CONTENT WARNING: The text below is, by its intent, explicit in nature. It is unrated and for mature audiences only. This is neither intended nor suitable for any minors, nor adults that do not want to be exposed to descriptions of non-realistic sexual intercourse in a fantasy setting.
I’ll break it down for those hard of understanding:
Non-realistic — The things described herein do not work in the real world. Not At All!
Sexual intercourse — Two or more people of the same or different sex and legal age, doing teh nastay together. Ask yourself, and be honest: Do You Want To Read About That? Should you read about that? Are you legally entitled to read that? If "No", then What Are You Doing Here?
Fantasy setting — Far, far away in a a mirror universe. Faery tale. Magic. Wizardry. Totally made up. Out of this world. In other words, restating the obvious: Do Not Try This At Home!
Compulsory Begging for Comments:
Hey, y’know. Author’s pride and stuff. I don’t ask for much. A one-liner comment will do. Just so I know someone actually reads this. Apart from the obvious smut in the stories, I’m just like any other amateur writer — I like feedback. :)
You’re encouraged to be honest in your comments. If you don’t like it because you think my writing style sucks, that’s okay with me. If you don’t like it because you don’t like the kind of story setting, then — why did you download it in the first place? There is an introductory blurb on Overflowing Bra for this text, you know. :)
My complete listing of texts is at
http://overflowingbra.com/results.htm?varname=553
Note: That’s the whole list of stories I wrote, with the oldest at the top and the newest at the bottom. Please check that you’re targeting the right one when you send your comments. Yes, I do follow the comments for my older texts, too.
And, folks: at the Overflowing Bra, "5" means best. "1" means worst. Not the other way ’round. You also might want to make sure you’re rating/commenting at the right story page, too. I’m just sayin’, is all. ;)
Every now and then, I’ll reply to incoming comments/questions at
http://www.overflowingforum.com/viewtopic.php?f=4&t=2195
And that’s it for the preface. Here comes the story now...
Yrba’s Travels, Pt. 1 — Jailbreak
by
Paul Gerard (a pen name)
version 1, written June-September 2008
proofed November 2008
Chapter marks added July 2009
Author’s note, December 2008: Even though this story is the first part of a longer storyline, I’m not sure when — or indeed if — the other parts might follow. Sorry to keep you hanging, but since it’s the first part, it should be able to stand on its own easily. As I’m writing this little preface in December 2008, a whole lot of debate is going on in my country about internet content filtering, site blocking, traffic tracking, preemptive logging of all network connection data and stuff — some of it to become mandatory from January 1st, 2009. I’ve got no clue at all how or if things might change because of that. Right now, I’m just filled with anger and frustration head to toes, and that’s not the right mood for me to come up with engaging big boob stories.
End of rant, back to your regular program...
--
Altaerna - a world, where the laws of reality may become mere guidelines at any given time, where magic and machinery are intertwined, where all those things creeping in the shadows of fantasy may step forward onto the mind’s stage.
The time of this story is the 12th century.
The author would like to apologize to anyone versed in latin. Let’s just pretend there’s a language very much like our latin, and it’s used by the witches and magi of Altaerna; and that the magic does not care that much if the words are not quite right.
Inspirational music:
"You’ve got the brawn / I’ve got the brain / Let’s make lots of money"
- Pet Shop Boys, Opportunities
--
Chapter: Waiting for the last sunrise
The taller of the two guards in chain mail pulled open the wooden cell door. The short one dragged the unconscious woman inside the cell and dropped her on the cold and dusty floor of worn cobblestones.
"What’s she in for?" he asked while catching his breath.
"The noose, by morning. Lord got angry," was the offhand reply by the tall one, holding the torch. "Come on, it’s past midnight. We could’ve been off duty for a quarter of an hour already if you weren’t so slow."
"Well, she’s heavy! You could’ve lent a ’and! But no, always me who ’as to carry ’em around!"
"Yeah, ’cause you’ve go a thing fo’ the big un’s."
"Willya lookit ’er?! She’s big all right, but ain’t got nothing on ’er chest! Felt like carrying a damn gent!"
He kicked the motionless figure.
"Stupid cow! Should’ve lied back and kept ya mouth shut and yer legs open, not the other way ’round!"
The door was slammed shut, bolted, and locked. The two guards disappeared upstairs, taking the torch with them. After a while, the clouds in the night sky opened up. Moonlight shone through the small, barred windows. The row of large prison cells filled with the pale bluish glow. Each compartment, easily suitable for a hundred inmates, was separated only by rusty but solid iron bars from the adjoining one. The wall towards the corridor was made from heavy bricks, and clearly had been added later. A century ago, an even more impatient ruler than the incumbent gave order to turn the castle’s basement stables into this cell-block. Nowadays, with justice being served much more swiftly and with less strain on the royal treasury, they remained empty most of the time.
They weren’t empty this night, though.
There was a whimper, barely audible, then the spreadeagled shape of the tall woman began to move. She slowly rolled on her belly and crawled up to the door. Leaning against it, she struggled upright and reached for the small window.
"Water... please...," she begged. For a few moments, her trembling fingers clutched the rusty bars in the door’s window. Then she slumped back down. Her long blond hair, a white mess in the weak moonlight, hung matted in her face. She sobbed quietly, and her drawn-up shoulders shook.
"Waste of breath, girl," a dark and husky voice said.
She looked up and saw, with her bleary, half-closed eyes, a heap of rags stirring in the deep shadows of the next cell.
"Ain’t nobody waiting outside, ain’t nobody listening, ain’t nobody coming until sunrise. And then...," the figure stretched her arms, lifted her hand behind her neck, cocked her head and let her tongue hang out, as if strangled by an invisible rope. "You understand?"
"Gypsy!" the blonde uttered, pointing a trembling finger at her.
The other woman, stocky and about five and a half feet tall, chuckled while she kept stretching her limbs. Much of her body’s outline was hard to make out in the darkness.
"Amazing. What gave me away? The colorful rags for clothes, or are you missing anything of value from your pockets already?"
The tall blonde staggered to her feet and stumbled towards her. She fell hard against the bars. Her right hand reached through and grabbed at the other inmate’s clothes.
"Water! Please...," she begged again. The gypsy’s patchwork dress slipped through her weak grip. Her arm fell, and she slumped down further.
Rearranging the veils and rags wrapping around her body, the other woman asked: "How long since you last drank something?"
"Morning... been all day... at the pillory...," was the whispered reply, mumbled through chapped lips. The pale girl closed her eyes tightly as another cramp gripped her empty stomach.
"Bastards," muttered the dark-skinned, dark-haired woman, kneeling down. "Here, open your mouth... theeeere’s a good girl. Slowly, slowly." A hand reached through the bars, cupped the blonde’s cheek and lifted her head. The skin on the gentle fingers was rough and scarred, the skin of a woman used to working hard for long hours.
The girl felt a wrinkly, rough fingertip, covered in a sweet liquid, touch her mouth. She sucked at it and tasted more juice running over her tongue. Finally, she opened her eyes — and froze.
A big, oblong, almost melon-sized breast hung right in front of her face. The gypsy had lifted her left udder from her dress and had pushed it through between two of the bars. Moving in as close as she could, and reaching with her arms through the adjacent gaps between the bars, she was squeezing and milking her soft, voluminous tit with both hands now. More whitish drops formed on the coarse teat-like nipple that the blonde had mistaken for a fingertip. They were shining on a brown skin that seemed near black in the faint light.
"D—Darkskin? You’re a traveling Darkskin trader?"
The woman produced a throaty, deep laugh.
"Oh, let me guess — Princess Obvious, is that you?"
The blonde looked at her, confused.
"Who, me? I don’t know about any princesses around here."
Her gaze returned to the nipple and the whitish drops. Her dry tongue licked her lips, producing a rasping sound.
