Friday, January 30, 2015

His Unexpected Mate

Living in a small wooden cabin at the edge of a forest while solving the mystery of recent murders, Eli learns that the locals believe a man-beast is responsible. As an outsider, he is watched very closely, even though he is working with the local sheriff, a man whose effect upon him is uncomfortably arousing.

The forest near Eli’s cabin had only squirrels, deer, and other such animals inhabiting it, so the fact that two people had been killed by a wild beast clearly had the citizens worried. Why was Eli’s firm involved in such a case? Eli’s father and the county’s sheriff, Stanley Blake, were friends. Stanley had called Eli’s father, and after a flight that lasted a few hours and a short taxi drive later, Eli arrived in the area.
He looked at his wristwatch. Stanley would be coming up to the cabin in a few minutes to meet him. Eli patted his black hair down, but before he could walk out of the bathroom there was a knock at the front door. “Eli, are you there? Can I come in?” asked a voice, a voice that surprisingly made Eli’s heart jump excitedly.
Eli walked out of the bathroom and it took all of his willpower to stop his jaw from dropping. Standing in front of him was a handsome, black-haired, tall, well-built man, and the fact that he was in his sheriff’s uniform wasn’t helping the matter.
“You must be Eli?” the man smiled.
Eli tried not to stare. “Yes,” he nodded. “Stanley?”
“At your service,” Stanley smiled. “I’m so glad you could come.”
Eli was expecting Stanley to be older, much older than the young man standing in front of him. He was probably twenty-four or twenty-five years old.
“My pleasure,” Eli smiled back and shook Stanley’s hand. He couldn’t explain it but he could feel his body grow warm as Stanley took his hand in his. “So…so, the murders,” said Eli as he let go of Stanley’s hand. He didn’t make eye contact with Stanley. He felt uncomfortable, even a bit aroused. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen handsome men before, but something about Stanley felt different to him.
He didn’t know if it was his imagination but he felt as if he were being followed. He quickened his pace as he noticed someone just a few feet behind him. The person was smaller than he and Eli knew no one would risk a mugging in broad daylight. Becoming annoyed, Eli spun around to confront his supposed stalker.
“Why were you following me?” Eli asked.
“I noticed you come out of the pub,” answered Rupert. “You’re new here, right? Why are you here? Why would you come to a small county where two murders have already taken place? My mom said not to talk to you when she saw you yesterday. I was with her when the taxi dropped you at the cabin near the woods and now…”
“Hold up, kid,” said Eli. “That’s a lot of questions you’re asking me. Why are you talking to me when your mother told you not to do so?”
“She’s always wary of people,” Rupert rolled his eyes. “And besides, it’s not every day that one gets to meet a man-beast.”
“A man what?” asked Eli.
“Don’t act as if you don’t know what I’m talking about,” laughed Rupert. “You know! A man-beast! Half beast, half man, with an unquenchable thirst for human flesh and blood. “You are a man-beast, right? Can you make me one, too?”
Eli looked at Rupert as if he were crazy. Not only was he being accused of being a man-beast, but he was asking him to turn him into one, too. “Just go home, kid,” said Eli.
“Oh, come on!” said Rupert. “I won’t tell anyone. No one needs to know.”
“Go home, Rupert,” said Eli.
“If you ever change your mind, you can always track me by my scent,” Rupert yelled at Eli as he continued walking towards the station.
Eli rolled his eyes. There was definitely something weird about the people living in the county. Eli knew about werewolves from the books and movies he had seen, but he had never read about man-beasts.
“His Unexpected Mate,” paranormal romance by T.L. West, is available from Apple, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, All Romance ebooks, Kobo ebooks, and Coffeetime Romance. Our website is

Thursday, January 22, 2015

The Pariah

The young man labeled a pariah must find his way through a labyrinth of his own making as he tries to discover what truly makes him happy. This is no easy task at Williamsburg State University, where gay men are plentiful and the endless buffet has plenty to offer. Cautioned against trying to bed every man who will have him, Terry does not heed the warning nor does he realize that his actions may have undesirable consequences.

The most imminent thing on the horizon was New York City, and all the men he could ever want. He could pick and choose, if Henry’s description of the downstairs wooden frame with naked men waiting was in any way, shape, or form accurate.

