The Mate of TarzanbySpaceToast©
Edgar Rice Burroughs belongs to a select club of writers who dug so deeply into their reader's base desires as to come up with something primal, and profound. Such a creation is Tarzan, a character who so logically straddles the human and animal worlds as to cast doubt on their very separation. Burroughs couldn't get away with written sex, in the early 20th Century, but the implication is never far from the surface in his books. After all, what more basic fantasy do we have? If you'd like to know more about Burroughs, I recommend Tarzan of the Internet for the full text of the first nine novels, or simply taking a trip to your local used book seller.
She turned back with a smile, sitting on all fours, presenting her rump to him. With a squeeze, her lips came apart. Moisture glistened between them. He took her hips, finding her opening, and sank his broad dick into her insides.
She cried out dimly; behind her, his jungle groan rent the afternoon stillness. She became aware of a cache of small, round pebbles under her hand. He slid out and pressed in again, deeper, and she lost her thought's thread for a moment. It felt so good. Pebbles, she dimly remembered. No. What was the word? P- Pearls. What were those for?
He hurled himself against her, again and again. The humours coursed into her vagina, and thus away from her brain. She dug her heels in. Her toes and long fingers grasped deep into the springy undergrowth. His great hands dug into the sides of her buttocks. He vocalized. His tip bumped her cervix. He grabbed at her hair, pulling her head to one side. She cried out with more desire than pain. He let go.
Her head lolled to the ground, as he increased in intensity. The wet slapping sounds were too much for her. Inside, she grasped his dick even tighter, thrusting her hips back at his. Her head flopped around like a rag doll's. The wild canopy of trees swung around her before she planted her face on the ground, sliding back and forth on the undergrowth. He flattened the rest of her body. His weight came down on top of her. She heard his deep, forge-bellows breathing, directly beside her ear, and felt the intensity of his dick impaling her.
Her ears had closed, and the world had stopped by the time he came, filling her inside with seed, and giving out a booming jungle cry.
The two lay panting for a moment. It wasn't long before he stirred, and rose off her. She rolled over and sat propped on her hands, with her legs akimbo, letting him see what he'd done. She glanced first to her pussy, where the whitish semen was beginning to run out, and then looked at him with a wet, wild expression like that of astonishment.
Afterward, it was time for a climbing lesson. She climbed up the trees like she had as a girl (...where?), only much faster, her fear of falling now correctly displaced by the desire to go where she would. Of course, he climbed much faster, and must have thought her a weakling, but she was learning.
Only at swimming could she exceed him. The wild man swam in an improvised doggie-paddle, but while he was powerful, her refined technique won the laps. He was beginning to learn from her however, and soon the water too would fall under his domain.
As evening fell, he produced some fruits for her. He also had caught some meat, but didn't seem sure that she'd want it for some reason. She took a strip from it with her dull incisors, and grinned up at him like a puppy. It was good meat.
In the night, she awoke. His warm body was spooned safely against her. She could feel his penis rubbing on her bottom, growing larger as it went. His broad hand rubbed against her stomach, then up across to her breasts.
Still sore, she decided to suckle him. Her mouth found his dick willing, pumping sleepily into her mouth. She drew it out, and licked all up, down and around it. He moaned deeply. She closed her lips around his head and continued to suck.
A thought drew hesitantly into her head. Who was she? Well that seemed obvious enough. His hands closed into her hair, and around her scalp. It felt good. No, who was she... before? He bucked involuntarily, and his head went too deep down her throat. She coughed, taking it in both hands to keep it from going too far past her lips. She was... Jane... Por-ter. Jane Porter.
And all at once it came back to her. The terrifying flight through the jungle, borne over his shoulder. Landing in the natural amphitheatre inside the heavy thicket. "Nice jungle man. We mustn't do that!" she said as he paced toward her, a large erection hanging from his naked frame.
He caught her, and pulled at her pants. The expensive imported belt broke at its buckle. She knew, if vaguely, what was about to happen, and prayed to God with every prayer she'd ever said. "No!" she gasped. Her underwear was torn away. The savage pulled the patent-leather boots off her feet and threw them away. She covered her face with her hands. "No. No. No no no. Please no!" She shook, crying. He pulled her canvas pants off, the ones with all the little pockets -- pockets containing a compass, a canteen, a pen knife, her sketch book, dried fruit, charcoals, a whistle... her letter to Hazel....
He pulled her toward him. She slapped at his chest pathetically, then clawed at him, with the once slender nails that the expedition had demanded cutting. She pushed him away, screaming wildly now. He grabbed her arms as if their full strength were a kitten's, and began to mount her.
Her body knew what to expect; already she was wet. With humiliatingly little resistance, his shaft slid into her body. Her taut birth canal struggled to accommodate all of him. She gasped, and was stunned for a moment.
The savage man began tugging at her collar. Thoughts returned, but faintly, like sounds on a breezy night. What would Hazel think? He pulled the locket from her neck, and snapped the chain of thin pearls. Imagine her mother's humiliation... The buttons of the loose expedition shirt popped apart. Her tight breasts were only an undershirt away; he ripped the second shirt off, over her head. Pins began to come loose, as the tie of fabric fell from her hair. His thrusts slowed momentarily, as he curiously pulled her long brown hair from the little things imprisoning it.
She was naked. Completely. Alone, and afraid, a white savage fucking her young pussy. Even the tears had stopped. She shut her eyes tightly, rocking back and forth on the jungle undergrowth. Faintly she spoke, the words holding little meaning, "stop... stop...." His big hands were on her ribcage. His thumbs squeezed at her nipples. She became aware of her own breathing. Slowly, in her mind, the layers of civilization were fucked away from her. She slid backward and foreword, squeezing her legs, her hips rocking upward as his met hers. She had butterflies in her stomach, tensing in rhythm. "Stop..." she repeated, the word encasing no meaning. "Yes... d- ma-" Words became sounds, as his fucking started to go deeper, holding longer in her depths. She groaned and yelped primitively, clawing his back.
His grunts rose in pitch and became frighteningly desperate as he bucked, and then released into her. She felt a new sensation, as his sperm burst against her insides. He spasmed, and she held on with inhuman resolve, crying out as her body reached its own crisis and a dense fog overcame all knowing.
He came into her mouth, pulling at her hair in his bliss, but she was tough. She swallowed it, and licked him affectionately as she thought.
She drew her body up along his, and looked into his intelligent gray eyes. She stared for a long while, and then did something she hadn't for some time. She cried. Not much, and not for long, but she did.
In the morning, a decision was made. As her lover, in the jungle, he understood, and was saddened. She had to go back.
The jungle canopy, borne by him, would be the fastest way. But first, she needed to do something only a civilized person could. She pointed to herself, and said slowly and carefully, "Jane." Then she took her hand, tapped on his sternum, and said aloud the name she'd been formulating for him since the night before: "Tarzan."