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Survival Part 4

Ordeals

12 . Korak’s ordeal

13. Dilemma 2

Dis-respect 2

Patience 5

Respect! 6

Stand-off 8

14. Doubts 12

Scrapes 14

Delectable torment 15

Continues in part five …. 19

13. Dilemma

What to do? It seemed there was no putting that swine down. Ndegwa lurked in the darkness around the pit. As if being here might give him ideas. How to break this brute’s spirit. Below he heard no sound but one of the captive’s snoring. Then hearing a groan, - feeling gratified with a wince of pain as the victim turned over in his sleep. Hoping it was that black transgressor, praying that even in his sleep the pains in his body would not let that obstinate trespasser go.

The swine had endured today’s ordeals. Twice Ndegwa had thought him beaten, done-in. But incredibly the pig had come back at him. Ndegwa was getting annoyed at being beaten by this dog’s powers, he was going to have to squeeze even tighter, punish the trespasser even more forcefully, to crush every bit of fight out of the obstinate beast. Ndegwa knew, in time he’d tire, he’d hurt. More ordeals - and that trespasser would be begging to die. But would the tribe wait?

Ndegwa prowled in nervous solitude around the pit, skulking in the moonlit darkness. The pair of them down there were both an embarrassment. Ndegwa had thrown everything at them. Body-breaking punishments, mind-blowing torments, pain building on top of agonies. But still he was no closer to hearing them repent. Enormous powers of resilience they had - but especially that black. It was like he took pride in proving that there was nothing Ndegwa could throw at him, nothing the evil-doer could not absorb. And contemptuous he’d spit it back in Ndegwa’s face. And Ndegwa feared, the dog’s every refusal to break resounded badly on him.

Ndegwa had the confidence, he knew he could break even the toughest warrior. And Ndegwa knew the brute’s time would come. But the tribe needed that now, they needed to believe the anger of the spirits removed. They trembled every time this swine refused to bend his head, impatient to hear the trespassers repent. Yet there was no sign that this black swine was ever going to give them that. How long before the word went around? That Ndegwa had failed? Incompetent.

Ndegwa stood alone in the moonlight above the pit. Anxiety creeping into his soul. And there was always that Siwatu. Rubbing his hands in joy. Always on the look-out to exploit the situation.

Something drastic was going to be needed.

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Dis-respect

Pain was being laid upon already bruised and agonized flesh. It was inevitable they’d go for him after Kwesi had shown Ndegwa up. And they were certainly going to make their mark after Korak had sauntered jauntily to the torture frame. Like he did not give a fuck about their plans for him. Taunting them with his cockiness. His body challenging them, Bring it on. His attitude mocking them. As if they could do nothing to hurt him.

Suddenly Korak was grabbed and forced by sheer weight of numbers to the ground. Face-down taking their punches angry at his insolence. Fists thrown at him with resentment at this insolence. Still he managed to squirm out of their grip, still doggedly he had fought against the weight of a half-dozen men on top of him. Conscious, though, through his fight-back of hands grabbing at his feet and a noose being tightened around his ankles. Ignoring their blows, making his own mark, making them fight for it every bit of the way.

Even as he was being raised up in the air by his feet, they kicked out at him, he shoved them back, getting in a jab with his elbow, rewarded by an angry cry. Pulled up by his feet. But the pulling stopped when his back was still on the earth. Looking up seeing his naked body above him. Making himself breath slowly, his eyes scanning all around. Working out what today’s beatings would bring.

There was something painfully embarrassing about having his arse caned. Not only the fact that he’d taken hell of a beating across his backside only a few days before. It still hurt to sit on his arse in the pit. Maybe there was also a shameful memory of the discipline handed out when a boy. Over his father’s knee when he had done wrong. But this did hurt more. A hundred times more.

They took it in turns, six of them, five blows each before handing over. Caning his backside. Driving all their anger at him for his cockiness, swishing vengeful blows into his bare arse. Re-awakening hurting flesh, re-kindling painful memories. Wiping the arrogance off his face, scarring their anger into his bare backside.

Force at first just made Korak jolt. The sting made his body twitch. Pain lifting his back off the dirt as his legs pulled up under the force. Then came the burn, then rose the heat. Heat that quickly rushed all the way from his stinging arse to his face. Sweating, in quick time beads of sweat on his face turning to sheets of heat.

Pain burst into flames, the skin of his crimson arse scorched. Driving pained grunts to his throat. Forcing pain to his eyes. Flaming torches scorched across his skin, jerking him up, yanking him up off the ground. Making Korak jump up on his shoulders, twist in the air. Annoyingly making him dance to their agonizing tune.

