Part One



Deadly Rivarly 3 - Trump Card

Part One 4

1. Day 2 - Dawn breaking 4

2. Day 1 - Fun and games 5

3. Day 2 - Reunion 6

4. Day 1 - Celebrations hammer on 7

5. Day 2 - Family ties 9

6. Day 1 - Family pride 10

7. Day 2 – Suspended 12

8. Day 1 - Nkonu’s nephew 13

9. Day 1 - Over the stone 16

10. Day 2 – Family love 17

Part Two 19

11. Day 1 - Caned 19

12. Day 1 - Mystic whipping 20

13. Day 2 – A father’s love 23

14. Day 1 - Village chorus 24

15. Day 2 - Family closeness 25

16. Day 1 - War chant 26

17. Day 1 - End-game 28

18. Day 2 - Separation 30

19. Day 2 - Conflict 33

20. Day 1 – Surviving the stone 35

21. Day 1 - The pit 38

22. Day 1 - Suspended in a living hell 40

Part Three 42

23. Day 1 - Horrors of the night 42

24. Day 2 - Submission 45

25. Day 2 - The price 47

26. Day 2 - Terms 48

27. Day 2 – Pit fall 50

28. Day 2 - I’m gonna make you cry 54

29. Day 2 - Man-handled 57

30. Day 2 - Rivals 58

31. Day 2 - Contest 60

32. Day 2 - Kotan 62

33. Day 2 - New breed of tribe 66

34. Day 2 - The fires 68

35. Day 2 - The Spirit 69

36. Day 2 - Promise of things to come 71

37.  Day 2  -  First love 72

Part Four 75

38. Day 2 -- Early return 75

39. Day 2 -- Burning with shame 77

40. Day 2 -- Public disgrace 79

41. Day 2 -- For the love of a son 82

42. Day 2 - Best friend’s toy 85

43. Day 2 - Like a beast 89

44. Day 2 - The stone 92

45. Day 2 - Nightmare thoughts 94

46. Day 2 - Suffer in silence 96

47. Day 2 - A father’s torment 100

Part Five 105

48. Day 2 - Battles rage, inside 105

49. Day 2 - Battles rage, outside 106

50. Day 2 - End of peace 108

51. Day 2 - Deadly certainties 110

52. Day 2 - Deadly rivalries 112

53. Day 2 - Deadly realities 115

54. Day 2 - Father and son 118

55. Day 2 - Epilogue 121

The end 123

Previously in Deadly rivalry …….

Tricked by Nkonu in the ritual of the manhunt,

given to his rival for three days,

Tarzan is transported away

and sexually abused.

Only to be led out and broken for Nkonu’s ambitions.

Part One

1. Day 2 - Dawn breaking

 

Strange. He’d spent his life challenging wrong-doing, fighting enemies, evading and escaping from capture. But staked out upright, like an X between tall stakes, Tarzan still felt a deep chill of fear, knowing he was in the hands of such a ruthless enemy.

Odd, too, that after a lifetime spent free and almost naked in the jungle, he could feel so threatened and vulnerable. Stripped of a meagre loincloth, standing spread-eagled in the centre of Nkonu’s village, he was acutely aware that every part of him was fully exposed. The previous night had witnessed a pack of wild animals baying for Tarzan’s pain. Men and women, warriors and boys, they join in like a frenzied mob. Taking part, celebrating his every cry, hysterically egging on those wielding their clubs. Every bit of him was on view In the middle of their huts, naked, staked out. Raising before their eyes more hopes of beating cries out of his naked body. Inviting more punishing torture. Every single moment since he’d arrive – and was it only yesterday? - he’d been viciously beaten and abused, tortured into submission. Yet he’d doggedly managed not to give in.

 

He had just refused Nkonu again. His enemy stood there still, smirking, his arms crossed over his chest. smugly confident that this last act of refusal would soon be broken down by more punishment on his human flesh. Tarzan’s refusal only invited more of the same. More of the agonising batterings to his being. And worse. Nkonu looked supremely smug, taking in the strong but battered torso staked out, helpless, clearly struggling even to stand on his own feet. Stripes from whippings with bamboo flared from thighs to up-raised elbows. His stomach had turned blue-black with bruising overnight from the continuous pounding they had taken.

Despite the apeman’s glowering defiance at the invitation to submit to Nkonu's mastery, Nkonu thought he detected signs of weakness, exhaustion. The continuous torture – a sleepless night permeated with intense agony – weakened by starvation - they were beginning to take their toll. These signs showed it, Tarzan would break.

 

“Every man has his breaking point, Tarzan. It’s just a question of finding yours”.

Nkonu was confident he had found it. Nkonu had three days before returning to the Chief to stake his claim. With Tarzan in tow as his bondage slave. With these promising signs of Tarzan struggling to cope, it was only a matter of time.

 

Tarzan had proved tough work. Tough but rewarding. Every grunt of pain Nkonu had wrenched out of that unwilling body was been enjoyable. Yesterday had been a good start. Nkonu relished the enthusiasm with which his own villagers had joined in the trials of breaking Tarzan down. That final collective act when the whole village had worked together to see the apeman tortured! A triumph. That day would go down in legend.

 

Nkonu could not see at the moment the injuries his nephew had done. The flaccid cock was covering up the damage for now. But last night, when they had had Tarzan out-stretched on the rock, Nkonu had caught sight of the whipped ballsack and the apeman’s swollen balls. It would now take only the slightest move there to have him squealing and yelling in pain. Nkonu itched for his hand just to rest around his captive’s balls to enjoy the look of terror that would flash in his eyes at the mere thought of more punishment there..

Nkonu was confident. He knew he would triumph in time. But above all, he was sure that his trump card would work. Tarzan stubbornly believed he would last out. But Nkonu knew the captive would falter when he produced his surprise.

 

Tarzan looked away, peering into the clearing sky, the early morning sun already burning off the overnight dew. Mentally, he was readying himself for more punishment and torture. He’d toughened it out till now, a day. Could he last out as long again? Last night, the torment had been unbelievable. His body was pitted with painful stripes. His muscles deeply bruised from torture, his flesh beaten and battered. His resolve and determination had been severely tested. Beyond human endurance. Yet he had survived. He had survived even that pit. He did not know how. But somehow he had lived through that eternal night of everlasting agony.

 

From now on, though, every single blow would land agonisingly on tortured flesh. Smart. Sting. Jolt him to the quick with pain. He felt as if, with every life breath he took, his strength and resolve might drain out of him. He had not slept. Not eaten. Barely drunk water in days.

 

The beatings had been bad enough. More than most men could ever tolerate. But the night in the pit had been savage beyond belief. Not for one moment had he rested during the night. The longest night of his life. Enduring, indescribable pain the whole night long. Without a second’s relief, continuous never-ending agony the whole endless night. Nkonu was wearing him down by more than just beatings. That last day had been hell on earth. Surviving to the end of the next would be his greatest fight for life.

((((((((((

2. Day 1 - Fun and games

It had been quite a party. Better than expected. A fun evening, a real family event, thought Nkonu. All the village, young and old, men and women had joined in the fun, celebrating Nkonu’s victory and his new-found fame.

Everyone had joined in from the smallest children. Their uninhibited laughter and shrieks had brightened the evening sky.

The enthusiasm with which some of the boys had thrown themselves into participation excited Nkonu. He’d seen real aggression here tonight. Hope for the future. Young warriors, a sound base for the new dawn when he had taken over and returned the tribe to their traditional ways, as warriors and conquerors. All the boys had needed was an outlet to release their rage and aggression. And tonight, Nkonu had given them that. Tarzan had given them that.

For Tarzan it had not been so much fun. But that was the luck of the draw. He did not belong here. This was their world, their traditions, their ways. He had misled the Chief into soft, un-manlike paths, turned weapons into hoes, turned warriors into fishermen.

Tarzan’s interfering ways did not belong here. And tonight he had learned to pay the price.

A little stray, barely three years old, approached Nkonu tentatively, dragging his older brother with him by the hand for protection. Could they have another go on the swing, he pleaded. He burst into a big grin and exploded, “It was such fun!”

Nkonu drew the child to him and hugged him tight. It already late. Too late for such a little one. But tomorrow night. Perhaps tomorrow night. And Nkonu would seen to it that he had the first go.

Thrilled, the child ran back to his mothers’ arms with the exciting news. Nkonu could not remember exactly seeing the boy when they were playing on the swing. But the hilarity in the village had been enormous, everyone shouting out with laughter at the children playing.

Tarzan had been set swinging backwards and forwards. The smallest children were challenged to jump on the swing, the pole between Tarzan’s outstretched legs. Some jumped and did not make it, bowled over by Tarzan’s swinging feet. Laughing hysterically, the kids picked themselves up again and launched themselves onto the pole. The lucky ones grabbed hold clawing at the tethered legs and gripped on. The constant jerking of children jumping on the pole stabbed pain into the apeman’s stretched armpits. Their bouncing on the swing cut the rope deep into the captive’s wrists. Little hands dug nails into flesh, pinched tightly into his legs to hang on as they squealed with delight.

Meanwhile, their bigger brothers stood behind the swinging apeman and tried to dislodged the kids. With long bamboo rods, they swung at the swinging naked arse. The sting on the bare flesh made the captive jerk and jolt at the pain. The more they lashed, the redder the skin inflamed. And the redder they got Tarzan’s arse, the more he jerked threatening to unseat the tiny kids from their swing. The kids clung on for dear life, screaming with delight and fear while the apeman’s jolting and writhing tried to shake them off. The longer the kids hung on, the harder the bamboo smarted across the bare arse. The more they hit, the redder and hotter the skin flared. The more tender the pained skin, the more the apeman jerked. The more he jerked, the more the little kinds screamed with delight. Clutching, digging their nails into his hairy shins in desperation to hold on. Or they were thrown clear, squealing with laughter rolling over and over on the ground.

The squeals were so loud, the parents’ laughter so boisterous, the shouts of encouragement to the bamboo-wielding youngsters so encouraging – no one heard the hissing of pain from the human swing. No one paid attention to his wincing as bamboo bit into red-hot flesh. No one cared about Tarzan writhing with pain, the grimaces on his face. The grunts of hurt gagged by the stick down his throat were drowned by the kids’ giggles. No one gave a second thought to him jerking in pain at the stinging of the canes - well, that was all just part of the game. No one noticed them much. Certainly , no one cared very much. Except Nkonu, who pronounced Tarzan’s humiliation and suffering good.

((((((((((

3. Day 2 - Reunion

Nkonu turned away. Tarzan took a deep breath and steeled himself mentally, drawing on the stamina, physical and mental, that he needed to see him through. But his attention was caught by Nkonu’s barked order. Two warriors were standing at the entrance to the cave where yesterday they had tortured and violated Tarzan. They slipped into the cave with their weapons.

Tarzan watched closely. It was the knowing smirk on Nkonu’s face that gave him a chill. He followed Nkonu’s gaze towards the cave entrance, watching Nkonu’s stance of rising anticipation.

Three figures emerged. Between the two warriors, a third figure. White. Dressed only in a ragged loincloth. A icy-cold finger traced down Tarzan’s backbone. He blinked in disbelief. He stared again.

What was he doing here?

Nkonu could not take his eyes off Tarzan’s face. Victory. In split seconds, the apeman’s expression flashed defiance to from confusion to recognition – to disbelief – to understanding – And then to fear. Just as Nkonu had planned.

The youth emerged blinking into the new day’s sun. He’d spent the night in confusion. He’d struggled against the bonds binding him to the stake in the cave. He’d given up and spent a fitful night. When the warriors came and released him, he followed in the hope of starting to understand what was happening, why he had been kidnapped.

Blinking against the light, squinting through half-opened eyes, slowly he made out a figure. Standing spread-eagled. A white man. Naked. He’d been tortured – signs of brutal bruising, vicious whips marks slicing over his front.

The youth blinked again against the light, recognising something very familiar, straining at the victim,. His vision cleared. The youth gasped. Tarzan. His father.

((((((((((

4. Day 1 - Celebrations hammer on

Tarzan hung in his inverted Y recovering from another hammering at his guts. Groaning, their appetite seemed insatiable. Every grunt of pain he gave them only had them coming back for more. The ropes binding his hands together over his head had burned deep-red gouges into his wrists as he swung and gyrated from them. His body glistened with sweat in the torchlight. Pools had formed at his neck in the fold of his uplifted shoulders. The smell of his own pain layered on top of pain filled his nose. Trickles streaked down the furrow of his elongated skewered chest.

Nkonu watched as Tarzan struggled to wipe back on his arms the long black hair plastered with sweat to his face. The brutal attacks on his stomach had left their mark, glowing flame-red in the light of the fire. The famed strength of his stomach had served him well, - at first. But it was taking much punishment tonight, in readiness for his night in the pit.

His stomach was drawn in by the stretch of hanging, the ridge of his muscles prominent, tightly drawn - and already heavily damaged. The muscles in the arms and chest were drawn upwards into elongated ridges of hard flesh, - skewers puncturing nipple and breast, stabbing, grating, pricking with every swing of the body. Not even a Tarzan could last out for three days of this.

[pic]

Nkonu’s best warriors had taken it in turns, in pairs, to punch through the strength of those muscles and reduce them to the resilience of an old woman. The latest, a slim lithe fighter, build for stamina and endurance, was wrapping the leather strips round his fists, protection to keep up the onslaught longer. At first the attacks had produced little more than grunts from Tarzan, the muscle strength hardened fighting back giving him protection even though they were vulnerably elongated and stretched as Tarzan hung in the air.

But repeated hammering had begun to break through. The lithe warrior was now thudding away, rapidly. Not so hard and muscular as others, but rhythmically, persistently, without giving his victim a break to catch his breath. Left and right fists pounding into the same weakening spot. Tarzan no longer just winced as he tighten his stomach. Each fist was now punching regular grunts in rhythm to the beat, a non-stop assault on the apeman’s abs. His grunts erupted in animal-like snorts through his nose over a tight-lipped mouth. The apeman’s face was permanently contorted, eyes screwed tight closed as he squeezed to defend, his torso jerking to the pounding of those punches.

The warrior’s back glistened with effort, his fists moving to other spots on the stomach, into the middle, into that weaker spot. Never breaking rhythm, constantly weakening, breaking through, winding. A few more rounds and Nkonu would hear the apeman cry out with every blow as the punches thudded into his innards. The warrior had stopped. Exhausted, he rested his hands on Tarzan’s hips, panting heavily, blowing, getting his breath back.

Tarzan too shone with his sweat. His hair was plastered over his face. In his gut, repeated punchings had turned his stomach a crimson-red. The elongated mounds of strength rolled with his pained breathing as he fought for air to give him strength. Still gasping for air, the warrior glanced over at Nkonu who gave him a nod of satisfaction. The warrior pushed himself upright off the apeman. And thud, he landed a fist with all his weight and power right into the heart of the apeman’s navel. Every bit of his muscled determination snapped out of bulging warrior shoulders. Every bit of determination to conquer these abs powered power through that punch. A cry of shock thundered out of Tarzan’s chest powered by every bit of breath in his body. His head went back as the long extended cry pierced the jungle night. The warrior had got through. The apeman’s abs were breaking.

((((((((((

5. Day 2 - Family ties

Korak was completely thrown. The sight of his father – captured, severely beaten and tortured, naked, completely defenceless. Then slowly things started to fall into place. He’d been tricked of course, - with the story of Tarzan injured and in danger. But his kidnap was part of a bigger plan, it seemed. Too slowly he took in the appalling damage to his father’s chest, the lacerations in his upraised arms, the searing burns in his armpits. The smug look on Nkonu’s face. Sharp hands pushed Korak forward towards Tarzan. Korak felt stunned at the sight of thin skewers cruelly inserted into his father’s chest, the dried blood crusted on a nipple. A nipple pierced by bamboo. He was so paralysed with the shock of meeting like this and the sight of Tarzan’s injuries, taking it all in incomprehensibly, that Korak put up no resistance when they roped his wrists to his father’s outstretched hands. Leather thongs bit hard into his flesh, sending a grimace to his face. Only then did pain bring him back with a crash to realisation. He and Tarzan were nose-to-nose. A flush of heat rushed through his body as he absorbed the hotness of Tarzan’s agony pressed against his own stomach. Too late Korak made to resist. Just yanking on his father’s arms, tearing pain into the rope burns on Tarzan’s wrists. Korak caught the rancid smell of Tarzan’s much-sweated pain. Both father and son were at a loss for words, looking with confusion and concern into each others’ eyes. Each trying to take in what it meant that they were suddenly both captive to Nkonu.

Korak slumped clumsily forward onto Tarzan’s chest when his feet were pulled sideways and his ankles bound to his father’s outstretched legs. Tarzan winced in pain as Korak’s chest collapsed into him and scraped against the pecs punctured with bamboo. Suddenly, Korak became embarrassingly aware of an unwelcome signal in his groin. He’d started throwing an anxiety-induced erection that was pressing against his father’s stomach. But his awkwardness was saved by a diversion, Korak felt the sudden coldness of a blade on his hip. With a tug, his loincloth was cut away. The hotness of his stripped and now fast-growing dick pressed against his father’s beaten stomach. With a gulp of embarrassment, Korak felt it respond to the warm touch of human flesh. His father’ brutalised and beaten warm flesh. Getting a hard-on against his own father’s stomach. Korak flushed at the predicament and looked away.

Nkonu left them - “to catch up on news” - but promising “to pick up soon where we left off”. Tarzan ignored the barrage of questions from Korak and insisted on knowing why his son was not in the safety of his boarding school.

Nakedness was second nature to Korak. Being stripped to the skin with his father had happened all his life. They’d swum in streams and dried out naked on the shore for years without any sense of embarrassment. But having his hardening dick pressed against his father flushed embarrassment to Korak’s face and he kept his face averted while he told what had happened.

A delivery driver had arrived at the school with the news that Tarzan had been badly injured. Without a single thought, not asking permission, Korak had jumped in the cab of the rust-bucket of a lorry and driven off with him, heading back up north. Some time, after leaving the main highway, the driver stopped - “for a piss”. Korak joined him at the river. When he’d emptied his bladder, he turned to find himself surrounded by armed natives. Thinking it was a robbery, Korak told them he had only what he stood up in. He was astonished when it was the driver who told him to strip off his uniform. He’d tried to fight them off but they soon had him overpowered, stripped and they threw some rags at him to cover himself. But instead of them driving off, he'd been bound, dumped in a canoe and paddled upstream through the night to here.

“So what is going on with Nkonu?”

Tarzan told Korak about the Chief setting him up to defeat and humiliate Nkonu. About the trickery of Nkonu’s men capturing Tarzan. He explained about the Chief winning himself time by giving Nkonu this three-day trial. As best he could, Tarzan explained his belief that Nkonu was bidding to oust the Chief and return the tribe to their old ways of conquering and intimidation. Somehow, conquering Tarzan was a step on his way to becoming Chief.

Tarzan avoided giving Korak details of the abuse he had undergone, though the damage on his body was plain to see. And the shame of that rape Tarzan held back, an anxious nagging at the back of his mind that Korak ought not yet to know. But might be due to find out. Still unsure but getting increasingly nervous about what Nkonu had in mind for his son. Nkonu had fetched Korak for a reason. And he suspected it had everything to do with finding “Tarzan’s breaking point”.

((((((((((

6. Day 1 - Family pride

His sister’s boy had made Nkonu proud. Proud beyond belief. Named in his own honour, the youth would be putting himself forward soon for acceptance as a young warrior. After tonight’s demonstration, he would go far under his uncle’s tutelage. Filling out well, with shoulders developing firm bulges and strong arms, young Nkonu had the long legs and slim taut waist of a runner, too.

When his turn came to wield the whip into his uncle’s enemy, Nkonu had watched with mounting excitement how this mere lad had turned into a lethal aggressive weapon. It was his choice - deliberately - to use a cattle whip on Tarzan, as long as his own body, plaited leather, pliable to sting even the stupidest cow to get out of the river. Knots, big as bird’s eggs, woven into leather and plaited into the whip ends gave that extra thud that got the most obdurate of cow’s attention.

And young Nkonu immediately got Tarzan’s. From the very first lash. Tarzan's front was already well marked from the work of the other boys. The sting of their canes had broken the apeman out in sweats. To applause from proud mothers and encouragement shouted by warrior fathers, the boys had got him jerking, grunting and hissing, wincing with pain, the occasional suppressed sharp intake of breath in a contorted face, panting, groaning.

During the swing game, canes had ripped burning stings across the apeman’s arse. But young Nkonu chose to work on Tarzan’s virgin back. Standing unseen from behind, the element of surprise adding to the shock. The broad V from the shoulders tapering in tight at Tarzan’s extended waist attracted the thud of the lad’s knots.

Tarzan cursed himself. He had let his guard down. He’d got used to the insult of being abused as a children’s toy. He’d let himself be lured into the belief that that was what this was about. But then, out of the blue, came that nerve-wrenching lash. It was shaming to be used as a children’s plaything. Nkonu letting kids work on him to prove to Tarzan that he was powerless, that even children had power over him in this Tarzan’s new life. The lord of the jungle was being reduced to a children’s amusement, he was powerless to stop even children from doing with his body whatever they wanted. Nkonu was rubbing Tarzan’s face in his own slavery and vulnerability.

It was shaming but not damaging. The canes across his arse had stung. The whips biting across his thighs had hurt. His abdomen felt it was on fire. But he had come through worse and survived. But suddenly someone had raised the stakes.

Out of the blue, unseen from behind, in the middle of the children’s “games”, it seemed that a warrior had secretly slid in and had sent a vicious lash tearing across the middle of Tarzan’s back. With the power of a full-grown man, a cutting bite that seemed to cut him in two caught Tarzan unawares. The sting had been so intense, the shock so unexpected that Tarzan had jerked up hard on his arms and hung there for a moment as if paralysed. Suddenly the stakes had been upped. Kid’s games were over, a vicious-minded warrior now led the attack. Tarzan’s face had creased with the effort of containing the shock of the pain. He hung taut, quivering, biceps bulging frozen holding his weight. Tremor after tremor of stabbing spears pulsated down his back and shivered into his legs.

Eventually, his arms released him and after-shocks rumbled down his back. But still his face distorted into tight shocked grimaces. Still he panted rapidly, blinked repeatedly as if movement would dissipate the pain.

Playtime, it seemed, was over. Torture time had begun.

Young Nkonu took his time. He let his uncle’s enemy crumple down again, grunting as he collapsed painfully down into his long over-stretched shoulders. He waited until the apeman was ready to feel the full impact of the next lash, waiting till Tarzan had felt the full intensity of his gift of pain. Standing behind, focussed, whip at the ready till he could sense the anxious tension in the hanging torso, taut, anticipating, waiting for the next whiplash of pain to sizzle through him again.

The lad landed it on the same spot, overlaying exactly the new glowing red stripe, re-igniting like with a flaming torch the sting of the whip in his back. The shock sent Tarzan jerking wildly, writhing and twisting, his head shot back with pain, a ragged shock ripped from his throat.

Nkonu leant forward and watched his sister’s boy intently. Where had he learned such coldness? Such calculated viciousness? Every fibre of his taut young body bristled. This was a role model for the future, this was how all young boys of his tribe should be trained to be. Young muscle power, strength, concentration, focus – all combined into one young frame with deadly intent. Make our enemies suffer, make them fear.

Nkonu watched the apeman closely. No longer relaxed and tolerant of the children’s caning. His jaw was part-set. His teeth half-clenched in readiness. Nkonu could sense that muscular torso quivering slightly, primed in anticipation to take the next smack of the whip. Shoulders tensed, stomach pulled in even tighter, upper arms even tauter. Ready. Waiting with dread. Every sense heightened. Ears pricked to pick up the slightest warning of the return of the lash.

Muscles quivered tighter, Tarzan tensed as he heard the tell-tale whistle of leather through the air behind.

It seemed that the apeman sensed the lash before they landed, so immediately did he jolt into a spasming twist. With every cut of the whip. With every calculated fall of the whip, hideous hisses of pain crashed out. Sweat poured from every pore. Tears of pain flowed treacherously down his cheeks. His torso twisted and writhed in his suffering.

His wrists were chafed raw from squirming but Tarzan bit into that pain to yank on the rope as if to escape the pain, twisting from his shoulders, swinging with his legs. Activated by agony, body suffused with suffering, movements powered by pain.

((((((((((

7. Day 2 – Suspended

Nkonu had repeated his demands. Tarzan would acknowledge before the Chief and the elders that he was Nkonu’s slave for life. An unspoken question had lain between the three of them. Tarzan voiced it. “Or else?”

“Then persuasion begins again. And for the boy, it starts from the beginning. In the cave. With your friend”.

“Harm one hair of the boy – and you’ll answer to me”, Tarzan had spat back”

Nkonu gave a look of mock fear. Then his face creased in a sneer.

“Fine words for a man in your position. But perhaps you need time to come to your senses.”

At a nod from Nkonu, the ropes on Tarzan’s arms had tightened. Grunts from behind betrayed the strain as Nkonu’s warriors struggled to pull the deadweight of two full grown men off the ground. Before his feet lifted free, Tarzan grimaced as the pull tore down his tortured back, stretching the red-striped flesh upwards. As his whipped armpits took the strain of the weight of both of them, stabbing blades drove deep into his joints, shot the length of his arms and flashed down his chest. Tarzan held his breath and grimaced. His full grown son and weight was lashed to his own exhausted body. He grunted loudly at the pain, gritting his teeth as his tortured shoulders took the strain.

Korak gave a shudder of guilt. The lift pressed his body into his father’s skewered chest. As they lifted off the ground, he felt his chest scrape down against the sticks. In his ears Korak heard his father hiss sharply at the pain. Through his arms pressed against his father’s, he felt the tension. He heard the long strained grunt at the pull of their combined weight digging into his father’s armpit, ripping up his arm. Korak searched for a means to help. He flexed his hands, trying to reach out to the rope on the arms and hold his own weight. But their wrists were tightly lashed together and the rope was out of reach.

The combined downwards pull attacked every battered muscle in Tarzan’s shattered torso. His beaten skewered chest elongated, between their two crushed bodies. A vicious stabbing grew into gnawing aches. The blue-black bruising in the diaphragm was pulled painfully and irrevocably upwards by the ropes. But Korak’s weight bound to his legs dragged the muscle downwards, stretching the beaten abs. Ripping, it seemed, perforating muscled tissue from battered flesh.

In his ear, Korak shuddered to hear his father grunting in pain through tight clenched lips.

((((((((((

8. Day 1 - Nkonu’s nephew

At the boys’ whipping game, young Nkonu’s turn was up. His uncle had watched him with a mixture of pride and fascination. Pride because the lad had raised the stakes and shocked the apeman out of his ease, biting the lash stingingly into his back. Tarzan knew - if he’d ever doubted it - that this was no festival of fun and games. Nkonu meant to break him, he meant to take him back in chains, on is knees acknowledging Nkonu as his master. Pride because this boy embodied what Nkonu meant the tribe to be. Just the kind of warrior spirit that Tarzan had sought to destroy. And now it was a mere lad was destroying the apeman’s pride.

And yet too, there was an element of fascination. When he stood up to take on the apeman, wielding his whiplash savagely behind, there was something about the lad you could not take your eyes off. Nkonu sensed that everyone felt it. A power entered the boy when he held that lash in his arms. Something faintly mystical took hold of him, a communion that united his hold on the whip and the suffering his victim felt. Nkonu did not understand what he saw, but he felt it in his gut. The boy was in touch with the gods.

The next lad stood ready to take over, eagerly awaiting his turn at the apeman. But young Nkonu stood firm, his young chest covered with the sweat of concentration and focus. He wiped his brow on the back of his arm, the new hair under his arms catching the light on the trapped drops of sweat.

He would not give way. He looked at Nkonu, pleading with his eyes for the honour to continue punishing his own uncle’s enemy. The headman nodded his approval. Going back to the other boys would be too easy on Tarzan. Besides this potential in his nephew interested him.

The boy changed position, he came to Tarzan’s front. For the first time, Tarzan saw through sweat-filled eyes that his assailant was not a full-grown warrior. It was a mere lad. He thought he recognised him. The boy who had sent him spinning when first they lifted him up on the frame. Astonishing that he could inflict such pain. A mere boy probably younger than his own son, Korak. Tarzan hung there panting hard with exertion, the elongated globes of his skewered chest rising and falling rapidly, his abs - beaten and now vulnerably stretched - pounding in and out, aching painfully with every breath. It was not, he realised, the power of muscles behind the blow that had done the damage. It was that whip the lad held loosely by his side.

Young Nkonu lined up the line of his blow in his mind, the whip held tense over his right shoulder. The uncle noticed as if for the first time the growing definition in his young shoulders and broadening back. Muscles held taut, gathering energy from the crowd around. Drawing strength from those craving the apeman’s cries, building concentration, pouring

power and focus into the tip of the whip.

This time Tarzan did leap before the blow landed. He yanked hard on the rope as if to evade the falling whip. But the plaited leather struck him across his skewered chest. Sparks flashed and pain ignited deep within his breast. Tarzan cried out. Hard, sharp, as if pierced by the stab of a knife. And then the jar of a thick knot plaited into the leather smashed into the punctured nipple.

The apeman’s yell punched the air. His chest ripped open in pain. Agony sliced through him and ripped him open from chest to crutch. His bawl was clawed from deep within him, ripping open his throat with an agonised howl. Long after the single blow landed, his body was rattled by an unseen force, unspoken cries of pain ripped across a contorted face.

The boy waited coldly taking in the effect of his work. Unmoved, he watched the apeman writhing from his rope in agony, slowly his cries descending into a deep twisted sob coughed out of his heaving chest.

The onlookers stood in amazed silence. One blow from this young lad had reduced the lord of the jungle to a moaning wreck. Surely, the boy had a magical powers.

Young Nkonu waited until his victim had calmed. Until his swinging had stopped, his breathing settled. Until the apeman’s eyes were fixed on him. On him, on him alone, the source of his next moment of agony. Eyeball-to-eyeball. Focussed dread, meeting savage intent. Nkonu slowly raised the whip above his shoulder, savouring his knowledge that the apeman felt a deep chill of anxiety hit the pit of his stomach. Watching Tarzan’s body tense, the abs pull in tight, breath held. Arms knotted in readiness to swing out of reach. Nkonu’s eye dropped. All his concentration focussed on the spot where he could make maximum impact. Out of the corner of his eye, he perceived the apeman shudder, twitch as he took in where Nkonu’s gaze rested. His victim tried to squeeze his tethered thighs together, hoping for protection. Young Nkonu tested his swing, getting his eye in, demonstrating to his victim the angle of approach. Slowly. Deliberately. The whip circled back from the shoulder, backwards and down, slicing up from the ground, gathering speed as it would move up between the pinned-out feet, up between the out-stretched legs, irrevocably unstopped by the mighty tensed thighs. And on to its target between the legs.

Nkonu the uncle thought he’d shed seed at the thought. Where did this mere boy get such thoughts from? His nephew drew back from his practice swing. His gaze met that of his intended victim, their eyes locked. Tarzan blinked at him through eyes streaked with pain. Pain and tears, fear and anger mixed. Partners in a game of cat-and-mouse. A game the cat always won.

Young Nkonu drew himself back, raised the whip and focussed.

The tension in the crowd was palpable. Not a word, not a cough. Salivating, Nkonu leaned forward in studied amazement of his nephew. Where had the boy learned such calculating cruelty? He was ice-cold, every fibre of his budding frame directed at hurting the prisoner to the utmost. In the pace that would hurt Tarzan the most. Nkonu was excited by the ferocity contained in that young frame. This was the kind of warrior he wanted to breed! No longer a boy. A man. A warrior. Ruthless, merciless. Such was the kind of warrior he would lead on raiding parties when he became Chief. Such cold, calculating ferocity would spread terror through the jungle at the name of Nkonu.

Nkonu caught a sudden tension in the shoulders, a tightening down the lad’s back. Minimal movement but Nkonu could see that the wary Tarzan had sensed it too. The muscle power hanging before them tensed in expectation. Tarzan’s arm muscles knotted as they pulled taut on the rope, as if vainly to pull the precious target between his legs out of reach. The stomach caved in further, muscles as if carved, tense, breath held. Drops of sweated anticipation appeared on Nkonu’s forehead..

In slow motion, Tarzan’s eyes, wide open in fear and fearful expectation, followed the blur slicing through the air. He saw the arc it prescribed bearing agony in its wake. Terror and anticipation wrote their mark in his face. He bit hard on his bottom lip. Eyes focussed in dread on the target of his terror, breath locked in his chest.

He heard the whistle as it cut inexorably up passed his knees. Tensed, pulling up, neck muscles ripped with nervous tautness. The whip tip, dragging its deadly knots thudding to their aim, sped upwards passed outspread mighty thighs, locked on target, magnetically drawn, accelerating towards the join of his legs.

Tarzan was one taut bowstring. Quivering. Expectant. In dread. Mouth gaping open, tense. A cry locked ready in his gullet. Waiting to explode.

A icy draught sliced up the length of his dick. A hair’s breadth from contact, the leather cut through the air, parting atoms. Vibrating the air before it.

Tension released, Tarzan crashed down. With a grunt, pain shot into his shoulders, the slumping torso sweeping lightening bolts up into his arms. A long-held cry burst out from the pent up breath and tension in his torso. His stomach pounded, punching air with battered muscles into the chest. His blood raced.

The crowd’s murmur of disappointment flashed into applause. He’d meant to miss,. He’d tricked the apeman. Played with him. Toyed with Tarzan. Build up his fear.

Sweat streamed down the furrow of Tarzan’s chest, the hair on the armpits dripping with pearls of sweat off the ends. Tarzan glowered at the lad. A mixture of fury and fear. The lad was unfazed, coldly returning the glare, unmoved. He had proved it. He had forced Tarzan to reveal it to the onlookers, too. The man that hung before them was no god. He did not possess magical powers. The famed and feared fighter, lord of the jungle, scourge of wrong-doers – this was a mere man. A man who could suffer pain. Who knew fear. A mere man who feared pain. Just ;like the rest of them. He was capable of terror. And a boy had proven it. A mere boy had done it.

Nkonu was rigid with expectation. The lad had forced Tarzan to jerk to evade the whip lashing at his most sensitive parts. He’d revealed to the lad how much he could still move, how much his weakened shoulders could lift, how far his battered abs could pull back the hips. And now, the whip was flying again – this time surely with devastating accuracy.

That blur that carved its path through the air - promising every grown man’s nightmare. Tarzan’s impending reality. Targeted inexorably on man’s most vulnerable, pain-sensitive spot. Nkonu shared a small shred of pity for his rival. But a mountain of expectancy, a volcano of thrills at the moment of impact on his enemy. Hanging there, pulling tightly on the rope, ramrod-still in protracted expectancy. His face etched with fear. Fear. Disbelief. Anticipation. The boy had played with his mind once. Surely, this time would be it.

Tarzan had reason to dread. He had felt the sting and the pain when that whip bit into his shoulders sending wave upon wave of pain flooding down his back. His eyes had watered with agony when the boy had caught his nipple.

Before him the apeman held himself rigid with terror. Every muscle stiff. Every ounce of energy pent up in his chest, ready to explode. Anticipating impact. Nkonu watched fascinated the blur of the whip. He heard like sweet music the swish of the leather. He willed the whip on, bursting with expectation.

Tarzan’s guts imploded. A massive devastating implosion. Again and again his groin flared. With every crack of leather into unprotected balls. Up through the air sliced the whip, ripping deeper with Bursting repeatedly with crackles of pain from that one blow.

On and on, the whip flew. Every blow, biting deeper into the pain-wracked balls. A force ripped him open from crutch to navel. Red-hot fingers clawed viciously into the gaping wound, tearing him open. Slashing fibre from fibre. Every bite of a leather knot into searing, crippled flesh crunched deeper, each thud more brutal, more agonising. Grinding up his innards, gnashing on his balls, gulping down his life-force.

A tidal wave rushed up from his gut. Devouring everything before it. Gathering energy with everything it consumed. Ripping apart tissue, organs, life force. Ripping up through the gullet. Agonisingly lacerating the throat. Exploding its blood-curdling scream. Flooding the night air.

((((((((((

9. Day 1 - Over the stone

After they had staked him out on the flat rock, Tarzan lay eyeing the excited yet ominous group lined up either side of him. By his head a tiny boy, grinning nervously at his father holding his hand, an older brother holding the kid by the shoulders. Next, by his chest, the lad who’d seemed to wielded that cattle whip into him so brutally it almost felt like he had split open Tarzan’s chest. Either side of his hips, two of Nkonu’s warriors. By contrast with the others, strong, full grown, their eyes probing the battered abs, spying out signs of any remaining strength, spotting weaknesses. And at the end, by his bent legs, Tarzan saw two boys, fencing and joking with bamboo canes. And opposite, between his knees, stood smug Nkonu, arms crossed, bathing in the admiration of his village.

Tarzan had tested his new position, the new restraints. Firm, ungiving, as he knew they would be. Cut down from the frame, they’d dragged him by his feet still outstretched by the pole, on his sore beaten back, over to this flat stone. Heaving him up, warriors dropped his sore whipped back with a thud onto the stone. Adjusting his position, they dragged his whip-reddened arse over the coarse stone till it rested at one end, his legs bent overhanging, feet on the ground. At the other end, his red-striped shoulder blades scratched over the rough stone, shoulders overhanging, unsupported.

Quickly, against weakened resistance from the apeman, they had lifted his arms back over his head again and staked the rope in the ground. His head hung down unsupported, his back arched, his arms tied back beyond his head to the earth beneath. For the first time in hours, though, he could ease his upper body a bit and release the grinding agony in his shoulders. Lifting his head and shoulders, he was able to see for the first time the awesome whip marks striping his chest. The beatings to his stomach had crippled their strength and his straining head observed the bleeding open wound in the nipple, noted how bruising was already turning blue-purple over the length and breadth of his abs. Pulling on his pinned-down legs, he felt his feet on the ground, at least thankfully resting at last on the earth rather than suspended in the air, but still spread wide by the pole which was now staked into the earth.

His beaten body burned with pain, flesh ached. His powerful stomach muscles protested when he tried to raise his shoulders, evidence of the battering he had taken. But the change of position to the flat stone had still come as welcome relief to his aching shoulders and agonised muscles. Tarzan drew strength from that relief, steeled his inner strength and swore he’d show Nkonu that the apeman still had fight left in him. Tarzan had looked around him at the commotion. The village had been in party mood, celebrating. Nkonu playing the benevolent headman, children clamouring about him, jumping for titbits. Eager youths gnawing on strips of antelope roasting over the fire, generously donated by the hero of the day, their headman who had restored to the tribe their sense of self-belief and the authority rightly given to the tribe. Girls had thrown knowing glances at the youth who had whipped Tarzan so brutally, flirting with their eyes with the hero of the evening. Nkonu’s nephew responding with bravado, showing off, playing to the doting girls. And privately in his mind seeing, willingly naked for him, the girls he would select, kindly gifted to him by the apeman in his torment under the lash.

And Nkonu – standing now at Tarzan’s feet, victor, honoured guest. Eying Tarzan - the object for their celebration. Eagerly anticipating this the climax of the evening.

((((((((((

10. Day 2 – Family love

Tarzan let Korak slumber against his arm. Guilt filled his soul. Guilt that his son was to be subjected to torture because of him. Unless he relented. Both of them captive. But it was Tarzan who was the prize. Korak simply the tool. A tool to break his father. The tool that would have the father pleading for mercy on his son’s behalf. When the boy squealed hopeless in pain under the whip, when Tarzan could take Korak’s suffering no more. When Tarzan knew he would submit to Nkonu. For his boy’s sake.

The ache of carrying both their weight ground into Tarzan’s armpits, ripped like clawing nails down his arms. The pain was digging deep into him. Sharp uncompromising claws ripping at his shoulder joints. He’d barely slept the night before. The torture in the pit had left him exhausted as he’d never known before. And the torture would go on. And the stakes had now been raised. He longed to shift, to stretch, to ease the pain somewhere else for just a moment. But he gritted his teeth. He screwed his eyes up tight. Let the boy sleep. He’d need his strength.

Tarzan was relieved that Korak lay dormant on his shoulder. His own joints had been hung and stretched for an eternity it seemed. Tendons extended, muscles weakened. The risk of dislocation was poised on a knife’s edge. In that event, Tarzan would know pure agony. Adding to his pains from the earlier tortures - it just did not bare thinking about. What would that do to his resolve to outlast Nkonu’s torture? But what did Korak’s kidnap do to that either?

His anxiety rose as he imagined the pain to which a desperate Nkonu would submit his son the closer they came to the deadline. Korak had put a brave face on and assured Tarzan he would take the punishment, he knew their duty lay in lasting out. They could not give in, could not permit Nkonu to become leader of the tribe. They had only to last out until they appeared before the Chief. But defying Nkonu’s wishes would only make him more desperate. He would turn on Korak and submit him to the most unimaginable suffering. Just to get at his father. The longer Tarzan refused, the worse it would get.

Korak was magnificently putting on a brave face. But Tarzan doubted Korak could ever comprehend such a level of pain to which Nkonu would take him. The torture Tarzan had suffered at the end of the celebrations last night was beyond his conception. The brutal pummelling he had taken at the hands of the whole village - stretched out helpless over the flat stone – had left him delirious with pain and suffering. He had agonised well into the night with the shattering after-effects. They had left him suspended in the blackness of the torture pit, awake to every moment of ache and pain, broken, battered, demoralised. He too had doubted he would last out.

Could Korak undergo such suffering? Could Tarzan let him? Could he as a father expose his son to Nkonu’s nephew? Korak’s growing vibrant manhood had pressed into Tarzan’s abdomen – could he let that be the target of the nephew’s lethal cruelty? What father could let that happen?