"Funny, I always thought your ilk’s milk would be black as well."
"You don’t get around much, do you? Us Darkskins are not that different. Pink on the inside just like anybody else. Come on, don’t play coy now. You’re thirsty, and I don’t have any use for it right now." The gypsy lifted her breast further. More milk dripped from the hardening nipple. It ran over the taut, bulging areola. "Don’t let it go to waste."
"You don’t have a bowl of water instead...?"
The gypsy laughed bitterly.
"Now why would the guards give us water during our last night? In case you haven’t noticed yet, you’re on death row. I guess they figured that anything given to us now would just make more of a mess tomorrow."
Her voice became soft again. "Here, girl. All waiting for you. No point any more in saving it for later."
The blonde did not hesitate any longer and latched onto the sweet source. Drawing milk from the nipple was hard at first, but after a while it became easier and easier until the erect teat dripped and spurted at the slightest touch. The lavish donor moaned quietly every now and then while she squeezed and kneaded the soft flesh.
Chapter: Revelations
After several minutes of slowly filling her belly with the delicious milk, the blonde felt a little spit of her own return to her mouth as her body kept absorbing the much-needed liquid. She let go of the swollen knob on the drained breast and belched.
"Sorry! Oh heavens, thank you! Thank you! You’ve saved my life!"
"For now, at least. You’re welcome. Name’s Yrba. Yours?"
"Mirca."
"Cute name. Doesn’t it mean 'the little one' around these lands?" She cocked her head. "Well, I gather you don’t quite live up to it." Pulling her breast back through the bars, she continued: "You know, there’s more waiting for you, if you’re not sated yet."
She smiled in the dim moonlight, her dark eyes glistening behind the black curls of her mane that hung into her face. In the shadows, it was hard to tell how old she was. She could’ve been the blonde’s age, twenty, and stacked, or forty. And stacked. Hell, she’d be stacked at any age.
"So? Have another go? Don’t worry, second one’s on the house as well."
While her left hand reached into her bustier and cupped the other soft, ample melon, her right hand pulled down the rim of the tight garment. The breast spilled over the hem and dangled down. Hanging side by side, the difference in filling was obvious, even in the darkness of the cells. "Go on, I don’t mind. In fact, they’ll look a better pair after you suck the other down to size as well."
Mirca reached through the bars. She gripped the other milk bag with both hands and pulled the nipple to her lips.
"Careful! You wouldn’t pull at your —," Yrba squeaked, then fell silent for a few moments as Mirca backed away and raised her hands in an excusing gesture. Finally, the gypsy continued: "Sorry, I just noticed you wouldn’t know about that. Don’t worry, I’m not angry. Come here..."
She had just now seen the flatness of her cell neighbour in all its sadness, and uttered a sympathetic sigh. She reached for the blonde’s wrists and guided her hands.
"Here, I’ll show you. Gentle now, put your one hand beneath to lift it and run the other along from the root to the nipple... yes, like that. Squeeze it a little, so you can guide it through the bars — good, good." She nudged around a bit and leant forward. "Yes, that’s as far as it’ll go. Now slip your other hand through — no, not that gap. The next. Yes, good. Put your fingertips on the — right here. And run them down along — good. Once more. A little stronger. And again. You can feel that? Goooood. Now squeeze a little harder — ouch! Not that hard! You got tongs for hands?! — Oh yes, yes, that’s much better. Feel the milk ducts inside and... oh yes, it’s starting now..."
Mirca put her jaw forward and held the breast, with the fattened nipple pointing at her open mouth. The first spray that she squeezed out with her strong fingers went all over her face. She quickly moved closer and wrapped her lips around the milk bag’s nozzle not to let any of it go to waste.
After a handful of gulps, she opened her mouth as wide as she could, to the point where she almost feared to unhinge her jaw. Sucking the soft flesh into her mouth, her lips almost rimmed the whole palm-sized areola. Her tongue went round and round over the buds. Her lips alternated between gently pressing down on the mounds and sucking on the breast. Each pull drew out the nipple together with the puffy mound it rested on, and each squeeze made it spew thin jets of milk.
Yrba dug her hands into the blond mane and groaned.
"Yes, that’s nice! Oh my, you’re so strong, you’re sucking me dry, girl! Go ahead, drink up!"
She did not need to encourage or guide the girl any more. Mirca found, almost by instinct, a gentle and yet strong, flexing grip on the soft melon that made it spew its ample load into her eager mouth.
The moon wandered further along its path. Mirca finally let go of the drained nipple and rested with her back to the wall, still recovering from the day at the pillory. The cool touch of the stones soothed the sunburn on her aching back. Separated only by the line of bars, she sat side-by-side with her saviour. After a while of—to her—unfamiliar pondering, she looked at the gypsy and flat-out declared:
"You said this is death row. I don’t believe it. No, I don’t think they’ll harm us."
Yrba turned her head to the side and looked at her, arms crossed over her breasts, which she had tugged back into her dress. She raised her eyebrows.
"Oh, really?"
"Yes. We haven’t done anything wrong, have we? Well, that merchant I was sent to for errands, he had complained about me because I’m ugly and he was expecting that—," she blushed, "Uh, that floozy from the palace kitchen. Still, I shouldn’t have slapped him in the face when he tried to—No, Lord Peter probably just wants to teach me a lesson about obedience."
"You sure about that? If I were you, I wouldn’t bet my life on it. No, I think your lord doesn’t care about you at all. He just wants to see us dead. Maybe not even that. Maybe he just doesn’t care if we live or die, as long as our petty affairs don’t bother him. Bit of a temper, that guy. Amazing, you thinking this here isn’t serious."
"Well, he is the supreme ruler of the town and shire and all its forests. It really wasn’t up to me to decide what that merchant could or couldn’t do with my body. I... I don’t know how I could even think of lifting my hand against a noble. The lord was right. He has to punish me, or what else would this land turn into?"
"Maybe into a better place?" Yrba sighed. "Why do you talk like a serf, girl?"
"Why, because that’s what I am. I’ve been sold here to pay my family’s debts and have been a servant to Lord Peter ever since I—"
"A servant? You?" The gypsy laughed. "Oh come on, stand up straight and let me look at you again."
Mirca obeyed. As she stood up, her ragged dress slipped down over her shoulders, clung to her hips for a few seconds and then fell to the floor. She blushed and bent down to grab it, but Yrba quickly told her to stop.
"No, leave that where it is. No need for decency here. Now spin a few times!"
The gypsy crossed her arms and cocked her head while she inspected the blonde head to toe. Finally she pursed her lips and put her hands to her hips.
"Girl! What you’ve been doing all that time?"
"I don’t understand—," muttered the tall blonde, cringing.
"Stop wringing your hands! Stop cowering! Stand straight, hold your arms up, and push against the ceiling!"
Mirca obeyed. The gypsy gasped as the blonde unfolded and reached up. Her hands pressed against the ceiling, and muscles bulged all over her arms and legs.
"My goodness! How tall are you?"
"Around six and a half feet, they told me when I last received new clothes, but I try not to—"
"That’s more than a whole head taller than me! And look at your muscles! You’re ginormous! Titanic! Wow! Well, at the expense of no boobs to speak of. Ah, the famous balance of nature. Always a bitch."
Mirca knelt down and picked up her stained and frayed cotton dress.
"Yes, uh, well, I’m strong, but I—I try not to make people uncomfortable. You know, it’s always so awkward, being my size. I run into the low door-frames if I don’t watch out. And those clothes, they don’t really fit. I need to fix the seams if I so much as make a wrong move. And the other girls, they call me an oaf and an ox and a cow if they’re angry with me, but I really try not to be any trouble." Her voice grew more silent. "They’re angry at me all the time," she mumbled. She finished putting on the rough cloth and wrung her hands again. "I don’t want to—It’s just that—"
Yrba shook her head in disbelief. "Oh come on! Get a grip! You’re a female Hercules! A freaking Amazon! They should bow before you! Instead, you—what exactly were your duties?"
