With a snap of her fingers, stomping feet rained down on Pete, while Celeste urged him to fight back. Of course, he did the best he could for a man outnumbered and bound with ankle rope, but just as before, exhaustion did him in.
They left him prone on his back for a few minutes until his panting for air slowed a bit, then in a flash Pete was lifted up by the arms and bound ankles for transport with his butt hanging. Back through the tunnel, they brought him into the welcoming room where he heard a commotion over by the pen. Another wrestling match was taking place and it looked like Jack was in the middle of it, but the entourage was too far away for Pete to be sure. Of one thing he was certain, whoever was in the middle of that pen was getting the holy crap beaten out of him, something with which Pete was all too familiar.
"Take him to the dipping room," Celeste shouted from behind, and the group exited the main area. Directly into that tunnel they went and when they emerged, Pete saw Sarah and two others standing knee-deep in that grey, slimy pool of nose-burning muck.
"Cut his ropes and toss him in."
Pete squirmed in a desperate struggle to break free, but with two females assigned to each limb, all he could do was helplessly hang as they swung him towards the slime and let go. He splashed into the pool seat first, gravity taking him below the surface to crash land onto his butt. With palms flat, Pete sat in the thick, salty-sulfur-smelling but soothingly-warm slime, which covered every part of him but for his head and shoulders. Before he could react, Sarah put him in a headlock while the other two secured kicking legs and swinging arms. They wrestled his head under the surface and held him there for several seconds, then raised him up coughing and gasping for air.
"C'mon, you mouse," Celeste mocked. "Fight for your life."
Again they tried to dunk him, but Pete managed to lock both arms straight onto the solid rock floor to keep his head above the gunk. Twisting and pulling with the leverage of a professional, Sarah inched his mouth closer and closer, while the others pushed on his legs and torso, rolling him over to endure another dunking. And so, mud wrestling ensued. Three women against one man, as Pete was repeatedly taken down to ingest slick, salty, sulfuric muck.
He gallantly fought with everything he had. He kicked, he punched, he squirmed, but the result was always the same: another dunking for Pete. Exhausted, his resistance faded to that of a little boy as Sarah held firm around his head and they kept him under for nearly ten seconds. They raised him. He coughed and recovered. They dunked him again for another ten before letting him up from that foul-smelling and worse-tasting gunk. He coughed and spewed the nasty liquid from his mouth, nearly gagging from the burning brine and fumes that came with it.
"That'll do, girls. Put him in the nook."
They brought him to a cornered area, draped his arms outside the pool to rest on the rock surface, while supporting his buttocks with their arms underneath. Two females outside the pool grabbed Pete's wrists and lifted him out to lay spread eagle on hard rock.
"I think you've swallowed enough. Does it taste good?"
Constantly spitting out grey goo, he continued to gag and did not answer, but he sensed a throbbing cock and lifted his head to confirm it.
"I see you like wrestling with my girls," she laughed.
They rubbed that slick muck deep into the Pete’s pores, which only further intensified the strength of his throbbing tool. Pete lay flat to enjoy the sensations of countless massaging hands, hoping, but not asking, that one of them would either mount, suck, or at the very least take his dick into their fist for some tantalizing masturbation. Nobody touched poor Pete's beautiful cock.
With a clap of their matriarch's hands, all females rose to their feet and stepped back from the prisoner, leaving him to lustfully writhe on the stone floor.
"I think he's fired up plenty," Celeste taunted. "Time to give him a whirl."
end of 3b
Part 3 - Everybody Wants Some Man-Meat
They lifted and carried Pete back through the hole from where he'd come, back to the little room where he'd met Jack. Here, they sat him on his butt and gave him water, of which he drank plenty. As the last female stepped toward the exit, Pete asked with the sweetest voice he could muster, "Miss, could I get something to eat? I'm powerful hungry."
She didn't even bother to turn around, instead disappearing into the tunnel as though she hadn't heard him at all. With nowhere to go and nothing of promise to look forward to, Pete fell onto his side and quickly collapsed into a deep slumber. No memories of grandpa Seth this time. Finally, Pete Radcliffe could sleep in peace, figuring this form of incarceration was a far cry better than the one he'd left behind in Colorado.
It was a long while before he was stirred from his coma. Pete had dreams - fantasies of those female hands all over him, but this time they were smooth as silk, almost like they were velvet-gloved. He felt them all over his back side from head to toes and in the butt crack. He felt them on and in between his fingers, arms and pits, chest, belly, thighs and calves. He especially felt them on his balls and cock, where they seemed to linger for an awfully long and pleasurable amount of time, before he was jolted from this soothing dream world by a drenching of water.
