First order of business was to make this book, The Crux of It, Erotic Tales of Men on the Cross and the Women Who Put Them There, previously available in print paperback only, into a Kindle offering at Amazon. Three stories totaling approximately 41,000 words tell tales of male crucifixion, the erotic kind, one set in ancient Rome, one in the American West of 1880, and one just some place and time I made up so I could hang men and women on crosses for their tongue baths.
Oh, the pain and pleasure of it!
You can see the Kindle version at Amazon HERE The Crux of It
There are text excerpts and audio readings by Jasper himself at the Jardonn's Erotic Tales.com web site HERE
Want another taste? Try this snippet from The Banquet, and read of a retired Roman gladiator who knows how to entertain his master's guests.
With a violent yank of my arms I break free the grasps of my guards. I charge toward the tables where terrified and clueless guests scramble to escape my path. My eyes are wild with madness, the look of a killer. My fists are clenched, muscles flexed, as I kick a table and send all of its contents flying through the air. I move to another, kicking and screaming, but as I streak toward my third targeted table, the goblet of Tacitus conks the back of my head. I stop in my tracks. I wobble, and I fall to the floor face down and unconscious.
"Tacitus! Tacitus! Hail, the mighty Tacitus!" they exhalt. "You saved us all from certain death."
Certainly, he did. Our script says so. Brass to skull produces a convincing thud, followed by an harmonious ringing. On and on they praise him, as I lay motionless, pretending not to hear. Once again, the guards take hold my arms, drag my limp carcass toward the mouth of Scipio, where nearby lays the cross, waiting for me.
"Bind him!" sneers Livilla, and her guards sprawl me atop the wooden t. My arms are stretched as I continue my feigned slumber, each of my wrists roped to the patibulum crossbeam. Nothing is done with my ankles, my heels rest on the floor at either side of the stipes. Livilla's trick, perfected with me as her experimental subject, her clever design coming into play once I become vertical. But for now, "Come, ladies," she invites. "We must torment him before his real torture can begin."
Torment, torture, my cue for responding to tongues. I awaken, look to my left and right where ropes bind wrists. I raise my head, observe my chest, my bondage causing its expansion. Two females here, licking me, kissing me on my ribs, my sternum, into my stretched-wide-open arm pits. Beyond them are two more, working my stomach, working my belly. Past them are two more, working my thighs, knees and shins. Guards grasp my ankles, pin them to the floor while stretching my legs, and I groan, I resist, I make attempts to break free. Every muscle is flexed, arms straining, chest rising, belly flattening. I arch my back, growl and grunt in low-toned, masculine sounds of defiance. My exhibition heightens their pleasure. Six females froth at the mouths, their frenzied tongues licking and hungry lips sucking and manipulating hands rubbing me will drive me to madness, drive me to the brink of orgasm, an under-the-loincloth and unattended waste of my seed. But Livilla knows me well. She knows my limits. Knows my nuts are on the verge of ignoring my brain and she shouts, "Enough!"
Get the picture? Gladiator's all riled up and they haven't even raised the cross... yet.
At the end of this three-story book there's an added bonus called Uncle Jasper's Quick Guide to Proper Bedroom Etiquette, a how-to on femdom / hero worship action without all the high-priced equipment.
That's enough of my Jasper McCutcheon ass-kissing for now.