Yes.... these girls were from the Rock-Snake Tribe, a moderately-esteemed bloodline whose warriors had been encroaching aggressively upon these lands from their native villages in the lower country. The man adjusted the sand-colored rags he had swathed himself with, as keen eyes studied the party. Each of these girls he knew, were capable of bearing young, probably had been for many years, but they would not be admitted as full members of the Rock-Snake Tribe until they succeeded in the Hunt, succeeded in the Hym'enaria. In truth, the man bore them no ill will, he would have almost wished them luck....
except that he was the Prey!
The rumors had whispered that the Hunting was hard this year, the tribes, especially in the Lower country where growing desperate....well, more desperate than usual. Traditionally, no more than five girls were sent forth on the Hym'enaria at one time, and in good years they would be sent out as soon as they were old enough to notch an arrow. But according to tales whispered in depressed voices, many tribes were forcing the girls to wait until they were nearly eighteen Summers in age before they were allowed to begin! The elders reasoning that older, stronger girls were more likely to bring back a suitable bounty. That seemed to be the case with this party.
Confident in his camoflauge against the bland-colored boulders, the man crawled forward to get a closer view. Yes... these girls were each fit and lithely muscled, the snake-skin loin-cloths scarcely concealing the trim muscles of their shapely thighs. The leader had rubbed both of her nipples; that was the signal to begin a silent conversation. The girls needed to plan, to plot, and no one, especially not their quarry, could be allowed to overhear. Even at a great distance, the anxious determination was plain in the way that the huntresses carried themselves. Though these were lean times, the Elders of the Rock-Snake Tribe would not tolerate failure. If their Hym'enaria failed to capture a man in the allotted time, each member would be branded a Nun, a lesser female unworthy of sex, unworthy to produce young. They would be honorless outcasts for their rest of their lives, with no rights or status. A cruel fate, but the Deserts were harsh, and the Elders of....most every tribe deemed that only the fittest should be allowed to breed.
Snake-skin halters were removed, and breasts swung free on the slender chests of the young huntresses. During travel, they usually maintained a smaller bust, each of the eight pairs of breast flesh no larger than tangerines. Nipples quickly engorged, flesh throbbed, as the hunting party prepared for silent communication. The sun gleamed off the creamy surface of each tit, as they expanded, almost in unison, in a steady creep into the size of full oranges, aureoles spreading and nipples lengthening as they neared a girth and length not unlike that of a grapefruit. The leader of the band, marked by three red feathers in her auburn hair gave each breast a gentle slap, to test their jiggle. Satisfied that her feminine globes had the minimum necessary inertia, she began. The man watching her display of course understood perfectly. No male could grow up amongst the tribes without fully understanding Boob. But naturally, being male, he could never express the Breast-play language himself, but he understood perfectly. Gentle slaps to the breast were used to make consonants, The girls' powers of vascular control were used to expand or shrink the breasts to denote most verbs, and the tense of each. A speaker of Boob would shake her chest in a variety of ways, the jiggle patterns of her womanly spheres used to spell-out nouns. With pinches to the nipples for punctuation.
The leader's tits swelled, her natural powers enlarging her bosoms another inch forward, as she slapped herself twice, and made two quick jiggles. Translation was second-nature to the man watching.
" HE- CAME - THIS - WAY..." she signaled. A shorter, angrier girl with a pert nose, broader hips, and painted with red lightning bolts on her face confronted the leader, raising her arms and jiggling her mammalian melons rapidly.
" - FOR - YOUR - SAKE, HE- HAD - BETTER!" A quick pinch to her nipples denoted an exclamation. " I'LL - NOT - LIVE - OUT - MY - DAYS- AS - A - NUN!" The way she defiantly thrust out her bulging bosoms expressed a serious threat.
A thinner girl with longer hair stepped in the mix, she ran a hand over her grapefruit-sized breasts, then offered up the right one by placing her hand underneath the swell of tit, as if she was offering to suckle.
" - BE - AT - EASE, WE - ARE - ALL - CERTAIN." She must be a peace-maker, a natural mediator of disputes.
" - IS HE THE ONE?" asked a long-legged girl by bending slightly, and allowing her breasts to dangle while slapping and jiggling them in turn. " THE ONE WHO ESCAPED FROM THE CATS?" Two quick squeezes to the left nipple denoted a question. The man watching gulped, that was the nickname for the people he had escaped from! If they knew of the Black-Tiger Tribe - HIS tribe, he could be in danger!
