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Drusus says goodbye to his friend Strabo, closing one life chapter so he can begin another, from Jardonn's DANUBE DIVIDE.

With Gregoric gone, the anger of Drusus gave way to sadness. "What am I to do, Theo? We have nothing here to stop his bleeding. Why did your cousin bring him here?"

"So that you could be with him. Isn't that better than not knowing if he is dead or alive? Not knowing if he is in pain or at peace? Not knowing if he journeys to the next life or if he remains in limbo? You heard Gregoric say the city is under attack. Isn't it better for you to know his body has been treated with respect, and not brutally desecrated?" Approaching him, I clutched his shoulders. Pecked his forehead with my lips. "You tell me, Drusus. Which would you have preferred?"

"Your friend, Boris, is he in danger?"

"Possibly. Gregoric thinks so. It is why he did not rest before returning to Hadrianopolis."

"Why did he leave in the first place? From what you have told me, I would think making sure Boris is safe would be more important than --"

"He did it for us." Not exactly true. He did it because Boris said so -- both Strabo and the document were first priority, and even though I'd never told Gregoric I knew, it was no mystery to me that Gregoric would jump off a cliff if Boris told him to do so.

"I was rude to your cousin. I regret that. He made a great sacrifice to bring Strabo here for you."

"And for you, Drusus."

"We should ask Mithras to protect them both, and we will take Strabo with us."

With no concern for Strabo's damaged legs, Drusus grabbed his ankles and dragged him from the cart. I took his wrists, and we carried his unconscious body into the cave, to the mithraeum. We said words for Boris, and for Gregoric. I handed Drusus the Mithraic medallion belonging to Strabo, and a coin of the very much alive Emperor Gratian. Told him, "Just in case," and then I kissed him. "I go to Hadrianopolis. Will you wait for me here?"

"No. I will join you. I owe Gregoric at least that. Give me a few minutes. Let me kiss Strabo goodbye."

Drusus raised Strabo's head, adorned him with necklace and medallion. With his fingers he pressured Strabo's jaw to open. Placed the coin under Strabo's tongue. Drusus then closed Strabo's jaw and whispered words only they could hear. He put his lips to Strabo's lips. Pinched Strabo's nose between his finger and thumb. Pressed his hand to Strabo's chest. Held him steady until his death throes ended.

I did not care for the idea of sending heavy smoke into the air, but that is how Drusus wanted it done. We put Strabo back into the cart, led the horses to the opposite side of the pool and unhitched them. Made a bed of twigs and foliage around Strabo and sparked it with flint rock. Quintus Strabo Septimius became one more victim from the battle of Hadrianopolis. I never learned much about Strabo. Drusus requested we never again speak of him, and I, from that day forward, always dutifully respected his wishes.




A captive audience of one, Kyle Hitchens watches as the man who has spent most of the day torturing him absorbs some kinky punishment of his own. From Jardonn and Jasper's clashing collaboration, THE EXTRACTIONATORS - Erotic Tales from The Burrow, Book 1.

Taking pen from pocket, Stanky viciously thrust its blunt end into Burt's belly button. Burt sucked in. Pulled back his hips, stuck out his chest as Stanky tugged harder on the tit chain. "See, Mr. Hitchens? The beast is tamed." Stanky bent forward and planted a kiss to the ape-man's stomach.

Holy Christ. Some sort of man-slave, domination-submission thing. Some sort of... "What's the deal, Stanky? Are you... gay? You and him lovers or something?"

He let go the chain and turned to face me. "Does it matter?"

"No, no..." I stammered a bit. Nervous, I guess. "It's, uh, not my thing, but hell, I don't give a shit."

"Well, good. We wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable."

