This young lady has discovered why it's not wise to piss off the fairies of the pumpkin patch under a full moon.
After having wandered away from the party cabin, Jennifer has been roaming the woods, lost, for hours. She came across a huge abandoned pumpkin patch gone wild and unruly. In her frustration, she stomped and shattered several pumpkins, unknowingly raising the ire of the guardian fairies. How could she know? She didn't even know fairies existed. But you and I know. We also know that fairies are prone to delivering disproportional punishments when angry, and they decided she should spend the rest of her now unnaturally long life tending the pumpkin patch.
The poor thing, Jennifer fights against her transformation, frantically feeling the unyielding waxy skin of her new head, her permanently smiling expression carved into its surface, forever happy despite her terror. The cuttings are prepetually moist with beads of dew, as if freshly carved. She can still see, somehow, through empty glowing eye holes, lit from within from an unseen source. Understandably distracted by her head, she has yet to notice the tendrils of pumpkin vines sprouting elsewhere on her body.
Now utterly exhausted, limp from struggling uselessly against her transformation, Jennifer lies slumped against an ruined fence. The transformation is nearly complete, and vines growing from her flesh have wound around her arms and legs. They will move her like a helpless marionette, forcing her to perform her new tasks of tending the patch, at least until she gets into the flow of things.
She explores her newly bountiful breasts; though still soft and supple, they have taken on the grooved texture of pumpkins. Her nipples, however, have turned into tough, woody pumpkin stems. As she twists one experimentally, overwhelming will-destroying pleasure flows through her and she discovers her punishment isn't all bad. With free access to bliss like this, she might soon lose all resistance for her role as a pumpkin slave. She might not even remember her name, or that she was ever human to begin with.
Stretched open wide from the tight tug of the vines, the pleasure triggers slimy strings and gobs of seed-laden pumpkin pulp begin to spill from within her transformed and fruitful womb. Later as she is walking the field, going about her tasks, the pulp will dribble down her thighs and onto the ground, leaving seeds wherever she goes and giving life to new pumpkins. I think she will be quite happy with her new life. Perhaps the fairies weren't so cruel after all!