Yrba's Travels Pt. 08

Yrba put her hands to her hips and smiled as she tilted her head. Mirca's strong arms seemed to squeeze all the blood in Alric's body right into his groin. The rough cloth of his trousers bulged mightily, and the tall blonde's hand undid his belt and moved in for the kill.

"Oh, go find yourselves a haystack, you two!" laughed the witch as she turned to check the horse's harness.

~

Mirca engulfed Alric' upper body in the sensual heat of her well-worked muscles and squeezed him tighter, trapping his growing erection against her midriff. The swelling cock, pre-cum dripping from the engorged head, wedged into the dark, warm space between the two lovers' bodies. The bard clung to Mirca's shoulders and broke their kiss as she rubbed him up and down against her wet skin.

"What now?" he whispered into her ear. "You're too big, I can't roam your cave and climb your mountains at the same time."

Mirca giggled. "Mountains? Those are barely hills. If it's mountains you want, I'll give you mountains!" she replied, gasping for air. "Want more of them? One last time?" The bard nodded mutely, cupped her cheeks and locked lips with her again. The giantess' warm breasts, enveloping his body, began to tremble.

Slowly, her multiplying flesh bulged out, flowing around him, creeping bigger over his flanks as she unleashed her mams. Alric dug his splayed fingers into the rising masses to his left and right, stroking the soft bags. Within moments, her nipples hung at her hips' height, riding the forefront of the gigantic, now slightly sagging orbs, and only head and shoulders of her trapped lover peeked from the crack of cleavage in her mammaries' quicksand.

"Mirca—?"

She dug her right arm through the fold under her breasts. Her fingertips searched and found the hot scepter throbbing against her abs. The tall woman smiled.

"Now's my turn to milk you."

Her fingers closed around the dripping dick. Her hand squeezed lower until thumb and forefinger encircled the root. Undulating her grip, she stroked his erection like a thick, taut teat, faster and faster.

"Mircaaaah—"

Her pinkie played into the sensitive ridge of his glans, tickling the frenulum.

"Mircaaaaaah—!"

Relaxing her stranglehold, she drew her whole hand towards the tip. More boiling blood shot into the bloated head, and all the blocked pipes of his rod suddenly were wide open.

"Mirc—uuuunnnhhh! Unnh! Huurnnnh!"

Alric arched his back, thrusting his body harder against the giantess. The spurts of his hot, sticky seed that shot from the swollen head in the choking ring of the giantess' thumb and forefinger collected in her cupped palm. He collapsed into her pair of soft pillows, and she held him tight as he rested his head on her sweaty shoulder and listened to his racing heartbeat calming down. Mirca drew her closed hand out from the warm darkness under her breasts and opened her fingers as she raised them to her face. Her tongue sampled the puddle in her palm before she pouted her lips and kissed and slurped it up.

"Mmh. My sweet little salt lick. I'll always remember your taste," whispered the giantess, leaned back further and slowly relaxed the embrace of her other arm. Alric slid through her widening cleavage and down her midriff until, twenty inches further, his feet touched the ground again. His legs still trembled while Mirca knelt down, drew up his trousers and tied his belt. She sniffled and furtively wiped a tear from her eye.

"You taught me lots of fun things. Good luck, Alric."

He raised his hand and ran his fingertips over her cheek before he hoisted his bag over his shoulder and grabbed his trekking pole.

"I'll never forget the both of you," he sighed. "Maybe—"

The witch shoved him playfully and laughed. "Yes, maybe some day. Come on now! Shoo! I don't want to put down roots here!"

The women watched until he turned around the first bend and disappeared from their sight.

Yrba clapped her hands.

"Right, that's that. And now, let's get going."

~

Chapter 40: Spring's Brew

~

Noon had already passed. The twitter of birds filled the treetops around the secluded clearing in which the caravan stood. Every now and then, the horse's whinnying drowned out the campfire's crackling. A cast iron cauldron of twenty gallons hung from a blackened chain, and the thick liquid inside spat green droplets as the rising bubbles burst. Yrba rummaged the vials and crocks of her wooden chest resting on a folding table nearby, now and then glancing at her Herculean pupil squatting by the fire and stirring the ooze. The witch finally handed her a bowl. It seemed to shrink the moment it went from Yrba's hand to Mirca's. Everything seemed to shrink in the hands of the seven feet tall blond giantess. There was so much Mirca, eating up the scenery, that nothing else seemed to matter. For a second or two, Yrba stared at the earthen bowl and compared its shape and size to the areolae waiting behind the thin, straining veils of the giantess' clothes before she slapped her hand over her eyes and held her temples.