Terry was in awe as he looked in the shop windows as they navigated the sidewalk of Christopher Street, the gayest street in the entire city. There were restaurants, art galleries, antique stores, an off-Broadway theatre, fashion stores, jewelry stores, and leather shops. It was nothing like sedate East Port.

Randy smiled at Terry, “Welcome to NYU, or as some people call it, NY Yoo-hoo, because of the gay guys hollering out the dorm windows at cute guys on the street. I have three roommates, so I may have to fight them for window space.”

He led Terry up the steps to the third floor, unlocked the door, and was rather shocked to see Robby with a blond he had obviously picked up.

“Sorry, roomie, didn’t know you were here. We’ll be out in a minute.” They went for a bite to eat at one of the restaurants on Christopher Street. “That was awkward,” Henry said. “He is good, though, if you know what I mean.”

“You and your roommate have…?”

“Hell, yes.”

“Well, it seems we have another thing in common. My roomie and I have, too.” Terry went on to relate his unions with Darryl, Randy, Phil, and Muddy.

“You certainly have been one randy guy down there at Williamsburg State. Want to do something different I haven’t even tried here in the city?”

“Sure, what is it?”

Butchie’s certainly was not an eye-catching place from the outside. Two small windows on the street were covered on the inside with wooden blinds, and a large metal grate covered it on the outside when the place was locked. Terry looked around and noted that nearly everything about the place was light brown in color and relatively new. There was nothing that indicated the age of the building, unlike every other shop Terry had observed in the Village. It completely lacked character, though, not that he was here to appreciate character. He admired the men in the shop. There were several he would love to have sex with, and he commented on them to his companions. He watched them disappear behind a curtain and they didn’t return.

“That’s where the steps to paradise are, I presume.”

“Yes. The maze is to the left.”

Terry followed them at a respectable distance, but he lost them in the darkness of the maze. Instead, he found himself in a room lit only by a single red light bulb, and he was a witness to all the depravity that two men could do together. In a far corner he noticed an orgy of seven guys combining in every way possible. Some of them noticed him as well and motioned him to join them. He hesitated but then joined them. He was theirs in an instant as seven guys were all over him. All he could do, being suddenly the centerpiece of their orgy, was enjoy the ride. This was sex as he had never known it could be.

Then he felt what he was not prepared for.

“Whoa!” he shouted. “Wrap it up or get out.”

Suddenly all seven males deserted him. He didn’t play by the rules of the basement. Left out of the conglomeration of mingled bodies, he worked his way back towards the maze.

“Hey, wait!” One of the seven came running after him. “You must be new here. Come with me into the maze.”

He grabbed Terry’s hand and led him into the absolute darkness of the maze. They rounded four corners and he pulled Terry to him. He was a man on a mission and not to be denied. Terry couldn’t refrain from giving in completely to the man. Afterward, he disappeared before Terry could say a word.

Totally disoriented in the darkness, Terry began to feel his way around the maze, accidentally touching couples along the way. Only when he heard moaning did he know there were two guys engaged.

“The Pariah,” erotic romance by Duncan More, is available from Apple, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, All Romance ebooks, Google, Kobo ebooks, and Coffeetime Romance. Also available in print from Amazon. Our website is

Tuesday, January 20, 2015

Ravens From the Ashes

Ravens From the Ashes

From the Ashes Trilogy Book 1

Genres: Post-Apocalyptic, Alien Invasion, Lesbian Romance

Ravens From the Ashes Soundtrack available on Spotify

Purchase Links: Kindle   --   Nook   --   Kobo   --  Paperback


Fiona Bishop, celebrated supermodel and recent pariah of the entertainment news after stabbing a paparazzi photographer in the mouth with a penknife, welcomed the end of the world after the week she had.
The apocalypse started on a Saturday and for better or worse, Las Vegas survived. The Extinction War might have wiped Las Vegas from the face of the planet were it not for a former pole-dancer from Louisiana, a single mother straight off a commune, and a mafia widow. And Fiona might have fulfilled her plan of living fast, dying young, and leaving a beautiful, redheaded corpse if she hadn’t discovered the joys of big guns, hot women, and high explosives.

In the wake of the first wave of the invasion, when Las Vegas was supposed to shrivel in the desert, choked by the smoke of war, three bloody queens collected survivors and waged their own war for survival. Rather than submit to alien invaders, ruthless drug cartels, and bloodthirsty bikers, lady ravens rose from the ashes, just in time for a second apocalypse. 

