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Bergie14
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Tarzan sniffed the evening air. His right hand clasped the handle of his knife, a twelve inch blade still in its sheath. Carefully he stepped toward the main doors to the entrance of the castle, but what he could see was dark and looked deserted.
But was it?
Seeing no reason for continued stealth, he used both hands to open the heavy door at the entrance to the castle. Once inside, he looked for light but found little—only the evaporating streams of light from the sun going down. A dusty staircase led both upstairs and downstairs, and seemed to invite him.
Moving silently, his eyes peered for movement. More light was upstairs, and Tarzan decided that darkness was his friend for the moment, so he went downstairs. This was not his first “rodeo”: in fact, he was somewhere in his mid-forties. Experience was his ally far more than physical conditioning at this point, though of course he was still an impressive specimen. His knife dangled from his hip alongside a very brief, thin loincloth that covered little. A thin pouch of fabric nominally covered his manhood, but thin leather strings wrapped around his waist and a only a singular string went from the bottom of the pouch up the middle of his backside. That was all. Perhaps strangely, as he aged he cared less about modesty.
Once to the bottom of the staircase, he was nearly blind in the darkness, so his other senses became his tools. He found a wall and slowly walked along it, but was ready for surprises. Eventually, the wall stopped and he turned a corner.
A voice from behind him spoke. “Tarzan,” a woman’s voice said, “you should not have come here. Don’t take another step. Slowly raise your hands. You are surrounded.”
Wordlessly, he did as instructed, though he had no evidence that he was, in fact surrounded. The woman’s voice was unmistakable: his old nemesis, La of Opar. Twenty years before, they had met under very different circumstances. Her army at that time—and it could be considered an army—was formidable in numbers and in weaponry. Tarzan was there to discover how two decades may have changed La’s circumstances—if at all.
He did not turn around but left his hands at shoulder level as he spoke: “Hello, La.”
“Hello, Tarzan. With your left hand, please remove your knife and sheath and drop it to the floor.”
“As you wish,” Tarzan replied. Slowly, he did as he was instructed, and the object clattered on the wooden floor. Then he returned his left hand to shoulder height. La’s footsteps quickly walked up and he got a fleeting glimpse of her as she knelt and picked it up.
“Hands behind your back,” she ordered, and as he did as instructed, her hands tightly tied his wrists using thin rope. Tarzan did not resist.
To be continued.....
But was it?
Seeing no reason for continued stealth, he used both hands to open the heavy door at the entrance to the castle. Once inside, he looked for light but found little—only the evaporating streams of light from the sun going down. A dusty staircase led both upstairs and downstairs, and seemed to invite him.
Moving silently, his eyes peered for movement. More light was upstairs, and Tarzan decided that darkness was his friend for the moment, so he went downstairs. This was not his first “rodeo”: in fact, he was somewhere in his mid-forties. Experience was his ally far more than physical conditioning at this point, though of course he was still an impressive specimen. His knife dangled from his hip alongside a very brief, thin loincloth that covered little. A thin pouch of fabric nominally covered his manhood, but thin leather strings wrapped around his waist and a only a singular string went from the bottom of the pouch up the middle of his backside. That was all. Perhaps strangely, as he aged he cared less about modesty.
Once to the bottom of the staircase, he was nearly blind in the darkness, so his other senses became his tools. He found a wall and slowly walked along it, but was ready for surprises. Eventually, the wall stopped and he turned a corner.
A voice from behind him spoke. “Tarzan,” a woman’s voice said, “you should not have come here. Don’t take another step. Slowly raise your hands. You are surrounded.”
Wordlessly, he did as instructed, though he had no evidence that he was, in fact surrounded. The woman’s voice was unmistakable: his old nemesis, La of Opar. Twenty years before, they had met under very different circumstances. Her army at that time—and it could be considered an army—was formidable in numbers and in weaponry. Tarzan was there to discover how two decades may have changed La’s circumstances—if at all.
He did not turn around but left his hands at shoulder level as he spoke: “Hello, La.”
“Hello, Tarzan. With your left hand, please remove your knife and sheath and drop it to the floor.”
“As you wish,” Tarzan replied. Slowly, he did as he was instructed, and the object clattered on the wooden floor. Then he returned his left hand to shoulder height. La’s footsteps quickly walked up and he got a fleeting glimpse of her as she knelt and picked it up.
“Hands behind your back,” she ordered, and as he did as instructed, her hands tightly tied his wrists using thin rope. Tarzan did not resist.
To be continued.....
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