Wednesday, October 1, 2014

Reinsertion of Jack's Insertions - October Front Half

 October 1-15

Taken from site Jardonn's Erotic Tales, 2006

Oct. 2

Let's call this episode our Indian Summer encounter, even though it was Labor Day weekend. I got there about 6 pm Friday and they fed me, then announced that their first grandchild was a boy. I saw pictures and heard about the delivery, etc., and I don't mean to brush it off as though it's not important, it's just that the subject does not make me horny. There is nothing cute about a red-skinned, squinty-eyed, alien-looking creature, unless you're related to it, which I was not.

Of course, after three weeks of denial from the Johnsons I was plenty horny that night and was relieved when we finally got around to watching some movie clips.

Our scene was to be cowboys and Indians. I was the Indians, Frank the cowboy and Laura, well, you will know soon enough. Actually, it was Indians versus white settlers and Frank had foolishly set up his homestead near hostiles. For this, he was brought to our village and, shall we say, cock tortured?

Ok, let's.

Before we got to the cock part, however, I wanted to try something I'd never tried before.


Oct. 3

My village was in the Johnson basement near the frame, which Frank had kindly reassembled so we could punish him on it. I used the lower set of wooden stocks – put his feet in there and made him lay down. His torso was underneath the horizontal beams where we had suspended him in our first session. I considered leaving his arms free, but decided Frank stretched is much more stimulating, so we got ropes out of the closet and tied his wrists. His arms were pulled towards the feet of the X frame, where we tied the other ends of rope. He laid flat with arms stretched like a V, while his feet were in the wooden stocks, five inches off the floor and about two feet apart.

Frank wears a size 10 shoe. I know, because once when he was at my place I looked inside one of them. Smelled it, too.

Now, for fantasy purposes, I am the Indians, ok? I know full well that they are properly called Native Americans and that the sordid history of the “Christian” eradication of them on this continent is written by the white man, and so what we did to them was ok, but what they did to us was brutal savagery. Exaggerations of the awful treatment perpetrated upon white captives furthered the justification for wiping each tribe from the face of the earth. What we did and said in the Johnson basement was strictly so Frank, Laura and I could get off. As whites, we know damn good and well that there is plenty of blood on the hands of our ancestors. This is not a history lesson, so if you’re going to get all bent out of shape over Indians torturing people, go find some politically-correct web site and jack off there.

The beauty of this is that Indians didn’t torture people for information. They did it for sport and to send a message that it was unwise to invade their territory, so I didn’t have to say much – just do.

What I did was work on those handsome feet of his... with feathers... the quill kind, which Laura had used on him herself before I came along.

There is an elegant symmetry to Frank’s feet, especially when viewing the bottoms of his soles. His are the kind with a slight curve to the arch and plenty of meat from the topside of the foot to the bottom. The second toes are just a fraction of an inch longer than the greats, and small tufts of hair dot the tops of each toe, plus the bridge of each arch. The soles are thick and sturdy, and therefore, quite capable of absorbing punishment.

The gist of my story had already been told to Frank and Laura. Like I said, they were homesteaders and my tribe had burned their house and taken them prisoner. I ordered my men to “bring the white woman” and force her to torture her husbands feet, while I watched from above.

Mrs. white bread did a masterful job on him with her two feathers, running them along the soles of his immobilized feet and toes... in between his toes. He is a bit ticklish there, but not to any great degree. For us, however, he groaned and curled his toes forward in an attempt to defend himself.

The Indian Chief was not satisfied with fake suffering, so he concocted a more effective use for these feathers. He knelt next to the woman, yanked one feather from her hand and pushed her aside.


Oct. 4

The Chief reversed grip on the feather. He assaulted the white man’s right foot with the sharp-tipped end of the quill. He scratched the thick skin of his sole, jabbed its sharp point into it and the white man’s groans became real. Then, the Indian poked the tiny dagger into the sensitive skin between his prisoner’s toes. The white man desperately tried to wiggle his foot side to side in defense, but the red man clutched onto it with his free hand.

Using his feather, the Indian pointed to the white man’s left foot. “You, woman, do.”