Part Two

11. Day 1 - Caned

They were only little boys but the sting of split bamboo biting into the soft under-flesh of his bicep made Tarzan jerk. The kid had swung the cane, held two-handed, from over his head into Tarzan’s trapped arm, his older brother helping, giving his kid brother the extra force and swing. Tarzan’s hiss as the split end tore into arm muscle brought a big grin to the kid’s face. He looked for approval from his father on the other side of Tarzan’s head. Got it and the grin shot from ear to ear. With renewed motivation, he lifted the cane above his head and swung it down with the energy and joy of a puppy at play, slicing through the air, stinging deep into the stretched arm muscle. Tarzan’s hands were pinned into the earth behind his head. Open, vulnerable, impossible to defend. The kid shook with delight seeing the wince on the face and hearing the pained intake of breath from the object of his play. Upside-down, Tarzan watched the kid lift the cane, helped by his brother, and Tarzan steeled himself for the humiliation. Before forced to grimace at the pain of a tiny child. Clenching his teeth as the biting, split ends whooshed through the air, gritting his teeth for the sting.

He cried out in shock. His back arched upwards off the stone, pain tore his head downwards. They were working in unison. The father had struck down into the other exposed under-arm, working him over together. A giggle passed by his ear as the kid delighted in working together with his father. Up/ down, up/ down, father and sons together, beating, biting into the solid mound of the apeman’s muscle. Cheers from the crowd, claps of delight from the women for the little lad. Up/ down, Tarzan’s flesh seared, the skin flared crimson red. Up/ down/ up/ down, the crowd roared approval, clapping the efforts of the little grinning boy.

Tarzan’s eyes were shut tight, his teeth clamped in a vice against the biting pain, the burning of flesh. His head seethed with the whoosh of air in his ears and the pounding of blood in his brain. Burning with the indignity of being tortured by a child.

At a cry from the father the target moved. At the join of Tarzan’s elongated chest and over-extended arm, viciously the splint-ended canes ripped into the open armpit. The father bit deep and hard across the breadth of the exposed flesh. A fresh cry from the apeman as new tendons were attacked, tendons that had been tortured long and brutally hanging and writhing off the frame. The cry thudded into the back of Tarzan’s gritted teeth, strangled in a pain-constricted throat. Tarzan’s eyes shot open wide, the hiss of the bamboo flying past his head, cutting a swath of fresh agony into his open armpit. Sweat broke on his face, despite himself his torso shuddered in response to the cutting pain. The bite into tender skin tore deep into his brain, jerking him, convulsing, recoiling his flesh off the stinging pain.

((((((((((

Tarzan burned and seethed as he rested. His arms were on fire. His tortured armpits raged like a firestorm. His being seethed at this abuse and his impotence to retaliate. He cursed in the depths of his soul and with growing rage at what he had endured.

Uncaring, surrounding the suffering victim, the crowd had cheered and yelled, congratulating the little kid when the whipping stopped at a job well done. The pain had not subsided for Tarzan when the whipping had ceased. Skin glowed crimson-red from armpit to elbow. The continuous whipping with the sharp edges of bamboo canes across the hairy cavity left his arms seething with pain. His breathing came in slow heavy pants, sweat trickled from his brow down into the hairline of his head dropped back in pain. Never before had he known his powerful arms tortured at the soft under-point, where they most would sting. The relief in his chest and armpit, released after long hours from stretching and straining on the frame, was long gone. The tendons, tortured earlier from holding his suspended weight, now burned, his skin seethed, his sensitive flesh was on fire.

And afterwards, at his legs, the other two boys started caning his thighs. Taking it in turns to beat their canes into Tarzan’s out-stretched legs, pinned immobilised into the earth. Left, right, left, right, the friends threw their youthful bodies into punishing the muscular legs out-stretched before them. Across the tops from knee to naked crutch, they worked him, vying with each other to hit the hardest. Grinning at the flash of pain that twitched his legs. Smirking at the captive’s futile attempts to scissor his legs together and escape pain. Scoring points whose cane got a grunt or cry from the jerking apeman.

Candidates to become warriors, they felt on trial before the headman. They competed with each other to prove themselves worthy to join Nkonu’s new warrior clan. Into the inner side of the open thighs their canes swished, biting deep and hard into more tender flesh, motivated by the fresh hissing as the apeman jerked with the pain.

Friends in the crowd kept score. Every grunt, every hiss of pain wrenched from the victim scored one point. Harder and harder their young muscles swung to score deep-red stripes of pain into hard muscled legs. Falling behind on scores, a boy aimed his cane at the flaccid cock. Tarzan’s cry of shock prompted the other to cane away at the soft inner thigh, catching the apeman’s swollen balls. The crowd screamed its delight. The helpless apeman’s grunts pitched higher, their frequency increased as tender burning flesh was whipped again and again, sending new flashes jarring up through his crutch into his pain-knotted gut.

((((((((((

12. Day 1 - Mystic whipping

Tarzan stiffened at the sight of the lad stepping forward. Tarzan knew what this youth could do. He’d felt that stinging bite of his whip into his back. He’d yelped as his nipple erupted under the lad’s lash. He’d repeatedly roared at the agony when Nkonu’s nephew had viciously thrashed his balls. A chilled finger touched his still-swollen nuts now, freezing them, sending icy shivers deep into his tension-taut guts.

He watched cagily young Nkonu bathing in the adulation, playing to the screaming girls, raise and shake his arms in macho pride to his male friends accepting their encouragement and cheers. Tarzan swallowed at the sight of a cattle whip in each hand. Young Nkonu would use again the tool of his trade, the weapon on which he was building his fame, the instrument Tarzan had learned to be wary of. And this time he planned to use two.

Tarzan froze, immobile, as the lad stood up by his chest. Eyeing him warily from beneath, fighting the thudding of his heart in his chest. The lad still, calm, at rest, focussing. Tarzan heard how the cheers were subsiding slowly as the crowd picked up the tension in the air. The lad stood tall and strong, purposeful, - as if he was drawing power and energy from his friends and the villagers into himself. Sucking up their intent to see their victim suffer. His eyes, cold and dispassionate, cast down on the chest before him, Tarzan’s ribs barely rising as he lay waiting, bravely steeling his resolve, controlling the dread of pain in his guts, tense with bated breath for the launch of a vicious attack.

Young Nkonu now seemed unaware of the straining, silent crowd around him. as if his spirit had moved to a distant place. Mystically he now seemed to draw strength from the nervous tension that lay defencelessly pinned out beneath him. Breathing up from his victim the taut anticipation of the pain he was about to unleash. His eyes watched - but did not see - the hapless prey staked out beneath him. An animal to be tormented, a creature to be toyed with, barely worthy of consideration, a tool for his uncle’s rise to power. A rise his ferocious attack would help to cement.

Tarzan sensed the danger in his guts this youth represented, this ambitious young man focussed in on himself, self-obsessed with his power to hurt and maim, self-possessed with his drive to conquer Tarzan’s defiance and claim the victory as his own. Draining energy from the world around him to unleash ferocity onto Tarzan’s chest.

Slowly, in a ritualistic move, young Nkonu crossed his arms before him, wrists folded over each other before his hips, the cattle whips hanging down to the ground before him. Standing still, tension in every youthful muscle. As if draining up life force from the mother-earth below. Unseeingly, his relaxed arms, wrists still crossed, were slowly raised before him, lifted over his shoulders. His developing chest widened as if an inner power filled him with mystical strength. Theatrically, high above his head, the arms uncrossed and opened, the cattle whips held high. His head lifted up, face up to the sky, as if receiving power from the spirits above in the jungle air. In an extended Y, the lad held himself proud and firm, the dramatic gesture displaying his fresh young body tense, muscles taut, waiting. As if waiting for the Word. Listening for the signal. Offering up his soul, placing his body at strength at the service of the gods, a worthy instrument to the warlike spirits of his ancestors. A shudder shook his body. As if a power suffused his soul. His chest lifted, the stomach tightened into mounds of warrior resolve.

Slowly Tarzan watched his head lower. The lad’s face tight, mouth grim. His eyes were burning. Burned with the ferocity of a snarling leopard. Downcast, focussed, single-mindedly eating at the object before them. Tarzan. Eyes crazy with hunger. Wild with craving. Their focus only one sight. The prostrate, immobilised chest waiting for the sting of his whips.

The crowd watched in tense silence, caught in the drama unfolding before them. Tarzan froze, his eyes drawn inexorably to the two whips raised above the lad’s head. His gaze bewitched by the threat trembling in the youth’s tension-taut arms. Tarzan condemned to helpless waiting. Breath held. Stomach tight. Heart pounding. Face set. Eyes unblinking. Calling on his inner strength. Alert to the slightest sign. A twitch. A flicker. A spasm that hailed the first downward slice into his helpless flesh.

The whips fell. Repeatedly they fell. Viciously they fell. They swished through the air again and again, powered with the life force of the forest, slashing inexorably into Tarzan’s jerking ribcage. Bites of pain slit judders the length of his body. Tensed, jolted, bolted upright by biting pain. His every movement jerking under the control of the whips. The lashings came slow paced, the next blow waiting until the ripples of agony from each slash had travelled the full length of the trembling body. Allowing the victim to savour the full effect of his lash. Letting torment rip through flesh and muscle till it ate into the victim’s soul. As Tarzan slipped in brief relief off one pinnacle of pain, the other arm was prescribing its downward curve, cutting ferociously through the air, carving new stripes of torment into the chest, driving the apeman back to new heights of agony.

Nkonu was struck by the power of the show. His nephew held the village mesmerised in a mystical trance. The judders of pain in the apeman, the hisses of pain caught in his throat, the slap of knotted leather into hard hapless flesh. The crowd watched in bewitched silence. As if held captive in the presence of a god. Trembling before the power of the ferocity in their midst. A mystical moment. Not daring to speak. Not daring to move. Petrified in the presence of a supernatural energy.

The tension in the crowd was palpable. People stood immobilised, transfixed by the mystical powers played out before them. It spoke to men’s groins, it made women moist. Sweat formed on their brows from the sheer exertion of being in a supernatural presence.

Tarzan’s face was grotesque in convulsions of torture. Every muscle turned rigid with biting pain, every sinew taut in anticipation of the next crippling slash. With each lash had come a violent jerk, a stinging shudder, the sharp shock of paralysis, a uncontrollable jolt of pain, a giant gush of anguish. Mouth locked open, ready to release the next cry tortured from his shrieking chest.

Now, with each new stripe slashed brutally into the crimson-flaring ribcage, there burst an unsuppressed cry. The sweat of shock sprayed off his hair. Beyond himself with pain after countless vicious blows. Unseen the burning hunger for his pain in his attacker’s eyes. A craving for Tarzan’s suffering that gave full expression to agony before another whooshing whip blow brutally descended. Fell with a menacing hiss of air, landed with a stinging explosion of pain. Jerking him off the stone. Flooding every muscle with agony, bulging every sinew with his anguish. Sweating like a man gripped with the roar of heat stroke. Unaware that another shrill cry had split the forest air. The signal for the next crippling lash to fall.

((((((((((

Tarzan was shattered, totally spent. He hung collapsed off the stone, his head thrown back, his long black hair hanging down, eyes open but unseeing. The lad’s whipping of his chest had lasted a lifetime. He had lost count of time. He had lost count of the number of excruciating lashes his chest had taken. But it was not lost on him that those whippings were draining his very life-force from him, leaving him physically shattered, mentally broken. He did not seek to wonder from where a young lad could take such force. He only knew that each whip lash had flooded his whole body with anguish. Now at rest, waves of pain still swelled from his chest over the surface of his whole body. Judders of agony shivered through his deepest being.

Around him, the noise of cheering and the yelling of congratulation passed him by. Tarzan lay alone in his own suffering, his back-bent chest still burning and stabbing, his head, thrown back off the stone in exhaustion, swirled with a cacophony of a forest fire. Indifferent for now that there was more to come.

((((((((((

13. Day 2 – A father’s love

Korak, his head between his father’s head and upraised arms, shuddered in guilt at his father’s drawn-out moan of pain. Before his eyes flared Tarzan’s armpit marked with red-raw welts from brutal whipping. Vicious smarting cuts crimson-red with hurt and pain. Pressed against Korak’s body, the skewered muscle of his father’s chest, nipple pierced-through with sharp bamboo, more skewers impaled inside Tarzan’s chest. In his ear Korak heard the rasping intake of pain as the battered and beaten muscles of the father he had worshipped suffered under Nkonu’s never-ending torture. Weak from brutal beatings, now tortured by carrying his own weight too. Guilt, frustration and fear pierced Korak to the core, himself suspended off his father’s arms, adding agony, scrawling burning clawing pains into Tarzan’s joints. Any aches Korak felt in his own stretched torso, suspended off his father’s body, were swamped by his concern for Tarzan’s suffering.

Nkonu watched father and son struggle with discomfort. From behind he observed the son. His nakedness a threat to his father. A reminder of what had happened to Tarzan. A promise of what would happen to his son. Nkonu’s sure trump card.

Korak had developed a fine young figure. His back extended as his feet left the ground, emphasising the broad shoulders framed with proud young muscle and tapering now to a tight narrow waist with the stretch. It was a tight muscular back that would take the lash when Tarzan persisted in his obstinacy. The smooth taut arse clenched with the strain of the stretch. How quickly would the father relent when that tight round arse was burning screaming-red under the slash of canes? That tight virgin arse. Waiting for the surprise it would encounter staked out on the floor in the cave. How long would this father resist when his own boy writhed in pain? How much pain could the boy take after a soft life in that English school? Before he shrieked? Before the sound of him begging for mercy tore through his father’s soul? Nkonu placed his faith in Tarzan’s love for his son.

“When the sun is at its highest, the cycle begins again. Over the rock. For Korak this time”, he snarled.

“Tarzan, your son’s fate is in your hands”.

Tarzan’s head was flooded with images of that whipping of his chest. Over the stone. The unimaginable ferocity of the lashings from Nkonu’s nephew. Tarzan, in his mind’s eye, re-lived the unbelievable agony when they had corn-pounded his stomach – for an eternity, it seemed. The smarting in his shoulders recalled the giggling boys ripping at his shrieking armpits with split bamboo. And then - worst of all - the pains as he hung for hours of unrelieved torment, in inhuman anguish in the pit.

Suddenly he saw the son pressed to his body in a fresh light. A father’s overdue realisation. That bush of hair at Korak’s crutch, - it had evolved almost unnoticed over the years. It was the mark that this was not a boy any more. The young muscled body, his son was evolving into a man. A man with a future. With hopes, a life of his own. Loves, laughs, prospects, fun. And was Nkonu’s threat of torture the legacy this father should bequeath to his son?

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14. Day 1 - Village chorus

Tarzan recognised the deadly weapons instantly. The poles used by women to pound the corn. Long broad wooden stakes, stripped and smoothed to pound grain in the pots. And now a pair of corn pounders held up above his abs.

The children and youths had played their part well. The village was united behind Nkonu. This communal torture of Tarzan signalled the dawning of an new era when, under Nkonu’s leadership, this village of his would lead the tribe and be feared in all the jungle.

But Nkonu’s goal still needed to break Tarzan. He had to be taken back as a slave, Nkonu had to don the mantle of lord of the jungle, victor over the invincible Tarzan. He needed real warriors to be sure to finish the apeman off.

These two had excelled themselves at Tarzan’s capture, had locked him defenceless into the yoke and kept him captured in the cave. Tarzan glared at one of them. He grinned back. It was the thick-set warrior from the cave. The one who had tortured him, raped him. His reward for his services - to pound the apeman into submission.

Tarzan tensed his stomach as they gently bounced the ends of the corn pounders on his abs. Testing him, playing with him. Teasing him. Yet careful to observe, they noted carefully for signs of pain on his face as they tapped the thick poles over the bruised glowing stomach assessing where muscle was damaged. The whole village watched carefully for the apeman’s body to twitch betraying spots of pain and weakness.

A woman took up the song. A slow tune with a regular beat. Gradually all the women and girls joined in. The song sung to accompany the pounding of the grain. This was their moment in the celebrations. The women had their part too in the defeat of the apeman. After a few lines, the two warriors joined in, dropping the poles into the helpless stomach in time to the tune. Tarzan tensed up his muscles to protect himself. But he was quickly aware of the acute tenderness the beatings earlier in the evening had brought on. Rhythmically beating, the warriors tapped their heavy corn pounders probing over the torso from ribs to crutch, softening up the stiffened muscle, preparing the victim for more.

Tarzan fought back, tensed, pulling in his stomach, hardening the muscle, protecting his inner organs. Sensing himself areas of weakness - as did the pain-probing warriors - controlling his grunts of effort. His heart was pounding in anticipation of their unleashing a stronger force, his chest bursting with holding his breath.

The song changed. The women locked arms and rocked to the pounding beat. The pace livened. A rhythm punctuated with short throbbing beats. The warriors beat in time to the tune, beating into the gut in time to triplet beats. At the first beat of the triplet that thudded into the top of his abs, Tarzan recoiled upwards with an involuntary groan. He recovered in time, tensed up for the next triplet – bam-bam-bam. But Tarzan felt himself shot upward with the effort, - bam-bam-bam. The triplets, it seemed, were coming faster and faster. The beats of the rhythmic corn pounders were driven into his stomach, driven into the muscle under his ribs faster than he could recover and tense back up.

The singing swelled, the men joined in. Louder the singing, harder the beat. bam-bam-bam, the poles thudded into his stomach, Tarzan no longer in control, no longer able to tense. Bam-bam-bam. Unable to recover fast enough, rolled and shaken by the pounding in his stomach. Bam-bam-bam The protective wall was collapsing, the poles were crushing into his guts, setting his inner organs on fire.

The women joined in clapping to the rhythm – bam-bam-bam. The poles rose higher and thudded down harder. One above the navel, the other below. Alternating, the warriors raised the poles to their full height and thudded hard into soft unresisting flesh for the first beat. Tarzan lay open mouthed, an agonised yell locked in his chest, pain pounded rhythmically out of his unprotected organs by the thuddings into his gut. The poundings in rhythm broke through into his gut. The thumpings in concert thudded spasmed agony into his pain-wracked torso. Tears streamed down his face. Sweat glistened over the crimson-striped chest. Poles thudded into his agonised guts.

Girls bobbed in rhythm. Women clapped. Boys punched the air. All caught up in the arousal of the brutal scene.

Tarzan’s guts turned to water. Seething, boiling. Scalding vapours blistering everything they touched. Delicate organs screeched, no longer protected by their wall of muscle. Pounded to the woman’s songs. Bam-bam-bam. Pounded above the waist, alternating, pounded below, no chance to resist.

At first, he had managed to summon up all his available strength as the heavy poles bounced their rhythms on his aching muscle. But as the rhythm picked up, so did the force. Bam-bam-bam. Now thrust with power onto his glowing stomach, the warriors pounding the poles hard. Trained toil-hardened muscle turned into quivering jelly. No longer offering resistance, the poles smashed their way deep into his guts. Pain powered the wind out of his diaphragm with grunts. Bam-bam-bam. Sweat poured, Tears flowed. Grunts snorted from his nose. Bam-bam-bam Poles powered into unprotected organs, pain shivering up his torso, filling his eyes.

Even when the singing had stopped, even when the pounding had ceased, wave upon wave of pain trembled the length of a body in shock. The heat from agonised organs and scarlet flesh broke out flooding the torso with his sweat. His hair lay matted against his head. Sweat pooled at his neck, glistening in the deep furrow of his welt-covered chest.

Tarzan writhed, shuddering, pounded into the stone.

Gasping, panting, thrashing, his head tossed in crippled agony by violent arrhythmic convulsions.

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15. Day 2 - Family closeness

Tarzan struggled to keep himself motionless despite the agony ripping through his shoulder joints. Just like he had done when his son as an infant had fallen asleep in his arms. Now Korak lay semi-conscious against him, his head crooked over Tarzan’s upraised shoulder. For some time, Tarzan had been aware of the sleeping Korak’s erection again pressing against his abdomen. Young hot needy flesh unconsciously pressing against his father’s stomach. The earlier involuntary erection, induced by fear when Korak was first tied against his father, had passed in mutual embarrassment, with unspoken comment.

But this hot touch into his stomach impressed on Tarzan that the body hanging from his was no longer a boy. Reminded him his son Korak was now a man, at the flowering of his own manhood. A life full of challenges and fulfilment ahead of him. Loves, joys, promise.

And pain. The immediate promise fir his son was of Nkonu’s pain. Tarzan could only guess at what Nkonu had in mind for the boy. But he had no doubt in his mind it would be a nightmare of pain. A nightmare that lasted until Nkonu hit on Tarzan’s breaking point. He shuddered at the thought of his son under that nephew’s whip. His own balls still burned furiously from the savage whipping. Swollen, achingly painful even at rest. Who knows – perhaps even damaged for ever. Korak’s fate?

And here was his own son, at the flush of his manhood. His life before him. The excitement of first loves. The first unforgettable couplings with a girl. That prospect now at risk. Perhaps the risk of pleasures Korak would never know. Crippled by Nkonu’s mean-minded determination to break Korak’s father. Because of Tarzan’s stubbornness. Under threat of being savagely beaten, brutally mutilated. Maybe permanently maimed. Nkonu would stop at nothing. Simply to make his father break.

Could he do that to his son? Could he stand by and watch him squirm in agony? Could his ears stand the terrified screams? The agonised pleadings? The terror at the whish of air? The slice of the whip into tender flesh? The mutilating burn of tortured balls? Could a father stand by and let that happen. And happen it would. Unless Tarzan gave in.

Nkonu would stop at nothing to use the boy. What would he not do to get Tarzan submit? He needed that to stake his claim to become chief. And - Tarzan realised with a chilled finger stroking at his burning balls - Nkonu needed to keep Tarzan alive. But Korak, - Korak was dispensable.

Tarzan felt in every part of his body the agonies that Nkonu had put him through - the hanging - shame of sexual torture - brutal endless beatings. The pit. And now Korak would endure the same. Perhaps more. Anything to break the father’s will. Weakening when hearing his son shrieking as he himself had shrieked.

He remembered the night of torture by the village-folk. Followed by the enduring agony he had suffered in the pit. Could he permit himself to let his son undergo such agonies? Tarzan could not break free. God knows how often he had tried. His wrists were chaffed from his efforts. He could not break his bonds and rescue his son. They could not fight their way to freedom. For Korak, rescue lay in only one direction. Tarzan’s submission to Nkonu.

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16. Day 1 - War chant

Tarzan was burning up. He was on fire. From thighs to elbow, it seemed flames were ravaging his body, scorching skin till it fried, laying waste to his insides like the fiercest forest fire. Like he was being burned at the stake, fire searing deep into muscle, charring flesh till it frizzled. He tried to lay inert, not moving a muscle, aware that the slightest twitch would send fresh slivers of pain lacerating through nerves and tissue. But involuntarily, beyond any ability of his to control, his tortured body painfully trembled, muscle twitched in agony, sinews convulsed wildly with shock. Every slight move re-kindled dying ashes into blazing flames that burst and charred at his flesh. A raging fire was consuming his pulverised guts. Burning him alive with savage flames, eating him up from the inside. His head was thrown back off the stone, shattered, unable to keep it up, exhausted from the brutality of the attack on once-powerful human flesh. Eyes unseeing, viewing this savage world distorted from upside down. His mouth continuously contorted, his jaw clenched and tightened as wave upon wave of fire roared over his skin, as seething embers searing at his vital organs inside. Low groans dribbled from his mouth tasting like seeping vomit.

Tarzan’s body had plumbed the depths of agony. His mind had hit the heights of torment. No further sensation of pain was open to him.

Water was welcomingly sprinkled gently over his face. He blinked, shut his eyes against the spray and gingerly rolled his head savouring the coolness. He reached out with parched tongue, was rewarded by a slow trickle into his mouth. Quickly his exhausted body gulped at the welcome relief, survival instincts fighting to the surface of his tortured being, mouthful after gulped mouthful cruelly bringing him back to the terror of his reality. Callously dragging Tarzan back to the horror of Nkonu’s final round. The end-game.

Refreshed but still reeling with exhaustion, Tarzan opened his eyes and squinted through torture-bleary eyes. From upside down, he recognised the lad with the cattle whip. It was he who had been given the honour of reviving the apeman for the final end-game. The honour of dribbling the exhausted Tarzan back with life-refreshing water to face his final horror. Slowly glancing round him, moving as little as he could to save the pain, Tarzan saw that the village crowd had pressed in closer, surrounding him. Straining as best he could, the pulverised muscles of his stomach screeching back in pain, Tarzan struggled to lift his head. Looking down over his mighty, whip-slashed chest, he took in the same team of attackers lined up again either side of him. A chill swept over Tarzan. A realisation. The horror was not over, they had crowded closer around him, they were starting again. Opposite, framed by Tarzan’s out-stretched knees, Tarzan spied Nkonu. Glorying in the adulation of his village, bathing in that fame that breaking the lord of the jungle had brought him.

"Behold our future!" His hand stretched out over his helpless victim. "Let no man doubt, this is the way we shall punish our enemies".

The warriors cheered.

Nkonu raised an arm above his head, shook the spear he held and took up the chant,

"HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

The warriors took up the war-cry, "HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

A chant with a heavy beat. Menacingly rhythmic. Sinister in its foreboding.

Their smiling children punched the air with their fists shouting out the call, "HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

Grinning girls bobbed up and down on their knees, "HOO - haa”. Their breasts bouncing in time to the beat, “HOO - haa".

Boys bidding to become warriors in Nkonu’s new war parties clenched their fists before their chest and drummed out the beat on the air. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

Nkonu nodded to his nephew. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa". Gave him the sign.

"HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

17. Day 1 - End-game

Nkonu looked down at his loathsome enemy pinned out on the stone. His powerful body held down firmly by tight ropes. Pure muscle and virility, statued perfection. This streamlined fighting machine Nkonu had vanquished and roped to this torture stone. His once-muscled might ensnared by Nkonu’s determination to break his will and take him back to the chief his slave. Muscle already brutally pounded and beaten. Flesh ruthlessly whipped and lashed by Nkonu’s villagers, wishing for Tarzan to break. Target of his men’s muscled aggression. The tanned skin of his naked flesh flushed with the agony of his pain, a glistening sheen of his pained efforts coating his chest. Sweat ran down his flanks in heavy rivulets. The man whose spirit Nkonu would break. And take him back when Nkonu became chief.

On the stone where his forefathers had settled their rivalries too. Where they had brought captive chiefs, pinned them out like Tarzan. And tortured them to death. Beaten them to death before their own warriors, in chains, enslaved. Forced to watch their chief tortured before their eyes. Those were the days when the tribe was feared. Times when a man dared to be proud. Those days Nkonu would bring back. Tarzan would not die here today. Nkonu needed him alive. Nkonu needed Tarzan in chains, on his knees before the chief and freely wearing the slave collar.

His forbears too would have had Tarzan bound like this one stone. But they would have had his mouth gagged with a stick between his teeth jamming his throat open. So every cry smashed out of his body would pierce watching warriors’ hearts. And blindfolded so the victim did not see the falling lash, could not steel his mind for the thud of the club. But Nkonu needed to hear Tarzan’s voice when he shouted out. When this hated apeman screamed his human flesh could take no more. When Tarzan pleaded for the punishment to stop.

And not blindfolded, not today. Nkonu enjoyed the flash of shock in Tarzan’s eyes when the whip lashed, the grimace of pain when the club thumped into his stomach. Nkonu loved the slash of horror in those once-arrogant eyes when bamboo bit with stinging venom into his scorching flesh.

Tarzan was not here to die today. Tarzan had the choice. He was here to submit. Or Tarzan could take more.

Nkonu thumped the air with his spear, thudding out the beat. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa". The village joined in.

"HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

Girls breasts bobbed. Boys thumped at the air. Young Nkonu stepped up to the line. Braided cattle whips in hand.

The lad lashed out at Tarzan's stripe-flamed chest with alternate whips. "HOO - slash. HOO - slash". He gave a powerful beat, he ripped a mighty spasm into the tortured chest. "HOO - left.- HOO - right".

The corn-pounders raised their poles and plunged them into purple-bruised stomach beneath them. "HOO - bam. HOO - bam".

The canes whistled through the air and sank razor-sharp teeth into the inside of Tarzan’s thighs. "HOO - gash HOO - hack".

Split bamboo rods cut into lacerated biceps in beat to the chant. Ripping agony slashing down pain-rigid arms exploded out at Tarzan’s wrists. "HOO - slice. HOO - rip".

A pummelled thud into his smashed abs shot Tarzan upright. The agony of the whip slicing across his chest cut him back down. Cries of shock were cut short in his throat. A burning stinging slashed up his thighs, his crutch consumed by biting teeth. Split bamboo set his armpits ablaze, hell-fires tore up his trembling arms.

Tarzan's tortured body was simultaneously pummelled, whipped, lashed, pounded. The crowd went wild, doubling their song. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa". His cries of pain fed the rhythm of the chant. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa". The pounding so intense, the beat all pervading. Helpless. Shaken. Jolted to the thudding beat. Shocked to the war-like chant, "HOO - haa. HOO - haa". Crazed eyes of the people burned him up. Willing him to break, willing him to scream.

A synchronized battering that was unforgiving. Blind pain seeking escape was trapped inside his agonised frame. Wild agony screamed at the next searing stab. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

Screaming cries seeking release were cut off by the next shocked shout. There was no let-up, no stopping from one pounding to the next. A scream to vent his anguish on the world remained crushed inside Tarzan’s tortured chest. No outlet for escape. "HOO - haa. HOO - haa".

Nkonu stabbed the air with his spear, picking up the pace. The chant punched the down-beat. The corn pounders gave it pulse. Steadily, louder, the crowd took up the chant. Steadily, faster, the whips flew. Steadily, deeper, pain tore at flaming tissue. Steadily, wider, agony raced through Tarzan’s every nerve. That sculpted torso jerked. It danced, it jigged in a huge grotesque spasm of pain. Sweat pumped from Tarzan’s armpits. His naked torso reeked, slippery with sweat.

Young Nkonu poured with effort, drops flying from his hair as mystic ecstasy gave way to vicious greed. His whips cut harder at the writhing chest.

The corn-pounding picked up the pace. They lifted higher, they thudded harder. Rammed annihilating agony into collapsed muscle, thumped torment through shattered flesh.

A pole thumped into muscle below his navel. Tarzan shook in a vomited cry as already the next pole thudded his backbone into the stone. Powerful tremors shuddered down his thighs. Where already vicious canes were lashing flames into his legs. Where savage stingings ignited shuddering tremors of endless torment. Sparks crackled on his flesh percussively in a hundred bursting flashes. Bursting like fat in the fire.

Shaken by the rhythm, Tarzan shuddered, open-mouthed in shock. Eyes screwed tight-closed in blistering pain. Another pole pounded into his upper abs. His chest tried to lift off the stone but was smashed back down by a snapping whip biting into his pecs. Pain sought an outlet, agony screeched to escape. But it found none. Pain coursed agonisingly, wildly, blindly tearing through every sinew in his rhythm-jolted beat-writhing frame.

Pain juddered wildly, incoherently, inside. Plunging headlong into vital organs, thundering through nerve-screeching cavities. Searching for release, seeking escape. Thudding into lacerated tissue. Ricocheting madly off pummelled bones and shrieking fibres. Pain building to an agonised frenzied crescendo. Hitting unknown zeniths of pain. Seething, swirling, shrieking. An inferno of pain.

Tarzan was not aware that the chant had ceased.

He was not aware that whips no longer sliced at his body. That poles no longer thudded into his abs.

He was not aware that for seconds his body lay inert, untouched. He lay as if dead. Paralysed in mind and in body.

He was not aware of his scream. The bawling shrieking release when the rhythm stopped. His mind had closed down. But his body erupted. The inhuman suffering he had endured broke free. Suffering that still overpowered his flesh and mind. Agonies that whirl-pooled like trapped in a burning pulsating crater of excruciating pain.

He was not aware of the scream that volcano-like erupted, its seething energy trapped over-long under the surface of pitiless torture. Spewing agony high into the air. Sparks of his torment showering over the village. A village that erupted in brutal triumph at his scream.

Flames of anguish ripping up from the bowels of his being. Like lava flowing the length of him. Inside and out. Consuming in Tarzan’s anguish everything in its path.

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18. Day 2 - Separation

Nkonu had returned at noon to his suspended captives, father and son pressed naked against each other. Lowered down onto their feet, Tarzan had groaned afresh as his torture-stretched muscles relaxed. And that welcome reprieve was instantly swallowed up by new searing aches as muscles moved and body-crippling pains found themselves new homes.

Nkonu held up the slave collar and held Tarzan’s gaze with raised eyebrow. Defiant still, Tarzan threw a look at his son. Korak looked back. Strong. Stoic. They had agreed. Tarzan shook his head. He refused.

With no further argument, Nkonu had Korak released and led away towards the cave.

Tarzan had prepared his son and told Korak of the disgrace of his rape in the cave. Their heads pressed over each other’s shoulders, their two faces had concealed the depths of their true feelings from each other. And their unspoken differences. Korak knew the story of the earlier rape on his father and the fierce revenge he took on his attackers. He listened but avoided his father’s eyes. Feeling a degree of guilt at the secrets he had never revealed. Knowing how his father was about such matters, Korak had never been open with his father about his own experiences. In his all-male English boarding school, after lights-out boys played around, there had been plenty of experimentation. And of only one kind. Korak had been with a boy many times, so far only rarely with a girl. Boys’ boarding did not offer that kind of opportunity.

But there were other opportunities. From early age, Korak had played with other boys, jerking each other off when the teachers were not around. He’d sucked dick, his arse had been pleasurably taken. He had found enjoyment in other boys’ laughter and fun. Like all the older boys, Korak had lustfully dipped his wick and laughed about it with the others. He did not share his father’s hang-ups about being boy-on-boy. He’d enjoyed going with those girls. But boys were fun, too. For now.

That time earlier, when he’d thrown a boner pressed against his father’s stomach, he could have died. So grateful that that embarrassment had passed without a comment. With a sense of another shame now, hanging still naked against his father, he kept his silence. He knew the distaste Tarzan felt about two men getting together. It had been bad enough that he could not keep that hard-on down. Korak was young, his body was still finding his way. Tarzan, Korak knew, would disapprove of his playtime with boys, he would not understand. Korak knew too what that the scene in the cave would have cost his father. Cut him to the core. Korak did not welcome the violence, he feared the hurt of rape. Warrior hands digging tight into his arm as they forced him towards the unknown fears awaiting him in the cave, Korak hoped his experience had equipped him to face it better than his father had done.

“I warn you, Nkonu. Harm one hair on the boy’s head and you’ll answer to me”.

Nkonu approached, slipped his left hand behind Tarzan’s head and pulled it forward. At arm’s length the rivals locked eyes. Disdain flared in Nkonu’s gaze. He balled his right hand in a fist and poised it threateningly at Tarzan’s face. Out of the corner of his eye, Tarzan glanced the big fist and tensed. Nkonu was a warrior, he was strongly built. Tarzan could do nothing to protect himself. Simply waiting for the fist to smash into his mouth, punch him in the jaw.

Tarzan let out a cry. Nkonu’s fist thudded into his right chest instead. The bamboo skewered deep into his chest re-ignited with pain. The stabs in his pec had shot to just another height of pain. Just one more spot to join with the hundred others that assaulted Tarzan’s body. But now that punch stabbed deep into his torso, weakened his knees, shot burning sparks of pain flaring to his cock.

Korak twisted round in the warriors’ grip and hesitated at his father’s cry. He saw the gritted teeth and eyes clenched in pain. But his guards grabbed hold off him by the arm, letting him struggle impotently in face of his father’s pain.

“Seems to me, you’re in no position for threats”, hissed Nkonu.

His eyes flashed to the hard nipples taut and thrusting of Tarzan’s muscled ridge. So aroused with endless pain that they throbbed. So swollen by impaling skewers that they thrust up solid, straining to bursting at the taut dark skin. Inviting the next state of Tarzan’s pain. Mean-slitted eyes tearing into Tarzan’s eyes, Nkonu dug the knuckles of his balled fist into the pec, grinding his fingers against the buried skewers. Pain erupted in Tarzan’s breast. Nerve endings scraped teeth-gratingly on rough bamboo. Tarzan shot his head back against Nkonu’s restraining hand, jaw set hard to contain his groans of pain. His tortured chest turned solid, the veins in his neck turned to cord. Sharp hissing intakes of breath exploded as a knuckle scored repeatedly backwards and forwards gouging pain over the skewers, each move detonating with agony.

“Wear the collar” Nkonu hissed as he ground pain into the agony-taut torso.

“Swear lifelong service to me. Before the Chief. And the boy can be spared that pain”.

Tarzan was in a rage of pain, frustration and impotence. But he knew Nkonu could never be trusted.

“Hurt him …” he panted rapidly struggling to speak between the gasps of pain. It felt like his knees had turned to water.

“Hurt him … and I’ll kill you”, he spat through gritted teeth.

Nkonu’s slap stung Tarzan sharp in the face. A smack so hard it twisted Tarzan’s head painfully on his neck.

“I’ll see your threats are passed on to my men”, Nkonu snarled with derision.

“Perhaps they’ll take them out on to the boy”.

Nkonu dropped the slave collar at Tarzan’s feet. “There’s your solution. The answer lies at your feet”.

Tarzan’s eyes flashed back to his son near the entrance to that cave. Their eyes met. Korak was still struggling against the tight grip on his arms. Determined to fight free and help his father. Tarzan was suddenly aware of an on-rush of conflicting feelings for the boy. What met his eyes was a young man in his prime. His last years in that school had not turned him soft. He talked of things that Tarzan did not understand. Gym and weights, building bulk and things. But what Tarzan did admire before his eyes was a handsome young man of growing strength. Thick powerful shoulders, strong ridged chest. Naked, he stood held back by men’s hands fighting to keep a tight grip on the boy’s solid bulging arms. Full-grown men struggling to hold back Korak’s strong youthful physique.

Nakedness had been nothing between them all their lives. But perhaps for the first time Tarzan noticed the boy had become a man. The taut boy-like waist now rippling with a ridged tightness in his belly. And that thing that now rocked substantially at the tops of his legs, in his struggles with the guards, had evolved almost unseen. Tarzan saw it clear for the first time, Korak was a man.

Yet still he was this father’s only boy. Tarzan had helped bring him into the world, taught him to live with the dangers of the forest, defended him, nurtured him. And now he was condemning his son to the tortures of that cave.

Conflicts raged in Tarzan’s heart. Guilt, bad conscience. No matter that they had talked it through, it was no concern that the two of them had decided this was the way this had to be. No matter that Korak had persuaded Tarzan to let him have his way, he’d take whatever the cave brought. Tarzan had felt a surge of pride in the courage of son when he persuaded Tarzan Nkonu could not be permitted to win.

Yet now, with a feeling of a stone hitting the pit of his stomach, Tarzan watched the guards spin Korak round. The boy resisted. Gripped by muscled straining biceps, they turned him and hustled him towards the cave. But still Korak fought, still his determination made them fight him. Suddenly, a thud into the back of his neck threw him forward. A leg knocked Korak’s feet from under him. They dragged him stunned to his fate in the cave. To face the inevitable.

Tarzan glared at Nkonu. This threat unspoken. Tarzan, still strung out between the upright poles, strained and struggled at his bonds. If only he could get free, instinct would tell him what to do. But he was now weaker than ever, not eaten, ruthlessly tortured for hours. He’d not managed to break himself free from his bonds even before his agonies had begun, even before the horrors of the pit. His captors knew their knots. The exhaustion from the beatings and that sleepless night in the depths of his agonies was overwhelming Tarzan. He was left alone with this angry frustration at his captor’s tricks. With his fear for his son. And left only with his fury that his strength was betraying him when he needed it most.

Nkonu watched these futile struggles for the dozenth time. With a surge of confidence he was certain Tarzan would submit when he realised what his stubbornness was putting his own son through. His gaze smirked back at Tarzan’s furious glare.

With a fresh flush of mean-mindedness, Nkonu nodded to his men and gave his order,

“String him back up”.

19. Day 2 - Conflict

The ropes tightened. The welcome reprieve from that hour-long stretch in Tarzan’s armpits gave way. They’d dragged Korak stunned into the cave. Tarzan’s feet lifted off the floor at Nkonu’s mean-minded order, an instant moan grumbled in his throat. A brutal sun was lifting in the sky, a pitiless heat was rising. Humidity would weigh heavily on his suspended human flesh. Tarzan would hang there, even his heavily tanned skin burning in the ferocity of the sun, exhaustion thick in every muscle, groaning, the skewers in his chest screeching through stretched flesh. And the guilt over his son burning in his heart. There he’d hang and suffer till a father reached his breaking point. Physically, mentally. And, seeing no alternative, Tarzan grudgingly accepted that collar at his feet.

Tarzan’s face creased into deep pained lines as his tortured body tried adjusting again to the nagging strain. The gnawing aches in his armpits was there in an instant. The howling stretching strains in his battered stomach protested. His hands bunched into taut fists of tension, his lips tightened over his teeth. Hoping the dizziness of pain would subside. Praying the sickening nausea threatening his throat would fade.

What, he wondered, was stopping him from taking the collar? Was it pride? Obstinacy? Was he subjecting his only son to brutal torture because he could not admit defeat? Was he prepared to see his son raped and savagely tortured because he was too proud to be Nkonu’s slave?

The sweat of torture filled his nostrils. That unique scent, sweat from tortured armpits. Rank, heavy musk. Sweat induced by another man’s lust for Tarzan’s pain. An insult in itself. Tarzan hung there, dripping, the sweltering sun draining him further of strength. He’d not eaten, hardly drunk for days. Sweat trickled off his hair, rivulets dribbled down his backbone, strength leeching from him with every drop. Weakening him further. Strength of body oozing muskily from him under the burning glare of the mid-day sun. Strength of purpose weakening with the burning guilt that he had agreed to let Korak’s torture happen.

