Monday, September 15, 2014

Reinsertion of Jack's Insertions III

Taken from site Jardonn's Erotic Tales .

Sept. 18-29

Sept. 18
Of course, the unleashing of Frank’s penis could not go without a verbal introduction, and I provided it.
“Well, slave, your strength is impressive. This I cannot deny, but there are other ways of persuading you to loosen your tongue.”
And with that, I ripped away his loin cloth, allowing his fully-charged penis to flip onto his belly. He strained his arms against the straps, raised his head to confirm his nakedness, then glared at me while protesting with a manly, “Ugh”.
His incredible, masculine physique struggled against its bondage. His mighty cock rose into the air, triggered by involuntary clinches of his scrotum. It remained suspended for a few seconds, then fell onto his belly, bounced and again lifted itself. My slave’s phallus was begging to be tortured and I kindly granted its request.
“You, woman... look at his powerful tool. Look at his bulging testicles. How many times have you serviced them? How many times have you lovingly taken this man’s penis into your bosom? Into your mouth? Well, it is no longer yours. It is mine, and I order you to flog him. I command you to assault his manly organs.
“NO!” she begged. “I will never do it. I surrender to you. Do with me as you please, but I beg of you, don’t force me to destroy his beautiful phallus.”
“You must. Do it now, or prepare for your crucifixion. What will it be?”
“Crucify me, then. I don’t care. I will no longer participate in your torture of him.”
Again, she was coerced by my tormented slave. “Do as he says, my love. Nothing he does to us will make me talk.”
He struck a pose of manly defiance, expanding his chest, sucking in his belly and spewing his wrath at me. “Go ahead, you bastard. Torture me all you want. I will never tell you.”
“Do it, wench.”
And she did. The flogger came down with the proper fury of an expert, across the top of his engorged shaft, upon the sensitive head of his oozing mushroom, onto the flesh of his swollen testicles, and our victim performed magnificently. Each lashing brought deep-throated “Argh’s and Ungh’s; each carving caused his body to tense, muscles to flex, and head to turn from one side to another; each blow triggered his toes to curl and fists to clench; and each sound, each reaction caused my penis to surge, syrup to dribble and balls to ache.
How could the intensity of the scene I had created be elevated? Was it possible? Shouldn’t I just ravage his body with my face and lips right then and there, while she whipped him into an orgasmic frenzy? Hell no. There was no way I could let him get off that easily.
Sept. 19
I grabbed both his nipples and pinched them, twisted them. “Now slave, will you talk?”
“Ungh... no... never.”
“Shall I torture you until nothing is left? Talk, now, before it is too late.”
“Aghhhh... never... damn you to hell.”
“Very well... give him the wheel.”
I released his tits and grabbed a pole, grinding it into the pit of his stomach while the flogger heated up his cock and balls.
My questions were continuously answered with defiance. I drove the stake in deeper and he took it, grunting and groaning, but still spewing phrases of denial. Oh, god, I wanted to finish him, but then again, I didn’t. I did not want this to end – not yet. I removed the pole from his stomach and commanded the woman to, “Stop!” And I accompanied my order with a slight backhand across her face. She reacted much more violently than the degree of my assault called for, and flung herself backwards to lie on the floor.
My slave shouted, “Damn you! Leave her be. She has done everything you’ve asked of her.”
He was desperately struggling to break free of his bondage, aching to get at me.
“Ah, ha,” I sneered. “Perhaps I have been torturing the wrong slave. This woman is important to you. Is that it? We shall see just how important.”
Sept. 20
I circled the bed to check on Laura, who was laying on the floor pretending to be nearly unconscious.
“Federal Dollars,” I whispered. “Are you ok?”
“Sure. Are you about ready to finish him?”
“Do you want me to finish him?”
“You’re in charge... and you’re doing a wonderful job. Keep him waiting as long as you want.”
“Frank’s doing a pretty good job, too, Laura. I need something from your closet. Is it unlocked?”
“I’ll be right back.”
I went to the basement, leaving Frank to recover and leaving both of them to wonder what I had in mind for finishing this scene. I returned with a length of rope in one hand and a leather belt in another. God only knows why she had this belt, but it probably was part of some dominatrix outfit.
It looked like something one of those heavy metal rockers would wear on stage, Gene Simmons from Kiss, for example. It was black leather, about five inches wide, and imbedded all the way around with silver-colored metal pyramids. Each was about two by two inches, and the point of the pyramid extended about two inches from the belt surface.
“Stand up, wench,” I commanded to the woman. Once she did, I wrapped the belt around her belly – not her hips, snapping it uncomfortably snug.
“How does that feel, my love?” I queried, mocking her husband.
“I... I can hardly breath.”
“Don’t worry. I will alleviate the pressure.”
I took her wrist and brought her to the side of the bed, so her husband could see both of us.
“Now, slave, since you love this woman so much, I will bring you both together. You can share your love in mutual agony.”
He struggled against his straps. “What do you want from her?”
“Everything. Bind her to the rack!”
Sept. 21
I bound her wrists together, then made her sit on the side of the bed. Climbing up, I grabbed the man’s semi-erect penis and moved it off of his belly to point towards his foot, then, standing behind his wife, I lifted her arms overhead and raised her body. I stepped over my male prisoner, draped his wife’s body atop his belly, continuing to the other side of the mattress with her arms still in my grasp. Stepping down to the floor, I stretched her arms, then tucked the extra length of rope under the mattress.
