Jasper Say 040815

When my head swells my world shrinks.

JJSaid1112 - Soldiers in Tales III

Henry Mitchell is an active Navy man during World War II. He pilots a Grumman fighter plane from an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific... that is until he is forced to bail from his crippled fighter, parachuting down onto an uncharted island. His fear of capture by Japanese soldiers is soon replaced by a reality perhaps worse. He is stripped to his undershorts, strung up and suspended between two trees, crucified Saint Andrew style, and subjected to tortures at the hands of a female Christian missionary-gone-mad and her tribe of brainwashed pygmy followers. Here's his current predicament:

 I hurt. Bad. Felt like my arms might rip from their sockets. Hands and fingers were going numb from tightness of vine roping my wrists.

I had no clue as to how many hours had passed since they plucked me from my tree-top perch. The angle of the sun said early afternoon, but I could only assume it was the day following my dusk-time landing into their island tree top. For the moment, both the white woman and her pygmy friends were ignoring me. Her “little ones” staggering about with their arms stretched to the sky and eyes closed, while moaning and crying as though someone had died.

Death would have perhaps been preferable to suffering through the farce being presented below me. The preacher woman had truly been struck with the spirit and was speaking in tongues, the ridiculous babble used by hucksters to convince the gullible of their religious superiority. God speaking through them in a language of gibberish spoken only in heaven.

So goes the claim, but of course it’s just another trick in the arsenal of those who pretend to possess a direct line to the Almighty.

Since the white witch and her doe-eyed followers were busy, I figured it to be an ideal moment for me to relieve myself. With any luck, it might even snap her out of her hamma-gamma-goo tongue-speak.

I let go a long stream and soiled my already dirt-soiled briefs. Ahhhhh! Yes! What satisfaction. My hot urine stinging my legs. Dripping off my toes. Even washing away some of my sweat. Praise be to Jesus, and my bladder gave thanks as well.

My urination festival brought about the desired results. One of the female pygmies saw what I was doing and shrieked in horror, causing the rest of them to stop posturing and drop their jaws in shock. The female shyster, however, was unstirred. In fact, she turned my little act of defiance to her advantage.

“Praise Jesus, my brothers and sisters. Our faith in his power has driven out the first demon. Bit by bit, we will chase the devil out of this pitiful man. Give thanks to our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. His work has just begun.”

A hushed awe fell over the congregation, as they collapsed to their knees, clasping their hands together in prayer. Their lips moved to obediently display their devotion, their high-pitched mumblings sounding like a disorganized chorus of deranged chipmunks.

Couldn't tell if their reverence was for the woman or her god, but without a doubt, her brainwashing techniques were most impressive.

This squeaky prayer session allowed me to listen and read lips, as I focused on one of the female pygmies near my feet. “Thank you, Jesus,” she mouthed. “Praise be to doctor Wilma.”

“Ocka Wilwah?” I laughed in my garbled tongue through painful gag. “You gah be ki’ing me!”

The woman in white robe knew exactly what I had said. She instantly transformed her expression from that of the serene minister of goodness to the enraged purveyor of evil. Seemingly concerned that her pygmy faithful might have understood my words, she quickly solved her problem.

“Go, my children,” her calm expression of piety accompanied her orders. “Go to your homes. Now we pray in solitude. Pray for the wayward soul of this pitiful man. He is our fallen brother. Deceived by the devil. Pray that he can know the love of Jesus as we do.”

Although it was impossible for me to admire this woman, I had to admit that she was a slick one. Not only had she taught them her language, but she also used that language to effectively transform them into robots, and like zombies did they drift toward and into their huts.

Doctor Wilma waited patiently for the last pygmy to disappear before turning her attention to me. Casually strolling to the stone altar, she lifted a large wooden bowl and brought it with her to me. Water was in the bowl, and Wilma splashed the cleansing liquid onto my groin, watching it cascade down my shorts, legs and feet to wash away my urine.

“I do declare, Captain Mitchell. You are a disgusting pig.”

The gag made it too hurtful for me to speak, but I had to mock her best I could. I repeated with a pained smile. “Ocka Wilwah,” which brought nothing more from her than a malicious grin.

She turned away from me, moving toward the hut with steeple on top. Before entering she spun to face me and shook a long-distance fist, but as she did another human of normal height appeared as a shadow behind her, still inside the hut.

