Claude sprints to the pile of tools and grabs weapons of his own, a wooden club in his right hand, a long pole in the other. With his pole he waves his women to the pool, ten of them joining the two already there as the invaders stop in their tracks, analyze the situation.
They stand enmasse near the tunnel, last to enter making their number eight. Their wild head hair is shoulder length, their beards long and scraggly, brown or black. Their bodies are mostly hairless, as they bare their teeth, snarling but with no voice.
"All right, you gnarly varmints," Claude growls, which causes the men to cower a bit and look at one another with puzzlement. Sensing an advantage, Claude bellows, "Time for me to fight for my women."
Claude should've known from looking that these men are nothing but a tribe of wild male animals. They know how to hunt down quarry and work together for the kill. But Claude is an alpha male, puts himself in the mindset that he's going to whip their ass for scaring his women, and he does pretty good against them until they figure out full-frontal assault doesn't work. Claude's club connects with the head of one and ribs of another, while his pole fends off any more who come into range with jabbing pokes to their chests.
Then the six still able to fight fan out, circle him, but Claude still keeps them at bay with pivots and twirls and occasional kicks -- until one of them picks up a rock and fires it at him from long distance. Beans him in the head with it. Claude staggers, sees white, and those few seconds are all they need to pounce on him, disarm him, and proceed to beat the shit outta him.
A forearm smash rattles the back of his neck, knocks him down to all fours, where he receives simultaneous kicks to his ribs coming from his left and right. Another kick from the front gets his face with a shin and chest with a foot, sends him up and back and laying on his spine. Stomps to his chest and belly, and kicks to his legs and arms pretty much reduce him to a useless slab of hairy muscle -- muscle primed for punishment.
They roll him over. Two of them grab his arms and raise him vertical on his knees, while the other four take turns punching his chest, kicking his ribs and belly. They take him all the way to the floor, backwards, his knees bent and legs folded under him, his arms pulled straight out beyond his head, and the other four kneel on either side of him, put the claws to him. Rigid, sharp-nailed fingers dig into his pectorals. A double claw penetrates his stretched abdominals, one in his stomach, one in his belly. The cruelest of fists engulfs his nuts, squeezing hard while another hand clutches his cock, crushing it, bending it in ways it's not supposed to go.
Howls and grunts and groans cause granules of rock to fall from cave walls and roof, coming from the only human with a voice. These savages intend to de-alphasize the alpha male, as his women stand in the pool silently moaning, tears streaking their cheeks, their feet marking time in water, their digits fingering their clitties, their vaginas dripping with excitement, their bias for Claude's victory blatant.
Meanwhile, back in the monkey cave...
a cleaning crew is finished with Rod. He's just how they left him -- sprawled in an X, scrubbed, rinsed and wet, puddles of water on his table and dripping to the floor. He lifts his head as Dr. Slayus enters without escort, a halfway-burned cigar chomped by his teeth and some sort of remote thingy clutched in his paw.
"Thought you might enjoy a bit of entertainment to go along with your torture," he snarks while pressing a button on his remote. Walls slowly descend from the ceiling. Mirrored walls, and as they touch down, the ceiling itself also changes to a mirror. "There, isn't that more cozy?"
The new room cuts off the rest of the lab, leaving only the square table to which the male human is bound. Rod marvels at all the glass. Each of his side views, plus his head and foot views are reflected to infinity.
Without another word, Slayus exits through a mirrored door and closes it, leaving his prisoner to watch in amazement as the ceiling drops, stopping four feet above where man lays on the table.
He waits alone in a squared room, four walls and ceiling of reflective glass supported by stone floor. Each surface is of equal distance from him. Sources of light mysteriously come from the outside as shadowy beams of grey-white. In silence and isolation, a bound, naked man ponders his fate. Slayus said there would be torture -- and entertainment. Is one to supply the other? Is it the orangutan's intent that Rod should enjoy watching himself suffer? He turns his head right, observes the full length of his body, his skin glistening wet with water. He wiggles toes of his right foot and watches a thousand toes wiggle. Turning his gaze left, he strains against iron cuffs pinning him to the table. He arches his spine half the few inches allowed and admires his expanded chest a thousand times over. He exaggerates his exhales, absorbing the side view of his sunken abdomen, which emphasizes his mighty, puffed-up chest. Makes it appear even more majestic -- times a thousand. He feels blood flowing into his penis. Watches the ceiling mirror as his phallic weapon swells. Its flesh begins to separate from the comfortable nest formed by his nuts, until he thinks better of it.
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