And she did do. We enjoyed drawing tiny white lines upon the soles of Frank’s feet. I even made a little smiley face between his heel and the ball of his foot. As for Frank, he was making a concerted effort to wiggle his feet away from us, and because he couldn’t, he was also making manly grunts and groans come from his throat. No feigned torture this. Frank truly was having some problems dealing with this teasing, tormenting form of punishment.

His cock was somewhat interested, I’d say about 50 percent, but we were not yet concerned with that. Laura and I sat with our legs crossed Indian style and created our artistic designs upon the helpless white man’s manly feet.

The time did come, of course, to erase our lines and start all over. What did we use for our erasers? Wetness.


Oct. 5

I tossed the feather aside and laid on my belly, resting on my elbows, then ordered white woman to do the same.

My tongue greedily licked his feet clean of their lines of torture, while my nose inhaled the air between his toes. Frank is a proper man. He wears quality clothing and goes to great lengths in maintaining his body, inside and out. He only eats foods that help him maintain his health, which is why his semen tastes alive and invigorating. He respects himself and his wife and strives to be his best for her. Now, I am included in this equation. Frank is a proper man for both of us.

So, you can see why I chose Frank’s feet for my first-ever sampling of such body parts. It was a sound choice. They were pleasantly aromatic and fresh, smooth-skinned, but sturdy... and 100 percent masculine. Frank’s feet stimulated me more than I could have imagined. As my licking and kissing and nibbling continued from one minute to another, I became drugged. I fell into a mesmerized stupor, not planning what I might do next or why. My tongue was not my own, nor were my lips, nor were my teeth.

I bent back his toes with my hand, put my teeth onto the ball of his foot. My mouth was wide open. I closed it, lightly scraping my teeth along the thick surface of his skin. I planted my tongue onto the heel and saturated it before moving onto the arch, where I did the same along the entire length of it.

Moving closer to the target, I continued with my tongue work, maneuvering onto the top side of his foot. I licked the hairs on the bridge. I licked and kissed the hairs atop each toe. His nails were perfect, trimmed and filed by the owner himself. I clamped the hairs on his great toe into my lips, tugged them towards Frank, forcing him to bend all five toes back. Then, my fingernails dug into the ball of his foot and I viciously ran them towards his heel, scraping the entire length of his arched foot. He immediately curled his toes forward in defense, leaving two of those great toe hairs in my lips, plucked from him by his own reaction to my attack.

This was my ecstasy. Frank’s feet satisfied all expectations. And I use the plural here, because when I glanced at Laura, she also was lost in a fantasy world, heaping her own brand of incredible praise on her husband’s left foot.

Our actions did not go unnoticed. An inspection of Frank’s penis showed that he was more than satisfied with all that was happening to him.


Oct. 6

I grabbed my female assistant by her hair, forcibly leading the hapless woman to the center of her husband’s body. With a violent, downward yank of her locks, I coerced her to sit and cross her legs beside the prisoner’s left hip.

I brought the two feathers and sat beside the white man’s right hip. One feather was given to her and we both proceeded to tantalize our captive’s genitals… his bulging nuts… his throbbing penis. We tormented that poor man, running the feathers along the length of his shaft, and his balls, and his scrotum.

Next, we coaxed his mighty cock to dance for us. A stroke of the feather across the triangle near his slit caused it to rise up off of his belly, at which time another feather attacked the mushroom. As Frank’s cock stood in midair, two feathers assaulted him upon the entire head of his cock. Every inch was covered, top, bottom, left and right, while the manly tool defied gravity, dancing up, down, and side to side.

60 seconds? 120 seconds? Maybe it was longer, but whatever length of time it was, Frank’s dick got no rest, nor did his scrotum. It remained clinched from our stimulating feather attack upon the head of his cock, directing its ecstatic, mid-air war dance to continue uninterrupted.

Oh, yes, it was a war dance. Frank’s beautiful man-meat was ready to do battle, as was Frank. He was struggling to break free of his bondage, arms straining at the ropes, torso writhing, back arching, chest expanding, belly flattening. Frank was in that ‘look at me’ frame of mind, displaying his masculinity, tempting us to find out what his cock could do for its grand finale.

