Farewell, Man - Chapter 1 - Krevmhshorn (2024)

From somewhere in the trees, a jarring horn sounded. Suddenly a great number of women on horseback came thundering into the wide tribal camp. Morgan and his team had only been there for a matter of hours, and they were no more ready for it than the tribesmen. Violence broke out sharply and instantly where the horses met the men. The women had nets and clubs, stun guns and riot pistols. Non-lethal but for the cruelty with which they used them. Morgan watched Kei take a strike to the shoulder from a police nightstick and sit down clutching it with a sort of child-like daze. Chris was caught in a net and twisted his leg, nearly breaking it as he fell. As a woman rode up to Morgan with a gun brandished, he simply put up his hands and sat in place. She smiled and took a net from the back of her horse, tossing it over him almost perfunctorily.

They seemed to be women, but just as the men hadn’t looked how Morgan expected, the women didn’t either. They stood multiple heads taller than the stunted tribesmen, each easily crossing seven feet, but they also had thick-built frames to support their size. Almost uniformly rippling with the kind of muscle that would have made them one of the strongest human beings alive back on earth. They seemed unconcerned with covering their chests and their genitals, the ones who wore tops covered one breast if they even covered the one, seemingly no more concerned about their tit* than they might be their arms or their necks. But their clothing seemed almost purpose-built to draw attention to what was between their legs. Morgan almost hadn’t believed the sight when the one who netted him dismounted. She wore a sort of leather sling about her waist which rose above her hip bones and then down to her crotch like a thong, holding and protecting her testicl*s while her shaft was allowed to swing free. And swing it did. The excitement of victory, as well as what bloodshed there had been, had made her co*ck hard to the point of throbbing. She breathed heavily and looked man-to-man, eyes as wild as an animal and brandishing her homemade-looking gun, perhaps looking for somebody to bury herself in or some excuse to shoot somebody else with another rubber bullet. It seemed like penetration would have been a biologically impossible feat. Her uncut dick was at least a foot long, and as thick around as one of her muscular forearms, possibly as girthy as eight inches in diameter. The delicate, wavy ginger bob that framed her face, as well as her pale skin and feminine features, seemed transplanted less from a different person and more from a different species.

One of her comrades came from the trees on foot, wearing a chest binding and a crotchless pair of khaki shorts that let her apple-sized black balls and flaccid co*ck hang freely almost to her mid-thigh. She was the first of them that Morgan had seen who wasn’t completely covered in muscle, having a bit of pudge and large breasts that the binding couldn’t fully restrain, as well as broad hips that filled out her shorts. She clapped the soldiers on the shoulders as she passed them, making notes whenever she came to one of the captured men with a look of satisfaction. One of the men sprang up at her, having played docile, but a single woman was enough to overpower him. She twisted the crude wooden weapon out of his hand and forced him to his knees by wrenching his arm uncomfortably. She slapped her oversized co*ck against his face and laughed. The note-taker laughed as well, patting the man on the head condescendingly. Morgan could see the soldier pressing her tip against the man’s lips and pinching the man’s nose, but right at the moment he heard a wet pop and loud gagging, the note-taker had stepped over toward him and obscured his view.

“Hm, different complexion,” As she spoke, Morgan immediately realized that she was likely a scientist. None of the women had the same moronic affectation and vernacular that the tribesmen had shown, but none of the soldiers talked like she did. “Also looks taller than the rest.”

“Me and my party aren’t with them,” Morgan started, “We’re on a scientific mission-”

“Speak when spoken to!” One of the soldiers kicked Morgan in the gut and forced him to bend so that his face was between his knees.

“Better diction as well,” The scientist didn’t seem any more moved by Morgan’s plea than she was by the casual violence of her colleague. “I’d guess runaway slave, but I don’t see any marks on him.”

“Runaway from another Futa civilization?” One of the soldiers posited.

“Could be,” The scientist seemed curious, “I’ll want to keep a close eye on this one. Mark him for me.”

“With pleasure,” One of them said as she took a step forward, striking her club against her hand.

“Mark him gently, you ass.” The scientist sighed, “It’d be just my luck if you killed him.”

Morgan heard the scientist walking away and a second later he was lifted over one of the soldiers’ knees, his pants pulled down and then off. She took one of the magazines from her belt and emptied a couple of paintballs from it into her hand, then crushed them until her palm and fingers were dripping red. She reeled back and gave Morgan’s ass a harsh spank, leaving a scarlet palm-print that covered the whole cheek, giggling as he yelped. She set him back down and stalked off, following the scientist.

