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:
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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
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