Yrbas Travels Pt 01

A 12-part tale, laced heavily with lesbian encounters and strange transformations.

A word of warning, before you even start reading: A lot of what happens in this story focuses on the rather weird fetish of Breast Expansion (BE) -- from A to D, and occasionally up to and ultimately beyond the size depicted in Woody Allen's "Giant Breast" skit in "Everything you always wanted to know about sex" (the 1972 movie). If you thought that was hilarious, or unsettlingly arousing, you're more than welcome to continue reading. Of course this tale has action, tension and fighting (in short, "conventional" storytelling), too.

However, if you are put off by the sheer offbeat weird impossible flight of fancy that is BE, you probably shouldn't bother with this tale.

Thank you.

Part 1: Jailbreak

"You've got the brawn

I've got the brain

Let's make lots of money"

—

Pet Shop Boys,

Opportunities

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 similar to our planet's 12th century.

Chapter 1: 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 got a thing fo' the big un's."

"Willya lookit 'er?! She's tall 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 burly 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 rotund 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 will you claim you're 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 to her knees.

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 another 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," she remarked.

"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 her soft flesh.

Chapter 2: 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, big girl, 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 young woman 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 what 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 see it, 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?"