Punishment fits the crime



Punishment fits the crime

Kidnap 3

1. Winged 3

2. Into the unknown 5

3. Offer 6

4. Hero revered 8

5. A father’s loss 10

6. Condemned 12

7. Prospects 14

8. Tough enough? 16

Ordeals 21

9. Bravado 21

10. Drug 23

11. Claws 25

12. Lesson to learn 27

13. Sweet song 29

14. Spiked 31

15. Tempted 32

16. End-song 34

Anyone who has seen the scene in Tarzan and the Valley of Gold might wonder how come Mike Henry manages to evade all those bullets. (Clip from YouTube @ )

Pursued backwards and forwards by a man shooting out of a helicopter, he manages to avoid every single one, the shooter must be a lousy shot. For my money, Tarzan’s a sitting duck.

What might happen if one of them hit?

Kidnap

Winged

“He’s down!”

Chambers’ triumphant shout even pierced the scream of the engines. The pilot didn’t dare react for some seconds. He was negotiating the ‘copter to do another risky 180 degree turn in the air. Going back for another strafing run. Chambers, though, cackled at him like a madman.

“You sure?” the pilot threw out as he wrestled out of the spin.

The pilot’s foot was flat down to race back to strafe their quarry again, chasing the elusive Tarzan who had been racing for cover. It must have been the eighth time they’d raced him over the scrubland while Chambers hung out the side and shot at the sprinting apeman with his automatic. Missing him every time.

“I saw him go down”, Chambers shouted sounding delirious over the noise of the rotors. “I hit him”.

The copter was roaring back over the scrub. There in the middle, flat on his face in the dirt, lay the man who’d been their pain in the arse. The apeman. Not moving. They roared overhead.

“Hit him? Or winged him?”

The pilot couldn’t believe they’d managed it at last.

“Put this thing down. I’ll finish the fucker off. That do ya?” Chambers yelled back. Bad tempered and flushed with success at the same time.

Chambers was off and running before DuPont had a chance to switch the engines off. Racing over the hot earth back towards Tarzan, his automatic rifle bouncing awkwardly off his shoulders. By the time DuPont managed to join him, Chambers had rolled their quarry over on his back. Standing over him in triumph. Like some White hunter who’d bagged a rhino.

“You were right. Only winged him in the leg. He must have knocked himself out. On that rock over there maybe. See the head wound? ”.

Chambers was unshouldering his rifle.

“Soon fix that, though”.

DuPont put his hand on Chambers’ arm.

“Maybe not. Got a better idea. Less messy too”.

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

Water splattered into his face, Tarzan twisted his head away. Then his thirst-crazed body realised what it was. His face turned back, mouth gaping open. Greedy to take on water. Even though his eyes were crunched together against the pain. The pain thudding in his head, the burning scorching in his leg.

The stream of water stopped. Replaced by a hard kick in the side.

“Up ya get, fucker”.

Tarzan tore his eyes open. Shutting them again quickly against the glare of the sun. Against blistering light igniting the pain in his head. Realising with sudden clarity he was on his back in the dust and his arms were tied together underneath him.

Another sharp kick brought him to his senses.

“You deaf or what?”

Tarzan wasn’t deaf. But he was in deep trouble. The men he’d been evading for hours had snatched him. They had appeared out of the sky and mysteriously had started shooting. He had no idea why or who they were. But they had run him down. Him racing on foot, them shooting at him from overhead in a helicopter. Now on his back, arms tied, a weapon aimed at him, a boot jarring him to his feet. They’d come for him in a helicopter, they’d pursued him in-and-out of the bush, bullets whistling about his head. Bullets sending stinging dirt up about his feet. Running him to near exhaustion. Then he’d tripped. Smashing his head. Out. And woken up, bound, prisoner of the men who’d come attacking him from the skies. Still he had no idea why.

Another sharp kick into his side encouraged him.

“On ya feet, muscle-head”.

Tarzan squinted through the pain in his head and the glare. A man towered over him, a rifle in his hand.

“Gonna count to three. You not on your feet, ya’re gonna feel some heat”.

Tarzan did as he was told. He had no choice.

Into the unknown

Tarzan had never been up in the air before. He’d seen these things flying overhead but he’d never flown. Not exactly comfortable either. He was crunched up in the rear seat behind his two captors. He’d struggled with the bonds but what seemed like cable twisted around his wrists behind was not going to give. When the machine lifted off, it lurched forwards, throwing him Tarzan unexpectedly forward into the seats in front. The man with the rifle laughed as Tarzan collapsed forwards onto him.

Chambers’ elbow crunched into Tarzan’s face. With a sharp shove into his forehead, he jarred Tarzan back into his seat.

”Slow down, apeman. Not so fast”.

Over the noise of the engines he shouted at the pilot.

“When this fucker gets where he’s going, he’s going to wish he wasn’t in such a hurry”.

He twisted himself around at Tarzan. And winked. Knowingly. Mean-mindedly.

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

The rotors were still going, dust flying everywhere. Chambers was already out of the copter. He reached in to help Tarzan out. Clutched at him by the scruff of the neck and pulled. Tarzan landed on his knees. Dust in his eyes, dust choking his throat. Hands tied behind, he couldn’t help himself. Chambers’ kick in his back kept the momentum going. Finishing up face-down in the dirt.

Flying dust was everywhere. In the eyes, in the lungs. Chambers felt the body beneath his boot try to move.

“Hold still, there, ya fucker!” he yelled into the dust-storm. Stomping down, heel jarring between his prisoner’s shoulder blades. Feeling the shudder of pain under his boot. He couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear for the din of the rotors. But he could feel the body under him crumple under the sharpness of his heel.

Tarzan had been in dust-storms before. He knew to keep low, keep the eyes and mouth tight shut. Till the storm passed. But he hadn’t counted on a boot jarring painfully into his backbone. Splattering his face into the dirt. Jarring pain down his spine. Exploding in a strident burst in his head. The weight kept pressing his chest against the earth. The roar of the motors slowly lessening. But not Tarzan’s anger, not his annoyance. After all the times Tarzan had been taken prisoner, he’d never learned to take things lying down. Still he felt his temper bursting when men thought they could push him around like this. And the more he was unable to lash out and show them the man he was, the more his blood boiled.

Common sense, though, dictated he stay in control. This had happened often enough. Giving vent to anger only weakened his brain, risked making him reckless. Something he could not allow. He got a grip, biding his time, till he could find out what was going on. Grab the chance when it came to show them what he was made of. Till then he clamped down on his angry heart. As he heard the engines slowing down. As he heard from one side excited voices racing in his direction.

Offer

They’d seen helicopters before. Passing overhead, some rich hunter taking the easy way to hunt down game. But never before had one landed. Excitement had grown as realisation dawned. This copter was coming down by the river outside their village.

Zananga was racing ahead with the other men. Excited, curious as much as the next man. Well ahead of the children yelling in shrill disbelief at the machine that descended at them out of the skies. But when he was within sight of what the men in the helicopter had unloaded, when Zananga glimpsed through the lessening dust-cloud who it was that had been delivered, the near-naked white man down on the earth, Zananga slowed. He let the others race past, jabbering excited. Zananga suddenly became his father’s son, putting on the dignity of the son of a chief. Realising with mounting excitement the impact of what his weeping eyes saw though the dust. The white man Chambers. With his foot crushing another man into the ground. A white man wearing just a loincloth of animal skin. Tarzan. Chambers had brought Zananga Tarzan.

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

“And the money?” Zananga asked. “For the apeman?”

Chambers had already started to walk back to the copter. At Zananga’s question he stopped dead. As if suddenly stabbed in the back. Stiffened. Shocked.

Starting slowly to turn round. As if unable to believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again?” Chambers asked over his shoulder, not bothering to hide the disdain in his voice.

“That was the deal. You agreed with the chief. Reward for Tarzan”, Zananga answered, seemingly undaunted by the sneer. Conscious he was surrounded by his father’s tribe. Listening in.

Chambers had half-turned, the contempt breaking over his shoulder. He stared back. A long hard stare. But Zananga didn’t dare look fazed by the animosity in that glare. Not in front of his father’s people.

“Say that again, ya black sucker!” Said full of scorn.

Zananga drew himself up to his full height, he wasn’t going to take talk like that lying down. Not in public. He was big, he was strong, a chief’s son. Muscle stood proud on his chest. Girls fondled with wonder the power in his belly. People didn’t talk to the son of a chief like that.

“Money for the apeman. That was the deal”, he answered looking haughty. He was not going to be done out of their agreement.

“The deal - you cocksucking black savage - was you bring in the apeman”.

Chambers made not the slightest effort to suppress his total disdain. This idiot had been sent out with a dozen warriors to take the interfering ass-hole of an apeman out of the picture. For an agreed price.