Now, both man and woman were my captives – man beneath, still stretched atop his pillow like a letter X; woman crossing him, her arms stretched close together beyond her head, the small of her back intersecting with her husband’s belly. Together, their bodies formed a letter t and the woman’s back was arched in reverse, thereby forcing her belly to flatten.
“There, woman, I told you I would alleviate the pressure from that belt. I merely transferred the pressure to your arm pits.”
And what about the belt? Well, at least two of those pyramids were pressing down into the belly of my male victim, who was kindly groaning from the piercing, pointed apex of each, while his wife kindly kept her ankles on the mattress, legs spread wide. She also moaned from her stretched and bent-backwards bondage, even though she, unlike her husband, could easily escape at any time.
I knelt next to her upper torso between his legs. With my mouth I ravaged her breasts. With my left hand I fondled her husband’s cock, until he once again was rigid. Then, I left the bed to stand near his face.
“Why do I call you slave? Because you have nothing, except for this woman. It is what you believe, but you see, she does not belong to you. She, like you, belongs to me. And until you talk, you both must suffer. One last time, where is Tribune Galleon?”
All I got from him was a glare of hate, a flexing of his muscles and a manly display of defiance, which could not have made me happier. I flogged them both – he, across his mighty chest; she, across her voluptuous breasts.
The sounds they made were ecstasy to my ears. Feminine shrieks, masculine groans, shouts of anger and pain, all were a symphony of suffering that thrilled me no end.
What had they done to me? Was I becoming a sadist? And if so, why was nobody complaining?
Sept. 22
Although no serious plotting had been done on my part, through trial and error I had created a scene of intoxicating beauty. Both man and woman were displayed before me in a most glorious form of vulnerability, and as the flogger came down upon his chest and hers, their flexing and defensive postures electrified me with lust. Now, the time had come for me to greedily satiate my raging desires.
I cast aside the flogger and climbed onto the mattress. “Now, watch slave, as I take your woman away from you for good.”
I laid atop her. I speared her vagina with my neglected-far-too-long penis. I impaled her husband’s belly by adding my weight to hers, driving the spikes of her belt deeper into him. The heel of my left hand pressed onto his pectoral, my fingers squeezing tightly to that muscle. The curled grip of my right hand clutched his penis, squeezing its long, swollen shaft. My belly was also impaled by the pyramids on her belt, because her belt-adorned belly and my bare-skinned belly were the only parts touching one another – except for my penis meshed with her pussy.
“Both of you, husband and wife, man and woman are mine,” I berated them. “Your fate is in my hands. Your release comes when I choose.”
The groans and grunts coming from this man and woman were matched by my own, for you see, I was further stimulated by my own, self-induced pain. I had chosen to finish this woman by impaling myself upon her belt. I could have supported my weight above her with my hands, but I chose instead to masturbate my man and clutch onto his chest, while stirring my woman with my hardened cock. My chest was elevated; hers sloped downward. My legs were close together; hers were spread wide. I was the third person, the apex of this human pyramid and the pyramids of her belt further agonized me, as the apex of each scraped the skin of my middle section with each grinding penetration -- penetration propelled by my knees alone.
I duplicated Frank’s torment for myself. I equaled his agony upon myself, which heightened my admiration for him, my longing for him, my unbridled lust for this powerful, glorious, tortured man.
The orgasms were merciful. I do not remember theirs – when or how they came – I only recall my own. I only cherish the frantic, testosterone-overdosed, manly-beast-in-heat ecstatic explosion that finished us all – completed in a scene of incredible intensity, dramatized with human sweat, belly impalement, pussy impalement, masculine dominance, masculine helplessness, feminine surrender and orgasmic joy.
Screw Hollywood. What do they know? The Johnson’s and I had acted out a script like no other. My torture victim never did talk. Hell, I was too busy to keep asking. Frank only spoke with his magnificent cock, and I do remember the gobs of his seed on my hand. Not all of it was captured, but whatever stuck to me was transferred to his wife’s stretched titties, and I forced Frank to lay there and watch as I licked her titties clean.
Enjoy the weekend, everybody.
Sept. 25
Exhaustion doesn’t begin to describe the state I was in and I know the Johnson’s, being 20 years my senior, had to feel the same or worse. We wasted little time in discarding the gear we had used, doing our bathroom duties and collapsing into sleep. Nothing was said about what had just happened. Three brains were dead.
Laura is the one who woke me up by dabbing my belly with peroxide-soaked cotton balls. I hadn’t even noticed the scratches I had made on myself, having broken the skin in several places, but now that I knew they were there, her nursing made it all better.
This wild weekend was essentially over. Frank and I got breakfast in bed again, which arrived at about two in the afternoon. Then the three of us lounged around until hands and lips started going astray. Apparently, there was still more to do in completing my acceptance into this union, because what followed was a series of two-against-one marathons of body worship and a succession of three orgasms.
That did me in for good, so I told them I had to get home. I hate to admit it, but those two old farts had worn me out, even though I was excited to imagine what our future hook-ups might bring.
The Johnson’s had the equipment. We all three were of a like mind as to the mode of bondage and domination we enjoyed, so everything was in place and I knew my weekends would be reserved for them... or so I thought.
Sept. 26
What I did not expect was to be cut off for three weeks. Frank did call me on Monday as usual, and to my surprise, we resumed our normal routine of lunch-time blow jobs – at least for that one day.
