock bumped against the hair well above her slit.
Sighing, Josephine took hold of his cock and in a quick moved slipped it inside her. The warm, wet feeling was nothing like using his own hand. It was the most wonderful thing he'd ever felt, and he could feel his love for this beautiful woman mixing with all the pent-up frustration of these years. Finally he was a man, and it was a glorious feeling when he exploded inside of her.
"What? Oh, shit, you didn't come already, did you? I could barely feel you in there. Ugh, you were supposed to pull out."
Grumbling, Josephine pulled a handkerchief from her bag and began to wipe herself vigorously. Michael understood something had gone wrong, and more and more he was realizing he hadn't misunderstood her. His cock was too small to satisfy her. His ears burned, and even when she stretched shamelessly he could barely look at her beautiful body.
"I hope you appreciated that," Josephine said when she'd dressed and started down the ladder. "I'm sure you'll make some other woman very happy."
Michael didn't go home until the sky began to brighten with dawn.
* * *
"Where've you been?" Cindy grumbled from the desk. "Mooning after some woman who won't have you?"
Michael blushed and looked down, and because of that he didn't see the sudden look of chagrin on Cindy's face.
"Never mind. Come over here and let's get the books squared away."
When they'd finished that task, Michael began work on the day's orders. As always he took comfort in the manual labor, his mind retreating to the familiar measuring and cutting and sanding, the tasks enfolding and protecting him like a familiar cloak. Cindy followed the path of her own chores, rarely saying anything, and that was all right. He couldn't bear any of her barbs today. Not with everything that had happened overnight.
The worst was he still had Josephine's taste in his mouth. He'd rinsed repeatedly until he was sure it was just a memory, but it wouldn't go away. He'd been so excited.
He'd thought he was desperate before, but to have had a single taste of what he'd longed for, only to have it snatched away once again — it was intolerable.
Thus it was that early the next morning he found himself walking to the sinister house at the far edge of town, with several months of his own spending money weighing in his pockets.
* * *
The Grey Witch, everyone called her. No one knew how old she was, or what she even did with the coins that people brought to purchase her services. Mostly the townsfolk came for simple curative tonics or brews for a woman's troubles, but everyone knew she could do far more than that. There were stories of miracles, of great curses, of fortunes made or lost according to the whims of her power. Most often, though, she merely grunted and ignored any such requests. And when she did grant a boon, it was seldom exactly as expected.
Michael knew all this, but as he knocked on the door, one thing kept coming back to him. He couldn't go on this way. If the Grey Witch could not or would not help him, he would find a way to end his suffering forever.
In response to a vague grunt from inside the squat house, Michael pushed the door open. It creaked horribly, and he had to stoop to enter the dim chamber.
"Well, Michael," came a raspy voice from the corner. "What brings you here, eh?"
He swallowed. Surely the Witch had heard requests like this before. But it was not easily said.
"Spit it out, boy, or leave me in peace."
"I need to be bigger," he blurted.
The Witch cackled and leaned forward, her dirty grey hair shining in a single shaft of sunlight that pierced the dark chamber.
