Labor Day Snippet

Relative to Labor Day, this text is taken from Jardonn's e-book, The Thomas Coleman Full Nelson.

Lord knows Thomas had put up with plenty of misery himself. One thing's for sure, the year of 1990 was chock full of momentous events for him -- getting Janice pregnant, getting 2nd place at state, getting his dick briefly sucked by his best friend, graduating high school, getting married and preparing for fatherhood. It's a matter of opinion as to whether what happened on Labor Day of that year was good fortune for Thomas or bad. Most say bad, but I beg to differ.

Despite the fact this particular Labor Day coincided with the official demise of Commonwealth Steel, the traditional laborer's parade took place on Gravois Avenue same as always, followed by the bring-your-own-eats picnic in May Brook Park. My family went to the parade, but not the picnic. With such a dark cloud on everyone’s mind, Dad saw no reason to celebrate like we always had before. He knew, and I'm sure everybody knew, that the closing of the steel mill would signal a slow unraveling of our neighborhood and all for which it stood. I had my own reasons for not doing the picnic. For the first time ever the Colemans and the Hightowers would not be together. Thomas and his family would be pretending to enjoy the company of their new in-laws, the Conaghers, but none of our family members could stand being around any of the Conaghers, and since dad couldn't stomach the idea of pretending to be jolly with the unemployed in May Brook Park, we Hightowers had our own picnic of sorts -- in my neighborhood, on the patio of my rented house.

It should come as no surprise that plenty of beer always showed up at the May Brook Park shindig, and it was never unusual for fisticuffs to break out as the day progressed into night and drunken braggarts renewed old rivalries.

Just stupid shit, but the stupidest of all had to be the drunken Jack Conagher on his brand new motorcycle. Like I said, there were eight Conagher offspring at the time, Jack being the oldest at twenty-two years old, followed by Richard (Dickie), James (Jimmy), Janice, and two more of each gender who don't matter.

Jack, who apparently could barely stand, decided to demonstrate for each of his siblings one by one from oldest to youngest the power of his motorcycle. This involved flying down Gravois Avenue at double the speed limit without helmet or any other protective gear, using the corner at 46th Street for his turnaround before his return trip to the park. Yes, six-month-pregnant Janice took her ride, and yes, Jack chose that time to jump the curb at 46th and throw both Conaghers off the bike. So much for the first Conagher grandson/nephew, which is what it would have been had it survived. Fortunately or not, Janice got scratched and scraped but not broken.

And, so much for Thomas's only good and truthful reason for marrying her.

Being an honorable man, Thomas stayed married to her, but whatever tidbit of interest they had in one another died on that sidewalk. This became painfully clear to Janice when Thomas informed her he wanted no more children.

"One tragedy's enough for me," he tells her. "You should've shown more regard for yourself, for me and our child. From now on, whatever sex we have will be protected sex."

Since she and her ilk don't believe in protected sex, she and Thomas had no more sex. Think Janice was insulted? Just imagine how her family took it when she told them. From that day forward Thomas Coleman was Enemy Number One in the eyes of all Conaghers. She and her clan would suck him dry -- not his dick, but his money, his patience, and his mental well-being.

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More about the ebook is at my site, Jardonn's Erotic Tales .

Paw Wolfywits Chapter 5

v.

Dumbfounded, it took me a few seconds to respond. "So, Wolfy, now you can talk?"

He chuckled, as I again sat on his belly. "I can talk. Got my human tongue back, and uh, did you notice my hands and feet?"

Sure enough. Human. Not only that, he could have easily slipped their reduced size out of the chains binding him.

"When did all this happen?"

His belly jiggled beneath my butt. "Oh, about the time you knelt down to suck me off."

"Why didn't you say something then?"

"Didn't want to spoil your fun. Or mine, and besides, I've been trying to tell you since last night."

I leaned forward, put my hands on his chest. "Tell me what?"

"Paw."

"Oh, that. Well, okay then, is your hand broke?"