It was at this time he told me that their daughter would be in town mid-week and over the weekend. After that both he and Laura would begin their vacation. They planned to visit their son, whose wife would be due to squirt out their first grandchild.
“What will you do with the frame in your basement?” I asked, in reference to the elaborate device where we had suspended him in our first session.
“Oh, it breaks down easily. I’ll store it in the garage with the other junk.”
“So, what about the rest of this week, Frank?”
“Today will be it. Tomorrow I’ll be doing an orientation for new agents and Wednesday my daughter will be here.”
I tried not to let it show that I was disappointedly pissed off, and with a few moments of reflection, I came to the conclusion that abstinence from the Johnson’s would only make our next meeting more enjoyable. As for now, Frank was here and I planned to make the most of it.
I told him to strip. I told him to sprawl out on the bed, to shut his eyes and to shut his mouth. I knew what time he had to leave and I knew how long it would take me to get him off, so I dry kissed every inch of his topside and fondled him with my hands. I sucked on his cock like I’d never done before, nearly gagging myself by ramming his ram rod to the back of my throat and licking his balls with my tongue. My fingers replaced my tongue to pinch and twist his testicle skin, while my mouth viciously stroked and crushed his thick, sturdy tool.
He was drained good and I swallowed it all, refusing to drink or eat anything for the remainder of the day, so I could cherish the taste of his seed as long as possible. Does that gross you out? Tough shit. Frank is a very healthy man. His discharge tastes good and now it also reminds me of his wife, Laura. When I taste Frank, I can feel Laura’s warm vagina crushing my pecker.
(Next insertion will be Sept. 28)
Sept. 28
Frank called me Sunday night, the last one in August, wanting to know if he could see me the following day. Our Monday-lunch-hour-encounter came exactly three weeks since the previous and Frank made the decision that I was to get off first.
“I think I’ll do a better job on you if I’m still horny,” he explained.
This meant that he would no longer be satisfied with using his hand to take care of me, but his mouth. Unfortunately, and unexpectedly, Frank’s oral experience was not efficient enough to bring me orgasm. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine, because fantasies of him were no longer sufficient to do the trick. He was there with me. I needed to touch him – to see him and to taste him.
Laying on my back, I raised up to watch the top of his head frantically stroking up and down, side to side, as he knelt between my legs. He clearly was tiring of his desperate, useless attempts to finish me. I rose to a sitting position, reached down to clutch his flaccid pecker. With a gentle tug of his tail, I coaxed him to pivot towards me. I forced him to reverse position, until he was on all fours with his cock above my mouth. My fingers clamped into his butt cheeks and I coerced him to lower his hips, until his lifeless worm was within range of my lips.
My hard dick was still in his mouth and his was in mine. Its swelling was instantaneous, power increasing until Frank was fully erect. His lesson in the art of the man-to-man sixty-nine was about to begin.
Sept. 29
I know Frank loves to fuck and I know he’s damn good at it. I’ve seen him do it. It was during our last round of orgasms in their bedroom on Sunday afternoon, when he pleasurably consumed his wife with that manly battering ram of his. It was a display of tradition, done with simplicity – man on top, smothering his female beneath. I was there beside them, on my knees, slipping my hand between them to fondle Laura’s breasts, laying my lips onto Frank’s back to feel his powerful, undulating muscles. I watched him stroke her to submission, masterfully pivoting his hips to penetrate her from every possible angle.
I marveled at his artistry, absorbed the sounds coming from their groins and their mouths, and I took mental notes.
Frank quickly understood my desire. All it took was my hands on his hips to pull him down a few inches, then push him back up. From there, Frank took charge and I had what I wanted: my dick in his mostly stationary mouth, his dick fucking the back of my skull. He was directly above me for my eyes to observe... his bulging nuts, dangling and swinging in unison with his thrusting and retracting hips; his hairy ass crack, narrowing and widening as the scrotum clinched in conjunction with the stimulation of his cock; the back sides of his muscular thighs, efficiently lifting and lowering his mighty fuck tool to receive that stimulation.
My hands were free to roam. They slid underneath him, along the length of his belly and his chest. I squeezed his flexing pectorals, massaged his firm nipples with my fingertips. I rubbed his hard stomach, his tightened belly, then encompassed his mighty bull nuts in my hand, following them up and down, as he increased the pace of his strokes.
For him, my mouth became a warm, tight, pussy hole. My tongue wrapped around the top half of his cock, the roof of my mouth took the other half and I crushed him in between. It was a battle of wills – my crunching vise doing everything in its power to prevent him from fucking me; Frank doing his best to bull his way through, savoring my wet friction, overpowering my attempts to crush his thick meat down to nothingness.
The contest was a draw, and Frank’s brain convinced him to coordinate his mouth strokes on my dick with his dick strokes on my mouth.
Humans learn quickly when their admiration for one another transcends the physical – when the desire to please your partner outweighs the desire to please yourself. This is when orgasms are magnified tenfold, and this is what Frank and I achieved that afternoon. The art of the sixty-nine was easily mastered.
By mutual agreement, nothing more would happen between us until the weekend. Upcoming was Labor Day, which meant a three-day weekend and I was invited to their home for the second time.
For us, August was coming to an end. For my insertions, September has come to an end. Join me on Monday, October 2, as I continue to tell the saga of Jack, Frank and Laura.

