Dar’s muscles flex and ripple as he sprints down the narrow island path to Moro’s jungle abode. Tao did not return, and the sun will soon set.  His rugged brow and square jaw is set with effort as he quickly yet cautiously makes his way toward the domain of Moro, a strange old island witchdoctor. He knows nothing of the old sorcerer, but he assumes the witchdoctor’s magic is formidable; and if this world mirrors his world, old age has made the old man quite treacherous. In retrospect, Dar knows now he was foolish to allow Tao to contact the witchdoctor alone, seeking information about the captive warriors held on this island!  

Dar soon comes within sight of the witchdoctor’s compound. The sun is barely still above the horizon as Dar trots into the crude jungle compound that is Moro’s island abode. The Beastmaster comes to a stop and takes stock of the sinister looking jungle venue. The witchdoctor’s domain turns out to be a small uninviting enclave cut out of the dense island jungle; it is strewn with litter of all sorts, cigar butts and empty Jack Daniels’ bottles. The compound consists of two dilapidated hunts, a low but large round stone fire pit, and some sort of strange ancient shrine built a very long time ago to honor some obscure god or deity.

Dar stands between the two ramshackle wooden huts, and uneasily spins around 180 degrees looking up and around, straining his keen senses to detect any sign of his companion Tao or for that matter anyone. He calls out his companion’s name several times with no response. He quickly searches the first hut which appears to be the old witchdoctor’s living quarters. Spread out on the hut’s dirt floor is a worn straw sleeping mat and other personal articles; stacked along the irregular walls of hut are a couple dozen cardboard boxes labeled Jack Daniels and a good number of smaller boxes filled with expensive Cuban cigars. No one is home.

Dar moves on. The second ramshackle hut is windowless. Dar parts the red beaded doorway with his staff and enters the darken hut. The only light streams in through the beaded doorway whose threshold he crossed. As Dar’s eyes adjust to the dimness, he finds the dark hut empty except for an odd-looking waist high iron barred cage only large enough for a man Dar’s size should he crouch down on his knees in the cage. The cage’s bars are rusty but thick and very sturdy looking; oddly there is a square window cut away from the bars on one side. The strange small iron cage is empty.

There are more empty whiskey bottles and cigar butts strew over the dirt floor. The small hut reeks with the stench of urine and feces! Dar thinks what kind of forsaken island is this! It was a big mistake to let Tao come here alone! Dar gags and covers his nose; the mighty Beastmaster dismisses the odd iron barred cage as no concern of his, and then disgustedly pushes his way back through the beaded doorway out into the jungle enclave for a breath of fresh air.   

Dar fills his lungs with fresh air. Dar is now very worried. It is getting darker and the ominous jungle din begins to rise along with the darkness. Dar anxiously shouts out again for Tao several more times; again no response. He hopefully turns his attention towards the rest of the jungle enclave that remains unsearched.

Dar moves towards the large perpetually burning fire pit in the center of the enclave. The flames begin to cast eerie shadows as twilight settles over the tropical island. On one side of the pit are a dozen or so open leather bags brimming with brightly colored powders of all different colors. The blazing fire pit is set before a long narrow stone slab, so that the pit and the slab form an exclamation point. Dar circles half the circumference fire pit and stands facing the crude altar guarded by tall obelisks on both sides, and a towering, grotesque stone statue at the far end. He soon realizes the waist high stone slab is obviously a sacrificial altar of sort, as it is large enough for a man Dar’s size to lie on outstretched. The tall ornately carved stone obelisks rise along both sides of the slab then angle toward a large seemingly watchful stone statue that overlooks the stone slab. Long, thick hearty jungle vines with green lush leaves interweave and then hang down over the tall obelisks.

Dar clutches his staff in both hands and slowly enters the area of the strange shrine. A heavy silence seems to permeate the surroundings. The Beastmaster slowly walks around the slab altar taking note of the strange symbols carved into the towering stone obelisks. Dar stops before the taller than man stone statue that looms over him, and looks upwards clutching his staff lengthwise before his bare chest. The statue is hideous and voracious! Dar swallows hard for the statues’ evil eyes seem to fix directly on him! He turns away and examines the waist high flat stone slab laid out before him. Dar shudders when he notices red stains spattered on the rough-hewn slab. Dar quickly completes his revolution of the stone altar, and stops at its end with his back turned away. 