"I — I was ordered to take care of the stoves and ovens."
"So you’ve been chopping wood and lugging it around, for how long?"
"The last ten years, but—"
Yrba laughed. "No 'but', my dear! No wonder you’ve turned out the way you did. With a body like yours, you should be a proud warrior, a heroine! Oh my, just imagine yourself in chainmail and leather!" The gypsy felt a wave of gooseflesh rush over her skin at that thought and grinned. "I guess you could easily knock down half a dozen of the guards if you put just a little effort into it. Yes, that’s something I can work with. All right, come closer. Looks like you’re back on your feet, so now I’ll let you in on my little secret."
The blonde leaned in. Yrba whispered a few words to her, through the bars that separated them. Then Mirca bent over and laughed, pointing at her.
"You’re no witch! I’ve been taught how a witch looks like, because I must warn my lord if I ever meet one. Let’s see—"
She used her fingers to count and recall what had been drummed into her head.
"You don’t wear black… uh, you are black-ish, but you don’t wear it, that’s more of a red; and then you’re not old, well at least I think you’re not that old, and you don’t have any warts on your nose." She pinched her eyes and shook her head. "No you don’t. Uh, where was I… ah, right, and you’re not thin and wrinkly! You’re just a funny matron. Look at you! Where’s your cauldron, huh? In there?" The blonde laughed and poked at the round, jiggly belly of the gypsy through the bars.
"Yes, I am a witch." Yrba patted her bulging belly. "And that’s really my cauldron, and it’s been bubbling with witch’s brew for quite a while now. Been chewing herbs, gargling potions and holding my clam tight for half a year to get the mixture just right. And then I pull up to the town’s gate thinking of nothing but a steaming hot bath and some quality time to drain the harvest from my snatch, and suddenly, those blasted guards drag me off my cart, call me a smuggler whore and contraband trafficker and throw me in this hole. Me! They didn’t even listen or ask a single question! Dammit! Right before I could tap my liquid treasure here, fill it into vials and sell it to the Mesdames for a shitload of gold and jewels."
"So if you’re a real witch, how come you’re still locked in here? Shouldn’t you be doing some finger-wiggling and be gone?"
Yrba grinned, took a deep breath and also began counting with her fingers.
"Point one, I’m immune to magic. Magic savants usually are. That’s why my little trick with the herbs and potions works in the first place." She exhaled and hesitated. "Both a blessing and a curse. I can’t change my own body. I can’t make myself stronger to break down that door. I can’t do zilch to myself. I can only do magic alterations on other people’s bodies. That’s all. Which takes us to point two: Whoever wants my services, needs to drink my potion first. Else it won’t work. Even then, it’s a convoluted and tedious process. And point three, I can not use my magic on inanimate things."
She sighed. Yes, her immunity was one of her many sore spots. Yrba had been born with it. The ubiquitous natural magic all around, no matter how faint or strong it might be, would have nothing on her. That’s why she was able to shape its flow, to concentrate, condensate and direct it. Her eagerness to understand why she was different had led her to learning about magic. It had become her obsession. And along with surprising achievements (like the popular Tincture for the discerning Madame, only a drop a day, which had kept her not just afloat but comparatively wealthy through the years), equally spectacular disappointments had been around every other corner of the way.
"See, magic is not make-a-wish. With magic, you can do nothing but in places change the rules of nature that govern the world. Sometimes a little, sometimes big time. It’s not that reliable, and I also guess that’s why I’m in here. Maybe some people didn’t take it lightly that I often had to say, 'I can’t help you with that.' "
She hesitated and noticed the furrowed brow of the blonde.
"What’s the matter? Are you still following me? Did I talk too fast?"
"Whu... what does «eh-muhn say vent» mean?"
Yrba rolled her eyes. "Rrrright. Don’t trouble that sweet head of yours then, darling. Come up to the bars, and I’ll tell you how we’re going to break free from this dungeon."
Feeling curious as much as nervous, Mirca moved closer. The witch admired her athletic body again and sighed.
"Right, here’s the rub. You’ll need to drink my juice. We haven’t got much time, so don’t just kiss the cup and lick a few drops. I want you to down all of it, understood?" Yrba lifted her skirts over her round, sloshing belly and pushed her hip forward. She moaned. "Hurry, or it’ll start to drip out by itself. I’m a week overdue! Here, I’ll put it as close as I can—"
She grabbed a vertical bar in each hand, put her feet on the horizontal bar that ran across at hip’s height and half-hung from, half-squatted on the iron, her legs in a wide split and her thighs pushing against the bars to bring her crotch forward as much as possible.
"Come, dear. Put your face to the rods and pull a little on my nether lips, and you’ll be able to drink from me like from a water bag. I know you can do this."
"No! That’s icky!" Mirca protested, crossed her arms, hung her head and turned her back on the gypsy. "You’re just like Suzy from the cleaners. First she was just looking funny at me all the time, and then—then... and then why would I want to do this, again?"
Yrba sighed. "You want to get out of this cell? Then do as I say."
"Yes, that’s right what she said! Only she said—," her voice changed into a squeaky, mocking falsetto, her head wobbled left and right as she continued, " 'You want to move up and be a chambermaid, oaf? Then kneel down and lick this.' And then she lifted her skirt like you did, and I did as she told me—eeeugh! And then she got all wiggly and sweaty and she grabbed my head hard and pushed it into her crotch."
Mirca took a deep breath and, gesticulating wildly, continued with her complaint.
"And I could hardly breathe, and she kept on screaming to the gods and how she was going to die, only she wasn’t, not really. And then after she caught her breath again, she said I’d have to do that with her each night. Can you believe that? I—I think she even had fun." Mirca shuddered with revulsion. "That’s so yucky. She always tastes fishy. And you’re weird when you talk just like her. No. No, I don’t trust you."
"Good! You shouldn’t! Remember, you trusted your lord, and he threw you in here to be hanged at dawn."
"I... I deserve it," she muttered as her shoulders suddenly fell. "I’ve been bad. I didn’t obey."
The witch stared at her with a gleam of anger in her eyes. "What?! O-bey?! Some guy wrongs you, probably says you’ve bewitched him because he can’t get over your body being harder than his dick, and your daft lord has nothing better to do than sending a faithful servant to the gallows on a whim? Tell me you don’t think that’s right."
"No, but—"
"And stop with the 'no, but'! Heel! Down! Lick me! Now! And make it worthwhile!"
Years of being pressed into obedience got the better of the woman. She knelt down and brought her face to within a finger’s length of the witch’s hairy crotch and pursed her lips. She sniffed and shuddered.
"You reek!" she dared to complain.
Yrba rolled her eyes. "Girl, I’ve been sitting in this dungeon for a week. Myself, I’d prefer right now to first soak in a rose-scented lukewarm soap bath for hours, then rub myself down with oil, then rub you down with oil, and then have you drink from me while I bury my face in your enormous clam. Get over it, and start sucking."
"You’re very elastickily" the blonde mumbled as she tugged with her strong fingers at Yrba’s pubic hair and wrinkly inner folds to lay bare the opening.
"The word’s 'elastic'. Yes, I’ve put that snatch to good use over the years. I—"
She chocked on her own words and panted, fighting for air as her body convulsed. Her hands on the bars trembled and clenched. She felt... filled to the very bottom of her pit, and then some.
"Wheeaa... what is that?" she managed after a while, after her world stopped whirling and shaking.
Something long and rough and wriggling slipped halfway out of her sopping snatch.
"Thoo thaid tho mwage ith mworthmwhile. Thuthy mwikes ith bethth thike thath."
"Come again?"
