In search of a secret
Omekono’s brother blinked into the embers. During his sad tale Tarzan had kept looking over at this powerfully built young man, at the broken brother. He had tried to imagine the horrors of such appalling treatment. And yet he felt there was more to hear .. worse. Little wonder that Omekono looked less than the mere shadow of the vibrant young man he had met.
He had pluckily decided to devote his life to righting wrongs. Above all, he was modelling himself on Tarzan. In awe of Tarzan’s fortitude, standing up for others, facing down life-threatening dangers. Exciting but at the risk of his life. That kind of will took guts. And Omekono wanted to have guts like that.
Now Tarzan looked at the tormented shadow of Omekono’s energetic self. Beyond the muscular shell, he recognised nothing. Fires burned out. Virility quenched. Spirit destroyed. By the horrors from that fearsome tribe. What they must have put him through!
“For the first few days. ….”
The older brother was talking into the embers. But Tarzan felt he just had to talk. To get this deep-seated sadness off his chest.
“. .. I managed to open him up. Alone in our hut. Talking into the darkness.”
He looked ruefully at Tarzan .. as he felt he had to apologise for not rescuing brother’s lost soul.
“But sometimes I’d feel his whole being shiver. Suddenly he’d disappear into his shell. As if his spirit could no longer face those horrors. Even though he was safe. Even though he was free.”
Tarzan waited patiently. The chief himself was plainly suffering from this telling.
“I remember once. .. he was saying something about a giant wheel .. Omekono started telling me. Then he clammed up. Completely. I tried to press him .. he shuddered. Violently he shook his head. I tried to ask what was wrong. He shouted back at me. And ran out of the hut screaming into the night ….”
# ## # #
Ten days the obstinate seed slave had resisted. Stubbornly denying them the great secret of its reawakening powers. Wasting time .. drawing them perilously close to the day of its sacrifice, the feast of the brave when the warriors rededicated themselves. Time was running out.
“No secret,” the obstinate fool kept insisting. “It’s the way I’m built.”
The priest was having none of it. He knew this piece of pigshit was close to the moment when that stubborn manly spirit would abandon it .. when the secret would come bursting out. Days of putting it under pressure .. exhaustion .. hunger .. playing on its nerves .. wearing it down ……. Soon that defiant spirit would cede to the unbearable pressures on its soul. It’d release the secret. And then the ability to infuse every seed slave .. to make sure all those who came after this pig could regenerate their loins on command .. that secret would be theirs. Just a little more pressure. More firm squeezing. The truth would come spurting out
The priest attended the afternoon milking. Tears of pain already creased the pig’s cheeks. Its mouth contorted as its hardness was worked over for its fortifying milk. The priest had watched the secret of its teats over dozens of times. He’d seen the look of dread on the pig’s features as its tits were squeezed and twisted. Seen this numerous times. But still it never ceased to amaze how strongly this creature’s cock rose .. so full and so fast in response to rubbing. Amazing. And no matter how many times he watched it .. the priest just knew, it was a secret the tribe had to possess.
It was dry. It’d been emptied. The pig no longer denied there was a secret. It no longer blabbed out that futile lie. Resistance had been crushed out it. It didn’t have the fight left in him. It was all it could do to breathe. Since the sun had first risen, again the rope has been pulled up. For hours that muscled torso had been at full stretch. Forced to rise to its toes by the pull on the bar between its arms. Legs outstretched. Arms pulled up straight. Straining the muscles of its belly, achingly hauling up the muscular plates of its chest. Every moment putting that physique under aching strains.
For ten days it had spent these hours under the afternoon sun stretched this, weakening with every painful hour. The heat, the stretch, the strain, struggling to draw revitalising breath – will crushed, resistance squeezed, body broken .. the pig was close to revealing .. the priest was convinced.
The hoard of milk was safely put aside. As the priest had ordained, his guards set about squeezing even more fight out of the pig. Today it’d be lifted. Hauled up in the air, off its feet. More strain, more pain, more agony clawing at every etched muscle, hauling the truth out of every stretched sinew.
A groan seeped from its lips when the tugging on its arms stretched the tortured sinews of its arms even further. Pained recognition terrorised its mind when it realised they had it hanging free in the air. Head dropped back over its shoulders, eyes closed to burning sky. Not fighting .. no point. No cursing .. it knew by now no one was listening. Suspended of its wrists. Insufferable strains added to the intolerable agonies of a body tortured beyond bearing.
A few hours like that … THEN, the priest was convinced, he could bring this tortured body into contact with its soul. And pluck the truth from the depths of its being. Revealing the secret of its manly recovery.