The leader nodded, glaring sternly from her elegant, sun-tanned face, she confronted the shorter challenger, her green eyes flashing with menace as she thrust out her chest, breasts enlarging in quick, short spasms.
" IT - IS! HE - IS - THE - PRIME - BREEDER! - THE - ONE - THE - CATS - ARE - SO - PROUD - OF!!" she pinched her own nipples roughly, twisting to denote a stronger exclamation. The peace-maker stepped forward in curiosity; this information was apparently new.
" COULD - HE - BE - THE - ONE - THEY - CALL - TEN - INCH?" Snarling in frustration, the man beat the sand near him with a balled fist! They knew his name! They knew his name and tribe! There was no way they would give up! Nothing he could do would distract them, or convince them to pursue easier quarry! Not all men had names, chattel that they were. Only Prime-Breeders, like him, that met exacting standards for physical strength, endurance, and virility even had names. Yet for the man watching, swathed in ashen-colored robes, his name was also his curse.
In his younger days, he had loved his tribe, though their own feelings towards him was similar to the way one might feel about a valuable water well, or rich iron-mine. He was not - could never be a person, he had never been allowed to listen to the council meetings, had never been allowed to participate in the ancestral rituals. He was Ten-Inch, the Prime-Breeder. Most virile man ever captured by the Black-Tiger Tribe. But it was inevitable that word of his escape would spread.
The fabric tented over his groin, his erect member jutted proudly forward. Though trying to concentrate on his escape, his cursed virility asserted itself once more, the sight of a lengthy conversation in the Breast-talk language of Boob never failed to arouse him. When the women...any woman beheld his beefy rod in its erect glory, there was no doubt how he acquired his name; Ten-Inch, Prime-Breeder of the Black-Tiger Tribe.
Ten-Inch did not pay much attention to the rest of the silent conversation, he had to plot, plan his escape. It would be....should be impossible. The Elders simply did not permit a Prime-Breeder, no matter what tribe had claimed him, to escape. It was unheard of, such a loss could never be tolerated. Warriors from the mountains, foot-hills, low-lands, from everywhere in the Northern Wastes would unleash their most cunning hunters to reclaim him.
But of what value was life without such challenges? He could never be fully content as just another male chattel-breeder. And he had come to realize that it did not matter what tribe he joined. He was a resource, one worth killing for yes, but he would never have status as a person; as a warrior. Whether it was the Black-Tiger, the Rock-Snake, the Blue-Mountain, the Walking-Toad, the Sand-Ghosts or any of a number of tribes in the Northern Wastes, all he could look forward to would be grunting, sweaty women, breasts as vast as watermelons, straddling his Sacred Rod, as they unleashed pheromones and musks to compel him to spew forth as much sperm as he could possibly produce into their steamy-hot femalias.
Of course, it wasn't that he didn't relish it, enjoy it thoroughly. It had been a right of passage; on the day when first his penis was deemed potent enough, he had been given to, and had successfully impregnated the Chieftain of the Black-Tiger Tribe, and then the Shaman had taken his seed, and she too was with child. And then the mightiest axe-fighter.....and then the best archer.....and then the best scout...... not to mention the foreign trader....and the ambassador from the Blue-Mountain Tribe, she too had been given use of him as a goodwill gesture, and she had impaled herself upon his throbbing tower, the slickness of her female juices bathing his crotch, as her body had exploded with orgasm. And her belly, like all the others, was soon swelling with the life kindled by Ten-Inch's aggressive seed.
Womb after womb, cunt after cunt, and he soon could not avoid the impression that he was.....missing something. There...there had to be more; There must be more that women and men could do with each other! There needed to be something more to life than being locked away in a secured cabin, to impregnate females without end. But what!? What else was there that could be done? Their pussies so easily accepted his male shaft! And the joy they felt was so profound! Could men and women be anything more than just breeding mates? That was all the women wanted from him. As for companionship, labor, religion, and warfare, the women used each other. A man's purpose was to provide seed; and to spurt it forth whenever the Chieftain commanded. They kept him in comfort, certainly. It was a mark of power for a tribe if their males were well cared for.