"Thoo—"
"Wait, wait. Let go first."
The rest of the freak tentacle left her. Another shiver ran up her spine. She could feel, not the brewing magic potion, but her very earthly wetness drip from her nether lips.
"You said to make it worthwhile. Suzy likes it best like that. It’s not my fault. It’s not—you said you—," muttered the frightened servant.
Yrba breathed heavily and climbed off the bars, her knees still shaking. "Up, girl. Open your mouth. Let me look at that." She blinked fast and ran her hands over her face until the mist in front of her eyes disappeared.
She gazed up at Mirca, pulling at the woman’s jaw as if she was inspecting a horse, and gasped when she finally saw what she had only suspected.
"Wow. That’s... rare. You’ve got a tongue like a cow. Hell, you could make cows envious."
"Thou’re meam," Mirca mumbled, with her tongue caught and pulled out between Yrba’s thumb and forefinger. The witch marveled at the wet muscle that extended almost two fingers long.
Yrba smiled, let go and caressed the blonde’s cheek. "Mean? I meant that as quite the compliment, dear. It’s not an insult. And it’s also a description of what it looks like. No wonder this Suzy girl went crazy for you. Being impaled on such a huge, agile, wonderful tool can do that."
Her voice trembled just a little. She took another deep breath to calm her nerves.
"Right, let’s do that again. And I don’t want you to use that (shudder) gorgeous tongue. Not now. Save that for later. Right now, just put your lips to my crotch, suck away and drink all that you can draw out of me."
Chapter: Fattening the Gretel
She hung herself to the bars again, and Mirca brought her face back into position. This time, she reached through the bars as well, and grabbed the gypsy’s ass cheeks to bring the gaping cavity even closer.
A thin trickle of greenish, faintly glowing slime showed in the depths of the witch’s vagina. The pungent smell made Mirca wrinkle her nose and curl her lips.
"No, I... I can’t do that again. Please..."
"Sorry, girl. We mustn’t delay any more."
Yrba let go of the bars. She fell backwards, quickly reached with her hands through the bars and grabbed the sinewy back of Mirca’s neck, forcing the blonde’s face forward against the bars until it met with her crotch arriving from the opposite direction. Her arms were stretched straight now; her full weight pulled on them; her arched body hung almost perpendicular to the bars—all that meant the combined leverage on the back of Mirca’s head was far too strong for the blonde to resist. Her mouth smacked into the moist vulva. A quick wiggle from the witch’s hip, and the wide labia slipped over the blonde’s jaw with a squelching sound until they almost covered her cheeks that were pressed against the cold bars. Yrba writhed again and felt herself opening up inside. Her juices first dripped, then gushed against Mirca’s lips, who held her mouth shut tight in disgust. Still, little by little, a trickle seeped through as the pressure grew. It tasted like beer gone sour.
Mirca panicked, panting through her nose into the witch’s curly bush. She flailed her arms, trying to get a grip on the bars, to push away. The pressure in the pent-up potion in her mouth rose and rose; it made her cheeks bulge as it filled her up. She couldn’t tear away, though not for a lack of trying. Yrba’s arms simply were stronger than hers, at least after the day of tormenting the girl had already suffered through. The more Mirca flailed mindlessly, the less she was able to get any leverage at all. The witch clenched her teeth and continued to tense her inner muscles, forcing some more of the liquid into the blonde’s mouth. Mirca finally gave in and started to swallow, if only to stop the vile stuff from rising into her nose.
"Ah, there’s a good girl. High time to fatten this Gretel. Now quit struggling, this is for your own good," she heard Yrba’s voice, muffled by the arms that grabbed her head and half-covered her ears.
Gulp after gulp went down her throat. She felt her belly bulge along with the shrinking of the witch’s womb. It took a mere half of a minute before the rancid well dried up and her head was released from the grip. To her, it seemed like an eternity.
Gasping for air, she tumbled down against the bars and fell forward on all fours. Her stomach gurgled and ached; she couldn’t and wouldn’t fight the rising bile and immediately began to heave.
Just as Mirca started to retch, the witch reached with one hand through the bars and grabbed her throat, squeezing it tight.
"Oh no, that’s not going to happen!" she hissed while her other hand quickly drew a chain of sigils into the air.
The blonde clawed at the hand and arm, but to no avail. Her eyes almost popped from their sockets, and her freak tongue hung from her mouth while she spasmed, torn between the choking grip and the convulsions in her innards. Her stomach regurgitated the liquid in painful heaves and emptied it fast into ... where?
The hand let go of her throat and caught her shoulder before Mirca could fall down.
"There, there. Here, wipe your mouth." Yrba handed her a handkerchief she had pulled from the sleeve of her dress. "You’ve almost made it."
Mirca gulped and breathed heavily, sat back and wrapped her arms around her aching belly. With closed, tear-filled eyes, she wailed: "Almost? You’re mean! That was horrible! Why—"
Her eyes snapped open. She gasped.
"—holy heavens!"
Her hands blindly fingered her belly, only to find it in its well-defined, muscle-ribbed shape as before. But when next she reached up for her face to wipe the wet layer of smelly ooze off, she found she couldn’t do that. At least not like she used to, because along the old route her hands bumped into a soft, fleshy resistance. She stared down, and her mouth fell open.
"Breasts! I’ve... you’ve... " she stuttered.
The upper part of her drab housemaid uniform was utterly destroyed, torn apart from the inside by new volume that had puffed up. Bands of cloth, ripped along her circumference, were all that was left. A few of them made valiant efforts to retain the overflowing amount of flesh that resembled two soft half-melons. When she bumped her hands into the protruding amount again and sent the flesh quivering, more of the strands tore and snapped. For the first time ever, she had to reach around her bosom to touch her face. She rubbed her eyes and still couldn’t believe it.
Yrba smiled. "Don’t you like them? That’s what my witchcraft can do. That’s how I earn my living, selling my infamous potion to the envious Mesdames of the town."
"I don’t know. They seem so... so big. Why would I want them? They’ll just get in the way! And my clothes will fit even less! No, you take them back. They’re weird."
"Mirca, dear, would you lift one of them so I can take a better look?"
Yrba put on a mysterious smile that broadened when the blonde reached for her new assets. Just you wait, girl. Ah, I love it when they do that for the first time.
Mirca grabbed her left breast up with both hands and almost passed out when the strange new sensation hit her. The soft, yielding mass quivered and shook, as did her grip. She couldn’t resist and just had to squeeze harder, and the skin bulged out between her wide-spread fingers, the areola popped out, a half-orb, and the teat contracted and hardened. Between her legs, a tickle started.
"Uh. Uuuh. That feels... whoa! Strange. But good-strange. Not bad-strange at all."
She kneaded some more and then switched over to the right breast. "That’s fun. So that’s what they’re for? And they’re all mine? They won’t go away? I can keep them?"
"As much of them as you want."
Yrba looked at her and just had to smile. Was I ever like that? Just sitting contentedly somewhere, lost in the joy of a new toy? She sighed and for a moment, and forgot about what she’d next have to do to the poor girl.
"Right. Here’s my deal for you. You get to keep them, but I—"
Mirca barely listened. She held one of her hooters in each hand and bounced the lush orbs into each other, again and again, smiling madly. Her new abundance bobbed and shook, and the ripples sent little jolts of joy through her body.
"Yes, yes, all right! Whatever you want! Would you just look at that?" she giggled. "They’re going, like, boing boing boing!"
"—get to use them first to spring us from this prison," the witch finished. "Girl, did you listen? You said 'yes'. Did you mean it? The magic’s listening to us."
"Huh? Yes, sure, sure. What you said." Mirca finally looked up. Her stare was half-puzzled, half-worried, and almost all-absent. "Uh, what e-suck-e-dilly?"
"Exactly’s the word. I’ll make this easy on you. As far as I can. First you need to relax a bit."
