THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL

 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
 
 
 
EARLY SYNOPSIS FOUND FOR FAMOUS FILM
 
from the desk of Jardonn Smith
 
 
Things got pretty exciting here two days ago when little Tommy Hiplicker plopped down a stack of papers on my desk. Seems Tommy’d been crawling around in the caves beneath Bunkerville and come upon a secret room. Inside were all kinds of ritualistic-looking wooden crosses, with chains and ropes and used condoms laying all around like somebody’d been having themselves a kinkily good time down there, but then Tommy stubbed his toe on a metal box that looked sort of like a briefcase, and when he opened it he found the very papers he brought for me to scrutinize.
 
Didn’t take me long to figure out it was a synopsis written for a film adaptation of the novel, The Planet of the Apes. Apparently, Twentieth Century Fox originally planned to make the film heavy on sex, hoping to have it finished and released before United Artist could distribute their Midnight Cowboy, which would become the first feature film ever to receive an X rating.
 
At the time Fox contracted for this synopsis to be written, 1965, under consideration for roles were Rod Taylor and Claude Akins as astronauts; Edward G. Robinson and Paul Lynde as apes. The studio didn’t plan on using the same title as the novel (my guess is they didn’t want to purchase rights to use the title or the story), so what we have here is a synopsis that just barely follows the story as written in the book, along with a loosely-connected title, and all of it a far cry from what ended up on the screen in 1968 as Planet of the Apes.

 
Now, folks, here’s the kicker: turns out Fox paid one of our hometown boys to write this synopsis for them, none other than Jasper McCutcheon, my uncle who’s gone off and written some books of his own. Not likely any of his books will ever be made into movies, not unless they’re porno flicks, but regardless, I called him and asked if he remembered writing this here Planet of the Apes thing.
 
He goes, “Yeah, I wrote it. What of it?”
 
“Nothing of it,” I says. “Just wondering if you wanted to sell it on E-bay or something.”
 
He says, “You can’t sell shit like that on E-bay, not unless you label it something besides smut. Even then someone will report you sooner or later.”
 
“Well, what do you want me to do with this?”
 
He goes, “I don’t give a flying fart what you do with it. Burn it for winter heat if you like.”
 
After I told him to stick it up his ass and deleted him from my cell, I came up with a better idea. I am going to serialize this little tale of his right here in the Bunkerville Weekly Sentinel, starting with part one right now. One chapter every Wednesday until we’re finished. And now, let’s begin…
 
___________________
 
 
Synopsis for
 
HEAVENLY BODY OF THE HAIRY APES
 
by Jasper McCutcheon
 
Known characters so far:
 
Rod, an astronaut (Rod Taylor)
Claude, an astronaut (Claude Akins)
Dick and Charlie, two more astronauts who quickly become irrelevant.
Dr. Slayus, an orangutan, ape leader (Edward G. Robinson)
Cornholius, a male chimp scientist (Paul Lynde)
Ziro, a female chimp scientist (Lily Tomlin)
A plethora of gorillas who grunt and answer in English when spoken to by the orangs and chimps
Taint, a naked native human female (Raquel Welch)
Cheese, a naked native human male (Terence Hill)
A herd of human males and females whose vocal chords have been cut and who run around naked all the time
 
Scene opens with space module on cruise control, enters atmosphere of planet and lands in bed of a lake. Four of five astronauts in pods are awakened, pods pop open, the fifth astronaut is dead, the others pop the capsule’s hatch, climb out into water as the capsule sinks beneath the surface. They swim to shore, stand and scrutinize their surroundings.
 
“Where are we?” asks Dick.
 
“Supposed to be the Pacific Ocean,” answers Charlie. “Reckon it is?”
 
“Doubtful,” says Rod. “Oceans don’t normally have mountains and prairies surrounding them.”
 
“Well, Dick and Charlie, six years of sleep did nothing for your IQ’s,” quips Claude. “Both of you are as ignorant as you ever were.”
 
“IQ’s?” Charlie scratches head. “What does IQ stand…”
 
“Never mind,” says Claude, as he and Rod look back at the bubbles foaming up where their capsule used to be. “Too bad we didn’t put on some clothes before that thing sank.
 
“Feeling vulnerable in your skivvies, Claude?” chortles Rod.
 
“They ain’t skivvies, they’re NASA-issued boxers,” Claude puffs up his chest. “And anybody wants to try something’s gonna get a knuckle sandwich.” He strikes a boxer’s pose, meaty fists ready to fly.
 
“Come on,” prods Rod. “Let’s follow the stream feeding this lake and see where it takes us. I got a feeling we’re in Utah, or maybe California.
 
“You’re in command,” states Claude. “Lead on.”
 
The stream heads toward a mountain gap, and as they approach the gorge, they spot a group of people in a pool, waterfall streaming down a rock wall.
 
“Man, they’re naked as can be,” notes Claude.
 
“Must be hippies. Think they’ll let us join them?” Rod queries.
 
“Don’t know. What I’m wondering is if them ladies are fuckable. Something about wet titties drives me wild.”
 
“Especially after six years of sleeping,” adds Rod. “See any kids with ’em?”
 
“No.”
 
“Then I’d say they’re fuckable. Let’s go.”
 
With Dick and Charlie tagging along behind, they sprint to the pool, drop their shorts and jump into the cool, clear water. Swim around a bit, work their way closer to the females, ignoring the males. Claude and Rod try to make conversation, but get no answers, only suggestive smiles and giggles.
 
“I’d say they’re doable, Claude. What do you think?”
 
“I think my dick’s hard enough to give it a shot. Lemme rub up against one of ’em and see what I get.”
 
Just then, a horn echoes into the gorge, sound of a ram’s horn or something like, and instantly the people in the pool scatter, men heading one direction and women the other.
 
“Hey! Where are you all going?” hollers a dejected Claude.
 
“Something’s up,” says Rod. “It’s got ’em scared, so I suggest we do what they do.”
 
“Don’t have to tell me twice,” agrees Claude. “Which way?”
 
“Men are probably smarter. Don’t you think?”
 
“But the women make me horny. I’m going with them.”
 
As Dick and Charlie flap their arms in confusion, running circles in waist-deep water like headless chickens, Claude swims to shore and follows the females while Rod does the same following the males, leaving Dick and Charlie behind.
 
“What are we gonna do, Charlie?”
 
“I don’t know. Maybe we should…” just then a shot rings out. A hole appears in Dick’s sternum and he falls dead into the water. Charlie turns just in time to see a net flung over him from the ledges above. He starts to run but instead stands there in stunned disbelief. Four gorillas man the net. Four more ride on horseback coming toward him. All eight wear green fabric camouflage uniforms, those on horses hold rifles, and as the net ties are drawn taut and Charlie dragged from the water, one of the gorillas dismounts his horse and whacks Charlie square in his forehead with the butt end of a rifle. Down and out.
 
Claude follows the dozen or so females toward a passageway between walls of rock that gradually narrow and then angle down. They enter the opening of a cave with Claude right behind. Plunged into darkness, he bumps into one of the females. She takes his hand, guides him to where he can feel a wall, and there he sits, quietly hiding in the dark with naked women all around him.
 
Trailing the males takes Rod through a different passageway of rock, which emerges into a field of prairie grass about chest high. Into a sea of brown the men scatter and Rod follows. After about forty running paces, he stops, squats onto his haunches and listens. Horse hooves. All coming from different directions. Some galloping, some at walking gaits. Sporadic shots of gunfire ring out, some far away, some way too close. A walking horse seems to have a beat on Rod’s position, coming directly toward him and within twenty paces, so he bolts another direction, staying crouched so his head is below tops of the grass.
 
He looks behind him while still jogging, sees no horse trailing him, but slams directly into the meaty flank of hindquarters. A different horse. As Rod bounces off and nearly stumbles, he looks up at the rider. Rod’s jaw drops at the sight of a gorilla in uniform sitting atop the saddle with rifle in hand. Recovering, Rod sprints off in a third direction just as he hears the gorilla shout, “Over here! I’ve got one.”
 
Adrenaline-pumped with puzzlement and fear, Rod streaks in a full run, fully upright, his head above the grass. A shot, not from behind him, but from his front and left. Rod stops, clutches his throat. The bullet pierces his ligament just above his clavicle. Three gorillas on horseback emerge from the grass, surrounding him as his eyes roll to the back of his head and he collapses.
 
Rod awakens to the hard surface of stone against his back. He raises his head. He’s naked, his ankles in metal cuffs bolted to a floor, his arms spread left and right perpendicular to his body, wrists in cuffs bolted the same way. He feels but cannot see some sort of fabric wrapping his throat where a sharp pain throbs. He’s in a cell. One wall is stone, metal bars form the other three sides with cells next to him empty. Outside the cell door side of bars, the room is all smoothed rock — walls, ceiling and floor — as though a cave. Torches light the walls. A candle-lit chandelier hangs from the central ceiling.
 
He shakes his head, recounts his flight, the gorillas on horseback, the rifle shots, and he’s certain the speaking gorilla was actually a human shouting from somewhere in the tall grass.
 
Footsteps. A figure enters through an open doorway. Another ape, not gorilla, but chimp, walks on hind legs and stands nearly upright. It wears a brown tunic covering from shoulders to middle thighs, walks in natural-colored suede chukka boots laced and tied into bows. Human attire, and as the figure approaches the cell door, Rod uselessly struggles against bondage he knows cannot be broken. The chimp inserts a key to the lock and opens Rod’s door, enters, walks a circle around the captured human, and then kneels on all fours to the right of Rod’s chest. It leans close to him, sniffs Rod’s chest, his arm pit, his belly, crotch, legs and feet. It clamps its paw onto Rod’s abdomen, squeezing and kneading his muscle.
 
After a lengthy, growling sound of “Mmm,” the chimp exposes its teeth with a grin, tosses back its head and blurts, ” Good heavenly days! Now this is what I call a man who’s ripe and ready!”
 
His eyes bugging, Rod glares in amazement. A talking ape, his nightmare a reality, and although he tries to respond, his damaged throat can only produce a choked, feeble sound. “Gak.”
 
“Although I must say,” chimp continues. “The ripe part is a bit much for my nostril’s liking. Not to worry, I will be more than pleased to remedy that situation.” The chimp stands, lightly taps Rod’s bushy pubes with the sole of its chukka. “I’ll be right back.”
 
End of One
 
      
Special Edition:
  
Wednesday, April 5, 2009
 
 
Act Two
 
Note to Twentieth Century Fox producers: If author has opinion for desired camera shots for specific scenes, they will be indicated within the text. Otherwise, scene captures are left to your creative vision.
 
Chimp returns with four gorillas shorter and smaller than the on-horseback, male gorillas. These are females carrying four buckets, two with soapy water, two with fresh, and four brushes attached to pole handles. Soapy water is dumped on human (astronaut Rod), gorillas scrub brush him while standing above him. Chimp tells gorillas to bring human to his laboratory after he’s been thoroughly scrubbed and rinsed, emphasizes they are to carry him by all fours and not to let any part of him touch the floor once he’s released from his bondage.
 
Fade to next scene.
 
“Ah, there you are,” Chimp greets gorillas as they enter with human. A large room about seventy feet square with a cage built into a back corner, shelf racks against walls, varieties of tables throughout the room a blur. Another chimp scientist has joined the first. Shorter in height, a female, dressed appropriately in white smock of middle-thigh length, brown strap sandals on her feet. First chimp asks her, “See what I mean, Ziro?”
 
“Indeed, I do, Cornholius. Most unusual.”
 
“Wait until you see his hairy chest,” observes Cornholius as the gorillas cart the human horizontally with his penis dangling, his limbs stretched tightly to limit his squirming attempts of escaping. He has been gagged with rolled fabric placed across his mouth, tied together at back of his head, a thin strip of cowhide tied same way on outside of cloth. Standard procedure before transport.
 
“Hang him over there to drip dry.” Cornholius points to a vertical, standing wooden frame, three sides of a rectangle, wooden platform underneath, legs of frame four feet apart and imbedded to the floor. Bolted to the back side of the frame’s legs are two cuffs for ankles when needed.
 
Two short chains hang from top beam, each chain supporting iron cuffs, hinged so that cuffs can be opened, two prongs fitting two holes when closed, a clasp with keyhole to keep them closed, each inner curve of iron lined in cowhide padding.
 
While the two leg-toting gorillas keep prisoner’s feet from flailing, the two arm-toting gorillas step onto the platform and raise human’s wrists to cuffs, close them, and after Cornholius inserts the key both cuffs are locked. Gorillas take away platform, human hangs from beam with arms parallel and toes two feet from the floor. “Thank you, that will do. You may go.”
 
“But Cornholius,” whispers Ziro. “Shouldn’t we keep at least one gorilla here for security?”
 
“No, Ziro,” his soft-voiced reply. “We cannot trust them. Only chimp assistants can be present during our experiments.” He waits for the gorillas to exit before continuing in normal volume. “We must keep news of this unusual find from Dr. Slayus as long as possible. You know how he is.”
 
“Yes. Paranoid.” Ziro stands at safe distance in front of the suspended prisoner, as he flails his legs, kicking at air in trying to strike the chimp. “How is it this human was brought to you first?” she asks.
 
“General Maximus charged me with repairing his throat from the bullet wound.”
 
“Rather than a surgeon?”
 
“He knew this particular human would be of interest to me. Maximus shares our secret. Understands we do more here than test for lubrication capabilities of the wild male humans.”
 
Hearing this, astronaut Rod stops kicking and starts listening.
 
“Is that wise, Cornholius? I mean, can General Maximus be trusted? If Dr. Slayus ever finds out we are searching for a sub-species, a missing link, he will have us both put to death.”
 
(Camera begins a slow, close-up, uninterrupted pan the length of Rod’s naked body, front view, starting at his feet. Whoever directs this film would be wise to do it, because for some reason, when it comes to scenes of this nature it is almost never done.)
 
“I am well-aware of this, Ziro, but as scientists, we must take that risk. I have no authority to round up wild humans for inspection, nor do you. We must have a gorilla of high military position who believes in our work. General Maximus can be trusted.”
 
(Camera moving, at shins, knees.)
 
“Wasn’t he one of your father’s friends?”
 
(Thighs, crotch)
 
“The best. They served together in the third baboon war. My father, may he rest in peace, performed the field surgery on Maximus when the General was a mere foot soldier. Saved his life. He and Maximus always believed if my father could prove we chimps, orangutans and gorillas are superior to the baboons and monkeys, they would by law be forced into capitulation. Obey the ancient scrolls as we do.”
 
(Abdomen, chest)
 
“This human could be that proof.”
 
(Face and pits)
 
“No doubt, Ziro. Just look at him.” (Camera pulls back to encompass view of Rod from top of head to beginning of crotch hair. He exaggerates his breathing, expands his chest and flattens his abdomen more than necessary, he introduces the movie audience to his macho pose, one they will see many times, the physical display of a man who knows he will be tortured and must convey to his captors he will not show fear, nor will he surrender without a fight.)
 