"No. The only way I could communicate was for you to take my paw so I could guide your hand with pen on paper, but you never caught on."

"Well, shit, Wolfy, who would?"

"I know, but it was worth a try."

"I'm all right with how things worked out." Leaning closer, I pecked his sternum with a kiss. "Aren't you?"

"Oh, yeah. Big time."

I raised off him, stood and moved toward his feet for a closer view. "So, now that you're human, you can tell me two things for starters."

"Shoot."

"What's your name?"

"Simon Farnsworth."

"Hmm. Somehow I figured on Paul. Get it? Paw? Paul?"

"Sure. What's question two?"

"If I unchain you, are you going to attack me for doing all the things I did?"

"Well, I'm sure I could release myself," he noted. "But I'll let you do it." With me unwinding the chain on his ankle, he answered my question. "I am no threat, now that everything I needed to happen has happened."

"What does that mean?"

"Thanks to you, I can be all human until next time."

He finagled his hands through the wrist chain while I, still hopelessly confused, finished releasing his other ankle. Taking his hand, I helped him sit up on the bench.

"Whew," he folded his hands across his chest and bent forward. "My spine's a little stiff."

"I can imagine. Want a back rub?"

"Sure." Straddling the bench, he laid chest down, his hands under his cheek for a pillow, his knees on the floor.

My fingers worked the muscles on either side of his spine, relaxing him a bit before I asked him, "Okay, Simon Farnsworth, time for you to do some explaining."

"Hmm... where to begin." He took a deep breath and sighed. "Well, first of all, do you recognize my name?"

"No."

"I work at Bartlett's, same as you. I'm in the research lab."

"Oh, that's downtown. Sales office is out here in the burbs."

"Right."

Each of my thumbs pressed either side of his spine and I drew lines from his neck down. "So, what's that got to do with you being a werewolf?"

"I'm not a werewolf. Not in the way you think."

"Sure fooled me. So, what the hell are you?"

"An ongoing experiment. You know that diabetes drug we make, Lycanthol?"

"Yes. One of my doctors told me today it might cause pancreatic cancer."

“Which one? Carson?”

“How did you know?”

“He's one of our scouts. On the lookout for prospective subjects to join the program. He probably was surprised to see you, since you shouldn't have been out and about today.”

My fingers grabbed the back of Simon's neck and squeezed. “Hate to tell you this, but I'm more confused now than I was before you started.”

“Okay, sorry. Let's back up. This is all about the pancreas. Think back to last night. Remember when you first hit me on the noggin with your bat?"

"Yes."

"Didn't hurt me much. Just made me temporarily groggy. It was your next blow, the one to my stomach that changed the game."

"How?"

"Heavy doses of Lycanthol, or I should say, an altered version of Lycanthol, turn me into a dog like creature. Causes the pancreas to secrete an enzyme which transforms humans to canines. Only two things can change me back. The antidote we've developed, or blows to my gut. Specifically, the pit of my stomach and general vicinity. The pancreas is directly behind the stomach, so anything that creates movement of the stomach against the pancreas causes the latter to secrete its normal enzymes. Turns the dog back to human."

He paused a bit. Caught his breath, giving me a chance to ask questions, but his wild-ass story at that point had me speechless.

"Anyway," he continued, "your first blow to my gut started the process. Those that followed made it irreversible. Even though my physical changes wouldn't come until much later, you had already reduced my animal strength down to about seventy percent. Too bad you didn't beat me a few more times. Then, by morning, I would have been full human instead of the freak you found. My feet, paws, and worst of all, my tongue were still canine."

Again he waited, and this time I asked, "So, the belly beating I just gave you finished the process?"

"Right."

"Got it. Now, asshole, tell me this." My tone of voice made it known I was none too pleased. "Why the hell did you attack me?"

"Sorry about that, but Bartlett's wants you in the program."

"What program? Turning me into a wolfman? Why didn't they just ask me?"

"Are you kidding?"