Yrba cracked her knuckles and flexed her fingers before she drew a complicated gesture in the air. Mumbling "Excitare passionatus", she held her flat hands together and ran the tip of her tongue over the crack between her forefingers.
Mirca exhaled through her wide-open mouth as she felt her crotch catch fire. Grinning like a fool, her eyes closed, she rolled onto her back. Another lick from Yrba, and the tall blonde twisted and turned on the floor, one hand groping her breasts, the other moving south and rubbing the itching outer folds of her crotch. She moaned blissfully.
Sex had never meant much to her before, to the "freak," the "oaf" that nobody wanted to "do" anyway. She knew a thing or two about how it supposedly worked—she’d been raised on a farm that had animals, after all—but it had never occurred to her that it could be fun. So much fun. Suzy’s escapades had been a strictly one-sided affair and had left Mirca with nothing but a bad taste in her mouth for hours. Right now, she caught up on all the things she had been missing, and they came in one huge package. The faint, omnipresent magic in the air condensed around her as a pale, rainbow-colored smoke; it hovered over her in wisps of fog, and from there, little sparks arced into her body. The discharges were drawn to her new breasts; they titillated her nipples relentlessly and made her flesh quiver. Whenever they hit her groping hand, her fingers spasmed and dug into her soft skin. Her other hand rubbed at her snatch. Soon, foam seeped through her fingers and drenched her curly pubes, and smacking, squishy noises filled the room. Her arousal reached heights she had never felt before.
She needed to slow down and catch her breath again. Mirca lifted her moist fingers from her sopping hole. A thin filament of her juices dripped from her glistening forefinger. The sparks ran up and down the lengthening shape and turned the lather into a glowing web of shiny drops.
No matter how much she wanted to take her time in exploring the new sensations, the magic gave her no chance to take it slow. With her hand out of her crotch and out of the way, the sparkles around her beaver grew all the more intense. They formed a St. Elmo’s fire creeping into each and every nook and cranny, and made her matted blonde pubic hair shine like silver. The same eerie glow started around her areolae, and the tendrils of light filled her bosom with an unearthly itching. She squeezed and kneaded her breasts. In between her ragged breathing, she moaned at Yrba:
"Wrong...! Feels... hot... ," then she almost screamed as another series of dwarf lighting bolts seared over her skin, "— Feels taut!"
The fog suddenly changed shape. It swirled around her, forming two whirling funnels aimed right at her nipples. Within seconds, all of the supernatural energy had disappeared into her breasts as if sucked in by force. A few flickering strands of light kept dancing along the veins showing vaguely through her skin and then were gone.
Mirca gasped for more air and cupped her new main attributes. Their soft, doughy flesh spilled through her fingers’ strong grip, but slowly they grew more resilient; the sensation of growing tautness sent thrills through her body.
"Mmmhh. Was— was that supposed to happen?"
Yrba smiled enigmatically, and then she said, "You’ve not even seen the first of it." She lifted her fists and then slowly spread her fingers. "Mammae expandere" were her next, mumbled words.
"Expa—what? Uh— aiiiee!"
The fingers Mirca had wrapped around her breasts suddenly were forced apart. She stared down on her bosom and frantically groped at it, trying to keep the unruly flesh down. Every time her fingers grabbed anew, there was more heavy volume in those mounds on her chest.
"They’re growing! No! That can’t be—I don’t want—," she whispered, staring at the pulsing and pumping veins. The upper parts of her boobs throbbed and swelled closer to her face. The weight in her hands kept on multiplying. Her wailing grew louder, yet Yrba showed no sign of stopping her gestures and mumbled commands.
"Oh gods! Quit that! I didn’t think it would—mercy!" She let go of her right breast and extended a pleading hand to the bars and the dark silhouette of the witch behind them. Without support, the bag of swelling flesh dangled down, now pulsing longer and longer instead of rounder, its shape straining under its own weight. The skin grew painfully taut while the front with the pointy nipple grew down over her hip. She hurried to cup it again and just barely managed to catch it before the pliant volume distended out of her finger’s reach.
Her other breast now too grew over her grip. She wrestled with her soft flesh, struggling to bring her lower arms beneath the expanding sacks, to grab the bulging areolae and close her fingers around the thumb-sized nipples, just to keep the sloshing mass from spilling out of her grasp. With her arms propping them up into a globular shape, her tumid boobs were now pumpkin sized. Prize pumpkin sized. And growing.
"Too big! Too... too heavy! Can’t hold them..." she groaned through clenched teeth. Her knees, used to heavy lifting but now quickly overwhelmed, started to shake uncontrollably.
"Go to the middle of the cell and get down on all fours, girl!" Yrba commanded. "You ain’t seen nothin’ yet. They’ll get really, really big soon, and you’ll not be able to keep them in the air." I’m surprised you’re still upright. Damn, how strong are you?
"No! Don’t! I don’t want—"
"Shut up! We have a deal, remember? You, me, the magic. I’m doing my part. Magic does, too. And this is your part now. Engorgia rapidus gigans!"
"Mercyyyyyy!" Mirca wailed. "My skin—it doesn’t stretch any furthe—". Her voice disappeared into a howl of pain as her breasts rounded out from internal pressure. She took a pair of stooped steps to the center of the room, her back turned to the witch and her rhythmic gestures. Her breasts kept swinging slowly, much like heavy water bags. They were pumped taut now, and rumbled and quivered when they bounced into each other. She fought to keep her grip on the areolae as the nipples were pulled flat and the wrinkles disappeared. It didn’t matter that she managed to keep her hands on them. The rest of her breasts just kept growing on and on.
Just when she thought she was going to burst, a shiver of expanding skin ran over her breasts. The tautness was momentarily relieved, but immediately more flesh spilled out, burgeoning out of her grip. She tried to keep her arms close to her body, and her face almost disappeared into the growing cleavage. The ever-increasing weight finally forced her to her knees, but she managed to keep her body upright.
"Mulga abundare!" the gypsy proclaimed.
"What?" Mirca groaned through clenched teeth, grappling with her breasts.
"Conjuring abundant milk," was the answer.
The blonde stopped struggling and slowly shook her head in horror. "No, you can’t do that to me—"
"I can. I must. For the sake of you and me both."
"I—I’m burning up!" wailed the blonde. Around the base of her breasts, a ring of her skin heated up. The warmth spread inwards into her flesh, along the throbbing veins glowing through her skin. The muscles beneath the huge, soft milk glands began to tremble, and the onset of the new growth transformed her round, sagging orbs into elongating ovoid monster melons that slipped from her grip for good and hung down to beneath her hip. She recalled the day when she had been ordered to carry wheat sacks around, and one of them had burst open. That was exactly how it felt, liquid-like stuffing bursting out. All too well she remembered how she had been unable to get a hold while the flowing mass spilled on and on and on through her fingers, and the whipping she received afterwards.
And along with the accelerating growth, the spreading of the heat gained speed and raced throughout the whole substance of her boobs. Mirca’s breast skin and flesh started to bubble from the inside and swelled outward faster. She finally stumbled and dropped to the floor, on top of her breasts that now looked like two big potato sacks filling with sand out of thin air. The boobs not so much inflated as rather they spilled out, a puddle of boobs, like liquid dough pouring out of a bowl onto a table. Her skin no longer put up any resistance; it just stretched and stretched.
For a few moments, she was able to prop herself up on her hands and feet. Then her breasts’ tide forced her arms apart. Fortunately, her erupting boobs were a pair of soft cushions to fall into. She fought for a grip on the skin that flowed out of her chest, but she might as well have held a stream of water. Mirca gave up and wiggled her arms into the calm crack of cleavage in front of her face. Her palms touched cold stones, and she was able to catch her breath, at least for a few moments.