That statement truly pissed me off. "Uncomfortable? Look at me, you crazy sonuvabitch!" I squirmed and spit. "Do you think I'm comfortable? Stretched out on this god damned stick of wood?" I saw the ladies let go of Burt's arms. Knew he was coming toward me, but regardless, I continued my tirade. "My spine's about to snap. My belly hurts like hell." Hands clamped onto my head. Burt's grip, but I was determined to finish my speech. "You've been torturing me for god knows how long, and you're worried about making me...?"

A strip of duct tape on my mouth effectively shut me up. I saw it coming. Ginger did it, and I couldn't stop it, thanks to Burt.

"Mr. Hitchens," Stanky spoke. "Your problem is you talk too much. You should learn how to observe, listen, and feel." He paused to chuckle as I cursed him, my words indecipherable. "Since you can't keep your mouth shut, I've done it for you."

He turned. Grabbed Burt's nipple chain, and led him toward the end of the table with Ginger and Melissa following. Passing my feet, they headed for the wall lined by carts. Above the carts, a row of buttons. Stanky pushed one and two chains slowly descended from the ceiling. He pushed again. Chains stopped. Wrist cuffs dangled from each, same as those from which I'd been suspended on the other side of the room.

Pulling the leash, Stanky led her circus monkey to the chains, and then the ladies locked his wrists in the cuffs. Ginger returned to the wall. Pressed another button. Chains ascended, and so did Burt. When the toes of his boots left the floor, Ginger pressed the button.

He hung in midair, halfway between me and the mirrored window on a line with my right hip. His wrists were three feet apart, his front side in my full view whether it be direct or reflected in the mirror. Stanky tugged on Burt's tit-clamp chain and the gorilla-man threw his arms back, thrust his chest forward, groaning loudly, as Stanky turned to smile at me. "There you go, Mr. Hitchens. A bit of revenge on your behalf. Courtesy of me."

He let go the chain and Burt collapsed, swinging back and forth a bit until gravity stopped his momentum.

No denying it. I was impressed. Despite my understandable loathing of this guy, I could admire Burt's finely-developed physique. His chest exploded with power. His laterals flared, forming a shapely V from his arm pits to flanks. Me being a man who knows plenty about what it takes to maintain a hard body, I appreciated the picture this apish brute painted. I was given more reason to admire Burt's strength when Stanky reached up with right hand and again latched onto the tit-clamp chain.

"All right, sweetie. Show him what you can do."

Arms flexed. Face grimaced. The hairy beast performed a pull-up. Raised himself until his chain was taut. Continued higher, growling as Stanky's arm reached its full extension, chain tugging on clamps, clamps pulling down on his nipples, appearing to nearly rip them off his chest.

Holy crap! I exclaimed to myself under duct tape, as Burt's ascent forced Stanky onto tip-toes. Goofy sonuvabitch is torturing himself.

"Isn't he amazing?" Stanky chirped.

He's a fucking freak show. That's what he is.

As Burt lowered himself, Stanky descended with him until heels touched floor. He let go Burt's tit-clamp chain and wrapped his arms around the ape's lower spine. Planted his face into Burt's hard-breathing belly. Licked him. Kissed him, and then stepped back.

"Now, Mr. Hitchens," his eyes were on Burt, not me. "It is time for our show to begin."




Life on the road can be tough for a small-circuit wrestler, but when your trainer/manager is also your lifetime partner/cocksucker, a crummy motel room looks like a five-star. From Jardonn's A True Ring, in the book, SUSPICIOUS DIAGNOSIS.

With my table folded up for travel, towels tossed into my laundry sack, I prepared to follow them. "Well, guess I'll call it a night. See you in the..."

"Where do you think you're going?" Dick closed and locked the door, cruelly dropped his briefs.

"I'm going to my room, Dick. Sorry."

"What are you scared of?" He moved toward me, grabbed me, poked my thigh with his boner. "Let's do some sixty-ninin'."

"Come on, now. You know it's too risky. Can't you wait until we get back to Tulsa?"

"Why? Nobody can see us. The door's locked. Curtain's drawn."