A moment's consideration of my illogical question was enough. "No, I get it. I needed a demonstration so I wouldn't think they'd gone nuts. But why go to all this trouble? Why not just bring me into the lab and show me the program there?"

"Because once you're selected, it's not up for debate. No democracy here.”

“Oh, yeah? I think I will have a say, once I get the full story. Once I know why I'm selected and for what.”

“Because you fit the requirements. You are single. Unattached. You work for Bartlett's, so we will have little problem altering your place in the world. Like it or not, you are not allowed to say no. My job was to scare you shitless and take you by force."

My fingers clutched into his trapeziums. Part massage, part attack with my fingernails participating. "Tough luck, Farnsworth. I fucked up your plans."

"Actually, your malfunctioning garage door opener did it. Made you get out of your car."

"So you had to make a move?"

"Right."

"Okay," my fingers clawed his traps while my thumbs deep-rubbed his deltoids. "How was it supposed to go down?"

"I was to wait until you drove into your garage. Sneak in and attack you as the door closed and you exited your car. My saliva would have begun your transformation. A bite to the neck does the trick. As it is now, my claws infected you about ten percent."

"Gee. Lucky me. Does this mean I'm stronger than you?"

"Nope. I can subdue you anytime I choose."

"So, you could have broken free from the chains whenever you wanted?"

"Yep."

I removed my hands from him, my puzzlement keeping my temper tempered. "Then why go through all you've gone through? Do you like being tied up and tortured? One of your kinks?"

"Not really, but it was plan B. Once my fangs were gone, there was no way for me to fully inject you. And truthfully, those blows to my belly last night did indeed render me useless."

"So all I've got to do is punch you in the gut and you turn into a puppy?"

"No, by useless, I mean my transformation had begun and I couldn't control my actions. Could have easily killed you had I fought back, so my play was to surrender and wait for everything to calm down inside me."

"What if I had killed you?"

"You can't."

"Really?" My finger poked the middle of his back. "What if I were to plunge a knife into you? Right here, and puncture your pancreas?"

"Wouldn't matter. The serum makes it regenerate. Instantly."

"What about your other organs? Or your limbs, eyes? Anything?"

"Same result."

"Bullets?"

"Harmless."

"Land mines? A grenade up your ass?"

"Well, every immortal does have his limits, I suppose, but for our purpose, I am indestructible. You will be too. Got a problem with that?"

"Yes, I do," I raised off the bench, stood over him and let him have it. "This is mad-scientist bullshit. Are you gonna tell me this pancreas thing has been tested? Are you gonna let me stab you a hundred times so I can believe what you're saying? How about if I put a silver bullet through your heart? Or better yet, take a pistol and blow your friggin' brains out. Are you gonna survive that, too? Don't make me laugh, because this ain't funny."

"You're right," he sat up, stared me down with a look that could kill. "It is deadly serious, so take my advice, can the comments and let me do the talking."

"Okay, Simon smart-ass," I sarcastically sneered. "Run your mouth. I'm all ears."

Full details of the program could not be told until I was fully indoctrinated. So he said. He suggested we clean up the mess in my basement, clean up our bodies and fix ourselves something to eat. While doing these chores, (the mutual shower by no means a chore, as we fondled and explored one another's erogenous zones en-route to extracting semen appetizers before dinner. My anger be damned, I could not resist him. Gulp!) he explained everything he could about the high-security, U.S. government-sponsored program at Bartlett's.

In a nutshell, the goal wasn't to produce werewolves, but dogs with human intelligence, breeds of which I cannot reveal. As pet/service/guard dogs we would be placed within terror cells. Given to known hostiles within the U.S. and the world over. Spying on enemies of the U.S. and its allies. Gathering information. Thwarting attacks. Enough said.

The obvious need for secrecy allows me to cop out on the remaining story and quicken its end, which is fine by me because now that I'm like Simon I find it difficult to type. Even though my fingers are currently human, they want to claw at things and I'm always striking extra keys. Editing and proof-correcting this thing is a bitch. Enough said on that as well.