They began the process of shepherding the men through the jungle to a cluster of trucks and carts. As they began the loading, the women confiscated even the meager loincloths and robes of the tribesmen, as well as the remaining parts of the spacesuits that Morgan and his team were wearing. As they did, the women ogled the men’s bodies. Chris’s wider than average hips and rounder butt made them hoot and rub themselves openly. They laughed and slapped their co*cks against their hands, menacing some of the men by grabbing their heads and forcing their faces into their crotches.

The women seemed fixated on co*cks, mainly their own. There was an interest in the men’s genitals, but only as it related to how much smaller they were than the women’s. Kei was better-endowed than most men, but less than a third of the size and girth of the girls so drew very little interest. Meanwhile, the men in the tribe who were substantially smaller than average drew great attention. While most of the men tried to cover themselves, the women did everything they could to flaunt and draw attention to their endowments. They decorated their rods with fabric sheaths and jewelry, rings and piercings alike with some favoring diamonds, as if to make their dicks status symbols. Some had their balls uncovered, others wore what seemed like brightly-colored bras meant to hold and draw attention to them. Some were shaved, others not. Many had tattoos, everything from crude drawings of women sodomizing men to taunts like “Warning: Big Girl” and “Bitch Breaker.”

Some of the men tried to run, or offered token resistance, but none of them were close to successful. They were handcuffed or zip-tied and brought to the back of one of the wagons after an extended bout of harassment from the girl or girls who overpowered them. The women’s mixture of technology wasn’t like anything Morgan had seen in person - horse-drawn carts alongside engines, stun guns and plastic ties alongside wooden clubs and bamboo cages - but it was one of the theorized outcomes of societies that had once had contact with human civilization but that contact was now broken. Assuming that the people Morgan was surrounded by weren’t human themselves, just some long-mutated version of them.

It was a shorter ride than Morgan would have expected, perhaps if the tribesmen had been a bit wiser they would have built their camps more than a hour’s ride from the city. As the tribesmen babbled to each other airheadedly and lamented their fate, Morgan focused on the conversation of the scientist and the driver at the front of the carriage. They called themselves Futas. They spoke English, the scientist especially good English. Perhaps she was a hanger-on from a human colony who had been changed in some way and gone native. Perhaps she was a translator from the colonial days. At the very least, she seemed much more in place surrounded by motors and the sprawling suburban-looking housing that dotted the outskirts of the city. But the soldiers, while still not savages by any means, seemed far more at home with the mud-huts and lean-tos that were dotted in among the proper houses. Morgan tried to speak to the scientist on a few occasions, but each time one of the soldiers would just rap on the bars angrily. The scientist still didn’t seem too concerned about the fact that one of the males could actually talk with her on her level.

The cages were unloaded in the basem*nt of what looked like it had been the settlement constabulary at some point. The Futas didn’t bother restraining the ones who weren’t already bound, there was nowhere to run. A group of people had come out of their homes to watch the procession pass, and the only non-futas that could be seen in the crowd were the occasional man who seemed to be bound hand-and-foot. As Morgan and the other men were lined shoulder-to-shoulder, he risked getting himself closer to Kei and Chris. Kei’s shoulder was starting to show an ugly bruise, but he didn’t seem to be in too much pain. Chris was shaken, but otherwise fine. As the men were brought up one at a time, all three of them started to sweat. As much from the collective body heat in the room as well as nerves. Kei fidgeted and Chris bit his nails.

“This is bullsh*t and you know it,” The bucket-carrying Futa set down the bucket and shoved Morgan into one of the shower stalls. “You’re going to have me wash Men because I’m the rookie? This is how you haze people?”

“I have you washing Men because I plain don’t like you,” The superior grunted back.

