Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2024 02:06:43 -0600 From: tarzan Subject: Tarzan and The Dance of Dominance - Chapter 41 Disclaimer: I do not own Tarzan or related characters and am not making a profit from sharing this story here. The character was created by Edgar Rice Burroughs and is now in the public domain. Any similarity between the characters in this story and real people is entirely coincidental and incredibly hot. I always appreciate your feedback and would love to hear your ideas. Please support Nifty with donations of any size to help them provide a platform for so many fascinating stories. Please use this link to donate: http://donate.nifty.org/. Chapter 41: The Slave in his Natural Habitat-------------------------------- (c) tarzanstud1@gmail.com Chapter 41 -- The Slave in His Natural Habitat The Outpost Alden's Gossip Column Greetings, fabulous readers of the Outpost! It's your one and only Alden, back with all the delicious dish you crave. Buckle up, because this week's news is sizzling! Oh, my darlings, the latest events at the estate of the enigmatic Lord Harrington have tongues wagging. Our dear jungle hero Tarzan, once the epitome of wild abandon, is now seen toiling away in the mines alongside the other subservient souls. The transformation is nothing short of astonishing! What dark magic is at play here, one can only wonder? And then, there's the mysterious Baron von Richter, whose presence has electrified the scene. What transpired between him and Tarzan under the shroud of secrecy? Rumors abound, my dears, but one thing is certain - there's more to this story than meets the eye. Meanwhile, over at Mr. Blackwood's illustrious club, preparations for the upcoming Alpha Ascension are in full swing. The air is thick with anticipation, and I've heard whispers of daring demonstrations that will leave jaws on the floor. Our dear Tarzan is at the heart of it all, proving once again that life's greatest performances happen offstage. And, my lovelies, don't even get me started on the scuttlebutt surrounding Alden. I assure you, your loyal correspondent is knee-deep in a whirlwind of intrigue, but you'll have to wait for the next column for all the tantalizing details. Until next time, keep those fabulous feathers unruffled and those eyes peeled for the next act in this sensational saga. The Outpost is your front-row ticket to the drama, and I wouldn't have it any other way! All the love and scandal, Jonathan Alden * * * * * Alden sat in his dimly lit office, the scent of ink and paper filling the air. The typewriter keys sat silent, having just finished typing up the latest column. He leaned back in his creaky chair, a small smile playing at his lips. The scandal and intrigue he had just penned would surely set the town abuzz. But amidst all the gossip about Tarzan, the Baron, and the upcoming Alpha Ascension, Alden couldn't help but think about the rumors circulating about himself. He was, after all, knee-deep in the very whirlwind of intrigue he wrote about. His mind wandered back to the moments, those tantalizing details that had set his own pulse racing, each detail etched into his memory like fine script on parchment. The clandestine meetings, cloaked in shadows, played out vividly in his mind. He recalled the rustle of coats, the soft murmur of voices, and the subtle tension that hung in the air. The hushed conversations, the glances loaded with unspoken intent - it was all part of a dance he was more than willing to join. In one particular rendezvous, he remembered the baron's low, authoritative voice, rich with command. "The Alpha Ascension must be impeccable, Alden. Our reputations are at stake," the words had hung heavy with expectation. Then there were the glances - those loaded, smoldering looks that held entire conversations within them. He recalled the fiery gaze of Lord Harrington, a promise of dominance and power. It was a look that spoke volumes, a silent pledge of what was to come. The hushed conversations were like a symphony of secrets. Blackwood's smooth baritone, always with a hint of mischief, resonated in his ears. "This event will be talked about for generations, Alden. You'll want to be in the center of it all," he had said, the words dripping with anticipation. As he sat there, dissecting each moment, Alden knew he held a treasure trove of exclusive details. He would wield them like a maestro conducting a symphony, carefully weaving together a narrative that would captivate his readers and leave them hungry for more. After all, it was the specifics that made a story truly come alive. As he sat there, lost in his thoughts, he knew one thing for certain. This story was far from over, and he was determined to be front and center, penning every scandalous detail for his eager readers. After all, in the world of gossip, one had to be at the heart of the storm to truly capture its essence. * * * * * After his hard day working in the mines, Tarzan returns to the barn where the slaves are stabled. He sees the slaves sprawled across the sparse hay, their naked forms a stark contrast to his in his own tattered loincloth. They slumber deeply, the exhaustion of their less demanding tasks evident in their relaxed, peaceful expressions. The stable is filled with the soft sounds of their breathing, a symphony of contented rest. Tarzan gazes at them, a mixture of emotions swirling within him. He feels a strange kinship with these men, bound together by the cruel hand of fate that has brought them all to this wretched place. They are his companions in suffering, his brothers in servitude. Tarzan's mind churned with conflicted thoughts as he gazed at the other