“All that dark fur,” Ziro observes.
 
“Notice the broad rib cage and the shape of his muscles. This one is not slender and sinewed like all the other wild males we’ve captured.”
 
“I agree. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
 
“And did you notice his eyes? Strange how he seemingly reacts to our words. Almost as though he at times understands what we are saying.”
 
“Oh, Cornholius! Now, really.”
 
“No, I mean it. I first noticed when he was in his cell. He even made a gurgling sound, and a motion with his lips. That’s why I don’t want gorillas here unless necessary.”
 
“Moved his lips? Sure he did,” Ziro scoffs. “I suggest you remove his gag so you can prove your point.”
 
“Not yet. Wild humans bite. After we tame him a bit, perhaps then.”
 
“Fine. Don’t accept my challenge. So, what are your immediate plans for him, Cornholius?”
 
“We must begin with him as we do all the others. Test him for lubrication production.”
 
“Has he been purged?”
 
“No.”
 
“Then I will round up our assistants.”
 
“And I will tell gorillas to come in half an hour for clean-up.”
 
They exit. Cut back to camera close-up of Rod’s face, a mixture of anger and bewilderment as he absorbs what he’s just heard. His eyes survey the room. Flat table square with iron cuffs bolted like those in his cell. Flat table rectangular with wooden stocks at one end, wooden axle with hand crank at the other. Pedestal-type table with surface curved upward about twenty-five degrees, similar to a mushroom but with four boards extending four directions off the cap, metal cuffs bolted to each. Numerous pairs of chains and padded iron cuffs hanging from ceiling at various distances apart, some with matching cuffs and chains laying on the floor. The cage in a corner with one bed, bed with mattress and pillow, floor of cage covered with rug made of roughed-out cowhide. Another close up of Rod as his eyes scan the ceiling. Camera then focuses on lights — not torches of fire but flourescent tubes, rows of them, powered by electricity. Back to his face, wholly bewildered.
 
Full body shot of Rod as his muscles explode, his right arm raises his entire body until left hand grabs the top beam, right hand joins and he pulls himself up, throws one leg over and straddles beam. Frantically, he tries to break the beam with both hands just as Ziro enters, followed by six chimps, all male, dressed in brown tunics.
 
“Get him down from there,” barks Ziro, and the male chimps grab the platform, place it under the beam, climb and jump to wrestle Rod free of the beam and force him back to full suspension. Ziro growls, “Now, purge him.”
 
End of Two
 
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
 
 
Act Three
 
Four chimp assistants move to the back wall, lift two wooden poles, each pole six feet long and six inches in diameter. Two stand behind the human, place one end of their pole into the small of his back, while the other two stand in front with their pole, waiting. Two remaining chimps maneuver under his feet, grab his ankles, stretch his legs.
 
“Begin,” grunts Ziro, and with a backswing of their pole for momentum, the front chimps thrust their pole forward, driving its blunt end deep into their victim’s abdominal muscle. A mighty whoosh of air squeaks through the gag, as the monkeys backswing again. He stops breathing, tenses all muscles in defense, the pole plows into him a second time. Front chimps work in rhythm, take one-footed half step away from their target with each backswing to increase velocity of each forward swing. Behind pole stays firmly planted to small of his back, while front pole repeatedly pulverizes entire abdominal area, striking the pit of his stomach, its middle, and his belly.
 
The assistants have done this many times before, their accuracy flawless, no bone is struck. By the seventh blow they are at a distance that requires sprinting with their pole. They drive it into him like a battering ram. Ziro silently counts to ten, and then shouts, “Enough.”
 
Both poles are set to the floor, prisoner’s legs are released and six chimps catch their breaths. He draws up his legs, but his battered belly is too weak to keep them there and he collapses, hangs vertical with eyes closed and chin on chest, gasping through his gag for air as Cornholius enters followed by four female gorillas, each carrying two buckets. “Where are we on this, Ziro?”
 
“Ready for fecal. Where have you been?”
 
“Stopped in the kitchen for a quick bite.”
 
“Good for you, Cornholius. In that case I’ll let you take over and go to the kitchen myself, and then I will wait for his samples in the analysis lab. You can begin. They’ve all rested long enough.”
 
With gorillas waiting near a wall, Cornholious tells chimps to pick up their poles. One placed again to the small of prisoner’s back, the other held by chimps standing in front of him and waiting. Cornholius stands to prisoner’s right. (Camera close-up of Rod’s belly, his navel center frame. Cornholius’s fore-digit comes into frame, digs into Rod’s pubic hair, finds top of his pelvic bone, presses into muscle just above it, tells chimps, “Here.” Cut to full body shot front and left of Rod shows chimps coming forward with pole. Camera zooms in as pole approaches Cornholius’s digit. He removes digit. Pole makes contact with Rod’s belly, its bottom curve just above his pelvic bone.)
 
“Begin,” orders Cornholius, and they drive their pole into the human’s lower abdomen. A tug of war in reverse, as the front-pole chimps battle with the back-pole chimps, forcing their poles to meet with nothing but a man’s belly keeping them apart. He draws up his legs. His body tenses, muscles flex, his face contorts, eyes clench shut. His body convulses.
 
“Push, push!” Cornholius motivates. “He’s close, bring the bucket,” he wave-signals the gorillas. One brings empty bucket, places it inches below the human’s anus as feces is crushed from his bowels. Cornholius, watching the excretion, says, “Ah, yes, a healthy deposit. Remove the poles. Take his sample to Ziro in analysis. And you,” he points to the other gorillas, “put a sponge to his anus.” Gorilla exits with turd bucket.
 
As one gorilla uses paws to open the prisoner’s butt cheeks, another flushes away residual feces with bucket of water and an ocean sponge.
 
Chimps return poles to back wall and Cornholius immediately prepares for next purging. “Stretch him.” The two remaining chimps grab hold the prisoner’s ankles, move back from the frame until he is pulled taut, his body angled forty-five degrees, chest-side down. A third chimp climbs onto shoulders of chimp holding an ankle, leaps onto the human’s back, straddles him, forces his spine to arch, stretches his chest and belly to extremes.
 
Cut to Cornholius at a side wall shelf as he picks up two items, a pair of scissors and a ball-peen hammer, approaches the chimp on prisoner’s back, hands over the scissors. “On my command.”
 
From underneath, Cornholius taps with the ball side of his hammer, focuses his taps on the pit of his prisoner’s stomach. Rapid taps, moving willy-nilly, tapping a different spot each time. From just below the rib cage to a couple of inches above the navel, he increases the severity of his taps, waves for a gorilla to, “Bring the buckets.”
 
Torture continues. Victim twitches, his face contorts. Tapping velocity of the hammer’s ball increases, sounds of thuds into the stretched muscle become louder, deeper. Prisoner’s body tenses, chest heaves, belly undulates, and Cornholius shouts, “Now!”
 
The chimp upon the victim’s back cuts his gag and he hurls into the bucket. A narrow stream, a dribble of yellow bile is followed by a dry heave as the hammer continues to tap. One more minuscule spurt oozes into the bucket, and then more dry heaves of nothing. Cornholius stops his tapping, grabs the bucket, looks inside, shakes his head with disappointment. “Take it to Ziro,” and he hands it back to the gorilla, orders another, “Give him the sponge.”
 
From a bucket of fresh water the gorilla brings a fist-sized ocean sponge to the prisoner’s mouth. He opens his jaw and takes it, crushes the water and spits out both sponge and water. The gorilla drops it in the bucket, brings him another and he this time swallows. “One more drink,” says Cornholius, as he wave-signals the chimp off the prisoner’s back.
 
The chimps release their victim’s ankles and he hangs in vertical suspension. “Give him a new gag and scrub him down,” Cornholius orders. He waits until the gag is in place before dismissing the chimp assistants. Cornholius walks toward the exit, turns to gorillas with final instructions, “Leave him wet, position him for production, and then you my go.”
 
Fade to Ziro in a small room with electrical lighting. She wears medical mask while preparing on glass slides samples of the human’s feces, two buckets on the table to the side.
 
Cornholius enters. “He had nothing in his stomach. As though he hadn’t eaten for days.”
 
“I see that,” Ziro stops her work, looks up while talking through her mask. “And yet, his bowels contained plenty. Look at this, Cornholius. Have you ever seen such a peculiar color? More grey than brown.”
 
“There is nothing normal about him. I could almost swear he tried to speak to me when he took his drinks from the sponge.”
 
“Ha, if he could speak to you, Cornholius, which you know he can’t, I doubt it would be anything pleasant.”
 
“And I would not blame him. The gorillas are scrubbing him down, so whenever you’re ready, I’d like you to help me with his production test.”
 
“Nothing could stop me. Not for this one. Let me get a couple of these bile samples ready, put everything in the freezer and we’ll go.”
 
Cut to laboratory, Rod still suspended by his wrists from top beam of frame. He’s dripping wet with empty bucket on the floor below him. His ankles are now secured in the iron cuffs bolted to the back sides of the frame’s vertical beams. His legs are stretched tight, distance between beams is four feet, thus spreading his legs apart to form an angle of 90 degrees.
 
No dialogue, as Cornholius and Ziro go about their duties. (Camera interjects their activities with close-ups of Rod’s face, his mouth gagged, his eyes curiously switching focus from one chimp to the other.) Ziro pulls a wheeled cart down a wall of rack shelves, adding items to the cart as she comes to them, while Cornholius works at another cart nearby.
 
Ziro brings her cart and positions it to the side of the platform. She picks up a piece of cowhide, two inches wide and stitched together to form a ring. Near the stitching are two metal nipples. Taking his penis in paw, she holds it horizontal and slips the ring over his corona. He tries to recoil away from her, but his bound body is stretched too tightly for evasive movement. She manipulates the leather ring along his shaft until its edge makes contact with his pelvis. A loose fit, she holds it there while reaching for the cart, lifting a piece of cloth, velvety and soft. Squeeze-pumping his penis with one paw, she massages his nuts with the other, caressing their skin with silky fabric. Blood enters his phallus, diameter and length expand, filling the leather ring as Cornholius arrives with his cart, parking it to the right of the human, between the frame and the wall.
 
Atop his cart is a machine with an electrical cord that he plugs into a wall socket. Atop the machine are two metal posts to which he has threaded two lengthy, thin, insulated wires. At the end of each is a small alligator clip. He clamps one to each of the two metal nipples imbedded to the leather ring, flips a switch, turns a dial, and a low hum emanates from the machine.
 
Ziro let’s go the prisoner’s penis, transfers her velvety cloth from his testicles to his corona, covers it, gently rubs the triangle beneath his piss slit and he jerks. Tosses back his head. Thrusts forward his hips the small amount his bondage allows. An involuntary, forced reaction to an incredible stimulation. Her paw lets go his shaft. He’s fully erect. The rubbing of silky-soft fabric and tingling of electrical charges simultaneously assault his defenseless cock. His scrotum repeatedly clenches of its own accord. Ziro looks at Cornholius and he at her. He nods. She removes the cloth. Leaves the victim’s penis to incessantly bob up and down.
 
Eventually, the male’s phallus settles to the steady hum of the machine. No more bobbing, just perpetual erection, his elongated cock piercing the air, a horizontal battering ram. They wait, watching his slit for a bead to appear, and once it does Cornholius positions the bucket beneath his victim. Masculine, pre-orgasmic lubrication oozes one bead at a time until the weight of its mass allows gravity to take it. A slow, suspended journey. A strand of silk lowering the bead at a snail’s pace, carefully, gently, laying it into the bucket.
 
“Ziro, our long day is done.”
 
“A productive one, Cornholius. Don’t you think?”
 
They both gaze at their prisoner. He glares at them, and they turn to exit the laboratory. (Camera follows them. They stop at the light switch, turn for one final look. Camera slow-zooms to Rod from full-body to a close-up of his face, and then his eyes, filled with hatred and glaring at them. All goes black, and through the gag, breath only, audible words are heard — Oh… my… god… followed by sound of door closing, lock turned.)
 
End of Three
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
 
  
 
Note from your editor: In 1965 Rod Taylor was 35 and Claude Akins 39.
 
While reading this synopsis, I noticed that the further Jasper got into his story the more he seemed to gradually abandon his directional style of writing, little by little favoring a more narrative style. Perhaps he realized no ratings system could cover his subject. One X or a hundred wouldn’t matter because he’d already gone way beyond the boundaries of a feature film’s capabilities. Could be it dawned on him he shouldn’t be writing for theatre or film, but straight-up fiction, and so he surrendered to the characters, gave in to how they wanted him to communicate their story. Whatever the reason, there is a shift in Jasper’s technique. I’ll leave it for others to decide whether he knew what he was doing or if he simply was an out-of-control, lust-crazed pervert. I do have first-hand knowledge that these days he is the latter.  
 
 
 
Act Four
 
Two scenes alternate, about thirty seconds for each scene — Ziro entering her living quarters, Cornholius entering his (both quarters are four rooms carved into rock of the same cave complex, rooms lit by torches). Cut to Ziro undressing in her bedroom. Laying on her bed is another chimp, already undressed, fingering her own vagina while watching Ziro strip; back to Cornholius, alone, undressing in his bedroom.
 
Cut to Ziro laying on her back on her bed while the other chimp lays atop her, locking lips with her; back to Cornholius laying on his bed all by himself. Cut to Ziro and her partner, the other chimp munching on Ziro’s vagina; back to Cornholius hand-stroking his penis. Cut to Ziro’s partner intensifying her attack of tongue and mouth stimulation; back to Cornholius increasing pace of his masturbating paw. Cut to Ziro achieving orgasm while moaning, “Oh, man-o-man!;” back to Cornholius achieving his, growling, “Oh, what a fucking man!”
 
Back to Ziro coming down with her partner laying atop her, kissing her, and then to Cornholius coming down all alone, and then to an outside scene at night. Two uniformed gorillas enter the cave where astronaut Claude and the females hid for safety. Cut to a large room lit by torches. Trickles of water cascade a wall and form a pool in the rock floor. About thirty feet away against another wall is a gaggle of naked females, the same dozen Claude followed into the cave. The camera slow-zooms toward them, revealing the soles of Claude’s feet. He lays spread eagle on his back, also naked, snoozing while the females tend to him. They all lounge in a pile, some using Claude as their pillow, all hands massaging his chest, his belly, his legs and feet. They play with his tits, his nuts, his ready-to-explode cock, a monster the likes of which these females have never seen. A ten-inch, two-and-a-half-inch-thick pussy-splitter. All of them have taken him at least once. Some twice, and he is now like a god to them.
 
A splashing sound from long distance echoes into the room, followed by a hiss, and then bubbling. Half the females instantly abandon their guest, run to a wall where long sticks and slabs of tree bark lay in a pile. “Hey! Where are you going?” protests Claude. As the first six gather their tools and make ready, the other six also abandon Claude, get in line and enter a tunnel from where the sound came. “Hold on. I can’t stand the mystery.” He sprints to catch up.
 