Pete sprang up to sit on his butt just as another bucket was poured onto his head. Two more came flying from either side of him, as the ladies rinsed away the last of his stink. Without a word, they one by one disappeared into the tunnel, leaving Pete alone, dripping clean and starving worse than before.
"Feel better?" Jack's voice came from the shadows. He stood and walked towards Pete. "C'mon, let's get you more comfortable." Lifting under the armpits, Jack maneuvered the ankle-bound man to a wall and brought his back to lean up against it. "Are ya hungry, boy?"
"Hungry ain't the word for it, Jack."
"I'll fix ya right up." He headed for the far wall, lifted the lid off a small black kettle and spooned some sort of stew into a bowl. Bringing the meal closer, Jack could barely let go before Pete yanked away the bowl to shovel every drop into his mouth. No time to chew, he swallowed it whole and licked the bowl clean, all gone in 30 seconds.
"More, please," Pete asked, noticing that the bowl was of an indoor type, made of porcelain with a fancy border. The spoon looked to be of a fine silver plating, now tarnished.
"Like it, do ya?" Jack smiled while serving up another helping.
"Right now, I'd like just about anything you wanna give me. What is it, anyway?"
"Well, Pete," he chuckled. "What critters do you know of that live in a cave?"
"Hell, I don't know." He slurped one spoonful after another, this time allowing his tongue to get a taste before sending it down the hatch. "Spiders, snakes, birds, bats... what else you got?"
"That about covers it. Could be any or all of 'em."
Pete stopped, thought about it, then continued to devour. "Where'd you get the fancy dishes?"
"God damn it boy," he whined in a good-natured way. "Don't start up again."
"Sonuva bitch, Jack, can't you tell me anything?" He spit beads of stew, clearly frustrated. "And quit calling me boy. I'm a grown man, for Christ's sake."
"Ah, hell, Pete, I'm sorry." Jack dropped his head. "I know you're a man. One hell of a man. It's just that you remind me of a young man I used to run with, that's all. Back in my prospectin' days."
"You were a prospector? For what?"
"Any metal worth anything. I was hopin' for veins of copper or silver when I crawled in to take a look at that hole."
"You mean the hole I was in?"
"Yep. They dragged me out… or in, just like they done you."
"What'd they do to you?"
"Oh, they had big plans for me, Pete. I done fucked every one of 'em time and again, but all they got was..."
"What?" he asked while handing the bowl over for a third helping. "What'd they get, Jack?"
"Ah, hell," Jack dejectedly answered. "It ain't somethin' I'm proud of." He handed Pete another dose of stew, then sat beside him. "Let's just say they got their own satisfaction. Still do, when I'm up for it, which is most the time."
"Why didn't you help me, Jack? Why'd you let them beat the hell out of me?"
"Because I went through the same thing. No one helped me. Besides, I know where this is headed. The worst is over. Don't worry, Pete. We men gotta stick together. We'll be fine."
Pete struck Jack's thigh with a good-natured slap. "Guess I'll have to trust you. Got no other choice."
"That's right," Jack chuckled, while returning the thigh slap. "You know, Pete, prospectin's a lonely business. That young feller I ran with was about your age. Name was Rodney, but I called him Rod. You know why?"
"I dunno. Nickname?" he guessed between slurps of stew.
"Partly, but more because I thought he had just about the purdiest pecker I'd ever laid eyes on. Balls, too. When Rod was hangin' with me, he was never wantin' for nothin'."
"Took good care of him, did you?"
“Had to. Nobody else around for a hundred miles. Situation like that, men gotta stick together… like I said.”
Pete never flinched when Jack's hand cupped Pete's balls. He merely continued to empty his bowl.
"Yep. Watchin' you perform for the ladies brought it all back. Your dick's just as handsome, but you got purdier nuts. Big and juicy they are."
"I can't believe they hand jacked it." He sat the dry bowl to the ground. "All those women and not a one of them took me up their twat or in their mouth. Kinda disappointing."
"Ol' Jack will take care of that," he whispered, while bringing his second hand to gently clutch the spongy cock-shaft. "If you'll let him."
Pete never said a word, instead pressing his hands to the dirt and maneuvering himself away from the wall. "Sure, Jack. Have at it."
Pete lay flat on his back, sprawling his arms past his head. With ankles bound in rope, Pete drew up his knees like a butterfly, giving room between his thighs for Jack to get at his ball sac. Just the thought of having a warm, wet tongue on his nuts and pecker had Pete 50 percent hard already, and he closed his eyes to enjoy whatever service Jack could come up with.