But...for years Ten-Inch had been restless! He did not accept his lot only as Breeder! He had arms and legs, a strong back, he could build, and work with his hands....and he had a mind! A quick mind with thoughts all his own! There must be a reason; a purpose. And then, he heard the stories.....
There were a few times during the year, when the tribes met for extended trade, that males were permitted to fellowship with each other, being left alone to speak about such things that might interest them. Always, Ten-Inch had found the aspirations of his fellow men to be banal and limited. Their primary concerns were which tribe kept their males in the most luxury. (Often it was the very small tribes that went to greater effort to please their men, that word might spread and make it easier to acquire more.) Others would boast of the number of females they were able to pleasure towards orgasm in a single night. But it was the tales in between these tales that concerned Ten-Inch. There were men who ran. Men who; for a variety of reasons sought to escape whatever tribe owned them. Most merely heard tales of greater luxury just around the corner, and sought to escape to tribes that could keep them in greater comfort. Others sought to see some grand sight, or visit some splendid locale just once before they died. Some were merely mad; running off into the desert to die. But then, there were those that whispered of the Verdant Lands.
The Verdant Lands; far to the South, and far from anything men of the Northern Wastes had ever known. It is said that the Verdant Lands are choked with vegetation of all types, water in abundance; and freedom! Sweet Freedom! It is whispered that in these green lands, men may live as they please, they may work, and learn, and create by their own will, doing whatever they wish, and never breeding unless they wish to. Ten-Inch shuddered with longing; Imagine! To live free! Allowing his hand and mind to create whatever he was able, free from control, imprisonment, and force! Freedom in whom he impregnated! To choose his breeding mates! It was said that the women of the Northern Wastes feared the Verdant Lands, for there were predators there that were deadly to women, but ignored men, and the fiercest desert man-hunters feared to tread there. But in spite of everything, his lusts were far too strong for him to stop craving the sex, but....if there could be a choice? A man in these lands could couple only with females he chose! It would be possible to reject some of them! And so Ten-Inch would not, could not rest. Not until he found such a place; not until he saw these lands with his own dark eyes.
Every time men of the tribes were permitted to gather, and talk, Ten-Inch would hear stories of these Verdant Countries, where men could live and create as they chose. But always he was warned away;
"Nay, lad; the Verdant Lands are too far!!" he might be told....
"Journey's impossible from here....the deserts are too harsh!" He had heard.....
"....You'd have ta pass through the territories of the most man-hungry tribes in the Wastes! No way you'd slip by 'em!" That was the warning that he had heard most often. And yet, every time he was told that the Feat was impossible, that the Journey was too difficult; the older men could always impart some bits of travel lore; there was always some trick or tactic they could teach that would help him in evasion and concealment.
And that was the reason for his current dress; the layers of rags and shawls were caked with the dusty ashes from the burning of Sagebrush tumbleweed. If covered in enough ashes, that would assist him in countering the most common weapon used by women of the Northern Wastes.....
The shorter, angrier girl with the lightning bolts on her face sniffed the air, then opened wide her ruby lips, and a long, black, forked tongue escaped to taste the air with tentative flicks. She frowned and shook her head. The leader, her auburn hair whipping in the desert breeze tweaked her nipples as she expanded her breasts to spill out over the lower edge of her open halter top.