The form blocked her path, and when Wilma quickly turned to pass through the doorway, she collided with whoever was standing there.

“Get back, you fool,” she barked, and with a violent thrust she forced the shadowed figure inside and out of her way.

And then, before disappearing into darkness, the good reverend lifted her robe above her head and briefly revealed her backside nakedness to me. It was only a five-second glimpse. It came from a distance of at least thirty feet, but it was an effective tease. A bit of pressure bulged my wet underwear, as doctor Wilma vanished into her hole.

* * *

I Was Tortured By the Pygmy Love Queen is one of three stories in Jasper McCutcheon's book, Phallicacies. It is made in paperback and for Kindle, both versions posted at AMAZON. Another excerpt from Phallicacies can be accessed from the Jardonn's Erotic Tales web site. 

JJ Said 100112

Imagine yourself a female citizen living in the Roman Empire before punishment by crucifixion was outlawed. By foot, you're traveling the countryside from point A to point B on one of the stone-paved highways, and you come upon three naked men hanging from their crosses. Strangely, no guards are in sight. No people of any sort are anywhere near. The prisoners are abandoned, their dicks hard, and a ladder lies nearby.

You have access to three, defenseless, fully-erect men. Would you be tempted? Would such a rape be legitimate? 

The scene is set for a snippet from one of three tales in Jasper's book, Phallicacies. 

I admire the magnificent forms of three crucified men. I absorb their beauty, for there is nothing more glorious than a naked male suspended from the cross -- his muscular chest, arms, and belly flexing and straining against his torture, his phallus unnaturally inflated with blood, majestically piercing the air. Sad to think of it, such opposites of emotions, for even though his defiant struggle is a sight for lustful eyes, his pain and lingering death is a tragedy beyond compare. It causes the witness to wish natural law could be temporarily halted, to wish beauty such as this could be enjoyed without the pain and suffering that comes with it, without the inevitable and horrific end that awaits a crucified man.

But it is not to be. Natural law suspended would create chaos. No gravity to keep humans and all they have built clinging to the ground. No rotation of earth to generate oxygen for all creatures to breathe. No retribution for those who do evil under the guise of good.

We must have all of it or none of it, and so, these three men -- despite their beauty, despite their purety of heart and honor and duty to Empire -- these three men will be tortured and they will die. I do not want these men to die, but natural law says it must be so. Nothing can change this, but something can work with natural law to hasten an end to their suffering.

Taking that broken ladder, I prop its longer, four-step end to the vertical stipes of the centered cross. From my travel pouch I retrieve a coin, and three steps bring my face to the chest of my soldier.

"Here, loyal citizen, mighty warrior. Open your mouth and lift your tongue. It is for Charon, the ferryman, he will take you across the river for eternal rest."

My soldier takes his coin as I raise myself one more step to kiss his lips. "You are a true Roman. The gods will welcome you; your fellow citizens will remember you; I will honor you."

As I descend one step at a time, I linger where I can reach to kiss his sweat-drenched and heaving chest, peck his horrifically stretched nipples with my lips, lick his tightly flattened and hard-muscled belly with my tongue. One step up, I raise my gown and impale myself on his engorged penis. I take his full length to the back of my vaginal wall, crush him there while wrapping my arms around his back. My hands slide up his shoulder blades. My fingers clutch his trapeziums and I step off the ladder.

He shudders, my soldier does, his body taking my full weight as I rapidly and repeatedly slam my pelvis to his. He groans in agony and ecstasy. His body, further stretched, quickly weakens. His chest and diaphragm lose their battle to fill his lungs with oxygen, and as his testicles contract to jettison his semen from his penis into my vagina, I send my loyal soldier on his way. He orgasms. He expires. He takes Charon's coin with him, leaving his magnificent seed with me.

(end of excerpt)

Phallicacies is three erotic tales in praise of the penis, and made for the KINDLE READER at AMAZON.

  

JJ Said 080612

The third and final part of the made for Kindle series, Erotic Tales from The Burrow, is finished and available at Amazon.

Based on the title and cover picture, it's plain to see that some men inside The Burrow are considered no better than livestock, and accordingly, they will be unmercifully milked.

