Leo went back in time to meet only women tribe who have long net seen any male. Leo’s penis become the most fill the wombs of the Ice Tribe women
Chapter 1: The Lonely Pervert’s Plunge
Leo had a problem. Actually, Leo had several problems, but the biggest one sloshed around in his testicles twenty-four hours a day like an overfilled water balloon waiting to burst. He was twenty-five years old, worked a dead-end IT helpdesk job where he spoke to approximately zero women per day, and possessed a libido that could power a small city. His browser history was a war crime. His shower drain had seen things. And his bedsheets needed to be exorcised weekly.
He was also painfully shy. The kind of shy where he’d rather chew off his own foot than speak to a pretty woman. So he just accumulated. And accumulated. His friends (both of them, online) joked that if he ever actually had sex, he’d probably fill a swimming pool. Leo didn’t laugh at that joke. He suspected it might be true.
It was a Saturday afternoon when his life changed. To escape his depressing apartment and its haunting aroma of lonely tissues, Leo decided to go hiking. He’d read about some caves upstate, ancient limestone formations with prehistoric paintings. “Touch grass,” his therapist had said. Close enough.
The cave was damp, dark, and smelled of wet rock and bat guano. Leo wandered deeper than any sensible person would, his phone flashlight cutting through the blackness. He found the paintings—stick figures hunting deer, handprints in red ochre, and something that looked suspiciously like a fertility symbol. A very detailed fertility symbol. Leo stared at it. Even cave people were getting more action than him.
He leaned against the wall to take a picture, but the rock behind him wasn’t rock at all. It crumbled like stale bread, and Leo tumbled backward into a void that hadn’t been there a moment before. He screamed—a high, undignified shriek—and kept falling. Colors swirled. Time folded like a cheap lawn chair. And then everything went black.
When Leo opened his eyes, he was lying on soft moss. The air was warm and thick with the scent of pine and something floral. Above him, the sky was an impossible blue, untainted by pollution. He sat up, groaning, and realized three things simultaneously.
One: his glasses were gone, but somehow he could see perfectly.
Two: he was in a lush valley surrounded by towering walls of ice that glittered like frozen diamonds.
Three: he was completely, utterly naked.
“What the—” Leo’s hands flew to his crotch, which was standard procedure when one found oneself nude in an unfamiliar location. His penis, as usual, was already half-interested in the day’s proceedings. Traitor.
A rustle. A gasp. Then more gasps, a chorus of them, high-pitched and excited. Leo turned and found himself facing approximately forty-seven women. They wore animal skins, carried stone-tipped spears, and every single one of them was staring directly at his crotch.
Leo screamed again. So did several of the women. But their screams were different—they were screams of joy.
Chapter 2: Captured by the Man-Starved
The women rushed forward, and Leo’s life flashed before his eyes. It was a short, pathetic flash, mostly involving instant noodles and regret. He tried to cover himself, but hands were already on him—touching his shoulders, his chest, his hairy legs, his belly. Fingers poked and prodded with scientific curiosity and something far more primal.
“Man,” one of them breathed, and the word rippled through the group like electricity. “Man. Man. MAN!”
They’d found a man. An actual, honest-to-goodness, penis-possessing man.
Leo tried to speak, but his throat was dry. “I—um—where—who—”
The women paid no attention to his stammering. They were too busy examining him. One woman, middle-aged with kind eyes and breasts that could serve as flotation devices, lifted his hand away from his crotch and stared at what lay beneath.
“Oh,” she said, her voice full of wonder. “Oh, blessed sky.”
Leo’s penis, sensing an audience for the first time in its miserable existence, decided to become the star of the show. It stirred. It rose. It waved hello like a flagpole in a stiff breeze. The women gasped collectively and stepped back, then stepped forward again, their eyes bright with fascination.
It was then that Leo noticed the women properly. All the blood that wasn’t in his brain (which was most of it) was helping him notice them very thoroughly. They ranged in age from maybe eighteen summers to women so ancient their skin looked like weathered leather. But most were young, lithe, and abundantly endowed.
Their breasts were astonishing. Every size, every shape, every angle of hang and perkiness you could imagine. Some were small and firm like ripe apples. Others were heavy and pendulous, swaying with every movement. Areolas ranged from tiny pink coins to great dark saucers that covered half the breast. Nipples stood out like eager little soldiers, some long enough to dangle, others flat and waiting for encouragement.
But what truly struck Leo was what he saw when his gaze drifted lower. These Stone Age women, these supposed primitives, had pubic situations that would put a modern waxing salon to shame.
Some were completely bald down there, smooth as river stones, their vulvas exposed in all their varied glory. There were puffy ones that looked like little pillows, with outer lips so plump and soft they practically begged to be nuzzled. There were tiny ones, compact little purses where everything was tucked away neat and tidy. There were larger ones with full, meaty labia that hung like delicate flower petals. Every size and shape imaginable, all hairless and clean.
Others had bushes—but neat ones. Trimmed or naturally tidy, a soft triangle of hair that framed their womanhood without obscuring it. And then there were the wild ones, the women whose pubic hair grew thick and untamed, a riot of curls that spread down their thighs. Some of these were clean, smelling of herbs and water. Others were… less clean. The scent of woman and earth and sweat hung in the air, not unpleasant but definitely potent.
An old woman pushed through the crowd. She was ancient, her face a roadmap of wrinkles, but her eyes were sharp and knowing. Unlike the others, she looked at Leo’s face instead of his erection.
“I am Morga,” she said, her voice creaky but commanding. “I remember men. I had one once, before the ice took them. This one is frightened. Give him space.”
The women reluctantly stepped back, though their eyes never left Leo’s member. It was now fully erect, pointing at the sky like it was trying to signal aircraft. Leo had never been more embarrassed or more aroused in his life.
Morga studied him. “Where did you come from, sky-man? The ice wall holds us here. How did you pass through?”
“I—I fell,” Leo said. “Through a cave. And then I was here. And then my clothes were gone. And I don’t know why I’m naked, and I’m really sorry about the, uh—” he gestured helplessly at his erection, “—this. It does that. A lot. I can’t control it. Please don’t kill me.”
Morga laughed, a dry cackle. “Kill you? Boy, you are the first man these women have seen since my own hair was brown. They aren’t going to kill you.” She paused. “They’re going to love you. Until you break.”
Before Leo could ask what she meant, the crowd parted again. And this time, he saw her.
She was tall and impossibly slim, with hips that curved like a violin and a waist he could have spanned with his hands. But her breasts—oh, her breasts. They were enormous. Massive. Monumental. They hung down past her belly, past her hips, reaching almost to her thighs. Gravity had shaped them into long, elegant teardrops, tipped with areolas the size of dinner plates and nipples as long as his thumb. They swayed with each step she took, hypnotic pendulums of pure feminine abundance.