The female leading the parade carries a torch, and after about fifty paces, they arrive at a pool of clear liquid with steam rising from the surface. A narrow ledge circles the pool. He follows them to the left side, the wider ledge, watches as they fish out two corpses with their sticks. It’s the gorillas, boiled to perfection, their clothing disintegrated, their flesh hairless, their meat falling off bone as the females pile up huge chunks of cooked flesh atop their slabs of bark.
 
“That smells like some good eatin’!” exclaims Claude, and then he follows the ledge to the opposite side of the pool, takes a few more steps. Faint light from the torch shows an exit, and he recognizes the path from which they’d come when fleeing from the outside threat. The reason they took his hand. A lethal hot spring hidden in darkness. Any living creature entering the cave in a straight line falls into the pool, boils in a pressure cooker. A natural defense these clever ladies have found with their living space deep in the cave beyond the deadly barrier.
 
“Looks like I’ve got nothing to worry over.” Claude heads back to the boiling pool as the ladies fish out smaller creatures that have met their fate — lizards, rodents, others corpses hard to define. “Guess I’ll live out my days eating monkey meat and fornicating like a rabid dog.”
 
Claude follows them back to their part of the cave, resumes his position as their guest of honor for the feast. They hand feed him while feeding themselves.
 
Cut to Ziro and Cornholius walking the corridor toward their lab, Ziro with clipboard in hand.
 
“Have you run the tests, Ziro?”
 
“Yes.”
 
“And?”
 
“Nothing unusual in his bile. Normal enzymes, and I estimate three days since he has ingested food of any sort.”
 
“And the fecal?”
 
“A mystery. Two elements I’ve never seen before. One has a composition similar to what we’ve found when breaking down the peanut, but it is not the exact element, perhaps a hybrid. The other, I haven’t a clue.”
 
“I find that promising. Don’t you, Ziro?”
 
“I suppose.”
 
“Of course it is. Another characteristic in him to help prove our theory. He is a species of human never before found.”
 
“All right, Cornholius, I will concede that, but I am still skeptical. We will just see how much lubrication he produced before he passed out.” She unlocks and opens the door. “Maybe then you won’t be so…”
 
As Cornholius flips on the lights, both chimps gasp at a glorious sight. Rod, full-bodied, legs spread wide, arms straight up, gravity stretching him, sweat coating him, matting his heavy black fur. Cut to close-up of his head, his eyes closed, chin on his chest, spit saturating his gag, a swath of drool covering his chin and its two-day’s growth of beard, mixing with sweat on his chest.
 
Slow pan down his chest, to his stomach and its wet patch of black hair, his belly and its navel stretched to a vertical gap, his matted pubes. His cock explodes onto the screen, full-frontal, leather tightly wrapping the base of his shaft, his piss slit kissing the audience, beads of pre-orgasmic syrup spitting at them, exiting his cock one after another, five seconds from one to the next.
 
His nuts, no longer man nuts, but bull nuts, their normal one-and-one-half-inch circumference now two-and-one-half, maybe three inches. Swollen with semen, his testicles have been waiting to release his seed for nearly six hours, the electrical vibration not enough stimulation to trigger ejaculation. Camera slightly pulls back, moves a foot to the side, follows a heavy string connecting his cock head to the bucket. A steady stream of ooze slithers down a permanent slide, shiny, sticky, wavering forward and back by micro-inches in conjunction with his heartbeat. His mighty corona glistens. The entirety of its bulbous head is sugar-coated with pre-come, pressurized blood inside darkens its exterior flesh, a pink rose now purplish-red, a sweet flower ready to be picked, aching to be kissed, to be stroked, licked, sucked and crushed.
 
The curious apes approach him, peer into the bucket, a three-gallon bucket half-full with his pre-come, and again they gasp. They look at one another, mouths agape and eyes wide.
 
“Ziro, can you believe it?”
 
“No, Cornholius. It is not possible.”
 
“But it is. There is your proof. And he is still producing!”
 
“Should we continue?”
 
“Definitely. I will do the testing. Go ahead and take the bucket for measurement and analysis. Leave the chart with me.”
 
Ziro does as told, exits with bucket, as Cornholius places another one, empty, on the floor beneath his subject’s still-dribbling penis. Using his paw-nails he scratches the sole of the victim’s right foot to stir him. Human awakens, jerks up his head, glares at his tormentor, snarls with a huff of air that sends his spit flying through his gag in all directions, as his scrotum clenches, causing his tortured cock to spring upward and nearly touch his belly.
 
“Ha, that’s a good one,” Cornholius chuckles to himself. “Found a hot spot already. Let’s try that again.” Another scrape along the man’s sole produces a second dramatic reaction from his cock, and Cornholius jots down the information to his clipboard. He inserts thumb and finger between human’s great and second toe, squeezes the skin separating them. “Not much there,” he mumbles, records the lackluster degree of response. Moving to the left foot, he repeats both tests, writes down what he sees before reaching beneath the man’s scrotum. His fingers test the swollen nuts for varying degrees of stimulation, degree determined by the height obtained when his subject’s phallus springs upward in response, and by how long the penis remains elevated above horizontal. His testing techniques include fingers lightly scraping, fingers scratching with severity bordering on pain, finger and thumb first pinching and then corkscrewing testicle skin, grabbing hairs and tugging them, pulling flesh away from gonads, and then releasing the hairs, allowing his skin to snap back into place.
 
Every technique is used on both of Rod’s nuts, done to every part of his testicle flesh. The gonad test is time-consuming, tedious and horrifically painful for a man who’s been suspended this way and fully erect for more than six hours. Rod flexes his muscles, tosses back his head and stares at the ceiling, lifts his head and glares at the monkey from hell, notices the profound boner poking the chimpanzee’s brown tunic.
 
A startling revelation. Finally, regardless of his inability to speak, despite his naked degradation, the torture of his suspension and his achingly-split-apart legs, Rod Taylor has a weapon. His mad-scientist monkey is infatuated with him. His glorious, nine-inch slab of syrup-slobbering, human meat is making this sadistic chimp all hot and bothered.
 
You piece of shit, queer ape, Rod Taylor thinks while forcing the expression via air through his saliva-soaked gag. A shower of human spit catches the eye of the monkey, and this tough-ass he-man gives the lowly beast his classic macho pose. Arms flex, biceps and triceps inflate like balloons. Mighty pectorals expand like melons. Brick wall belly caves inward with a deep-ridged line dividing an explosion of muscle. Rod Taylor’s lower jaw thrusts forward, his eyes look down at his own chest, his own masculine beauty, fixating on his own manly tits. Tiny as dimes they are, stretched to ovals with their air-piercing tips protruding in front of him, demanding to be pinched, twisted, sucked.
 
No chains can hold me, you monkey bitch. Just watch. With every ounce of strength left in him, Rod Taylor lifts himself, nearly breaks his cuffed ankles, arches his tortured spine, thrusts his powerful chest forward and waves his mesmerizing phallus. Repeated clenches of his scrotum make pre-come fly. So horny, so ready to explode, his beyond-ecstatic strength lifts his cock all the way to his belly. His pulsating cock head hammers against his sweat-drenched muscle. Smacks of their contact echo the room — as does the dropping of a clipboard to the floor.
 
End of Four
  
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Weekend Special
 
 
Act Five
 
Cornholius opens his mouth.
 
“Now, human, I think I can remember what happens from here.” He curves his digits and forms claws, his fingertips gently touching Rod’s belly. “Don’t need to write it all down as we go.” He walks his fingers the length of Rod’s abdomen, creepy-crawly like, spider-like, his eyes observing Rod’s tormented penis helplessly bobbing, weaving and waving. His fingertips climb past Rod’s stomach, onto his rib cage. Their paths separate as he reaches Rod’s pectorals until both both claws form a circle. Human male tits, untouched, are at their center beneath his palms. “That was an impressive display you gave me, the way you slapped yourself with your own penis.” His forefingers and index fingers now walk alone, marking time, moving down micro-inches per second. “Let’s see you do that again.” His scraping fingers assault the man’s tits, and Rod’s entire body convulses. His head jerks back, chest forward, his pelvis undulates, scrotum clenching with uncontrolled, uninterrupted reactions. “Yes, human, I got your message loud and clear.”
 
He leaves his victim, moves the bucket aside and brings the platform, steps up to Rod’s right front for easier access. “Yes, you beautiful human, I understand.” His forefingers and thumbs form pinchers. “Your hottest of hot spots are right here.” He clamps Rod’s tits, slowly and gently squeezing and twisting and marveling at his victim’s twitching. “The only question is, are they hot enough?” Rod’s tortured cock flaps in all directions, a meandering hummingbird searching for nectar as his tits are pinched and turned left and right. Rod’s eyes are tightly clenched shut. He tosses his head, forward, back, side to side, and he groans — all air — he huffs and puffs, a shower of spit misting the air.
 
The sadistic ape tests his subject with every known method. Finger scrapes, pinching, twisting. His nails pierce nipple tips, pressing until they touch bone. Rod’s insides are boiling, filled with rage, flooded with testosterone and lust.
 
“Do you want to get off?”
 
Rod’s eyes open. He glares at the sadistic ape, droplets of forehead sweat trickling from his brows.
 
“I know you can understand me. Tell me truth. Do you want to get off?”
 
It is a torture like no other. Rod Taylor’s nuts will soon burst. They must. Filled to capacity with semen. Still producing. The electrical charge to his cock shaft and rough-fingered assault of his tits will drive him insane if he can’t shoot his load. And soon.
 
“You have nothing to fear. Your secret will be safe with me.” With right paw pinching Rod’s left tit, Cornholius opens his mouth, engulfs Rod’s right tit. Sucks it. Licks it. Nibbles it with his teeth, separating just enough to ask him again in a whisper, “Tell me. Do you want to get off?”
 
A breathy, tortured, hot-air exhale seeps through Rod’s saliva-drenched gag, “Hhhheasss.”
 
“I knew it! Not only do you understand, you also speak.” The cruelest of cruel jokesters, Cornholius spouts the punchline, “Now, show me how you are superior to other men. Go ahead. Shoot.”
 
A tormented man jerks back his head, stares at the ceiling and silently screams. Mind over matter? Or matter over mind? The stimulation provided brings Rod to the brink of orgasm, but he will receive nothing more. Nothing to trigger ejaculation. How wrong he had been to think this beast would surrender to his manly charms. His heroic display had only made the chimp more sadistic than before, and now it is up to him. As the nipple-manipulating ape assaults him with fingers and mouth, Rod Taylor closes his eyes. Every fantasy he’s ever imagined runs through his brain. One after another, he plays them out, searching for the one that can finish him.
 
Female fucks, in the ass, in the twat, in the mouth, none of them enough. Male ass-fucks, professional blow-jobs, all are imagined up to and including the heavenly explosion of his manly seed, but his cock in current place and time does not finish the dream. Screwing this cruel chimp, squirting his jizz all over the chimp’s face, gagging the ape as he floods its throat with his massive volley — all successful in his mind, but only there.
 
God damn you, he silently thinks. His frustration, his insatiable lust that cannot not be satisfied causes his mind to run wild. You sadistic beast, go ahead and torture me all you want. Bring it on. You ain’t ever seen a man like me. I can take. I will take it. I will wear you out. You will collapse on the floor before you’ll ever break me, you sadistic piece of shit. Go ahead. Bring it. Men and women. I don’t care. Get ’em in here licking and pinching on me. See if I give a shit. Bring your frickin’ gorillas, too. And your orangutans, baboons, all of your god damn monkeys. Drown me under an ocean of mouths and tongues and teeth and paws. Stretch me. Pound my belly to a pulp. It don’t matter. You ain’t ever seen a man like me. You ain’t ever dealt with anything like me. I’m the strongest sonuvabitch ever walked the earth… a fucking he-man. You hear me? I am a fucking…
 
Few things in life are more frustrating for man than an unattended orgasm. The nuts release and semen flows from his slit. The scrotum clenches and cock contracts, but its like a hound dog at the base of a tree. His quarry is up there. He’s won the chase, but now all he can do is jump all around the trunk, waiting and hoping something will come along to fetch him his prize.
 
Rod Taylor’s orgasm produces a healthy dose of his seed, but it is a disappointment for him. Could have been a thousand times better. Should have been, after all he’s gone through to get there, but like a dog who hunts alone, nobody is there to give him his reward. His cock waves half a dozen times, releases what it can, and then gives up. His wasted seed lays in hot gobs, some of it cooling on the platform, most of it on the floor beyond.
 
The ape lets go of Rod’s raw tits. Unplugs the machine. Picks up his clipboard and writes what he’s seen. Rod’s tortured phallus rejects the blood filling it despite the leather band wrapping his shaft. Worn out, his cock wants nothing more to do with reproductive functions. His bladder, however, still has need of the tool, and a mighty stream of urine shoots from his piss slit.
 
Cornholius opens his mouth.
 
 
End of Five
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
 
 
Act Six
 
“Oh, you men!” Cornholius jumps to the side, avoiding Rod’s torrent of piss. “Such disgusting beasts.” He watches with admiration as his victim’s sparkling stream arcs majestically nearly two feet beyond his semi-rigid hose, its corona still extended outside its protective hood. “If you could have waited, I was planning to bring you the bucket for that.” The chimp reaches up beneath his tunic, fiddles with his own nipple as the pissing goes on and on. “But damn! Looks like no bucket could’ve held you, anyway. My, my! What an animal!” He sets aside his clipboard, grabs his crotch and fondles his boner. “Absolutely amazing. This is going to make the gorillas very upset with me. Just look at the mess you’re making.”
 
The stream finally diminishes to a trickle, and then droplets, and with one last clench of the scrotum, Rod Taylor’s exhausted phallus is finished. It shrinks. His chin rests on his chest, eyes closed. He’s unaware Cornholius has stepped to the wall, where he plugs in the machine.
 
Rod snaps to attention, blood rushes back into his penis. He shouts through his gag while glaring at the cruel ape, “MOHHH!”
 
“Ah-ha! Just as I suspected. Vocal chords,” chuckles the chimp. “And they told me I’d never make a good surgeon.” He unplugs the machine and Rod watches his every move, his stare this time not of anger, but of fear — praying to god his sore dick won’t be tortured again. While Cornholius jots down notes on his clipboard, Rod is relieved to hear his words. “Do not worry, my friend. I am finished with you for today. Give your voice some time to mend before I make you scream again.”
 
