Monday, May 31, 2010

The Blue Moon Café excerpt by Rick R. Reed

Someone—or something—is killing Seattle’s gay men.

A creature moves through the darkest night, lit only by the full moon, taking them, one by one, from the rain city’s gay gathering areas.

Someone—or something—is falling in love with Thad Matthews.

Against a backdrop of horror and fear, young Thad finds his first true love in the most unlikely of places—a new Italian restaurant called The Blue Moon Cafe. Sam is everything Thad has ever dreamed of in a man: compassionate, giving, handsome, and with brown eyes Thad feels he could sink into. And Sam can cook! But as the pair’s love begins to grow, so do the questions and uncertainties, the main one being, why do Sam’s unexplained disappearances always coincide with the full moon?

Rick Reed has said that sometimes a book comes along where he completely falls in love with the characters. The Blue Moon Café is just such a book. Not only is it set in his relatively new home town of Seattle (which is a great place for not only a creepy story, but one where new love can blossom and flourish), but Todd, Jared, and Sam became so real to him, he hated to say goodbye to them.

Prepare yourself for a unique blend of dark suspense and erotic romance with The Blue Moon Cafe, written by the author Unzipped magazine called, “the Stephen King of gay horror.” You’re guaranteed an unforgettable reading experience, one that skillfully blends the hottest romance with the most chilling terror... The Blue Moon Café, a book where romance and horror are fused into one page-turning read.

The Blue Moon Café
Publisher: Amber Allure (GLBT imprint of Amber Quill Press)(March 7, 2010)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-656-7 (Electronic)
ISBN: 978-1-60272-802-8 (Paperback)


Sam leaned back against the headboard and lit a cigarette. The room filled with the acrid stench of burning tobacco and paper and instead of being repelled as he normally would be, Thad moved close to Sam again, taking up his newly claimed spot on the man’s chest. He stared up at him, watching him smoke. Lazily, he traced circles in the hairy mat covering Sam’s chest. His fingers stopped when he caught sight of a design on Sam’s left pectoral, something he had hadn’t noticed in the dim light or perhaps because it was all but hidden by the forest of hair. Thad got up on one elbow.

“You have a tattoo?”

In the dark, Sam nodded. “I’ve had it for years, way before tattoos were all the rage like they are these days.”

“Especially here in Seattle.” Thad often wondered if there was some requirement that all citizens of Seattle must have at least one tattoo. “What’s it of?” Thad strained to make out the design’s contours in the dim light and couldn’t.

Sam leaned forward to switch on the bedside lamp. Thad squinted at the sudden light source, then directed his gaze down at the muscled chest before him. “What is it?” Thad traced the design with his fingers, lowering his head to peer more closely at it. He nipped at Sam’s nipple and Sam laughed.

“It’s Lupa, the she-wolf who suckled Romulus and Remus, the twins who founded Rome in mythology. Cool, no?” Sam flexed his chest so the wolf seemed to move. Two cherubic twin boys below the figure suckled at her teats.

“It’s kind of weird. But it suits you.” Thad reached over Sam to turn off the light again.

“What brought you to America?”

Did Thad detect a slight stiffening when he asked the question?…

To purchase, click here or from Amazon, click here

Monday, May 24, 2010

Stardust: Book 4 of the Solitary Knights of Pelham Bay by Claire Thompson

In Stardust, Book 4 of the series Solitary Knights of Pelham Bay by Claire Thompson, what starts out as a routine emergency call, lands Gordon Flanders and Dennis Wilson in the thick of a madcap drag queen party gone wild. Gordon finds himself in a position to save Ben Ryder, his old lover, from a fiasco that could ruin the movie star's career. Gordon volunteers to hide the movie star from the paparazzi until he can get a flight back to L.A. Thrilled by what he sees as his second chance with the man he never got over, the star struck Gordon plans a romantic dinner for two that he hopes will set the stage for more - much more.

