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Posts Tagged ‘gay lit’

Hi, gay lit fans. This short post is my way of introducing the whole blog.

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“The Man in Romance” is dedicated to just that—the play of men together in a relationship. The photos are almost all images of couples, and the books I have written are about two men together. An exception might be Warrior, Ride Hard, in which a third man plays a prominent role. But that man’s romance was ten years prior to the action of the novel. So my books never explore any sexual intimacy beyond the bonding of two, in a HEA or HFN relationship.

Need I say, for the sake of moral safeguards, that the content of this post is mature? If you are reading this, and you are under the age of 18, you need to get a life. The content is not meant to titillate,  but to entertain on a very adult level.

Please see the page at the top called “My Gay Novels” for a list of relevant works and buy links. You’ll also see chapters devoted to subjects I find interesting.

There’s a step-son of this blog called Ac´cent Gay Lit Authors. From time to time, I will invite authors whom I find fascinating, each for a different reason. Stay tuned, and be prepared to be entertained. That link is http://gaylitauthors.wordpress.com/

Happy reading and viewing!

~Erin O’Quinn

~∞~

A Postscript: Update July 7, 2013

FREE: The Behind Closed Doors Man-Up Collection . . . sample chapters, excerpts, links to authors and their websites. The best in the M/M, gay lit, romance, paranormal, dark urban fantasy, and transgressive genres.

 Amber Allure and Siren author Erin O’Quinn and three other writers offer some of their most tantalizing scenes for your reading pleasure. Here’s your link:

~∞~

 

Reviews: The good, the bad, the one with a wart on its testicle

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We authors seem to spend our post-publication days in a kind of limbo: hoping and praying, on the one hand, for positive reviews; and ducking the radar in case some kestrel-eyed critic decides today’s the day to blast us into smithereens.

And so a rating anywhere from a 4.0 to the lofty 5.0 is good. More than good, a score like that calls for celebration and sharing among one’s friends and acquaintances. Anything below 4.0? Not so much. Time to pretend that review never happened, to scuff it under the rug.

So far, knock on virtual wood, I’ve been lucky. I’ve had a few busting-all-out accolades like “dazzling” and “driven.” And I’ve received enough thumb’s up to keep a gladiator penciling in a date for tomorrow at the Coliseum.

The reviews I most cherish are those that come either from someone I do not know, or from a person known for acerbic opinions. The reviewer “Alex” from RainbowReviews comes to mind; I know him now, but I didn’t then. Add “Beach Bum” Diane from Sand in my Shoes Reviews, who’s been known to remark that she writes “take no prisoners” reviews.  Thanks, folks, for seeing enough positive to make me demand a raise from my publisher. (Not.)

I also enjoy the reviews that pop out of nowhere and point me in directions I had been avoiding. Leslie from Jesse Waves has taught me that even a comedic treatment of love calls for deep sensitivity on the part of both partners. Toni S. has taught me not to repeat a scene from a different point of view—get on with the action, already!

In a mode of all-out self serving egotism, I’ve put a few of the better-written reviews on this blog (see chapter titles above). Hey, I’m starved for attention. And besides, it’s my blog.

For you out there counting the mixed metaphors—I hope that wart shows right through your underwear. Nyah nyah nyah.

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WARNING: The content that follows is considered erotic…intended for readers 18 or over. I have reported it to WordPress as a mature blog. 

What follows are mostly excerpts from my historical MM novels published by Siren Bookstrand.

Erin O’Quinn’s historical MM novels already in publication are the following two works in the Iron Warrior series, set in 5th-century Ireland, published by SirenBookstrand. Warning–they are erotic, rated “scorching” by the editor.

Warrior, Ride Hard…was published  August 8, 2012, available at Siren and Amazon

Warrior, Stand Tall…was published  September 5, 2012, available at Siren

Warrior, Come Again …a gleam in the eye of my muse, a few chapters long

OQ Erin O’Quinn blog…”The Gaelic Spirit LIves Here”:   http://erinsromance.wordpress.com/
Storm Maker: http://www.amazon.com/Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-Romance-ebook/dp/B00845V8X6
The Wakening Fire: http://www.amazon.com/Wakening-Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-ebook/dp/B008BKSGES
Captive Heart: http://www.amazon.com/Captive-Ireland-BookStrand-Publishing-ebook/dp/B008K2X1QA
Fire & Silk on Strand: http://www.bookstrand.com/fire-silk

Warrior, Ride Hard is available at this buy link: http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-ride-hard  and on Amazon at

http://amzn.to/P2eRDO

Warror, Stand Tall:

http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-stand-tall

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WARRIOR, RIDE HARD tells the story of three men:  

 Gristle is a tough-as-hobnails former Roman soldier who fell for a man once. After all the hurt of being abandoned has been pushed far inside, he has sworn it will never happen again.

Tristus is a beautiful, sensitive man whose family has been killed by savage Picts and who runs straight into the arms of a very hardened soldier.