" BE- WARY " she signaled with breast-talk. " MEN - WHO - RUN - KNOW - TO - MASK - THEIR - SCENT - WITH - ASHES; - WE - MAY - NOT - SCENT - HIM - UNTIL - HE - IS - IN - LINE - OF - SIGHT." She explained slowly, her breasts wobbling and careening as she slowly spelled out the complex sentence. Ten-Inch knew it to be true; these females could track a man by the scent of his sweat at two miles at least. But the ashes he was covered with neutralized his smell in a way that confounded the refined senses of the sexual predators hunting him. The shorter challenger was growing less patient with her leader. Pouting, she brushed a hand over her nipples, then squeezed each bulging teat in a slow-fast-slow rhythm, to signal:
" NOW - WHAT? I'LL - NOT - FAIL - BECAUSE- OF - YOU! I'LL - NOT - BE - DECLARED - A - NUN!" But the leader of the hunting party, though only Eighteen Summers in age, was clever enough to know that when one is chasing a male, the tactics they used to hide their man-scent could also be their undoing. Her own lips parted, and her black, forked tongue flickered, tasting and testing the air for many tense seconds. Nodding, she removed her loincloth, and directed the others to do the same. The Rock-Snake huntresses nodded; and Ten-Inch understood. They were using their primary Lure, the most common sexual weapon amongst the tribes of the Northern Wastes. A musky chemical signal, a pheromone lure that burned in a man's brain, dulled his mind, and boiled his blood with a primal passion as ancient as the Sun, and irresistable as Sunrise. Though unsure of his location, (his scent masked to them) there was enough of a trace of ash in the air to arouse the libido, and suspicions of the leader. So she began to release her musk. And the wind favored them! Their musk would be carried directly to Ten-Inch! Now was the time to run, to risk being spotted, he decided. He did not need to see them, to know what they would do; He knew that the females would bare themselves, naked. He knew they would raise their shapely, muscled rumps to the air in lurid invitation. All it would take is a quick rub, a swift pinch of their clits, and they would begin their Rut. Soon, an observer would see their naked asses bobbing and throbbing in the air; pussies quivering as they unleashed their Scent. Ordinarily; he would not be able to run fast enough; the beastial grasp of the refined mating musk would consume his senses, firing his male body into a fever pitch of obsessive lust. His libido would overshadow all else, and he would give himself to them. Or so they planned. Ten-Inch knew better than to deceive himself; some men liked to boast that they stayed with their tribes because they were happy; and that they could leave whenever they wished, some claimed that they could resist the Lure. Lies. Ten-Inch knew better than to trust his own willpower. If a man, any man was exposed to the right amount of mating musk, the frenzy it would kindle inside him would grow so strong that his body would not allow his mind to resist the Rut. That is what it was designed to do; to enslave a man with his own libido; and if exposed it would take many hours and more orgasms before he could even remember why he should resist.
That was why he'd come prepared. Sulphur was the key; it was used in small amounts by the women of the Black-Tiger Tribe in certain religious rituals to the Mother Goddess, but from his contacts, Ten-Inch had learned that the yellow powder produced so potent a stench that it would shield him from most all Luring musks from any vagina in the Northern Wastes; so he was told. Still, better not to take chances, so he ran.
The horrid stench, not unlike rotting eggs, did help, as he pressed the rag to his nose. Even still, the effect was not complete. He felt a tingle down his spine, and a heat in his groin, even as his feet pounded the desert sands to propel him down the plateau, away from them. He nearly stumbled, his penis throbbing to life as waves of comforting bliss washed over him....it would be so easy to just... give in....surrender....give up this foolish journey....and let the girls have their glory....their pussies....so warm.....wet...soft...NO!!! So long as was alive he would not give up this Journey! He would find freedom in the Verdant Lands! The freedom to think, create, and the power of choice! The power to chose were his seed was sown! No longer would he be tied down, forced to ejaculate for every moist cunt in the Tribe! He would give his seed only when he wished it! And only to those females he chose!
Even with his sulphur to block most of the effect; the potency of their musk still seized at him, clawed at his mind and body. His penis, so tight...so hard that it interfered with his running; but still he pressed on. How much harder would it be with nothing to block their Lure! But... he was getting away....the young huntresses were not chasing, not certain of his location but suspecting his presence. And the searing bursts of sharp yearning that coursed down his spine were diminishing. He had been fortunate this time. But in truth, Ten-Inch thought he was very fortunate.
He knew truths, wondrous facts that few were privy to. The lands of the Black-Tiger had been on the grounds of an ancient center of learning and knowledge a....Lie-Berry; he believed it was called. Little had survived from that time long ago, that Ancient Age of wonder, and power, and glory. But the warriors that guarded Ten-Inch deemed it harmless enough to permit the male to putter around inside the ruins. Slowly, achingly, over years... he had taught himself to read...to himself the letters, words of the Ancient Tongue. Few books had survived; but he had learned oh so much. The women had little interest in such things; paying no heed to his talk of fabulous knowledge and impossible fantasies. In his younger days, Ten-Inch would read, and learn, and keep reading until the warriors guarding him were unable to contain their urges, until one of them tackled him amidst the old books, twining herself around him in raw lust.