It is nearly dark, and Dar contemplates what to do next; he is startled as he feels a stinging pain in his neck! He releases his staff letting it fall to the ground; Dar instinctively clutches at a drug tipped dart embedded into his bruised flesh. He pulls the projectile out and angrily throws it to the ground. But not before the dart has dispensed it’s already quick-acting drug. Dar’s muscles tingle and he feels light headed! Dar knows what is affecting him — a light narcotic. It does not put the victim to sleep; it merely paralyzes him for a very short period of time. While the mind remains completely aware, the victim has no control at all over his body. Dar raises his hands to sides of his head as a wave of dizziness sweeps over him.  In terrible alarm—who has done this—he suddenly experiences a total loss of his motor skills.  In a half spin, Dar slumps heavily back and onto the stone slab positioned directly behind him. The paralysis leaves the strapping Beastmaster lying face up on the stone, with his legs spread open hanging over the end of the strange altar. The short leather strips attached to his athletic waist become disheveled and separate exposing the ample lower curves of his barely covered buttocks.

Old Moro then, silent as a ghost, steps from his hiding place at the jungle’s edge and approaches his helpless prey slumped over the end of the stone altar. Moro’s dark skin is covered with strange symbols painted in bright blue paint. The gloating old man has a pot belly and carries a staff adorned with a human skull. He is a short and wears only a grass skirt. He has a bone running through his nose and his bald head is crowned with a complicated multi colored feather headdress. “What… do you… want… with me… old man?” stutters Dar anxiously at the closing in of the man. Dar struggles to retain his senses, stand upright in defense, but finds he can no longer move his unresponsive extremities.  

The old man sneers, “You… big White Warrior… you no welcome here! White Warrior kill me… then steal from Moro!”

Dar protests, “No! I… am Dar… the Beastmaster! I… am… looking for my friend, Tao. He came here seeking the wise counsel of Moro, the island witchdoctor! I swear!” Knowing he is in deep trouble, if he cannot appease this threatening apparition.

Moro shakes his staff angrily in reply. “You speak false, White Warrior! You two come to kill Moro, and steal big magic secrets… Moro’s big magic! Now… Moro punish big White Warrior! Now, you never leave here! You should no come here! No come here!”

“Y-you will… n-never hold me here… long… old man. I, too, have…. magic!  Where… where is Tao…?” mumbles Dar as his words trail off. Dar can no longer speak; his head rolls to one side,  his blue eyes fearfully wide open as the crippling paralysis spreads to his head!

Moro gestures with his staff to someone out of Dar’s line of sight. Old Moro circles the slab spryly, sizing up the Beastmaster, taking note of his impressive, powerful young body with a fair complexion, handsome facial features, blond hair, and blue eyes. Dar can only watch helplessly as Tao enters his line of sight carrying a tray bearing an odd goblet, a vial of oil, dried herbs and a ceremonial dagger. Tao has suffered the same mind-breaking fate as did Peter Parker, aka Spider-man, a continent away. Dar’s young companion’s eyes are caged and glazed over; his expression is vacant. Tao robotically stands indifferently near his older friend, holding the tray of diabolic magical instruments, soon to be used to cast an evil spell on his doomed companion!

“Moro know you too strong and young, for old man like me to keep prisoner… Moro will cast big magic spell to make slave to me!” promises the old man. The drug induced paralysis holds an iron grip on the powerful young man slumped over the end of the witchdoctor’s altar. Moro’s dark, long probing fingers begin to fumble with the clasp that holds the leather waist garment around Dar’s fit waist! Dar’s stomach instinctively churns in disgust and horror at the invasion. He cannot utter a protest! Try as he may, the mighty Dar cannot shake the paralysis that has seized his strapping young body, to fend off the molestation that he fears is forthcoming. Moro’s finally manages to unclasp Dar’s waist garment and spreads the kilt made of leather straps exposing Dar’s impressive equipment, prominently contained in his silk under-sheath.

Dar’s mind no longer has any doubts as to what the witchdoctor has in store for him; he quickly realizes these roaming, native’s gnarled hands are touching him in a way that one might touch a woman! How was it possible that such a wizened old man would touch another stalwart, younger male this way? The very concept made him want to retch… as the old man’s clammy extremities continued to lovingly cup his firm round buttocks, and then roam upwards unchecked over his well-defined six pack abdominals, stopping when they reach his large pectoral muscles. The rancid, oiled smell of him, sickening and close. Prodding at his sensitive, largely extended nipples, causing his torso to arch, a moan to escape his inner being involuntarily… then down to the treasure of his quickening malehood. He tries to squirm urgently, in pure dismay. Powerless.