He sets aside his clipboard and approaches a tortured man. Places his paw on Rod’s belly, his other on the small of Rod’s back. “I told you I’d keep your secret, and I mean it.” He presses his digits into abdominal muscle. “You strong-ass piece of work.” He removes wires from the cock ring’s nipples. “Tell you something else,” unfastens the leather strap, allowing a full exit of blood from Rod’s penis. “I mean to have this, someday.” His paw wraps Rod’s shriveling cock, gives it a squeeze, and then he moves away the platform while avoiding Rod’s puddles of piss. Unlocking the ankle cuffs, he releases Rod’s legs. “Rest assured, I am the only friend you have here, so do not try speaking to any other apes. Or humans, for that matter, not that you’ll see one anytime soon.”
 
Rod Taylor hangs suspended in a vertical line, listening to Cornholius. “Now, the gorillas will bathe you, take you down from here and carry you to your cell. I will have a meal prepared for you.” The chimp scientist circles to front his lab rat. “You look like a steak and potatoes man. Does that sound good?” Rod nods yes. “Medium? Or medium rare?”
 
“Meum.”
 
“Fine.”
 
In the women’s cave, astronaut Claude Akins has his own problem. Nothing on the scale of what astronaut Rod’s been going through, but unquestionably one of concern. The voluptuous females have him pinned down. He’s on his back in the middle of the stone floor, his arms and legs stretched like an X and held firmly in their grasps. His two-day’s growth of black beard is shiny and streaked with white — the sheen from sticky vaginal pre-lube; the white from orgasmic vaginal milk. That’s because the umpteenth female sits on his face. With her fingers she spreads open her meat, exposing her clittie for his tongue to lick. Claude obliges. Can’t help himself. Loves the taste of it. He’s happy to make her happy as he sucks on her little peter. Besides, it takes his mind off the fact another one is abusing his cock with her pussy, riding up and down on his fat pole, targeting her clittie with his gigantic, hammer-head corona.
 
Claude Akins doesn’t mind. Wouldn’t matter if he did, but he is beginning to wonder how much longer he can keep it up. It’s a round-robin of incessant milking, as the females take turns working him over. When it’s not their time to take his cock or his tongue into their pussy holes, they bide their time holding him down, stretching him out, sucking on his tits, burying their faces into his abdomen, impaling his belly button with their tongues, reaching under to grab onto his nuts with fingers scraping, pinching and twisting. They lick on him, sliming his hands and feet, saturating the skin between his fingers and toes, painting with spit his triceps and biceps, thighs, calves, armpits, ears and any part of his exposed flesh they can get their mouths on. A fully-frontal female assault — twelve horny females molesting one helpless man.
 
“Ah, god damn,” he gasps through bubbles of vaginal juice. “You ladies are… mwah… wearin’ me out… shlup… how much longer… yownk… you expect me to… harngh… poke on you… geezuz… have mercy.”
 
How much longer? Until every one of them has got themselves off — twice — once by drowning his mouth; again by crushing his cock. Claude doesn’t mind. He’s living every man’s dream, and because his harem of frothing females consists of all body types to his liking — the perfect tits, their naked skin fresh and soft, their head hair long and wild and sexy in colors blonde, brunette, red and black — his worn out dick has no choice but to stay hard until they’ve all been satisfied. In fact, super-stud Claude Akins is wearing them out. One by one they fall to the wayside, their silent screams of orgasm followed by total collapse, while Claude keeps on fucking and sucking.
 
Finally, the ladies lay panting in a pile around him and atop him. Claude lifts his head, sees what he’s done, smiles, stretches and yawns. “Well, you wild-ass women, that was one hell of a session.” He sits up, looks all around, scratches his head. “Now, let’s see… overnight and before dinner… that’s sixteen times as I recall… then after dinner… another twelve with my dick, twelve with my mouth… God damn! That makes about forty times I reckon I’ve got you all off. Ha! Betcha I got off a dozen myself… at least.”
 
Claude stands, places hands on his hips and swivels to limber up his stiff spine. “Tell you one thing, all this fornicatin’ makes a man powerful hungry. Wonder if we got any grub in our boiling pot. I’ve been so busy, I’d have never heard it if we did.”
 
He looks down at his victims all scattered and sprawled, some of them rubbing on themselves, looking at him like they’re getting motivated for another round. “Ah, the hell with it. Think I’ll take me a soak in the pool. Any of you’s care to join me?”
 
They don’t. They’re still too mesmerized by what he’s done to them, and so Claude bathes alone. He submerges in cool water about three feet deep, swims a bit in the pool’s thirty-foot oval, and then crouches on its stone floor with waterline at his shoulders. He rubs his chest, belly, face, armpits and asshole. Pulls back his foreskin, washes his nuts and corona. “Damn, figured my dick’d be sore, but it ain’t. Them vaginas is soft as velvet.” He stands, looks over with pride at his exhausted females, and then realizes, “Man-o-man, I gotta piss. Wonder where this water goes.”
 
Claude walks the pool, feeling with his toes for where water drains. Near one edge where side meets floor, he feels a tiny hole. “Ah, here we go. I can piss right here and it’ll run on out.” He drops to his knees, floats forward with penis in hand, aiming his stream in the vicinity of the hole while steadying himself with his other hand on the floor near the edge of the pool. Some underwater rock gives way, creating a new hole. “Oh, shit. Better not do that or we’ll lose our pool.” He removes his hand from the water, steadies from the outer ledge and finishes his stream.
 
As Claude squeezes out his last drops, a couple of the females join him for a soak. They waste no time in putting their hands to Claude, planning to bathe him themselves. Seeing this, the others rise and make their way to the water, but then they hear a hissing sound. Another victim has fallen into the boiling pool. “All right!” exclaims Claude. “Time for some good eatin’.”
 
The women change directions, grab their tools and torch, and then head for the tunnel while Claude and two females stay in the pool. “Man, this is the life,” Claude sighs, enjoying their hands massaging his back as they all three crouch with waterline at their necks. “I suppose I ought to be finding out what’s happened to my buddies, but right now I’d rather feed and fuck.”
 
Soon as he says these words the women come streaking back into the cave, their faces filled with terror. “Hey!” Claude stands. “What’s going on?” They run past him to the wall furthest away from the tunnel, and as Claude exits the pool, men emerge in hot pursuit of them. Human males, naked and with weapons of wooden poles and clubs.
 
Claude sprints to the pile of tools and grabs weapons of his own, a wooden club in his right hand, a long pole in the other. With his pole he waves his women to the pool, ten of them joining the two already there as the invaders stop in their tracks, analyze the situation.
 
They stand enmasse near the tunnel, last to enter making their number eight. Their wild head hair is shoulder length, their beards long and scraggly, brown or black. Their bodies are mostly hairless, as they bare their teeth, snarling but with no voice.
 
“All right, you gnarly varmints,” Claude growls, which causes the men to cower a bit and look at one another with puzzlement. Sensing an advantage, Claude bellows, “Time for me to fight for my women.”
 
End of Six
 
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Weekend Special
 
 
Act 7
 
Claude should’ve known from looking that these men are nothing but a tribe of wild male animals. They know how to hunt down quarry and work together for the kill. But Claude is an alpha male, puts himself in the mindset that he’s going to whip their ass for scaring his women, and he does pretty good against them until they figure out full-frontal assault doesn’t work. Claude’s club connects with the head of one and ribs of another, while his spear fends off any more who come into range with jabbing pokes to their chests.
 
Then the six still able to fight fan out, circle him, but Claude still keeps them at bay with pivots and twirls and occasional kicks — until one of them picks up a rock and fires it at him from long distance. Beans him in the head with it. Claude staggers, sees white, and those few seconds are all they need to pounce on him, disarm him, and proceed to beat the shit outta him.
 
A forearm smash rattles the back of his neck, knocks him down to all fours, where he receives simultaneous kicks to his ribs coming from his left and right. Another kick from the front gets his face with a shin and chest with a foot, sends him up and back and laying on his spine. Stomps to his chest and belly, and kicks to his legs and arms pretty much reduce him to a useless slab of hairy muscle — muscle primed for punishment.
 
They roll him over. Two of them grab his arms and raise him vertical on his knees, while the other four take turns punching his chest, kicking his ribs and belly. They take him all the way to the floor, backwards, his knees bent and legs folded under him, his arms pulled straight out beyond his head, and the other four kneel on either side of him, put the claws to him. Rigid, sharp-nailed fingers dig into his pectorals. A double claw penetrates his stretched abdominals, one in his stomach, one in his belly. The cruelest of fists engulfs his nuts, squeezing hard while another hand clutches his cock, crushing it, bending it in ways it’s not supposed to go.
 
Howls and grunts and groans cause granules of rock to fall from cave walls and roof, coming from the only human with a voice. These savages intend to de-alphasize the alpha male, as his women stand in the pool silently moaning, tears streaking their cheeks, their feet marking time in water, their digits fingering their clitties, their vaginas dripping with excitement, their bias for Claude’s victory blatant.
 
Back in the monkey cave, Rod recuperates in his monkey cage, sleeping nude while his food digests. His mattress is soft, but his ankles and wrists are roped to posts of the frame so he can’t move around much, just lays flat on his back snoring. Scares the crap out of Cornholius when he unlocks the lab and comes in for a visit. He locks the door behind him so Ziro won’t come in and hear Rod’s slowly-strengthening voice. Unlocking the cage, Cornholius strips himself naked and wakes Rod by hand stroking Rod’s pecker.
 
“Ok, big boy. Let’s see what you can do. Put that slab of meat to good purpose. You can fuck the shit outta me while I ask you some pertinent questions. Science marches on, you know. Look, I’ve already greased myself up.” He turns around and straddles the bed, sucks Rod’s dick while waving his pucker above Rod’s face.
 
Rod looks at the black slimy mess, rolls his eyes, exhales with a whisper, an exasperated sigh, “Oh, Christ. Here we go again.”
 
His dick prefers to be left alone, but the services of a world-class cocksucker cannot be denied. Naturally, Rod gets a hard, and instantly, Cornholius spits him out, pivots, inserts said cock to his rectum and sits straight down. Turns out his ass is better than his mouth, and he hits Rod with a plethora of questions while riding up and down Rod’s swollen shaft.
 
“Where’d you come from?” he sits on Rod’s pelvis, crushing the blood out of Rod’s cock with his powerful rectal muscles. “How’d you get here?” He glides up Rod’s pole, squeezing the hell out of Rod’s corona once he gets his ass rim to Rod’s mushroom rim. “Who taught you our language?” He slowly bounces up and down, twisting and turning and crushing Rod’s dick in his greasy vise. “Where is the rest of your tribe?”
 
“What the hell is going on here?”
 
An orangutan with key bursts through the door, followed by gorillas, male soldiers. “Guards, arrest this… so-called scientist.”
 
“Oh, dear lord!” Cornholius gasps. “Dr. Slayus! What are you… how did you?”
 
Gorillas enter the cage and violently yank Cornholius off the bed, ripping his asshole to shreds in the process. “And when you come back,” the orangutan ignores the chimp, speaks to gorillas. “Bring a cleaning crew.”
 
As two of the six-gorilla entourage drag Cornholius away, the organgutan enters the cage. “So, this is the hairy human who talks.” He circles the bed, a short, burly beast with bulging arms, legs and chest, speaking in a nasal-toned, graveled voice and a flair for the dramatic. “I see the hair. And the efficiently impressive reproductive tool I’ve heard so much about.” He lifts a leg, plants his knee to Rod’s abdomen and bears down with his full weight. “But please, tell me.” His stubby-fingered paw slaps Rod’s cheeks left and right. “Do you talk?”
 
Rod’s jaw is locked tight, as he glares at the little hoodlum, flexes his legs and springs upward with his pelvis to jettison the ape’s knee off of his belly.
 
“Ah-ha. Very good, human,” the orangutan places hands on hips and bends backward with a wall-cracking cackle. “Good and feisty. Just how I like it.” He again plants his knee into Rod’s belly, leans forward with both paws and tightly clutches Rod’s neck. “My name is Dr. Slayus. I am ruler of all apes, and there is nothing I enjoy more than making a strong man scream when he cannot scream.” He releases Rod’s throat, slaps him again. “You will talk. If you actually can. Or you will die proving to me you cannot.”
 
Dr. Slayus stands, takes a cigar out of his tunic pocket, bites it and lights it before turning to the gorillas. “Take him to the torture table.”
 
Dr. Slayus’s desired torture table is the square one, and the gorillas carry Rod there same as before — four limbs grasped with his chest hanging. They lay him out belly up, secure his wrists and ankles in the metal cuffs. “Now,” Slayus growls. “Let’s go find us a crew to scrub down this disgusting ass-fucker.”
 
Hmmph… like I had a choice, Rod thinks but doesn’t mouth, as he watches them exit the room.
 
“Oomph!” gasps Claude, as he takes a hard fist to his exposed gut. They’re holding him up like he’s crucified. One’s got a reverse full nelson hold on him, bending over so Claude’s spine is against his, Claude’s spine torqued backwards, his arms locked, pulled down and flared like a V. One brute apiece kneels on the floor holding Claude’s ankles, making sure his legs are stretched and vertical, his feet a couple of feet from the floor.
 
That leaves Claude’s belly stretched about as tight as it can be. Also leaves three savages to pound away on it at their leisure. A left hook penetrates to the right of Claude’s navel. “Uhngh! You rotten… bastard,” Claude grunts. A right uppercut pounds the center of his stomach. “Hooawng, thank god my… belly’s empty,” Claude groans. A straight right, left jab, a couple more upper cuts and a devastating left hook tuckers that man out, and so another takes his place.
 
Alternating left hooks and right hooks pulverize Claude’s stretched, hard muscle, with his belly button the center of the punching zone. A flurry of fists slams into him sounding like hammers pounding into a hung slab of butchered beef, while the other two get their jollies grinding clawed fingers into his pecs. Nothing he can do but close his eyes and take it. Flex his brick wall and keep it solid. Enjoy the sounds of his own muscle absorbing punches. Claude so likes the feel of their hammering fists and sounds of his powerful body taking those fists that he gets a hard-on. Oh, yeah, this tough-ass son of a bitch likes the way he’s standing up to these savages. Likes it so much he decides to watch. Claude strains his neck, takes a gander at his chest, those gnarly fingers digging into his pectorals, half their length buried into his thick muscle, the other half covered by his heavy carpet of sweat-drenched chest hairs.
 
He turns his gaze left, where his females mark time in the pool. Seeing their he-man stand up to this punishment turns them on almost as much as it does him. Claude sporting a full-on hard doesn’t hurt the scenery either. They’re mesmerized by his incredible strength, his pumped-up, glistening, fur-covered muscles, and as Claude eyes their slime-soaked pussy holes and their clittie-rubbing fingers, their marching in place and their mouths agape with silent ecstasy, he feeds off their faith in him.
 