Meanwhile, recruiters are busy screening for the next herd of cattle.

Here's a piece:

So, there he is sprawled atop Pete, his chest sticking up in the air. He's staring at himself in the ceiling mirror, helplessly watching as four, mature, beautiful (even though his morality training says they're not, his carnal instincts say they are), naked females work him over. Their tongues and lips and delicate fingers inundate him with licks and kisses and gentle pinchings to his pecs and nipples and stomach and belly. His legs and feet are worshiped, along with his arms and their pits, and finally, he shuts his objecting mouth and allows himself to feel.

His desperate straining to break free transforms into flexing undulations. Displays of his masculinity. Prideful exhibitions of his manly physique. His cock cannot lie. It fills with blood. Flips onto his belly, and whatever remains of his do-gooder mindset that says this is so wrong is completely obliterated when Brianne takes his dick into her mouth, rams it to the back of her throat, extends her tongue and licks his balls.

The Milking Tank Menagerie is 99 cents.

  

Combined, the three books comprising Erotic Tales from the Burrow total about 35,000 words and cost just under five bucks.  

See all three at Amazon

Crucified and Milked

A not-well-kept secret says I am into eroticizing male crucifixion. Most stories I've written have at least one scene of a man on the cross, and I suppose sometimes I do go overboard.

One such sometime was the second story in my book, The Crux of It - Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There. Guess the title spills the beans, eh? Anyway, the scene takes place in an 1880 Montana mining town, and I had the audacity to crucify seven men at once, while another one is stretched on a rack and forced to watch the seven suffer. Here's what I wrote:


Seven females moved to seven crosses -- two on the west wall to Pete's left, five on the north wall straight ahead. One by one the women removed platforms from the crosses. Each naked man dropped into full suspension, groans of agony echoing the room. Strong men. Men who swung the pick axe. Men who lifted heavy rock by hand and shovel. Hard-bodied and rugged and in all shapes and sizes -- from the thick and burly to the slender and wiry, some smooth-skinned and some covered with fur -- seven strong men now struggled for air, struggled to keep their powerful bodies together.

Gravity tortured them, threatening to rip arms from sockets. Compression on their chests and diaphragms made each breath they drew more shallow than the previous. Their heart rates gradually increased in a losing battle to supply oxygen-rich blood to muscles and organs.

A scene of beauty. A scene of tragedy. The naked male form in all its glory. Stretched, arms flared diagonally left and right, chests thrust forward, abdomens caved inward, legs dangling, struggling feet planted to stipes or wall but unable to remain there for more than seconds at a time. As their lungs gradually lost ability to intake sufficient air, their hearts raced frantically, pumping oxygen-poor blood throughout their bodies. Each man's phallus filled with blood, but the blood was unable to leave, their involuntary erections adding to their misery. Their heroic battle was a losing one, a slow, torturous demise, and Pete could not bear to see it, could not bear to listen.

"Stop it, you evil bitch. Give them something to stand on."

Because of his smart mouth, the ladies torture him awhile before I get back to the guys on their crosses here:



Seven female mouths engulfed seven hard cocks belonging to seven crucified men. Pitifully they moaned, their failing strength unable to mount resistance. Humiliated. Degraded. Crucified. Naked. Defenseless. Mercilessly sucked.


The four remaining vixens further taunted, moving from man to man, poking their belly buttons with cruel fingernails, plucking hairs from their toes and legs. None of the men could fight back, none could kick, none had the strength. Each man summoned his last ounce in his struggle to breathe, as voracious tongues ruthlessly scraped engorged penises that could not come.

So, you can see how I do at times lay it on thick. I recently made the Kindle cover for this book match the paperback version, then I lowered the Kindle price by a buck to $5.49. Descriptions for all three stories and the book's cover pic are at AMAZON . com

JJ Said 072012

There are now two ebooks made for Amazon's Kindle reader from the Jasper and Jardonn series, Erotic Tales from The Burrow.

Here are the covers...

The Extractionators sets the scene and purpose for The Burrow's existence, focusing on the erotic tortures of Kyle Hitchens. Links to excerpts and the link to Amazon, where the ebook sells for $2.99, can be found at the Jardonn's Erotic Tales book page.