“Couldn’t manage even that job, ya black moron”.

Chambers spat his hatred back across the scrub between them.

“We had to do the job for ya. Ya savage prick!”.

Chambers nodded at the body under Zananga’s bare foot.

“Think yaself lucky we’re not charging for the fuel”.

Chambers was shaking his head. In disbelief. “What a motherfucking asshole!”

He pointed at the near-naked figure, bound and pressed down into the earth.

“Just keep him out of our hair for the next month. Got that? Think you can manage that?”

Chambers had already turned away to the ‘copter His head shaking at the stupidity he had to deal with. Stinking savages, what did they do for brains?

Zananga rankled at the insults. At losing face. At the idea of going back to the chief without payment for Tarzan. Then the figure beneath his foot moved. Like it was trying to escape. Zananga gave it a hard jab in the backbone. At least, …. at least he was coming back with the prize. Zananga was returning with his father’s desire. Tarzan. Zananga would win back some favour. Some consolation.

And yes, Zananga could guarantee that white man Chambers that one thing. They’d take care of the apeman. For more than a month. Forever. For good-and-for-all.

Hero revered

“Him?” Tarzan blurted out. “That filth? A murderer. Rapist. Monster?”

The slash that tore across Tarzan’s face threatened to throw him backwards off his knees onto the earth. It was touch-and-go but Tarzan did manage to keep his balance. Just. The man was built, this Zananga could pack a punch.

“My brother”, Zananga revealed.

The helicopter had taken off. Dust flying everywhere. Tarzan had heard coughing, choking. But face-down on the earth his thoughts had been racing. Piecing this together. Though understanding little of what was going on. A bare foot had replaced the boot grinding him down into the dirt. But just as determined that he stay where he was and was going to be offered no chance to get away.

Slowly the noise of the copter rescinded. Slowly the coughing lessened, slowly the dust settled over the clearing, sticking to his sweaty back. But Tarzan was still face-down, his wrists bound behind. And a firm foot pressed into the back of his neck.

“Seems the apeman came ready-wrapped”.

Tarzan heard the mocking voice even as the last sounds of the copter were disappearing away. Laughter joined in the joke at Tarzan’s expense.

“Get him up”.

Zananga’s foot came off Tarzan’s neck. Hands came and grabbed at his elbows behind, pulling him up to his knees, Instinct had Tarzan raise a knee making to rise to his feet. But Zananga tore his hand into Tarzan’s scalp. Restraining him. Twisting painfully in the hair, pulling the head over to one side. Keeping Tarzan on his knees. Subjugated, being shown up, being shown off to the on-lookers. Showing them who was boss here.

“That will do”. As if reading Tarzan’s thoughts. “Where you belong, apeman. In the dirt”.

Tarzan defiantly shook his head to free himself of the hand in his hair.

“You don’t recognise me?” The big-muscled bruiser was smirking down at Tarzan from a height.

Tarzan did. He’d been with that mob who had tried to jump him the other day. For no apparent reason. This one had been the man who’d stayed out of harm’s way while Tarzan was attacked by the others. Watched helpless as Tarzan had been beating the others off. Tarzan had soon seen them off. This muscle-head had fled with the rest.

“I was younger then. And smaller too”, Zananga reminded his prisoner.

Tarzan frowned. Not understanding. Another time?

“With Mamulo. The day you tricked him. Overpowered him and gave him over to the police”.

Tarzan remembered the day. It had been a fair fight, he remembered. One-on-one, hard one too. No tricks, a tough fight.

“Mamulo, that scum. You kept bad company”, Tarzan could not conceal his contempt for the filth he had eventually hunted down and handed over to the authorities. Given life imprisonment. Pity there was no death penalty.

“My brother, you mean?”

The stinging slap had nearly pitched Tarzan over.

“The chief’s heir”. Spoken more to the onlookers.

Things were getting clearer to Tarzan. Why he was here, why he had been captured. And where this might lead. But still he stood his ground.

“Brute, you mean? Rapist. Many times over. Deserved everything coming to him. An animal”.

Zananga’s eyes had narrowed to vengeful slits. But Tarzan just stared back. Undaunted, defiant, proud of putting that scum behind bars.

“The world’s a better place without filth like him”.

Zananga raised his arm as if to give Tarzan another stinging slash across the face. But his prisoner did not flinch. Zananga hesitated, he changed his mind. He got a grip on himself, he didn’t need to lash out, not now. He calmed his angry heart. He breathed deep to slow the beat pulsing in his ear. And stared down at the captive in the dirt. Acting the leader before the others, conscious they were watching him. Showing he did not need to lash out in temper. Feeling superior, after all he was superior. Who was the one bound and on his knees? Telling the others by his dignity he’d soon have this apeman eating his words. Zananga - the chief’s other son - would make Tarzan eat his words. Eying Tarzan, on his knees, where he belonged, in the dirt. Nervousness cutting trickles of sweat through the dust on Tarzan’s chest. Eventually Zananga broke into a knowing smirk. A cold icy smile.

Turning to his men.

“Get it up. On its feet. For the chief’s judgement”.

And I’ll beg him to let me carry it out, Zananga promised himself.

A father’s loss

A foot jarred into the back of his knee felled Tarzan to his knees. A hand twisted in his scalp kept him there as he watched Zananga enter the chief’s hut. He was surrounded, out-numbered, unarmed. Men with spears and clubs stood in a semi-circle behind. Beyond them, women and children, the whole tribe had turned out to watch. The centre of murmuring attention, prisoner on his knees facing the chief’s hut, watching for him to appear. Waiting for their chief to come and pass judgement. Waiting and watching in mumbling curiosity.

Jostled and shoved on the way from the river bank, eyes streaming from the dust he could not rub out of his eyes, Tarzan had been trying to piece things together. But the hostility meeting him had given him little time to think. Coming up close, hitting, slapping. Men and women. Spat on, thumped, he was object of their hatred. The helicopter had delivered him into their hands. He had no idea still why the helicopter crew wanted him out of the way for a month. But right now there were more pressing issues. Facing this collective hatred for him.

Months ago Tarzan had tracked down and captured Mamulo, handed him over to the authorities. The man was a nasty piece of work. The very man this crowd revered was a madman out of control. Pushed and jostled, spat on and abused, Tarzan had suffered their anger for capturing their hero until they had crashed him to his knees at the chief’s hut. Cursed out of love for a murderer, abused out of admiration for a bully who seemed to think he had the right to everything he saw. Cattle. He killed for cattle, no compunction, no thought. Wealth, he took it. He saw something, wanted it, he took it, anyone objected, they were dead. Women, he took them too, did-over any man foolhardy enough to protect. He took their women, did his nasty work and discarded them. Left them devastated, traumatised. Any man protested, Mamulo would get his men to beat him within an inch of his life. As likely to finish up with a knife in the guts. A reign of mindless brutality that had terrorised for months.

Mamulo, this chief’s son. It had been a hard fight. One-to-one, a long brutal fight. Mamulo was a man used to getting his way, physically he was built to demand it. Tarzan had been hard-put to put the man down. But luck and justice had been on his side. Last thing Tarzan heard, Mamulo was off to spend the rest of his days behind bars. Heavy labour, no parole the judge had said. Ever.

But the monster’s family had come looking for him, it seemed. After Tarzan, Mamulo’s persecutor, the one who had sent their brother to prison. After revenge. Tarzan had finished up in the hands of Mamulo’s tribe. Judging from the menace that encircled him, Tarzan couldn’t expect they wanted to congratulate him on a job well-done.

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

The chief came out to a murmur of respectful greetings that dimmed to silence as he took his seat. Tarzan watched him carefully as he approached the chair set up for him. A man was tall, was strongly built, no old man. But despite all the physical power that still framed his torso he seemed frail, halting. A sense of world-weariness hung on a once-vibrant frame. Yet when Zananga offered his arm, the chief brusquely held up a hand fending off the support, this was not a man given to seeking help. However ill he might look. Lowering himself gingerly to the seat, his hand resting on his knees, taking in a deep breath reeking of fatigue, his eyes fell upon Tarzan for the first time. As if not expecting him. Staring Tarzan out, unmoved, no strength to show emotion, no reaction, there was almost the feeling the chief was looking straight through him. And seeing with sadness someone he had lost. A deep sigh shuddered through the chief’s frame.

Then slowly his hand raised, summoning his son. Zananga bent so the chief could whisper into his ear. Zananga nodded, stood back up and barked out a shout to Tarzan’s warrior guards. Suddenly a painful shove hit Tarzan between the shoulder blades nearly knocking him off-balance. The kick threw Tarzan forwards. Having no hands free to stop himself, suddenly Tarzan’s face was splattering into the dirt. A hard jarring on the back of his neck slammed his face into the dust. A pole forced across the back of his neck ground his cheek into the dirt.