slaves, their naked forms sprawled across the hay. A pang of uncertainty flickered within him. Should he shed his loincloth and join them, relinquishing the last vestige of his former identity? Yet, a nagging voice reminded him of the power that he once wielded, symbolized by that scrap of fabric. It clung to him like a tattered banner of a fallen kingdom, a reminder of what he used to be. It was a piece of him that he was hesitant to let go. But then, clarity struck like a bolt of lightning. Tarzan's gaze hardened, and he straightened his posture. He was a slave now, bound by a new code. His decisions were not his own; they belonged to his Masters, and the whip was their voice. With resolve, he left the loincloth in place. It was a mark of servitude, a proclamation of his submission to the will of those who now owned him. As he settled into the hay, he closed his eyes, the weight of the loincloth a reminder of his place in this new world. He was Tarzan no more; he was a slave, and he would obey. As Tarzan finds his own spot in the hay, he can't help but feel a surge of pride. He knows that he is the strongest among them, the one chosen to bear the heaviest burden. It is a role he has been forced into, but one he will carry out with the same determination and resilience that has defined him throughout his life. With a weary sigh, Tarzan settles into the hay, his body aching from the day's toil. He closes his eyes, seeking the solace of sleep, knowing that tomorrow will bring another grueling day of labor. As he drifts into slumber, he is surrounded by the rhythmic breathing of his fellow slaves, a reminder that they are all in this together, bound by the chains of their cruel masters. * * * * * Tarzan's mind reeled in the darkness, flashes of the cruel whip searing through his thoughts. Each strike, relentless and unyielding, was etched into his memory. He was blindfolded, his senses honed to the raw sting of the whip against his back. The master's identity remained a mystery, concealed by the shroud of darkness. The leather of his loincloth bore the brunt of the punishment, once a shield, now fraying under the ceaseless assault. It had served him well, guarding his most vulnerable places from the biting lash. But now, it too was succumbing to the brutal force, no match for the unyielding power of the whip. In his dreams, the master's presence was palpable, a looming figure of dominance. Tarzan's body tensed and recoiled with each strike, muscles straining against the relentless onslaught. He was a slave to the whip's cruel embrace, every lash imprinting its mark upon his skin. As sleep claimed him, tarzan's body remained on high alert, the phantom echoes of the whip's fury reverberating through his subconscious. His breaths came ragged, a testament to the toll exacted by his waking nightmare. In the depths of his restless slumber, he was bound by the relentless guidance of the whip, a pawn in a game of cruel mastery. As tarzan sleeps deeply on his bed of hay, the overseer happens by and notices his leash between his legs, still attached to the ring under his loincloth, but set free from being tightly attached to the chain between his ankle shackles. Hargrove shakes his head at someone's carelessness, grabbing the leash and locking it to a ring embedded in wall beside tarzan's meager bed of hay. tarzan continues dreaming as he's chained to the wall, but the feeling of the leash beneath his loincloth being locked to keep him in his proper place works his way into his dreams. In his restless slumber, tarzan's dreams took on a surreal quality. The chains that bound him were both real and phantom, highlighting the blurred lines between wakefulness and slumber. The distant echoes of the whip still reverberated in his mind, a cruel reminder of his place in this unforgiving world. As the overseer secured the leash to the wall, the sensation rippled through tarzan's subconscious. The weight of the metal against his skin, the constriction of the leather, all became part of his dreamscape. He was bound, not just by the physical chains, but by the very essence of his existence as a slave. In his dreams, tarzan struggled against his restraints, muscles straining against the unyielding grip of the chains. The scent of hay and dust mingled with the acrid taste of sweat, creating a sensory tapestry of captivity. The rhythmic clinking of metal against stone was a steady backdrop to his fitful slumber. As the night wore on, tarzan's dreams wove a tale of defiance and submission, a dance of struggle against the inevitable. The chains that held him were no longer mere physical restraints, but symbolic representations of his servitude. His body, once a symbol of power and dominance, now bent to the cruel will of his masters. In the quiet darkness of the stable, tarzan's dreams played out in vivid detail. Each tug of the leash, each jangle of the chains, was a cruel reminder of his place in this world. He was no longer the mighty jungle hero, but a slave, bound by iron and leather, a pawn in a game of dominance and submission. And so, the night pressed on, tarzan's fitful slumber embodying the harsh reality of his existence. The chains held him, both in body and spirit, a silent exhibit of the cruel mastery that ruled his life. As the first light of dawn crept through the cracks in the stable walls, tarzan remained bound, a silent figure in the stillness of the early morning. * * * * * END OF CHAPTER FORTY-ONE------------------------------------- Thanks for the emails! I always appreciate hearing your reactions, including your constructive criticism. If you have any feedback or input, please contact me at tarzanstud1@gmail.com .