Wynn is a young Welshman, a trainer of wild ponies, who has never experienced a woman–or a man–until he meets the aloof and sensuous Gristle.

Be aware that this novel is not a ménage. Tristus appears as a lover only in an extended flashback ten years prior to the action of the main story.

 August 1, 2012….Here is the first scene from the opening chapter of the book.

The Trainer

His eyes, hard as flint, surveyed the shipyards. There was no trace of his trainee Caylith. She was to practice walking on sand. Not in sand but skimming the surface, as a dragonfly hunts on water. Perhaps she was over there, hidden from his sight by shifting dunes, or there, where the currachs were moored, waiting for their voyage across the Sea of Éire. Yes, perhaps she had chosen her own symbol of escape to train alongside…

He began to walk toward the shimmering dunes that changed their contours even as he strode easily across the sand. His white-blond hair stirred around his face with the wind coming off the sea, and the sleeves of his dark deer-skin tunic rustled and slapped as they filled with wind, like currach sails made of stitched pelts.

“Ah, Gristle…sir!”

Without slowing, the man turned his head slightly and regarded the young man slipping and plowing through the white sand. He turned his face again to the dunes. If the pony trainer Wynn wanted to talk with him, he had best keep up the pace. Or learn to walk properly.

Halfway to where the currachs rode their mooring ropes, the young man caught up to his quarry. “Sir! Um, excuse me—”

Gristle stopped and turned to him, saying nothing at all.

“I was wondering if—that is, would ye, um—could we talk a few minutes?”

Gristle squatted easily in the sand, looking up, waiting for the young Welshman to speak. The smooth-faced lad was not bad to look at, the trainer decided, and so he waited and watched. Wynn’s hair was a tumble of gold-brown and russet, with sun-flecked highlights to match his wide eyes. He had a generous mouth that seemed eager to smile. Gristle remembered his throaty laugh the few times he had seen him and Caylith together with the ponies. He guessed the boy was twenty, twenty-one at the most. Half his own age.

He decided that the boy’s sun-brown body, so unlike his own pale complexion, was a mute testimony to his life as a trainer of mountain ponies. He was unaccountably drawn to the subtle gold of that skin, and so he felt his own steel-blue eyes soften a little.

Wynn seemed totally confounded by the older man’s silence. Gristle thought idly that he was ripe for training, starting at the most basic level. Still, he waited for the brindle-haired lad to choke out what he wanted to say.

“I know of ye, sir,” Wynn said at last. “Caylith has told me something of your training. She, ah, she tells me that ye’re an adept in the art of proper breathing.”

Gristle’s chiseled mouth hardly moved when he spoke. He looked directly into the other’s eyes. “I am.”

“What I need to know, is—well, first of all, me name is Wynn. We met briefly in Lindum. I am bound for the land of the emigrants. I have arranged for about forty Welsh ponies to be transported in special boats. What I would like is to train wi’ye. Once we get there, and once we are settled, of course.”

“Is that all, Wynn?” Gristle asked softly. “Why could your—ah, why could Caylith not teach you?”

“I think she could try. But I would rather learn from the best. And not just breathing. Sir…I would know how you walk through sand without a grain in your sandals.” He looked at Gristle’s well-oiled leather sandals. “And—and all the other ways of a warrior.”

“There are many ways of a warrior, lad.”

“Then I would learn them all. From the top man.”

Gristle rose, and when Wynn stood also, he saw that the pony trainer was almost his height, a little over six feet. He might make a good sparring partner, Gristle thought. After intensive training, of course. The boy seemed to be all elbows and knees.

“I will consider it,” he said in his usual laconic style. “As you say, after we are settled in the new land. In a real home.”

Ie. I hardly hoped ye would agree. Thank ye.” He held out his large hand, and Gristle gripped it for a moment, noting the slight hesitation in Wynn’s grasp.

This lad, he thought, is going through some kind of inner tumult. I feel it in his grasp. I see it in his eyes. Perhaps I represent some unspoken purpose in his life. I shall find out.

“Then I shall see you on the other side.”

“The, um—the other side?” He seemed startled by the trainer’s words, and then he smiled. “Of course. In the land of the currachs. Ffarwel.

Gristle stood and watched Wynn struggle through the sand, up the hill to the high-water mark. His tunic, shorter than the style favored in this western part of Britannia, showed his muscular calves and part of his thighs. The strong legs of a rider. Once, when the lad stumbled a bit, the trainer caught sight of his well-formed ass, and his prick stirred under his own tunic. And then his mind snapped closed like a trap, catching only the quarry he was after at the moment—the hellion named Caylith, to whom he was unfortunately trothed as armsman. He strode with renewed purpose toward the currachs.

