Wednesday, November 18, 2015

Just a reminder...

Just a reminder to all the pundits, authorities, know-it-alls, complainers and whiners...

You have no authority to decide what anyone else should write or read...period. If you don't like, don't read. If you want to read something you cannot find, write it yourself. THAT is freedom of expression. We are damn lucky to have it. You have no standing to tell someone else what to write, or how to write it. You have no stake in the outcome, no horse in the race. Whining and complaining only makes you look like an idiot. So wise up, practice tolerance. Find what you love and promote it rather than trying to argue and browbeat someone into changing what they do. The world will be a much kinder, calmer place.

Monday, November 2, 2015

UnCommon Bodies ARCs are here!

Yes, time does pass swiftly. Before I had time to blink, ARCs for UnCommon Bodies were in my mailbox! This is an amazing anthology from Fighting Monkey Press which includes:

We is We By Michael Harris Cohen: We is we follows a day in Mary and Millie’s life, traveling sideshow freaks who’ve lost touch with the outside world.

Don’t Touch Me by Bey Deckard: Fighting is what Beau does best, because the very thing he dreads is exactly what lends him the extraordinary strength to defeat even the worst odds. And he does it all with the help of his angel, the woman he longs desperately to hold… but can’t.

Undead Cyborg Girl by Kim Wells: When she wakes up undead after receiving a cyborg assassin upgrade surgical procedure, Undead Girl’s life is forever changed. Is it for the better? She has all the skills, but she needs a job, she needs some friends, and she needs to remember who she is. Part 1 of the Cyborg Story trilogy.

Skin By Brent Meske: After constant bullying in high school, Patricia vows to change her name and her entire being. When she gains the ability to mold and sculpt flesh, that vow very quickly becomes a terrifying reality.

Scars: First Session by Jordanne Fuller: After a life of abuse, Abigail made the decision to cover her scars with tattoos. What she didn’t expect was to confront her emotional scars in the process.

Mermaids By Robert Pope: Recently graduated from college, with no work prospects, Aqua-boy—so called because of the webbing between his toes—watches and listens to a group of musicians at a bar/restaurant when he notices the woman playing a diminutive red accordion has six fingers.

In Her Image By Vasil Tuchkov: An English PHD student arrives at the scenic but haunting countryside of Matera, Italy, looking for answers. His translator introduces him to a crippled local painter who claims to have depicted the impossible. As the three men converse near the ancient settlement’s caverns, a mystery unravels.

Three Poems By Deanne Charlton: It Runs in the Family, Brenga’s Body, Eternity in a One-night Stand

Reserved by SM Johnson: It’s been five years since the accident that killed Pete Spencer’s younger lover and left him grieving, bitter, and broken. He’s tired of his lonely world, but the kind of young men he’s attracted to dismiss him the moment their eyes land on his cane. Pete’s learned to hide behind the safety of his reserve, but he’s never met anyone like Rory.

UnTamed by Laxmi Hariharan: Wolf girl Leana Iyeroy, the first half breed in her family, only ever wanted to be 100% human. An unexpected encounter with the Hugging Saint of Bombay, forces Leana to face the wolf inside her.

Ruby and Deidre by Robb Grindstaff: A shorter than average man admires a taller than average woman from afar.

All The Devils by Keira Michelle Telford: It’s 1889, and women are being killed in the East End of London. They’ve become the targets of a deranged sexual killer, but why? Because they’re prostitutes? Sapphists? Or something else entirely?

Ruby By Bob Williams: It’s nineteen thirty-six and the town of Ransom, Oklahoma is barely functioning after the “Dust Bowl” storm of the year before. Michael Wootten sits upon the porch of his dilapidated house and watches a caravan of trucks pull into town. Melvin Mitchell Presents: Ruby and her Amazing FreakShow Friends. Maybe this is just the thing to pump a little spirit into the near-dead town. But everything comes at a price, and Ms. Ruby always takes her cut.

Phantom Pain By Philip Harris: Phantom Pain follows amputee, Mariana Jacobs, as she visits a man who claims to have information she needs. But that information comes at a cost.

Daedalus’ Daughter By PK Tyler: After her father’s death, Isha begins sprouting feathers.

The Zealot By Chris Godsoe: Six months ago, Tobin Maldovan was in charge of a manhunt for an enigmatic hacker named ATLAS. He lost his man near the Canadian border after a high speed chase, but not before ATLAS pulled strings to transfer the woman he Tobin loves across the country, hampering any chance at reconciliation. With ATLAS having escaped his jurisdiction, Tobin had nothing left but to follow his wife to California, seeking reassignment at the West Coast cyberterrorism field office. His reputation preceeds him, and he has drawn the case pursuing a man the media has taken to calling “The Zealot.” As usual, Tobin pours himself into his work, but the work becomes personal in ways that he never would have imagined.