"What about the rooms next to us? What if they hear us?"

"Your dick in my mouth? Mine in your mouth? How much noise can we make?" He raised my arms, lifted my singlet undershirt up and off and tossed it to the floor. "Damn, Jimmy. Your thinking is all upside-down on this." His hands clutched my shoulder blades. He pulled my chest to his and pecked my forehead with his lips. "Nobody will ever know a damned thing unless one of us tells them." He shoved me onto the bed. "And I will never talk." He reached toward the ceiling. "They can stretch me on the rack." He spread his feet apart, clasped his hands together overhead and angled his arms back, chest and belly forward. "They can beat me with fists. Whip me with leather, but nothing they do will ever break me."

My gym shorts, undershorts, shoes and socks were gone in fifteen seconds. "Give me that thing." My hand clutched his pecker and I tugged, indicating he should get horizontal with me. I forced him flat on his back. "I want you on that rack, mister." I stretched his arms toward the mattress corners, did the same with his legs. "You will talk, Dick Hodges, but only to me."

For nearly an hour I kissed and licked and slobbered all over him, and I do mean every inch, from the soles of his feet to the tips of his fingers. By the time I finally got around to positioning myself so I could suck his dick from above while he sucked mine from below, we both were so primed we didn't have time to make any noises or think about how good it felt or how much we enjoyed being together -- or how much we meant to each other.

What can be said? When the man of your dreams feels the same about you as you do him, talking about it plays no part. Nothing can stop it. Dick didn't start out as the man of my dreams. He made himself so. Ours was an incremental bonding which progressed at a pace of its own choosing. Baby steps.

Credit Dick Hodges with another barrier broken. Mine. My worries. My concerns. My useless fears. What will others think? Who gives a shit? Let them think what they want. Let them suspect to their heart's content. They will never know a damned thing unless we tell them, a credo which has served us well throughout each and every day of our forty-five years together.




Prisoners of war in Nazi Germany, two U.S. Army Airmen look for security flaws inside their Stalag Luft confine. From Jardonn's GOOD SHEPHERD, one of the stories in his Kindle book, Furlough Bridge, a Trio of Greatest Generation Manlove Tales.

(scene: in the yard waiting to be counted)

Harold eyed each tower, pivoting his body as little as possible. "You're right. When did you notice that?"

"Yesterday. There's fewer guards on the ground for this little procedure here, too. Trust me, I've been counting them every day the three months I've been here. I know they took some men out of here days before you arrived, and as of three days ago their numbers have steadily dwindled ."

"What do you think it means?"

The whistles blew and our barrack's reps brought us to attention. "Later," I whispered.

German guards made their counts, while dogs and handlers patrolled at both ends of each row. Our dog never gave Harold and me any special attention. Not since that one time. Not even when his handler took him down our row at least once a day. Testing the dog, no doubt, and us, but the hard-working Shepherd sauntered past us with a glance no different than given any other men.

With the count completed and company dismissed, I finished my thought. "I think it's falling apart. Either they've been called to the front lines, or they're simply abandoning their posts and going home."

We meandered about the yard as Harold pondered my suggestions. Since our dog incident, Harold liked to keep him in our sights after the mid-day count. Long distance, of course, so as to not draw attention from the dog's handler, but Harold seemed obsessed with observing our dog's activities. "I can't quite figure him out, Frank. Somehow, he doesn't go about his business like the other dogs." He shrugged his shoulders with a chuckle, "I say that every day, don't I? Bet you're sick of it."

"No. I'm sick of being cold and hungry, Harold, but I like listening to you. I know you wouldn't say it if you didn't mean it."

"Thank you for that," he stuffed his hands deeper into his jacket's pockets. "Some men would think I'm plumb crazy. I'm glad you don't." Harold smiled at me. Winked at me. "Come on, let's head on in."

