The Rise and Fall of a Lesbian Cannibal Jungle Princess, Part One (FF, cannibalism)
After a cannibal tribe's men are annihilated in battle, the chief's gorgeous woman-loving daughter takes charge of the surviving women. Unfortunately for them, her appetite for women's flesh - in every sense of the word - is completely insatiable!
This is technically a canon-compliant fanfiction piece from the first Tarzan novel, but you don't need any familiarity with the Tarzan books to enjoy it. If you'd like to get the background straight from the horse's mouth, the massacre is in Chapter 22 of "Tarzan of the Apes."
Part Two will involve the lovely and predatory Kiezi getting her just deserts at the hands of a brutal rogue mangani.
This is not a raceplay story, but as a Burroughs pastiche it is racially insensitive, so beware if that's a turn-off for you.
Contains FF murder and cannibalism and FF consensual and dubious consent sex. There is some implied/offscreen male cannibalism to fit canon but not enough to gross you out if you hate that.
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The Rise and Fall of a Lesbian Cannibal Jungle Princess
The days following the French punitive raid on the village of Mbonga were long, hard, and cruel. Chief Mbonga’s cannibal warriors’ rash attack on the French search party seeking to rescue Jane Porter from her simian captor Terkoz, and their kidnapping of Lieutenant D’Arnot in an attempt to fill their cooking pots with exotic foreign meat, had brought a dreadful revenge.
Every single adult male of the tribe, save a few who fled never to return, and not a few women who had joined in the battle, had been killed in the sudden assault. The earth of the village drank the blood of French soldiers and black warriors and girls with the same thirst. And the surviving women and young were left in their half-empty village to fend for themselves as best they could.
Fortunately, Mbonga’s people were not short of food for many days. They ate the flesh of the dead with great relish – it was rare that there was enough human flesh from war-captives to satiate all of the women of the tribe after the warriors had taken the lions’ share, but now there was meat enough for all to gorge themselves. Cuts of meat taken from the dead warriors and women sizzled over fires, or bubbled in pots, or cured on racks for storage, until the scent of cooking meat filled the jungle far around.
And Kiezi, the daughter of dead Mbonga, brooded on her father’s throne. She was tall and strong, clean-limbed and athletic, from a lifetime of hard physical work and play and a diet rich in meat and milk. Kiezi was a huntress, not content to work in the fields and homes of her father’s village. Sometimes, as a rare and special treat, the chief even allowed her to join the wild, leaping dance that accompanied the torture, killing, and cooking of a captive. Kiezi’s sleek skin, so dark it was like polished ebony, had shone with her sweat in the firelight as she leapt and twirled with the warriors, her slender hunting spear joining their heavy war-spears as they whirled around their bound victim, pricking the hapless target’s flesh and making blood flow in streams before the chief signaled the final vicious attack.
Her special position, an odd elevated place somehow between the men and women of the tribe, had made it easy for the other women to follow her lead. She had commanded speed, not wanting to lose a single scrap of flesh to rot – especially the flesh of the tribe’s women.
Kiezi’s mouth watered for girlmeat. Her eyes had always been drawn as much to her fellow women in the tribe as they had been to the tall, strong warriors. Many of the tribe’s women had felt the eyes of the chief’s daughter on them, and many had been pulled slyly into dark corners to be embraced by the wily huntress, covered with kisses, touched in many places, to emerge hot-faced and blinking into the light long minutes later.
It was but rarely that the unfortunate victims of the Mbonga’s warriors were female. Captive women were more often added to the tribe than devoured. But now, there was feminine flesh aplenty.
Kiezi hoarded as much as she could to herself. The first night, she had carved with her own hands a lovely round buttock from Luniya, a girl who in life had often felt Kiezi’s lips pressed against her own, and been tasted by Kiezi’s probing tongue.
Luniya’s neck had been hacked nearly in two by a blow of a French cutlass as she tried to pull back an unfamiliar bowstring and launch a poisoned arrow at the attackers. Kiezi finished the job, slicing the lovely head from its body as Luniya’s buttock grilled over a fire. The jungle princess – or chieftainess – alternated delicious bites from the delicious girl’s meat with burning kisses on her dead lips.
That night, Kiezi had taken over her father’s well-appointed hut, and she lay in his bed long into the night with Luniya’s severed head between her legs, grinding her wet pussy against the girl’s face.
