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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 11: The Seed of Conquest -------------------------------- (c) tarzanstud1@gmail.com
The crowd was anxious for the chance to bid on the mighty stud of the jungle, or at least to watch the better situated, superior menbers of the crowd demonstrate their dominance in claiming the heroic savage as their property. The auctioneer had one final pitch to make in an effort to boost the bids even higher than expected.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a truly exceptional specimen before us," the auctioneer continued as tarzan came back to earth from his reverie. "This man, strong and untamed, possesses qualities that are quite rare indeed. He hails from the wilds, where he honed his survival instincts, and his physique is nothing short of extraordinary."
He gestured toward Tarzan, who stood tall and defiant, his muscles rippling beneath his bronzed skin. The crowd observed him with a mixture of awe and calculating interest.
"Now, when we consider the potential for breeding, we must acknowledge that this man carries within him the raw strength and vitality of the untamed wilderness," the auctioneer continued, slapping his pointer square in the heart of tarzan's bulging loincloth as he drew the crowd's attention to tarzan's manhood, showing its strength as it grew to defend itself from the merciless cane the auctioneer used as a pointer. "Such qualities are not easily come by, and they hold tremendous value."
He paused, allowing the weight of his words to settle among the bidders. They exchanged knowing glances, well aware of the potential profits that could be reaped from Tarzan's unique genetic heritage.
"Imagine," the auctioneer continued, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone as he gripped tarzan's manhood through his loincloth, trapping it in his fist and shaking the leather bulge at the crowd to drive his point home, "the offspring of this man. They would inherit his strength, his resilience, his instincts for survival. They would be a new breed altogether, capable of feats beyond ordinary men."
The bidders leaned in, their imaginations sparked by the possibilities. They envisioned a new generation, forged from the untamed spirit of Tarzan, a generation that could be molded to serve their every whim.
"This man," the auctioneer declared, his tone resolute, "is not just a specimen for labor. He is a potential progenitor of a new lineage, a lineage that could shape the very course of history."
The auctioneer yanked his fistgful of tarzan's manhood up, bringing tarzan to his toes as his reproductive prowess was highlighted and displayed while still trapped in the leather loincloth. Tarzan winced, but he kept his expression hard and unyielding, his eyes glinting with a fierce determination. He understood the implications of the auctioneer's words, the commodification of his very essence. Yet, beneath it all, he clung to the knowledge that his spirit could never truly be bound.
As the bidding neared, the value of Tarzan's breeding potential became a focal point of the auction. The crowd deliberated, their calculations driven by visions of a future shaped by the untamed legacy he carried within him.
As the auctioneer's words settled, a hushed murmur of anticipation rippled through the crowd. Those with particular interest in Tarzan's breeding potential stepped forward, their eyes sharp and appraising.
The first to approach was a man of affluence and privilege, his polished demeanor a stark contrast to Tarzan's primal presence. He circled the bound figure, his gaze lingering on the mighty muscles, the untamed vigor that seemed to radiate from the slave.
"He's robust," the man mused aloud, his voice carrying the weight of authority. "The offspring could indeed possess remarkable physicality."
Another bidder, a woman of influence, joined the assessment. She scrutinized Tarzan's features, her keen eyes assessing every contour and line.
"And the bone structure," she remarked, lightly pounding on his chest, "it suggests a resilience that is quite promising."
A third evaluator, a scientist by the look of him, was engrossed in the examination of Tarzan's hands.
"Remarkable dexterity," he noted, "a trait that could be invaluable in generations to come."
The assessments continued, each potential buyer offering their insights and appraisals. Tarzan stood stoically, his gaze distant, his mind distant, a storm of conflicting emotions. He was acutely aware that his destiny was slipping further from his grasp, that he was being reduced to a mere vessel for the ambitions of others.
The crowd's deliberations grew more fervent, their calculations becoming increasingly complex. They spoke of lineages and legacies, of the potential to shape the very course of human evolution.
Unseen by those who assessed him, Tarzan's fists clenched and unclenched. His spirit remained unbroken, but it was a spirit confined, constrained by the cold calculations of those who sought to possess him.
And so, the evaluations continued, the potential buyers engrossed in their assessments, the weight of Tarzan's destiny hanging in the balance.
The crowd parted as a woman of discerning tastes and unyielding demeanor stepped forward. Her eyes, sharp as cut diamonds, bore into Tarzan, assessing him with an air of skepticism. She circled him slowly, her presence demanding attention.
"You're the one they speak of, I presume," she remarked, her voice a symphony of authority.
Tarzan met her gaze, his own expression wading through unfamiliarity with formal language.
"Is Tarzan!" he replied, his English tinged with the cadence of his native tongue.
"The silks," she continued, a note of doubt tainting her words. "I've heard tales of your proficiency. Are they exaggerated, I wonder?"
Tarzan hesitated, then offered a halting response. "Tarzan... strong. Silks... easy." His words were simple, the essence of his experiences with the silks.
But his words seemed to fall on skeptical ears. The woman produced her own slender pointer, its tip poised to probe the contours of Tarzan's physique. With calculated precision, she prodded his muscles, testing their solidity. Each touch was deliberate, an exploration of the untamed power that resided within him.
Her attention shifted to his loincloth, a garment that seemed to defy the refined sensibilities of the gathering. She tapped it with her pointer, her gestures a silent interrogation.
"And this... attire," she mused, her tone laced with a mixture of disdain and intrigue. "One wonders what woman would have use for a savage so determined to resemble a slave."
Her scrutinizing gaze lingered on the loincloth, dissecting every tear, every puncture, every stain. Each imperfection told a story, a narrative of trials and tribulations endured.
"And what have we here," she taunted, using her pointer to further separate a torn piece of leather revealing a mighty bush that wouldn't be contained.
"What...?" Tarzan responded, looking at the torn leather, his voice earnest, though his English faltered. "From... fight. Jungle."
She arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, the gesture conveying both skepticism and a begrudging respect.
"A symbol, then," she mused, "of your... resilience."
Her inquisition pressed on, her questions probing the depths of Tarzan's existence. She sought to unravel the enigma before her, to discern the true value that lay beneath the surface.
"What of this puncture?" she inquired, indicating a small hole in the fabric, using her pointer to poke through the puncture, inadvertently jabbing at his fully alert manhood. "A feral creature, perhaps? Or a misjudged swing of a blade?"
"Thorn... bush," Tarzan gasped from the impact of the pointer, his words a mosaic of broken English. "Hunt."
She nodded, absorbing his response with a newfound understanding. Her gaze then settled on a stain, dark and faded, its origin a mystery to all but Tarzan himself.
"Blood, perhaps?" she mused aloud, her voice laden with speculation. "A wound earned in the pursuit of survival? The stain of tarzan's spilled seed? Or the residue of a stronger foe, man or beast, leaving his escence to mark tarzan as the riughtful property of his superiors?"
"Jaguar," Tarzan clarified, a solemnity in his tone. "Kill... protect."
As the exchange continued, the woman's probing questions unearthed fragments of Tarzan's history, painting a portrait of a man forged in the crucible of the wild. Her scrutiny was relentless, her assessments calculated.
Ultimately, her inquisition satisfied her as she withdrew, a satisfied glint in her eyes. She departed to strategize, her mind already at work on the intricate dance of the impending auction.
END OF CHAPTER ELEVEN -----------------------------------------------
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