Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com


Jasper McCutcheon & Jardonn Smith

Earl likes to hang from the cross. It is some very serious shit. I'm talking the Roman kind. The kind you see in paintings of Christ. The kind with patibulum and stipes intersecting at ninety-degree angles.

Earl designed his cross himself. Jack-hammered and smoothed a hole in our basement's concrete floor for the stipes, the vertical beam, which along with the horizontal patibulum he made of oak and stained a dark amber hue. He built a pedestal on the stipes. He stands on it when I'm upstairs doing other things, and even though his wrists are bound by leather straps, each bracketed by four, half-inch diameter spikes driven into the backside of the patibulum, Earl has been known to stand on the pedestal of his cross up to an hour. Rest assured, I have never left him alone down there more than a few minutes. It's just too damned dangerous.

When I'm present -- and only when -- he steps off the pedestal and hangs in full suspension. His record of tolerance in that position is just over twenty-three minutes, for the cross is an evil instrument of torture. Gravity will kill a man. His arms are his only means of support, but because his pelvis stretches a horrific distance from his rib cage, his abdominal cavity flattens. His diaphragm cannot expand for intake of air, and each of his breaths becomes more and more shallow. As he loses his ability to breathe, his heart beats faster in trying to distribute decreased amounts of oxygen. His extremities go numb, making it more difficult for his arms to support his weight. Blood congests in his middle -- his chest, abdomen, penis and testicles -- and they become grotesquely swollen in colors of dark red and purple. Eventually, breathing becomes nearly impossible. Carbon monoxide overwhelms oxygen in his bloodstream. He is poisoned. He suffocates. It can take hours, or it can take days. On average, Earl can take fifteen minutes of it, and then he lifts his feet to stand on the pedestal.

Is it a sex thing? Not really. Sometimes I'll jack him off, but mostly I stand back, observe and admire. Sex comes later when we upload and edit videos we shoot of the event from three, tripod-mounted cameras, along with a hand-held I use while observing and admiring.

No, for Earl, it's an endurance thing. A test of strength. A challenge both physical and mental, which I suppose stems from his days as a military man. A twenty-year, U.S. Marine, Earl Sutter retired from the Corps and became a parole officer for the Petersonville Correctional Facility. His second career, and he's not just any parole officer. The return-to-prison rate of parolees charged to Earl is the lowest of any penal facility of any kind in the state.

His philosophy is simple, and I heard it for the first time several years back while sitting in his office after my release from time done for attempted burglary.

"Darryl Gibson, there are no short cuts in this life, only choices." He stood, walked around his desk so I could see him full-bodied above me. Folding his fingers, he formed two fists and planted them to his hips. Earl's drill sergeant pose. Spine erect, chest forward, belly tight and neck bulging. "Same goes for how you decide to conduct the rest of your life. Short-term rewards, like thieving, or long-term career-building. Learning a trade. Doing something you like. Doing it slow and steady and for pay, so you'll never need worry about where your next meal's coming from."

There was more to his speech, but by the time he'd finished with me, Earl Sutter had taken my interest with automobiles and parlayed it into a full-time apprenticeship job at a very busy auto body shop. My wondering as to how I could ever repay him is what led to us living together. With my job secure and enthusiasm high, I checked into his parole office for my monthly progress appraisal.

In his no-bullshit manner, Earl repeated his move of standing next to me with fists on hips. "So, are you still satisfied with that studio apartment above the drug store?"

"Well, yeah, it's good enough for flopping."

"Kind of a dump, ain't it? I mean, you have saved some money for a better place, haven't you?"

"Sure. Just don't know if I'd be happier in an apartment building or a house. I think I'd prefer the privacy of a rented house."

"House would be better. No riff-raff hanging in parking lots and all the other distractions you get with apartment living." His right hand moved from his hip to his crotch. He adjusted his package. Took his time about it while making a suggestion. "Maybe a short tour of my house would help you decide."

I'm sure he'd noticed how my eyes enjoyed scanning him from head to toe. Either that or he'd heard from reliable sources that inside Petersonville I was an A#1 cocksucker. Whatever, all I know is, Earl made damn sure I saw his universal signal that his pecker was available to my talents if I had the nerve to take it.

No problem there. No cowardly cocksucker am I, and besides, Earl Sutter was just my speed. My mouth watered just thinking about him, dreaming of what lie hidden beneath his clothes.

Earl is a throwback to the 1950's. About five-ten, his brownish hair's worn as a crew-cut. He's stocky. Built like a Spanish fighting bull, snorts and all. Everything thick, heavy and hard as oxen hide, all of him pressing against his dress shirt and slacks like he can't wait to get out of 'em. Believe me, he can't. I never dreamed he'd strip down on our first "date," but that is what happened, and fast.