A brief moment of respite. The six of them, three rounds each Korak reckoned. A brief moment of rest. Passing the water jug around, getting their breath back. Korak’s fight to beat their pain had been intense, he had barely managed to catch breath in-between. Now he was sucking at air like crazy. Been so intent on holding back his cries, trying to show them the man he was, that he was no toy they could have their fun with. But such intense effort he struggled to breathe. Upside down on his back, needing to suck in air like crazy even when his attackers returned and were pulling Korak up higher. Till he swung free, his head hanging down, maybe a foot off the ground. Breathing hard, blinking away the sweat that trickled in his eyes. Mixing with the tears of burning pain.

They had taken their moment to catch their breath before starting again. Korak needed more time, he didn’t get it. Again they were swishing stinging pain into Korak’s burning backside. Twisting his hanging torso under their force. Jolting his suspended body to the sting of their pain. Head jerking, on fire, blazing. Flesh wrenched and yanked, twisted, contorted, ablaze. Six of them, five goes each, Korak lost count how many rounds. Sharp pains shot up his thighs as burning rope chafed at his ankles, jarred in his twisting legs. His head flew, torn aside with another smarting blow onto crimson-tortured flesh.

They rested again. Korak hung, upside down, sweat coated his naked torso, the inferno from his backside eating up the strength of his whole body. His chest heaving, skin flushed, drenched with his sweat, his efforts to grab in air rocking him upside down, as he fought to calm himself down.

Slowly the pain ebbing. Coming off the peak of that heat, seeing in the distance a plateau of pain where this suffering might be tolerable, his breathing seeming less desperate, his belly now rocking in-and-out as it sprinted panting for that distant level where he might manage such pain.

Not getting there in time. Suddenly bent double, folded up, ropes tied to his wrists pulling his hands towards his feet. Upside down, bent in half, cords on his wrists tied to his ankles and pulling his torso up. His head looking straight at his naked cock, just right for them to go again at his exposed backside with vengeance. Teaching his leery arse a lesson he should not forget.

Rested now, they again went for him full-strength. For as long as each one could, until a tap on the shoulder said they were tiring, losing strength. Fuelled by their anger to teach this obstinate trespasser a lesson he’d not forget, beating him so he’d not act so arrogant again. Encouraged by his cries as they tore pain out of his arse. A sack of helpless grain. Their canes thudding into his muscled arse like beating a sack. A sack that hurt.

Korak could no longer hold back the cries. Shocked by the force onto his screeching arse. Stunned by the acid intensity, not a chance to recover before the next one was laid on. Not even when they swapped over. In the middle of a tortured series of torn grunts as he sucked in air, - and then another breath-catching sting across the scorched earth of his arse. A useless bag of hanging flesh. That burned, that flared crimson-red. That hurt. Like crazy, like hell.

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Patience

And after! Anger was bursting in Ndegwa at the way the white-one had spat back insolence in their faces. First the black, now this one too. Both of them now, both refusing to bend. Like they were getting strength from each other’s audacity. As if such beatings, as if the humiliation of being the tribe’s toy meant nothing to them.

Ndegwa had left this arrogant white-skin dog suspended folded in half like that. Like some spoilt from the hunt left to hang. All day. Letting the pain get to him. Letting the heat and humidity do its job. Letting the tribe play its part. Leaving their switches there for others to use. Knowing the boys who wanted to be men would make good use of them. They’d know how the impress using his suffering. Those who aspired to wear the red stripe of the warrior clan wanted an audience, wanted again to prove themselves. All day. Publicly giving his welted arse that extra burn.

Korak kept managing to snatch some rest in-between, frequently he had slipped into oblivion in the heat of the day. A sack of suffering meat hung bent double and upside-down. Then torn back to his cruel reality. Ripped violently back to burning. A gang of youngsters had gathered again, picked up the canes. In turn, slashing away at Korak’s cane-lashed arse. Proving themselves, showing off to their friends. Laughing, getting off on how manly they were. Returning with another gang of friends, returning to the crimson-red baboon-ass and giving it another go. All day.

And after! When Ndegwa had ordered him cut down, the dog’s legs could not hold him up, his body could not contain such weakness. Despite struggling like crazy to stay on his own two feet, drawing on a remnant of that arrogance still nestling like a viper in his soul, the dog’s knees wobbled. shifting a foot to restore his balance, the leg gave way. Collapsing under his exhaustion to the dirt. Finally being forced to face the truth.

Ndegwa had watched as he had shoved his captors away, insisting he did not need their hated help, he’d stand on his own two feet. And then his own weakness had got the better of him, the arrogant prick had landed shattered on hands and knees, head sunk like a lead weight between his shoulders. At Ndegwa’s feet. As befit his situation. Broken at the feet of the man destined to tame his insolence. His arrogance lain low, beaten out of him by the ferocity of their canes. Ndegwa ordered him to be dragged. Dragged before the tribe, to be dragged in shame back to his pit. Dragged to prove to the disrespectful spirit of this white-skinned violator that finally it had met its match.

