“Now none of you are gonna be so dumb ……”
Whitney’s gaze deliberately singled out Wanaga. If any fucker was going to be so rash, his look said, it was going to be some fuckhead like you.
“You raise your hand to your betters …. You so fuck-arse stupid that you threaten your betters …….”
His gaze burned into Wanaga’s glare. The pair of them defiant. This sucker needed showing.
Tarzan had spotted the thug with the strap moving behind. He gasped out loud. A mighty lash diagonally down .. the length of his back. Stinging into his shoulder .. the thwack knocking him forward.
Impromptu. Hit for the sake of it. The thug did it because he could. And this jungle legend could do nothing about it. An eruption of tortured pain sizzled down the length of Tarzan’s back. The evil rubber cosh bit with eye-popping pain at the opposite side.
“Twenty. At least.”
Cody only hoped it was worth it. Tarzan had refused to take his situation lying down. Whitney had deliberately singled out Tarzan for that appalling beating .. not for any reason that Cody could see. And Tarzan had stood up to him. Defied him. Glowered back at him. Refused to be cowed. But had that just goaded the sadist? Had Tarzan made things worse for himself?
Cody could admire that in a man. But that was in the movies. Now he was face-to-face with reality ……? But what was reality? He was stuck in this nightmare. And seemingly no way out.
After the rest of the men had been herded into the barracks, much later the guards had thrust Tarzan back in too. Cody had deliberately seated himself by the door. Just in case. In case Tarzan needed his help. He’d stolen some grease, thinking it might help. Massaging it into the appalling welts on the near-unconscious body.
Cody was no expert. On the wrestling team, he’d got his dose of treatments. But doing the massaging himself? His experience with body massage was confined to being affectionate with a girl in bed. Was he doing more harm than good? Who the fuck knew. Tarzan was too far gone to tell him.
The men had bawled the fresh batch of slaves into the hut for the night. Whitney had considered what to do with his victim. The dumb savage had passed out. He’d been given it good and hard. The guys had swapped over keeping themselves fresh. Besides, each wanted his go. Giving it the sucker all they’d got. And they had. The sucker couldn’t stand up to that level of attack.
Just as Whitney wanted. Singling out their famous jungle legend. That way these newbie slaves were getting the message. And gonna give their overseers a lot less trouble. It had to be a good display …. Show these savages not to fuck the guards around. The jungle prick had got the best coming. Why spoil a good lesson for a ha’p’orth of tar?
Whitney had a choice. Pain had grabbed him, the prick had passed out. Whitney had called a halt. He could have thrown a bucket of water over him, revived him. And ordered another twenty. But looking at the slaves … trembling at the ferocity of this brutality .. imagining themselves on the receiving end …. they’d got the point. Their jungle super-hero hung lifeless off the ropes. Whitney had sent these stinking savages the message crystal-clear. No need to dish out more to their jungle hero. That would be just callous! And besides, tomorrow the fucker had a day’s work to do.
An ominous silence had descended over the watching slaves .. an oppressive blanket of fear settling all around after the sound of beating the fuck out of muscle. The thwack of rubber on flesh had stopped. The yelps of pain had silenced. Replaced by a choking stillness that gripped the onlookers by the throat. Only broken by the sound of the whippers catching their breath. The white-savage hung limp, head down, sweat running down his front. Glistening in the light of the lamps. He made an impressive sight. A warning written good-and-clear.
The sucker had been howling good-and-loud before he’d blacked out. An animal–like howl. Pure savagery. Whitney had had that earlier battle-cry thrashed out of the fucker. Each thwack down his back was laying pain on top of burning welts. Pain twisted him. Agony threw him forward. Jerking like some broken puppet off the overhead ropes. Body broken by pains he could not hold down .. no matter how hard he tried.
The beating had begun afresh. After Whitney had bawled his other man out …. the others put their backs into it. Leaning into every blow. Full bodyweight behind each-and-every strike. Evil strokes across a belly already red-raw. Blows viciously raising pain out of a chest fiery-red. Stinging slashes across the bare arse of the muscled slave.
Another cry was yanked out of its tortured flesh. A blow with the knotted rope into his ribs. Tasting blood Whitney’s man laid down a couple more. In the same place, faster this time, laying one stroke quickly on top of the other. The body seemed to crumple inwards, spasm together. Yanking hard against the restraints. Folding in on itself. Again it yelled.
Unstoppable. Again it cried out. Like it could not stop itself. Signalling the flesh could not contain any more, could not take any more of this torment. Like the spirit could not hold back its yelp. Wriggling away to escape. Squirming away to dodge the pain. Shaking. An animal caught by its leg in a trap, knowing there was no way out. But desperate to flee for its life.
Whitney was not fooled. These next days the fucker would hurt with every move he took. Bruised ribs, beaten flesh, battered muscle …. All still put to work, all worked until the fucker dropped. But Whitney would keep an eye on the fucker. Given a few days to recover, what was the betting? This fucker would be up to his old tricks. Whitney had got the mark of the prick. He was that kinda tough motherfucker.
Whitney became aware of a hardness between his legs. And nodded with satisfaction at another twist of muscle off the pain. He nursed the throbbing strength aching for more between his legs. He squeezed as the torment went on. Twenty strikes, he had declared. But who the fuck was counting?