The Out Lander
Copyright© 2019 by Dark Apostle
Chapter 1: What in Ever Fucking Fuck Was That?
Time Travel Sex Story: Chapter 1: What in Ever Fucking Fuck Was That? - A rip off of the TV show Outlander. My idea is, what would happen if Claire wasn't the only time traveller. What would happen if she was rescued by James instead of Jamie? Here's my take on what would happen.
Caution: This Time Travel Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult BiSexual Fan Fiction Historical Extra Sensory Perception Time Travel Harem Voyeurism Big Breasts Small Breasts Prostitution
James’s mum eased the old hatchback into a narrow parking spot at the edge of the festival grounds, the tires crunching over loose gravel. She put the car in park and turned to her son with a warm smile.
“Alright, love. Have a great day,” she said, reaching over to ruffle his hair. “You’re twenty now — go enjoy yourself. Don’t spend all your money on the first overpriced turkey leg you see, yeah?”
James grinned and leaned over to give her a quick hug. “Thanks, Mum. I’ll be fine. I’ll text you when I’m ready to get picked up.”
He climbed out of the car, slinging a small backpack over his shoulder, and waved as she pulled away. The late summer sun was bright overhead, and the distant sounds of lute music, cheering crowds, and blacksmith hammers already drifted across the field. James adjusted his cheap Renaissance-style vest and headed toward the main entrance, excitement buzzing in his chest.
The Renaissance fair sprawled across a large open park, a chaotic mix of canvas tents, wooden stages, and muddy pathways. Flags and banners snapped in the breeze. As soon as he passed through the gates, the modern world faded behind him — or at least tried to. A man in a full Star Trek uniform walked past, casually eating a giant pretzel, his comm badge glinting in the sunlight. James snorted. Not exactly period accurate.
Still, the atmosphere was infectious. People everywhere were dressed in some version of historical costume — or what they thought counted as historical. corsets, flowing skirts, leather jerkins, and plenty of anachronistic accessories. And tits. So many tits.
The fair was packed with women in tight bodices and low-cut tops that left very little to the imagination. Everywhere James looked, cleavage spilled generously over colorful fabric. A group of three women in matching wench outfits walked by laughing loudly, their breasts jiggling with every step. One particularly curvy redhead had her laces pulled so tight her chest looked ready to burst free at any moment.
James tried not to stare, but it was impossible. He wandered deeper into the festival, taking in the sights. A buxom beauty with long dark hair stood near a mead stall, throwing her head back in laughter at something her friend said. Her enormous breasts strained hard against the thin white fabric of her peasant blouse, bouncing and swaying heavily as she giggled. The thin material did almost nothing to hide the way they moved — full, soft, and hypnotic. Every time she shifted her weight or gestured with her hands, they bounced playfully, drawing more than a few glances from men and women alike. She caught James looking and gave him a knowing wink, which only made his face heat up.
He kept walking, trying to play it cool. Further along the path, a woman demonstrating archery wore a leather corset that pushed her chest up and out dramatically. Each time she drew the bowstring back, her breasts rose and fell with the motion. Another group of dancers performed on a small stage, their costumes designed to accentuate every bounce and sway as they twirled. The crowd cheered enthusiastically.
James bought a cold drink and continued exploring. The fair was a strange blend of attempted authenticity and pure fun. Knights in shiny armor jousted on one field while a nearby tent sold fantasy-themed phone cases. A man dressed as a wizard argued good-naturedly with someone in a Jedi robe. Classical music mixed with modern pop covers played from hidden speakers.
He passed a row of food stalls where the smells of roasted meat, fried dough, and spiced wine filled the air. Another cluster of women in revealing gowns stood chatting. One of them, a tall blonde with an impressive figure, leaned forward to pick something up from a bench. Her top gaped open, giving an eyeful of deep, soft cleavage that jiggled as she straightened up. She adjusted her bodice casually, but it only seemed to make her breasts settle even more prominently.
James felt a familiar stir of excitement. At twenty, he wasn’t exactly inexperienced, but the sheer amount of eye candy at the fair was overwhelming in the best way. He continued wandering, letting the crowd carry him along winding paths lined with merchant stalls selling everything from handmade jewelry to replica swords.
Eventually, the crowds thinned out a bit as he moved toward the quieter edge of the fairgrounds. Here, away from the main stages and food areas, the atmosphere felt different. Older trees shaded the path, and fewer people passed by. That’s when he saw it — a strange stone structure set back in a small clearing. It looked like a miniature version of Stonehenge, with rough-hewn stones arranged in a partial circle and a larger flat altar stone in the center. Moss and ivy crept over some of the rocks. It felt oddly out of place even for a Renaissance fair.
James approached slowly, drawn by simple curiosity. He glanced around — no one else was nearby. He reached out and placed his hand on the cool surface of the largest upright stone.
A faint vibration hummed under his palm. At first he thought it was his imagination, but the feeling grew stronger, traveling up his arm. The air around him began to shimmer, like heat rising off pavement on a hot day.
“What the—?”
The world tilted.
In an instant, everything changed.
The cheerful noise of the fair vanished. The bright summer day remained, but the air felt different — cleaner, richer. James stumbled forward, pulling his hand back from the stone. He was no longer standing in the festival clearing. Tall ancient trees surrounded him. The grass under his boots was lush and wild. Birds sang overhead, and the wind rustled through leaves in a way that felt strangely alive.