Monday, September 1, 2014

Labor Day Snippet

Relative to Labor Day, this text is taken from Jardonn's e-book, The Thomas Coleman Full Nelson.

Lord knows Thomas had put up with plenty of misery himself. One thing's for sure, the year of 1990 was chock full of momentous events for him -- getting Janice pregnant, getting 2nd place at state, getting his dick briefly sucked by his best friend, graduating high school, getting married and preparing for fatherhood. It's a matter of opinion as to whether what happened on Labor Day of that year was good fortune for Thomas or bad. Most say bad, but I beg to differ.

Despite the fact this particular Labor Day coincided with the official demise of Commonwealth Steel, the traditional laborer's parade took place on Gravois Avenue same as always, followed by the bring-your-own-eats picnic in May Brook Park. My family went to the parade, but not the picnic. With such a dark cloud on everyone’s mind, Dad saw no reason to celebrate like we always had before. He knew, and I'm sure everybody knew, that the closing of the steel mill would signal a slow unraveling of our neighborhood and all for which it stood. I had my own reasons for not doing the picnic. For the first time ever the Colemans and the Hightowers would not be together. Thomas and his family would be pretending to enjoy the company of their new in-laws, the Conaghers, but none of our family members could stand being around any of the Conaghers, and since dad couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to be jolly with the unemployed in May Brook Park, we Hightowers had our own picnic of sorts -- in my neighborhood, on the patio of my rented house.

It should come as no surprise that plenty of beer always showed up at the May Brook Park shindig, and it was never unusual for fisticuffs to break out as the day progressed into night and drunken braggarts renewed old rivalries.

Just stupid shit, but the stupidest of all had to be the drunken Jack Conagher on his brand new motorcycle. Like I said, there were eight Conagher offspring at the time, Jack being the oldest at twenty-two years old, followed by Richard (Dickie), James (Jimmy), Janice, and two more of each gender who don't matter.

Jack, who apparently could barely stand, decided to demonstrate for each of his siblings one by one from oldest to youngest the power of his motorcycle. This involved flying down Gravois Avenue at double the speed limit without helmet or any other protective gear, using the corner at 46th Street for his turnaround before his return trip to the park. Yes, six-month-pregnant Janice took her ride, and yes, Jack chose that time to jump the curb at 46th and throw both Conaghers off the bike. So much for the first Conagher grandson/nephew, which is what it would have been had it survived. Fortunately or not, Janice got scratched and scraped but not broken.