His own enslavement, he knew, was a means to an end. That was why he resisted, why Korak was in that cave. Nkonu would take him back in triumph to the chief. Victor over the lord of the jungle. Powerful warlord, worthy to rule the tribe. He’d make a bid to be chief. Would he get the support from the other headmen? Before Tarzan would have doubted that. But he had blanched in surprise at the jeering scorn his capture had aroused on their journey here by river. The vicious derision for the captive Tarzan had hit him with the shock of a punch. At every village on the way. The eager calls hailing the victory of the warrior Nkonu came as a bitter surprise. It showed a burning hunger in men for the tribe to return to its old aggressive ways. Tarzan suspected now that many headmen would welcome the return of a warrior leader.

The Chief had brought peace to the jungle. He had turned the tribe away from war and conquering. Prosperity had followed in its wake as they traded in peace with other tribes. But this was a warrior clan. There were plenty, it seemed, who still thought a life of trade and peace was a life of weakness. Their ancestors had prospered by war and oppression. Murder, torture and enslavement was in their blood. Tarzan was discovering what that meant. And like Nkonu, many still seemed to longed for a return to their ancestral ways.

Tarzan’s defeat would unlock those forces. Nkonu’s triumph would release war and dissension through the jungle again. Hanging together, father and son had struggled through their grunted pain and through gritted teeth, talked this through. Reluctantly Tarzan had agreed. Korak knew Nkonu could not be allowed to win. Tarzan knew that too. But what price was he prepared to pay? Korak insisted he’d go through with whatever was needed. He had rejected Tarzan’s protests, he would endure. Korak had smiled in Tarzan’s face. He would make his father proud, he had assured Tarzan. Tarzan’s heart flared, he was already proud. He had never been so pleased, - to have fathered a son like this.

But the price of Tarzan’s continued resistance was going to be more, like his son’s torture happening now in the cave. Despite their words, despite the agreement the boy had insisted on, a nagging fear still tore at Tarzan’s mind. Nkonu needed Tarzan alive. But he could sacrifice Korak and still have his prize. Tarzan had not dared to raise this possibility with his son. Korak had been prepared to sacrifice himself for their duty as guardians of peace in the forest. But did Korak anticipate the possibility of death? The agonising torture leading to a brutal lingering death of the sort that a desperate Nkonu would inflict. To get his father to break. And could a father go through with that?

Nkonu had promised Tarzan his son would be released. As soon as Tarzan had publicly declared himself Nkonu’s slave. But could he be trusted? He had promised Tarzan’s son would be set free if Tarzan remained back as his slave. But would Nkonu risk Korak returning in force to set his father free?

And if Tarzan continued to resist? If Tarzan remained obstinate as he had agreed with Korak, what then? Tarzan’s refusal to break could only egg Nkonu on. How far would Nkonu go?

Tarzan was being torn apart by his love to his son and his duty to his jungle. By his distrust of Nkonu and his need to save his son. He was pulled one way by his natural desire to save his son and pulled the other by his doubts of his old rival’s murderous intent. And all the time, in that cave before him, in his own mind he could see his only son pinned out on the earth, gritting his teeth against the pain as his supple young torso was tortured, skewered. And his fresh muscled body was raped.

Nkonu glanced at the cave. Still standing by his grimacing captive, suspended and sweating in the sun. Burning up on his skin, burning up in his mind. Korak had disappeared into there. Tarzan, Nkonu knew, would already be torturing his mind with what they were doing to his son. Seeing the skewers being pushed agonisingly slowly into the silky skin, torturously clawing into that firm youthful chest. Korak’s face bright before Tarzan’s eyes. Twisted with agony, manfully attempting to suppress the pain. Yet Tarzan seeing him fail. Because he had. Because Tarzan’s body too had given into the agony of that pain.

The father biting his lip at the picture of those pearly brown nipples, hardened by pain, being pierced by the nerve-wrenching torments of bamboo. It had happened to Tarzan. He knew how it had hurt, what it had done. A torture that had made him hard despite the agony. To send his own son to torture was worse, Tarzan knew what was coming. He remembered crystal-clear the body-crippling humiliation of rape. He saw bright and clear in his eyes the excitement building in the warriors’ groins. The fullness stretching out their loincloths.

And Tarzan knew one thing more full well, Tarzan it knew from a lifetime of experience. The more that pain was inflicted, the more that torture was ratcheted up on a helpless squirming victim, - the greater that male excitement became. Torturers’ groins feeding bursting hard-on’s on a greed for sadistic torment. Getting off on Korak’s screams as men exerted power and mastery over the boy’s stripped body. And the more they get off on Korak’s pain, the more they’d burn to take. Tarzan shuddered at the thought. Korak did not know such men. Till now. But his son had insisted. He would endure. He would, he wanted to. To make his father proud. But what did a father want?

Nkonu raised to Tarzan’s chest the slave collar he had picked up from Tarzan’s feet. As if reading his captive’s thoughts, he sneered at the conflicts burning in a father’s mind,

“His life is in your hands, apeman. The choice is yours”.

((((((((((

20. Day 1 – Surviving the stone

Nkonu had let Tarzan survive the torture stone. His forebears offered their rivals no such mercy. A captive chief’s time on the stone always ended in death. Though it took some time. But Nkonu had generously let Tarzan endure. Nkonu still needed him. But Tarzan’s time on the stone had served a useful purpose. It had helped unite Nkonu’s people. Nkonu watched with pride how his villagers had joined in. They were with him, they had joined in Tarzan’s torture with vigour. Backing Nkonu’s bid. Break the apeman, Nkonu for chief. Thanks to his stubbornness, Tarzan’s toughness and endurance on the stone had got his people seething for him to break. Roaring for his pain. They had joined in with gusto, yearning for the apeman to submit, craving for him more pain till he did. Willing his attackers on. Break the apeman, make their Nkonu chief. It was a simple plan. But it needed that first step. Baying like wild hyenas for his pain, they encouraged the warriors to flail away at the apeman’s flesh. Whip him till he screamed. Beat him till he could take no more. In support of their headman’s claim. Willing the attackers on till Tarzan broke down and submitted to Nkonu’s will. The vital step in Nkonu becoming chief.

Nkonu looked at the once-mighty body suffering on the torture stone. Powerfully built, strongly muscled. But beaten into pulp. Hideous bruisings, blotched with pain-crimson flesh. But not broken yet. Exhausted in body and soul. Tarzan had not given in. But he would. He had survived his beating on the stone. He had united the village behind Nkonu’s plan. But there was worse for him to come. Nkonu’s eyes poured over the mass of sweat-slicked suffering staked to the stone. Nkonu smiled to himself. If he had any thinking left in him, Tarzan thought that he had survived. He had, Tarzan had endured - only to face eternal torment in the pit.

After that intensive pounding, aching and groaning in body and soul, Tarzan lay there unable to move. Barely aware of where he was. But aware of an intensity of pain everywhere. He hurt. Everywhere. He burned. Everywhere. He knew he was betraying his weakness in his groans. Lying there as if crushed. But nothing in his pain-drenched body dare move. Any twitch inflamed the agonies that burned up his whole body. His head in a whirl, his whole being wormed in a seething mass of pain and burning. Abruptly though they tipped him off the stone tossing him on the ground with a thud. Uncaring of his agonies, they had undone his bonds and heaved him off the stone. He cried out, pain erupted everywhere. His head burst with fire. Screeching pain crackled and tore into every crevice of his being. Protective instinct curled him painfully into a defensive ball. His whipped and skewered chest erupted with fresh stabbings. His tortured and pummelled crutch screamed. Tarzan tried to lay inert, groaning and moaning, lost in himself and his suffering. Tried to avoid moving for fear of the intolerable pain that any movement brought.

Yet they had other plans for him. He cried out again as Nkonu’s men brusquely rolled him over on to his front. Feet lashing out into his whiplashed ribs, they kicked him over on his chest. Onto his battered abs, his swollen chest of battered flesh, hot as coals. Pain stabbing at the skewers in his chest. Uncontrolled grunts broke from his chest, pain burst in sharp snorts from his nose. Unable to hide the hurt that raged throughout his chest. His bare arse, playfully whipped in the children’s swing game, was revealed to the on-lookers. Covered with welts that were turning purple and swollen. Tarzan tried desperately to lay there still, to stop more weakening pain. Groaning and grunting, barely breathing, barely conscious, aware of the risk of movement. Around him Tarzan was dimly aware of activity, Nkonu’s men were up to something. But exhaustion and crippling pain left him but unable to raise his head to see. Paralysed in a stupor of pain.

“Put him in the pit overnight!”

Tarzan recognised Nkonu’s voice at the edge of his universe of pain. Pit! Somewhere underground. Out of harm’s way. A refuge where his ravaged body might have the chance to find some rest. He still had two days to go. He still had to last out before he was taken back to the chief. Tomorrow, they would be working him over again, this time working on flesh and muscles brutally beaten. He needed to rest. He could barely think, but survival instinct picked up the hope. A pit, out of harm’s way, underground where his body could desperately find some rest. Sleep in some underground nest, safe. And let his body work to recover some strength before another day like this hit. A pit. It sounded just the place.

Yanked again back to pained reality, Tarzan groaned as his body was lifted and pitched forward. His up-raised arms and extended chest screamed in protest as he was hauled forward, his wide-spread feet dragging across the earth. His brain fought against fresh flashes of stabbing pain jarring in his shoulder joints. Tarzan was desperately trying to make sense, instinct always warning him of the need to prepare. But his vision was blurred with the pain, his brain caught in a firestorm, his ears drowned by a crash of brain-numbing thunder.

“Prepare him for the pit!”

Nkonu’s voice registered at the far extent of Tarzan’s eternity of pain. The harshness in the tone, the viciousness spat over his body held out a warning. “Prepare him ….”, the words snapped out. Somewhere at the depths of his tortured consciousness, warning signals flashed. “Prepare him”, not Put him. But there was nothing his body would do. There was a sound of menace in that tone. But Tarzan needed desperately to cling onto hope. His instinct to survive fought to comfort him with the thought. A night in some underground pit. A chance to recover. The hope of regaining some strength. The beatings had crippled him. But a night to recover held the chance of getting some strength back. Some hope have the strength to fight his way free. Or at least to survive another day. A night in the pit. A chance to rest. It seemed a gift from the gods.

Nkonu watched his warriors binding the long poles together around Tarzan’s body. The rectangular framework was being put together around him. Ropes were quickly tied between his wrists and the poles. The pole that had kept his legs widespread was already bound into the frame. Spread-eagled in the dirt in that frame of poles. A surge of satisfaction burst in Nkonu’s crutch when his men lifted the frame. Tarzan yelled out in shock and pain. He was hanging down, arms and feet savagely pulled back, his torso dropping down towards the earth. Loud yells of pain spewed down to the ground as Tarzan in his frame was dragged off to the trees at the edge of the village.

Barely able to take in what was happening, pain hammering in his head, torture filling his every muscle and joint, Tarzan hung face-down with his arms and feet pulled back to the corners of the frame. Seething agony ripped through every joint. Bursts of torture flooded every powerful sinew. The ropes around the his wrists were at full stretch. Tarzan groaned, his body protested at the fresh pains dragged through his flesh. The pains were unbearable, every joint and muscle pulled back against nature. He was beyond himself with exhaustion, he scarcely knew what was going on. Except that agonising torture that filled his very being. He was one solid mass of tortured pain. Somewhere in the agonised recesses of his mind, he prayed for the pit. Prayed for the rest to come when they threw him in the pit. His chest hung downwards dragging down towards the earth, his back severely arched. Kwami’s men ignored his senseless groans. They held him agonisingly stretched against every joint while others threw ropes over a branch. Quickly attaching them to the frame, Kwami’s men hauled the apeman jerkily horizontally up into the air. Tarzan yelped with each wave of jerky pain that shivered down his broken body.

Tarzan tried to think through the multitude of agonies ripping through his joints. He was dimly aware of swinging off some wooden frame hung out over a pit. Involuntary cries and groans racked out of his over-tortured body bore witness to his pains swaying wildly over the pit below. His feet were still out-spread and locked with rope against the pole. Ropes around each wrist stretched him back. Swallow-like he hung off the frame, face-down. Claws of the demons of hell tore their nails through his arms. His chest was drooping down below the level of the wooden frame, the weight of his head dropped forward heavily towards the earth. Tears of pain dripping off his face.

Nkonu did not hide his admiration for the power in those back stretched arms, every muscle standing out. A worthy rival. Yet unable to resist the crippling power of nature. Gravity would do Nkonu’s work. The beaten shoulders bulged under the tortured strain of hanging face-down, the whipped back-stretched torso knotted in rigid ripples of muscles of pain. Gravity hauling agonised stretch through every sinew. Nature yanking screeching the torments of hell through every joint. This was a punishment Tarzan could not survive, impossible that Tarzan could still resist.

21. Day 1 - The pit

Pain ripped into his shoulders. Torture twisted throughout his back. The agonies of a man’s lifetime joined forces in an inferno of the mind. Searing pains had cruelly ripped Tarzan out of his tortured oblivion from off the stone. Hanging over the pit, he felt every pain in his over-stretched arms, he suffered every cutting torment in his tortured chest. His head was burning up, every powerful sinew was on fire. His torso screeched, knowing only incredible pain. Crippled in body by unimaginable suffering. Craving only to be lowered into that pit he’d been promised. Lowered so this total agony that gripped him would end. A new vicious ache tore sharp nails down the length of his back, it seized hold of Tarzan and dragged him grimacing through yet another level of agonised consciousness. Before his eyes, he glimpsed only blackness. A blistering blackness of the mind, a blackness swirling through a red-hot haze before his eyes. Confused, he blinked hard, clearing his vision. Emptiness. Agonised emptiness. Everlasting searing emptiness. Pain blurred his brain. Emptying his sight. Pain watered his unseeing eyes. He looked down. Vaguely aware of himself swaying. Before his eyes, still a gaping black hole. A blackness that filled his tormented spirit. Eyes again screwed up tight against the agonies gripping the whole of his body. Pain gouged him through endlessly, like hunting knives scoring at his skin, goring through his flesh, scraping a blade’s rough-ground teeth over bone, chafing agony along his screeching nerves.

At the periphery of his vision, he became dimly aware of feet, legs. Clenching his teeth against the biting pain, he struggled to lift his torment-heavy head to understand this torture. Blinking through the hurt, squinting through pain-bleary eyes, he made out below him a long deep pit. His pit, the pit where he would rest. Painfully twisting his neck to one side, he caught around the pit Nkonu’s warriors straining to hold onto a rope that kept him suspended over the entrance to the pit where his body could sleep. At his head, Tarzan glimpsed Nkonu’s legs, sensed his cruel elation at Tarzan’s torment. Himself, suspended horizontal somehow, his arms dragged impossibly backwards, his shoulders and whipped arm pits agonisingly stretched against the joints, the skin on his skewered chest painfully torn open by the backward stretch on his arms. His backbone seemed to be arched back by a downward pull on his whole body. As if the blackness below was sucking him down. Yet the ropes above kept him swaying in the air. Racked up and down, his body screamed, his torso pleaded for mercy.

The welcome semi-daze of tortured exhaustion he had known before they had tipped him off the stone was gone. He was one long searing ache from his neck to his backside. He was one long screeching ache from his hips to his feet. His brutalised abs trembled in the horror of their pain, their famed strength battered to jelly, over-stretched now by the downward pull, over-strained by upward arch of his suffering back and arms, - everything pulsated in agony. Tarzan was transformed into one trembling torso of pure pain.

Nkonu knelt down near Tarzan’s head. The better to see the myriad spasms shuddering through his rival’s flesh. The better to hear the sounds escaping from his victim’s agonies. Long fitful groans breaking out of his throat. Sudden grunted sobs suppressed in his chest when the stabbing pain in Tarzan’s back-twisted shoulders became too much. Nkonu smirked at the swaying agony hanging before him, he was condemning Tarzan to the most inhuman night of his life. The downward hang of his body pulled against every joint. The backward arch stretched every muscle. His backbone twisted back would cramp eternally and unbearably. Not for one moment would he know any reprieve, for Tarzan this night there’d be no rest. After hours of torture, after the beating on the stone. Just the eternal damnation of his worst nightmares. Like this, no man could find sleep. Tarzan - like this - must break. Nkonu expected a call in the night, saying Tarzan was pleading, Nkonu had broken him. The aches would build into a screaming cacophony of pain, agonised torment would screech into every excruciating joint. Every second would become an agonised eternity. Tarzan faced torture beyond belief.

And meantime Nkonu and his men would sleep the rest of victory. Warm in the arms of their women, secure in the knowledge that Tarzan was about to break. And if some miracle happened and he survived this night, then the next day Tarzan would be weaker. Infinitely weaker. Weaker in body, crippled in his will. Unable to endure, unable to resist. The next day Tarzan would certainly break.

“Warriors must rebuild their strength. To be fresh, to greet you at dawn. New dawn, new torments, Tarzan”. Nkonu’s voice drifted around Tarzan’s hearing, largely drowned out by the din of pain hissing through Tarzan’s head. The firestorms that ravaged his being.

“It will be for you a long night. You will wish yourself dead. You will wish that a thousand times”.

Tarzan swayed off his frame, his head barely hearing in the words. Nkonu stood and surveyed the tortured body before him. The arms and shoulders pulled downward by the weight of Tarzan’s own body stood defined and strong. Yet bulging with the burn of his pain. Every muscle standing proud, etched. Yet bursting with unbearable torment, stretched to the limit, aching beyond endurance. The naked backside bunched up by the agonising backward arch of the back strong and firm. Yet knotted in a crippling cramp. Powerful legs elongated. They too racked, each pain-shrieking muscle bitterly battling for space with the next. Powerful, muscular, mighty Tarzan. Yet a tortured, tormented slave. Trapped in a living hell. Yet battling still. A worthy rival. Nkonu had indeed conquered a magnificent prize.

Nkonu gave a nod. His men started lowering the rope. Jerking the frame down into the pit. Jolting, the rope slid over the branch and then braked to slow the descent. Each wrench stabbed his captive in the arm. Each jerk jolted pain down his backbone. Nkonu saw the spasm of pain shoot through powerful knotted shoulders. He heard of snort of shock explode from underneath. He observed a judder in etched muscle slice down Tarzan’s strong twisted back, he watched his slave’s painful jerking lowered into the blackness below. His each spasmed shudder accompanied by a sharp grunt. A pained intake of breath was wrenched unwilling from the crippled chest. A gasp of pain that broke in Tarzan’s pain-tight throat.

22. Day 1 - Suspended in a living hell

Nkonu held up his hand. Tarzan’s lowering into the pit stopped. He jerked to a halt, his body dizzily swaying through his crippling pain above the lip. It was impossible to hold back the staccato grunts that exploded out of the pains in Tarzan’s arms.

“Unless maybe you’ve thought over my offer, apeman. Wear the collar. Submit to me”.

Nkonu waited. Almost dreading Tarzan’s answer to give in.

“Your trials could be over. The answer lies with you”.

But there was no response from the body swaying rigid in pain over the pit. Just the ropes creaking with his weight. Just a taut swaying, a-pained silence. Broken by almost soundless grunts of effort fighting to hold back pain. Nkonu’s eyes roved over the broad arched back swinging at the lip of the pit. Still relatively unmarked. The next morning Tarzan’s front would bear the marks of those beatings on the stone. Blue-black bruising, pummelled stomach, whipped thighs. But the back was virgin territory. Tomorrow, Nkonu promised himself. That back was for tomorrow. If Tarzan last out the night. Which he doubted any man could.

Nkonu had heard the news that Tarzan’s son had been captured. He was on the way by river and would arrive before dawn. Nkonu was convinced that seeing his own son under torture would be Tarzan’s breaking point. If that was needed after the pit. Himself exhausted in body and mind after a never-ending night of agony, how long would Tarzan watch while the boy suffered for him? All in all, a good day, Nkonu felt satisfied. The trick at the manhunt had worked, Tarzan’s capture secured, the triumphant river journey. The outpourings of hatred on the way towards Nkonu’s captive apeman, his village’s communal beating of his prize. People wanted to turn back to their ol ways. And now the ape-boy was on the way. A good day. And a promise of a fuller future.

His men would now return to their women, for the night boosted with their torture of the apeman. Their loins flushed with pride at the favours they had won from their headman. Their women would find out tonight what it was a warrior put between their legs. Exhausted they would fall asleep on soft female breasts, their loins depleted, warrior-satisfaction dappled on their flesh. And knowing that, not far away, their captive was stretched out in everlasting torment. His eternal nightmare without rest. They’d wake in the night pumped up with that thought. In their minds, seeing his body racked with their pain. They’d reach out and slide their woman under them. The apeman’s suffering had made them ready, the moment they drifted out of their sleep hearing in their dreams Tarzan’s tortured moans, they were ready again to feel like a warrior between the woman’s thighs. Tarzan impossibly stretched in every joint. Inhumanly twisted in every muscle. A never-ending horror of pain. In the morning, Tarzan would be shattered, physically and emotionally. Lost in body and soul.

Before Tarzan there stretched an endless night of torment. And through his never-ending torture the apeman would know that at dawn he could only face further suffering until he broke. And then tomorrow some time Tarzan would come face-to-face with Nkonu’s greatest trick. The sight of Korak. Under threat of Korak’s torture. What did those white men playing cards in the bar call it. Korak, Nkonu’s trump card. Tarzan’s burning conflict – to commit his son to torture or to submit himself to Nkonu. He gave a final glance at the hewn, fight-hardened body swaying on the frame below. Nkonu nodded. A signal to lower him down. Glad the apeman did not relent. He watched the first jerk, he heard the first grunt. Bathed in a glow of pain-lust and satisfaction. He would rest with his women. Tonight they would worship his body as befitted a Chief. And he would welcome their ministrations. This was his greatest day. With many more to come.

Tarzan fought to hold back the groans of agony that threatened to overwhelm him. He could not give in, he would not give in. But he did not know how a man could take this much pain. Eager to feel the earth at the bottom of the pit cold against his chest. With a shock, he felt another drop, the rope jerked to brake. Stabs dug deep into his shoulders as he was jolted into the blackness below. The edge of the pit disappeared from view above his head. Jerking painfully downwards as the rope dropped over the branch above, lowered him into the welcome blackness beneath. He waited eagerly for his chest to hit the bottom, when the agony of this pitiless stretch could cease. Another jolting flash of pain wrenched at his shoulder joints. Sharp cutting shudders crackled down his arched back.

But then, the descent came to a halt, the frame swaying in mid air, in total blackness. He felt movement on the tightness of the rope. He just swayed. Suppressing another groan. Waiting for his descent to re-start. But all he sensed was a tugging on the rope. As they were tying it off. And then silence. And then nothing.

Left hanging. His mind burst at the thought. He refused to believe it. Tarzan wriggled any part of him he could. He battled with his bonds, he fought to escape. Left hanging there, this was inhuman. His spirit hit the depths. He’d never imagined he’d be left. Not like this. Left hanging, twisted in every joint. He was to be left like this. Back-twisted in inhuman torture. He wriggled to find some small corner of comfort, his fists clenched against the torment which his every twitch awoke. He wriggled searching for a crumb of elusive relief, clutching out to find some tiny place of comfort – or at least less pain. But there was none.

A tear of pain had sprung to his eye. A groan of despair passed his lips. The pain was beyond belief. They left him hanging like this. For the night. In seconds, he had plumbed the depths of human suffering. He had found the bottom of the abyss. Despair. No human being could survive this. No human soul could conceive of this. The pain would drive him crazy. Everything was stretched in impossible directions. Joints pulled out of place, what should bend forwards was forced backwards. Flesh already brutally beaten, muscles pummelled to slush, skin whipped into seething stinging welts – all hung now savagely over-stretched, burning him up.

Terror at the thought ripped through his being. A frenzy of agonies burned through his blood, like liquid fire. A tumult of fear that he could not survive this roared through every nerve. He’d go crazy with this pain. His face was locked in a fixed grimace of agony, his teeth ached with his clenching against that tumult of pain. More tears dripped off his tight-closed eyes into the dismaying darkness below. An everlasting night stretched before him. Endless like the blackness below. Maddening sickening pain flooded every shrieking crevice of his being. Insanity loomed.

Part Three

23. Day 1 - Horrors of the night

In the blackness. Suspended. Motionless. Hung in silence. Except for the agonies of his soul. Nothing to divert his being for a second from the agony that gripped him in its tight cramped claws. The slow grinding ache of tortured arms wrenched continuously against shoulder sockets. He longed for exhaustion to take him over. But the welcome blackness of unconsciousness never came, the agony was too intense. Hunger gnawed at him, his stomach growled in protest, his throat parched.

The pain was unbearable. The muscles and joints in his shoulders and arms had been stretched under torture all evening. They had taken the punishment of his body jolting and twisting under the whipping and beatings. And then his chest had been viciously and repeatedly whipped when stretched over the stone before the rejoicing villagers. His armpits and biceps, stung and lacerated by bamboo canes, were now cruelly bent backwards bearing the weight of his torso hanging downwards. His back was arched back by the pull of gravity, the curvature of his backbone agonisingly forced beyond normal extremities. After seemingly endless hours of torment, swaying between torture and insanity in gut-wrenching exhaustion, his eyes were watered by dismay and agony. Painfully over-extended, his seething red-hot corn-pounded abs were being dragged down towards the bottom of the pit. And yet they were torn back upwards by the biting bonds at his hands and feet.

A deep sobbing breath racked his chest. The pain was beyond enduring. But Tarzan was left to endure it. Alone, except for his suffering. Left alone in the blackness with the screeching pain of tortured flesh, whipped and battered, his brutalised innards burning up, agony beyond imagination. The blackness weighed down on him like a giant boulder crushing not his body but squeezing hope out of his spirit. The power of his spirit overwhelmed. His strength to keep hope in his survival devastated. The will to flood his strong muscled body with the determination to come out of this with his sanity intact was squeezed out of him by an sightless oppressive mass. Endless unimaginable pain. Unending ache, no respite.

And if the guard thought sleep had crept over him, the warrior would come by and prod him hard with a sharpened stick. He’d ram it hard into Tarzan’s tightened bare arse till he yelled back into life. Till the stabbings were met with Tarzan’s cries as stretched, cramped and aching muscles reluctantly jerked him back into his shriekingly painful reality.

Time was never-ending. Every minute stretched into an hour of torture. In the silence of the night, the only living reality was his pain. Grinding aches permeated every crevice of his being and mind. Aches that were unendurable. Had any man been exposed to such prolonged agony or torture? Even if he had the chance to escape, he doubted he’d have the strength to fight his way free. Every movement by him, every blow landed on him would pain him beyond endurance. He doubted he could even run.

Never had he been exposed to such collective hatred. The rejoicing that greeted his capture when Nkonu’s canoe brought the bound Tarzan back home, the communal beatings that night – evidence of loathing. Evidence of joy at his defeat. What had he done to merit such hatred? What had caused such a joyous outpouring of celebration? Why such rejoicing his defeat and suffering?

Down here, the depths of despair dug its claws deeper into his thighs, dragged him further down into the pits of his hopelessness. Tarzan saw below him only the blackness of gloom. And for Tarzan, there was no way out. Never had he been so belittled, so reduced to an object. Used as a child’s swing, a plaything for kids. Used for lads to show off their prowess as warriors, Tarzan as target practice. Used as an outlet of communal hatred, a tool of solidarity. Used to support Nkonu’s bid for leadership, a means to an end.

Since arriving, Tarzan had been degraded to an object, a thing. Less than human. De-humanised. Yet no one, not even the smallest child was moved by the suffering they had seen him endure.

In the blackness, utterly alone. Abandoned to the insanity o this night. But not forgotten. Not for one second forgotten by the body-crippling agonies that flooding his being. Physical pain so incredibly all-pervading that it threatened his mind. Pain that seemed to such his straining torso down into the blackness below, such every living bit of spirit from him. Draining him of strength of will. That way madness lay. For the first time in the challenges of his life, Tarzan sensed hopelessness. Total helplessness. It had always been his physique that defined him, his strength had given shape to his character. Powerful in body, strong in his character, invincible in his presence, manliness personified. But this night he tottered on the brink of destruction. Maddening pain threatened his resolve, attempted to cripple his sanity. He was no one, noting, just the embodiment of pain trapped within suffering flesh. Tortured in a way that seemed inconceivable, the inhumanity that conceived of this pit was incomprehensible. Nothing penetrated that imprisonment in agonies. No memories to comfort, no light, no light, no love. It took all his remaining strength of mind to tell himself Nkonu had not yet broken him. Not yet. And still he had no doubt, Nkonu would do it again. Again and again till he found Tarzan’s breaking point. Anger flared briefly in his tortured gut. He’d seen the crazed fire burning in those eyes. Nkonu would stop at nothing. If he survived this night with his sanity intact, it was only to face brutality. Every hand that touched him, every arms that wielded pain against him will e brutal, filled with intense desire to hurt him. He will know everything when that happens. They will see to that. Who was there to stop him – except Tarzan himself?

The pain was unendurable, But endure it he must. There would be no let-up. He clenched his teeth against the grinding gouging aches. He set his jaw against the despairing loneliness of his deepest fears. A pain-filled tear trickled down a cheek.

Hell is not a place of flames. It does not roar with the bawl of the furnace. It hung in limbo swaying off a frame of poles. Swaying in mind-blowing silence. In utter inhuman agony. The slightest move hurt like you wouldn’t believe. Tarzan hung rigid with pain, every pore ravaged by merciless agony, every bit of his flesh seized by inhuman torment. All humanity removed. Pain that threatened to rob him of his sanity. Like the pull of a tooth slowly drawn from his mouth. But his whole body was one solid mass of unendurable pain.

Like an iron heating in a fire, his senses grew hotter and hotter, more alive as his ordeal stretches into an infinity of tortured insanity. Alert to every hideous anguish inflaming every sense. Tasting his torment on his tongue. Hearing his screech of agony in his ears. Seeing blood-red, fire-yellow his mind torn from his body. The torture enveloped every bit of him. Alone deep in the bowels of the earth, his body gave way to its sobs. He had tried to hang on to his pride but the brutality of suffering overwhelmed him and his body gave voice to agony. A tortured groan that welled up from the tormented depths of his being. A universe of intolerable suffering hung off those ropes, the torments of hell scraped their sharp nails though the open wounds of his torment. Tarzan had hit the depths of human suffering. There was no place further to fall. Tarzan was a prisoner of his own tortured spirit. The blackness of despair coated every sinew of his body. His twisted guts screeched with the torment of the claws of his torment scraping through the raw gaping wounds of his horror.

Furiously, desperately, Tarzan struggled to keep a grip on his mind, to keep faith that he would last out this night. Tarzan’s face twisted and contorted as another endless second passed in brain-crippling pain. Searing flashes scorched through his guts, his innards burning in hell’s fires. His soul was charring in those flames. Forcing himself to get a grip, he fled from the insanity of despair. Dawn would bring another day. And with it another opportunity to escape. He had to believe that. Or at least to last out long enough against Nkonu’s torture. He’d see the sunlight, he’d flourish at the touch of the sun. Otherwise, there was no way out.

But that dawn was approaching with agonising never-ending slowness. Second-by-second dragged out into an eternity of pain. The greatest challenge to his fighter spirit he had ever known. Tears of pain flowed into his eyes, tears of effort and pain. Flames of liquid fire coursed through his veins. Moans of ragged agony broke ragged with each breath. That blackness sucked him down, draining his body of any hope. Bleeding strength from his soul, exhausting spirit. Madness loomed as his soul saw only despair. The welcome oblivion of madness when his body had no reason to fight, That blissful era of drooling madness when his mind had no cause to suffer. Despair was painted on every nerve in his screeching straining torso. He was one contorted grimace of pain. With every heart beat he took, agonies multiplied. By dawn, his soul would be transmuted into one single paralysing cramp, physically, mentally. His famed fighting spirit and resolve turned to stone, spiritually disabled. Broken groans of pain seeped out of every pore, mingled with sobs of despair through every nerve.

((((((((((

24. Day 2 - Submission

Korak’s worst fears were confirmed when they shoved him limping from the cave. Tarzan had been released from the stakes, free of any bonds, the slave collar in his hands. It was the second time his anxious eyes had followed Korak coming out of that cave. He had not known that morning at dawn that Korak was already imprisoned in that cave, Nkonu’s surprise for him after his night of horror in the pit.

Nkonu had expected to be summoned all night. Convinced that Tarzan would have screamed out and given in. Before first light, anxiously he had left the sex-sweated sleeping mat and had Tarzan hauled up from the pit. A flush of relief washed through him when the men unceremoniously dumped his prize on the dew-damp earth. A massive groan broke from his slave’s throat. A hissing that would not stop. Fists tight clenched, every muscle cramped and rigid with the pain of the night. No permanent damage, it seemed, he was still breathing,

Nkonu had expected Tarzan to submit under such pain. The man was tough. By the spirits of Nkonu’s ancestors he was stubborn. But he was weakened beyond belief, there were still two days to go. And, under the cover of darkness, while Tarzan was still suffering eternal agonies down in the pit, Nkonu had secreted his trump card into the cave.

Tarzan, his decision reached with a heavy heart, somewhat ashamed at giving in even to save his son, watched Korak closely as he left the cave for this second time. His return just as anxious a moment, watching him just as heart-stopping. Barely breathing in his disquiet to discover what these animals had put his son through. His face bruised, his mouth cut, Korak had obviously put up a fight before they had pinned him down. No skewers in his chest, though. Loose loops of rope from one wrist to the other were his only restraint. But he was visibly limping. Badly. Every step flashed a pained expression into his young face. Tarzan’s hands clenched tight at the metal collar in his hands. He’d rather not think of the cause, Tarzan tried not to guess at the source of that pain. But he feared the worst. For a moment his temper flared. But he knew then he had reached the right decision to protect his son. This was his boy, at the start of his life as a man. Brimming full of opportunity. Tarzan realised suddenly Korak was handsome, his mother’s boy. He’d turn the girls’ heads. He had a future, a future Tarzan’s fateful decision had just secured.

Nkonu gestured at Tarzan. Tarzan raised the metal collar to his own neck and wrapped it round. A warrior snapped it to under Tarzan’s chin, the high collar forcing the apeman to lift his chin and crane his head backwards.

Korak shouted out “No, this doesn’t have to be!”

Tarzan answered calmly, “There is no choice”.

Slowly, Tarzan lifted his arms and folded his hands behind his neck. The warrior wrapped a metal cuff round the apeman’s wrist. With a metallic clunk, the wrist was secured on the short chain behind the head. With the second clunk, Tarzan was trapped, his hands manacled behind his head, the arms high uplifted leaving his whole body open, a gift to the slave’s master. Nkonu. Tarzan did this for his son. A sense of the indignity this meant hung heavy in the pit of his stomach. A strange tingle at his defencelessness prickled unwelcome in his groin. A glance back at Korak, though, convinced him he was right.

Nkonu’s eyes followed the father’s look. He had ordered them to keep it down in the cave. He didn’t want Korak’s cries to be heard outside. He knew - as he watched the boy struggling against them when they were forcefully pinning his arms out on the floor of the cave - Tarzan would be listening out for every sound. His ears pricked to hear the slightest shout. Silence would drive him mad. Not hearing anything of his son’s pain would ratchet up his imagination. Mind-torture. Tarzan would torture himself with his own images of what he could not see, cripple his own determination to withstand with what he could not hear.

Forget the skewers, he ordered. It was Tarzan they wanted weakened, not the boy. If his father persisted in his stubbornness, they’d bring the boy back out. It would be a strong young man, twisting in agony to Young Nkonu’s whip that his father would see. And cringe at. Not a weakened sack of useless grain.

Keep it quiet. Not the skewers. So passively he watched the rapes.

“Prepare the boats”, Nkonu shouted.

Two warriors ran off.

“We leave for the Council now”.

“You’ve got what you want. Release the boy”.

Nkonu looked thoughtfully from the angry father over to the struggling son held back by men’s arms digging into his arms. He walked over to Tarzan. Suddenly his hand lashed out and grabbed him by his long hair. Yanking down, he forced the head down, trapping Tarzan’s windpipe against the high metal collar.

Tarzan fought and squirmed as best he could, gripped by the hair, his head downcast, his throat strangling, eyes bulging with lack of breath. The head was yanked up again. Tarzan gasped for air, his abs pounding breath back into his lungs.

Korak was safe. Tarzan had just taken his first lesson as a slave. A blistering look of anger filled his eyes. Nkonu looked back with a sneer. Thoughts burst wildly in Tarzan’s head. He knew it would take time. He knew he’d face daily humiliation and shame. But his time would come. Once Korak was safe, once Nkonu dropped his guard. Tarzan’s moment would come. Nkonu would pay for abusing Korak like this. Nkonu would pay. Even if that moment was Tarzan’s last.

“Silence before your Master!” Nkonu sneered. The slap spun Tarzan’s head over to the side.

((((((((((

25. Day 2 - The price

“You must be proud of the boy”.

Tarzan shot Nkonu a glower of hatred.

“Like father, like son”, Nkonu added with a smirk.

Tarzan twisted his neck round in the tight collar to look at his groaning son. Down on one knee, a hand at the back of his neck where the club had landed. Yes, Tarzan was proud. Immensely proud. The boy had gone off to certain torture and pain in the cave without a single murmur. At no point when tied against his father had he betrayed he was scared. There had been not one single moment when he had revealed his terror of what Nkonu would do to him. He had not put Tarzan under any pressure to cave in. Instinctively Korak knew why his father could not give in to Nkonu. He understood.

He understood too that his father’s continued defiance would mean unendurable pain for him. Nkonu would try harder and harder. The tortures becoming more intense. Taking the boy’s suffering beyond endurance to force his father to give in. Yet not once had Korak shown any signs of stress. Not once had he given even a slight indication that he was frightened. He had gone into the cave, head held high, though his fear was all-consuming. Carrying the burden of his father’s tough decision on his burgeoning shoulders. By the gods, Tarzan felt proud. Korak had entered the cave facing torture, rape, suffering. Like a man. Yes, Tarzan’s heart burned with pride for his son. But he burned too with guilt. Guilt born of love for his only boy. That’s why he had sacrificed himself to Nkonu. To buy his son his freedom. To give him his life.

And again, just now, Korak had proven his courage. Futile though the situation was, Korak could take no more of his father’s suffering . Burning with anger and frustration at their defeat, plagued by the continuing torture of his father, Korak had launched himself at Nkonu. Determined to help his father. And taken the blow to his neck.

Korak had watched his father strangled on the slave collar. Grabbed by the hair, head yanked down, windpipe crushed into the thick metal collar. Korak stood struggling against the strong arms holding him back, hearing the gurgling of his choking father, face flushed red, his eyes bulging with his struggles against Nkonu’s grip.

With increasing anger he watched Nkonu torture his father gouging the skewers in his chest till Tarzan could take no more.

Nkonu’s hand was tight in Tarzan’s hair. The other hand on Tarzan’s chest, fingering at a skewer buried deep in the muscle. Slowly, Nkonu had pulled downwards sliding the skewer painfully out, breaking open clots, scraping splintered bamboo through stinging wounds. Tearing agonies slowly through his father’s chest. Tarzan screwed his eyes tight against the pain. Viciously, his eyes burning with the tension creased in his slave’s face, Nkonu gouged the bamboo back in and sawed it agonisingly out, building up the pain, gratified by the tears of excruciating pain in his slave’s eyes. With a sudden yank, he pulled it out, pulling Tarzan forward with it, his chest instinctively shot forward seeking to evade the smarting pains. With a groan, Tarzan’s mouth shot open, contorted and twisted. Panting hard and loud as he clenched his teeth together biting down on the mindless pain.

Korak watched a trickle of blood ooze down his father’s ribcage from broken blood clots. His father was still held in his indignity by the hair. His whole torso tense as tremors of pain spread from the re-ignited wound out over his brave body. His arms still trapped, held up in the pose of a bondage slave. His chest still wide open and vulnerable to Nkonu’s whims.

“Stop that, you animal!”

Korak yelled out and threw himself at Nkonu, arms outstretched to haul him off his tortured father. But his guards were ready for him. With the speed of an attacking cheetah, the club rose and fell. It caught the leaping boy on the shoulder by his neck. Tarzan helpless watched through pain-weary eyes. Korak froze, his face contorted, he yelled out, eyes wide open with the shock. With a sharp cry of pain, he fell to one knee, half-stunned, a hand flying to the pain that thumped in his head.

“Like father, like son. He takes a long time to give up”, Nkonu threw at Tarzan. “He tries my patience”, he snarled with cold eyes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nkonu caught sight of his nephew. A sense of regret passed through his mind at this sacrifice of Korak for his father. His nephew too was dedicating himself to Nkonu’s service, yet earlier today his uncle had treated him bad. He had let his nephew down. He had been standing at the entrance to the cave when the men took Korak in. Nkonu knew the boy wanted to join in with the warriors and play his part. He wanted in. But this was man’s work. And young Nkonu had not yet earned the warrior cuts into his chest. But, his uncle decided now with affection, he’d have his rewards.

Nkonu had no children of his own he acknowledged. He did not know exactly what would prompt a father like Tarzan to sacrifice himself for his child. But with his nephew’s performance today, he was getting fond of the boy. He would have his day. He deserved it. He glanced from his nephew to Korak on his knee in the dirt, shaking the pain out of his bleary head. Punished because he loved his father. Nkonu had shaken his head at his sister’s boy as he passed into the cave. After all the boy had done, Nkonu had still denied him the right to take part. But with his eyes now he said it. He looked at his nephew and gave his promise. He knew how his nephew would get his rewards. Patience, young man. You’ll have your day. This tiresome Korak will be yours.

26. Day 2 - Terms

“Just can’t give up!”

Tarzan ignored Nkonu’s mocking tone of and shot a concerned glance at his son. He too wished the boy would give up. He had sacrificed himself that the boy might survive. The boy would have to accept that. But there he was, head down, neck and strong young torso twisting out the pain of the blow to the head. He had tried to save his father. But he couldn’t. He never would be able to. Korak needed to leave, to be safe. Leave his father to sort out his own fate.

