Thrives on suffering
On his front. On the wheel. Legs wide-spread. Pressure on his arse. He knew the signs. His thumping heart registered the threat. He was going to be raped.
“King of the jungle! Mzanka, see what we offer. Can there be a finer sacrifice?”
The damned priest calling on that damned Mzanka droned on. But Tarzan had greater concerns. Fighting for his backside. They were making a sacrifice of his manliness. To win themselves into that damned Mzanka’s favours.
“Come see. Come fill this servant with your fire.”
It had happened before. Cold-hearted males had tried that on. Bestially taken. Painfully done. Evil-minded enemies doing it to belittle him. Wilfully done to unman the vibrant male in him. A monstrous act of degradation. Performed with malicious intent.
An enemy’s way of showing the jungle lord that he was defeated. An vicious act of power. A cruel deed of humiliation. Dominating his manly spirit. Few who’d tried that on still breathed on this earth. He’d taken a matching revenge .. like-for-like. Suffering violent rape .. not something Tarzan was ever going to allow.
But strung-out like this ….? Pinned to the wheel .. legs widespread. What was there to do .. to stop them? It felt like a club they were trying to shove in him. Greased the ease entry. Tarzan fought back, grimly .. balling his hands into fighting fists. Determined .. squeezing himself tight-shut.
Not a brutal attack, this time .. not like he had known. This was no attacker who first had Tarzan beaten half-senseless so he could ram himself inside. No violence here. Just an irresistible pressure. The press of a hard-ended club .. digging at his precious manly privacy. An inevitable push into him. Inevitable? The way he was? Every sense in his manly body recoiled at the thought. He pushed back. His jaw clenched to crush his back entrance tight-shut. Fighting against a shame that he could not allow. Yet he was fighting a persistent force there .. a pressure that did not let up. A force that answered his efforts back. A pressure he would not be allowed to deny.
Still his every muscle was taut, fighting, resisting with all he had. Clenched together in a fight for dignity. For the survival of his pride. Muscles outside, muscles inside his back passage .. a solid dam of resistance. But they had come for him when Tarzan was weak. Weakened by them .. hours, days. As he clenched together every sinew in a fight-back, he felt light-headed, The effort of the fight was draining his reserves fast. He experienced a brief loss of focus. Until warning signals rang shrill in his every fibre. Warned by that priest starting up again.
“See, he still fights, Mzanka. Hopeless. He cannot win against your mighty fires. Yet still his will resists.”
Tarzan swore at the annoying droning beneath. Furious. Using the strength of his anger to fight back. Attacked when they had him weakened out of his mind. Crushed in body .. from hours drained of strength under the sun .. days strung-out on this wheel .. physically weakened .. like he could never remember.
“Worthy of the might Mzanka. An indomitable will to be broken ……”
Tarzan had his teeth gritted. In his head he swore he’d have that scheming priest. His strength of will was reeling from constant onslaught .. day-after-day, hour–on-hour. Trapped in a drug-like state of disorientation that he had to fight against if he would have any chance of saving his pride. Going for him .. a dogged attack. Persistent pressure .. pushing against his stubborn resistance .. lifting his body-weight up on the end of the club. Physically lifted as the club-end worried like a mad dog at his entrance.
Tarzan cursed .. anxious at sensing his strength draining away. Desperate to find the physical strength to back up his will not to give in.
The wheel had been turned, Tarzan’s feet must have been a couple of feet off the ground. Hanging upright, draped over the drum. And a constant shove from below lifting him bodily in his restraints.
His breath gave out, Tarzan gave a gasp. The club found the weakness, shifted its evil intent another inch in. Tarzan’s will resisted. He made himself find the strength to fight back, he squeezed back tight. His innards crushing tight around the evil club. Resisting, refusing it any further give. Biting down on his lower lip, determined. Tarzan squeezed, gripping the club tight. It was going no further in, he swore that to himself.
But draped upright on the drum like this, his whole weight was pressing down on the point. He was impaling himself .. grinding himself onto the end. Inevitable .. gravity would have its day. Tiredness was on their side. No effort for them to penetrate him. Yet by contrast from him it needed the strength of a fight for life-and-death. A long slow pressure persistently pushing up into him. Inch-by-cruel-inch their evil had its way. His body-weight was spearing himself on the end of that wicked club. Well-greased, every inch gained inside him would be well-oiled .. easing the penetration of the club. Winning over his strength. Defeating the power of his will.
Tarzan groaned inside his head. Maddened by the inches inside him they had gained. Anxious about the distance they might still win. Cursing to himself he fought back, desperate. He was holding his breath, maximising his effort. But soon he’d have to breathe .. they’d robbed him of another inch of dignity. His self-respect was being abused, his manly pride molested under this monstrous slow attack. But his senses were too panicky to feel anger. Every fibre of his body was recruited into a determined effort to beat back their abuse. Every cell in his body determined. Every bit of his manly will fighting .. squeezing, battling back, resisting.
But knowing …… slowly he was being taken. Maddened by that crazy droning-on. Calling on Mzanka to accept this sacrifice. Wanting like mad to silence that crazy intoning priest. Wanting like hell to slam a fist into that jabbering mouth. Chanting. Calling on Mzanka to come see.
Yet Tarzan had to make himself faze that droning out .. every bit of his power had to be steered into fighting back. Impaled on a greasy club-head. Desperately refusing to give. Frantically putting every fibre of his fighter’s body into squeezing back. Fighting for his pride. In a frenzy of effort to beat off this shameful attack.