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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.
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Chapter 23: Of Servitude and Spectacle -------------------------------- (c) tarzanstud1@gmail.com
In the waning hours of the night, Blackwood's men unbind tarzan from the cage and Blackwood grabs his leash to take him outside to the horse-drawn carriage that waits for them.
"Did you see the size of that one?" a patron remarks to his companion as tarzan is led out of The Dom's Den. "Harrington's got himself a real specimen."
"Aye, a real beast," comes the reply. "Wonder what they'll do with him."
"I heard Harrington's got plans for the jungle man. Going to put him to work, he is."
"Work? A beast like that, he should be in a circus!"
"Harrington knows what he's doing. That one will fetch a pretty penny, mark my words."
Mr. Blackwood finds Lord Harrington looking with concern at the pair of horses waiting to pull the carriage home to his estate.
"These stallions have been overworked," Harrington says, frowning at the thought of burdening his prized steeds with a late-night carriage pull of the party returning from the Dom's Den.
"Let them rest," Blackwood suggests, yanking on tarzan's leash and giving him a swat with his riding crop. "Such labors are best left to a true beast."
Blackwood and Harrington watch as Blackwood's men harness tarzan to the carriage. The two superior masters then get into the carriage, pouring relaxing drinks for the luxurious ride home. Blackwood's men sit on the seat up front and outside the carriage, holding tarzan's reins and readying their whips to keep him up to speed. As the men draw every ounce of strength from the savage stud, Blackwood and Harrington have a grand time emptying a couple bottles in the comfort of the carriage as tarzan sweats to carry them home.
Every muscle in Tarzan's mighty frame strained against the weight of the carriage. His muscles rippled with exertion, each step a proclamation of his unparalleled strength. The leather straps that bound him to the heavy vehicle dug into his shoulders, a constant reminder of his servitude.
His breath came in ragged gasps, mingling with the sweat that poured down his back. The scent of the horses and the earth filled his nostrils, a cruel irony in this twisted parody of his former life. He was reduced to a mere beast of burden, a spectacle for the whims of his captors.
Tarzan's gaze was fixed on the road ahead, his senses attuned to every nuance of the terrain. He navigated the path with a grace born of years spent moving through the jungle, adapting to the foreign demands placed upon him. Each step was deliberate, every movement calculated to maximize his strength.
As the carriage trundled forward, the voices of Harrington and Blackwood carried on the wind. Their laughter and mirth grated against Tarzan's ears, a stark reminder of his place in this cruel charade. He was but a pawn in their game, a means to an end, and the weight of that knowledge bore down on him.
"Quite the catch, Blackwood," Lord Harrington chuckles to his partner, impressed with the discipline tarzan has learned in his time served at The Dom's Den. "You've outdone yourself this time."
"He's a strong one, no doubt," Blackwood says, watching the muscle stud laboring through the carriage window. "We'll turn quite the profit with him."
"And the entertainment value alone," Harrington marvels. "Our patrons will pay a premium for such a spectacle."
"Indeed. This partnership will be quite lucrative, my friend," Blackwood replies.
"Here's to our newfound venture," Lord Harrington says, raising a glass in the comfortable carriage. "To prosperity!"
"To prosperity!" Blackwood agrees as they celebrate their new partnership.
Outside, beneath the veneer of submission, a spark of defiance still smoldered within Tarzan's heart. He was a king, a guardian of the jungle's secrets, and he would not be broken. With every step, he drew strength from the earth beneath him, from the very essence of the wild that coursed through his veins.
In the rhythm of his labor, Tarzan found a semblance of solace. The steady pull of the carriage became a mantra, a focus that allowed him to momentarily escape the reality of his captivity. He was Tarzan, and though they sought to tame him, the heart of the jungle still beat within his chest.
The night air was cool and crisp as the carriage rumbled along the forested path. The rhythmic clop of hooves from the horses following the carriage was punctuated by the creaking of the carriage, and the distant sounds of nocturnal creatures added an eerie ambiance.
Inside the carriage, Lord Harrington and Mr. Blackwood sat side by side, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of lantern light. They exchanged satisfied glances, knowing they had acquired a unique asset.
Meanwhile, Tarzan, guided by Blackwood's men, moved in determined strides. His powerful muscles flexed with each step, the moonlight casting fleeting shadows on his form. He pulled the carriage with a determined vigor, showing no signs of faltering.
As they progressed, Harrington's estate emerged from the darkness, its grandeur a stark contrast to the wildness of the jungle. The carriage came to a halt, and Blackwood's men swiftly tended to Tarzan, unbinding him from his duty.
"Good work, lad," one of them muttered, patting Tarzan's broad back before leading him towards the stables.
Inside the carriage, Harrington poured a glass of fine brandy, offering one to Blackwood.
"To our prosperous future," he toasted, the crystal glasses clinking together.
Blackwood's eyes gleamed with anticipation.
"To prosperity indeed," he replied, savoring the rich warmth of the brandy.
