Me Tarzan, You Jane
By aka "Jake"
Rating: NC-17 (adult content)
Classification: Smut, PWP, Guilty Pleasure, Bodice Ripper (Can you see where we’re going here?)
Spoilers: Pick a season, any season. ’Tis pure fantasy, so time, like plot, is irrelevant.
Summary: A man, a woman and a waterfall.
Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. The characters Jane Porter and Tarzan are the property of Walt Disney Company. Excerpts were taken from Edgar Rice Burroughs’ original “Tarzan of the Apes,” which can be found at http://www.online-literature.com/edgar_rice_burroughs/tarzan_apes/. (~pssst~ Jane’s kidnapping is in Chapters 19 and 20.)
Cover art by tarras.
Beta by xdksfan.
Author’s Notes: This one is for Tali. Happy birthday, Queen o’ the Pokers!
Scully emerged from the bathroom relaxed to the point of bonelessness, squeaky clean and smelling of “passion flower” bath oil from the top of her tingling scalp to the pruney tips of her small pink toes. She was dressed in silk PJs and her favorite on-the-road bathrobe.
There was nothing quite like a long, luxurious soak in a steaming bubble bath to make a G-woman feel civilized after a long day of pursuing mythical beast-men.
“Shower’s all yours, Mulder.”
“Mm,” he grunted, engrossed in a dog-eared dime novel. He lay sprawled on his back in the middle of their magic-fingers bed, which wasn’t vibrating, despite the stack of quarters waiting beside the controls. Empty sunflower hulls speckled the garish motel comforter around his denim-clad legs like ants on a picnic table.
“What are you reading?” She finger-combed tangles from her damp hair.
He slipped another seed between his teeth and crunched. “It ain’t Gideon’s.”
She squinted at the title on the spine. “Tarzan of the Apes?” Disbelief chuffed from her nose. “Did you bring that?”
“Found it under the bed.”
What had he been doing under the--
“I dropped a quarter,” he said, before she could ask. He turned a page. “You wanna borrow this when I’m done?”
“No, thank you.”
“That surprises you?”
“Well, yeah, I thought everyone liked Tarzan.”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I find Burroughs’ prose florid and overwrought, not to mention chauvinistic.”
“Have you actually read Tarzan of the Apes?”
“I know the story.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I’ve read a page or two.”
“It’s classic literature, Scully. A great adventure.”
“It’s a male fantasy.”
He held up the book so she could clearly see the cover illustration: Tarzan in a loincloth, standing tall, muscles bulging. Jane quailed at his feet. “In my fantasies, Jane has an identical twin named June, and they’re both dressed like Linda Harrison in Planet of the Apes. This...” -- he waggled the book -- “is a female fantasy.”
“I have never fantasized about being kidnapped by a brutish, feral man.”
“Technically Jane was kidnapped by a horny ape named Terkoz. Tarzan rescued her.”
“But his motives were no better than the ape’s. ‘Tarzan’s savage, untutored breast stirred at the sight of Jane Porter’s tender flesh.’”
“Well, something stirred, that’s for sure.” Mulder chuckled. He tossed the book aside and slid from the bed. “And it sounds like you’ve read more than a page or two.” He pulled his t-shirt up and over his head and lobbed it toward the bureau as he crossed to the bathroom. Pausing at the open door, he beat his bare chest gorilla-style, while bleating the most pathetic sounding Tarzan call Scully had ever heard.
“Take your shower, Mulder.”
“You’re not even a little turned on?”
“I prefer an articulate, civilized man.”
“So you say.” He disappeared into the bathroom.
When she heard the water running, she brushed empty sunflower shells from the bed and picked up the book, intending to set it on Mulder’s nightstand. That’s when a passage at the top of page forty-two caught her eye.
Jane -- her lithe, young form flattened against the trunk of a great tree, her hands tight pressed against her rising and falling bosom and her eyes wide with mingled horror, fascination, fear, and admiration -- watched the primordial ape battle with the primeval man for possession of a woman -- for her.
“Oh, brother.” Scully rolled her eyes.
As the great muscles of the man’s back and shoulders knotted beneath the tension of his efforts, and the huge biceps and forearm held at bay those mighty tusks, the veil of centuries of civilization and culture was swept from the blurred vision of the Baltimore girl.
