Chasing down a ghost
“Fucking do something. Arsehole.”
Wright looked beyond distraught. Out of his mind. Sore. Raw.
“For pity’s sake. TARZAN ……!”
Why the hell should he? Where was Wright’s consideration for the numerous men he had uncaringly killed? For families left without a man to bring in the food? For the women he had raped. Wright’s unsubtle message when men refused to cooperate.
“No more! Fuck! NOT AGAIN!”
The native had got Wright to spurt out seed seven times now. Each time quickly followed by more greasy stroking back to full arousal. Sliding a slippery hand up and down him till Wright again started to drool.
It could have almost been comical. Was this all that it took? To bring this brute down to size? He was running with sweat. He was hurting like hell. His cock looked red-raw. All that posturing and bravado .. where was it now? How the tribes would be laughing .. to see Wright suffering. Begging. Pleading. Imploring them to stop.
Tarzan would be laughing too. Except he was next. And he could see the suffering scrawled on Wright’s face.
He had to have dried up. The hand kept on working him but Wright had got nothing left. Still the guard kept trying .. harder and rougher .. squeezing every last drop out of Wright. He was suffering, red-raw .. judging by the winces flashing across his face. With each tug, Wright grimaced. He looked sore as hell. Gross, ugly, bloated, crimson-sore. His erections roughly handled. Each time he had shed his seed it had been caught in a long-necked gourd. Held down the length of his achingly red-raw cock to catch the spilling of his seed. And then his guards started on him again .. immediately. No waiting. No let-up. Roughly handling his red-raw skin. Tarzan next ……..
“No more. For fuck’s sake, no more …..TARZAN!”
Wright sounded desperate. Hurting, raw.
“PLEASE! Can’t take any more ….”
How many times had Wright raped a wife before her husband? And heard that self-same plea? Ignoring it. Laughing in the distraught man’s face. Punishment fitting the crime. Jungle justice .. it came hard. Painful. Sore. But .. for Wright .. Tarzan reckoned nothing was too much for dozens of unspeakable crimes.
“FUCK YOU. TARZAN. Do something!”
The rough working on Wright’s hard-on would not let up. Squeezing out the very last drop. A greasy hand working over his crimson-red bloated cockhead .. tugging down on the skin. Wright’s head was back over his shoulders. Torso shuddering. Suffering. Aching. Raw.
“Tarzan. For fuck’s sake …. Please. FUCKING DO SOMETHING!”
Why should he?
Tarzan tensed when the chief rose from the steps by the carved screen. Turning attention now to him? He had sat impassive there while Wright was milked into that gourd. That ritual belonged to the priest. But the chief was now coming over to Tarzan. At his approach a hand twisted in Tarzan’s hair, pulling him up off his haunches .. tugged by his hair up on his knees. Made to kneel .. paying the respect due to the chief. Tarzan felt his temper rise. At being shoved around for doing nothing.
From down on his knees he glowered up at the chief. In return he felt the chief’s eyes boring into him. Tarzan’s gaze had taken in the muscled breadth of his shoulders .. this man was muscular, solid, stern. In turn, the chief had cocked his head to one side .. looking Tarzan over .. assessing the power in Tarzan’s hard chest. Each one of these warriors here was a superb specimen of strongly built manliness. Tarzan was no different .. no better, no worse. But he felt the chief’s gaze now focus on Tarzan’s eyes. Boring down on them .. boring through them .. into them. As if the chief was tunnelling down into his very spirit .. scrutinising Tarzan’s inner strength. Digging down to the core of this man he had paying respects on his knees.
“Tarzan. He called you Tarzan.”
The chief squinted, questioning. Interested but not looking friendly.
“You are the one they call Tarzan?”