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

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?"