Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com


by Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com


This looks to be chapter one of a book that might be finished sometime in my lifetime.


I awaken in bondage. Not surprising to me. I figured some sort of trickery was afoot when my forewoman interrupted me a few hours into my work day.

"TD 487," she barked with urgency, as I dropped what I was doing, stood erect and faced her while listening to her instructions. "Turn in your tools and meet me at elevator 3. You are to be rewarded for your ten years of service to Underusa."

To myself I'm thinking: I came here in 2018 at age eighteen. Been answering to you females ever since, so I'm guessing what you call reward is probably punishment, and what you call service I definitely call slavery.

Women rule this place they call Underusa. Men obey. My locked-on copper bracelets will remind me of that fact any time I start to act as though I'm a somebody. Electrical shock will be her answer for me, severity determined by my level of disobedience. Been there; done that far too often, so I said nothing. Showed no emotion, and did as I was told.

After handing over my pick ax, shovel and work gloves to the storage room clerk drone, I met my forewoman at the elevator, where she stood with the door open.

She waved me in. Said nothing while poking buttons on the remote panel stitched into the sleeve of her red jumpsuit, and the door closing is my last clear memory. Vaguely, I remember a hissing sound, a funny smell and me falling to my knees. Bitches gassed me, I guess. Put me to sleep, but I am awake now.

My bracelets are hidden, covered by foam-padded iron cuffs locked onto my wrists. I am stripped naked, standing inside a mirrored glass cubicle about twelve feet square with one mirrored door to my left. The ceiling and floor are black metal. My wrist cuffs are hung by chains from the ceiling, and my ankles, stripped of boots and socks, are cuffed and chained to the floor. A floor drain is midway between my feet, which like my hands are spread about two feet apart. I am vertically stretched taut, but not painfully tight. Nothing I can't handle, anyway.

After all, I'm tough enough. A hard body with no body fat. Ten years of hard labor underneath what used to be Yellowstone National Park will do that to a man. It's hot down in the tunnels, where lava pools and boiling mineral waters keep the air temperature well over one hundred degrees. We men, like old time coal miners of the 1800's, work naked except for our socks, gloves, and steel-toed boots, using pick axes and shovels to maintain the channels which deliver hot liquids to the lava globe power plant, which electrifies Underusa.

In mirrored glass I stare at myself. Inhale the funk of my dried sweat, and then the door opens. Two females enter, both toting a bucket in each hand. Standing silently, I watch them set down their vessels to make a four-bucket square around me.

They sport ponytails, their hair fanning to the middles of their backs, one an auburn, the other a blond. The women are visions of black and white: boots with heavy soles are harness-style with black leather extending to mid-calf; black leather panties barely conceal their twats; bikini bras struggle to contain their balloonish breasts; and their all-black, biker-bitch attire contrasts starkly against their milky white skin.

They remove sponges from soapy water and saturate me from my fingers to my toes. Once I'm lathered up, they discard their sponges and scrub me down with hands and fingers. Not workman-like. Soft and gentle-like. Erotic-like, and their delicate fingers, lubricated by warm soapy water, soothe and stimulate my hard-bodied flesh.

Their appearance. Their touch. They arouse me and I hold nothing back. Whatever reward (or punishment) awaits me will come with or without my erection, so I let my pecker swell to a full-blown hard. Seeing this, they stop their massaging. Rinse me with water from their remaining buckets. Set their empty vessels near a wall, and then exit, closing the door behind them.

That's it? No hello? Goodbye? Just because I'm not allowed to speak doesn't mean you can't. What's that you say? Fuck off? Well, okay, same to you.

On that note, I am of the opinion that my mirrored reflection looks damned tempting. If I was a woman, I'd jump right on my hard dick. Drag me down on top of me and melt underneath me while I screw me like a lust-crazed caveman. Maybe that's what they have planned, although suspending me by my wrists would make such a maneuver impossible.

Strange how ten years of servitude have changed how I see myself. Growing up, I was kind of a runt. Strength-wise I was okay, thanks to my being the son of a cattle rancher. Chores assigned to me kept my body wiry and firm, but I was a bean pole. Wished I could have been more like Darryl, my best pal, who was built on a compact and husky frame. Sometime around tenth grade I finally started to fill out and pack on some muscle, but I was still puny compared to Darryl.