"God damn it, Jack," echoed the piercing voice of an old woman. "What the hell are you doing?"
"Celeste... I was just gonna ..."
"Gonna what? Drain him? You were warned, Jack Hutch."
A gaggle of females surrounded and grabbed hold, dragging Jack to the tunnel, but not before he could blurt out to Pete, "Son, don't believe what you see. I ain't as old as you think." He continued to shout as they disappeared into darkness. "I can still screw with the best of 'em. You'll see, I ain't licked yet." Jack's voice faded away, his information only further confusing Pete as to what the hell this was all about, so he asked.
“Damn you, Celeste Nehi, what the hell is this all about?“
"Pete Radcliffe, you may think you're a big man, but you ain't shown me nothing yet.” The old gal seemed to be in a sour mood. “Should've known I couldn't trust that old fool. Or you neither. Men! Bah! So typical. Understand this, Mr. Pete Radcliffe. Women rule here. This is my temple. You and Jack will learn the hard way what happens to men who desecrate my temple."
end of part 3a
*****
Three years of swinging a pick ax had produced a Pete strong and chiseled, but nearly two days of running from the law with no food or water had made him weak and puny. Resigned to his fate, and noticing that the females seemed to be taking a breather from their hard-earned victory, Pete inspected what he could see.
With the floor mostly flat, the ceiling of this cavern reached up into total darkness, while the rock walls were mostly pinkish and sand-colored. The entire area was rectangular, with the farthest distance between parallel walls at least 25 yards. Besides the one Pete had come through, there were two more holes big enough to enter or exit, depending on how you wanted to look at it.
Spaced willy-nilly about the walls were makeshift lean-to's of wooden sticks and cloth. Two wagon wheels were counted and some sort of pen had been cordoned off by a wood-rail fence, looking to be about 16 feet square, but with nothing inside it.
As for the women, Pete guessed there to be around 40 of those, half older and half about his age. He gazed up at the healthy blond sitting on his chest. Trim, fit, shaped with sinewy muscles, her expression was that of a savage, but natural features told Pete she was, or had at one time been, a refined and civilized girl. Being a man denied for far too many months, he automatically focused on her well-rounded breasts, soft skin and hard nipples.
It wasn't exactly a convenient moment to get aroused considering his state of vulnerability, but the touch of rough fingers rubbing on his nuts triggered an immediate response. As his penis filled with blood, he desperately turned to the only other man present.
"What is it, Jack? What do they want?"
"Well, Pete, there ain't no use me telling you just yet. They got a lot of funnin' planned, I can tell you that. Might as well just get used to the fact that these women are gonna do whatever the hell they want with ya. This is their welcoming room."
More hands joined in. They went to work on his feet and legs, while blondie scooted her butt to the end of his sternum so she could double hand-rub on his furry chest. Their hands were rough like a man's, but their techniques soft like a woman's. They were all over him, assaulting every part of his top side, except for his fully-hardened pecker that bobbed up and down on his stretched belly.
"Who are they?" he pleaded. "Can't they talk?"
"That will do," came a graveled, but feminine voice. "That will do just fine."
As the massaging hands left him and pinning hands stayed, an elderly woman appeared from beyond the chest-sitting female. This woman’s hair was gray and skin wrinkled. In contrast, her physique was nearly as fit as the young amazons in the group. A thin, animal-hide strip was worn around her neck, but nothing more.
"We can speak just fine, mister. Don't usually have a call to, though."
"Who the hell are you? What do you want from me?"
My name is Celeste Nehi and this is the temple of Jacob. It is named for my husband."
"I thought he said his name was Jack Hutch."
"Not him, my husband isn't here, but his spirit is. Every one of these youngsters came from the seed of Jacob Nehi. That's my daughter Sarah sitting on your chest. She was the last born."
Pete looked up at the buxom female, as she threatened him with a snarl. "I'm gonna beat the holy shit out of you."
Her first words to him, thought Pete, were not exactly an invitation to romance, or at least not to any sort of lovin’ he‘d been dreaming about for the past three years. "Jack," he shouted, while struggling against his captors, "what's wrong with 'em? What do they want?"
Still hunched near the tunnel hole, Jack's voice this time was stern. "Can't tell ya, Pete. Quit askin' me."
"Yes, indeedie," the old woman cackled, "that will do." She stepped back and twice clapped her hands. "Take him to the arena."