As we walked slowly toward our barrack, he finally addressed my thoughts on the decreased number of guards at our camp. "You know, Frank, you might be right about your first idea."

"Sure. They're calling men up to the front lines. You said we might be inside their borders by first of the year."

"Yeah, but I don't think General Eisenhower would launch an offensive in weather like this. Not without air support."

"Maybe not. Bottom line is, fewer Germans are guarding this camp. I think it's time we start scheming for ways out of here."

"Not until after Monday."

"Why Monday?"

"Too cold. How far could we get dressed like this?"

"I could get as far as I need to," my tone grew sharp, determined. "I am not going to stay here and starve to death, Harold. If that means sacrificing my fingers and toes, so be it."

"I know. You're hurting. Hell, I'm hurting too and I've only been here a week, but you've got to hang on, buddy." He stepped ahead, stopped, and turned to face me. "Our time will come. I can feel it. Come hell or high water, I'll get us out of here. I am not going to let you die in this god-forsaken country, Frank, whether we're inside these fences or out. You're too important. Okay?"

Had it not been so fricking cold I might have dropped a tear or two. Human compassion is a precious commodity in a prisoner of war camp. Harold Tripp had quickly become precious to me. "Sure, Harold. I'll stick with you. You're all the motivation I need, in case you didn't know it."

"Good. Now, you want to know why I said wait until Monday?"


"Because I plan on spending my Christmas with the only man who matters to me. Deal?"





Reclined in a dental chair, he watches movies in a strapped-on viewer, and then the shit gets real. From Jasper and Jardonn's PENAL PUNISHMENT PAY-PER-VIEW.

I groaned with my own desire. Undulating, I screwed the hospital gown, uselessly hoping its barely-touching fabric could bring me orgasm, but as I contemplated again taking my dick in hand to jack myself, the screen faded to black and my chair moved to a new position. Backward. Both halves angled to the floor. The middle beneath my buttocks. My cock the apex of an upside-down V.

"Dr. Crawford," I called with delighted despair. "Where are you? What is happening to me?"

The answer came in the visor. Black screen with white text. Part Three: The Harvest.

Not a motion picture. A live camera. Starring me. Right-side view, same as the guy in the film, and to the left of my chair stood four angelic figures. The same four naked women from Dr. Crawford's porno flick!

Sprawled on the backward-bent chair with IV still in my arm and bag dripping, I watched the females approach me with scissors. Why could I not move? Why did my body not respond? My brain tried rousing my body to defend itself, but my dick over-ruled logic. "Wha... what are you going to do to me?"

"Kiss you," said the blond, as she covered my mouth with hers.

"Worship you," said another, as she and the other pair put scissors to fabric. Snip, snip, my gown, cut down the middle, harmlessly fell to either side of me. My raging hard-on bounced on my downward-sloping belly. With my mouth locked in a deep-tongued kiss, I watched in the viewer while the other three women inundated me with their lips and tongues, hands and fingers. Kissing me all over. Wet kisses. Dry kisses. Gentle massaging of soft palms and manipulating fingers praised my feet and legs, chest, stomach, arms and hands.

Their flowing manes tickled me. Voluptuous breasts rubbed against me. Smothered in love, I pretended to struggle against my pretend bondage. Lost in lust, I nodded in agreement when the black-haired beauty suggested we make my bondage real.

Was I insane? Had I totally lost it? Yes, I had crossed the line where ecstasy overwhelms common sense. I offered no resistance when they wrapped a wide strap over my ankles and under the chair. Put up no defense as smaller straps bound my wrists to the chair's arms. My only gesture, other than the frantic gyrations of my cock, was to dig my tongue deeper into blondie's mouth while she did the same to mine.

My bondage complete, the other three females stepped back. Stood to my left, observing, admiring, licking their lips and fondling their titties. But wait. Six boobies. Twelve hands. And who is that standing behind my French-kissing-me blond?