Meanwhile, back to the time of my story, Simon and I spent the weekend together in my home, and then Monday morning he rode with me to the downtown lab for my first injection. By needle. No fangs.

After our Friday night dinner, we made vanilla love atop my bed's mattress. We played and we slept and played and slept, and a time did come when I considered reaching for my butcher knife and stabbing him. You know, just to prove to myself this shit was for real, but I couldn't do it. What if I'd have actually killed him? Spoiling my bliss would have tempted me to stab myself. With lustful abandon, he sucked me and I sucked him. He poked my ass and I poked his. We marathoned until sunrise in every way that has been written about in a thousand stories, whether they be romantic, erotic, or flat-out pornographic.

Most of Saturday and Sunday was about Simon showing off. He hung naked from my chin-up bar like he was crucified. Allowed me to worship him, my hands and my mouth rubbing and kissing and licking every inch of him from his fingers to his toes. Without question, his human hands and human feet were every bit as handsome (in my idealized perfection of manliness) as the rest of him.

For hours he miraculously hung there, his hands voluntarily gripping the bar. Like the super-stud he was (is) he took my punishments, as we played out scenarios of where we were headed. Ramifications of what might happen if our espionage mission were to go awry. If we were somehow captured as humans and interrogated as such.

"So, Mr. Farnsworth, now that you have discovered our plan to blow up the White House," I enlighten him with an undefined, foreign-accented English, "you will give us names of your contacts and precisely what you have told them."

He is silent. His answer given by flexing his arms, puffing up his chest and sucking in his belly.

"Cat got your tongue?" I scoff. "Well, allow me to loosen it for you."

He is magnificent. He is glorious. He is tough as nails when I wail upon him with my leather belt. His back side from shoulder blades to calves. His front side from pectorals to shins. His cock even takes a couple of whacks and he says nothing. Doesn't even whimper. He answers with silent defiance. His muscular, fur-enhanced manliness says it all. His flexing and posturing invites me to give him the worst. Evil acts delved from the depths of my uncivilized mind.

My fists to his belly do nothing to soften him. My knuckles nearly crack upon his abdominal brick wall. My crucified hero. Nothing can break him. His natural strength coupled with experimental drug has turned him into a super-manly, super-beastly, god-like creature, given to me for my personal satisfaction.

I exploit my opportunity to its finality. Retrieve clothespins from my nearby laundry supplies. Clamp his arm pits, his pectorals, nipples, nuts, thighs and calves and between each toe. My tongue flicks his piss slit. His cock stirs ever so slightly. My lips surround his corona. His cock fills with blood. I voraciously suck on him. Scrape away layers of his peter-flesh with my hot-wet vise. My tongue wraps him. The roof of my mouth crushes him, and this time, he forces me to suck his dick long and hard and seemingly for eternity. His final act of defiance. He makes me earn his come. My reward is a muscle-flexing, endless flow of sweet-tasting semen. A man's dose. An animal's dose. Enough friggin' jizz to impregnate an entire pack of ravenous she-wolves. And then, looking down upon me as I remove his pecker from my mouth, he finally speaks.

"Your turn."

Guess I never realized how much I could take. We reversed roles. I hung from my bar while he interrogated me. My small dose of dog juice, transferred to me when he scratched me, got me through. I absorbed the pain. Relished it. Maintained an erection throughout the entire process of every punishing kink he perpetrated upon me, and I was in love. With myself. With him. With the unholy wad of come he sucked out of me.

Yes, a mechanical malfunction changed my life forever. For the good. So next time some sort of breakdown screws up your agenda, take it all in stride. Wonder if perhaps the aggravation won't lead you down a better road than the one you wanted to take... perhaps to some place and someone you never want to leave.

I never have. From then until now, our employer has kindly kept us together. Human, animal, on-mission or off, my mentor and I are a forever team. The dynamic, indestructible duo.

