Guardians of the Last Jungle Ch. 02

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Every morning, Lunir was taken from her cage and put on a treadmill, or rather inside the thing—it was a large upright wheel of wooden slats, at least twice as tall as she was. The slats were not fitted snug, so she had to take care not to catch her toes in the gaps between them.

She didn’t actually tread inside the wheel. She had to run. She had to run as fast as she could.

The bottom of the wheel was connected through a series of rollers, gears and pulleys to a slim horizontal rod that projected through the middle of the wheel from the side, and was caused to rotate on its axis at the same time as the wheel, but at a significantly faster rate. This rolling rod was not centered in the space. It was mounted slightly lower and also offset closer toward the back half of the wheel than the front. So it was behind Lunir when she ran on the wheel, about even with her waist, and also with her wrists, since they were both tied together there with tight leather cord, trapped against the small of her back. From the end of the rod, perpendicular, dangled a flap of narrow white wood about as long as her forearm and shaped like the paddle of an oar, except it was probably too thin and flimsy to have been any use in water. Of course the rapid rotation of the rod in turn translated to equally rapid rotation of the paddle. It made whooshing and rattling noises as it whirled ’round and ’round, in a blur.

Lunir was still entirely nude when she ran within the wheel. She had to strain her legs with all her strength. She didn’t stay at the bottom of the wheel. She couldn’t. The whirling paddle—which she’d heard her captors refer to as the “agitator”—did not allow her to. She had to keep herself suspended on the upslope, the inner curve, maintaining her greatest possible speed. That wasn’t easy to do. Gravity and the implacable, ponderous momentum of the wheel itself fought against her the whole time, trying to carry her backward and downward. Lunir couldn’t let up her pace for an instant. Because that was the only way she could keep herself ahead of the paddle, just beyond its reach. If she slackened her effort in the slightest, even for a breath, the wheel punished her for it.

Her bare brown ass would meet the whirling paddle, defenseless against its sting. Its monotonous mechanical whoosh and rattle would be covered over with the echoing cracks of its brutal impacts against her soft and sensitive buttocks, and then would follow a high-pitched shriek or a wail, as well as laughter and jeers from her guards.

“Auughh! Nuuaahhuuhh!”

Whenever that happened-and as much as she obviously tried her damnedest to avoid such moments of faltering, they were not uncommon. Likewise, taking vicious hits of mechanized punishment across her naked bottom, over and over, was not at all an infrequent experience any longer for her—all she could do when it occurred was run faster again. She had to stay on the wheel and in motion and put up with her licks until a midsize sandglass drained itself, dangling from a post beside the treadmill which her guards would typically lean against as they watched her. She never learned exactly how much time the sandglass was made for. Felt like it lasted hours, from her perspective, or centuries. The actual measure was almost irrelevant. Especially since it was more accurate to say the exercise sessions weren’t done until the men noticed that the top bulb of the timer was empty and told her she could jump down. Often they didn’t pay close attention to it and they’d keep her running long after she was supposed to be finished; their gazes fixed too avidly on her sleek sweat-slick body. Her bouncing breasts. Her red-splotched bottom. If she was stupid enough to jump off the wheel before she was permitted, or if she tripped or collapsed on her face inside the wheel (thus temporarily escaping the paddle by being swept beneath it), she’d be made to run an additional full turn of the sandglass (or beyond). Also, at the end of the session she would be returned to her cage without her regular reward.

For if she completed the exercise without falling down or quitting from exhaustion or agony, she was rewarded. She’d been told she would be set free from the soldiers’ camp if she görükle escort ever completed a run without taking any hits from that insidious paddle. So far of course that hadn’t happened and it was very unlikely it ever would. Jace at her full strength might have managed the feat, eventually. Lunir knew she never would in a thousand years. Best she could do was put up with the strokes she received, whether it ended up being around half a dozen (the usual figure) or a much larger number. It didn’t seem to matter to the soldiers how many it was, big or small. Her daily reward didn’t change, so long as she completed the assigned task without resisting or complaining to them. She could scream as much as she wanted when the paddle hit her. They didn’t mind that-in fact she knew they enjoyed it. But if at the same time she cursed at them, or if she tried pleading with them for a break or a reprieve, that angered them. She’d forfeit her reward for that behavior, at the very least, and usually earn herself another round on the wheel even if she’d never quit or fallen.