He remembered the day he'd managed to hide out and read for five whole hours before his guards found and ravished him. He'd seen images; reflected pictures somehow recorded on paper that showed the lives of the Ancients. What puzzled him the most was the way men in that time were permitted to wear clothing, and were almost never restrained. It seemed to him as though women and men could pass each other going about their business, and the woman would not be driven to capture and ravish the man. It was unthinkable; but then....it was a different world.
He'd learned much; he'd read about science; and chemistry, and genetics....he had studied the old writings about genes....cells....heredity, biology. And moreover, he'd learned something about what changed; what had destroyed all that. The Ancients had triggered a great war; a war far vaster, far deadlier than the petty tribal squabbles of today. Biological weapons of awesome power had been unleashed, as his ancestors fought against terrible demons from beyond the Sea. After suffering these assaults, the Ancients tried to repair the damage done by fabulous medicines they possessed. But they made mistakes; underestimated the complexities of life, and the extent of the damage done. Their gene-ravaging weapons were both more unstable than they had feared, and the ability of life-forms to adapt had been greater than they had imagined; and their mighty civilization had dissolved into chaos.
Apparently, a devastating virus had mutated and proliferated; this pathogen seemed to totally destroy the Y-chromosome on Earth. Or...almost all of it. From medical reports and scientific papers published before the collapse of society, Ten-Inch had learned that 99% of all male life-forms on Earth had perished or become sterile. The reports were so old that he was uncertain, but the Ancients had described the effects of this pathogen, this VY-rus, as they named it. It seemed that traces of the VY-rus genes would linger for generations, destroying new Y-chromosomes during conception. That seemed to be....must be the reason why the birth of male children was so rare these days. It seemed that their was only one boy born for every 100 girls. It must have been very different in the Ancient Age.
And so he dreamed of recovering what was lost; perhaps if he had the freedom to learn, work, and create on his own, he might find a way to restore some of the wondrous knowledge of the past! He knew that the Ancients possessed something called.....Dollars... and with these "Dollars" they were able to conjure up food, clothing, and weapons as if by magic. With the power of Dollars, it was possible to travel a thousand miles in a day, and to watch people from distant lands as if they were in front of you. Nothing like that was left in the Northern Wastes; but would it be possible to find, or recover this ancient power?
Not if he was a Breeding-Slave for the Rock-Snake Tribe, or the Black-Tiger Tribe, or the Star-Fire Tribe..... The Star-Fire Tribe! They were still close, still searching! He saw tell-tail signs of their encampment. They had tried to cover their tracks, but Ten-Inch recognized a regularity in the sand before him, and he had heard from the Black-Tiger warriors of how these people tried to hunt for their men.
Now, there were two Hym'enaria parties in hot pursuit of the fugitive breeder. A prize such as him, if captured alive would make any of them champions of their people! For the young huntresses, he was worth killing and dying over. And perhaps that's just what he should let them do....
He had a plan, a desperate gambit that just might save him, just might buy him one more day of freedom. Perhaps one hunting party he could elude, but two? Could he outwit and evade two bands of man-hungry minxes that would kill for his cock? He didn't like those odds; and Ten-Inch preferred to avoid risk unless he could tip the balance in his favor. Thinking quickly, he made his decision; still sprinting fast across the desert, he unwrapped part of his ashen coverings, and removed a shawl he kept close to his body. Quickly, he tore the grey fabric in two and discarded one of the strips as he ran.
Here, yes...Ten-Inch had arrived at a deep ravine carved by centuries of desert wind, which winded sinuously for miles in either direction. He knew the Star-Fire Tribe Hym'enaria had come this way, searching for him he was sure. Well, time to give the people what they want. With swift, sure motions he began unwrapping his coverings.
**********
He was nearly naked. All according to his plan. His head scarves were removed, revealing his smooth-shaven head, dark skin the color of polished mahogany, and firm-set jaw below the piercing gaze of his brooding eyes. Also uncovered was the magnificent organ that in the Northern Wastes, was worth so much strife and conflict. The great phallus was not yet fully erect, yet enough of his size and girth was still apparent to justify his proclaimed status as Prime Breeder.
Now that his penis was exposed, it would not be long now; he would either outwit the female hunting parties; or be captured and relegated to everlasting sexual slavery. He wished he had someone else to turn to for tactics, but there were no other men anywhere nearby, nor did Ten-Inch ever have a friend of any sort with which to share his thoughts. He wondered, while waiting for the hot winds to carry the scent of his exposed penis, how men of the Ancient Age would have solved this dilemma? Were men oppressed in like manner in that distant time?