This was clearly the queen. Even without the crown of flowers in her hair, her bearing screamed authority. She walked straight up to Leo, looked down at his erection, and smiled a slow, possessive smile.
“I am Lura,” she said. “First of the tribe. Keeper of the honey stories. And you, little man, are mine.”
The other women protested immediately, a cacophony of outrage.
“You can’t just claim him, Lura!”
“We all waited!”
“My pussy has never touched a man! It’s not fair!”
Lura silenced them with a raised hand. “Peace. We will share. But I am first. That is the law of the tribe.”
“No,” Morga interjected. “That was the law when men were many. Now there is only one. He must choose his first. Or better yet, let the women compete. Let the worthiest pussy win the first grip of his spear.”
The women cheered at this. Leo’s erection throbbed so hard he thought he might pass out.
Chapter 3: Tales of the Lost Men
Before any competition could begin, the women insisted on bringing Leo to their cave. It was a massive opening in the cliff face, warmed by a central fire and decorated with painted animals on the walls. Furs covered the floor in thick layers, and the scent of roasting meat made Leo’s stomach growl.
They fed him. They gave him water from a clay bowl. They draped soft rabbit furs over his shoulders, though they left his lower half exposed. “No point covering that,” one woman said with a wink. “We’ll just be looking at it later.”
As the sun set and the fire crackled, Morga gathered the younger women around. “Sit,” she commanded. “The sky-man must know our story. And you young ones must remember why he is such a gift.”
The women settled into a circle, their bodies pressing close to Leo. He could feel warm flesh on every side, the soft brush of breasts against his arms, the occasional accidental (and not-so-accidental) graze of a hand against his thigh.
“Many winters ago,” Morga began, “beyond counting, our tribe was whole. We had men—strong hunters, brave warriors, good lovers.” She smiled, lost in memory. “The ice came suddenly. A great wall of white that split the land in two. The men were on one side, hunting. We were on this side, gathering berries. When we tried to cross, the cold would freeze the blood in your veins before you took ten steps. So we waited. And waited. The ice never melted.”
A younger woman, maybe twenty with a riot of red hair, spoke up. “Tell the part about the mating, Grandmother. Tell the honey story.”
The old woman’s eyes twinkled. “Ah, the honey story. Very well.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “When a man and woman mate, it is not like the rubbing we do to each other for comfort. A man has a spear of flesh, hard and hot. He pushes it inside you, deep into your sacred cave, and it fills you like nothing else can. When he moves, it is like lightning in your belly. And when he spills his seed, it is warm, so warm, like honey pouring into your womb.”
The women around Leo sighed dreamily. Several of them were breathing harder. One girl, dark-haired with impossibly blue eyes, had slipped her hand between her own thighs.
“The seed,” Morga continued, “is the gift of life. From it grow babies. We have had no babies for two generations. Our tribe shrinks. Without a man’s seed, we will eventually end.”
She turned to Leo. “You see now why you are sacred to us. You are not just a man. You are our future.”
Leo swallowed hard. His erection, which had flagged slightly during the storytelling, was back with a vengeance. “I, uh, I understand. I think. But I should tell you—I’ve never actually… done this before. With anyone. I’m a virgin.”
The silence that followed was deafening. Then, to Leo’s astonishment, the women burst into delighted cheers.
“A fresh spear!”
“Untouched!”
“No other woman’s scent on him!”
“We get to teach him everything!”
Lura stood, her magnificent breasts swinging. “This changes things. A virgin man is a treasure beyond treasures. We must prepare him properly.” She looked down at Leo’s bushy pubic region, a thicket of dark hair that surrounded his straining erection like a bird’s nest. “But first, we must clean him. Some of us prefer a smooth spear.”
A debate erupted among the women. Those with bald pussies argued passionately that hairless was the only way, that skin-to-skin contact was sacred and shouldn’t be muffled by fur. The bush-wearers countered that hair was natural and beautiful, a sign of maturity. The wild ones just shrugged and said they didn’t care either way as long as it went inside them.
“I have a question,” Leo interjected, and everyone fell silent. “How are some of you so… smooth? Down there. I mean, you’re cave women. No offense. But I didn’t expect… grooming.”
A young woman named Kira, who possessed the puffiest, most perfectly bald vulva Leo had ever seen, stepped forward. “We use sharp shells,” she explained, stroking her own smooth mound proudly. “And special moss that stops the hair from growing back for many moons. My mother taught me. Her mother taught her. We are women, not animals.”
“We bathe in the hot springs every day,” another added. “The earth gives us everything we need to be clean. Why would we want to be dirty?”
Leo looked at Kira’s flawless, baby-smooth pussy, then down at his own hairy situation. The contrast was stark. Here he was, a man from the future with all its technology and hygiene products, looking like a wild beast next to these pristine cave goddesses.
“You know what,” he said slowly, “you’re absolutely right. If you can be that smooth, I have no excuse.” He pointed at his pubic bush. “Can someone help me with this?”
The women practically trampled each other volunteering.
Chapter 4: The Shaving Ritual
Kira won the honor, mainly because she was the tribe’s designated hair-removal expert. She approached Leo with a collection of razor-sharp clamshells and a bowl of paste made from crushed herbs.
“Lie back,” she instructed, gently pushing him onto a pile of furs. “And do not move. These shells are very sharp. One wrong twitch and your precious spear gets a scar.”
Leo lay flat, his erection pointing skyward like a sundial. Kira knelt between his legs, her bald pussy glistening slightly in the firelight, and studied his terrain with professional intensity.
“So much hair,” she murmured, almost to herself. “Like a baby mammoth.”
“Thanks?”
“Be still.” She scooped some paste onto her fingers and began working it into his pubic hair. Her touch was gentle but clinical, like a doctor preparing for surgery—if the doctor was naked and stunningly beautiful and occasionally licked her lips while looking at her patient’s genitals.
The other women gathered around to watch. Some offered suggestions. Others just stared with hungry eyes as Kira’s fingers worked closer and closer to the base of his shaft.
“The paste softens the hair,” Kira explained. “Makes it easier to scrape without pulling. Are you ready?”
Leo nodded, not trusting his voice.
She took the first shell and began. With slow, careful strokes, she scraped the hair away from his pubic bone. The sensation was strange—a gentle scratching, the occasional tickle of a hair being cut, the cool air hitting newly exposed skin. As the bush retreated, more and more of Leo’s anatomy came into view. His balls, previously hidden in their furry nest, emerged looking vulnerable and exposed. The base of his shaft, thicker than any of the women had realized, appeared inch by inch.
“Beautiful,” one of the women whispered.
“So smooth underneath.”
“Look how much bigger it seems without the hair!”
Lura pushed to the front of the crowd, her enormous breasts brushing against Leo’s shoulder as she leaned in to inspect Kira’s work. “Make sure you get everything,” she commanded. “I want to see his skin clearly when he enters me. Every inch. Every vein.”