Book 2, Screw X Two, has Kyle crucified Saint Andrew's cross style, while he watches Pete and Brianne endure some horrific-erotic punishments. It's a shortie, sells for 99 cents, and can also be seen at the Jardonn site.

Meanwhile, here's a shortie excerpt from Screw X Two...

Her labia fought him. Clammed together trying to block him, but his swollen mushroom battered her defenses. Pounded her clitoris. Exactly what she wanted him to do, as she crushed him in her vise. Increased wet friction for them both. His cock. Her pussy. Working together toward their singular goal.

Their pace intensified. Snorting through nostrils with hearts racing and saliva streaming, mucus spraying upon their upper lips. She was close. He was in synch with her. Her milk and his about to spew. A dual orgasm eminent, until he felt something rigid and fleshy poking him between his butt cheeks. "What the?"

A bright light suddenly flooded the room and they were jettisoned from total blackness into a high-sunshine beach. Their bodies froze while eyes adjusted and a voice blared from an unseen speaker in the ceiling. "Pete Barclay! Have you lost your mind?"

Kyle withdrew his pecker, caught a glimpse of Brianne beneath him before turning to see Pete behind him and a quartet of men in black pants and white t-shirts streaming through the door. They pounced upon naked Pete before he could even remove his greasy paw from his oiled dick. Lifted him by his arms and carried him out crucifixion-style, two trailing with his ankles in their grips.

As they exited, four more entered and the male voice from above spoke again. "Hope you two enjoyed yourselves." Kyle didn't know the speaker. Never heard him before, but he did know Brianne.

He stood and looked to her. "Why did you and Pete come in here?"

"Couldn't help ourselves, Kyle," she explained, rising to her feet.

"Well, thanks a lot," he sarcastically voiced his displeasure, as the second quartet secured his arms, preparing to haul him out the same way Pete had gone. "Get me in trouble on my first day." They stretched his arms side to side, lifted him up while the other two grabbed his ankles from behind him. Offering no resistance, he looked over his shoulder, his heart softened toward her. "It's okay, Brianne. I loved every minute of it."

"Me, too, Kyle. I love a man who talks with his dick, not his mouth."

This book and The Extractionators can be seen on Amazon .com.

JJ Said 071812

This paperback book...

is now also an Ebook for Amazon's Kindle Reader, and sells for $3.99 (USD).

There are a few revisions from the paperback version, and I think it's only fair I post an excerpt to go with this BFD announcement. Here it is...

"All right, Harvey, you and Dr. Ben get your marketing people on it. Shoot me some emails if you want, or just go ahead with your campaign. Hell, you know what you're doing."

"Yes, we do, and now, we have some interesting information for you."

"What."

"You tell him, Ben."

"It's about Randall Hughes."

"What about him?"

"His time is up end of April. Sentence served. He'll be released from Petersonville."

Damn it to hell, I thought. Talk about taking the wind out of my sails. "Damn it to hell. That means he's my star for only two more months? Then what?"

"You mean, then who? Dr. Ben and I already have a dozen or so picked out. Trust me, Brad, by then we'll have audiences hooked. All you'll do is plug in new players. No big deal."

"So you say. I'm not so sure."

"All we can do is our best," Dr. Ben consoled. "But let's take it beyond Petersonville and think on this. Everything you need to make movies is right here."

"That's right, nephew. You'll be getting a tour of the basement shortly."

"Now, consider this," Dr. Ben continued. "Do you think a paroled Mr. Hughes will have any better prospects than to do what he's doing now? He will be a bona fide star, if he isn't already. There's a ton of money to be made with him. Not for Petersonville. Not for the state, but for us. You, me and my gals, Harvey and JoAnne, and of course, Randall Hughes."

"Have you talked to him about it?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"And, he's all for it, but only if you're his director."

"Which brings me to this question." Harvey drifted between me and JoAnne, put his arms around us both. "Why in the hell do you want to live in that backward state of yours producing cooking shows for doe-eyed morons, when you can live right here in our progressive state, make enough cash to last you four lifetimes, and shoot films that make your dick harder than concrete?"

"Hmm..."

"He's struggling for arguments, Harvey," giggled JoAnne.

"Of course he is. Come on, Bradley. Get it while it's hot. Get it while you're young."

"I'm not exactly young, Uncle Harvey. Nearly forty, you know."