Made for This By Sessha Batto: On the heels of unimaginable loss comes reinvention. Sometimes the gain is worth going through hell.

Unbreakable Heart By Rebecca Poole: A cyborg must escape her creators in order to survive.

Saltwater Assassin By Samantha Warren: Syren has spent her life as a sideshow freak, caged in a tank of saltwater and gawked at by hundreds of normal humans. She has a secret, though. At night, when the lights are finally off and the fair goers leave, she turns into a human–a mermaid assassin.

The Well-Rounded Head By Sally Basmajian: A woman is smitten with her husband’s big, entirely round head. One day she notices that his temples appear to be slightly indented, so that his head is no longer a perfect sphere. This revolts her, and she moves into their guest room in order to avoid him. When he breaks in, she kills him, in a most bizarre way.

Tuesday, October 13, 2015

UnCommon Bodies - welcome to the freakshow

I know, I know - I have been conspicuously absent. In all honesty, I have no good excuse, just the usual demands of keeping up with my cross-country commute and juggling the schedules of four adults (well...three, I have no schedule apart from theirs). On the up side, I did finish a short, and rewriting is underway on two novels so I haven't been totally lazy.

Today, however, I want to talk about the short I finished for an upcoming anthology called UnCommon Bodies. Just take a look at this awesome cover!!


Step right up to the modern freakshow — We have mermaids, monsters, and more. You won't be disappointed, but you may not get out alive.

UnCommon Bodies presents a collection of 21 beautifully irreverent stories which blend the surreal and the mundane. Together, the authors explore the lives of the odd, the unbelievable, and the impossible. Imagine a world where magic exists, where the physical form has the power to heal or repulse, where a deal with the devil means losing so much more than your soul.

Phantom Pain by Philip Harris
The Zealot by Chris Godsoe
Undead Cyborg Girl by Kim Wells
Made for This by Sessha Batto
Rudy and Deidre by Robb Grindstaff
Skin by Brent Meske
The Well-Rounded Head by Sally Basmajian
Mermaids by Robert Pope
All the Devils by Keira Michelle Telford
Scars: The First Session by Jordanne Fuller
We is We by Michael Harris Cohen
Poetry by Deanne Charlton
Reserved by SM Johnson
Ruby by Bob Williams
Daedalus' Daughter by PK Tyler
Don't Touch Me by Bey Deckard
In Her Image by Vasil Tuchkov
UnTamed by Laxmi Hariharan
Untitled by Daniel Smith
Saltwater Assassin by Samantha Warren
Unbreakable Heart by Rebecca Poole

And here is a peek at the promo image for my piece - Made for This 

This anthology is scheduled to be released 11/24 - but for you, my lovely readers, I am offering a special chance to get the first peek at what is inside. I am looking for ten lucky people to receive arc copies for review. If you are interested, email me or leave me a comment. If you aren't up to reading and reviewing the entire thing...I can send you just my story (which is very short, you know me).

Wednesday, August 26, 2015


I have been more absent than present on social media lately...for a good reason - I have finally dug in and started writing (well, rewriting). So, a short update on what has been happening...

Ripples, the last book in the Shinobi Saga, is getting back on track. I lost steam on this when my alpha reader and dear friend Anzia passed away last year. I had a hard time focusing on a project that she had been such an enthusiastic cheerleader for. But, finally, the pressure to finish Yoshi's story burst to the forefront. The rewrite is about 50% complete, and I am hoping to get it to my editor sometime in early September.

Another project which has been languishing is The Shamisen Player (formerly The Trick). Every time I sat down to work on rewrites I found myself stalled...and then it came to me. I flipped the focus from one main character to the other (hence the title and cover change). It made all the difference. I am now powering along, and have just passed the 25% mark. This, too, should make it to the editor near the end of September. And then I will finally have a couple of new releases and, hopefully, the impetus I need to dig into the the works in progress cluttering my hard drive.

And, just an FYI - I will be at the Baltimore Book Festival Saturday and Sunday, the 26th and 27th of September. If you are in the area stop by and say hi, I would love to meet any and all of you live and in person.

Friday, July 17, 2015

To write erotica . . .or not to write, that is the question

This has been an up and down week for me. I have spent a great deal of time thinking about writing (I know, writers write, they don't think about writing) and, more pointedly, thinking about what I write. It was triggered by a series of marvelous, thoughtful, posts by erotic writers I admire - Remittance Girl delved into the history of erotica and what it has evolved into, Tamsin Flowers wondered if E.L. James has broken the genre irrevocably, and finally Malin James delved into her reasons for writing about sex. If you haven't read these articles, take some time to do so as all the authors are far more eloquent than I shall ever be. 