Sample Chapter

Drip, drip, drip, drip. Fiona awoke to the familiar sound of the coffeepot finishing its run. Her head felt like it was full of wet cement when she dragged it from her pillow. Were the coffeepot not automated, she doubted it would ever make coffee before noon. She didn’t actually know if either assumption was true for that morning. Daylight streamed in through the Venetian blinds on her bedroom window that overlooked the top of King Street. Her cell phone wasn’t on the nightstand so telling time wasn’t an option until she went into the kitchen to look at the microwave.
She stumbled from bed, found a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt among the scattering of clothes on the floor, and wandered out the open bedroom door into the rest of her West Hollywood condo. The coffeepot had filled the living room, kitchen, and dining room with the lovely scent of freshly brewed coffee. Fiona glanced at the sleeping form on her couch on her way past.
“Sharon, get the fuck off my couch and out of my apartment,” Fiona snarled at her mother on the way past. The bleached blond, comatose figure on the couch barely stirred at the order barked at her. Fiona nearly stumbled over a pair of daringly high wedge heels on her way into the kitchen. “And pick up your hooker shoes before I break my neck.”
A glance at the microwave mounted above the never-used stove told her that she’d awoken at 10:32 AM. Not bad considering her night ended on the barely light side of dawn. She stood in front of the coffeepot a moment before she remembered what she was doing. A white mug sat next to the white appliance. Most of the things in Fiona’s apartment were white, not for any vision of décor, but because she didn’t like trying to figure out complimentary colors and nothing in her apartment was ever used enough to show dirt even on white surfaces. She poured coffee into the mug and considered its existence. Her mother clearly hadn’t made the coffee, and even if she had, she wouldn’t have set out a mug for her daughter.
The coffee mixed poorly with the tequila film coating the inside of Fiona’s mouth left over from the night before. She spit the coffee into the sink and dipped her head under the tap to run the faucet over her mouth to suck in a few mouthfuls. She swished the water around and spit it into the sink before returning to her coffee.
“Don’t drink from the tap like some stupid animal,” her mother croaked from the couch. “There’s bottled water in the fridge. Besides, there are chemicals in tap water.”
It wasn’t even funny how many chemicals Sharon willingly ingested in the form of drugs, paid to have pumped into her face by plastic surgeons, and poured over her head to turn her red hair platinum blond, but her daughter was supposed to un-ironically beware tap water chemicals. “I told you to take your hooker shoes and get out.”
Fiona’s mother rose from the couch like a herky-jerky zombie. She glanced at the shoes mentioned as she staggered toward the hallway and the bathroom door. “Is that any way to talk to your mother?” she said. “And those aren’t mine.”
“You were telling people you were my sister last night.” Fiona sipped her coffee, wrapping both hands around the mug to absorb the warmth along with the caffeine. She took a harder look at the shoes. Upon closer inspection, they were real Jimmy Choos, which were well out of her mother’s price range or fashion savvy.
“There’s someone taking a shower,” her mother said on the way back through toward Fiona’s master bedroom and the other bathroom.
“I told you to get out,” Fiona said.
The shoes must belong to whoever was in the bathroom, the same someone who made the coffee and set out the mug. That made more sense than the automated timer making the coffee. Fiona rarely remembered to set up the pot the night before—automatic didn’t mean the coffeepot would fill itself with a fresh filter, coffee grounds, and water. Fiona hated to admit, even to herself, that she’d thought that’s what automatic meant when she bought it.
“You need to be in Las Vegas by 7 PM,” her mother said. “Do you want me to drive you? We could have a girl’s weekend.”
“You mean you can snort all my coke and dance with frat boys while I work? Fuck off, Sharon.”
“You can’t drive anymore. How else are you going to get there?”
“Stripper flight out of Burbank.” Supremely sought-after strippers and porn stars or sometimes struggling models and actresses, would fly from Burbank airport to Vegas for the weekend on cheap flights to dance in the high-end strip clubs of Las Vegas, earning five figures in two nights. Fiona never did the dancing part, but she’d taken the flights before because they were filled with beautiful women who smelled heavenly and appreciated the professional courtesy of not pestering one another. After Fiona stabbed a paparazzi guy in the mouth with a pen knife outside LAX a couple years ago, she wasn’t eager to use the L.A. hub again and she really didn’t want anyone recognizing her.
“How are you going to get to the airport?”
“Whoever is in the shower can give me a ride.”
“Maybe it’s a him in the shower and he was my date.”
Fiona rolled her eyes. “Not likely. My television is still here instead of at an Echo Park pawnshop sold for meth money and those are women’s shoes on the floor. You’re not coming to Vegas with me.”
“Fine, can I at least have the Camaro since you can’t drive it?”
“Chaos tic.” Fiona looked down meaningfully to the steaming cup of coffee in her hands.
“Whatever, I’m gone.” Fiona’s mother comported herself and walked out of the condo with all the grace and dignity that a hung-over hanger-on could muster.