* * *
Part 2 - Corralled
They turned Pete onto his belly, brought his wrists together and prepared to lift him up, but with a renewed burst of energy, he jerked hands and feet free, then rolled far enough to get some separation from his captors. Springing to his feet, he ran for the nearest hole, plunging into darkness for but six paces, then entering another room. Cascading down the wall was clear water, which pooled into a sunken pit of grey, slimy muck. The smell of sulfur and salt penetrated his nostrils, as he searched for another means of escape, but with the possible exception of whatever was under that goo, the only way out was the way he'd come in.
With his first attempt of escaping a failure, Pete reluctantly allowed the women to escort him back to their welcoming room, to the arena, that penned area squared by four-sided wood-rail fence. Loose dirt comprised the floor, while the top rail of each side stood four feet high.
They lifted him over, tossed him inside the pen while the rest of them stood outside the perimeter both as guards and as spectators.
"You're just a firecracker, ain't ya?" mocked the grey-haired matriarch, Celeste Nehi. "Ok, Pete..." she turned to shout at Jack. "What's his last name?"
Strolling towards the pen, he answered, "Pete Radcliffe."
"Ok, Pete Radcliffe, the rules of this game are simple. There ain't none. Whoever's pinned for a three count's a loser. No submissions. I'll start you with two and add another after a 100-count. Do what you gotta do."
The situation was hopeless. Each younger vixen stood at ringside, itching to get their hands on him, while the elders formed a second line behind them. Celeste Nehi stood inside one corner post, ready to officiate this massacre. Weakened by thirst and hunger, Pete asked for just a bit of mercy.
"Could I at least have some water before we start?"
With a sigh of exasperation, she consented. "Jack, get him a drink."
Returning with a porcelain mug full, Jack leaned over the rail and handed it to Pete, whispering, "Don't worry, boy. They won't hurt you too bad."
He gulped down the cool refreshment in three swallows, handing the mug to Jack. "More?"
"No," barked Celeste. "Sarah and Josie, you're first."
Like wild animals they leaped into the ring, slowly stalking their quarry into one corner. Pete knew only one thing - fisticuffs, and he possessed a potent punch, but these cagey wrestlers stayed out of range, tempting him to come towards the center. With the blond Sarah to his left and brunette Josie to his right, Pete crouched defensively in the corner.
Soon tired of the standoff, Celeste warned him. "The count's 30, mister. You better get busy or soon you'll be facing three."
In a flash, Pete stutter-stepped with a fencing motion towards Josie, threw a left jab that missed, then a right cross that connected with her left titty. As she howled behind him, Pete lunged towards Sarah, who deftly side-stepped his charge, extending a leg to trip him, coupled with a forearm across his back to send him crashing into the rail.
Stunned, he staggered back a few steps, where Sarah hooked her right arm with his, extended a leg and flipped him over her hip. Pete landed onto the dirt flat on his chest, as each women took hold a leg and raised them up to secure him in a double Boston crab. Leaning onto his buttocks with all their strength, the amazon duo nearly broke Pete’s back in two.
"99 and 100," Celeste shouted to announce more bad news. "Marjorie, go get him."
Launching herself from the top rail, Marjorie came crashing down with both feet onto Pete's back, just as the other two released him from the crab. Three bare feet began to stomp on his backside, causing him to roll over, only to receive the same to his top side. Dropping to the dirt, Sarah quickly put the man into a brutal head scissors between crunching thighs, while Josie grabbed both ankles and stretched him lengthwise. More stomps followed, courtesy of Marjorie, to the chest, to the stomach and belly. Manly grunts and groans echoed throughout the cave, as Pete withstood this three-pronged assault. Sinewy thigh muscles clamped onto his neck cut circulation to his brain, nearly causing him to pass out, but Sarah relaxed just enough to keep him alert. She wanted him to feel every foot stomping his exposed torso.
Then, all holds were released. Pete lay spread eagle, motionless except for his heaving chest and belly. Sarah did the honors by flinging her body across his, as Celeste counted one... two... but Pete planted both feet flat onto the dirt and lifted with all his strength to send Sarah tumbling to one side.
"Well, lookee there. He did a kick-out," exclaimed Celeste. "I was hoping three wouldn't be enough. Don't want to spoil our fun." She pointed to the next opponent. "Mary, your turn."