Then, Tarzan vowed to himself, when Korak was safe and gone, he’d wait his chance. Slave to Nkonu perhaps. Humiliated daily. Punishment his daily fare. But his moment would come. Patience, control, perseverance. He’d take pain. He’d take humiliation. He’d abase himself, take all the abuse. Till Nkonu dropped his guard, became complacent about his tame slave. And one day, his chance would come. Then he would exact the most devastating revenge on Nkonu for using his son like this. Whatever the cost. Whatever the consequences. It might be Tarzan’s last moment. But Nkonu would pay for putting his son at risk.

Nkonu turned to Korak, down on one knee and shaking the pain out of his head. He sneered, jabbing a finger hard into Tarzan’s chest.

“Look and learn, boy. This animal is no more your father. You no longer have a father. Tarzan is a slave. He is mine. Worth less than one of my cattle. A chattel for me to deal with as I wish. Look and learn, boy”.

A guard yanked Korak’s head up hard, pulling him by the hair. An arm circled his throat and pulled him up by his neck. The stranglehold tightened round his throat tightened. Tarzan watched with alarm as the guard pulled him up to his feet choking by his neck. Korak’s hands pulled at the arm to break the grip but the squeezing bicep tightened. Korak’s face contorted. Gurgles struggled out of his strangled throat. Tarzan watched helpless as his son hung choking by his throat, face flushed with effort. His young muscled stomach tense with strain, stretched by the stranglehold crushing his windpipe.

“Leave him” snarled Tarzan.

A sharp slap in the face silence him.

“Shut it! Slaves have no voice”, snapped Nkonu.

He turned to Korak hanging by his throat.

“Both of you. Look and learn”.

Nkonu reached for a second skewer jammed for hours into Tarzan’s chest. Another sharp groan escaped through Tarzan’s gritted teeth, Slowly, painfully slowly, twisting as he pulled, Nkonu scraped the rough bamboo edges over raw flesh inside the wound. Nerves burst into flames. Tarzan erupted failing to suppress sharp yelps, pumped out in bursts of air as sparks flashed deep inside the muscle. His torso squirmed, He bounced on one leg, writhing to find somewhere where pain did not flood his body.

With a jerk, the skewer exploded out. Nkonu’s right hand lashed out and claw-like fingers dug into Tarzan’s tortured breast. Far into burning damaged muscle, the fingernails burrowed deep and, squeezing hard, the claw closed tight.

Tarzan clenched his teeth hard together, eyes screwed up at the pain, hands useless in manacles behind his head. Korak watched the flow of blood trickle down his father’s ribs, felt his father’s agony as he crushed a groan in his pain-rigid throat.

Nkonu shook Tarzan by the crushing claw, yanking him savagely backwards and forwards. Determined to wring another humiliating cry from his slave in front of his son. Tarzan threw his head back in pain, his mouth gaping wide, eyes clenched tight closed. He felt his thighs tremble as pain stabbed him through the chest, sensed his knees weaken.

Worse, he felt his dick thickening, the jabbing sparks in his pec shooting unwanted life into his crutch, embarrassing the father before his son..

“Stop that!”

Korak’s voice lashed out in command. But Nkonu’s eyes were only on his slave’s writhing face. He shook his former rival again brutishly by the agonised chest muscle. His claw burrowed deeper, digging in tighter into raw skewered wounds, deeper into whipped and purple-bruised flesh. Pressing down, the claw forced his slave to his knees before him. His hand shot to the mane of black hair. Twisting hard, pulling the head hard back, listening to the panting of air trying to flood the lungs with air to fight off the pain.

Tarzan, on one knee, head twisted back, was glad that his thickening dick was for now out of sight between his out-stretched thighs. His face filled with hatred but was pulled back, panting hard, locked into Nkonu’s triumphant face. Nkonu glanced over at the son, distressed at his father’s discomfort, held back struggling between the two warriors. Nkonu was teaching them what it would mean for Tarzan to serve him as Master.

His face was pressed back into Tarzan’s.

“I set the terms, slave. Korak stays behind. When you have declared to the Chief you have been vanquished. When you have proven to the tribe that your life is submitted to me. My slave for ever.” Nkonu panted with the effort.

“…Then, on our return, Korak will be freed”.

Nkonu yanked Tarzan’s head forward and plummeted him helplessly face-down in the dirt.

“Agreed?”

He stomped his heel hard into Tarzan’s backbone. The foot digging the tortured pec into the dirt.

“Agreed?”

His slave struggled to raise his head. Tears of pain filled his face from the clawing in his tortured chest. Looking up, Tarzan stared loving up into Korak’s face. And nodded. Agreed.

((((((((((

27. Day 2 – Pit fall

Tarzan protested. “This is wrong. Unnecessary. You have my word”.

Tarzan took the full sting of Nkonu’s slap in the face because the collar impeded movement.

“Slaves have no voice!” snapped Nkonu back. “Learn, dog!”

Tears stinging in his eyes, Tarzan realised this was his life from now. For Korak’s sake. Till the opportunity presented itself. Then Nkonu would know the full sting of Tarzan’s wrath.

They had led Korak and Tarzan back to the pit where Tarzan had spent his night in agony. Korak’s loosely bound arms had been raised above his head and a tall pole inserted between them trapping the wrist ropes behind the pole.

“I gave you my ….”.

Another back-hander snapped Tarzan’s neck hard into the edge of the collar.

“Watch in silence, slave!”

Tarzan watched, fearing the worst, as a rope was circled round Korak’s ankle, passed round the back of the pole and looped around the other ankle, pulling his feet backwards. The curve forced Korak’s torso into an impressive arch, Nkonu noted. Indeed, a wonderful gift for his nephew. Every young sculpted muscle exposed. With a downward flash of his eyes, he saw the naked manhood dangling helpless in front. With one quick move, the bottom of the pole was pulled back and lifted, pushing Korak forward and off his feet. The top of the pole was caught as it tipped forward and the pole lifted horizontally over the men’s heads, Korak hanging face-down below.

Tarzan felt his panic rise. His night in the pit told how this was agony for his son. Hanging suspended beneath the horizontal pole, his feet roped back against the stake at one end. At the other end, his wrists hanging from the loop over the back of the pole.

Tarzan dreaded the thought of Korak being lowered down like that. And left. The muscles cramped up quickly, the aches ground into every sinew and strained every joint. It was agony. But he didn’t know how to stop this. Only Nkonu would. And he knew Nkonu wouldn’t. Between back-twisted wrists and bent-back feet, Korak’s lithesome body was hanging down in a sharp curve, from his waist to elbows cruelly bent up into a steep arch. Korak was trapped in a back-breaking hold. The pole was fastened by Nkonu’s grinning men to a rope over the tree branch and launched out over the pit. Korak was pitching and swinging, his face etched with the pain of the stretch and the uneven jostling of the pole. He struggled hard to hang on to the crunching groan that forced its way out of his throat. Hoping to save his father further torment. His teeth clenched hard together biting on the groan that burnt in his throat, the strong muscles of his chest made useless and painfully stretched.

“Stop …!”

Tarzan started to protest again. Nkonu grabbed him by the hair, dragged him over to the pit and forced him to his knees. The pit where he’d fought his own hours of despair the night before. The pit where Tarzan feared that his son was about to suffer the same agonising fate. In body-crippling torment.

“Silence! Watch and learn!” Nkonu hissed.

Gingerly holding big sacks out from their bodies, two warriors approached the pit. Quickly up-ending the sacks, they emptied the contents into the pit. A hissing teeming mass of snakes dropped into the blackness. From below, the sounds of a cacophony of seething angry reptiles assailed Tarzan’s ears, his fears for his son rose.

“My guarantee. My terms”, gestured Nkonu.

“This is the deal. Tarzan submits to me as his master. Before the chief. To the whole tribe That is our bargain. Is it not, apeman?”

When Tarzan hesitated, a smack across the back of Tarzan’s head toppled him forward. Below, the snakes hissed. Anger flared in Tarzan’s chest. For Korak’s sake, he nodded.

“We take with us two caged birds”, Nkonu carried on regardless. He yanked Tarzan’s head up by his hair. Pulled back the head till he stared upside down into Nkonu’s sneering face.

“Once, ape-pig, you have submitted to me before the tribe, the black bird will be released. On the arrival of the black bird, Korak will be released from the pole. If you fail to convince the Chief, the white bird will fly. On its arrival, that rope will be severed. Your only son, he too will fly. Down into the pit, fall to his death. Into the pit of snakes”.

“It will take hours before we reach the Chief”, protested Tarzan. “He cannot hang so long”.

Nkonu cooed teasingly, “Like father, like son. I am sure that the son of Tarzan will match his father’s endurance”.

Then Nkonu’s face changed. A murderous snarl slashed across his face. With a sharp shove of his hand in Tarzan’s hair, he slammed his slave face down into the earth.

“Korak’s fate is in your hands, slave”.

Incensed at this humiliation yet contemplating the murderous death hissing at the bottom of the pit, Tarzan shuddered at the thought.

“What Tarzan endured, Korak will too”, he heard his swaying son hiss through his pains.

Tarzan lifted his head.

“But I gave you my ….”

The words stayed unsaid. Nkonu’s fist hammered into Tarzan’s skull. His captive erupted in a shout. Lights flashed before his eyes.

“And should you think to try and escape, my once-mighty slave….”,

Nkonu’s voice was coloured with a snigger at Tarzan’s expense,

“…. if no bird arrives by nightfall, pig, the rope will be cut. The boy falls to his death”.

Korak strained to lift his head at his father’s shout. He forced his head back to see his father. Korak had begun to sweat in earnest. A liquid sheen of pain clung to his tight stretched body. He ground his teeth together, felt the veins in his neck turn rigid with strain, standing out like cord. At the edge of the pit, his father was on his knees again, arms raised helpless in the collar, face twisted with the pain stabbing in his brain. Nkonu’s hand was twisting mercilessly in his hair, trying to squeeze out another cry. Burning to humiliate his proud father before his tortured son. Pain was twisting agonising in Korak’s back-stretched armpits. The cramp in his arched back was becoming unbearable, clenching his fists tight at the strain. Their eyes met. Korak’s filled with the waters of his pain. Their plight was hopeless. No one had any choice. Through a look of anxiety and concern, Tarzan sought to communicate through the son’s agonised eyes,

“Trust me! I’ll see you out of this”.

Korak gave his father a look that was meant to lift his father’s hopes. Look to yourself, Korak’s gaze said. I’ll get through this. Tarzan’s pride in the courage of his son facing impossible adversity lifted. But a leaden stone of responsibility weighed heavy in his gut. It was his fault Korak was suffering like this. And it was not over yet.

Korak grimaced as the natives lowered the rope, it jerked as it shuddered over the branch of the tree. Head painfully raised, through gritted teeth and clenched eyes, Korak tired to re-assure his brave father, who was sacrificing his own freedom for his sake. “I can take it!” he tried to convey. Tarzan looked over to his son, his teeth clenched against the pain, tears forming in his eyes. Pride welled, his son was a credit to himself. Tarzan felt immensely proud of his son’s courage. Yet Tarzan had endured a night in that pit. He knew what lay before his son. Whatever pain he was feeling now, it was a mere shadow of that the pit would inflict. Korak grimaced, then his face again transformed to a more controlled look. Just to give his father a nod of encouragement. A look of re-assurance. Before his head became too heavy and dropped.

Tarzan watched as his son’s body lowered, Tarzan wincing with each jerk downwards, the jolts shooting pains through Korak’s shoulders and arms, down the arc-pained back. Pride and guilt fought within Tarzan. He knew his son could not take it. Just as he had not taken it the night before. Memories and pictures of his own horror in the pit invaded Tarzan’s brain, assaulting his mind, crippling his belief in his son’s ability to withstand.

Korak had the courage to pretend. He had found the strength to try and make it easier on his father. Now it was down to Tarzan not to hesitate. To lose no time. Get to the boats, get back to the chief. To persuade the Chief that Nkonu had beaten him. Not to delay and prolong Korak’s agony.

“Let’s go!” Tarzan ordered.

Nkonu’s hand tore through Tarzan’s scalp and thudded his face into the earth. Tarzan’s voice burst with a surprised grunt.

“I give the orders” Nkonu snarled. But with a smirk on his face. He dropped to his knees as he ground Tarzan’s face into the dirt.

“No hurry. There is a beauty in such a sight, don’t you think?” His voice came oiled and seductive.

Nkonu nodded towards Korak who was swinging near the lip of the pit, - as Tarzan struggled face down against Nkonu’s grip.

“Such a well-built young man, transformed by the beauty of pain.”

Tarzan’s knuckles were white with anger behind his head. A sharp slap snapped across the back of his head.

“Answer me, slave!”

“You’re sick” retorted Tarzan into the dust.

“Sick, maybe”, Nkonu grinned. “But who is wearing the collar? Who is dangling over the pit?”

He nodded. The pole halted level with the edge of the pit. Korak saw only blackness beneath. A searing tidal wave of agony surged through every over-strained muscle in his body. In all of his rich youthful life Korak had never imagined such an inferno as held him in its grip, every bit of his body overloaded with pain. He heard the angry hissing of venomous snakes below. And bit his lips against the pain, tears swelling into his eyes.

“Your son, slave, is beautiful”, Nkonu informed Tarzan who could not see.

“Transformed by his pain. He suffers so fine. Suffers so well in the throws of torture”, Nkonu nodded triumphant. To order almost, Korak released a groan of pain.

Nkonu caught sight of his nephew on the other side of the pit. His eyes bright with excitement. The suffering arched tightness swinging there before him. As if sensing his uncle’s look on him, young Nkonu lifted his gaze. Nkonu nodded, a brief smile played on his face. His nephew returned the nod in appreciation. And his gaze dropped greedily to his uncle’s gift, taut and groaning swaying by his feet.

“To the boats”, Tarzan heard Nkonu. The headsman yanked on the hair of his slave and dragged Tarzan by his scalp to his feet.

“To the river!” shouted Nkonu scenting his moment of triumph. His grip twisted in Tarzan’s scalp, he yanked the head down to his waist and determined he marched his tamed wild beast away. Bent double, dragged by his hair, hands uselessly shackled behind in the collar, Tarzan struggled to keep up with his new Master. His heart heavy for the son he was deserting in agony.

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28. Day 2 - I’m gonna make you cry

Young Nkonu watched the canoes slowly disappear down the river. He’d watched with impatience as they had loaded the defeated Tarzan into the boat. They had stood him at the prow. On display. The first thing that anyone on the river bank would see. The lord of the jungle, his bulging arms upraised, his famed strength helplessly entrapped in the collar of a slave. A symbol of Nkonu’s early victory. Tarzan returning to kneel before the chief and acknowledge himself defeated. Declaring Nkonu as his master. To do with him whatever Nkonu wished.

His uncle’s boats seemed to take for ever to turn the bend and disappear from sight with Tarzan. He was anxious to get on. His uncle had left him in charge. All Nkonu’s warriors were in the canoes, paddling in triumph back to the Chief. Left behind with him were five older boys, all keyed up now ready to prove their worth as one of Nkonu’s new breed of warriors. To be allowed to join the first marauding war party to surprise their neighbours. Keen to prove themselves acceptable. Eager to show they had what it would take to earn the warrior cuts on their skins and battle for their new leader.

Their test – Korak. To take him from the pit and prove their mettle on him. The nephew knew now these was no way Nkonu meant to keep his word and let the boy go. The boy would join his father. To be shamed too in the collar of the slave. To witness his father’s ultimate humiliation. And then for the pair of them to be dealt with as his uncle saw fit. To become Nkonu’s first captives in his new reign of terror. When the tribe would be feared again. Boy and father - convenient tools to send the message winging through the forests. Their glory days were back.

And with Korak these young warriors would have their first taste. Nkonu had given his nephew and the boys their first bite. A chance to prove that their youth spent under the chief’s new ways had not eaten into their hearts. They had not gone soft. They were ready to become men. Warriors. A test, a trial. With Korak to work on and prove themselves. Nkonu was seeking men to join him, men of courage. Men who would not hesitate at anything when dealing with their foes. Men whose reputation for ferocity would strike fear into every tribe. These boys sought to bear the proud title of warrior. They craved to carry with pride the cuts of the warrior carved deep into their chests. This was their chance to show what they had got. The ape-boy was theirs - to prove their mettle. And his uncle had put young Nkonu in charge. His reward. Responsible for taming of the apeman’s boy. To take him back to Nkonu who would by then be chief. His duty to tell his uncle who had handle Korak with the spunk needed to join his uncle’s men.

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[pic]

They’d swung Korak up out of the pit and dumped him uncaring on his front. The change of position had sent tremors of new pain sizzling through the boy. But they’d ignored his cries, not caring about his agonies, there’d be plenty more to come. They hauled the pole out from his back and dragged him to his feet. His feet still bound, two of the bigger boys grabbed an arm each and dragged him painfully down over to the centre of the village.

Children and girls had gathered to watch. Korak, naked still, grimaced painfully, his over-stretched exhausted muscles crying out for relief. He looked around him. He was under the frame where he had hung with his father. The boy, the one who had wielded the whip and whom his father had learned to fear, stood before him. Arms folded over his chest, imperious. In command. Other boys around. But no men.

The boy barked an order. A knife sliced through the ropes binding his wrists. Korak welcomed the relief and rubbed the rope burns, wincing at the pain and the relief. He was part free. But his ankles were still bound. He was surrounded by five boys, all about his age, fresh muscled. Eager, watching him like a hawk. Even if he were free, he still doubted he’d be a match for them. But he’d give it a try. Pride demanded it. Dignity dictated it.

Another order was barked. A whoosh through the air gave only a little warning. A sharp sting behind his knees felled Korak to his knees. His hand to the ground stopped him from falling flat. Instantly hands were on him. Korak struggled but was out-numbered, he found himself flat on his front, his hands yanked behind him, strongly held and re-bound up his back.

Young Nkonu watched “his men” at work. The young apeman had struggled but they had got him quickly under control. He knelt there now, still struggling in their arms, face grim and determined. Chest heaving, stomach muscles pounding with the effort but arms bound useless behind. Young Nkonu had already determined he would lead the way, he would set the standard for the other boys to follow. He had impressed his uncle with his domination of the father, he would impress “his men” with his powers over the boy.

On his knees, Korak looked up and watched as a rope was thrown over the crossbar above his head. He had been relieved to be released from the pit. But it seemed that the punishment was not over. It seemed that - with the submission of his father - this endless abuse did not stop.

The end of the rope snaked down to his head. Defenceless but determined, he put up a struggle as he felt the rope being bound to his wrists behind. And all the time, the boys’ leader stood there, haughty, watching him. Coldly. Taking in his struggles, assessing the strength of his resistance. His father had learned to fear Nkonu’s nephew. With an icy finger scraping at his balls, Korak knew he would too.

The rope was pulled, hauling Korak to his feet. The strain in his shoulder joints from hanging over the pit sliced fresh pain up his arms. Quickly Korak dragged his bound feet under him and pushed with his legs to relieve the ache. But the pull did not stop. Up his hands were pulled behind his back, tipping him forward. The strain in his arms and shoulders began again. The agonies of the pit welcomed Korak’s pain back. He grimaced. He swore. He clenched his teeth biting down on the pain. He crushed his fists in anticipation of more.

The rope stopped when his hands were half-way up his back. He tipped his chest forward to ease the strain. Standing on his bound feet, he swayed precariously. And still the ache in his shoulders and arms dug in deep. Deep into his armpits, dug a growing tremor of fear deep into his soul.

Young Nkonu circled his trapped captive. Standing upright but the pull on his arms behind tipped Korak’s upper chest forward. Bent partly forward, the young apeman’s eyes followed Nkonu. Part in defiance, more in fear, Nkonu suspected. He sensed him watching, taut. Like a wounded animal being stalked by its hunter. Eyes wide open, tense in every sinew. Hunted by a vicious predator, snarling for its life, stealthily circling. Korak’s young strong muscle taut. Nkonu noticed how the boy held his breath, stomach in tight, breathed in lightly through his nose. Eyes peeled, seeking signals, scenting young Nkonu like an animal sensing a predator around, looking for danger. Finding it. Threatening, ominous. Heart-stopping.

Nkonu held his captive by the jaw, squeezed it tight. It almost felt like Nkonu pulled himself forwards on that grip, his fingers digging in, the sight of the ape-boy’s grimace sending a rush down his thighs. The words came out themselves. So close face-to-face, young Nkonu felt his breath waft off the ape-boy’s face back onto his own.

“Sweet thing, I’m gonna make you cry”.

Odd words! They’d spoken themselves. Where had they come from? As if they mirrored some bond that was forming between him and his victim.

His other hand glided over the boy’s shoulders, feeling the strength, assessing the power. He ran his hands over taut resistant muscles, he felt warm flesh go tense beneath his fingers. Down over the chest, thrust forward by the rope, he weighed the growing strength of the ape-boy’s chest in his hand. Firm, strong, becoming dense. A finger flicked out. The nub of the edge of Korak’s chest was firm to the touch, resistant to the scratch of Nkonu’s nail. He remembered with fondness how his father’s chest had squirmed on the rock under the sting of his whip. Nkonu’s fingertip lingered over that magical feel of that nub, feeling a sense of power as the solid nipple rose further to his touch. Feeling something reminding him. Filling Nkonu’s mind with the image of Korak’s father skewered and hissing in constant pain. This boy had been spared. So far. But the feel of Korak’s nub stroked under Nkonu’s fingertip sent shivers of potential excitement up his thighs, a prickling in young Nkonu’s balls. He gave the nub another strong stroke. So much potential, so much pain to give.

29. Day 2 - Man-handled

The hand squeezed again. The young apeman tried to break the iron grip on his jaw but Nkonu crushed it even tighter. Korak was still groaning when the other hand reached into the captive’s stomach. Korak was folded forward by his arms pulled up behind, his midriff collapsed inwards, Nkonu felt for the ridges of muscle he had admired there before. His fingers folded into a claw and squeezed. Finger nails dug into muscle, crushing flesh between the claw. Tight, gripping, crushing. A tight claw fuelled by a youthful lack of inhibition, powered by an uncaged desire to hurt.

Korak cried out in hissing pain at the grip mauling into his stomach. Too late he fought to tense his stomach. Tightening his strong muscles there, he struggled to break free of the clench. But Nkonu just grinned back at the sight of struggling pain, he already had his fingernails buried deep into the boy’s gut. Squeezing, crushing. Clawing. Hauling cries out of that young muscled gut.

That strange threat, “Sweet thing”, had hit hard and side-tracked Korak’s thinking. A chill of fear at those strange words had surprised him with a shiver that trembled through Korak’s confused soul.

“Back off!”

Korak spat back at the hand mauling his stomach. A hatred for this boy boiled in his heart. For the cowardly devastation on his father, bound and helpless to fight back. He sensed a strong malevolence in him when they stood this close. His body humming with tension, Korak wanted this evil boy dead. But then the nephew sneered in his face. And clenched again. Fingers turned to iron, nails dug in. Stomach muscle crushed in an evil-minded crippling claw. Protectively, Korak folded himself forward pulling in his guts, biting into the pain that brought a tear to his eye. Trying to pull away, tightening, flexing solid muscle against the attack, hauling on his arms to escape the clench.

The chuckle from the boy was like an icy finger stroking at his bare balls. Korak suspected this boy was merely playing with his head with that threat. “I’m gonna make you cry”, the memory of those words sent another shiver down his legs. He had seen, though, the marks this boy had left on his father, he had learned of this boy’s devastating skill with the whip. But Korak feared just as much that his power to resist might fail him. “I’m gonna make you cry”, it was the way he had said it. Evil. Malicious. The hang in the pit had weakened him. Unbelievably so. In mind as well as body. Even though hauled back out of the pit, he still felt that depth of despair into which those pains had thrust him. His fears of hanging for hours in such agony had dragged him to the bottom of his very being. With relief, he had welcomed being brought to the surface and released from the horror of hanging like that. But they had released him … for what?

“Sweet thing, I’m gonna make you cry!”

He steeled himself to stare backing his attacker’s face. As he knew his father would. Defying the boy to try anything on. Like father, like son. But knowing too that young Nkonu would do just that. Try anything on.

Nkonu let him go, he released the crippling claw in his stomach. Grinning at Korak’s groan of relief, enjoying the wince of pain that slashed across his captive handsome face. Ominously, the prowling cat, he circled his captive again. Stalking his prey. Sensing the boy felt like a weakened quarry. He heard the rapid gasping, the effort and straining as the boy fought in determination to regain control over his pain. He slid his hand down over the back. Good strong shoulders, now covered with a sheen of the boy’s nervous sweat. Nkonu rolled the captive’s body sweat between his finger tips. He sniffed at it, caught a whiff of his fears. A broad ridged back - at the moment squeezed muscle-tight together by the rope up his back. But a broad expanse on which to lay his whips.

His eyes slid down to the naked backside. They caressed him lasciviously, like a hand stroking at fresh fur. He wasn’t interested in the captive like that but he knew the power of a threat. His hand felt the skin twitch under his touch, stiffen, menaced. His finger slid towards the crack. Slowly. Playing with him. To order, the boy clenched his cheeks together fearful of intrusion. To order the ape-boy yelled out a protest. Threatening. Frightened. Still feeling the burn inside from his time in the cave. Trembling in fear of a repeat. Yes, Nkonu would work on that fear. Really give his captive something to worry about.

He felt indestructible suddenly. The proud invincibility of the young. The others too would be willing to help out with that. The flush of young blood prickling in their loins. These other boys were motivated to do anything to impress themselves on his uncle. After all, this is what happened in battle. Defeated warriors had their honour desecrated. Deflowered. Captured warriors had their manhood defiled to mark their fall into slavery. This was the tribe’s future, the glories of victory.

But Nkonu had already decided where he would lead. He’d known from the start when his hands glided sensually over the boy’s pebbled stomach where he would lay on his whip.

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30. Day 2 - Rivals

Young Nkonu had first sensed the Spirit that time when his lashes had shocked Tarzan on the children’s swing. It had spoken to young Nkonu like a revelation. It had hummed to him his destiny as he laid his first strokes into the apeman’s back. His muscled body had twisted in shock from those first unseen lashes stinging him from behind. The spasm of muscle, the crack of surprise, the hands clenched shocked above his head in that frame, tight hands knotted at the fall of Nkonu’s gift. Nkonu felt alive like never before. Nkonu was aware of another’s presence with him as he offered up that gift of pain. Young Nkonu felt his skin burst with energy, mysterious liquidy excitement ran down his back. He had felt the Spirit prickling on his skin. Shocked, exalted.

From that moment on, Nkonu had been increasingly aware of the Spirit instructing him on how to hurt, an irresistible need to express his identity through Tarzan’s pain. An insatiable greed that he somehow imbibed from the air. A sense of something in the air that clothed Tarzan in a sweated pain like a second skin. And attracted the lick of his whip. It floated on the air above him, sweet-tasting like milk. Nkonu became aware of that taste coating his lips. Inviting Nkonu to feed, inviting him to feed off Tarzan’s suffering. Flushing his loins with life-giving strength. Like an infant suckling on a mother’s breast. Only Nkonu was becoming an infant that was insatiable. A suckling child that could not be filled. Cravings for the need for another’s pain that would not be satisfied. He was the suckling child that sucked its mother dry. A greed for another’s pain so ravenous that it had to be fed until it had drained the captive of all resistance, left it an empty shell.

But Tarzan had been strong. His power to resist seemed equally unquenchable, he had fought back, the atmosphere about him had crackled like the air before a storm. That night with Tarzan on the torture stone, the scene had turned into a feeding frenzy. That night not just Nkonu had sensed the Spirit’s presence. It had settled on the whole village, it had tingled on the skin, it had infiltrated itself into their souls. They had all sucked it in, it had transformed their vision, they had massed around Tarzan’s writhing pain like crazy, sucking up his cries with that milk-sweet air. They had all felt it, they had all fed off it. They had been piranhas swarming like crazed demented creatures around the red-raw meat of the apeman’s suffering.

That power of the Spirit had sizzled in the air, they had breathed it in, it had inflamed their lusts. There was a force here that validated life if people opened their souls to it. Men felt it in their cocks, women went moist. It was a force that empowered. A power that made Nkonu feel strong like never before. This crazed need to hurt. To get caught up in this voracity to inflict pain. Once Nkonu had become chief and the reins of restraint were cut, once the warriors were set free to roam through the forest, once the right to deal rightly with their enemies was restored, - the Spirit would flood their warriors’ loins. That Spirit would go abroad. Their warriors would be unstoppable. Invincible.

Korak was shocked by the pain. A stinging smarting slash of pain that sliced up through his belly. His eyes popped, mouth slashed open wide in a soundless cry. He’d never know such cutting pain.

In his adventures in the jungle, sometimes he’d been taken captive and he’d felt the thump of anger when beaten and whipped. At the boarding school, they still used the cane and he’d taken some on his backside. In the cave earlier, he had taken knocks, he had been raped. He knew from his father that Tarzan had been tortured by this boy, Korak had seen for himself the evidence. But Korak had never suspected pain from a mere boy could smart like this. The first lash of the whip up into his stomach had made him jump in shock. Stunned by the bite of the burn, shocked by the sting of searing pain. He cried out in surprise. Froze as tremors of pain shuddered through his whole body.

He looked through pain-bleary eyes at the young attacker watching him coldly. Hate for this assailant flooded Korak. He sensed rather than saw a change that had come over this boy. He’d prowled around Korak earlier, sizing him up, trying to intimidate him. His eyes cold. Like a snake about to strike.

Now Korak sensed now a mania about him, a wildness had infused his body. This was a boy who loved to inflict pain. He got off on it. This was the animal whose passion to hurt his father had come to respect. A grown man whose courage none had ever had reason to doubt had become wary at the approach of a mere boy. There was something crazed hanging about him. Demented. As if he fed off the hiss of pain, breathed in suffering instead of air.

They’d loosened the rope somewhat so Korak stood upright now on his bound feet. But his wrists were still bound behind, his arms were kept out of the way. No defence. No protection against that vicious cattle whip that had just torn bitingly across his abs. Korak tensed. His attacker was lining up his second blow. Slow, no pretence at surprise. Letting his victim know. Korak held his breath. Protectively he pulled his stomach in. In terror, he saw with wide-open eyes the leather slash through the air. Tense with fearful anticipation. He’d just felt the bite, he was still shaking from the sting. His guts froze at the sound. He watched in nervous dread, as if in slow motion, every terrifying movement as it ploughed towards his stomach. He pulled in his stomach instinctively, he’d flexed his strong abs. But no move could avoid the stinging bite across his gym-trained muscle.

It was as if the whip could cut him in two. Leather sliced into his gut like a hot knife through butter. Young Nkonu reared back and unleashed his whip at Korak’s stomach with full strength. Korak’s chest folded forward. His stomach exploded. Pain wrenched itself up though his chest and spilled out over his chest. A first cry. A loud hissing of steam filled his ears. The safety valve in his head burst. Scolding pain flooded his head and chest.

Another lash unleashed itself. Korak’s body lurched forward, pain snapped him back. The shock lifted him off his bound feet. His knees collapsed. Korak fell forward losing balance, the rope on his wrists yanking into his injured shoulders. Again he cried out, sharp pain cutting into his smarting agony. Helpless he back-hung from his wrists, arms pulled up high, stabbing flashes of pain clawing at his screeching arms. Hearing that warning hiss, watching the terror of the leather’s descent.

31. Day 2 - Contest

As he knew they would, “his men” enthusiastically complied. They were desperate to follow Nkonu into war. Earn fame and fortune. For the tribe, for themselves. Keen to earn the honour of carrying the warrior cuts deep in their chest, eager to fall in behind their new chief. The nephew decided that his ten vicious lashes into his prisoner’s guts were good for a start. It set the tone for the others to follow, it taught the ape-boy who was in charge. He handed Korak over. For now. Eager to lavish his sight of his captive’s suffering at others’ hands, enjoy the sight when others “made him cry”. To bathe in the tears that streaked his pain-handsome face. Young Nkonu turned Korak over to “his men”.

Again, they had the captive slumped forward, now almost bent double. The rope was pulled up even higher, making Korak hang off his back-slung arms, his full weight dragging down on his strained shoulders, suspended off the rope up his back. He groaned at the pull but the rope was so tight that he could not haul himself upright, could not relieve the pain in his arms.

The boys had collectively agreed there was only once course of action. That naked arse bent to their command made it inevitable. The forbidden taboo, the ultimate male punishment. Korak’s feet had been pinioned outwards, he’d fought back, fearing the worst but now a pole across his ankles kept his legs stretched. Opening him up. He had protested, he had squirmed when hands slid over his open and bare backside. Taunting him before the event, mauling him, scaring him. Making his heart pound. Recalling what had secretly happened back there in the cave. Fearing it was happening again. This time it was no secret. Girls and children were looking on.

Numerous times they’d taken him. Willingly. Competing with each other to impress. Publicly, shamefully, on-lookers gathering around, curious, amazed. He’d cried out. Again and again, determined to prove they were worthy to join the new breed of warriors. Korak cried out, Korak sobbed. Their youthful fervent dicks invaded Korak’s arse till his insides burned red-raw.

But Nkonu noticed he had not begged for mercy. Not once. Young and inexperienced Korak was, maybe. But a chip off the old block. Stubborn, tough. Like that fallen jungle lord. But, eventually…. He’d only take so much. Korak too would fall. Like his father before.

Korak hung down in pain. Head slumped, his arms hauled up high behind his back, tipping him forward, offering them his arse. He was bent forward looking down at his own feet. Hiding from this shame. Hiding the pain on his face. He couldn’t help but sag. The weight of his abused body seemed too heavy for his legs to handle. Hell, he hurt. He burned. His insides were raw, they stung. Made his eyes water. He felt something hot trickle down the inside of his thigh. His blood? Their mindless shameful seed?

Young Nkonu’s rapt attention was torn away from following a trickle of sweated pain dribbling beautifully down Korak’s back. Torn away by the incident. Behind Korak’s arse, two boys were lining up for a fight. A fight to be the next to claim Korak’s pain-chute. Young muscles rippled with anger and eagerness, blood and determination raced in the two boys bodies. Kotan had always been big for his age. Not the brightest of boys, he more than compensated by his size. In height and bulk. As a child he had stood head and shoulders above young Nkonu although the headman’s nephew was older by a year. Now, he was full-grown like a man but he was not yet old enough to earn the warrior cuts on his chest. Kotan had grabbed the next in line for Korak by the neck and was pushing the boy aside. Nkonu could see why. Kotan was ready. His greed for Korak was pushing forward in a hard demanding line straight off his rippled man-muscled stomach. And - even though still a boy - Kotan was built down below like a full-blown bull.

With difficulty, the other boy had wrenched himself from Kotan’s grip and rounded on him. Nkonu could see he too was ready for Korak, charged with the excitement of the scene, energised by the burgeoning brutality crackling in the air around Korak’s arse. In response, Kotan’s fist clenched down on the boy’s throat and he squeezed. Kotan was not used to being denied. His rival for Korak clutched at the hand crushing his windpipe, trying to break Kotan’s grip. Nkonu watched with the passivity of leadership Kotan’s determination to claim that arse. He watched the other’s frustrated efforts to break Kotan’s claw crunching on the windpipe. He saw the increasing look of panic as the other boy struggled to breathe. With the calm confidence of being in charge, young Nkonu watched passively as Kotan slung his rival to the ground and claimed Korak as his prize.

They’d entered him repeatedly. Ramming and jamming themselves brutally inside him. Enjoying his pain. This was not the fun and laughter he had known in school with the other boys. This was not the sniggering youthful exploration after lights-out. This was vicious. Mindless brutality. This was not a fresh excitement at finding out what their youthful bodies could feel, the thrill of discovery. His arse was an opportunity to hurt. He felt burning and bruised, the painful ramming of their eager groins slapped into bruised and hurting muscle. Time and brutalising time again. No fun, no laughter here. Savagery. Grunting bestiality. Mastering him. Craving his pain. Getting off on his yells as another young willing cock slid agonisingly over his red-raw insides. Pain lanced through his guts. Tears springing to his eyes. Gratuitous viciousness. Pain streamed down his bent-over face. Sharp cries had been pounded by pain-searing friction out of him. The line between his pain and the burning shame of being publicly raped was thinner than a hair, more fragile than the hold he had on himself. He kept his head down. Ashamed of his tears, long hisses of breath sizzling through clenched teeth. He’d naively assured his father he could take whatever came. A deep throaty sob rumbled in his chest. His guts ablaze with a searing rawness that inflamed their greed for his pain.

32. Day 2 - Kotan

It was just as well the boy with Kotan’s claw crushing his windpipe had not been able to see the weapon aimed at his stomach. Kotan was sporting something that looked more like a club of war. Korak’s body reacted stiffly when he felt it thrust against him from behind.

Kotan had matured early. In more ways than one. He knew the power of what he carried before him. Ahead of all the other boys, he had learned with the girls how to use that early maturing weapon best. Korak had cried out in amazed shock when Kotan had earlier pushed himself at the entrance to his insides. Fortunately for Korak, he had already been loosened up by the earlier boys. Taking Kotan on first would have ripped him to shreds. But even so the extra stretch needed to take on Kotan had had Korak crying out in knee-weakening pain.

But Kotan had already eased his need. Getting his rocks off was no longer the ravenous drive that forced these other boys with gusto into Korak’s inside. Kotan had done it for years, he’d had girls a-plenty, he’d already fathered babies. Grabbing hold of Korak’s arse this time, it would be different. Now Kotan meant to prove himself. Out to show he above all had what it took to go off to war. Intent on earning those cuts of the warrior clawed on his solid chest. Out to show that, when Kotan took a captive, he knew how to send a message. A message of terror, of bitter defeat. He glanced at young Nkonu. His eyes telling him to watch and observe, then to report to his uncle every detail of what he was about to see, tell the new chief what Kotan the warrior was capable of. He nodded to the headman’s nephew and leaned into Korak’s arse.

Watch and learn. Nkonu had heard the advice from his uncle many times. He sensed that Kotan had something to show. Eager, willing to hone his own skills in giving pain beyond his accuracy with the whip, young Nkonu squatted down cross-legged on the earth right in front of Korak’s bent head. And watched. Eager to watch. Keen to learn.

Korak shuddered at the hands on either side of his hips. He clenched his teeth together at the thought of another onslaught on his backside. Trembling at the thought of another invasion of his centre of pain. He was burning up inside. First the assault in the cave. He’d struggled not to show his father his pain when he was brought of the cave. But it smarted, every step he took hurt like a sharp blade slicing up his insides.

And now these boys. He lost count how many times. After four of them, searing pains from every single push had been tearing through his guts. Like burning irons incinerating his insides. Robbing him of any sense. Just raw unending pain. His legs turned to water, he hung off screechingly agonised back-slung shoulders. And suffered helplessly. Tears of pain streaming. Vicious brutal thrusts charged further and with greater ferocity at every pained cry he let escape.

The hands on his hips presaged the start of another round of terror. He kept telling himself he was his father’s son. Tarzan would be in pain but he’d bite on it, crush it between his teeth. Korak had assured his father, he could take whatever punishment Nkonu had coming for him. But the pain! He hadn’t realised. The seething agony of this pain!

Suddenly something rammed up between his legs. Like a club, solid and hard, it pressed up against his bare balls. Up behind his back, Korak’s fists clenched tight. Nerves on edge, eyes closed, in dread anticipation - of what he did not know. That solid force lifted, pulling Korak up onto his tiptoes. Forced up into the air by something hard and hot pressed up against his crutch.

Suddenly hands were down on the inside of his legs. Korak’s eyes sprang to the sight. Large black hands splayed out on Korak’s strong tanned thighs. Fingers easing over his gym-trained muscle, almost tickling. Not clenching, not painful. Almost gentle caressing. Korak’s head was in a whirl. What was this slow start to something worse? Fingers moved, stroking up the inside of his legs. Tickling and fondling at the sparse hair on the inside of his thigh.

Confused after all that brutality, Korak’s head swam. With pain, with uncertainty, with holding himself alert for the shock when these caresses turned to threat. What was happening here? The hands moved gently upwards, caressing lightly. Soothingly massaging at the shapely thickness of Korak’s outer thigh. Gently squeezing, lightly kneading the slick of sweat onto muscled flesh. Korak trembled, full of doubt, he swallowed expecting any second something worse. A thumb traced up the line between thigh muscle, almost tickling. Touching, tingling finger tips up the inside of his leg. Swirling around in the light hair. Korak blinked away yet seeing it all in his mind’s eye. Repeatedly. Baffled by what was happening. Puzzled at his reaction. Feeling his legs relax. Yet instincts still screamed out in warning.

Then that thing pressed hot against his balls shifted, rocked forward. Strong, firm. A grunt in his back. Suddenly Korak was aware of what he had ignored in his confusion. A hot stomach pressed against his backside. How had he missed it? The heat building between a hard muscled stomach and his own raped arse. Crinkly hair scratching into his crack. A deep guttural voice sounded in his ear. An unmistakable tone, a moan of pleasure. Another strong deep push up against his balls lifting him up.

Bent double like this for the rapes, Korak’s eyes now shot to his groin. The sight hit Korak like a punch in the balls. It was a cock. Poking out between his legs the purple bulging mushroom of a giant straining cock. Like some obscene snake’s head glaring at him. He was being lifted up on his toes by a solid cock masturbating against his balls. Huge, massive. A deep outward groan behind him seem to mock his sight. Someone was jerking himself off on Korak’s balls. Korak had never seen anything like it. He’d only seen erect cocks on his friends in school. Other boys. This one was huge and threatening. A monster. Solid like a club, purple with globular power, unyielding, strong enough to lift him onto his toes with its strength. There was a man wanking himself off. A full-blown man. And huge. Korak gulped, clenched his fists tight. Fright, shock. He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Suddenly he knew these were no tricks. A fever flushed his face. A rush of shame burned in his head. A giant threatening man-cock was wanking itself off against his crutch. At least, that enormous brute was not scraping itself through Korak’s red-raw arse. But this was almost worse. He could see that thing. Using him. Using his balls. Filling him with horror. And the thought sizzled with terror down Korak’s thighs. When it had had enough of wanking, that gargantuan brute would take on his arse.