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August 13, 2012…The Pony Trainer   Here is an excerpt from chapter 2

Meet Wynn Talfryn, a Welshman in his early twenties, who has just arrived in the rough port city of Newort, several miles north and west of Deva Viictrix in fifth-century Britania. He has transported forty ponies all the way from the colony of Lindum (present-day Lincoln) and has just literally run away from the girl named Caylith. His thoughts begin to wander to Gristle, the handsome armsman of Caylith, who may agree to be his trainer when he arrives at last in Éire.

He sighed, goading Corwin gently in the flanks, riding toward the little stream where the tall grasses showed off their slender, swaying seed-heads. He dismounted and dropped the reins, letting his chestnut pony seek the stream water. If only she [Caylith] had not pressed him to the breaking point…He turned his thoughts back to the tall, laconic Gristle.

Gristle, he thought, was a man to be admired by men. He was a warrior, a trainer, one who knew when to speak, when to act. He wanted to be that kind of man. And when it came time to take a woman—or anyone he desired—he would know what to do. But why did his prick stir when he saw Gristle? Why did his mind suddenly flood with forbidden images, ones he had never once conjured up with Caylith, even while they were kissing? It was beyond understanding. It was even more strange how he had kissed Caylith, but more and more often, the mouth he sucked belonged to Gristle.

Gristle’s slender muscled body moved with a severe grace born in wolves. His blue eyes could pin an opponent from twenty feet. His face had the kind of haunting good looks that hovered at the edge of his dreams.

Even at that moment, he shook his head to free his mind of a sudden thought. He clearly saw Gristle holding him down in the tall grass, pinning his arms and straddling him from behind while he struggled feebly to free himself. His cock engorged, his testicles burned with an inner fire that needed to be extinguished before he took another step. He stood away from the pony, stroking and coaxing his cock to a point of sudden, sharp release.

Wynn squatted again on the stream bank, scooping water to cleanse himself. He could think a little more clearly, now that his mounting need had been sated for a while.

He sighed again, thinking about last night when the ravening commander Kevan had appeared at their table in the mess tent. The man had told Caylith he was now ready to sail with her—to leave his command, to turn his back on his duties—just to follow her into the unknown. As soon as he and Caylith were alone, he had exploded in anger.

He still had no idea why he was furious that other men wanted her. He should have been relieved. Kevan’s overt attention was just the excuse he needed to drift away from Caylith. Instead, he had made his jealousy so obvious, so overriding that she had fled from him in the night, telling him that she no longer trusted him.

He knew, somewhere beyond understanding, that he had willed their friendship to end rather than confront his own weaknesses. He had manipulated the situation so that she had left him. The finality of their parting was palpable. Taking the ponies away, he knew, would cause her more pain than anything else he could have done.

He set his jaw. So be it. Let him take his darling ponies to the freedom of Hibernia, far from the men who would slaughter them to keep their horse strain pure. Let him seek the haven of Father Patrick—not to beg forgiveness of Caylith, but to reunite with the man who might become his trainer. That thought alone would comfort him during a long night, surrounded by milling ponies, far from the company of inconstant humans.

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The Seduction . . .                                  

The British Romance Fiction site is running an explicit excerpt from the book—the scene where Gristle seduces Wynn. The link is

http://britishromancefiction.blogspot.com/2012/08/manlove-in-ancient-ireland.html?spref=fb

 

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August  17, 2012….The Third Man

On the rough voyage across the Sea of Éire, Gristle contents himself with thoughts of a long-ago lover, the one he once called Tristus, “man of sorrow.” Having barely escaped death at the hands of murderous Picts, he had found his way into the Roman encampment near the wall of Hadrian, ten long years ago,  where then-sergeant Gristle began to take care of him.

The man was young, probably in his early twenties. His hair was blond—not the white-blond of the older man, but a golden blond darkened by streaks of strawberry-red. Like Gristle, he wore no beard. But contrary to the Roman style, this man’s hair was long, almost to his shoulders, in the way of the country folks of this northern region of Britannia they called “Cumbria.”

Gristle took a long draw from his cup, not speaking. The other man had not lifted his head, even to lift his eating knife over his trencher of greasy meat.

“Eat, lad,” Gristle said. “If you join our army, you must be strong and well. Will you finally tell me why you are here?”

The man lifted his head and regarded Gristle. His cautious eyes, under strawberry-blond brows, were the blue of mountain lakes. His lips, Gristle had already noticed, were full and his mouth expressive. He had lain for almost a week in Gristle’s cot, while the older man had tended his needs, bringing him out of unconsciousness, feeding him, helping him stand.

The man spoke in a tongue somewhere between crude Latin and halting Gaelic. Gristle listened quietly to the story of the man’s flight from capture, his desperate survival in the forest land west of the Roman encampment, his late-night entreaties to the garrison sentry that had earned him a rough tumble with an unnamed foot soldier. As he talked, the expert tactician sized up his own chances with the boy. He would be frightened and wary for a long time to come. But given a gentle and knowledgeable cot-mate…

“You may continue to share my tent,” he told the man, whose unpronounceable name became “Tristus” in the Roman’s mouth.