He blinked hard, heart pounding. “Okay ... what the fuck just happened?”
His cheap festival costume felt different too. Heavier. More real. He looked down and realized the plastic props he’d been carrying were gone. In their place were actual weapons — a real bow and quiver on his back, a sharp hidden blade on his wrist, and the solid weight of a tomahawk on his hip.
James stood frozen for a long moment, heart hammering in his chest. Setting aside the impossible fact that the Renaissance fair had completely vanished, and ignoring the very real, very sharp weapons now strapped to his body, the forest itself felt profoundly different.
It was thicker somehow. Wilder. Ancient.
The trees rose like silent giants, their trunks wider and more gnarled than any he had seen in modern woods. Dense layers of foliage created a living canopy overhead, filtering sunlight into soft emerald shafts that danced across the forest floor. Thick undergrowth pressed in from every side — ferns, shrubs, and vines tangled together in a lush, untamed carpet. There were no trails, no cleared paths, no signs of human maintenance. No trash, no worn-down patches of earth from thousands of footsteps, no distant sound of cars or crowds.
This forest had never been touched by man.
The air itself felt alive. Rich with the scent of damp soil, blooming wildflowers, and resin from the pines. He could taste the faint promise of rain on the breeze. Every leaf, every blade of grass seemed more vibrant, more present. When the wind moved through the branches, the entire canopy responded as one — a gentle, flowing wave that reminded him of fingers running through long hair. Birds called from high above, their songs clear and impossibly loud. Insects hummed in the underbrush with a steady, rhythmic pulse.
James took a cautious step forward. The grass beneath his boots sprang back almost immediately, resilient and full of life. No compacted dirt or trampled vegetation. This place felt untouched, primordial, thriving in a way no modern forest could match. It pulsed with quiet power, as if the land itself was breathing.
He swallowed hard, senses overwhelmed by the raw vitality surrounding him.
“What the hell is this place?”
Then the high-pitched scream tore through the trees, snapping him out of his daze. James whipped in its direction and began moving towards it. The shout was feminine in that way only women could shout. He frowned as he zeroed in on it, moving through the brush, ducking, dodging and staying out of the line of sight as the brush became woods. He saw three men giving chase to the poor woman.
They were wearing uniforms from the old Royal Army. This, he decided, was bad.
“Stop,” One of them barked at their prey, “Or we’ll fucking shoot.”
“Just shoot the cunt,” one of them shouted.
“No don’t shoot her, we want to fuck the bitch while she’s alive!” another yelled.
James raised his eyebrows. That was very unlike the army he knew of from history. They took good care of their prisoners and this act of random violence angered him to the core.
‘Gentlemen, my ass,’ he thought grimly.
They were moving too rapidly for him to do anything in his current spot, so he transgressed quickly through the cover offered him by the arboreal hodgepodge of foliage.
He had to hold in place briefly as they passed him at one point. With a sniff of his nose, he realized he could smell the cheap rum on their breath.
‘Strange, that I could tell that so clearly,’ he thought, even as the disjointed impressions made his head swim. The heightened awareness seemed to be instilling an unnatural calm upon him, but he didn’t stay quiescent. He knew he had to be close enough to intercede.
He realized he was aware of the somehow familiar, almost comforting, weight of a tomahawk on his hip. There was the impression of a brace of knives at the small of his back and the secure knowledge of a large hunting knife tied to his leg. The fact that they were there made him smile; the weapons felt comfortable, like they belonged, almost like they were tailored for him.
James increased to a dead run, the remaining distance between the redcoats and him both a help and a hindrance. He knew he needed to close with them for his weapons to be most effective. But his body was already moving on pure instinct, acting before his mind could fully catch up.
As he neared the ten-yard mark, his hand moved as if of its own accord to grasp one of the small knives on his back. He didn’t consciously decide to throw it — it just happened. In one fluid motion while still on the run, he drew the blade and hurled it at the nearest soldier. To his absolute amazement, the knife found its mark, hitting the soldier squarely in the shoulder.
What the hell? How did I—? The thought barely formed before his body kept moving.
As he closed the gap, James pulled out his tomahawk. For a split second he marvelled at how good it felt in his hand, perfectly balanced, like an old friend. The howl of pain from his first target gave him the distraction he needed. His legs carried him forward in uncanny silence, bursting from the trees like a predator. He didn’t plan the next strike — his arm simply swung with savage precision, the beard of the small axe tearing into the soldier’s hamstring.
Another agonized howl split the air. The remaining redcoats started turning away from the woman. James’s hand was already drawing the long heavy knife from his leg. Without conscious thought, he thrust it up and under the injured man’s collarbone, twisting his hips for leverage. The dead redcoat’s body jerked upright, shielding James as his comrades fired their flintlocks. James felt the heavy impacts thud into the corpse and grunted in satisfaction.
He spun the dead man off his shoulder, dropped the tomahawk, and plucked the pistol from the man’s belt in one smooth motion. Again, no thinking — just instinct. He aimed and fired, the ball slamming into the closer shooter’s shoulder. His body kept flowing through the fight like it had done this a thousand times before.
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