For now he was being spared the pain of that enormity scraping itself over the red-raw pain in his insides, but the sense of threat was almost mind-breaking. Letting Korak see the menace that was using his balls to jack itself off. Till it shot its disgusting load in his face. It was almost worse than what those boys had done. This was the essence of rape. Being used by another, a mere object. Having the proof of his own worthlessness thrust between his legs, right before his eyes. Belittled, not even worth a cock up the arse. Just to be wanked off on. Demeaned, worthless. Proving with every moan in his back that Korak had not power over his body, over his will. This man behind could do to Korak’s balls whatever he felt like. He was worthless shit, powerless to stop what was happening. Just an object to be wanked off on. At best.

At worst, …. Korak shuddered, mortified. If wanking was just the start, …. If that monster was pushed against his arsehole and jammed inside, … Even now, Korak went weak at the knees. Just at the thought. The monstrous purple globe winking at him between his legs. A cruel menacing wink. Korak shut his eyes against the terror. But he felt every slight move of that monstrous threat slide between his legs. Hearing every ounce of satisfaction in that deep-throated pleasured groan behind his back. Korak tried to flee. Escape to the inner workings of his mind. Pretend to himself this degradation was not happening.

Shit, with girls watching. He suddenly remembered. Children looking on. His ears burned, his head was on fire with the shame. Please not to him, not here. Not with these other boys cat-calling behind. Then he remembered, the thought of Nkonu’s nephew. Cross-legged right before his nose. Observing. Enjoying every second of Korak’s humiliation, getting off on Korak’s trembles of fear.

Sweet thing, I’m gonna make you hurt!”

Korak’s eyes shot open at the touch. A hand had grabbed hold of Korak’s cock. It had left off the caressing of his thigh and taken hold of his shaft. His eyes shot to the attack. For whatever reason, - perhaps because of the searing pain inside his arse fogging up his mind, maybe the confusion of dreading what brutality would be unleashed after the gentleness on his thighs - whatever. Lost, confused, Korak had been failing to understand what was happening to him. Burning up with shame.

Whatever … What he had failed to notice, Korak saw to his horror that all this fondling had made him hard. He looked down. And there was a strong giant hand wrapped around his own burgeoning hard-on. He had thrown a bone!. His body had betrayed him. Tortured like this, his treacherous cock had let him down. How could it be! He was being degraded, he was being abused. But he had thrown a boner. He was full to his limit. This time the groan of pleasure behind pushed harder against his arse and slid Korak’s own solid erection through the tight-gripping hand. He was being wanked. This assailant was jerking himself off. And wanking off Korak as well. With everyone watching. With girls looking on!

Korak jerked off. Of course he did. Often. He’d been done by friends. He’d grinned at the touch of friends greasing up his dick. Baby oil slurping in a boy’s hand as Korak’s hips lifted and pushed through the friend’s slick palm. But this! This was no world he understood. He was reeling in confusion lost on an alien earth.

A torrent of mixed emotions raged through Korak’s body. Anger, shame. Rage at his own body. Embarrassment, hate - but not once pleasure. Not for one second a moment of pleasure as jerking off had always been before. He was being used, shamed, demeaned. All other emotions fought for supremacy within him. He shuddered, his legs were trembling. With fury. With humiliation.

The pace had picked up, the force of the cock against his backside pushed harder, longer. The moan deeper, throatier. The man behind was coming. The hand on Korak’s cock held him even tighter. Each force of the groin driving against his arse pushed Korak forward, deeper through the offending palm, it almost drove Korak beyond the stretch of his skin. Painfully tight prickles sparking around the rim of his cockhead. A rush of need crackling through his shaft. The grunts behind got deeper, stronger, more needy. Korak clenched his teeth together. No chance for himself to hold back, that was not for him to decide. The pace was dictated from behind. He was a thing, an object. A whimper escaped at feeling the start of what he had most feared. Feeling the onset of that unwanted gush this attack was meant to produce. His solid shaft was firmly squeezed by that giant black hand, the stretch getting longer, tighter. His cock head sparking like some electric storm. And, shit! The tell-tale signs of a churning in his balls that presaged the inevitable. Biting on his bottom lip, Korak fought against that shame. Being made to come. His ballsack gave a twitch. Tightening. Being wanked off in public for another man’s pleasure. For his embarrassment. He clenched his fists to fight that feeling back. In vain. His face screwed tight together. Battling futilely against the inescapable. A trickle of degradation formed in Korak’s eye. Being jacked-off just because this muscle-hard stomach pressed against his arse could. It just could. Used. Abused. Belittled, demeaned. Just for the sake of it. Just to shame him.

Korak cried out in surprise when the other hand left off the tickling up his thigh. The freed left hand was in his hair and yanked Korak’s head up. Suddenly there he was. Nkonu’s nephew. Seated cross-legged in front. Watching, observing. Head craned forward. Not missing a thing. His eyes intently soaking up every twitch of Korak’s shame. Please! This wasn’t happening!

And then Korak saw young Nkonu leaned sideways, his head ducked down. Studying what was going on. His eyes burning holes into Korak’s crutch. That hated nephew who had so abused his father, who had carved mutilating whiplashes across his own gym-hardened abs. He was craning forward to watch the horror of Korak being publicly wanked. His eyes full of the sight of Korak’s cockhead stretched in that giant black hand. Korak helplessly being rocked forward with the growing force that pushed against his rape-burning arse. Closely observing every moment of Korak’s mortification. Relishing every tick of shame on Korak’s face when the club-like dick masturbated against Korak’s tight trapped balls.

Korak was suddenly aware of the girls watching behind Nkonu’s nephew. Their eyes full of wonder. Nudging each other, commenting, not for one second taking their eyes off his trapped and abused cock. Glistening in straining crimson against the huge black grip. In agonised degradation, Korak tried to wrench his hair from that hand keeping his face upright. But the grip just tightened, pulled back, kept Korak staring at that nephew examining his shame. Seeing children mesmerised by every moment of his humiliation. Korak shut his eyes. Shut them out. Clenched his eyelids close together. Yet, in his mind’s eye, they were there, giggling, pointing, wide-eyed.

His soul cried out in bitterness. The terror at what he could feel growing in his groin was slashing away at the very fabric of his being. His own body was letting him down. Each millisecond as he felt it happening was being stretched into an eternity of degradation. Crying out in shame as publicly he spurted his seed onto this alien earth. Betrayed by the body he had proudly trained and thought was his own.

33. Day 2 - New breed of tribe

To give their failing cocks a break, young Nkonu suggested the boys might lend their hands to whipping Korak’s backside. These boys whose future as warriors had today taken on fresh life. Nkonu was to be their chief. And the future lay in following Nkonu. Into war. Raiding parties, capturing wealth, taking men slaves, forcing girls to their beds. This Korak was their first kiss of their new life. Whip his rape-ravaged arse! They jumped at the chance.

Some of the boys had mocked Kotan for not giving it to the ape-boy up the arse. What’s up, big-guy, can’t get it up? The mockery was written all over their laughter, though no one dared to say it to him outright. But the prodigiously built Kotan ignored them, his attention was saved for young Nkonu. He fixed him with a look, ordering him to get it straight and report to his uncle what he had seen.

Young Nkonu had been impressed by Kotan’s display. He had seen the look on Korak’s face. He had watched and he had learned. He had seen there was more hurt than erupted from the lick of his whip. Their was another agony other than the searing pains of a multiple-raped arse. The indignity of Kotan’s rape had eaten into Korak’s soul. The boy had taken no beatings, he had not twisted under the sting of a lash. But that hurt went deeper than the skin. It invaded not his body, but his mind, it penetrated deep into his very being. But the other boys had returned to their primitive tricks of ramming their dicks up Korak’s arse. Korak had screamed out, his tears had flowed. But the lesson Nkonu had learned went deeper. He had much to learn and Korak made an excellent guide.

When they got him back to the chief’s village, young Nkonu would plead with his uncle to have the boy handed over to him. Nkonu wanted him, he yearned for him. Not in some simple animalistic way that the others had raped Korak. More than an object for sex. Nkonu had much still to learn. And this ape-boy had much more to give. This day Nkonu had glimpsed another world. A universe populated with an awesome potency. When he was around this ape-boy, young Nkonu felt a rejuvenating power that filled out his chest, that spoke to his loins. Battling with this Korak in a contest for male supremacy, young Nkonu had caught a glimpse of that tantalising world where one man’s pain was another man’s strength.

This was a battle that Tarzan’s son could never win. But tantalisingly Korak would not buckle under, like his father Korak was built not to give in. Which gave Nkonu so much to work on. Korak as his unwilling slave, letting Nkonu discover a consuming passion, to get in touch with the meaning of pain. With Tarzan’s son as his guide. At the moment, he hung, exhausted by pain and shame. Jerking under the slash of bamboo into his arse. Yet soon Korak would regain his strength, come fighting back, resisting, defiant, unwilling to give in. Nkonu was the only boy still clothed, the only one not to have enjoy the ape-boy’s arse. But it was he who exercised power over this trial of strength, this duel for the greater strength of will. His eyes bathed Korak’s sweating back, his power over the boy spoke to his loins. He felt full like he had never known.

Nkonu realised that there was a power abroad that fed off pain. Other people’s pain. Fed off Korak’s cries. Most people could not see the Spirit but the boys wrenching cries out of Korak showed it. They had tired after taking Korak so many times but the Spirit had given them strength again. It swayed powerful before them as their canes bit into Korak’s arse. Soon that power was to be liberated by Nkonu’s new tribe. Carried out against their enemies, spreading terror to their captives. In the way of the Spirit.

But it was spirit. It needed form. Nkonu realised he was that form. He would worship at that shrine, in his own body he could give that Spirit shape. Nkonu knew he would become a vessel for that Spirit that lurked seeking pain, seeking to possess willing men’s souls. Through him that Spirit would see its ambitions fulfilled throughout the jungle. As it was now scorching stinging terror into Korak’s arse. Mutual empowerment. Nkonu would lend his body to this Spirit, giving it the force to go abroad its destiny. The power that already burst in his loins at Korak’s fist-clenching cry.

Young Nkonu had discovered a capacity to hurt. That power was now full in his crutch. With this writhing Korak as his guide, with the ape-boy to show him the way, Nkonu would hone those skills on the ape-boy. Torturer supreme. That’s what he would become. His skills would strike terror at the sound of his name. Young Nkonu would make the torture stone his domain. Who better to work with than this ape-boy who suffered so well? And who knew? Maybe, even one day his fame would rise to make him chief!

Deep angry welts criss-crossed Korak’s rape-tortured arse. Biting shards of pain that were lashing across his backside and sending fresh sparks of agony cutting through his torn insides. Some slight relief came only in brief moments like this when they handed over the cane. Korak had known he was due for pain. He’d been prepared - for his father’s sake - to face torture. But he had been naïve. Inexperienced. Never in his imagination had he suspected it could hurt so much. And for what? Tarzan had already given in. Nkonu had said Korak could go free. This was sheer vicious brutality. Bloody-minded savagery.

Korak yelped. A fresh muscled arm had taken over the cane. Another brutal desecration of his strengthening body, more torturing of Korak’s mind. Beyond imagining. For the sake of it. For nothing more. Just for the sake of it. Animals. These boys were animals. Nkonu’s new breed.

34. Day 2 - The fires

Fires were burning within his arse. And then they had started whipping his backside. Pain raged on the skin there like a torrent of molten lava. A dozen lashes each they’d given. A dozen lashes each, unbearable pain searing across his rape-screeching arse. More if they felt like it. There was nothing he could do about it. There were no limits. Sheer mindless brutality. Animals. Animals of the worst kind.

Korak had been determined to bear the pain, he was the son of Tarzan and had been resolved to make his tough father proud. But then the sharp biting pain on his backside had set alight those fires inside. The shock took his breath away, he had fought for air in-between strokes. But he was dealing with vicious-minded predators, like animals who hurt for the sake of it. This then was the future that his father had feared. The future Tarzan had predicted when Nkonu became chief. What Tarzan had sought to avoid.

Korak knew, Tarzan had had to submit to Nkonu for his sake, for his son. And for what? Tarzan may not know it yet but Korak suspected already that they’d never let him go. They’d do everything they could to stop Korak from coming back to set his father free?

Naively he had assured his father he could take it, whatever Nkonu threw at him. But the pain was unbelievable. His flesh scorched from the searing heat of a bushfire. His was a human torch. Punishment taken from boys, more boys. Not from Nkonu’s full blown warriors like his father had endured. He’d prayed to black out. Korak feared he could take little more. How much more would they give? He had no control over how much more. Nothing in life had prepared him for this. Yet treacherously, the wished-for oblivion of painlessness eluded him.

Nkonu’s sense of command grew with every wince of Korak’s pain. Collectively they had taken the ape-boy so often that even some of their willing youthful bodies were struggling to keep it up. Feeling the born leader now, young Nkonu had won over “his men” by covering for their embarrassment at staying limp in public when their chance came to “perform”. With gleeful malevolence he had held Korak’s head up by his hair. To see his reaction. Then Nkonu had suggested into Korak’s face that they lay into the ape-boy’s backside.

Disappointingly the ape-boy’s face failed to rect. He was too far gone. Until the first lash of the cane. Willingly their bamboo canes had bit into his bent arse. The tightness of his ropes kept him on his feet. But with the agony of his burn inside, the sting of the canes outside jerked at him. He shook unremittingly, he twisted, Korak yelped. He lost balance on his re-bound feet. His straining arms and shoulders screamed for mercy. The canes lifted, stripes of agony were cut across Korak’s jerking back. Virgin flesh on which they planted their pain. Each lash of the cane tore into his jolting joints, ripped sharp flashes of pain up his arms. Every sting crushed his backside together and set fire afresh to the raw-skinned horror inside. Sporadically his body shuddered, slashed by countless explosions of pain, accompanied by now unstoppable yelps. He’d wanted to be brave but it hurt. Nkonu watched Korak hanging helpless from the rope, still jolting at each cutting lash. Feeling time standing still, trapped in an eternity of pain. Face twisted. Crying out under every stinging blow.

Exhausted Korak hung slumped from the rope up his back. For a moment the whipping had stopped. That meant they were changing over. That meant the next attack came with fresh vigour, with new muscled force. His head was in a whirl. His legs could no longer hold him. His weight dragged down on his arms. There was no strength left in his legs. Long since, his hands had gone dead. But the rope burns at his wrists still stung like crazy. This time the blessed break seemed longer. Had the attacks stopped? A flutter of hope lifted his heart. But his arse was on fire. Ablaze from the rape within, burning from the savage whippings on the skin. His face burning with the shame of being wanked off like that. Tears blurred his vision. Would this punishment ever end? His face was twisted and contorted with the never-ending agony that flooded every part of his body. Tortured in body and soul.

Hanging in helplessness and pain, Korak dimly realised Nkonu had tricked his father. Tarzan had given himself so that his son could go free. With hindsight it was clear Nkonu could not be trusted. Korak wondered, with a rush of bitterness if his father knew that by now. But Tarzan had believed Nkonu. Perhaps he had wanted to believe him. Needed to. To save his son. After all, what else had Tarzan to offer Korak but his trust? What other choice had been open to him? With a flush of pride tinged with grating guilt, Korak felt his father’s love wash over him. For him, his father had paid the ultimate price. And what happened now? Nkonu still held them both captive. His stranglehold over Tarzan was still firm. Who knew where this would end?

At the top of his vision, Korak noticed feet. A hand in his hair gripped his scalp and started to lift his head. Korak had recognised the pattern of the leader’s loincloth. Nkonu’s nephew. Like a stone, fear hit the pit of Korak’s stomach. At the thought of the pain those whips could still inflict. On his raped and ravaged body. He’d already had a taste of the biting pain when young Nkonu started on him with those cutting slashes across his treasured abs. Korak fought back his tears of pain. He struggled to crush his fears. Yet he dreaded the nephew was starting again.

35. Day 2 - The Spirit

Interestingly, Nkonu noticed, when he had turned the ape-boy over to “his men”. the more Korak ached, the more he cried out, the more they wanted. Needed. The more they rammed themselves into flesh that wasn’t meant to be treated that way. They more he shook with the red-raw pain their canes had burned onto his arse, the more of his agony they wanted to hear. Their naked cocks stood proud from Korak’s anguish. Insatiably. Each cry from Korak shot shivers up their sizzling cocks. Each gasped sob they wrenched from his pain-clenched throat just made them hanker for more. The Spirit fed them, it had seeped into their souls. The force that gripped men’s loins, a need that even more pain did not satisfy.

Korak yelped when the young Nkonu leaned over him and traced his thumb hard down a welt in Korak’s back. His sore arse throbbed, his body pulsed. His pain shook in unison with his racing heart, criss-crossed tracks of anguish burned on his skin. Pressing hard, the thumb ran a paining knuckle the length of an scarlet-angry whip lash. Korak jerked when the knuckle met a join. Two black-red welts crossed over and flared under Nkonu’s touch. Skin screamed out. The pain was blinding. Korak sucked in several deep frantic breaths, his knees trembling, his muscles cramping. He gritted his teeth together. Fists clenched. Nkonu’s knuckles sensed his hurt and pursued its prey, dug in deep, gouged away seeking the pain under the skin. Eyes stinging with pained tears, Korak just managed to hold down the cry that threatened to burst from his raw throat. Please, please, let this stop. Pleas for mercy ran through his head. But Korak crushed them in his throat. Remembering he was his father’s son.

Young Nkonu had taken no part in the rape. He had learned that one valuable lesson from his uncle. In the cave Nkonu had given Korak over to his warriors. The apeboy’s arse was the nephew’s gift to “his men”. A gift that bound them to his leadership, let them realise whom they should follow. Young Nkonu too meant to possess a name that would be feared throughout the jungle. Not just one of his uncle’s warriors. Something more, something substantially more. Though he was not yet quite sure what.

Nkonu pressed his thumb greedily down on the welted back. The ape-boy endured differently from his father. He dug his knuckle into another join of the scarlet welts, gouged at Korak’s mass of tangled ridges. The boy beneath him was a sweating pig, gasping for air. Hissing. Paining. Tensing. Beneath him Nkonu felt a spasm of pain. He had the power, at the touch of his knuckle he could make the ape-boy jump. The boy under his thumb suffered more demonstrably than his father. Tarzan had been a challenge, it had been harder to earn the apeman’s cries of pain. The boy, though, gave up pain more easily. Still he resisted with the stubbornness of his father. Still he stared back in defiant attitude, unwilling to give in. But pain he did feel. It seemed to throb just under the skin, like that vein that pulsed on his strong bicep. With the boy, suffering was mouth-wateringly closer to the surface.

Without thinking, lost in his thoughts, Nkonu’s knuckles inadvertently had opened, fingers extended down the pain lines on the broad sweaty back, claws dug in. Nkonu had not noticed his finger nails scraping down through the whiplashes. Tearing at the skin, flaying afresh pain through the lines of the lash. And then that sudden rigid shock in the torso, head thrown up, hissing bursting over Korak’s tight lips. – how that awoke life in Nkonu’s groin! How that sparkled in his burning crutch! That was good. The boy suffered so much better than the apeman. Pain throbbed so close to the surface of his skin.

Yes, young Nkonu thought, “his men” certainly wanted to please. They were good, ready to become men. Nkonu’s new breed of warrior. Young Nkonu’s type of men. There was a future here. “His men” - young Nkonu swelled at that thought. “His” men. He’d grow them, develop them. His own brave band of relentless warriors. Loyal to him, faithful to the power of the Spirit. Young Nkonu would train them, he would coach them, he’d make these men his own. Bind them to him. His own warriors who would bring captives back to him at the torture stone. Surely he too was ordained to lead He too was destined to become chief.

These days with Tarzan, these hours with his son had revealed a great truth. At that session with Tarzan on the torture stone, the more the apeman had cried out, the more the villagers wanted. The more he writhed, the harder they called out for the lash to fall. The more young Korak cried out in his pains, the more “his” men had needed to rip agony through his pain-raw chute. In a frenzy, as if drugged, ravenous for the ape-boy’s anguish. The Spirit had fed them. It fed them the driving force burning in their groins. When the Spirit had hold of their loins, they did not want to let it go. It had them baying for the ape-boy’s pain. Baying for more and more. Mindlessly craving his every cry.

But Nkonu felt he was different. He was offering himself to the Spirit, freely, they would work together, collaborators. Nkonu would make things happen for the Spirit. Till he himself became that power, till their ambitions merged. Through his body he became the willing conduit to give physical presence to that force. That force would work through his body, Nkonu would hone his skills on the reluctant but oh-so pliant apeman’s boy. Till he cried out. Till he screamed. Till Korak passed out because the boy’s strong body could take no more.

36. Day 2 - Promise of things to come

In this need to hurt there was a power here to orchestrate. A power he could harness and control. To make that power work for the tribe. To work for him. And young Nkonu knew this duty was his.

His men had just raped Korak. And the more he hurt, the more they hankered, they could not stop. But then their erections had started to fail them. Their great leader had suggested that they slash canes into Korak’s screeching arse. Thanks to him, the power of the Spirit had insinuated itself back into these boys’ bodies. Suddenly they were getting hard again. Nkonu had given them new life. Suddenly their naked cocks swung solid before them again. Manly and proud they lashed even more pain into that screeching backside. Their gratitude bound them to the young leader. And again the harder they got, the more they fed off the ape-boy’s pain. A cycle of pain and irrepressible desire.

Here was a power to harness. A force to work for him. That time with Tarzan on the torture stone the Spirit had descended on the people, they had bayed for Tarzan’s pain. Men wanted to hurt, warriors wanted the freedom to deal with their captives. The freedom to hurt, to lust for that pain. And warriors would be loyal to the leader who gave them that right.

Above all, “his” men would possess it. He’d coach them, he’d train his own force. Once they had tasted this potency between their loins, they’d burn with the energy to set it free. Loyal to the leader who released for them that frenzy of crazed warrior-lust. Till the force of the Spirit was shouted out as young Nkonu’s own war-cry, till the jungle shook in fear at that call of his name. Till no one dared stand up to him. Nor face them in combat. Till the jungle trembled at the mere sound of young Nkonu’s ferocious name. That was indeed his future. Perhaps when he became chief.

But it was time now. Time for the boy to join with his father at the torture stone. He looked across at the apeman’s son. Arms still twisted up his back off his torture frame, knees sagging underneath. Helplessly hanging in tortured subjugation. Burning with the pain of his rape, crimson with the agonies on his arse. Exhausted now, almost to the point of unconsciousness, yet young Nkonu knew Korak would recover and give up more. Strongly-built, a spirit to resist as indomitable as his father’s. Korak would revive and come fighting back. Then to writhe furiously and to toss agonisingly as he screamed out more pain.

For now Korak needed rest. Young Nkonu did lust to hear those screams, to watch him twist when consumed with the insane tumult of mind-crippling pain. But not now. In time. This boy was a like a smooth stick. Waiting for young Nkonu to whittle and carve. Carve more pain out of his youthful flesh.

“His” men hauled the ape-boy to his feet, strong hands dug into his arms to hold Korak up. Nkonu pulled his head up by the hair. His hair plastered to his face, eyes open yet struggling to see. He was handsome in a still youthful way. Whereas the father had turned rugged, determination lining his face, the ape-boy still had that softness of the young. The sweat of his pain beautified that face. Nkonu kindly stroked at his cheek, the boy was too gone to react. Nkonu felt fascinated by that face, it threw back so positively the fires of the boy’s anguish. He had still much to learn, the boy had so much yet to give.

Nkonu slid the slave collar around Korak’s almost senseless neck. With a slight moment of disappointment that the boy did not resist. His eyes licked at the strength in the ape-boy’s shoulders, so much strength to spasm under his whip. “Sweet thing, I’m gonna make you cry”. Those strange words that had spoken themselves. There was a taste of thick sweetness on Nkonu’s lips, his tongue licked at it, savoured it and took it deep down within him. Nkonu knew where those strange sentiments had come from. The Spirit was there, with him, within him, even now. Those words were a sign that the Spirit had spoken through him. Was merging with him. Slanting his head to one side, Nkonu’s eyes stroked gently over the thick bulge in the ape-boy’s upper arm, the other boys’ hands gripping him there tight. Nkonu felt empowered at the sight of this muscled subjugation, a swell of strength that tingled pleasurably in his power-full shaft. Korak suffered so sweet.

37.  Day 2  -  First love

The boy recovered fast.  For Nkonu Korak was a wonder.  Already he stood, swaying from exhaustion, yet standing on his own two feet.  The collar snapped closed with a menacing clunk.  Nkonu thought he sensed a shiver tremble through the boy’s frame at the fateful sound.  Another sign he was re-gaining his strength.  Aware of his enslavement.  Recovering.  This boy had so much to give!

His father, the apeman, his build was rugged, tough.  His boy had a tantalising mix of growing manly strength and the soft roundness of youth.  The father had displayed a strong bush of black hair when hanging off the frame.  His son, though, was softer, downier still.  Seductively so, thought young Nkonu.  It was all that young Nkonu could do not to be lured into stroking his hands over that tempting exhaustion, to slick his hands over that whip-red back.  Instead it was his eyes that trailed over the muscular chest.  With a glance downwards, he imagined again the boy erect, Seeing in his mind, his probing fingers taking the chance to stroke up the satin steely surface of his hardness before putting it to the test.

In his mind, Nkonu’s palms now smoothed over the boy’s trembling flanks, quivering with exhaustion, trembling at the meaningful sound of the clunk that trapped him in that collar.  His eyes sought out the ape-boy’s sensitive spots, where he hurt, where he might hurt, where Nkonu could hurt him more.

Yes, even now that Spirit spoke to Nkonu through this boy’s exhaustion, leading his mind to endless possibilities to explore.  More of the ape-boy’s pain.

“Sweet boy”.  Indeed, it had purred.  “Make him cry”, that voice had urged seductively.  Nkonu felt his body merging with the Spirit, it was his willing body that was giving the Spirit voice.  It stroked kindly at its servant Nkonu’s groin, it fed him on the promise of more power.  Korak would become the unwilling channel that would enable the Spirit to sing.  Korak’s reluctant chant of pain.  His tuneful song of agony.

To the boats.  Time to leave.  Now.  Time to re-unite son with father. The boy was shattered, he was growing strong but he did not have his father’s reserves of strength yet.  When he fell released from the overhead frame, young Nkonu did not bother to order the boy’s hands re-bound.  He was exhausted, there was no fight left in him.  Not after that barrage of rapes.  Not after that lashing on his rape-burning arse.  The “sweet boy” would sleep the sleep of the dead once they had got him in the canoe.  With care and attention he’d recover, though.  Nkonu sensed it.  Korak still had plenty to give.

Nkonu had noticed how his uncle had departed with the apeman.  Grabbing the slave collar’s chain, the apeman’s hands helplessly pinned behind his neck.  His uncle had pulled the chain short and held it down by his leg.  Forcing Tarzan to trot behind, bent double, like a tamed beast.  His whiplashed bare arse exposed for all to see.  Young Nkonu was determined “his” men should see himself as another of the tribe’s great men.  So they’d also learn whom to respect.

Korak’s head swayed on his young strong shoulders, his eyes unseeing, exhaustion weighing heavily on him.  Nkonu’s hand stretched almost lovingly over the muscle of Korak’s shoulder, stroked caringly through the hair at the back of his neck.  As if stroking a puppy dog.  With a flash of satisfaction Nkonu realised, this was his first conquest.  Korak was the first man he had bested.  Like the first girl you ever had, the one you’d remember for ever.  His hands played lovingly through the hair, tenderly fondled in the back of his neck.

Till his fingers gripped in the slave collar.  Till he masterfully yanked Korak’s head down by his waist.  He felt a flush of power in the place where it mattered most when Korak yelled out in surprise.  The boy’s hands went to the back of the collar, instinctively trying to break the grip that had him bent double.  But Nkonu simply twisted the collar, digging the metal painfully into his puppy dog’s windpipe.  Held the boy in a choker.  Passively, authoritatively, not fighting the boy’s resistance.  He just held it there, while the boy gasped, while his puppy dog gagged and struggled.  Training him.  Choking him till Korak tamed.  Till the puppy learned.  Till the puppy dog learned to obey.  Till Korak let go his hands on Nkonu’s grip.  Giving in.  Submissive.   Puppy dogs needed to be trained.

Nkonu felt that rush of power in his loins intensify when Korak’s hands dropped to his side.  When Korak gave in.  When he no longer fought back.  When Nkonu had won.   He stood grasping the collar, Korak’s head down by his hip.  Bent double, passive, submissive.  Giving in.  That strong back noisily heaving in air.  But tamed, no longer fighting back.

A sudden rush of air caught Nkonu’s ear.  A cane slashed across Korak’s naked backside.  One of the other boys could not resist the temptation of that bare crimson backside poking into the air.

“No!” snapped Nkonu commandingly.  He’d have “his” men obey, too.

Korak’s exhausted legs collapsed under him at the stinging pain, he fell to the dirt.  He hung off the collar on his knees in the dirt.  Gurgling, gagging.  Throttled.  A broken cry.

Nkonu let Korak struggle back to his feet.  Nkonu’s hand did not move, he’d not help his dog, forcing his puppy to struggle by itself to his feet.  Learning who was boss, learning whom to please.  Korak bowed subservient, bent up double.  Under Nkonu’s command.  Nkonu’s eyes trembled longingly over the strong bent back, lingered over the whiplashed arse.  Puppies learned whom to fear.

Korak, son of Tarzan, he told himself!  Did it ever come better!  The first man he had bettered.  Korak, son of Tarzan!  Him and the Spirit together, they’d taken the apeman’s only son and broken him.  A time would come when young Nkonu would take over the tribe. That was his ambition, guided by the Spirit that was his mentor.  He’d learn from his uncle, he’d watch and learn.  Then he’d take over from the great man.  One day he too would be chief.

But now it was time to leave.   And the promise of more time with this boy.  He yanked on Korak’s slave collar.  Submissively, like the tamed puppy he was, Korak trotted behind to the river bank.  Bent double, stumbling, tamed.  Trotting down to the river, to the boats.  Exhausted by pain.  To be re-united with his father.

Part Four

38. Day 2 -- Early return

The village was in uproar. Fishermen on the bank had spotted the canoes paddling back down the straight towards the Chief’s village. Illuminated in the burning light of the sun. Unmistakably Nkonu’s boats. Back early. Women washing in the river spotted the figure standing upright in the prow of the leading boat. Glowing in shame under the glare of the sun. The news shot back into the village like wildfire. People came rushing to the river banks. When they got there, they found there was already an excited crowd, pointing and gesticulating at the boats paddling down the river. Children had to push their way to the front and stare down the steep bank. People found it hard to believe what they saw. It was what Nkonu had promised. But no one had taken it as anything other than his boasting.

The boats got closer. Good eyes confirmed the truth. It was indeed Tarzan standing in the prow. It was Nkonu coming back early. That alone caused consternation and excitement for the chief and his closest allies. He was not expected back until the next day. They weren’t ready for him. And they certainly were not ready for what people had seen on Nkonu’s boat. On display. Naked. Tarzan’s arms pinned up behind his head. Wearing the collar of shame.

And at the back of the canoe resplendent in his warrior hides stood Nkonu, in triumph. Tarzan isolated at the front, yoked in the shameful collar. Shamefully displayed in his defeat. The jungle lord trapped in the yoke of his downfall, like a beast of burden. The mighty-man of the jungle tamed. Like an ox on a leash.

Now that the boat was pulling in to the river bank, people did indeed gasp out in shock. The apeman was throwing a hard-on. Women gawped, unsure where to look. Young girls giggled, embarrassed, and then averted their eyes. Until curiosity beat their temerity and, sniggering, they pointed at the amazing sight. Those men who had run down through the thick mud to haul the boats in could see the reason. The apeman was fitted with a collar around his cock. A clasp that pulled tight on him and kept the jungle lord hard.

Nkonu’s warriors leapt out in triumph as the canoes slid into the deep black river-side mud. The gesticulating crowd had now fallen into silence. Unsure of what this all meant, not believing what they saw. From the front of the canoe, Tarzan was pushed awkwardly forward, his foot catching on the side. Down in thick oozing silt he fell, face first, his hands locked behind him in the collar. He struggled to find some footing, his face and chest slithering through the slimy cloying mud. Sharp sticks prodded into Tarzan’s bare arse. To encourage him to his feet. Kicking feet jabbed into his struggling side, Nkonu’s men’s mocking laughter accompanied his efforts to stand up in the slime, kicks encouraged Tarzan to his feet. Splattered head–to-toe in thick black oozing mud, Tarzan - the once-proud jungle lord - was prodded and poked up the mud-slick bank. Above him, on the grass he saw astonished faces looking down at him struggling with his footing as he was shoved and jostled about. His embarrassing hard-on swaying around for all to see. Like a prisoner, like a helpless captive. And at the top of the steep bank Nkonu was waiting for the former jungle-lord, standing in triumph amidst the murmuring amazement.

Hands crossed over his haughty chest, Nkonu stood before his slave, cast his eyes over the watching crowd. Intent on impressing them from the start.

“Kneel!” he ordered,

Tarzan did not move,

“Kneel, dog!”

Stubborn pride flared in Tarzan’s chest. He cast an eye at the crowd and glared back. He had spent hours displayed to the villagers as they passed down the river. He had protested when the cock ring was forced on him in the canoe. But Nkonu had reminded Tarzan of that ultimate threat.

“Remember the boy!”

A reminder that subdued Tarzan into accepting the humiliating ring.

But Tarzan’s blood had still boiled with this indignity. Now close up between the people, trapped in the collar and his manhood forcibly kept erect, Tarzan felt stubborn pride pounding in his veins. The shame of the hard-on was almost unbearable. And the humiliation burned in his face at being paraded in this collar of shame. Only one word excused this happening: Korak. Yet still Tarzan defied Nkonu’s command to kneel.

“On your knees before your master!”

A bamboo cane slashed across the back of Tarzan’s knee. In shock he pitched forward. Nkonu grabbed him by the slave collar as Tarzan fell and ground his face to the ground. On his knees, eyes and mouth jammed into the dirt, Tarzan’s bare arse sticking up for all to see.

Nkonu seized the bamboo and slashed it across Tarzan’s naked backside. Beaten like a dog!

“Now crawl. Crawl like the dog you are”.

Another six slashes burst across Tarzan’s arse. But he didn’t move, he didn’t flinch. He’d had enough. This humiliation had already gone too far.

Then Nkonu, with a grunt of effort, hauled his head off the earth, choking Tarzan on the collar as he yanked his captive up. His mouth was down by Tarzan’s ear.

“Remember the boy”, his voice oozed.

Tarzan shuddered in a burst of rage. His hands behind his neck balled into fists.

“The bird must fly before nightfall”, smirked Nkonu.

Out of Tarzan’s mud-splattered face his eyes burned into the earth with indignation. His heart fired with incandescent rage. And then one reluctant knee crept forward. Then the other unwillingly followed suite. His head dragged on by the collar. Bent double, Tarzan swallowed his shame and crawled. Like a dog. Tarzan crawled for his master. He crawled for the life of his son.

39. Day 2 -- Burning with shame

There had been the same astonishment at every village on the way. Already the jungle was buzzing with the news. Tarzan defeated. Beaten, broken, enslaved. Tarzan had donned the collar and given himself, body and soul, to his new Master Nkonu. To do with him as he pleased. Nkonu had had his boats pull up at every village on the river-front. Announcing his triumph. Displaying his prize. Tarzan standing shamefully in the bow, slave collar around his neck, naked. His Master Nkonu displaying his tamed beast in his collar.

Open-mouthed, the people had stared, unable to believe their eyes. Tarzan was forcibly throwing an erection. Nkonu’s enforced erection. But to the on-lookers, the man whose name was a by-word for strength and courage was throwing an erection out of fear. The fear of a slave in front of his new Master. The so-called jungle lord hung his head in shame bettered by his Master. Used and abused, humiliated and shamed. The fearsome warrior whom few dared to face had let his arms be bound up behind his neck. Let his cock be engorged with his anxieties for his life. Prey to his master Nkonu’s every whim.

Tarzan had been determined not to show his shame at his defeat. He was here like this for one reason and one reason only. His son. Nkonu would never have beaten him otherwise. Tarzan would never have given in to this. He reminded himself of his promise. At some time Nkonu would let down his guard. Then Tarzan would pounce.

But with every village, it became harder to hold his head erect. The humiliation at this enforced hard-on. The laughter and jeering from warriors on the bank. Slowly feelings got the better of him. His eyes avoided the sneers. He shut his ears to the taunts. Tarzan hung his head in shame.

At each village, Nkonu’s men had led the chant. Their proud manly voices had rung out like warriors returning in triumph from a raiding party. In celebration of their leader’s success. To commemorate Tarzan’s downfall. The most glorious war-prize in their grip. Tarzan, jungle lord. Nkonu’s prize, Nkonu’s slave. Tarzan had given himself up.

At the chief’s village, the people pressed forward in eager amazement, wondered in sheer disbelief. Here was the man whose reputation knew no bounds. Whose name was spoken in reverent tones, revered with awe. A by-word for strength, courage and resolve. Yet conquered by Nkonu. One of their own. Here he was, his face and powerful body splattered in the black alluvial silt of their river. His arms raised up yielding in submission. His hands trapped in the shameful collar of a bondage slave. Throwing a powerful erection out of fear and shame. Naked, broken, his shameful indignity paraded naked through the village. Brought back in defeat like their forebears had returned with rivals they had captured in war.

Impatient with his dog’s crawl, Nkonu grabbed Tarzan by his collar and, strangling him, he yanked him to his feet. Eager to enter the village and claim his prize. Nkonu threw a snarling smirk in Tarzan’s face, grabbed hold of the chain hanging off his captive’s balls and led him through the village. Tarzan was forced to followed. Tamed by the yanks on his crutch, tamed by his bonds, tamed by the threat to his son. Nkonu – resplendent in his warrior hides, topped with colourful feathers, glowing in the wonder of his tribe. Triumphant in his victory, he towed behind the shamefaced captive and mud-splattered “jungle lord”. Dragged him by the balls. In Nkonu’s hand a chain to his slave’s cock-ring, leading the once mighty Tarzan – now a tethered animal, a beast on a leash, following its master, as if tamely trotting behind. As if on its way to slaughter. As if on its way to gelding.

The Chief protested that the Council had not yet reached a decision about Tarzan’s fate. There had been no time to deliberate. They had said three days. They were not ready. Nkonu knew. His allies in the council had foiled any decision until he arrived.

“No matter!” Nkonu declared.

He shoved the mud-streaked Tarzan, naked and slave-manacled, forward and pushed him to his knees before the shocked Chief.

“The decision of the Council is not necessary”, he triumphed. “Tarzan has reached his own”.

Nkonu’s hand grabbed at the collar and roughly held up Tarzan’s face for all to see. The villagers around stood in shocked disbelief at the sight. The lord of the jungle, shamefully erect, on his knees before Nkonu, apparently recognising Nkonu as his lord and master, prepared to swear his duty to him and inviting him to do with his life whatever he saw fit.

Humbled, head bowed in embarrassment and shame, Tarzan saw Nkonu’s legs pass before him. This moment was almost as bad as the tortures he had endured. This humiliation as he was forced to his knees in public. Their eyes burning into his enforced erection. His ears burned with shame. These people did not know why he had caved in. They had not seen the tortured sacrifice of his son being lowered into that pit. Because of the thick coating of mud, they barely saw evidence of endless inhumane beatings and the searing bruising on his torso.

Tarzan suspected they were already making up their own minds. The fabled legend of the invincible Tarzan had been a sham. Nkonu had conquered the bogus charade that had been the legend of the jungle lord. He had beaten the apeman in the manhunt and now he had brought him broken back, Nkonu’s bondage slave. On his knees, head bowed in deference to his “master”, Tarzan shuddered angrily at his powerlessness to fight. Held in bonds stronger than these chains, held captive by Korak’s life. Mastered by Nkonu, stripped naked, forcibly made hard, molested. Yet able to do nothing about it.

Tarzan sensed Nkonu stand before him, arms imperiously crossed over a strong chest. Smirking at the chief, Nkonu’s eyes passing through the crowd watching him in wonderment. The feet moved again, smugly circling Tarzan like a predator stalking injured prey. Tarzan’s heart beating at this indignity, his mind full of Korak’s agonies hanging over that snake pit.

Nkonu was standing behind his humbled slave. He planted a foot either side of Tarzan’s kneeling legs. Imperiously, dominating his slave, claiming his possession. His hand planted itself dramatically in the hair hanging down over Tarzan’s face. With a sharp tug, Nkonu yanked Tarzan’s head back up. A flash of pain shot across Tarzan’s face at the tear in his scalp. His eyes took in the look of the shocked villagers. His gaze saw the anxious look of the chief. Then the back of his neck dug sharp into the collar, he saw only the glare of the sky. Until Nkonu’s evil grin from above filled his vision. Until trapped by the hand in his hair, staring up, Tarzan saw only the sneer of the man he now was forced to call Master. Filling his vision of the world.

A rumble of respect passed through the surrounding villagers. Tarzan heard a voice called out “Nkonu, lord of the jungle!” With a shiver Tarzan trembled at the thought. Forced to stare up into Nkonu’s triumphalist face, with a falling heart he heard the call taken up, it grew rapidly to a crescendo of cheering warriors, punching the air in celebration, heaving their spears as they acclaimed their hero. Cat-calls hailed the downfall of the once-mighty jungle lord.

The Chief looked about him anxious of the mood, fearing the release of a pent-up frustration and aggression. He held up his hand for silence. But the cheering went on. He called for silence, but the celebrating men ignored him. Eventually, he shouted over their dying calls, “I will be heard!”