Dennis and Gordon outwardly agree love affairs and work relationships shouldn't mix. Inside Dennis' heart, however, it's a different story. Too shy to press past Gordon's defenses, he settles for being the best friend he can, even when it means helping Gordon plan the seduction of another man.

When events collide to reveal Ben's true colors, Gordon's heart is trampled in the process, and it's left to Dennis to pick up the pieces. Will Dennis finally find the courage to seize his own second chance at love? And with the stardust falling from Gordon's eyes, will he finally see the real star who has been in front of him the entire time?

Romance Unbound Publishing (2010)
ISBN: 9781615081776


Gordon looked deep into Dennis’ eyes and Dennis found he couldn’t turn away. He felt something electric arcing between them like live current. Gordon leaned forward, closing his eyes, parting his lips, the invitation clear.

Dennis pulled back, though his lips were actually tingling with anticipation. “Ah, Gordon. I can’t…”

“You can’t kiss me?” Gordon opened his eyes. He moved his hand from Dennis’ thigh to his crotch, resting it lightly over the bulge. “Why not? I want it. I want to kiss you. Come ‘ere…” His voice was slurred.

“You’re drunk.” Despite himself, Dennis’ cock swelled beneath Gordon’s touch.

“So? Here.” Gordon picked up the scotch bottle and waved it toward Dennis. “Have a few mouthfuls of this. Then you’ll be drunk too.” Dennis stared at Gordon, at his eyes hooded with lust and the promise in his sensual half-smile.

All at once Dennis grabbed the bottle and tipped it to his lips. Why not? Why the fuck not? The liquor burned going down, hitting his stomach and spreading rapidly to his limbs. “God damn you, Gordon Flanders,” he said softly. “How the fuck can I say no?”

He closed his eyes against the look of triumph in Gordon’s, needing the kiss too much to care. His hands and mouth seemed to have a mind of their own. He reached blindly for Gordon, catching him in a strong embrace as their lips met. Eagerly, almost desperately, he explored Gordon’s mouth.

Gordon was stroking his back and shoulders as their tongues moved together.

Greedily, Dennis ran his fingers through Gordon’s thick, curling hair, at the same time pulling him closer. He was aware of his heart banging against the curve of his ribs. Ah, god, this mattered too much, too much.

Dennis pulled back, trying to compose himself, to catch his breath. Gordon opened his eyes, his lips still parted from their kiss, gleaming in the soft light. His eyes were shining. He reached out, again putting his large hand over Dennis’ crotch. Dennis was achingly hard, and Gordon’s touch triggered a shudder of lust he couldn’t control. He tried to fight it, but knew he was going under.

Gordon reached for the bottle again. He poured, completely missing the glass and dumping several ounces over his lap and splashing a little on Dennis as well. “Shit,” he said, laughing. “I guess I’m thinker than I drunk I am.” He offered a goofy grin.

Dennis stood abruptly, taking the bottle from Gordon’s hand. This was not how it was going to happen with Gordon. If it happened at all. “You’ve had enough. You’re a mess. I’m going to go—”

“No!” Gordon grabbed Dennis’ arm. “Don’t go. Please. Don’t go. I’m sorry. I was fooling around. I’m not that drunk.”

“Yeah, right,” Dennis snapped.

“No, really. Look, I’ll just jump in the shower. That’ll sober me up. Two seconds. Don’t go, please?” Gordon reached for Dennis’ face, running his fingers down Dennis’ cheek and pressing them lightly against his lips. “Wait for me, okay?” His voice was filled with promise.

To purchase, click here

Monday, May 17, 2010

Tourmaline: Volume I of the Greenlea Tales excerpt by E L Van Hine

In Tourmaline: Volume I of the Greenlea Tales by E L Van Hine, it's the summer of '84. 84 Down and out, closeted drifter Colson Grey stumbles into a down-low "men's club" owned by Ellery Cantrell, the orneriest, most flamboyant chief detective in the smallest, most backward county in rural Arizona. When Ellery recruits Colson to help him with a case embroiling the club, their sudden intimacy sparks the violent jealousy of Ellery's former lover and business partner Bill, and exposes the raw pain of their mutual isolation and their equally raw sexual need.

Tourmaline: Volume I of the Greenlea Tales" by E. L. Van Hine
Treshold Publishers/Zebratta Books (May, 2010)


Chapter 22

They lingered over dinner, Colson hardly paying attention to the delicious T-bone steak that seemed to fall off the bone and melt on his tongue. He couldn’t remember how long it had been since he had a top grade cut of meat, and the crush of his years of poverty seemed somehow lifted as his weird adventure in Tourmaline began to take on a pleasurable and even exciting turn. He knew this feeling, he recognized it, despite the intervening years since the summer he met Adam, that sense of falling effortlessly, resistlessly, into a secret, as yet unexplored world where everything seemed right and good, and he was free of all bonds. It was as though the dreary years of waiting, pining, hoping and fearing—had vanished, and he watched with sheer pleasure the varied expressions play across Ellery’s face as he talked about the Art Robbery of 1979 and how he had solved the case through nothing more exciting or inventive than doing research in old telephone books for an obscure listing for an out of business art dealer, who after losing his gallery, had taken to theft to reacquire his own original stock that had been liquidated at auction.

He listened, saying hardly a word, for a full hour, long past the applesauce, an extra order of biscuits, and fresh hot apple pie a la mode, Ellery’s speed at consuming his dinner not in the least slowed by the pace of his narrative, glancing from time to time a little closer to see whether Colson had at length gotten bored. Colson blinked suddenly, as he realized the story had ended and Ellery was looking at him silently.

“Whut?” he asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Boy, you haven’t said a word. Have you perfected the art a sleeping with your eyes open with that innerested expression on your face?” Ellery asked, a half-smile on his lips.

“Uh no, it was just... inneresting is all.”

Ellery grinned, a wide, happy look. “At last, someone who hasn’t heard that tired ol’ tale a the art theft.”

“How’d you get the idea to look for an art dealer?”

“Well because, think of it like this. Who steals paintings? People who like pretty pictures? No. Most all the time—art thieves. Art thieves have got a list a what’s valuable, what they can dispose of, what won’t be too hot. You don’t steal the Whistler’s mother, for asample, because you can’t sell it ta anyone. You do steal anythin by O’Keefe or Wyeth because they are not always recognizable and a lot of em are on the market in auctions and all.”

“Sure, okay.” Colson tried to follow, even though Ellery’s point so far had eluded him.

“So an art thief would take the O’Keefe and the Wyeth because he’d get the same money for both, having gone to the trouble a breakin in. But who would break in, take one PARTICULAR Wyeth and leave another of higher value as well as two O’Keefes and a Bateman as well as some perfectly pawnable signed Ansel Adamses?”

“Uh... someone who wants only one particular paintin.”

“Right. Someone who may have at one time owned them an lost them due to misfortune.”


“Modus operandi, they call it. This was the modus operandi. An when we got down there ta see the old coot he had hung em all in his livin room, bold as brass!”

“Shit, Ellery. You musta enjoyed that.”

“Yeah well—that’s the only thing good happened that year, I’ll tell ya. The rest of it was Bill and makin Esteban leave town an all that shit we already covered.”

“Yeah,” Colson was still grinning, still feeling that racy high that comes of having an unexpected good time that he didn’t want to end.

“Well on that cheery note, you ready to go upstairs and solve the case a Wilson’s Missing Ring?”

Colson shrugged. “Sure.” He wanted to add that it was the company that made it enjoyable. He swallowed the compliment, telling himself to save it for a more private opportunity.

Ellery signalled with an impatient hand for the waitress, who appeared at his elbow like Tinkerbell lighting on a buttercup, and slapped down a pale green card. “Mark it ‘Brand Theft Investigation’ on the receipt if you will.”

“Sure enough, Deputy Cantrell. I hope everything was to your satisfaction.”

Ellery looked over at Colson, that twinkle of merriment glittering in his pale gray eyes. “What do you say, Grey?”

“Excellent vittles, ma’am, thank you.” He patted his stomach and gave the girl a faint smile, and she bobbed once and went off with Ellery’s credit card.

“That girl thinks yer cute,” Ellery said in a low voice.

“No she don’t.”

“Sure she does. She blushed. Yer so cute ya made ME blush.”

Colson blinked.

“I know I know. I won’t say another word.” Ellery gave Colson a lopsided grin and wiped it off in time for the girl to return with the slip for his signature.

“You have a nice night now,” she called after them as they rose from the table.

Now standing before the door of the Lincoln Suite, Ellery opened the door with a flourish of his hat to let Colson go in first, and it occurred to Colson with a rush of blood to his face, that Ellery was watching him walk in to the room, and he turned, looking over his shoulder. The look he saw there stopped his heart momentarily, and he felt blood pool in his extremities. Ellery took a step toward him, and stopped, then turned, putting his hand on the knob of the bathroom door.

“This the only bathroom?” Ellery asked, his voice echoing off the tile in the confined space, but his voice had become thick as though with emotion.

“Uh, yeah. I’ll look over by the TV and sofa.”

From the outset, Colson knew two things. First, that they were not going to find Wilson Brand’s ring in this suite, and second, that if Ellery gave him another heart-stopping look like that and was within touching distance, he would be apologizing to Adam tomorrow. Despite his certainty, he got down on all fours and began to comb his fingers through the dark carpet, alert for anything shiny. To his surprise, moments later he turned up what looked like an expensive diamond stickpin, and plopped it into the cleaned ashtray. “Found something that we ain’t lookin for,” he called, then got back down, exploring with his fingertips and eyes.

His heart was still hammering in his chest, and his mind began to wander, causing his body to stiffen up uncomfortably with a familiar lust. “Cut it out, boy. You ain’t no teenage boy in heat no more,” he chided himself. But there was no mistaking the chemistry between them at dinner, the sense of intimate camaraderie that was something far more than sexual attraction. It was joy of companionship, a leap in his heart that made him happy to know the man passing the evening with him.

“Ya found a stickpin!” Ellery reported with mock excitement. “Don’t see nothin exciting down this sink drain though.” He popped his head out of the bathroom, holding a small flashlight, and clicking it off. “You need light down there?”

“No, usin my hands, they see better,” Colson mumbled, looking up over the back of the sofa. “Nothin in there is there?”


“Well he was here by himself an was all over this place, even though he slept in that room there. So it could be anywheres,” Colson said, already discouraged.

“Yep, we know it is certainly anywhere.”

“I haven’t got a good feelin. But some lucky ol’ coot will be happy to get his stickpin back,” Colson said hopefully.

“I’m gonna check under the bed in here,” Ellery said, seeming to keep his mind firmly on the search, which made Colson doubt what he had seen in the doorway when Ellery followed him in. For that indelible moment, he had seen naked lust in those slate eyes, a lust that he could not only understand, but could respond to. Wanted to respond to. And yet... they were back at work, doing what they had come to do, and the thought occurred to Colson... it’s about the big picture. He knows how he feels, and he’s got to know how I feel, I blushed enough times at dinner ta give it away, but he’s here to do a job and he’s gonna do it even if his heart is tellin him somethin different. Something a player like Bill, or a kid like Gene or Pete—would never understand. Ellery had a job to do.

But Colson understood Ellery’s dogged determination, and his respect for the lone deputy increased many times over. He pulled himself to his feet, retracing the events of that night in his head, tryin got recall everywhere Pete had been, where he had thrown his clothes, combing his fingers through the strands of carpet until they were covered with little prickly nylon threads... and came up empty.

“Say Ellery,” he called into the bedroom from the doorway.

“Whassat?” Ellery poked his head up from under the double bed.

“You think about maybe postin a reward, maybe one a the help found it. If its gold it’s gotta be worth somethin.”

“Chances a theft are small. It was engraved with his name. I thought a that.”

“Oh. Didn’t know.”

“Yeah. Got a description from Wilson before Bill got his comment in. Wilson and Esmerelda Brand somethin somethin 1966.”

“Shit, they been married a long time.”

“Yeah, and her old man’s got five hundred thousand head in eastern Montana on open range. Wilson’s got a lot to lose in a divorce.”

“Then he’s stupid hangin out with Pete.”

“Yep, another stupid ass, in a long line a stupid asses. Nothin under here.” Ellery straightened up, pressing a hand into his back and producing a dull crack. “Muscle spasm, dammit.”

Colson went over to him. You okay?” He put his hand on Ellery’s shoulder to help him sit, and Ellery sat down on the side of the bed, tilting slightly, balancing himself by straightening one leg and shifting.

“Press yer hand back here, right here, where it’s tight,” he directed, and Colson dug his hard fingers into the lean musculature of Ellery’s spine. Whip-thin, his muscles rock-hard from the nervous energy of almost constant motion. Colson dug in a little harder and Ellery let out a gasp. “There, right there, ow, that is ow in a good way.”

Colson moved his hand up, pressing as he went along, looking closely at the expression on Ellery’s face. Ellery glanced up and let out a low laugh.

“This isn’t exactly how I was picturing you touchin me.” He froze in place, then, and it took several long breaths for him to recover and remember what he was doing.

“Uh, sorry.”

“No, dammit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t keep doin that to you. It doesn’t really endear you to me, it’s just causin you to panic every time. And for the record I really do have a spasm, got in a car wreck not too long before Bill and the Art Theft story and got a bad disc down there.”

“I know, I didn’t think you was makin it up,” Colson mumbled, his face a welter of confusion.

“Look, Colson, you are a sweet and dear man, and it gets my blood up when I look at you, okay? But I made a promise and maybe its time ta make another promise about suggestive remarks.”

“No, it’s okay,” he said, his mumble deepening into a stammer. “As long as... as long as there ain’t no one else around.”

Ellery tilted his chin and looked into up into Colson’s eyes. “You mean that?”

Colson nodded, not trusting his voice, his fingers still kneading the spasm that was now slowly responding to his hard fingers, relaxing his back, and Ellery was able to straighten a bit more.

“Feels better.” Ellery slid his hand up Colson’s arm to the elbow and then looked at him once more. “Thank you, Colson.”

Colson moved, then, the handful of inches between his face and Ellery’s, until he could feel the warmth of Ellery’s breath against his cheek, shifted slightly until their cheeks brushed, and his hand slid down the outside of the smooth black shirt, seeking his hand, finding it half open against his knee, and grasped it, clamping his own hand hard and pulling it, as though testing the willingness of the man who owned it to come to him, pulling it into the hard lump now straining against his fly.

“I do... want it,” Colson said, his voice a harsh, barely heard whisper.

And in answer, Ellery moved his lips against his cheek and toward his ear. “All right. Not here. We’ll go ta my house.” Colson nodded, wordless now, the die cast, his willingness to fight against himself unwound by the whispered pact of their new intimacy. Ellery brushed his knuckles meaningfully against Colson’s trapped erection and then pulled back his hand slowly, untangling it from that hard grip, letting his lips brush once more against Colson’s cheek before he spoke, this time more audibly. “Let’s make sure we finish lookin here before we give up. Then we got all night. Got to put in a night’s work. The big picture.”

“Right,” Colson said aloud, his voice a trembling sigh, and he spread his hands out on his knees to try to catch his breath, not daring to look up now that he had spoken his desire to a man in the light of day.

Ellery gave him a soft smile. “It’s alright. Come on.” He got up, fingers testing his back with tentative fingers, and began, more cautiously, to search the room with his flashlight. Colson pulled himself to his feet once more and headed for the bedroom he had slept in, his thoughts a million miles away from the discovery of a gold wedding band, his breathing labored, but his mind racing with that effortless, flying sensation that he had always associated with the sudden warmth of spring, the thin air in high country, and the ice cold trickle of meltwater meandering down the canyon. A magic that had been gone, a gutted wood fire burned to ash, and buried, now rekindled like a phoenix in an equally fierce blaze.

To purchase e-book, click here or here
To purchase paperback, click here or here

Monday, May 10, 2010

Mahu Men: Mysterious & Erotic Stories excerpts by Neil S Plakcy

Neil Plakcy has published four novels about Honolulu homicide detective Kimo Kanapa’aka, and has enjoyed the chance to write short stories about him, too. Mahu Men includes both mystery stories and pieces of erotica about Kimo’s life and coming out process. Here are some excerpts from both kinds of stories.

Mahu Men
MLR Press (March 22,2010)
ISBN-10: 1608201384
ISBN-13: 978-1608201389

Excerpt from “I Know What You Did”

When he answered the door, Fremantle’s roommate wore only a pair of white Calvin Klein briefs. He was a queeny boy in his early twenties, with pouffed up blonde hair that came to a stylized point above his forehead. He was waifishly thin, but his arms and legs were muscular.

“You’re the gay cop!” he said, when he saw me. “Oh, darling, I’m so excited.” Before I could react, he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. His breath tasted sweet and somehow familiar. “Oh, now I can say I kissed the gay cop!”

He danced backwards a little, leading me into a living room furnished with Salvation Army castoffs. Dirty clothes littered the tattered sofa, and were strewn over the no–color carpet and a couple of dubious–looking chairs. A big old TV squatted in one corner, one of the talk show hosts encouraging some poor soul to bare his problems.

The boy, whose name was Larry Wollinsky, sprawled on the sofa, knocking a jumble of shorts and t–shirts to the floor. “Come sit by me,” he said, patting a place on the sofa next to him. “I’m just crushed by all this, you know.”

I sat in an armchair across from him, and he pouted. “Tell me about James
Fremantle,” I said. “Was he your lover?”

Larry laughed. “Jimmy? My God, no. Although,” he leaned forward, “there was this one time, after a volleyball game at Queen’s Surf, when we were both so horny. I mean, you know what that’s like, you just have to do something about it. But no, we were just roommates.”

Queen’s Surf was the gay beach; I’d been there myself a few times, but had not yet joined in a volleyball game. “Not friends?”

“Not really. Jimmy was kind of a loser. He didn’t have a lot of friends.”


Excerpt from “Blowing It”

There wasn’t much room in the tiny airplane lavatory, but Keoni kneeled in front of me, pushing me against the back wall, and I balanced myself, one hand against the counter and the other against the side wall.

My dick wasn’t hard, and there were a few drops of urine still dribbling out, but Keoni didn’t seem to mind. He took me in his mouth as he unbuckled my belt and opened my pants, dropping them to my knees, then reached up through the leg of my boxers (tropical fish in neon colors, not nearly as embarrassing as some in my drawer) and fondled the underside of my balls.

It was like he flipped a switch, and my dick responded, inflating to its full six inches (I’m a cop, after all; I don’t lie, even about the length of my dick). His finger kept working me, stroking the sensitive area between my ass and balls, as he sucked and licked, and all too quickly I felt shudders rising.

But he pulled back, and I didn’t come. I was still hard, my mouth was dry, and my groin was roiling, but I didn’t come. Keoni said nothing, but his index finger found my asshole and started wiggling, and a minute or two later his mouth was back on my dick. He deep–throated me, then pulled back to lick me like I was an ice cream cone. The tip of his tongue penetrated my piss slit and goose bumps rose on my arms.

I felt the pressure build—but so did Keoni, and he backed off. Three times he brought me to the point of explosion and backed off. By the fourth time, though, I was ready to beg. I couldn’t tell how much time had passed, but I was sure there was somebody else with a full bladder waiting outside the lavatory, and my arms had grown so weak I was having trouble keeping my balance—and I NEEDED TO COME.

Keoni knew that, too, without my having to do anything more than utter a few inarticulate moans and whimpers, though I tried my best to be quiet and keep what we were doing in there a secret from anyone standing outside. As the pressure built inside my groin for the fourth time, Keoni didn’t let up, and it felt like every nerve ending in my body became electrified as my cum exploded down his throat.


Excerpt from “Super-Size”

My bathroom has a combination tub and shower, plenty big enough for Tom and me—provided we stayed close to each other. I turned the water on spray and then faced him, my hard dick rubbing against his thigh, which was lightly dusted with the same blond hair that freckled his chest.

We kissed again, and he grabbed my dick and started jerking it. “Slow down, cowboy,” I said, taking hold of his wrist. “Nobody’s in a hurry here, right?”

He grinned sheepishly. I took a bar of soap and began lathering him up, beginning with his shoulders, then his pecs, paying close attention to his nipples, which stood up like little toy soldiers by the time I was done with them. I spent a long time on the big expanse of his belly, running my hands up and down the smooth acres of flesh, then around and around in circles.

By this time he was hard again, though there wasn’t much difference in size from soft to hard. I avoided the pubic area, working first down one leg, then the other, squatting down to massage each thigh and calf with lavender–scented soap. Every now and then he’d gulp a little or sigh, and I kept up a steady patter, complimenting the softness of his flesh, the strength of his tendons, the sheer wonderful size of him.

I was turned on by how much of him there was. I didn’t quite know why; many guys, Tom’s roommates included, probably saw his fat as unattractive. But I’ve been with skinny guys who have nothing you can hold on to, dicks the size of pencils, lips that make you feel like you’re kissing hard plastic.

I’ve been with guys I felt I could break if I wasn’t careful, and I was reveling in Tom’s size, even as I turned him around and began soaping the backs of his legs and that wonderful big ass. I greased up a finger with lather and pried apart his ass cheeks to find his puckered hole. Tom hiccupped a little.

“You like that?” I asked. “You like me to play with your ass?”

He sighed in response. I took that as a yes. I stood up, lathered my dick back into a rock–hard state, and then pressed myself up against his back. I reached around him for his tits, and fingered them while my dick struggled to make its way through his mountains of flesh and into his ass.

It was a tough go, I have to admit. I was fucking his ass cheeks more than his hole, but it still felt damn good to me. I thought about getting a condom but because I couldn’t get into him I didn’t think I needed one. Just being pressed up against him, his skin sliding against mine, was enough to get me off.
To purchase e-book, click here
To purchase paperback, click here

Monday, May 3, 2010

The Zagzagel Diaries: Forsaken excerpt by Bryl R. Tyne, and The Girl In The Painting excerpt by Anne Brooke

Two short excerpts from two short stories published by Untreed Reads Publishing - The Zagzagel Diaries: Forsaken by Bryl R. Tyne and The Girl In The Painting by Anne Brooke. And for one week only, a special promotion, 25% off each of these two titles!(see purchase information below.)

The Zagzagel Diaries: Forsaken
Author: Bryl R. Tyne
Publisher: Untreed Reads Publishing (March 26, 2010)

An unconventional guardian angel attempts to keep his gay charge from committing suicide, while wrestling with his own personal issues. This is the first in the Zagzagel Diaries series.


Just do it . . . .

How apropos.

Above the nineteenth floor, on the verge of his nineteenth birth date, he stepped up onto the ledge, steadied his balance. Perspiration and tears trickled evenly along his chiseled face. Eyes, once stunning blue, dulled with each spent teardrop. Perched less than a shoulder's width away, I listened. His most private thoughts were not immune to me or my prying. Lord—meant with the utmost respect, of course—the man was a work of art. Absolutely beyond compare.

As was his pain, or so he thought.

I had endured far worse, though not mortal, than anything he was capable of imagining. Agony and confusion engulfed him, inflamed his need for relief.

Forsaken—he privately professed.

Obviously, I'd failed at instilling my fine wrangling spirit.

Feathers ruffled. My shoulders tightened. Apparently, my guidance wasn't worth a flip these days. With a stretch and a snap, loose underlining flew in the air about me, fluttering, drifting on the breeze. Despite knowing the young man's agony, his naivety sickened me.

Try living the pain of ten thousand lifetimes, I desperately wished to tell him.
What I wouldn't give for an hour in his shoes, fifteen minutes inside that skin-tight material covering such perfectly honed thighs. He was so beautiful, so mortal, so intelligent—

"Just. One. Step." As his garbling knocked me from my reverie, his right foot slipped.

All right. I concede—he was a fucking moron.

Wings refolded neatly, I appeared beside his unsure legs and, with a stretch, settled, ass on the cool stone, feet dangling free over the edge. "It's a doozy."

His body trembled. With fear or anticipation, I wasn't sure which. For such a young pup, he had balls of steel. I'd give him that. He didn't as much as flinch at the sound of my voice nor turn to eye me as he asked, "What's it to you?"

What was it to me? More like, what was he to me, though I'd never confess. That revelation, I must do everything in my power to ensure never left my lips.

* * * * *

Title: The Girl In The Painting
Author: Anne Brooke (March 15, 2010)
Untreed Reads Publishing

When Celia becomes obsessed with her grandmother's painting, she realises her life will never be the same again. How can she ever break free?


There was something about the picture that Celia didn’t like. It wasn’t the subject matter that disturbed her, nor even the way it was painted. She could see nothing to irritate her eye in the simple country scene with corn meadows in the foreground giving way to rich green hills in the more distant perspective. In the middle of the painting stood two young people: a boy and a girl, perhaps early twenties, both dressed in bright colours. Red and blue. They were walking towards the hills. The girl’s blonde hair streamed backwards in the breeze as her face turned sideways to the boy, and she was laughing.

The way the girl laughed made Celia’s heart beat faster. It wasn’t an outright joyful expression; the side of her mouth that could be seen was twisted downwards and she seemed to be gently mocking her companion. Whether in seriousness or jest was impossible to tell; she couldn’t see the boy’s face, so could not judge what his response was supposed to be.

She wished more and more strongly that her grandmother hadn’t bequeathed the picture to her. When the package had arrived at her door a month ago, she’d been pleased at the gift, even though the painting herself had not been to her taste. She preferred her art to be more austere. But she remembered the kindness of the woman who in her final hours had thought of her and had not been able to bring herself to place it into storage.

So she’d hung it on the stairwell wall of her two-up two-down house; it was not, to her mind, a piece of art she could put in a room and live with.

For a while nothing was different. Celia drove to work in the mornings, came home in the evenings, read a little and went to bed. But gradually she became aware of the space the painting occupied.

She could be passing the item in question on the way downstairs or heading up towards her bedroom to retrieve a book when, without warning, some lure in the colours or the way the light fell on the corn would make her pause and gaze at the scene. She would peer at it as if searching for someone or something she might have missed – another person perhaps, or an animal. But she could never locate anything new. Of course. The useless search and the knowledge that she seemed unable to find the will to stop made her feel unsettled. It came to the point when she began to plan her day so that she would not have to use the stairs if she could avoid it; she brought all her books and papers downstairs when she first got up so she wouldn’t have to fetch them in the evening. She even left a cardigan in the front room so it would be a matter only of slipping it on if she grew cold.

When she had no option but to pass by the picture, she tried to avert her eyes, but always the scene would call to her and she would have to spend a few moments searching. For what couldn’t possibly be there.

It was at about that time that the girl in the frame began to move.
To purchase, click here. From May 3rd through May 9th, 2010, use coupon code EXCERPTS to save an additional 25% off each of these two titles. Also available at Smashwords and many other etailers.