Patron Reward: Baba Yaga's Hunger

Another reward for a donor. Fair warning! The story contains sex with Baba Yaga, the gnarled old Russian witch. Going full on ancient, wrinkled great grandmother of a woman as actively unattractive to the narrator.  This one's NOT gonna be for everyone, but felt like an interesting read in terms of stretching out and testing some limits.

All the locals knew of Baba Yaga. She was the witch of witches. The iconic hag that flew through the sky and devoured naughty children. By the time he reached his teens, Ivan felt like he had outgrown such fairy tales. Everyone was warned of Baba Yaga when they were young, but determined she was made up when he realized that everything she hated was things adults didn’t want their children to do. She happened to hate children who would swear, stay up late and wander off into the woods. He shrugged off any nightmares, realizing that there were much more adult fears to worry about in Russia.

Then the news came. The town was sending him away. He was their sacrifice, sent to Baba Yaga every hundred years or so. At first, he thought it was a joke. Then he got angry at them trying to get rid of him. Then the mayor’s secretary handed him an old and crinkled letter, handwritten in what he hoped was red ink. His name was scrawled across the page with “Baba Yaga” slashed along the bottom in bigger, smoother letters. It made it look like she had written it trillions of times and that her name was the most important part.

Ivan was loaded up with clothes and food before he was sent into the woods. He wouldn’t argue that his work at his father’s stables had left him tall and strapping. He hoped that firewood and feeding her pets were all that she had in mind for him as he walked deep into the forest. The way the town had been acting, they seemed perfectly ready to march him out there at gunpoint rather than earn the witch’s wrath.

By that afternoon, he arrived at the witch’s hut. It was an unmistakable abomination: a single-story house with chicken feet growing from the bottom. It stomped sluggishly around the woods, snapping branches out of its way with the bulk of the cottage itself. It stopped in its tracks as he approached, turning to face him and squatting down. The home itself seemed ancient but sturdy with a set of stone steps leading to its doorway. As the house’s legs bent, the walkway landed perfectly on the ground. Scattered bones lined the steps, somehow never falling from the waddling house’s entrance.

Ivan wasn’t about to come this far and come across as rude. There were all sorts of legends about what nightmares Baba Yaga could commit, and she famously hated rudeness. If nothing else, she could just have her house step on him easily enough.

“Can I come in? Mother Yaga sent for me.” He held up his crude invitation as proof. The house wavered and creaked as Ivan realized it was nodding. He carefully stepped up between the boney steps and opened the door. The inside was much as he expected from an elderly monster living alone in the woods. A fur rug laid before a roaring fireplace. The fire kept things stiflingly hot and he couldn’t recognize the animal that the fur belonged to. There were few decorations and no signs of relatives or gifts from loved ones. The place was stuffed with trinkets, many of them practical or strange. A hatchet, a table loaded with books and paper, a sled, a cauldron, a bowl of assorted bones, a very old and rusty firearm… he had no idea which were keepsakes, magical weapons, or just there to keep the place in working order.

“Ah! The young man.” Her voice creaked like an old ship in the wind. Ivan turned to find the witch shutting the door behind him. She had either come in from hiding outside or… however else she got around. She clutched the top of a gnarled but solid walking stick, which also described much of her nicely. She wore a thick and dirty fur coat with boney bare feet hobbling around. She moved with a limp, but she was faster than a woman of her health and age should be able to. Her face was like a great grandmother’s, her features thick and drooping. Wrinkles exaggerated her every feature, leaving curls of flesh under her eyes and lines down her cheeks from constant frowning and sneering. Long and withered white curls ran long down her cheeks and back, almost a veil of its own.

She didn’t remove her coat as she thumped her lame legs and heavy cane across the floor, accustomed to the heat of her cottage. Ivan could still see her scrawny, boney limbs and wrinkled hands, leaving no part of her smooth. Any doubts about who she was went away as she curled her fingers along the tip of her cane, dragging her fingernails across the surface. It left fine, clean scratches along the surface, firelight catching the silvery gleam of her cold iron claws. She gave him a broad smile, folding up her wrinkled face. Where one expected gums on such an ancient crone, she flashed the most dangerous and healthy part of her; a mouth lined with smooth metal teeth.

“Good evening, Mother Yaga. You sent for me?” he asked carefully.

“That I did. I’m glad you’re able to read,” she chortled. Baba Yaga crossed the room and grabbed a heavy kettle. Despite her hunched and scrawny build, she hefted it without so much as a grunt.

“Let me get that for you,” he started. 

He reached for the metal kettle, but she waved a hand dismissively. He stopped his approach, though it was mostly from the keen claws that came with her gesture.

“No need. I’ve been doing this for thousands of years,” she tutted. She hung the kettle on its hook and settled back into her chair. Ivan remembered the food he was given for the trip. Part was for his lunch but the rest was to be a gift. He took out the meat and bread and offered it quietly to her. The witch plucked it up while barely looking at it, wolfing it down as she kept her dull, gray eyes locked on him.

“So… you must want me to cut your firewood? Maybe run some errands?”

“The birds and beasts run my errands. They bring plenty for me to eat.” 

Baba Yaga turned back to her fire and flicked a finger at the air. The hatchet in the corner of the room floated into the air and lopped a nearby log in half. The halves flew into the fireplace on their own. 

“And I have no need for woodcutting.”

“Then… how may I help you?” 