And, so much for Thomas's only good and truthful reason for marrying her.

Being an honorable man, Thomas stayed married to her, but whatever tidbit of interest they had in one another died on that sidewalk. This became painfully clear to Janice when Thomas informed her he wanted no more children.

"One tragedy's enough for me," he tells her. "You should've shown more regard for yourself, for me and our child. From now on, whatever sex we have will be protected sex."

Since she and her ilk don't believe in protected sex, she and Thomas had no more sex. Think Janice was insulted? Just imagine how her family took it when she told them. From that day forward Thomas Coleman was Enemy Number One in the eyes of all Conaghers. She and her clan would suck him dry -- not his dick, but his money, his patience, and his mental well-being.


More about the ebook is at my site, Jardonn's Erotic Tales .

Reinsertion of Jack's Insertions II

Taken from site Jardonn's Erotic Tales

September 1-15

Sept. 5
Now, you'll have to forgive me, but I intend to dwell on this pool activity. You see, even though I had sucked Frank off many times and had put my hands on him many times, never once had I worshiped his belly with my mouth.
Several things came together for me, and if you can picture it I'm sure you'll understand. Like I said, Frank was holding onto the diving board. His body was hanging arms over head, with the water line just below his crotch. The distant light from their house illuminated his still-wet skin, caused his still-wet fur to glisten, and every muscle he had was dramatized by his suspension from the diving board.
His belly felt like heaven... a bit cushiony on the outer layer, solid as a rock beneath. I’m sure you’ve figured out that Frank is considerably older than I, but believe me, this man is in perfect health.
I lingered on that belly of his, burying my face into it, kissing and licking it, while clutching my hands onto his butt cheeks to keep myself above water. And even though mine was floating, adding my weight to his stretched and tightened those muscles even more. I lost myself in this man’s body, while his hard dick was forced down into the water by the pressing of my chest.
Although I knew his wife had taken a position behind him, I paid little attention to what she was doing, pretty much figuring she was working on his back the same way I was working on his belly.
Laura Johnson got my attention in a big way, however, when she snaked her arms inside of Frank’s thighs and clasped her hands onto my butt cheeks. Her arms forced Frank to spread his legs wide and brought Laura’s body closer to mine.
She took me again.
Sept. 6
My hard dick was smothered by Mrs. Johnson’s clamping pussy, coming together underwater beneath Frank’s upside-down-V positioned legs. Hanging onto the diving board kept him halfway out of the water; hanging onto Frank kept me head and shoulders out of the water; and hanging onto me kept Laura head-up out of the water. That beautiful man was supporting the floated weight of three and this goaded me into finishing Frank.
I buried his massive man-meat to the back of my throat and all three of us grunted with exhilaration. My mouth locked him into its vise, crushing his surging cock between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. Laura wrapped her legs behind my knee caps, locked her ankles together and humped me, while I began tongue-stroking her husband’s throbbing tool. Every now and then I’d interrupt my strokes to spear my throat with his mushroom. This is so I could stretch my tongue to the extreme and lick his balls at the same time. It’s a luxurious freedom, not needing to worry about drooling all over the place. The water took care of that.
Frank got moves from me I’d never tried before and Laura put moves on me I’d never felt before.
I don’t know how a man his age could have flooded my mouth the way he did, especially as the second coming of his evening. I do know why I contracted to spurt inside his wife the way I did. I can no longer deny it – being inside a female pussy is an ecstasy like no other. No asshole can match it. Only the expertise of a world-class cock sucker can begin to approach it. And with Frank’s glorious body contorting and flexing, not to mention his charged tool rocketing his man-seed down my throat, well put it all together and imagine what kind of orgasm I had – if you can.
Mr. & Mrs. Johnson were conspiring against me. I offered no resistance.
Sept. 7
After we untangled, Frank dropped into the water to cool off, then we all exited the pool. The three of us towel dried, then sat down at the table where Laura had left our sandwiches and melted-iced tea. She brought us new ice cubes.
They asked if I wanted more and I did, so at Laura’s suggestion we moved inside to raid the fridge. I noticed that Laura had what looked like a photo album with her. It had been on the table outside, then the kitchen counter inside, but was shown to me in their bedroom, where the three of us sprawled naked on a king-sized mattress.
Laura did most of the talking, as she gave an historical account of the coming together of Frank Johnson and Laura Honsinger. Frank was in college; Laura worked at a nearby, off-campus bar and grill. Love at first site? Not really. It wasn’t until Laura’s employer held a cook-out and swimming party -- a ten year anniversary of the bar get-together at his house, thrown for regular patrons and employees of the bar before Frank and Laura took notice of one another.