The witchdoctor grins wickedly, licking his cracked and dried lips; he pulls and yanks the leather waist protection completely off the constrained muscleman with one tug.  Then, baring the young stalwart completely, rips away his silken under covering.  Reverently, Moro holds the straps of soft, pouch-stretched garment over his face, and inhales the masculine, musky aroma deeply. He then slowly licks into the curve-marked container of the youth’s endowment, his dark tongue seeming to slither and explore the material, and finally slips it over his head… as he also does with the stolen leather-strapped kilt. Moro grins and ties Dar’s leather waist garment around his neck and wears it in the fashion of a cape—a trophy of the young man he has defeated and will soon own, he knows. Who stares up at him with worse than growing apprehension: an unalterable rising panic.

Then, the old witchdoctor very carefully picks up Dar’s longly thick, white cock (exceeding his own wrinkled dark one, an unusually impressive appendage itself, but not by much), handling his new possession with awe and wonderment, his bony brown-black hand enjoying its heaviness, and already semi-aroused swelling, and begins to stroke it lightly for a few seconds. Old depraved Moro leans in close and whispers tauntingly, “You should no come to my domain, white boy… ah… “Beastmaster.” Soon you be slave, like friend, Tao! Why Island Bill be master of so many?  Even great Superman, whom I bring down for his pleasure—. Moro, too, need pleasure! Private, for his own. You here. Big, too….”

The witchdoctor begins to shiver with the excitement at the thought of possessing and mastering such a powerfully built White Warrior… a slave that will perform for him ever sexually, with such fine equipment! And as well, able to do much heavy lifting! Island Bill need not know; at least not soon. How easily he defeat this mighty Beastmaster from far away world (like even mightier Big Blue one, called Superman—who also dare step into his domain uninvited!) So brash, so bold, so proud, confident man! Now weak as young girl! Moro further, both surprised and delighted, as he discovers through thorough physical investigation, there is nothing on Dar’s body that is in any way soft. Every muscle is so hard and defined, even Dar’s buttocks… no, especially the buttocks!… did not give inch to the touch. Each cheek so hard, so strong—like fondling smooth, heated rock. No wonder he a mighty warrior-champion of his world. Or was.

As Dar languishes on the slab completely powerless to deflect the old man’s perverted advances, all doubt is removed from his dread-filled mind of the fate Moro has in store for him if he cannot call back control of his body. He strains his mind to command his muscles, but the dart’s powerful drug still holds him fast! The shame of being so easily defeated, and now molested by this old perverted witchdoctor is more than his pride can bear: he tremors, and a single tear of disgrace runs down his fair cheek. What would they say of him in his home-world—the renowned Dar (Beastmaster of most powerful creatures)—FAILED—conquered in a strange and different place, and by a wizened, puny old man!!

Moro is suddenly aware of the need for haste… soon the drug will wear off! The witchdoctor reluctantly unhands his new muscle toy for the moment. It is time now to cast his spell that will enslave the mighty Beastmaster!

Dar’s mind races… paralyzed, slumped on the altar; Dar fully understands that unless he escapes very soon, he may well remain in the old witchdoctor’s control for the rest of his manly life!  Dar redoubles his efforts and begins mustering all the mental strength he can bring to bear, to break the crippling paralysis, and mete out swift justice to this decrepit, perverted magic man! He manages to touch the carved amulet fastened around his neck. Receives what he needs.

Moro smiles wickedly, and he moves with swift determination towards Tao and the tray of magic implements and ingredients needed to begin casting his mind-breaking spell. But Moro suddenly finds himself laying in the dust several feet away—his mind reeling from the devastating blow that had sent him there. He looks up and sees Dar is free of the paralysis!

Dar is naked, standing upright on the altar, wearing only his leather boots and wrist gauntlets. His handsome head is thrown back proudly, and his huge fists are clenched tightly in anger at having been captured, humiliated and violated by a sniveling old man. It was time for this witchdoctor to pay for what he has done… to Tao and to him! He rubs at the amulet still around his neck, that which gives him an additional source of power and strength. Gift of the Seeress from his world.