Kira worked meticulously. She scraped around his balls with the concentration of a bomb disposal expert, holding the loose skin taut with one hand while the other wielded the shell. She cleared the base of his shaft, the perineum beneath, even the inner thighs where stray hairs had colonized.
Finally, she sat back. “Done.”
Leo propped himself up on his elbows and looked down. His pubic area was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. His erection, freed from its hairy cage, seemed to have grown two inches in visual impact alone. Every ridge, every vein, every contour of his engorged member was on full display. It was almost… elegant.
“Now I understand,” Leo said, marveling. “Why you do this.”
Kira smiled and ran a finger along his smooth skin, from his navel down to the root of his shaft. Leo shivered. The sensation was electric—every nerve ending seemed to have woken up. He could feel the warmth of her finger, the texture of her skin, the slight dampness of her sweat.
“When you push inside one of us,” Kira said softly, “there will be nothing between us. Just skin on skin. Heat on heat. It will feel like the first mating of the world.”
A collective moan ran through the women. Several of them were openly touching themselves now, fingers sliding through wet folds. The air was thick with the scent of arousal, and Leo’s freshly shaved erection throbbed in desperate, painful anticipation.
“Enough preparation,” Lura declared, her voice husky. “Let us see whose pussy is worthy of this smooth spear. Let the grip contest begin!”
Chapter 5: The Grip Contest
Morga explained the rules while Leo tried to remember how to breathe. “The contest is simple. The sky-man will lie still. Each woman will take the head of his spear—just the head, no deeper—and squeeze with her inner muscles. The one who grips the tightest, the one whose pussy lips hug him most completely, wins the first ride.”
“Wait,” Leo said. “Just the tip? How is that supposed to work? I mean, it’s just going to slip right—oh.”
He was cut off by a woman named Nella, who had apparently decided that waiting for formalities was overrated. She straddled his hips, positioned her pussy—a neat, trimmed triangle of auburn hair—directly over his cockhead, and lowered herself.
Leo felt the hot, wet press of her outer lips parting around him. Then her inner muscles clamped down. It was like being gripped by a warm, living fist. She squeezed, held for three heartbeats, and released.
“Good,” Morga said, making a mark on a piece of bark with charcoal. “Next.”
Nella dismounted with obvious reluctance, and another woman took her place. This one was younger, maybe nineteen, with the puffy, hairless mound of a Renaissance painting. She guided Leo’s tip to her entrance and pushed down. Her pussy was so plump that his head disappeared entirely between her outer lips, swallowed up like a treat. When she squeezed, Leo felt it in his toes.
The contest continued. Woman after woman took their turn, each pussy a unique experience. Some were tight but shallow, gripping him just behind the head. Others were looser at the entrance but clamped down deeper, their pelvic floors strong from years of squatting and gathering. Some were wet enough to drip down his shaft. Others were drier, creating a friction that made him gasp.
Leo was in heaven. And hell. And several other dimensions he hadn’t known existed. He’d never been this aroused in his life, but no one was letting him thrust or finish. The constant stop-start was driving him insane.
The variety was staggering. Women with large labia that wrapped around him like wings. Women with tiny openings that barely seemed able to accommodate even his tip. Women with dark pink flesh, light pink, deep rose, dusky brown. The bald ones, the trimmed ones, the wild ones—each felt different against his freshly shaved skin.
Through it all, Lura waited. She was the last to go, and Leo understood why when she finally stepped forward.
The queen positioned herself over him, her thigh-length breasts resting on his stomach as she leaned forward. Her pussy, he saw, was as extraordinary as the rest of her. Bald and puffy, with inner lips that peeked out like a delicate flower. She was already dripping, and when she lowered herself onto his tip, the heat was almost unbearable.
Then she squeezed.
Leo’s vision went white. Lura’s vaginal muscles didn’t just grip—they rippled, undulated, massaged him in waves from the opening inward. It was like being milked by a professional. She held the squeeze for ten heartbeats, her eyes locked on his, a triumphant smile on her lips.
When she released, the other women groaned. They knew they’d been beaten.
“The queen wins,” Morga announced. “Her grip is unmatched.”
But a voice piped up from the back. It was Naya, a small woman who hadn’t taken her turn yet. She’d been shy, hiding behind the others, and Leo hadn’t noticed her. Now she stepped forward, and he saw why she’d been hiding.
Naya was tiny. Not just short, but delicate, with a childlike frame and small, high breasts. But her pussy—visible below her sparse patch of hair—was the puffiest, most swollen little mound he’d ever seen. It looked like a peach someone had inflated with a bicycle pump.
“I haven’t gone yet,” she whispered.
Lura laughed. “Little Naya. You’ve never even mated. Your muscles are untrained. You cannot beat me.”
“Let her try,” Morga said, a strange smile on her ancient face. “The contest is for all.”
Naya climbed onto Leo with trembling legs. She was so light he barely felt her weight. She positioned herself, her puffy lips barely grazing his cockhead, and began to press down.
The sensation was unlike anything he’d experienced. Her pussy was so swollen, so engorged, that it resisted him at first. Then, with a wet pop, his tip slid past her outer lips. And her inner walls—God, her inner walls. They were velvety and snug and impossibly tight, squeezing him with a pressure that seemed to come from every direction at once.
She squeezed. The grip was absolute. It wasn’t just strong; it was total. Leo’s cockhead felt like it was being held in a vacuum-sealed chamber. He could feel her heartbeat through her vaginal walls.
Morga counted. One. Two. Three. On it went. Fifteen. Twenty. Naya’s face was serene, her eyes half-closed, her breathing steady. She showed no strain at all.
At thirty heartbeats, Morga raised her hand. “The little one wins.”
The cave erupted. Women shouted—some in protest, some in celebration. Lura’s face was a thundercloud. But Morga’s word was law.
“The first ride belongs to Naya,” the old woman declared. “So it is spoken. So it shall be.”
And Naya, the smallest woman in the tribe, the one who’d been too shy to show her face, smiled down at Leo and sank all the way onto his cock.
The grip contest had been just the tip. Now she took the whole thing, all the way to the base, until her puffy pussy was pressed flush against his smooth pubic bone. The skin-to-skin contact was everything Kira had promised—pure, unmediated electricity.
“Oh,” Naya breathed. “Oh, this is what Grandmother meant. This is the honey story.”
She began to move. And Leo, the eternal virgin, the lonely pervert, the man with a lifetime of accumulated seed, felt the dam inside him finally crack.
Chapter 6: The Ever-Cumming Throne
Naya’s first orgasm triggered Leo’s first ejaculation. He’d been expecting it to be big, but he hadn’t been prepared for what actually happened.
He came. And came. And came.
Naya’s eyes widened as she felt the first hot jet of semen flood her insides. She moaned, her little body arching, and her pussy clamped down even tighter—which just made Leo come harder. It was a feedback loop of pleasure that showed no signs of stopping.
