The Christmas Wreath

A touching seasonal short story -

Seventeen year old David Delaney lives with Patrick Bell in what was once a cafe. It's Christmas Eve, but there is little festive feeling in the air - David has incurred Patrick's displeasure by behaving irresponsibly, he did so deliberately, but the question is why?

Excerpt:

The Bell End Café is situated at the very tip of Canal Street or Anal Street, as it’s more commonly known on account of it being the main street of a bustling city’s gay village. The most unusual feature of the café, the thing that sets it apart from the rest of the pubs, shops and bars that cluster it, is that it isn’t a café, not anymore. The Bell End ceased trading when one of the owners inherited a fortune from a distant relative and no longer needed to make a living from the sale of coffee, cake and sandwiches.


Michael End could have moved away when riches came his way, but he didn’t. He chose to stay at the café with his partner Patrick Bell. Their status changed from commercial renters of a grade-two listed building to its proud owners. They spent many happy hours together planning its conversion into a small but attractive residential property. What had been a Business with living accommodation became a full time home. They retained the painted wooden sign that bore the name of the café for sentiments sake, and because it made them smile. It still hangs above the front door, creaking a little when the wind blows.


Michael and Patrick had always loved the hustle and bustle of Canal Street and with wealth came time to enjoy it at their leisure. There was no more getting up at six in the morning and retiring after midnight, no more slaving all day just to turn a small profit. They walked hand in hand around the shops and lunched in the bars and bistros talking and laughing with friends. They made love in the afternoons, taking pleasure in each other’s bodies. On an evening they curled up together on the couch in their tiny front room and watched television or read to each other.

Happiness didn’t last. Michael broke Patrick’s heart by going away.


Patrick channelled his heartbreak into writing. He isn’t a brilliant writer and he knows it. He’ll never produce a gay ‘Gone With The Wind’ or write a homoerotic ‘War And Peace.’ He writes for his own pleasure producing erotic short stories, which occasionally get published. He also writes an advice column for a gay publication, trotting out words of wisdom on gay sex and relationships. He often wonders whether the advice he gives is heeded. People who seek advice are often loath to accept what is given. He knows for definite of one young man who recently disregarded his advice - one David Delaney.

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Available Now: Quinn's Blessing, by Jude Mason and Jenna Byrnes

Quinn's Blessing

by Jenna Byrnes | Jude Mason |

Book four in the Kindred Spirits Series

Co-written with Jenna Byrnes
ISBN: 978-0-85715-338-8
Genre: m/m, paranormal
Publisher: Total E-Bound

Jack Donner arrives at Whiskers' just in time for a wedding, but so has someone else, whose motives aren’t quite so pure.

There’s a cook’s position open at Whiskers' Seaside Inn and Jack Donner thinks he’s just the man for the job. Resumé and references in hand, he applies to fill the spot and lands himself a gig that will pay his bills, not to mention give him a room with a killer view. He’s doesn’t expect to meet the sexiest hunk imaginable, but that turns out to be another perk of the job.

Quinn Stevens is the handsome minister preparing to unite the inn owners, Ethan Roberts and Cade Wyatt, in marriage. When he arrives to discuss the ceremony, he’s bowled over by the new cook and sexual sparks fly between them.

Jack’s intrigued by the bride ghost who visits him in the night, until her actions take a sinister turn. It seems the view’s not the only thing ‘killer’ at the inn. With his great new job in jeopardy, Jack struggles to save it, and the fragile relationship he’s forged with the reverend. He and Quinn soon discover if there’s going to be a wedding, they have work to do. Can they solve the mystery of Catherine’s 1898 nuptials so Ethan and Cade—and everyone else at Whiskers’—can live happily ever after?

Reader Advisory: This book contains hot MM sexual action.

Read excerpt or purchase here

Uncle by Rowena Sudbury

The house is silent. It seems like it's never silent for long, middle of the night is when everyone finally hunkers down for the night. Even the dogs are quiet. Well, as quiet as they can be, snuffling in their sleep.

I should be used to the constant chaos, but I'm not. Sadly, it's the nights on my own during travel circuits that I cherish. I feel like Goldilocks each night, hoping to find the hotel bed that is "just right" for a good night's sleep. Even when I find one that's too soft or too hard it's the simple fact that I can enjoy a precious hour of quiet solitude that means the most.

