The Ten Inch Journey Step 01

The girls had begun to rub themselves, to rub their nipples. That was the signal to begin. From his hiding place nestled deep within a crevasse between two great, windswept boulders upon the plateau, he studied them intently. Dark eyes focusing as best he could at the procession nearly 100-feet away. He nodded. There were eight of them; a fairly large group for a Hym'enaria. The Rite of passage by which young women completed their journey to Adulthood. He crooned his neck while shielding his eyes from the glare of the furious, midday sun.

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 where 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.