Chapter: Wallwrecking
The foot-high mass pouring out of her finally ran against the four walls of the cell and started to rise higher. Mirca by now was almost hysterical. She couldn’t move by herself any more; she was tied to her growing boobs on her chest. The waves of her breast flesh rumbled and sloshed back and forth between the cell’s walls and now pushed and pulled her around on top of them. In less than a minute, she was lifted from resting on her hands and knees up to kneeling on the floor again, this time surrounded by her boobs that kept on rising, slowly pushing her back towards the wall. Another minute, and she stood upright, dancing on her toetips that barely touched the ground. Most of her weight hung on her monstrous milk factories; and they continued to fill with a deep, gurgling rumble. Her breast skin kept up with the growth now, in long, weird pulses: First it grew taut as that milk sloshed into her out of nowhere, and just as the skin started to get tight, the vague pain caused a phase of stretching noises and the wrapping prepared for the next surge. But it no longer felt too taut or over-stretched at all; her body seemed to have found a comfortable rhythm. She grabbed at the growing wall in front of her and found she could easily make wrinkles. Grabbing and pulling harder, she saw long folds forming between her thumbs and the other fingers, too.
The very next moment, the upward pull on her chest lifted her off her feet. She raised her hands, scraped her knuckles on the low ceiling and clawed at her own boobs to keep her balance. Digging her fingers into the flabby landslide to pull herself further up, she struggled to not topple over, to keep herself from being buried under the swelling milk balloons. She bounced up and down together with the sloshing, gelatinous blobs and quickly started to feel seasick.
Something cold pushed repeatedly against her bottom, and then her back. She turned her head to look over her shoulder, just in time to have a rough, rusty surface painfully scrape her temple. From the corner of her left eye, she saw the cause: The wall of breasts pressed her into the iron bars. Seconds later, she felt the top of her mammaries contact the cold ceiling. The rubbery skin of her breasts squeezed into the corners of the room, and then there wasn’t any space left. On her thighs and her stomach and her face, the hot skin of her boobs now started to feel really taut. The pressure inside kept rising the more the room constrained her bosoms. She suddenly remembered the squeezers in the kitchen and what happened to the potatoes once the force on the lever was high eno—
"No! No!! Stop it! It’s squashing me! It’ll mash me through the bars!" she screamed.
The witch replied through gritted teeth, "Hold on a little longer. I know you can. You’re strong. You’re not some fragile puppet, are ya? Hold your breath now, because—"
"Nooo! Noo—mmmmph! Mmm... mmm..." The avalanche of her breasts washed over her face, and Mirca’s desperate screams turned into muffled groans.
Yrba clenched her fists, gritted her teeth and repeated her incantations and gestures faster and faster. Time was of the essence now. The wall of pale skin was up against the bars; it already formed cushion-like bulges, squeezing through the space between the iron. The drumskin-taut skin glistened with sweat. Every now and then as the witch quietly mumbled, bricks ground out of place and the wooden door creaked. The only other sound filling the air was the squeaky, rubbery, stretching noise of gargantuan growth.
Then the iron bars groaned. Yrba slowly retreated backwards to a corner on the opposite wall of her cell when she saw the metal rods bending under the load.
"Faster, faster! Come on! Inflatium! Inflatium maximalus!" she mumbled while sweat ran over her forehead. Yrba pulled up her wide-spread fingers through magic’s thick, throbbing net, grasped more invisible strands of ethereal power as they ran through her fingers and threw them, bundled and twisting, into the wall of flesh. With eyes accustomed to the energy, the sight of Mirca filling out her cell was even more amazing.
Beams of light whizzed by, curving as they were sucked in by the magical gravity of Mirca’s breasts. The flesh quivered and swelled each time a bolt succumbed to the pull and crashed from its orbit into Planet Mirca. The cell was the eye of a magic hurricane that drew its strength in from miles around. Against the sparkling light that covered the skin of Mirca’s breasts, she could barely make out her dark, motionless frame. Her feet dangled in the air and her arms were widespread and pinioned against the bars by her own boobs. She knew the girl wouldn’t hold on much longer, slowly suffocating under her own titflesh.
"Expandere!" she barked at the pair of breasts that filled each and every corner of the other cell. Another tremor rippled through the burgeoning flesh. The light that remained invisible to the common folk got so bright she had to close her eyes. The bars bent as metal screamed like a wounded beast. Sand rained from widening cracks in the ceiling.
And then, finally, the walls came down.
Bricks rained all over the corridor. Inside the cells, the iron bars ripped from their sockets. Mirca’s body washed backwards into Yrba’s arms on the crest of a wave of quivering boob flesh that kept on multiplying. The corner pillars of the cells held the ceiling up, but just barely.
The witch gesticulated frantically in the air, her finger scribbling patterns to unravel the throbbing veins pumping into Mirca, to stop the magic-infested avalanche from burying them both under the masses of Mirca’s endlessly expanding bosom.
As the magical gale died down, the pale, rippling breasts came to a halt. It was not a moment to soon. The swollen flesh bulged out through the gaping hole in the busted wall into the corridor, it hung over the bent and thrown down iron bars, it covered the rubble in Yrba’s cell and left barely a yard free between the wall of stone behind her and the wall of boob in front of her.
Yrba held her arm out and ran her fingers over the warm, white mass. Mirca’s unconscious body hung from her breasts and bobbed up and down, tied to the inner tides of her mammaries. Now that her mouth was uncovered again with her head hanging backward, the blonde’s breath came in huffs and wheezes.
Yrba couldn’t resist, she just had to push with both hands into the huge orb and was rewarded with the sight of a long wave sloshing along the surface that went all over and even came back to where she had started it.
A fearful cry made her turn around on the spot. Mirca had jerked awake and clawed at her breasts.
"What have you done? Gods, what have you done to me?! I can’t even move!"
Yrba turned and walked away towards the bulge where Mirca’s white skin met the stone pillar.
"Yeah, all in due time. I’ll take care of that. Don’t go away."
She shoved her arm into the crevice and then wedged her body into the gap. With her back towards the wall of yielding flesh and her arms and feet pushing into the pillar, she managed to squeeze herself through and stumbled out into the corridor. Behind her, the elastic mass bounced back and sealed the cell-block off again.
"Go away? Me? Like, how?! Hey! Don’t leave me behind! Please!" Mirca’s begging came muffled through the still intact door and broken wall of Yrba’s cell.
"Don’t worry, sweet airhead," mumbled the witch. "You’re much too good an opportunity to pass up." She kept on making her way around the huge white wall, pushing her hands into it, probing, searching, until she finally found what she had been looking for. Her hands moved over the outer edge of a rougher patch of skin. It was part of a man-sized areola, half-buried and pointing downwards.
Her fingers dug into the flesh, causing long folds to appear, and then she pulled upward with all her strength. The supple skin stretched, then, with a rubbery "pop", the head-sized teat bobbed up from beneath the swollen mass. She leant her back firmly against the areola and held the protruding nipple in a headlock under her left arm. Behind her, Mirca squealed in surprise and fear.
"Gotta get your pipes open, girl, to bring your size down a notch or two," Yrba muttered. With her right hand’s fingers she searched the rough, wrinkled surface for the holes of the pencil-sized milk ducts and easily found them. She wiggled her middle finger into one, and found it clogged. Of course. Good thing the gypsy/witch package required long, claw-like fingernails.
"Never used your boobs for anything, girl, far as I can tell", she grumbled and scraped dried-up residue from the duct until wetness seeped out, then moved on to the next. Minutes later, the nipple leaked like a sieve.
She let go of the spewing sponge on Mirca’s left breast and looked around. All right, left nipple’s here, then the right one must be about, she pondered, taking a bearing over the columns, about there.
She pulled open the door of the cell to her left. Bingo! The engorged teat was lodged firmly between two bars, at chest’s height. She stepped up and grabbed it with both hands.