“This is unbelievable.” But somewhat more...stimulating...than she remembered.
When the long knife drank deep a dozen times of Terkoz’ heart’s blood, and the great carcass rolled lifeless upon the ground, it was a primeval woman who sprang forward with outstretched arms toward the primeval man who had fought for her and won her.
She should really put the book away before Mulder caught her with it.
She glanced in the direction of the bathroom. Steam curled out from the partially open door. Water thundered against the fiberglass tub. Mulder would be another twenty minutes at least. He liked long showers.
There was time to read a few more passages. She sank onto the bed.
He did what no red-blooded man needs lessons in doing.
Scully’s eyebrows rose.
He took his woman in his arms and smothered her upturned, panting lips with kisses.
Scully tried to imagine herself in Jane’s place, held in a crushing embrace, pinned by the lust-filled gaze of her captor’s hazel eyes as he carried her away from her civilized life into a foreign and forbidding jungle...
“Let me go,” Dana protested.
She struggled against her captor’s formidable grip, but despite her most valiant efforts, he continued to clutch her firmly to his muscled chest as he ran.
“Put me down!” she insisted.
Her damnable skirt and petticoat twisted about her ankles, preventing her from kicking her kidnapper, so she pounded his shoulders and boxed his ears. He ignored her blows as he sprinted effortlessly through the jungle, ferrying her away from her brothers’ campsite, away from the sheltered bend in the river, where she had intended to bathe in private, out of view and earshot of the missionaries and the porters.
Her shoes and stockings remained upon that gravelly shore, set neatly beside her linen jacket, soap and towel -- the only clues she had once stood upon the shallow, crescent beach. It could be hours before the others noticed she was missing. By then she might be miles away.
How would they find her? Where would they start to look? Would they arrive in time, before her kidnapper--?
No! She must keep her faith. Death was not a certainty. Her fate was not sealed.
Or was it?
She guessed her captor was the wild “ape man” her younger brother Charles had spotted two days ago watching them from the upper branches of a towering cinchona tree.
“Raised by a band of gorillas,” claimed Mopati, their African guide, just before their silent observer vanished into the leafy canopy.
The idea that a man might actually reside with apes had seemed preposterous at the time. A myth, certainly.
But now the proof was right before her eyes, solid and real, brutal and fierce...magnificent.
She could not help but admire the strong set of his jaw, the golden hue of his skin, the cascade of his glossy, chestnut hair. She was equally affected by the tart, masculine odor of his sweat and the steaming breaths that bathed her cheeks and neck whenever he exhaled. His body radiated heat like a fully stoked coal furnace and his pulse thrummed savagely along his muscled arms. Wearing nothing but a scanty animal skin slung low about his hips and a long-bladed knife tucked into his rawhide belt, he was without question the most striking man she had ever seen.
His strength and speed were astonishing. He raced through snarls of jungle plants, leapt over fallen trees, dodged vine-covered branches, all the while cradling her firmly in his arms. He followed the course of a winding stream, which had etched a steeply banked crevasse through the verdant landscape. Tree roots as thick as a man’s waist snaked up the precipice. He climbed them like stairs to an upper plateau, where he continued his getaway. Evergreens with leaves as broad as elephants’ ears closed in behind them, concealing all trace of their passing.
It was only when he reached a small clearing that he slowed his pace. And chuckled possessively into her ear.
The hunger in his eyes made his intentions obvious. He had not spirited her away to murder her; he had brought her here to ravish her.
“Oh no you don’t!” She slapped his face hard.
He scowled and dumped her upon the ground. Before she could scramble away, he was crouched in front of her, hands gripping her shoulders, his nose a hair’s breadth from her own. His stare was that of a predator, a panther with a trapped fawn, and like a cat he intended to toy with his prize before devouring it.
He inhaled her scent, deeply at first, and then more shallowly. Starting at her mouth, he sniffed her parted lips, her quivering chin, her exposed neck. With the tip of one long finger, he nudged the tiny gold cross she wore at her neck. Then he plucked at her blouse, drew the collar away from her skin and plunged his nose into her cleavage.
“Stop that!” Palms flat to his chest, she shoved him with all her might.
Her protest was futile; he was as unyielding as a granite breaker.