Nnngh. Focus, stupid witch! Focus!

She cleared her throat. "Now add three spoonfuls of this."

"Uh — it's not going to hiss and sparkle again, is it?" Mirca narrowed her eyes nervously and leaned away as she knocked the spoon with the yellow powder against the rim of the cauldron and the flour-like substance disappeared into the bubbling ooze with a burping gloub.

Yrba breathed a sigh of relief. "No, now it won't any more. Just tell me the very instant you notice anything strange in your breasts."

"Come on! I've got a grip on it."

"Most of the time, dear. Most. And there's more to this brewing than meets your eyes."

She plucked a handful of white berries from a branch, threw them in and squinted at the pot. The dusty sparkles of drifting magic now slowly curved towards the liquid as the attracting power built up inside the potion. She moved her fingers through the invisible stream, and the almost imperceptible draft eddied around her hand before it soaked into the greenish juice. The first week of spring had supplied the last necessary herbs for her pièce de résistance, and Yrba was determined to have this new batch more than make up for the lost one of the last year that in its entirety had gone down Mirca's gullet.

"Put out the fire," ordered the witch as she wiped her hands on her apron. "It needs to cool down for a while now."

"Yrba?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"Do you really think we'll meet him again?"

The gypsy smiled. "Who knows?"

~

When, another hour later, the witch cautiously put her fingers to the black iron, the cauldron was barely warm to the touch.

"Right, now with you around, it's going to be easy." Yrba opened the knots along the front of her bustier and undid her belt. Her dress fell and curled up in a ring around her feet. Stark naked, she reclined and crawled up awkwardly against the table until she had her lower legs over the tabletop and hung upside down. She spread her thighs, rubbing the black bush that covered her crotch until pink skin flashed between the parting thick labia. "Put the funnel where I told you, and gently, okay?"

Mirca carefully pushed one, then another of her moistened fingers into Yrba's gap.

"Unnnnggh! How many fingers — uuh! — Damnation, how far do y—ooouuh!"

The blonde stopped instantly. "Sorry, I — I didn't want to hurt you—"

"Keep going! That's nothing, I'm stretchy! Put it in!"

"Wait, I need to — I still can't see the —"

Yrba closed her eyes as Mirca's fingers widened her womb's mouth further. The chill of transpiring moisture crawled up her tunnel as it was aired out.

"—Ah, I can see it now! Right, now, the — where is that blasted thing — got it!"

Something rattled on the table, and then a third finger, cold and metallic, entered the witch's hole. The chilly copper slipped in between her labia. She concentrated on gaping, something moved inside her with wet, smacking noises, and then the hollow tube crawled in until the funnel's cone against her vulva stopped its advance. Mirca's fingers left her, and the witch exhaled.

"Slowly now," Yrba cautioned. "I'm no balloon. Need to take my time, to relax my skin. Just a little now."

Mirca groaned as she lifted the cauldron, tilting it cautiously until it spilled a first splash of its viscous content into the funnel. Yrba winced when it swirled through the cone and into her, but then she rested her weight on her shoulders, lifted her arms and massaged the faint mound that showed on her midriff.

"More!"

Slosh. Slop. Gulg—gulg—gulg.

The next helping disappeared into her. She gave herself up to the delicious tickle of tiny rivulets that crawled down her insides like roots and united into a slowly rising puddle, gaining weight with each passing moment.

"Keep — going," panted Yrba.

Grooooaaan.

The growing half-orb between her fingers swelled faster now. The lukewarm herb tincture filled her cavity with tingly power that bounced and bobbed around the magic-proof walls of her stretching belly. Her skin strummed like a plucked string around the now almost spherical bulge from her midriff. The dark brown color of her belly's surface thinned along with her tissue into mocha with a darker navel, sitting in the center of a cobweb of shiny stretch marks.

Slosh. Sluuuurp. Creeeeaaak.

"Uh, Yrba—" Mirca lowered the cauldron and gazed inside. Yrba threw her head about on the floor, with closed eyes and contorted face.

"Yeeeeees? Unh!" she moaned, stroking and kneading the pumpkin of her protruding belly.

"Why is there a marking scratched in halfway on the inside of the cauldron, that says, uh, 'm... mah... maks ... max—eh—muhm'?"