I suppose I was tempted. Looking at him, listening to his heavy breath and watching his phallic ballet tempted me to intensify the torture of his cock. If Frank thought I was planning to let him shoot anytime soon, he was sadly mistaken.

I handed Laura my feather, then encircled the base of Frank’s pecker with the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand. With my cock ring firmly secured, I placed my open left hand onto the middle of his shaft (the top side nearest his belly) and lifted his cock until it stood vertical. It was folded where my right hand ring held the base, still in its position of pointing towards his belly. Frank’s hard dick was bent nearly 90 degrees with its bulging, turning purple head pointed towards the ceiling.

Looking at Laura, I smiled and she knew what to do. She attacked his mushroom with both feathers. Her tormenting strokes encompassed all of it – the slit, the corona, even underneath the rim that defined its shape, and as she continued her feathered assault on its head, I hand-manipulated the shaft and base, wrenching it into multiple directions and angles.

My left hand fingers wrapped around the middle of his shaft, leaving the head and one inch of cock length exposed. With my right hand cock ring holding firm, I held the base vertical and then bent the middle shaft to make his mushroom point in whatever direction I desired. Towards his nuts, towards his belly, to the left or to the right, Frank’s stiffie was forced to bend at 90 degree angles with a stationary grip on its base and movable grip on the shaft.

Laura’s feather assault never stopped, while I maintained my cock ring, using my left handed clamp to bend his penis. My movements were lethargic, like a slug, torturously slow. Laura’s movements were frantic, like a nest of hornets, maddeningly fast. And for Frank, there was no escape, only suffering. Frank suffered from the agonizing, multi-directional bending of his stiff pole, coupled with the two-pronged, feathered teasing of his isolated mushroom.

Frank was born to suffer. The drama of his powerful physique is magnified when he is in bondage. His futile attempts to break those restraints only further increase the excitement he creates for us. In this session, tormenting first his feet, and then his cock, plus watching and listening to his reactions, convinced me to push him further. It was my intention to test the limits of his endurance and I make no apologies for it. It is Frank’s fault. With his own actions he demands to be punished and I have accepted his invitation.

Next insertion Monday, Oct. 9


Oct. 9

There comes a time when a man’s constant groaning starts to annoy, and for me that time had come. I suppose I could have stuffed something into his mouth to muffle the sounds, but I thought it might be more entertaining for all of us if his wife were to do that.

I removed both of my hands from Frank’s cock, yanked the feathers from Laura’s grip and laid them on the floor. Using her hair for a leash, I forced her to stand, and then dragged her towards her husband’s head. With a tug of her hair, I forced her down to smother his face with her pussy. She straddled his head with her knees while turned towards the length of his body. Her taint was on his nose. She placed both hands on his chest for leverage and Frank consumed her gooey, vaginal drippings, as he inhaled the sweet gap between her pussy and her asshole. As for me, I nestled chest-down between his thighs and consumed his bulbous, cum-filled nuts.

Success! Frank’s moans now were muffled, garbled with gurgling sounds that were intermixed with gagging sounds, but still undeniably masculine sounds. Laura made sure the heels of her hands were strategically placed onto Frank’s nipples, so that while his bondage kept them stretched lengthwise, her hand pressure stretched them sideways.

Laura had her territory and I had mine. Hers was from Frank’s face to the end of his rib cage. Mine was from the end of his rib cage to his nuts. They were eaten, one at a time. My lips caressed them, my tongue massaged them, and my teeth taunted them. Before me, sprawled directly in front of my eyes, this man's powerful cock bounced and swayed, wondering why it had been abandoned.

I’m quite sure Frank knew that more punishment would be unleashed upon his manly meat, his glorious tube. I am also sure he was hoping the next assault would trigger the impending explosion for which I had prepared him, but if he did, he was way off the mark.

Frank’s phallic war dance intensified, while I plotted against him with his nuts in my lips and feathers at the ready.


