The Telemachus Story Archive

Tarzan Deposed Jungle Lord Series
Part 2 - Book 1, Part 2, Tarzan, (Chapters 7-9)
By Rick Henry
Email: strawbridge88@att.net

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TARZAN – Deposed Jungle Lord, Book 1

Part Two

Chapter 7

“Bomba, the Jungle Boy”

The hunter sips his coffee as the door to the cockpit opens and the copilot enters. “Everything checks out on the checklist, skipper – it should be smooth fast ride to San Miguel running with the bay empty,” announces Jake.

“Thanks Jake, please take over and maintain course and speed; we’re going aft,” orders the pilot. Hunter rises from the rear left seat and nods at Jake as they pass. Jake takes the right seat and buckles in and puts on his headset and says, “I have the plane, skipper.”

“You have the plane,” acknowledges the pilot; he unbuckles and removes his headset. He rises out of the front left seat and follows the hunter out of the cockpit and into the huge cargo bay of the large transport. The near windowless hold is dimly lit with small recessed spotlights on each side of the bay that run its entire length. The bay is empty except for a small container cube about 3 feet high, 3 feet wide, 4 feet long, and covered with a canvas tarp. The cube is chained to the cargo floor, each corner with lengths of chain that can be ratcheted to different lengths.

The hunter stops before the covered cube and turns to his friend and says over the dull hum of the aircraft’s engines, “Before I show you the ape man, please remember I was provided a strict set of detailed instructions on how he is to be handled him once I captured him – none of this, none – was my idea.”

“You actually have a man stuffed in that small container… cage?” asks the pilot.

“Like I said, the instructions were very detailed. My client provided the cage… he wanted him completely immobilized the entire duration of his trip,” replies the hunter as he stares at the dark

canvas tarp that covers the cage. “When we spoke by satellite-cell, he even added on more handling instructions.”

“Who is this… client?” asks the pilot.

The hunter sighs and says, “Normally, I don’t divulge the identity of my clients, but the circumstances are unique in this case. You could easily find out on your own; you’re flying us to his island… San Miguel. A simple goggle search would provide the name of the owner: William Martin.”

“William Martin, the billionaire? He the one who bought this jungle man?” asks the pilot.

“The very one. His depravity is not common knowledge; he has a wife for show. Think she lives in Paris. You learn all kinds of things about people in my line of work.” smiles the hunter as he kneels down and unsnaps the clips that hold the tarp in place. He sighs and lifts the canvas tarp off the cage and tosses it aside.

“Oh, my God!” exclaims the pilot, circling the container, trying to contain his shock at the sight of the naked, muscular young man, hooded and tightly restrained inside the cage.

“Jack, this is Tarzan. Tarzan, this is Jack,” says the hunter cynically.

“Wow… Tarzan screwed with the wrong guy!” says the pilot.

“He sure did. Like I said, none of this sick shit is my idea. It’s not my cup of tea, either. But I couldn’t pass up the cash,” adds the hunter quickly. And shrugs.

“It’s just hard to take in all at once,” replies Jack, regaining his composure.

“He’s paying me one million dollars to bring Tarzan to him… plus expenses,” adds the hunter casually.

One million dollars!” gulps the pilot, and takes another look at the bound man in the small cage.

The man in cage is a pathetic site. He is naked and compressed tightly on his knees; his stomach to his thighs. The cage aside, thick leather ankle-to-thigh restraints hold his ankles tightly against his long, muscled thighs, preventing him from standing. His notably fine arms are restrained behind his back, within thick leather neck-wrist restraints, attached to a leather collar wrapped and tightly buckled around his strong neck. Attached to collar is a short length of chain that is snapped onto a cage bar that holds the man’s head down close to the cage floor. The caged man has a bizarre hood over his head – the full hood is actually a mask with slit eye holes, keeping the victim in near total darkness. The hood is a mask of a black gorilla; its features are distorted and exaggerated. The lips of the gorilla are thick, fat and stick out, and the gross lips are divided, revealing a large ball gag inserted in the man’s mouth preventing speech. The mask’s nose is wide and flat with two small air holes; the top and back of the hood has shoulder-length, jet-black hair, which straggles down and covers the tanned shoulders of the jungle man. The jungle man has a wide black leather belt buckled around his waist. From the back of the belt there is a narrow leather strap that runs tightly between the jungle man’s buttocks and disappears.

