JJ Said 090711

Otto, the Little Bull

I was naked when Bernard's men captured me. Naked when they tortured me. Frankly, I don't know why they bothered. I didn't have any information and they didn't need any, but they had figured out I was the man who destroyed the bridge, so I guess it was just a way for them to get revenge against me... before my execution. That is why they brought in Bernard's daughter to watch. It is also the moment I knew there was a chance for me.

She violently attacked me, as I laid helplessly bound to their stretch rack. Their rack was simple in comparison to ours... our beloved Steps to Purgatory... their rack was just a narrow, horizontal table with axles at both ends and plenty of rope wound around each of them. Both of their axles had hand cranks. One man turned its head end one direction while another turned its foot end the opposite.

Bernard's daughter, Elsa her name, entered the room in a rage. She pounded my chest with her fists, screaming of how I had killed her father and how she would enjoy watching me suffer. And I did suffer. I thanked the heavens for the muscles provided me, for only they could keep my body together.

Despite Elsa's ferocious demeanor, I saw in her eyes a softness for me. As she leaned over me with her pounding fists, flailing away on my helpless mass, her eyes scanned my body from face to feet and the severity of her fist-blows lessened. She probably didn't realize it, but I did.

So, when the men resumed my stretching and I grunted and groaned and flexed to resist the ropes, my mind focused on you, Peter. I hardly knew you at the time, but still, my mind thought only of you. I imagined myself with you, Peter, and the only weapon available to me was used against her because of you, Peter. When Elsa saw my penis rise and flip onto my belly, despite my stretching, despite the ungodly pain racking my body, I knew she was mine.

Elsa is the one who demanded my execution take place immediately, and they released me from the rack. Took me to an open courtyard inside their castle walls and roped me to a cross of wood, the same kind the Romans used... the same kind Frederick slobbers over. Once I was vertical, a new kind of pain racked my body. The pressure of my own weight bearing on my arms was ungodly. It was all I could do to breathe, but I held on, and I waited until everyone became bored and I was all alone.

And when Elsa arrived, secretly, her head covered by an oversized hood, my cock was ready. Thanks again to you, Peter.

There's no way to describe the sensation of oral stimulation on my dick as I hung from the cross. My brain being deprived of oxygen perhaps put me into a sort of dream state, but this I do know: Elsa was overwhelmed by what the gods bestowed on me. Once she had tasted me, sucked on me, and drained me, Elsa could not bear the thought of destroying me. My cock is the reason she arranged my escape, which in reality was my rescue, which allowed me to find my way back to you, Peter.

Face it, my friend, you will never be rid of your Little Bull.



This paperback book contains two novella-length stories, and is wrapped in my favorite of my self-made covers. Not gloating, just saying. If you care to further investigate this story (Bishop) and the book itself, go to my Jardonn's Erotic Tales site, Jardonn's Book Page and slide over to LET'S GET MEDIEVAL - The Bishop of Grunewald & The Tortured Secutor.

You'll find links to more text excerpts, audio snippets, and the complete audio version of The Tortured Secutor free for the listening.

JJ Said 090311

Still, we know the history of it. Our parents made sure of that. Told us plenty of stories about the sacrifices made on behalf of the working man before there were any unions to help him -- back when a dollar a day was considered too much to pay, back when greedy barons could work pre-teen children for cents a day, back in the 1800's when they could work men, women and children in 100-plus-degree woolen mills with windows shut so none of their precious threads might accidentally get caught in a breeze and cut into their profits.

The image that flashed in my mind, and I'm sure in the mind of Thomas as well, was of a black and white photograph framed and prominently displayed on the fireplace mantle in his home. It was of Thomas's grandfather, vintage 1937 and given to his family by the newspaper man who snapped it. Trails of dried and still-flowing blood covered his face, the result of an altercation at the picket line where steel workers were striking for anything that resembled a living wage. A caravan of trucks loaded with scabs attempted to break the line and when the picketers blocked the entry gates of the steel mill, cops moved in with night sticks and billy clubs to split open as many heads as they could, including the head belonging to one of my heroes -- Thomas's grandfather. He was a young man then, but it wasn't the first or last time he would take a beating for me.

For all of us.

__________

Taken from the Jardonn story, The Thomas Coleman Full Nelson.

It's one of four in the MLR Press four-author collection, Hard Working Men, and I think we're about to need a new generation of men like Thomas's grandfather. The excerpt at bottom of MLR's page is erotic and mine.

Happy Labor Day!

Amos Lassen and GRIT

I'm always happy to see when Amos Lassen has read and reviewed one of my books. This time, it's GRIT, the Dirty Thirties, erotic manlove novel written by William Maltese and me.

Reviews by Amos Lassen

to see Amos's take on our book.