As time went on, and the supply of dried human meat dwindled, and the last bones were cracked for marrow and then buried so as not to attract wild beasts, Kiezi had to order the other women out to work in the fields. They grumbled, angry that the brief respite from agricultural labor that had come with the bountiful meat supply was over. Accustomed to death and deprivation, their grief had vanished quickly, and now other concerns came to the forefront.
Chief among these was Kiezi’s strange behavior. None of the women had particularly minded her kisses and caresses when she was only the chief’s daughter – she was a gorgeous specimen, high-breasted and lovely, and her warm lips and clever fingers had more than repaid whatever indignity her secret embraces had brought.
But now that she styled herself chieftainess, her depredations among her own sex increased in frequency and severity. Kiezi had warmed to the role of leader, the queen of her little tribe of women, and as she reveled in her power she developed new and interesting ways to enjoy the bodies of her subordinates. Strange new games suggested themselves to her – she would dip her fingers in oil and thrust them into her bedmates’ tight and tender buttholes, or penetrate them with carved and smooth-rubbed wooden penises she strapped to her lean hips with strips of leather to jut out like a masculine member.
Some of the girls warmed to this treatment and cast lustful glances at the proud Kiezi as she strode through the village, or went out to hunt in the near jungles, but many of them found her new proclivities painful and offensive, even if there was a certain illicit enjoyment in them.
Nsuka, the daughter of the woman who used to brew the tarry poison that coated the arrows of Mbonga’s people, was one of these. Her mother had died twitching and mewling with a French bayonet buried in her brain, the pot of her evil potion that she’d meant to fling at the attackers rolling away from her randomly-grasping hand to spill itself on the dirt, and now Nsuka was the only member of the tribe who knew the secrets of preparing the sinister liquid.
She was a clever, quick, and very pretty young woman. Her breasts were fuller than Kiezi’s, her hips rounder, her belly a touch softer, and Kiezi lusted after Nsuka the way Numa, the lion, lusted after a tender young deer. Often Kiezi’s arm would fall over Nsuka’s shoulders and she would lead the girl to her hut to spend the night in sweating, moaning enjoyments – enjoyments chiefly for Kiezi, who delighted in the way Nsuka whimpered as Kiezi’s well-greased wooden phallus stretched her tight holes.
One day, Nsuka had enough. Kiezi’s arm draped across her shoulders, the tall huntress drawing her towards her lustful bed, and Nsuka slapped the offending limb away.
“I’m not in the mood to indulge you tonight,” she said, her cheeks hot with embarrassed rage. “I have to gather ingredients for my work.”
Kiezi stepped forward, an angry look on her face. She took Nsuka by the chin and turned the girl’s face towards hers. Leaning in, she sought to press her lips to Nsuka’s, but the shorter girl spun away and turned her back to Kiezi.
The huntress’s rage boiled over, and she flung herself on Nsuka like a lioness, tackling her in the dust of the street.
Nsuka felt the impact with a shock. She had believed – assumed – that her knowledge and usefulness was sufficient to protect her. She had never heard the expression “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” and Kiezi felt herself to be scorned indeed.
They struck and slapped and rolled this way and that, their long, lovely legs and arms intertwining very much like they had done so often on Kiezi’s bed, but the grunts and savage cries that came from the two feminine throats were now of a very different character.
Nsuka fought as best she could, and she was a healthy young woman, but Kiezi was fierce and strong and eager, and Nsuka found herself on the losing side of the wrestling match very soon. Kiezi was behind her, her left arm around Nsuka’s neck, squeezing tight, and as Nsuka felt darkness begin to close in on her, she twisted completely around with desperate agility, drew back her right leg, and drove her knee straight between Kiezi’s sleek ebony thighs – right into the pussy Nsuka had been made to kiss so many times before.
Kiezi’s eyes started from the sockets with sudden agony, and she bent double, a groan of pain escaping her pretty lips. Nsuka’s mouth fell open at her own temerity, but before she could make up her mind to flee, Kiezi’s head shot up, and the expression of murderous rage made Nsuka’s knees tremble and froze her in place like a young goat hearing the hunting scream of Sabor, the lioness.
Nsuka would never have another change to try and get away, because Kiezi, snatched a heavy metal-shod spear from against the wall of a nearby hut, and drove the leaf-shaped blade deep into Nsuka’s lovely soft belly.
The girl’s dark skin parted before the razor-sharp spearblade like paper, and the cruel steel ripped through her intestines to pierce her body entirely, the bloody tip protruding from her back. With a low wail of horror, Nsuka dropped to her knees, holding her midsection with her hands, trying to step the crimson river pouring out around the spear.
