Thrives on suffering
Raped before. An act of violence. A vengeful enemy performing a shameful act to prove his domination. Cruel, merciless. Shaming the jungle lord by force .. made to suffer a degrading act. But there was no violence here. No passion. No hatred. And that made things worse.
He was a tool. Raping Tarzan was simply a means. Their way of sending out messages. Signals to catch the attention of their damned overlord. Tarzan was no more than that. An object. A thing. A body from which to spawn intense suffering.
After the pain of forced entry would come the anger. At that thing deep inside him. At the power they held over him. At his helplessness to defend himself. And as the anger gave way .. there came the shame. A crushing grip on his manly pride in himself. As tight as any stranglehold on his breath.
Shame that twisted into a suffering of the spirit. His warrior soul weeping at this destruction. His unmanly tears of humiliation sent like smoke into the air .. signals of suffering to draw their damned Mzanka near.
He couldn’t have done it. He couldn’t have fought them off. His brain rebelled against that unspeakable thought .. that they could shove that club-end up inside him. Uncaring. Anything to summon that bastard Mzanka. Shameful. Mortifying. But inevitable.
Systematically and physically weakened. His brutalised body failing to find enough strength. Impaling himself on the club-end. His own bodily weakness betraying his strength of will. Panting, exhausted, hurting, Tarzan hung draped over the top of the drum. The club-end had been pushed in far. Held tight into him when that sonorous clacking accompanied the turn of the drum.
The revolving stopped when his prone body was stretched over the top. Hot with shame, shivering with anger. But that fight had been lost. Tarzan felt gripped by a mental revulsion .. debasement. Shamefully he felt underneath himself a solid pressure digging against the hardness of the drum. A thickening in his groin. This evil-minded abuse had got him worked up. Not some real hard-on, he knew. But they were getting him hard from their abuse of his insides. Disorienting him further. It felt weird, he felt ashamed. That this appalling act could get him hard. On top of his failure to keep them out .. at not finding the strength to win this relentless struggle for his honour. Failing to preserve his male pride.
He hung there, prone, panting hard, sweat running off his face. His innards feeling odd, bloated. Head-down, bent over the top of their torture wheel at the waist. Tarzan thought he sensed someone clambering up onto the drum. The chief, he assumed. Come to gloat. Like before when he had mocked .. when that bastard had Tarzan stretched to breaking point on this drum.
But unexpectedly a hand gripped him by the hair, yanked up his face. Tarzan was staring into the face of that priest .. stood on the ground down below him. Through bleary eyes Tarzan saw the scheming fool reaching up to him, a bowl in hand. Unthinking Tarzan opened his mouth .. water .. he needed to drink. Like hell! Water was just what he needed.
But fire burst on his lips. Red-hot, burning the soft flesh on his mouth. The priest had smeared a finger to his lips. Liquid taken from that bowl. Tarzan hissed. His mouth twisted in searing pain. His gaze fixed on the bowl. Not water. A crimson-red goo. The damned priest had stuck his finger in the bowl and daubed Tarzan’s lips with liquid fire. A burning peppery brew. A concoction of stinging plants and fiery herbs.
Shocked, his head whirring from an unexpected attack, Tarzan winced, lips burning. Angered at getting tricked. His blood already up .. that damned shame shoved up inside him only seemed to swell with the fire of his temper.
“Mzanka. Descend. Fill this servant with your fiery rod!”
Stupidly Tarzan wetted his lips with his tongue. An instinct .. to wipe his lips clear of the burning. Stupidly spreading the evil fire into his mouth. Tarzan felt a quick panic as he saw the priest extend his hand upwards. Handing the bowl up .. Tarzan assumed to the chief up on the drum.
The greased-up club was easily slid out of his backside. Tarzan froze. He understood. He trembled. That red-hot goo. The club slicking itself free. Tarzan feared the worst.