“It was her tits,” Frank said. “Bouncing so beautifully in her two-piece suit. Man, when she climbed out of the water I nearly shit my trunks.”
“It was his chest,” Laura said. “And the hair. Just a small patch on the sternum, then a thinly painted line right down the center of his stomach, through the navel and beyond.”
She showed me a picture. “This is him a few months later... on a camping trip. The first night we did it.”
He stood near a river bank, shirtless, and what got my attention was that he looked like I do right now, at least in the composition of the body and the fur covering.
“Damn, Frank. You looked just like...”
Frank was asleep. Poor guy, we’d sapped him of everything.
“We’re glad you’re here, Jack,” Laura said. Then, she closed the book. "Let’s call it a day.”
Pampered is a good word to describe my treatment, as I slept in the middle between them. Mystified is a good word to describe my reaction, when I awoke in total darkness to feel one mouth on my nuts and another one on my dick.
Sept. 8
A marathon of body worship, that’s what I got. Never was sure if I fully woke up or not, but hell, I didn’t need to. They lathered me up good. All I had to do was lay there on my back, as they smothered my body with kisses and licks and finger rubs.
The word marathon is not to be taken lightly, because their praise continued non-stop until I thought my nuts would explode. I quit opening my eyes to distinguish which shadow was doing what. I no longer cared. I certainly didn’t care when my dick was finally, mercifully taken into a warm mouth to be sucked with slow, tantalizing, wet-tongued scrapings. Nor did I care when butt cheeks sat onto my chest and a hand lifted my head, directing my tongue to the open V of a heated, human crotch.
My concern only came when I realized that the crotch was comprised of neither balls nor dick. Laura was filling my mouth, which meant that Frank was sucking my cock, which meant that he was doing something he had never done to me before.
Sept. 11
What could I do?
I was trapped. Sure, I could have jerked my head away to verbalize my protest, but not without disrupting what was happening to my cock. After all these months, Frank was finally pleasuring me with his mouth instead of his hand, and if eating his wife’s pussy was the price I had to pay for Frank’s services, then it was a small amount indeed.
I focused on what my dick was feeling, not what my tongue was tasting and nose was smelling. I lost myself in this momentous occasion – the most generous gift Frank could give to me – and without realizing it, my head no longer was in the clutches of Laura. I began to voluntarily service her, and unlike my previous, teen-aged experience, this woman tasted fresh, smelled clean and was willing to assist me in my exploration.
She guided her clitoris towards my tongue, exposed it with her fingers to make sure I knew what I was tasting and feeling. Once I was successfully locked onto her, Laura leaned forward, clasping her hands to the headboard. This gave me easier access to her sensitive sweet spot, while leaving her dangling breasts to hover above me. I had fully adjusted to the darkness. Her inflated balloons were cast in a shadow of blue. Without forethought, I reached up to touch them, to fondle them, to grasp them in my clutches while stimulating her nipples with a gentle rubbing of my thumbs.
This was an alternating ecstasy for me. The nerves in my groin sent strong messages to my brain, reminding me that Frank was becoming more comfortable with each slow, tantalizing stroke executed on my cock. Then, this message was usurped by my hands, thumbs, tongue and nose. They were reminding me that Laura was there, too. The delicate softness of her breasts; the stimulated firmness of her nipples; the vibrating heat of her clitoris; the pleasurable sweetness of her vagina, all combined to send a return message to my surging cock.
My alternating ecstasy became a mesmerizing, never-ending cycle, as shockwaves of pleasured messages charged from groin to brain to all extremities between and beyond. Only my finish could end this madness and the orgasm that did finish me put all arguments aside. My defenses were obliterated. My doubts were no more. My desire for man and woman were equal.
Damn them. They had tricked me... and I loved them for it.
Sept. 12
Laura must have been pleased with all that had transpired so far. I know this because Frank and I awoke to the smell of coffee and the sounds of a cart rolling on the bedroom floor. Breakfast in bed is what we got – enough food to feed a Roman legion. I asked Frank if this was the norm.
“Are you kidding? She cooks all week, but when the weekend gets here she’s a slacker. I have to do everything.”
“Careful,” Laura said. “It’s too early for you to start upsetting me.”
Their bedside table clock said 11:42. “You call this early?” I asked.
“It is when you go to sleep around 5 am.”
“Wow, is that when I passed out on you?”
“Jack, darling, as soon as Frank drained your nuts you were out like a light."
“Uh, did I get you off first?”
“No, but he took care of me. His mouth was very, very busy.”