“Mm,” he grunted, seemingly pleased that she lacked the force to topple him. His green eyes sparkled and behind his smug, full lips she glimpsed a flash of strong, white teeth.
She drew back to consider her predicament and appraise her adversary.
He had the untamed mane of a stallion. And his eyes glittered with both a playfulness and intelligence she would not have expected to find in such an uncivilized brute. Stubble shadowed his jaw and she wondered if he shaved with the knife that hung on his hip. His arms were roped with bulging veins, his fingers as rough as weathered stone, his knuckles as sturdy as Angler’s knots, yet his movements were graceful when he reached out to tenderly caress her cheek, to pat her sleeve, to stroke the folds of her skirt. He balanced on rangy tanned legs with powerful thighs and calves. His bare feet were generous in size and heavily calloused, the toes gripping the dark, jungle soil beneath him. He wore no ornamentation, no jewelry or tattoos like the African porters. His only concession to modesty was a simple unadorned breechclout the color of pale buckskin.
Face lit with curiosity, he fingered the hem of her skirt and, before she could stop him, lifted it to expose her petticoat and bare ankles.
“No!” She slapped his roving hands and readjusted her skirt.
He took it as a game and tried again to peek at her legs.
“I said no!” she admonished and shoved her skirt back into place.
This brought a grin to his full lips and he laughed aloud, a deep rumbling sound that heated her belly in a most disconcerting way.
“Sir, your actions are not amusing and your attentions are most unwelcome. You must return me to my brothers’ camp immediately.”
His expression turned serious. For a moment she believed he may have actually understood her command, until she heard the snarl of a large jungle cat, mere paces behind her.
Her blood ran cold at the sound and she was about to cry out, when her subjugator became her rescuer, springing to his feet and bounding over her. He placed himself solidly between her and imminent danger, knife at the ready.
The animal was enormous, its fangs and claws long and deadly. Its eyes glowed with a searing, ancient hatred.
Her savior brandished his blade like a knight’s sword and issued a resounding threat in a guttural, fearsome language. She was unable to translate his words literally, if indeed they were words, yet she easily interpreted his meaning; he was warning the lion to keep its distance or die.
The beast challenged his directive with an ear-splitting roar that vibrated her chest and stole her breath.
Then it lunged!
Anticipating its attack, the man seized the animal’s shaggy mane as it leapt through the air. He drove his knife deeply into its flank, refusing to release his hold even as he was knocked onto his back with a spine-jarring thud. Man and lion tumbled across the clearing, limbs intertwined, flesh and fur grappling for the advantage. The knife plunged again and again into the animal’s tawny hide until the ground was stained crimson. The man’s blood was added to the spill when the lion raked its razor-sharp claws across his leg in retaliation. He hissed in pain and with renewed vigor intensified his efforts to subdue his opponent.
Dana was at a loss as to how she might assist her protector in his fight for life, but soon saw there was no need. Muscles bulging from strain, he pushed the lion’s gigantic head up and back, exposing its vulnerable throat. He struck with accuracy and resolve. The knife flashed one final time before its blade sank to the hilt in the beast’s flesh. With a single practiced motion, the man dealt the fatal blow by slitting the lion’s neck.
He shoved the lifeless corpse away, rose from the ground and sheathed his knife.
Her quaking legs threatened to give out as she stumbled toward her bleeding hero. “Are you all right, sir?”
He caught her in outstretched arms and returned her earnest embrace. She placed her ear upon his chest and listened greedily to his beating heart. It came as no surprise when she felt the release of fiery tears. He was alive, thank God, he was alive!
Choking back a sob, she wiped her eyes. This was no time for self-indulgence. He was surely in pain as four parallel slashes striped his upper thigh where the lion had struck him. Blood dripped from the wounds.
“This needs to be cleaned.” She pointed at the gashes, then back the way they’d come, where fresh water ran through the gorge and could be used to bathe his tattered leg.
He evidently mistook her meaning, thinking she was begging to be returned to her brothers’ camp, because he unexpectedly seized her in the crook of one arm, lifted her off her feet and began running the opposite way. Her protests were silenced by utter surprise when he leapt high into the air, snatched hold of a hanging vine and took flight through the trees.
