Something Hard, from Masters of Cane

 

Here’s a short continuation of what I started last week. Soon I’ll post the debut date and link to the newest Gaslight Mystery.

mofc banner w title, author=pizap.com14525557231972

Chapter 2: Something Hard

Simon had awakened surprised and was still astonished.

His heart was rattling like a toy drum, his throat was dry, his hands were shaking as he tried to unlock the door to his flat.

Of course he expected Michael to try to lure him back into the privy, or to touch him somewhere as they stood briefly in the gaslit hallway. He even wanted the slick intrusion into his ear, the husky promise of the man’s voice. No, not merely wanted those sensations. Craved them.

What flabbergasted him—now, and every moment since waking up this morning—was his own eager collaboration. He had always ducked and fled from the randy roustabout, one for whom the word “subtlety” had seemed to be some form of undecipherable ancient tongue.

Why now, after a full year, had he thrown aside the sham of disliking Michael’s frank interest?

He’d rushed through his daily toilet and bath, hoping to find the brawny, good looking Irishman outside the privy door. And as badly as he’d wanted to stroke his heavy penis until the pressure eased, he’d merely washed it gingerly until he was sure it would be acceptable to his flat-mate’s questing mouth—if, indeed, Michael began to look for the obvious.

fireplace:roomSimon’s fingers finally found the keyhole, and he opened the door to number 3-C, the large Victorian-era flat he shared with Michael McCree. His eyes took in every detail of the room immediately, noting the small change wrought by his flat-mate.

The room was spacious, with a high domed ceiling where his own shadow played, caught by the flickering gaslight. His eyes swept the marble fireplace whose mantel boasted his antique clock … his father’s handsome liquor cabinet next to it with stained-glass panels … a huge impressionist-style painting of the hills of Cambridge … the old wingback chair and the slick leather divan three meters away, both hand-me-downs from his father … the thick oriental rug whose reds and golds shimmered like mysterious gems.

This was the environment where he felt both safe and in peril. The place where he could come to find privacy and forbidden pleasure too.

The canes. The ivory-handled fighting sticks. He’d mounted them near the fireplace a few years ago, and yesterday he’d taken them down as a veiled message to his flat-mate. Carefully laying them next to each other, he’d propped them against his roomer’s door. Michael had to take them away to get inside. Where had he put them?

Simon saw them in his next glance, lying absolutely perpendicular on the heavy mahogany dining table. Uncrossed, open, the way he wanted Michael to see them also—an invitation to be his stick-fighting partner. Even though the street-wise Michael relied mainly on his blunt fists, Simon thought no self-respecting Irishman should be without a rudimentary knowledge of cudgels in some form. And Michael was showing him he understood and agreed.

Lately his blustery room-mate had begun to show promise … a shade of delicacy, moments rife with actual nuance. It had taken Simon almost a year to teach the fellow, and the man’s sexual energies were now being channeled in a way that deeply excited him.

cane in handStanding at the table, he ran his fingers down the length of the canes. Their high polish and adamantine smoothness called to him, reminded him of the fighting master who’d awarded him these beauties. He felt almost an electric spark, letting the meat of one palm settle on the hard surface before lifting his hand again, loathe to disturb their static potential yet longing to release that promise once more, with a new partner.

As he crossed the large sitting room to his bedchamber, Simon reflected that he had not truly taught Michael. His business partner and companion—face it, Simon, your lover—had learned because he’d found every way conceivable to say “I want you.” And maybe Michael’s unspoken words told him something even deeper. His partner’s off-and-on subtlety was just a small part of a secret daily message Simon knew he was whispering sometimes soft, sometimes with a rasping insistence.

Once he entered his large bedchamber, Simon was again taken aback. The soiled linens were no longer crumpled on his bed but balled up on the floor next to an old lumpy chair. Fresh folded sheets were sitting on the too-plump seat, no doubt waiting for the damp mattress to air-dry in the slight breeze wafting from the window.