Moro is startled beyond words, and fearfully struggles into a groveling, crouching position; the witchdoctor reaches out and instinctively retrieves his staff as his mind races. Because he could not contain his lust for the young man’s body, he might not only lose this Adonis but probably his life as well. The witchdoctor senses there is one last chance to ensnare and capture Dar, the Beastmaster, but he needs time to gather his composure. Dar is free from the crippling paralysis, but his movements are still slightly slowed. The drug has not completely worn off.

Moro gets on his knees, clutches his staff, and cleverly grovels as he pleads. “Please… oh, mighty Beastmaster,” begs Moro, trying to buy precious time. “I so sorry… I free your friend’s mind. Spare, with mercy. I help you free many White Warriors Island Boss Bill keeps in brig! Please do not hurt old, lonely Moro. You, you young… you handsome… I, old and ugly! Very weak.”

Dar puts his clenched fists on his bare hips and hesitates for a very long moment, shifting his nude body’s muscle weight from boot to boot as he considers mercy for the old pervert. “If you free Tao, and tell me all you know of the prisoners the fat man keeps… I might… might spare your pathetic life, old man. I am just, and fair. And… I’ll have my waist garments back, too,” demands Dar—realizing he is standing on the witchdoctor’s altar, still vulnerable and naked.”

While Dar considers Moro’s plea for mercy, the deviant witchdoctor uses the precious time to concoct an evil and reverse, “dark Hail Mary spell,” to use as a counterstrike against the young muscleman!  Moro is now ready to bring down the stalwart, stronger man, and he strikes hard! The old witchdoctor hugs his staff and begins to softly chant an almost inaudible spell in an ancient dialect, he hopes is strong enough to subjugate the Beastmaster.

Dar smiles with unabashed satisfaction at the witchdoctor he has bested, mumbling incoherently, cringing in fear on his knees below him. Suddenly without warning, and from behind him, a thick, leafy whip-like vine, hanging from over one of the stone obelisks, lashes out and wraps itself quickly around Dar’s thick wrist and bulging forearm encased in his elbow-length gauntlet!

Caught completely off-guard, no time to react with a counter-measure, seeking the aid of his own neck amulet—the vine pulls at him hard! Before he can absorb his danger, in moments Dar’s other arm is ensnared too, snapped backwards and restrained tightly in the same manner, by another vine seemingly to appear from nowhere! Dar braces himself and stands naked on the altar; he struggles mightily, but the thin-evil jungle vines are too strong for the drugged hero. Another single vine lashes out and wraps tightly around Dar’s strong neck, forming a collar and leash! Dar gasps out loudly—in betrayal and desperation, and grunts as the ensnaring vine collar grips firmly around his neck, reducing the strapping young man’s supply of air! Two more thick jungle vines lash out and coil tightly around the ankles of Dar’s dark leather boots. The vines then contract backwards, yanking the well-muscled man completely helpless and off his feet onto his back. The vines quickly stretch Dar out onto the witchdoctor’s sacrificial stone altar.

“Woooo-hoooo-ooooh-ooooo-ooooohhhh!” croons the old witchdoctor, eerily; confidently.

Dar finds himself once again face up, on and across the cold stone; only this time his powerful arms and legs are painfully spread-eagled to the far corners of the altar. Dar pulls his arms mightily, crunching his chest, forcing his heaving pectoral muscles together and upwards. Uselessly. His bare buttocks and legs rub against the rough-hewn stone, as he thrashes and squirms, twisting desperately, trying to snap the gnarled, bewitched jungle vines that restrain him naked on the evil witchdoctor’s altar. The luscious, cably-strong vines tighten in unison, nearly strangling Dar, and pulling his extremities towards the corners of Moro’s altar until he can no longer move! As Dar still tries to resist, another ensnaring vine snakes out and wraps around his athletic waist, and then dives between his ass cheeks, and loops tightly around his prodigious ball sac… then crimps it like the bit in a stallion’s mouth, as if demanding, “Woe big-fella!” Dar immediately heels like an animal on a choker chain-leash, hopelessly bound.

Cautiously, Moro rises from his knees clutching his staff, and then moves towards the helpless beefcake morsel laid out on the slab. The drug still has sufficient hold on Dar that he is unable to break the clinging jungle vines; which he might otherwise in his full strength have been able to do. Moro savors the sight on the stone altar stretched before him! Dar’s amulet necklace, boots and arm gauntlets accentuate his nudity. His sheen-strained musculature, his genitals, his nipples: a view for anyone appreciative of such startling beauty rarely seen.  

