Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Maury Paul via Elisa Rolle

Marty Henry Biddle Paul (1890 - Jul. 27, 1942) wrote under the pen names "Dolly Madison", "Polly Stuyvesant", "Billy Benedick", and "Cholly Knickerbocker". Paul's coy approach and adeptness at personal badgering combined with a change in society standards produced a circulation-building type of journalism for Hearst.

read the rest at...

Elisa Rolle's LiveJournal site

Sunday, July 29, 2012

All the Nasties

His voice, recorded live forty years ago, right on pitch, full of emotion, singing one of my all-time favs.

All the Nasties on YouTube 

Saturday, July 28, 2012

Crucified and Milked

A not-well-kept secret says I am into eroticizing male crucifixion. Most stories I've written have at least one scene of a man on the cross, and I suppose sometimes I do go overboard.

One such sometime was the second story in my book, The Crux of It - Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There. Guess the title spills the beans, eh? Anyway, the scene takes place in an 1880 Montana mining town, and I had the audacity to crucify seven men at once, while another one is stretched on a rack and forced to watch the seven suffer. Here's what I wrote:

Seven females moved to seven crosses -- two on the west wall to Pete's left, five on the north wall straight ahead. One by one the women removed platforms from the crosses. Each naked man dropped into full suspension, groans of agony echoing the room. Strong men. Men who swung the pick axe. Men who lifted heavy rock by hand and shovel. Hard-bodied and rugged and in all shapes and sizes -- from the thick and burly to the slender and wiry, some smooth-skinned and some covered with fur -- seven strong men now struggled for air, struggled to keep their powerful bodies together.

Gravity tortured them, threatening to rip arms from sockets. Compression on their chests and diaphragms made each breath they drew more shallow than the previous. Their heart rates gradually increased in a losing battle to supply oxygen-rich blood to muscles and organs.

A scene of beauty. A scene of tragedy. The naked male form in all its glory. Stretched, arms flared diagonally left and right, chests thrust forward, abdomens caved inward, legs dangling, struggling feet planted to stipes or wall but unable to remain there for more than seconds at a time. As their lungs gradually lost ability to intake sufficient air, their hearts raced frantically, pumping oxygen-poor blood throughout their bodies. Each man's phallus filled with blood, but the blood was unable to leave, their involuntary erections adding to their misery. Their heroic battle was a losing one, a slow, torturous demise, and Pete could not bear to see it, could not bear to listen.

"Stop it, you evil bitch. Give them something to stand on."

Because of his smart mouth, the ladies torture him awhile before I get back to the guys on their crosses here:

Seven female mouths engulfed seven hard cocks belonging to seven crucified men. Pitifully they moaned, their failing strength unable to mount resistance. Humiliated. Degraded. Crucified. Naked. Defenseless. Mercilessly sucked.

The four remaining vixens further taunted, moving from man to man, poking their belly buttons with cruel fingernails, plucking hairs from their toes and legs. None of the men could fight back, none could kick, none had the strength. Each man summoned his last ounce in his struggle to breathe, as voracious tongues ruthlessly scraped engorged penises that could not come.

So, you can see how I do at times lay it on thick. I recently made the Kindle cover for this book match the paperback version, then I lowered the Kindle price by a buck to $5.49. Descriptions for all three stories and the book's cover pic are at AMAZON . com

Friday, July 27, 2012

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Merce Cunningham via Elisa Rolle

Mercier "Merce" Philip Cunningham (April 16, 1919 – July 26, 2009) was an American dancer and choreographer who was at the forefront of the American avant-garde for more than 50 years. Throughout much of his life, Cunningham was considered one of the greatest creative forces in American dance.

Read the rest and see pictures at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

Wednesday, July 25, 2012

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

Godzilla Movies

Here's some fascinating on-the-set pictures from classic Godzilla films from 1954 to 1965...

Courtesy of Retronaut . com

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Roberta Achtenberg via Elisa Rolle

Roberta Achtenberg (born July 20, 1950) is an American politician. She currently serves as a Commissioner on the United States Commission on Civil Rights. She served as Assistant Secretary of the U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development, becoming the first openly lesbian or gay public official in the United States whose appointment to a federal position was confirmed by the United States Senate.

Read all about her at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings

Friday, July 20, 2012

JJ Said 072012

There are now two ebooks made for Amazon's Kindle reader from the Jasper and Jardonn series, Erotic Tales from The Burrow.

Here are the covers...

The Extractionators sets the scene and purpose for The Burrow's existence, focusing on the erotic tortures of Kyle Hitchens. Links to excerpts and the link to Amazon, where the ebook sells for $2.99, can be found at the Jardonn's Erotic Tales book page.

Book 2, Screw X Two, has Kyle crucified Saint Andrew's cross style, while he watches Pete and Brianne endure some horrific-erotic punishments. It's a shortie, sells for 99 cents, and can also be seen at the Jardonn site.

Meanwhile, here's a shortie excerpt from Screw X Two...