The bottom line, though, is I have been rethinking whether or not I should continue writing . . .well, publishing. Writing will always happen, if only to get the voices out of my head. The question, of course, is whether there is any point to writing erotica that is more than a series of strung together sex scenes. Erotica divorced from romance (although not necessarily love - romance is a very specific subset of tropes and requirements that I, for one, cannot fit my stories into). Erotica that frequently strays to the dark side - non-consent, dubious consent, conflicted choices, and the results of those acts. For me, it comes down to two questions - is the sexual content in my work relevant or sandwiched in merely to titillate without advancing the characters or the plot, and would I be better off writing more mainstream fiction with a chance of reaching a wider audience?

Only one person can decide whether or not sex is relevant in a piece of literature, and that is the author. You may like or dislike a piece, but only the author knows the story they are trying to tell. Whether it succeeds or fails is always a matter of debate. Art is, after all, subjective. I definitely don't believe anyone has the right to censor an author's choices, no matter how offensive they may find them. Yes, there are things I find offensive (seriously, there are . . . just not much), and I exercise my right to choose not to read those topics. Once you allow censorship it opens a dangerous door, who knows what will next be considered inappropriate? I certainly don't want my writing constrained by any limits other than my own.

Since relevance is in the eye of the author, all I can really consider is why I think sex is an essential aspect of my own writing. Now, before you start screaming about 'the children, the children' – nothing I'm going to say is intended for anyone under eighteen, although, frankly, I don't have any problem with children reading about sex. I live in a city full of pregnant teenagers and, believe me, they did not have sex because of something they read. That honor goes to the media that bombards them daily - television, music, advertising, video games, those are the most powerful influences on today's youth.

I should come clean – I write erotica, explicit gay erotica. Before I go any further, let me clarify. I'm talking about sex in all its permutations, from barely consensual sexual torture to tender lovemaking and the entire gamut in between. My only real boundaries are no children and no women. I write about men exclusively because of the wonderful shifts of power and control possible in a same sex relationship . . . and because I love men. No offense to the ladies, but I don't think I could explore the same boundaries of pleasure and pain without seeming overly abusive, and that is at the core of everything I write. Beyond that, there is something wonderfully vulnerable and revealing about a man's decision to relinquish power that doesn't exist for women as they are already powerless in so many situations.

Remember the old ads in the back of comic books for x-ray specs? For me, sex is my x-ray specs. It strips a character down to his core truth and spotlights who they are with far more accuracy than pages of exposition ever could. Sex is the ultimate act of trust. Who we trust, why, and to what extent reveals much of our psyche that we would normally keep hidden. Sex is the catalyst for revealing hidden baggage, all the events and experiences we think are safely buried but which bubble to the surface under pressure. Our kinks highlight our transgressive natures, throwing into clear definition the whys and hows of our alienation from society in general. In short, it's the knife I wield to cut to the truth. 

So, can I write anything meaningful without that knife? This is where I flounder, because my way of looking at and shaping characters, my tools for revealing internal conflict, for shaping change, have always been rooted in sex. Would I be able to touch such highs and lows, and would the rewards for such a trade off be worth it? For now, at least, the answer is no. Not that I cannot write non-erotic stories, but, rather, I don't want to. They don't sing to me, and the loss of satisfaction with the work isn't worth the trade off of more readers . . .not to me. I think a lot of writers are struggling with these questions right now. Some will go on to mainstream genre, some will find success. Some will pander to the current erotica trends and will also find their audience. Me . . .I will continue to flounder in no-man's land for the time being, and when floundering becomes too painful, I will stop altogether, because I can't conceive of doing it any other way.

Saturday, June 20, 2015

I'm feeling generous . . .

I am in a rare, open, mood. So, to celebrate, this weekend (Saturday and Sunday) I am giving away books. That's right - I will give anyone who asks a copy of one of my books of their choice. Just drop me a line at and let me know which book and what format (mobi, epub or pdf) and I will send it your way asap.

Please bear in mind that these books are all dark, transgressive and homoerotic, and for adults only. If any of this bothers you, please feel free to move on to another writer!

The choices are:

This first book in the Shinobi Saga tells the story of the modern day ninja Yoshi, shadow wolf of the Takahashi clan. In a nation where conformity is prized he is an anomaly. A beautiful and deadly albino, prized for his exotic looks as much as his skills in the shinobi arts. From a young age he finds himself shackled by the bonds of duty, forced into play as a sexual bargaining chip for the welfare of his shuudan. 