Fiona returned to sipping her coffee. She hadn’t really had a chaos tic that demanded she throw the hot coffee in her mother’s face, but she’d indulged so many of her psychotic tendencies lately that it was a potent threat even as a lie. Only a handful of people even knew of Fiona’s particular mental affliction that required her to do most of the insane things that popped into her head; thankfully, her mother didn’t know her well enough to know when she was bluffing.
A dainty figure wrapped in a towel emerged from the hallway. Her dark brown, shoulder length hair was still wet from the shower and her face had the attractive, freshly scrubbed glow that Fiona adored. Fiona knew the woman, although she couldn’t remember how they’d met or what her name was.
“What’s a chaos tic?” the woman asked with a twinkle in her dark brown eyes.
“You know those weird urges you get in everyday situations where you feel like doing something socially unacceptable like spitting in someone’s face for no reason, or shoving a stranger off a curb, or whatever?”
“Yeah, everyone gets those.”
“I call them chaos tics,” Fiona said, “and my mother knows I either can’t or won’t ignore them.”
“Good term for something I didn’t know had a name.” The woman kicked her shoes out of the high traffic area between the bedroom and the kitchen. She leaned against the divider wall alongside the kitchen island. “How’s the coffee?”
“Good, thank you.” Fiona liked that the woman had kicked her own thousand dollar shoes as if they were five dollar flip-flops just because Fiona wanted them out of her way. Pliable was good, but being instinctively aware that Fiona’s feelings were far more important than shoes of any price range was great. It kept her calm when people picked up on her desires, however small, without her having to ask for something, and calm kept her from lashing out.
“The shower is all yours if you want.”
“Thanks, I could use one.”
“You have no idea who I am, do you?”
“I want to say Kelly,” Fiona said.
“Right so far. I work for you.”
“As an…accountant?”
“My lawyer is a large, hairy Jewish gentleman with unpleasant breath and a weightlifter’s body,” Fiona said.
“That’s your criminal lawyer. I’m an entertainment industry lawyer.”
“Oh, right, the fucking TV show thing.”
“You’ll be the next host of ‘Model Behavior’ by the end of the month if I have anything to say about it,” Kelly said.
Normally inking a reality television show contract wouldn’t require a lawyer since she already had an entertainment industry agent, but Fiona had some legal baggage that necessitated a specialist, chiefly because of the mouth-stabbing incident at LAX and the suspended drivers license from two DUIs. Truthfully, Fiona didn’t even want the show—playing the mentor figure to a gaggle of bitchy wannabe models sounded like a shit job to her. They drove the metaphorical dump truck full of money into her living room, and she got over her trepidation.
“Did we sleep together?” Fiona asked.
“You fell asleep while I was going down on you.” Kelly cracked a smile that made Fiona flinch inwardly.
“I swear that’s not my best move.”
“I would hope not,” Kelly said. “Did you need me to give you a ride to the airport?”
“I’m driving to Vegas. I just didn’t want Sharon knowing.”
Kelly gave her a suspicious look. “I thought your license was suspended.”
Fiona leaned forward against the countertop between them. She smiled sweetly, letting a few strands of her red hair fall across her face. A little fidgeting with the handle of her coffee mug gave off the sense of nervousness she didn’t really feel. When she glanced up from the demure tilt of her head, she saw in Kelly’s eyes that her coy routine had done its work.
“You could come with me, if you want,” Fiona said shyly. “Give me a chance to make up for last night.”
“You’re not planning on hooking up a bunch when you’re in Vegas?” Kelly asked. A light touch of pink warmed the curves of her cheeks and the top of her neck.
“I am,” Fiona said, letting a tiny pause pass, “with you.”
“I suppose I can take a weekend off,” Kelly said.
“We can swing by your place on the way out of town to pick up your slinkiest party dress and skimpiest bikini,” Fiona said with a smile.
♠ ♣ ♥ ♦
After a quick stop off at Kelly’s Culver City apartment, they were on their way down the 10 heading east toward Vegas. Fiona’s lead foot didn’t know or care about suspended licenses or speed limits. She’d purchased the highest of high-end Camaros for the express purpose of feeling every single horse the car had under the hood whenever she so much as twitched a toe against the accelerator.
“Silver and black Camaro ZL1,” Kelly said. “Something like 580 horsepower?”
“Something like that,” Fiona said, not really knowing the exact numbers. Long Beach motor-head butches certainly seemed to like her ride whenever Fiona ventured down that way for an edgier date than she could get in West Hollywood. She hadn’t pegged Kelly as the type to know more about her car than her, although it was definitely a point in the lawyer’s favor. Fiona was a sucker for fast cars and fast women who knew cars.
“Am I going to get to drive it?” Kelly asked.
Fiona downshifted to fourth, slammed the gas pedal, and shot around a slow-moving BMW. The car roared and jumped forward under her expert direction. Fiona liked to think her car wanted to go fast as much as she did. The Camaro understood her self-destructive streak because it had one too. They were both built to someday end up wrapped around a telephone pole—it was in their blood and motor oil. Burnouts that fell short of anything worthwhile in life like Sharon and sweet girls with people-pleasing streaks like Kelly couldn’t understand the need to ride the edge of imminent destruction.
“Maybe,” Fiona said, reconsidering her estimation of Kelly. Anyone who would go to Vegas with her for a weekend must have some nihilistic tendencies.