“What’s happening?” one of the women asked, alarmed.
“Is he okay?”
“Why is there so much?”
Leo couldn’t answer. He was lost in the most intense orgasm of his life, his hips bucking involuntarily as wave after wave of semen pumped into Naya’s welcoming body. The amount was frankly ridiculous. It was cartoonish. It was the kind of volume that made you wonder if he had some kind of medical condition.
After what felt like an eternity, the flow finally slowed. Naya, who had collapsed onto his chest somewhere during the deluge, slowly lifted herself off his still-hard cock. A gush of white fluid followed, pooling on the furs beneath them.
“By the ancestors,” Morga breathed. “I’ve never seen such a flood. This man’s seed is endless.”
Lura, who had been sulking since her defeat, suddenly looked interested again. “Endless, you say?”
“Look at his spear,” Kira pointed out. “It’s still standing. He hasn’t softened at all.”
It was true. Leo’s erection hadn’t flagged in the slightest. If anything, it seemed even harder than before, glistening with the combined evidence of his and Naya’s pleasure.
“I’m sorry,” Leo managed to gasp. “That usually doesn’t—I mean, I’ve never—it’s never been that much before. I don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t apologize, sky-man.” Lura’s earlier jealousy had transformed into something calculating. “This is a gift. A man whose spear never falls, whose seed never runs dry.” She turned to the tribe. “We must organize. No more fighting over turns. We will create a schedule. A throne.”
And so the throne was built.
It was a massive chair of woven branches, padded with the softest furs and positioned in the center of the cave. Leo was installed in it, his perpetually hard cock standing at attention like a royal scepter. And the women lined up.
The system was simple. Each woman would take her turn on the throne—lowering herself onto Leo’s cock, riding him until either she climaxed or he ejaculated (which happened frequently), then dismounting so the next woman could take her place. While waiting, they could offer their breasts for him to suckle, keeping him nourished and entertained between mountings.
“This is insane,” Leo said, as a woman named Vira settled onto his lap with a satisfied sigh. “I’m just one guy. I can’t possibly—”
“Hush,” Vira said, starting to bounce. “You’re doing great.”
He did the math. Forty-something women. Each taking between ten minutes and an hour. By the time everyone had a turn, the first woman would be ready again. It was an endless carousel of sex, a perpetual motion machine of pleasure.
And so began the strangest period of Leo’s life.
Day blurred into night and back into day. The only markers of time were the faces of the women who took their turns on his lap. He learned their names, their preferences, their bodies. He learned that Leni liked it slow and deep, that Mira preferred to face away from him, that Old Hesta (who was seventy if she was a day) only wanted to sit in his lap and rock gently while telling him stories of her youth.
The breast-feeding became a ritual. Every morning, women would line up with their breasts bared, offering him the first milk of the day. Not all of them lactated, but those who did considered it the highest honor. Lura, with her thigh-length breasts, produced enough to feed a small army. Her milk was sweet and warm, and Leo found himself looking forward to it more than he cared to admit.
“You’re becoming one of us,” Kira observed one day, as she took her turn on the throne. “Your skin is darker from the sun. Your body is stronger from all this activity.” She squeezed her inner muscles around him and smiled. “And you no longer blush when we touch you.”
She was right. The shy IT guy who’d fallen through time was gone. In his place was a man who’d seen and done things that would make porn stars weep with envy. He was still a pervert, of course—that was baked into his DNA—but he was a confident pervert now.
There was just one problem. One tiny, niggling issue that no one had anticipated.
After two weeks of near-constant use, Leo’s penis was starting to get tired.
Chapter 7: The Wilting Wand
It happened during Greta’s turn. Greta was a sturdy redhead with thighs like tree trunks and a pussy that gripped like a boa constrictor. She’d been waiting for her slot with obvious impatience, and when she finally climbed onto the throne, she was practically vibrating with need.
But something was wrong.
Leo’s cock, the reliable flagpole that had served him so well for two solid weeks, was… wilting. Not completely. But instead of its usual diamond-hard attention, it was more like firm rubber. Bendy. Uncertain.
Greta tried. She really did. She rubbed herself against him, stroked him with expert fingers, even tried a technique involving her breasts that had always worked before. But Leo’s member, exhausted beyond reason, refused to cooperate fully. It got hard enough to enter her, but not hard enough to satisfy. It kept slipping out. It wouldn’t go deep.
“No,” Greta whispered, her face crumbling. “No, no, no. It’s my turn. I waited so long. Why now?”
The other women gathered around, their expressions ranging from concern to barely concealed satisfaction. (Some of them had been hoping for extra turns.)
“Maybe he just needs rest,” Kira suggested.
“Rest? We can’t rest! I need his seed! I’ve been doing the fertility dance every night!”
“Let me try,” another woman offered. “Maybe he’s just bored of you.”
Greta rounded on her with a snarl. “He is NOT bored of me. His spear is tired. There’s a difference.”
The argument might have escalated into violence if Morga hadn’t intervened. The old woman examined Leo’s flagging erection with the detached air of a mechanic inspecting a faulty tool. She poked it. She squeezed it. She made thoughtful noises.
“I’ve seen this before,” she finally announced. “In my youth, before the ice took the men. Sometimes a man’s spear grows weary from too much use. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”
“Can you fix it?” Greta demanded. “Murgu? Can the healer fix it?”
Murgu was the tribe’s medicine woman, a middle-aged woman with knowing eyes and hands stained from years of grinding herbs. She stepped forward and studied Leo’s wilting member with professional interest.
“There is a way,” she said slowly. “A very old way. My grandmother taught me the recipe, but I’ve never had cause to use it. It’s powerful. Perhaps too powerful.”
“I don’t care how powerful it is,” Greta said. “Make it. Now.”
Murgu hesitated. “The concoction requires rare ingredients. Mammoth fat from the sacred stores. The glowing mushrooms from the deepest cave. The blood-berries that grow only on the ice wall. And…” she paused, “…a woman’s pleasure-juice, freely given at the moment of peak release.”
“I’ll provide that,” Greta said immediately. “The rest, can you get?”
“I can. But I must warn you—the old stories say this mixture can have unexpected effects. A man who takes it may never be the same.”
Leo, who had been listening to all of this with growing alarm, tried to speak up. “Maybe we should think about this. I mean, unexpected effects? That sounds bad. Maybe I just need a nap? A cold shower? Some electrolytes?”
No one was listening to him. The women were already scattering to gather ingredients, their earlier rivalry forgotten in the face of this new crisis. Greta remained behind, stroking Leo’s semi-erect penis with a mixture of frustration and hope.
“Don’t worry,” she told him. “Murgu knows what she’s doing. You’ll be harder than ever soon. Harder than stone. Harder than the ice wall itself.”
That didn’t make Leo feel better at all.