Come to think of it, quite a few life-altering events took place in 2016. My sixteenth birthday, for one, which meant I got my driver's license, which meant Darryl and I could drive into town without parental supervision. In 2016 I made the varsity football team for our Glendale, Montana, High School Billikens, playing receiver and catching Darryl's passes, which took us to the state championship game for 8-man teams, where we lost our only game of the season, damn it. Got my dick sucked for the first time that year, (more slobbering than sucking, but thanks anyway, Susan W.); saw on television images of the first incident which led to the Caucasianasian Wars; and most important of all, Darryl and I discovered the craziest video game ever, which led us to...

Uh-oh, the door is opening. My two sexy bath-givers are back, along with a third person. Leather suit head to foot with two protrusions on the chest, which I'm hoping house female boobs. Black wig with streaks of purple perched atop her hooded head, eye holes, nostril holes, and mouth zipper the lone openings of her entire get-up.

Her movements are fluid and methodical, as she grabs two of the empty buckets and turns them upside down. Places both in front of me, one near my right foot, the other midway between my ankles. Sitting on the centered bucket, she brings her hood-covered face within inches of my dick, while the other two resume their hand-rubbing on me. They squeeze my deltoids and trapeziums, my thighs, calves and butt cheeks. Rub my pectorals, my stomach and belly, and even my balls. Their fingers pinch my nut sac, twisting flesh and tugging on hairs.

Once they have my penis unquestionably, fully erect, black hood reaches for her mouth zipper and unzips. She removes her teeth, upper plate, lower plate, and places both on the bucket beside her. And then, with her jaw open wide, she takes my cock inside her mouth, all of it until my dick's head bumps the opening to her throat. That's when she closes her jaw. Chomps down on me. My cock is her sausage, and her incisors slice me clean and neat.

Except that she has no incisors. No teeth at all. Only gums, spongy, wet, and hot. My pecker is crushed in an ever-tightening vise. The head of my cock is where her molars should be. She bites down hard, twisting, turning, wrenching, scraping. She goes full-frontal, her tongue wrapping from below, palette clamping from above, gums gnawing like an electrified cock ring. She strokes, forward and back. She chomps, crushing all blood from my swollen dick. She chews on me where her other side molars should be, and I thrust forward trying to fuck, but she will not allow that. She clutches my hips in her hands and holds me steady. This is her show. Her fuck.

It's not fair. One man, naked, chained and helpless, versus a trio of methodical, kinkily-clad females, and my only option is to stand there and take it like a man. Like a lust-crazed beast. The king of the jungle. Growling bear of the forest. Chest pounding gorilla. Snot snorting bull, and with orgasm on the brink the sounds I make are all new to me. A groan rumbling from the depths of Sodom. A horn blasting from the tower of Babel. An ultimate-male roar that could've, should've shattered every wall in my mirrored glass cell.

Except for one problem -- she has chosen this precise moment to open her mouth and abandon my cock. All stimulation stops: gums, lips and tongue, plus the rubbing hands of the other two. Christ al-fucking-mighty. No cruelty could be more cruel. My load opens the door to my dick, takes a peek and retreats into my nut sac. My scrotum clenches, pecker spasms, inviting my come to come on and come, but it is not to be. My macho man groan transgresses to a whimper, while they glare at me with lips curled. Their grins ooze of sadistic viciousness, as they dare me to say something.

What is there to say? I could call them every name in the book, or beg them to continue, but I won't give them that pleasure. I grind my teeth. Build a prison around my tongue to keep it still while I conger ugly images in my brain so my dick will calm down. A toilet clogged with shit. Becky Wilson on our school bus picking her nose and eating what she finds. The raw-meat-red splotches on faces of people afflicted with the flesh-eating virus that ravaged Earth's surface and forced us underground.

Horrid thoughts work. My pecker rapidly deflates.

Black hood inserts her dentures, stands, and makes her exit with the other two right behind her. The last to leave sets down one of her buckets in the hallway so she can gently close the door. No look toward me. No smile, sneer or scoff. I do not exist.

Dropping my chin to my chest, I listen to my frenzied heartbeat gradually return to normal pace. I lock my knees. Relax my arms. Try dozing off in a standing position like a horse, a beast of burden which, on our ranch, before the plague, consistently received better treatment than do the men of Underusa.

Ahh... our family's ranch... little did I know just how good things were... back then... on the ranch.




Copyright 2004-2016