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Normally he would firmly close the door. He’d strip the robe and don clean underwear, then find some suitable summer-weight suit to wear the rest of the day. But today he walked directly to his large four-poster bed and sat heavily at its foot, his mind snagged by the fighting sticks, the clean sheets, the memory of a wet movement in his ear and his own eager tongue on Michael’s full lower lip. Flicking, then fleeing. But absolutely honest and direct, like Michael’s own.

His phallus began to swell, and for once he did not try to will “it” away. The erection. The hardness. My stiff cock.

Michael had taught him how to give his body to another person. He’d also showed him how to blurt out his needs in words of one syllable.

He’d gone from being a hermit with a bad attitude to a willing lover, all in the space of just one year. If he were to be honest with himself, Simon knew the “willing lover” part was somewhat scarce most of the time. Simon shook his head, still reeling from the change in himself—not in a year, but in just a few days. Hell and damn, in the space of a few hours.

Something important, some alchemists’s magic, had turned him from straw to flesh. He needed time to take stock of this new Simon Hart…

A familiar lilt, the deep humor-laced tones of a sensuous man, penetrated his thoughts.

“Simon, lad. Let’s make this damned bed, or let it make us.”

towel:blondHe looked up and saw his flat-mate in a towel that was way too thin to disguise the man beneath. Looking from there into Michael’s brindled eyes, tawny as a cat, he found himself suddenly smiling.

“Make us what, McCree?”

The interloper leaned over him, the tented cloth only inches from his chin.

“Make us crazy again.”

Almost by rote, Simon slid away from the heat of Michael and managed to stand not quite touching him. But not exactly running away. And again out of habit, he pushed his lower lip into its usual cynical droop.

“I heard no knock on the door.”

“Sure an’ ’twere a knock, lad. Something hard knocking against this bloody towel.”

And then Michael kissed him. A slow, wet kiss that started on his surly lower lip and moved inside, while his bear-paw hands gentled his cheeks and chin then moved to cup his buttocks.

Simon felt his phallus become a bed post.

~oOo~

mofC figures only=pizap.com14526098981981Missed the excerpt from Chapter 1? It’s here:

https://caitlinfire.wordpress.com/2016/01/08/masters-of-cane-coming-soon/

Have you started Erin O’Quinn’s acclaimed Gaslight Mysteries? Find them on my Amazon and ARe/Omni Lit pages.

#gay #romcom #mysteries
Amazon USA http://goo.gl/N3cZ16
OmniLit https://goo.gl/xcDY3L

❤️HEART TO HEART ❤️

👥SPARRING WITH SHADOWS 👥

☠️TO THE BONE ☠️

🔫THIN AS SMOKE 🔫

Art of the cane fighters is by Alex A. Akira, writer/artist/illustrator. If you need covers, banners, box set art, etc., you’ll find his service here:  alexaakira.org

 

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Thin as Smoke: Read it Now

For most folks, today is Super Bowl Sunday. For me, it’s launch day of Thin as Smoke, the fourth Gaslight Mystery.

If you’ve read any of the earlier mysteries, you know that Michael McCree and Simon Hart are two private eyes in 1920s Ireland; and that Michael began their relationship in the role of a covert op for an agency not-to-be-named here. No spoiler alerts from me!

Michael wormed his way into Simon’s flat after winning a fisticuffs wager. From that point, he worked his way into the surly man’s PI business, and from there into his four-poster bed. More out of than into, as a matter of fact.crop fisticuffs=pizap.com13997302866531

With each ensuing novel, the relationship between roustabout Michael and snotty, angry Simon  grows more tangled, more edgy, more sensual in its tacit promise of pursuit and climax.