“How long has he been like this?” asks the pilot, kneeling down for a closer look at the captured ape man.

“I drugged him nearly four days ago. He’s been restrained ever since. He’s had nothing to eat – only a minimal amount of water to keep him alive. Apparently, Mr. Martin wants Tarzan rather weak for their initial meeting,” explains the hunter.

“This is amazing. I thought I’d seen everything,” remarks the pilot as he continues to stare at the captive jungle man. “Is he sleeping?”

“I had the vet sedate him before I brought him on board… the instructions be dammed. Tarzan will be out for another two to three hours,” says the hunter as checks his watch.

“Well… I feel for the kid; he sure is in for a life of misery. Hey, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over it. Running around the jungle like that, guess it was only a matter of time before he pissed off the wrong person,” says the pilot. He rises and helps the hunter put the tarp back over the cage.

As the hunter refastens the clips that hold the tarp in place, he says casually, “I’m glad you feel that way, Jack. When I spoke to Mr. Martin, he mentioned another contract.”

“Another job—doing what?” asks the pilot.

“It sounds like weird Martin has new hobby: collecting jungle men… and jungle boys. He mentioned another young savage he has located in southern Africa—known to the locals as Bomba, the Jungle Boy,” remarks the hunter.

“Bomba, the Jungle Boy?”

“Yes, Bomba. I’m told Bomba spends a lot of time helping out the local police commissioner, and he has an eye for the girls. That means he easily interacts with civilized people; therefore, he’ll not be as easy to catch as Tarzan was,” says the hunter, the wheels of his mind turning. “Additionally, his association with the local police will require a more elaborate drug and capture plan. I can’t just dart him and drag him away like I did Tarzan. Tarzan lived in the wild; Bomba does not. I need to lure Bomba away from the safety of the village and the police commissioner. I’d say a pretty young girl in distress could easily entice young Bomba to me. Yes, a pretty seductress with a couple of roofies, instead of a tranquilizer dart,” decides the hunter.

“Did he cross Mr. Martin, too?”

“No… I just think it’s just fascination. A younger version of Tarzan he wants to have his way with. Sounds like we might have to go into business together. We could score big, traveling Africa, scooping up jungle men and jungle boys for Martin, and then delivering them to San Miguel,” proposes the hunter. “What d’ya say?”

“Poor Bomba… he’ll never see it coming. He’ll be in a cage wearing a hood before he knows what hit him… just like Tarzan here. Sure, count me in. Zach has two more years of college,” laughs the pilot. As if the destruction of other young men... meant nothing to him at all.

“Then, it’s settled. We’ll drop off Tarzan on San Miguel, and then set off to find and capture Bomba, the Jungle Boy,” says the hunter with a grin.

Chapter 8

“San Miguel”

Mr. Martin waits alone at the end of the new landing strip he has had constructed on his island of San Miguel. He watches with interest as a C-130 transport appears first as a speck on the horizon and then grows larger as it draws closer losing altitude. Mr. Martin is in his mid-60’s and is short and not very physically fit… actually, he’s quite fat. He has led the good life for decades and the pounds have been slowly added on over the years. To look at the man, one would never suspect he was a billionaire. He is wearing an old beat-up wide brimmed straw hat, a garish blue and gold Hawaiian shirt and stained white pants. He sits in driver’s seat of his old open air white jeep patiently waiting for his merchandise to arrive, sipping a cool drink in a plastic cup.