With the strength of a Herculean super-man, Claude Akins jerks up his legs and flexes his arms. He breaks free his ankles, breaks both arms of the beast holding him in the reverse full nelson. Lightening quick, he rolls over the back of the broken-armed man, lifts a knee and smashes his face. A whirling, mid-air kick cracks the jaw of one pec-pincher, Claude’s spinning momentum giving power to a right-handed fist splitting the ear of the other pec-pincher. A running, flying-through-the-air kick to the chest of the belly-puncher sends him staggering back half a dozen steps until he trips on his own feet and lands back-of-head-first on the stone floor. Knocks his ass out and makes him bleed.
 
That leaves two. What do they do? Nothing. Not after Claude snarls at them, howls like an alpha wolf at volume to pierce eardrums. They streak out the hole from which they came, forgetting the hazard in the darkness of the exit. Splash, hiss, bubble and boil. Dead, but not for eating. Claude don’t do dat.
 
He makes fists, brings them to his ears, stands before his women and flexes a victory pose. “Oh, yeah, baby! I am one bad-ass mother fucker.”
 
To further prove his point, Claude Akins visits each of his defeated opponents. Stomps heads until none of ’em are moving except to breathe. Stands over the one with the split ear. Grabs him by his head hair. Drags him over near a wall. Drapes him over a boulder. Spits in his left hand and slathers its ass. Spits in his right hand and lubes his cock. Fucks it. Fucks it while in a linebacker crouch. Fucks it fast and hard and without mercy.
 
As his women leave the pool and surround him, Claude Akins, alpha male, locks his fingers and plants his hands to the crown of his head. He obliterates his quarry hands-free, undulating his hips while his ladies run their hands up and down Claude’s chest and belly and back and feet and legs. He growls as he fucks. They rain sticky from their twats feeling and seeing his muscles working hard. Claude bares his teeth. Snarls. He fucks all six males. All that’s left of the tribe he conquered. Claude drills ’em and fills ’em full of his alpha-come until there’s nothing left to do but drag ’em to the boiling pot and toss ’em in.
 
Claude Akins. Bad-ass mother fucker I guess.
 
End of 7
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
 
 
Act 8
 
Like the mighty lion returning after a successfull defense of his territory, Claude basks in the glow of his pride. He is scarred from battle. Cuts and abraisions from fingernails and fists paint purples and reds on his face, limbs and torso. His toes and soles of his feet are scraped raw from rock, but he struts proudly, feeling no pain as he makes his way to the pool. He steps in, submerges his entire body. Rises to his feet, cups water in his hands and splashes himself. Rubs his pecs and belly and armpits and genitals. Arches his spine, points his tits to the ceiling and pounds his chest like a silverback.
 
He is learning to speak without words. They must follow him, these helpless females for whom he has sacrificed, for whom he has taken horrific punishment and overcome impossible odds to defend and protect. His women enter the pool. Surround him. Take him to the center. Lay him horizontal with their arms supporting his underside for flotation. He sprawls spread eagle as they tend to his wounds. Their hands and fingers massage him, his cuts and bruises soothed by cool water and gentle touch. He closes his eyes. Acknowledges his trust in them, and his love for them. He groans with his exhales — low-volumed, low-pitched growls of pain and satisfaction. Sounds of a man oozing with dominance, dripping with masculinity. He has done his duty. Obliterated the invaders, their boiling carcasses a warning to all who enter. He is Chief, the man who rules cave. These females are impregnated by his seed. No other.
 
Another growl reverberates with volume to ripple the water’s surface. Come from belly. Gorilla-man hungry.
 
In the laboratory of the monkey cave, a cleaning crew is finished with Rod. He’s just how they left him — sprawled in an X, scrubbed, rinsed and wet, puddles of water on his table and dripping to the floor. He lifts his head as Dr. Slayus enters without escort, a halfway-burned cigar chomped by his teeth and some sort of remote thingy clutched in his paw.
 
“Thought you might enjoy a bit of entertainment to go along with your torture,” he snarks while pressing a button on his remote. Walls slowly descend from the ceiling. Mirrored walls, and as they touch down, the ceiling itself also changes to a mirror. “There, isn’t that more cozy?”
 
The new room cuts off the rest of the lab, leaving only the square table to which the male human is bound. Rod marvels at all the glass. Each of his side views, plus his head and foot views are reflected to infinity.
 
Without another word, Slayus exits through a mirrored door and closes it, leaving his prisoner to watch in amazement as the ceiling drops and transforms from rock to mirror on its descent, stopping four feet above where man lays on the table.
 
He waits alone in a squared room, four walls and ceiling of reflective glass supported by stone floor. Each surface is of equal distance from him. Sources of light mysteriously come from the outside as shadowy beams of grey-white. In silence and isolation, a bound, naked man ponders his fate. Slayus said there would be torture — and entertainment. Is one to supply the other? Is it the orangutan’s intent that Rod should enjoy watching himself suffer? He turns his head right, observes the full length of his body, his skin glistening wet with water. He wiggles toes of his right foot and watches a thousand toes wiggle. Turning his gaze left, he strains against iron cuffs pinning him to the table. He arches his spine half the few inches allowed and admires his expanded chest a thousand times over. He exaggerates his exhales, absorbing the side view of his sunken abdomen, which emphasizes his mighty, puffed-up chest. Makes it appear even more majestic — times a thousand. He feels blood flowing into his penis. Watches the ceiling mirror as his phallic weapon swells. Its flesh begins to separate from the comfortable nest formed by his nuts, until he thinks better of it, changes his thought to a disgusting chimp and its nasty feces smeared on his beautiful cock.
 
So much for his near-arousal.
 
Suddenly, tiny holes appear in one panel of ceiling mirror central to his X-stretched body. No mirror needed, his vision is directed to a pair of black cables descending from two holes. Their diameter is an eighth of an inch, and dangling at their ends are black rubber cups. They slowly drop toward him, looking exactly like combustible engine spark plug cables with their insulated, rubber-cupped covers, and as they approach his wet flesh the cups clamp onto him like magnets, one atop each of his thighs.
 
Two more descend. At first they appear headed for his face, but their targets are his triceps, and they stick onto his muscles once contact is made. The next pair goes for his feet. He raises his head, peers over his chest, wiggles his toes hoping to avoid the cups and make them miss their objectives, but somehow they follow his movements and suck onto his great toe, left foot and right.
 
He is not liking this, these creeping, sinister-looking eels attaching themselves to his helpless body. Nothing good can come from it, he thinks, especially when the next pair make way for his groin. They slither between his thighs, under his phallus and clamp onto his testicles. “Oh, my god,” he mouths with breath, forgetting the chimp’s warning about words. “Not my nuts.” He looks to the side, his body wet and naked, bound and spread wide open with ominous black serpents dangling from above, their vile mouths stuck to him and awaiting orders.
 
Able to do nothing but fret, he watches a side mirror as two more drop and leech onto the balls of his feet. And then he shudders. Another pair makes a lingering, tormenting path toward his chest. “Oh, god no. Not that. Anything but that.”
 
He knows. He remembers his session of playing the lab rat. Raising his head, tensing his arms and pectorals, wiggling and writhing what little he can, he watches helplessly with mouth grimaced and eyes wide open as two menacing mouths of suction bite onto his tits, first his left, then his right.
 
“Geezuz H. Christ,” he groans with a bit of his voice seeping through. And that’s about all he can do. He is made to wait, looking at himself, wondering what and how and why this crazy shit about to happen is going to happen to him. His stomach is churning — with naseau, with anticipation, fear, and even a bit of hope. Maybe, just maybe, his torture will be like before — an equal mixture of eroticism and pain, something he can bear, but he doubts the menacing orangutan will be so kind.
 
Regardless, what a god-awful image as he looks to his right for a side view of himself. In multiples.
 
One man alone, stripped, bound, spread open and vulnerable. A dozen creepy black cables clamped onto him like leeches in all the worst places, and not a god damned thing he can do about it — except for this. He can prepare himself. He can admire himself, flex and pose for himself. Tell himself he’s strong enough to take whatever it is that’s coming, which is exactly what he’s doing when he hears sounds coming from the floor. He looks to the reflective ceiling. Sees stone crumble as the floor becomes a metal grate, cold and grey with rows of slit holes black and void.
 
From the ceiling drops a shower head. It pivots as it sprays water all over him. But it is not water. Heavier. Some sort of gel-like goop clear like water. His body is saturated with whatever it is. Droplets sting his eyes to such a degree he must shut his lids until the spraying stops. When it does, his flesh burns a bit, nothing painful but more of a tingle, as though tiny insects cover him. So strong the sensation, he opens his eyes to confirm it is not real — or he tries.
 
The goop has sealed his eyelids shut. He panics. Writhes and tenses and tries to break free just as pulsations are sent through the cables and into the suction cups. They put a heat to him warm and toasty in an ordered pattern he can clearly feel — great toes and balls of his feet are followed by his triceps; thighs followed by his tits; nuts ending the pattern with a return to his feet beginning the next round.
 
The warm and toasty elevates to hot and uncomfortable. The sensations spread from their sources like a virus to consume every part of his flesh. The hot and uncomfortable rises to boiling and painful, like his blood’s on fire, like his nerve endings are trying to break out his skin. He strains with all his might against his bondage. Flexes every muscle trying to calm down his insides but to no effect, and as the pain intensifies, his writhing and wiggling progresses to an arching of his back and a transfixed contortion, the crown of his head on table’s surface, his mouth open wide. Agonized, stricken with terror, he cries out full voice, and instantly the goop allows his eyes to open
 
A horrific sight smothers him.
 
His masculine body curves upward, frozen in an arc of desperation and pain, a dozen hideous black vipers ravaging his pressure points. He feels tree limbs growing in his veins, tiny roots pressing his skin from inside out. He’s tortured by the shingles, times a thousand, and he is forced to witness from every conceivable angle his tortured body contorting in arced agony — times a thousand.
 
It is more than any man can take. His head will explode, brains scramble. He feels it. Sees it. Knows it, and his only out, his only option for mercy is his voice. “Stop! Stop it!” He howls through clenched teeth with volume to shatter glass. “You’re killing me… you… sadistic… FUCKS!”
 
It is stopped. Everything stops, and he collapses, gasping for air, deep-toned groans rumbling from the depths of his gut. He twitches fingers and toes. Clenches shut his eyes, turns his head side to side. He wants to see no more, to feel no more, but he does feel something. New pulsations from the cups cause him to jolt until he recognizes cold. An opposing sensation, he is calmed, soothed as though submerged in cool water. Soon, he is showered with very real water from the same head spout. He is rinsed of conductive goop. It slimes away from his flesh to the table to the floor and through the metal grates.
 
Another sensation accompanies the cool — pride. Tough son of a bitch, he thinks while admiring himself.
 
Could be they have something worse coming, something far beyond what he can survive, but for now, he’s the manliest man ever to pop out of a human womb, and he takes in the sight of a man victorious, a man defiant, a man who just withstood the ungodliest of punishments and handled it. He repeats his pre-torture poses. Puffs up his chest, sucks in his belly and throws out his lower jaw. He looks at the suction cups, scoffs, and then peers into the the glass, liking the looks of that naked man stretched out on the table. Oh, yeah, baby! I am one bad-ass mother fucker.
 
Times a thousand.
 
He is relaxed, recovering, and as his ravaged body recuperates, the panel of ceiling from which came both his torture and his relief, a section four feet long by three feet wide, lowers itself. Comes within three feet of him. In the reflective glass he sees an image, and he breaks into laughter. His audible voice rings with pleasure.
 
End of Eight
 
 
   THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Weekend Special
 
 
Act 9
 
The scene being played out in Rod’s overhead mirror is a moving picture show of Claude and his women. Rod sees everything — their scattering from the sounds of gunfire when Claude went one way and Rod the other, their entering the cave, their first orgy, the cooking of apes and subsequent feast, their follow-up orgy, his defense of the cave and Claude receiving his rewards in their pool. It is ongoing. The females still have Claude surrounded, holding him horizontal, continuously rubbing his wounds and deep-finger-massaging his muscles while he snores. They haven’t gotten around to their next orgy. Not yet, although it is inevitable they will, considering Claude’s long-ass, thick-ass, masterwork of orifice-splitting man-tool is floating fully erect and hoping they will.
 
“I’ll be god damn,” Rod cocks his head with a chuckle. “I’ve made some wrong decisions in my life, but this one here’s a doozy.” His eyes are transfixed to the glass. He’s mesmerized, a bit jealous, but mostly happy for his pal, as the mirror provides close-ups for him to view. It pans left and right from water level to directly above. Strong but delicate female digits soothe their manly hero’s half-submerged body. A soundtrack provides the rumblings from Claude’s chest as he slumbers. Audio of lapping waves and squishing, manipulative fingers upon Claude’s skin enhance the pleasing visuals. So vivid are the sounds and images, Rod can almost feel those females working on him same as they do Claude, and Rod’s handsome penis reacts. Its mass swelling with blood, his cock rises off his balls and flips onto his belly, bouncing and wishing its owner had followed the women to their cave like Claude did.
 
“Hey, wait a minute,” Rod looks away from the mirror, raises his head and sees nothing has changed with him other than his now-erect pecker. He’s all alone, cables and cups remain intact. Again he looks in the glass above his face to confirm it. “Those are my feet, my legs.” Another direct scan of himself shows no changes, so back to the glass. “My belly, my chest and… and my dick!”
 
More changes take place in his overhead mirror. The water level drops. The hands and digits are not the gentle, loving squeezes of females, but tormenting pokes and claws of males, hands and fingers strong and rough and hairy. As the water falls, a wooden table is revealed, the same surface supporting him in his room, and bursting onto his screen comes a black mouth from above — a cable, a large suction cup, which ruthlessly clamps onto his cock head. “Oh, no!” Rod looks for real, and indeed, viper number thirteen has dropped from the mirror, its gaping mouth working his mighty phallus into its jaw deeper and deeper as though a poisoned rat soon to be digested.
 
“Oh, god damn,” he groans with dread while writhing, clenching his scrotum in a vain attempt to fling the attacker away. Looking into his overhead movie view, he sees nothing but a reflection his own contorted face. The film has ended. No credits, and the mirror panel rises to rejoin the ceiling four feet above him.
 
The giant suction cup manipulates its way down the length of his shaft, its diameter expanding to accommodate his thickness until its mouth has consumed half of his cock. Here, it stops, holding his throbbing penis horizontal while he watches and waits. From every angle, his nighmarish view is now a scene from hell. His most prized possession is imprisoned, forced to erection and soon to be tortured. Would they actually do this to him? Would his cock suffer the same agonies the rest of his body has just been through? The boiling blood? The pain from inside out? Tree limbs growing, trying to break through his phallic flesh?
 
These thoughts are too horrid to entertain. He shakes his head, attempts to cast them out, and is successful not because of his brain power, but because the table suddenly drops. Lower half, the table’s legs at his feet end fold under and surface falls to the floor, splitting at his tailbone and taking his lower extremeties with it. From the backs of his hands to the middle of his butt cheeks he lays horizontal, his spine arcing upward, while the lower half of his buttocks and all of his legs and feet angle to the metal-grated floor. His soles, great toes and attached cups are inches above it.
 