Ndegwa’s men grabbed him by his arms, pulled him up, their hands dug in under his hard-knotted shoulders and hauled him to his feet. Once up, though, with a grunt of extreme effort, a look of anger on his face, again the dog shook them off. Confident Ndegwa waited, smirking to himself. Expecting a repeat, knowing what would happen when the dog took a step. Shame would see his legs break under him. Exhaustion would get the better of him, his stupidity would send him splattering again to the earth. Smiling to himself as Ndegwa watched a first faltering move, gingerly planting a foot in front to steady himself, a wobbly sign that the swine was about to go.

Korak shrugged himself out of their grip with an angry cry. Shrugging himself out of their grasp nearly unbalanced him but he fought back. He’d got what they meant to do, drag him away, show him up, prove him beaten. Korak understood what that would say to their conceit if he let that happen. Not so shattered, he told himself, not so done-in that the son of Tarzan could afford for that to happen. This was not that deep-ingrained image of himself. Heir to the name of the jungle-lord. His head turned slowly to Ndegwa, his eyes flashed afresh in a gesture of anger. Angry at what they had done to him, anger for what they had nearly done to his pride. Finding strength from that look of hate. Forcing all signs of tiredness from his face. His fiery eyes burned a fury into Ndegwa’s face. Showing him his contempt, telling this was not the way Tarzan’s son behaved. Telling Ndegwa to show respect.

Respect! The trespasser looking like he expected to be treated with respect! Ndegwa seethed. Conscious of the eyes of the tribe on them. Conscious that this white-skinned transgressor was offering a challenge, not broken. Instinct told Ndegwa to cut his feet out from under him. Go for him, shove him over, show him up. Show the dog he was less than shit.

But something held him back. What? The belief that the swine would not make it? That his own weakness would show him up? That Ndegwa had indeed broken his body? The knowledge that a fall would be all the greater when he collapsed under his own failure?

In his own time, at his own pace, the dog turned to return to his pit. Slowly. He hobbled, every step was painful. Every move of a muscled thigh cost him effort. Struggling to walk, jolting in pain with every step, lithe muscle stepped faltering back to the darkness he was now forced to call home. Ndegwa was watching intently. Waiting for the moment when he’d fail. Was he on edge for that moment when he’d collapse, crumpled to the dirt? Broken, seen to be beaten? And when the dog saw he was broken in his own spirit. He had tried, - and he would have failed. A prize much greater than Ndegwa ordering his men to beat the dog to the ground. Pain jerked in the muscles of his arrogant back. His tortured backside sent shivers of effort down well-honed his thighs. He was managing, he was staying on his won two feet. But what effort. Patiently Ndegwa kept hold of himself. Refusing to intervene. Convinced this arrogance was about the stumble, this insolence would finish up in the dirt. And sob at its own failure.

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Respect!

Almost jauntily Ndegwa had walked ahead, standing by the pit, watching the dog hobbling towards him. Ndegwa’s assured bearing telling the onlookers he was not concerned by this foolhardy act. This was no challenge, this was stupidity. Confident the dog would soon be on his knees. Glancing down into the pit briefly, catching sight of the other trespasser looking up. Then the brute switched his gaze to the edge of the pit. As if realising his fellow-transgressor was being brought back. Peering to see the other trespasser join him in this hole. They were close, these two, friends. They kept each other going, they seemed to gain strength from each other managing to endure. Like driven by some boyish need to compete. They almost vied to resist. Somewhere deep-down Ndegwa got an inkling here of a chance. Clutching at some way to make one suffer for the other’s fate. An opportunity in their closeness to make use of.

But abruptly Ndegwa’s attention switched back, back to the white-skin. He’d stumbled, he was faltering. Ndegwa allowed himself a smile. The white fool was tottering in short uncontrolled steps. Exhaustion was getting the better of him. Oddly Ndegwa felt a sudden tightness clutch at his throat. Unexplainable. His men were close-by, enjoying the folly of the arrogant prick trying to show off, the dog thinking he was doing a good job. But everyone saw that every step the bastard took was a monstrous pained effort. Too much for his powers to contain. The red-stripes stayed in close, like cats about to pounce. On tenterhooks for that moment when the insolent bastard tottered, when his legs gave way and he fell. Ndegwa knew his men well, they’d used the chance. Canes out, smarting pains biting into damaged flesh, paying this arrogance back. Urging him to his feet, encouraging him with stinging swipes into his scorching backside to struggle back onto his own two feet. Knowing he couldn’t, making sure he couldn’t by the rain of biting pain that kept him slammed into their sacred earth. And when he couldn’t, they’d drag him. Drag him in the shame of his failure. Grab hold of his arms and throw him ignominiously into this pit.

But something, something worrying deep within Ndegwa had happened. He’d seen the man stumble, he saw the white-skin was about to fall to the dirt. But that tightness in his throat! That was not excitement, that was not a rush of pleasure that the dog was going to fall. Anxiety, concern for the man! Ndegwa had a rush of nervousness for the white-skin. Astonishing. Ndegwa realised he had felt alarm that the dog might fall. Ndegwa had been willing him not to collapse.