The rookie huffed in annoyance but grabbed the rag and started to wipe it over Morgan harshly. He protested and cried out, but she just kept muttering under her breath and ignoring him. Whatever was making the suds caused his skin to tingle where it touched, and after a few moments, whenever she wiped it over and area that had tingled, he saw his body hair being pulled off with the suds. The chemical was remarkably effective at depilation, though it was likely helped by the Futa scrubbing him hard enough that he thought she was going to draw blood. She didn’t get any more gentle when handling his co*ck or forcing the rag up between his ass cheeks. Morgan didn’t even try to cover up his shrieks. Eventually, though, she dumped the bucket over his head and stepped back. Somehow, she hadn’t made him bleed, but his skin felt as raw and puffy as if he’d been sandpapered. He was clean, and more importantly to them, he was hairless as the day he was born aside from the top of his head. The rookie grunted and stepped back out the fire exit to refill her bucket.

“Spread your legs!” The superior officer barked, “Face the wall!”

Morgan feared for a moment that one of them would take advantage of him, but he realized he was also powerless to stop them. He meekly turned around, putting his hands up where she could see them. He heard police boots thump on the tiles for a second before they appeared between his legs and forced his feet even wider. An oversized hand came around from behind him and grabbed hold of his testicl*s firmly, slipping a metal ring around the base of his co*ck and balls. Then her other hand came around with a metal sleeve which she slipped over his dick and sealed to the ring with a key. Morgan had expected chastity to hurt, or at least be uncomfortable, but it seemed an almost perfect fit.

“Good, your obedience will make things easier for you,” She slapped his ass and chuckled, giving him a temporary handprint on the other cheek from the painted one.

“What are you going to do to us?” The echo of the room meant Morgan could hear how weak his voice sounded.

“Whatever we want to,” She growled in Morgan’s ear, her stiff co*ck suddenly poking up from her skirt between his legs, lifting his balls. Her head alone was bigger than Morgan’s entire caged package. She seemed to radiate heat like a lusty furnace. Morgan gulped and tried to control his breathing.

But she pulled back after a moment with another chuckle, sending him along. One of her subordinates in the next room came in and hooked him around the neck with the kind of harness one uses for a wild animal. Gave a look when she heard that there was a specific cell for him, but led him there and deposited him inside regardless. She looked at him predatorily for a moment, groping her garishly large endowment through a see-through sleeve, before blowing a kiss and leaving him alone in his cell. It was fairly standard for a jail cell, though the mattress was covered in yellowish-brownish stains that Morgan could guess the nature of.

He was only left alone for a second before another Futa came along and unlocked his cell to let herself in. She was still probably in better shape than most humans, but she had wide fertile hips and head-sized breasts that caused an excited little twitch in Morgan’s cage. She was dotted and spliced by piercings that jingled as she moved; studs and hoops and bars and chains. She was also covered with tattoos that almost entirely obscured her skin from the pale soles of her feet to the start of her pitch-black hair. Her uncovered co*ck was decorated with metal and ink that did nothing to diminish its size, or its current hardness.

“Are you going to behave, or do I need to get somebody to hold you down?” She asked in a deep, raspy voice, then stepped forward before Morgan could answer.

With one hand, she pushed his face back until he was lying on the bed and held him there, forcing him to twist his neck into a position where he could breathe. He gave a slight effort to lift her hand off or lift his head up, but he didn’t want to draw her ire. It wouldn’t have mattered. Even if he had strained and thrashed with all his might, he doubted he could have even made her break a sweat. He heard an electrical sort of buzz, then a moment later felt the sting of a tattoo gun on his lower stomach. The Futa hummed to herself as she worked; quickly scratching out Morgan’s number just below his navel and then moving down to just above his cage where she scribbled out a pattern of hearts in the shape of a womb.

“Good girl,” He felt her hand lift from his face, “Turn over for me.”

Morgan turned and tried to raise his hips in such a way that didn’t put any weight on his fresh tattoos. The Futa helped him by lifting him and bending him over one of her knees.

“Already know your place,” She said it more as a joke than anything, rubbing the painted handprint on his ass before spanking it softly, “Shame. I always like a bit of a struggle, even if it makes the lines wiggly.”

She tattooed the small of his back with a similar womb shape, but instead of hearts he could feel her writing out a series of letters in small characters, small enough that he couldn’t feel the specific ones.. Morgan could hear the tinkling of metal and the wet sound of her hand working her co*ck just out of sight, her breath hitching occasionally. She took much more time than she needed to, then when she was done she pressed the handle of the gun against her shaft and let it vibrate for a minute with a sigh before patting his ass softly and standing up. She yanked the plug for the gun out of the wall and he stood eye-to-co*ck with her for a minute, half-expecting her to try something. In the end, she sighed again.