A grizzled U.S. Navy veteran shows a youngster the proper power of penetration, from Jardonn's Kindle book, THE ELEVATED MAN.

Our conversation was over. He looked inside and found what I knew would make him happy -- a jar of petroleum jelly. I later learned that baby oil would have made him even more happy, but once again John silently forgave me for my inexperience.

After retrieving a hand towel from the tiny bathroom, he joined me on the bed and coaxed me to roll onto my stomach. Next, he guided me to an all-fours position on hands and knees. After my ass rim was thoroughly jellied, John lubricated his penis, confirmed for me by the squishing sounds of jelly between fingers, corona and shaft. John stroked until hard. He pressed his helmet against the rim of my ass, and immediately my natural reflexes clinched in defense.

John backed away. Wrapped the arm of his dry left hand around my belly, gently rubbing with his scratchy palm. His lips touched my lower back, while a finger pressed against my ass. He forcefully exhaled, purposely, allowing his warm, manly breath to comfort me. John's hard-skinned palm and beer-tainted breath did comfort me, but not nearly so much as his patience with me did. He could have rudely plowed his way in and forced me to accept it, but like I said, John oozed machismo and he treated me as a man on equal terms with him, not as some meaningless come tank given to his pleasure.

Penetration of one finger was uncomfortable, but tolerable. He waited a few seconds before inserting a second finger to join the first, taking both into me inches at a time until his knuckles pressed my butt cheeks. Withdrawing, he slow-stroked with two, added a third and loosened my vise. Kisses and hot breath to my back combined with hand-rubs to my belly did the trick. I relaxed. The clenching of my inside muscles changed their purpose -- no longer for defense, I squeezed in synchronization with his thrusting fingers. I was ready for John.

His mushroom entered and John allowed its swollen head to linger near the inside of my anal rim. How many times had I watched his re-enactments? His countless air fucks of unknown Philippine girls? My curiosities and longings for what a man like John could do to me would soon be known.

Slowly, he delved deeper, left hand still on my belly, right hand now on my right shoulder. Along my spine he pecked me with kisses, on both my butt cheeks he tickled with his pubic hairs, and without my knowledge he conquered me. John was mine and I was his, his penis into me as deep as he could go.

Now, as artists, we created.




Forrest Barton buys Christmas gifts for a soldier who has lost his money, in Jardonn's WWII-era short story, FURLOUGH BRIDGE.

Gower selected two stuffed teddy bears for his children, one out-fitted in a boy's costume, one in a girl's. Gower pointed, and Forrest snatched the bears.

"What about your wife?" Forrest queried. "She need a wrist watch? These here are a reasonable price." He chose one, presented the open-faced box to Gower, and the young man dropped his head.

"Yes, sir. That would be nice."

A rush of compassion welled up inside Forrest Barton. Sure, Gower had made a silly mistake with his money. The possibility existed that the whole thing was a scam, but Forrest's instincts told him otherwise. The kid didn't seem to have the smarts for it. His life hadn't exactly been a bed of roses, and it seemed he'd dug a pretty deep hole for himself. The sight of him standing there, holding his Army bag while shamefully looking at the floor cinched the deal. Forrest would send the soldier home.

"Can I get these items wrapped?" Forrest asked the clerk while paying for three gifts.

"Twenty-five cents per item, sir."

"Here's a dollar. Do it, please."

As they hovered near the wrapping counter, after Forrest asked the woman if her fingers were sore and plopped down another dollar for her personal tip, Gower nudged Forrest's shoulder with a fist.

"Mr. Barton, if I can get to Lexington and get my suitcase, I'll pay you back first thing Tuesday morning. There's a Western Union office in town, and..."

"Never mind that," Forrest interrupted. "I've already decided to buy your ticket. What time did you say that train leaves?"


"Two-twelve? Hell, I can drive it in an hour and half. Less than that if the snow ain't too bad. Will that work?"

