Children learn from what they observe.
What had John Clayton learned from his years alone in Africa, Jane often wondered, and what had stayed with him from his few childhood years in the states? Dinner knives were a mystery to him, but he could manage a spoon easily and, with a little negotiation, even a fork. He had apparently retained some of his earliest lessons, too--when he was in her apartment, he remembered how to use the toilet, for which she was extremely grateful. He'd had no compunction about urinating in public, though the one time he'd done so in front of her, it was dark out and the street they were on had been deserted. In her house, though, she didn't even have to tell him to wash his hands.
But some social niceties, like wearing shoes and waiting one's turn, were entirely forgotten. For that reason, she usually thinks of him as one would a child: naive, uncomplicated, innocent in a way that every other person she's ever met in New York City could never be.
She has to admit to herself that she finds him attractive, even though she refers to him in her mind as a boy more often than as a man. However, none of this is appropriate to mention to him. After all, he is basically a boy, right? Not really the stuff of romantic daydreams or sweaty dreams after the lights are out, at least not any that she's ready to admit, even to herself...
It is dark in her bedroom tonight except for the streetlights nearby shining in her window and onto the opposite wall. The breeze in the open casement doesn't help the oppressive heat, and Jane swears she'll look for a new apartment with air conditioning soon. In the meantime, she shimmies out of the sweat-soaked t-shirt and too-clingy nylon panties she wore to bed and flips her pillow over looking for a cool spot. Being careful not to crush her nose, she lies facedown on the twelve square inches of pillowcase that are a fraction of a degree more comfortable than the rest and tries to fall back to sleep.
Her position keeps her from seeing the shadow that slips across the fabric of the curtains for only a moment before it vanishes, leaving barely a rustle behind. Were she more observant, or more awake, she would have noticed the silent figure move across her room and shut itself inside the adjoining bathroom. The sounds of water running blend into the distant traffic noises, then stop. With the opening of the door, the temperature of the room rises just under Jane's level of perception.
She lies naked and motionless on rumpled sheets, revealed by strange city night illumination. The mattress dips toward the center of the room, followed by the evening out of the weight on either side of her. Legs stretch along the length of hers, and big hands hold her arms so that she cannot move. She swears soundlessly into her pillow, angry at herself for failing to be more alert, as well as for having left her gun by her purse in the outer room. The body above hers presses down inexorably--also naked, and hot, but very, very male.
If she were less terrified, she'd shout for help or scream and hope to startle her attacker, but her voice is gone. Remembering her training, she makes the decision to acquiesce to his desires, hoping he doesn't otherwise injure her, or even kill her.
For now, his erection lies heavily between the cheeks of her ass, and he is panting heavily. As she closes her eyes, whether in prayer for protection or to block the assault from her consciousness any way she can, she hears an inhuman noise: he growls in her ear.
Something in the man's voice pings a sound that is more familiar, and she breathes a name into the humid room. "John?"
This prompts another growl, but one that dissolves into a recognizable throaty laugh, proving that her suspicion was correct.
"What do you think you're doing?" she asks, still in a whisper.
"Need to do this," he grunts only slightly more articulately than his last utterance. Lifting off of her backside quickly, he starts to push one knee between her thighs.
"No, John--please, don't!" she begs, holding her legs together as best she can.
His other knee lands on her bedding, and she is spread open despite her best efforts. Too quickly for her to react, he moves one hand just long enough to reach for the juncture of her body and find the access he seeks, then holds her down again.
"I don't want this," she insists. "Not like this!"
She is too shocked and startled to cry as he plunges inside of her, sinking his hard cock into her soft folds roughly. He sniffs at her hair, and with his next thrust, he bites down none too gently on the back of her neck.
This gesture stirs Jane's memory of a film on the nature channel: lions fucking on the savannah use their teeth just like this. The male selects a mate and takes her even if she roars and scratches in protest. Where John grew up, there wasn't any dating or flirting or seduction. There weren't any men and women from her world there to teach him how she would expect him to behave. He must have just watched the lions from his hiding place in the trees, and learned by observation. Access was not something rare to be earned--it was just there when desire became overwhelming.
Even while his approach was frightening, and his every stroke hurts, she realizes that he is not aware of this. He is only doing what he knows to achieve his own release, his instincts to protect her from harm overridden by an even stronger and much older impulse.
He makes a few more stabs with his penis, then dives in hard and shakes as he empties his load into her with a agonized moan. They lie together exhausted for a moment until he begins to pull away. The ends of his hair tickle her back as he rises over her, kissing her shoulderblade as he extracts himself from her abused pussy.
Even though he no longer imprisons her arms, she is too sore to stand up at first. Over her shoulder, she watches him as he picks up his abandoned trousers from the floor and slips them on over his naked body. When she notices his cock hanging there, she wonders how it would feel if she wanted it, if he'd wined her and dined her and tickled her just so. Right now, it only means a residual ache to her, and she regrets ever having thought about him in bed.
"Sleep," he tells her quietly, petting her hair, before disappearing out the open window.
Despite the lingering swelter of the summer night, she slams the window shut and pulls up the sheet and comforter, shivering as she tries and fails to follow his instructions.
Thank you for your attention.
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Fandom: Other (Tarzan)
Title: Jungle Boogie
Author: Janet F. Caires-Lesgold [email]
Details: Standalone | NC-17 | 6k | 04/18/04
Summary: A first time I really wanted to see
Notes: PWP, non-con, hetfic
Spoilers: None at all. Could take place after all aired episodes
Disclaimer/Other: These characters do not belong to me. Tarzan, the WB television series, was created by Michael Colleary and Mike Werb from characters created by Edgar Rice Burroughs, and belongs to David Gerber Productions and Laura Ziskin Productions, David Gerber, Laura Ziskin, David Nutter, et al., executive producers. This story is just for the entertainment of my online friends and myself, not for any profit.
Archive: Mailing list archives only--others please ask permission!
Dedication: For Tiff, no matter how loud she screams.
Copyright: (C) Janet F. Caires-Lesgold, December 22, 2003, email@example.com Please don't redistribute or alter this story in any way without the express permission of the author. Thank you very much.
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