"Boo fucking hoo. You're expecting sympathy from me? Sixty-five with a heart barely alive?"

JoAnne reached for Harvey's underwater privates. "His peter doesn't act sixty-five. Does it, Bradley?"

"Not even close." Funny thing is, with all the amenities offered to persuade me, my only thought was Randall Hughes. Hell, that had been the case ever since I first saw him in that home movie Dr. Ben made in his office chair. No arguing that. Knowing he'd soon be strutting around the Crawford complex free (and naked) as a bird, nixed whatever feeble protests I had to offer before I even came up with any. "I'd like to give my employer three weeks notice. All right?"

JJ Say 010412 (Pt. 2)

Later from the same story, there's this bit involving a red robe, a white robe, two brown robes, a loin-clothed man and a quartering rack.

They tell him to repent.

He says, "Up yours, you phony hypocrites."

They say he must renounce Satan.

He says, "There ain't no Satan. He's something you made up trying to scare people so you can manipulate 'em."

They order one more click on the cranks. Tell him to beg God's forgiveness.

He says, "God is with me now. My God. That's why I feel no pain. He's my God. Inside me. I made Him for me because that's what He is. For me and me alone. You have your God. I have mine. I don't force you to accept mine, because He's not for you. He's for me. How come you can't go off and live with your God without forcing Him onto everybody else? What makes you think your God is the only God in existence? What makes you so high and mighty with all the answers? Where do you get off..."

A lever built onto the table's side, pushed down by red, effectively, temporarily, stifles the prisoner's sermon. It connects to a square cut out on the table's surface. Square encompasses the space from victim's shoulder blades to his butt cheeks, and when lever is pushed, square rises ten inches above table's surface, taking the already-stretched victim with it.

Hughes gasps, and then groans, and then grits his teeth and deals with it. His chest, abdomen and crotch are elevated, chest highest of all, belly dropping from his ribs stretched tight and hard as a board. His head dangles back, suspended in air. His sockets of arm pits and thighs ache, as white robe orders a new wrinkle to the torture. "Thrash him!"

Touchless Love

My first audio excerpt from this book, Jardonn's The Good Shepherd features two guys in a Nazi POW camp who must make due with the facilities available to them.

I call my ten-minute audio, TOUCHLESS LOVE. You'll find the mp3 link under the Theater of the Erotically Absurd banner.

JJ Said 083011

As the tenth blow pulverized the man's belly, Queen Miscreantia and her entourage of six female attendants and four male guards descended the stairs. Balstok ordered all torture stopped as he and his men stood in deference to her.

She looked and listened. She saw Davidius horrendously stretched and heard the groaning and gasping of a tortured man. Circling the slab to inspect the heaving chest and belly of her prisoner, her gloriously defiant victim with his powerful muscles flexed to capacity, their skin covering bathed in manly sweat from his heroic efforts of resistance, the queen reached down with finger and scooped a sample of his liquid from out of his navel. She licked her finger. She tasted the man. Tasted his suffering, tasted his incredible strength, and she fought the temptation to admire Davidius, to pity him, to fling herself atop his racked body and comfort him, beg him to give in, plead with him to tell his story true or false just so he would suffer no more.

That, however, would defeat her purpose. After all, the man whose whereabouts she needed to know fully intended to kill her. The man stretched before her would do the same if given the chance, and so with a return to reality, a suppression of the tingling between her legs, and a renewed purpose to extract necessary information, the queen composed herself and reassumed her superiority.

"I finally heard screaming, Balstok. Has he talked?"

"No, your majesty."

"Well, ask him again."

In this story, Davidius suffers first the tortures of pain, and then tortures of the painfully erotic. The book is electronic. The author-read audio is free for the listening. Links to all can be found on my book page at Jardonn's Erotic Tales.

JJ Said 082011

Jasper's the pen name I use when writing hetero fiction with female dominants. In my tale from the old American West, The Black Pouch Crusader, Pete Radcliffe spends a good deal of the story roped naked to a stretch rack while lustful women try to loosen his tongue with torments painfully erotic.

In this vanilla scene however, Pete and his detective partner, Jack Hutch, are getting a bath, courtesy of their new client and long-time, former prostitute friend, Marjean Hoodenpyle. The tub's in adjoining hotel rooms in Franklin, Idaho Territory, 1880.