But it was Nkonu’s upraised hand that silenced the cheers. Looking down at the crushed, naked kneeling Tarzan, his mud-splattered body disguising signs of beating and torture, the Chief looked his rival in the eye and asked sneering,

“And how do we know this man gives himself freely to you? What proof that you have not bewitched him? Possessed Tarzan’s mind?”

Nkonu looked down on his shamed slave on his knees. He sneered down into Tarzan’s back-bent head, his face upraised to the sky.

“The tribe requires proof that you give yourself freely. That you offer up your body. To me. That you are for me to command for as long as I let you live.”

Suddenly the hand was gone, Tarzan threw his burning face back down to the earth, panting with shame. His ears burning. His fears of Nkonu’s growing strength with the tribe were coming true. Again, Nkonu’s feet were planted right in front. Tarzan kept his head down, not wanting to show his shame. Not wanting to burst out in rage.

Tarzan heard the gasp in the crowd. Then something fell at Nkonu’s feet. Animal skins. Nkonu’s loincloth. In one deft move, Nkonu had whipped off his loincloth. He stood naked before the tribe. His hand whipped Tarzan’s head back up and thrust his naked groin into Tarzan’s face. Standing naked before the village, Nkonu’s groin was already rising with eagerness at the closeness of his victory. Swelling with pride at this public mastery of the jungle lord.

Nkonu commanded, “Suck!”

40. Day 2 -- Public disgrace

Tarzan instinctively recoiled. Disgust and distaste instantly drove burning bile up from his stomach into his throat. Inches in front of his face hung Nkonu’s thickening cock. Already perceptibly growing in anticipation of the moment of Tarzan’s sickening disgrace.

It hadn’t helped at all that Nkonu had that ring removed off Tarzan’s crutch. Waiting for the elders to assemble, Tarzan had had to submit to that cock-ring being taken off. With people watching, ogling, gawping at the erection Nkonu had forced on him. Far from bringing Tarzan relief, taking it off only emphasised that he had submitted to that indignity in the first place. The famed jungle lord had let himself be humiliated by his rival. Brought so low that Tarzan could not prevent such disgrace.

He’d looked over the heads of the people, their eyes centred only on that enforced erection jutting up at the skies. Fighting back hard with the powerful emotions of anger, helplessness, shame. And even when that loathsome instrument of his shame was removed, he did not go down. The throbbing pain in his crutch, the tightness that had crushed powerful aches into his shaft would not go away. Still he stood half erect. Still, freed from his constraints, the people could see the once mighty jungle lord subject to Nkonu’s will.

And now around him, the village waiting agog in stunned amazement of Tarzan’s next shameful move. What more palpable evidence could there be that the jungle lord had been beaten? For a man like Tarzan to suck another man’s cock. Publicly, with all looking on to see. What clearer signal was there? What clearer sign that this jungle lord had given up his soul? Lost his sense of pride. That his master could do with Tarzan whatever he pleased. For Tarzan to suck his rival’s cock before all the world! What clearer way of saying that Tarzan has given up the fight? Broken by his Master. That Tarzan’s life was for Nkonu to command?

Confusion rained down on Tarzan. His face was crimson with burning rage. On his knees, his enemy demanding that Tarzan take his dick into his mouth. Tarzan felt the dozens of eyes burning into his back, watching his every move. Open-eyed in astonishment at Nkonu’s challenge. Tarzan’s face burned. With shame. With rage. With powerlessness. There right before his eyes, Nkonu thickening and lengthening in triumph at Tarzan’s public disgrace. Never so public. Never so disgraceful. Tarzan, his hands tight clenched in fury, yet clamped like a slave up behind his head. Fists he would hammer into Nkonu’s sneering face if they were free.

“Lick it!”

Tarzan shuddered at the thought. It looked huge before his disbelieving eyes. Menacing. Mortifying. Shameful. He gulped down the bitter bile that filled his throat. Instinct told him to shut his eyes. But he could not, in morbid fascination he could not recoil from the smarting shame that filled his mind, the thickening menace that filled his vision of the world.

“Slave! Please your Master”.

Nkonu’s voice was calm. No sneer at the moment, no harsh bark of command. Confident, victorious. Confident in Nkonu’s domination over the jungle lord’s will. Tarzan felt his heart burst into flames of anger at the smug assurance in that voice that his tongue was about to obey. Fuelling his desire to smash his fists into Nkonu’s conceited face. Yet in his mind, Tarzan also saw Korak, Nkonu’s trump card, swaying in agony over a pit of seething poisonous snakes. The thought of Korak brought here and condemned to more torture. Whipped into a frenzy of agony on the torture stone like Tarzan had been. Lashed by stinging whips, thudded into pulp by brutal corn-pounders. Tarzan was needed by Nkonu. Nkonu needed Tarzan to secure his claim to become chief. Korak, though, was dispensable. Merely the tool Nkonu would use till his father broke. And use him ruthlessly

Slowly, Tarzan edged forward on his knees, licked his lips his torso quivering in tension. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. To save his son, though, he had no choice. He gulped down a sickening mouthful of distaste, opened his lips and hesitantly licked at Nkonu’ shaft. Revulsion flooded up from his stomach. Bitter bile filled his gorge. Blood rushed to his face. His ears burned at his disgrace. For the sake of his son, he kept telling himself. His tongue edged out, his whole body trembling, Tarzan’s eyes filled with the curly coarse hair in Nkonu’s groin, flooded with the sight of his rival thickening perceptibly with this triumph. Tarzan’s tongue touched the shaft halfway along and lightly licked it up to the hair.

“The tip. Lick at your Master’s tip”.

The voice above cut like a sharp blade into Tarzan’s heart. He felt the nausea in the back of his throat at the menacing sight before his eyes, growing, taking on a life of its own. Taking on Tarzan’s manliness and crushing it. Growing at this victory over Tarzan’s manly pride. Rage burned in his heart. But helplessly. Korak must be freed. Tentatively, his eyes full of the firming threatening flesh flooding with Nkonu’s domination, Tarzan edged towards the cockhead right before his eyes. Solid, thick with Tarzan’s humiliation, throbbing with Tarzan’s shame. He hesitated. His heart pounded. Disbelief at what he was doing thudded in his ears. Yet the image of Korak burned in his brain. With a deep trembling breath, his tongue licked lightly over the tip of Nkonu’s growing dick. His whole body shuddered with disgust. He hissed as if in pain. It was like his tongue licking hot coals.

“Underneath. Your Master wants to feel you underneath. Stronger. Lick me stronger, slave”.

Nkonu issued his orders calmly. Knowing Tarzan would comply. For the sake of his son.

Amazement from those around weighed heavy on Tarzan’s neck, gasping in shock as the jungle lord submitted. The hands trapped behind Tarzan’s neck bunched into claws of embarrassment. He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing for this nightmare to pass. But it was still there when Nkonu’s voice rang out like a dagger into Tarzan’s gut.

“Underneath. Lick me underneath”.

A whimper escaped Tarzan’s burning throat when he twisted his head around and stroked his tongue over the trigger spot under Nkonu’s crown.

“Stronger, longer”, came the command.

Tarzan thought his heart would stop at this burning indignity. He felt a spark of electricity snap from Nkonu’s cock to his tongue. Tarzan gasped at the shock. A palpable twitch of excitement as his “Master” responded to Tarzan’s tentative touch. This was worse than the rape. Tarzan shut his eyes, a shudder of helpless horror passed through his body. Bright and clear before his eyes, he saw Korak’s face twisted in agony. Just like his own night in the torture pit.

“In your mouth, slave. Take your Master in your mouth”.

41. Day 2 -- For the love of a son

Tarzan’s blood flared, his heart burst with anger.

“In your mouth, slave. Take your Master in your mouth”.

But he heard in his ears a sobbed gasp break from Korak’s chest. He remembered that bird that would signal Korak’s release. Tarzan opened his mouth. His licked his lips. He breathed in deep. A father saving his son. He couldn’t believe he was doing this. The cockhead burned like an iron in the fire against his mouth. His lips barely touched the sides of the solid shaft. Yet nausea rushed up from the pit of his stomach, tears of shame flooded his eyes.

“Squeeze, slave. Use your lips”, the sounds of leering victory burned like acid in Tarzan’s ear.

“Squeeze your Master down into your mouth. Tight”.

A half-suppressed whimper of indignity broke from Tarzan’s being. His breathing fast, ragged, broken. But powerless, imprisoned by a father’s love for his son, Tarzan closed his lips around that branding iron. He felt the hot coals of the cockhead sear torture against his lips. He squeezed his mouth and closed down on Nkonu’s cock.

Bathed in public indignity, he closed his mud-caked lips round the cock head and squeezed. For the sake of his son. The eyes of the whole world burned into the back of Tarzan’s head. He felt the skin ease back with his lips, felt sick at the twitch of solid excited flesh against his tongue. The burden of the onlookers’ incredulity weighed like a mighty boulder on his shoulders. Indignity filled his chest to bursting. Instantly he felt Nkonu lean into him. The silence around him was palpable. Deafening. Tension hung in the air. Tarzan closed his ears to the outside world. He focussed his mind on his son suspended above the deadly snakes, a victim, his life dependent on Tarzan’s obedience. Relying on his father to debase himself and lose his soul. Slowly his mouth slid further down the hot shaft, the skin stretching with his lips, swelling, hardening in excitement, with Tarzan’s every tiny move. Around him, he heard the village gasp at this display of his shame.

Tarzan wept inside. He felt like a whore. He was a whore. His lips sucking at Nkonu’s dick, - with everyone looking on. For the love of his son. Korak had to be freed. His torture had to be stopped, his life had to be saved. Tarzan owed that to his son. A father’s first duty, to protect his child. There’d be other humiliations. This act from Nkonu was but the first. But Tarzan told himself, his time would come. He’d not always be yoked to this collar. Nkonu would then fear Tarzan’s wrath. Tarzan would bide his time. They’d meet again, perhaps alone in the forest when Nkonu had dropped his guard. Tarzan would rip his throat out. A re-run of that manhunt when Tarzan had been tricked. But this time one-on-one. No ambush to beat him down. Then Nkonu’s face would be distorted in fear. When Tarzan’s mighty hands were clenched around his throat. When Tarzan exacted revenge for this trial of shame. When Nkonu would learn to fear again Tarzan’s strength, his free arms turned to stone crushing down on that throat till all the life had been squeezed out of this foul beast. When Tarzan had crushed the life out of Nkonu’s reign of terror. And revenged his son. And revenged this shame.

Before that day, there’d be humiliations. There’d be pain. The taste of that thick distaste filling his mouth was only the first moment of many hours of shame and disgrace. Moments of stomach-turning disgust. Tarzan was doing this for his son. But it hurt. It hurt like a hand reaching into his chest and tearing out his heart. But Tarzan swore - as his face raged at this dishonour to his manly pride, as his throat gagged at the thought of whose cock filled his mouth. Tarzan swore he’d have revenge. He’d set the forest free. Once Korak was saved. Once Tarzan was free to act.

That detested hardness was pressed burning against the top of Tarzan’s mouth. The word of his humiliation would beat through the forest that day. The whole world would destroy his name. Tarzan, his Master’s cocksucker. He swore that the memory of that red-hot flame burning now against the top of his mouth would put iron into his wrists as Tarzan crushed the life out of this beast whose cock he was being forced to suck. The memory of the acid taste gagging his throat would steel his resolve as he throttled the life out of this monster. Nkonu’s eyes filling with his terror as Tarzan squeezed every bit of breath out of this brute, - that day when Tarzan settled scores.

Tarzan seethed, his rage burned. But he was uselessly trapped on the end of Nkonu’s dick. His fists clenched in futile anger when Nkonu’s grip grasped Tarzan’s own hands, still pinned in the collar behind his head, when Nkonu tipped Tarzan further towards him, the heat of his eager triumph filling Tarzan’s mouth with red hot coals. Nkonu moaned deep for Tarzan in a mock taunt at the touch of Tarzan’s palate over the throbbing cock head. Tarzan jerked as the red-hot head slid towards his throat. Like a red-hot branding iron searing into tender tissue. Tarzan felt his legs nearly sag as Nkonu slid deeper down, his sight flooded only with Nkonu’s belly and hair. Tarzan’s eyes filled as he began to feel sick, smarting with the pain of public humiliation. His nose filled with Nkonu’s musk as his face rubbed against coarse springy hair. This disgrace was worse than he had thought. The sight of Nkonu’s victorious groin filling his vision of the world burst like crackling flames in tinder-dry grass, incinerating Tarzan’s manly pride. Fury and rage wanted him to crunch down on that offending solid shaft within his mouth. Nkonu was so vulnerable to his bite. But the thought of his son’s freedom held Tarzan trapped. His face burned with shame. His ears were on fire.

Tarzan heard it first like a rustle of the wind. A breeze that fanned the fires burning in his soul. A murmur that blew and enflamed the parched forest around him. His eyes closed to forget the sight of that humiliation pressed against his face. His nose filled with the smell of hairy unwashed sweat. His ears, though, picked up a single rustle of praise. “Nkonu, lord of the jungle!” A rustle that grew and wafted on the wind. Picked up by the villagers standing around in shocked amazement of this sight.

“Nkonu, lord of the jungle! Nkonu, lord of the jungle!”

Tarzan leapt in relief Nkonu when began to withdraw back over Tarzan’s tongue slowly. An explosion of elation flashed in his heart that this humiliation was over. Nkonu pulled slowly back over Tarzan’s tongue. His eyes were glazed with his victory, his ears throbbing to the acclamation in the crowd.

“Nkonu, lord of the jungle! Nkonu, lord of the jungle!”

This was too good to stop. Grasping the slave’s head tight, he pushed himself back down into the mouth of Tarzan, his slave. Slowly, torturously slowly. In celebration of winning over this crowd, he gave them more. A joker in the crowd counter-pointed the slide with a low murmured “whoosh”. Deliberately, prolonging the humiliation, slowly, tauntingly slowly, Nkonu withdrew himself again, his eyes burning hard into his slave’s mud-splattered shoulders. Others in the crowd picked up the cry and “whooshed” Nkonu’s dick back deep into the captive throat. Giggling, sniggering at the apeman’s downfall. Nkonu’s fists on Tarzan’s wrists clenched in triumph when he felt his slave twitch in disgust. His throat gagging at the dick forcing itself deep into the slave-bound throat.

Tarzan was dying inside. The sounds of the villagers sharing in the fun of his humiliation passed through him like a sharp pain. He’d been up against things before, one fighting against many. But those had been warriors, his enemies. These were ordinary people, not savages, not evil-minded men. Tarzan felt utterly deserted. A gagging sense of disgust choked his gorge as he felt that red-hot pole opening up his throat. Nkonu had released among these simple people a malevolence Tarzan failed to understand. Nkonu’s intentions were evil. Yet it was Tarzan these people had deserted, the one who had fought for their rights, who had laboured only to bring them peace. Abandoned by them. For Nkonu. Tarzan felt utterly abandoned.

Rage flared at this growing sense of despair that sliced away at his strength of will. Anger and fury burned again in his heart at Nkonu’s public abuse. If he got out of this alive ….. That fury-driven thought got chopped dead in his head. Tarzan shuddered. He felt a tremble of disgust shiver down his back. Nkonu’s thick head was jarring open Tarzan’s throat with burning coals as it was “whooshed” deeper down. Tarzan’s sense of revulsion was snorted out of his nose into the crinkly hair of Nkonu’s groin.

SHIT! Nkonu! Not IF I get out of this alive. WHEN!! The thought exploded in Tarzan’s head. When he got out of this alive, he’d rip Nkonu’s throat out! He’d see Nkonu’s eyes popping out of their sockets, the last breath being torn out of his soul by Tarzan’s wrathful revenge. Those eyes that would have burned to see Korak writhe on the stone. The eyes of this man who would have stopped at nothing to wrench submission out of Korak’s father. The man who would have tortured the son to death if his father had failed to break.

Yet this act of abuse, Tarzan knew, was his suicide. A heavy stone of realisation thudded into the pit of Tarzan’s stomach. Submitting to this public act of shame for the sake of his son was the death of Tarzan. Tarzan was no more. Never again could he hold his head high and go among the people. The name of the jungle lord was ripped to shreds. For ever. Whenever Tarzan entered a village, it was not the jungle lord who had come among them. It was Nkonu’s cocksucker. When he got out of this alive, Tarzan was a dead man. Nkonu had murdered Tarzan. The lord of the jungle was no more.

The Chief stood back alone, mesmerised at the sight of the indomitable Tarzan, in disgrace tipped forward on his knees into Nkonu’s groin, shamefully balanced by his mouth on Nkonu’s dick, swallowing his rival’s cock hidden deep inside his throat. Fearfully, the Chief’s ears picked up the swelling approbation in the crowd. “Nkonu, lord of the jungle!” Trembling he caught the growing murmur in the crowd as they had collectively “whooshed” his rival’s dick slowly back into Tarzan’s trapped throat.

His people joining in. Consenting to the apeman’s eternal shame. The jungle lord put in his place. Where he belonged. On the end of Nkonu’s dick. Now forceful voices were whooshing the forced penetration deeper down Tarzan’s gagging throat. Approval had seized the crowd celebrating Nkonu’s victory. Marking Tarzan’s shameful downfall and applauding his eye-shocking defeat. Turning back the clock, returning the people to the tribe’s paths of glory. The Chief’s heart raced. He watched in panic as his people communally face-fucked his former friend.

((((((((((

42. Day 2 - Best friend’s toy

42a.

“What better thanks can I offer my best friend?” Nkonu asked. His head gestured at Tarzan standing close-by.

On the long journey back to the Chief’s village, the boats carrying Tarzan had pulled up before every village and ostentatiously flaunted Tarzan’s enforced humiliation. But at one, the canoes had pulled in and stopped. Nkonu had rushed into a big hug from the headman and showed off with a beaming grin his prize. Tarzan recognised this headman as being part of Nkonu’s ambush at the manhunt. Now he heard Nkonu called him Mala, a close friend since they were boys.

A goat had been roasted to commemorate, Nkonu and his men were invited to the village to eat and scoff down the beer. Celebrating the apeman’s downfall. Commemorating Nkonu’s impending rise. Tarzan stood behind the celebrating, in his collar, watching, his stomach grumbling. He had not eaten for days, the smell of roasted goat churned in his guts. Not even a drop of water passed his lips.

“A magnificent feast”, Nkonu thanked his host with a big manly hug around the shoulders. “And in return, what better thanks can I give you? Let me share this prize with you”.

He gestured at Tarzan who was pushed to the space in front. Mala, sitting with his friend on the log, the beer warming his pleasure of the day, grinned at Nkonu and sized the apeman captive up. Signs of heavy beating had tamed his friend’s rival. Whip-marks and lashings all over his body. Mala knew his friend’s plans, he admired his determination. He also knew, though, the apeman’s tenacity and Mala marvelled that Nkonu had broken the apeman so quickly. But beaten Tarzan was. There he stood, captive in the collar of slavery, arms vulnerably disabled. And shamed into sporting this forced erection against his will. Indeed, Nkonu had broken the apeman.

Yet, the day’s pleasures, it seemed, were not yet over. Tarzan watched Mala charily as he was appraised. Wary. Unable to defend himself, but preparing himself mentally for what might come. Another beating. Further attempts at humiliation.

Nkonu sat back on the log and gestured two-handed.

“Help yourself, my good friend. You deserve it”.

Mala approached and circled his gift. His eyes took in the evidence of beatings, the lacerations on the arms. The bruisings on the legs. Close-up. he sniffed at Tarzan, like scenting a beast. As if scenting his fears. Or sniffing out his defiance. Playing mind-games with Nkonu’s truculent new slave. Tarzan pulled back when a hand went to his stomach, sore from being pulverised by the corn-pounders. He stepped back when a finger trailed over his navel and toyed with him further down.

He growled in protest when Mala’s hand rested on the tip of his cock and pressed his hardness down. And continued pressing until Tarzan’s was forced to curl at the hips by the breaking pressure on his shaft.

He forced himself to ignore the laughter around when it was released and smacked up against his hard stomach with a loud slap.

“Has he a tongue?”

Mala turned to his friend with a grin.

“Slaves do not talk”. Nkonu answered. “But this one still has that lesson to learn. He still thinks he is smart. Too smart for his own good”.

Mala had started it again, Pushing with his hand on the end of Tarzan’s solid cock. Pushing down on the tip till Mala felt only resistance. Till it went no more. The breaking point. His eyes smirked back into the curl of a snarl that broke on the captive’s lips. Holding the pressure there. Pressing down. Waiting for the moment when the captive’s defiance broke. Playfully taunting the tension-taut slave. Daring Nkonu’s broken beast. Mala cocked his head to one side, a questioning eyebrow raised. What are you going to do about this, apeman-slave? Abruptly Mala’s hand pushed hard down. Forcing the apeman to curl himself back to protect against the damaging push.

Mala’s hand gave Tarzan two light mocking slaps to the cheek.

“Then give me his tongue”, Mala turned to Nkonu with laughing glee.

Tarzan missed the words as he concentrated on righting himself. His anger burst again at the laughter when his released cock gave out a resounding smack against his stomach.

“I’ll take his tongue. Cut it out”, Mala said to his friend though his eyes never left Tarzan’s face, Waiting of the look of shock, the tremor of fear across the face of the helpless slave.

“I will have it dried and hang it in my hut. To commemorate this glorious day. The defeat of the jungle lord” .

Nkonu raised his bowl of beer to his lips and drank slow. His eyes all the time on his prize. Giving Tarzan time for the message to sink in. His slave’s eyes had creased to tight angry slits. Mala had just slapped Tarzan’s erection from the side and made it ponderously swing.

Mala would take Tarzan’s tongue, cut out as a gift.

“A nice idea, Mala, my friend. Now that would stop the ape-pig mouthing off”, offered Nkonu.

“He isn’t short on insolence, this slave. It would be a kindness, it would save him punishments for talking out of turn”.

He was grinning maliciously and boring cruel eyes into Tarzan’s face. Slightly disappointed that his slave’s face had not twisted in shock. But Mala was still toying with the captive and had given the solid cock another slap from the side. Making the forced erection swing. To the delight of the men standing around. For the fun of it. Because the ape-slave could do nothing to stop him. The men enjoying this manhandling of the apeman’s cock. Laughing at his trapped anger, sniggering at his helplessness. Guffawing cruelly at his defencelessness.

Nkonu was disappointed that the apeman’s eyes had not shot wide-open with fear at the thought. His tongue cut out. Dried. Hung up as a trophy. But Nkonu felt sure the message would be hitting home, Tarzan would be feeling terror at the thought, - no matter he kept his face tight.

Nkonu got up and walked slowly over. As if considering the request. Smirking at the quarry he had tamed. Standing right in front of his new slave. His eyes drilling into the depths of Tarzan’s eyes. With a malicious grin. Enjoying Mala’s offer of brutal savagery.

“He still has to appear before the Chief, though”, Nkonu apologised. “He has to make his case to the Chief and claim me as Master”.

Mala grabbed Tarzan by the collar in the scruff of his neck.

“Then I claim something else”.

His foot jammed Tarzan in the back of his knee. A shove of the collar felled him to his knees.

“Anything, my friend”, Nkonu grinned, the goat warming his gut, the beer swirled in his head.

Mala shoved on the collar again. Tarzan’s hands behind his head flailed uselessly open as, kneeling, he was forced onto his front and his face rubbed in the dirt.

“Then I claim the apeman’s arse”, shouted Mala.

“NO!” Tarzan screamed.

42b.

“NO!” screamed back Tarzan suddenly forcing his head back up, fighting against the grip on his collar. Struggling his face up out of the dust. Fighting Mala’s threat to claim his arse. He’d not have that. He’d faced every humiliation that day. But he’d not take rape.

Fury powered every move. Tarzan reared his head up. Superhuman anger forced against gravity, monstrous indignation pushed upwards against Mala’s straining arms. A pair of Mala’s men rushed forward to help hold the apeman down. One grabbed at the collar and forced Tarzan’s face to eat dirt. The other straddled Tarzan’s shoulders and his weight shoved Tarzan’s head back down to the earth. Tarzan was grappling against all three in prodigious rage, fighting to break himself free. Blinded by phenomenal fury, an animalistic need to break free and hurt. Kneeling, bent forward, his knees pressed up into his chest. His enforced erection painfully trapped against his thighs. Yet fighting back with inhuman rage. Weighted down on the shoulders. His face jammed into the earth. He roared, fury flooded his every limb. Yet frustratingly still unable to rise. Pinned down by the warriors. Claimed by Nkonu’s friend. And his arse sticking out. Vulnerably exposed and sticking out. Offered in thanks for a meal.

Nkonu watched with amusement his rebellious slave in a life-and-arse struggle against Mala’s men. Tarzan was bawling in anger and fear, mouth forced into the dirt. He saw the apeman’s captive arms had turned to iron, his hands bunched into uselessly defiant fists. Every muscle in his body burning with fight. He felt a grudging admiration for the way this apeman did not know how to give in. But give in he would, Nkonu still had Korak in his grip. Nkonu’s spirits leapt when a knuckled fist hammered into the top of Tarzan’s skull. The second punch got a grunt that blew up a cloud of dust.

Lights flashed in Tarzan’s skull, for a second dazed. But his one great fear drove him on. The fear of rape. This was the one indignity he had escaped. He had been beaten, whipped, tortured. In the cave he had been sexually abused. But he had been spared rape. Now Mala claimed his arse. That would not be.

But his efforts were getting him nowhere, he could do little about it. Hands locked in the collar. His face pressed into the dirt. Legs trapped under him. Weighted down. His bare arse sticking out in the open. Tarzan fought. He fought the fight of a desperate man.

Nkonu grinned at the struggling mass of arms and legs on the earth before him. Tarzan bawling with rage in his fight. Grunting men pushing him down, the slave straining to break himself free. Knowing Nkonu would have more to do to tame this unruly slave. But knowing what Tarzan did not know. Nkonu still had his trump card in his hand. Korak was following on. And then Nkonu laughed out loud when Mala approached to claim his prize. Looking at what Mala held in his hand. Tarzan was in for a surprise.

Tarzan cursed and swore. The man on his back fought him like riding a reluctant ox. The occasional thud of a fist into his neck to keep the beast under control. Tarzan couldn’t shift them, he had not dislodged them. But the fear of rape still pumped fight through his blood. Careless of the enforced erection jammed hot against his stomach and the tightness of the collar on his cock, Tarzan fought them back. He’d not give up, he’d not give in to rape. Bellowing and shouting, Tarzan did not hear the warning. His face choked in the dust, he never heard the manly laughter that broke just before the sound. The first he knew was the stinging slash of bamboo biting into his bare backside.

The shock blew the air out of his chest. The sting popped this eyes out of his head. The surprise burst a cry out of his mouth.

The next whoosh was accompanied by cheers. Tarzan jerked under the sting, his shoulders jarring up into the man riding him above. A sharp snap of pain turned his every muscle rigid.

WHOOSH!

WHOOOSH!

WHOOOSHHH!

Sting, smarting bites in quick succession. The slash made pained muscle tighten, had smouldering fires in Tarzan’s backside re-kindle and flare.

A trickle of pain filled Tarzan’s eye.

Mala was putting everything into it. Another half-dozen lashes into the reddening arse had him sweating with effort. The last two blows bit home. The last two had the slave shout out his pains. Panting, Mala reached out for the bowl. Took a deep swig of the beer.

Laughing, Nkonu goaded him.

“No half measures, my friend. This is not time to stop. This slave can take it. The ape-pig needs you to tame his arse”.

Mala continued laying into the injured muscle. With gusto. With force. Earlier Tarzan’s backside had taken dozens of lashes when it had been used as a child’s swing. Only the night before. A backside criss-crossed with red-angry welts. Battered and bruised. The first of Mala’s blows overlaid the numerous pain-stripes smouldering there. In an instant, pain burst into flames. In seconds, bruised flesh erupted in torment. Shooting Tarzan down a fiery tunnel of pain. Smouldering embers flared into fires. The damage to Tarzan’s injured flesh flared into searing heat. Sweating him like a pig. His back coated with a sweat that poured out of his every pore. A hot molten blaze that spread out from his arse.

Another two dozen vicious biting slashes had torn into his crimson-red arse. He had fought to escape the lashes, struggling to dance and leap against the bodies weighing him down. Flames hotter than the fiercest blaze had roared from the centre of his arse and incinerated his whole body, from trapped collar to his cramped toes. He was on fire in his backside. A human torch. The pain enveloped all of him. He was one solid mass of burning pain. And the line between his pain and his shame at crying out was more fragile than the hold he had over this trembling that gripped Tarzan’s body. Vicious, hard, slashing, stinging. Damaged flesh taken more bites, injured skin eating up more hurt.

So it wasn’t rape. But was this shameful abuse much better? Beaten to tears by a cane like a little boy? He was burning up with the stinging pains that spread out like wildfire from his arse. Tarzan lay doubled-up under the weight on his shoulders. Jerking as sharp sting lashes were setting him ablaze. Shame, hurt. Defencelessness, - all tumbled together in a tumult of conflicting emotions. His head was everywhere, he didn’t know what was happening to him. His body trembled. He shook uncontrollably with ravaging pain. There was no stopping this trembling. His nerves were in overload. His body was burning up. His face was sunk into the dust, his rasping breath breaking in fast broken pants. Grunts of pain shot up clouds of dust beneath his mouth. Grunts voiced by the cracked sobs in his throat. He was being ferociously beaten. Savagely and crushingly abused.

He was squashed crouched up under Mala’s men, shuddering, burning alive. He felt utterly drained, in no fit state. Either to fight, to get up, to walk. The lashings had stopped for now. But not the hurt, not the fires. Torture consumed him still. Wave after wave of torment crashed onto one another, Tarzan had lost the ability to track where one wave of searing pain ended and the next began. He’d lost touch with reality. Knowing only white-hot heat. A furnace that roared through his body, its centres incinerating the flesh of his backside. His hands were clenched tight behind his head, straining to fight what he could of the pain. Overloaded with messages of torture. Every sinew taut, every muscle weighed down with pulsating throbbing agonies. The pain was on the surface, the pain was deep within, the pain was everywhere, eating him up.

And he was kept forced into this crippling crouch, dreading that next crippling whoosh of the lash. Dreading too being hauled to his feet. Revealing the enforced stream of pain pouring off his burning face.

43. Day 2 - Like a beast

The Chief had abandoned Tarzan to his fate. His plan to use his unwitting friend in the manhunt to put Nkonu down had backfired on him. Now Nkonu had turned the tables, he personally was under threat. The Chief was learning what it meant to be a leader. Learning when it was useful to have Tarzan as friend. And when not. The people for some reason were turning towards Nkonu. They were targeting their resentment against his jungle-lord friend. This was not the time, the chief could sense the atmosphere around. It was not expedient at this moment to have Tarzan as a friend. Or to help him out. He rushed off in haste to the council hut. He needed to convene a meeting of the Elders and headmen to oppose Nkonu’s rise. He abandoned his former friend and left Nkonu with his “slave”, rushing off to save his own skin.

Nkonu had had his men bind Tarzan to a stake at the edge of the village, his neck still in the slave collar, his arms raised above his head, wrists bound to the pole. In one gesture that was almost out of character, Nkonu had the cock-ring removed. But it was out of character. And that just left Tarzan wondering why. His tortured mud-splattered body was on display. The crowd still standing around, murmuring in amazement crowding around the deadly torture stone. His enslavement exposed for all to see. Tarzan significantly bound at the stake next to the ancient stone. A sign of things to come. Tarzan at the stone where, in days past, captive rivals were tortured.

Tarzan at the stake felt uncannily naked and exposed. He had no problems with his nakedness but he’d now spent two days with his manhood exposed. His nakedness had become an invitation to be played with, toyed with and tortured. Pinned out on the rock, hanging from a torture frame for hours. Whipped and beaten. His cock abused. Naked, on display. Yet entrapped by his love for a son. Giving himself for Korak into slavery. Something he had had no choice in, something he’d have to get used to.

A future of nakedness as Nkonu’s slave was all he could hope to face. Since coming back to the chief, since accepting this fate to save his son, since facing the acquiescent curiosity of the tribes-people, accepting his downfall, almost welcoming it, -since coming back to this village, his own nakedness at this stake seemed all-consuming. This was now him. This was his future life. The new Tarzan. Would he ever see any clothing again? Would his nakedness always invite abuse? The truth of his enforced decision to save his son was dawning on him. Naked or no, bound or free. His life was no longer his to decide. Stripped of his meagre loincloth, stripped of his treasured freedom. The tribe did not know he had disgraced himself to save his son’s life. To them, he was Nkonu’s cocksucker. For Nkonu to do with as he pleased.

A shout caught his attention. Twisting his head round, Tarzan listened to the uproar coming from the Council hut. The arguments were fierce, voices raised, screaming and shouting. Loud roars of approval from groups of men shouting war-like chants. In support of Nkonu’s claim. The new lord of the jungle.

While the uproar in the council hut broke out in angry outbursts, Tarzan waited restlessly at the stake. Fearful for Korak suspended over the pit. Aching to have him released. Yet exhaustion kept taking him, sweeping over Tarzan in irresistible waves. Tarzan had barely rested in two nights. Nothing to eat, almost nothing to drink. Tortured in body, tortured in his mind with anxieties for his son. Tied to the stake, his hands bound to the pole, Tarzan kept drifting off. His head hung low against the collar in his throat. Less and less aware of the tumults constantly raging in the council hut. Nkonu and his henchmen threatening the chief. His arguments appealing to the other headmen, promising warriors a return to their former ways. And bringing fresh days of glory and pride.

Tarzan groaned as reluctantly he came back to the surface of consciousness. His body begged to retreat back to the sleep where pain did not ravage his flesh. Back to the darkness from which some discomfort was dragging him up. Deep and heavy weights filled every bone in his body. Thick and comforting, the darkness of sleep had wrapped warm around his tortured battered frame. The hanging, the pit, the slaughter over that flat stone. His body yearned for rest and recovery. Like he had never known. Willingly he craved a return back to the warmth and comfort of oblivion.

But vaguely his mind was warning him to be wary. Something was wrong. That ache that puzzlingly gnawed at his jaw. The dull pain that cramped his cheeks. Slowly his wariness dragged the unwilling Tarzan struggling to the surface of reality. But still his tortured body fought back. Like a heavy stone pulling him back down. Back to the rest and the warmth of his dreams.

Vaguely he became more aware of something between his teeth. A growing awareness of something that jammed open his mouth. A painful tension across his cheeks. The tightness around his neck and knotted in the back.

He crashed back to consciousness. Nkonu had gagged him. Tarzan had slept bound to this stake and Nkonu had taken advantage of his unconsciousness. He’d had a wooded gag jammed across his mouth. Like an animal’s bit. So exhausted, Tarzan had not noticed them do it to him. His anger flared, fighting this one more dismal message of his enslavement. Bound and gagged at the stake. Tamed and tethered like an animal. Shamefully he could not stop saliva drooling out of his open mouth onto his chest. Drooling like a sick cow. Tarzan the former jungle lord. Reduced to a beast of burden. The reality of slavery hit Tarzan like a punch into unprotected guts.

Hands bunched into fists behind his neck fighting indignity. Shoulders knotted into fighting cords at this shame. Tarzan threw back his head and roared. Gagged! A gagged roar of fury. A useless bellow of rage. Crazed rage against his entrapment. Tethered at the stake! Gagged like a beast! Vengeful fury burst out against Nkonu. That man would die!

But the roar died away ringing hollow. It was a roar bellowed out of powerlessness. Tarzan railed against his rival to no avail. It was a gagged roar, twisted by a stick tight jammed across his cheeks. He was bound. He was a slave. Trussed up by the strongest of chains. His love for his son. The son for whose freedom he had donned this collar. For whose love he had been gagged. It was for Korak Tarzan was being humiliated in slavery.

The heavy stone of his reality thumped to the pit of his stomach. Head thrust still up to the sky to hide his face from this shame, the chill reality of his chains watered an eye. Fighting his dismay at the chill truth hitting home. Nkonu’s slave. For Korak, this had to be, he had to do this for his son. This inhuman treatment was just the start. Nkonu would treat him like an animal. And worse. But for Korak, it had to be.

Gulping down his pride, swallowing the harshness of his reality, Tarzan breathed in deep. A heavy pained sigh. Facing reality. This was now his life. The rasping intake of breath came distorted, twisted by the gag jamming open his throat. With a heavy gulp of acceptance that this was his new reality, Tarzan lowered his eyes. And slowly, grudgingly, he faced with heavy heart the horror of his new life.

He glanced around. At the empty village. Everyone intently listening huddled around the council hut. The sun slowly dropping. He looked over to the right. And his heart stopped. Tarzan looked at that stone. That torture stone. Like the stone where Nkonu had had him pummelled and beaten. Tarzan’s heart missed a beat at what he saw. Unwilling to believe his eyes. Not daring to believe what he saw.

44. Day 2 - The stone

Tarzan stared at the stone. Not blinking. He dared hardly breathe. The sight paralysed every move. Horror tightened its claws around his throat.

There to the right, on that ancient torture stone lay a man. Hands up by his head, ropes pinning them in place. Knees bent off the stone, feet staked to the ground. Just as Tarzan had been. On the stone where Nkonu had tortured him. Naked, dressed only in a sheen of sweat from his efforts to escape his bonds. A woven cloth bound the man’s unseeing eyes. A wooden gag jammed open his mouth. A gag like Tarzan wore. Distorting the face, creasing the cheeks.

But unmistakably Korak.

Shocked at this sudden appearance, Tarzan felt the truth slash like a blade into his heart. Now forced to face that reality his mind had sought to suppress. Nkonu could not be trusted. Nkonu would not let his son go free. Here was Korak, pinned out on the stone. Not released as agreed. In his heart-of-hearts, Tarzan had known that truth. Nkonu was not to be trusted. But what choice had he had?

Somehow when Tarzan was slumped into an exhausted sleep, they had sneaked Korak in and pinned him out on the stone. Not freeing him, not keeping their side of the bargain. They had brought him here, crept in and laid Korak out. As a shock to the father. Rubbing his nose in his own naiveté and stupidity. Using him exhaustion as cover to prepare him this heart-stopping shock. Sniggering at him as he slumbered for his stupidity in believing a snake like Nkonu. Tarzan knew he was no fool, he had known the risk. He knew Nkonu. But what alternative had there been?

And suddenly – as he watched the shock of his blindfolded son struggling with his ropes - another horrific truth snapped into his head. Suddenly he remembered this tribe’s ancient ritual, torturing captive chiefs on this stone. With a thud of a punch hitting him in his guts, Tarzan remembered. He remembered the name. That this was not the torture stone on which his son was spread. They called it the killing stone.

The tribe’s forebears used to rope a chief here they had taken in battle. Stake him out on such stones. Just like Korak. And then they had tortured him to death. Blindfolded so he could not see the attack. Just like Korak. Unable to steel his body for the thud of the club into his ribs. Blind to the blur of the whip tearing down at his flesh. Gagged with the stick jammed between his back teeth. Like an animal. Like Tarzan. Just like Korak.

Gagged so the throat stayed open. Foiling any brave attempt to hold back a pained cry. Any hope of defying their torture denied. Every hope of showing courage thwarted. No chance of crushing yells of agony in the throat. Every cry applauded. Every scream twisted over that gag and burning like acid in the ears.

“Korak!” Tarzan had cried out in shock and disbelief. Horrified Korak was staked out like this. Yet if they were to be tortured, at least they were re-united in their torments. Needing to tell his son he was here. Re-assure him. Yet the body on the stone did not react. In disbelief at what his eyes saw, Tarzan stood paralysed by disbelieving shock. Korak was engaged in a continuous struggle against the ropes. The bonds were loose giving his strong frame plenty of movement. And some hope of escape. Relentlessly Korak bravely fought with his ropes. His strong young chest heaved, his tight stomach ripped and sucked in as powerful shoulders pulled at the bonds. Bursting with sizzling determination and fired with youthful courage, Korak grunted with the blind efforts of his knotted arms. Fuelled by this straining efforts a sheen of effort painted the bulging chest of his fresh deep-tanned skin, beads of sweat trickled by his exertions down his youthful flanks. Burn marks at his bound wrists scratched sharp claws of pain through his arms. But Korak bravely fought on, hoping perhaps against hope that his efforts would work his bonds free. A pride flushed his father’s heart for a brief moment. Pride at the resilience of his own son against his bonds, never giving up.

But the false pride evaporated. The ropes were firm, Korak would not escape. He’d worm and writhe in agony on that stone when the whips fell. He’d jolt and shudder when the clubs thudded at his guts. And his helpless father would see every shudder of pain shake his youthful muscled frame. Just as Nkonu intended. This was a torture meant for a father.

Korak pinned out naked on the killing stone. Just like Tarzan had been when Nkonu had tortured him into exhaustion. But, no. Not the same. Blindfolded. Gagged. Just like the tribe’s forebears did in former times. This was how they had slaughtered the chiefs they took in war. Staked out on the stone. Their own captured warriors standing morosely around, made useless in their chains. Loyal warriors watching their chief’s horrible death. Family and friends turned into helpless on-lookers.

Just as Tarzan was.

The thought sent a chill down the father’s spine. Bound and in chains, watching as the victors tortured their victim to a savage death. Korak was being made to re-enact the ancient rites. The customs Tarzan had hoped to suppress. This was not the torture stone on which Tarzan had been stretched. It was the killing stone. Korak was pinned out on the ancient killing stone. Where, blindfolded and gagged, Nkonu’s forebears had tortured their rivals to death.

“Korak!” he shouted out again over to the stone. Desperation gripped his throat. Then Tarzan realised his sounds made no sense. The gag twisted his cry into an animal’s bawl. Like a cow in distress. Tarzan was seeking to make contact with his son. Korak, frightened no doubt, painfully aware that the struggles of his tight strong body were useless against these bonds.