They merged onto the 15 toward Barstow with the early afternoon sun beating down on the worn California highway. Kelly kept herself busy messing with the air conditioning on her side, answering emails on her Blackberry, and searching through Fiona’s iPod for tolerable music. Fiona couldn’t tell if her lawyer was nervous or just self-contained.
“So what exactly are you doing in Vegas?” Kelly finally asked when she’d run out of busy work.
“There’s a runway thing and a photo shoot,” Fiona said. “I usually just skim the emails enough to know where and when something is happening. Details aren’t my thing. It doesn’t matter since they usually let me know what’s going on when I get there.”
“Is your agent okay with that attitude?”
Fiona shrugged. “Don’t know; don’t care.”
“I saw that you packed something of a treasure trove of pills and other chemical refreshments,” Kelly said. “Are you really going to go through it all in one weekend?”
Fiona glanced over, hoping to judge Kelly’s intentions, but ended up fixating on the top of her silk blouse where the blasting air conditioner vent was fluttering the gauzy material across her cleavage. She was tan, her breasts were exquisite, and Fiona couldn’t think of anything beyond wondering what color Kelly’s bra was. There was little doubt Kelly’s breasts were the work of a surgeon and not genetics, but that had never bothered Fiona. A person in Los Angeles would kill their hookup chances if they excluded the surgically enhanced.
“Um…sure, maybe, do you have a weapon of choice against unsuspecting brain cells?” Fiona asked.
“No, I’m the squeaky clean type, maybe a little pot in college,” Kelly said. “It just made me think of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. The talent and her lawyer driving from Los Angeles to Las Vegas with a trunk full of illicit drugs.”
“I don’t know what that is,” Fiona said. Even if Fiona wasn’t entirely distracted by the luscious view of Kelly’s cleavage, none of what she’d just said rang a bell.
“The Hunter S. Thompson book?” Kelly asked hopefully.
Fiona shrugged. “It sounds interesting, but like I said, I’m a skimmer not a reader.”
“They also made it into a movie, twice actually,” Kelly said.
As the 15 seamlessly turned into the 515 at Barstow and they dipped into the true desert of eastern California, Fiona began to suspect she was losing Kelly. The truth was Fiona didn’t think of herself as a very interesting person. She didn’t read, didn’t care about politics or causes, and she didn’t even watch TV or movies all that often. Anything that required a quiet mind to enjoy made her skin crawl. She worked hard and partied twice as hard in the hope that the next adrenaline rush or fix would satisfy her long enough to sleep for a few hours before she would have to get up and start hunting for the next jolt. Kelly was interesting, though. She’d gone to college. She’d read things. She knew things that connected to other things she knew in ways that made her seem smart and worldly when she spoke. She probably even knew exactly why she was going where she was going for work. In comparison Fiona was empty, beautiful to look at, but vacant in almost every conceivable way. When faced with that level of disparity in overall value as a human being, Fiona did what she always did.
“Let’s play a game,” Fiona said.
“Like twenty questions or something?”
“Yeah, but strip twenty questions,” Fiona said.
“Okay. You think of something first.”
Fiona could tell from the upward trill in Kelly’s voice that she was excited by the prospect and probably more than a little nervous. That’s what Fiona needed: to feel as though she’d regained the upper hand despite how inferior she really was to Kelly.
By the time Vegas rose out of the desert like an unholy abomination cobbling together a dozen cities from around the world into one, Fiona and Kelly were both mostly undressed and practically thrumming with sexual frustration. The bra Fiona finally got to see cupping Kelly’s breasts so perfectly was maroon with little lace flowers. It was as satisfying of an answer as she could hope for.
Rather than let Kelly get dressed once they pulled onto the strip, Fiona gunned the engine, weaving in and out of traffic until she shot across the oncoming two lanes to get into the Bellagio parking roundabout. The Camaro’s engine roared, the cars she cut across the front of slammed on their brakes and laid on their horns, and Kelly let out the most delightful noise comprised of equal parts nervous giggle and scream of excited fear. They passed along the side of the famous fountains, skipped the valet beneath the awning, and darted straight into the south parking garage.
Fiona loved Vegas for the parking. Finding parking in Los Angeles was impossible, required the right stickers from a monolithic parking authority, and always cost money. In Vegas, they wanted people out of their cars and into casinos as quickly and as painlessly as possible, so parking was typically free and plentiful.
It took every drop of willpower she had not to race through the crowded parking garage to find an empty, secluded spot. Near the top of the structure, away from the elevator to the casino, she finally found the dark corner she was searching for. She pulled the Camaro in, slammed on the brakes, turned off the engine, and practically leapt across the center console into Kelly’s arms.
The fiery kiss they shared was only broken momentarily when Kelly asked, “Aren’t you going to be late?”
“Only a little and I’ll look much better on the runway if I have the glow of just getting laid,” Fiona whispered against Kelly’s mouth.
“Good answer,” Kelly murmured back and their lips were once again inseparable.