The preparation took most of the day. Murgu worked in her corner of the cave, grinding and mixing and muttering incantations in a language even Morga didn’t recognize. A foul-smelling smoke rose from her work area, and strange-colored sparks occasionally lit up the shadows.
Meanwhile, Greta prepared herself for her contribution. She lay on a fur, legs spread, while two other women worked her with practiced fingers. Her moans echoed through the cave, building in intensity until she finally arched off the ground with a shriek. A small clay bowl caught the resulting flood, and it was carried reverently to Murgu’s workstation.
By sunset, the concoction was ready. It was a thick paste, deep purple in color, that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. It smelled like lightning and tasted (Leo discovered when a dab touched his lip) like honey mixed with battery acid.
“Hold still,” Murgu instructed, approaching Leo with the bowl. “This will be… intense.”
She scooped up a generous handful of the paste and began applying it to his penis. The sensation was immediate and shocking. It was cold, then hot, then cold again. It tingled like a thousand tiny needles. It burned like ice. It made his eyes water and his toes curl.
“Is it supposed to do that?” he gasped.
“I don’t know,” Murgu admitted. “As I said, I’ve never made it before.”
The paste sank into his skin. Literally sank in, absorbing like lotion on dry hands. Leo watched in disbelief as the purple goo disappeared, leaving no trace behind. But something was happening beneath the surface. Something big.
It started as a warmth in his groin. Then a heat. Then an inferno. His penis, which had been stubbornly semi-erect for hours, suddenly snapped to attention so fast he heard a whipping sound. It wasn’t just hard—it was supernaturally hard. Diamond-cutting hard. Drill-through-concrete hard.
“It worked!” Greta exclaimed, clapping her hands.
But it wasn’t done.
Chapter 8: The Knee-High Cock
Leo felt it first as a stretching sensation, like his skin was being pulled too tight. He looked down and watched, in dawning horror, as his erection began to grow.
Not just get harder. Grow.
It lengthened past its normal seven inches. Eight. Nine. Ten. It thickened too, the girth expanding until his own hand couldn’t have closed around it. The veins stood out like ropes. The head swelled to the size of a small apple.
“By the ancestors,” Morga breathed. “What have you done?”
Murgu looked as shocked as everyone else. “The recipe didn’t mention this! It just said it would restore a man’s vigor!”
The growth continued. Eleven inches. Twelve. The weight of it was becoming a problem, pulling Leo’s erection downward despite its impossible stiffness. It passed his navel. It approached his knee. When it finally stopped, the tip was level with his kneecap, and the whole thing was as thick as his forearm.
The cave was silent. Every woman stared at the monstrosity between Leo’s legs. It was a cock out of legend, a spear worthy of a god. It was also completely impractical and slightly terrifying.
“I can’t walk with this,” Leo said, his voice unnaturally calm. “I can’t even stand up. How am I supposed to do anything with this?”
Greta, who had been staring with an expression that mixed fear and fascination, licked her lips. “We’ll figure it out.”
The next few days were an adjustment period. Leo couldn’t wear the loincloth the women had made for him because nothing could contain his new member. It stuck straight out or, more commonly, hung down to his knee due to sheer weight, though it never lost its iron hardness. The women fashioned a special sling to support it when he walked, a leather harness that cradled his giant cock against his thigh like a baby.
Walking was awkward. Sitting was a logistical nightmare. But the women, after their initial shock, were mostly delighted.
“Think of how deep it can go now,” one woman said dreamily.
“We won’t have to take turns! Multiple women can rub against it at once!”
“The amount of seed it must hold…”
That last point was tested quickly. When Leo’s orgasm finally came (it took longer now, the sensation dulled slightly by the sheer size), the volume was proportional to his new equipment. It was biblical. It was a flood. The woman who triggered it looked like she’d been hit with a water balloon filled with warm yogurt.
Lura, ever practical, had the women build a channel in the cave floor to direct the excess seed into clay pots. “We can use it for fertility rituals,” she explained. “Or plant it in the ground. Who knows what will grow?”
The queen had become possessive again. She insisted that her new, larger-than-life man was even more valuable now, and she demanded priority access to his giant cock. The other women protested, but Lura was the queen, and her word carried weight.
“I will be the first to take it fully inside me,” she declared. “I will stretch myself to accommodate him. And when I birth his child, that child will rule this tribe for a hundred generations.”
The attempt was heroic. Lura positioned herself over Leo’s mammoth member, her enormous breasts resting on his chest for balance, and began the slow process of descent. The head alone was a challenge. Even with copious amounts of oil and natural lubrication, it took nearly an hour of patient stretching before she could take the first few inches.
The other women watched in awe. Some took notes. Others placed bets on how much she could handle. (The over-under was six inches.)
Lura made it to eight before she had to stop, gasping and trembling from the fullness. “It’s… it’s magnificent,” she breathed. “I feel like I’m being split in two. In the best way.”
From that day forward, “taking the full spear” became the tribe’s greatest aspiration. Women trained for it. They stretched themselves with progressively larger stone phalluses. They competed to see who could take the most inches. It became a new hierarchy—those who could handle the giant cock, and those who couldn’t.
The men from the separated tribe couldn’t have competed. But they didn’t exist here. For now, Leo was the only game in town, and his game had gotten a major upgrade.
Chapter 9: The Victim’s Play
Not all the women could handle Leo’s new size. Some tried and failed, left frustrated and teary-eyed on the sidelines. Among these was Lila, a young woman with enormous brown eyes and a perpetually worried expression.
Lila had always been small. Before Leo’s transformation, she’d been able to take him comfortably, her tight little pussy gripping him like a glove. Now? Now she couldn’t even fit the tip without pain. The other women had surpassed her in the hierarchy, and she was not handling it well.
“It’s not fair,” she complained to anyone who would listen. “I was one of his favorites. He used to call my pussy ‘the perfect fit.’ Now I’m useless.”
Morga, overhearing this, offered sage advice. “Desire takes many forms, child. If your body cannot please him, let your spirit do the work. Make him notice you in other ways.”
Lila took this advice and ran with it. Straight into manipulation town.
She started small. A sigh here, a tear there. Longing glances from across the cave. She’d sit near Leo during meals, picking at her food with tragic delicacy. When he asked what was wrong, she’d shake her head and say, “Nothing. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
It worked better than it should have. Leo, despite his transformation into a mythical sex god, was still fundamentally a pushover. He couldn’t stand seeing someone unhappy.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked her for the fifth time. “You barely ate anything.”
“I just feel so… left out,” Lila whispered, her eyes glistening. “Everyone else gets to share the pleasure. And I’m just here. Alone. Unwanted.”
“That’s not true! You’re not unwanted.”
“Then why don’t you ever look at me anymore? Why don’t you touch me? I know I can’t take your spear, but… but there must be other ways.” She turned those enormous eyes on him. “Unless you don’t want me at all.”
