Granted, my e-book is freely available for downloads, but it was given away prior and therefore, I feel, unethical for me to attempt selling. And it's for a good cause, to promote traffic on Mel Keegan's wiki site, The GLBT Bookshelf! The man kindly put together my humble story with a beautiful cover by Jade. If you're interested in great, gay oriented fiction, come on over for some great titles! Please stop by and support our various artists:
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Below you'll find an excerpt. First, I need to rectify an error. I neglected to credit any of the wonderful folks who aid and inspire my writing. Special thanks to Dilo Keith, A. Catherine Noon, Nikki Memmott, Evilynne, and Myladymystere! You've all improved my writing (any and all shortcomings are mine alone). For anyone not listed, please forgive my need for brevity!
Now, meet Michael Blanc, Corporate Stress Reliever by trade and optimist by choice. He knows all too well that life can throw rotten fruit in your face. In 2186, Michael makes the most of just desserts. Employed as confidante and lover to those that make up the whipped cream topping on that big apple pie, New York, New York, Michael has survived the whipping and now nibbles a nice, big slice of the pie.
Excerpt from "Memoirs of a Corporate Stress Reliever":
I can do that. At a convenient drum beat I throw back my shoulders. Stiffened arms let the bolero glide off. Curled fingers catch the inner seam of the left lapel, saving that article from the floor.
So, he wants me to keep the hat, normally the first thing tossed. Most guys go gaga over my hair. Mr. X likes hats. I like Mr. X. Ergo, the cover stays on my head.
Stepping back from his spot on the mattress gives me the necessary room. Spinning a three-quarter turn to my right, I drape the jacket over my far shoulder and swivel my head down. The only part of unclothed skin visible to him is my chin and lips, which I lick. I hear his moan below the music.
I turn to fling the jacket onto a corner chair and, facing the far wall, fold in half with one hand handing my cap in place to blow him a kiss from between my calves. I straighten, rolling my spine in a wave that only ends when I stare at the ceiling. I shiver plainly for his witness and drop my gaze straight to the wall once more.
Whirling 180 degrees, I stop on a dime and try not to gawk. There’s a line of naked skin showing almost to his groin, the expensive robe gapped. Swallowing hard, I grind my hips against empty air, leather-clad fingers unbuttoning my shirt. Lower body never still, I kick off my shoes and dance on bare feet.
I’m breathing heavy enough to pant and it’s not from exertion, my body too conditioned. What takes my wind is the memory of things he’s done with this body – things he’ll soon repeat.
I’ve pulled my shirttail out and undone the first button of my fly. I stop, chest and stomach heaving, though there is no perspiration on my skin. The auto-climate directs a cooling flow of air upon me.
“Room,” he addresses the monitor AI. “Auto-air off. Authorization code 59784.”
The breeze ended, moisture instantaneously beads my breast. Smirking, he tells me to begin again.
“I want to lick the sweat off that beautiful body. Keep your shirt. Get rid of the pants.”
Once they’re on the rug out of my way, I reach inside my shirt. He knows I’m pinching the nipple but the miniscule teat is so hard that it can’t engorge beyond what the first touch of leather finds. I raise my face and close my eyes, other hand tugging the curls down my neck.
I’m goading him into touching me himself. I give him bedroom eyes and wet my upper lip. He’s so on edge I can virtually feel those hands and mouth on me in anticipation.
Mr. X rises quickly, his robe billowing behind him. He’s upon me, somehow losing that wrap between the bed and where I stand. The fabric collapses on the floor to be forgotten. Gripping my waist is a gentle but firm hand. I am irrefutably his.
He yanks the shirt off one shoulder and slicks his palm across my drenched pectorals. I watch breathlessly. A wide, soft mouth finds one rosy nub. I don’t need cosmetics for color there. It’s plain, tingling flesh he suckles.
His touch finds my silk briefs. The loose outer layer feels like liquid over the skin-tight lining of stretchable cotton. He comments on it, squeezing my ass.
“Are these new? Nice.”
I’m glad he doesn’t expect an answer. He laughs softly, a pure and happy sound over his impact upon my faculties. The front panel of the custom underwear is no longer slack, my erection straining to get out. His hands haven’t even brushed over my loins. It’s obvious I could not withstand much.
“It’s been too long. Let’s make up for lost time.”
I hope this whets your appetite. A less steamy snippet is up on my Darla M. Sands blog. Happy reading!