The newest mystery opens May 1, 1924. It’s been exactly one year from the morning private investigator Simon stumbled into Michael’s newspaper office, rumpled and unshaven, bearing an obituary notice. For the darkly handsome PI, that day was a journey through ghastly memories of finding his former partner murdered. For the brash Irishman with a secret, the day brought into his life the man he wanted to be with the rest of his days …
~

Opening words of Heart to Hart, Gaslight Mystery 1:

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Michael’s life began all over again on Monday. The rain that had been threatening for weeks finally banged Dun Linden with bare fists just as dawn broke, pummeling and pounding, leaving everyone a little off balance. Setting the banner line for the day’s newspaper edition, he’d looked up from the linotype into the most arresting pair of eyes he’d ever seen. They were soulful and tormented, of a color somewhere between teal and turquoise, like a rare metal seen once in a lifetime. Or an undiscovered ocean on the edge of a wet dream. He stared in spite of himself at the man behind the eyes.

He was tall—all of six feet, almost as tall as Michael. A black felt bowler hat covered his hair. But Michael knew it had to be as dark as the eyebrows and the growing shadow around his upper lip and chin. Had the man even slept last night? The mouth itself was sulky, arrogant, almost angry.

Michael’s cock set up a slow hammering beneath the stiff leather apron.

~

Segue to one year later: May 1, 1924.  Michael and Simon are now partners in a PI firm, and they have an off-and-on sleeping arrangement which Simon still, after twelve months, is finding difficult to accept. Long story.

As the new novel opens, the men are sitting in the gay pub Paddy’s waiting for an undercover tryst with an agent. Why there? Because that tavern is the unlikely headquarters of Michael’s secret employer.

Michael is already planning a celebration; Simon is dreading it.

Just as Simon is barely beginning to warm to Michael, something happens which will utterly change their relationship. A gaunt man appears at Michael’s elbow, murmuring into his ear.  And while Simon watches them dance on the crowded floor, his gut wrenches with all the agony a jealous man can feel.

In this excerpt, Simon gets a closer look at this new man who will prove to be closer to Michael than merely a dance partner in a homosexual tavern.

~

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He shuddered. Who is this creature, and why is my gut in knots looking at him?

Despite the cadaverous look of his face, this stranger was striking, even sensual. Simon had learned to appreciate and fear those men who guarded their secrets with their eyes. He thought briefly of the Brown Man, a former opponent. If he didn’t know damn well it was impossible, this man could be Chanda Gopala in one of a thousand disguises, come back to exact some perverted retribution.

The musicians were coaxing long minutes from the song. Simon had instantly learned the lyrics a few months ago from a scratchy table-model gramophone with a wind-up spring motor. Paddy’s often cranked it up when their players left to drink, or eat, or fornicate.

Some day he’ll come along,
The man I love
And he’ll be big and strong,
The man I love
And when he comes my way
I’ll do my best to make him stay.

 He wondered what the hollow-chested man was telling Michael, his mouth plastered in his ear …

~

So why in hell would Samuel Dashiell Hammett, the well-known writer of hard-boiled crime novels, be closeted in a gay tavern in Dun Linden, Ireland?

And how does this gaunt man with the hooded eyes forever change the lives of two PIs?

If you don’t already own the first three mysteries, isn’t it time you rushed over and bought them?

Heart to Hart: http://amzn.to/12gBwlL
Sparring with Shadows: http://amzn.to/14QXtqW
To the Bone: http://amzn.to/1bEXep2
The mysteries can also be found on my Amber Quill Press author page:
http://www.amberquill.com/store/m/223-Erin-O-Quinn.aspx

And now: Thin as Smoke cover reveal …

resized 8x120ThinAsSmokeCover copyright 2015 by Trace Edward Zaber, Amber Quill Press.