Of course it would. After another stop in the men's room, they exited the station for the parking lot.




With one man hanging in suspension after having endured his first session of torture, his friend is brought into the dungeon and bound to the stretch rack. From Jardonn's two-story book, LET'S GET MEDIEVAL, The Bishop of Grunewald.

When Frederick Bethune had ordered his henchmen to take William Corder to the steps, he was not referring to any stairwell, but rather, the device he and Peter Sion affectionately called the Steps to Purgatory. Situated against the opposing wall to where Jonathan Sikes was hanging on his board, the Steps to Purgatory was a descending set of rough, wooden planks built as though stairs to nowhere, unless one could walk through solid stone. With the upper end bolted to one wall, the series of boards and two perpendicular runners to which they were connected angled down, until the opposing ends reached the floor. The steps were spaced about one foot apart from each other in height and their length between the runners was five feet. Some of their edges were sharp and precise, while others had been roughened and splintered.

In reality, the Steps to Purgatory was a stretch rack. William was placed upon the steps and made to lay on his back by Otto and Oscar, while Herman and Peter Sion stood nearby. Approximately twenty-five feet directly across from him, Jonathan hung strapped to his board helplessly watching them fix his friend to the center of this contraption.

William's body was parallel with the two runners, his back side flowing down the series of steps, sharp and rough edges pressing into his skin. His feet were positioned above, while the rest of him followed the angle of the device downwards, leaving his head to dangle between the fourth and fifth lowest of the step-like boards.

The fourth step from the top was missing, replaced by a wooden axle with holes drilled through. Ropes dangled from two of these holes, knotted at one end to anchor them to the axle. With plenty of space between the runners and prisoner on either side, Otto climbed the steps and tied the free ends of two ropes to William's ankles, leaving a hint of slack in each. Below, Herman did the same with the victim's wrists, securing two ropes by knotting them to the lowest step. He left no slack in these ropes, stretching William's arms in straight lines beyond and below his head and spaced one foot apart.

Peter Sion was more than impressed with the sight he had created. William's chiseled physique came to life in its downward sloping and tightened position. With arms extended past his head and parallel to each other, his deltoids expanded and the sinewed muscle in his chest, stomach and belly were clearly defined. His torso from belly to arm pits assumed the shape of an inverted and curved V, while his flaccid peter rested comfortably atop his healthy balls as though a nested egg of incubation waiting to hatch.




Something rotten is going on in the basement of a church in Jarboe, Montana Territory, 1880, in The Black Pouch Crusader, from Jasper McCutcheon's THE CRUX OF IT, EROTIC TALES OF MEN ON THE CROSS AND THE WOMEN WHO PUT THEM THERE.

"See, Pete? How easy it is to convince men that slavery to me is not such a bad thing?" Loretta moved aside so Pete could have a clear view of her crucified men. "Just a few minutes on the cross, and they'll do anything I ask of them." He turned his head, saw two men on the left wall gallantly struggling to survive. "So, what about you, Pete? Would you like to be my circus freak? I can't pay you anything, but you can screw to your heart's content. What do you say?"

"Uhh-ha-uhh... no... ha-uhh... never."

"Well, I think it's time these men give their tithing," Cassie hissed. "Ladies, begin the service."

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 victims' 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.

"How long do you think they can last, Pete?" Loretta climbed up and knelt to the right of his face. "Thirty minutes? Forty?" She nodded to Briscoe, who drove another fist into Pete's belly. "Now, it's on you. Surrender to me and I'll take them down. Become my slave, and they live. Continue to resist, and they will surely die. One by one, slowly, in agony, and their blood will be on your hands. Do you hear them, Pete? Hear those gurgling lungs? Time is running out."




Philo and Artimos celebrating Philo's rescue in The Tortured Secutor, from Jardonn's LET'S GET MEDIEVAL.