A new attack commenced with a turning of the weakened man onto his belly. Josie grabbed both ankles, Mary got his wrists and they lifted him up, quartered and suspended in mid-air with chest hanging. Straddling him like he was a young steed, Marjorie sat on his back to further bend his spine downward, while Sarah slid underneath and went to work. Using short, upward jabs, she pounded into his hard, stretched abdominals, pulverizing every inch from the pit of his stomach to the lowest reaches of his belly. Deep-throated grunts coincided with each blow, as the torturous weight of the cruel mount riding his back curved his spine to a near breaking point while stretching his chest and abdomen nice and tight.
Sarah continued to launch short punches into his exposed gut, and then humiliated the poor man by grabbing both nipples between fingers and thumbs. Mercilessly, she gave him double titty-twisters, causing the titty owner to howl with grief. After a few more hard knocks to his middle section, Sarah rolled out from underneath, Marjorie dismounted and the other two dropped him like a rock. Pete crashed chest-first into the dirt.
They rolled him over and again Sarah draped herself across his prone body for a count of one... two... and another defiant kick-out.
"Well, god damn, Pete," Celeste complimented. "Maybe you're not such a sissy-boy after all. Bridget, see if you can finish him off."
Jack stood behind the leader, proud that this fellow was holding up to the brutal assault of four, soon to be five, young women. All these vicious females working on one helpless man, yet he continued to find enough strength to rebuff their attempted pins. As he watched Pete push upwards with his arms in a struggle to rise, Jack shouted out words of encouragement. "Don't give up, Pete. Show 'em what a man can do."
A few stomps to the back sent Pete chest down onto the dirt, then Sarah pounced on top of him. She hooked her arms underneath his, brought hers up to lock her hands behind his neck, then pulled up his arms to secure him in a full nelson. With one swift jerk, she rolled over onto her back, bringing Pete with her to lie atop and crush her bulbous titties. She pulled his arms down with ruthless authority, while pressing the back of his neck with her locked hands. Marjorie and Josie each grabbed an ankle to stretch him lengthwise, adding further agony to an already painful hold.
This poor man lay there groaning in futile agony, as his back arched, chest thrust upwards and middle section collapsed from the merciless full nelson. Two women who had nothing to do knelt on either side of Pete’s expanded rib cage, not to inflict more pain, but torment. Two hands lay flat onto his rippled belly; two more frantically rubbed his heaving chest. One man versus five women, Pete never had a chance. His cock instantly sprang to life and flipped from down to up. Lips touched the pit of his stomach and furred chest, and along with it came a complaint. "He stinks."
"That's right, Bridget," the matriarch soothed. "He smells like a man. The man we've been waiting for. Use your tongue, ladies. Lick him clean. Spit on him so he don‘t smell so bad."
All 20 of the younger females entered. Each surrounded the man, as many as could kneel beside him, and proceeded to lick away all dirt, all sweat, all slime.
"Not the penis," Celeste warned. "Make him wait."
One man versus a gaggle of lustful women, Pete writhed in ecstatic torment.
He felt the smashed titties and hard nipples of Sarah grinding into his back muscles, while countless tongues moistened every inch of his top side. Fingers and thumbs delicately pinched and twisted the skin of his testicles, while frothing spit darkened manly fur. They sucked on fingers and toes, slimed his arm pits, licked and lip-pinched his nipples, tongue-drilled his navel. They taunted and teased with their titties, dangling the soft balloons within inches of his mouth, but never allowing his yearning tongue to touch or taste.
As the intensity increased, so did the gyrations of his cock. Nobody touched it, but all were mesmerized by its powerful ballet. Thick, sturdy, fully engorged with veins pulsating just beneath its surface, this man's mighty tool helplessly bobbed and weaved, aching for attention. Its owner undulated, near madness as he pitifully gazed upon countless tits and pussy holes, so close, yet so out of reach.
How long had these ravenous females waited for the muscled, fur-covered skin of a strong, virile man? Shiny vaginal juice slimed the man and saturated the dirt, as the exhilaration of anticipation overwhelmed every female present.
Jack Hutch rather enjoyed this scene himself. He climbed into the ring for a closer look, calmly standing beside Celeste while cupping her once-beautiful breast into his palm. "I'd say you struck it rich," he whispered.
"He's a healthy one, Jack. That's for sure."
They both gazed upon the relentless female feast of a helpless man's flesh, focusing on their victim’s neglected cock, its head now fully encased with pre-orgasmic ooze. "How long you gonna make him wait, darlin'?"
She smiled while grasping onto Jack’s other hand, bringing it to cup her other breast, answering him as he moved behind her. “Guess 'til I get off myself, Jack. Then I‘ll think about Pete."