He knew he could train the new recruit in the ways of a Roman soldier—but more importantly, in his own ways. He had not had physical release with another human for years, shunning the rude louts in the emperor’s fifth brigade, and not wanting to seek one night’s pleasure on the long road to Eboracum. But here was a man he would enjoy, before and after they learned each other’s tongue. He grinned to himself even now, relishing the play on words.

It had taken three weeks of quiet conversations—talking at night, slow and murmured in the narrow cot they shared—and another few weeks of patient caresses and bewildered kisses. Finally, one night, his efforts were rewarded. Gristle had thrust his tongue into Trist’s soft mouth, exploring and asking, and suddenly the young man had seized his tongue and begun to suck. Gristle felt the surge of Trist’s prick against his bare stomach, and soon he was under the blanket, and Trist’s glorious cock was moving in his eager mouth. Or was that the second night? God, it was ten long years ago…

Gristle shifted again, remembering. He remembered the abrupt climax as Trist shivered against him, then held himself stiff until the tremors had ended. He remembered slowly turning him over, feeling silk-soft buttocks invade his skin. And even now, he remembered the first time his swollen cock penetrated Trist, how both men could hardly hold back their astonished joy as he exploded in the golden boy’s ass.

Sorrow, Gristle thought, sitting in the currach, regarding the gray-green sea around him as the incessant waves pitched the small craft, and he, too, moved with the waves. He said the name aloud again. “Tristus.” He glanced behind him and saw that Caylith was sitting, knees up, hugging herself in sea-sick misery. He let his mind shut out his own physical weakness, and at last he felt nothing but the sun kissing the back of his neck. Two more days to sail. He would survive. He began to think again about the pony trainer Wynn.

Warrior Ride Hard is available at the following links:

http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-ride-hard  and on Amazon at

http://amzn.to/P2eRDO

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 August 23, 2012….The Pict and the Irishman . . . a story called “ON FALCON’S WINGS.”

Note that this story has not yet been submitted for publication.

I recently wrote a short MM tale about a Pict and an Irishman…not too far fetched, since the Irish of 5th-century Dál Riata, far northern Ireland, were possibly the precursors of modern Scots.

The following excerpt sets up the central conflict, which is to say the fight between Tawn (the protagonist) and his culture–the matriarchal, gay-shunning tribes that ostracize a man for nestling his weapon in another man’s buttocks, unless it’s point-first.

Nechtawn ground his teeth in frustration. For twenty years–his entire life–he had hidden his nature from the settlement of Anghus, sea clad and thriving, taking its kings from the mothers’ side of the clans. He, the son and brother of mother-blessed kings, was to wed in a five-finger span of days. He, the favorite of his mother, would be first a husband, then a father, then a king. He could not dishonor her by refusing.

But what then would become of his newest choice, Sten of the golden hair and blue-pricked horse that rode his slender ass always, even when his lover Tawn could not?

Rising on his elbows, Tawn frowned at the saffron sun trying to break through clouds and clustered pines into a new day. If only he had waited, held his passion until his soon-to-be wife was at the kilns with the other women, or gathered before the great cook-fires with her clanking pots and endless tales. . . .  But no. He had felt compelled to straddle the thrashing horse one more time, for one more ride, before he was shackled to a mate.

Why had he chosen a spot near the river where some sharp-eyed old waggle-jaw might see him on the way back with her wet bundles? Why had he shouted his release to the very skies, as if to call kestrels to his wing-tipped shoulder? It was beyond human understanding.

By the prick of Perth! He ground his teeth until his jaws ached. Then, succumbing to the need to piss, he rose and stood at the side of a half-grown fir. It was no use thinking back on the last satisfying fuck of his life, but he found himself imagining again the firm blue buttocks and finely-webbed hairs on the balls of his last lover. His cock rose, and Tawn fought the stiffness as he tried to empty his full bladder. Failing that, he turned from the tree and cursed again.

 The sun broke through the lowest pine branches, and Tawn remembered to pray for its safe journey. Then his thoughts turned again to his own journey, his miserable plight.One spear, no clothes, and an endless wayfaring ahead on an empty stomach and aching balls. He was banished. Drest had warned him that any who saw the falcon on his chest, or the spiral of feathers on his back, would treat him as an enemy. “One who pierces men will die like the beast he is, pierced by a brother’s spear.” His brother’s last bitter words sat in the back of Tawn’s throat like sour grog, and he spat to rid himself of the taste.

 

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August 28, 2012…Warrior, Stand Tall…Part 2 of The Iron Warrior Series

The second book is a little funnier, a little sexier than the first. 

 Gristle, bad-ass former Roman soldier, has finally found love in the person of young Wynn, a pony trainer nearly half his age. Each man has a secret. For Wynn, it’s the chilling sexual assault that he has suffered by two evil druids. For Gristle, not admitting to his festering jealousies, it’s the dread that any love he admits to will be wrested away by cold Fortuna, goddess of fate.