An enslaved scribe whose worst nightmare is becoming a pleasure slave, a warlord who can command men, but not his own desires. When they come together both of their expectations are overturned. Will their budding relationship threaten everything they have managed to accomplish?   

A collection of short fiction, which includes the prequel to the Shinobi Saga, Geisha. Sex Ray Specs are a way of looking at the world. People are their most open and vulnerable during sex, and it is then that their inner secrets are revealed. This anthology runs the gamut, from sweet and tender to darkly transgressive, all with one common thread, the search for love.

Thursday, June 18, 2015

Desperately trying to regain my mojo

Yes, I am desperate. Days pass where I do nothing more than stare at my manuscript waiting for . . .something. I wish I knew what! So, back to excerpts, in hopes that it will kickstart me into writing something, anything. I cannot afford to be picky at this point!

So, from Onna Bugeisha (the book that stubbornly resists being written) . . .

Afternoons in the pleasure district are lazy, leisurely affairs. In this closed world of women the highlight of the day is gossiping the long hours away in the baths. From the outside the willow world appears to slumber behind its walls, recovering from the revelries of the night before. In reality, this is the most cherished part of the day, when hopes and dreams are laid bare and all eventualities are possible. The arrival of a curtained palanquin during these hours was unexpected enough to set all tongues wagging. When that palanquin stopped outside a teahouse known for unconventional sexual practices, curiosity overcame all rivalries. Women who normally passed without so much as a nod of acknowledgment put their heads together and whispered ever more outlandish theories. The only thing the pillow girls could agree on was no one recognized the heavily veiled woman who slipped from its curtained privacy into the teahouse. Her wealth was obvious, hair impeccably coifed and clad in a kimono worth more than all of them combined. Why such a person would visit that particular house was debated in ever rising voices. The most obvious answer, a husband with habits no decent woman could stomach, was almost immediately discarded. Such a refined creature would no more discuss such things than she would run naked through the streets. Most wives negotiated their husband's liasons through scrolls and servants, even the most mundane. The lack of subterfuge had all the women on edge. Something darker was obviously at work.
Inside the shadowed confines of the teahouse Jun proceeded to plead his case. Using all the skill he had acquired in his time onstage, he struck just the right balance between misery and vengeance, hoping to sway the proprietor to his side.
“He swore we were eternal lovers. And then he abandoned me.” A delicate handkerchief disappeared behind the veils to dab at watery eyes. “Now I am spoiled for any other.”
“Why come to me? There are many houses that would love to have a lady of your refinement. My customers have perverse tastes. Your delicate sensibilities will enflame them to greater outrages just to see your reaction.”
“I have no choice,” Jun explained in a breathy whisper. “I cannot allow another inside, and I have no wish to become enamored of any man. I am willing to be used as men use each other. Would you have customers interested in such things?”

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

My City is Burning . . .

Those of you who know me also know I make Baltimore my home, and have for many decades. It is a wonderful city, vibrant, stimulating, welcoming . . .and absolutely nothing like the image most people have in their heads. I am a pasty Irish girl living in a city where almost 70% of the population is black, almost half of the remainder is Hispanic - and I have never once felt unwelcome. I have long despaired of the image Baltimore has on the national and world stage, an image formed by the media and centered around the worst portrayal possible. The Wire may have been critically acclaimed, but it set the standard for convincing everyone that Baltimore was a dangerous dangerous place. It is no playground, true . . .but neither is any other major city in America, especially these days. Homicide: Life on the Streets cemented that perception in the minds of the world. And now the unrest following the murder of Freddie Grey. Not one news outlet bothered to cover the peaceful protests, or the heroic and selfless acts of those trying to calm the outrage or clean up after the inevitable destruction, but as soon as violence broke out it was wall to wall on every channel and every newspaper. 

If you know me, you also know I am a Buddhist. I do NOT condone violence in any way, shape or form. I don't think violence solves anything. I have seen the downside, on the streets of Belfast, in Detroit in the 60s, and now in my current home. No place I have lived has become a better place as a result of violence . . .and yet, as much as I deplore it, I also understand the frustration that spawns such a reaction. There is a fundamental problem when more money is spent trying to pay off victims of brutality than in preventing it in the first place. There is a problem when, in a country as rich as ours, so many people have no hope, no future, and no way out of grinding poverty other than sports and drugs. 

I drive my son to culinary school from my blue collar neighborhood, increasingly populated with for sale and auction signs as the jobs once held have slowly trickled away to be replaced with a smattering of low paid service positions. I pass through neighborhoods that look as if they have been bombed . . .blocks away from the jewel of the Inner Harbor with its sports fields and glitzy shopping centers. Blocks from Johns Hopkins, the hospital known around the world for excellence, sitting in the midst of third world devastation.