But with all the niceties surrounding me, what stood out most were the three items left over from the bad old days: the torture table; the suspension chains; the cross of t. And here, standing near the cross with walking stick in one hand and drink in the other, was Philo.

He spoke with a man unknown to me. In fact, none of the men gathered in this room were known to me, but when Philo turned to acknowledge my presence with his ever-inviting smile, all else was oblivious to me.

I joined him, and much to my surprise he kissed me, embarrassed me.

"Philo!" I whispered. "Careful. What will others think?"

"No thinking. They will know. As they should know. As you should know."

And with that, I embraced him for a seriously wet kiss to leave no doubts.

"Look, Artimos." He pointed to the cross. "You're just in time for the show."

Laying atop the wood on the stone floor with arms stretched and roped to patibulum, ankles bound together on the stipes, a naked man was awaiting his ascension to crucifixion, his muscular body enhanced with short black hair. Covering his head was the Secutor's helmet. What did he feel? I could not know. He wanted to escape. His straining muscles and expanding chest told me that much, but he knew there would be no escape, as did I.




In the stifling heat of a 1938, Ozark Mountains cabin, Forrest and Ernie get it on for the first time, thus de-virginizing Ernie in Jardonn's RIVER OF EMERALDS, part of the trilogy, Furlough Bridge.

My face assaulted his pectorals. I smeared his brine into my nose, onto my cheeks and mouth. The air, hot and filled with moisture and beastly odors, plus the taste of manly muscles and wet-matted fur set me afire, drove me to savagery. With my arms I bolted upward, breaking his grip from my torso as I rose to my knees. Grasping his wrists, I pinned them beyond his head and brutally attacked his nipples with my mouth. The right one, the left, I sucked and licked on them with my lips sealed to his flesh. I touched him with my teeth, as he moaned and groaned and turned his head side to side. I let go of his wrists but he kept his arms past his head. Reached for the rods of his head rail and grabbed hold. My hands slid under him, raised his chest, brought his nipples to me so I could ruthlessly suck on them. Left or right, I played no favorites. Involved my upper teeth, pinning his sensitive tips of nipple flesh between my sharp incisors and slimy tongue.

I munched on him. A hungry infant slurping for milk, and he liked it. His growls and grunts said so. His slightly open jaw with teeth exposed said so, and his frantic penis incessantly slamming against my belly said so.

We were men gone mad. Crazed by wet and heavy heat. Insane with lust. Drowned by sweat, and with his brains boiling, my man-beast planted his feet to the mattress and vigorously thrust me into the air, off the bed and onto the floor. Pouncing on me, he grabbed the back of my neck and forced me to stand. Wrapped me in his arms and squeezed out my insides while smothering my face with his mouth. His wet, salty lips and slimy tongue lathered my forehead and mouth and gigantic nose with his frothing spit. Crushed by the gorilla, I collapsed in his arms. Surrendered as he tossed me onto his bed. Laid helplessly as he plucked a jar off the table. Made my limbs numb when he grabbed my ankles and draped my legs atop his shoulders. Relaxed best I could and told him, “Yes, Forrest,” as he slathered my asshole with cold cream from his jar. I first rejected, and then accepted his rectum-penetrating finger. Repeated my reaction when a second finger entered me. Made ready for his woody as a third finger joined in, formed a cluster equal to the diameter of his pecker – his three fingers, his glorious penis, all the same.

'Yes, Forrest. Try it," I answered the question on his face, his eyebrows, his one-sided smile asking if I was sure.

His fingers left my rectum and dipped into cream, clutched his johnson and stroked it. Jar tossed aside, he pierced my anus in a manner completely contrasting to our build-up. Hesitating with purpose, Forrest entered my rectum slowly, gently. He studied my face before coming forward. With his corona inside my portal, he waited for my grimace to subside, inched his way further in. A painful expansion, a bloating inside me, slowly transformed to pleasure. An unnatural invasion became something beautiful, a dominating presence, a connection between me and the man I desired. He shared his strength with me. He became a part of me, and my quickly-accepting ass muscles worked with him, not against him. I invited him in, dared him to come forward, and crushed him inside me when he did. His pelvis made contact with my buttocks and my rectal muscles locked him in their vise. Squeezed his three-finger diameter down to that of a twig, and then I relaxed on him.

