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A Darker Disney

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There was a light breeze that morning, and the jungle was already alive with sound. A light mist hung around the trees and filtered light wafted to the jungle floor, where a man stalked. He slowly advanced, his legs roped with sinewy muscle as they supported him from his low squat. His feet were at once masculine, muscled and calloused and broad, and delicate, finding each foothold carefully, caressing branches that might break and give away his position. His arms reached down past his coarse loin cloth, his hands joining his feet in propelling him carefully forward. Everything of his gait seemed like an ape’s-- but an ape with a crude spear strapped to his otherwise bare back.

Above the scent of the light perspiration beading across his lithe body, above the faint blooms of flowers and earthy decay of the soil beneath his feet, he smelled something familiar. Something familiar, but out of place. Something he thought he had killed.
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Clayton felt he had chosen the wrong profession. He was skilled and capable, but he hated the bush. No sooner did one bathe (as he just had in the river by camp) than he immediately began to sweat again. Basic amenities, and the luxury ones he preferred, had to be carried from place to place, preferably by a team of willing servants. He had no servants this time-- no one at all, in fact, besides a few flea-bitten mules. He had to travel lighter than in his last journey, which made it all the more unpleasant. Then again, all of the months of planning and packing and training for that last trip hadn't saved his neck. Literally.

He was indignant to have died. He was a perfect specimen of manhood; a British adventurer's dream. When he was given the chance to reverse his odds by that god of death, he hadn't needed a second to consider his choices. He sprang into action.

And so here he was, six weeks later, bathing in a godforsaken river with a fraction of his gear that he recovered from the nearest outpost. Rather than deal with the bulk of a full tent he had rigged up a canvas tarp overhead. There was another tarp set on the ground for a floor, and a foldable table, an easel, and a lone chair. He grabbed the towel draped over the back of the chair and wrapped it tightly around his waist as he proceeded to the back of his quarters. Bags strewn about contained supplies for the expedition: standard camp foods, hunting gear, and medical equipment.

There was far more medical equipment than usual. Outside of his standard kit, every other bag was loaded with syringes. It had taken him over 10 days of hard bushwacking to get here, and he couldn't afford to risk his catch awakening and escaping during the hike out. The tranquilizers were fast acting, but fast to fade, too. He had enough to use one every two hours, if it came to it.

He walked over to the only other bundle he had, the one luxury he afforded himself. He squatted down and began to unwrap the heavy burlap cover, feeling his balls graze the canvas between his feet. He lifted out the heavy frame, and walked over to place it on the easel.

Clayton examined his form in the mirror. When he awoke in Hades, he had been as hairless as the day he was born, but now he could see his fur beginning to grow back across his broad pecs, around his prominent nipples, and down his bulging abs to the towel wrapped around his waist. His cock began to swell and press against the towel as he admired himself, crowded with his balls between his massive and thighs. His beloved mustache was coming back now, too, but so was a beard across his cheeks and strong jaw. That wouldn't do. He may have lost most things when he died, but his vanity was still intact.

He had already poured out a bowl of water on the table next to his shaving kit. He lathered his face with cream, and removed the straight edge blade from the kit. He tilted his head back, keeping his eyes on the mirror, and brought the blade to his throat.

He shivered as he began to scrape the hair away, his skin prickling as the cold metal passed over his adam's apple. It had all ended so quickly. He had felt immortal, and with one wrong twist of his neck, it had ended. With one wrong twist of his wrist now, it would again. And he knew this time, there would be no second chances.

Death had been torment, like a night of sleep where you toss and turn, but can never wake up or sink into peace. He had been so tired, and so unable to find relief. He would do anything to avoid it, forever. It helped that the one thing he had to do to secure immortality was also the one thing he wanted to do, more than anything else. Vengeance would be his.

Satisfied with his work, Clayton put the blade down on the table, and bent over to splash the remaining cream off of his face. He straightened, wiping the water out of his eyes, and opened them.

He caught a glint of metal in the mirror.

He didn't have time to think. He drove to his right, spilling the table and its contents across the floor. His mirror shattered as the spear went straight through the middle. He rolled to his hands and knees and felt his towel come loose, and looked up just in time to see a tanned figure lunging at him.

Clayton toppled backwards onto his back as Tarzan slammed into him. He felt a sharp pain as his head cracked into a pack. Before he could move, Tarzan straddled his waist and brought his hands to his neck.

Clayton gasped for air and tore at the hands at his throat. He flailed his legs, but Tarzan's thighs remained tightly pinned to hips, flesh grabbing flesh.

This couldn't be how it went, after all Clayton had been through. His vision was fading but his eyes darted wildly for salvation. He could see the ape man's loincloth splayed across his own belly, the dark body toned and glistening in the morning light. The face above him was mixed with a curious combination of rage and fear, dreads hanging down and brushing Clayton's cheek.

And then he realized his only chance.

Tarzan pulled back as Clayton rammed his open left palm into his face. Tarzan never lost his grip on Clayton's neck, and after a moment he felt the palm fall back. And then there was a flash, and a twinge in his shoulder.

Clayton gasped for air as the hands around his throat loosened, only to have it knocked out of him when Tarzan's limp form collapsed forward onto him. He struggled for another breath, then rolled the body off of him.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, just sucking in air, lying on his back next to his greatest foe, their chests rising and falling side by side.