This was crazy. This was a sinner, a trespasser. His actions had put the tribe at risk. It was Ndegwa’s duty to bring his remorse to the spirits. His duty to dispel the threat hanging over the tribe.

And yet Ndegwa had just felt a flash of anxiety that this dog might collapse. Insane.

Again the dog took a few stumbling steps, a wobbly leg, going down. As if watching himself from the outside, Ndegwa saw what he did not want to allow of himself. Respect. Respect for this dog. Tortured for hours. The dog’s spirit pushed into the fires of living torment. Numerous trials of pain. Yet courageously the white-skin had made himself walk himself back to this pit. Doggedly, on his own two feet. Refused to be cowed, manfully he had denied his enemies his weakness. His warrior pride had conquered the weakness that threatened to drown his spirit. As if shouting out the message, unbreakable, unbendable. The dog had walked back to his pit, head held high. Incredible.

Respect! Insane. That was dangerous. Ndegwa had felt a sudden rush of respect. Impossible, irresponsible. But Ndegwa could not deny it. He had sensed a flash of respect. For this evil swine, for this insolent trespasser. Despite all the dangers the dog had wrought. Respect for a swine. A swine as full of warrior-fight as Ndegwa himself.

The dog had stumbled. Ndegwa had briefly willed the man not to fall. Wanting that to happen, not wanting it. But then Ndegwa saw how the dog stopped, got a grip, he got himself together. The hated trespasser planted his feet firm in the earth, - as if drawing from there strength. Guilty Ndegwa admitted it to himself, he’d felt a sense of relief that the white-skin had managed that. Just as Ndegwa himself would have acted.

Ashamed, Ndegwa confessed to himself, for a moment, he hadn’t wanted to see this warrior dignity broken, he had willed that knee not to give way.

Korak gripped himself hard. His head was reeling from this effort. He had thought he was going, falling. It was only another twenty paces or so. But he felt sick with exhaustion, the distance to the yawning pit seemed an eternity away. Then he saw Ndegwa. Waiting for him. Standing by the pit. Willing him to break. Resolve rushed into his heart. Determination pumped out his legs. His soul soared. Korak gathered himself, pushing his shoulders back. Breathed deep, expanding his chest with air. And he fixed Ndegwa with a glare. He’d show the bastard. That tormentor waiting by the pit. Waiting for Korak to shame himself, willing Korak to collapse. Drawing strength from hatred, Korak pulled himself up tall. He walked. He walked head high, eyes fixed on his tormentor. Drawing strength from deep within. Finding strength in hate.

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Stand-off

Korak halted a few paces from his pit. This show of strength had been hell, every defiant pace had been torture. He could easily have let his knees crumple under him as they wanted like crazy to do, it took all his dogged will not to. But this was an show, an act of defiance at that fucker who thought he had the right to beat him senseless. He didn’t know where this behaviour was getting him. But now he’d glanced Kwesi looking up at him, Korak knew he’d been right, this was right the way Kwesi behaved. OK, refusing to cower, refusing to crawl got these bastards in the gut and they came out burning for reprisals. But Korak was damned if he was going to give in, the thought of Kwesi willing him on gave him the strength. He had his pride, he had his family name.

He waited at the edge of the pit. He saw Kwesi standing up, waiting for him, waiting to throw his arms around him, support and help him get through this. Welcoming him with a grin. From below Korak saw him give a wink. Buddies, best of mates, in this nightmare together, Korak owed him, Kwesi had come to rescue him, put himself at risk, finished up in this mess. Besides, damned if Kwesi was going to show him up, his old childhood rival, Korak was going to match the sucker like-for-like!

Korak waited while the wooden grid was thrown back for the pit to receive its prize. Opening up the pit so he could join his mate. Looking forward to sinking into the darkness and hide himself in Kwesi’s comforting hug. Letting Korak let it all out. Knowing Kwesi would find enough in himself to welcome Korak back, no matter what he himself had already suffered. He’d wrap Korak in his strong embrace. And later the pair would share a few jokes.

But for now, the show was the thing.

With surprise, Korak heard something right behind but exhaustion dulled his reactions. He registered the movement just in time. A hard slap in the middle of his back. Like a shoulder thudded into his backbone. Barely a moment to react, hardly a chance to stop himself from pitching down into the pit. The force knocked him forward. The momentum jarred another step onwards. Till he was tottering on the edge of the pit, exhaustion nearly buckling his knees. Inquisitiveness spun his head round, curiosity and annoyance. One of the red-stripes had rushed forward and tried to up-end him into the pit. An eager young man from Ndegwa’s crew. Looking a bit surprised that his trick had not worked. He’d taken a run-up and thudded his shoulder into the widespread muscle of Korak’s back. Wanting to show off to his mates. Hoping to unseat Korak, unbalance him and send Korak tumbling unseemly into the pit.

