Garok watched the very familiar body of the jungle man as the Richard played with his new, enormous, extremely sensitive cock.
Garok well remembered his introduction to that exaggerate tribute to manhood. He had led an expedition into the same African jungle almost 20 years earlier. Of course, the rest of the world had never heard of any of his discoveries because Garok failed to return from his foray into the near impenetrable jungle.
He hadn't been Garok at the time. His name had been Winston (Yes, his parents had named him for the great British PM) Smythe. He had retained the steadfast convictions of the old Imperial spirit and believed that he had the right to barge into a remote region in Africa and expect everyone to cater to both his personal needs and the academic demands of his research into some of the more primitive tribes still residing in the more isolated regions of a still rather unexploited jungle. He had been about 24, so slightly older than Richard, and with a more athletic build and stood all of six foot two inches tall.
He had arrogantly pushed his native guides to help him make contacts with the isolated populations deep in some of the more inaccessible regions. Despite warnings, he had insisted. Finally, one of his guides took him aside and agreed to arrange for transport to a region that he informed Winston was known as Garok.
It sounded like everything Winston wanted. He could write a breathless report about a people still living a life that even pre-dated the stone age. He'd make his mark and go back to civilization and have his pick of any high-profile jobs in any of the anthropology departments at the most elite of universities and colleges.
Instead, his guide had delivered him into a trap. A clever one, too. The people had seemed too trusting, too welcoming. They invited him into their hovel of a village and proceeded to celebrate his arrival with a huge feast, dances, even what passed for music and singing. In the late hours after dark, some of the leading men — all rough, hairy figures that went about their lives more or less naked — made their way into a clearing. One of them produced a curious golden relic. Winston knew they had never fashioned the intricate object with their brutish hands and simple tools.
He asked to see the relic; they declined. He grew insistent; they huddled together and still declined his request. Winston turned to his guide and demanded he obtain the relic. The guide separated from Winston and went to speak with the men, if the guttural utterances Winston overheard could truly be called language.
The guide and one of the men, a huge giant that towered over his fellow villagers and even Winston, returned. The man held out the relic, keeping the item secured between two fingers. He grunted and gestured, which Winston took as an invite to touch the relic. He moved his finger over the golden surface and felt a strange warmth.
He wanted the object. He tried to snatch it. The man held fast.
Suddenly, there was a flash of light and Winston was knocked back several feet by an invisible force. His head spun and he blacked out.
When he regained consciousness, he saw his body, stripped of all clothing, tied to a stake. He wondered at the strange sight, wondering if he was having some sort of out-of-body experienced.
Then by chance he looked down at his own body. He felt intense shock to find himself enclosed within the brute-like hairy form of the villager who had approached him with the relic.
Off to the side, one of the naked women kneeled and offered him some sort of refreshing liquid from a hollowed gourd. He drank and his throat burned seconds later. Had she poisoned him.
The guide negotiated with the villagers who, with some display of reluctance, released Winston's former body. Then the villagers all gathered in a show of unison and, even if their words didn't register, made their message clear. The guide hurriedly left with the befuddled, muttering naked man.
He looked like Winston, but Winston watched it all unfold, forced to keep silent by the liquid that had scorched his throat. When he tried to yell for the guide to wait, he succeeded only in making dry, unintelligent raspy sounds.
The people were openly amused in the days, weeks, and months that followed as Winston, in this despised form, tried to adapt to their way of life. Finally, one of the men took some pity on him and took him under his wing. He trained a reluctant Winston in the ways of the primitive jungle life. When Winston's temper flared in rebellion, the man struck him. With a series of blows and knocks, coupled with patient training, they made a real jungle man of Winston Smythe.
Once he gained his independence, able to exist by his primitive wits and brute strength, he crept off from the village and struck out on his own. His exploits became famous among other nearby villages with more access to the trappings of civilization.
Winston had waited patiently for 21 more years. Then Richard's expedition showed up with their smartphones, laptops, dart guns and tasers. If it seemed that Garok — it was the name he had adopted for himself — seemed a little too easily taken, who would have suspected that was his actual plan.
And when he laid eyes on a similar relic among the items the expedition had gathered, it had been too much to believe.
Now, he had managed to turn the tables once again. He missed the body he had been born with, but Richard's slender form worked much better than the uncivilized one he had been trapped inside for more than two decades.
He watched as Richard, in ignorance and bliss, pumped the huge cock. The young man grunted and groaned.
Winston Smythe smiled. "Keep going," he thought to himself. "I just need you to stop trying to get your body back so I can keep it."