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.

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