While the two men are trying to solve their inner turmoil, Gristle finds that his old friends in Wales are being threatened by invasion from ruthless Saxons. Even after they manage to handle the Saxon threat, new trouble waits on the sacred Hill of Tara, where the chief druids to the high king plot to strike again at the heart of Wynn.

Into this maelstrom of danger walks Dub, a striking warrior-scholar whom Gristle recognizes as a potent rival for the attentions of his handsome lover.

The following is from the opening chapter of the novel and is titled “The Deeper Pain”:

The tall, silent warrior stood at the pine, seeming to become one with the rough bark. His student Wynn could almost hear the wind sighing through his white-blond hair, just as it sang through the pine needles above their heads. His trainer would stand there, Wynn knew, until his students betrayed by an eye-blink where they were hidden. It was his nature to become one with the woods if he stood in a forest or one with the rocks or the sand dunes—wherever he was.

Now the trainer stood in the pines, waiting for one of his students to give himself, or herself, away. Wynn was lying along a branch, curving as it curved, invisible even to the finch building an early spring nest a foot from his head. The other student—the irritating girl Caylith—was nowhere to be seen. That fact rankled him.

So far in their training together, more than a month, he thought he had proved himself the superior student. He seemed to be a little more nimble, a shade faster, more skilled at puzzling out a fast solution than the girl. He had to grant that she was lightning-fast when it came to bata practice, both of them wielding the knobby cudgels called “shillelaghs” or “batas.” She was faster, yet he was more forceful.

He continued to breathe in the measured, deep way their trainer had shown both of them. It was more than a centering of self. It was a way almost to crawl under the skin of an opponent, to win the war by the swallowing-up of the enemy’s inner thoughts and intentions, of knowing his intentions before he did.

Now, by subtle movements where there should be none, he knew exactly where Caylith was. Boldly, she knelt in the clearing where their trainer had set up sparring circles, her back to the river, her face bowed to her chest. Her clothing, dark as the river, hid her well enough that she looked from his angle like one of the dark stones that thrust from the bank or lay partly immersed in the water. It was perfect. Unless she moved, Caylith was invisible. But a part of her had moved.

Then their trainer spoke, barely moving his lips. “The stone. The branch. You are both discovered. You may stand down.”

Wynn reluctantly swung down from the branch, and the girl stood, almost sullenly. Now they would have to bear the lacerations of his tongue.

“Wynn. Until you lose five pounds of belly bacon, you need to stay out of trees. Caylith. Even with your rowdy hair in a kerchief, you call undue attention to yourself. Therefore, you have both failed. Next time, I need to take more than five minutes to find you. That will be all until tomorrow.”

Caylith walked with stiff shoulders to her palomino pony, tethered to a rowan branch twenty feet away. Wynn made a move to follow, and the trainer raised his hand to stay him. Both of them stood rock-still until Caylith had ridden into the trees, toward the pathway, out of sight.

Wynn was standing near the pine whose branch he had sought. His trainer walked up to him and drew him by one arm around to the side of the trunk, away from anyone who might walk suddenly through the screen of trees where Caylith had ridden.

In an instant, his body was pressed into Wynn, and his finely sculpted mouth was seizing his lips, taking them into his mouth, biting and sucking them. Wynn’s groin shot up, seeming to hammer against the other man’s erection. “Gristle. I need ye.” He spoke into his trainer’s mouth, moaning, answering his hungry, moving tongue. Both of them sunk to their knees together in the bed of fallen needles, sucking and licking each other’s mouths, their hands searching for the other’s leather belt.

Gristle’s very silence was a source of hot arousal to Wynn. He rarely betrayed his emotions by any words. But his body actions spoke an eloquent language to his student and lover. He had Wynn’s tunic open in a matter of seconds and was fingering his balls, stroking his cock, while Wynn threw his head back and opened his knees, giving his groin to his lover. Gristle lowered his head and began to suck, noisily and wetly, while Wynn held his head close, and his fingers threaded his marvelous hair.

“Now! Now!” he whispered fiercely, and he shot his hot fluids into Gristle’s eager mouth. He held his head there until the tremors eased somewhat. And then Gristle was turning him over. He felt the pine needles on his bare stomach, and he felt Gristle empty his mouth of the thick semen and spit it onto and into his ass.

He could feel Gristle seize his buttocks, hard. The next thing he felt was the slick, insistent length of Gristle’s prick on his asshole. Its bulbous head penetrated a few inches, and then it was deeply inside. He bucked and resisted, he moved and cried, and still it probed deeper. Finally, when he felt Gristle’s balls slapping against his ass, he heard his lover cry out sharply, once. And then it was over, and he was lying on Wynn’s back, sucking and biting the nape of his neck.

They lay together like that for a while, listening to the finch building her nest and the bees questing, then sucking, the most aromatic dogwood flower.