Since I was still afoot, I rode with him. His house was only a mile away, and once there the short tour was me following him through the back door, past his kitchen and into his living room. "Check out this leather hassock." He tugged the rectangular foot-rester away from its matching leather chair. "Ain't she a beauty?"

"How do you know it's a she?" I grinned, eager to play along.

"Because she only likes young men sitting on her, so why don't you?"

I did while asking, "Does she have a name?"

"Uh, sure..." he unbuckled his belt and stepped toward me. "How about Gertie?" Trousers unbuttoned, he unzipped, dropped his pants and his under shorts and lifted the tail of his shirt. "Will that work?"

"That's a lovely name," my last words as I kept my mouth open, leaned forward and filled it with his halfway-flaccid pecker. Didn't stay that way for long. My tongue knows exactly where to attack for quick results. His cockhead. His piss slit and the skin right below it. This pleased him, and so he unbuttoned his shirt, removed it and stepped closer, gently placing his hands on my shoulders to steady himself.

Like a tube attached to air pump, Earl's penis inflated, and with more of Earl to work on, I got to work. Got the top-half of my mouth more involved. My lips wormed the length of his shaft while my tongue and the roof of my mouth imprisoned him, squeezed him and wet-scraped him. With my saliva turning to a slimy froth and my mouth putting it to good use, Earl's cock surged to new strength.

This was shaping up nicely. Six inches at least. One and a half inches round. No kinks. No bends, and still coming at me. End result -- a seven-incher. A penis custom-made for sucking on, and a shirtless Earl surpassed all expectations of what I'd hoped to see. Brown fur a-plenty on his compact chest, a well-sculptured design with mass in inches between his deltoids nearly twice the distance from his collar bone to the end of his sternum. The remaining two-thirds of his upper torso, abdomen. Muscle there thick and meaty, rock solid and fat-free, a thin line of fur running its middle with a dark-hole belly button five inches above his pelvic bone. So far I liked what he was carrying, and in return he liked what my mouth was doing.

"Damn, you're good," he growled.

"Mm-hmm," I agreed without missing a stroke.

"Been awhile since I've had a hands-free expert."

"Mm-hmm," I repeated, somewhat wishing he'd shut the hell up so I could focus on my task, but then he placed his hands upon the sides of my head and gently pulled himself away from me. Taking the hint, I spit him out, extremely confused and interested to hear what he had next to say.

"Let's go to the bedroom," he said. "Get comfortable."

By comfortable he meant both of us would get naked and wallow on his queen-sized bed. Comfortable meant he invited me to lie atop him and lock lips with him and slowly work my face and mouth down the length of his chest and belly until I once again took his mighty cock into my mouth and brought him to an explosive orgasm. Comfortable meant Earl could go all the way gay with the right fellow, and I was right for him. Comfortable meant he liked me up his ass doggy-style, while he liked being in mine when I sat on top of him and he sprawled on his back, you know, me giving him a blow job with my ass muscles.

That right there was a good indication we might be destined for long-term. Earl on his back meant Earl with his hands clasped to the headboard rails, stretching himself while I slobbered all over him from his toes to his fingers until my knees were raw from crawling on the mattress. I'd make him wait an awfully long time before I'd finally suck him off. Or sit on him with his dick up my butt. No matter how long I made him wait, he always seemed ecstatically disappointed when it was over.

Our first date, from night until morning, we devoted much time to poking and sucking and kissing each other, and I'll be damned if I didn't end up spending the weekend there. Never asked him if I could. He never asked if I would. It just happened. Next weekend it was repeated, and since end of the month approached, Earl made another suggestion. "Why bother looking for a rental? There's plenty of space here."

There sure is. Plenty of action, too, and has been four years and counting.

Marines enjoy pain. It is not a myth. Proof is in what they must go through to become Marines. Even though retired from the Corps, Earl still has a very high tolerance for punishment. Only logical that he jogs four miles every morning, followed by daily pull-ups while grasping a high horizontal bar. Part of his workout equipment along with benches and plate-weighted dumb bells kept in our unfinished basement. Are you getting the picture? My Marine is in to physical challenges. Our basement's ceiling is high enough to handle a pull-up bar. And suspension chains with padded cuffs for his wrists or ankles, depending upon whether I want him hanging right-side-up or inverted.

