Monday, September 1, 2014

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...

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