The witch arched her back as her skin stretched farther and the bloated orb sagged towards her face.

"Doesn't — heeeeeaaaavensssss! — Doesn't matter! Keep pouring!"

"Uh—okay."

Mirca shrugged and raised the cauldron again —

Slosh. Gulp—gulp—gulp. Dribble. Drip. Drip. Guuurgle.

— and again —

Groooaaaann.

— and again —

Squeeeeaaaak.

— until she finally emptied it to the last drop into the funnel. The level of the green ooze inside the copper cone sank quickly until the last of it disappeared into the tube with a final bubbling and gargling. The leathery groans and stretching noises ended. Yrba's panting was the only sound. Her head was almost buried under the sagging sphere bloating from her midriff.

"Now what?"

Mirca carefully pulled the pipe out and wiped away a few unruly filaments that had spilled on the witch's now far protruding, udder-like midriff. Yrba rubbed happily the swollen roundness of her womb with the lemon-sized, bulging navel.

"Mmmh," she sighed. "Now, nothing. I'll just wait upside-down like this until my little pipe's all puckered up and sealed again. Won't take long."

Yrba giggled as the blonde knelt down by her side and also ran her fingertips over the straining orb. Mirca cocked her head.

"My, that feels funny. Like jelly in a silk bag. How long will you be this jiggly?"

"Ten weeks should do it. That'll become my richest vintage in years."

"Ewww!" Mirca wrinkled her nose. "You'll keep it all in, all that time? Even the — uh, when you're — uh —" She leaned forward and whispered, "y'know — bleeding?"

Yrba chuckled, and her balloon belly wobbled along.

"I don't do that. I never have. Maybe has something to do with the magical stuff and me being different, I guess. And when I hear the complaints of the village women, I'm pretty glad that I am."

~

Chapter 41: Ripening

~

The witch's distended belly was a true sight to behold. Lying on her back in her now much-too-narrow bunk bed in the caravan, the swollen, taut orb rose like a rubbery cauldron (or a future's beach ball, if you prefer) over the wooden sides. In the morning, Yrba struggled out of bed by gently pushing her belly over the edge and letting herself get dragged along by the heavy, rotund mass as it rolled over and bobbed up and down. The years before, when she was traveling alone, she'd have spend the next minutes sorting her limbs and maneuvering her thighs beneath the taut protrusion, just to be able to get up by wrapping her arms around it and struggling from her haunches to a huffing and puffing stoop. With Mirca around, those things were trivial. The burly woman simply grabbed the witch beneath the arms and lifted her to her feet.

"There. Ybbie, I've watched you doing this for a whole week now! Tonight, you'll sleep on the floor with me. It's no good, the way you fall down. I was scared again! Your belly flattened and stretched so much, I thought you'd surely burst this time!"

The witch stroked the straining sphere on her midriff, caressing the thin-stretched skin.

"Don't worry. This thing can take a lot. It's not the first time I'm doing this."

She bit her lips as Mirca knelt down and planted a sloppy kiss on her protruding bellybutton. The giantess' sneaky tongue tickled the mound. Yrba's fingers dug into the blond mane as her companion sucked and nibbled on her navel, treating it like the nipple of a giant tit.

It's the first time I've packed in a whole cauldron, though. I should've stopped, but — it just felt so good, when you poured into me and I stretched, and —

She groaned. Mirca's hands were all over the bloated ball of skin, stroking, tickling, caressing. The tall young woman's tongue, all the two finger's length of it, dripping and drooling, drew warm tracks of slippery saliva on her skin. And now Mirca turned her head and rubbed her warm cheeks over the taut orb, lovingly pressing her face into the yielding pillow while her arms wrapped around Yrba's hips.

"Mmmh. I like it how you feel now, Yrba. Oh, I could just keep on cuddling and smooching you."

A tiny rivulet of Mirca's warm spit ran down the orb and crawled along the underside. Yrba shuddered.

— feels so good. Oh Mirca, you don't know — Wha—!

"Hey! Young lady, get your fingers out of my crotch!"

"Aww!" pouted Mirca and gave the witch a pair of the nicest puppy eyes, staring up over the rim of Yrba's belly. "Don't you want me to tickle you there, just a little? You've been so pent up and you don't let me make you scream and writhe any more. I promise I won't tap your barrel! See?"