Leo crumbled like a sandcastle in a tsunami. “Of course I want you! I just didn’t want to hurt you. We can—there must be something we can do.”
They figured it out. Lila couldn’t take his giant cock inside her, but she could straddle his thigh and rub herself against the shaft while he held her. She could use her hands, her mouth, the valley between her small breasts. She could lie beside him and let him press against her, the massive head of his cock sliding between her puffy outer lips without penetrating, driving them both to the edge.
It was intimate in a way the full penetrations weren’t. Private. Sweet. Leo found himself looking forward to their sessions, seeking her out even when other women were available.
The other women noticed. And they were not pleased.
“She’s faking it,” Greta grumbled. “That whole poor-me act. It’s a trick.”
“Of course it’s a trick,” Kira agreed. “But the sky-man falls for it every time. Look at them.”
They looked. Lila was in Leo’s lap, not on his cock but beside it, her legs wrapped around his thigh while she whimpered and gasped. Her performance was Oscar-worthy.
“We need to step up our game,” Kira said thoughtfully. “If she can get special treatment by acting pathetic, what can the rest of us do?”
The morning milk ritual became more competitive. The lunchtime rides became more creative. The evening orgies became more theatrical. Every woman in the tribe was suddenly finding ways to stand out, to capture Leo’s attention, to claim a larger share of his seemingly limitless resources.
It was exhausting. It was exhilarating. It was the weirdest existence any human had ever experienced.
And then Lila escalated.
She “fell” during a gathering expedition, twisting her ankle so dramatically that three women saw her deliberately step into the hole. By the time Leo heard about it, the story had grown to “Lila was attacked by a cave bear and barely escaped with her life.”
He rushed to her side, his giant cock swinging dangerously in its sling. “Are you okay? I heard you were attacked!”
Lila, who had been practicing her wounded-bird expression all morning, looked up at him with those enormous eyes. “It was terrible. I thought I was going to die. All I could think about was you.”
“Oh, Lila…”
“Hold me? Please? Just for a little while?”
He held her. He carried her back to the cave. He fed her soup and stroked her hair and told her everything was going to be okay. The other women watched with expressions of pure, undiluted jealousy.
“Tomorrow,” Kira announced to the gathered women, “I’m going to get stung by a bee. On purpose. Right in front of him.”
“I’m going to have a nightmare,” another woman said. “A really, really scary one. He’ll have to comfort me all night.”
“I’m going to choke on a berry and need mouth-to-mouth.”
The one-upmanship had reached new heights. And Leo, oblivious to the machinations around him, just thought everyone was having a rough week.
Chapter 10: The Morning Milk
The morning milk ritual had started innocently enough. A few of the older women, those who’d given birth before the ice separated the tribes, still produced milk. They’d offered it to Leo as a gesture of hospitality—nourishment for their precious man. But as the weeks passed, something strange happened.
Young women who had never been pregnant began to lactate.
“It’s the stimulation,” Morga explained sagely. “All the suckling. The body responds. It thinks babies are coming, so it prepares.”
Whatever the cause, the result was that nearly every woman in the tribe now produced milk. And they all wanted Leo to drink it.
Every morning, he’d wake to a line of women, breasts bared, nipples already beading with white droplets. They’d take turns kneeling beside him, cradling his head against their chests, letting him drink his fill. It was the breast-feed equivalent of a buffet.
“Try mine first,” Yara would say, her small, perky breasts practically in his face before his eyes were open. “I ate sweet berries yesterday. The milk tastes like honey.”
“No, try mine,” Nella would counter, pushing her larger, heavier breasts forward. “Mine is creamier. More filling.”
“Mine has the most nutrients,” Greta insisted. “I’ve been eating fish every day.”
They were like competitive baristas, each claiming their blend was superior. Leo, who had never expected to become a breast milk connoisseur, found that he actually could tell the difference. Yara’s was sweet. Nella’s was rich. Greta’s was… fishy. (He didn’t tell her.)
But everyone knew who made the best milk. Lura, the queen, with her thigh-length breasts that could have fed a nursery, produced milk that was legendary. It was warm and sweet and slightly spiced, like chai tea. It was filling in a way the others weren’t, sustaining him for hours. And there was so much of it.
Lura, of course, used this to her advantage. She insisted on being last in the morning rotation—not first. “Let him fill up on lesser milk,” she’d say with a knowing smile. “Then he’ll appreciate mine even more.”
The logic was questionable, but no one argued with the queen. Especially not when she was right about how good her milk was.
The morning milk became more than nutrition. It became foreplay. The women discovered that Leo nursing from them felt good—really good. The tug of his mouth, the warmth of his tongue, the gentle suction. It sent tingles straight to their pussies. More than one woman had to be peeled off the bed after her turn, too aroused to walk straight.
“I had three climaxes while he drank from me this morning,” Mira confided to her friends. “Just from the nursing. I didn’t even need to touch myself.”
“Lucky. I only had two.”
“I’m trying a new technique tomorrow,” Kira announced. “I’m going to knead my breast while he suckles. Direct more milk into his mouth. And see if I can come four times.”
The competition, as with everything in this tribe, had become fierce.
For Leo, the morning milk was a strange, intimate pleasure. It reminded him of being cared for, of safety and warmth. After a lifetime of loneliness, of microwave meals and empty apartments, being surrounded by women who literally wanted to feed him was overwhelming in the best way.
“I could stay here forever,” he murmured one morning, his mouth full of Naya’s sweet, slight milk.
“Then stay,” she said simply, stroking his hair. “We want you to.”
And he realized, with a start, that she meant it. All of them meant it. He wasn’t a prisoner. He wasn’t a tool. He was theirs, and they were his, and for the first time in his life, he belonged somewhere.
Then Greta burst into the cave with news that changed everything.
“The ice!” she shouted. “The ice wall is melting!”
Chapter 11: The Pregnancy Tricks
The melting ice could wait. The women had a more immediate priority: getting pregnant.
It had become an obsession. Every woman in the tribe wanted Leo’s seed to take root in her womb, to grow a child, to be the mother of the future generation. The competition for his attention had always been about pleasure, but now it was about legacy. About survival.
They tried everything.
“I have determined the most fertile position,” announced Freya, who had appointed herself the tribe’s fertility expert. She’d been observing animals mate and had come to a conclusion. “It’s from behind. Like the deer do. Gravity helps the seed go deeper.”
Leo found himself bending women over rocks, tree stumps, piles of furs. The rear-entry position became standard procedure. Women would line up on all fours, wiggling their behinds invitingly, competing to see who could arch their back the most attractively.
But Freya’s research didn’t stop there.
“You must keep the seed inside,” she instructed. “No letting it drip out. After he finishes, stay in position with your hips elevated. Better yet, stand on your head.”