Korak stood his ground, his front foot only inches from the edge of the pit, half turned around, facing his attacker. Glaring at him. Korak stood chest up, abs in, his eyebrows creased into a scowl. Then slowly, very slowly his head shook, with contempt. Disdainfully slowly shaking from one side to the other. It’d take a better man than this to up-end Korak. A better man than some snivelling kid with a red-painted skull to make Korak cringe. He didn’t move, his stance said it all.

The younger warrior had come at him with a run. He had thrown all his weight behind his shoulder, jammed it into Korak’s back. A back that had endured hours of their torture. A body that had been subjected to days of crippling efforts to weaken the body and unseat the mind. And still Korak’s steely gaze froze the red-striped kid with contempt.

Ndegwa watched. Fascinated despite himself. He observed. Closely, a battle of wills. The young inexperienced warrior was less than an arm away, right on top of the man he’d tried to up-end. He could finish off the job, arms up fast, a quick shove, the white-skin would fall backwards into his pit. But he was transfixed by a glare. Turned to stone. No, not stone. Quivering, a tremble of fright. The white-skin lifted his hands in front, gestured with both hands. Inviting the red-stripe to try it again. Inviting him. Challenging. Ndegwa was transfixed.

Not surprised Ndegwa saw him the young red-stripe took a step back. Wilting under the ferocity of that glare. Shocked by the challenge, nervous to take the prisoner on. The young warrior backed away! One step, one hesitant step, backing off under the force of the captive’s look. Backing off, visibly intimidated by a captive’s glare. Despite the fact that everyone had their eyes on him. He’d been fully confident, - given the prisoner’s weakness, - sure his strength could unseat the prisoner. Brimming with the confidence of youth, sure this stranger would go tumbling down into the pit. Expecting all his friends to rush up and congratulate him at his deed. Done so all his friends would slap him around the shoulder in praise. All his friends would offer him drink.

Only one step, the youth had taken only one step back. He watched, intently. A battle of nerves. Ndegwa was not the only one to notice it, to sense it. This warrior-spirit. What Ndegwa was watching was this white-skin exhausted by hours of torture. His body beaten, his pride humiliated. Yet his spirit burned bright.

A young warrior full of his own self-worth paralysed with a look. Put down in front of his comrades, frozen by a look from a victim of torture. A withering glare, from a victim who had suffered in these few days more than this young man would endure in a lifetime. Withering a red-stripe with a glare.

The whiteskin broke the trance. Bending down, one hand on the side of the pit, with the seeming grace of the cheetah, with the strength of the panther, he swung himself into his pit. Then he stood there. Feet lost in the darkness on the hole. Head below the level of the surface. His eyes sought out the young warrior who had defiled his body, whose move had wanted to shame his pride. He looked up, is eyes slitted and his glare still kept frozen the young man’s body. As the wooden grill of bars was slapped down and encased him as the victim in the pit, still the white-skin did not move. His eyes did not release the young warrior, froze him to the spot. Bound him there as if he was caught in tight cords. Visibly the young red-stripe stood chilled under the ferocity of that gaze.

Reluctantly, against his better judgement, against everything he cherished from his upbringing - Ndegwa was impressed. Against everything he knew was right. Remarkable, the trespasser was hurting, he was hurting like hell. Only moments ago barely able to put one foot in front of the other. That was some fiery spirit. That was some show.

But worrying. Ndegwa knew he could not afford to go there. Dangerous sentiments, in this situation to feel respect for this trespasser. And this show of defiance was getting worse, the two of them were backing each other up, taking strength from enduring this together. Somehow Ndegwa had to bring the game to a rapid end. This was getting all too dangerous.

Ordeals

13 . Claire’s ordeal

14. Doubts

It was agony, sheer agony to watch. Yet Claire had to, she felt she owed it to the guys. Guiltily she had wondered what kind of morbidness motivated her decision to stand there and watch them suffer. Was it just plain sick of her to be there watching the red-stripes lay into her two protectors? Was this some sort of sado-masochistic excitement she got out of watching incredible physiques submitted to such suffering? An odious fascination whether this time her dudes would still manage to endure? Endure the pain being dished out because of her.

Claire watched them both, it seemed like a torment that had no let-up. She watched out for them both. Knowing it would be an act of betrayal if they did not see her there. Gnawing on her hands in concern for them. Crying tears of anger, desperation and guilt. Particularly she worried for Kwesi, he was getting the lot. Ndegwa was throwing everything at him, he was not going to let up till the dude gave up. Surely some time Kwesi was going to have to give in?

But Ndegwa pitched all kinds of groups at Korak too, - the red-stripes, aspiring young boys, some of the male villagers too. All invited to beat remorse out of paining flesh. Even the women, it seemed, were to have their go. The women with whom Claire shared a hut. Let loose on Korak, fucking sadists all of them. Yet still Claire made herself watch, she was there for her guys suffering. With ever-mounting concern.