It ain’t pretty. He’s stretched good and tight, cables and suction cups leeching onto him. His cock is still hard, halfway covered and pointing in the direction where ceiling meets the wall nearest his feet. His chest is up, belly flat and caved, rib cage going one way and pelvis the other. He turns left, looks at himself, strains against his bondage so he can enjoy his racked body struggling to break loose. He feels a surge in his penis — not from the cable, but from himself, his own admiration of his own manly strength, and as he gazes in the side mirror three figures appear on the other side of him, his right.
 
He jerks his head, looks at them for real. Men, he thinks, so beastly he cannot be sure. All three are of identical height, width and features, so covered in heavy black hair they could be missing links. Their attire is black pants tight to their legs like leotards, black boots of mid-calf height, and nothing else. Their pants hang low, just above their pubic hairs, but its hard to tell where their belly hair ends and groin begins. Their chests are huge, wide and thick, bellies extended, round and solid, all layered with shag carpets of black hair. Their fur-covered arms are built like tree trunks, hands meaty, fingers short and fat. Six beady eyes are the darkest of dark brown. The tops of their heads are bald, black hair on the sides halfway covering gigantic, simian-like ears. The hair on the backs of their heads meshes with hair of their shoulders with no separation, no difference. They look like apes, smell worse than any ape, with layers of fresh sweat covering dried sweat, a combination of odors so sharp and so foul they could singe a man’s nostril hairs.
 
Before Rod can react, one of them speaks — yes, speaks — the first human voice other than his own he’s heard since his capture.
 
“The maiden Fairchild claims you stole some of her pigs,” his voice rumbles deep, through gravel, with a heavy, Cockney English accent. “Did you?”
 
“Huh? What the…”
 
“The queen tells us to ask you,” he interrupts, while his two companions walk the table, poking and clawing Rod’s exposed and stretched skin with their rough and heavy fingers. “So, I’m asking. Did you take maiden Fairchild’s pigs?”
 
The confused victim looks all directions, amazed to see the cables have disappeared. His view of himself uninterrupted, he’s pleased to once again marvel at his mighty balls and manly tits, his nuts bulging with semen, his nipples horrifically stretched with tiny tips pointing to the ceiling, and even though his cock is rock solid, harder than he can ever remember it being before, it points forward at the same angle as though still directed by the cable.
 
“Nothing to say?” queries the henchman. “Then we’ll poke it outta you.”
 
From the menacing, magical ceiling panel drops a square of wood. Attached to its underside are four wooden stakes, and the apparatus stops with points of the stakes six inches above him. The stakes are two inches square, their lower ends tapering to fine, blunted points, and as one of the three beasts turns a crank under the table — a crank Rod never noticed before now because it wasn’t there before now — the stakes make way for his belly.
 
With wooden daggers approaching, he groans. Strains his arms, expands his chest and tightens his abdominals as the points make contact with his skin. His navel is at the center of a square, stakes forming the corners, each an equal distance of one inch from his stretched knot. The crank turns, stakes poke into him, impaling horrifically stretched muscle. His fists clench, toes curl, spine arches and chest expands. He sucks in his abdominal cavity, tries to further flatten what cannot be flattened, as the evil spikes grind into him deeper and deeper. His inside guts are pressed to the table, ready to burst, and his masculine grunts bounce off mirrored walls, the sounds of a man straining with every ounce of his strength, the sounds of a man suppressing vomit.
 
And yet, despite his agony, he does find the will to withstand his punishment. With his eyes. In the mirrors. Side views, head, foot and above views, he sees what he is. A strong-ass piece of work. A masculine marvel. A fucking HERCULES! And with bile coating the lining of his throat, he growls at his tormentors between gasps for air, “Pigs? Ha… I hate pigs… the only… pig around here… is… YOU!”
 
“Well, now,” the head henchman snorts. “That’s not a nice thing to say.” He motions for the crank man to reverse direction, raising the stakes out of Rod’s belly.
 
He recovers, sucks in air, relaxes his muscles, admires his stretched form, feels another surge in his majestic, air-piercing cock. Lost in himself, Rod only halfway hears his antagonist’s continued droning.
 
“Maybe I should have softened you up before putting the stakes to you,” sneers the brute, as he leaps onto the table, pushes the platform to the ceiling and drops his hard-soled boot atop his victim’s abdomen. Stomp! His boot heel grinds into hard, stretched muscle, and then he flattens his foot, puts his other boot to the man’s stomach and stands on him with his full mass of weight. He marks time, marching, stomping, one boot after another before suddenly dropping with both knees into Rod’s pulverized gut.
 
With knees still grinding, he leans forward, places his hands on the table either side of Rod’s chest. “There, now that you’re tenderized, tell me about the maiden’s pigs.”
 
“Pigs, my eye!” snarks Rod, as he puffs up his chest, glares over it with lower jaw extended. “Go ahead. Try me again. I will never tell you a god damned thing.”
 
“As you wish.” he scowls, stands, reaches for the platform, lowers it to within a couple feet of Rod’s belly. “But before we continue, I’ve got another little surprise for you.” On the top side of the platform is one more stake. It goes in the center, underneath, and after he’s inserted the fifth stake to its underside slot, he leaps from the table and orders his assistant to crank it down.
 
How convenient! The center stake just happens to enter the stretched hole of Rod’s belly button. As the corner stakes again pulverize his abdominals, the center stake impales his navel. Its pointed dagger sends shockwaves directly to his groin, which only gives his cock further reason to throb and ooze.
 
So begins the test of wills — Rod, his muscle, and his multiple visions of himself defying their punishments, versus three grotesque and smelly man-beasts, their stretch-rack torture table, their platform, and five belly-grinding wooden stakes. It is a battle of machismo, of manly strength and testosterone. Round after round of impalement torture followed by belly stomping, intermixed with taunting torments of finger pinches and claws to stretched muscle, to thighs and calves, toes and feet, fingers and hands and arms and tits. With each torture of his gut, each manipulating and humiliating assault upon his exposed flesh, Rod spits at them, mocks them, defies them, groans and grunts and exhausts them, while his mighty phallus sneers at them, oozes pre-come at them, its power surging, filled with blood and expanding to a length and thickness Rod never before thought possible.  
 
What a fucking MAN he is.
 
The henchman are near collapse. He has taken them to their limits, and in desperation their leader informs the other two, “I’d best summon the queen. Our back breaker stretch rack has perhaps met its match. No man has ever survived the belly torture. Not like this. She must see what kind of man…”
 
“You incompetent fools!” booms a female voice. It is the queen, dressed in flowing gown of ruby red silk. She does not enter. She appears, same as did the henchmen, and she is flanked by seven more females also dressed in fineries who fan out and circle the table. They inspect the naked man being put to torture, while the queen berates her interrogators. “Did I not tell you I was entertaining guests? That I was not to be disturbed? Your buffoonery has ruined my tea party, and for that you must pay.”
 
Her goons drop their heads, their massive arms hanging limp at their sides while the queen eyes her prisoner. Intrigued, she sneers for all to hear. “So, this is the man who will not be broken. Ha!” She places her hand upon his belly, rubs him with her palm, licks her lips. “All right, my beastly idiots, I will give you one final chance to make him confess. Thrill me. Break him, and perhaps I will reconsider.”
 
The queen and her entourage step back and the torturers get to torturing.
 
Knowing that failure means death, they grind the stakes into him with horrific force. They pinch and claw and knead his manly flesh. They twist and fingernail-scrape his tits, but all they get for their efforts are grunts, groans, and even laughter. He taunts them with his other-worldly strength, and worst of all for them, he issues verbal invitations, actually challenges them to give him more, More, MORE!
 
“What kind of fucking MAN are you?” asks the lead goon, panting, near collapse, defeated. His crank man is spent, falling to the floor as he passes out from exhaustion.
 
Rod knows what he is. He can see it in the mirror as many times and from as many views as he cares to look. But even though he has told himself what he is time and again, he doesn’t understand it. By all natural laws known to him he should be dead, or at least gravely wounded, and far past the point of confessing to the lie in order to make his torture stop. It is like his entire body is partially numb. Every part of him feels as though he’s under the beginning or ending effects of novacaine — except for his penis. There, his sensitivity is magnified tenfold. Could he not see it he would think its size is multiplied tenfold. So full of blood, steady dribbles of pre-orgasmic syrup oozing from his slit, he feels as though the skin of his cock should have split open long ago.
 
And so, the question. How should this tortured he-man, now victorious, answer his tormentors? With silence. With a grin of satisfaction. With a dramatic display proving his belly is stronger than ever. He flexes his abdominals, a vociferous pooch upward to cast off the stakes and their unmanned platform.
 
There’s your answer, swine, Rod privately relishes his triumph. Or should I call you, dead man afoot?
 
End of Nine
 
  
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Extra Edition
 
Hairy Apes, Act 10
 
The queen wastes no time admonishing her interrogators. “Drag that one to the corner, and the three of you can wait there for escort to the courtyard.” With the beasts doing what they’re told, she nudges the platform and it obediently rises to the ceiling panel, meshes and disappears as she continues. “Your failure here means a festival for my subjects. Put you to some sort of good use.”
 
Immediately, a door opens and three soldiers armed with swords poke and prod the condemned out of the room, leaving Rod all alone with the queen and her seven quests. They encircle the table. Stale odors of man-sweat are replaced by pleasant aromas of feminine perfumes and powders. They ogle him with lustful eyes, waiting to follow their queen’s lead, and it is the silence that begins to annoy. The idea of it. The humiliating degradation of it. The helplessness he feels, one man, bound and naked, surrounded by eight females, free and fully clothed. One man, vulnerable, with penis engorged and at their mercy, is stalked by eight females who taunt him by saying nothing. They eye him. Their tongues wet their lips, thumbs scraping their gown-covered nipples. Those with light colors of white, pink and peach display spots of wetness where thighs meet pelvis. In a line they seductively stroll around the table, fondling themselves, visually inspecting him as though choosing the best cut of market meat for their evening meal, and the mystery of their intentions wears on him.
 
He struggles against his bondage. Knows he cannot break free but tries anyway, because he wants to. He needs to evoke sympathy in them, to entice their feminine desires with his manly defiance so they will praise him — not hurt him. He displays for them what has been seen countless times — his mesmerizing pose of brute strength.
 
Oh, the glory of man! Triceps and biceps straining, which in turn elevates and expands his chest. His hard-forced exhales cause his rock-solid abdominals to further drop from his rib cage like a near-vertical cliff. His bulging thighs and calves pull against unbreakable cuffs of iron. His manly feet writhe with toes curling forward and arching back. He juts out his jaw and lifts his head to heroically glare at each woman as she passes by him, admiring him, nearly melting before him when he growls, “What is it? What do you want of me?”
 
With a wave of their queen’s hand, the gawkers end their parade and step aside, leaving him for her. “What I want,” she stands next to his table, on his right where he can see her with a painless turning of his head. “Has nothing to do with pigs.”
 
Reaching up with both hands, she removes the pins from her hair, allows it fall upon her shoulders. It is a gleaming allure of softness, a dazzling blend of red and brunette. It is cognac.
 
She plants her hands to the table beside his chest, raises herself to all fours and gazes down at him, her eyes of same color and same inticement as her hair. Crawling to where the table splits, she drapes her upper torso’s right side across his middle. Supports herself with her right arm and elbow, her head tilted and held in her hand so she can see his best parts. Her right flank and ribs cover the lowest part of his belly and his pubic hair. His navel lays directly below her stomach. With her feet extended to near the table’s edge, her dainty boots are unlaced by two of her entourage while she feels his abdominals with her left hand. She squeezes, draws soft lines with her fingertips, fiddles with his hair — the patch on his stomach, the trail above and below his belly button. She soothes his tortured gut and he sighs relief, relaxes, lets her penetrate his solid muscle with her gentle touch.  
 
“It is said you are the strongest man in all the realm,” she tauntingly speaks with half-voice, half-air. “Meaning, of course, my realm.” She reaches for his sternum, the palm of her hand warming his chest. “That is why I had you brought here on this trifling, false offense.” Her fingertips lightly clutch his right pectoral. She feels his strength, and then flattens her hand. “I had to see it for myself.” Her middle finger and thumb spread the skin on either side of his right tit, stretching its width to equal its elongated, torture rack stretch. “I had to be certain you were that man.” With her index finger she rubs tiny circles upon the tip of his nipple.
 
“Aw, shit,” he raises his head, watches her tormenting him and likes it. He grins, “Did you have to do that?”
 
“Yes, I did.” She raises off of him. Kneels beside him. Lowers her lips to his belly and kisses him there. “And now that I know…” she buries her face into his gut, presses deep into his brick wall until she must surface for air. “You will know why I did.”
 
With her feet bare, she stands in a crouch on the table, raises her gown to her thighs and straddles him. She drops to her knees. Sits on his stomach. Extends her arms, and with a dramatic flair, two of her entourage grab hold her sleeves and yank in opposite directions, shredding her gown and exposing her nakedness. Before he has time to inspect her, she smothers him, wraps her arms beneath his arced spine and locks her lips to his. Her jaw opens to accept his tongue. His jaw gapes to swallow hers, as she squeezes tightly with her arms, smashing her titties into his hard, fur-covered, mightily-pumped pectorals.
 
No longer the refined lady, no more the austere queen, she ravages him like a pre-historic cave-girl. Her mouth unlocks from his so she can kiss and lick his cheeks, forehead, nose and chin. Her oozing vagina slimes his belly, as she clutches his shoulder blades, lifting and further arcing his already-curved spine in bringing his chest to her mouth. What she cannot lift he does for her, contorting his back to torturous degree while she paints his chest with her spit. Buries her face into the heavy fur of his pecs and sternum. Peppers him with kisses dry and wet. Ruthlessly but lovingly attacks his tits with lips and tongue. Licking them. Sucking them. Nibbling on what she knows will drive him to the brink of madness. The best kind.
 
He needs no mirrors to realize the entourage has followed her lead. To know they’ve stripped themselves and joined the feast. He absorbs the sensations of their fingers and hands and mouths assaulting every part of him. He feels their vaginal drippings upon him, their exposed breasts bumping against him. A defenseless man is under seige. Savage, lustful females attack his feet and toes, his calves and knees and thighs, his arm pits, his hands and fingers and arms, and his swollen testicles. Hot tongues lick his semen-packed orbs. Menacing mouths nibble and lip-pinch their tightly-stretched and sensitive skin. Cruel fingers tickle his ball flesh, twisting it into corkscrews while tugging on his manly nut hairs.
 
A nightmare? Bah! It is a man’s ultimate fantasy. Relentlessly worshiped by a harem of crazed admirers. Bondage not required, but oh, so very preferable. He has no control. No need to reciprocate even if he could. He has but one duty, and as the unmistakable utopia of steaming, velvety, vaginal walls envelope him in a crushing vise, he motivates his mind to give them all they ask. His tortured cock, so hard and so ready for so long, will service each and every one of them.
 