“Figures,” She gave a longing look, her co*ck throbbing, but made her way out of the cell. “I’ve got a hundred of you to get through before my break and I’m getting all of the cute submissive ones in a row.”

There was a man in the cell across from Morgan who seemed as new as he was, or at least he looked terrified. While Morgan poked around his cell for any weaknesses or picked at his cage and tried to find a way to slip it off, the man in the other cell alternated between curling up to whimper and banging on the bars. As if any attention he could attract would be good attention. When he turned, Morgan could make out a similar streak of red paint on his ass, though it looked like it had been slapped on by somebody’s co*ck instead of being a handprint.

“Hey!” Morgan hissed, “Turn around, let me try to read what your back tattoo says!”

“Wha?” The man whimpered, “Are you trying to trick me?”

“Trick you?” Morgan gestured at the distance between their cells as he hissed angrily, “What the f*ck would I even do to you?”

“Don’t swear at me!” The man in the other cell whined and blubbered.

Morgan gave up. This had been their experience with the tribesmen as well. They spoke English but it seemed like there was no sort of schooling or education of any kind. Not even an oral culture to tell them which berries were safe to eat and which weren’t. It was a wonder there were enough of them to even capture. It went beyond simple tribalism, Chris had called them “bimbos”. Morgan had resisted the term at first, since they didn’t seem all-too sexually inclined, but if the natural order put them - quite literally - underneath the Futa, he would have to reconsider. The Futa may have been picking up and parading around the tools of a fallen civilization like children wearing their parents’ clothes, but they seemed to at least have some amount of structure. The cells and the chastity cages seemed like something out of a different time. They were near-enough to perfect.

A guard came along after some time and pushed each of them a plate of food through the bars. Morgan was surprised they were getting that much. It wasn’t gourmet or anything, but nothing was rotten or stale. It seemed like a high-fiber, high-sugar plate of fresh fruit and rice, but Morgan realized it probably had everything to do with what the Futa could quickly grow and process and less to do with nutrition.

It tasted off though. It tasted the way that the Futa smelled. A sort of musky, oil and salt taste, equal parts sweat and less savory things. They could have been cumming on it or in it, of course. He wouldn’t have been able to do anything if the guard had spit directly onto it before handing it to him, it was either hunger strike or eat. And it was just as likely that the taste came from whatever alien soil it had been grown in as opposed to anything malicious.

Sleeping the first night was rough. Morgan already tossed and turned on an unfamiliar, nasty mattress with only a tiny, scratchy blanket, but he was tired enough he would have thought he could power through it. Where the trouble really came was the sounds. Occasionally he would be woken by the sound of boots thumping down the corridors of the jail, the jingle of keys or the rattling of bars, followed by a yelp or a whimper and then a steady echoing clap. Morgan had known this was coming, but the sounds of it horrified him all the same.

Then two pairs of shoes came right next to the door of his cell. Morgan was torn between looking up and playing at being asleep, but it wouldn’t matter. He could make out a pale of large womanly outlines in the dark staring through the bars at him. They paused there for a long minute before he heard them whispering.

“I’m not getting fired for you,” One muttered.

“f*cking eggheads,” A deep, raspy voice responded under her breath, “f*cking science team always gets first dibs.”

One of them knocked her fist against the bars of the cell, Morgan heard her blow a kiss as she walked over to the cell across from him.

“Watch carefully, baby,” She sounded like she was already breathing heavily, and Morgan could hear the tinkling of metal on metal, “This’ll be you before long.”

Morgan heard the sound of the other cell being unlocked and the man inside whimpering, then the loud creak of a larger body joining him on the mattress. A second later, his whimpers turned to whines and grunts as the loud slapping of skin on skin seemed to bounce from the walls of Morgan’s cell. He tried to close his eyes and not think about it, but second after second dragged on into minute after minute. The man’s cries turned into gurgles and gags as the other Futa seemed to grow tired of waiting for her turn. It seemed to take hours, but finally there were a pair of feminine grunts and a great wet sound that seemed to drag on and on as interminably as the sounds of sex had. It was like the Futas were each pumping a whole gallon of spunk into him. When they finished and snickered to themselves, Morgan heard one of them blow another kiss before their boots went away back down the hall.

Against all reason, he was hard enough in his cage for the ring to draw uncomfortably tight, like it was trying to choke his erection.