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The full impact of Ndegwa’s crime came to him in the night. Feeling that sense of respect for the trespassers. For these creature whose actions had put the whole tribe in jeopardy. People were genuinely fearful of the consequences of their crimes. And Ndegwa had dated entertain some element of respect that both of them could find such strength! Waking up in the night Ndegwa found himself flushing with shame at such a transgression.

And it seemed he was still getting nowhere with them. He already had problems with the brutish black. With that insolent one, the one who thought brute strength could forgive him everything. And now the white-skin had found the toughness to defy. They were egging each other on. Taking strength from each other’s staying power. The tribes-people were nervous, quietly expressing concern that neither of them were showing signs of remorse. How were they then going to appease the spirits’ anger?

And in his heart Ndegwa knew they were blaming him. It was his duty, he had sought out this task. Was it too big for him? What was going wrong?

And there was always that snake-in-the-grass. That Siwatu. Secretly glorying that Ndegwa was making little progress. In the loneliness of his hut, Ndegwa told himself he had to come up with something soon. To placate such fears. To demonstrate his dominion over the trespassers. Over the big black brute and his white-skin friend. And to bring them to remorse and justice.

And at the same time to exorcise his own failure - for harbouring a secret sense of respect for these criminals’ dogged resilience.

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Scrapes

“What the fuck this all about, asshole?”

Korak was done with even thinking about winning Ndegwa over. He’d had enough. Even tied in this awkward position against the post Korak threw him his best sneer. And his questioning nodded disparaging at the hag Ndegwa had set against Korak.

Korak was surrounded. Roped again to the upright, Korak was surrounded by women. Under other circumstances ..... Many of them were bare to the waist. A lot of them quite a sight. Except for Ndegwa’s toothless hag. She’d just swiped that instrument Ndegwa had given her weakly across Korak’s bare belly. Thankfully, she was not exposing herself. Korak shuddered at the thought of the empty pendulous sacks drooping on her front. To go with the crinkly skin of her arms. Her stick-like arm swiped lackadaisically again at Korak’s belly. The material stroked lightly across Korak’s abs. What the fuck was Ndegwa up to, Korak thought.

Korak scowled back at Ndegwa. Suspicious, sure there was more to this than met the eye. But what did meet his eye was a bevy of tantalising tits eagerly crowding around. Grinning, giggling at each other. Their youthful fun-loving eyes on the muscled torso tied to the stake. They looked a barrel of fun. If only things were different ....

Korak eyed them back. Aware of how he looked. Forgetting for a brief moment what was going on here. Seeing what they were seeing. His arms were above his head, the wrists roped behind the stake. That jutted his chest forward, the power in his plates of muscle etched, defined, emphasising his strength. He looked good, girls like what they saw. Like this was just when his girls often could not keep their hands off him. His feet too were tied, bound around the sides of the upright. Pushing his hips forward. Emphasising his naked groin. No wonder they were grinning. Korak had no problem being unclothed with a girl.

Suddenly that thought hit home. This was not a private moment in the undergrowth. Not some intimate time, just him and a girl alone going at it in the jungle heat. Korak was on public display. Surrounded by beautiful girls, displaying their wares. Ndegwa was stuck to his side,. And some old hag was swiping away with some kind of ineffectual whip across his belly.

For a clue, Korak shot a sideways glance at Ndegwa. But the bastard’s face was as closed as ever. Nothing to be read out of that. Suddenly Korak twitched. At another swipe from the ancient hag swiping across his bare stomach. A sudden brief rush of heat. Inexplicable.

Some great-looking babes here, he thought. Tempting. If only ....

Korak heard himself grunt, unaccountably. At a sting across his belly. Though the old hag had only lightly swished that instrument across his abs. But it had unmistakeably stung.

Korak switched his attention again to Ndegwa. Who was nodding to the hag. The old cow handed over the thing. Korak turned his attention back. This was more like it. The girl holding the instrument was a looker. Wearing nothing more than just some short beaded skirt. Fantastic tits. And the rest.

She came closer. Close enough for him to be tempted, - if his hands had been free. Korak’s eyes filled with the firmness of her breasts, bewitched for a brief moment by the size of her nipples. But diverted as her fingers touched his chest. A hand hot to the touch on his upper chest. Sliding down. Circling around the outside of his pec. Her eyes were a deepest brown, her gaze like a pool in a cave, bottomless. Korak felt himself drawn into them. He felt the hand lightly stroking his pec. Felt a first rush of excitement as a finger lightly brushed over his nipple.

He only realised he was beginning to firm up when something brushed along the side of his cock. A strange eerie sensation. A coarseness, a roughness against his sensitive skin. Straightaway Korak recognised the familiar closeness that discomfort had to the pleasure of sex.

When she stepped away, Korak realised the cause. That instrument in her hand had been brushing over his growing cock. When she swiped it across his belly, Korak gave a slight jolt. At a stinging, at the surprise.