“You stupid… you should have killed me when you could… you weak… show justice, show mercy… hah! Only fool!” sneers Moro. Moro sets down his staff; one of his bony, spider-like hands begins to move up Dar’s rippling abdominals, savoring, pausing; then further to the ridges of the heaving pecs. and cruelly pinches one of his grape-sized nipples—as the other hand must now quickly wipe the gob of spit Dar has spewed into the witchdoctor’s face.

Dar jerks frantically at the vines, and hollers, “You sick, withered old freak! I WILL KILL YOU FOR THIS PERVERSION, OLD MAN!!”

“No think so. You be quiet now, boy!” replies Moro casually. “MINE! No more own man.” Another vine suddenly flashes out and quickly encircles Dar’s handsome head, running over his mouth and between his bright white teeth; the vine contracts firmly, effectively gagging the futilely angry, yet no less terrified muscleman, and preventing him any further verbal outbursts! 

 “Moro begin spell.” Moro plants his skull adorned staff firmly in the ground before the stone altar. The gagged, naked muscleman grunts loudly through the rough vine drawn tight between his teeth. His mighty chest heaves up and down rapidly, his large biceps flex impressively, as his big muscles expand and contract, desperately trying to snap the bewitched vines that secure him! Try as he may, Dar cannot break the steel-hearty jungle vines. Moro stares with growing lust at the helpless young strongman futilely struggling; the old witchdoctor savors the sight for a few moments. Moro then motions to Tao, who has done nothing to aid his once friend. Dar’s now spellbound friend approaches the altar and robotically sets down the tray laden with the instruments of black magic paraphernalia between Dar’s bare legs, which are spread and restrained wide apart.

Moro claps his dark hands together; Tao turns indifferently and moves towards a very crude waist-high drum. Tao stands behind the drum and begins beating the drum slowly with alternating hands. The sun has fully set; the only illumination comes from the blazing fire pit before the stone shrine bearing the captive Dar. The roaring flames cast an eerie reddish-orange glow on the tall stone obelisks and grotesque stone face of the malevolent deity that comprises the shrine… committed to sexual debauchery and depraved wickedness! 

The sound of the beating drum continues in the background; Moro reaches for Dar’s throat and grabs the magic amulet that hangs from the helpless Beastmaster’s neck. The witchdoctor pulls hard, snapping the leather cord freeing the amulet. Dar strains and raises his head off the slab and looks down his sculpted chest, his frightened eyes following the ancient artifact. It is the last hope of his power, his tie to his home and safety. Moro hurls the amulet into the fire pit to be consumed by the flames.  

Dar garble-screams in hopeless anguish.  Moro then scurries about to spryly scoop up Dar’s discarded staff, and casts it too into the roaring flames! Dar’s wails of panic and protest are reduced to muffled whimpers by the thick vine gagging him; he can only look on in pure horror and disbelief as his precious magical implements are incinerated… dispersing the Beastmaster’s power back into the void to be claimed by another warrior.

Moro begins to chant in an unfamiliar dialect as he removes a feather from his headdress. He dips the feather into a vial of pungent oil resting on the tray Tao has set on the slab. Moro then begins to paint Dar’s straining muscles using the feather. The feather tickles as it brushes over Dar’s unprotected rib cage, continuing along the obliques and down to further tease at Dar’s stirring cock. Moro continues to spread oil liberally all over the helpless young strongman’s forehead and face, his neck and shoulders; his biceps, triceps, forearms; pectorals, abdominals genitals; thighs and calf muscles. To Dar’s shame, the sensation of the warming, tingly lubrication causes his cock to stir and then stiffen. Seconds later, his manly pride becomes rock hard as he lays helplessly restrained at the mercy of the perverse old witchdoctor… his copious pre-cum begins to flow and river forth from his turgid glans, while Moro continues, anointing his treasured ball sack with oil. Tears well up in Dar’s eyes; he knows when his ejaculate erupts, he will belong to the hateful witchdoctor, who has vanquished hm. His terror mounts, and yet he is beginning to become enclosed in a supernatural peace; indescribable, inevitable. His senses drifting. The feather now caressing only at his nipples… over and over and over. His prayer to his gods seems vacant and unreal.  He feels the rise of his semen about to spew forth. He moans hopelessly from deep within him—his great body involuntarily cuts loose.  It is a long and slow and encompassing surrender… his seed taken by another. His eyes close.  He remembers no more.