Now on Amazon:
http://amzn.to/17gOVCi

On ARe/OmniLit:

https://www.omnilit.com/product-thinassmoke-1741558-340.html
For your Kindle, choose Mobipocket .prc

Or on the publisher’s web page:
http://www.amberquill.com/store/p/2118-Thin-As-Smoke.aspx

Hammett, Gershwin, and O’Quinn

Dashiell Hammett, best known for his iconic novel The Maltese Falcon, struggled with tuberculosis most of his adult life. The portrait you’ll read of him in THIN AS SMOKE, however, is a creation of my frazzled brain and not a representation of the “real” Dashiell  Hammett, except insofar as a distinct personality emerges from reading his body of work.

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George Gershwin, beloved American composer of popular jazz and sophisticated orchestral pieces, was the son of Russian Jews. In Michael and Simon’s tavern, the music would have been heard on scratchy gramophones and even live, from the fingers and lips of jazz musicians for whom there were no international boundaries, only music.

tmil gershwin

Both these fellows are imbedded in my new romcom mystery THIN AS SMOKE, each in a different way.

Hammett, the famous writer of hard-boiled crime novels, was really a Pinkerton Agency op from 1915 until 1922. And Gershwin wrote the hugely famous “The Man I Love” in 1924,* the year my story takes place.

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Those of you who’ve read the first Gaslight Mystery, Heart to Hart, already know the Pinkerton’s link with Michael. Because of this association, I postulate that my character had met Hammett, whom he calls “Sam,” on U.S. soil in 1917, right before the writer-to-be joined the WWI effort.

Almost impoverished, with a wife and newborn child to support, the tubercular, chain-smoking Hammett was living in San Francisco in 1924. And here’s where Erin O’Quinn’s imagination substitutes fiction for reality. It’s true that Hammett had bitterly turned away from the detection agency two years before (because of their anti-union activities, which I don’t mention in the book).

But needing money, he agrees to one last assignment for Pinkerton’s; and that covert operation takes him to Dun Linden, Ireland, back to the man he’d known Stateside seven years earlier.

And Simon, battling his inner demons—in love with Michael but refusing to admit his gayness … guilt-ridden over his ambivalent feelings—Simon does not like Hammett’s appearance and his teaming up with his PI partner Michael. Not one little bit.

Ironically, the man who’s “thin as smoke” comes between the two private investigators in a way that’s “hard as a fist,” and that tension drives the inner action of the book. The outer action hinges on two sets of mysteries, and the PIs must split up to investigate both.

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Now let’s segue to a lovely song … “The Man I Love” is a standard, usually sung by a female vocalist. But anyone who’s heard the lyrics knows it’s a tender yearning for love, no matter whether from one man to another or from a woman to a man.

The day Hammett shows up in their lives, he invites Michael to the dance floor in a gay tavern in order to discuss a secret op. The music they closely dance to, ironically, is Gershwin’s song. Simon sits listening, fantasizing, anguished, while his secret love is in the arms of a dangerously handsome man.tmil green

You may choose not to believe this. But the video I present below was totally new to me until a few weeks ago, months after I wrote the dance-floor scene with the Gershwin song. Watch it, and you may weep for its understated declaration of pure love, one man for another. I cannot see it without fighting down a lump in my throat.

One of life’s strange coincidences.

The song winds its way throughout the book, coming back like a leitmotif, and reprises in the Epilogue. Hearing that song in some crevice of his mind, Simon finally understands what he must do.

And the very thin one, Hammett? His very presence becomes the catalyst for profound change in the life of both Michael and Simon, in ways you’ll have to read about to understand.

Please click the link (not the arrow) and watch/listen!

http://youtu.be/rcdgKtT-i-k

nyc chorus

If you haven’t yet read the Gaslight Mysteries, I urge you to read them in order—both to avoid any spoiler of a few interesting quirks and quiddities; and especially for the developing relationship between Michael McCree and Simon Hart.

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Heart to Hart
Sparring with Shadows
To the Bone
Thin as Smoke http://www.amberquill.com/store/p/2118-Thin-As-Smoke.aspx
Coming soon to Amazon dot com and dot uk.