It is another test of wills, but of a different sort. One strong man versus eight ravenous women. Each one demands his seed, but only one can receive it. Only his will power can defeat them. To satisfy them all, he must take charge of his own testicles, control them, prevent them from releasing his bounty until each and every one of these out-of-control amazons has used his magnificent phallus to orgasm themselves. And then, as female number eight screams her heavenly contata of the pure pleasure he provides her, he will shower her innards with a masculine explosion for the ages.
 
He has no doubt the queen will save herself for him, especially when she offers herself to his mouth. She sits on his face, maneuvers her taint within range of his wanting tongue. He eyes the length of skin between her anus and vagina before tasting it — same as her hair and eyes — her taint is cognac. So sweet, so intoxicating is her sensitive patch of connecting flesh, he drunkenly lathers her with layers of spit. Her vaginal lubrication streams onto his nose. His heavy exhales mix with her juice, creating syrupy bubbles at his nostrils. He is drowning in feminine aromas and flavors, womanly moans and whimpers, as seven females praise him sight unseen. His ears relish the sounds of his conquest over them. He is the one in bondage, yet he is the one who dominates.
 
One after another of his disciples impale themselves on his ever-ready cock. His massive corona rubs their clitties — their doing, not his. His own saliva drips from his queen’s sugar-sweet taint, as the woman blinding him from the others undulates and fondles her own breasts. The scene reflected from any given mirror is of ultimate ecstasy, of unbridled lust, but he has no time, need nor desire to take in such a view. His senses of hearing, touch, taste and smell are elevated and overloaded. His eyes lock onto the pulsating labia directly above him. It is all he cares to see, and as another woman shrieks with orgasmic pleasure, not even the drone of a familiar voice can shatter his unrestricted high.
 
A distant muddle. A hum coming from somewhere deep in a tunnel, but still recognizable. “God damn!” It is the organgutan’s voice, Dr. Slayus, who chortles from beyond the slithering gaggle of body-worshiping females. “You sure do come up with some wild-ass fantasies.”
 
Rod’s response is mostly slurps, but he does somehow finagle a cohesive combination of words in between his feasting. “Where’ve you been? You, uh, nearly… missed the show.”
 
“Did I?” Slayus approaches the table. “Well, at least I made it for the grand finale.”
 
Rod manages to slow down his mouth long enough to turn left and look at the orangutan, unlit cigar still clamped in his teeth. “You talking about my queen?”
 
“Yep. The other seven are on the floor passed out.”
 
“A hard dick is one helluva weapon. Eh, monkey?”
 
“No doubt. This one here’s about met her match in the form of your tongue.”
 
“Her taint’s like alcohol. Gives me a buzz.”
 
“Yes, yes. Wonderful,” snorts the ape. “Ok, let’s just name her Queen Taint.”
 
“Works for me, Doctor.” He turns his head so he can get back to licking on her thing, but she has moved away from his face. “Oh, god damn!” Rod jolts, as Queen Taint mounts his hard dick. Her arms wrap under his spine, her face worships his chest, and she fucks her primed pussy with his way-past-primed cock.
 
“Go ahead and finish it, hot shot,” Dr. Slayus encourages him. “She’s as ready as you are.”
 
And so they are. And so they do. Possibly the world’s record for speed of copulation — less than 60 seconds from insertion to orgasm.
 
Not so surprising. After all, the man has been put through four-plus hours of torturous foreplay — the tortures of unholy stretching and belly impalement; the torments of feminine assaults upon his naked body — but regardless, the bottom line is that Dr. Slayus is forced to finger-plug his ears. All the shrieks and groans and carrying on are more than he can take, as the ultimate human male sprays unfathomable gobs of his come into his queen’s twat.
 
“Oh, my!” Slayus cheers. “What a fucking man! Let’s rename her Queen Cometwat.”
 
Rod twitches, writhes and contorts, ecstatically charged and heroically triumphant on his back-breaker stretch rack.
 
“Works for me, Doctor.”
 
 
End of Ten
 
 
THE BUNKERVILLE WEEKLY SENTINEL
 
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
 
Hairy Apes, Act 11
 
“Man, oh, man, Doc!” Rod’s chest and stomach rise and fall fast-paced. Wholly drained, he pants for air, recovering from his orgasmic outburst. “That was one hellatious load.”
 
“I think you earned it. Don’t you?”
 
“And how.” He calms, lays relaxed while admiring his glorious Greek goddess. She has unhitched herself from his pole and now straddles him on her knees, sits on his belly, rubs his chest with the palms of her hands.
 
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” Dr. Slayus asks the obvious, hears Rod growl an affirmative.
 
“Oh, yeah, baby.” He raises his head, watches her hands heat his chest. “Don’t know why, but somehow she looks familiar. Like some mystery chick I’ve been dreaming about.”
 
“Must be,” the orangutan chuckles, lights his half-burnt cigar, puffs until it’s burning good. “Your dick’s primed for another screw.”
 
“Huh?” Turning right, Rod catches the side view of his fantasy girl massaging his chest and his throbbing cock angled forward at full strength. “Damn it to hell. You’re right, Doc. Didn’t know I had it in me.”
 
“Apparently you’ve got more than you ever imagined, and by the way, I think I do know where you saw her before.”
 
“Where?”
 
“That movie, Do Not Disturb.”
 
“Hey! You’re right. She was the receptionist or something. I looked for her name in the credits but either I missed it or she wasn’t in there.”
 
“It’s the latter. Hers was an uncredited role.” The ape puffs on his cigar, tobacco aroma filling the room with billows of smoke. “Soon, you’ll know her name. Raquel Welch. She’s about to become quite famous.”
 
“How do you know that?”
 
“I know all kinds of shit, especially when it comes to movies. You want to fuck her again?”
 
“Damn straight. Put her on there.”
 
Slayus motions with his hand, and she mounts her bound paramour. “What say we watch a movie while you’re screwing her? A little motivation for you.”
 
“Ha! Like I need any. Oh, god damn she feels good.” Blissful, he sees the mirror panel drop, as Raquel humps his cock and her face worships his chest. “What the hell?” Rod reacts to the movie.
 
“Looks like it’s time for revenge,” chuckles the monkey. In the panel, throngs of people shake fists and shout for blood. They are gathered in a courtyard surrounded by stone walls, and in the center is a raised wooden platform where three naked men are being put to torture. It is the beasts who tortured Rod. All three are stretched and quartered, each on his own table, same as Rod’s when flat.
 
“That is some ugly shit,” observes Rod. One is being de-gutted, a long rod skewered into his belly to fish out his large intestine. Hooked, the organ is threaded to an axle built above him, as the exucutioner turns the crank and winds his innards inch by inch around the axle. The process is dreadfully slow, the lower intestine connected to the smaller and on and on. He will suffer until his entire digestive system has been extracted, and the crowd froths at the sight of his bloody, tubular organs being pulled out of him and up to the axle. “How am I supposed to fuck her while watching this?” Rod asks.
 
“You’re doing fine,” is the ape’s answer, as together they see the cat’s paws being put to another of the three henchmen. Curved and sharply-pointed prongs rip into his flesh, as the executioners take their time, digging long, channeled lines deep into him one after another and at sluggish pace, with minutes in between so the crowd can listen for his howls of unyielding pain. They watch and cheer as his mass is turned into a bloody hulk of shredded skin. “Those monsters have earned what they’re getting. Don’t you think? After what they did to you?”
 
“Uh, I don’t know.” Rod shakes his head, tries to look away but can’t. The macabre scene intriques him whether he likes it or not. “Nothing they did to me compares to what they’re going through.” The lead henchman lays spread eagle on the center table with a frame built around his flanks. It is an open-ended, wooden box, its bottom edges curved to fit over his thighs and lower chest. Inside is his stomach, belly and genitals, and as the executioner loads the box with heavy stones one at a time, their weight bears down on him. Each stone adds to the pressure. He will be crushed, but not anytime soon. Small tributaries of blood exit his nostrils and corners of his mouth, and the crowd relishes his groaning struggles to breathe, his unwinnable battle against the lingering, slowly-increasing weight that bears down on his innards.
 
“Revenge is sweet, eh, Elrod?” the orangutan urges him to enjoy it.
 
“Hmm… I guess, but am I responsible for what’s happening?”
 
“I don’t know. Did you think of it when they were torturing you?”
 
“Ah, hell, I can’t remember what all was going through my mind when those stakes were…” he stops, as a startling realization hits him. “Hey! You said my name!”
 
“And?”
 
“It’s the first time any of you apes have called me Elrod.”
 
“Elrod Larson. No mystery. Look at your film now.” In the mirror panel they see a cross of T, and hanging tied to the cross is a chimp, and at the chimp’s crotch is another chimp licking the crucified chimp’s vagina, while gorillas lay leather whips to the backside of the carpet-munching chimp. “Mother of mercy,” groans Slayus. “Is this the end of Ziro?”
 
Elrod breaks into laughter, his jiggling adds a few extra pokes to Raquel’s tenderized pussy. “You are too much. That’s from Little Caesar, and it’s not Ziro, it’s Rico.”
 
“You’ve got it.”
 
I thought your voice sounded familiar.” Elrod turns to acknowledge the joke. “Holy fucking shit!” Elrod’s eyes widen, jaw gapes. “Edward G. Robinson?”
 