She tries, but her contented slumber is an irritant. Insomnia rears its ugly head most often when she and I share a bed.

I have to stifle the grunt of pain as I roll from the bed, stand for a moment regaining my equilibrium before picking my way through the maze of dog toys and dirty laundry. My primary goal after getting home from Birmingham was getting to the point where I can dress myself, a daunting task when only one arm works properly, and one leg has what feels like a persistent knife stuck in it.

Fortunately my sweats are where I left them, folded neatly on the counter in the bathroom. I manage to pull them on, and carefully get myself into the worn matching jacket. After a deep breath I inch the zipper up and slip my feet into slippers. Warm milk and the darkened family room should do the trick.

I find it comforting to heat the milk in the battered old pan I've had since childhood. I know my mother cast a look askance at me when I retrieved it from her, but for some reason the milk tastes better when it's heated in that particular pan. Call me a sentimental fool remembering all those late nights when she used to heat it up for me. Comfort food comes from the heart after all.

When the milk is warmed, I carry it to the family room and my favorite chair. Might as well complete the paint by number picture of all things comfortable. Sweats, milk from "the pan", and my chair. The feeling is hard to describe, the warmth that begins to seep through me as half the milk disappears.

This isn't the first time my body has betrayed me this way, broken down when I least wanted it too. Pain is a constant companion. I set the mug aside and return the recliner to an upright position and lean forward, my good arm resting on my good knee. Visualization. Maybe I am Superman because in my mind's eye I can see the healing muscles beneath the fabric of the jacket, the covering of dragon on skin.

In the darkest hour before dawn is when I push myself, make the muscle work just the smallest amount. Grit my teeth against the pain. Tighten and release, each small step feeling like a mile. How long before it's finally well?

The cell in my pocket startles me, causes me to flex harder than I'd wanted. I gasp in pain, unearth the phone and bark into the receiver, "What?"

His voice removes all the pain and frustration in a flash, like the effect of the milk intensified by a thousand.

"I love you too," he says and I can see the smirk on his face, smell the scent that is uniquely him, feel the warmth his presence usually imparts. He continues before I can respond. "I knew you'd be awake, sitting in your chair, pushing yourself beyond your limits."

I settle back in the chair, flip it to recline again, cradle the phone against my cheek. "But that begs the question, why are you awake? I seem to recall your proclivity for burrowing beneath the covers until something the size of a ten point earthquake jars you awake." My voice is hoarse in the early morning, filled with asthma's wheeze.

His own voice is hoarse with sleep when he responds. "You and your big words old man," he says. "I don't have a fuck of an idea what you just said."

He always makes me smile. "I'm glad you called."

"I was," he pauses. In my mind's eye again I see him chewing his lip, forming the thought before he says it even though I already know what he's going to say. "Worried about you."

"Chris," I say softly, "You don't have to worry."

"Maybe I want to," he says. Before the argument can start in earnest, he changes the tack. "Did you get my package?"

I rack up the score in his column, and say, "It was just sticks Chris. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a bundle of sticks?"

"Let's see," he says, clearing the sleep from his throat. "You're downstairs in your favorite chair, and you've just finished a mug of warm milk. You've been awake and frustrated for probably a few hours, and you're hoping to catch a few winks before chaos descends again and the crew begins fretting over you, catering to your every whim when you'd rather do it all yourself. Am I right?"

"Spot on," I say, not surprised that he knows me this well.

"They aren't sticks," he says in a softer voice. "It's sage, an ancient Indian remedy for healing. Take them outside and put them in your chimenea."

"Sage?" It's uncanny how his voice carries this presence of command. I always follow his quiet suggestion because he's never steered me wrong. The sticks are tied with a piece of raffia and a few small beads. I find them on the shelf where I put them, up out of harm's way, knowing that eventually he'd call and explain this unusual gift.

"Are you outside yet?"

"Hang on, I'm not as speedy as I used to be." I retrieve the sticks, disable the alarm and slide the patio door open. There's a chill in the early morning air.

"Burn the whole bundle," he says softly, "Let the smoke surround you and breathe just enough in that you don't start wheezing."

As he talks I light the sage, blow the flame out and let them smolder in the small chimenea.