“And effective,” I added.
The key word for Saturday? Pool... as in swimming and table. They had a beautiful nine-footer in the basement. Daytime swimming was with trunks, mine being a pair of Frank’s drawn up from loose to acceptable with the string.
I got a few more details – about their two kids, now grown, one at college, the other married with an expecting wife.
“Hey, your first grandchild. Does it make you feel old, Frank?”
“Hell, no. It’s good to know my sperm is so useful.”
“And tasty.”
We swam for awhile, sunbathed for awhile, then Frank and I headed downstairs to play pool, while Laura prepared dinner. As we dined, Laura said tonight’s entertainment would be a movie.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Which one?”
“Well, let’s see if you can guess. It starred Richard Burton and Victor Mature. It’s set in ancient Rome, around the time of Jesus’s crucifixion. Any ideas?”
“Uh, ‘King of Kings’.”
“Ok, I give up.”
Frank joined in. “You look less than enthusiastic, Jack, but don’t worry. We will only be watching one scene.”
“And will I be Richard Burton or Victor Mature, whoever the hell he is?”
“Never you mind, Jack,” Laura teased. “You will be neither.”
This satisfied me. Ah, the drama, the intrigue, the boner under the table. Just hearing the word crucifixion mentioned with Frank sitting there shirtless was all I needed to hear. That, however, was not where we were headed. Not this night.
Sept. 13
Still in our swimming gear, the three of us migrated to the basement to view “The Robe” on their high-definition big-screen. The movie clip was shown to me several times, first at regular speed, then at half-speed. The final viewing was Johnson-chosen clips from the clip itself shown at one frame per second.
I thought the scene quite kinky, considering the film was a major Hollywood production from the 1950's, but like most such scenes, I was left frustrated and wanting more. I was thinking, ‘If only they would have done this when he said that,’ or ‘If only they would have shown me that part from the side angle.’ In any case, on the 10-point turn-on meter, I’d give it an eight. On the 10-point erection meter, it gave me a 10.
Frank announced that he needed to cool off in the swimming pool and we followed him there. The sun had just set. He stripped and Laura stripped, so I stripped.
I suspect the swim was merely to make us all smell clean like chlorine, because within five minutes both Johnson’s had exited the pool. Our garments were left right where we dropped them, as we toweled off and headed for their bedroom. This act would be played out on the king-size mattress using under-the-bed straps.
Oh, in case you haven’t seen this film I’ll give you a quick summary for our scene of interest. The Romans have the Victor Mature character roped to a horizontal table in a spread-eagle position. They are interrogating him to find out where the Richard Burton character is hiding. They whip his chest, then crush his middle section using a board laid across him. Apparently, underneath the board there are nails or spikes, because when they turn a wheel and the board presses down on him, he starts moaning and arching his back, while his feet raise off the table. The poor fellow is stripped to his loin covering, which in the 1950's meant that it was half-way up his abdomen, concealing his navel.
See what I mean when I said it was frustrating? Why didn’t they just strip the guy naked like the Romans probably would have done? So much for historical accuracy.
Sept. 14
Our first stop was Laura’s closet full of goodies in the basement, and while she picked out instruments she thought she would need, I stood behind Frank, rubbing my hands up and down his chest and belly. Comforting him before torturing him seemed the thing to do.
Laura handed us her choices – two short whips made of tightly wound nylon rope, her trusty flogger and the strap system. She told us to go on up to the bedroom and that she would join us shortly.
Like the movie itself, our scene would begin with the man already bound to his torture table. Frank and I ran the strap system underneath the bed, bringing their four ends up to lay on the mattress at four corners. He laid one pillow in the middle, stretched out over it and extended his limbs in four directions, as I helped him thread his hands and feet through the loops. With Frank’s direction, I adjusted the straps until he was stretched taut like the letter X, then he had me tighten each one a bit more to his desired tension.
He told me that there was a dark brown towel in the bathroom and that I should wrap it around him to fashion a loin cloth, which was easy to do, because the length of his pillow ran from his deltoids to the middle of his back. This caused his buttocks to barely touch the mattress, while his chest and belly were elevated. ‘Twas a fine view from any angle.
Laura returned with two wooden poles, former mop handles perhaps, but without the mops. Both poles were rounded at one end, flat at the other, and she laid them near the pile on the floor where Frank and I had dropped her whips and flogger.
Laura stood beside me with one arm around my shoulder, her hand fingering my chest. “Those poles should do nicely for his belly torture, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do.”
