Posts Tagged ‘free short story’

Here is a short story, a prologue if you will, to the “Gaslight Mysteries” novels. If you are at all curious about the necessarily brief character sketches, or by the hint of action to come, you may want to consider owning the books. There is a buy link below to my Amazon author page. Thanks for stopping by!

Wings of Angels

wings 420
The approaching man stumbled a little, oblivious to Michael’s presence in the room, sunk as he was in an ancient leather couch, his face buried behind the Dun Linden, Ireland New Dawn. As usual, this late at night, the man was carrying a bottle of Bushmills fine whiskey and walking with the deliberate gait of a drunk toward this end of the smoking room, where the dormitory entrance stood.

Michael McCree had been stalking this sensual dish, this marvelous bit o’hard, for the last few days. He’d found out Simon Hart was a private investigator, yet obviously one who needed to get sober before he investigated anything at all except a lumpy bed behind those double doors at his gentleman’s club.

Michael’s eyes rested longingly on Simon’s ass, revealed in all its muscled splendor by the tight athletic trousers. Only when the door was firmly shut and his quarry probably passed out on the cot inside would Michael finally leave and seek a late supper at the pub.

He tossed the newspaper aside and sat forward, elbows on knees, thinking about the impossibly handsome Simon. On Monday, three days ago, he’d handed Michael an obituary notice. Michael was a fair-to-middling newspaper typesetter, and Simon was a stranger in mourning. Their hands never touched. A starchy piece of paper did not even change hands. The sulky man had looked at him briefly, with aqua eyes like deep tide pools, and then he’d laid the notice carefully on the linotype as if he could not bear to have anyone wrench it from his possession.

The sheet of paper had been carefully inscribed with the details of a memorial service and a funeral following. It had taken Michael only a heartbeat to understand that the dead man had been Simon’s friend. And perhaps much more. Yet he could not tame the sudden lurch of his prick under the heavy leather typesetter’s apron. This was a man he wanted in his dreams, in his arms, in his ravening mouth. His cock, he knew, would fit nicely in the man’s ass when the time came.

This man Simon slid into his qualifications perfectly. He would not be a threat to Michael’s hidden life, one he’d closely guarded for years. After a sufficient amount of Bushmills, he may very well take a liking to Michael’s silk neckpiece. And those eyes … he could drown in their promise of smoldering resistance and eventual surrender.

O’course, he thought, he’d allow the man his period of mourning. And then ’twould be time to introduce himself properly. As a fisticuff fighter seeking to win a wager. As a potential new flat-mate. And finally, he hoped, as a savage-and-gentle lover.

Michael prided himself on having the eye and the sharp senses of a kestrel. And yet, when he rose and left the sagging couch, he did not notice another man in the large room get up and take his place near the dormitory door. He, too, held the New Dawn, a newspaper he did not intend to read.

wings from behind

The man called Moses watched Michael leave the club. His lower lip jutted out naturally, putting a kind of pout on the older man’s face. The expression in his very dark eyes was hidden by lowered lids and by shaggy brows that nevertheless told a prologue to danger.

I suspect this man who watches Simon has no hidden desire, except the desire to bed him. Not if I can help it.

His brows arched and flapped, a warning to anyone who would put this particular young man in peril. Especially the peril of one man entering another, even in spirit.

Simon, oblivious to the wings of angels spread outside the tiny dorm room, let another sip of creamy whiskey charm his tongue, then swallowed carefully.

“Funeral. Friday.” He set the bottle on the floor near the bed and lay back.

The first twenty-five years of his life had been hell. And yet, he thought, nothing like the next quarter century would be. In spite of the pain in his gut, he still would not cry. Because of it, he would not sleep.

Twenty feet away, in another world, the pages of a newspaper rustled softly, like the rousing of feathers, like the whisper of rushes in the Nile. And somewhere outside, walking the four miles to the Silver Hind pub where Simon had a flat, a man stretched his arms and yawned, unconsciously imitating his archangel namesake, Michael. archangel

Half a world distant, in a fog-shrouded city called San Francisco, another man sat smoking on an indifferent bed in a cheap hotel room. The bottle he held was prohibited by national law, and all the more desired because it was forbidden.

Sam Dashiell Hammett thought about his life as an undercover agent. He briefly considered his rude scribblings about a plain dick, an anonymous operative. He pictured his wife and child, forbidden to live with him by the interfering doctor. And suddenly, maybe because of the fucking booze, he thought about a handsome young Irishman he’d known years before. One he was sure he’d never see again.

I left without saying goodbye. I had folded my wings over him, my only friend … and then released him to find my own hell in the trenches of a goddamn war. Grinding out his smoldering butt, the tubercular man began to cough. And then, without even thinking about it, he pulled a pouch and thin paper packet from his shirt pocket and began to roll another cigarette.

The mysteries are

Heart to Hart … Sparring with Shadows … To the Bone … Thin as Smoke

All here on my amazon author page: http://amzn.to/1w8PVgI 

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wwest noose 406


Chase sat staring into his computer screen. He brought up a new document from his iMac “Pages” icon and set the title to boldface, centered.