He swatted a mosquito from his ribs.

He sat up, and looked to his right.

Tarzan could have been sleeping, if it weren't for the syringe sticking out of his shoulder. Clayton reached over and pressed down the plunger, making sure every last drop had made it in to his assailant, and then drew it out and tossed it to the side.

It had been close. But, as his nerves began to settle, he began to feel triumphant. This is what he had come here for-- and fate had brought the prey TO him. There would be no days of deprivation, stalking out the territory, looking for the slightest signs that Tarzan still frequented this neck of the wilderness. The hard part was done. He'd be going.

Clayton pushed himself to his feet, and winced as he cracked his neck. He shook out his arms, and let out a whoop. The morning was still young; he had plenty of time to pack up camp and start his long journey back. First, he owed himself a little celebration.

He strode out to his mules, completely nude, and brought down the canteen he'd been saving for this occasion. He threw his head back and savored the burn of the whiskey as it glugged down his throat, some stinging as it spilled down his freshly shaved jaw and neck. For the second time that morning, he felt his cock pulse with interest. It seemed to have some other celebrating in mind.

Clayton strode back under the canvas and stopped at the feet of his captive. He had never gotten the chance to closely examine this specimen, not really closely. His cock hardened as his eyes travelled from the man's remarkably muscled feet, up his lithe calves and thighs to the loincloth only partially covering the package beneath. His waist was shockinly narrow compared to the chest it opened up into, with juicy brown nipples the size of a coin adorning each pec. The rage had fled the beast's face, and in sleep his remarkable jawline and cheekbones were all the more apparent.

Clayton put one hand to his cock and began to gently tug on it, as he tilted his head back to drain the rest of the canteen. He stood there stroking for a moment of two more as the burn travelled down into his belly, then squatted down to tear aside Tarzan’s loincloth.

Clayton buried his face into the man's taint, inhaling deeply, and licked up into one of his sagging balls. He toyed with it in his mouth, and spit it out to avoid gagging on its limp weight. His hands clawed at the back of Tarzan's thick ass, and flipped his limp uncut cock up towards his belly button with his nose before tracing up it with his tongue. He sucked it up, hard, and swallowed the sweet taste as his hands scraped up the man's abs and found purchase on his pecs, mashing them gently around.

He spat as Tarzan's wet dick splattered back onto his abs, then followed it down. As he traced his tongue up the man's torso, he brought his hips forward and down, so that by the time his teeth clenched onto a nipple, his moaning cock was pressing up between his victim's inner thighs.

He dragged his teeth further up the man's chest, around the curve of his neck, and nibbled at his ear, pulling his body further forward. They were matched now- pec to pec, cock to cock. Clayton began to gently thrust, grinding his rock hard member into the (still massive) limp one beneath him. He raised his face to the savage's, and plunged his tongue into his mouth, exploring the hot cavern. He stayed there for a minute, probing and humping, his hands scraping up and down Tarzan's body.

He came up for air, and slid his hands under those broad shoulder blades. He rolled them both over in one motion, and paused for a moment to enjoy the dead weight of muscle pressing down on him. Then, he slid the savage off of him to the floor, sat up, and spat on his hand to keep pumping his cock. He was drenched, in both of their sweat. No need for lubricant.

He got on his hands and knees over Tarzan's back, and lowered his hips so his cock began to press up between the globes of his ass cheeks. He pressed and pressed, his hips almost level with the floor, and felt give as his cock pushed through the ring of muscle into the hot tunnel behind it. God, it was tight.

Clayton began to fuck, slowly in and out, his arms flexing as they supported his upper body in a plank. He started to speed up, and could hear his balls slapping down with each thrust, sometimes smacking against his captive's genitals splayed on the ground. He lowered himself to his elbows as he pumped into and out of the muscled ass, then slid his left hand under Tarzan’s side and began to grip at his meaty pecs. He raised Tarzan's torso as he fondled it, rubbing his own stubbly chest and nipples against his toned upper back, and pounded harder. Tarzan's arms, neck, and head hung limply and jiggled against the floor as he was plowed.

In. Out. Scrape. Rub. Slap. Squish. The sounds of the jungle were nothing compared to Clayton ravaging his foe, soaking up the memory of every muscle as his cock stretched out the tightest hole in the biggest ass he had ever fucked. He was getting close now. He slid his right hand under Tarzan to join his groping left, lowering them both to be flat to the floor. He kept plowing, faster and faster, as he buried his nose into the nape of the ape man’s neck, one hand squeezing a hardening nipple while the other clawed down the abs pressed against the floor. He let out a cry as he began to cum, shaking as he pressed his hips hard up against Tarzan's ass, squeezing with his arms, surrounding his cock with the wet tunnel for it's full length as he emptied his load.

He relaxed his body, but stayed there, arms wrapped around his captive, softening cock still in the cum-filled ass. He breathed in the scent of the morning, growing later now, and of the man beneath him. It would be a later start than he had planned, but he wanted to rest here in his victory. Besides-- more days on the road meant more nights to play with his new toy before he reached his final destination.

The last thing Clayton did before dozing off to sleep, cock still sheathed in his enemy, was reach up with his right hand to the nearest pack, take a syringe, and empty it into the beast beneath him.