I wish I knew what the answer was. I wish I had the ability to turn the tide. I wish that, in our rich and amazing nation, one people from all over the world want to live in, no one was homeless, or hungry, or uneducated, or without medical care. It is a sin and a shame because without the basics of life we can never be free or brave. There is no liberty when you are shackled by poverty and circumstance. There is no freedom when you realize you may live and die in the same crumbling housing project. There is no equality when some are treated as less than human for whatever reason.

And so, this is a post without a resolution. I have no amazing insights, I have no words of wisdom apart from this - everything is more complicated and more intertwined than you think, take nothing at face value, strive to do the best you can for everyone you come into contact with. If we don't do better it will never get better. Practice empathy instead of superiority or condemnation. And, hopefully, we will all come out stronger on the other side.

Tuesday, April 21, 2015

Made for This

The irony of his situation was one of its most pleasing aspects. He was, after all, a creature made for submitting. To be bought by a master who desired domination almost made up for the past. Almost.

The act itself was two decades behind him. He barely recognized the shyly snarky pseudo intellectual who had so earnestly argued gender politics in an attempt to impress some silly coeds. That he had survived the psychosis his words inspired was, truly, miraculous. Or so he had been told. In truth, most days he considered his current life a cruel joke by an angry god, personal vengeance, perhaps, for some grand transgression he had already forgotten.

His transit from cocky teen to genderless thing had been swift, not subtle. He'd walked through that park a thousand times without encountering anyone. It never occurred to him that such seclusion might come at a price. Even the trauma surgeon refused to try and rebuild the shredded lump of flesh, realizing that salvaging a gnarled stump of cock would be pointless. The carelessly wielded chainsaw had merely nicked his scrotum, but there wasn't much point to balls without a cock, and the repair was simpler with a single graft.

He had tried to go on as if nothing had changed, subsuming his anger in pain pills, liquor and futile, chaste dalliances with women. In the end he found himself neither wiser nor calmer. A chance encounter led him to a place he never imagined finding himself.

“Aren't you a pretty thing.” The unfamiliar voice jerked him back to the present, to the role he was expected to play. It was a toss up as to which was more unsettling, the crop in his hand, or the massive phallus studded with shiny balls of stainless steel protruding from the codpiece he now wore. Both were symbols of how far he had fallen, or risen, he was as conflicted about that as everything else in this scene.

Up on the platform his master shivered in his bonds, inked trails oozing out of the tight corset wrapping his midsection, leather pants jerked down to his knees to expose the pale silky flesh of his ass for all to admire.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” The husky tremor in his master's voice spurred his resolve. The crop snapped against porcelain flesh, leaving a mark, his mark, and the demon slumbering inside him tore free. When he finally stopped every inch of exposed flesh bore the record of his madness, reddened welts mixing with tribal tattoos in a cacophony of frustrated desire.

Now came the part he dreaded. The beast inside him tamed, for the moment, leaving him without the will to finish this passion play. That his master was willing, prepped and waiting gave him no comfort. The murmur of the watchers spurred him into action, burying the ridiculous faux-cock to the hilt.

His fingernails dug ragged furrows into reddened cheeks as his mind trumpeted the futility of his actions. Pegging was a game for women, not men. His cheeks flamed as he realized all the silent watchers must know of his peculiar lack. In an effort to disprove that knowledge he redoubled his efforts, plowing into the writhing figure with greater abandon.

As with all good things, his frustrated rage couldn't last. Absent sexual satisfaction or the driving force of anger their copulation became just another task to complete. He found himself counting the indentations on the soundproofed wall, picturing towering mammatus clouds in their place. When the figure beneath him began to whimper he breathed a silent sigh of relief. The sticky spray of his master's semen meant he could, at last, put aside this facade.

The transit from top to bottom was mercifully brief. The cruel cock discarded, he was stripped, spread, bound, and his soul absolved. This was the moment he now lived for, his desire released from the cage in which he kept it securely locked up.

As the first cock slipped inside him his breath caught, by the fifth he was panting, by the tenth, at last, transported. He shuddered through what passed as orgasm and fell into darkness. His last thought that, perhaps, he could stay cocooned in the soft richness of this moment.

His eyes snapped open, master slumbered beside him, ointment coated welts glistening in the dim light. And so, it began again, the futile race to oblivion that trapped him in the present. His joy, his terror, his destiny fulfilled.

Friday, April 10, 2015

A Little Dream for Friday

A short piece from my anthology Sex Ray Specs for your Friday enjoyment.