Tarzan was seeking to comfort his son. Fearful in his abject loneliness. Deserted, abandoned, not a friend around. Alone against this vicious world. Feeling himself lost on a savage earth that meant him insufferable harm.

And yet his father was within calling distance. Tarzan sought to reach out to his son. Assure him he was here. Desperate to help. There was nothing Tarzan could do nothing to help. He was just as hopeless, tight in his bonds. Words of comfort were all he could offer. The knowledge that his father was there with him. There for him. Such thoughts would be some comfort to his son. Father and son, in this together. Tarzan wanted to ease Korak’s burden of fear, anything to make his son’s pains go away. But even his words of comfort were twisted into an inhuman bawl. At the thought that Tarzan could not even comfort his only son, his temper flared. Nkonu had denied him even that. These monsters had gagged him. They had gagged Tarzan so that a father could not comfort his son in his hour of terror. Were there no depths to this inhumanity?

45. Day 2 - Nightmare thoughts

They materialised out of nowhere. Or Tarzan’s whole being had been focussed so entirely on the shock of finding his son, he had not noticed them. Had he been so lost in the private hell of his thoughts that he had not registered their presence? So shaken by the plight of his son, finding him staked out, blindfolded and gagged, on Nkonu’s killing stone. Where traditionally they had tortured rivals to death. So taken aback at the horror of finding Korak there that he had not seen them before.

But suddenly spectre-like they appeared. The tribes-people. Gathered around the Korak’s killing stone. Materialised like ghosts out of thin air. In stony silence, their eyes impassively focussed on the sacrifice. On Korak. The men and women of the village who had watched in passivity when Tarzan had been dragged through their midst. Splattered in the mud of their river. Bent double held on Nkonu’s leash. Bearing the yoke of slavery around his neck. Without a murmur, they had watched as the fabled Tarzan was dragged through their midst. Forced to suck on his rival’s dick. Now, impassive, unquestioning, they gathered around his son. Staked out on the deadly stone.

Almost ghost-like in their silence. Phantoms, intently they watched in stillness. There seemed to be many more of them. As if people had flooded down the river to join in. To watch. To take part in this momentous history-changing event. As if they had come from far and near to watch the torture of Tarzan and his son on the killing stone. To mark the dawning of the new age. Warriors who had seen the defeated Tarzan on display when Nkonu’s boat had pulled up on the way here at their villages. There was that Mala who had brutally whipped Tarzan’s backside only a few hours before. He and his men quickly rushing to follow behind, sensing that something momentous was about to break. Not wanting to miss out on the wheel of history turning back. And the jungle-lord’s ultimate downfall. Jumping into their canoes and paddling furiously behind to be part of this historic change.

And now they came gathered around the stone. Gripped by the moment. But like silent phantoms they collected around Tarzans unsuspecting son. Tarzan roped at the stake struggling and hopeless, they hovered around his only boy. Even now Korak was still trying to break free of his bonds to save himself. A powerfully built young man staked out on the stone. Korak, the apeman’s only son. Strong fresh-muscled arms resolutely pulling at the ropes to break free. Unaware of the silent audience around, blindfolded. The fascination of the scene doubly tense by his unrelenting struggle to break free and yet not knowing of the peril that lurked. Muscles danced on the square blocks of his chest, pebble-like nipples on the sharpened edge hard with his struggles. Arching his back as powerful thighs dug into the stone, bulging stomach stones built through feats of strength and endurance bursting at his straining skin. Yet innocent of the terrors that had surrounded him.

His defined young frame was writhing against his bonds on the stone, his solid muscle popping with the strain as he hauled against the bonds that held him trapped. Naked for all to gawp. His impressive young manhood rolling with his determined exertions against its strong bed of soft black hair. The spectres watched, observers not participants. Yet caught in this life-and-death struggle, gripped by the helpless fate of such muscled youthful promise. The grunts of effort in this powerful-looking young man were twisted by the animal bit tight across his teeth. Blindfolded, unaware he was surrounded by the intensity of this silent crowd. Unaware his torturers were standing by his side.

Tarzan’s heart froze at the sight of Nkonu’s face. His rival’s eyes burned as he stood by Korak’s out-spread knees. His gazed burning up the smooth contours of the torso squirming on the stone. Young muscles flowing like liquid power. Youthful vitality bursting through every straining sinew. Deep carved furrows cut between struggling hopelessly straining muscle. Broad square-cut shoulders. Throbbing determination rippling through youthful warrior thighs. Mahogany-hewn muscle clenched dense in a tight-strained stomach. Nkonu smiled, he possessed the power to crush all that strength. It was his to command. Power rippling through Korak’s smooth compact contours, arcing the back in its efforts to expose every sculpted muscle and rolling his manhood helplessly across his thigh.

Tarzan watched Nkonu and his heart stopped beating. He was reading that monster’s mind. Nkonu stared with satisfaction at this son of Tarzan, his chiselled highly packed physique that tapered to an exquisite set of unblemished muscle in his stomach. His to destroy. Like a god bursting with dynamic energy, a liquid sheen of earnest sweat embracing this perfection of youthful muscularity. Like a god. Like a god condemned.

Tarzan fought the helplessness dragging him down. Such were the men of the tribe Nkonu would breed. Such was the manly energy that would burst like wildfire through the forests in Nkonu’s name. But Korak was not destined to be one of them. Korak was to be bludgeoned to death. To pain his father. He was the son of Nkonu’s deadly rival. Rival for what would hold sway in the jungle. The apeman’s ways of peace and prosperity. Or Nkonu’s tradition of warriors and pillage. As chief, Nkonu would brook no rival. Even with Tarzan removed, this flexing specimen of determined struggling muscle, Tarzan’s only son, - he would rise and challenge Nkonu too. For Nkonu to be safe, Korak had to be destroyed.

“Korak!” Tarzan had yelled out. His heart thudded. Only the life of his son mattered now. He shouted out. To warn Korak of the danger. To tell his son that his father was there too. With him. There for him. To let Korak know he was not in this alone.

But Korak had not flinched in his struggling at the sound of a sick beast bawling out its pain amid the silence of the jungle. But Tarzan’s yell caught Nkonu’s ears. Tarzan felt Nkonu’s eye flash on his. He fell under Nkonu’s glare. The look of a crazed cat. Wild with greed to seize its prey. Ravenous at the sight of the wounded animal in its sights. Fierce in its need to rip its victim apart and sink its teeth into its screeching pain-ripped flesh. Eyes that made Tarzan’s blood run cold. Not for himself, for Korak his son.

Clear as day, Tarzan knew what this was about. Nkonu’s eyes flared at him with a look of madness. Tarzan at the stake. He felt that the eyes lashed at him like a whip. Tarzan, his rival for power over his people’s destiny. Tarzan, now about to pay the ultimate price. Those demented eyes flashed down at the powerful writhings of Tarzan’s son on the killing stone. Tarzan’s ultimate price. Nkonu’s ancestors too had sacrificed sons. With those tribes which had defied them most, who had resisted and dared to stand up to the tribe, Nkonu’s forebears would torture these rivals too. Before the chief was bludgeoned to death, they would have the chief watch as his sons were slaughtered before their eyes. Just like Tarzan.

Tarzan’s glared over his inhuman gag. A thunderbolt shot rage over to the man who meant to murder his son. Kill his son in order to torture the father. But Nkonu bared his lips, curling them back into a snarl. A sneering snarl for a father’s powerlessness. For this helpless fool who had dared to turn a noble and warrior tribe away from its destiny. This was not about Korak. This was not about Korak’s suffering on the killing stone. Yes, the apeboy was to be whipped here till he could scream no more, beaten to his last dying breath, clubbed to death. But this was above all Tarzan’s torture. Crippling mental cruelty. Of the worst kind. Watching his only son tortured to an inhuman death. Nkonu had planned this for Tarzan, that vicious look in his eyes told him so. To stand by and watch your own son battered to death. Hopeless, helpless. To stand roped to the stake while his own flesh and blood was agonisingly tortured before his eyes.

After these past two days, Tarzan knew Nkonu did not intend for Korak a quick and painless death. No quick slash of the knife across his writhing throat. That would spare Tarzan too much mental suffering. Korak was held onto the stone by loose bonds. Tarzan would see him jolt with pain at every slash of the whip. His heart would stop at every jerk of agony when the club pounded through his son’s guts. Tears streaming, he’d watch Korak struggle screaming to escape. His son’s bawls of torment would stab the father in the heart like a thin blade. Twist torture deep into Tarzan gut. Razor-sharp, Korak’s cries would slice at his father’s soul as pain smashed through Korak’s insides. Sliver-by-sliver cut away all meaning from Tarzan’s life. Layer-by-layer, like onion skins, slowly peeling off layers of Tarzan’s agony. Like skinning Tarzan alive. His own son shuddering with shock, a mass of beaten flesh whimpering in his torture, begging into that gag for this torment to end. Wishing away his life full of youthful promise.

Tarzan wrenched again at the ropes tying his hands to the stake. Fury burned in his heart. Rage bellowed twisted out of his throat. Loathing like he had never known burned like wildfire in his guts. Nkonu simply sneered.

46. Day 2 - Suffer in silence

Angry at himself for trusting Nkonu. Seething with rage at Nkonu for abusing his son. Crippled by his powerlessness to save Korak’s life. Shocked by his inability to stay in charge of his emotions, his sharp senses failing him, his quick mental reflexes disabled by his love Korak. His head span. With conflict. With confusion. Bewildered. Yet convinced that. whatever the outcome here, Nkonu would end his days by the strength of Tarzan’s own hands.

Nkonu cast a furtive look at Tarzan squirming in confusion and shame against the stake. If the apeman thought the torture of Korak for his sake was the start of this, the apeman had not got a handle on his rival’s ingenuity. Nkonu had spent too long thinking this thing through to simply beat the son to pulp with the father looking on. Tarzan should know better that that, Nkonu would wrench every bit of pain out of his rival’s heart. He’d count every drip of shame seeping out of his soul. Before his son gave up his first cry of pain, the apeman would give his son enduring shame.

Korak’s head whipped round at the sound. That noise? Was it ….? Sounded almost like his father. But twisted, contorted. Then Korak felt the tight the gag between his jaws. The hard bit jammed between his own teeth. Was it possible? Could it be? His father was there, just behind? His father calling out? Gagged like him? Unable to speak. Blindfolded like him? Trying to make contact.

Tarzan saw his son twist his head around on the stone. Blind-folded by a woven rag, unable to see. But attracted by a voice he thought he knew. Tarzan’s yelp of surprise had been contorted by this hateful gag. Tarzan had tried before to let Korak know he was there for him. But Korak had not seemed to recognise his voice when Tarzan had cried out in support. Calling out to let Korak know he was here, his shout distorted over the gag. Now, of all the wrong times, Korak did! Just when Tarzan wanted to keep his son in the dark. Just at the last moment Tarzan would want Korak know Tarzan was only a few paces away, Korak had seemed to recognise something in that yelp and had twisted his head round to see. It had been Tarzan’s protest that had caught Korak’s ears. His surprised yelp of shock when the man’s voracious tongue licked up the length of his cock.

Tarzan remembered this man-boy from before. He had been on of those two boys brutally lashing away at Tarzan’s thighs. Tarzan on Nkonu’s torture stone. Tarzan had leapt in pain when his cane had ripped into his thigh. With a deadly strength that ripped hisses of pain from his throat. A boy in face, yet already grown in body, built with the strength of man, it seemed. Prodigiously powerful for one who did not bear those warrior cuts on his chest.

Now it seemed it was he who had been chosen. Privileged to torture the apeman again. Not with a cane. With his wet tongue slurping up on Tarzan’s cock. Tarzan could not hold back his grunt of shock when the boy’s lips squeezed around his cock and pushed back on Tarzan’s foreskin within his mouth. His cockhead inside the boy’s mouth. And Korak twisted round to hear. Shocked himself, Tarzan realised that all this fear for his son on the stone had already made him half-hard. The extreme stress and anxiety for Korak had been already beginning to fill him out.

Sickeningly because of his concerns for his son, Tarzan’s own body had already brought him part-way there. The sight of Korak helplessly fighting his bonds had started to do its worst on Tarzan. Unawares, he had been getting hard in anxiety for his son. Concerned that Korak was unaware that he was the centre of attention, that forces were lined up against him to do him harm, to torture him to death. That thought of what was about to happen to his unsuspecting son had unknowingly pumped anxieties through Tarzan’s being. The suspense of watching the attackers hovering around his only son struggling bravely against his bonds, -that had fed energy into Tarzan’s groin. Giving him the half-energised strength that this chosen boy was now sucking into his mouth. Before these animals turned on Korak, it seemed, Nkonu planned to shame the father before the son. Sucking his cock, forced into shedding his seed onto the earth. And the rest of the world looking on.

Without thinking, Tarzan had shouted out. Shock and disgust at a man mouthing him there like that. It was a meaningless protest. Part distorted by the gag across his teeth. More made helpless by the fact he could do nothing about it.

And worse …. His cry of protest had not stopped the slurping tongue, it had only made Korak twist round. Tarzan froze. Mortified that Korak might realise the shame to which his father had been brought down. He bit down in his bottom lip, threw his face to the sky so he could not see them all watching. So he could not see Korak watching his father abused like this.

Yet despite his eyes averted to the bright skies, he keep feel their gaze drilling into his groin. Despite biting hard on the bit to crush any noises in his chest, he senses Korak twisted round and searching out the source of that familiar sound. He crushed another yell of protest within his chest. He’d die of shame if Korak knew what was happening to his father nearby. He’d spare his son this shameful knowledge by his silence. Blindfolded Korak could not see, but Tarzan felt Korak’s every sense pricked trying to make out a familiar voice. He fought with the sickening nausea breaking in his throat. Forced himself silent in the face of his son. Saving his son the shock. Saving himself from that mortifying shame. Saving his pride from the anxiety that Korak could tell that a man-boy was noisily sucking on his father’s cock only a few paces away. Not even a man, Nkonu had let a mere boy loose on him. The mighty jungle-lord mortified by a boy, belittled by a child swallowing his dick. Before his son, watched by the world.

And the people stood looking on in amazed silence. That silence somehow made things worse. Heavy. Weighty that intolerable silence. Watching, appraising, not commenting. Not a word. As if that silence turned a magnifying glass on his shameful crutch. The silence was torture in itself. In that silence, Tarzan heard his own shame. He fought the fear that his slightest sound would echo around and alert his son. His helplessness pounded in that thunderous silence like a drum in his ear. The thud of fate. Drumming out the message that his humiliation was inevitable. Unavoidable. Whatever Tarzan did to fight this attack on his cock, he was destined to lose. Irresistible forces lined up against him. Fighting in a deadly crushing silence a man’s nature. Fated to fail in that silence into which his yelp had echoed and alerted his blindfolded son.

Thuds of embarrassment pounded in Tarzan’s chest, anger and bitterness raged in his head. Embarrassment and shame before his son burned in his heart. A man in his prime, made useless, bound and tied, disabled by the presence of his own son, mortified by a mere boy slurping a wet tongue in public up his strengthening dick. For the sake of it, for a laugh. For his utter humiliation. Anger seethed in his blood, shame and disgrace burned on his face. But Tarzan bit down on the stick across his mouth, in fear of signalling to his son what was going on. Only a few paces away. Crushing his sounds of disgust, shock and anger. In face of the acute disgrace he felt at this happening before his son. Before this watching crowd. He shivered at the feel of the boy’s tight lips uncaringly stretching his skin right back down. He crushed his fingernails into his palms at the tingling in his thickening cock. Shuddered in powerless anger at the boy’s nose nuzzling sickeningly into the hair of Tarzan’s groin.

A boy sucking on his cock. Taking him deep down into his mouth. His cock getting hard! Tarzan’s heart burst with shame when Korak’s head again twisted on the stone towards him. Puzzlement seemed to be written into every straining line of Korak’s muscled frame as he twisted around on the stone to see. To search out the source of those sounds. No matter his son was blindfolded. No matter Korak did not know what shameful act they were taking against Tarzan’s manful pride. Only a few paces away, Tarzan’s own son was listening. Ears pinned back while Nkonu’s chosen one noisily sucked his father off. Tarzan’s heart burst with shame at what his son could not see.

This was a worst moment of torture, this humiliation. This degradation before his beloved son. Forced against his will, unable to keep hold of his body. Being mastered, unable to do anything. Strengthening, hardening. Betrayed by himself. Silenced by his own shame before his son. Belittled as a man in face of his son. Stripped naked, molested while the crowd look on intrigued. His fame destroyed, his manly pride in tatters.

And still it got worse. His cock wanted it, it demanded more. Inside the mouth, sliding seductively over the tongue, tight lip-covered teeth pushed Tarzan back to the root. His burning cock-head bursting into life when it sparkled against the roof of the boy’s mouth. Involuntarily Tarzan gasped into his gag. A sound so clear, a sound like no other. A man shocked into the first throes of pleasure. Tarzan clenched at his fists when Korak’s head again twisted, as if pricking his ears to hear better. Maybe vaguely recognising his father’s tones, desperate to know a friendly being was nearby.

Tarzan wanted to be there for his son. He wanted that above all else, - even though powerless to help. But not like this. Not being sucked off by a boy! Shame at this attack and guilt at deserting his son both burned on Tarzan’s face, his ears felt on fire. He struggled to get himself in charge. He tried to fight the irresistible surge that prickled in the tip of his cock. But the emotions could not be denied. Tight into the boy’s throat, his cock crackled with life. His treacherous cock took on a life of its own. Tarzan gave an inadvertent thrust. His loins were escaping his control. He shocked himself and gasped. Despite himself, almost unbeknown to himself, his insistent hips had thrust into that mouth.

Tarzan’s heart nearly stopped. Korak’s head kept adjusting, moving up and down as if trying to peer through the cloth covering his eyes. As if he could make something out through the weave. As if he could see his father’s cock inside another man’s mouth. And as if Korak had just seen Tarzan inadvertently thrust into it. With his son listening in to his escaping moan. Tarzan wanted to die. If Korak had seen! Confusion raged. Tarzan tried to get a grip. Manfully he fought to suppress his sounds. He tried to deny this was happening. He threw his head up to the sky, hands behind his neck clenched in effort to keep control. Yet knowing he was losing the battle for his loins. Yet he couldn’t let this be. Not in front of his son. He didn’t want it like that. But he knew it was happening. That prickle at the tip of his cock. That surge deep in his balls. A feel of tightening gathering in his ballsack. The slurping mouth sending strong ripples of excitement shimmering through his floods of shame. He had long reached his fullness. His treacherous cock was solid scraping over that palate, bursting to life when it squeezed at the entrance of that bastard throat.

He didn’t want it to be. He couldn’t let this happen. Tarzan flew from shame to rage. His arms knotted to iron. His chest struggled against his bonds. He bit on his bottom lips tight till he drew blood. Anything to get back in charge of that surge. He could sense the inevitable menace. Yet still he fought. Resolved, all his famed strength of will focused on this fight. In his head he cursed these feelings, he forced himself to think of distasteful things. But nothing could compete with the prickling itch around his ridge and the growing need tingling in his loins. Fear at what Korak might be seeing again threw his gaze back down on his son. Still squinting through the blindfold, head shifting to make out what was happening behind. Attracted by his father’s failing efforts not to make a sound.

Failing. Losing control over what was happening in that noisy slurping below at his crutch. Sweating profusely in his shame. Disgust at being sucked off by a boy was cast aside, disgust did not help him deflate. Abhorrence at this boy’s actions did not let him go down. Despite himself, glancing at his son, then flashing his confused eyes away in shame, Tarzan’s anger burst into flames but his manlust still flared. His cock had jumped to undeniable attention. It had gone too far. For hours it had been denied. His manfulness was re-asserting itself. Tarzan the man would not be denied. Need defeated his pride. Need took control. Instinct tore forward his hips. Fire set light to his loins. A moan broke from his lips as nature gave way to need.

The sound broke over Korak on the stone. A noise as familiar as the rumble of thunder. Korak twisted round again. Peeking. Listening. Peering through the rag. Tarzan froze. What was he doing? What was he doing giving in to this? In front of his son. Being forced to come like this. Before the world. Before his son. Giving way and moaning in satisfaction at this abuse. Being jerked off inside a boy’s mouth. At the behest of a deadly foe. Tarzan’s manly instincts had blindly given in. With his blindfolded son listening in. Listening to his father being noisily sucked off. His father irresistibly made to come in another man’s mouth. With everyone watching.

Tarzan knew the boy would not swallow his seed. It was a gift to the tribe. Tarzan’s seed would be forced out of him, spurting uselessly in the dirt. Publicly. Forced and humiliated. For all to see. Tarzan forced to come. Forced to shed his seed. Forced to spill his seed on Nkonu’s earth.

Losing this battle, Tarzan bit his lip in shame and dishonour. Struggling to be silent before his son at the surge welling in his balls. Eyes watered with tears raised to the skies to avoid seeing his abject shame reflected in the villagers’ eyes. The rush of his excitement tightening, the impending rush gathering. And gagging in his throat not to moan in front of his son.

(My thanks to Butler John for inspiring this episode in his Message of April 14 #1959)

47. Day 2 - A father’s torment

A chaotic tumble of shame and exhaustion reeled in Tarzan’s head. Had he really let that happen to him? Was that indignity just some kind of nightmare? Yet still he could feel for himself evidence down there of what the boy had done to him. He dared not look. Head back against the post, eyes raised to the skies, yet still closed against that unforgivable shame. But he had let it happen, he could feel himself still deflating after that public disgrace. His head span, he was exhausted. He cold feel the sexual glow of what-should-be satisfaction warming in his crutch.

Physically exhausted, mentally shattered. Continuously tortured for days in his body, tormented by anxieties for his son. He knew he ought to keep himself in check, Tarzan knew he had to stay strong. He forced his fingernails into the palms of his hands, his fists clenched. To make pain. Pain would hold him alert. If he did not keep himself alert, he’d slip into exhaustion and his strength of mind would betray him. He hovered, he knew, at the edge of collapse, he tottered on the brink of panic. He made pain to keep up his strength for his son.

Yet with every glance he’d taken in the direction of that stone, quickly his blood had started racing. Quickly his inability to save his son clouded his mind. His instinct to stay in control was insidiously replaced by a sense of utter powerlessness that threw his mind into swirling confusion. As he grieved for a life of promise about to be wasted. For his Korak, the only fruit of his loins. To be tortured to death before his very eyes. To tear his own heart to shreds. This was all-too-unreal. It couldn’t be happening, not to him.

Yet when he opened his eyes. they were all there indeed. He could find nowhere where he wanted to lay his eyes. Surrounded by threat wherever he looked, encased in a tomb of menacing dismay. The passive on-lookers, silent. Nkonu smirking. That best friend of Nkonu stood there too leering at Tarzan. Mala. Tarzan’s eyes filled with loathing for the man who had viciously whipped his arse as thanks for a meal. Nkonu’s toady who had brought stinging tears of shame to his eyes. Even now, his backside against the stake smouldered, hours after its whipping. Mala stood there grinning back at Tarzan. Triumphalist.

Again he stood with a bamboo cane in hand. Menacingly hovering in deathly silence by Korak’s side. Gifted by his childhood friend Nkonu too with the honour of wrenching pain out of Tarzan’s son. Like father, like son. Mala’s smirking eyes left Tarzan. His gaze led Tarzan’s eyes to join him, sizing up the writhing boy below on the stone. The rippling muscle as the apeman’s son struggled constantly with his ties. The straining rocks in Korak’s stomach pinched tight with effort and pulling to break the ropes. Soon to receive the kind of stinging bites that had turned his father’s arse into fires incinerating Tarzan’s skin. Korak was soon to burn like a human torch under Mala’s blows.

And suddenly that other monster materialised out of nowhere. Nkonu’s nephew. The chorus of assailants were gathering who had beaten out their songs of pain on Tarzan’s flesh. Summoned now to beat the drum on his only son. Summoned to torture the father through the son. That nephew, younger than his own son, no match for Korak if his son were free, young Nkonu stood by his son’s other side. Menacing over Tarzan’s unsuspecting boy out-stretched on the stone. Those two whips in his hands taking Tarzan’s tortured memories back. In his mind’s eye, Nkonu’s nephew was lashing out at his own chest over that other torture stone. Viciously whipping at Tarzan’s crutch when he had been hanging from that frame. He remembered the savagery with which those lashes had cut biting pain through himself. Tarzan flinched still at the sound of that hissing lash, at the bite of that braided leather. Nkonu’s nephew was now standing leering over Korak’s unsuspecting chest. A cattle whip in each hand. Silently watching the blind writhings beneath him. As if drawing strength from the impotence of the victim struggling below. As if feeding off the futile thrashings, sucking up Korak’s wasted energy into his own vicious body.

Nkonu nodded. It was time. The boy took a deep breath, readied himself. Mala fingered lovingly his cane, wetted his bottom lip. Heart-in-mouth Tarzan watched. Helpless. Wanting to cry out in protest. Or in warning. The words gagged in his throat with his fears. Suspense crippling his mind. With mounting fears the father watched, eyes jammed wide-open with anxiety, mouth jammed wide by the gag.

Perceptibly Tarzan saw Nkonu’s nephew swell, his soon-to-be-a-man chest grew from within. As if the prospect of the terror he would inflict pumped up his muscle. With a tightness in his throat, Tarzan remembered those moves. Just like the time it had been him pinned on the torture stone. Eyes closed, the boy stood stock-still, hands crossed, the tips of the whips resting on the ground as if drawing up strength from the earth. Then the weapons were raised dramatically out to the side, sucking in power from the cruel desires of the people around. The tense crowd caught in the mesmerising prospect when the force of those whips would lash out and a jolting Korak would release his first shocked cry. The people tacitly drawn along, playing along with this savage ritual. Silent for now, but Tarzan heard again how they had bayed like hyenas for his own pain. Intent now on screaming for Korak’s suffering. Now young Nkonu was theatrically holding his whips up high, arms out-stretched in a Y-shape. As if imploring some power from above to give him strength. Chest rising, filling, as if calling on the spirits above to flood his young body with their brutal powers.

Tarzan had always had reason to hate his rival Nkonu. The evil which he had released over the last two days was matched by few others that Tarzan had met in his perilous life. Nkonu was one who, it seemed, would stop at nothing. Including torturing a son to death before his own father. Not to torture the son, not to punish Korak for anything he had done. To torture Korak in order to rip the heart out of Korak’s father as he stood helpless by. Watching in heart-stopping agony the never-ending suffering of his only child. Hearing the blood-curdling screams ripped out of the fruit of his loins.

And now his rival Nkonu was followed around by that runt of the family. Tarzan had come to hate this sycophant-nephew too. He had had cause to dread the sting of those whips. He had eyed warily the boy and Tarzan had learned to respect the mind-blowing pain this mere boy could inflict. But he was like his uncle. A coward. Nkonu had tricked Tarzan at the manhunt, having men lying in ambush to take Tarzan. From that moment on, Tarzan had been kept under restraint. Not for one second had Nkonu risked facing Tarzan one-to-one. Or even giving a torture-weakened Tarzan a fighting chance, one-against-many. Nkonu was seemingly a warrior, he bore those stripes on his chest. But Nkonu would never face his foes, he was a coward.

And his nephew, too. He’d never take on an enemy on equal terms, never confront a rival as a man.

Tarzan had come to hate this relative of Nkonu too. For all those theatrical moves. The dramatic posturing, playing to the crowd. Arms in the air taking on the power of the spirit world, appealing to the villagers’ simple superstitions. Tarzan had come to fear the power of those whips. To respect the untold savagery in this boy’s heart. And Tarzan knew that was why he could never give up the fight. He might be forced into submitting for the sake of his son. But he was playing this long-term. His chance would come. Tarzan would hit back, he told himself. This nephew was the kind of new breed that Nkonu planned to set loose into the jungle. His eyes burning with pleasure at the pain he could inflict on a victim who was helpless. The kind of terror that Nkonu was about to unleash.

Nkonu had succeed. For now. He had tricked Tarzan into submission. But Tarzan’s time would come. He’d accept Nkonu’s pain. He had no choice. He’d take his blows and humiliations, there was no escaping that. There’d be months of torture and weeks of shame. But that day would come when these monsters would drop their guard. Then they’d know what this day they had done. Tarzan’s time would come. It had to. It just had to.

The shock hit Tarzan like a kick into unprotected guts. With a chill shudder down his back, Tarzan realised he was fooling himself. His anxieties for his son had robbed him of his sharp senses, powerlessness had dulled his usual sharp responses. He wasn’t thinking straight. A heavy stone thudded into the pit of his stomach when he realised just where he stood. At the killing stone. With an unsuspecting Korak pinned out on it. This was where men like Nkonu brought their rivals and clubbed them to death. Where fathers had been forced to watch in horror their son’s bludgeoned before their eyes. Where Tarzan too would be forced fighting down onto the stone. His own back pressed forcibly onto the stone still wet and sticky with his Korak’s tortured blood.

There’d be no revenge. There’d be no biding his time. This was the end. A wash of horror shivered up Tarzan’s backbone. The end for him and his. Was this all his life amounted to? Himself and his own bludgeoned to death on this stone? Was that all his life had brought? A lifetime of perils and pleasures brought to a crashing end. Brutalised on this stone. Defeated and murdered by the likes of his rival. And with their deaths Nkonu’s rule of terror would be unleashed. In one deft move, Tarzan’s life dedicated to righting wrongs would be laid waste. In his agonised death, Korak’s life of promise would be made an empty nothing.

A sudden move ripped him back to the present. Tarzan’s heart missed a beat. He saw with a dry mouth how the nephew’s head turned. He was throwing a greedy yet murderous look down at the unsuspecting victim beneath. As if the boy was preparing himself for the nod to start. His heart thumping, Tarzan saw how the nephew ate up the unsuspecting strength squirming below on the stone, Korak’s unwary muscles rippling like the breeze on a lake. For a moment, Korak ceased struggling. His chest rose and fell, panting, recovering from his efforts against his ropes. The ridged slabs of his straining chest shone with his exertions. Deep and broad-capped by strong nipples gone hard from his struggles.

At other times, Tarzan would have felt proud of this sight of this boy of his, growing into the fine body of a man. A man full of promise, a life brimming with hope. Strong, resolved. But suddenly a premonition was clenching his fists together. His eyes shot to the nephew. Arms raised with the whips menacing, his eyes fixed, centred on one part of Korak’s panting chest. Tarzan gulped. It was like if he was looking Korak through the nephew’s own eyes. Targeted on the pearls of dark perfection on the ridge of Korak’s chest. Solid pebbles that seemed to beckon and throb. Made hard by Korak’s struggles. Through the evil glint in the nephew’s eyes, Tarzan saw the message. The invitation. Tantalising nubs thrust up solid from perfect brown circles. Bursting on the edge of the etched muscle that was Korak’s gleaming chest. The invitation for the kiss of the lash. Korak’s nipples destined to take the first surprise cutting strokes of this vicious whip.

Tarzan’s teeth bit deep into the gag. Remembering the pain of torture he too had taken there. Tarzan’s face creased up with the torment burning in his heart. His blood thudded at the anticipation. On his son’s unsuspecting chest, innocent brown tits that tautly poked up from his square-muscled globes. Taunting the nephew. Inviting the shock of biting torture. Tarzan froze. Seeing his son’s destiny through his torturer’s eyes. Those throbbing pearls of perfection on his son’s sweat-glistening chest. Full and straining. Inviting the brutal fall of the nephew’s lash.

Silence rained down on this scene. Tension weighed heavy in the air. Coloured only by the light pants of Tarzan’s unwary son. Tired from fighting to break free. Sweat glistening, his strong youthful chest rising and those nipples falling with each strong breath. Highlighted by the sparkles of light glinting on his muscle.

Tarzan clenched his fists. He bit on the gag. Every straining sinew in his body went tense.

As the first whip twitched. And the first whiplash fell.

Part Five

48. Day 2 - Battles rage, inside

A dream. He woke to find his body shivering with sweat. He struggled to wipe off the trickle that irritatingly dribbled down his temple on a sweat-drenched arms. He found his heart pounding, his chest rising and falling with deep laboured breathing. At a loss of what was going on. A dream. No one was paying Tarzan attention any more. It was only a dream! He was alone, ignored. All eyes and ears were on the Council hut where Nkonu was still making his bid for power, his screaming and screeching flooding over the whole village with people outside listening either in mounting excitement or fear. But it had been only a dream.

Every parent’s nightmare. Tarzan was sweating. It was only a nightmare! It had been one of Nkonu’s bawling fits that had ripped Tarzan back from his exhausted sleep at the stake. The shout penetrated his dream. At first he jerked into reality thinking it was Korak’s cry off the stone. Tarzan was completely dis-oriented. One minute he had been coming in a boy’s mouth. The next Korak was about to be clubbed to death. Then suddenly the stone was empty. There was no gag in his mouth. He had not been forced to shed his seed. There was no Korak under threat. The people were not stood around to witness his son tortured to death. They were gathered instead around the council hut. Stunned at Nkonu’s threats still making his bid for power. And Tarzan stood alone at the stake trembling for the life of his son. Shaking his head, taking in the terrors of his dream. A nightmare, it had been only a nightmare.

Tarzan was panting heavily. A dream. Only a dream. He kept telling himself but it had been so real. His head was still reeling with confusion. Exhaustion had brought on that nightmare. He’d barely slept for days, yet his body had been tested beyond endurance. He gasped in deep controlling breaths to dispel that stress, expelling his fears. Dizzy with relief. Dispelling that frightful vision he had seen. In his exhaustion his brain had been playing tricks with him. Deep-down knowing it was unwise to trust Nkonu to set Korak free. Burning anxieties to see his son released from the pit. His own treacherous mind had brought Korak to this torture stone. His own fears had spread-eagled his son out on that deadly stone. His sub-conscious fears had been torturing Tarzan himself. A trickle of sweat dribbled down his cheek. Like a tear of relief. His breath came hard, heavy. Korak was safe. Tarzan panted hard. Korak was not to be butchered.

Tarzan’s uplifted stomach pounded in and out with his rapid pants at the terrifying clarity of that nightmare. But it had been only a dream, twisting round Tarzan found himself again in the reality of his slavery. He could see the people now crowded around the council hut. Listening to the battles for power that raged inside. Tarzan thought tension seemed to weigh heavily on them as they anxiously listened through the walls at the arguments that roared inside. But at least they were not gathered here to watch Korak’s agonised murder. It had only been a dream, he kept telling himself, trying to calm the pounding that still raced in his blood. Korak was safe.

And Tarzan had not disgraced himself either before his son. Ashamed, Tarzan strained to look down at himself. Though he knew without looking that the suspense and tension of his nightmare had had his crutch at full strength. Now, feeling himself deflating, he could tell that recently he had been solid with his fears, he had been hard with stress and thrusting towards the sky. Looking down at himself, he bit on his lower lip in embarrassment at the pearls of his seed that dotted the head. Brought to this fullness by the heart-stopping terror of those manic dreams. In his sleep he had almost shed his seed at the chilling horrors brought on by his exhaustion. Head-back against the stake, Tarzan willed that symbol of his vulnerability to sink back down. Fast. Before Nkonu returned. Knowing Nkonu would only turn that weakness against him.

From that point on, Tarzan battled. He fought against his inner fears. Battled against his tiredness. Dreading he’d fall asleep and shrinking from those horrors he had seen. Recoiling from his nightmarish fears of Nkonu sacrificing Korak on the stone. Tarzan’s dismay at this ignominy of slavery had taken on life in that vision of being sucked off by a boy. A full-grown man shamefully forced against his will by a mere child into publicly shedding his seed on this earth. A message from the depths of his mind for Tarzan. Confirming the dismal truth. Tarzan was Nkonu’s slave. In his abject slavery, Tarzan had no power to resist, Nkonu commanded his body. He’d do with it as Nkonu wished. That dream of being sucked off by a mere boy had merely confirmed how far Tarzan’s fortunes had sunk that day.

Yet one alarming truth had been revealed in that nightmare of Korak on the stone. One chilling revelation that Tarzan’s relief at coming back to wakefulness could not deny. It was not Korak that was staked out. Korak was not to be battered to death. But he was. The dream had revealed Tarzan’s own fate. The name, the name of this stone, the deathly fate that the name exposed. The killing stone. Tarzan was trapped to this stake standing next to the killing stone. His destiny. No escape, no matter how often he had tried. The killing stone, with all its deathly rituals and brutal memories for this warrior-tribe. If Nkonu won this battle for power with the chief, Tarzan’s fate was sealed. Here. This stone was not to be Korak’s destiny. It was Tarzan’s own resistant back that the warriors would force fighting down onto that stone. It was his struggling arms that would be pinned down by ropes. It was his defiant feet that Nkonu would stake out in the earth. And his vulnerable naked body that Nkonu would have tortured to death. Pulverised. Battered. Pummelled. Bludgeoned. The dream had ripped aside the veil of any false hope Tarzan might have preserved. Irrevocably this was Tarzan’s fate. Sealed by his spilled blood dripping off the stone.

And still his anxieties for Korak were not over. Tarzan could also see that the day was drawing to a close. Fears for Korak added to his own tremors at his dying on the stone. The fears not of a dream, fears for Korak’s reality. Korak had already spent hours hanging over that cruel pit. And still Nkonu had not released the bird that would set Korak free. And if there was no signal by nightfall, the rope would be cut. Korak would crash helpless to his death with the snakes.

Yet Tarzan could alert no one. No one was paying him any attention. All interest was focussed on the shouting happening in the hut. He had continued to struggle with his bonds but Tarzan remained pinned into the slave collar, the collar held firm by rope to this post. His wrists raw with his continuous battles with the rope, he was still bound inescapably tight to the stake. Eaten alive with the gnawing frustration of failing to save his only son.

49. Day 2 - Battles rage, outside

Even facing the certainty of a brutal and lingering death, Tarzan was surprised how hurt he felt that his reputation was in tatters. How deeply that wounded him. He’d never thought he was vain. Yet for all his good efforts, it seemed his name counted for nothing in this jungle. These people just stood by and watched. Passively they stared as Tarzan was usurped by Nkonu as jungle lord. As he was threatened by a savage death. Did they care for nothing? As jungle lord Tarzan had worked only for their justice, he had only righted wrongs. And yet these villagers just stood-by as Nkonu appropriated his title. And endangered his life. Nkonu, the new jungle lord. would only bring strife and war. His by-word was terror and suppression. Did these people not care?

Tarzan strived to understand the out-break of hatred that had rained down on him since that manhunt. From the moment of his capture after Nkonu’s trickery, Tarzan had been surprised by this outpouring of loathing that he had faced. When first taken downriver to Nkonu’s village, warriors had turned out on the banks and jeered at his defeat. Why? Held upright on that frame before them, crucified, legs spread-eagled agonisingly wide, the men had gone wild in jubilation at the sight of his downfall. He had blanched at the ferocity of their contempt. He was still shocked at the cheering when the frame he was on was jammed into the earth. What had he done to deserve such scorn? Jeering and applauding like wild beast when jarring bolts of lightning-pain shot through his every over-stretched muscle. When flashes of agony had torn into his tortured shoulder joints to their jeers and their cheers. Bawls of laughter had greeted him when, humiliated, tortured and crucified, he had cried out in grunted pains. What had prompted their shrieks of warrior malice that greeted Tarzan’s fall in this nightmare of torture? Their howls of mocking laughter that had had presaged the doom-laden fact that Tarzan’s journey into relentless pain and agony had only just begun.

Tarzan felt horribly alone. Abandoned. By friends. By hope. It was understandable that Nkonu’s own villagers had backed their headman. Tarzan had been delivered into their midst in a frenzy of hatred, Nkonu had worked on their loyalty well. Nkonu was their headman, they knew of his plan, Nkonu was their man. They had joined in that inhuman savagery of his beating on the stone. Nkonu’s own villagers had a purpose. Take Tarzan back in the chains of slavery, take the apeman down and one of their own, Nkonu, would become chief.

But men everywhere it seemed had turned against him. Tribes-people all-over, it seemed, were ready to stand passively by while Nkonu presented Tarzan in his abject defeat. While Nkonu subjected Tarzan to the most degrading acts. Forcing him to suck Nkonu’s cock. They thought they could see clearly how Nkonu had beaten him, the signs of the brutality of his torture was obvious on every bit of Tarzan’s flesh. They could see for themselves the vicious savagery that Nkonu had unleashed on him. That hadn’t broken Tarzan, in fact. But did anyone care? No one seemed ready to act, none spoke up for him, not one person chose to remember what Tarzan had done for them. Over years and years. Not even his friend, the Chief. No one was prepared to leap to Tarzan’s defence and voice single word of opposition to Nkonu’s savage plans. They went along with it, whatever the consequences. Tacitly they stood by and watched.

They had deserted the man who had brought them peace and prosperity. They had passively stood in silence while Tarzan was forced to take Nkonu’s cock in his mouth. Not a single look of sympathy, not a lone murmur of protest. They had joined in with those whooshing sounds when Nkonu had face-fucked his slave. In gruesome fascination they looked-on that this jungle lord was brought down so low. Would they stand as passive spectators when he was murdered on this stone?

The chief too had withered under the pressure. Disappeared. Deserting the friend he had mis-used in that manhunt. Tarzan was alone. Abandoned by all. He had under-estimated, he realised, the resentment that had seethed beneath the surface over the Chief’s new ways. The ways Tarzan had coached him in. The ways that had brought peace. Throughout this jungle. Yet, it seemed, warriors had secretly been burning with resentment that the chief had turned them in the path of peace. The tribe may have prospered. The jungle may be living in peace. But for many they felt they had been turned against their nature. They thought they had been demeaned by the weakness at the end of war. Warriors lived for warfare. Combat was their life. Nkonu was seizing on that, he was giving them back the old traditions they loved. To climb the craggy path to power. The frustrated warriors were seizing his offer with open hands. And they knew where to turn to exact their revenge. They knew who was responsible, who had to pay. It was Tarzan they blamed.

