At the top of this enormous wheel .. stretched .. vulnerable, every bit of him. If they chose to beat him .. if they went for his belly with their clubs .. agony. Nothing he could do. Helpless victim of this cruel tribe. Prey of that scheming priest. Captured game for that cold-eyed chief.
Suddenly surprised. Seeing a muscle-sculpted body appeared above him. The chief. He had clambered up onto the drum and was staring down onto Tarzan. Dangerously stretched out, muscles quivering at the chief’s feet. Come to do just that? Beat the hell out of Tarzan?
Grim-faced, cold-eyed he stood over Tarzan. Legs planted firmly either side of his torso. Dominating over him. Overseeing the torment of Mzanka’s body-slave.
Tarzan had felt unnerved. At first sight of him .. shocked .. appearing out of the blue. Then he got the message. This sadist couldn’t stop himself .. wanted to enjoy this torture close-up. Tarzan had been standing up to him. He’d not stand up to this torture on the wheel.
Tarzan got a grip. He stared back up into his enemy’s face. He clamped-on a defiant glare. Not going to show any signs of nervousness.
The chief ordered the warriors turning the wheel into action. Tarzan felt the drum pressing up into his back more as pressure turned him further. But the pull of his legs was holding it back. The ropes on his ankles tugged Tarzan back to the ground .. while his hands tied to the drum pulled the other way. The full threat of the wheel suddenly hit him. He was being stretched. If they were inclined, he could be pulled apart. Stretched beyond breaking point.
Grunts from down below his side kept trying to turn the drum. Some Untula muscle-heads strained against this ungiving force. A loud wooden clack resounded to his side .. like the wheel had been locked into place. To his side Tarzan heard sighs of relief .. from the warriors who had stretched him to the maximum. But quickly .. as the echo of that clack died away .. the agonising pains set in. The torture of being stretched over this drum tighten its talons into his flesh. Tarzan heard himself groan. His body couldn’t hold it back. Broken groans as the stretch on his muscles clawed pain out of his sockets.
Tarzan looked up at the chief. In shock. Thinking he could not be stretched anymore. He’d rip! Did they mean to pull his arms from his body? This was the suffering intended to lure in their Mzanka? Their greatest desire .. to invite their overlord to grace them again with his presence. And Tarzan’s broken groans of pain were the invitation card.
Below he heard the priest hiss.
“You. You. To the wheel.”
At the priest’s command, more warriors scurried to the levers turning the drum. Tarzan was already suffering from the pressure. First in his back. Then the resistance hauling doggedly back on his legs. But .. accompanied by manly grunts of effort .. he felt the wheel was trying to turn him further. Arching him backwards. Over the top of the drum. Sharp grunts broke down below the side .. muscular warriors .. honoured to struggle .. in service to Mzanka .. straining with all their might to turn the drum.
Their struggling grunts soon to be drowned out by Tarzan’s own broken groans. Agony. His belly collapsed. His armpits stretching .. burning .. on fire. Elbows screaming. Sockets being pulled apart. Pain escaping in long tortured groans. Head expanding with the pain. Sweat running into his eyes. Arced backwards over the top of this barrel. Agonised. Tortured. About to be pulled apart.