Minutes later, the aircraft gracefully swoops down out the clear blue Caribbean sky. Twin gusts of black smoke arise at the far end of the runway as the C-130’s tires touch down on the surface of the runway. Seconds later the C-130’s nose drops and the nose gear touches lightly down on the tarmac. The large transport immediately begins to loudly decelerate as the turbo props reverse power and the pilot begins to brake the aircraft. Soon after, Mr. Martin feels a gust of hot wind and hears the roar of the transport’s engines as plane speeds past the jeep parked well away from the runway. The plane gradually comes to a full stop at the far end of the runway. The engines power up as the C-130 turns around 180 degrees, the thrust of the transport’s four engines blowing at the big fronds of the leafy palm trees nearby. The C-130 then slowly begins to taxi back down the runway as the wing flaps retract back into take-off position. Mr. Martin raises his plastic cup as the plane slowly passes by him and then comes to a stop near the parked jeep. The dull roar of the C-130’s spinning engines continue as the plane remains stationary and the rear cargo door slowly retracts and opens up and inwards into the C-130’s large cargo bay.

As the rear door opens, Mr. Martin catches sight of young Jake, the C-130’s copilot, standing near the opening, operating the door control. “Oh, my… what have we here?” asks the old man aloud, making a cursory appraisal of Jake. The copilot is wearing a dark blue one-piece flight suit and black combat boots, and wears a headset with a microphone. Attached to the headset is a black cord which leads to another cord that is coiled in Jake’s hand. The copilot is a tall, good-looking young man, with dark red hair and a light beard, crowned with a dark blue Buffalo Bill’s ball cap. Jake is in his early twenties and has a swimmer’s type build, which has obviously also been enhanced with some strong weight-training added, and is clearly defined by the tailor-made jump suit he wears. Jake’s taut athletic body does by no means escape Bill Martin’s notice, who stares hungrily at the young man standing in the cargo bay, while he sips his drink.

The young copilot grabs a pair of yellow wooden wheel chocks from within the bay and jumps lightly down to the tarmac, quickly moving towards the port side aircraft wheels, and chocks the large aircraft tires front and back. Jake then plugs the cord to his headset into a recessed jack on the exterior of the aircraft; he drops the coil of black wire and begins to move around the exterior of the aircraft, speaking into the headset’s microphones. Bill watches the young man with keen interest as Jake walks quickly around the starboard wing. He quickly rounds the wing and moves well out in front of the spinning blades of the C-130. The copilot stands before each of the C-130’s four spinning props, one by one, making a visual inspection of each and relaying his findings to the captain. Satisfied everything is in order, the copilot draws his right index finger across his throat. The planes four turbo-prop engines immediately shut off one by one, and begin to ramp down. As Mr. Martin listens to the subsiding engine noise, he stares longingly at the outline of Jake’s athletic body contained in the snug fitting flight suit as he walks around the aircraft, occasionally squatting as he inspects the fuselage of the C-130. Mr. Martin finds himself becoming deeply infatuated with young Jake, observing the young man perform his duties… apparently love at first sight. The old man leers at Jake, never taking his eyes off the young copilot as he inspects the aircraft’s components and reports his findings back to the captain in the cockpit. “I’ll call you, Red , my handsome young man,” decides Bill as he continues to eye Jake appraisingly.

Minutes later as the blades of the turbo-prop stop spinning, the hunter emerges and jumps from the open rear cargo bay door, leading a very tall, muscular man by a chain attached to a thick leather collar. The man is entirely naked and well-secured in leather restraints, wearing only a grotesque black hood. The strange hood has shoulder-length black kinky hair, and the face of a gorilla on the front of it. The hunter roughly helps the hooded man down and then tugs the chain, pulling the largely muscled, nude-bound man along, stumbling and staggering weakly towards the jeep and its occupant. Young Jake cannot help but notice the hunter and his captive. He stops his aircraft inspection, his mouth dropping open, as he stares in disbelief at the events unfolding on the edge of the runway.

The jeep’s occupant licks his lips and then struggles, breathing hard, as he rolls his obese body out of the jeep, quickly grabbing a metal briefcase and a cloth bag. He sets both items on the vehicle’s hood, as the hunter and his captive near the jeep. “Well done, hunter. I knew you would not fail. So Tarzan, King of the Jungle! We meet again—but under different circumstances. The money is all there, Hunter…you can count it if you wish,” offers Bill.

“I trust you, Bill,” counters the hunter as he brings Tarzan to a stop with a hard nudge into his rippling abs with his elbow. The hunter holds the leash as Bill waddles around the strapping man, appraising him as he stands on grassy edge of the tarmac, unsteady still on his legs, breathing heavy, trying to draw air into the mask—weak from the confinement of his legs and from the lack of any nourishment for days.