She flung her arms about his neck and hung on for dear life as they swung dizzily out over a chasm. At the far side, he briefly released his hold on her, evidently satisfied that she was securely attached to him, and grabbed another stout vine. Her skirt skimmed the undergrowth before they were once again on an upward climb.
Up they went, high into the branches, where his feet found momentary purchase on a sturdy limb. He paused for only a heartbeat, long enough to gain his balance before taking hold of another vine and diving once more toward the forest floor.
She shivered like a frightened child as she dangled from his neck.
Down, down, they plummeted. Her heart lodged in her throat. Would they crash to the ground?
No, he had judged the distance with the accuracy of a predatory bird swooping in on its prey.
And like the apes who had raised him, he possessed the strength and dexterity to carry them for miles, if he so chose, without ever setting foot upon the ground. He was perfectly at ease in the treetops. The jungle was his home, its towering vegetation as familiar to him as the streets of Baltimore were to her.
Her fears ebbed as they soared in another upward arc. And she felt as if she herself had grown wings when they sailed by a flock of colorful parrots, perched in the upper branches, preening iridescent feathers and feeding on fruit. The birds cawed as she and the jungle man swung past. He responded with a call of his own, a ferocious bellow that scattered the birds and echoed through the wilderness.
The force and raw sentiment of his cry set her shivering. He was staking his territory and she was a part of it, she realized. His roar was a warning to every jungle beast: “Stand clear. I am not afraid of you. This place is my home. And this woman is my mate.”
She embraced him with newfound admiration as they continued to travel this way, swinging from vine to vine through the lush, untouched landscape. Monkeys chattered and scampered out of their way, balanced like high-wire circus acrobats on slender branches. Snakes dozed in pools of golden sunlight, coiled around thickset limbs. Flower blossoms the size of a man’s open palm clung to the rough-barked trunks and emitted a delightful, heady fragrance.
She heard the thunder of roiling water up ahead and glimpsed a falls in the distance. She suspected this was where the jungle man had intended to take her all along, to a private glen, secreted from the modern world by a dangerous and nearly impenetrable tropical forest.
He dropped them gently to the ground beside a sparkling, pristine pond where a wall of water cascaded into the ravine from the upper plateau. Billowing mist created an arching rainbow at the base of the falls. Prehistoric dragonflies swooped through columns of hazy daylight, spotted turtles sunned themselves on lily pads, and bullfrogs harrumphed among the reeds along the shore.
It was an oasis, a private paradise.
He bent to kiss her upturned face and it was with unexpected regret she halted his advance.
“First things first.” She took his hand and led him to the edge of the pool. “We must rinse your wounds.”
By means of expansive gestures, she indicated he should sit on the bank with his legs dangling in the water. Grasping her meaning, he plunked himself down and waited obediently as she pondered the best way to proceed.
If only she had access to her medical kit back at the camp. She had accompanied her brothers to Africa to inoculate village children against smallpox, and she carried a veritable infirmary along with her: disinfectant, bandages, a variety of medicines and tonics.
Without them, however, she would have to improvise.
Ignoring modesty, she stripped off her skirt and dunked it into the pool. It quickly absorbed the clear water, which she wrung onto the jungle man’s leg, flushing debris and potential disease from his lacerations.
He watched her with thoughtful eyes, not wincing once as she dabbed at his injury.
Thankfully, his cuts were not too deep; there would be no need for sutures.
Satisfied that his wounds were well rinsed, she set to tearing a strip of fabric from her petticoat to use as a dressing. In a matter of minutes, she had deftly bound his thigh in clean, white cotton.
In response to her therapeutic touch, his eyes filled with grateful tears, and it occurred to her that this might be the first time he had been treated with compassion by another. If Mopati’s tale about him was true, he had had no human mother to care for him, no doting woman at his side before today.
His expression of gratitude moved her to bestow a chaste kiss upon his trembling lips.
No sooner had their mouths met, when he pulled her into his lap and pressed his lips more urgently to hers. His arms coiled round her and his hands skimmed her ribs, her hips, her thighs. She found herself responding to his fevered caresses. Relieved to be liberated from the tedious courting rituals of her world, she reacted not as a lady, but as an undomesticated creature, unfettered by custom. She allowed the pleasure of his touch to overtake her and fell limp within the cradle of his arms. Her head lolled. Her jaw went slack. Heat boiled deep within her belly when his tongue slipped between her parted lips.