Paw Wolfywits, Simon Farnsworth, whatever. Woof.

End

Copyright 2013 to Jardonn Smith

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Paw Wolfywits Chapter 2

This Jardonn Smith story is posting weekly on Frothing Author, but if you want to read it at your own pace, the entire tale is at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com .

Paw Wolfywits

by

Jardonn Smith

ii.

My shirt was torn, undoubtedly from when he reached for me on his way down. Standing before my bathroom mirror, I removed the garment. Two parallel scratches on my left-side collarbone, each a quarter of an inch long. No biggie. Peroxide. Rubbing alcohol. A bandage. A piss. A brushing and flossing of my teeth. A quick check to make sure my butcher knife, always kept hidden between mattress and box springs, was within reach, and then I stripped down to briefs and nestled into my bed.

Next thing I heard was the buzz of my alarm clock. Amazing how that thing survived so many years of my fingers slamming down on the snooze button. This time it didn't. Not only did I smash the clock, I also broke the particle board table top of the nightstand upon which it sat. Oh, well, no time for snoozing. Extra activities needed attention before I could begin my morning-for-work routine.

Coffee, however, would not be delayed. Stepping into flip-flops, I got the brewing started before opening the door to my garage. Same big-wolf feet. A major disappointment, but when I reached inside my car and turned on the dome light, I observed a more promising development. Somewhere beneath the chain wrapping his ankles, Wolfy's legs transitioned to human. White skin gleamed beneath a much-reduced layer of fur. Same with his thighs, the urine bottle still resting atop them, and although his penis was still of length to lay securely inside, the organ seemed to have lost half its thickness. Diameter of less than two inches, by my estimate.

I could now see his navel. An innie, and the hair below had a thick line center which fanned out until meshing with his pubes, now featuring man-like curly-q's. As a wolf, he'd been covered in a heavy coat of brown fur, but as a man, his greatly diminished body hair had gone black.

Intrigued, I continued my inspection, circling the back of my car for a look through the other door. Paws of a werewolf, face of a man. Snout gone, black-button nose now white human. Ears big and manly, but on the side of his head where they belong. Strangest of all, his head was buzz-cut, and although his beard was of length to fall upon his neck, the hair was trimmed to an inverted arc of geometric precision. The overall picture of his head and face resembled some of those Boston Red Sox who had just won the World Series.

Next, the all-important investigation. "Open your mouth," I ordered. Eureka! His teeth were human, fangs normal length. Too bad the same could not be said for his tongue. Long and slender and dog-like, meaning, I assumed, he still couldn't speak.

It appeared one more evacuation would cause his bottle to overflow, so I forcefully planted my knee to his chest and gingerly removed the urinal, leaving his dick nestled atop his balls. A man's dick. A flaccid three inches, and circumcised, no less!

"Paw," he said as I exited the car.

"Holy moly," I exclaimed, taken aback, impressed by the deep, manly tone of his voice. "You can talk!"

He tilted his head so his chocolate brown eyes met my blues, and while manipulating his right paw's pads and claws as though trying to clutch something, he excitedly repeated, "Paw."

"Yes, yes," I huffed. "I slugged your paw and I'm sorry. I'll take a look at it after I dump your bottle."

Before I'd turned toward the utility sink in my garage, he exclaimed, "Pooh."

Aw, crap, I thought while emptying. "Are you telling me you need to poop?"

"Poop."

"Are P-words all you can say?"

He nodded. "Paw, pee, poop."

"Great. Well, guess we've gotta start somewhere. So, you really need to shit?"

No words, just an affirmative nod.

This negative revelation instigated a flurry of ugly realizations. What the hell was I going to do with my Wolfy? Own him like some sort of dangerous pet? How could I keep him in my home while I went to work? Chain him to the toilet? Besides the fecal and urine issues, there also came matters of other hygiene. Now that he was only one-third beast, his dirty-dog smell had morphed to funky human. The dude's odors burned my nose hairs.