Buffalo Ryder

He sensed Brew behind him, then felt his warm breath just behind his right ear. Without acknowledging the sudden stirring of his crotch, he began to write the words that had kept him awake half the night.

Crane Ryder felt a deep exhaustion between his shoulder blades, a pain that increased with every step of his horse. It finally curled in his lower back like a rattler, nestled on his raw nerves. The figure in front of him walked with a stiff back that belied his own fatigue. Ryder knew the half-breed Indian was at least as shit-ridden with pain as he was, because he’d walked a few steps ahead of his horse, hands lashed behind his back, the last two days.

He pushed his tattered Stetson forward to shield his eyes from the desert wind and the merciless sun. His horse, tired of carrying his weight, moved slowly through the cakes of shale and caliche.

The town of Noble, Nevada, seat of Sloane County, lay another day ahead. He’d been there before, tracked it over the lizard-back stretch of the Paiute Range to the west, eighteen hours of dust in his eyes and dirt in his mouth. And balls that cried for relief.

Between them hung a stiff-fibered rope, held by one man and biting into the flesh of the other man’s wrists. An hour ago, when he’d stopped to squat before a fire, eating a half-grown jackrabbit, the ’breed had stood defiantly apart, rejecting the scrawny half-cooked haunch he’d offered on the tip of his Bowie knife.

“Think I give a fuck?” He’d eaten it himself, then buried the bones. file0001073841038 rope flipn 500

Now, almost sunset, he spotted a copse of root-sharing mesquite trees, huddled like thin outlaws somehow clinging to the rocks. He dismounted. Reeling from desire to sleep, he drank deep of the ’skin that was strung across his belly, under his thin shirt.

His captive stood watching the sky, as though calling a scowling cloud to his rescue, or asking his gods to let him die. Ryder walked to the Indian and held out the ’skin.

The man jerked his head away, not meeting his eyes, moving his legs a fraction.

As he moved, Ryder caught a glimpse of his prick, heavy as a hatchet under the rag that clung to his loins,.

Shit. He turned and walked ten feet away, readjusting his crotch as he strode to the back side of the mesquite.

He thought about his prisoner. The man was tall, muscled, quiet. His eyes sought only the horizon, never his. His mouth seemed set in a line that never once moved—not in disgust, not in pain, not in supplication.

Ryder hadn’t had release for days. He thought about tying the sonofabitch with his feet and hands together in front, taking his ass in a torrent of greed. No. He might have ways of cutting my cock in half while I’m in him. Goddamn Indians, can’t trust a one of  ’em.

Even as he thought about it, then rejected it, Ryder’s cock began to weigh on him, a taut and heavy rope of flesh with nothing to snag and pull in. Standing hidden from the captive’s sight, he stroked himself with callus-roughened hands until his seed spat into the thin dirt. Then he walked back through the slender-leaved trees. Did he need to secure his prisoner even tighter so his captor could sleep tonight? He wondered again whether the bounty money was worth this pain and aggravation.

“Where you going with this, Chase?”

Chase turned his face to capture Brew’s mouth, biting down a little on his lower lip.

“Not sure. Ryder’s almost crazy with desire.”

“And yet he holds back.”

Chase turned back to the computer screen. “Yes.”

“Think you’ll put them in a bondage scene?”

“I never gave it much thought.”

“Well, it’s heading that way. White man over red. Submission, punishment. Is that what you want?”

“No, not one race over another.”

Brew’s breath blew closer, lips almost thrust into his ear.  “But you have him in ropes.”

“He has to be, Brew. He’s being taken to justice.”

“Whose justice? Some flea-bitten white sheriff?”

“It’s the wild west, Brew. Not much choice here.”

“Yeah, there is. For instance, the Indian could be the one taking in the bounty hunter. Ever thought of that? Make Ryder the bad guy, not a freaking kemo sabe.”

Chase turned all the way around in the swivel chair to face his lover, his large thighs open. The naked Brew, like a heedless jackrabbit, stepped into the trap. In a second, Brew’s taut ass was squirming between his knees as he bore the man lower with the strength of his legs, toward the floor.

Brew was laughing and struggling. “Come off it, man.  We’ve got to get dressed and join your dad in Quad Three. Goddamn you—”

“Don’t question my motives. Ryder has to take in the Indian.”

“I say you have bondage issues.”file0001704853842

“I’ll show you bondage.” In a flash, Chase was on top of the smaller man, holding his shoulders into the thin Navaho rug that lay between the bed and the computer desk.

He could fuck this man six ways from Sunday every night, and still want to ream his ass the next morning. So Brew’s struggling served only to stiffen his resolve to take him right there, on the goddamn floor. He saw an abandoned neck scarf near the bed leg, the one he’d been wearing last night before he and Brew had tumbled into their king sized bed.

In two quick motions, Chase had the scarf around his wrists, then wrapped around the stout wooden bed leg. He was straddling the man, sitting on his groin, looking down into coal black eyes and an unshaven face. He could feel Brew’s long cock nestled next to his crack, and he settled back to catch it between his own butt cheeks.