“Bow in respect before the chief”.

Suddenly Tarzan’s ears were attacked by a whistle. Then a stinging bite tore across his back. The smarting shudders at a switch of branches burst down Tarzan’s bent spine.

“Kiss the dirt of our tribe. Respect”.

Tarzan tensed when he heard another whistle of the whip zinging through the air after Zananga’s orders. The pain jarred the side of his face in the dirt. A salvo of punishing thwacks tore across his back. Trapped with his cheek ground into their dust by the pole across the back of his neck. Pinning him helpless to the earth.

“Show regret”, Zananga ordered.

The apeman did no such thing. Another dozen bites of stinging pain tore across his back to the appreciation of the watching tribe. Intently enjoying the man being punished for his crime. The son of their chief had been sent to prison for the rest of his life by this man. This offender who was taking their chief’s lashes face-down in their dirt. Ordered by a father robbed of his beloved heir.

Heat rushed to Tarzan’s head, flushed from the bursts of pain across his back. The smarting bites had his hands tight clasped in his back, the sweat of anger on his face mixed with the dirt of their earth. As Tarzan took their pain for putting a murderer and rapist behind bars.

Condemned

“He is scum, filth, Killed without a care. For fun. Monster”.

Tarzan snapped back at the chief’s suggestion his son had been falsely tried. Angry at the unjust whipping his back had taken. Disgusted, knowing exactly why Mamulo had been sent to prison. Getting less than he deserved.

Pain had torn brutally across Tarzan’s back. Released from the dirt, Tarzan winced to himself at his burning back as he rose. Yet still forced to kneel before the chief on his knees in subjugation.

Insulting Mamulo again earned him another beating. Zananga grabbed a pole. A furious blow from a wild man at Tarzan’s back to silence this abuse of his hero-brother. Catching Tarzan with a hard blow across his bent shoulders.

But still Tarzan would not be bowed.

“Monsters like him - do not deserve to live”.

For the sake of those watching Zananga felt bound to silence Tarzan’s insults, rushing at him with weapon raised. Intent on impressing them by beating the prisoner into regret. But the chief stopped him. Hand raised

“Let the apeman speak”, he said authoritatively.

“Let us hear why the apeman did what he did”. Tarzan noticed the chief’s strength was returning. Now he was face-to-face with the man who had sent his son to prison.

“Tell why Mamulo was taken from us”.

Tarzan shook his head in disbelief at such crass questions. Uncowed by his desperate situation. Justified in his actions in putting the man away. Unbent by the beating he had taken. Giving his attacker a scathing look before turning to the chief and answering.

“Where do you want me to start?” he laughed in derision. “For murdering without cause. The scum had gone for more than a dozen innocent men. For no reason. Other than they owned something he craved”.

Tarzan nearly spat in disgust. Justified in what he had done. Putting the animal away.

“For rape”, he went on without care. “Dozens of women left destitute, abandoned. Some forced into carrying a hated child. For the women he abused. Beat up, raped. Women he left devastated, the brute laughed at their tears”.

The chief looked back at Tarzan, almost as if encouraging him to say more.

“Animal. Devil”.

Tarzan had got into the mood. Incensed that these people could still admire such a monster. Saying what he thought of the scum justice had disposed of.

“Fiend. Brute”.

Tarzan’s eyes blazed back at the chief in full defiance.

“Got it? The man was a thug out of control”.

The father’s eyes remained emotionless. Looking like he needed to know more.

“The evidence was everywhere”, Tarzan went on. “Everyone knew”.

Beside him, Tarzan sensed Zananga burning with anger at the words.

“Need I say more?” Tarzan scoffed. From his knees on the dirt, hands still tied behind him. Captive but sure of the justice of what he had done.

“Say as much as you wish”, the chief said. He hesitated. Meaningfully.

Tarzan eyed him with some suspicion. Sensing a catch. Spotting the trap he had walked into.

“Just remember”, the chief said after a pause. “Every hour of your life will be prolonged by this lack of regret. Your every cry of pain will be coloured by injustice. Every shudder in agony is payment for Mamulo’s death. Anger me as much as you wish. Anger me, please, with your words”.

Tarzan had stopped listening at that one word. Death? Mamulo’s death? Last thing Tarzan knew Mamulo was setting off the spend the rest of his despicable life rotting in some stinking jail doing hard labour. Never knowing freedom again. Mamulo’s death?

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

It was later Tarzan discovered what had happened,

“They brought him back to us in a box”, Zananga explained. “The son of a chief returned in a cardboard box”.

“Every bone in his body broken, it seemed. Mamulo had been tortured. For days, probably. He was almost unrecognisable”

Tarzan had no idea why. He wasn’t answerable for that. But it was probable that a man like Mamulo had tried to play the hard man. Prison was tough, but there were rules. Things had their place, people had their place. There were hard-men there already who thought they ruled the roost. Probably Mamulo had tried to be himself. The arrogant vicious-minded bully he was. Used to getting his own way. Getting it by using his fists. But without his henchmen to back him up. Most likely tried to play the big man. But the current “Big-man”, doubtless, had other ideas. When Mamulo thought he knew better, Big-man set about proving who actually was the tougher. This was prison, the Big-man’s domain. An example had to be set. Couldn’t happen to a better man, Tarzan thought. There is justice after all.

That was when the chief’s words had finally made sense to Tarzan.

“This dog will end his days like our brother. In the same way”.

Tarzan came back to this reality as the chief was addressing the tribe. Pronouncing sentence.

“Its dead body will be taken out for the beasts. Left for them to feast on. The birds of the air will rip flesh from its bones. Wild animals will spread its broken bones to the winds”.

A murmur of approval greeted the chief’s sentence on Tarzan’s life.

The chief’s eyes turned on Tarzan. Contempt for this creature on his knees burning.

“But the end of his days .. “. He hesitated. Waiting for the words to sink in.

“That end is not yet come”.

Tarzan fell his body scanned by the hatred seated opposite.

“I am in no hurry”.

A weighty silence fell over the circle that surrounded Tarzan.

With a final nod in the captive’s direction, the chief issued instructions to his remaining son.

“Take the dog. Prepare it. Retribution begins with the darkness”.

Prospects

All it took them was to push the apeman against the stake. A rope pulled around his neck yanked his back into the pole and kept him there. The rest was easy. Zananga watched his prisoner struggle. He knew the apeman was just making a point, he wasn’t going anywhere. His wrists already tied with cable behind his back, even with him offering resistance, it took little effort to yank his back to the stake. Cutting off his air. While their prisoner was struggling with his choking, Zananga’s men took their chance, passing more rope through his elbows and trapping Tarzan in place at the stake. Just for the fun of it, the men hauled hard on the rope and dug it biting into his biceps. Yanking his elbows around the pole, thrusting out his chest. That powerful manly chest - but their prisoner, all that legendary strength was wasted.

Greatly out-numbered, bound and defenceless against armed and revenge-intent warriors, still Tarzan was out to make the gesture, he was not taking this lying down. Zananga was pleased. The apeman was showing he wasn’t going to take his sentence with a whimper. Tarzan would fight his punishment every bit of the way. His suffering would endure. The retribution for Mamulo’s death would be long, pleasing the chief, Zananga’s opportunity of winning back his favours.

Tarzan’s resistance had proved futile against men eager to do their chief’s bidding. Accepting defeat unwillingly, Tarzan glared over the heads of the men still binding him to the stake. At the man who had become his enemy #1. Glaring in unbent courage at Zananga. His prisoner but not his victim. Not flinching as more rough rope was crossed behind the pole and then looped around the front cutting across a hard-panting chest. His strong muscle rose and fell as he resisted the coarse bite and fought to stay master of his temper. Showing them the man he was made of. Undaunted, uncowed though bound to the pole by the neck. Showing no sign of fear.

Zananga trusted too the apeman would make a show if it when his ordeals began. Making Zananga’s point for him, this was never going to be an easy task to bring him in. Trying to capture him was always going to be tough, no surprise they had failed.

“The chief was angry when we failed to bring you back, ”he mused.

Tarzan smirked, he had no doubt Zananga’s failure had angered. He had come up close now that Tarzan was no danger.

“There are men here still recovering from their wounds”, he told his prisoner. “You gave one a broken nose. One is still in the clinic for that cracked jaw”.

Tarzan remembered. The gang of men who had gone for him a few days back. He’d seen them off - and none too friendly. This Zananga had stayed out of harm’s way. Running for it as soon as Tarzan had given chase.

“A few broken bones. But lots more hurt pride”.

Making him suffer for his crime, pleasing his father, earning respect back from the tribe - it was now all down to him, to Zananga.