And what about feeding? Owning him would be like maintaining a Saint Bernard or two. As far as I could see, his only redeeming value over a regular canine (other than the fact he kinda turned me on) was that he could understand English.

Leaving his rinsed-out bottle in the sink, I approached and looked down at his inverted face.

"Okay, this won't be easy, but I've got an idea that might work, and then I'll give you a bath. Like that plan?"

Again the affirmative from him.

Moving to the passenger side, I unhooked the long chain from his ankles chain and brought it with me to the back of my car. My right hand grabbed the bumper and I raised my auto's rear end so I could swing the chain under both tires. Wait a minute... did I really do that? Yes, I did. In fact, I stood there holding the car up to confirm it. Seemed I had the strength of ten men. Didn't know how or why, but did realize my power would make my tasks with him much easier.

I unceremoniously yanked on his long chain and dragged him paws-first from the car. "Stand up," I instructed while bringing his paws above his face. With me pulling his arms, he first sat up, and then planted the pads of his feet to concrete. I tugged forward and upward on the chain until he stood. "Now, let's hop over to that drain."

The floor drain centered my two-car garage. Above it, one track of my door opener. "Reach for that beam."

He obliged while I wrapped his long chain around the track until I could hook it to itself out of his reach. Perfect. His wrists were even with the track, his arms stretched above his head, and his butt about a foot from the floor drain. I grabbed my nearby poker and removed the drain cover.

"Okay, I'm going to unchain your ankles and let you shit." I figured he could spread his legs a couple of feet if he used his tippy-toes/claws. "There are things I need to do in the house, so I'll be back in a few minutes."

He acknowledged with a nod and a grunt, the look on his face indicating he was past ready to push that turd out. And so, I left him to his business.

For me, going to work seemed out of the question. Wouldn't be fair to him, now, would it? Besides, by the time I returned from an eight hour shift he'd probably have the garage torn down in his attempts to escape, successfully or otherwise.

I poured a cup of coffee and picked up my cell. "Janet, I won't be in the office today."

She chuckled. "Taking one of your out-on-route days? Or a sick day?"

"Out on route," I confirmed.

Five days per month we Bartlett Pharmaceuticals salespeople were allowed to visit our clients and skip our appearance in the office. Next, I gave her my detailed plan. "I'll be leaving samples for five doctors at the Marcon Clinic. Then I'll stop by Dr. Schmidt's and end my day at Dr. Carson's."

Seven doctors total. Running my route would take a couple of hours and I could get back home. Free samples of Bartlett Pharmaceuticals' money-making diabetes II medicine generously made available for patients whether they needed it or not, depending on the scruples of their doctors.

Returning to my garage situation, I was pleased to see Wolfy's solid, singular fecal sausage had dropped mostly in the drain with a small piece stuck on its edge. While I hooked up a hose to the spout of my utility sink, I explained to him my immediate plans.

"I'll bathe you here. Let you drip dry while I get ready for work." My thumb forced a jet stream from the hose to wash his turd down the drain. "This water will be cold, but I'll fix a bucket of hot soapy water for scrubbing. Okay?"

He nodded yes, and then repeated, "Paw."

"Look," I snapped, losing my cool a bit. "I know I clubbed your paw. I'm sorry, but it's not my fault. You attacked me. Remember? You'll just have to suffer for now. It's not like I can take you to the hospital. Right?"

He shook his head, and with a sigh of frustration lowered his chin to his chest.

Poor guy. I didn't know what sorts of physiological and/or mental oddities he might be experiencing, but it had to nearly drive him mad being able to understand my words when he had no way to talk back. And why should this be? Did the partial restoration of his human traits not include his memory to form words? Did his doggie tongue limit his pronunciation skills? Paw, pee, poop, not the prettiest of words. Certainly not as pretty as he looked hanging there naked, waiting for me to bathe him.