Physically, he knew he was like them. If Ten-Inch wore clothes as they did, he would appear much the same as many of the men in that lost eon. He'd seen in the reflected images many like himself, and knew that he was a rare genetic bastion of that primordial, nearly-extinct humanity. Males of the Northern Wastes did not carry the same sort of extreme genetic mutations so common amongst the females, his studies of the ancient science of biology gave him reason to believe that the Y-chromosome blocked many of the radical alterations that made the Tribes what they were today. So much of life, all life was transformed, it seemed that the distant time of the Ancients was irretrievably lost to-
"YEAAAH!" he yelped, feeling a sharp prick in his leg. Looking down, he saw a row of fine needles, spines of some sort, embedded in his flesh. Dark eyes darted, and he saw the culprit. The plant had the broad, plump sections of a small, desert cactus of the type that had existed for eons untold. Yet the sections of this plant were throbbing, pulsating, an occasionally spewing forth spines with lightning speed.
"By the Black Sands! How could I have missed it!? I...I..." Ten-Inch felt woozy for a moment, blinked his eyes, and started chuckling. It was a Pleasure Cactus. The spines that had shot into him did not inflict the pain that might be expected; rather they produced a potent enzyme that carried the exact opposite effect. Being pierced with the needles actually produced a calming, soothing, erotic sensation. If unprepared, it could make a man laugh out loud as the euphoria rushed through his veins.
"Pleasure Cactus....oooh....It has....sensitive chemical receptors....must have detected my testosterone...." Ten-Inch knew that there were no semen-feeder species in ancient times; another relic of the VY-rus and the resulting cascade of radical mutations. The hallucinogens hit then. The renegade sperm-donor stumbled, rubbing his eyes as he covered up his precious member. A pang of seething lust slammed into him, clouding his mind, his awareness. The landscape blurred. It no longer seemed like a craggy, rock-strewn desert loaded with boulders and sand-dunes, but in his chemically-altered perception, the world seemed like a fleeting, pink haze of erotic imagery. Sand dunes became collossal, tawny-colored breasts, capped off by sandy aureoles, beckoning to him. The ravines and crevasses that festooned the wind-scarred terrain instead became moist vaginas large enough to engulf his entire body, throbbing as if to beckon him with erotic promise. Stumbling, his foot hit a smooth rock, yet with the exotic compounds that were pickling his brain, he saw instead a gigantic clitoris, above the warmest, most inviting cunt he could imagine. The surges of stimulation rocketed to his groin, and his cock was erect in less time than it took to speak of it. The burning heat of pent-up passion increased as he stumbled closer to the Pleasure Cactus, yet Ten-Inch vowed he would not give in. The plant needed him to masturbate; to relieve his male organ any way he could, for should he spill his seed anywhere within about five square feet of the plant, its elaborate root-system would be able to extract the nutrients and genetic material so crucial to the new, semen-feeding life forms of the Northern Wastes. But Ten-Inch knew better; there were stories of men who had stumbled into entire patches of the salacious vegetables and died from the repeated orgasms that were possible under its chemical influence. So the Pleasure Cacti waited; delicate senses tuned to the proximity of testosterone, erotic weapons unleashed if any male organism passed close enough. And this was but one of many such creatures. Gripping his penis tightly, he forced himself to walk with steady, deliberate steps in the other direction. More spines struck, but his shawls blocked them. In small numbers, these cacti were rarely a threat, but the main danger of semen-feeders was that, if they succeeded, he would release his sperm into the open air, and if that happened, every hunter for miles around would be alerted. No trick, no deceit could cover up the scent of fresh semen. Should he ejaculate out here, the only question would be what sort of monster would capture him first; would it be the intelligent, female hunters from the Tribes, or some savage, semen-feeding predator craving his chromosomes? Ten-Inch wouldn't wait to find out. The Sulphur helped somewhat; there were components in the Pleasure-Cactus hallucinogens similar to the pheromones exuded by the women of the Tribes, and by shoving the noxious powder into his face, he was able to find the strength to force his legs to walk away from the indecent vegetation. Carefully, deliberately, he picked his steps as he navigated the dry gulches, and rocky ravines criss-crossing the deserts, and he suspected that his ruse would work. His exposed penis, while less compelling than the scent of fresh semen, would still alert the refined senses of many predators. Taking the other half of the scarf he had torn, he laid it upon a smooth, flat boulder of shale. That should be enough, but then...moments later....the Wave hit him....the ringing in his ears.....the throbbing in his groin...