On some level, Kiezi realized that she was making a mistake, but her blood was hot within her, and she was thinking of Luniya – and woman’s flesh.
She jerked her knife free and settled atop Nsuka like a vulture, pushing the girl down on her back, Nsuka’s screams as the spear moved in her guts making her aching cunt tingle and lubricate. Hissing with satisfaction, Kiezi jerked the spear out and threw it aside.
Straddling Nsuka’s right thigh, Kiezi let her see the knife. Nsuka grabbed Kiezi’s wrist, trying to keep the deadly blade away.
“Kiezi, please, don’t!” she cried. “I’m… I’m hurt, I need… Who else will make...”
Kiezi pushed harder, her lean muscles overcoming Nsuka’s lesser strength – now further lessened by loss of blood.
Ever closer the knife drew to Nsuka’s trembling throat, and the poor girl gave a wail of horrified despair as the metal touched her shining skin… and began to cut.
Kiezi simply pushed, barely sawing, and Nsuka’s windpipe and veins gave way to the edge until the blade was buried halfway through the slender neck. Blood bubbled and spurted from the holes, air blown out from Nsuka’s lungs as Kiezi leaned in harder.
“You should have just come along,” Kiezi said, rocking her hips to grind her pussy against Nsuka’s thigh. “You should have just taken my little kisses, Nsuka.”
Kiezi’s mouth opened slightly. Her left hand was sufficient on the knife, and she kept sawing slowly as she humped Nsuka’s shuddering leg, and thrust her right hand between the dying girl’s thighs to feel her sweat-dampened womanhood trembling in her last seconds of life.
Then Nsuka’s eyes stopped moving, the blood slowing, and as Kiezi saw her victim die she threw back her head and gave a rasping, feline moan as her thighs tightened around Nsuka’s in orgasm.
She rode the wave of pleasure for long moments, then opened her eyes and drank in the air, scented with blood and female exertion. Looking down, she saw that she had fully severed Nsuka’s head. Taking the head in one hand by its wave of curly hair, she grabbed Nsuka’s ankle and dragged her corpse towards the center of the village.
Lost in her violent lusts, she did not notice the way the other village girls watched her. As she passed, they turned to look at each other.
This was an unwelcome new development. And watching Kiezi sit by the cookfire, kissing and licking every part of Nsuka as she carved the dead girl’s lush body up piece by piece, the villagers realized that this would certainly not be the last.
Their chieftainess’s craving for women’s flesh was far too insatiable. And as she cooked, and feasted, jealously refusing any part of Nsuka’s succulent body to any other, the women took counsel together.
It took time for one woman to consume all of a healthy girl like Nsuka, and for that time the other women felt comparatively safe. They helped Kiezi dry parts of the meat to make it last longer. She noticed a vague difference in the way the other women looked at her, in their obsequious behavior, but dismissed it as less important than giving Nsuka’s meat the appreciation it deserved.
But the village women definitely noticed the rekindled hunger in Kiezi’s eyes.
And they noticed the dwindling supply of poisoned arrows, never large, but now unable to be replenished from Kiezi’s hunting trips.
There came a day when Kiezi took the last few poisoned arrows in her quiver. And when she returned to the village, carrying the carcass of a small dead boar, she found the stockade gates closed against her, and the walls manned by a line of solemn-looking black beauties armed with spears.
“What is the meaning of this?” Kiezi snarled. “Open the gates, don’t just stand there.”
“We do not want you as chieftainess any more,” one of the girls shouted.
Kiezi dropped the boar, snatched her little bow like lightning, and before anyone could respond she had let fly her very last poisoned arrow to plunge into the throat of the girl who had spoken.
The unfortunate woman’s eyes widened, her hands flying to her pierced throat, and as the poison worked its way through her soft, curvy body she gurgled, pitched backwards, and fell from the stockade into the camp to roll there, keening as the poison worked its way into her brain to burn there like a fire until her eyes rolled back in her head and blood streamed from her eye sockets.
There was a chorus of furious shouts, and a volley of spears leapt out at the deposed Kiezi. Not stopping to pick up the boar, the humiliated and frightened huntress ran at full speed towards the comparative safety of the jungle, carrying her slim hunting spear, the tribeswomen’s eyes watching her glistening black bottom flexing as she fled.
Posted Jul 5, 2025, 10:28 AM UTC