He tasted mysterious, dangerous, and forbidden -- the flavors of pent-up desire and centuries-old lust. His musky scent enveloped her, possessive and confident. It rushed into her lungs, stole her breath and her restraint, rendering her vulnerable to his passion.
He grappled briefly with the buttons of her shirtwaist before gentleness gave way to frustration and he tore her blouse open, exposing her lacy cotton camisole. Her breasts plumped above her corset and he broke their kiss to gaze longingly at her soft curves.
A deep growl hummed in his throat when he traced the shadow of her dark nipple beneath its sheer white covering. The bud tightened to a point, encouraging him to tease the second breast in a similar manner.
Her chest rose and fell with panting desire. She wanted more. Dare she encourage him?
He gave her scant time to deliberate. His broad hand closed over her breast and he squeezed. His grip was powerful. Unrelenting. She arched into his palm and moaned. His snarling lips descended once again upon hers, then moved to her neck, nipped at her collarbone, and slid lower still. He grunted and yanked her camisole downward, baring her breast. Eager to satisfy an instinctual craving, he sucked her into his mouth and drew hard upon her flesh.
The sensation elicited a rash of gooseflesh across her upper arms. A desperate whimper leached from her tightening throat. She scarcely recognized the sound of her own voice. Nor could she reconcile her next outrageous action. When he began to struggle with her corset, she surprised herself by helping him to remove it. Then she stripped off her petticoat and pantaloons, too.
Humid jungle air played across her naked skin. Released from the confines of her clothes and society’s expectations, she became uninhibited and wild. An animal.
She plowed her fingers into his hair and pulled him to her. Kissing him with every ounce of passion she possessed, she granted him permission to do as he willed. He scooped her into his arms and plunged them both into the lagoon.
Cold water struck her oversensitive skin like a slap. She gasped and clung to him, drawing heat from his chest and arms. He hugged her close and peppered her hair, her cheeks, her upturned lips with kisses. She enjoyed the press of his warm mouth, the crush of his forceful embrace, the tickle of his softly furred torso. When evidence of his desire rose up beneath his loincloth to prod her abdomen, she did not back away, but allowed him to steer her toward the falls.
Mist gave way to deluge when he drew her into the churning torrent. His face blurred behind the liquid veil. Thunder filled her ears. Blind and deaf, she anchored herself to him. “Don’t let me go,” she begged.
He obliged her with another fervent kiss, fusing his mouth to hers, stealing her breath and her heart. At that moment she realized she loved this brave savage, this stranger who had kidnapped her and then saved her life, all within the span of a single afternoon.
They emerged on the opposite side of the falls in a subterranean pool tucked beneath a stone cliff. Condensation rained from the rocky ceiling, creating ripples on the water’s surface. A slanting shaft of sunlight penetrated the falls and painted the grotto with shimmering silver. The air was rich with the scent of damp earth and buttery ihlukwe blossoms.
He guided her into quieter waters where stilt-legged birds picked through the sparkling shallows and a shelf of pure, white sand offered a comfortable place on which to lie.
The finest satin sheets and goose-down pillows could not make a more enviable bed, she decided when he carried her onto the small beach and placed her gently upon the wet sand. She reclined on her back, head resting atop one up-thrust arm as she peered at him through slitted eyes.
Water dripped from his sodden hair, which cloaked his broad shoulders like glistening seaweed. Beads of moisture stippled his chest, trickled in meandering rivulets along his ribs, and collected in the valleys of his muscled torso.
She followed one polished trail downward from his navel to where his saturated loincloth molded to his hips like a second skin. The bold silhouette of his manhood stood out in rigid relief, vanquishing any doubts she may have harbored about his motives. A quiver of anticipation arrowed through her.
He unsheathed his knife and thrust its point into the sand, out of harm’s way. Then he tugged at the rawhide drawstring of his loincloth. The drenched garment fell away and revealed the unadorned proof of his lust and prowess. The engorged organ pointed heavenward and pulsed with the rapid beat of his heart. Its generous proportions widened her eyes.