We admired our victim for awhile and Frank kindly entertained us, straining against his straps, looking around as though seeking a way to escape, exaggerating his exhales to dramatize his stretched and flattened belly. It was exposed to the beginning of his pubic hair, thanks to my expertise in designing his only garment.
I was erect; Laura was moist. She said, “Well, darling, you have everything you need. Our safe word is still the same. Do you remember it?”
“Yes. Federal dollars.”
“Correct. Get to it.”
“Yes, Jack. I can’t be the Roman interrogator. I’m female. That would never be allowed. You are in charge. I’ll play this man’s wife, brought here to witness his torture.”
Oh me, oh my... life is good.
Sept. 15
“Onto the floor with you, in that corner, wench!”
That was my command to the wife, who silently did as I told her. The Burton character’s name was Galleon, and with one of the rope whips in hand, I began the interrogation as scripted.
“All right, slave. Where is Tribune Galleon?” I brought the whip down across his chest. “Where is he hiding?” I struck him again, then again, taking aim at his nipples.
The slave tensed his body to receive my blows, straining his arms against the straps. His eyes were clamped shut and teeth clenched together, while deep-toned, guttural groans rumbled from his throat.
To shut him up, I clutched my hand to his throat. “You will talk, slave. Before I am finished, you will long for death, but it will not come so easily.”
I pinched his nipple with my finger and thumb, repeated the act on his other nipple, then resumed his lashing. Glancing to his wife, I was given a nod of approval that the severity of my blows was appropriate, so I continued to target both tits and interrogate. “Talk, damn you. Where is Tribune Galleon?”
My god, he was beautiful. The muscles in his arms, chest and belly were flexed to capacity and he twitched and jerked as though the whip were carving him to pieces. As for words, he said none.
I ordered to myself, “Give him the wheel.”
I dropped the whip to the floor and picked up both poles. Leaping onto the bed, I stood with my feet between his spread open thighs and drove the stakes into his belly midway between his navel and pelvic bone.
My glorious male victim arched his back, sucked in his abdominal cavity and tensed every muscle in it. He raised his head to peer over his expanded chest with lower jaw thrust forward, then violently threw his head back to the mattress, arching his back even more while making sounds as though he would puke. I leaned onto the poles. My weight brought them down deep into his muscle and his grunting became louder.
I know there was pain here. I could almost feel it myself, but the slave took it, relished it, until I removed the poles from his belly.
Returning to stand beside the mattress, I motioned to his wife. “Bring the woman.”
She ran to him, flung her naked tits across his mighty chest, pleading with him. “Oh, please tell them. Don’t make me watch this any longer. I can’t bear it.”
“Oh, you will bear it, woman,” I mocked. “Not only will you watch, you will also participate.”
I handed her the flogger.
“NO! I won’t do it.”
“You will, or I will beat you until you change your mind.”
I laid my whip to her buttocks. When she rolled off of our slave to escape, I laid it to her tits. She moved towards the corner and I circled the bed in pursuit, striking her as she cowered below me.
“Leave her alone, you bastard,” my slave finally spoke. “I’m the one you want. Torture me.”
“Oh, don’t worry, I will. But this wench will do her duty or she will be crucified. Is that what you want? I suggest you persuade her to assist me in your torture.”
“Do it. Do as he says. It is no use for both of us to suffer.”
With that settled, the wife went to work on his chest with her expert flogging technique and I again gave him the wheel, but this time while kneeling on the mattress beside him. It is the view I desired and my victim did not disappoint. Before I even began grinding the poles into him, he locked his eyes onto mine. He arched his back, despite the flogger coming down on him. He pulled on the straps, flexing his muscles in preparation for the impalement of his belly. Oh, yes, and his belly was flattened as low as he could make it go.
Our assault on him was lengthy. My questioning was ceaseless. And this man’s performance was magnificent. Not once did he speak. Instead, he glared at me with his lower jaw thrust out, mouth clenched, back arched, chest expanded, fingers and toes curling forward and backward. And the sounds he made... music to my ears. Masculine groans, grunts of near-regurgitation. I absorbed the sights and sounds of my hero standing up to his torture like the man he was... is.
When I finally removed the poles from his belly, the woman stopped flogging his chest and our victim collapsed. A sheen of sweat had broken out to highlight his male form. He continued to groan with each exhale of breath. From the side view: heaven. Powerful chest elevated; muscular belly flattened; both rapidly rising and falling in harmony, our bound prisoner overwhelmed his tormentors with his masculine beauty. We stood in awe, neither of us able to imagine a more glorious scene. There was only one thing that could intensify our excitement.
That towel had to go...