“Tarzan’s not near as cocky as he was the last time I encountered him!” remarks Bill. “The mask suits him well. I’ve made a monkey out of “Lord” Tarzan. I have waited a long time to have the King of the Jungle standing before me: defeated, powerless—helpless.”

I bet you have, you disgusting, gross pervert, thinks the hunter… and smiles at the fat old man.

“Have you “tamed,” Tarzan?” asks Bill, looking a bit apprehensive at the tall, powerful man.

“Tarzan is tame. Once he was deprived of his senses, his muscles harnessed tight... his free spirit and pride crumbled; and he submitted,” explains the hunter.

“Excellent. There is an envelope on top of the money in the brief case, too. It has the GPS coordinates, all known data, and the handling instructions I have for Bomba, the Jungle Boy. I’ve had a very special hood made, and other accessories for him, there in the bag. Wait until you see this one! I have a different theme for the cocky Bomba, indeed. You are still interested in capturing the Jungle Boy, and bringing him here to me?” asks Bill hopefully.

Pervert! thinks the hunter. I can’t even begin to imagine what this sick fuck has dreamed up for the kid. “We’re leaving now to fetch the boy, Bill. We never did discuss a price,” remarks the hunter.

“You work is flawless, quick results—no loose ends to tie up. I’ll pay one half the same price for Bomba as for I did for Tarzan... plus expenses,” offers Bill. He suddenly cracks Tarzan on his mounded ass with an open hand, and then rubs the jungle man’s firm buttocks, no longer able to resist the urge to feel the jungle man’s satiny, smooth skin. Tarzan flinches at his unseen master’s slap and caress, and the hunter tugs hard on the lease making Tarzan heel.

Can’t you wait until I leave, before starting your perverted games with the ape man? fumes the hunter; then smiles, and says, “It’s a deal then, Bill. I’ll take the cage with me. I’ll call you when I have Bomba.” The hunter surrenders Tarzan’s leash to Bill.

The fat old man smiles and takes the jungle man’s leash. The hunter grabs the brief case and

cloth bag, and turns to leave. But Bill says, “Hunter… one moment, please.”

“Yes, Bill,” responds the hunter, turning to face him. “Don’t tame Bomba when you catch him…. I want the boy left wild. I want to personally make Bomba heel to my will. Just bring him here to me.”

“It works for me,” replies the hunter.

The old man then gestures towards young Jake inspecting the C-130 and says, “Hunter, Red over there…the interesting, tall athletic young man, with the dark red hair and light beard, scurrying busily around the plane. I’d like to meet, Red....”

“Sorry, Bill. It’s best to forget about him. Red, as you call him, is a personal friend of a friend of mine. He’s off limits… not for sale, at any price!” replies the hunter trying to mask his disgust.

“Are you sure? Money is no object—name your price. Red is so… so fit. I’ve always had a thing for young, tall red-heads,” replies Bill sullenly.

I bet , mutters the hunter under his breath.

“I’m very sure,” replies the hunter. He dismissively turns and walks back towards the C-130 at quick pace. The hunter then once more casts his eyes back at the odd pair standing on the runway’s edge, shaking his head inwardly at the odd spectacle. The sight of the short, obese old man in a straw hat and bad Hawaiian shirt, holding the leash of a very tall, muscular subdued man, tightly restrained and wearing only a gorilla hood... is beyond perverse thinks the hunter.

As the copilot continues his checks, he cannot help but to occasionally steal a quick glance towards the surreal and bizarre activity taking place in plain view near the edge of the runway. The hunter approaches Jake, who is making his aircraft inspection expecting a barrage of blurted out questions, but surprisingly gets none as he passes by. Jake only smiles and nods politely to the hunter, and continues to inspect the aircraft for takeoff, while communicating with the captain in the cockpit. Jack was right about the kid, he does know when to keep his mouth shut, thinks the hunter, suddenly stopping to watch Jake perform his duties for a moment. Then Hunter turns from the cargo door, and walks quickly over to Jake. He reaches out his hand and smiles. Jake quickly pulls his headset down around his neck, smiles, and takes the hunter’s hand.