The crooked and boney old woman smiled her iron teeth. He could only think of a few things and he couldn’t figure which was worse. She either wanted to eat him…

“I never did take a husband…”

Dammit.

“So you’ll be serving as my lover. I take it I am not the first woman you’ve been with. A strong and strapping lad like yourself…”

“No, Mother Yaga. I’ve had sex.” That was a small stroke of luck. At least he wouldn’t lose his virginity by having his only experience with the ancient and crooked crone.

“Perfect,” she purred. She stepped up to Ivan and held out a gnarled hand. “Then would you guide an old woman to her bed? I’d like to see how my new lover can pleasure a woman.”

He obediently took her hand, which was every bit as gnarled and wrinkled as he expected. She at least took care to keep her claws curled around his palm rather than digging into it. She directed him up the stairs of her stuffy cabin, where a single room that stank of sweat and smells he’d rather not identify awaited. A rather wide and comfortable bed with a ragged old quilt was the main attraction, with sparse other things beyond a rack of shawls and coats.

Baba Yaga stepped ahead of him, shedding her furs like a robe. Ivan grimaced behind her back as her boney ass and ribs were left on display through her pale and wrinkled skin. Even her hunched spine could be seen through her decrepit figure, and as she sat on the edge of the bed her flabby, drooping breasts flopped against her scrawny figure and wrinkled belly. 

Ivan did his best to hide his revulsion as the witch smiled at him, reminding her of the cold steel and wrathful curses that would befall him if he left her dissatisfied. She looked like his great grandmother rather than a lover, and he missed the days when the barmaids would swoon at his good looks and working man’s muscles. While he had to hide his distaste for the legendarily ancient woman, she watched him with an eager stare. Ivan undressed as slowly as he could without earning her suspicion and stepped up to her at last, swallowing hard as he pressed his lips to hers.

Ivan didn’t dare to slide his tongue past her fangs, but Baba Yaga did it for him. She pressed her leathery tongue into his mouth as she pulled his naked body on top of her. He could feel her boney legs and arms dig into him like dulled spurs that tried to lock him into place on top of her. Her grayed hair spread out beneath her gnarled body as she wrapped her surprisingly strong arms around him, pulling his hips against her.

Ivan had to keep his attention on anything but her dull eyes and wretched figure. He had to stay hard for the sweaty and boney witch, moaning noisily as she kissed the muscular young man. He could hear her bones crack and creak as she ground her hips against him, lining her narrow hips up to take his dick inside her. She moaned like old floorboards as he forced himself to fuck her, bouncing the hag beneath him. She ran her hands along his body, and the bucking of her body beneath him dragged her wrinkled and flabby tits across his muscled chest.

“Such a strapping young man,” she moaned noisily. She pulled her face from his and braced a hand behind his head. She urged him lower, her gnarled but powerful hand easily leading his face to her chest. He grimaced as he was buried into her wrinkled bosom, but he knew what was expected. He treated it as if it was the cute milkmaid Natasha’s plump tits and wrapped his mouth around Baba Yaga’s dry and rigid nipple. Even her skin tasted sour, but he licked and sucked at it as if trying to distract himself from his sexual trial.

Her shrill voice purred in approval, arching her crooked back to grind herself up into him.

“Such a good boy… so good!” she moaned as she wrapped her hobbling legs around his waist. She pulled him deeper into her loose and warm pussy until he could feel her hip bones against his waist. Even inside her vagina felt wrinkled and a little too soft, but at least those served to keep his cock erect.

Baba Yaga squeezed at his hair and back, hard enough that he worried about the damage her claws might do in a moment of passion.

Her musty breath that smelled of copper and mold puffed past his face as she grew close to finishing. Ivan obediently switched his mouth to her other wrinkled teat, sucking and lightly nibbling. She responded with more enthusiastic noises and writhing, though he didn’t want to push his luck. He didn’t want to tempt the man-eating witch with too many ideas about using her teeth. He clutched her sides, careful not to crack a rib or bust her hip as he thrust deep inside her. He thankfully found her clit and pressed into it as the ancient woman gasped, the iron edges of her fangs sticking out past her parted lips.

The crone finally shivered beneath him, squeezing him against her low and jiggling chest. Her boney knees dug into his hips as she orgasmed beneath him, a surge of musty warmth washing over his shaft. He felt a bit of moisture but he couldn’t tell just how much had come out of the dusty old witch.

“Incredible,” she moaned as she gently released her grip on him. “I knew I made the right choice in you.”

“Thank you, Mother Yaga,” Ivan panted as he finally slid back out of her. His dick was still hard, as if under the old witch’s spell.

“I’ll expect the same performance from you tomorrow morning. How does three times a day sound? Not too shabby for room and board, eh?” she asked with a knowing smile.

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered wearily. He had no idea how he was going to last this long. He knew you couldn’t outrun the dangerous old woman, no matter how feeble she seemed. Maybe it wasn’t so awful. It was a bit of a workout, but not as bad as cleaning out the stables and lugging bales of hay all day. She cooked for him (or at least her magic cabin did) and it was surprisingly tasty (once he was sure that it wasn’t stew made from other victims). Whether it was his magic or some sort of Stockholm syndrome, he found himself getting used to the old hag’s presence. He found it easier to get hard for her, and even started to cum inside the bony witch’s loose pussy. He began to shamelessly kiss her dry, fanged mouth and snuck in playful gropes of her flat little ass to hear her tittering giggle. It was a strange and twisted life, but he it didn’t mean he couldn’t be happy with it.