Her reward was an orgasm, the only one she would usually be permitted in the course of the day. Soon as she got off the treadmill, her guards would lead her to a nearby patch of tall grass that seemed reserved for this specific purpose (most of the campground, which had existed in this spot for a considerable period, was trampled to bare dirt, but the grass in just that one area between the treadmill and the mess tent was lush and sweet-smelling, shaded by two small, crooked trees, and usually at that hour of the morning, still faintly moist with dew) where they would untie her hands, lay her down, and fuck her. The tallness of the grass afforded a small measure of privacy from the rest of the camp, or at least an illusion of it. This helped Lunir to completely abandon herself to the stimulation. While the sex lasted, she put the facts of her degrading captivity and subjugation out of her mind. Whatever positions they made use of her in, and regardless the number of partners included (general ranging from three to five), she mated with the men like an animal until the mating was complete, mindless of context and consequence, propelled solely by instinct and sensation. Almost, anyway. Her abandonment was never quite as complete as she tried to make it. Part of her deep down wouldn’t cooperate.

It stubbornly insisted on the terrible truth, a nagging whisper: “You are a sex slave. You are a filthy sex slave. You used to be a rather spoiled princess, and then you became an apprentice of the legendary Jungle Goddess to learn of magic and of sacred duty, yet here you are on your hands and knees, prickly shreds of grass stuck all over your skin and caught between your toes, reeking of sweat and of much worse things, with cocks in your mouth and up your butthole as far as they can reach. You let these men do this you day after day after day. You should fight them, but you don’t. You never even try. Because you don’t want to anymore. You like what they do to you. You love it!”

Well, yes. She couldn’t help it anymore. She had adapted. She accommodated her captors. It felt good to do that, anyway, too good, much too good, the things these men did to her. They made her come. She loved coming-nothing else felt as good as that, and in addition, took away all her bad feelings at the same time, all the bad feelings and bad memories she had ever had, if only for an instant-and this was the one moment in the day she was allowed to do it. It made up, while it lasted, more or less, for everything else that happened to her in this terrible place, everything else the men made her do. And if actually it didn’t—if under serious scrutiny the price she was made to continually pay for this brief pleasure, day after day, was really much too high, much too agonizing and shameful-there remained nothing she could do to change that fact.

The way things stood, her time in the grass was as good as things got. It was all she had to look forward to, anymore. Those times were precious to her. She would not permit her conscience to spoil them for her out of what amounted at this stage to little more than empty, shrill, impotent petulance.

There görükle escort bayan would be other sexual activities for her later on through the course of her day, though most of the time she spent in the kitchen tents, scrubbing bowls and pots and platters for hours. The soldiers generated enormous heaps of filth-encrusted crockery with every meal. Sometimes they seemed more pleased having her at the camp for that endless chore than for the rest of her duties.

Whenever she was finally done in there, and after she got her own small meal of bread and fruit, then she would be sent back to her cage, and there she would be visited periodically through the remainder of the day and at least half the night. Soldiers rarely came individually. Mostly they would show up outside the bars of her cell in groups of three to five, sharing a flask of wine. They tended to begin things by offering her a sip from it. They took offense if she refused, and were mean to her afterward, so she learned not to. If she accepted the drink when it was offered, the rest of the exchange would proceed smoothly. Provided she didn’t swallow too much of the wine. That they also took as an insult.

They never went into the cage with her; it wasn’t allowed. They stuck their cocks through the bars, and had her suck them off or use her hands on them, until they spurted. She always had to make sure when that happened that all their discharge landed on either her face or her breasts. She would be punished severely if she failed to do that. It was very important to the men. She didn’t entirely understand it. The men’s orgasms weren’t satisfying enough on their own. It was like they didn’t count unless a visible mark was inscribed upon her body, afterward. Proving that it had happened. Seeing that proof was vital. Proof of dominance, she supposed, and of triumph. Though they never lasted long. Those marks they took such bizarre pride in were nothing after all but splashes of white foamy slime which rapidly evaporated and left no substantial traces behind when they had, except for a faint sense of stickiness. That wasn’t permanent, either.

Some of her visitors, on occasion, not a great many but yet more than one might guess, asked her to use her feet to pleasure their cocks instead of anything else. Rubbing their cocks between her arches, or her toes. Those men tended to want to mark her feet as well, at the conclusion of the act, rather than the more common places.

The pleasure she gave the soldiers while she was in the cage, whatever the means they asked for, was not reciprocated. They weren’t allowed to properly fuck her. Even if and when she asked them to, or begged them to, her own excitement and craving for release triggered and heightened by theirs, so she would start to whimper and bend herself over in provocative poses, pressing her openings to the spaces between the bars so their cocks could have reached into her if they tried, none of them would do it. She wasn’t permitted to masturbate, either. Not while they were with her, nor while she was alone. A man always kept careful watch over her. If he caught her doing that, he’d go into the cage with a stick and give her a thrashing for it. That stick hurt her much worse than the paddle in the treadmill, when he struck her in the exact same spot.