As the night settled around them, plans and visions swirled in their minds. The acquisition of Tarzan promised untold fortunes and a level of power neither had experienced before. Harrington's estate was a grand sight, its sprawling grounds lit by the soft glow of lanterns as Blackwood and Harrington dismounted from the carriage.
The stable was well-maintained, and a comfortable bed of straw lay in one corner. Tarzan was guided towards it by one of Blackwood's men, who secured him gently but firmly.
"Rest well, my savage slave," Harrington said, his voice carrying an air of authority. "Tomorrow will be another productive day."
Tarzan, though bound, seemed to understand the gesture. He settled onto the bed of straw, his muscles relaxing after the night's labor.
Blackwood watched with a calculating eye.
"He's a remarkable specimen, Harrington. With proper training and conditioning, he could be even more valuable."
Harrington nodded, his mind already churning with possibilities. "We'll need to implement a rigorous regimen. And perhaps some specialized equipment."
The men exchanged a knowing look, their ambitions aligned. With Tarzan under their control, the possibilities were limitless.
"We'll need to push his limits, gradually increasing intensity," Harrington added. "A controlled diet, rich in proteins and essential nutrients. We must ensure he reaches his peak potential."
"What about mental conditioning?" Blackwood wondered aloud. "Discipline and obedience are just as important."
"Agreed," said Lord Harrington, glancing at his overseer, to make sure he took note. "We'll employ techniques to reinforce obedience. Put him on the subliminal reinforcement program."
"This endeavor could revolutionize our operations," Blackwood said. "The potential is staggering."
Tarzan lay in the hay, his body aching but his mind alert. He listened intently to the men discussing his future, their voices echoing through the stable. The words were foreign, yet he gleaned their intentions from the tone. It was a strange blend of fascination and trepidation that welled up within him. He was a pawn in a game he couldn't comprehend.
Harrington's voice was authoritative, filled with plans and aspirations. Blackwood's responses held an undertone of excitement, a hint of greed. Tarzan's heart pounded in his chest, a wild beat against the calm backdrop of the stable.
As the conversation dwindled, Tarzan's gaze fixed on the stable's wooden beams above him. He yearned for the freedom he once knew, the untamed wilderness that was now a distant memory. His muscles clenched with the longing for the jungle, for the primal rhythm of life.
Harrington stood for a moment, gazing at Tarzan in the soft glow of lantern light. The specimen before him was a marvel of strength, reduced to a captive existence. It was both exhilarating and unnerving to have such power at his command. He was on the cusp of something extraordinary, a venture that could propel him to unprecedented heights.
With a final, contemplative glance, Harrington turned away. The stable doors closed, shutting out the night, and he made his way to his quarters. Sleep was elusive, his mind racing with the boundless potential that lay in the captive beast.
Blackwood lingered in the stable, his eyes fixed on Tarzan's sleeping form. The rise and fall of his chest, the play of moonlight on his muscles--it was a sight to behold. This acquisition was more than he had ever imagined, a masterpiece of potential profit.
As he turned to leave, a sly smile crept across Blackwood's face. The future held boundless opportunities, and Tarzan was the key. The slumbering beast represented a new era, a realm of wealth and influence beyond his wildest dreams.
As the night enveloped the stable, Tarzan's weary body finally found solace in slumber. The distant sounds of other animals in their stalls offered a strange sense of comfort, a reminder of the untamed world he once ruled. The hay beneath him cradled his aching form, a poor substitute for the jungle floor. He was unaware of the barely audible subliminal suggestions reaching his ears from Lord Harrington's nocturnal reinforcement system.
In the quiet moments before sleep claimed him, Tarzan's mind wandered through the trials of the day. The labor in the fields, the performance in the club, the unyielding gaze of Harrington and Blackwood--they were all pieces in a puzzle he couldn't fully comprehend. His existence had become a curious blend of servitude and spectacle.
Images flashed through Tarzan's mind: the patrons' eyes alight with pleasure, Blackwood's men directing his every move, the supervisors in the field wielding their whips. He had become a living embodiment of strength and submission, a creature forged by the desires of those who held power over him.
Acceptance settled over Tarzan like a shroud. With the guidance of Lord Harrington's subliminal system, he understood his role now, as much as it pained him. He was an asset, a prized possession in Harrington and Blackwood's grand design. There was a strange sense of purpose in that acknowledgment, a resolve to make his superior masters proud.
As sleep claimed him, Tarzan's dreams danced on the edge of memory and longing. Visions of the jungle, of primal freedom, mingled with the stark reality of his captivity. The night held him in its embrace, cradling him in the bittersweet cocoon of his new existence.
As the night settles in and Tarzan's weary body finds its way to rest, his mind drifts into the realm of dreams. The vivid landscapes of his recent trials intertwine with the memories of his past, forming a tapestry of experiences both challenging and surreal.