Thursday, January 15, 2015

RELEASE DAY: Highland Heart

King's Command 1


Erotic Alternative Fantasy Paranormal Romance, M/M, Mpreg, shape-shifters, HEA

By the King’s Command…

Called before the new king, Laird Artúr was shocked to see his old lover walking through the door. His anger ignites when the king commands them to mate and fortify his borders to the north. He is heartbroken when he discovers that his new mate has no recollection of their time together. Can he forgive Dainéal and let go of the past to build a future or will his resentment end what they could have before it begins?

Laird Dainéal balks at being commanded to mate, especially to a man he knows has to be insane. Despite how much Artúr insists that they have met before, Dainéal has no memory of the man. And he would have remembered a man that was so sexy he made Dainéal’s teeth ache.

Commanded by their king to establish a stronghold to the north, Artúr and Dainéal have to fight not only their past but those that want to keep them from their future. When betrayal comes from within, the bond between them may be the only thing that saves them.

Friday, January 9, 2015

Winchester's Men

A Winchester was a rifle that helped many pioneers as they settled the western provinces. They were known for their shooting ability when hunting for meat to eat, and nearly every man ‘packed a rod.’ That rather accurately describes our dancers as well as our customers.

Gregor hired me for a one night performance, a special birthday gift for his Steve, and with a little logistical planning, I pulled it off to perfection. I’m not like the pretty muscle gods they’ve got dancing here. Most of the guys I hang with don’t even realise I like to swing with a guy any morning, afternoon, or night. The guys I hang with really enjoy (no, make that love) their motorcycles. That’s where the thrill and power lies – sitting on top of a two wheeled machine surging with power – the feeling of leather and chrome and speed at our total command, riding where we want, doing what we want, as often as we want.