************************************************************************

Early the next morning the first rays of the sun breech the darkness, chasing away the shadows illuminating the shrine. Moro’s enslavement spell is finished. The young naked strongman is now completely in bonds to the witchdoctor; Dar lies motionless on the slab still tightly restrained spread-eagled by the debilitating jungle vines. The ceremonial oil the witchdoctor spread liberally over Dar’s powerful young body has dissipated—absorbed into his fair skin. The fallen Beastmaster’s blue eyes are open, but are hazed and glazed over. The once bright clear blue luster of his eyes has faded and is now dull, as if Dar’s spirit or free will has been stripped away from him…as indeed it has!

Tao is fast asleep, his head lying craned across the top of the silent drum oblivious to his once best friend’s enslavement. Moro sits crossed legged before the shrine Dar lies outstretched upon in a trance, mumbling in a strange ancient dialect as he has since midnight. As the sun’s rays brighten, having cleared the jungle horizon Moro awakens from his trance and silently rises. Moro stands beside his staff planted in the ground before the shrine and chants a short spell.

Immediately the thick lush vines slowly loosen and then unravel, freeing the White Warrior’s body… his muscular thick wrists, ankles, waist, head and private parts… retreating back to hang harmlessly again over the stone obelisks. The wizened old witchdoctor grins displaying his missing teeth. He commands imperiously, “Get up!”

Dar robotically sits up and pulls himself off the stone slab, lightly bounding down to the ground to stand before his smaller master. Dar stands obediently before Moro, staring straight ahead, clad only in his calf-high boots and elbow-length gauntlets that accentuate his still wondrous nakedness. Standing tall and silent, Dar’s thick-thrust chest, tucked waist, heavily hung genitals, finely developed limbs are beyond anything known on the island (save for the still spectacular, hooded Superman, and the demoralized Batman, the wilt-fading Tarzan; who belong to Island Boss Bill). However, Dar is his! Moro shivers slightly as he again appraises the strapping young Adonis he has mastered with black magic. Moro will wait no longer to experience his delicious prize, standing conquered, yet unrestrained before him! With no hope of escape. He gestures to the windowless hut containing the low iron cage, and commands coldly, “Get in pen!”

Dar instantly responds in a monotone voice, “Yes, master.”

Robbed of his freewill, the strapping young muscleman walks naked towards the hut containing his iron pen. Dar spreads apart the beaded door with his tall muscular body, and enters the stinking ram-shackled squalor. Inside, Dar faces the iron cage; Moro stands in the doorway grinning triumphantly, patiently waiting for the big strapping man to willingly enter the pen. Dar lifts and opens the top of the low iron cage that serves as the cage’s door. Dar obediently steps over the threshold of thick bars and onto the cage’s dirty diamond-patterned floor.

Eyes dulled and glazed over, Dar falls down to both knees within the small cage; he crouches low, compressing his broadly-thick chest and shoulders over his powerful thighs pushing his face towards the cage floor. It’s a tight fit for a man of Dar’s impressive, muscular build but he squeezes in… barely. The fallen hero remains obediently crouched and low-folded, waiting to be locked into his iron pen.

The uncomfortable position leaves the mindless muscleman’s ass-crack pressed tight against a window-like opening at one end of the iron cage, granting easy accessibility to any pervert. (Moro knows he can only keep his prize for a short time in such a way, else the cut-off circulation to his legs could kill, or cripple his masterpiece permanently. But this will do momentarily.) Moro approaches the cage and looks down at his cowed young stalwart, hunkered down in the small confining space. Moro raises the upper cage door and lets it slam, closing the hatch, containing his trophy: Dar, the famed Beastmaster of Kreel! The witchdoctor slides the cage door’s restraining bolt locking Dar in his pen. Then goes to open the smaller-end aperture.  There is a soft rustling sound as Moro moves closer… drops his grass skirt to the dirt floor.

He will make his mastery known—“mount” his trophy!

The young, raped muscleman inadvertently screams, at first… grips hard with his fists on the bars in front of him. His cries fading gradually; soon his moans are softened, deepening. “Yes, master… yes, master. Yes.  Ahhhh-ah—oohh! OHHHH!!!!” Only this time, now his second, in a different position—his beautiful, stolen rich seed, spills hopelessly, abundantly between his own thighs, onto his chest and face, and across the floor. His master has mastered him. He sighs and groans, content… man-conquered as never before. And forever shall be.

Old Moro is pleased.

To be continued….