Suddenly interested in what she held in her hand.

As if reading his mind, she raised the thing above her head, held it between her hands poised in the air. Swaying for him, hips swinging rhythmically for his sight. Almost dancing for him with that whip between her hands, held above her head. Delectable breasts swaying, her full bare torso dancing for him. To a joyful clapping from the girls around.

But instinct was starting to warn Korak, something was going on here. Ndegwa did not play around. His eyes shot to what it was the hag had handed her, now held above her head. Some kind of whip. At one end leather braided into a handle. At the other several strands of material. Not leather, - as he would have expected. It looked more like a dozen strands of material, each the thickness of a man’s finger. Sacking. Suddenly Korak clicked. He was being whipped by these beauties with sacking. Not with leather, leather cut, leather would make him bleed. With coarse sacking. To scrape at his skin. To abrade away layers of skin off his flesh.

Korak jolted, he gasped. Without warning, the dancing had stopped. The erotic swaying of luscious tits had been replaced. A downward slash of the whip had torn across his belly. Sparks flew. Embers burst into life. Korak’s skin burst into flames.

+ + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + + +

Delectable torment

The bitches! What they were doing to poor Korak. And they were enjoying it, the sluts. Laughing, giggling. Claire watched with mounting anxiety, Korak’s front looked awful, he was crimson from chest down to his belly. He was onto his fifth assailant, these were the same girls Claire slept with. Young vibrant, giggly. Dirty skanks, torturing Korak. Toying with him, sadistically, not out of fun. Hurting him, on purpose. Not with the force of their blows. With scraps of rough sacking scraped across his front.

Korak was on fire, Claire could see the torment in his face. He’d taken punches, she’d seen him bravely face-down the red-stripes’ cruelty. But there was a dread on his face she’d not seen before. His whole front seemed to be burning red. He was sweating, he could not clear the sweat from his eyes, he kept shaking his head. Evil red blotches all over him, scorching in the mid-day heart. Stinging in the coating of sweat all over his front. Panting from the heat, she saw his tormented chest rocking for air, his head was swaying wildly from side to side, trying to manage the pain.

Claire couldn’t believe they’d do this to him. This must be Ndegwa’s plan. For a guy like Korak, this was treatment of the worst kind, Ndegwa must have worked out something just for him. She knew Korak was wired, tactilely between hands and groin, visually connected from his eyes to his dick. And what were these evil sluts presenting him? In front of his eyes the kind of sight he’d always yearn for. The best of his wettest of dreams. An ocean of gorgeous looking girls, many bare to the waist. Baring their jewels for him, setting his hormones racing. Korak had already got hard some time ago.

Yet not being played with for pleasure, he was being tortured, - by the girls who shared her hut, the bitches. Inevitably Korak was hard, fully erect. Emotionally torn between a mixture of sexual pain and pleasure. Hurting from that sacking, being scraped raw, setting nerves on fire. The sight of those bare breasted beauties out to hurt him inevitably had got him worked up, anger fighting with lust, aroused. Nerves on edge with the prospect of sex used to tantalise and twitchy at the touch of pain. Body jumpy with the prospect of torment on his skin, his blood racing with the pleasure of pain.

And they were giggling, the sluts, they were enjoying it. The sight of his ponderous hard-on lurching as he twisted to evade the next scrape. Dominating him. The uncontrolled swaying of full manliness made to leap, made to cavort in some ungainly dance to their discordant tune - they were giggling, some hysterical, fall over each other. And that must have been making him mad. In turn, keeping his hormones racing, making his woody good-and-strong for the evil girls.

Girls taking him on in turn, this one had playingly slid the sack-whip across his hardness. Sending prickles of pained excitement rushing to his cock, excitement and dread. Claire read the tension on his face at that threat, just the feel of that thing touching him there. The prospect that when they had got off enough on the sadistic pleasure of torturing his nerves, they’d turn it on him there. Setting his fears racing in case they used that thing on him down there. Rough sacking scraping over that most sensitive of skin, scraping it raw too. Shaking her head, in disbelief and fear, Claire wiped a tear from her cheek. Biting on her bottom lip for poor Korak.

Sweating. With the heat, his whole front felt now like a mass of raw skin. Like flayed alive. Red-crimson. Burning with erotic pain. Every touch had Korak jumping. Each twitch burst signals to his erect cock. Even the lightest breeze had him gasping out. This bitch was swishing the sacking back and forwards across his chest. Just light strokes, in a rapid smooth rhythm. But each touch had Korak twitching, sharply, in fear. Sometimes his body had had enough, it twisted out of the way, in dread. Dragging his ponderous cock after himself. At first he’d been just gasping, by now he was groaning. Moaning, the pain-pleasure had become too much. Moaning in alarm at another swipe.

Writhing, squirming, struggling to escape. There was no getting away, though.