Find all my novels on these author pages:

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1w8PVgI
AmberQuillPress: http://www.amberquill.com/store/m/223-Erin-O-Quinn.aspx
OmniLit: http://bit.ly/1uxLxy4
Siren Bookstrand: http://www.bookstrand.com/erin-oquinn

*The music and lyrics were written in 1924 for inclusion in a Broadway musical but were later scrapped; and the song wasn’t heard as a single until 1927. So I’m pushing the boundaries a little for the sake of the story. So sue me …

Photos on this page from Yahoo! Images and from Wikipedia
Cover Images by Marion Sipe and Trace Edward Zaber

Another sneak peek: Thin as Smoke is almost here!

February 1 will mark the debut of the fourth Gaslight Mystery. I call it THIN AS SMOKE, a phrase which reflects the physique and the smile if not the intentions of mysterious stranger Samuel Dashiell Hammett.

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May 1, 1924. The tubercular young man, not yet known for his remarkable crime fiction, has come to Ireland on the track of Mafia bootleggers. The trail of illegal whiskey leads him straight to someone he knew seven years ago, on the east coast of America. That man is Michael McCree, partner of the brooding Simon Hart in the investigation firm of Hart & McCree … Discretion at Your Service.

Apart from the presence of Hammett, the novel traces what happens when two partners are forced to work apart—two partners who are drawn to each other in ways that the closeted Simon has fought against for an entire year, even while recognizing the truth.

~oOo~

Slowly, month by month, he’d been learning to accept his craving for Michael. To enjoy inconceivable pleasure from the man’s deft tongue, his knowing fingers, his ramrod insistence and his gentle withdrawal. And he’d discovered his own astounding need to tie his lover, to inflict blows on his chiseled buttocks with his cane, to utter words he’d never dared even think before. He’d even ejaculated all alone at times without masturbating, just imagining Michael tying him to the dowels of his bed, so keen was the stimulus of being put in bonds by the powerfully sensuous man.
This new world of sex was fierce, and frustrating. It was a mystery and a muddle, and it was damn satisfying. He’d not trade Michael and his attentions for anything in this world. Not money, not fame, nor any of the lame ambitions he’d once thought were the answer to happiness.si sepiapizap.com14183410729121

Happiness? If only he could accept himself, hell, then he could covertly pleasure himself every time he touched Michael. If only he could face his needs and fears, if he could openly admit love, and above all if he could shed his monstrous burden of guilt…

Then pigs would fly.

Being aroused by another man … That forbidden pleasure had scraped a wound somewhere in his brain which barely scabbed over before being opened again every time he came to Paddy’s.

~oOo~

Paddy’s is a tavern frequented by homosexuals—omi-palones, in the underground language called Polari. And suddenly, out of the haze of cigarette smoke and dancers there emerges a man Simon immediately reacts to with the clenched gut of a jealous lover … Samuel Dashiell Hammett.

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Be sure to pick up your copy of the first three mysteries, if you haven’t already done so. They’ve piled up forty-five 5-star reviews on Amazon alone. There must be a reason.

HEART TO HART
SPARRING WITH SHADOWS
TO THE BONE

Find them on my Amazon author page:

http://www.amazon.com/Erin-OQuinn/e/B009AW51SA

And they’re here on my Amber Quill Press author page:

http://www.amberquill.com/store/m/223-Erin-O-Quinn.aspx

Or here on my AllRomance author page:

http://bit.ly/1uxLxy4

M/Mysteries and Prohibition: Bottom’s Up!

On the cusp of THIN AS SMOKE, the fourth Gaslight Mystery, I need to take you back in time …

America, 1924.

prohib newspaper

Prohibition has put law enforcement and the Mafia on the front lines, in a battle for men’s (and women’s) unquenchable thirst for truth, justice, and bathtub gin.

prohibition era blue

The waters of the East Coast have become the playground for “rum-runners,” smart bootleggers who smuggle illegal booze into the country via torpedo boats and other fast vessels, swifter than the Coast Guard can possibly hope to follow and apprehend.