Then, without words, they rose to their feet and drew their tunics closed, belting them while looking at each other rather than their own hands. Then they walked together, close companions, to the river.

The novel is available at a 15% discount until midnight CST, September 12.

http://www.bookstrand.com/warrior-stand-tall

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September 5, 2012Warrier, Stand Tall is published

I believe that m/m novels, in spite of  their erotic nature, need to tell a provocative story as well as show the heady passion of the lovers. With this in mind, I am presenting the following excerpt to partly reveal the central tension in the novel . . . the guilt and deep uncleanliness that Wynn feels after having been possibly raped a few months before the action of the present novel.

“Two days later …” Here Wynn paused, wondering how to tell the worst of his story. He had been in the livestock byre, saddling his pony Corwin, ready to return to Armagh, back to Gristle and his other companions.

“I had somehow left me warrior senses somewhere on the sacred hill. I did not hear the two men who stood behind me. I did not see the one who struck me on the back of the head.”

Wynn tried to keep the bitterness from his voice. But as he spoke, he realized that he blamed himself as much as the men who had brutalized him.

“I swam in and out of waking. Me head hurt. Not so much a hurt as a center of nausea and blindness. They had thrown me on the back of me pony and covered me with a wool blanket. But I saw who they were, and where they were taking me. To the sacred grove.”‘

The memory flooded back, even as he recoiled from it. The rain coming down harder and harder …the hawthorn tree with hundreds of bright cloths fluttering from the bare branches …the druids dragging him from the pony …his vomiting and seizure of blindness …being bent forwards over the stony wall of the clootie well . . his tunic being ripped from neck to butt. And last, the almost welcome release of falling, falling, into a warm bright place.

He could not tell Gristle these details. He could not face them himself. It was not the pain he recoiled from, but the shame of being violated by evil men.

And so he did not speak of it at all. He kept his eyes on the floor. “When I woke, I found meself lying in a twelve-foot-deep well. The rain water was deepening around me. Me arms were bound behind me. I could tell that me shoulders were probably broken, and me ribs, and me ankle. Me head was about the same as before, when they hit me.

“I tried to escape. I breathed as deep as I could, I gathered all me strength. I pushed me back and me legs against the sides of the well. The walls were slick with mold, and I tried to climb out, inch by inch. But each time, I was betrayed by the weakness of me own body.”

He stopped talking. That was enough. He had survived, thanks to the intelligence and quick actions of his new friend Duane. And now that he was home, back with Gristle, his body could heal to the fullest. He finally looked up at his trainer.

Gristle now raised his head and looked into his eyes. Wynn had never seen the expression he now wore. The man seemed almost suffused with sorrow. “I will do anything …everything in my power to expunge the pain.”

“What d’ye mean?” Wynn reached out and stroked his lover’s smooth, high cheeks. “The pain is almost gone. And tonight ye’ve taken the tremors from me shoulders.”

“And yet a deeper pain remains.” Gristle had been sitting cross-legged in front of Wynn, and now he rose and reached his hand down to Wynn. “Come with me to the water. Let us lie together a while.”

As soon as Wynn stood, Gristle held him close, clasping his hand in a firm grip. “Wynn.”

At the sound of his name uttered by the trainer, Wynn’s knees felt weak. Gristle almost never addressed him by name. His heart began to hammer in his chest.

“Stand tall.”

Gristle’s ice-blue eyes were boring into his. He was telling Wynn something very important, and Wynn knew instantly that this man loved him. Perhaps he could guess the source of his deep shame. Or perhaps he felt guilt at not urging Wynn to share the story of his captivity right away. Whatever his reasons, Wynn knew that Gristle would never willingly let that happen again, to either of them.

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September 11, 2012… A Prisoner Taken

The love play between Griss and Wynn is complex. Like a couple of antlered bucks in rut, they often vie for top position. Sometimes Wynn seizes the advantage. Sometimes, as now, the former soldier takes his man prisoner, allowing no escape.

Once inside [the tent], Gristle took a small piece of kindling and went outside to light their oil lamp from the fire. He brought it back and set it in the tent, careful to keep the small flame away from the tarred cloth. He drew the  flap closed.

Wynn stood, waiting for Gristle to signal in his own way that he was ready for bed. Gristle bent very slightly and caught Wynn’s lower lip between his teeth, while drawing him nearer with a hand on his butt. “Come here,” he said into Wynn’s mouth.

His pidyn jumped like a dog to the fight, and Wynn moaned slightly, letting his lover know his delight. Gristle gnawed and bit on his lip while Wynn pushed his eager cock into the trainer’s groin, then back, then pushed again, a slow, easy tide…

Both men slowly removed the other’s tunic, their eyes locked. Gristle seized the leather thong that had been around his waist and quickly wrapped it around the boy’s wrists, binding his hands loosely. “Stand,” he growled. “Do not move.”