Her labia fought him. Clammed together trying to block him, but his swollen mushroom battered her defenses. Pounded her clitoris. Exactly what she wanted him to do, as she crushed him in her vise. Increased wet friction for them both. His cock. Her pussy. Working together toward their singular goal.

Their pace intensified. Snorting through nostrils with hearts racing and saliva streaming, mucus spraying upon their upper lips. She was close. He was in synch with her. Her milk and his about to spew. A dual orgasm eminent, until he felt something rigid and fleshy poking him between his butt cheeks. "What the?"

A bright light suddenly flooded the room and they were jettisoned from total blackness into a high-sunshine beach. Their bodies froze while eyes adjusted and a voice blared from an unseen speaker in the ceiling. "Pete Barclay! Have you lost your mind?"

Kyle withdrew his pecker, caught a glimpse of Brianne beneath him before turning to see Pete behind him and a quartet of men in black pants and white t-shirts streaming through the door. They pounced upon naked Pete before he could even remove his greasy paw from his oiled dick. Lifted him by his arms and carried him out crucifixion-style, two trailing with his ankles in their grips.

As they exited, four more entered and the male voice from above spoke again. "Hope you two enjoyed yourselves." Kyle didn't know the speaker. Never heard him before, but he did know Brianne.

He stood and looked to her. "Why did you and Pete come in here?"

"Couldn't help ourselves, Kyle," she explained, rising to her feet.

"Well, thanks a lot," he sarcastically voiced his displeasure, as the second quartet secured his arms, preparing to haul him out the same way Pete had gone. "Get me in trouble on my first day." They stretched his arms side to side, lifted him up while the other two grabbed his ankles from behind him. Offering no resistance, he looked over his shoulder, his heart softened toward her. "It's okay, Brianne. I loved every minute of it."

"Me, too, Kyle. I love a man who talks with his dick, not his mouth."

This book and The Extractionators can be seen on Amazon .com.

Thomas Quinn Curtiss via Elisa Rolle

Thomas Quinn Curtiss (June 21, 1915 New York City – July 17, 2000, Poissy, France) was a writer, and film and theatre critic.

The son of Roy A. Curtiss and Ethel Quinn, he graduated from the Browning School in New York in 1933. He went on to study film and theatre in Vienna and Moscow, where he was a student of the film director Sergei Eisenstein.

Read the rest with pictures at...

Elisa Rolle's My Reviews and Ramblings.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

JJ Said 071812

This paperback book...

is now also an Ebook for Amazon's Kindle Reader, and sells for $3.99 (USD).

There are a few revisions from the paperback version, and I think it's only fair I post an excerpt to go with this BFD announcement. Here it is...

"All right, Harvey, you and Dr. Ben get your marketing people on it. Shoot me some emails if you want, or just go ahead with your campaign. Hell, you know what you're doing."

"Yes, we do, and now, we have some interesting information for you."


"You tell him, Ben."

"It's about Randall Hughes."

"What about him?"

"His time is up end of April. Sentence served. He'll be released from Petersonville."

Damn it to hell, I thought. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. "Damn it to hell. That means he's my star for only two more months? Then what?"

"You mean, then who? Dr. Ben and I already have a dozen or so picked out. Trust me, Brad, by then we'll have audiences hooked. All you'll do is plug in new players. No big deal."

"So you say. I'm not so sure."

"All we can do is our best," Dr. Ben consoled. "But let's take it beyond Petersonville and think on this. Everything you need to make movies is right here."

"That's right, nephew. You'll be getting a tour of the basement shortly."

"Now, consider this," Dr. Ben continued. "Do you think a paroled Mr. Hughes will have any better prospects than to do what he's doing now? He will be a bona fide star, if he isn't already. There's a ton of money to be made with him. Not for Petersonville. Not for the state, but for us. You, me and my gals, Harvey and JoAnne, and of course, Randall Hughes."

"Have you talked to him about it?"



"And, he's all for it, but only if you're his director."

"Which brings me to this question." Harvey drifted between me and JoAnne, put his arms around us both. "Why in the hell do you want to live in that backward state of yours producing cooking shows for doe-eyed morons, when you can live right here in our progressive state, make enough cash to last you four lifetimes, and shoot films that make your dick harder than concrete?"


"He's struggling for arguments, Harvey," giggled JoAnne.

"Of course he is. Come on, Bradley. Get it while it's hot. Get it while you're young."

"I'm not exactly young, Uncle Harvey. Nearly forty, you know."

"Boo fucking hoo. You're expecting sympathy from me? Sixty-five with a heart barely alive?"

JoAnne reached for Harvey's underwater privates. "His peter doesn't act sixty-five. Does it, Bradley?"

"Not even close." Funny thing is, with all the amenities offered to persuade me, my only thought was Randall Hughes. Hell, that had been the case ever since I first saw him in that home movie Dr. Ben made in his office chair. No arguing that. Knowing he'd soon be strutting around the Crawford complex free (and naked) as a bird, nixed whatever feeble protests I had to offer before I even came up with any. "I'd like to give my employer three weeks notice. All right?"

Tuesday, July 17, 2012