Into this scenario steps Dashiell Hammett, now famous for his hard-boiled crime novels; but back in the early 1920’s a tubercular, penniless ex-Pinkerton’s op trying to eke out a living in San Francisco.

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When the Pinkerton’s Agency approaches him to go to Ireland in search of the illegal whiskey trail, he reluctantly agrees to return for one last assignment with his former employer…for the right price.

Enter Michael McCree and Simon Hart.

Find out how these three men manage not just to meet in Ireland, but to work together. And learn how Hammett, thin as a smoke tendril, still manages to insinuate his way between the two close PI partners. His involvement guarantees that Michael and Simon will never return to the same old relationship.

~oOo~

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The first three Gaslight novels are
HEART TO HART
SPARRING WITH SHADOWS
TO THE BONE

THIN AS SMOKE arrives February 1

Find Erin’s work here:
http://amzn.to/1w8PVgI
and here:
http://www.amberquill.com/store/m/223-Erin-O-Quinn.aspx

This little piggie . . .from big toe to bigger

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Foot Fetish … or Just a Damn Good Story?

SPARRING WITH SHADOWS is the second Gaslight Mystery…a continuing novel of outer mystery and inner discovery. What follows is one of the book’s comedic scenes.

Michael and Simon have discovered that Chanda Gopala, the elusive Brown man, has escaped the clutches of the law. Earlier in the story, while his flatmate was tracking Chanda, Simon Hart was busy with other matters. Now, he needs to know what Michael McCree has found out.

In this scene, the ever-horny Michael has manipulated the other man into slowly removing his socks, then bringing down his trousers as he massages his feet and thighs. As long as Simon continues stripping and rubbing him, Michael will continue his intriguing story,

When Simon hesitates, so does Michael’s tale.

Simon rested one hand on Michael’s ankle and traced his index finger up to where the garter caught the top of the sock. He slowly opened the clasp on each side and rolled the sock to his ankle. Inch by inch, he pulled it off, then placed it on the carpet.

He saw one side of Michael’s mouth twitch a small fraction and his remaining stocking-clad foot wagged also. Simon sighed again and gradually removed the other sock. He unclasped one garter, then the next, and set them next to the abandoned stockings.

“Ah, Simon, me poor feet hurt. Would ye mind?”

Simon bent over the large feet, actually well shaped with slender, high arches. He noticed the nails were neatly square-cut, as manicured as his own. He began to stroke the right foot, bringing his thumb up under the insole and kneading the meat under the big toe. His ministrations were met with moans Simon would describe as almost lustful—as redolent of pleasure as though he were stroking the man’s groin instead of his foot.

He was astonished to find that his own groin felt bathed in heat, responding to every touch of his fingers on the ball of Michael’s foot and then on the toe itself. He felt a rising pain in his chest, then realized he’d forgotten to breathe.

Sighing, he released the right foot and grasped the other. With sure, steady strokes, he applied the same pressure, imagining how these same movements would feel if Michael were returning the gesture, knowing the entire process was probably rather pleasurable.

As Simon massaged, Michael began to speak.michael 400 flip

“I was able to follow the very scent of the man, Simon. Ah, yes, right there. I found he keeps a second flat-within-a-flat, almost. One lair only scant minutes from the other. No one would ever suspect he hadn’t set his feet miles away from his former apartment. Damn cheeky. Brilliant.”

Simon forgot to rub, and Michael forgot to speak.

Trying not to show his amusement or his arousal, Simon ducked his head and continued to stroke his friend’s feet, his ankles, and even a little higher onto his calves.

Michael picked up the narrative.