There is a film from the 1980's featuring Helen Mirren and Bob Hoskins. In one scene, Hoskins stands trance-like inside a glass shower stall. Water sprays on the crown of his head, cascading down his torso while he glares at nothing, lost in thought. The camera slowly pans down until his entire top half is in view. All the way to the beginnings of his pubic hairs. Quite erotic, in my opinion, and as I returned to my garage toting a bucket of hot water saturated with liquid dish soap, I recognized my prisoner's similarities. He was Bob Hoskins, or for younger folks, Jason Straithern, or for older, the James Bond era Sean Connery. Ratio of fur to skin, mass and symmetry of muscle and height, those three actors had nothing on my Wolfy.

I started him with a bidet spray between his butt cheeks, my thumb separating while he assisted with a spreading of his legs. Accustomed to the cold water, he barely flinched when I slowly lifted my hose the length of his spine. His back was saturated, and with water flowing freely at a medium stream, I continued up each arm to his chained wrists and paws.

Next, I soaked his head. Cold liquid wet his face. Trickled down his chest and middle, as I circled to inundate his bushy arm pits. Fronting him, I fully soaked his pectorals, belly and crotch, and then directed water to each of his thighs, knees, shins and big-dog feet.

Laying the hose spout in the drain, I plunged both my hands into the bucket. "Close your eyes," I gently instructed. He obliged. My fingers lathered his head and face, and then I massaged his scalp.

With his chin resting upon his chest, he sighed with pleasure as I cleansed his ears, the back of his neck and his beautiful black beard.

After retrieving the hose, I rinsed all soap from his head before re-wetting the rest of him. And then, I lathered him good. His paws and arms and pits. He kept his eyes closed, tossed back his head as I gently squeezed and finger-rubbed his pectorals. He spread his legs, allowing gravity to stretch him while my thumbs soap-scraped his nipples. A slight moan accompanied each of his exhales, as I circled behind him and worked my hands from there.

Deltoids. Laterals. Small of his back, my fingers glided around his flanks and onto his belly. I felt his abdominals tense. I sensed him sucking in his middle when one of my fingers delved into his belly button. My rubbing upon his chest and middle varied between fast and slow, circular, vertical, and horizontal, and one hundred percent erotic.

My palms pressed his thigh. Right leg first, as I squeezed muscle, forcing soap into his pores on my way down to his knee and shin. My pattern repeated on his left leg, and then I lifted his leg, bent his knee and brought his abhorrent foot toward me. My free hand scrubbed his sole and between his pads, and as the dirt and rough texture of his foot washed away, so too did the repulsiveness of its appearance. Somehow, despite the thick brown fur on its topside and gnarly claws protruding from it, his foot took on a workman-like quality. A functional, dominant beast of the forest. That's how I saw things, and those padded and clawed feet were the tools which took my wolf from screw to screw and kill to kill.

Obviously, my mind concocted some oddball fantasies while I administered his cleansing, but geez, I had to do something so I could get past the parts of him still wolf-like.

After finishing with his right foot, I fronted him, and he fronted me with a full-on hard pecker.

Shouldn't have surprised me, I suppose, considering how I'd been rubbing on him for half an hour or better. The real shock came a few minutes later after I'd re-lathered my hands and applied soap to his scrotum. No sooner had I touched his nuts than did he ejaculate. And I do mean ejaculate. His cock sprang halfway up to his belly and fired the biggest gob of come I'd ever seen, and then it jumped up a second time and shot another, which was the second biggest I'd ever seen. Sure, it sounds like words from a porno story, but truth is truth, and I've consumed enough loads to know the difference between puny, average, healthy, and cowabunga.

Christ Almighty, it was like he hadn't gotten off for months on end, and damn it to hell, I hadn't even touched his dick. Silly me had entertained the idea of sucking him off after I'd washed and rinsed him down. Now, here was all his glorious semen spewing uselessly to the floor. Wasted.

Before he could shoot a third spurt, I clutched my hand around his peter and stroked. Rapidly and violently, I enticed another volley which oozed onto my fingers. Still stroking, I got another dribble and one more before I lessened my grip and slowed my stroking.