Wynn’s prick began to throb in anticipation. He loved the times when Gristle, in a special mood, took him as he would take a prisoner, forcing him into submission. Thankfully, his hands were bound in front, and not behind his back, as the druids had done. Those memories were too raw, and he would not tolerate being taken in that way, not yet—even by his lover. Gristle sank to his knees in front of him.

Wynn stood with his knees slightly bent, pushing his groin out invitingly, then retreating as if in escape.

“I said,” the trainer told him severely, “do not move.” One hand began in his anus, pushing in one, then two, then three fingers, wiggling them and withdrawing, then pushing in again.

“Cannot…take more…oh, no, no,” Wynn moaned, pretending resistance, as Gristle’s other hand began stroking his balls at the same time. Just as he thought he would shoot into the top of the tent, Gristle put his mouth entirely over his large prick and began to suck, very slowly. The sucking, the fingers in his ass, the slow pulling up and down on his balls—everything combined into a moment of white-hot desire. As his lover made one more wet, sucking movement up his shaft and over the bulbous head, Wynn came in one ecstatic release. Gristle enclosed the entire shaft, sucking in the fluids. And then he leaned back, looking up into Wynn’s eyes. His eyes, glazed with sensual anticipation, bored into Wynn. “Turn around,” he ordered.

Wynn turned, and Gristle’s face was buried in his ass. He spat Wynn’s fluids up his crack and over his asshole, rubbing it in with both hands, and then with his tongue. Then he stood behind the boy, using one hand to rub his own prick over and into his crack, then his asshole. He seized Wynn’s hips and began to push his cock into the small, yielding anus.

Wynn felt the power, he felt the rubbing along the walls of his anus. He was aware that Gristle’s mouth was biting his neck and his shoulders, harder and harder. In spite of his explosive climax a few minutes before, Wynn’s desire began to build again as he heard his hard-as-anvil trainer moan his name: “Wynn…love.”

His wrists still bound, Wynn seized his own stiff shaft and began to stroke in tempo with Gristle’s frenzied in-and-out. When Gristle began to come, the normally silent trainer shouted, “Oh! Love!” and Wynn climaxed into his own hands, loving this release even more than the first one. 

They stood that way for a few minutes, while Gristle licked and sucked his neck, letting his passions cool. Then he stepped away. He quickly removed the thong and tossed it onto the floor of the tent.

He lay on the spread blanket and looked up at Wynn. “Come. I need you.” His voice was quiet, his eyes were unusually warm. Wynn knelt first then lay along the length of Gristle’s finely chiseled body. His trainer drew him close and kissed his face—his eyes, his nose, his chin and mouth.

“You know I meant no shame to you.”

Ie. I loved it.” He was being honest. The shame he felt had nothing to do with his passionate lover. It would be cured, he thought, if he could return someday to the clootie well. Then he would tell his lover everything, and he would leave his shame hanging from a branch of a hawthorn tree. And when the rain had washed it, and the sun had bleached it, his shame would be gone forever.

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September 15, 2012

 Visions: 1

Gristle is well versed in the art of deep breathing, a martial technique that allows a warrior to enter the very skin of his opponent. Here is the armsman’s first lesson with his new student Wynn:

Once inside, Gristle resolutely latched the door. Using the flames from the fire pit, he lit a few candles and set them on his small table.

He could feel a palpable excitement from Wynn. It was the same anticipation he also felt whenever he was alone with the young man. He gestured to a place near the fire pit. “Assume a kneeling position.”

God, I want to suck him and eat him. With an effort of will, he knelt two feet from Wynn, resting his butt on his heels.

“The next half hour will represent your first childlike steps. Have no fear of falling. Only after standing and falling may we begin to stand with strength and purpose.”

He looked hard at the boy who knelt before him almost in supplication. He clearly saw Wynn’s frank admiration of him, and his unbounded appetite for the pleasures he could offer. And he saw a little behind the shadow in his eyes, to the place where the fear and loneliness crouched. No, he did not love Caylith. Gristle saw that. And yet he was loath to release her from the grip he once held. Why? When he and the boy had discovered the reason, perhaps then they would reach a more mature level in their partnership.

“I want you to close your eyes and let this place, this time, flow away. Let your next breath be taken in so slowly that you want to burst with the desire to expel it. And once it is captured in the pit of your gut, examine it. Think about it. Let it escape only slowly…as slowly as you let it in.

“Now do that again. And yet again. Make each breath, in and out, slower than the one that came before.

“After a while, you will come to an improbable place. It is a place that is no place at all. You will sense an unusual time, a time that defies all notion of time. Only when you reach that place, and that time, will your breath become your closest friend. And you will begin to see with eyes you never looked through before.”

Gristle let his voice become lower and slower, and he, too, began to enter the place of no-place. He knew without knowing that the time was no time he had ever experienced. His mind slipped into a vision. It was the young man Wynn. He was sitting in an open field, his legs splayed, his head thrown back. He was chasing the clouds, and his eyes were clear and full of humor. Next to him stood a restive pony, a chestnut stallion with russet mane and tail. The man and the pony began to merge, until the young man’s brindled hair and the pony’s mane were one and the same. They were both young, both free, both filled with a sense of deep well-being.