She didn’t give him a reason to use it on her, after two early mistakes. She’d learned her lesson. She could only come when the men wanted to let her—and for reasons of her own, they didn’t want that to be often.

Probably the reason was very simple. The rarer it was, the more precious it became. The more she grew to crave it. Especially since she was kept stimulated so much. Not only when the men were making her pleasure them. Her captivity and the constant state of nudity and bondage that they kept her in, while all the while leering at her from all sides with lusty eyes-this in itself was enough to keep her aroused, and feverishly so. Her system could never settle down; it was never given the chance. Yes, even when all the men had her doing for them was washing pots in the kitchen tent, still her lust would not abate or scarcely ease. There would still be men around her while she worked, bursa escort watching her, admiring her, wanting her. She could never stop wondering about them, wondering what they were thinking … Though actually, in fact, there was no question what they were thinking. It was all she could think about, in turn.

Every moment of the day, her whole life, her whole world, had been reduced to sex. An unending yearning to come. When she did get to come, that didn’t stop the yearning. The desire wasn’t sated or eased. No matter how good it might be, the orgasm never lasted long enough, never quieted her. She just wanted another. Her very first thought, after a climax had faded, was dismay at the knowledge of how long she would have to wait for the next one. And how torturous that wait would be … although gradually those periods of torment began to become, in their own different fashion, strangely enjoyable themselves. Increasingly exciting, the simmering tension, the predatory desperation. She began to love the wait as strongly as she hated it. She began to savor the excruciating, drawn-out process. She admired the artistry of it. Her captors, her masters, they were as clever and disciplined as they were powerful and cruel.

She would close her eyes and stretch herself flat on her back across the dank, gritty stone floor of her cell, her arms over her head and clinging to the bottoms of the cage bars, and she would spread her knees as far apart as they could reach while at the same time pressing the soles of her feet together sideways as tight as she could squeeze them. The pressure there was good, comforting, as was the tingling burn of strain through the muscles of her arms and her legs. Then, without touching it at all because of her watcher, she would make her sex open and close itself as many times as she could, as fast as she could, using all her strength. Flexing the passage entire itself, internally. This was very pleasurable, the longer she kept going. Not enough to make her come-in fact it worsened her torment more than it eased it. But she would keep doing it anyway, moaning the whole time and moaning loud, not caring how pathetic she sounded, or perhaps instead enjoying how pathetic she sounded, taking paradoxical pride in it. The extraordinary untrammeled vulnerability and eroticism of her performance.

“I want to be fucked! I need it! I need to be fucked! Someone fuck me! Please oh please someone come in here and fuck me! Fuck me hard! Hard as you can! Fuck me to death! Please oh please oh please ohhooohhh!”

Her pleas were always ignored, pretty much. She would just go on and on like that until she exhausted herself and finally drifted off asleep. Even if men did come over before that, or woke her again before sunrise, they didn’t come into the cage like she asked-they didn’t give her what she begged for. They’d only let her jerk on them or suck on them in the established fashion, then they’d go. Most would thank her for it when her task was done, and often they would compliment her, too, but in ways that were more insulting than complimentary, whether they meant to or realized it or not. Most frequently they called her “a lovely beast” or “a beautiful bitch”. Or they’d say, “What a treasure.” “What a prize.” “What a catch.”

Soldiers weren’t allowed to visit her after midnight. From then ’til dawn, she was meant to have unbroken sleep, refreshing her energies for the next day’s service. For the most part, with little difficulty, that was exactly what she did. Despite the sexual desperation-a guarantee of insomnia for most, in ordinary circumstances—they’d have her plenty tired out by then. Her lust would affect her dreams, but wouldn’t keep her awake.

And the morning would come ’round again as it always does, and she would find herself back to the treadmill. Running, running, running ’til her heart and lungs felt like they wanted to explode from inside her, while her pounding legs were either going to snap off from her hips or burst into flames all the way down to their ankles. And she’d dare not stop or slow or stumble—or her ass would pay the price.


For her, the whole wretched camp was a larger, crueler treadmill, wasn’t it? She never got off that one. They’d never let her.

Where all this while was Jace? Clearly the Jungle Goddess was being put to much different use. They must have taken her actually inside the Bone Tower out of sight. What was she going through in there? Lunir couldn’t imagine.

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