“As you wish.” The orange-haired orangutan now stands as the black-furred Edward G., naked as a newborn and chomping on his smouldering cigar. “How about this one?” He sucks hard and makes billows, gets into character and recites his lines. “I picked you for the job, not because I think you’re so darn smart, but because I thought you were a shade less dumb than the rest of the outfit. Guess I was wrong. You’re not smarter, Walter. You’re just a little taller.”
“Umm…” Elrod searches his memory bank a second or two before blurting with pride, “Double Indemnity.”
“Man, you are good, and probably a bit taller, after being on the stretch rack and all.”
“Very funny. So, Eddie, what gives? What the hell are we doing here?”
“Hold on there, hot rod. Got one more scene to show you. Are you pissed at that other chimp?”
“Ah, hell, it’s no big deal. Just wish he would’ve cleaned out his shit before ramming my dick up his ass.”
“I hear you, pal. Take a look at this.” Eddie pushes a button on his remote, and the wall to Elrod’s left rises. “This one you can watch in real time and space.” It’s the rectangular stretch rack with Cornholius locked in and ready to go, belly down. Standing at the axle-cranked stretching end is a naked human male. “Go ahead and rip him up, Cheese.”
“Cheese?” asks a curious Elrod.
“Yeah, we call him that because of his poor hygiene,” Eddie explains. After Cheese turns the crank and gets the chimp to screaming, Eddie waves him over. “Show him your dick.”
He climbs onto the table, dangles his pecker above Elrod’s face. Chunks of slimy white smegma cover his cockhead, oozing out from inside his foreskin. “Oh, god,” Elrod nearly pukes. “Get that thing away from me. He’s just like Tommy Stover back in 9th grade. We’d never let him shower after gym class until the rest of us had finished. Nastiest god damn…”
“Right,” Eddie cut in. “Takes a warped mind to let your dick get that way. Can’t even bother to pull back your foreskin and clean that shit out. But it does make for a natural lubricant. Good for ass-fucking.” Eddie puffs on his cigar, guffaws loud and deep. “All right, Cheese. Get over there and give Cornhole the works.”
The sounds of a chimp screeching on a torture rack are hard to take. Chimp getting butt-fucked by dry cock makes it unbearable, and as Elrod tries to focus on the beautiful Raquel, he grunts at Eddie, “Drop that wall. How do you expect me to get off with my beauty queen when all that ugly stuff’s going on over there?”
“I don’t. Just wanted you to see it. Give you some satisfaction for all the grief…”
“Just shut it!” Elrod demands, and it is done. With chimp and Cheese out of sight, out of mind, Elrod Larson again concentrates on the euphoria of screwing Raquel Welch, sprays her with load number two a couple of minutes later. After coming down from his ecstatic high, he looks at Eddie, all five feet and five inches of him standing there with grinning teeth clamped to his cigar and stroking hand clamped to his pecker.
“Damn, Elrod. She is really something.”
“You said it, Eddie.”
“And you aren’t…” Eddie grunts, near climax. “Half… bad… yourself.” Gobs of come splatter the floor. “Ohhh, yeah!”
“Ok, Eddie, you’re one hell of an actor, but that part there I could’ve done without.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.”
“I forgive you, but come on, now. Let’s cut to the chase. Please tell me what’s going on here.”
“Fair enough. I guess you’ve earned an explanation, but first…” Eddie climbs onto the table, dangles his dick in front of Raquel’s face. “There you go, darling. Clean me up.” She greedily takes his pecker into her mouth, licks and swallows excess come from his corona and slit. And then, she disappears.
“Hey!” protests Elrod. “Where’d she go?”
“You’re done with her, aren’t you?”
“For now.”
“Ok, well, we can get her back whenever you want.”
“We?”
“Yes, we, but before I introduce you to us, I need to ask you something.”
“Ask it.”
“What made you think you could fill an inside straight on a two-card draw?”
“Well, shit. I do it all the time.”
“I know. You bet on it, but you never fill it. This time we saved you a wad of cash, didn’t we?”
Elrod closes his eyes, shakes his head, tries to figure how Eddie could possibly know that, tries to remember the last time he bet on such a low-percentage hand, tries to unravel the mystery of whether he’s dreaming or if… “Wait just a god damn minute. That’s exactly what I was doing when everything went dark on me.”
“And did you make the bet?”
“No. I woke up in some space ship with my poker buddies.”
“Here.”
“Right. So, where the hell is here?”
Eddie didn’t answer him. He leapt from the table and pressed his remote. As the lower half of Elrod’s torture rack returned to horizontal, so too did the black cables and their suctions cups just as they’d been before — clamped onto his feet, thighs, nuts, tits, biceps, and yes, his cock, in a state of limbo between full erection and totally limp.
“Geezuz H. Christ, man!” Elrod moaned, devastated that he was no better off now than before. “Enough with the mind games. Tell me why. Why am I here? What’s going to happen to me now?”
“Shut up and listen,” Eddie stood by the table to Elrod’s left. “Your poker buddies. Charlie McClain, Dick Foreman, Harry Askew and Claude Morrison. We only wanted Charlie, you and Claude, but since you were all together we had to take the five, intending to toss Harry and Dick back, which we did.”
“Toss. What do you mean by toss?”
“We sent them back.”
“Hey, Claude’s really here?”
“Sure.”
“Put him on the screen. Last I saw he was having one helluva time.”
“I’ll do you one better. Here.” Eddie punched his remote and the wall to Elrod’s right rises. There’s Claude. Naked. Stretched atop the mushroom pedestal with cables and suction cups attached in the same places as Elrod’s. Claude’s massive cock is pumping like crazy inside its milker. His eyes are closed. He’s sporting a huge grin while flexing his muscles, writhing and contorting like an electric eel.
“Man! He is feeling no pain,” Elrod is amazed with the way Claude’s carrying on, and even more astonished at the size of Claude’s unit. “What the hell is he thinking?”
“He’s right there. Ask him.”
“Claude! Hey, buddy, it’s me, Elrod. Claude, talk to me, man. What’s going on over there?”
Eddie poked Elrod’s temple with his finger, pointed to the movie panel above him.
“Holy, shit!” Elrod exclaims at the scene. Claude’s in the middle of a pro wrestling ring with ropes and a big crowd watching the festivities. Some guy’s holding him in a full nelson while laying on his back. Claude’s stretched out on top of him, stripped naked while another man stretches his legs and pins his ankles to the floor. Meanwhile, six women with humungous titties work him over. They’re punching him, putting claws to his pectorals and his belly, pinching on his tits while taking turns smothering his tongue-extended mouth with their boobs and stroking his massive cock with their pussies. Everybody in the ring’s naked. All the people in the crowd are clothed. The male spectators are screaming for somebody to stop the match, while the women are crying, begging for the villains to stop torturing their hero.
“Started out as a fair match,” Eddie explains. “Claude and his female partner versus another man and his. Next thing you know, Claude pissed off his partner and she turned on him. Before long, another man entered the ring with four more women and it was all over for your pal, Claude. He never had a chance.”
“Wow! Never knew he was so heavy into this wrestling thing.”
“Like he probably doesn’t know you’re so heavy into this medieval torture thing.”
“Ha, touchee!” Elrod watches as one female after another gets herself off on Claude’s mighty tool, glances over to Claude on the torture pedestal and sees his cock pumping another load into the tube. When he looks back to the mirror, no more film, just a mirror. “So, uh, I take it our thoughts created all this?”
“No. We did, based on what turns you on.”
“Ok. Who’s the we? And what’s the point?”
“Fuel, my friend.”
He pushes a button. Mirrored ceiling and walls rise, but at first it appears as though they remain. Elrod looks over his chest. Past his feet is another head, another and another and on to infinity. He arches his back. Another pair of feet, and countless more as far as he can see. To his left, table after table after table, same as his, with one panel above and cables dropping, suction cups clamped onto countless men. Not him, each man is different. Thousands, hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions of naked male humans bound same as Elrod. To his right past Claude, endless rows in three directions of different men sprawled atop mushroom pedestals. Same as Claude. Hooked up with the same kind of cables in all the same spots.
“Good god in heaven,” Elrod moans with dread. “What is this place? Some kind of hell?”
“Uh, we call it Myrion Station number six. Same as you call yours Don’s Texaco at 76th and Central Avenue.”
As Elrod looks past his panel three feet above him. Sees a clear dome arcing above and encompassing all. Beyond it, a night sky filled with stars. Inside the dome, cables from male cocks converge into bundles, each bundle running into huge metal boxes connected to metal poles suspended from higher elevations of the dome. They exit the other sides as one, bigger cable, each of those bigger cables converging to gigantic metal boxes and exiting as one humongous cable, and those exiting the dome at spaced intervals, in rows about one third of the way up between the top of the dome and the grated floor where countless human males are sprawled on tables. Bundles originating from Elrod’s dick and those like him on the flat tables veer toward and exit the dome’s half-sphere to his left; bundles from Claude and his pedestal companions to his right.
By his estimation, what Elrod can see of this operation is not even one-tenth of the entire. The dome under which he and those like him lay is vast, awe-inspiring, but most of all, intimidating.
His first reaction is to break free, but he knows that’s not happening. Besides, Elrod is numbed by the enormity of it — the dome, the operation, the numbers, his situation. He is one insignificant member in a giant colony of ants, a dome-capped, miniature civilization of helpless men whose minuscule world could be stomped upon and obliterated at any second. What would any of them do to save themselves if these aliens, or whatever it is that has created this world, decided they had no more use for it?
“Station number six, Eddie?” Elrod feebly asks, his eyes trying to absorb, his voice struggling to audibilize. “So, uh, there’s five more stations just like this one?”
“Five? Sure, Elrod, that’s about right.”
Elrod shudders at Eddie’s lie. Cringes to think there are more than six. Carries through with the ramifications of it. “But, Eddie, what’s going to happen to my wife and kids? Or for that matter, the human race? I mean, if all the men are here there’ll be no more reproduction on Earth and…”
“Now, Elrod,” he interrupts, places his hand on Elrod’s chest and pats it. “You just need to calm yourself down and listen. Let me explain it before you get yourself all depressed. Ok?”
“All right, Eddie.” The corners of Elrod’s eyes moisten as he closes them, wanting to see no more. Even tough guys like Elrod have their limits.
“First of all, the human race will be just fine. We duplicate each and every one of you. Of course, we’ve got to fill their ball sacs with your actual seed so they can reproduce. Otherwise, we’d keep your duplicates here and send you back to your family. That is the most time-consuming part of the entire operation, because most of you guys like to fuck every day.”
“Sometimes twice a day.”
“Shit, sometimes more than twice. Like your pal Claude over there, but anyway, maybe some day we’ll figure out how to correctly create both your pre-come lubrication and your actual seed. Then there will be no need for any of this.”
“Tell your scientists to hurry up.”
“Oh, believe me. We do.”
Elrod cracks his first smile since being hit with this mind-blowing reality. “Ok, Eddie, so I’m guessing our come runs your rocket ships. Right?”
“Ha! Rockets? Ok, Elrod. Close enough. Your semen makes our fuel, same as your planet’s oil makes gasoline. That’s why we need men like Claude, who can shoot gigantic loads multiple times with relatively short intervals between.”
“And me?”
“You, my prized possession, give us the element needed for time travel.”
“Holy crap! You’ve conquered time travel?”
“Yes. Unfortunately, the key ingredient on our planet cannot keep up with demand, and so we sent scout ships searching for that ingredient.”
“And I’ve got it?’
“Big time. Your pre-come is our magic, and brother, you drip like a leaky faucet.”
“Lucky me.” Elrod takes a deep breath, sighs, opens his eyes for another scan of his surroundings. “So, how did you know I was a good dribbler?”
“It’s not so much that you’re a dribbler. It’s the fact you like to make yourself wait. You enjoy torturing yourself until your nuts can’t hold any more. Until they’re ready to explode.”
“Ha! Guilty, as charged. All right, how did you know…”
“You fit the profile,” Eddie cuts him off. “Hard-bodied men is what works. Either athletes, or in your case, strength built from labor.”
“Working on the barge docks?”
“Exactly. And Claude?”
“Iron worker,” Elrod answers.
“While Charlie loads and off-loads truck trailers every day. Right, Elrod?”
“Yep, but Dick and Harry sit around in an office all day.”
“We know. That’s why they’re not in proper shape for this. Don’t give us the high-octane come. Don’t fit our needs.”
“Lucky them.”
“Look, Elrod,” happy for reason to change subject, Eddie points to night sky beyond the dome. “Here comes a fighter for refueling.”
Elrod watches in wonder, as a futuristic ship with blinking lights of emerald green and bright red approaches the dome. It hovers in mid-air to his left while a gigantic black hose rises from below and connects to a port on the ship. “Where’s the tank?”
“Look in your panel.”
His overhead mirror, seeming so tiny now, one of millions suspended from poles connected to the dome’s upper surface. An image appears in real time. Outside are rows of huge round tanks similar to those seen on Earth at oil refineries, but hundreds of times bigger. “He’s on my side. So he’s filling up with time-travel juice?”
“Correct.”
“Damn. Didn’t take him long.” Elrod gazes past the small panel to watch the real thing, as the hose disconnects and ship slowly lifts away from the tank. In a flash it is gone, leaving only the stars and moon of the night sky in view. “He didn’t need any gas, or, uh, semen?”
“He’s over there now. Look in your panel.”
“Yep. On Claude’s side. Right?”
“Right.”
“Hey, Eddie. That moon looks just like ours. Where the hell are we?”
“Earth.”
This doesn’t sit well with Elrod. In an explosive reaction of rage and fear, he violently strains to break free. “God damn you! You lying sack of shit. What have you done to us? Why? Tell me the truth of it, you rotten…”
Eddie, or whatever it is that represents Eddie, is forced to control Elrod with the cables, his remote sending signals to calm the human subject before he bloodies himself or damages muscles and tendons. “Ok, Elrod. Here’s where it gets tricky.”
Genuine tears blur Elrod’s vision, as the alien produces a cloth to dab them dry. He runs his Eddie fingers through Elrod’s hair, massages his chest, trying to soothe him while spilling it. “You created me because you admire me. Edward G. Robinson.”
“Yes, fearless little tough guy with a gun. Or a gentle, loving father like Martinius. Or clever crime solver like Barton Keyes. Eddie can do it all, and I enjoy every movie he’s ever done.”
“Oh, yeah? Wait until you see him… well, no matter. He’ll be dead eight years from now.”
“Thanks. Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Sorry. I got a little carried away there.”
“Well, what was with the orangutan shit? Did I create you like that, too?”
“That’s what you get for reading certain books.”
Elrod knew. The Planet of the Apes, written by Pierre Boulle and published two years prior. Elrod read it three months earlier and couldn’t get it out of his brain. “Ok, because I read the book about apes, I put myself in the book?”
“Your version of it. The irony is, your Mr. Boulle is, shall we say, in tune with the universe.”
“I’m listening.”
“Elrod, our scouts reported this planet was ruled by simian creatures, just like the book.”
“That’s bullshit. Man rules our planet. Apes are part of the animal world with limited intelligence compared to us.”
“Now they are, but when we arrived it was reversed.”
“What the hell? When you arrived?” Elrod closes his eyes tight, shakes his head to clear it. “You’re losing me.”
“Time travel. Remember? We got here in what you’d call the year 3219.”
“Christ almighty. This is driving me insane.”
“Think of the book, Elrod. You humans screwed it up, hundreds of your lifetimes later. And don’t ask me for details. Just know that when we got here, their society was just as described, except that baboons were the slaves, while what few of you humans remained ran around like savages. In tribes, living in the wild.”
“How did it happen?”
“I’m not telling you. It’s the baboons that produced what we needed, and the humans, but there weren’t enough of either species to do us much good.”
“So? How did we get to this?”
“We went back in time decade by decade. Discovered that humans once ruled, and then we pinpointed the generations with greatest numbers of producers, like you.”
“Lucky, fucking me. So, what about those chimps and gorillas torturing me and all that?”
“Those two chimps are real… or were. From the future. We let them think they still rule. Let them do their experiments, but if they cross us like those two did, well, we incorporate them into your revenge fantasies.”
“So, I did that to them?”
“No, we did, but we plucked the ideas from you when they were torturing you.”
“What about Claude? Was I watching his fantasies? Or my fantasies of how I wanted to see him?”
“A bit of both. You saw him here with you… in the pool when everybody scattered, him in his cave, the gorilla feast, but the cave fantasy with females is his, just like the wrestling.”
“And Charlie? How come I haven’t seen what he’s thinking?”
“Because you wouldn’t like it, nor would you like Charlie.”
“How come? What’s he in to? Eating shit? I mean, how bad could it be?”
“Just drop it, Elrod. I’m not going to tell you.”
“Pussy. Ok, fine, so I take it this is my future?”
“Until we figure out something better, yes.”
“Are you going to let me see what you really look like?”
“Oh, hell no! I’d scare the holy crap out of you.”
“Like you haven’t already.”
“Come on, now, Elrod. Is it really so bad? You can lay right here and create any scenario your heart and dick desires.”
“As long as I dribble.”
“Correct. And when you’ve decided you can’t take anymore, you’ll shoot your load and get yourself worked up for your next fantasy.”
“Who’s going to take care of me? Feed me? Keep my body from deteriorating? From getting sores laying here all the time? What about when I gotta shit or piss? Huh? Tell me that, genius?”
“I can’t believe you’re asking me all this. Don’t worry, pal. The cables will handle any problems you can come up with.”
“What if I ask them to just kill me and get it over with?”
“That’s not a problem. They’ll ignore you.”
“It ain’t fair.”
“Boo-fucking-hoo. That’s the way the universe works, Elrod. We’ve got the brains, so we’ve got the power. You might as well enjoy it, because you’re not going anywhere. Your pal Claude doesn’t seem to mind. Look at him.”
It is true. Claude continues to dream, flex, pose and pump out semen. Wholly content.
“Have you told him all this?”
“Yep. He said he’d rather fuck than get up and go to work every day. No more hassles. No stress of raising kids and paying bills and keeping the wife happy.”
“Hmm…” Elrod watches Claude in ecstasy, wonders what he’s thinking this time. “Show me what he’s up to.”
It’s a film packed with high drama. Claude — Tarzan. Tarzan captured. Taken to village. Tribe ruled by queen. Tribe all women. Man-hating, man-loving, naked women. Tarzan put on spit. Hands and feet tied to one side of pole. Rest of Tarzan other side. He stretched tight. Turned over flame. Round and round. His loin cloth burn away. He slick with sweat. He thrashed with sticks. He punched with fists. He laugh. Women like him better. He licked clean of wounds. He gang fucked. He laugh. Tarzan win.
“Oh, man, Eddie! That is hot,” Elrod’s belly jiggles. “I’ll have to try that one myself. What do you think?”
Eddie’s gone. There’s a new group of men targeted for transport. He’s setting up tables and cables and preparing to transform into whatever entity his new recruits want to see. Eddie’s one of thousands with a job to do, and Elrod will become one of Eddie’s best producers, eventually.
“Hmm…” Elrod closes his eyes. “Tarzan, huh? I wonder if there’s a Tarzan in South America. Ha! Sure there is, but over there they call him Elrod. Come on, you horny amazons. Show me what you’ve got.”
 
End of Eleven — End of story
 
Note from the editor’s desk: It should be obvious from reading this as to why Jasper decided to go off and write books instead of scripts. No movie producer would touch this malarkey, not even for a porno flick. I’ve also found in the archives of this here publication another reason Jasper’s no longer in Bunkerville. In 1965, one Jasper McCutcheon was run out of town for trying to slip mickeys into drinks at Marvin’s Tavern. Several men and women reported waking up in a cave tied to crosses or tables while some masked man did kinky things to their naked bodies.
Rather than giving him the tar and feather treatment, they told Jasper McCutcheon to get out of Bunkerville and never look back. That he did, but he never stopped writing. I know from reading that his most recent book has all kinds of scenes with men on crosses and evil women doing the nasty to ’em. He even recorded himself reading from that book. I listened to it myself on his web site, and Bunkervillians, I gotta tell you, your predecessors made a big mistake by not locking that man up and throwing away the key back when they had the chance.
Oh, well, too late now, but some day, Jasper McCutcheon is going down. And hard.
Jardonn Smith  
 

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