Arms thrashing and twitching, pulling on his bonds, fighting to break free. There was no getting away.

His legs struggling, twisting, jerking in a never-ending dance of torment. Dancing to the tune of this female torment. From which there was no getting away.

Fiery-red his skin. Sharp yelps broke unstoppable from his throat. Twitching and jerking. His hard-on thrashing in an ungainly jangle. Yelling out. The fucking bitch had swiped the whip across the end of his tool. A stinging flash on the solid head. Cursing her, fucking all the bitches to hell. Angered at the snigger of delight as another swipe burst into flames across his abs.

The pain knew no let-up, - even when the bitch handed over to her friend. Even untouched, he was in hell. Korak was panting, gasping out loud, his head writhing against the post behind, he was over-loaded with stinging sweat. Even untouched his skin stung, even unwhipped his flesh trembled, panting hard, noisily. By itself his head thrashed from side-to-side, up-and-down. He was on fire.

All the next one did was let the whip flop over his skin. Just dangling the sacking over his burning skin. Lightly slapping it onto nerve-jangling flesh. But it was enough to set Korak’s nerves alert, it got his fears racing. Panting into that anxiety, fearful as it started again. He hurt like he could not remember. Korak was fearful of girls like never before.

“Bitch!”

Korak managed just a single curse,. Loud and meant. The new assailant had unexpectedly torn her whip hard down the length of Korak’s front. Straight down his front, from chest to belly button. A quick flash of pert breasts swinging to tempt his sight. Then every nerve on his front screamed. Every exposed nerve shrieked. Before he could get back his wind, another hard swipe slashed down his front. Korak yelped. Unstoppable.

Claire hated them, she wanted to go for them. They were enjoying it, the sadistic bitches! She watched, this heartless skank had the handle held in one hand, the other holding the sacking end. And then the evil slut had flicked it hard against Korak’s lower belly. Pain burst into a thousand sharp sparks down his front. He had squeaked, poor Korak had squealed like some pig, his lower back thumped into the stake behind, no escape. Again she did it. And again. Korak writhed against the stake. He twisted his torso, he pulled against his bonds. Yelping at each swipe. Then the evil bitch just waited. Grinning at him, holding the tool in both hands, ready. Toying with his nerves, playing on his fears, relishing the dread on Korak’s face, enjoying the power. Korak sweating shitloads as the heat soared. She twitched, as if about to flick it against him again. Like she was about to scrape fiery sparks out of his skin. But then stopped. And grinned. Hear her friends behind giggling at her trick. Turn round and laugh with them. She was enjoying it, getting off on it, Claire could see the sadistic thrill hard in her nubs. Enjoying this game at Korak’s expense. Sometimes setting his belly on fire, sometimes setting his nerves alight.

“Get on with it, bitch!”

Korak’s nervousness got the better of him.

And she did, - but only when she felt like it. When she could get a laugh out of her friends. One pair of girls near Claire fell into each other, giggling hysterically at Korak’s sudden twist to get out of reach. And at the ungainly lurch of his nerve-laden dick. Claire had never had to use those kick-punches she’d learned in the gym, But she wanted to punch their lights out, these sick sluts getting hot between the legs at Korak’s suffering.

But what was the point? Not with that Ndegwa lording it over this sick game. Claire suspected he’d find some way to turn her concern for Korak back on her. Maybe even make her do it too!

The sick fucker with the hardened nipples gave another pretend flick at Korak. But Korak still twisted away, his tortured dick unwieldy following suite. Then the flail did lash out, caught Korak across his belly button, folded him up, made him squeal. A piglet shocked out of its life. Claire bit hard on her upper lip, tears flowed unstopped. Sweat coated the poor victim’s front, trickles flowed off his chest, stinging, burning tortured skin. Again and again the sick bitch toyed with Korak. Again and again she’d tear agony out of his flesh. Enjoying every moment of her power she kept Korak’s nerves on fire.

Claire hated the bitch! Relieved when the sadistic slut handed over eventually, swearing she’d get the fucker later for this. But still there was no respite for poor Korak. The next one up played a simple trick. She twisted her wrist, repeatedly, circling her hand. Turning the flail in a blur down over Korak’s abs. Sometimes touching, scraping, other times missing. She’d learned. Enjoying the game of uncertainty from this circling flail, getting off on tormenting poor Korak’s nerves. Would it, wouldn’t it? When touching, the coarseness of sacking burst of agony over Korak’s front. Like some medieval metal flail that ripped across his front. Each scratchy touch now stinging a sharp yelp out of his throat. In ever increasing rapidity - and sometimes not.

Korak thought he was going to pass out, he hoped he would pass out. The only way to finish this torment. But the agony went on. The thrashing went on. Plenty more girls to go. Each one as gorgeous as the one before. Each with the most mouth-watering tits.

Gone the pleasure at the sight of delectable breasts. Korak was yelping, his torso had become a human torch. At each touch his soul burst into flames.

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