His body twitched. Deep-toned growls rumbled from his throat, followed by slight whimpers. Yes, I caused him post-orgasmic pain. Soap on his piss slit couldn't have felt so pleasant, either, but I didn't care. He had spoiled my plans. Taken my fun away from me, or at least diminished it, and I had no inclination to show him mercy.

In fact, I left him hanging there lathered in soap while I bathed myself. Cold water from the hose be damned, I saw no logic in cleaning the garage mess and then showering in my bathroom. Since everything was set up I took advantage of it, but first I dropped my underwear and dry-stroked myself to orgasm -- Wolfy's naked, wet and soapy, suspended-in-bondage presence provided my inspiration.

* * * * *

Chapter 3 in one week

Top2Bottom and Free Jardonn Ebook

Lisa over at the book review site, Top2Bottom Reviews got a major overdose of Jardonn on Sunday, Oct. 9th.

First, there's my first-ever interview, where I answer questions about storytelling, my books, my characters, and a few about me.

Nearby, you'll find Lisa's review of my M/M/M, WWII short story, Furlough Bridge, and I must say she gleaned some interesting bits from the story that in my opinion were spot on.



Finally, but certainly most importantly, there's a small post which allows you to register for a free copy of my short story ebook, Green River. All you have to do is click on Green River link here, go to the Top2Bottom site, and leave a comment. Any comment will do, from "hello, Jardonn" to "who the hell is Jardonn?" and then email to let me know you've left a comment. I'll select two from whoever comments by the time stated at Top2Bottom, and email YOU a free PDF copy of Green River.

That's all there is to it, so stop by the Top2Bottom Reviews site, get your own overdose of me, and take your chance at a free Jardonn ebook.

JJ Said 092111

“Cecil, there's only one snake to be concerned with in the Missouri Ozarks. That's the Copperhead, and he don't like to swim much. There's a timber rattler, but he's a scaredy-cat and you hardly ever see him. Cottonmouths like the water, but they're mostly in the southeast part of the state. See? I know my snakes. These yokels from around here must think we're big-city sophisticates or something.”

“Not me. I'm just a Kansas dirt farmer, but the dirt's all gone.”

“And I'm just a Missouri factory worker, but the factory's closed.”

_____

Newly arrived to a WPA camp in 1938, Cecil and Ernie get acquainted while skinny-dipping the Gasconade River... from Jardonn's GREEN RIVER, available in ebook formats at MLR PRESS, or for the AMAZON KINDLE.

Suspicious Diagnosis Reviewed

Want to know what helps an author get better? An honest review, that's what.

Sally Sapphire at Bibrary Book Lust tells about her highs, lows, and in-betweens while reading my book, Suspicious Diagnosis.

With so many gushy book reviews on the web which really say nothing more than a rewording of the blurb, it's interesting to read a review detailing the actual opinions and emotions formed by the reviewer while reading the stories.

Thank you, Sally!

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!

Elisa Reviews Furlough Bridge

ELISA ROLLE has read and reviewed my World War II Christmas manlove tale, Furlough Bridge.

Here's part of what she has to say:

It's a wonderful and tragic tale, an old fashioned holiday tale that had me almost in tears... READ THE REST.

Thank you, Elisa, for reading my book and sharing your thoughts.

Jardonn

It's New Release Day at MLR Press

Two short story ebooks from William Maltese and his Boys Reformatory Series.

Alan and Joey

Gay erotic fiction, Maltese-style. Hot!

Amos Lassen and Furlough Bridge

Yes-sir, looks like Amos Lassen is on a Jardonn kick of late. His review of my short story ebook, Furlough Bridge tells the world that Wilton Zukel and Gaither Hollis, who first appear in GRIT, my 1930's novel written with William Maltese which Amos reviewed yesterday, drop in for a three-way with Forrest Barton, main man in Furlough Bridge.

Thank you, Amos Lassen.

Yours truly,
Jardonn

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.