Zananga hesitated. Wondering for a moment whether to go on.

“The chief publicly denounced us. For failing to bring you in”.

Zananga’s anger bristled barely beneath the surface. That denunciation had hurt. Shamed him.

“He had made a deal with those men in the helicopter. Bring you in, keep you out-of-harm’s-way. We got paid. Handsomely. And we got you. No questions asked about what happened next”.

Zananga went silent for a moment, remembering. Still bristling at the shame of returning empty handed. Shivering in shame at the chief’s cutting name-calling. Showing him up.

“Not worthy to tread in my brother’s footsteps”, Zananga mused, remembering. Almost to himself. Feeling the pain. That had hurt above all.

Tarzan snorted. “His own fault. Next time, tell him, he should send men. Not boys”.

That broke the spell. Zananga shook his head, seemingly good-naturedly. He broke into a smile, a gloating smile.

“But .. it’s the “boys” who’ve got you now .. ”.

His eyes again taking in the hopelessness of his captive.

“Plenty of men here were stung by that denunciation. Shamed before their fathers, humiliated before their brothers”.

Things had fallen into place. All those chance comments Tarzan had heard earlier. The men in the helicopter wanted him out of the way. They’d hired the chief for the job. A chief with a grudge. Paid for his capture. Blamed for his murderous son’s death. Turning in a reward for the loss of a beloved son. No questions asked from now on.

“They’ll want payback for that. Enough men here burning to put things right”.

Smiling Zananga took hold of Tarzan by the throat. Like it was some gesture between friends.

“ .. Now their chance has come”.

A sense of domination over his brother’s killer filled his eyes. Justified by the hurt at his father’s condemnation. Pushing Tarzan’s neck back against the stake.

“I was made to look a fool”, Zananga squeezed. “Because of you”. Squeezing tight. Throttling.

“Not so hard to do that”. Mocking, Tarzan croaked through the crush on his windpipe. Feeling defiant. Feeling his face begin to flush.

“Not man enough to be his heir. That was what the chief told the tribe”.

If the cap fits, thought Tarzan, wear it. Yet feeling Zananga’s anger crushing on his windpipe. Choking him.

“ .. Everyone looking on. Stunned to silence by the violence of his condemnation”.

Zananga’s shame-mixed-with-anger had Tarzan’s neck jammed against the pole. Tarzan shook his head in an effort to free himself, gave off a strangled grunt at the pressure of the choke-hold, his chest beginning to burn.

Zananga glared hatred into Tarzan’s eyes.

“Seems, though, I’m getting a second chance. With you to help”.

He smiled, leered.

“These next days the chief will see his younger son in a different light. With you to aid me, - apeman, Zananga is going to win the chief’s favours”.

He let the crush go. Tarzan rapidly took in deep breaths, his chest caught against the coarse rope as it rose and fell filling with strength-giving air.

Zananga's hand was stroking Tarzan’s cheek. A mocking gesture. Like caressing some favourite calf.

“Just do your best, apeman”. Patronising his apeman-captive. “All you can do really. Eh?”

The condescending hand was stroking Tarzan’s cheek up and down. Like coaxing a little child.

“Do your best”. Zananga winked. Smiling.

“For me”.

Tough enough?

Tarzan had watched men on the other side of the camp building a strong frame. To take him. To hold him. Without doubt, to torture him. To death. The place where retribution was to be exacted. Revenge for the death of a sick animal called Mamulo. A murderer, a sadist. Sick in the head, a monster. Yet the chosen heir of a tribal chief. His pride and joy. A father who had commanded Tarzan should suffer in life as his son had done. Suffer till a father’s lust for pain had heard enough.

The younger brother was back again. The one his father had condemned. Runt of the litter.

“You are strong, apeman”. Appreciatively.

Zananga’s hands were gripping Tarzan by the shoulders. Holding the strength there firm. Getting a sense of the power lined up against him. Zananga was built himself. But he’d run for his life when Tarzan had given pursuit.

“Your reputation as a fighter goes before you”.

Tarzan offered Zananga a choice.

“Then prove yourself. Let’s go head-to-head. Man-to-man”.

Zananga was ignoring Tarzan’s challenge.

“Sentence has been passed”, Zananga confirmed. With the shrug of the shoulders. Like saying, out of my hands.

“Nothing can take that back”. Almost apologetic. “A fight? Not an option”.

His thumb had insinuated itself into Tarzan’s armpit. Exploring. Digging in and exploring. Until it found the nerve. Until Zananga saw Tarzan go tense. Watching his prisoner try not to show the pain. But forced to give in, rising up slightly on his toes. Zananga giving an extra hard stab. Gratified by the wince he had scratched on Tarzan’s face.

“Strong”. Zananga was nodding. In mock appreciation. “But tough?”

The back of Zananga’s hand was lightly stroking a solid plate of muscle thrust forward on Tarzan’s chest. A patronising stroke with fingertips . Like weighing up the value of a calf.

“Is the apeman up to it?”

The hand pressed against the force rising out of the roped chest. An unmistakeable appreciation for all the power residing there. A power needed to resist and to bear his suffering. A force to endure the forthcoming ordeals. An unequal contest. Endured long enough to win back Zananga’s respect.

“ .. Tough, I mean? Reckon you are tough, apeman? Is the famed apeman really tough?” he asked. Smirking. “Tough enough?”

“Tougher than that rat of a brother you so admire”, Tarzan threw the sarcasm back.

Ignoring the taunt, Zananga’s hand was slapping lightly against the rocks of hard muscle forcing themselves against the skin on Tarzan’s stomach. Light flicks that resounded like a beat on a tight drum-skin. Like slapping a calf’s rump.

“We’ll see”, Zananga nodded appreciatively. “Because – apeman - all this .. “

The toying hand did a movement in the air that encompassed all of Tarzan’s captive torso trapped against the stake.

“ . all this is going to be tested. To the full. To the limit This strength. That famed toughness”.

Tarzan glared back, giving Zananga a warning not to even think about it. Not to try.

Yet Zananga was clearly relishing this power over a helpless captive. Now Tarzan was no threat. Dominating such a legend in the jungle. He winked, trying to raise some futile gesture of anger.

“Tested to the limit. .. And then beyond”.

Tarzan scowled back a warning. Angered by Zananga’s next move. The back of a finger had moved further down. Sliding lightly over the loincloth down Tarzan’s belly. Tracing a deliberate slow path over the leather and downwards. Smirking into Tarzan’s eyes. Challenging him to stop the downward moving hand.

“ .. no place left untouched”. The finger pressed for a moment hard against the root.

“Not one”.

Zananga was returning Tarzan’s scowl with a goading look. A questioning lift of the eyebrows, inviting Tarzan to stop him if he could.

Tracing his finger further down, pressing along the dormant manflesh, pressing to emphasise the offence. Challenging Tarzan to do something if he didn’t like it.

“No stone left unturned”.

A knuckle dug back into Tarzan’s root.

“Not one”.

Tarzan’s look dared Zananga to try.

Zananga faced Tarzan, though, full-front, their eyes doing battle for strength of mind.

“With the fading light, your ordeals begin”.

A pair of slitted eyes faced each other. One in a warning not even to think about it. The other saying he thought of little else. Welcoming the fall of darkness when Tarzan’s torments would begin.

“Show yourself a man, apeman”, Zananga advised. “The ape-man. The tough legend who calls himself lord of the jungle”

Tarzan swore he’d outlive whatever this coward threw at him.

“My brother’s killer. Take what comes”, Zananga advised.

Tarzan knew he’d have no choice.

“For as long as the chief pleases”.

He’d survive this - and Tarzan swore he’d pay this Zananga back. In full.

“My father, though, .. is a hard man to please. Slow to please”.

Zananga felt a tingle of power prickle in his loins.

“But every forced cry I can wring out of this ...”

In the air Zananga’s open hand scanned the length and breadth of Tarzan’s trapped body ...

“ .. that can only please”

... to be continued ....

So here’s the deal.

Over to you.

What happens next?

You going to leave our hero here?

Wanna make something of this scene?

What would members like to see to the helpless Tarzan in Zananga’s eager hands?

I’m away for a week.

Interesting to see what members can come up with.

Just some musings. Some fantasies you’ve chewed over.

Maybe some will be moved to giving us a tale.

Good ideas might see themselves written up. No promises, mind....!

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

My indebtedness to Remuera for his inventiveness. And for taking the time to put together a photomanip for us. OTT? Far from over-the-top. I just wish there were more such images to feast our eyes on. Mega-thanks

And as for Remuera’s suggestion of where the story goes next .... Gruesome, eh? And certainly in synch with the storyline. Question is, is it the writer’s bag?