Seemed so easy. I learned how to stimulate Forrest in such a short time that I wondered if my ghostly river friend, the one who’d prodded Cecil and me into our explorations, was nearby and guiding us past the rookie stages of our screw.

Droplets of sweat rained from his forehead onto my belly, as he pressed forward, his hands planted to the mattress on either side of my ribs. Displaying his confidence in me, he pressured me further. Moved his hands near my arm pits, forcing my spine to a severe curve. His face hovered above my chest. His hips thrust forward, retracted and returned while his knees flexed, pivoting left and right, higher and lower. He paid a price for his deepest penetrations. My inside muscles crunched him, drained the blood from him, brutalized his swollen penis with every ounce of my strength, and yet, he kept coming back for more punishment. Relished his pain, as he poked me from all directions, intensifying his pace.

My hands reached for his face. I cleared his forehead and eyebrows of sweat. I licked my fingers, tasted him. Wedged my fingers into his armpits. Licked again for a different taste. As he increased speed, his face turned red. His eyes glazed over and glared into mine. His mouth showed pleasure. His tongue licked his teeth, while an ecstatic panting of deep-toned growls accompanied the powerful thrusts of his hips.

I reached for his belly. Dug my digit into his navel. Drew a line the length of his stomach. Licked my finger clean, and as he plowed into me with strokes frantic and deep, I took both of his nipples between my fingers and thumbs. Squeezed them. Twisted them and tripped his trigger. With shards of his working-man sweat pouring from his ruggedly-handsome face, he clenched shut his eyes and drove his wood into me. Short strokes, rapid-fire, Forrest Barton came inside me. Showered me with a deluge of his seed, his smells, his sounds, and his brute strength.

Pure. Male. Animals. We were so very, very hot.




He gives it all up to her in Jasper's book, PHALLICACIES.

Our first session of female domination inside our new home lingered much longer than in the old days, its intensity building to a fever pitch until I thought my nuts would explode even though she wasn't touching them. Not yet. We had nowhere to go, nobody else to worry about, and we took our time reliving what once was genuine bondage. Now it was for fun -- and more genuine, based on trust.

She told me I was bad. I told her I was not. She told me I must be punished. I told her to torture me at will. She placed upon my testicles a burning salve to accept my challenge. I told her I would never surrender, that none of her tortures would break me. My balls were on fire, but still I defied her. For my defiance she smeared her paste onto my throbbing cock. She told me that soon I would talk. She cruelly laughed at my tortured penis, its desire to shoot causing it to incessantly bounce upon my belly. She tortured my belly, standing on it, jumping on it, smashing my hardened cock between her dirty little feet and my flattened abdominals. Erotic heat drove me to madness. I told her no woman could break me. She hand-slapped my penis, recharging her heat. She re-layered my balls, worsening my madness. She layered my nipples. I arched my back, thrust upward my pelvis. My tortured cock and balls fucked air, for she would give me nothing else. She dangled her tits above my face, teased me, taunted me, keeping their glorious roundness and suckable beauty just beyond my salivating tongue. She was heartless, unforgiving, without soul, and she broke me.

I begged for my finish. I promised to be a good man. I promised her the world. I vowed to worship her forever, to do as she told me when she told me regardless of what she told me. I was broken and she fucked me, the heat of her paste intensifying the heat of her vaginal friction. It was hot, the hottest ever. She was hot. I melted inside her. I cried out as a madman. I cried out as an animal, a lust-crazed, sex-starved beast, for my woman had broken me -- this time.

I would defy her again -- next time.




More will come from time to time.


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