Chasing down a ghost
“That one first.”
Tarzan saw the chief’s hand indicate Wright. He heard his own prey protest as a bunch of powerfully-built men grabbed him and hauled him off. When Wright saw them dragging him to a pair of stakes planted in the earth, his struggles increased.
But he was yanked along, punched, smacked across the back of his head. For all his struggles Wright got his arms roped out to the uprights.
“What the fuck you up to? Motherfuckers.”
A club across his lower back interrupted his curse. Wright bawled. In pain and seething anger.
He was still finding his wind when the priest ordered Wright naked. Sharp blades made short work of his pants.
“Get the legs”
It was the priest supervising Wright getting tied up, Tarzan noticed. The priest commanded in whatever ceremony was going on. Worth understanding who called the shots. Hands grabbed at Wright’s ankles. Stood naked and sweating with anger. His legs pulled apart. Fuming. Cursing. And looking more than a bit nervy.
Wright’s protest passed without comment. And the struggles started over again. Kicking out. Trying to free his legs from the guards’ grips. Wright cussed, he wriggled, he tried to squirm out of their reach. But the guards made sure he gave them no trouble. Punch in the gut. A club cracked him across the back of his shoulders. Ropes on his ankles were sharply tugged apart, unbalancing him, leaving him dangling and flailing off his arms. Floundering till they had got the ropes secured. And his legs wide-spread. Stood naked.
Tarzan noticed the chief eyeing Wright’s nakedness. Closely. The priest from behind craned his neck and took in the thickness. His eyes squinted observing the length and virility of the man. Finally he judged Wright worthy.
“Milk him of his strength.”
The priest’s words had a man rushing forward. Leather cord was twisted around the base of Wright’s manhood.
“Get the fuck off. Stinking black savages. Putrid pervs.”
He was ignored. Before he was even getting firmed up, another warrior was already dipping his hand into a bowl of slippery grease and using it to coax Wright’s manliness to full strength.
“Tarzan. For fuck’s sake ……”
Wright sounded angered, scared, perplexed. Tarzan saw in these moves a practised routine. The warriors doing this .. not for the first time for them .. this was some kind of well-worn ritual for them. Done with a foe taken in battle .. milking the enemy of his seed. Robbing him of manly strength.
“Tarzan! Don’t just fucking stand there gawping!”
What-the-hell was Tarzan supposed to do? Wright could plead for help all he wanted .. Tarzan had his own warriors breathing down his neck. Gripped by the hair to keep him controlled, forced down on his knees for speaking out of turn .. a warclub reminding him to keep shut his mouth. Tarzan could only watch.
And whatever this priest wanted with Wright, it was only a small bit of what the man deserved. For all his killings, for his wrongdoings .. as far as Tarzan was concerned, they couldn’t do enough to make Wright pay for his crimes. Scream away!
Out of the corner of his eye, Tarzan saw the chief staring at him. For his behaviour, for questioning him? He had spotted the chief’s head spin around at him when Wright blurted out his plea for help. His head had twisted over at Tarzan glowering. Frowning. Aggressive. Was he anticipating some reaction? That Tarzan might leap into Wright’s defence? Small chance of that.
Tarzan felt that gaze grinding down on him. Daring him to make a move? Frowning. Staring him down. Scowling. Warning him? In readiness of Tarzan doing something foolish?
Tarzan couldn’t put his finger on it. But something in his gut gave him the feeling it was something else. Something more. Not a warning. More ……? A questioning frown …..?
Tarzan had no interest in saving Wright’s skin, though. Putting aside what plans this tribe might have for Tarzan himself .. with Wright they could do with him whatever they wanted. They’d turn on Tarzan some time. But for now …..? This was rough justice, what Wright was getting was jungle justice. Warriors like these could come up with treatment worse than Wright ’d see in any jail. Ignoring for now his own turn would come .. Tarzan could only invite them to have a field-day on Wright. And the rougher-the-better.
And still Tarzan felt the glare of the chief on him .. scrutinising him. Watching him for some false move? No … Tarzan was reading something else in that glare. Curiosity? But a shout from Wright wrenched his focus back. Twisting his head back from the chief .. staring back at Wright. His manhood bound tight, a warrior greasing his hands up and over his cockhead. Getting harder with rough-handed strokes.
This was some kind of ritual of theirs? A well-practised way of dominating a prisoner. “Milking him of his strength”? Those had been the priest’s words. Fair enough as far as Tarzan was concerned. They couldn’t treat Wright rough enough.
“Milk him!” Tarzan was piecing this together. This ceremony. He’d heard of tribes taken in battle, their chief being humiliated. Roped up like this and their manliness shamefully stolen from them before their warriors. Public show that the chief and his tribe were subject to the victor’s whims. But “robbed of their strength”? What did that mean?
“That one first,” the chief had said. What Wright was getting .. that was going to be meant for Tarzan too .. that went without saying. Tarzan watched. Wright looked terrified. Angry, disgusted .. and scared. Tarzan was also keenly watching .. out of self-interest. Best to be prepared. He had it coming too.
But they weren’t an enemy tribe taken in battle. They were no threat. It was these warriors who had hunted them down. “An excellent catch” – that was what they were, the chief had said so. Forage from the hunt. Not an enemy to be put in its place. No menacing chief who had his man-seed forcibly and extracted .. for humiliation.
“They’ll yield excellent strength”, the priest had said. “Strength” – again. Milk Wright of his strength? What the hell was all this ceremony about? But Tarzan had observed the deftness of the warriors’ attack on Wright. Smooth, practised, they’d done this many times. What were they up to?
They had got Wright fully erect. He stuck out solid straight in front, full, the grease glistening off the purple-strained cockhead. A hand slick with fat still squeezing up and down on him .. none too gently .. coaxing the seed to flow.
What WAS this all about? Milking Wright. Of his strength. For the life of him Tarzan couldn’t make out what they were up to. Truth was, though …. Wright looked uncomfortable .. helpless, indignant. As far as Tarzan was concerned .. not as much as Wright deserved.
But what about when they turned on him? Milking Tarzan of his strength …….