Oct. 10

Fine by me, Frank Johnson... go ahead, slurp on your wife's pussy... sniff her aromatic taint... I'll just lay here between your legs and munch on your balls. I'll watch your handsome white cock do its war dance, but there will be a price to pay for those gyrations.

My feathers were brought into the action – not the soft, tickling parts, but the lethal, pointed parts. I jabbed them into the meat of Frank's thick shaft. His prick was pricked for but brief seconds, as I used the daggers like the paintbrush of a pointillist. Dot, dot, dot, dab, dab, dab, my sharp tips tormented the fat, fleshy width of his cock's lower shaft, while my tongue relentlessly licked and scraped his ever-tightening balls.

His dancing became frantic, as each sharp poke of my quills caused his majestic penis to perform an out of control, acrobatic display. With my ceaseless ball munching and Laura's face-sitting as its catalyst, Frank's bouncing pole contributed to its own torment. All I had to do was hold my daggers a fraction of an inch above his cock and wait for it to meet them in mid-air. Little by little, I directed them along the length of his shaft. Minutes passed. His contractions caused him to continuously torture himself, until my pointy pin pricks neared the rim of his corona, targeting the super-sensitive skin below the slit of his piss hole.

Contact of the needles here made Frank's body twitch and contort. Grunts of very real discomfort came from his wife's pussy. These grunts actually came from Frank, but were muffled by her pussy. She smothered him. She drowned him and I enjoyed listening to him gurgle his sounds of agony – the agony of a cock relentlessly tortured, the pain of a cock mercilessly on the edge of eruption, the tragedy of a man's penis denied its finish.


Oct. 11

Nothing seemed to satisfy my lust to punish him. I refused to end it, because I knew his pain was minimal, while his pleasure was phenomenal. I released his nuts from my mouth and knelt beside him, hovering over his belly. There, the torture of his cock continued with an increased accuracy. My daggers were aimed on either side of his penis. As it majestically rose to pierce the air, my pin prick attacked from one side, which caused his dick to jolt in the opposite direction, where it was greeted by another sharp prick.

And then, I launched into a free-form of brush strokes, jabbing him anywhere and everywhere from the head to the base. This time, his nuts were not to be spared. My torturous pokes assaulted every inch of their tight, sensitive skin. I also included his belly, as my frantic dabbing and dotting impaled his solid muscle, even going so far as to attack the darkness inside his belly button.

Oh, god, I loved watching him writhe... hearing him moan... and slurp, both for air and for pussy juice. His feet were frenetic, toes curling forward and arching backward. His back also arched. His belly flattened. His cock relentlessly bounced up and down, swayed side to side, as every needle-sharp jab of my quills coerced rapid-fire clenching in Frank's scrotum.

There was no planning on my part, only action and reaction, based on his reaction. I dropped one feather, clutched his cock shaft into my fingers and held it vertical. I squeezed it, crushed it, forcing all blood into his mammoth mushroom. I painted it with my pin pricks. I jabbed and released quickly, relishing the brief second of white dot at the point of impact, before the color of red returned. I placed the pointed tip onto the triangle of his cock just below the slit, and I held it there. I impaled the skin, slowly increasing pressure, driving it in deeper and deeper.

Frank spit out his wife's dripping vagina and howled with ecstatic agony. I waited for his safe word, but it did not come. He took his punishment, until I removed the dagger and released my clutching fingers. Frank's cock bounced onto his belly, and then rose again, at which time I slapped it. With my flattened fingers, I repeatedly slapped the top side of his shaft and mushroom, slamming his dick down onto his belly again and again. I bounced his cock between my hand and his belly like it was a pinball, mercilessly trapped between two bumpers.

It was enough – not because I was ready to grant him mercy, but because I needed to get off. I grabbed the woman's hair and forced her to uncover his face, and then we both stood above him, watching the rapid rise and fall of his chest and belly and cock. Born to suffer. That is Frank Johnson. I cannot imagine anything more stimulating than to see his powerful, yet helpless body laying there, stretched spread eagle, gasping for air and flexing with readiness.

These two had sent me on a power trip and I planned to take full advantage... of both of them.