Jack dropped one hand, inserted three digits and finger-fucked her glistening vagina. Low-pitched moans rumbled from her chest, as Jack expertly found her vibrating clit and rubbed her there. Increasing the pace, Jack rapidly massaged back and forth, causing shudders to reverberate throughout her body.
"You're a brute, Jack Hutch. Oh, god, just think of what might have been."
His finger attacked like a jack-hammer, ruthlessly vibrating her spongy clit from front to back and side to side. "It's gonna work out just fine, Celeste… better than you could’ve hoped… maybe."
Her body tensed for orgasm, but Jack's hand never let up, not even after a second volley quickly followed the first. "Jesus Christ, Jack, hold me before I collapse."
He propped her up with the cupped-under-breast hand, while slowing the pace with his rammed-up-the-pussy fingers. "Want me to hand-job him?"
"No, better let me. The girls wouldn't understand."
“He won’t understand it either way.”
With Jack’s hands removed from her, Celeste stepped towards the ravenous females. Like vultures they fought one another for access to their defenseless prey. They had brought him to an uncontrolled state of madness, to the point that Sarah's full-nelson was no longer necessary, not that she released it.
He arched his back to a torturous degree, thrusting his powerful chest high into the air. He physically invited the tongues to lick. He writhed in unbridled lust, begging their lips, hands, tongues and fingers to mercilessly squeeze, kiss, slurp and rub. With each exhale, he flattened his belly and held it there as long as possible. He tempted them to bury their faces deep into its hard muscle. He yearned for tongue tips to pile-drive their way deep into his knotted navel.
For Jack, the view was beyond belief. One incredible man - stripped naked, held in a torture rack grasp, hopelessly outnumbered, assaulted by crazed, starving, mouth-drooling, pussy-dribbling females. Poor Pete undulated heroically, sacrificing his manly form to their torments. Jack could hear the slurps, nearly feel the tongues as though they painted him. He jealously watched full-blown breasts hovering near Pete's face, as Pete gallantly but uselessly struggled to devour each one of them.
For three long years Pete’s only company was other men. Three years since Pete had even smelled a woman, let alone felt her touch or tasted any part of her. Now, an overdose, so tantalizingly close to fulfillment, yet so cruelly denied him. Despite this teasing torment, Pete never said a word, never begged for his release or complained about his predicament. Although these females outnumbered him, punished him, controlled him, they never defeated him. Pete Radcliffe remained a man, groaning and grunting and writhing and taking everything they so far had dished out.
Then, the two men locked eyes. Jack smiled. Pete moaned. "How long they gonna torture me, Jack?"
"Wrestling's fun, ain't it boy?"
Before he could answer, titties were replaced by a juice-drenched pussy hole, as a young daughter of Jacob Nehi lowered herself onto Pete’s face. He inhaled the horrendous smell - the heavenly, horrendous aroma of athletic female loins. His tongue snaked into her darkness, searching for a little peter, already engorged and awaiting his touch. And just when he found it and her body convulsed, the hand of Celeste encircled Pete’s tormented cock and gingerly finger-massaged its swollen head.
For a man who stood at a height of five feet and ten inches, Pete was a lucky fellow to be endowed with a double-fister. Not only was it a fat and juicy one at three-quarters of an inch thick, Pete’s cock extended a full five inches above the four fingers of Celeste, making a grand total of nine inches in length. Its hammer-head was a handsomely sculptured mushroom, its rim casting a full half-inch shadow on the shaft below, and with a woman’s fist squeezing that shaft his mushroom bulged, darkening its color from pink to red as beads of pre-come oozed out of the slit to make him shine with a sugar coating.
Celeste liked it. She said, “Daughters of Nehi, behold."
A reverent hush enveloped the room and all faces were removed from the man's body. Fingers pinched his tits and hands massaged his chest, belly, legs, and feet, while a gaping pussy hole covered his mouth. Spectators hand-rubbed their own vaginas, marking time with legs as though they had to pee, as Jack stroked on his own hardened pecker. All eyes focused on Pete’s cock and a woman’s hand to see Pete fire an initial volley past the hands on his belly, past the hands on his chest, splattering onto the lower back of the face-sitting female. A second bullet slimed the hands on Pete’s chest, while subsequent contractions produced a dotted trail of semen from the hands on his stomach to his belly.
Celeste squeezed on Pete’s powerful cock from base to head, crushing out all remaining man-seed, and then she delicately laid the mighty weapon to rest.
Pete glared at the elderly woman, thrusting forward his lower jaw while flexing his chest. It was a display of defiance, a statement, and if there was any doubt remaining for her as to what sort of character had stumbled into her clutches, Pete verbalized it for all of them in a mocking tone. "You beat on me, torture me for hours, and the best you can do is a hand job? You ladies ain’t no fun at all."