Arthur considered suicide. He hummed tonelessly, turning the various options over in his mind as he sought the perfect one. Gas was too uncertain, a gun too messy. As he was mulling the pros and cons of a simple overdose, it came to him.
What are you thinking so hard about?" His brother's voice burst the bubble of Arthur's near epiphany.
Why are we doing this? Fishing has got to be the most boring activity on the planet. I doubt there's even any fish in this lake." After deftly parrying Martin's question with one of his own he didn't wait around for the answer, picking up his rod and meandering down the bank.
Where are you going?” His brother's anxious call prickled the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck. The man had eyes, it should be obvious. Instead of replying he merely shrugged, tilting his head in the direction he was heading. “Well don't go far,” the relentless voice continued. “We need to leave soon.”
He breathed a sigh of relief when he made it far enough around the curve of the lake's edge to be unseen and unheard. The constant, none too secret, surveillance his family and friends had him under left him struggling to breathe. He continued pushing his way through the tangled deadfall that lay just shy of the water until he was certain he hadn't been followed.
Arthur stretched out on a flat rock, pulling out the sketchbook he'd stuffed in his pants and digging in the bottom of his tackle box for a stick of charcoal. For the thousandth time his hand began to trace lines more familiar than his own face.
You have to stop this.” The tenuous whisper brushed his cheek, a wavering touch like a moth taking flight.
You know I've tried.” Arthur also knew his words fell on jaded ears. “Just one last time.”
You keep saying that.” The voice was stronger now, the smudges on the page dancing in sympathy. “You need to let me go.”
His fingers caressed the contours of a sharp cheekbone, translating the velvety nap of the well worked paper into silky flesh. “How can I possibly do that? Without this, I have nothing.”
I am nothing. You and I both know I'm not real.” The mournful tone was in sharp contrast to the hand rubbing a soothing circle between Arthur's shoulder blades. “I know you're planning something. Are you going to fill me in?”
No, it isn't important.” It wasn't really a lie. The sensation of his desire made flesh was enough to override his urge for self-destruction. “I just want to enjoy our time together.”
You need a living, breathing, lover, not some smeary lines on a torn piece of paper.” Shadowed hands slid over Arthur's arms, goose flesh rising in their wake. “This is a fantasy.”
Mmhmmm,” he hummed idly, turning to capture plump, velvety lips with his own. The kiss was warm and deep, sending electric sparks tumbling down his spine in his own personal fireworks display. The urge to deepen the connection was irresistible, and so their tongues slid against each other, neither willing to yield. Arthur had never before felt such an irresistible yearning, the taste was addictive, overwhelming, and marked him as clearly as the graphite streaks darkening his lips and winding their way across his torso.
His breath caught, time slowing to a crawl as a gossamer hand wrapped around his burgeoning erection. Two rough strokes, hot silk and electricity spiraling up his spine and tearing loose a rough groan. “Oh gods, yes.”
A needy moan escaped his throat when a hard cock pressed urgently against his and that maddening hand returned to wrap around them both. A hot mouth latched onto his nipple as his lover began to stroke, hand squeezing slightly as they thrust together. Their mouths mated, swallowing twin gasps as a thumb swiped through pearly drops of precum. A slick finger pushed through his tight pucker and all coherent thought dissolved into a ragged prayer to a deity Arthur had been certain he didn't believe in.
The slow slide of his lover's cock seemed to go on for ever, impossibly deep, and he wondered if, perhaps, the shadowy figure would disappear inside him completely. After what seemed an eternity it reversed, taunting him with an achingly slow rhythm. No matter how he squirmed and begged, the measured pace never faltered. Each brush to his prostate tightened the hot coil inside of him, and he felt his balls drawing up tighter and tighter, like a spring ready for flight.
A ghostly hand wrapped loosely around his erection, the light teasing strokes matching the pace of the tongue ruthlessly mapping his mouth. Even now, Arthur spared a moment for his obsession, deciding that forgetting to breathe due to pleasure might, indeed, be the best way to die.
A hard thrust to his prostate pushed him over the edge, molten lightning surging up from his balls as the world greyed out around him. When his eyes fluttered open they met with the heart-stopping sight of his lover daintily licking the seed from his chest.
Arthur, it's time to go.” His brother's strident call broke through the spell he was under.
Five more minutes. I'll meet you at the car.” Another whirlwind of kisses and then he was stumbling back through the brush, marks of his transgression starkly dappling pale flesh.
He watched the judgment settle on Martin's normally placid features, yet shrugged it off. The meddling concerns of his so-called loved ones were of no regard in this. “What?”
The tense silence blanketing the car lifted only slightly. “You could at least pretend.” The accusation was unexpected and Arthur considered it carefully before answering.
I could. Would that make it better?”
Better is relative. At least no one could accuse me of complicity.” His brother was making the face again, cheeks puffed out, brows drawn low, and forehead furrowed. It was his serious face, the one that always telegraphed bad news. “Mom wants to have you committed.”
That isn't so easy.” Arthur's glib reply did nothing to ease the tension and he wasn't surprised when the car glided to a stop on the shoulder.
He didn't resist the hand cupping his cheek, turning to regard the once mirror of Martin's features. “I want to be on your side, you know I do. But I'm worried about you.”
I'll be fine,” he soothed. “I'm not hurting anyone. I know it can't go on forever. I'm just not ready to stop yet. Soon, I promise.”
You swear?”
Cross my heart.” Sharp eyes searched for the lie behind his words, but their inherent sincerity must have been convincing. The car slid back into traffic, and Arthur slid back into his contemplation of the perfect death.
The next few weeks were filled with stolen moments and the search for epiphany. His friends stopped meeting his gaze, eyes skittering past the bruised tones of his skin to rest on the nothingness behind him. Their discomfort only fueled his frantic quest to either hold on to what he had, or find a permanent solution to his situation.
Even his lover pressured him, waiting until he lay limp and boneless, still panting from his release. “You can't continue on like this.”
You sound like you don't want to be here.” Arthur's hurt leaked into the words.
I should say that.” A surprisingly strong hand kneaded the muscles of his neck, and Arthur turned away, forcing his limbs to stop trembling. “I should . . . but I can't. I've come to care for you.”
The reluctant response, and the brilliant smile it wrung from the usually somber Arthur, touched off another round of heated kisses. Hands roamed over all the skin they could reach, painting new marks of possession across creamy flesh.
Ironically, when he was most lost in the embrace of his shadow lover, he was closest to the answer he so desperately sought. Recognition simmered in the dark corners of his mind, pushed into hiding by the intoxication of one more perfect kiss.
When it hit him Arthur almost rejected the idea. Too trite, too pat, too sappily sweet. But it called to him, whispering in the long dark hours of the night, and piercing through the drone of disapproval that blanketed his waking hours.
What have you done?” The gossamer whisper almost went unnoticed.
I'm going to join you.” Arthur's confession released the tight knot of lingering tension inside him. “I've been planning it for a long time.”
There is no me without you.” The aching sadness in his phantom lover's voice had him searching the familiar features, hoping he had misinterpreted. “I will miss you.”
Their last kiss. Arthur was torn between laughing and crying, his shoulders shaking, the taste of blood on his lips. He wanted to apologize but plump lips covered his, the taste of blood growing stronger. Too late, he realized their stolen kisses weren't enough, would never be enough. He couldn't remember what his lover tasted like, so he cried harder.
I'm tired,” Arthur's eyelids drooped, fluttering in time with the beats of his heart.
Then sleep.” The husky whisper was infinitely gentle, shadow hands clutching him tightly. “Just close your eyes and rest.”
Kiss me again?” His eyes closed, the lids giving up the battle to stay open, stress and pain softening away.
Dream of me. I'll kiss you when you wake.”