“He owns something of great value, I believe. Higher, please, Simon. Ah, yes… He keeps it for wealth, of course, but me gut tells me it holds some kind of religious significance. That is how we shall trace him. Tomorrow, early, we shall go back and pick up the trail.”

Simon was slowly massaging Michael’s calf muscles and drawing his trouser legs higher. Michael had drawn his knees up in the large ottoman, and his butt had sunk lower in the chair.

“If me trousers were lowered, ye could reach me thighs. Will ye, love? Just for a few minutes, just the muscles, while I relax.”

By now, Simon’s breath had begun to be labored, and his heartbeat had increased until he thought his entire face and neck were red with the blood rushing there. For a fact, his own groin had blossomed to a frightening degree. How had this charlatan manipulated him again into a scene of such intimacy?

Even while silently cursing him, Simon carefully opened the top button on Michael’s fly. He saw that the trousers the man wore—his own goddamn britches—held a brick, that Michael wore a huge erection. Steadily, he continued to undo every mother-of-pearl button. And then he stopped. His fingers were trembling so much he was afraid he’d slip and graze the man’s shaft or testicles.

“More, lad?”

Simon thought it could have been a question, or a quiet plea. He rolled Michael’s trousers off his hips—again, inch by inch—while the man tried to continue his story.

“The most important fact is that this man is smart . . . Criminey, Simon, I love that . . . I had to take a trip to a certain, um, haberdashery to alert me people. That place of business is now shut down. Ah, God, Simon, don’t stop, lad.”

Simon had taken one of Michael’s upper legs between his outstretched hands and was kneading, rubbing and massaging it. He deliberately allowed his fingers to graze the cobwebbed testicles as he worked his hands higher. Michael’s buttocks were raised several inches from the seat of the chair, and Simon began to feel a certain power, a kind of mastery over his much larger companion. Michael’s breath was a rasp, his legs were shaking, and Simon was hardly breathing.

By the time Simon began on the other leg, Michael had reared himself up enough to seize his shoulders.

“Ye’ve sapped me strength, Simon. I cannot move. God, finish me, let me die on the battlefield.”

Thinking of Hussars and plunging stallions, Simon knelt between massive thighs while Michael’s strong hands grasped his shoulders. He’d already set his mouth over this monstrous phallus twice, and both times he’d been shaken to the core. Looking at it now, trellised with purple veins, moving of its own accord, he wondered again how this vital part of Michael had ever entered his own arse without splitting him.

Without meaning to look in his face, Simon’s eyes grazed the pale ivory silk shirt Michael was wearing, saw the striped, wide suspenders awry on his arms, the half-knotted gold scarf on his neck. The sight fired him in some deep place. It was like spreading satin on a bed of rocks to touch this muscular man swathed in Simon’s own soft clothing. His hands seemed to take on an energy all their own as he began to soothe Michael’s long, warm phallus, at the same time that he finally looked into his face.

Michael was gazing at him with an expression that sent a jolt to his gut and a hot flare up his rectum. His eyes seemed to consume him. His mouth looked almost soft in surrender. Simon thought that if the man said anything at all right now, he might jump up and run from the room, barricade himself behind his bedroom door. But Michael merely held his own eyes with a kind of haunting appealsws pandance235pix=pizap.com14360156303371 copy

He watched Michael’s face as his own fingers began a slow dance on his rigid flesh. He saw Michael shut his eyes and heard him whisper, a choke that sent another flame to his groin, “Love me, Simon.”

And he did. With palms and fingers and tongue and mouth, Simon sank into a rapturous dance that held all the longing and passion he’d ever in his life felt for another human being. He knew that Michael was a man of huge capacity who would accept even the roughest kind of sex play. Incapable of that, he merely licked and stroked, sucked and feasted until the monster erupted, and Michael’s voice was a roar of release. He tasted the tart pungency of his seed, and he swallowed it.

While Michael stroked his hair, he rested his head on the flat stomach, still kneeling, as if in obeisance to the god of all cocks.

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