Soon the cave looked like a gymnastics studio. After each coupling, the woman would scramble into a headstand, her legs waving in the air, her pussy clenched tight to hold Leo’s copious emission inside. The more ambitious ones would maintain the position for an hour. The competitive ones, two.
“This is insane,” Leo said, watching three women doing headstands simultaneously. “You know gravity doesn’t actually—”
“Shh,” Morga interrupted. “Let them have their rituals. Belief is powerful.”
Other rituals emerged. The full moon became a frenzy of fertility rites. Women would dance naked around a fire, chanting ancient words, then take Leo in a specific order determined by star alignment. There were special herbs to drink. Special stones to press against their bellies. Special songs to sing while he thrust into them.
One woman, Calla, became convinced that conception required a simultaneous sneeze. “The convulsion helps the seed travel,” she explained earnestly. So every time she mounted Leo, she’d tickle her nose with a feather until she sneezed—often at the exact moment of his climax. The first time it happened, the combination of sneeze and orgasm was so jarring that Leo nearly fell off the throne. Calla did it seventeen more times before giving up.
Another woman, Petra, insisted that she could only conceive if Leo was thinking pure thoughts during the act. “No lust,” she commanded. “Only thoughts of planting and growing.” So Leo found himself reciting farming facts in his head while Petra rode him. (“Seeds need water and sunlight. Germination occurs when… oh God, she’s squeezing…”)
The most elaborate ritual belonged to Sera. She had constructed an entire ceremony involving painted symbols on her belly, a crown of specific flowers, and a chant that had to be repeated exactly forty-seven times during intercourse. If Leo lost count, they had to start over. It took six hours the first time. Five the second. They never made it through a third because Sera got pregnant on attempt number two and declared the ritual a success.
Through it all, Leo did his best. He was accommodating, patient, and perpetually erect—the concoction showed no signs of wearing off. His knee-high cock continued to function flawlessly, delivering enormous loads of seed on demand. He’d become less a man and more a fertility machine, and he was oddly okay with that.
Then the first woman’s belly began to swell.
Chapter 12: Bellies Swell
Naya was the first. The tiny woman with the puffiest pussy, the one who’d won the grip contest and taken Leo’s first load, was the first to show signs of pregnancy.
Her belly, already small and tight, developed a gentle curve. Her breasts grew fuller. Her skin took on a glow that made the other women sigh with envy. She walked around the cave with a hand resting on her stomach, a serene smile on her face.
“I can feel it,” she told Leo, taking his hand and pressing it to her belly. “Life. Growing inside me. Your life.”
Leo felt something shift in his chest. He’d never thought about fatherhood. He’d never thought about anything beyond the next orgasm, really. But here, in this impossible situation, surrounded by women who wanted nothing more than to bear his children, he felt… proud. And scared. And a thousand other things he didn’t have words for.
After Naya, the others followed in rapid succession.
Kira’s belly popped next, then Yara’s, then Petra’s (the sneeze ritual had worked after all). Within a month, half the tribe was visibly pregnant. The cave was filled with the sight of rounded bellies, the sound of women comparing their bumps, the scent of the special pregnancy tea that Murgu brewed by the cauldron.
Lura was not among them.
The queen’s belly remained stubbornly flat. Her breasts still produced milk. Her pussy still gripped like a champion. But no matter how many times she took Leo’s seed—and she took it more than anyone, pulling rank whenever she could—no pregnancy came.
“Why?” she demanded of Morga. “Why do the others swell while I stay empty? I am the queen. I should be first. I should be the mother of the heir.”
Morga examined her with ancient eyes. “The body is a mystery, Lura. Perhaps you are trying too hard. Perhaps the spirits have other plans.”
“I don’t believe in spirits. I believe in my body. And my body is failing me.”
She threw herself at Leo with renewed determination. Marathon sessions that left them both exhausted. Creative positions that tried to get his seed as deep as possible. She even tried some of the other women’s rituals—the headstands, the chants, the sneezes. Nothing worked.
The other women, pregnant and content, watched their queen’s struggle with a mixture of sympathy and secret satisfaction. For the first time in their lives, they had something Lura didn’t. Their bellies were proof of their worth, badges of honor that the queen couldn’t claim.
It changed the tribe’s dynamics. Lura’s authority, once absolute, began to waver. The pregnant women formed their own clique, sharing tips and experiences that excluded their queen. They talked about baby names and nursing plans and which part of the cave would make the best nursery. Lura, excluded from these conversations, grew increasingly desperate.
“Give me your strongest seed,” she begged Leo one night, her massive breasts pressed against his chest, her hips grinding against his giant cock. “Not the seed you give the others. I want the deepest seed. The seed from your soul.”
Leo didn’t know how to give soul-seed. He just did what he always did—let her take what she needed, held her when she cried afterward, and tried not to think about how complicated this was all becoming.
Then the ice wall finished melting.
Chapter 13: The Melting Ice
It happened over the course of a week. What had started as a trickle became a stream, then a river, then a roaring flood as the ancient ice wall collapsed. The valley shook with the sound of it, and the women gathered at the cave mouth to watch the only barrier they’d ever known dissolve into water.
“The men,” Morga said, her voice barely a whisper. “If the ice is gone, the men can return.”
The reaction was not what Leo expected. He thought they’d be overjoyed—reunited with fathers, brothers, husbands. Instead, the women looked at each other with expressions of uncertainty and, in some cases, outright fear.
“We don’t need other men,” Kira said, her hand resting on her pregnant belly. “We have Leo.”
“But the old laws,” another woman said hesitantly. “When the tribes were together, women belonged to men. Men chose. Women obeyed.”
“That was before. Everything is different now.”
Lura, who had been quiet since her pregnancy failures, spoke up. “If the men return, they will try to claim us. All of us. Including the sky-man’s children. We must be ready.”
The preparations began. Weapons were sharpened. Lookouts were posted. Leo, who had never fought anyone in his life, was given a spear and some very basic instructions. (“Point the sharp end at the enemy.” “What enemy?” “Anyone who tries to take our babies.”)
Three days later, the first men appeared.
They came from the other side of what had been the ice wall—a band of perhaps thirty hunters, hairy and muscular and carrying weapons that looked considerably more dangerous than the women’s gathering tools. They stopped at the edge of the camp, staring.
They stared at the pregnant women. They stared at the well-organized cave. They stared at Leo.
Specifically, they stared at Leo’s knee-length cock, which was currently unsheathed because no sling could contain it while he slept and he’d been napping when the alarm was raised.
The leader of the men, a brute with a scarred face and knuckles that dragged on the ground, pointed at Leo’s member with a trembling finger. “What… what is that?”
“That’s our man,” Lura said, stepping forward with her thigh-length breasts swinging and her chin held high. “Our only man. The father of our children. And he is not to be touched.”
