DIABOLICAL JUNGLE PERIL FOR JANE, WIFE OF TARZAN
The beautiful English woman turned jungle princess faces horrendous torture from both natives and Nazis alike.
The ongoing story being published in Tier 4
Twenty chapters already available.
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Blukherst sat in his officer’s tent, sipping what passed for coffee in the jungle. One day he would enjoy the same coffee he had sampled on the streets of Paris during the occupation. Such a glorious time that had been, with the decadent French under the German boot and the world trembling to the sound of their march.
The Colonel looked at the man kneeling before him. The black man was staring back at him in a way the Nazi officer found distasteful, but he was prepared to endure it for the moment. Like the third-rate coffee he was forced to drink, the savage’s lack of respect for his Aryan masters was one more compromise Blukherst was forced to make. He added it to the tally of indignities he would be compensated for when the Reich rose again in glory.
With him in the tent were a guard for security, and Schmidt. The bespectacled man sat sipping tea from a cup and looking over the prisoner he had so recently tortured. Schmidt seemed perfectly at ease, not least bit troubled by the pain he had inflicted on that proud, muscular form. Blukherst wondered how the man’s body had heaved when the pain went through him like a knife. The man’s screams had been full of strength and resistance. Listening while it happened Blukherst had felt a familiar stirring his loins and his heart beating faster.
“So,” he said, dabbing his lips with a cloth and shifting his weight on the chair. He folded his arms and looked at the African. “Last night, you said you could break the Porter woman and get the information I want, where our good Herr Schmidt was unable. Explain – and remember, your life hangs on your words.”
The black man nodded. “I understand. First, my name among the Zambeli is Fobani. Among our tribe, I am given the role of priest, and the breaker of spirits.”
Blukherst made a rude noise. “Your primitive superstitions are meaningless to us.”
The man dipped his eyes. “Of course, Colonel. That is your title, is it not?” Blukherst nodded sharply. “But the spirits I speak of are not the ones that dwell in the night. I speak of the spirits of men. Among the Zambeli, it is our way not to offer sacrifice to the first until the second have been broken and shattered, like the breaking of an egg to make a meal.”
Schmidt pressed his long fingers together. “How intriguing.”
Fobani’s eyes flicked over to the thin man. Remembering, no doubt, how the white man had man HIM scream so recently. Blukherst felt a smile tugging at his mouth at the sign of the black man’s fear.
“For you, inflicting pain is a...” He paused, looking for the word in a tongue not his own. “A science – yes, that is the word. It is without feeling, without emotion.”
Schmidt shrugged and gave a little smile; like a snake would smile, if it could. “For the most part, ja.”
“For the Zambeli, pain is art,” the black man went on. “The suffering of an enemy is a nectar to be enjoyed. Their screams are like the music of the drums in our soul. Men study all the ways to inflict pain on men in the most intimate and terrible ways. To take them to very gates of death, and then hold them there until they beg to be allowed to pass through.” He gave a little smile of his own.
“And with women too, of course…”
Jane smelled something pungent under her nose – it made her wince and cough, and then pulled her from the shadowy realm she had slid into after the shocks of Schmidt’s device. She tried to rise, but found she was still bound. Her arms were pulled back behind her, and she seemed to be kneeling.
“What...” she said blearily. The smell came back, even stronger than before, and Jane coughed and jerked against the cords holding her. Her brain whirled.
“Good,” a deep voice said. It was not a German voice. “Very good. You see, Herr Schmidt? As good as your drugs, or better, eh?”
Jane shook her head. She was still in the tent, but no longer on the gurney. Now she was lying on what felt like wooden poles, angled back while she knelt on the earth floor. Her legs were bent back at half of a right angle, while her arms were pulled out behind her and to the side by ropes that ran to wooden stakes in the ground. When she tried to lean forward, the ropes stopped her from straightening. When she tried to shift her legs to gain leverage to rise, she found more ropes running from her legs to the same wooden stakes.
A black man hove into view in front of her. Jane recognized him vaguely from the Zambeli who had had been in the cave. He was holding a bowl that smoked slightly and seemed to be producing the smell that had yanked her back to waking.
“Interesting,” Schmidt’s voice said. Jane twisted her head to see him standing behind her on her right. He had a notebook in his hand and was writing in it with a small pencil. “Something akin to smelling salts, it appears, but produced from the herbs you had our men gather.”
The man squatted down in front of Jane. His eyes travelled over her naked body while she stared back at him coldly. A black hand reached out and she tried to pull away, but the frame helping to support her from behind stopped it.
The man’s hand touched her breast. Jane closed her eyes. He tugged at it, twisting it this way and that while he inspected it like she was a side of meat. When he brushed the marks where the Germans had applied their electric wires, she bit her lip and gave a tiny gasp.
“Your way, also, is interesting,” the African said. "Such pain – like the body is tearing apart and burning at the same time. You say it is like the lightning.”
“Electricity, yes. The muscles contract uncontrollably, causing convulsions. As you know.”
The man let go of her breast and Jane looked at him. She saw, on his hard chest, the same marks she bore. “They tortured you, too,” she said to him.
The man ignored the question. “The pain is impressive. But too quick. You must start and stop, yes?”
Schmidt sighed. “It is true. One can maintain the voltage at a lower setting of course, but strong subjects usually grow used to it, dulling its effectiveness. At higher levels is will cause the victim to pass out frequently. Or stop their heart. It took me several weeks of working on subjects to perfect the technique.”
The dark man nodded. Jane swallowed as he ran his hand down over her belly, down to her groin. She forced herself not to watch. Instead, she kept her eyes on his face.
“Don’t touch me,” she said in a low voice.
The man didn’t look at her. His fingers brushed her pubic hair, checking for the same marks as on her breasts. Jane brought her legs together tightly.
“Don’t. Touch me,” she repeated.
The man gave a little laugh. He lifted his finger up to his mouth and licked it while she watched. Jane breathed slowly, and he let his hand drift back down to her groin. Their eyes were glued to each other as he pushed it down into her curling woman-crest. She kept her legs tight shut, but he forced his black digit down into the crease of her opening and twisted gently inside her outer folds.[/b]
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