"When it's done," he continues, "Find a bed somewhere. A bed by yourself, preferably in a room with a door that has a lock, and let yourself sleep."

"Easier said than done around here," I murmur. The smoke has the same soporific effect on me as the milk. I close my eyes and let it surround me.

"Just do it. Call me to thank me when you wake up."

"Chris," I say, struggling to form the words, knowing if it were summer I'd just fall asleep outside. "I do love you know."

In the silence that follows I see his face as clearly as if he's standing right above me, that cherubic smile on his face. I'm past trying to understand the dynamic between us. The phone slips from my ear as I let the healing powers of the sage infuse me.

The last thought in my mind as the sage burns down is that I'm not ready to cry uncle. Not just yet.

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Deadlines

A D/s romance novel by Fabian Black

The Station Master’s brat, Michael Mosse, has a deadline pending in more ways than one.


Joseph Townsend never planned to live a life of domestic bliss with anyone, let alone a spoiled and vain young man some thirteen years his junior, but there he is, happily domiciled with Michael Mosse in what was once a Victorian Stationmaster’s house. However, the domestic waters suffer disturbance when it becomes clear that Michael has something on his mind.

The modern day Station Master and Michael’s Top, Joseph, is keen to know what it is. His attractive partner has a convoluted way of thinking, which usually doesn’t bode well either for himself or the people around him.

Michael finally confesses to having problems with a deadline at work. He’s been set a design project that he’s less than happy about. He feels he ought to have been given a more prestigious job by his boss, Tom, Joseph’s brother. He wants Joseph to intervene on his behalf.

Joseph refuses and issues a warning. Michael is to set aside resentment and meet the deadline properly or find himself in trouble, not only at work but at home.

An unexpected visitor to the kitchen of the Station house, a wild red fox, claims Michael’s attention and serves to distract him further from the task in hand. Joseph isn’t pleased. To begin with he isn’t an admirer of foxes.

As things turn out the fox sets Michael towards the meeting of another long overdue deadline.

EXCERPT

As night receded and morning crept forth, Michael dreamed again, his unguarded mind leaking a fragment from the stronghold of memory into his sleeping consciousness.


In the dream he was at the seaside. He heard the sound of the waves lapping the shore and the echoing cry of gulls circling in a sun-drenched sky. He could smell the butterscotch aroma of sun block cream on hot skin. Youthful laughter rode the sea breeze as they jumped over the frothy breakers curling lazily in, their bare feet slapping wet sand. Flopping down at the water’s edge they let the waves tickle their toes while shading their eyes to scan the horizon and watch the ships, pondering on their cargoes and destinations.
“Time to go. It’s almost dinnertime.”
“I don’t want to go, I like it here.”
“We’re going. I promised to have you back for dinner. Come on, I’ll race you back along the beach.”
“All right, but you have to let me win.”
“No, I don’t have to let you win, it isn’t winning if I let you win.”
“Then I’m too tired to race. I want a piggyback.”
Teasing laughter, “I want never gets…”
“I want a piggyback, I want one! I’m tired. Mummy says you mustn’t let me get tired.”
“You’re not tired, you’re just lazy. I’m not giving you a piggyback. You need exercise to build you up. Come on, stop whining and hold my hand, we’ll run together. It’ll be fun, we’ll leave footprints in the sand…”

Michael forced open his eyelids, dispelling dream visions. An early morning commuter train ran along the track outside, rushing on into the distance, leaving a lingering echo of its presence, which faded gradually to silence. For a moment the silence hung heavy weighting the air like a farewell left unspoken.

Turning quickly onto his side Michael studied Joseph’s sleeping face, the full lips, slightly parted, the dark brows arched above wide set eyes, eyes that when open shifted colour between ocean shades of grey-blue to blue-green according to the interior climate of their owner. His jaw was shadowed with heavy stubble. He could grow a reasonable beard in a matter of days. There was no prettiness about his face or body, nothing transitional, they showed no hint of the child or adolescent he had once been. At thirty-six he was masculine and fully mature, a man in the prime of life. Michael gently traced a finger over the stubble, sexy too. He moved the finger down Joseph’s throat to his chest, stroking the coarse hairs. His body was firm and well toned but not overly muscled. Michael didn’t care for gym built torsos with their bulging pecs and exaggerated egg box abs. He knew from experience that their creators were self-absorbed and had little spare time or inclination to adore others.