When he opened his eyes, Wynn was looking at him, a smile toying with his mouth. “I begin to see. To stand.”

“Then come here to me,” Gristle told him.

In one movement, Wynn was sitting with his legs splayed out, and Gristle’s knees were between his legs. Gristle reached out, very slowly, and lifted his short tunic. He saw the impossibly thick penis standing straight up, waiting. Still kneeling, Gristle lifted Wynn’s tunic up over his head, tangling it briefly in his sun-kissed brown hair. He leaned toward the young man then, loosening the tunic from his hair. When he lowered his head, it was to seize Wynn’s lips in his own mouth and bite, then suck.

Wynn moved his mouth, licking Gristle’s lips, then seizing his tongue. “God, I need to take you,” he told Wynn, talking into his restive mouth, and he forced his head and shoulders to the floor, his tongue deep in the other man’s wet, moving mouth.

His fingers found Wynn’s nipples and he played and pinched, all the while thrusting his tongue into his mouth, imitating the final act of love. Wynn moaned and moved under him, and Gristle’s head went lower and lower, until he was sucking velvet-soft balls and stroking the crack of his ass.

“Suck me,” Wynn said, and Gristle’s prick turned to flame at the strangled sound of his voice. He licked and bit and sucked, holding back each time his mouth reached the tip of his dagger-sized cock, until Wynn was shouting.

“Now! Now! Do it now!”

Gristle knew when to suck and when to stop. He knew when to lick and bite and when to hold off. Wynn half raised to him and grasped his head. “Now, goddamn it, suck me hard!”

Gristle finished what he had started, all the while trying not to climax. But when Wynn’s prick started to bubble, then spurt, he lost all control. He came, hard, while Wynn was twisting and shouting his pleasure, emptying into Gristle’s impassioned mouth.

They lay on the floor for a while, Gristle’s mouth close to Wynn’s groin, both of them holding the other in a tight embrace. Slowly, each man released his grip on the other and Gristle moved his head up to Wynn’s. The young man spoke into his mouth, “Ye play me like a mouth organ.”

Gristle’s laugh was more like a deep tremor that welled up to the surface. “A song I want to play always.”

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September 23, 2012

Visions: 2

Gristle is teaching Wynn the art of deep breathing. Why is it  that the vision the young man enters has as its center a mysterious, tall man who seeks to comfort and please him? He surrenders to the dream.

He heard Gristle’s voice, but only at the edge of a dream of falling. He was cold, shivering. He curled into himself, drawing up his knees, covering part of his naked body. Tears on his cheeks had hardened into ice, and he lay waiting to die. He was in a place lit by some distant fire, and before he succumbed to the cold he looked up. He was staring into the cold depths of intensely blue eyes.

It was a man, a tall man, wearing a long black cloak. He stood upright over Wynn, almost straddling his huddled body. With one movement, the stranger removed his cloak and wrapped it around his shivering body. His voice came, warm and compassionate. “Lie back. Be comforted.” And Wynn did as he said, unfurling like a new leaf. He felt himself being cocooned in the cloak, rolled more and more until he reached a place of complete warmth and succor, a place of sweet release.

When he opened his eyes, Gristle was kneeling across from him. Even in the faltering candlelight, he could see the trainer’s steel-blue eyes like a piece of sky. He smiled, and he thought his trainer smiled back. “I see,” he said. He suddenly understood what Gristle meant to him—even a bit of how his teacher saw himself. “I stand.” For the first time in his life, he began to accept his own mysterious self. Instead of stumbling like a drunk, he could stand.

“Then come here to me,” the trainer told him. And he went gladly.

As if to make up for this morning’s brief contact, Gristle seemed to toy and play with him, bringing him to the edge, then pulling him back, again and again. Wynn thought he would explode in mid-air, and he pulled the other man’s head hard into himself. He lost all idea of what he said. He might have shouted, “I want you now!” He might have arched his ass so hard, so high, that he was sobbing and swearing in frustration. And then he came, in a shuddering of joy.

He lay for a while rolled in the cloak of Gristle’s enveloping arms. And then he spoke close to his ear. “I would go wi’ye to Tara.”

He knew that being away from the trainer now was totally unacceptable. Even if it were only ten minutes a day, he wanted to kneel at the older man’s feet and learn from him. Even if Gristle never touched him again, he had already taught him a lifetime’s worth of wonders and outright joy.

“Will ye seek me at night?” he asked Gristle.

“I will not let you out of my sight. Ever again.”

Wynn suddenly understood that his lover wanted him, only him. Gristle lay next to him then, his chiseled mouth next to Wynn’s. The boy thought he felt a small smile, a twitch of Gristle’s lips, against his skin. Or perhaps it was merely the prelude to a kiss.

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