I am already working up another member’s suggestion into a storyline. Will Remuera’s scenario also find a place in that? Time will tell how it can be woven into a plot.

Meantime, “Punishment fits the crime” seems to be done-and-dusted. No one cares.

What next? Where next? Errrh .......?

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

Thanks go to Timberwolf for this suggestion, Message 2902:

Re: Baited trap - 42

Here's my idea. Yes, give (Korak) back his loincloth, but have Morgan put something in his water before the auction that would start to give him a raging hard-on as he's walking down the aisle tenting out his loincloth to further embarrassing him as he walks feeling himself getting harder and harder as he walks. As for the restraints? I think I'd have Korak tied with his hand behind his head, then when #2 gets him up on the platform rips off Korak’s covering.

remuera

I’ve done a photomanip to illustrate what I see as happening next. I've

uploaded it in

Files/Punishment fits the crime.jpg.Hope you don't think it’s too OTT.

[pic]

The ropes spread-eagling Tarzan to the frame have been soaked in water..

as they dry out, every muscle in Tarzan's body will be slowly stretched

to breaking point, and beyond...the cords binding his cock and balls and

keeping him bloated and engorged, will also tighten millemeter by millemeter over

the long hoursof torture....

Meanwhile , in front of him stands Zananga with a whip with leopard's

claws knotted viciously into each strand, with which every inch of

Tarzan's body--EVERY inch-- will be slowly flayed alive....

The Chief stands to silence the whole tribe gathered round to watch

the spectacle...he raises his hand and pronounces sentence.. that

Tarzan's punishment will commence when he drops his hand...it will continue

hour after hour without pause....even when the mighty apeman can take

no more and begs for mercy, his pleas will go unheeded....it will

continue until finally Tarzan hangs lifeless from the frame.....

Then, and only then, will the Chief raise his hand to signal for the

torture to stop...then and only then, will he order the legendary apeman's body to

be cut from the frame and "taken out for the beasts.Left for them to feast on.

The birds of the air will rip flesh from his bones.

Wild animals will spread his broken bones to the winds"...

Retribution will have been exacted

(True to form, I don't see the story ending this way though. Impossible

as it might seem, somehow, some way I see Tarzan surviving and escaping

the terrible fate that seems to await him. Haven't worked out yet how

how he will do it, but do it our hero will!)

How's that for starters, Rendsz? Over to you?

rendsz:

Waste-not, want-not. Here’s my bit of plagiarism. Applied to other scenes. Timberwolf, Remuera - thanks for the ideas.

Ordeals

Bravado

Tarzan stared back. Not going to give into the intimidation intended by that hateful gaze. He could have resisted more. He could have put up hell of a fight when he’d been moved from his stake to this frame. He was all for showing them even more that Tarzan was going to be no easy pickings in their hands as they released the cable on his wrists and trapped them in the ropes hanging down, alert to his every move as they secured him under this torture frame they’d put up specially for him.

He could have resisted more, he didn’t. He was massively out-numbered, there was no possibility of escape. Just gestures. He could have given it them - and they’d have enjoyed giving him all they could. And he was going to need all the reserves he could call on. No way out of this had occurred to him yet. His only plan was to be to tough this one out. As best he could. He couldn’t stop himself, though. Habits died hard. He still made life difficult for his captors. Taking the chance to swipe out at one as soon as his hands were free. Getting some satisfaction the way he made the man nervously jump out of the way when his fist whistled towards his head. True, Tarzan earned himself a few thuds in return. But he’d made the point. Tarzan was not one to take this sort of thing lying down. Even when his chances of breaking free seemed nil.

But the chief had sat on his seat unmoved. Watching intent, unmoved by Tarzan’s struggles, as if sure his plans for revenge were unavoidable. Now seemingly fully restored from that frailty Tarzan had noticed when he had first come out of his hut. The eyes of the father of that monster Mamulo were on Tarzan’s every move. Watching unmoved when Tarzan’s elbow sent one of his warriors to the ground. But watching with such an intenseness that it was almost unnerving. As if his gaze was cutting like a sharp blade through Tarzan’s flesh. Whatever Tarzan was feeling deep down in his gut, though, his eyes said something else. His demeanour shouted back at Mamulo’s father Tarzan had no regrets. His son was a monster, he had deserved to be condemned. If he’d got himself into trouble in prison, Tarzan had played no part in that. No regrets. Justice had chased the monster down and dealt him a brutal death. Couldn’t have turned out better. Jungle justice at least.

Tarzan had no regrets. Except for that one thing. That worryingly unsettling thing that nagged away at Tarzan’s being. Made him feel more than susceptible, much more than he wanted to be at this moment. An embarrassing discomfort. Threatening to undermine Tarzan’s planned look of determined defiance. Chipping away at his ability to carry off this bluster against their threats.

Unaccountably Tarzan had been throwing a hard-on. Like men did when they got nervous. When fear overcame their ability for self-control.

This kind of situation for Tarzan was nothing new. Many times before he’d been bound in position like this. More times that he wanted to count his life had been on the line, the jungle was dangerous and unpredictable. He knew also the power that nerves had over the male body. Faced with desperate situations, not for the first time had nerves got the better of him there. He had no worries about this, it was how a man was built. But sending out these signals here-and-now did not fit with the message he was trying to give out. OK, his position was dire. But he was doing a good job at covering it up. Looking defiant in face of their threats. Standing up to them. His situation was putting fire in his belly. Except for this signal his loincloth was giving out.

Why was he throwing a massive hard-on? He did not feel yet under such menace to explain such a response. And this wasn’t some slight firming-up because of nerves. This was a full-blown erection-and-a-half. It was obvious. Glaringly obvious. No one could miss it when Zananga ordered Tarzan moved to the frame. The movement only made it worse, Tarzan saw the glances. He saw an onlooker jabbing his neighbour in the ribs as he was jostled over to the frame. You couldn’t miss it. Women cocked their head too, to get a better angle. And smirked knowingly at Tarzan’s discomfort.

It didn’t make sense, this reaction was so intense. Inside his loincloth his manhood had taken on a life of its own. Fighting to struggle upwards as Nature ordered. But held back by the heaviness of leather. Pushing out. Pushing forwards as these unwanted reactions got stronger. And getting stronger as he got more conscious of it. And his failure to cover up that he was giving out the wrong signal.

Women giggled. Nodded to their neighbours to snigger at what was happening under that covering of leather. Men clenched their fists together in some obscene gesture at the power bound and helpless, trapped inside that loincloth. Tarzan forced himself to ignore them. In frustrated reaction he had made the chief’s warriors work for every move they took to entrap him under that frame. But deep inside, he felt unnerved by this reaction. This was not how he felt, wrong signal, making him feel more vulnerable than he wanted to show. He did not feel so intimidated. Not feel so under-pressure, not yet.

Yet every physical sign he gave off declared to this tribe that Tarzan was frightened. Totalling under-mining the act he was putting on. Contradicting his bravado. But who was going to believe him? For everyone pointing at him with a mocking smirk, Tarzan was showing off his fear. Mamulo’s killer was scared at what this tribe was going to do.

Drug

“It was the water”, Zananga confessed.

He had come up-close, his shoulder nearly touching Tarzan’s chest. Half-turned away so the chief could see Zananga’s finger stroking up and down the tented shaft.

Tarzan scowled back, frowning. Then he understood.

“We have herbs”, Zananga added.

Not an act of kindness, then. A trick. Those two young women Zananga had brought to the stake. Offering Tarzan mealy to eat. Holding up a bowl of water for Tarzan to drink.

“Need to keep your strength up, apeman”, Zananga had explained. “Going to need it”. Mocking the trapped helplessness.

Tarzan had already worked that out. He hadn’t eaten or had anything to drink in hours. Light was now fading - and it had been noon when the first shot from the helicopter rained down on him. Eagerly he had agreed he’d need his strength, accepting the spoonfuls.

Now he remembered, the water had tasted bracken. A bit bitter. But he had tasted worse. Parched his body had taken on fuel and water. Eaten all the food. Emptied the bowl of water. He was going to need all the strength he could find. So he’d been tricked into taking into his body some potion their men used to when they needed to make themselves look extra good. And he did. He had an erection jutting out in front so strong it was unnatural. He was displaying this symbol of their male vanity. But forced on him like they had forced this torture frame onto him. Against his will. Looking ridiculous. Adding insult to injury. And little doubt, it was not for some bit of fun.

Tarzan’s eye bore into Zananga’s smirk like a sharp spear.

“You will regret this”, he snarled. At the press of fingers on his cockhead, pushing it uncomfortably downwards. Making Tarzan lean forward to ease the pressure.

But all he got in reply was a pair of eyebrows raised. Asking, you think so?

“Don’t you dare”.

Tarzan hissed quietly into Zananga’s face. A warning.