Joseph made a lateral transition from slumber to wakefulness as Michael’s tongue circled the head of his morning erection causing genuine arousal to replace an automatic reflex and keep him hard. He lay for a few moments enjoying the sensation and then he reached for Michael, pulling him into his arms, biting kisses onto his shoulder and neck before seeking his mouth.


Michael played cowboy, straddling Joseph and slowly impaling himself on his lube-slicked cock. He rested for a moment adjusting to the sense of fullness, taking pleasure in having Joseph’s thick, heavily veined penis inside him. Positioning his hands on Joseph’s shoulders he pressed his knees into the mattress and began to ride the shaft, slowly at first, then faster, concentrating on losing himself in the physical sensations of sex, finally feeling Joseph’s body approach climax and arch beneath him, his hands gripping his hips.


“That was a wonderful morning alarm call,” Joseph wrapped his arms around Michael’s sweat hazed body as he collapsed on the bed beside him. He kissed him tenderly, “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Michael completed the little ritual of courtesy that always occurred after sex. He snuggled closer into Joseph’s arms.
“What’s wrong?” Joseph rubbed a strand of soft, honey-blond hair between his fingers.
“What do you mean what’s wrong, was I off stroke or something? I thought I performed rather well, brilliantly in fact. You hardly had to do a thing except come.”
“I gave you a generous helping hand towards the end, though admittedly you were wonderful, but then why wouldn’t you be.” Joseph smiled and gave a mischievous little wink. “I taught you everything you know.”


Michael giggled delightfully, “ah, you only think you did, when actually you fell for my innocent little virgin act. All along I was in fact the hot star of numerous porno movies, going by the working name of Jonnie Hardon and appearing in such classics as ‘fuck me tender,’ alongside renowned porn king Pelvis Pressingme.”
“Behave, you bad boy,” Joseph, laughing, swiped Michael’s flank. He sobered, “and getting back on subject, what’s wrong? There was urgency in your action. What hurt, real or imagined, was it a panacea for?”
“You know what they say, Joseph, never look a gift horse in the mouth, especially if you’re naked, because it just might chew off your nuts.” He sat up.
“Michael?”

There it was again, the question disguised as a name. Michael gave it reply, but not answer. “I wanted sex.”
Joseph quirked an eyebrow, saying dryly, “and of course whatever Michael wants, Michael gets.”


Michael grinned. “See, you do understand how it’s supposed to work. Now if we can just build on that simple principle and take it beyond the bedroom. We could start with that new higher spec game computer I want. It’s not like I’d have to go into debt. My parents would give me the money if I asked them.”

Joseph raised himself to a sitting position, suddenly serious, “I said no. You don’t need it and that aside you’re too old to be leeching off your parents. I told you not to mention it again, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did, I’m sorry.” Michael slipped his nightshirt over his head. Re-emerging he gazed at Joseph for a moment, and then reached his arms around his neck in a silent embrace.
“Tell me,” murmured Joseph, gently rubbing his morning rough face against Michael’s smoother one. “Tell me why you’re sad this morning?”
“I’m not sad. I never get sad.”
“Yes you do, you often get sad, you just disguise it as something else or hide it under an action, like sex.”
“I dreamed, that’s all,” Michael gave admission to the fact, “and it made me want sex.”
“Was it an erotic dream?”
“No.”
“Then why did it make you want to have sex?”
“I like sex. It makes me feel better.”
“So you were sad then, if you needed to feel better so urgently?”
“Joseph,” Michael’s voice sounded a rebuke, “sometimes I think you watch too many episodes of Time Team. You’re always trying to dig things up, things that usually aren’t there.”
“Was it Jude?” Joseph made an intuitive guess. “Was he who you dreamed about?” He studied Michael’s face, noting the ripple of disquiet that hearing the name always brought to his face.
“Yes,” Michael reluctantly whispered the confirming word. Joss had done it again. He’d successfully interrogated him and made him say something he didn’t want to say. He was so Gestapo.
“I wondered.” Joseph hesitated then said hopefully, “tell me about the dream.” What he really meant was tell me about Jude, but he knew that to say so would guarantee there would be no answer.



210 Pages

52,560 words

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