Oct. 12

I glared down at Frank, but then something drew my eyes upwards. It was one of the horizontal boards – the one from which we had suspended Frank on our first night together. I looked at the chains dangling from the board, and then back to Frank. Could it work? The angle seemed correct, but what about the height?

There was only one way to find out. I went to the closet and retrieved those two wrist cuffs. Tonight, they would be for Laura and I clamped them onto her. Standing on Frank’s chest and belly, I lifted her up, hooking first her left arm, then her right. Her toes dangled just to the left of Frank’s rib cage. I grabbed her hips and pulled her towards me. Yes! It could be done, but first I would need to get my peter worked up again.

That was no problem. Frank’s dick was still hard. A little taunting of him was all I needed, and I broke my long silence. “The white woman is mine.” I knelt beside his chest, taking both of his nipples between my fingers and thumb. I pinched them. I twisted them. “You bring her to my lands. I take her from you. She is yours no more forever.”

He said nothing, but his cock said plenty. Frank looked at me, and then gazed up to his suspended wife, her pitiful tits stretched, her heaving belly flattened, her wet pussy available. Frank’s penis renewed its bouncing dance, his belly hairs slick with the pre-cum of his long-neglected and tortured cock.

I was ready. Placing one foot onto Frank’s chest and the other on his stomach, I clutched onto his wife’s hips and brought her towards me. Her body swung freely. My hard dick invaded her dripping pussy, and both of my prisoners groaned with ecstatic agony, as I locked eyes with my male victim. “Mmm,” I grinned with cruelty. “White woman feels good to red man.”


Oct. 13

Naturally, Laura and I both were near orgasm long before our sex tools came together, and the fact that she came only seconds before I did was no surprise. The aftermath is what surprised me, because I did not know the man inside me. Rather than releasing Laura from her suspension so that we both could finish Frank, I walked away from the entire scene, leaving them in bondage, helplessly wondering what I planned to do next.

I needed to urinate and that’s what I did, without saying a word to either of them. There was a hunger pain in my stomach, so I climbed the stairs to invade their refrigerator. Returning to the basement with a plated sandwich, I calmly sat on the sofa and turned on their television to watch the evening news.

Once my belly was satiated, I returned to the frame, stepped again onto Frank’s chest with my left foot and his belly with my right, but this time his cock was underneath that foot. I crushed his pecker into his belly with my weight and listened to him groan. I stared at Laura. She seemed a bit uneasy, as though she wasn’t sure that choosing me to direct our play had been a wise decision. Hell, I wasn’t certain myself, but her fears and mine were soon to be alleviated.

It’s hard to explain, but the thought of Laura’s discomfort did not please me. More than this, it did nothing to fire up my peter. I needed her to desire me, not to accept my penis because she was forced to do so.

Perhaps my reasons were selfish. Perhaps she would have preferred I take her again by force, but I could not. I released her. I positioned her to stand to the right of her husband, and then I stepped down to join her.

We embraced. Her heels were near his rib cage, as I stood in front of her, grasping her naked body with a hug. We kissed. I forced her breasts to nuzzle against my chest, and then I bent my knees, so that I could get my mouth onto those breasts.

Our fondling transformed into the second insertion of my peter to her pussy, as our lips locked together and tongues explored one another. And all the while, just below us, Frank watched, helpless to do anything else. As for his cock, its war dance was renewed, and with a slight shifting of my hips, I crushed his dick beneath my right foot, while slowly stirring the innards of his wife.

Laura and I became partners. Frank became spectator. For the second time, his wife and I pleased ourselves while he suffered below.

In Laura’s closet was a pair of handcuffs, and while she sat near her husband, recovering from our recent, double explosions, I took those handcuffs from her closet and brought them with me back to the frame. Frank’s wrists were untied, but we left his feet in the stocks. We helped him to sit up, and then brought both of his arms behind his back. The handcuffs were locked onto his wrists. Together, Laura and I opened the stocks to free Frank’s feet.

I said to her, “Come on. Let’s take him to the bathroom so he can piss. Then, we’re going to bed.”

Next insertion Oct. 17


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