50. Day 2 - End of peace

From his stake, fighting back tiredness and a return to that nightmare, Tarzan heard uproar rage in the council hut. Nkonu was bringing out the warrior in the other headmen. Rivals engaged. The Chief’s peaceful rule had been but a few short years. The warrior spirit had years of proud tradition on their side. Resentment burst through the straining surface like a seething volcano. An explosion of energy was about to burst on the air. Molten lava would spew into the air devastating the peace of the jungle before it. Destroying everything in its path. And first in line would be Tarzan. Fiery hostility that would be aimed first at him. The warriors’ muscled animosity would turn on him. Here at this stone. The man who had dared turn their spears into ploughs.

Suddenly, pandemonium broke out. In the turmoil, the rest of Nkonu’s warriors poured into the Council hut and Tarzan could hear the sounds of shouting and fighting. On-lookers outside backed away nervously. When the shouting and turmoil died down, they still held back in fear.

Then terrified villagers started to rush out of the hut, fleeing, looking nervously back. The few onlookers who had nervously stayed at the entrance to the chief’s hut suddenly also turned and ran. A flood of panic fled from the hut. Tarzan now had a clear view and with mounting breath he watched the entrance for the dreaded outcome.

A gang of Nkonu’s warriors came out, hauling the Chief between them, his arms pinned behind. Surrounded by warriors holding ominous clubs in their hands. The chief’s face tight with fear. His helpless eyes met with Tarzan’s for a brief second. Tarzan’s friend, the Chief, who had deserted him at the stake, Tarzan’s hands pinned to that slave collar to which the chief’s manhunt-trick had condemned him too. Only to be dragged away himself, terrified, by savage hands jostling him roughly away into the forest. Tarzan watched them go, the Chief struggling in their grip. He saw the first clubs pounded into his back. The first of many. Till the Chief disappeared into the trees. To meet his certain brutal end.

Tarzan knew then his own fate was sealed. Nkonu had won his battle, Nkonu had become chief. And his killing stone would beckon its first victim.

Seconds later Nkonu emerged surrounded by his warriors, brandishing weapons. His friend Mala followed behind and shouted out, “Behold your Chief!”

The warriors took up the call. Men from all the villages hailed Nkonu as chief. They acclaimed the return of their old proud ways. The new chief stood arms raised, beaming, accepting their acclamation. And a return to the days when men were warriors and the tribe took what was theirs by conquest.

The celebrations persisted. The back-slapping, the drinking and toasting. Manly laughter and raucous song. Tarzan was ignored, firmly tied to his post despite his strugglings to break free. The celebrations were for men, a slave had no part to play. Tarzan’s anxiety was mounting. Not for himself and his own certain end. Tarzan’s head was full of one scene only. Korak hanging over the pit. And all the time, the sun was dropping in the sky. Time for Korak was running out.

Tarzan’s eyes saw this cheering and celebration with growing concern. He felt the throb of naked raw power descending on this scene. A vicious energy that would break free into the forests with the gift of mayhem. A savage force that would inevitably turn on him. But his mind was filled only by Korak’s suffering. For hours now, his poor son had been back-stretched in agony over the pit of snakes. An innocent pawn in Nkonu’s power play and his act of revenge against his rivals. Within minutes, for Korak the pain would have become unbearable. The backward twist of the body against the natural lie of joints would have had his body crying out for mercy. The big muscles – his thighs twisted back, held in an immovable vice; his arse over-stretched backwards beyond endurance – these powerful muscles would have quickly locked into body-crunching cramps. Tarzan remembered the pain he himself had endured in the pit with a chill shudder. Even within minutes these cramps would have had Korak hissing out in pain. Tarzan was in torment for the agonies his only son had been enduring. He himself had suffered too inside that pit. Teeth gritted, face steel-tight with unbearable tension. As with Tarzan’s night in the pit, Korak’s back would be locked for hours in that immovable agony, hanging down from the pole. His backbone tight like a giant screw turning agonisingly slowly, metal grating against metal, screeching through his nerves, the whole length of his body one single shriek of pain.

Tarzan’s fears were in over-drive. His ears were filled with the agonised sobs of his brave boy pushed beyond human endurance. His mind was tortured by the thought of his son’s pained face. He could see it as clearly as if he were there. Every second contorted with devastating pain. Every muscle of his face, every sinew, twisted, cramped, pain-taut. The stinging agony of his tears dripping down off his face. Cheeks streaked till torture had dried up Korak’s tears.

Tarzan could see the sun beginning to lower, time was running out. That bird had to fly to set Korak free. Tarzan’s ears heard Korak’s voice racked with broken gasps, unable to release a sob of pain through an agony-closed throat.

Yet all around him, Tarzan heard uncaring celebration. Singing and cheering, whooping and laughter. By the huts, in front of the council, men bawled and danced, slugged back beer and roared in praise of their new chief. With not a thought for Tarzan, with not a care for Korak. Tarzan’s fears for his son filled his chest to bursting, yet no one cared. Not one came near for Tarzan to plead. The setting of the sun hailed the doom-laden moment when the knife slit through the rope and Korak fell screaming to his end among the hissing snakes. Yet no one paid Tarzan a moment’s attention. Powerless anxiety and his inability to save his son twisted Tarzan’s guts in their grip. Korak’s fate too, it seemed, was sealed.

51. Day 2 - Deadly certainties

Tarzan had confidence in his own toughness. He had suffered ordeals before. He had known capture and torture. He knew what he could stand. Though he had no doubts that this stone would be the worst. That beating on Nkonu’s torture stone had taken its toll but Nkonu had needed him to survive. Tarzan had no illusions about the next time.

And that never-ending hell of agony in the pit had been torture beyond imagining. It had all but broken him. It would have driven most men insane. Enduring crippling maddening pain. Without stop, an eternity of suffering, no hope of reprieve.

And Korak was still there. Tarzan did not know what Korak could take. But no man should endure such torture. He wanted to believe Korak was strong. In body – and more so in mind. But that pit was inhuman. He had wanted to save the boy those hours of unforgiving torture. Tarzan had already submitted and given himself up as Nkonu’s slave. Yet, for Nkonu, the pit it had to be. It had been his guarantee Tarzan would obey. And, condemning himself to a life slavery, it was not for Tarzan to argue any more. He was an animal, worse. For Korak, the pit it had to be.

Tarzan knew he’d never have given in, he’d have died in the effort before surrendering to Nkonu’s plans. But then the evil schemer had produced Korak. Nkonu’s trump card. Putting Tarzan the father under intolerable stress. Korak had assured him that he would take the pain. Tarzan had wanted to believe his brave son, Korak knew his duty, he was equally determined that a man like Nkonu could not prevail. Korak had gone into that cave and the certainty of torture and rape with courage. Not a single look back. The boy was a credit to himself, a credit to his father. But Nkonu’s trump card worked. Tarzan caved in, he had been out-manoeuvred. He gave in, for the sake of his son. Nkonu won the trick.

But still, for Korak the pit it had to be. So that his father would comply. Nkonu now had everything he wanted. He had Tarzan. The chief had been disappeared. He’d had Tarzan publicly humiliated. More, Tarzan had publicly humiliated himself. He had shamefully abused himself on Nkonu’s dick, the jungle drums had gone alive beating out the news of the jungle lord’s public disgrace. Tarzan had done it for the sake of own son. Nkonu was now chief. Tarzan was his slave. For him to dispose of as he wished. He had Tarzan as his symbol of his own power and invincibility. There’d be pain, there’d be torture and humiliation. On that stone, there was only certainty. The certainty of Nkonu’s message. The manner of Tarzan’s dying would send the message out. Loud and clear. Nkonu was back, Nkonu was Chief. Let the jungle tremble at his name.

But right now there was only one thing that mattered. It was imperative to get Korak released. But Tarzan could see Nkonu was so caught up in his celebrations, he had forgotten his promise. Tarzan was being ignored, his son’s dire fortunes were far from Nkonu’s mind.

Tarzan could not imagine what these hours were doing to his own son. The father’s mind obsessed about doing that one thing, setting Korak free. But no one was listening. That thought held him in a frenzied yet mind-numbing grip of agony. His powerlessness to help his son overwhelmed him. And if that bird did not arrive, Korak would be cut down into the snake trap. The very thought of how his boy had been suffering was torture to Tarzan in itself. The very fact stung that Tarzan had given in to everything and yet Korak might still fall victim to those snakes. This powerlessness gnawed away at him. The realisation of what it meant to be a slave was hitting him hard. Right in the gut, right where it mattered. With Korak. Powerless, helpless. No right to act. Loss of freedom. Someone else’s chattel. Everything against his very nature. Tarzan looked up at the sky as if seeking help, feeling panic rise as he saw how fast the sun was descending. He would do anything to get Korak released. The rope would be cut sending Korak to his death if the bird did not arrive. Any degradation Tarzan would take, any humiliation Nkonu desired. If only his son could survive.

Tarzan grabbed the chance when Nkonu caught sight of his captive at last and, a gourd of beer in hand, came over to taunt his newly-humiliated slave.

“Nkonu, the bird. Release the bird!” a desperate Tarzan immediately blurted out. He did not care any more what the begging in his voice might signal to his evil-minded rival. His fate was sealed. He’d do anything to save his son.

Nkonu picked nonchalantly at the dried mud on his slave’s up-lifted chest, he peeled off black silt to reveal a skewered nipple. Ignoring Tarzan’s pleas for his son, - as if he were idly picking mud off some animal’s hide. Not worthy of attention. He scratched nonchalantly at the scab on the wound with a finger nail, deliberately re-awakening pain. And smiled.

“Thirsty?” he asked ignoring this animal’s pleas.

Not a bite to eat had passed Tarzan’s lips since the manhunt two days ago. And only a few sips to drink. Nkonu held out the gourd and poured out the beer. Inviting Tarzan to crane forward and struggle to get his cracked lips to the tempting flow of liquid. Tarzan needed to drink. He needed it more than he’d admit. But still he bridled at this enforced enslavement, more than drink he needed to preserve his sense of pride. He would not beg. Not to Nkonu. Not to this worthless bag of shit that was torturing his son. He would not give him that weakness. He let the beer dribble cooling and tempting down his mud-splattered chest.

“There is much here to do”, Nkonu was scratching away at his beast’s hide, musing to himself.

“Bringing back the faith. Setting the people out on its right path to destiny. It lost its way under that .. late-departed friend”.

Tarzan frowned. He started to plead for Korak again. But Nkonu interrupted and ignored his chattel and chewed over his thoughts.

“…. Many old practices to restore”.

Nkonu twisted his head and nodded meaningfully at the flat stone to Tarzan’s right.

“Pride in ourselves to re-build”.

Tarzan tried to repeat his plea about releasing the bird but Nkonu carried on regardless as if talking away to himself, as if this worthless shit-bag of a slave did not exist. Picking away at the dried-on mud on its chest as if he was mulling something over to himself.

“But one practice will be restored. Tonight. The killing stone”, Nkonu reflected.

What Tarzan had sought to avoid was the tribe returning to terrorising the jungle again. And restoring the tradition of the killing stone. He knew what message that portent meant. For himself.

“Doing away with deadly rivals”, Nkonu carried on plucking mud casually from Tarzan’s hair. Grooming the beast ready for sacrifice and slaughter.

“The way it has always been”.

Tarzan glanced out of the corner of his eye at the stone. He knew. He had foreseen that in his dream. He would be stretched out on the stone. Just like before. Just as he had seen his son in that dream.

“The centre-point of celebrations tonight. A deadly rival meets his deathly end. Sacrificed, slaughtered. This stone will be washed with a rival’s blood. In honour of our return to the traditional ways”.

Nkonu’s eyes coated Tarzan’s mud-splattered chest streaked with the power of his sweat. Greed for his rival’s long drawn-out end burned in his eyes.

His eyes trained on the stone, Tarzan felt the chill at the pit of his stomach. He had faced the prospect of death many times. He had survived. But over the past two days, he had tasted Nkonu’s appetite. That end would not come quick.

52. Day 2 - Deadly rivalries

He had suspected as much, with a revelatory chill he had second-guessed Nkonu’s plans. That stone. That was where it would end. Yet oddly, it hurt as much that it was Nkonu Tarzan had lost out to. To a underhand snake who had tricked him in the defeat. Aided by the weakness of a man Tarzan had called a friend. When the Chief let Nkonu get his hands on Tarzan to buy himself time. Sold out into torture, humiliation and hate. Given up to a cheat, a liar, a bully. Who would stop at nothing to seize power. Who crippled Tarzan by the kidnap of his son. Forced into submission to save the life of his only child. Condemned now to find the courage to face a lingering end on that stone.

All the good Tarzan had done in the jungle would have come to nothing. Nkonu was turning back time. Tarzan’s efforts to bring peace and prosperity would be wiped out with him stretched out on that stone. Mayhem and conflict bursting forth with Tarzan’s pain. That wasted effort hurt.

The thought chilled Tarzan. The prospect dismayed him. And there was worse to come. He had been battered into exhaustion on Nkonu’s stone only the night before. And this time it would be worse, much worse. Tortured into a long and drawn-out death on Nkonu’s killing stone. But he swallowed down his fears. First things first.

“The boy …Korak.” Tarzan blurted out. “You have what you want. The tribe. Chief. Me. Keep your promise. Free Korak. Release the bird”.

Nkonu grinned maliciously into Tarzan’s face. Superiority written all over his contemptuous mouth.

“You are a fool, pig-slave. Naïve”, Nkonu shook his head at this incredulity.

“Do you really think I keep trained birds? Trained to fly back to my village and release the boy? What does the one-time jungle lord know of birds?”

Nkonu’s lip curled back in disdain for a man who knew so little about the jungle. Yet claimed to be its lord.

“They’d just fly into the nearest tree and find a mate”, he scoffed.

Stunned surprise quickly evaporated. Hate and rage quickly eclipsed the pleading Tarzan that had sunk to. Out of concern for his son he had lowered himself to beg. To this useless bag of shit. Nkonu had lied. Tricked him! Tarzan’s revulsion erupted for this worthless dreg of humanity to which he had given himself. Korak was doomed, he’d been kept hanging over that deadly pit. In agony for hours. There’d be no birds, there’d be no signal.

“You bastard”, cursed Tarzan. “I gave you my word. I kept my word. I even sucked your dick, I gulped down your seed. I gave you your victory”.

Tarzan’s cheek stung with the biting slap. Nkonu spat back,

“You gave me nothing, pig-ape. What I have, I took. What you were …..”

Nkonu hesitated, he caught himself, he smiled.

He leered mocking into Tarzan’s angry eyes.

“What you were - was just a useful tool”.

His hand smoothed mockingly over Tarzan’s burning cheek. Humiliatingly his finger teased at the pain-tear that smarted in the corner of Tarzan’s eye. Gently, he oozed,

“True, watching your torture was no unpleasant diversion”.

Nkonu’s hand was stroking back the hair matted by sweat onto Tarzan’s forehead. Tenderly, caringly. Thanking this man who had played his part so well. Enjoying the flash of anger in Tarzan’s helpless face.

“Seeing you struggle to fight back but inevitably yield. That was not without its pleasures”.

Then the spark of coldness again flashed across Nkonu’s eyes.

“But this victory is mine”.

Unexpectedly the hand lashed out again. Stinging pain flared afresh across Tarzan’s reddening cheek.

“I planned it”, Nkonu snarled. The force of the hand this time slashed Tarzan’s head to one side. Bashing it into Tarzan’s sweat-drenched arm. Tarzan whipped his head back to the front and glowered in anger.

Nkonu’s heart leapt for joy at the sight of Tarzan’s arm bulging with fury in response. The powerful arm that he knew would tear his throat out if it could. The knotted muscle that would squeeze the last breath out of Nkonu’s body. If it could. The bulging bicep that peaked at full fighting strength in anger at his slap. But it couldn’t. Seething frustration pumped up that trapped muscular strength that quiver with anger alongside Tarzan’s head. But in vain. Burning frustration burst in Tarzan’s chest. Because Tarzan couldn’t. Because he couldn’t lash out at the man who had beaten him. Tarzan’s anger-knotted arms were captive in that collar. His strength bettered. His body bettered. His fame bettered.

“I wrenched every bit of this victory out of your stubborn screaming body”.

Tarzan glared back through the burning pain in his face that had brought a tear to his eye.

“This victory is mine”, Nkonu sneered, his eyes now turned cold.

Another sting lashed into flames on Tarzan’s face. Anger flared in his captive chest at the slap.

“This …”.

SLAP!

“..victory …”

SSLAP!

“ … is …”

SSSLAAP!

“…. mine”.

The sting of the bite tore Tarzan’s head to one side.

“…..All ..”

The sting closed Tarzan’s eyes. His mouth grimaced at the pain.

“…… mine!”

Tarzan’s skull thudded under the force of another slap into the stake behind. His anger flared, he yanked on his bonds. He glared in helpless fury into this humiliating attack. His blood pounded, he yanked furiously on his bonds in his rage. He’d battered this shit-head to pulp!

But then he caught himself. Tarzan had a higher purpose. He dared not rile this deadly rival who was relishing to the full his power over Tarzan’s life-and-death.

Calmly himself, digging fingernails into his palms to quell his frustration, Tarzan took a deep breath and spoke calmly. Pacifying his rage. Talking quietly into the triumphant face that smugly lorded its superiority over him.

“But Korak is innocent”, pleaded Tarzan forcefully. “Have him released!”

Tarzan cringed at the tone in his voice. He was pleading! It hurt. God, how this hurt.

Nkonu shot him a look a mock surprise. Eyes wide-open in surprise. As if just realising what they were talking about.

“Oh Korak? Of course, Korak! How remiss of me. To forget Korak”.

Tarzan seethed at the snigger in that hated face. But suppressed his anger. For the sake of his son.

”Worried about Korak? Now how could I forget little Korak?”

Nkonu scoffed. Deep-down Tarzan fumed.

“Korak. Korak left hanging over the pit. Dear me, how thoughtless!”

“You stinking murderer”, swore Tarzan despite himself.

“Hmm”, Nkonu smirked playfully. His eyes roamed slowly over Tarzan’s body trapped against the stake. Then out-of-the-blue his hand pressed against the thick slave collar around his captive’s neck. And squeezed, jamming it into Tarzan’s throat. Ramming the back of Tarzan’s skull inescapably against the stake. Cutting off his air. He stared long into his slave’s rage-filled eyes. Till they changed. Till his slave’s chest was burning for air, till Tarzan’s eyes filled with his choking.

“Murderer, pig-ape?” Nkonu sneered.

With a nod of his head back to the killing stone, he added with a smirk,

“Now, don’t give me ideas”.

Tarzan choked, coughing and gasping for air when the pressure released. He seethed inside as Nkonu teased his finger down over his chest, slicked his finger in the fresh sweat glistening in the deep furrow in-between. And licked Tarzan’s salt off his fingertip. Smirking at the helplessness of his captive. Toying with him, mocking the trapped manliness he had bettered and won.

53. Day 2 - Deadly realities

Tarzan wriggled to escape the next toying finger, fingering over and over his torn nipple and mauling at his once-skewered chest. But his ears pricked up at the sound of his son’s name.

“Korak. No, I haven’t forgotten Korak”, Nkonu cooed re-assuring.

“Everything has been carefully worked out for Korak too”.

The tone changed rapidly. Nkonu spat back the name of Tarzan’s son as if Nkonu’s mouth was full of shit.

“I am grateful for the ape-pig’s help. It played its part well”.

The tone again changed. With every phrase Nkonu’s mood seemed to swing. As if caught up in some frenzy of power he did not control.

“No, not well, pig-ape. Magnificently”.

Nkonu was again caringly stroking over Tarzan’s cheek.

“Yes, my pig-ape did its bit magnificently. After all, that fool of a chief is no longer a threat, - well, let’s say his influence is no more”.

Nkonu cocked his ear towards the forest as if he could still hear the Chief’s dying screams.

“As a major player in this game, worth less than shit though my pig-ape is, - yet even animals respond to rewards. Played its part, did my worthless my ape-pig. Played it to the letter - just like the puppet it is”.

Nkonu’s fingers teased its way down Tarzan’s chest, jabbing into the pulverised muscle beneath his ribs. Tarzan shook with anger against his bonds. Nkonu sneered at the futile bulge of fighting muscle pinned back by Tarzan’s ears. Smirked at the frustrated anger that flooded his captive’s bursting chest.

“Dancing to my tune”.

Tarzan glowered back into the sneer that curled on Nkonu’s lips.

“The boy is innocent”, Tarzan argued feeling himself losing control. “He has done nothing”.

“On the contrary, slave”, Nkonu answered with a laugh. “The boy has done everything”.

Tarzan frowned.

“Korak betrayed Tarzan. He delivered the apeman into my hands. Father and son. Trapped by the love for each other. It was a father’s love for his brat that delivered the apeman into my hands. A touching picture, don’t you think?”

Nkonu finger was now twirling in Tarzan’s belly button. Poking and prying. Playing with him, proving to him that Tarzan’s strength was useless, he could do nothing against his Master.

“You see, Korak gave me the apeman’s submission. Korak got him to break. So .. see? It was Korak who made me chief”.

By themselves Tarzan’s fists clenched, his anger found the strength to bunch his muscles in a defiant effort to tear at his bonds. This was the truth. But the truth hurt.

“No point in struggling, ape-pig. Surely my pig-shit knows that by now”.

Nkonu’s finger was further below. Twirling in the hair, circling, Nkonu’s finger tip just grazing at the root of Tarzan’s cock.

“But stop worrying for Korak. Pig-ape played its part, it gets its reward”.

Tarzan just managed to control himself when Nkonu’s fingers flicked up under the tip of his cockhead and mockingly tapped it up in the air a few times. Sneering at his captive’s seething rage. Nkonu continued,

“You useless piece of shit, ….”

But his tone was good-natured, teasing. He conceded a point.

“…. So the well-behaved pig-ape will get his Korak back”.

A look of superiority broke on Nkonu’s lips.

“Korak is already free. The boy is not swinging over the snake pit”.

Nkonu’s heart lifted at the confusion that he saw reflected in his rival’s face.

“In fact, he’s on his way here. Now. By boat. To be re-united with his father”.

Lightening fast, Tarzan’s face had flashed into relief. A split second later, it turned to confusion, then it creased with fear. Coming here? Tarzan knew why. Nkonu was never to be trusted.

What do you call it when you know something momentous is about to happen that will change things for ever? You don’t want it but you can’t stop it. And you know for the first time - for the very first time - that there will be a before and a during. There will be a was, an is. But there will never be a will be. There can never be an after. A cold sick feeling filled Tarzan deep down inside.

Nkonu was pointing at the flat stone in front of Tarzan’s stake. “Here”.

Gesturing at the killing stone.

“Father and son”.

The stone like the one that had held Tarzan down. Like the one that had held Korak pinned down in that dream.

“Coming here. Adorned with his own collar”.

The nightmare was coming true. Father and son. Nkonu was nodding at that place of lingering death.

“Tarzan and Korak. Together again. Here”.

Nkonu pointed at the stone with a grin.

Tarzan gave way to his anger as the meaning sank in. Remembering his vision. Shuddering at that dread forecast of doom.

“I gave you my word”, Tarzan blurted back furious.

Emotion got the better of him.

“I did what you asked. Everything”.

Pleading. Tarzan was pleading! He could scarcely believe his tone.

“I did more”.

The taste of Nkonu’s dick in his mouth turned to acid in Tarzan’s stomach as fear pounded in his blood. Fear for his son.

“I gave you my life. I’m wearing this collar”, he thundered. “You deceived me!”

Nkonu turned away, enjoying himself at Tarzan’s expense, realising what was happening when it was already too late. Shaking his head that the jungle-lord could have been so naïve.

“Tricked you! Of course, I tricked the ape-fool!”

He stepped up on the flat stone and from its height he smiled at Tarzan in disdain.

“That’s the difference between you and me, ape-pig. You’ve got the brawn”.

He hesitated, letting his slave fill in the rest.

“… I’ve got the brains”.

Tarzan could not disguise the fact that his blood was boiling, it was written all over his face. And he fumed as much at himself as this piece of worthless shit that held him hopelessly captive. He’d let himself be tricked. Nkonu had been one step ahead of him all the way. He had known all along not to trust Nkonu, he should have known he’d not let Korak go. And Tarzan had succeeded in making his son Nkonu’s slave too. Part of Tarzan fumed at his recklessness at giving in. But part of him knew too that he would have done anything to save his son, he needed to believe Korak could be safe. Tarzan had been torn many ways. Stopping Nkonu from turning the jungle back to bedlam. Getting back his freedom and getting his own back on this rival for influence and power. Keeping Korak safe. Tarzan had been at conflict with himself for days. But there was only one real choice. It was nothing to do with brawn versus brains .But still Tarzan could kick himself for being so green.

Nkonu was standing on top of the stone.

“Korak is coming, pig-shit. Never fear. That loving son who was prepared to sacrifice himself for his father’s honour. Here”.

Tarzan gave a shiver when Nkonu’s finger pointed down at the stone.

“Korak will get his second chance. Another chance to sacrifice himself for his father. He will be here before sunset. No longer swinging over the snakes. Not since we left”.

Nkonu was shaking his head at the cleverness of his plans. At the inanity of his muscle-headed rival.

“Re-united. Father and son. Here together”.

Tarzan’s hands were bunched into tight fighting fists. Another useless yank against his bonds did nothing to dispel his sense of powerlessness. Waiting to hear confirmed what already he dreaded. What his dream had foretold.

“Bearing his own slave collar around his neck. The pig-boy will join the pig-ape tonight….. Here”.

Nkonu gestured with both hands at the flat torture stone beneath his feet.

“Here, father and son. Together again. Re-united here”.

Nkonu grinned his enjoyment into the bawl of angry protest that erupted off the stake. Shaking his head in amusement at the futility of his captive’s anger. Smiling to himself at Tarzan’s ferocious thrashing at the stake.

“And what a gift! A priceless pair!”

Nkonu clapped his hands in mock glee.

“Tonight we restore that ancient ritual. The killing stone”.

Tarzan had suspected this. But still the idea that his nightmare was coming true sent shivers down his back.

“And, you see …”, Nkonu exulted, handing up his hands.

“Clean … Without a hand raised in battle, without a drop of blood spilled. Yet our inaugural guests have taken our invitation. Perfect for the part”.

Tarzan spat fury from his eyes, his jaw gritted.

“What a spectacle. Korak and Tarzan.”

“No better way to initiate the ceremony. Father and son together. To wet the stone with their blood. To mingle their blood on the stone tonight. An honour. The first of many rivals whose lives here will be shed”.

From the stone Nkonu shook his head in mock amazement at the stupidity of his rival. He smiled at the fool he had duped and who had played his part so well.

“The ape-pig will drum out the message. On its squirming flesh we shall send out the word. The world will know. What a message! The jungle will ring to the sound of Tarzan’s screams. A communication written in Korak’s blood”.

Nkonu was grinning from ear-to-ear at the excellence of his plan. At the seething fury that filled Tarzan’s helpless face.

“What messengers!”

He roared into the jungle.

“Tarzan and Korak! What a message they send. Let the world learn”.

Nkonu laughed almost manic at his success.

“We are back!” he shouted at the trembling forests.

“Tarzan and Korak. Sacrificed on the killing stone”.

His eyes wild with fire, eyeing his victim at the stake.

“Spread the news, ape-pig! Spread it like wildfire. Spread it with your screams. We are back! Carry that message on your shrieking flesh. We have returned. Nkonu’s tribe”.

He looked down at the stone under his feet. Yelling.

“Tarzan and Korak. Butchered! Slaughtered! Sacrificial goats. The jungle changed - forever”.

Sacrificed! Korak butchered! The words trembled down Tarzan’s back. Nkonu jumped back off the stone and stood chest-to-chest with the man who had only days ago been his rival.

“Tarzan and Korak. Father and son”.

Nkonu’s hand stroked gratefully at the burning sting on Tarzan’s cheek. The back of his hand passed over the red-burning mark. Almost tenderly.

“Sacrificing their lives to commemorate our return”, Nkonu calmly announced.

Tarzan tore his head away from the mocking hand that tarnished his face with its touch.

“Tarzan’s screams splitting the air to tell the world”.

Nkonu’s eyes softened, almost grateful to the unwilling sacrifice that would spread like wildfire the news.

“Father and son. Sacrificed here together. The jungle will shiver at the sound”.

54. Day 2 - Father and son

Without warning, Nkonu’s hand snaked up and grabbed Tarzan by the scalp. Jamming his head back against the post. Spitting venom into his captive’s face. Another abrupt manic mood swing. Tarzan knew he could not save Korak, they were both doomed. And he was certainly in no mind to feel intimidated by this trickster of a coward. Nkonu had lied, he had been deceived. About the most important thing. About Korak. The pair of them, deadly rivals, snarled into each other’s eyes like seething wild beasts.

“You don’t belong here, apeman. Never have”.

Nkonu’s wrist snapped, thudded the back of Tarzan’s skull hard into the stake.

“Thought you could change us? What?”

The wrist snapped again. The blow in the back of his head made Tarzan grunt.

“Civilise us?”

THUDD!

“You and that chief of yours, - you enslaved us”.

The thump of Tarzan’s skull into the post flashed lights before his eyes. An unwanted tear watered the corner of Tarzan’s eye.

Nkonu’s venom spat into Tarzan’s face.

“A warrior tribe. Turned into farmers”.

Nkonu’s other hand lashed out. A lightning-fast slash of pain tore across Tarzan’s cheek off the back of Nkonu’s hand.

“Enslaved us”.

The next blistering sting ripped into Tarzan’s face. His fury burst with the heat of the flames flaring on Tarzan’s cheek. If only one hand was free! Nkonu’s voice was reaching frenzy-pitch.

“Enslaved us. Belittled us in those soft vile ways. You are not welcome here”.

Nkonu’s back-hander ripped across Tarzan’s mouth.

“Not you …. ”

SLAP!.

“…. Not that brat of yours”.

SLAPP! Tarzan felt a dribble of blood trickle down his chin from a split lip.

“You and that brat … “

The force of the sting ripping across his mouth tore Tarzan’s head to one side. The lip split further. Nkonu’s spit splattered into Tarzan’s face.

“ … I’ll silence you both for ever”.

The fist in his hair thudded Tarzan’s skull back into the post. His head hammered with the shock. A pain seemed to split his head in two.

“There is no place in my jungle for the likes of you”.

Nkonu’s voice rose, blistered with his rage. Frenzy coloured his voice.

“Vermin. Both of you”.

THUD!

A cut of pain sliced through Tarzan’s head as it hammered into the post.

Nkonu’s voice switched to the coldness of a pronouncement of death. His eyes drilled deep into his rival’s helpless glare of anger.

“And what do you do with vermin?”

The fist again hammered Tarzan’s head back into the post.

THUDD! A grunt escaped. Tarzan furiously blinked away the pain.

“Tell me. What you do with vermin”.

Nkonu’s lips curled back in a sneer. He didn’t wait for an answer. Nkonu knew it.

“You crush it. Crush it. Smash it - under your foot. Exterminate it”.

THUUDD!

Lights flashed in Tarzan’s head. But he recovered fast, he stared back with blistering fury and without flinching at this attack. Fearlessly facing up to Nkonu’s eyes slitted with hate. What had he got to lose? The rivalry between them had always been intense. Now that Nkonu thought he had won, it had become deadly. But Korak too?

“There is no place here for you. Or that over-preening brat of yours”.

His hand was still gripped in Tarzan’s hair, Nkonu yanked his rival’s gaze round over to the killing stone. A whiplash of pain tore through Tarzan’s neck. Forcing him to stare at the place where he was doomed to die.

“Here”, Nkonu yanked forward on the head to indicate the stone.

“Tonight”, Nkonu pronounced with new-found authority.

“You and that brat”.

Decisive. Final.

“The world will see how Nkonu deals with his rivals!”

Suddenly a smirk filled Nkonu’s face. His mood switched again. Soft-spoken. Sharing a confidence. Confiding in Tarzan.

“After all, I have a reputation to make”, he explained.

With a turn of his hand in Tarzan’s hair, Nkonu turned his rival’s head into his own. They were face-to-face, eyeball-to-eyeball.

“A reputation I need you to make for me”, he cooed softly into the anger-smouldering eyes.

Almost conspiratorially, Nkonu whispered into Tarzan’s ear,

“Do me one final gesture, will you? One last little favour, apeman”, he confided in his captive.

“Help me out one last time”. Nkonu’s voice oozed. Oily. Asking, requesting. Yet knowingly fully in charge.

Nkonu winked. As if saying, but it’s a secret, we’re in this together, apeman.

“I need your help. To get a message across”.

As if drawing Tarzan in as his ally into his secret little plot. Nkonu hesitated before revealing his treasure secret. The message at which the jungle would learn to tremble.

“Nkonu brooks no rival”.

He winked. Knowing Tarzan would help him out. Knowing Tarzan had no choice. Finally his lips gave a smirk that was as deadly as the snake’s.

“Nkonu has one way to deal with his rivals”.

His hand snapped, Tarzan’s head lashed back. It thudded hard into the post again. Lightning burst with the crash of thunder in his head.

TTHUDD!

“I brook no rival”.

The voice spat into Tarzan’s face.

Tarzan roared, he snarled in fury. Bawled through the pain in his skull. Fists bunched, muscles knotted. He’d had enough. Shoulders bulged to break free and nail this arsehole who had tricked him. Who threatened his son.

Yet uselessly Tarzan bridled. He could not move. There was no escape, there was no way out. A sense of dismay seeped into his tormented soul, twisted in his gut.

“Here on this stone”, Nkonu smirked at the futility of his slave’s formidable arm muscle bulging uselessly in its struggles to break free.

“Here tonight”.

Still holding Tarzan by the hair, Nkonu tore the head round again and made Tarzan stare at the stone that was his terrible destiny. His and his son’s.

“Father and son. Honouring me tonight. Sending the message through the forests. This is how Nkonu deals with his rivals. Nkonu brooks no rivals. Not even the apeman. Nkonu is a man to fear”.

Nkonu’s grip in Tarzan’s scalp tightened. He forced Tarzan’s face into his. So near, his breath blew hot on Tarzan’s stinging cheek. The tone of his voice shifted to coldness. Menace.

“On this stone tonight. In celebration of our return to .. better ways”.

A finger wiped up the blood dripping down his captive’s chin. He held it up for Tarzan to see.

“Here .. tonight… Blood will be spilt”.

Sickeningly Nkonu’s tongue licked at Tarzan’s blood.

“Here. Tonight. Vermin will be butchered”.

Nkonu’s hand hammered Tarzan’s skull viciously hard back into the post. Tarzan could not stop the wince, could not hide the flash of pain.

Eyeball-to-eyeball, Nkonu pronounced the condemnation.

“Ape-boy first. Father watching!”

((((((((((

55. Day 2 - Epilogue

Tarzan saw the boys arrive. Up from the river they came. But no Korak. Nkonu’s nephew had arrived with the other boys. But no sign of Korak. Panic gripped at his heart. Hope flashed in his head. Feared sucked at Tarzan’s belly as he twisted his head back towards the river. Perhaps they’d left him there under guard. Setting up some kind of procession to arrive with Korak in triumph to cheering crowds. Just as Nkonu had arrived with Tarzan crawling on his knees.

But there was something wrong. The boys walk seemed heavy-footed, reluctant. Cockiness did not sit on that nephew’s blossoming shoulders like before. The other boys looked visibly nervous, too. Holding back. Making sure Nkonu’s nephew took the lead. And it was with tentative steps that the nephew approached Nkonu who had risen to his feet to greet his nephew with a big smile. But the arms extended in a welcoming hug froze in the air when he saw their faces. The boys’ bodies told a story of their own that Tarzan - frustratingly - could not read.

Nkonu stared back at his nephew. His body turned to iron, he listened as if in shock. Then Tarzan heard him shout. A harsh snap of anger. Suddenly, in a cat-like reflex, Nkonu’s hand lashed out and the nephew fell under a stinging slap onto his face into the dirt.

Confused, full of tension at what had happened to his son, Tarzan twisted round his ears, trying hard to make out Nkonu’s shouts. Trembling after hours of pent-up anticipation in his Korak-hazy mind. Men came running from all directions at the new chief’s bawls. Stunned at the news, the jollity of celebration evaporated in an instant. Like a bucket of cold water had dowsed the scene. Warriors stood transfixed. As if they couldn’t believe their ears, as if the effects of beer was blurring their minds. But Nkonu’s fury snapped them into action. His screams lashed into them like a frenzied whip. Suddenly everyone was running crazily in all directions. Wildly, haphazardly. Their heads on fire from the tongue-lashing from their furious new chief. Men chaotically grabbed for weapons and raced off incoherently. Skittered away on drink-shaky legs into the forest.

Nkonu glared over at Tarzan at the stake. An animal snarl formed on his lips. Hate for that torso at the stake, solid muscles carved with deep defiant cuts. Tarzan could not interpret that look, he had no idea why. Fury gripped at Nkonu, his greatest day in mastering this beast at the stake had been ruined. The hard hewn-granite look of an invincible warrior. Ruined by this fool of a nephew. His foot lashed out at this runt of a relation still cowering down in the dirt. Still rubbing at his stinging cheek. Nkonu’s foot lashed out. Terror was written in they boy’s eyes at the anger that flashed in his new chief’s face.

He had let Korak escape. Confident in his victory, confident he had won his uncle’s favours and had a great future to play, young Nkonu had placed himself in the prow of the canoe. So that he would be the first to be spotted, returning triumphant, the victorious hero bringing home his prize. The sun was setting straight down the river, the water blazed with colour. Young Nkonu’s canoe would haul dramatically into sight as if out of a river of fire. What a scene! Bathed in the light of that Spirit with whom young Nkonu had merged. He’d make his friend the Spirit proud.

Almost in sight of the chief’s village, while “his men” paddled, he stood proud in the front, one foot up on the edge of the canoe. Thinking how these simple villagers would see him, preening himself, posing. This was him, the victorious warrior returned with the spoils of war. Korak. The apeman’s boy. His prize, his victory. When they were spotted, he’d be the first seen, - young Nkonu imbued with the power of the Spirit returning with Tarzan’s son. Broken, beaten, shamefully encased in the slave collar. Submissive, taken like the spoils of war and raped.

Behind, in the back of the canoe he knew Korak lay passed out. In the sleep of exhaustion. Sleeping the sleep of the raped dead. He hadn’t moved all the journey. Shattered by the pit, exhausted by the rapes. Beaten by the joint forces of young Nkonu and the Spirit with whom he had merged.

Yet, almost back at the village, there’d been a sudden cry. Actually, first a splash of water, then a cry. Korak was gone. Overboard. Unobserved by young Nkonu’s paddling crew of would-be-warriors. Their chests rising with the eager satisfaction at delivering their prize captive. Their hearts full with anticipation of the welcome they could expect to enjoy. The rewards they’d get. Simply taking advantage of their smugness, Korak had slipped over the edge. And sunk underwater.

Shock. Panic. The boys had paddled in circles. They had beaten wildly at the water, their eyes had scoured the banks. The boy could not swim forever underwater. They’d get him when he surfaced to breathe. He’d have to breathe. After all, he was weighted down by the metal collar.

But no sign. Hope faded, panic rose. They had jabbed with desperate spears into the reed-beds. But no sign of the ape-boy. Fear and desperation grew. Eyes grew large with fright as they blamed each other. Tempers flared as they screamed back shouting down Nkonu’s reproaches. Korak was gone, It had been everyone else’s fault.

Yet, empty-handed, their pride turned to dread, their dread edging into fear, they slowly paddled in shameful silence. Reluctantly nearing their goal. Into the setting sun, into the prospect of Nkonu’s wrath.

The nephew grimaced at another harsh kick of fury from his uncle. A hard furious kick that stabbed into his thigh. He cowered in the dirt at the sting of another curse. Nkonu’s look had the boy rooted to the spot on the earth. Afraid to get up, afraid to run away. Afraid to pursue the boy he had lost. Afraid to make amends. The other boys had fled, “his men” had fled into safety, joining in the hunt. Deserting him. Abandoning him to face the new chief’s wrath. Nkonu looked down at his idiot of a nephew in the dust where his slap had thrown him. Fire burned in his eyes as he brandished the spear and lashed out another kick. Young Nkonu did as he was told. He slithered out of range, got to his feet. He tore out of his uncle’s sight. For ever. Banished. He ran like hell.

Tarzan stood alone at the stake as the sun quickly settled down behind the trees. Bathed in an orange glow. Yet trembling with anxiety for his missing son, ignorant of what had been going on. He saw Nkonu’s nephew scurry away into the trees. No idea why. Going to bring in Korak after all? Tarzan caught the look of fury that the new chief threw over to him bound hopeless at this stake. Before Nkonu had turned on his heels, arms flailing in frustration and anger, railing at this stupidity and disappearing into his council hut. Tarzan’s head reeled with confusion. What was going on? His chest filled, worrying what they had done with Korak. Why Nkonu was so angry with his nephew? Had they killed Korak by mistake? Tarzan yanked like fury for the hundredth time at the rope that tied his collar to the stake. Why had all the men and boys gone rushing off? In such chaos? In such obvious desperation? Again Tarzan hauled uselessly at his bonds to escape. But the rope binding his collar to the pole kept him frustrated trapped. Unaware of his son perched in a tree, watching. Waiting.

Through the thick foliage watching a village emptying of men. That despicable collar still dragging at his neck. But free. Seeing boys chase after their fathers in the hunt. Emptying the village, Nkonu disappearing into his hut.

His own father, tied naked to a stake. Doggedly fighting his restraints, back-bent biceps swelled to nearly bursting. Undeterred by hours of useless struggling, every muscle rippling to break free. Frantic against the bonds, undulating muscle battling against unbeatable odds. Next to the torture stone, standing alone, at the edge of the deserted village.

And night falling rapidly. Offering Korak the cover of darkness. The certainty of rescue. And the devastation of revenge.

The end

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Deadly Rivalry 3

Trump card

by

rendszeretlen

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