The very next moment, she stood frozen, her eyes and mouth wide open, gasping for air, her front drenched head to toe with milk. It continued to gush from the ducts. Her first grab had inadvertently burst them open all at once. She noticed, a bit late, the tremble and humming of the whole right breast, brimming with pent-up milk because the left one still blocked most of its growth.
Yrba let go and stepped out of the white shower, spitting and sputtering. Then she wiped off the milk running down her face and licked some from her fingertips.
"Mmmh, tasty, but no, thanks!" she grumbled, simmering over her own inattention. She wiped her face once more and rubbed down over her clothes, but that didn’t help much. Her dress was still soaked through and through and clung to her skin, and her hair was a flat, sticky mess, dribbling rivulets of milk over her forehead and into her eyes. She brushed it back and blinked.
"All right, I maybe had that coming. At least, with that out of our way, we can now milk you down, girl," she muttered under her breath. Sprinkling a rain of droplets all around, she brusquely swiveled on her heels and walked out of the cell.
Chapter: Squeezing And Wrapping
The bolt on the cell door slipped back. Mirca turned her head in fear. The guards? What would they do to her, naked and bloated and helpless as she was right now?
A dripping, slimy, glistening horror oozed through the door. She gasped, and then she recognized the figure.
"You’ve come back! I thought the guards were already out there, pinching and poking my nipples to torture me," she sighed with relief. "But... what happened to you?!"
"Don’t ask!" Yrba growled, still wiping her face and wringing her clothes.
She took a deep breath, relaxed, and rolled her shoulders. Wiggling her fingers and cracking her knuckles, she readied herself for the next step.
"Right, I’ll free you now. You don’t have to do a thing. Just hang on." She chuckled. " 'Hang on', get it?"
Mirca stared blankly at her and finally asked, "What?"
"I said 'Hang on' because you’re obviously already hanging... oh forget it! This is your first time, so it may sting a little."
"A little?"
Yrba sighed. "Honest answer? A lot. See, all of that gorgeous," she leant in and kissed the taut, sweaty skin, "gorgeous, gorgeous bosom will soon be squeezed and folded back into the package from where it came. For that to work, we’ll now blow all that delicious milk out through your teats."
"No!"
"Incarcerare mammariae! Comprimiere! Discarricare mulga!"
A net slipped over Mirca’s taut breasts. The net itself escaped her eyes, but its threads cut visibly into her flesh. As with the iron bars, dozens upon dozens of tiny cushions bulged between the unseen strands. Only this material wouldn’t tear or rip, ever. She felt the angry rumbling inside her breasts, and the rubbing as the underside of her bosoms crept over the floor while they shrank. Within minutes, her skin lost contact with the ceiling and the crumbled remains of the front wall. As the gap between wall and flesh widened, the hissing noise from the corridor got louder. The itch of liquid cascading out of her nipples quickly turned into burning pain. Mirca sobbed quietly. Tears ran over her face.
Yrba exhaled audibly. "All right, all right. So where’s the worst ache?"
Mirca bit her lips. "Nipples. Burning."
The witch stepped out into the corridor. No wonder Mirca was in pain. The milk shot out like a waterfall forced through a bundle of straws, causing the hissing noises. Yrba looked down on herself. That’s going to be ugly. Not that it matters any more, I’m already soaked. She quietly sighed.
The nipples were by now reduced to the size of big apples. She grabbed one and held it tight with one hand, while with her other she spooned a handful of milk from the stream. The pressure of the hot fountain almost stripped the skin off her fingers. Scattering all around, the spray had soaked her clothes again within seconds. Yrba wiped her face with her arm before she gently rubbed the fatty liquid over the hot, throbbing nub and was rewarded with Mirca’s sigh of relief. The volume of the jets of milk more than doubled as the nipple relaxed and widened again. She waded through the knee-deep sea of milk and repeated the procedure on the other breast.
Another few minutes later, the shrinking had run its course and slowly stopped. Mirca’s boobs were down to merely beanbag-chair-size. They rested on her thighs, their thumb-sized nipples pointing towards the ceiling. The remaining thin jets of milk slowly dwindled down and finally ceased. The magic web that had squeezed out the liquid disappeared. The empty bags sagged and distended a bit again.
"Oh heavens, it’s finally over. I thought I’d die." Mirca breathed a sigh of relief.
"We need to go on a little bit more. You don’t really want to have those deflated bags flapping around, do you?"
"What—? No! Oh no! No more! Please!"
The blonde fearfully eyed the gypsy who started drawing a new set of sigils into the air. Palms facing forward, she held out her hands. Then she moved one hand on top of the other and interlocked her fingers.
"Next part’s a bit tricky. I’ll fold your skin bags into themselves. First time’s a bitch. After that, it’s piece o’ cake. Might want to clench your teeth now, girl..."
Mirca stared at her and slowly shook her head in fear.
Yrba seemed to grab something big with the rear hand, while pushing her front hand against an invisible surface. Just like wrestling a cork from a bottle...
"Hold on now... extrahere!"
She pulled her hands apart, hard. Mirca rose to her knees, screaming at the top of her lungs, her eyes wide with pain. Her body arched backwards. Her nipples had disappeared with a smack, upending into her contracting breasts and pulling the skin along with them. Around the areolae, the flabby skin puckered and wrinkled over the disappearing flesh below. More and more of the skin piled on. Yrba’s motions were those of someone drawing up a huge invisible syringe, sucking the substance from Mirca’s udders.
The girl shrieked in the throes of pain of her breast’s compression.
"No! Leave them like that! I can carry them! I can! I’ll put them over my shoulders! You mustn’t make them smaller! I’ll rip! Please!"
Her breasts kept on shrinking nevertheless. They ran up over her thighs and her belly. The magic kept on squeezing and folding and wringing the formerly titanic bags into an ever shrinking skin wrapper. Her nipples began to re-emerge, bulging and throbbing while more of the surplus skin amassed in the wrinkles around them. The cherry-sized protuberances rose out of the puckered, quavering ring of her areolae. Finally, her mammaries reached the size they had first grown to, on par with the volume of the ample bust of the witch. The volume, but not the shape. Yrba’s huge breasts sagged and hung to her navel without her corsage. But Mirca’s stood all by themselves now; they were shaped like curved, bloated cones and had their biggest bulge just slightly off her chest, with nipples pointing outward — similar to two fat horns. She nervously stared at them and almost didn’t dare to touch them. Almost.
When she finally mustered the courage and gently poked her forefingers into them, the skin and the flesh below it were rock hard. The yielding softness was gone completely. Those monstrosities sticking out of her chest were taut, they even hummed from bottled-up pressure, urging to burst back out. They itched all over, too. She lifted her hands and —
"Don’t scratch!"
The witch climbed over the rubble and knelt down. She ripped a wide piece of her skirt’s hem off and wrapped it around Mirca’s chest, tying the knot in front carefully, and mumbled another incantation. Tiny flashes of lightning slithered over the colorful garment. Then the boobs pulsed and spilled out beneath the nipples until they filled the impromptu bustier. The cloth held, though it looked like it would almost give in to the hard buds.
"Too... tight!" Mirca groaned.
"Better than what you’d look like without it. All right, that’ll hold them in for a while. Careful, don’t loosen it for the next few minutes. That cloth was a gift of— someone. Little magic in it. Your breasts will, uh, sort of respect it and won’t dare to rip it to shreds. Complicated stuff. Come on now, no time to lose. The guards are soon going to be all over this dungeon. And you running around wearing a boob toga? Would’ve been a bad idea."
The tall blonde cupped her breasts in her hands and stood silent.
"What’s the matter? Move it!"
"That’s not what I wanted. No. They’re feeling weird. Like... like loaded springs."