Zananga’s hand had slipped inside Tarzan’s loincloth. Heading for the obvious. Standing slightly to the side so others could see.

Tarzan’s glare turned to sharpened steel.

“Hands off!”

Fingers tickled toying in his bush of strong hair.

“Make me”, Zananga taunted back. A finger lightly stroking backwards and forwards from Tarzan’s root down the beginning of his shaft. Tauntingly pulling back over-stretched skin.

“You’ll regret this”, Tarzan snarled, warning. Feeling the hand moving downwards. And then the fingers clasped around the bulbous sweaty head. The heat around him quickly soared. Sweaty fingers cupped around the end of his throbbing cockhead. Regularly squeezing on a drug-induced erection. Like masturbating him. Playing with him.

“You’ll pay”.

Tarzan meant it. The pair of protagonists eyed each other. Furiously. Tarzan was aware of every eye around on them. Aware of the scorn and ridicule that lit up every watching face. In their mind’s eye, seeing how Zananga had got Tarzan shamefully in his grip. Yet Tarzan had eyes for only one man.

“You reckon?” Zananga mocked in reply. His face lit with the bound helplessness of his prisoner.

“Just making him comfortable”.

Zananga had turned to the crowd. Addressing them. Playing for laughs. At Tarzan’s expense. His hand deep inside the loincloth of their hated prisoner. His arm hot against Tarzan’s belly. Hatefully touching like a burning stick. Tarzan heard them laugh. Laugh at his helplessness.

“All that MAN trapped down there like that”. Sniggers in the crowd flushed anger in Tarzan’s torso.

Zananga had turned back, full in Tarzan’s face.

“Feel awkward? Stuck pointing down like this”.

In a rough move, Zananga’s hand suddenly yanked Tarzan’s manhood round. Forcing Tarzan to writhe, forced into cooperating to make it possible. A raging hard-on trapped downwards by the leather. Yanked and being pulled around in a place where there was no space to move.

“You’ll die for this”, Tarzan spat. Squirming uncomfortably to accommodate his raging hard-on as his solid flesh was jerked and tugged inside the loincloth.

Zananga sneered back into his face. His hand torturing the throbbing head against the coarse leather inside.

“You first, apeman”.

He tugged, he yanked, Zananga squeezed on his adversary’s humiliation. Twisting and turned the inflexible flesh, rolled and jiggled it. Making Tarzan squirm against his will. Grimacing with clenched angry jaws till Zananga had turned his solid erection round. Putting it as it pointed upward. Stiff, achingly hard, burning with anger and need. The need to hit back.

“I’ll kill you for this”, Tarzan swore.

“Wanna give it a try?” Zananga laughed back. Gently patting inside the loincloth the inner privacy he had mocked. Slow rhythmic slaps against solid humiliated flesh.

“See? Much better. Isn’t it? Like this”. His hand was coaxing the stretched skin up and down inside the loincloth. Zananga had turned sideways so the chief could see better.

Tarzan snarled down his ear.

“Get your stinking hands off”.

Hand inside the loincloth, Zananga’s sticky palm was pressing the hot solidness against Tarzan’s lower belly. And he hadn’t been able to resist squeezing his palm down further along the solid hot shaft, - to tickle his fingertips against a pair of tight angry balls.

Tarzan could scarcely contain the tremble of anger at the giggles he heard from around. But he had eyes for only one.

“Men who do that sort of thing to Tarzan - they live to regret it”, Tarzan warned with finality.

Zananga pressed his palm against the hot solid flesh he had turned round pointing to the sky. A mocking gesture that said, so what? In reply to Tarzan’s threat he gave the sweaty ballsack a few more contemptuous strokes.

“Now, why don’t I feel frightened by that?”

Claws

Such things were below his dignity normally. Before there had been no need to get his hands dirty. Mamulo had had more than the temperament to see due attention was given to a prisoner such as this. But thanks to this one, Mamulo was no longer with them. He would happily have left this Tarzan to the ingenuity of Mamulo, no need to dictate what should happen, no need to set the tone. Mamulo had the knack, no enemy had ever had reason to doubt his talent. But Mamulo was no longer around. Because of this hated man roped between the stakes.

Mamulo’s younger brother had pleaded, begged for the privilege of stepping into Mamulo’s shoes. But did he have what it took? The whelp had failed already. He had gone out with armed warriors and come back empty-handed. He was the only son now, it behoved him to follow in his brother’s footsteps. But could a father rely on this fool to do the job right? It was beneath a chief’s dignity to get involved. But Zananga needed to know. Needed to be told what was expected. In this case, it was necessary, the chief had no choice, he would set the tone.

Tarzan eyed the chief with suspicion the moment he made to stand up from the seat. All the earlier signs of that weariness of life had evaporated since Tarzan had been delivered into his hands. Restored since Tarzan had been delivered up. Tarzan did not flinch when he was gripped by the jaw. His eyes narrowed with manly resolve as the grip on his face tightened, not going to give. The pair of protagonists stared into each other’s hate-filled gaze. A long weighty aggressive stare in the midst of a weighty silence. Aware that everyone was looking on. In rapt attention as their chief tackled with Mamulo’s killer. But the pair had eyes for only the other.

After a seeming eternity of challenge in their eyes, Tarzan sensed rather than saw the chief slowly raise his other hand. Waiting till something was placed in it. Waiting, squeezing on Tarzan’s jaw, not blinking away. Driving his loathing for a hero’s killer into this transgressor’s soul.

Then the chief’s eyes drifted to the side. Drawing with them Tarzan’s own look. To gaze in nervous wonder on the fearsome instrument of punishment dangling from an upraised arm. Exhibited for all to see. Held up for Tarzan to shudder at the sight. Lengths of rope braided together. And twisted into the braiding - claws. A half-dozen panther’s claws plaited into the rope. Each claw intended to tear. A whip meant to claw and rip. To tear flesh apart. A punishment to maim.

The chief was back boring his hatred into Tarzan’s face. So close, his hot breath wafted foul across Tarzan’s cheek.

“Mamulo was returned to us in bits. His proud body broken. Tortured to death”.

The chief was addressing the tribe. Reminding them of the justice of this sentence. His gaze, though, never once blinked from Tarzan’s face.

“He too was offered no chance”.

Tarzan felt a shiver prickle down his back. He had faced death many times. He had learned that he did not fear death. But this manner of dying - dying flayed by an instrument such as this - even the bravest would shudder at the thought. He too was to be offered no chance. The rope would hurt, the coarse hemp would burn. But those teeth would slash away at human flesh. Cutting through skin, clawing at human flesh with the viciousness of a wild animal’s attack. A half-dozen panther’s claws. Tearing skin from flesh. Ripping flesh from bone. Not enough to flay him raw quickly, not killing him in a short time. A long sustained assault as his muscled back was hacked to pieces. Shred by shred. As flesh was stripped from his being.

“Remember Mamulo. Remember the one destined to be chief”.

Tarzan felt those words now directed to one person and one person only. As if in confirmation, the chief added his admonition.

“Consider how long it took for him to die”.

Tarzan’s eyes were drawn to the dread instrument meant to torture him to death.

“Imagine how he suffered”.

The chief still had hold of Tarzan by the jaw. He faced in unflinching hatred the killer of his son. The other hand, though, was tracing one of the panther’s claws down Tarzan’s cheek. Not pressing, not cutting into flesh. But all the more menacing for the control with which he marked his victim’s flesh. White lines of pressure. The pressure of constant threat. All it would take was a slight twist - and the claw would rip a stinging wound across Tarzan’s face.

“Remember the sight of your brother stashed into a box”.

The chief’s had had let go the jaw. Now he watched his hand tracing a path over Tarzan’s chest with terror of a panther’s claw.

“Let the horror of Mamulo’s death guide your arm”. It was Zananga he addressed.

The chief’s eyes met Tarzan’s again. Narrowing, slitted into menace. Tarzan tried not to jerk with the pressure of the claw dug into the hard muscle of his chest. Sensing rather than seeing the blood trickle.

“Let the memory of our loss put fire into your guts”. Spoken to motivate Zananga’s spirit.

Tarzan bit on his bottom lip as he felt the claw tear open skin and cut deep into his flesh. With frightening ease.

“Make the spirit of your brother sing out with the glory of this act”.

Lesson to learn

It was to be a whipping. Tarzan had taken the whip often enough. Never something to face without a sense of dread. But he had survived. This whipping, though, was going to be something else. A whip braided with panther’s claws. Could anyone survive something like that?

“But not yet”.