Oh, yeah, baby! Earl is my rough and ready, leatherneck tough-guy. My he-man who takes it like a man until I'm ready to take his gigantic load. Tons of come I build up inside him by the things I make him do. I'm not talking molestation. Not talking whips or clamps or burning or anything that might put a blemish on him. Why risk scarring perfection? Earl's is a glorious physique, and it's the stamina of his glorious physique I put to the test. See how long he can take being bound in a position of discomfort. Tests of his mind and his strength. I'm talking teasing and taunting, milking and denial. I'm talking body worship. Strong-man-in-chains worship. Hero worship, and Earl Sutter is my bona fide hero.

For example, he is a whiz with machines and tools. You know, building things, and to ease my burdens he rigged a pulley system for the suspension chains. Hooked it up to a garage-door opener mounted to one of the iron horizontal beams supporting the house. All I have to do is lock him in his cuffs, push a button, and up he goes.

Over the years we've perfected our craft. Experimented in learning our likes, dislikes and limitations. Our fantasies are collaborations. Outlined before they begin. Ad-libbed by me once Earl's stripped and ready and we progress toward a finale. Stopped by me if either of us utters our pre-chosen safe word, and all the while, stage lights illuminate his masculine form and cameras record our plays for posterity.

Earlier today I shot crucifixion footage. I usually capture three separate scenes: one with him covered in a white single-mattress sheet folded and tied into a low-hanging loin cloth; one where I strip away his loin cloth and suck him off; and the third where he simply hangs naked. Tripod-mounted cameras capture him full-bodied frontal, full-bodied left side, and a close-up of his right front framed from his face and right arm pit to the beginning of his pubic hair. All the rest I do with my hand-held. Slow-panning from his head to his toes at all angles. Zooming in on parts I find most intriguing -- his chest, his belly, his, well, everything.

After today's shoot, I uploaded from all cameras while Earl showered. We've finished with dinner and the cleanup, and now we sit naked at the PC, viewing, editing and mixing what I shot.

"You sure are a good actor," I compliment him, clicking the mouse to transition from a tripod view to handheld.

"Who's acting?" he modestly chuckles. "I'm in a zone. Focused on fighting the pain."

Transitioning a full-frontal view into a close-up I took of his belly, a bead of pre-orgasmic syrup oozes from my piss slit. "I know. Guess you don't have time to look at the camera, and that's a good thing."

"Yeah, doesn't that just ruin a good porno flick? Stupid amateurs look into the lens, or at the director. Takes them and me out of the scene."

"That's why we make our own."

"Damn, right, buddy. We are top-notch professionals."

"And we're about to cash in on what we do," I reach for Earl's hard pecker, give it a squeeze. "Did Mr. Speaker ever say how long he needs you to hang?"

"He'd like to have fifteen minutes."

"Well, you've got that conquered in spades. What about the torture rack?"

Earl grabs my cock, rubs my slit with his thumb and smears pre-come on my corona while answering, "No time limit on that. He wants me to go for as long as the action dictates."

"Well, in that case, we better do this later and go to bed. Work on your stamina. How many pillows do you want tonight?"

Just think of it! My Earl, my tortured hero, will soon be displaying his talents for someone else's cameras, starring in a genuine, XXX adult film. Some sort of Roman slave fantasy. Earl the crucified slave, while a bunch of women slobber all over him. Rather brave of me, giving him up to those frothing females. What if they turn him? Take his gay away? Take him away from me?

Not a chance. Nobody can worship him like I can. He knows it. I know it, and besides, I'm engineer on the shoot. Parlayed my expertise with cameras and sound into a part-time job more lucrative than my auto body shop position. I'm lead engineer for the Petersonville Correctional Gladiatorial League, a weekly pay-per-view broadcast shot live at the prison, and this got me in the door to perform the same functions at Earl's upcoming porno shoot. Seems I'm responsible for Earl's acting success before, during and after the film is made. Tonight, we'll focus on the before.

Pillows will be stacked beneath his back. Earl requests four. He will be sprawled face-up and spread-eagle atop our mattress. His hands will clutch the brass head rails. His ankles will be roped to the brass foot rails. He will be stretched like an X. His chest and belly will be elevated by the pillows, and he will be assaulted by my hands, fingers, lips and tongue. His nipples, pecker and nuts will be stimulated with isopropyl alcohol. In drops. In swaths, a stinging heat transforming to a soothing coolness again and again and again. He will be tortured in total darkness so his dick will learn to stay hard regardless of who's working on him -- me, other men, or women. He will be denied orgasm until he is on the brink of insanity. Until he utters our safe word and I finish him.

Knowing Earl, I don't expect to hear that word until daybreak or beyond.

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Copyright 2012

Chapter 3 from Jasper and Jardonn's book, Penal Punishment Pay-per-view

See it on our Book Page