Celeste cackled with glee. "Tie his ankles and get this fightin' man ready for the next round."
This tale was originally written to be an e-book, but before I ever got around to formatting it I changed my mind and made it an audio story. Those chapters are posted and free for the listening at http://www.jardonnserotictales.com/jaspstr.htm .
Main character, Pete Radcliffe, did eventually end up in a paperback and Kindle book, the story titled The Black Pouch Crusader, one of three tales in The Crux of It, Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There, but his original incarnation will be serialized on this blog for the next several weeks... on a weekly basis, I hope.
Here is how it begins:
____________________________
THE UNDERGROUND VIXENS
OF BALLBREAKER PASS
Part 1 - Out of the Frying Pan, Into the Fire
Such was the life of Pete Radcliffe. For example, one minute he's dozing peacefully in the hole of a rock cliff, safely hidden from the lawmen on his trail; the next he's getting the daylights beaten out of him by a barrage of fists and feet - not just any fists and feet, but those of at least 20 females, all lily-white skinned, all naked as jay birds.
They'd pulled him out of his hole from the inside, not the out, and dragged him through a narrow tunnel into an open-spaced cavern. This is where they proceeded to stomp, kick and punch, while ripping off any piece of his clothing they could get their hands on. Packing a potent punch himself, Pete fought them the best he could, even managing to connect his own fists with a few jaws, but once one of those wild animals jumped on his back the end came quickly. Others rushed in to kick his legs out from underneath until he was down flat. Pete never had a chance. Too many numbers against him.
He never gave up, though. Every time they'd back away figuring he was licked, Pete kept trying to push up his chest and rise to all fours, fully intending to stand upright and take them on again. So, they'd have to deliver a few more stomps onto his back and force him down. Even though they lost patience with his never-ending defiance, these feminine crazies were more than impressed with his fighting spirit, not to mention his well-sculptured musculature, plentiful fur and everything else that makes a man what he is.
Eventually, the heartless females decided they'd just have to sit on him to keep him down, so after rolling him onto his back four vixens pinned four limbs, one straddled his chest with her knees and plopped her butt right down. Another did the same on his thighs.
One-hundred-per-cent worn out, Pete Radcliffe finally surrendered, wondering what these wild women planned to do next.
Now, let’s back up a bit and talk about how pitiful Pete came to be in such a predicament.
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Born on a mountain, raised in a cave
Clits and titties are what I crave
(Seth Radcliffe 1807-1864)
The words of Pete's grandpa repeated themselves over and over in his head, as he lay in that cliff hole half asleep, half awake. After three years of incarceration, any number of words could have been substituted to fit - tobacco and whiskey; chicken and dumplings; a bed and a bath - all would have satiated his appetite. As for his dick, anything warm, wet and tight would have felt fine indeed.
Pete, of course, didn't do what they said he did. Just like any convict, all you had to do was ask him and he'd tell you he was innocent, but in the post-Civil War, western part of the United States the word of a judge was final and that was the end of it. No appeals. No reprieves. Seven years hard labor, that's what the judge in Durango gave him for borrowing a few dollars from a "lady" living at the local house of ill repute.
Truth be known Pete really was framed, but by the Madame, not the prostitute. The expertise with which he plowed that fat, juicy cock of his into her oft-visited pussy made her feel like a woman again, rather than a slab of meat. She wanted him to stay well past the thirty minutes for which he'd rightly paid. She wanted him to take her with him when he left, but the Madame of the house was having none of that. Fifteen minutes overdue, Pete was dragged from the bed by two of her pistol-toting goons, taken into the alley way and beaten senseless.
The Madame wasn't about to punish her own property, instead concocting a charge against innocent Pete. He was immediately sent to the Montezuma County Work Farm, situated in the farthest reaches of the southwest corner of the brand new state of Colorado.
It wasn't really a farm. It was a rock quarry, where leg-ironed and most-times shirtless men swung a pick ax for no particular reason other than to fulfill their sentence of hard labor. As for Pete, he was a model prisoner - kept to himself and always followed the rules, but that didn't mean he wasn't looking for ways out. All the guards liked him, left him alone and rarely paid much attention to what he was doing. What he did do was to every day situate himself with that pick ax swinging near the horses, always hoping for some sort of commotion or distraction to make the guards pay even less attention to him.