"*GGRRRN*... The...The Star-Fire Tribe....their....psionic powers! Can't give in...." That was another adaptation that apparently had caught the scientists of the Ancients by surprise. As unprecedented biological weapons confounded the chromosomes of every living thing, there had been incredible changes in neurobiology; or so the scientific papers had reported that Ten-Inch had once read. Among these changes was the power to reach out with the mind; to project brainwaves into energy, or effect the brainwaves of others. He felt the effects now; as remote, evolved intellects battered away at his mind and body with exotic energies. Clutching his skull, the runaway breeder reflected on what he knew about the Star-Fire Tribe: Their psionic powers only functioned during the throes of orgasm.....
**********
S'syndy stopped short. She felt a twinge, a tingle in the back of her mind. She had just donned her halter top again, while shifting uncomfortably as her aroused vagina continued to release her feminine juices.
**********
For the moment, it would serve. Myshel threw herself into the task; threw herself into the moist, throbbing cunt of Elyse, her sister-in-arms. She eagerly nuzzled the groin of the other woman; years of practice put to good use as the young warriors drove each other towards the precipice of pleasure. Amongst the hunters of the Star-Fire Tribe, the ancient art of cunnilingus was a much-needed skill. For it was only in ecstasy, only in orgasm that their telepathic abilities activated. And certainly, the girls put on a good show. The sandy pit wherein they camped was a tangled mass of sleek, muscled legs, reddish-yellow hair, breasts bigger than each girls' own head, and sweat-slicked purple skin. Raising her head from her tangy, slippery task for a moment, Myshel straddled Elyse while arching her back, deciding to grow out her breasts....just a bit more. The Elders never let them forget how important breasts were in the Hunt. It was a tenuous balance; smaller breasts resulted in greater ease when running, shooting, or fighting. Yet it was larger, full mams that lured the males. Myshel utilized the natural powers of her mutant physiology; the gifts from the Mother Goddess as her people described it. Her bright, violet-colored skin gleaming in the sun, she shook her chest amidst throaty grunts. Her murmurs were in part from the sensual bliss of shifting mass inside herself, expanding her sexual characteristics, yet mainly from the expert pussy-licking she received from Elyse, as her Tribe-Sister thrust deep into Myshel's moist depths with a curled tongue. In seconds, her boobs were no larger than would be necessary to contain her own head inside them. Concentrating, her ample cleavage shimmered and shimmied, flesh rippling as bosoms achieved greater size, yet remained buoyant. Even should their exotic sexual weapons fail, often times merely the site of bosomy, sweaty, naked women writhing in orgasm was itself enough to draw men out of hiding. Myshel slapped the shapely, purple-skinned ass squirming before her, giving a swift lick to the labia with the edge of her tongue. It was just enough to stimulate without satisfying. The owner of the sex in question twittered appreciatively at the contact, her own lips fastened around the dark red aureoles encompassing a hardened nipple of the appointed leader of this Hym'enaria. From beneath Myshel, Elyse grasped a thick, white rod from a leather pouch and caressed in gently. This rough tool was shoved unceremoniously into Myshel's drooling snatch, and twisted with skill.
"GODDDESSSS!!!!" Myshel swore, as the Sacred Rod ground into her slippery, purple cunt. It was a Dildolarius, a ceremonial sex-toy issued to all war-bands, hunting-parties, and Hym'enarias. Ivory wrapped in fibers from a rubber plant, it was designed to bring about swift orgasms from texture alone, yet it was also covered with a particular blend of mind-altering herbal mixtures that strengthened the psionic powers of the recipient.