“We’ve never really met yet, I’m Hunter,” shaking the young man’s hand.

“Jake. Nice to meet you, sir,” Jake says warmly.

“The pleasure’s mine, Jake. Call me Hunter,” replies the hunter. “Jake…we’ll probably be back to this island a few more times in the months to come. See that old man over there?”

“It’s none of my concern, what type of business you conduct…” replies Jake nervously.

“I know you can keep your mouth shut; Jack speaks very highly of you. And this has nothing to do with you keeping my business affairs to yourself. What I mean, Jake, is that I strongly advise you to stay well clear of that old man when you’re on this island. Don’t let him get you off alone anywhere, no matter what story he concocts—no matter how harmless or sincere he sounds. And most important of all, Jake, under no circumstances ever… never drink or eat anything that old man might offer you,” warns the hunter. He puts his hand on Jake’s shoulder, and gives him a very knowing look—then purposefully looks over at the spectacle on the runway’s edge.

Jake hesitates for only a few seconds, before his eyes open wide and his face turns beet red. He gulps and swallows hard as a wave of realization sweeps over him. He turns and looks again, this time apprehensively, at the old man and his captive jungle man at the edge of the runway.

“Just be warned, Jake… I know for sure he’s got an eye on you. Always, always stay near the aircraft when you’re on this island, and you’ll be fine—I’ll see to it,” promises the hunter.

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate the advice,” stutters Jake, watching the hunter begin to retreat back towards the cargo bay door.

“Stay on the alert,” replies the hunter, backing off. “You seem like a nice guy, Jake. I don’t want you to wake up someday from a drug induced sleep, and find yourself on your belly—naked, ball-gagged, and tied spread-eagle on that old man’s bed.”

Jake tries to respond to the hunter’s presentiment, but the words escape him. The thought of being made the helpless captive of that perverted old man completely unnerves Jake. He is speechless as he watches the hunter turn away and re-board the C-130. Eventually, he replaces his headset and returns to his tasks, glancing warily every so often at the strange pair on the edge of the runway.

I hope Jake heeds my advice, and stays clear of that warped old coot when he’s on this island. Otherwise, that old pervert will have himself a brand new red-headed boy-toy, thinks the hunter.

Then, a new plan to capture Bomba comes into focus. Jake seems like a straight-up guy; he could probably use some extra cash. He sure portrays youth and innocence. I can use an attractive guy like that on the next job. I think I have just the role for young Jake to play... in the capture of Bomba, the Jungle Boy. If he will?

Chapter 9

“Tarzan, the Monkey Man of San Miguel”

At the edge of the tarmac, Bill takes a last hungry leer at young Jake, squatting under the C-130, his buttocks clearly defined in the snug jumpsuit, inspecting the interior of a wheel well. “So, forget about Red… Red is off limits to me… Red is not for sale. Such audacity, to set boundaries for me…we’ll just see about Red!” thinks Bill. “I’ll be seeing you soon, young Red. I always get what I want. And I want you! Young Red’s blue jumpsuit and black boots will be on my bedroom floor sooner or later,” sneers Bill as he glares towards Jake who is out of earshot. “The hunter is not the only contractor I use to acquire items I want! Yes, I’ll have young Red hooded and on a leash, soon enough. All things in time,” cackles the old man, finally returning his attention back to Tarzan.

Bill unsnaps the chain-leash attached to Tarzan’s collar; it clatters noisily as he tosses the chain into the back of his old jeep. He walks around the dazed Tarzan several times, who stands unsteadily, breathing deeply, and shifting his weight anxiously... still tightly restrained before his unseen master. “Yes, the ugly black monkey mask is perfect for you, my very handsome friend—I’ve turned you into an ugly monkey. From now on, you’ll be known as Tarzan, “the Monkey Man of San Miguel.” Your handsome features are gone, you’re grotesque. No more golden blond hair or bright blue eyes for women or men to drool over. No one will ever see your handsome face again, pretty boy. It belongs to me—as does every other part of you,” sneers the old man, and he pulls a long thick piece of coiled leather cord from his pocket, and shakes it menacingly at the hooded man.