Tarzan frowned in uncertainty at what the chief’s words meant. Icy-cold fingers had traced a shiver over his balls at the thought of what that whip would do. He would not survive a sustained whipping from that, you could not possibly. Why would they want him to? Lashing that horror across his back, - it was not meant for anyone to outlive a such a punishment. Least of all him. Skin would be flayed away. Flesh would be torn from his back. Screaming as he was stripped to the bone. In unbelievable agonies. He was not meant to survive. It was also not meant that his death should come quick. Every bit of flesh slowly flayed away. To the accompaniment of unbearable pains.

But it was not meant to be. Not yet.

The chief turned to his tribe.

“Mamulo was my heir. He was to be our future chief. Mamulo would have made us proud”.

That brute? Tarzan could see every eye in the tribe was on the chief. Anger at the loss of their future was written on every face. A loss they blamed Tarzan for.

“Mamulo would bear sons. Many. He would bear me grandchildren to cheer my old age”.

The sense of sadness for that loss did not tremble in the proud voice. But Tarzan felt a prickle of menace in this pronouncement. Blaming him for robbing the tribe of a future line. What was the cost of that mis-deed?

“But it is no longer to be”.

Without even turning round to face his prisoner, the chief commanded the start. He ordered to beginning of Tarzan’s ordeal.

“Mamulo will not give us sons”.

Dignified, aware he was being watched by all. Aware his victim hung on every word, the chief returned to his throne. Still holding in his hand the weapon on terror he had exhibited. To be used on the captive later. When the time was right. But it was not yet to be.

Seated, he pronounced the start. Expressed in an admonition to his only remaining son.

“Zananga, do your best”.

The crowd were whooping and cheering. In wild enthusiasm they were cheering Zananga on. He was strutting around the circle whooshing the rope above his head. He’d given them a taste of what to expect. A just punishment for robbing the tribe of Mamulo’s line. Showing off, centre-stage at last, revelling in them cheering on his act. Not now the runt who had scuttled in the footsteps of his big brother. Strutting like a proud lion. Enjoying being the centre of attention. He’d showed them with that one blow what the apeman was to get. In frenzied cheers, the tribe urged him on. Craving to see the murderer suffer. Cheering their new champion on. Preening at their encouragement, swishing his torture whip above his head as Zananga paraded before them.

Tarzan watched with mounting concern. Sensing Zananga puffing himself up with a sense of power at every shout. His self-importance growing with every whoosh of the knotted rope he roared above his head.

That one blow already delivered had hurt. Zananga had warned Tarzan with just one single blow. A blow to impress his father. To intimidate his victim. To enthuse the watching crowd. First Zananga had played with the crowd, he had toyed with Tarzan’s fears as he swung the bludgeon around. And then he’d struck. Just one blow had fallen before Zananga had started parading around. A taster. Meant to whet sadistic appetites in the crowd. Appealing to their basest instincts. While Tarzan sweated it out. Knowing full well now why he had been given a hard-on.

One evil blow Zananga had delivered before playing to the crowd. Wielding his whip. A weapon made of several strands of rope knotted together, knotted in several places. A whip combined with a cudgel. Taunting Tarzan’s furious glare, Zananga had first signalled his intention with his gaze. The bludgeon whooshing out to the side. Holding Tarzan’s gaze with a look of sadistic intent. Then leading Tarzan’s focus down. Over his chest, down over his muscled belly and slowly coming to a halt on Tarzan’s loincloth. Sticking out with the enforced pressure. Tenting outwards with the drug-induced erection forced on him. Signalling the intended target for this bludgeon circling through the air. A whooshing that became more menacing as Tarzan was taught what Zananga intended.

One. Just one blow. Delivered with everything Zananga’s powerful shoulders could find. To impress his father. Coming out from the side. Delivered with a grunt of effort. Tarzan twisted out of the way to save himself. But not enough. Eye-popping pain burst throughout his torso. The evil knot caught Tarzan full across his loincloth. Throwing his hips back. Jerking his torso forwards. Pain bludgeoned across the erection. Pain snorted out of his nose. One blow. Shock jumped to Tarzan’s eyes. Just one blow before Zananga’s parading began. The parading that was meant to herald a further bludgeoning to Tarzan’s solid-proud manhood.

Sweet song

Mamulo would not bear them an heir. He could not bear any sons. For that the apeman had to pay.

“Time for a song. In celebration”.

Tarzan paid no heed to the Chief’s words. He hung almost lifeless off the overhead ropes, his knees slumped, swaying on his feet, his body shook with the effort of breathing. Burning up, in torment. Lifeless but in agony. On fire from the hell-hole that roared in the area of his hips. And raged around his crutch. An inferno of battered agony.

A woman’s voice in the crowd took up the idea. Broke into a slow haunting tune that all of them knew. Other women’s voices joined in. Women’s bodies swung gently to the haunting song, hips rocked from side to side. Warriors watched, their gaze distracted briefly from the agonised torture their eyes had lusted on before. Lured by the sway of female hips, the temptation of dancing shoulders.

The ropes binding him were loose. Letting him move, allowing him to jump out of the way. Trying desperately to save himself from a bludgeoning to his erection. But the whip was long, evilly it wrapped itself around the body, it came with force. Even when Tarzan twisted out of the way to save his throbbing cock from another eye-watering hit, the rope bit hard. The thwack of the rope caught him deadening across the top of his leg. Beat like the thud of a warclub across bare skin. Sent brutal shockwaves sizzling up his body.

The rhythm rocked, the hips swayed. An interlude from the intensity of just punishment. Men eyed their favourite women. Got ideas, felt themselves drawn to the rock of hips, the flash of flirting eyes as women and girls swung to their song. Drawn by the swellings already stroking at their crutch. At the Chief’s invitation, a pair of young women entered the circle and danced for the crowd. Beautiful girls, sisters, their arms gently swaying to the chant. The resemblance to Zananga could not be missed.

Tarzan did not want to know how many blows he had taken. He had lost count in a tortured delirium of the number of times Zananga had struck him just where was meant. Tarzan had twisted, turned, he had pivoted his throbbing manhood out of the way. But still those rope knots had coshed painfully into flesh. Thudding into his hips. Sizzles of weakening heat passed from hip to head. Pain thumped invisible fists across his face. The sweat flowed. His man-saving efforts to twist and gyrate out of the way had first been no trouble. He was flexible, fast, he had the strength. But with every hit that did catch him across his erection, Tarzan jolted. Shaken rigid. Breath erupted with the pain. Tremors that crippled every crevice in his powerful frame. Yet, in no time at all, already he was hearing the next whoosh of menace. Already, in fear of further punishment to his cock, Tarzan was jerking his torso out of the path of the descending hammer of terror.

It wasn’t just the pain. It was THAT pain. Where it was landing. On a drug-induced cock. Thudding with eye-popping horror on his solid manhood. Shaking him to his roots, torturing that which made him a man. It was that kind of pain. That kind of horror at how this would end. He twisted out of the way. His backside took some heat. Heat which piled on the hot rush already taking his breath away. Heat which tasked his strength. His backbone took a crippling thud as Tarzan offered his back to save his agonised front. Heat burst in his head. A kind of heat that robbed him of strength, a feverish fear for his manhood that depleted his strength. Slowed him down. Ponderous thuds into his bloated manliness that slowed him down. And not all of them accurate. The punch from knotted rope landing with a body-crushing thwack in his balls. Jerking his torso forward as he ricocheted off that ball-breaking pain. Straight after, not able to recover, taking another body-crippling blow across a throbbing manhood already screaming out in pain. In pain for itself, in horror for its future. Never-ending that whoosh of menace, it seemed. He twisted, he gyrated. Evading frequently Zananga’s evil-minded rope-club. Yet getting slower as pain and tiredness took its toll. Taking it too often where Zananga intended. With body-crushing jolts.

He hung. The punishment over, Tarzan slumped, his head drooped down, aching on his sweaty chest. On fire. In a fever of torment. Burning up. In agony for himself as a man. Tortured. Viciously assaulting him as a man.

And round about, unseen, unheeded by him, the women swayed. Bodies flowed in an erotic dance. In celebration, in good cheer, to entertain. The lilting melody tickling the watching men in their manliness as they watched this dance enacted before their eyes. The chief’s two daughters in an erotic dance to celebrate this agony. The sufferings of Mamulo’s killer.

Spiked

A cup to his lips. Water. His nose scented it like a thirst-crazed beast that has been parched for days. Lips opened to grab at the one thing his leathery tongue craved. The first drops greedily gulped, feeling some trickle wasted down his front. But feverishly grabbing for more. Head back as the bowl was lifted and water trickled generously into his mouth.

Hearing sounds of singing drifting into a clouded brain. Rhythmic haunting melody that conflicted incongruously with the fug in his head. Coming to, hearing clearer. Then his mouth gaping wide-open, choking on water. Head rolling, retching, eyes closed tight. Pain reaching his brain. The agonised pain of a torso viciously beaten. The agony of manly flesh battered and bruised.