The witch didn't see. The mocha-colored dome of skin in front of her only let her feel her travel companion's finger, the finger of a seven feet tall giantess, creeping up inside her hungry lust cave and stretching the wrinkles as it neared the apex with the cramped muscle valve. Wetness oozed from her vagina's walls as her arousal grew. And her gasps and yelps of protest were just lip service while her hands stroked through the blond hair and turned it into an unkept bird's nest. Her eyes were closed. Her head was turned to the caravan's ceiling, and her jaw trembled weakly as spit dribbled from the corner of her mouth and ran down her breasts' glowing skin.

"No! Mirca, you — uuuuhh! — You stop thaaaaaaahhht right now! You — oh the goooooooods! I n—need that soooo baaaaad!"

Mirca's middle finger snuck in all the way and rimmed the contracted cervix. Yrba lost what little of her resolve had remained. Her hip gyrated on Mirca's hand. She desperately humped against the long, stiff finger that tickled all the right places.

Suddenly, her eyes grew big.

The giantess felt the change, the spark that arced through her mistress' body. Mirca's hand quickly cupped the witch's crotch and squeezed the thick brown outer labia shut around her middle finger that plugged the smaller woman's inner valve. No matter how desperately Yrba's groin muscles flexed and bucked, the giantess' seal held through the cramps and flails of the witch's climax. Spent, the gypsy collapsed against the burly woman and rested her head on Mirca's milk pillows.

"Oh dear, you've got no idea how I needed that!" She panted as she raised her head. "Still was a stupid thing to do! Heavens, I — what if I had spilled all the potion? I sure was mad enough to want to! Oh my, I wanted to gush like a waterfall."

"Silly witch!" Mirca chuckled. "That's why I held you shut. See?" She lifted her hand from Yrba's groin. The slippery wetness that dragged filaments between her wiggling fingers was clear, with no hint of the tincture's greenish glow. Yrba grabbed Mirca's hand by the wrist and slowly licked and kissed and sucked off the varnish.

"M—hm," she nodded, two of Mirca's digits deep in her mouth. Her tongue cleaned the ooze-filled space between them. Not a hint of her potion's taste there, either. Mirca giggled as Yrba's tongue tip tickled on.

Slurp.

"Yes, well done, darling. It's just a few weeks more, and then you once again can dive in me as much as you want, so let's keep this kind of fun scarce."

"Aw. Can't promise you that, Yrba. Your third tit is just so much fun."

The caravan rocked gently as Mirca rose to her feet. She cowered to not run her head into the ceiling as she put a woolen blanket around Yrba's shoulders. The witch lovingly eyed the young woman soaring over her.

"You've changed quite a lot, dear. For the better."

~

Chapter 42: Harvesting

~

"Hold it there! Leave the cart and walk over. Let's have a look at you."

Yrba pulled at the reins and fastened them. She climbed down slowly and with exaggerated care from the coach box and clutched her heavy belly while she made her way knock-kneed across the small stone bridge and towards the picket fence. The sheriff, or whatever the job was called around these parts, waited by the village gate, with his arms crossed over his chest. Yrba's last visit had been years ago, and she didn't remember seeing him before. She stooped in front of him and huffed and puffed for quite a while until she caught her breath again.

"Traveling — merchant and healer, asking — for a place to stay for the night."

"You're not welcome," was the immediate reply. "Go and camp out in the forest." He drew up his upper lip in disgust. "Goodness, you look like you're about to dump a whole litter of squealing brats on our town square. Get lost, you abomination."

Yrba sighed, put her palms on her rear and straightened her spine against the weighty pull of her womb.

"Mirca!" she yelled over her shoulder. "We're not welcome here!"

The caravan rocked, and then the huge blonde stepped around the corner. A cape of sewn-up wolfskins hung around her shoulders, and she very much gave the impression that she had not needed her sword to harvest the pelts. A straining chain mail bustier sparkled through the furs' gap in front, and she balanced one of her broadswords over her shoulder like it was nothing but a twig. Leather wristbands creaked as she brushed the cloak aside and put her free hand to her hip, revealing a small and polished hatchet in a holster at her thigh.

"But — sending healers away brings bad luck," Mirca hollered back. "Don't they know about that?"

The sheriff gulped. Mirca's appearance gave a very detailed idea as to what kind of bad luck might befall a small village without, say, a standing army, should they try and send away the weird travelers. He had heard stories — everybody had — about a palace that was no more, about mauled and lacerated carcasses tied to trees and about an unusual pair of women, traveling the countryside... well, unusual sure befitted the couple.

"Then again, a healer might be a good thing to have around," he conceded.