"That’s what they are. I hadn’t expected anything else. Didn’t you see how much volume I had to squeeze in there? Now come on, you’ll have enough time to let them hang out later. Just keep them wrapped tight now, they could cause a lot of damage if you let them shoot back out. Don’t worry. They’ll settle for that shape within a few hours, and they’ll become softer in time."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
Chapter: A New Dawn
They hid in a small storage room and waited for the first wave of guards to rush by. In the dark, and in the chaos of people running back and forth, they slipped out of the castle’s gate and into the quiet, empty streets of the town’s storage quarters, heading towards the main gate, passing the black silhouettes of barns and stables until—
Mirca stopped and stared at the warehouse. Her hand reached out and grabbed Yrba as she ran by. The unyielding grip on her shoulder made the witch somersault backwards. With a surprised yelp, she landed hard on her well-padded rear.
"Hey!" she complained under her breath as she scrambled to her feet, kneading her aching buttocks. "What the —"
"See that seal over there, above the door? It’s that treacherous trader’s."
Mirca’s breath quickened. Her anger rose. Her nipples started to itch.
"Call me flat and send me to die? I’ll flatten your store, you bastard!" she muttered. Under her eye, a muscle twitched. She recalled the terrific momentary feeling of power that had rushed through her when the walls of her cell burst.
"Yrba, you said it’s easy now to wrap, y’know," she pointed at her breasts, "them up again? Not as painful?"
"Not painful at all. By now, magic will be all over your boobs. It’s a piece o’ cake. Kinda. I think. Uh, I hope. Why?"
Mirca’s hands reached for the straining, sparkling brassiere and tugged at the knot. Yrba watched her blond apprentice with mute amusement. Quick learner, huh?
"Are you going to complain or what?" Mirca asked after a short glance sideways.
"Oh no, go ahead. I don’t mind you teaching him a lesson," answered the witch. And she thought, Look at you! Just look at you! That body! Damn, girl, you’re so hot when you’re angry, I’m soaking wet again. I hope I didn’t bite off more boob beefcake than I can chew...
The tall blonde dug her heels into the ground and leant forward. Then she lifted the cloth from her nipples, held her arms out and clenched her fists. The cherry-sized protuberances on her cone-shaped breasts trembled slightly. Apart from that, nothing happened. Her short tempest of anger fizzled under the weight of impending failure.
Uh, okay. What now? Maybe like that—
She tensed her muscles all over her body.
Nnnngggggg-hh… No. Doesn’t seem to work. Uh, hello? Go!… Dammit! Okay, uh, grow?... Stretch?... Burst?… Hello titties?… Uh, do I need some mumbo-jumbo like her? Mirca nervously cast another glance at the witch. She’s watching me. Oh gods, I’m so useless. I can’t do a thing on my own. She’ll dump me now. And then I’m all alone. I’m a failure! They all were right about me! I’m just a stupid oaf! I’m—! she panicked. A deep red flush of embarrassment spread from her face down over her neck and reached her chest—
Suddenly, the tremble turned into a deep throbbing. Her hands flew up to her chest and cupped her boobs. They started to grow in her grip, and she quickly aimed them at the building.
Yrba watched with her other sight as the outlandish glow of magic crept from the ground around Mirca’s feet like a dense fog. It whirled up along her body and got sucked into the throbbing nipples, spreading like red-hot molten metal through the veins and into the mass of Mirca’s bulging breasts.
It met some inner spark that hadn’t been there before, and ignited in an invisible white flash that made the witch wince.
Mirca’s body shook from the recoil of her breasts exploding out of her hands. The two tubular boobs kept their diameter, but not their length. The nipples and areolae burst forward, trailed by the elongating skin of the breasts. Like two bunker-breaking flesh missiles from centuries yet to come, they hit the warehouse head-on with their rock-hard nipples and crashed right through anything in their way until they reached their maximum length and stopped hard, with the cracking of a whiplash. The throbbing tips peered out at the opposite side. Moments later, their growth in the other two dimensions set in with a hissing and gargling. Starting with the nipples, thus anchoring the boob pipes into the far wall of the building, the breasts bloated.
Brick and mortar gave way to the onslaught of expanding, jiggling flesh. The wavefront of growth wandered quickly back towards the blonde. Mirca felt her boobs running against, and then shoving out of their way the walls and pillars and ceilings of the building while she was pulled forward by the flesh ropes turning into round orbs.
Inside, piles of stored wheat sacks tumbled over and rubbed and scraped along her skin. The rough cloth strained every time her expanding flesh caught one of the sacks between it and a wall. She felt the seams burst and how the grains showered over her taut wrecking balls, making them itch and throb even more. Moments later, the next throb filled the room with her hot flesh, and then the next throb ripped out the walls.
The crashing noises of the yielding structure were almost drowned out by the hissing and rumbling of her distending skin and the growing and filling milk glands.
After the dust cleared, there was little left of the building. In its place, two boobs, each two stories high, rested on the rubble and the piles of wheat. A part of the roof that crowned them slid down along their front and shattered when it hit the man-sized nipples. The impact caused the balloons to slosh heavily back and forth.
Mirca caressed her flesh as far as she could reach. "Oh, well done, my darlings. Yes, that’ll show him. Momma’s so proud of you," she murmured happily.
The sloshing and surging of the milk inside her udders continued. Heat built up in her breasts and her groin, but there was little she could do about her breasts. Her groin, on the other hand...
"Uuuhh... I could uuuse... aaaa little... help with the... eeee... dairy," she moaned, while her fingers were digging into her sex and relieved the tension and arousal that had been building along with the swelling.
Yrba smiled and wrung her hands in mid-air, like squeezing an invisible bunch of grapes. Mirca felt the unearthly touch start at the base of her breasts. Next, the invisible circular constriction moved along from her rib cage toward her protruding monster mammaries. An otherworldly giant’s hands had grabbed her elongated udders and now squeezed their sloshing load towards the bloating areolae, milking her in forceful, thoroughly enjoyable strokes. The magic left nothing behind but two dried-up, wrinkly tubes of about a wrist’s diameter, connecting her chest with the orbs. Inside the shrinking globes in front of the grip, the milk rushed forward into the nipples and burst out in hundreds of thin but strong jets, emptying their sweet load until her breasts were nothing but two long hoses curling up on the floor. Mirca’s thighs dripped with the secretions of her sex.
Yrba raised her hand to her mouth and put the tips of her index finger and her thumb together. Pressing her lips on that ring, she started to suck. Inside the blonde’s deformed breasts, a feeling of emptyness welled. Mirca’s tubes upended and contracted along with the suckling sound until they were back to their previous, pent-up shape, brimming with pressure.
"I’ll teach you how to do it yourself, later. This’ll become much easier the more you practice. Quick now, pull the cloth over them while I can keep them down. We really need to get away now. With all the noise, someone’s going to come and check, fear of the curfew be damned."
Then she smiled at her, raised to her toes and put her arm around Mirca’s shoulders as far as she could. With her other hand, she cupped one of the taut breasts before she extended her arm and described a wide half-circle.
"Look! You and me, girl. I’ll teach you to use your head and your boobies! Just see what you managed to do by instinct alone!"
The horizon was already brightening, even though the sunrise was at least another hour away. In the street, a whole storehouse’s worth of wheat was soaking in an ankle-deep pond of fresh, warm milk steaming in the cool night air.
"Now that’s a cereal dish to start the day!"
To Be Continued in Yrba’s Travels, Part 2: Soiled Doves’ Wings
Wow. You’ve read on through here. So why not go the extra mile and make this after-hour smut writer happy by typing a short comment at the URL below, or in the Overflowing Forum? Come on. You know you want to. Praise, punishment or a resounding "meh", it’s your (anonymous) call. Didn’t like it at all? Tell me why! Who knows, I might actually improve in my writing.
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Right, and this one’s for the forum thread: