Monday, August 26, 2013
In this re-release of Switch Hitter by Alex Morgan and Jon Michaelsen, a sluggish bat threatens to derail top ranked National League baseball player Jase Dockery’s record-breaking streak and he turns to forbidden sex. To the world Jase is a hero, but deep down the MVP harbors a secret…one that just might prove deadly.
To fulfill his craving for domination, Jase agrees to a tryst with the captain of
The night of unbridled passion drives him to plot another rendezvous with the
hard-boiled cop at practice the next day, but his plans are soon disrupted by a
stalking fan intent on using the ballplayer for his own desires.
Can the alpha cop rescue the hot baseball player without risking coming out to his comrades?
Twisting the throttle and roaring the engine of the customized BMW Megamoto, Jase popped the clutch and shot the bike into the garage, more in an act of defiance of himself, rather than any other soul. The garage door began to draw shut the moment the rear tire of the bike cleared the path of the crimson laser beam that sliced his trail into darkness. Always mindful someone might have spotted him entering the club, he turned to watch the door closing before removing his helmet.
Not an hour before, Jase had duped his muscle-head bodyguard into thinking he’d retired early for the night for much needed rest after the week’s away-game series, where he’d seen his .395 batting average slip the first time all season.
Inside Jase felt safe, trusting in the words of the svelte club owner, and never once doubting her pledge. Upon joining the private establishment, the proprietor had insisted Jase make appointments with an assistant, but he had refused. Jase needed assurances a mere staff member could not provide, discretion afforded to those with everything to lose, before he would commit to stepping inside.
He had to remain anonymous in his actions in order to avoid leaks to the press that he had visited the call house, much less the public learning of his special interests. Discovery meant breaching his fourteen million dollar-a-year contract, switch-hitting for one of the hottest baseball teams in the National League for five years running.
Jase still feared threats against his life because of his secret, a prime target of extortion from the crazies out there looking for a big score. Jase knew fans would never accept his sexuality, nor understand his desire for authority and dominance. The condemnation of perversion flowed thick in his veins, and had forced him to seek extreme measures to protect his secret. Banishment from the game he loved so much beleaguered him most of all.
He steered toward a spot near the elevator, and killed the engine. He sat in the low light and recalled the conversation he’d had with the team’s manager two nights earlier, after a 6-5 loss to the Pirates.
“You fucked up, Dockery, plain and simple. This loss is on you, son. Not against the team.”
Jase had stood there like a jerk, eyeing his boss with his knuckles clinched. “Christ, Fletcher! What’d you expect? You called for a fucking suicide squeeze play!”
“What did I expect? What the fuck do you think I expected? I wanted you to bunt, asshole!”
Jase recalled how the veins in the old man’s neck had bulged, a black and blue roadmap he’d stared at throughout his manager’s entire tirade.
“I expected you to man-up, Jase. That’s what I wanted, nothing more, nothing less. We had a man on third and first, two outs and at full count. All you had to do was tap the fucking ball into right field like you were instructed, and force a play at home plate.”
He knew his mistake in judgment meant irritated words and jabs from the rest of coaches and teammates for days. “I took a chance for the team, all right?”
“You’re not paid to take chances, you ass. That’s my job!”
Fletcher had shouted until the air in his lungs went out, and his face turned cherry red. “You do what the fuck we tell you and nothing more. You got that? Do you hear what I’m saying to you, son? I’m tired of your smart-ass, cocky attitude, Dockery. We all are.”
An hour later after the game, Jase had huddled alone in the back of a chartered Delta jet, away from the team, headed home. The mood in the cabin was somber, everybody tired from the grueling six-day road trip. Most of the team had slept or listened to music through headphones, but not Jase. He had spent the time brooding over his sluggish swing, and had blamed the anxiety that riddled his body on a bad swing, instead of admitting the actual reason behind his angst.
Jase lifted weights, swam at least four times a week, practiced on days when not in the starting line-up, but none of it had proved tough enough to expunge the anguish that had all but consumed him. He stood six foot four, an amazing two hundred and ten pounds of lean, powerful bulk with long, muscular arms, wide shoulders, bulging calves, and an eight-pack belly trimmed to perfection. Taking care of his body had meant the difference between getting the largest payout ever paid to a free agent in major league baseball, or a lifetime of remorse and what ifs.
When not playing the game or working out, Jase visited the driving range, taking his frustration out on golf balls; a mindless exercise less dangerous than those he preferred most, which his contract expressly forbade. Plagued with injuries the past two seasons, Jase couldn’t afford to push his body any further, much less take chances getting hurt in some extreme recreational sport. He held the highest batting average in the National League, but the slump of this past week threatened his goal to remain at the top through post-season play when his contract was up. Avoiding injury had become his full-time goal, so the decision to visit Club After Dark had proved an easy one to make upon returning home following a disappointing away-series.
Jase glanced at the wide door before him, which according to the proprietor led to a private elevator accessed by code. He heeled the kickstand of the bike and straddled his legs while surveying the area. Lady Velvet had assured him complete confidentiality, utmost discretion, no one privy to his arrival or departure, not even the staff. He tried to relax as his gloved hands gripped the handlebars with enough torque to crush a turbine. Anxiety, fear and excitement balanced against trepidation; all these emotions coursed through his body like a pinball striking against bumpers. His anguish amplified into misery as he sat there contemplating, anticipation building a fire in the base of his balls.
It had been three years since Jase had ventured out, and then he’d strayed to the other side at a club two hours outside of town, recommended by a faceless acquaintance he’d chatted up online one lonely night. The encounter had proved disastrous and almost exposed Jase to the world, but a boatload of cash and a crafty lawyer had sealed that leak forever. If the jerk ever came forward with a defamatory—albeit truthful—accusation or evidence that Jase was a liar, unreliable and disreputable, the ball player’s attorney, Brody Brown, a longtime friend and confidant, awaited him. The scandal would die the moment the guy cried ‘foul.’
Jase thought back to when he’d first met Brody. They played on the same little league baseball team years ago and had become fast friends, long before each had shot into the spotlight at an early age for their skill in the game. Both had copped scholarships to the same university. Jase and Brody Brown bore dreams of playing the same pro team one day, until a drunken stunt of riding on the back of a ‘92 convertible Firebird during Rush Week had almost cost Brody his life, and dashed the dreams of his ever playing baseball again.
Letting go of the handlebars, Jase sat up straight and pressed his wide palms against his thighs. He rubbed the fabric of his jeans as if wiping away the sweat building beneath the leather gloves. His heart pounded in his chest like a jackhammer. He sat there building up the nerve to walk to the door, and punch in the number for the elevator. A private room awaited him, reserved for the uppermost VIPs at Club After Dark.
A skullcap shielded his face when Jase removed his helmet. Lady Velvet had assured that the room held for him would be dark and sultry with ample glow to enjoy his partner, but not enough to give away his identity. In fact, Lady Velvet had given him the facemask he had tucked inside his leather jacket to wear during the session, a request made of the partner she had lined up for him for tonight.
Though he was uncomfortable with the idea of a male prostitute, Lady Velvet had surprised him with a client with all the assets he had requested. Jase thought back to her description of the man; at least six foot, thickly muscled, in perfect form and presenting a dominant nature, race or nationality unimportant. Lady Velvet said she had located the perfect partner; a S.W.A.T commander who had demanded just as much discretion.
Jase listened for footsteps that might sneak up behind him. His nerve fading fast, he had to move soon or turn the ignition and get the hell out of there. Sucking in his gut, he set his helmet on the gas tank in front of his crotch and began to remove his gloves, pulling on each finger. Anxiety made him dizzy with trepidation. He questioned more than once if he could go in.
Gloves stuffed in his pocket, he thought long and hard, contemplated his next move. All he had to do was leave before committing further, explain to Lady Velvet later that pressing matters had forced the last minute cancellation. Hell, she could keep his money to make up for the inconvenience to the cop he’d ditched.
decision made, Jase reached out to
turn the engine, when a huge hand came from behind to grip his left. In one
fell swoop, a large man of solid weight slid in behind Jase on the bike. Jase’s
heart thudded and his mouth went dry. Split
Oh God! Some crazy fuck must have followed him in from the street. Mesmerized by fear, unsure of his next move, the hulk pressed into him and wrapped his arm around Jase’s waist from the right in a powerful, yet pleasing grip. His captor leaned into Jase’s ear and hot breath caressed his lobe, caused the hair on the back of his neck to react. The smell of tobacco, liquor, and a heady male musk filled the air.
“Thinking of leaving?”
Jase tried to speak, but his tongue lodged in the back of his throat. A hard chest pressed into him, a show of force he chose not to challenge. The stranger was bigger and more muscular, plenty of strength to keep Jase from writhing, if necessary.
No chance fleeing now, Jase thought. Even if he put up a fight, his attempts would be ineffective at best. “I-I need to go,” Jase managed to say. “There’s someone waiting for me at home.”
His captor tightened his hold. “Yeah? You planning on stiffing me, bud? I don’t go for pussies.”
Jase swallowed hard and counted to ten before taking a breath. Jesus Christ! He expected his subjugator to bust him over the head, take his wallet and bike, but nothing happened.
“I…look, I’m sorry, man,” Jase managed. “Just forget it, all right? I made a mistake.” He flinched as the arm slipped higher around his chest. “I really need to go, now.”
The man breathed against his neck. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay? I’m horny as hell tonight, and you’re precisely what I need. Lady Velvet has never disappointed me. Anonymity is as important to me as it is to you, she assured.”
Jase didn’t answer in words, but in the thickening of his cock. Tendrils of lusciousness rose from the base of his balls, and surged through his abdomen. He glanced down at the hand covering his left, at the thick fingers that clamped over his own. Lady Velvet had said the man was a cop, a S.W.A.T. officer at that. What luck!
Fighting off fear, Jase found his voice. “I-I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said, still feeling uneasy. The man’s hand moved up to caress his chest, fingers tweaking his hard tits. Jase held his breath, ready to drop his load right there on the bike without shedding his clothes.
“My friends call me Cap.” The tip of a moist tongue slid up the base of Jase’s neck as the man’s hand settled on his crotched and squeezed hard. “I hear you’ve been a real dick lately and need some attitude adjustment.”
Those final words sealed the deal. Concern and fear evaporated in the heat churning between them. Jase wanted nothing more than to lose himself in the arms of this beast, captain of a S.W.A.T team.
Jase dismounted his motorcycle, and faced Cap. His heart skipped a beat and his breath caught in his throat. The mustachioed face, more handsome than any professional athlete or model, stared back at him. The brown eyes seemed to draw him in, engulfing his vision. He couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away. Cap’s torso seemed to explode from out of his narrow waist. His T-shirt stretched across a huge, muscular chest.
The gorgeous specter smiled, and Jase’s legs nearly buckled.
“Let’s see what Lady Velvet has in store for us.” Cap draped an arm around Jase’s shoulders and led him to the elevator.
Jase pushed the access code, and instantly wished he hadn’t. What if this was a set-up? Maybe he should’ve had Cap enter the code to see if he was for real.
The questions in his mind were shoved aside as the doors opened, and Cap guided him inside a small, mahogany-paneled elevator. Jase noted only one button on the panel by the door. He punched it without hesitation. The door slid closed, and the elevator rose.
To purchase, click http://www.wildecity.com/books/gay-erotica/switch-hitter/#.Ug1ltu7D_IU
Monday, August 19, 2013
In French Quarter Knights by Jacob Campbell, Thaddeus "Tadpole" Merton, after winning millions in a settlement from the church, has learned to hide things from others -- his money, his epilepsy, and his feelings. Now, he searches for love, acceptance, and sexual liberation in 1983
. New Orleans
Leaving behind a reluctant master in
Tadpole seeks friendship and love, a home, and independence. But exploring steamy sensuality seems to counter his romantic need for true love, and he struggles with himself and his desires.
Will he be able to transcend the empty promises of easy sex and sick relationships to find true love? Tadpole knows he needs to settle for nothing less than complete freedom and independence. But can he overcome his own emotions and move on to a better life as a gay man?
French Quarter Knights
JMS Books (August 4, 2013)
From Chapter 8: Jewel’s Full Moon Party & Orgy
As if on signal, when the pool table was shoved aside, and the music turned tribal, sex began sprouting up everywhere. Sandy and I grabbed each other and held one another close together, stomach to stomach. Around us, men were sucking cock and masturbating one another. It was overwhelmingly hot. We unzipped our pants and clung to one another’s cocks both to stroke them but also to protect them from other’s hands.
“I gotta pee,” I told Sandy.
“No! You’re kidding?”
’s face was suddenly
“Well, it’s not an emergency but I will have to pee if we’re going to have sex.”
“Try holding it, Taddy. The bathroom is a sardine can of perverts. There’s a bathtub instead of a urinal and some S&M master will have his slave in it taking all the pee.”
“No!” I imagined a bathtub with a skinny guy being pissed on by six or eight guys in motorcycle drag.
“Hold it. We’ll go outside later and you can pee in the alley,”
I saw the line for the bathroom with about forty guys lined up against the wall—some in motorcycle drag, some in short pants and nothing else, some guys in just their jeans and having sex with the guys next to them in line. I decided to hold off going to the bathroom as long as I could.
This wonderful variety of men making up the crowd was the glory of Full Moon at Jewel’s—a mixture of sophisticated educated wealthy men, a group of barely washed street kids, the leather groups, which included the older leather crowd, and the younger leather crowd, the motorcycle crowd, both the rich dandies and the real Hell’s Angels types—all mingling with one goal: sex. After , when the party was in full swing, all the sub-groups began to mesh. Guys who were total strangers a minute before were suddenly erotically inching into my space, our space. It began with a touch here, a bummed cigarette, a brief kiss, a grope but everything was working to lower our sexual inhibitions and the crowd was taking on a super friendly aspect.
What had begun with quiet couples kissing grew into a throng of naked men tricking. The mural on the wall lent a haunting, wolf-like atmosphere to the dark Jewel’s catacomb-like setting for sex.. All was one sweaty, steamy, intense celebration of homosexual sex. We were all smoking weed and the bar was a fog of pot smoke mixed with cigarette smoke.
There was a feeling and knowing of heated epiphanies cascading through young men all connected by skin touching skin. The sex of males in groups was sex like the roiling great ocean, a quiet low moaning of amazement at pleasures, an action like rowing. Hands on cocks pulled gently to and fro for hours, avoiding the first orgasm as long as possible. Once that first orgasm happened, the participants became super-charged. Guys would cum, rest a short while smoking and drinking, and as quickly as they could be aroused again, they entered a sort of timeless erotic dance, ready to perform sexually for hours without pause. That the second arousal could be maintained for what seemed like forever is what built a tribal sense of unification, a real celebration of male sexuality. Three or four hours of kissing, licking, fucking, rimming the orgy took on a protective quality, a unification into a delicious wetness. The shared wetness and skin on skin evoked more interaction, and the orgy expanded and the little groups of friends who arrived clinging to one another began to allow more and more strangers into their huddles. Groups formed, shifted, reformed, and the sex became more and more open. People began to fuck on the pool table, and guys were kneeling down, giving blow jobs everywhere you looked.
There was the constant beat of the primitive music, the continual movement of dance and sex. I was amazed how the flow of sex energy radiated from the center of the orgy and moved outward in waves. The knitting of arms over and under arms, arms over and under legs, shoulders pressing up on buttocks of neighboring men, rubbing torsos against the asses of men whose lovers are masturbating leaning on the people behind them, others kneeling to suck cock, and the kneeling guys’ heads are petted by many men as if they were special friends. The role of stranger ceased to exist. Some precum made our shafts slippery but we tried to hold back as long as we could before cumming again because everyone wanted the intensity of stimulation to build to ever newer heights.
There was the near-mystical feeling of climbing higher and higher on this erotic ladder, this mountain of sensual expression leading to realizations about the tribal nature of sexual energy. Erotic duos held one another close at times to try to resist the dissolution into the group identity, but more and more couples became foursomes, then eight and more, all interwoven sexually.
Sandy and I kissed a friend and for a while. First, I’d kiss him, then Sandy, then we somehow had a three-way kiss. I didn’t know who this guy was, but another man, a tall red haired guy showed up, the lover of the man we had been kissing, and so Sandy and I were making out with these two strangers and we began to hold their cocks.
Then Bert and Redd approached, naked—their jeans around their knees—sweating and with their arrival our destiny to merge with the larger orgy was set. The die was cast. We would take our chances in the wilds of Jewel’s Full Moon orgy.
Redd’s bronze skin was especially hot, highlighted against all the pale or suntanned white guys. Bert had a huge hard showing fully, and Redd, large, uncut, hung out erect. They pulled one another along as if the penises were steering mechanisms for the duo. They came up to us, masturbating and kissing one another, and we all lifted arms. The two lovers didn’t stick around when Red and Bert showed up but now the four of us formed a circle with arms over shoulders to the left and all our right hands holding the cock of the guy to the right. We violated all the exclusivity previously planned, overwhelmed by this human tide. Energetic levees broke and floods of sensuality overtook the vessels, us, carrying us off together on a flood of homosexual sexual majesty.
This was a crescendo for all gay men everywhere—the waters couldn’t rise any higher than this. It was the peak of the sexual revolution, the end of our time of sexual oppression. Out from this center of Eros, waves of liberated and freed masculine energy flowed through the universe. It felt this grand in this ocean of men. Everything seemed elevated, glorified, made holy and special by the intensity of Eros.
I was electrified by Redd’s touch on my cock. I, in turn, held Bert’s cock, a thing he wanted so much before and which I’d resisted. We four made a mandala of male arousal. I held Bert’s cock and watched his right hand holding my lover’s cock, the first time these two men had ever touched each other sexually with me a part of it since our three-way, and then, seeing my lover reach to his right and hold Redd’s cock. Redd, the guy that a week ago had me sobbing on the bathtub rim because I’d seen Sandy fucking him was now turning me on, trying to see how close to orgasm I was, as my lover stroked his cock. There was a series of duos kissing; first, I kissed Redd to my left and then Bert to my right.
kissed Bert to his
left and Redd to his right, and our two dyads dissolved into one unified group
of male heat. Sandy
The orgy-soul, the swelling tide of male expectation and entry into higher levels of erotic consciousness, took us together beyond what was allowed ever to a single individual. The orgy-soul entered into the pairs of men, floating, as if on an atmosphere made of human skin and muscle and steamy sweat. For a minute, our foursome held together in the seeming chaos and random sexual connections of the group. Momentarily we’re separated from the greater being but we’re being pulled by newly approaching forces into the vortex of this masculine sensuality. Our neat four- man mandala, at the center of the orgy room, was slowly shoved aside by new erotic undulations, by the force of hundreds of men pushing toward one another. The forces were impossible to resist, and guiding our little group as a unit grew more difficult.
The orgy generated its own form of control against which individuals are helpless.
Then, into our midst, a second kneeling guy in nothing but a black leather vest and a black leather cock ring, knelt and wrapped his arms around my body and held my ass, and began sucking my cock. As if on a signal, another kneeling man entered our square of friends.
Seven of us now functioned as a unit of rich shared touches, licks, sucking, fingers finding assholes and gently tapping the entrance and sometimes wetting and entering in. My cock was sucked and another guy sucked
, so we leaned forward
and kissed each other, making a more intricate mandala of lovers in this
unifying orgy. Wet precum leaked from our cocks into the mouths of these
fabulous strangers as fingers explored us. I find Louie has switched to licking
me and somehow spun around under my balls and legs. He knelt behind me with his
face, nose, tongue up my ass, and the mandala spreads to include even more men
added to its growing size. We maintained our central core of Sandy and me, Redd
and Bert, Louis and two other cocksuckers. Strong men, large bodies shoved
harder against our interwoven monad, then we lost our grasp of one another as
the press of strong muscled guys surged upon us. Sandy
As if in a sudden ocean wave my grasp of Bert was lost, and the connection that the four of us had broken apart.
I watched as Redd let a small black guy stand behind him and slide his cock in him, and with that, suddenly the “fucking brigade” was upon us.
I had to decide if I’d let a cock in my ass other than
’s and he faced the
same decisions. But we’re both surprised by the invitation of proffered butts,
and we saw the opportunity to fuck these gorgeous young men anonymously. Sandy
Sandy and I agreed with a nod to each other. We began to swim into the core of the orgy, anonymously fucking guys who moved as the press of bodies let them, and we found ourselves floating in an ocean, farther apart physically, but I began fucking some guy and Sandy fucking some guy, and Louie steadily working my ass with his tongue and then he asks permission and I agree to get fucked by him as I fuck a starkly muscular blond boy from the college crowd. In the distance, I see Sandy and he’ fucking.
We reached out to one another, but our arms weren’t long enough to breach the gulf of flesh between us. As if on signal, we both gently exited from the men we were fucking. Louie pulled out of my ass. Sandy and I moved past shoulders and chests, legs and asses, hard cocks between every couple of guys ad infinitum, and we embraced, stomach to stomach with our dicks pressed between us and no longer available to the group, we kissed and light filled my mind and body and I witnessed time slowing down. We’d been in the orgy for hours.
Suddenly poppers were tossed into the air-conditioning system and we were all on Butyl Nitrate, stoned and aroused even more. With the whole group breathing the poppers’ fumes, this combined earthly sensuality of the group moaned in pleasure like one huge being. The orgy has a being-ness, like a living unity, and we’re in a being that each of us is a part of. Individuality was swallowed up. We pressed into each other and reached in between ourselves, and now fully four hours after we entered the press of shirtless men, we were finally cumming on each other at the edge of the orgy. We cum with explosive jets of pent up sex, like all of the beauty built up inside each of us spills out into the universe. We were sexual artists enjoying freedom to create.
We kissed in blissful afterglow and the skin of other men began to feel cooler to us. Fewer and fewer couples fucked and the masturbation ended. We all moved against one another a few more times but now it was just friendly and casual body talk. Then in twos and threes we rested upon one another, leaning on each other, and pants were here and there are pulled up to waist height, snapped or buttoned shut. Some guys let their flaccid cocks hang out and lit cigarettes, and the orgy, that great being of sensuality ended in hours of soft conversation, with occasional cock sucking.
Sandy and I again sat on one of the giant speakers, the gigantic bass woofer, and had a cigarette we bummed from Redd, then a joint.
pointed to the
entrance and we got off of the huge speaker, and walk single file through the
crowd and out into the early pre-dawn glow of Saturday morning sunrise. Sandy
It was almost dawn Saturday, the outside air cleaned and humid. Inside Jewel’s, we’d breathed marijuana air, poppers air, cigarette smoke air, and the scent and pheromones of three or four hundred men, all shirtless or even naked. The sweat and underarm odor, the sex smells, all the smoke began to thin out as a massive air conditioning system caught up with the load it had to fight. It was strange to feel ice cold air conditioning now washing out the front door and onto the sidewalk. We went back in for a minute to cool down. The air conditioner system was injected with pure oxygen from the DJ’s booth and there was nothing more refreshing to a guy in a body crush or in an orgy. The cool oxygen invigorated us.
We wished to be nowhere other than this one place as the cool winds embraced us. Feeding the tribe pure oxygen and pure poppers caused huge swings of lessened inhibitions and let the primal being cut loose once more. People found themselves doing things that they never would have imagined they could do in public. However, Sandy and I were exhausted. Sated.
Exiting Jewel’s was always like being reborn into a forgotten world. Weather changes take place over several hours. When we went in, it was hot and humid but now, about , we walked arm in arm, clasping waists, shirtless, now in a heavy rain. Warm rain fell in the Vieux Carre and we feel bathed in the purifying water.
To purchase from JMS Books, click http://www.jms-books.com/index.php?main_page=product_info&products_id=893
Monday, August 12, 2013
This edition of M Christian’s Running Dry – The Complete Series contains for the first time ever the original story, the sequel novel, and a new never before published concluding novella. This classic masterful queer thriller/horror novel is back in print with 20,000 additional words.
He’s immortal. He drinks blood. But he's not a vampire. Doud’s totally unique – a being no one’s ever seen before – and he’s desperately lonely for a lover: a special someone who will not just join him in his bed but his strange life as well. But every time he thinks he's found someone it all goes horrifically wrong.
Then one day a monster from his past returns: a thing of bitterness and fury he believed was long dead. Doud, with his friend Shelly in tow, begins a terrifying chase that begins in
Doud will get what he’s always wanted out of his long, strange life–but it will be nothing that Doud, or you, could ever have imagined!
Running Dry – The Complete Series
Amazon Kindle (
"You want some?" came a voice from the next-door stall: deep and mature, but not old; faintly lyrical but not threateningly exotic; alluring and tempting, but not shallow or jaded.
"S-sure," he stammered as he leaned forward to undo the latch, gently push the door open.
The similar sound of a cheap bolt being drawn back made his heartbeat race, a stroboscopic cascade of imagination making his eyes blur.
When he did appear, Vince saw that his voice was ... and could not be anything but, his: a face with lines of experience, but not aged; unique features, but without the fear of being too foreign; a sensually wry smile on delicate lips, but not mockingly lecherous.
Not old, but he immediately put his nearly-elegant and almost-refined face between thirty and forty; not local, but he dreamed of Cinzano umbrellas and waiters with thick mustaches ... a land within sight of an-always-turquoise Mediterranean; and a truly happy grin and an honestly playful dance of gray eyes. He wore simple but too-clean clothes, to be working simply: dark jeans, a pair of new-ish tennis shoes, and a black, well-washed, turtle-neck.
Standing, framed by the battered metal of the narrow bathroom stall, he looked down at Vince for a moment, as if doing the same cascade of imagination – and, as he did, Vince felt himself faintly blush: wondering how this handsome-but-not pretty man, who maybe (maybe-not) came from a warm land on a side of that southern sea, and who had asked to come over and suck his cock, saw him.
The floor of the bathroom was tiled, smudged and streaked here and there with whatever the owner of the Crooked Crow couldn't, or wouldn't be bothered, to clean, but it didn't stop him from kneeling down in front of Vince. The blush, at which Vince's face further warmed, didn't go away as the stranger put one hand, and then the other, on either side of Vince's thighs and gently – almost lovingly – parted them.
"You're new at this, aren't you?" the man said, with humor – but not laughter – in his voice. It matched the calmness in his touch; his playful, but not catty, tone. "There's nothing to be afraid of."
"O-Okay," Vince said, his own voice coming out too many stepped-up octaves high.
From his right thigh, the man's hand deftly slipped further up, between Vince's legs to wrap firmly, but still kindly, around his hard cock. Vince's blush remained – but then faded quickly: he'd half-expected (and half-not) that his cock would fail him, that his naïveté would leave him at half-mast, and less-than-full-steam.
This time the other man did laugh – but with and not at – and squeezed Vince's cock ever-so tighter. "I think we'll have a good time," he said.
All Vince could do was nod – and that came as a basic, deep-down reflex.
Then the other man, the stranger, dipped his head down and – with a neat, smooth, and Vince suspected well-practiced gesture, put his lips around the head of his cock. The contact was almost an electric shock: a bolt of sensuality that made – another basic, deep-down reflex – Vince hiss, and then softly moan.
Even though he couldn't see it, Vince was somehow aware that there was a smile there, wrapped around the head of his cock: a reflecting joy that Vince's pleasure was giving the other man pleasure as well.
But that was just the tease, the taste, the beginning movement, the first brush stroke: at first Vince wasn't even aware of it, but then the knowledge came and with it a new form of shock, a new level of sensuality: that the other man, this total and complete stranger kneeling down between his legs was slowly ... so very, very slowly ... inching his mouth down the shaft of Vince's cock.
He thought it would stop, Vince thought that at any moment the action would cease ... but it didn't: instead his cock went further and further down into the man's mouth, and then his throat.
Vince's soft hiss, and almost-inaudible moan, changed tune and timbre, and there was nothing he could do – or would do – to stop it. Vince's body tensed, stiffened in body-mirror to the firmness of his cock. Again, despite his will, he found his hips shoving, and pulling in and out of the other man's mouth and, again, he felt a smile in those lips and a second echoing pleasure from giving pleasure.
But it didn't stop there. Vince knew that he was new, naïve: he knew that – in his mental scorecard – that there were more empty boxes than ticked-off, completed ones when it came to ... when it came to having strange men in bathrooms sucking his dick, but what he did know was that this was different, this was unique, this was beyond anything he'd ever experienced ... and also suspected he'd feel again.
It was a man's lips, a man's tickle of teeth, roof of his mouth, the wet and firm tunnel of his throat: there was passion, there was enthusiasm, but there was also ... more.
A hint, a suggestion, a spine-tickling goose bump parade of almost-fear: a part of Vince's mind – far removed from that stall in that bathroom – knew that was he was experiencing was more that simply the best on his limited scorecard, more than he ever could expect. But he didn't say or do anything. He didn't want to say or do anything to stop it.
It felt ... it felt like his life and everything about it – every once of essence, every drop of days, every trickle of existence, was being pulled through the pool of his balls, into the heat of his deep belly, through the almost-cramping firmness of his erect shaft, past the screaming-sensitivity of his head, and out and down the wet and bottomless throat of the man kneeling in front of him.
He came, and then he came, and he came again – the first arriving and departing with the knowledge that his come shot down the other man's throat, but the others that followed were ... not dry, just not salty and sticky. That part of Vince's consciousness that wasn't there in the bathroom, might even have suspected that what was coming out of his body was even more than his essence, drops of days, trickles of existence – that what was being sucked out of him could have been everything of him, even the stuff that smelled of hot pennies, that was both slick and sticky at the same time ... as well as deep, rich, red.
But he didn't say or do anything. He didn't want to say or do anything to stop it. There was sex, there was pleasure, there was orgasm – and then there what was happening to him in the stall of that bathroom, and Vince didn't want it ever to end.
But then it did – and, at least, the conclusion wasn't sudden, a shock of being on the edge of sexual, sensual, joyful bliss, and then nothing. As with the coming, the going was slow, steady, but when he was aware of it clear and distinct. The room, his mind, everything that was then and there contracted down from where it had ballooned ... until Vince was sitting on the toilet, his legs spread, his pants around his ankles, and the man – the stranger – was slowing his rhythmic lifting and descending of his head, easing the sucking of his mouth, loosening the contractions of his throat, until it simply came to the soft, almost sweet, end of the other man kissing the overly-sensitive tip of Vince's still-hard cock.
"Good?" the other man said, a wide – a very, very wide smile – on his face.
Vince couldn't speak: he'd forgotten how and hadn't returned to earth long enough to even begin to relearn how: all he could do was nod.
The stranger playfully patted Vince's thigh, the grin never leaving his lips. "I'm glad."
Standing – another concept that Vince knew was far beyond his own body at that point – the man ran two fingers across his lips, as if savoring the lingering sensation of having Vince's cock between them.
Turning to leave, he then looked back over his shoulder and – his smile still wide but also somehow cooler, reserved, staid – said, "I'll see you later."
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Monday, August 5, 2013
Where My Love Lies Dreaming by Christopher Hawthorn Moss is a love story that takes place just before and during the American Civil War. The main characters are a wealthy Creole riverboat gambler and a rather repressed German immigrant who works for the
Elegant and sexy New Orleans gambler François "Frankie" Deramus, discovers that his beloved riverboat "Le Beau Soleil" is not, as he always claimed, his "only love" when repressed German immigrant Johnny Stanley books passage on the long trip from Illinois to the Crescent City and into his heart and bed. As you can guess, the two men wind up on opposite sides of the war. Can this Southerner and Northerner survive when they are separated by the War Between the States?
"If you don't fall head over heels in lust with Frankie Deramus, I'm sorry, but you just ain't alive.!"
Where My Love Lies Dreaming
Dreamspinner Press (
ISBN: 978-1-62380-638-5 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-62380-637-8 (paperback)
(Frankie, a Confederate intelligence officer, is part of a band investigating gunshots. They have come across a party of Yankee sharpshooters who had fired the shots at a riverboat on the Mississippi River. It is April 1865.)
The light was failing, but it was too early for the campfire to make silhouettes of the forms seated around it. One of the men was squatting by it stirring something in a pot. Another played a harmonica, a tune Frankie recognized as “Lorena.”
The picket, a man whose shoes were tied together with muddy string, lay behind them now, his throat cut, having never heard the soldier Barnet sent to silence him.
Back in the darkness a good way from the little campfire, Frankie tried to catch Barnet’s eye, to communicate the importance of preserving the officers for information. But Barnet had moved out of Frankie’s sight. He sighed, waiting for the signal. He thought, Les pauvres, they must be dead on their feet to be so easily taken.
He did not hear the signal when Barnet gave it, but obviously, the rest of the Rebel soldiers did, for with a bloodcurdling scream, they came at the men in the camp from all sides. The Yankees didn’t have a chance to snatch their guns and defend themselves. They were shot as they jerked up to stand.
Frankie screamed, “The officers!” knowing full well he could not be heard over the explosion of gunfire. He dashed forward, a second after the rest of the band converged on the campsite. He finally spotted Barnet, who had a colonel on the ground, holding his gun on him. The man lay on his back, his hands up and empty, a developing bruise under his chin from Barnet’s rifle butt.
The other Rebel soldiers milled about the bodies, prodding them with boot toes and their rifle barrels. None of the Yankees stirred. They were all dead. Frankie exchanged cold looks with the Yankee colonel, then went over to where a lieutenant lay on his back. “God damn it,” he muttered. Dead. He went over to the body to strip it of its pistol and look for any papers before the man’s blood soaked them. He knelt and reached for the sidearm, then for the collar buttons of the man’s uniform tunic.
He froze. It couldn’t be. The moment he recognized Johnny’s face, he saw movement so slight only he could have seen it. “Johnny!” he allowed to slip out under his breath. He fell on his knees by Johnny’s side and reached to his throat to feel for a pulse. It was there and strong. He was alive. He frantically started loosening buttons and straps to give him air and noticed as Johnny’s head fell sideways there was blood on the back of it and on a gnarled tree root where he must have struck it. He was only alive because he had been knocked out so the soldiers did not bother to shoot him. Officer or not, wounded men were shot. There was no way to deal with them, no way to take them back to camp as prisoners. Frankie put his hands palms down on Johnny’s chest and said an Ave as quickly as he could.
“What’s the problem?” Barnet was behind Frankie, peering through the gloom. “He not dead?”
Frankie thought fast. “No, but I thought he was reaching for his pistol, so I grabbed it. I think he’s unconscious.”
Barnet turned his head and spat on the ground. “Wittkamp, get over here. We got a wounded man.”
The muscularly built private stepped over to the wounded lieutenant and started to raise his rifle to shoot him.
“Stop. It’s an officer. I can interrogate him when he comes to.”
Wittkamp looked at Barnet, who shrugged. “All right, Zeke. Maybe later.”
Barnet directed his men in the disposal of the bodies. Bender guarded the colonel, who had been trussed like a pig and now sat watching their every move from under bushy red eyebrows. Frankie was aware of the man’s glare as Frankie examined Johnny’s body.
Frankie lifted Johnny to inspect his wound. The gash was bad enough to knock him out and was bleeding like mad as scalp wounds do. Frankie retrieved his handkerchief and held it folded into a compress against the wound, his palm cradling the back of Johnny’s head. With his other hand, Frankie searched for gunshot wounds. He found none, at least none fresh. He noticed how well-developed Johnny still was, perhaps more so, as if he had resumed his boxing.
“Johnny, mon ange, what has become of you all these years?”
At the sound of his name, Johnny’s eyelids fluttered. Ice-blue eyes tried to focus on the face of the man who held him. “Frankie,” he breathed. He smiled contentedly, then lost consciousness again.
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