Sunday, February 15, 2015

Book Trailer Love Fest

Voting begins . . . NOW!

Book Trailer Love Fest 2 Show your support of over 30 authors including USA Today bestsellers by voting in the first ever Book Trailer Love Fest. Watch the trailers, vote in the polls, and share the contest with your friends! The voting is live from February 15th to February 22nd. Winner will be selected on the February 23rd. This is a fun, free contest made to support all authors! So hop on over to and get your vote on! Here is a list of authors participating in the contest:

USA TODAY Bestselling Authors:

Amazon Bestselling Authors:

Award Winning Authors:

Also featuring these fabulous authors:

Susan Laqueur
J.R. Smith
Angelica Dawson
Katherine Jean Pope
Everett Robert
Charity Tober
Tam Linsey
W K Pomeroy
Jordan Mierek
Elle Jacklee

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

I Need Your Advice . . .

Lately I have found myself unable to force the words out of my brain and onto the page. I have deadlines to meet, I have first drafts and rewrites mouldering away in limbo. The words are in my head . . .but I can't seem to get them down on the page. The minute I sit down at the computer they flee and hide. I'm looking for advice. Any tricks or tips to channel all those words out of my scattered mind would be greatly appreciated. So, give it your best shot. Any and all suggestions will be gratefully accepted and, at least, attempted!!