The former tight end for Sloane County High sat admiring the one he’d tackled. He was not really skinny, but Brew Lloyd was a lover, not a fighter. Chase Grayson knew the other man was not muscled enough to get loose, but he had the spirit of a goddamn maverick. Even now, he struggled in the makeshift manacles, daring Chase to eat into the hour they both knew should be spent on the ranch.

Chase had never taken a lover, nor even been fucked. Not until a few months ago when the experienced Brew had outright seduced him, right here in his own large bedroom. Since then, he’d let his inner sense of his own athlete’s body rule his actions. Their lovemaking, to him, was abandoned, daring, forbidden. Even Brew, experienced in the ways of men, swore he’d never been fucked by a man with his towering imagination. Not to mention size.

Not Brew, nor any man, had known that Chase was a writer. It was something he’d kept hidden for years, even from Pa. He’d finally confessed to Brew, the man he’d like to keep in his bed forever.

Grinning, Chase leaned into Brew’s chin. “Bondage issues, you say, Brew?”

“Hey, man. Let me go. I never bargained for this shit.”

He turned Brew belly down, twisting his wrists in the makeshift handcuffs.

Not for the first time, his eyes devoured slender buttocks and long thigh muscles. He sank to his knees and bent into Brew’s ass, sliding his fingers through the crack, then spitting on them and working them into his anus. Nice and slow. He watched his own fingers pull out of the soft flesh, the way Brew’s skin seemed to close around them, like a tender mouth on a nipple, as he withdrew.

His tongue found the rosebud. Suddenly his prick was twice as big as before, demanding entrance. Denying himself, he began to lap Brew’s anus with slow, wet strokes. He could feel his rigid cock beginning to leak, a soft weeping for satisfaction.

“Stop it, damn you.”

“Okay. I think I’ll let you lie right here while I finish my story.”

Deliberately, he stood with his legs on each side of Brew’s body. He was lying outstretched, with his hands bound over his head, his legs splayed. To Chase, his hip movements were the ebb and flow of a rip tide.

“I demand to be released, asshole.”

“Fuck you, Brew. Just lie there till I’m ready for you.”

He returned to the chair and bent again over the keyboard.This time he was wearing a massive hardon.

Ryder tried to sleep. The Mexican saddle under his head was hard, the night was cold. He lay curled away from his prisoner, listening for the man’s breath, a sound he began to crave. What if the bastard ups and dies on me? Just half the bounty money for a dead Indian.

He retraced his own moves an hour ago, the way he’d bound his prisoner to a mesquite trunk, hands and legs both. He knew the man would take the first opportunity to get loose, then slit his throat. Both within a split second.

If he was alive. Had he slipped to the happy hunting ground while Ryder lay fingering his own freaking cock? Or was he even now sliding out the hidden knife, slicing through his bonds, creeping toward his back?

Somehow the danger of it all made him hard again. His hand  began to find a rhythm. The more he stroked himself, the more he knew he had to hammer the man he’d bound to the fragrant desert tree, rip away that goddamn loincloth and savage him, like

Chase felt his own rodeo rope around his chest, then his arms, and Brew was lashing him to the freaking swivel chair.

“I say the Indian takes in the bounty hunter.” Brew was kneeling in front of him, prying his knees apart, then measuring his rearing prick with hands suddenly gentle.

file0001851238717Chase laughed. “All right, Brew. That’s enough, okay? How’d you get loose, anyway?”

“The same way the Indian did, Chase. You are a dead man.”

Brew leaned into him, and his long, resilient fingers moved behind his balls and began to test his asshole. “I can get ’em all in, Mr. Buffalo Ryder. And if you don’t hold still, I’ll ride your prick and then your back all the way to Noble.”

Chase let his head loll onto the back of the chair, allowing the wet heat of Brew’s mouth to devour him. The fingers in his ass seemed to reach past his rectum, into his very gut, and he started to jump and toss.

“Let me go.”


“Ah, God, Brew.” The sucking and thrusting, combined with his inability to move his arms and torso, brought Chase to a new high. He closed his eyes and imagined Buffalo Ryder being taken by his prisoner.

“Never your captive. Now you will know ways of the red man.” The Indian pushed him upright against the mesquite trunk and lashed him tight. His exposed ass felt the bite of the wind sweeping from the Paiute Range.

 “Spread legs. We ride all night.”

He rode Brew’s hungry mouth, bucking and thrusting, feeling the cum travel from his balls to the slit while his ass exploded and the story wrote itself.


TCFenceZonThe characters Chase Grayson and Brew Lloyd appear in my novel THE CHASE, recently re-published by my own New Dawn Press, and available widely.

Two young guys with smokin pistols in their Levi’s …

Start with a smartass gay man named Brew Lloyd, back home in the hick town of Noble, Nevada for a few weeks. Add a shy man a few years older named Chase Grayson, former high school football star, buried in work on his dad’s ranch 15 miles from town.

Now throw these two guys together, add a homophobic father and an unscrupulous federal agent … what do you get? An adventure, a mystery, and a very erotic trip to the “new old west” of Nevada.

gay romance action- #mystery

Series page:
~Noble Dimensions

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