Pete got that chance during an all-out brawl. The prisoners knew it was coming and probably the guards did too, as resentments still holding fast between former Confederates and Unionists heated to the boiling point. When it erupted, nearly 30 men on each side turned the rock quarry into chaos.
While some used fists and others swung axes, Pete bolted for the nearest mount. He grabbed hold the saddle horn, flung both legs atop the hind quarters, and with ax in hand rode towards the passageway to freedom. By the time any guard saw him, Pete was in that narrow canyon, laying flat as he could to that horse’s back with rifle shot whizzing all around him. It was a good ten minutes before the riot was quelled enough for prison guards to turn their full attentions to Prisoner 216. Adding another ten minutes for them to gather a tracking guide and hunting party gave Pete Radcliffe a pretty good chance of staying gone for good.
He headed straight into Utah territory, into mountains of rock - hard to track, hard to see. Safely hidden in a tall canyon, he dismounted and prepared to lose the leg irons. Three years of practice gave him pinpoint accuracy, and with a dozen swings of the pick ax his chain was broken. Pete liked his odds as he began the pre-planned journey to find the nearest Mormon settlement available. He figured them to be not particularly fond of the United States government, and therefore perhaps sympathetic to one of its escaped prisoners. It would have worked, too, had the damned horse not stumbled on a decline and come up lame.
For 24 hours Pete used his own feet - no food, no water, no weapons, no protection from the sun. On the second day he could take no more. A crawlspace hole 20 feet up a cliff would provide protection from the blasting rays, a place of hiding from any trackers and a chance for him to sleep. He'd wait for darkness, regain his strength, and head out to resume the search for anything or anyone that might keep him alive.
Climbing up to the opening, Pete grabbed a couple of pebbles and tossed them in, making sure no critters were napping, then crawled into the darkness of shaded hole in rock. Just enough height to lay on his belly, just enough length to conceal his boots, Pete slithered to a comfortable position, folded his arms under his chin and quickly fell into a refreshing snooze.
There was no time to react, even though he heard voices beyond his head. In his tiny crawl-space, Pete could only slide backwards on his belly, but it was too late. Two hands clutched onto his right wrist, two more grabbed the left and he was dragged further into darkness, through a hole he was sure did not exist before.
He felt rock scraping his underside, as whoever held his wrists pulled him quickly deep into the cave on a gradual down-grade. A glimmer of light appeared ahead of him and Pete strained to look at his captors, but a thump on the head caused him to see nothing.
When consciousness returned he was in a small, open area of rock, just barely tall enough for him to stand up straight. When he did stand, he noticed someone had stolen his prison-issued boots and socks. He grabbed a lone torch that was stuck into a wall hole, then turned to illuminate the room, at which time he heard a softly cackling voice.
"Howdy, young feller." Sitting on haunches in one corner, a bearded man naked and furry welcomed Pete to the cave. "My name's Jack Hutch. What's yours?"
Pete stepped towards him, took hold of the scraggly beard and forced him to his feet. "What's going on here, mister?"
"Calm down, now, hot head," he chuckled with a yellow-toothed grin, "you got nothin' to fear from me. I ain't your problem."
"Then where am I and who brought me here?" Pete let go the man's beard.
"Why, you're in Utah territory, son. Thought you knew that."
Patience short, Pete again grabbed the beard. "You know what I mean. You better spill it, old man, or I'm gonna beat it out of you."
"Shit, you can't hurt me. I've done been through it all. Look around you. There's one hole in this room. Either it's a way out or a way to trouble, but one thing's for sure, it's the only way to go. So, you might as well git and leave me be."
"Sure, Jack, I'll go, but you're going ahead of me. Oh, by the way, my name's Pete Radcliffe and I'm a wanted man. Now, you git."
Into the tunnel they went, both bent down to accommodate its five-foot height. With Pete holding the torch, they shuffled about 20 paces before a circle of light shone from around a bend - not outside light, but a dull glow. When they were near the exit Pete told Jack to stand back, as he crouched on hands and knees to scan what was ahead. He was near another open space, cavernous and cathedral-like, lit by numerous torches protruding from sporadically-spaced holes in the rock walls. Pete crept forward, then felt the older man's foot press against his buttocks, "Go on, boy, there ain't nothing to be sceert of."
With the torch flying from his hand, Radcliffe landed on his chest with the upper half of his body laying inside the room. From each side, hands grabbed both arms and dragged him all the way in, at which time his relentless beating commenced until he ended up stripped naked and pinned down in that spread-eagle sprawl. All the time Pete was getting the crap beat out of him, Jack sat on his haunches near the tunnel and watched the show, never saying a word.
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end of part 1