Friday, January 16, 2015

A short piece from my anthology Sex Ray Specs

The tapestry of his life was etched in flesh, stark black lines on pale skin slashed with scars. Each silvery trail had its mate, words of remembrance and warning. His meditation writ by the loving marks of many masters. An inconsistent and willful sub, he'd struggled for dominance and paid the price. Nervous fingers caressed the newest, still pink and overly sensitive.
"Are you sure you want to do this now? It's going to hurt." The artist's cautionary words were shrugged off and he settled into the chair. The pain was, to some degree, the point.
The ticklish job of layout was soon completed, and he studied the rough outline now spanning his chest in the mirror. His mind seamlessly made the transposition to read the familiar phrase. The mirror crack'd from side to side. "The curse is come upon me."
"It's a bit longer than the others."
"So was the relationship." His curt retort cut short any further questions and dark lashes fluttered shut as the needle bit into tender flesh. Traitorous thoughts reached back to the first time in this chair, and the quote that skimmed sinuously around and between his vertebrae. The trick is not minding that it hurts. A hard lesson, true, but one that still served him well. It served as punctuation for the satiny twisted stripes a badly wielded bullwhip had wrought.
Inky pinpricks danced close to his recent injury, coaxing damaged nerves to fire in sympathetic resonance, connecting present to past. The harsh crack of well-tanned leather on untanned skin. His arousal spiraled, adrenaline surging past synapses and connecting anus to cock to brain. Fire surged through the planes of muscle cushioning his spine, hot sparks of remembered agony.
The face was lost to him, but dark, unreadable eyes remained. They had lit, ever so briefly, when his blood started to flow. Trust misplaced for the first time carved canyons in his soul far deeper than the faded trails left behind would suggest.
Despite it all, or perhaps because, the remembrance was not of pain, but pleasure. His cock swelled under the force of the memory. Echoes of satisfaction he chased to this day.
He'd sworn it would never happen again, the words wrapping his spine meant as a warning. Not six weeks later traitorous feet carried him back to the clubs in search of something he couldn't admit.
It didn't always end badly. At times their lust and his need dovetailed, at least for a while. In the end, he always ended up wanting. A year passed, then two. Self-protective urges faded, the men he played with growing ever more demanding. His wants, delivered, and exceeded.
The artist was just that, an artist. His only concern perfect placement and precise lines. If he made the connection it was never mentioned. The others admired only the contrast, stark black on creamy white. Decoration for decoration's sake. Deeper meaning was outside their purview. That the needle was absolution for his failings was his private codex, the key to unlocking his truth.
The kanji wrapping his neck didn't quite conceal the grooves left by an ill-considered foray into breath play. A world of hurt and pain, even still, flowers bloom. He had sworn that would be the last time he made the trek from hospital bed to this chair. So he'd settled down, swapping restlessness for monogamy, to no avail.
At first it had frightened him. Gentle touches on the marks of his transgression. Hot hands stroking where others had bruised, bitten, or burned. He'd been skittish, constantly second-guessing every move, waiting for a punishment that was never delivered. Slowly, gradually, instincts honed in dark rooms with darker souls faded.
What he hadn't expected was the ink itself becoming an addiction. Reminders of mistakes of a gentler nature filled the void he refused to acknowledge. No longer words of warning, rather, souvenirs of this new path he so carefully negotiated. A barcode in the arch of a foot pierced by broken glass. A smiley face on his skull, proclaiming that drunken shower sex, however enjoyable, still came at a price. A dandelion on his shoulder blade, his past dissipating like seeds in the breeze.
And then, a first, a name. It wrapped the curve of his pelvis as a proud declaration of fidelity. The only time he ever explained the significance of his choice. The sex that followed was sweet. Tender in a way he rarely managed to appreciate, punctuated by the residual sting.
Perhaps that was his mistake, the mark without a mate. Fate when tempted rarely fails to deliver. Dulled instincts never recognized the increasingly stormy look in formerly placid eyes.
The needle bit deep and he clenched his teeth, a hand automatically reaching for his chest to caress the reminder of his latest descent into chaos.
"Too big for a bullet," the tattooist ventured. "Mind if I ask?"
"My lover tried to cut my heart out." He winced as a ghost of the pain surfaced. In truth, at the time shock insulated him, so unprepared for the assault he made no move to escape. In the halls of memory, though, the sting is bright and sharp. The ink is black where his blood ran red.
The words are etched in his memory, spoken in a voice roughened by anger and tinged with disappointment. "How could you possibly imagine I would feel good about this?" A hard hand stroked over the name he'd so proudly worn. His own blood concealing and distorting until it could no longer be read. "Your stupidity broke my heart. It's only fair I take yours."
He must have screamed. He probably begged. He surely wept. None of that was as clear as the feeling of falling into nothingness. With the clarity of mind death affords he searched for a way to undo what he had wrought, but you cannot unmake mistakes.
Wails of despair and flashing red. Hell resolved to salvation, but not relief. The pattern remained broken.
Deep breath. The world slowed, stilled, resolving from blurs of color to the familiar shop walls. Ritual complete, he rose and stretched. Order finally restored, he ambled off to write the next leaf.