_____

"Yes, indeed." Marjean moved her sponge onto Jack's chest, as both men sat naked in hot water at opposite ends of the tub, legs drawn up and feet flat. "My, my, wasn't I lucky?" she bubbled. "Catching you here? Getting both of you naked so I could bathe you like you're my baby boys?"

"We're making the circuit," Pete gave a straight answer. "I left Bear Lake this fine Thursday morning with our two mules, headed for Paris (Idaho)and Toothless Frank's. Got what we needed, packed 'em up and came here. While I's doing that..."

"I came straight here today myself," Jack finished. "With our donkey Albert and horse Annie. Needed to get Annie new shoes and we like the blacksmith here. The one in Paris ain't very talented. Besides, there's no available females in Paris. Every woman's spoken for."

"Yep. Mormons snatched 'em all up. It's just not fair when one man's hoarding a dozen workable women all to himself."

"Praise Jesus!" Marjean exclaimed while sponging Pete's slightly-submerged crotch and more-than-slightly erect cock. "That's quite a religion they got going."

"Yes, ma'am," Jack agreed. "Any other man'd be arrested. So anyways, Marjean, we met here, put our animals up in the stable, checked for mail..."

"Of which there was none," Pete interjected.

"Right. And we planned on heading back for Bear Lake in the morning."

"But not now," Pete grinned while holding up his foot for Marjean's sponge. "Got us a damsel in distress."

"And a change of plans." Jack held up his foot for equal treatment.

"Looks like Betsy's got the tub in 24 ready to go. Right, Betsy?" Pete hollered to get her attention, door between the rooms unashamedly open.

"Yes, Mr. Radcliffe," she answered while making no effort to avert her eyes from the shenanigans in Room 22.

"Thank you, Betsy. We'll call you when both tubs are ready for dumping."

And with that, Pete and Jack stood to proudly display their matching hard-ons. "Towels, please."

"She's cute," Marjean observed with two towels in hand.

"How do you like that, Pete? Here's two fine-looking men standing naked before her and she pays compliments to Betsy."

"Guess we're losing our touch, Jack."

"Guess we'll just have to show her we ain't lost a damned thing. Get your tight ass in that tub, Miss Hoodenpyle."

"Ooh, Jack," she giggled. "Since when are you so feisty?"

"Since right now. Scoot!"

They took their towels and patted themselves dry, dropping both onto the floor before stepping out of water. One minute later Pete and Jack were double sponging Marjean Hoodenpyle in Room 24. Half an hour after that they laid upon the bed in Room 24, Jack's bed, with Jack flat on his back, Marjean sitting on his thighs hand-rubbing his belly, and Pete knelt behind her outside Jack's knees, his hands on her breasts, his lips on the back of her neck.

"Oh, Jack," she cooed. "How come I never got a feel of this handsome pecker you got on you?"

"Because you were too busy with me," Pete whispered. "See what you missed?"

"Well, I'm not going to let that happen again." She took Jack's penis in her hand, squeezed on it, stroked its entire length -- a nine-incher, a fine complement to his nearly-six-foot and lanky frame with lots of black fur -- maybe a few silvers if you looked real hard. "Goodness gracious, you beautiful man, you." She positioned his corona to her portal, her vaginal walls excitedly dripping plenty of lubrication.

"How old you think he is, Marjean?"

"Who cares?" She lowered herself, forced his mushroom inside her.

"Go ahead and guess. Bet you're way off."

"Ugh... ah, yes!" Half his nine inches impaled her, as she let go with her hand, controlled him with her vaginal muscles. "Thirty-seven?"

"Forty-three."

"Aw, Jack... you are looking fine, indeed." Her pelvis met his. She took all of him. Full penetration.

"Mmm, hmm..." Jack reacted. "You're looking mighty good yourself, ma'am. You can ride on me to your heart's content."

"Oh, my god... it's been so long since I've had a real man inside me." She slowly raised herself to the top of his pole, crushed his cockhead in her warm, wet vise, and then began her torturous glide back down his entire length. Pete's hot breath on her neck and rough fingers on her nipples, coupled with Jack's hot woody splitting her open nearly made her blood boil. She reached up and behind her with both hands, grabbed Pete's head and pressed him close to her. "Oh, Pete... get up here so I can see you, too."