“Bomba will soon suffer the same fate as you, Tarzan… but not as an ape. I’ve picked a different animal to transform Bomba into,” muses Bill. “What kind of animal should I make young handsome Red into, Tarzan? Let me see… I’ve got it, Tarzan. A pig! Yes, young Red will make a perfect pig boy,” decides Bill as he rubs the coiled leather on Tarzan’s hard pecs. “I’ll have a hood made of fine red leather to accent his red body hair. Yes, a leather hood shaped into the face of pig, complete with pointed ears and a flat nose. I’ll have a mud pit dug, and I’ll keep Red, “the Pig Boy of San Miguel,” wallowing naked in it,” promises the old man. And once again gets back to the matter at hand.

Bill almost drools as he slowly ambles, his belly bouncing, once more around the tall, strapping young man who has not ceased sweating in the afternoon sun. Bill gazes hungrily at the young man’s tanned muscles glistening with a light sheen – the wide-hard pecs and rippling abs – muscular thighs and powerful leg calves – ample round buttocks – and large bulging biceps, folded and harnessed tightly behind a wide muscular back.

The fat old man grins wickedly at the hooded young man and then suddenly grabs the jungle man by the balls. Tarzan flinches, and the old man makes the young man heel with a sharp pull on his ball sac. “Steady, Monkey Man,” admonishes the fat old man, who quickly and expertly weaves a snug leather harness around Tarzan’s cock and balls using the coil of leather cord. “It’s time to get you to the barn, Tarzan, for your punishment… punishment for spoiling my hunting safari back in the spring. You’re going to feel the kiss of my whip, Monkey Man. First, I’m going to horse whip you to within an inch of your life—and then I’m going to fuck you hard, Gorilla Face... while you can still feel the sting of my whip,” cackles the old man, as he adjusts his raging hard-on contained within his stained pants under his fat belly.

The fat old man squeals with glee as he ties the cord attached to Tarzan’s cock and ball harness tightly to the trailer hitch of the jeep. He licks his lips and breathes hard as he squeezes back into the jeep and starts the engine. Tarzan feels the first sharp tug on the leather cord wrapped snugly around his cock and balls and instinctively follows the jeep. Bill looks back and smiles wickedly at the sight he has waited to see for so long: the mighty Tarzan, King of the Jungle, utterly his,

owned and humiliated.

Minutes later, Tarzan is drenched in sweat and breathing hard, trying to draw as much air into the hood as he can, and being led... staggering and near blind down the road behind the slow-moving jeep. “I swore I’d parade you around my island naked, mighty Tarzan,” laughs the old man as he holds the wheel with one hand and looks back to leer at Tarzan’s sweat-soaked rippling muscles, working a hard dance to keep up with the old jeep. “It’s only a few furlongs to your barn, Tarzan,” quips Bill. He then takes a leisurely sip of his cool drink, and sets it back down in the cup holder. He unbuttons his pants to release his erect cock. The fat old man stokes his stubby member that he cannot see from over his layered belly, and drives erratically and slow along the narrow dirt road. Suddenly he is distracted by the whine of the C-130’s IPU ramping up in the distance. The high-pitched whine is followed by the sputter of the transport’s engines igniting one by one, and then keening more, building power for takeoff. “Hurry back to me, young Red,” howls the old man wickedly. “Yes… next, Bomba. After that, young Red. And they both will soon travel in Tarzan’s footsteps, down this very dirt road,” surmises the old man, continuing to pleasure himself slowly, and increases his speed to make Tarzan’s powerful muscles dance even harder.

END OF BOOK ONE.

(Note: It should be noted that a C-130 aircraft is an enormous cargo plane, and one not suited for small, out of the way airstrips. It could also not be well-handled by a single pilot, or one crewmember. This, however, is how Cross laid out the story, implausible as it may seem. So the reader should instead think of it as a small to mid-sized cargo plane, with wide, rear-loading hatch capabilities. I did not know a good substitute to use, so I kept with the original. )

-- Rick Henry.