The chief watched the trickery closely. One daughter reviving the captive, his other rocking to the lilting tune, hips swaying seductively, shoulders dancing bare in the firelight. Facing the victim and enticing him. He watched Tarzan clench his hands together beside his shoulders. Gripping together to fight back pain. Forcing some strength back into his legs. In dogged defiance raising himself, lifting himself to show some kind of dignity. Despite the agonies that shuddered in his manhood. The chief presumed Tarzan could not yet know Zananga had beaten that erection out of his body, he was limp. If he knew that, it would only confirm Tarzan’s greatest of fear. That they meant to unman him - they had. Zananga had beaten the man out of him.

Tarzan ached, agonisingly. He hurt, tears of pain watered his eye. At the furnace of pain that raged at the tops of his legs. But he fought himself back to strength. He was their captive, nothing he could do about that. He had been brutally assaulted. But everything in his being dictated he could not give way. He would tough this out, they’d not beat him like this.

Water, they’d given him water. To revive him. But as he felt the bowl held back against his lips again, as he recognised the girl holding it, - he guessed their trick. “It was in the water”, Zananga had sneered at tricking him before. In contempt, Tarzan knocked the bowl away with his head and felt the water splashing uselessly down his front. They’d not manage the same trick twice.

As consciousness worked its way through the hurt in his body, Tarzan came more aware of singing. As pain again became a large part of his being, slowly the blurring before his vision began to move. Swaying, rocking. The music and the movement merged. The blur slowly took on shape as he bit on his bottom lip into the pain. Taking shape, assuming colour. Becoming form. A woman, clothed in a blanket swaying and swinging to the tune. Dancing for him, dancing to the music of his agony.

Tarzan’s suspicions spiked. To the side of the girl his vision had cleared to focus on the chief. On his seat behind the girl. But his eyes only for Tarzan. Leaning forward eagerly. Not even noticing when her hands went for the knot across her breasts that kept the blanket in place. Slowly and seductively, the girl’s hips swaying to the lilt of the singing, her hands were undoing the knot. Caressing herself across her front, her palms stroking at her own breasts through the blanket. Like telling Tarzan how wondrous they felt. Her eyes only for him, however much she held the crowd mesmerised. Her eyes held Tarzan’s, her head rolled, her hips swayed erotically in time to the tune.

Tarzan’s suspicions spiked. The blanket peeling away, arms stretched out to the side. Revealing herself underneath. Revealing herself nude. For him, dancing for Tarzan, naked. Swaying her seductive body in time to the song - showing herself for him. For Tarzan, for him alone.

Tarzan’s suspicions spiked.

Tempted

She was beautiful, the way she moved was alluring. Even in his exhausted state, the man in Tarzan rose to that sight. The blanket discarded at her feet, she picked up the mood of the song. The tune seemed to have taken on a fresh feel. More moving, more passion. Tarzan had no doubt. This was meant for him. This performance had something to do with him. The girl, slim about the hips, tight around the waist, strong firm breasts that swayed irresistibly for his eyes, - she was naked. She was dancing before the whole tribe. But this dance was for him. Tarzan struggled to know why, he strained to battle against the pain and exhaustion that had been battered into his being, to think. No answers came. But he knew as sure as he knew where he hurt she was coming on to him. This performance was being danced for him. And, sure as hell, it was not meant to entertain.

The sight of the chief confirmed his suspicions. Seated, watching, a girl naked between him and his captive. Her buttocks were swaying seductively right in his view. But the chief had eyes only for Tarzan. Tarzan meant to return the hardness of his stare. Instinct told him this was where his adversary sat. But the music had become more insistent. The women’s singing more beguiling. And the girl in her glory was responding to the call. Raw nature danced before Tarzan’s eyes. Luring his eyes away, seducing his gaze to follow the rock of her hips. To play over the alluring sway of naked breasts. To trace their way up the rhythmic flow of legs, the desirable play of firm swaying thighs. And drawn like a fly towards that death-trap that swam across his vision as flowing thighs danced.

Like a bite of a fish, Tarzan jerked. A hand, the touch of fingers on his cock. Suddenly aware from that feel that he had started to respond to the dance. A hand on the root of his cock. Tarzan looked down, shocked. When had his loincloth gone? Beneath, the other girl. The one who’d been feeding him poisoned water. On her knees, her head in his crutch. Suddenly, he felt the wondrous happen. Suddenly he panicked. At the attack of her mouth. She swallowed him straight to the root.

He’d been tempted, he realised, into letting down his guard. He’d been seduced. In the bewilderment of his hurt, he’d let himself be beguiled. That girl had danced for him. Beaten into exhaustion, his own animal guile battered into unwariness. She had got him aroused. That seduction of the man in him mesmerized by her dancing, tricked by her alluring nakedness into letting down his guard. But the instant a mouth gripped on his half-hard cock the pain burst into life. A mouth sucking on his bruised and brutalised manhood. Flames flared the length of him as her lips nibbled at his core and then, pressing tight on him, slowly the mouth withdrew. Teeth bared, fangs dripping with hate, tearing pain back the length of him. Along his tortured cock. Bruised, throbbing with agony. Pummelled and battered by a knotted rope, bruised and painfully swollen. Now being forced into another erection his inflamed flesh could not endure. Pain instantly flooded Tarzan’s being. Panic at the thought of more pain there swamped him like the surf pounding on the shore. Unable to think of a way out of this.

He’d been brutalised there by Zananga’s knot. In self-defence, his agonised man-flesh had retreated into the security of lifelessness. Nursing its hurt in a limp and sobbing state. Now it was being hauled back into life. He was being made hard again. Every bit of him within that torturing mouth was being scraped back into agonised life. Every nerve in his body was screaming on full alert. She was sucking at him. Demanding that the brutalised man in him stand up and show himself. Sucking deep on his swollen manhood, swallowing him right down to the hilt to bring the man painfully back to full life.

There was no defence. No man was ever not built to resist such touch. Tarzan was getting hard. Bruised and battered man-flesh swelling, hurting, paining. And every cell in his being shivered at the thought of the onset of that pain.

End-song

As if to confirm his dread, Tarzan jolted at the sudden whoosh of rope from behind. His head whipped round. Zananga had taken up the parade again. His arm circling above his head. The whoosh of dread giving bass to the women’s tune. Walking the edge of the swaying circle, whooshing the rope above their heads. Men had joined in the song. Manly voices that added depth to the song. Turning womanly allure into masculine threat. Zananga’s eyes prowled as he strode. Eyeing his prey. Waiting his turn till the prisoner was firm. Naked now. Soon to be revealed when his sister had done her work. When she had bound that cock in tight strings of wet leather and forced the apeman to stand for his ordeal. To rise and greet the whir of horror that Zananga was snarling above his head.

It was all falling into place. The thought was gross. To Tarzan, it was obscene. This was not over, it was starting again. Already he’d been made hard by that water they’d tricked him with. And Zananga had beaten that enforced erection to pulp. Now that swollen and brutalised part of his very essence was being sucked back to life. Like some manic idiot it was struggling back to prove itself. To prove it was still capable. With every tiny bit of life it struggled to retrieve, Tarzan clenched his fists together. Flesh that had throbbed agonisingly in its limp state now being aroused, being made man and pumped out. The act of blue-bruised man-flesh taking on fresh agonised life was sending shudders of agony through his flesh. Fresh flames of pain burst in his pain-trembling shaft. Embers of agony in his crutch spluttered and sparked. Waves of prickling heat electrified his thighs. Roars from the burning furnace raged in his guts. Tarzan was alight with torment. He’d be ablaze with suffering. Even before Zananga wielded that rope. Thoughts for any future were swamped by the deluge of fears that shuddered into every crevice of his being.

One sister sucked on him. Teeth pressed against lips and scraped his growing manhood into agonised life.

The other danced for him. Excited his sight with the enticing sway of hips, the bobbing of alluring breasts.

Their brother paraded for him. Whirring overhead his instrument of torture. Exciting the crowd with the prospect of the victim’s pain.

Their father sat watching intently. In his hand still, that fearsome instrument of torture. A whip with braided animal’s claws. To be brought into use as soon this torture of his manhood had had its time.

Tarzan struggled. He fought to counter the sight of bobbing breasts, the promise of tantalizing hips. He strained to resist the draw of tight lips pressing down deep on his shaft. The unwelcome excitement as his manhood was swallowed whole and swelled. In his exhaustion, his head whirred. Through his pains, his torso struggled for control. He struggled for control of his fears.

And ever-threatening, that whir of the knotted whip. Like through the haze of a drug, hearing the dread sound of the rope. Noises that sounded like doom to him. Sounds that promised him the final dread.

End

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