Perhaps it was the euphoria triggered by the Dildolarius in her sex, but Myshel felt more confident and optimistic than at any time during this quest. They had managed to track the cunning, runaway male for days, and were closing in. It was true; this was the Prime Breeder! Said to be a potent, powerful male who engineered his own escape from the Black-Tiger Tribe, and evaded all their patrols. Myshel gurgled with delight at the thought of his capture. A man that strong and clever; imagine what strength he could give to her daughters! No doubt, his seed would be shooting into her womb before this week was past! Too often her people had grumbled with dismay upon visiting the Black-Tigers; so happy and smug, almost every belly bulging with child! His children, sired from the seed of the one called Ten-Inch! No male the Star-Fire's had ever captured had spawned even half so many young! A man of this value could not, must not be lost; whatever plot he was brewing in his inscrutable male mind must not succeed. His penis, his seed, was the envy of the Northern Tribes! He must not be allowed to escape....
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It was his first. The Shaman had been so proud, she had screamed, and jumped, and leaped with joy and pride. The short, dark-haired female had hurried him out to show to the Chieftain. Like all females of the Black-Tiger Tribe, she possessed mutations which gave a vaguely cat-like appearance. Eons of genetic trickery from synthetic virus-weapons unleashed by the Ancients had spliced, sliced, and reshuffled almost every lifeform on Earth. The Shaman specifically, had a paper-thin, downy layer of yellow and black spotted fur covering her voluptuous frame save only for face, bosom, and extremities.
He was ready, he was strong. Their sowing had borne fruit; it was the day of his first erection. They had been watching him for months now, the boy hadn't known what to do, or expect, but now he understood. There would be a ceremony; the grand festival. The Tribe would prepare the Phallurrala - when a boy becomes a man.
It seemed too easy. He had expected to...do something....prove something to show that he was ready to be called a man. But amidst the sex-starved females of the Black-Tiger Tribe, all that was necessary was an erect penis.
Soon, flower petals were strewn around the huts, cymbals and tambourine made a happy racket, and the women joined in joyful song! According to the traditional prescripts, all clothing was forbidden him from now on, and all that he wore was the ceremonial red paint slathered upon his member, to denote his emerged fertility. The paint of course, was drugged. And it was the first of many such concoctions.
Those days were a blur; the herbal potions fired his young body and hot blood, forcing him to churn out more sperm than humanly possible; even for the most blue-balled adolescent male. The potions....they kept him erect for hours...hours at a time. It was the chieftain first, followed by the Shaman. Then, he was used by the Tribe's mightiest axe-fighter; he remembered her muscled thighs and tiger-striped fur thinly covering her skin as she ravished him. His penis her reward for enemies slain.
It was a blur, a panoply of wobbling breasts, spasming pussies, and feminine shrieks of ecstasy as the entire Tribe used him, grateful for their breeder that had come to blossom before them. Amidst the cries, the orgasms, the impossible heights of ecstasy was a phrase...two words...over and over...
"Ten!"
"Ten-Inches!"
"Ten-Inch!"
"Ten-Inch!"
"Ten-Inch!"
"Ten-Inch!"
He shook his head, snapping his mind from the reverie. That was their power, the effect of this particular onslaught. The telepathic powers of the Star-Fire Tribe bombarded the victim with erotic thoughts and memories so real as to block out the normal senses. Making the victim easy prey. But he had to keep running! Always running! He had a plan, don't forget to run, no matter what they make him see or remember, keep running!
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Myshel felt victory was imminent. Their leader had reported contact; several brains had been reached by their Powers, one of them....Male, MALE, MALE!! A male brain had been struck by their psychic attack! Their leader, Natelly sprang into action; she rose from the sea of naked, purple-skinned female flesh and ordered the scouts to fan out; even as the lesbian orgy continued, two cunning warriors equipped with nets and bolas would search for this male that their powers had sensed.
All was falling into place; the Goddess had blessed their Hym'enaria and Myshel's earlier trepidations were gone. She had resented, raged against the tribal elders for making her wait until her eighteenth Summer before she was allowed to chase and hunt a man to ravish. But by waiting, by beginning her man-hunt now, she and her tribe-sisters would have a chance to capture a Prime Breeder. Truly, it was serendipity! Her breasts expanded to a size just past her own elbows in length, and just above her navel on the lower slope as she embraced her purple-skinned comrades to produce more orgies, and more intense psychic attacks!
Will Ten-Inch escape the Rock-Snake Tribe? Can he elude them and the Star-Fire Tribe? How did he escape from his previous mistresses? Can he ever hope to reach the Verdant Lands? or is Ten-Inch doomed to a life of sexual slavery? This perverted little tale can only be continued if I receive reader feedback!!!