He followed her orders. Stood on the mattress. Stood in front of her, his feet on either side of Jack's flanks. She took his cock in her hand -- a seven-incher, a perfect complement to his brown-fur-covered, 5'10" hard-muscled frame.

"Give me a pose," she drooled. "You beautiful son of a buck."

He clasped his hands to his butt, did some belly flexing as she put her lips to his cock-head, licked on him, praised him between licks, "How on earth... mmm... ohmigod... did you get a... (slurp)... body... ahmum... so... uhmah..."

"Rocks," Jack butted in. "He's always digging up big ol' rocks. Got 'em strung out all over the cabin grounds. Spends half the day every day lifting the damned things."

"Then I swim the lake, no matter how cold the water."

"Screw me," she slobbered. "Both of you... poke holes in me... (slurp, slurp)... both of you." She slavishly sucked on Pete. Took him to the back of her throat and crushed him there while riding up and down Jack's impaling pole. She double-screwed herself -- skull-fucked by Pete, pussy-fucked by Jack, her hands clutching the backs of Pete's thighs, her knees straddling Jack's hips. She did it to herself. Took what she wanted when she wanted. All they had to do was keep themselves nice and rigid. Not a problem for either man.

"So, Jack, I'm thinking it best if I catch the northbound in the morning, while you take the animals and supplies home to Bear Lake."

"Yep. That's the only way. Then I'll do a turnaround with Annie, stay here overnight and catch the Saturday northbound."

"I suspect Marjean will travel with me."

"Makes sense, Pete. We'll check with her when she's finished."

"Are you getting close, Jack?"

"About half way."

"Me, too. Let's shut up and enjoy this."

"Gladly. I'll hold off until Marjean's got off. You hear that, pretty lady? I'm gonna wait for you to spill it. Yes, darling. Ride that big ol' pony. Squeeze the hell out of me, you beautiful female, you."

"Uh, Jack?"

"Yes, Pete."

"Thought you agreed to shut up."

"Just wanted to let Marjean know how good she is at..."

"Shut up!"

_____

The Black Pouch Crusader is a stand-alone ebook with my (see above) self-made cover, sold exclusively at 1EroticaEbooks, where a kinkier excerpt awaits you.

Black Pouch is also part of my three-story collection, The Crux of It, Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There. I made these covers, too.

Print paperback (left) is at Amazon Books.

or here's the cover (below) for electronic version:

Made for the Amazon Kindle.

_____


All of my books -- Jardonn, Jasper, gay, straight and in between, can be seen at my web site, Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com, along with links to more audio and text excerpts for each.

Jasper Say 071611

There are things of the head. There are things of the heart. When the two meet to make one, that is heaven on Earth, and heaven is on Earth, if you live on Earth.

JJ Said 071311

THE HORNY TOADS HAVE LANDED!

Astronauts, they are, trying to figure out where on Earth they've crashed down. Dummies. Who said this was Earth?

A short conversation from Jasper McCutcheon's book, Celestial Bodies of the Hairy Gorilla-Men

"Never mind," says Claude, as he and Rod look back at the bubbles foaming up where their capsule used to be. "Too bad we didn't put on some clothes before that thing sank.

"Feeling vulnerable in your skivvies, Claude?" chortles Rod.

"They ain't skivvies, they're NASA-issued boxers," Claude puffs up his chest. "And anybody wants to try something's gonna get a knuckle sandwich." He strikes a boxer's pose, meaty fists ready to fly.

"Come on," prods Rod. "Let's follow the stream feeding this lake and see where it takes us. I got a feeling we're in Utah, or maybe California.

"You're in command," states Claude. "Lead on."

The stream heads toward a mountain gap, and as they approach the gorge, they spot a group of people in a pool, waterfall streaming down a rock wall.

"Man, they're naked as can be," notes Claude.

"Must be beatnicks or something," Rod concludes. "Think they'll let us join them?"

"Don't know. What I'm wondering is if them ladies are the screwing kind," Claude slobbers. "Something about wet titties drives me wild."

"Especially after six years of sleeping," adds Rod. "See any kids with 'em?"

"No."

"Then I'd say they're fuckable. Let's go."