Dana was not a virgin. And her brothers would be livid if they were to ever learn the truth, that she had given herself to her fiancé before marriage. Her eldest brother William would insist she wed, even though she did not love Ethan, not then or now, and she was quite certain she would never grow to love him. She had allowed his advances only in a moment of overriding passion, when her bodily desires had grown unbearable and caused her to reject all common sense. Her sacrifice had been for naught. Their brief joining had been a resounding disappointment. Feeling dejected and frustrated, she had blinked in disbelief as a red-faced Ethan hurried to fasten his trousers. “Cover yourself, Dana dear,” he had huffed, and it was only then she saw him for the man he was: staid, cautious, soft.
Not at all like the bold, untamed creature before her now, a man who dared pluck the object of his desire from her quiet riverside glen and carry her off to the heart of a hostile jungle.
Her fearless paramour dropped to his knees at her feet and, crouching there, took hold of her ankles and parted her legs. She exulted in the ravenous way he gazed at her sex. His tongue flicked across his lower lip and his focus never wavered from her center. She found herself yearning for that portion of him that was aimed resolutely at her core, its burgundy tip glossed with a pearlescent bead.
Impatient to take him into her body, she spread her knees and eagerly anticipated his weight upon her. He crawled forward, as if stalking her, and slowly lowered himself between her pale thighs.
A look of confusion, almost panic, suddenly crossed his face and he halted his advances.
“Don’t stop,” she urged, wondering if his leg pained him where it pressed against her inner thigh.
He remained immobile, as if uncertain how to proceed.
“Are you hurt?”
Still he did not move.
It occurred to her that his hesitancy might not be due to his injury, but to his lack of experience in the art of lovemaking. After all, he had never lived among humans. What could he know of a woman’s anatomy?
Would nature guide him? Certainly he must have witnessed matings in the wild. Male and female lions. Wildebeests or baboons.
“Do you need...assistance?”
As she considered the best way to prompt him, instinct fortuitously overtook him and steered him to her. He pushed steadily at first, gliding slowly into her depths. When it seemed he could go no further, he went deeper still, eliciting a gasp of pleasure from them both. She smiled up at him and stroked his cheek. “I love you,” she murmured, truly understanding the emotion for the first time.
He seemed to grasp the significance of her confession because all doubt and worry vanished from his eyes. A devilish grin played upon his lips and he began to thrust with more zeal.
Thus joined with this primeval man, she became a primeval woman. He had fought for her and won her. And as the great muscles of his back and shoulders knotted with the tension of his efforts, and his huge biceps and forearms held him steady above her, her passion crested. She issued a satisfied cry and rode out her pleasure with her eyes wide open. He followed a moment later with a roar that caused jungle birds to take wing.
Spent and panting, he smoothed her hair, kissed her lips and cupped her cheek in his palm. And although he could not articulate his feelings for her, his eyes brimmed with love.
She flinched at the sound of his voice.
“M-Mulder, I was...just...”
He stood at the bathroom door, towel wrapped around his hips, hair dripping water onto the carpet.
Good God, he was the man in her fantasy.
“Just what, Scully?”
“Reading...uh...” She couldn’t tear her eyes away from his broad chest, narrow waist and long, muscular legs.
He quirked an eyebrow. “A page or two?”
He crossed the room and removed the open book from her limp hands. Scanning the page, he read aloud, “‘For a moment Jane lay there with half-closed eyes. For a moment -- the first in her young life -- she knew the meaning of love.’”
Scully felt her face flush. “Ridiculous. A woman wouldn't fall in love so quickly.”
“Not everyone takes seven years, Scully.” He tapped the end of her nose with the book.
She fanned away his teasing gesture. “At least you can be certain my feelings are genuine.”
“Or that I took the wrong approach.” Leaning close, he growled into her ear, “Me Muldarzan. You Jana.”
She smiled and shook her head. “In your dreams.”
“Noooo...” He tossed the book aside and scooped her up into his arms. “In yours.”
Ignoring her protests, he carried her into the bathroom, where she was surprised to find he had filled the tub with steaming water.
“Our own private oasis,” she observed, thrilled at the prospect of making love to him in the tub. Perhaps Burroughs had the right idea after all. “I like it.”
“You wanna hear my Tarzan call again?”
“Sure. But lose the towel first.”
- THE END -
Listen to TARZAN'S CALL [143K]