At 11:00 that night in full riding gear, I got my ’51 Indian (for you bike enthusiasts who need to know that kind of thing), revved up the engine and rode right on stage, gently shoved the dancer to the floor, rode down the ramp and braked in front of the VIP table. I looked Steve right in the eye and bellowed, “You the guy who runs this pansy club?” Instantly, uniformed security people were surrounding me. I got behind Steve, grabbed his neck in an arm lock, and hollered at the security guards. “Back off but stay in sight, unless you want a corpse on your hands, and that goes for the rest of you, too. Hey Bartender – take the phone off the hook and set it on the bar top where I can see it, and don’t let me even see a cell phone.”

You could have heard a pin drop in the place. I slowly took my trusty blade from my boot and began to pick my teeth with it. I loved being the centre of attention. “What!” I shouted menacingly, “You pretty boys like seeing guys take their clothes off? That really pops your cookies? Well, fine with me. You, come here,” I said glaringly at one of the security cops. One came forward. “Don’t none of you try nuthin’ right now, you hear?”

“Stand there.” He obeyed. “Come closer. These pretty boys here wanna see a man – a real man.” I took my knife and deftly sliced the threads on his shirt buttons so it fell open. “Now, get out there and tease us. Give us a show like you’re used to seeing here.” He slowly obeyed, having no other option. “Peel that t-shirt off – show us what a real man’s chest looks like.” He complied. “Glad you got a nice one for the boys here. Wouldn’t want them to be disappointed.” He wiggled and did a rather good strip. “Give us a show, Mr. Officer. That’s it, you can do it. Pretend you’re one of the pretty boys. Sell your body.” He hit some bodybuilder’s stances like he had been posing for years. The other security staff looked on helplessly, wondering and fearing that I had something in mind for them, too.

I skillfully took the knife and sliced open the seam of his trousers from the crotch through to the belt line, and his pants fell to his knees. “Ooh, nice!” I said. “Come on, Officer. Make it hot. Give the boys here what they want.” He again complied. “Okay, boys, give the nice officer a round of applause.” There was some polite applause.

“Well, what do you know? It seems the nice officer really belongs here. You’ve got customers here who want to see something different and really hot, so give them their money’s worth. They paid to get in here tonight.”

I hollered over to the bartender that I wanted a bottle of the best champagne in the house. A very nervous waiter brought it to the table, and it took him several tries to get the bottle popped. He could barely pour it into the glasses. “Don’t you go away, pretty boy,” I told him. I took a sip from my glass and looked over at the officer.

“Very good, Officer. By the way, what’s your name?”


“Well, very good show, Rene. I think everyone should give Officer Rene here a round of applause.” A huge round of applause followed as he scrambled to gather his uniform. “Hey, Rene, been a guard here long?”

“No, Sir,” he responded. “Tonight was my first night.”

“Maybe you can get a promotion to dancer here, Officer Rene. What do you think, Stevie?” I asked, slightly releasing the hold I had on him. “Would you hire him to dance here for all the pretty boys?” I waited for an answer. None was coming.

Looking into his eyes, I said, “You know what I think, Stevie baby? I think you should hire him as a dancer. You know what else I think, Stevie baby? I think you should have one memorable birthday. So,” I continued in a voice still loud enough for all to hear, “Happy birthday! I hope this birthday is always remembered as something special.” In front of everyone, I planted a big long wet kiss on his lips. Then in an even louder voice, I apologised to everyone present. “I am sorry for any emotional terror I may have caused you in the last fifteen or so minutes. To make up for it, the drinks are on me for the next half hour, so get the waiters and the bartenders busy.”

Steve sank back in his chair totally weak. Then I introduced him to Rene, a new dancer at Winchester’s – Montreal I had hired for the night. By the time Steve found out his security guards were in on my part of the night’s festivities, he immediately deduced who had hired me. I hung around to make sure no murder would follow. By the end of the night Steve and I had made peace, once he regained his composure, and I made a few friends that night.

Come in and say ‘Hi’ to me. I really won’t bite, unless you want me to.
“Winchester’s Men,” gay erotica/erotic romance by Duncan More, is available from Apple, Barnes & Noble, Amazon, All Romance ebooks, Google, Kobo ebooks, and Coffeetime Romance. Also available in print from Amazon. Our website is