In his dreams, Tarzan stands once again amidst the vast fields, the earth beneath his feet as familiar as the heartbeats of the jungle. The sun beats down upon him, casting long shadows across the furrows of the land he toiled. The plow, heavy and unyielding, becomes an extension of his strength. With each determined stride, the ground surrenders to his command. The weight of his labors is tempered by a sense of purpose, a connection to the soil that grounds him.
Tarzan's loincloth, once a simple garment that barely concealed his modesty, now clings tightly to his form. The fabric, a rugged weave of natural fibers, has weathered the elements and countless trials. It drapes low on his hips, the thong securely fastened around his waist. The material, worn and faded, bears the stains of his adventures, evidence of the challenges he's faced. Despite its weathered appearance, the loincloth symbolizes his resilience, its frayed edges a reminder of the harsh environments Tarzan has navigated. Though now bound and confined, the loincloth still retains a hint of its original vibrancy, a symbol of the untamed spirit that once defined the man who wears it.
Yet, as the sun sets and the fields fade into twilight, Tarzan's dreams shift. He stands now in the opulent chambers of Blackwood's estate, the air thick with anticipation. The revelry surrounds him, a symphony of laughter and clinking glasses. Tarzan moves with a grace unexpected of a man of his stature, his agility a tribute to the adaptability of the wild. Feats of strength and displays of agility elicit gasps of astonishment and applause, echoing the fervor of the crowd.
In the midst of the festivities, Blackwood's commands become a symphony of their own. Tarzan bends to the will of his new master, a dance of obedience and reward. The small morsels offered in Blackwood's hand serve as both sustenance and affirmation, a peculiar form of nourishment for a life transformed.
Yet, not all moments in Tarzan's dreams are bathed in opulence. The fields and the club dissolve, replaced by the rugged terrain of the jungle. Tarzan swings effortlessly through the trees, the primal call of the wild echoing in his ears. The lush foliage provides cover, the cacophony of the forest masking his movements. In these moments, he is free once more, a creature of the untamed expanse that birthed him.
As the night progresses, Tarzan's dreams become a mosaic of experiences, a reflection of the dichotomy he now embodies. The juxtaposition of the fields and the revelry, the toil and the opulence, paint a portrait of a man navigating two worlds. Each trial, each task, etches itself into the fabric of his being, shaping him into something new.
In the depths of slumber, Tarzan's subconscious weaves a tapestry of dreams, a realm where reality blurs with the surreal, and the complexities of his new existence unravel. As his body lies still, his mind embarks on a journey that delves into the heart of his transformation.
In the dreamscape, Tarzan is bound, not by ropes or chains, but by an intangible force that compels him. He kneels before his masters, Lord Harrington and Mr. Blackwood, his head bowed in a gesture of submission. This is not the defiant Tarzan of the jungle, but a version of him that recognizes a different kind of strength - the strength to yield, to adapt, to accept.
His loincloth, once a symbol of his defiance, now drapes him in a manner befitting his status. It clings to him, a cloth of servitude that wraps around his hips, a tangible reminder of his place in this new world. It is no longer a mere garment, but an emblem of his submission, a visual representation of his acknowledgement of his masters' authority.
In his dreams, Tarzan no longer fights against his role. Instead, he embraces it, allowing the currents of change to carry him along. He moves with a fluidity that transcends the physical, an understanding that true strength lies in the ability to adapt, to become what the circumstances demand.
The dreamscape is a sanctuary where Tarzan explores the contours of his new identity. He serves his masters with a diligence that borders on reverence, anticipating their needs before they are even voiced. Every action is imbued with a grace that belies his untamed origins, demonstrating the malleability of the human spirit.
As Tarzan dreams, he finds solace in his newfound purpose. The concept of inferiority no longer carries the sting of rebellion, but rather, it offers a sense of belonging. He revels in the knowledge that he has a place in this world, a purpose that extends beyond the confines of the jungle. His masters' dominance becomes a pillar of stability, a force that guides him through the complexities of his new reality.
The dreams do not erase the memory of the wild, nor do they dull the ache of separation from his former life. Instead, they offer a perspective shift, a lens through which Tarzan can view his transformation with a measure of acceptance. He is no longer defined solely by his physical prowess, but by his ability to adapt, to survive, and ultimately, to thrive.
In the dreamscape, Tarzan's heart beats in synchrony with the rhythm of servitude. He knows his place, and he embraces it with a humility that is as striking as it is unexpected. The dreams are a mirror, reflecting the evolution of a man who once roamed the untamed expanse, but now finds his purpose in the service of his masters.
As dawn approaches, the dreams gradually fade, leaving Tarzan with a sense of equilibrium. He awakens, the echoes of his subconscious journey still reverberating within him. He rises, not as a captive spirit, but as a man who has come to terms with his place in this world, a living testament to the transformative power of acceptance. Tarzan faces the day with a newfound resolve, ready to navigate the intricacies of his existence with a heart unburdened by resistance.
END OF CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE-------------------------------------
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