The brute’s eyes traveled from Leo’s cock to Leo’s face, back to his cock, then to the thirty-some pregnant bellies arrayed behind Lura. He did some math. His expression shifted from aggressive to confused to something approaching awe.
“One man?” he said. “One man did all this?”
“One man. And we don’t need any more.”
The brute looked at his own band of men—thirty hunters who hadn’t seen a woman in years, who were practically drooling at the sight of all this female flesh. Then he looked back at Leo’s weapon of mass procreation.
“We come in peace,” he said, which was the most sensible decision he’d ever made.
Chapter 14: Time’s Return
The men were allowed to stay at the edge of the valley. Lura negotiated this with the authority of a queen who knew she held all the cards. The men could hunt for the tribe. They could gather wood and build shelters and provide protection. But they would not touch the women unless the women invited them to.
“Things are different now,” Lura told the brute, whose name was Thag. “Women choose. Women decide. You want a mate? You earn her. You impress her. You wait until she comes to you.”
Thag looked at his men, who were already failing to impress anyone by scratching themselves and belching. “This may take a while.”
“Then you’d better get started.”
The adjustment was awkward but peaceful. The men, cowed by the sight of Leo’s legendary cock and the tribe’s obvious self-sufficiency, behaved themselves. A few of the non-pregnant women started eyeing the less-hairy men with curiosity. Change was coming, slow but inevitable.
But Leo felt something else. A tug. A pull. A shimmer at the edge of his vision.
It was the cave. The cave where he’d arrived, months ago. There was light coming from it now—not firelight, but the strange, color-swirling light of the time portal that had brought him here.
“It’s time for me to go,” he said to Lura that night. They were lying together, her enormous breasts draped over his chest, her hand wrapped around his giant cock (she couldn’t close her fingers around it, but she tried).
“I know,” she said quietly. “I’ve been dreaming of the cave. Of the light. The spirits told me.”
“I don’t want to leave you. Any of you. But I don’t belong here.”
“You do belong here. You’ve given us more than any man in our history. Children. Hope. A future.” She pressed her hand to her flat belly. “If only I could have given you something in return.”
“You’ve given me everything,” Leo said, and meant it.
The next morning, he walked to the cave. The entire tribe followed him—the pregnant women waddling, the older women supporting each other, the few children who’d been born before the ice (now elderly themselves) carried on litters. Even the men came, Thag and his hunters, curious about the sky-man’s departure.
At the cave mouth, Leo turned to face them. Forty-something women who had taken him in, used him, loved him, fed him, and taught him what it meant to be wanted. His eyes found Lura, standing at the front with her hand on her stomach.
“Wait,” she said suddenly. “Before you go. One last time. For luck. For…”
She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
They coupled there, at the mouth of the cave, with the whole tribe watching. It was gentle this time, not the desperate rutting of before. Lura took what she could of his giant cock, and Leo held her as she moved, and when he came it felt like giving away a piece of his soul.
Then he stepped into the light. The colors swirled. Time folded like a cheap lawn chair. And Leo fell, fell, fell through the void until he landed with a thump on cold, hard stone.
He was back in the cave. The modern cave. His phone was on the ground next to him, its battery dead. His clothes were in a pile where he’d left them. According to his watch (which he’d left behind and which still worked), he’d been gone for about six hours.
Six hours. It had been months in the valley. The time differential was apparently very flexible.
Leo dressed slowly, his body remembering how clothes felt. Everything was the same, and everything was different. He was different. He walked out of the cave into the modern world, and no one knew that he’d just spent half a year as the sole male in a tribe of sex-starved cave women.
No one knew. But Leo knew. And he would never be the shy, lonely pervert he’d been before.
Chapter 15: The Echo of a Legend
Back in his apartment, Leo did what any reasonable person would do after a time-traveling sex adventure: he took a very long shower, ordered an extra-large pizza, and slept for sixteen hours.
When he woke up, he half-convinced himself it had all been a dream. A very detailed, very horny dream brought on by too much alone time and a concerning relationship with internet pornography. The cave. The women. The giant cock. All a fantasy.
Then he went to the bathroom and noticed something. His pubic hair was gone. Not trimmed—gone, smooth as the day he was born, with the faintest pattern of scrapes still visible where Kira had worked her shells. And on the shaft of his penis, which was its normal size again, there was a faint purple discoloration. The last traces of Murgu’s concoction.
It had been real. All of it.
Leo went to work on Monday. His boss asked why he’d missed the previous week. (“Family emergency” seemed safer than “I was impregnating an entire Stone Age tribe.”) His coworkers noticed something different about him but couldn’t put their finger on it. He walked differently. He smiled more. He looked people in the eye.
And women started noticing him. Not in an aggressive way—just little glances, small smiles, the kind of attention he’d never received before. Leo, who’d spent months being worshipped by dozens of women, now radiated a confidence that was apparently very attractive.
“You’re different,” said Claire from accounting, who had never spoken to him before. “Did you do something with your hair?”
“I went on a trip,” Leo said. “Changed my perspective.”
“Well, it suits you.”
They went for coffee. Then dinner. Then back to her place. And Leo discovered that his skills had translated—the patience, the attentiveness, the ability to read a woman’s body and give her exactly what she needed. Claire had a very good time. She told her friends
Within a month, Leo had a social life. Within two, he had a girlfriend (not Claire—someone else, a graphic designer named Maya who thought his weird stories about dreams and time travel were “charmingly creative”). Within three, he’d stopped feeling guilty about the tribe he’d left behind. They were fine, he told himself. They had babies coming. They had men learning to be better. They had a future.
But he never forgot them. And one day, visiting a museum exhibit on prehistoric art, he found something that made his heart stop.
It was a small stone carving, recently discovered in a cave system previously blocked by ice. The placard said it was approximately twelve thousand years old—a fertility idol unlike any other found in the region.
The carving showed a man with an exaggeratedly large penis, surrounded by dozens of women with rounded bellies. At his feet, a woman with breasts that hung to her thighs knelt in a position of reverence.
Leo stared at it for a long time. Then he laughed—a full, genuine laugh that drew stares from other museum patrons.
“Is something funny?” Maya asked, looking at the carving. “It’s kind of sweet, actually. All those pregnant women. He must have been important.”
“He was something, all right,” Leo said. He put his arm around her. “Come on. Let’s get lunch. I’ll tell you a story.”
“A good one?”
“The best. It’s about a guy who fell through time and ended up in a tribe of women who hadn’t seen a man in years.”
Maya raised an eyebrow. “Is this one of your weird dreams again?”
“Something like that.”
They walked out of the museum together, and Leo took one last look at the carving. The stone man’s massive penis seemed to wink at him. Or maybe that was just the lighting.
Either way, Leo smiled. He’d been a lonely pervert once. Now he was a legend. And somewhere, thousands of years in the past, a tribe of women was telling honey stories about the sky-man who fell from nowhere, filled their wombs, and changed their world forever.
The End
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