Review: Humiliate You by Shane Whitman

Humiliate You by [Whitman, Shane]


2 men.

1 knife.

No mercy.

I am waiting in your home. The knife is ready. Soon you will be mine to play with.

How will you react when your willie doesn’t measure up? Maybe I’ll let you keep your precious little toy… if you want it badly enough.

What would you do to keep those few inches of flesh? What would you not do?




This was odd. Not exactly what I was expecting but not too far from it. There were a lot of things about it that I liked and there were some others that I didn’t. It should come with some warnings because it is a dark read and it might not be suitable for every readers.

The things I liked about it were, most of it, at the beginning. The uncertainty of what’s going on and the fear. It was great. There were also a lot of things about it that I didn’t liked. The narrative was odd, sometimes redundant and it became bothersome. I wish I could say I like the second character on scene, but I really couldn’t care for him. Not only that, but he was so unlikable. Every time he open his mouth he made me angry.

It was an interesting concept, but with some flaws in the execution that didn’t allow me to enjoy it as much as I thought I would. I still liked some aspects of it. Beware that there are non-consensual sex scenes, humiliation, knife play and water spots. The latter would have keep me away from reading it, but I don’t regret to have read it.


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Release Blitz: Bibliophile

Title: The Bibliophile

Author: Drew Marvin Frayne

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: November 26, 2018

Heat Level: 3 – Some Sex

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 60500

Genre: Historical, historical, romance, rancher, age gap, family drama, coming of age, hurt/comfort

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Nathanial Goldsmith is the only son of the richest man in the Idaho territory, Jessum Goldsmith, the Silver Baron of the Western Lands, as he is called in all the newspapers. But life in the late nineteenth-century American West weaves no magic spell for Nathanial, who longs for the academic worlds his father has forced him to leave behind.

To toughen him up, Nathanial’s father has indentured him to a ranchman, Cayuse Jem, a large, raw-boned, taciturn man Nathanial’s father believes will help teach his son to “become a man.” Cut off from his books and the life he has always known, Nathanial is not only forced to co-exist with Cayuse Jem, but to truly get to know him. In doing so, Nathanial discovers there is more to this silent horseman than meets the eye. And, in the process, Nathanial also learns a few things about life, about human nature, and about the differences in being a man and a boy…


The Bibliophile
Drew Marvin Frayne © 2018
All Rights Reserved

21 June 1888
I have not kept a journal since I was a boy. I last abandoned these pages during the inverse leg of this very journey, four years ago, when I left the territory to go to school. It is perhaps ironic I kept no written record of these last four years, for when I am withered and old I suspect my time in school is the period in my life I shall look back upon with the most fondness and longing.

Instead, errant fool that I am, I have only kept a record of my daily comings and goings when I am at home, mired in the tedium of life in the territory. It should be considered a tremendous irony that I have maintained records of my existence only during periods of my life when it was not worthy of record. This journal is nothing more than an exercise in keeping at bay the stultification and mental weariness I know will come upon me once I return to that world, to the territory, and to time spent with my father. My existence there—all that I shall experience—it is beyond languor, beyond ennui. Life at my father’s home represents nothing less than the atrophy of the mind itself.

Not that my father is a wicked man; I wish to impress this fact most sincerely, especially since it is probable that, in her “exploration” of my belongings, my grandmother is likely to uncover this diary and read these passages, and will hasten to share with my father any negative report she finds contained herein. No, my father is a good man, but a hard man, and a plain one—even Grandmomma must confess to that. The trappings of the world I hold most dear—those things that mean the world to me, those things that are my world, that define my world, that define me—they mean nothing to him. And even more painfully, my father has already determined the manner in which the arc of my life will bend, and I, his only son, must dutifully obey.

How I wish it were not so! After three years at preparatory school, I had completed but one year of my university studies. Yet I needed just one week—nay, one day, one hour—to know I truly belonged there, in Cambridge, in academe, in amongst those ancient tomes and dusty halls. Feldspar, my one friend at Harvard, used to josh me frequently and oft would say, “Goldsmith, you will lose yourself in the library someday, I guarantee!” And then he would laugh in that short-pitched bark of his, his laugh that always made the other fellows snigger as well. But I did not laugh. Rather, how I longed for what he said to come true. There, in the library, to read and study under the gas-lit lamps for as long as I wished, to be lost amongst the books… Yes, that is where my heart’s desire can be found, as the old poem starts.

But what good will it do me? My father has but one son, and when you are the son of Jessum Goldsmith, your lot in life is naught but to obey. “Time to give up the books,” he wrote me, his only letter in the four years I was away from his custody. I had not to read his words at all to know what his communication meant to convey, to know it was a summons, and not the heartfelt correspondence of father to son. “Time to come home. To learn the business. Time to be a man.” All my life I have longed for nothing more than books and words and worlds that unfurl one page at a time. I was meant for academe. I had hoped to complete my baccalaureate and continue straight on, for my post-graduate, for my master’s, and then—my most sincere wish—to teach. To be forever a part of those hallowed halls. What care I for business and industry? But no, I am son to Jessum Goldsmith, richest man in the territory, and I do not have the freedom others of my age and station possess. How I wish I were a second son, or third, a son of lesser value and importance. But Momma died giving birth to me, and since I stole Father’s past, I cannot steal his future as well.

“To be a man.” Those words have haunted my existence since I have existed. My father measures manhood in far different ways than the professors I idolized, the masters whose learning captivated me and whose lectures I would listen to in spent and utter rapture. A man of letters, an intellect, someone who wrestles with ideas—to me, that is a man—that defines a man. Milton is a man. Donne. And Jonson and Pope and so many more, and that is just amongst the English. But my father is not a book-learned man, and his idea of what a man should be neither begins nor ends in the printed pages of any text. He was born to the outdoors, and me to the indoors, but rather than simply acknowledge our differences, he only tolerated them until such time as I turned eighteen, when he summoned me home for his tutelage to begin, and for my real “education” to commence.

Father’s letter was accompanied by one from Grandmomma, a more faithful correspondent all these years, though, as ever, only a mouthpiece for my father. “You must come home, Nathanial,” she wrote to me. “It is time to plan for the future. It is time to give up your books. Your family needs you. You must come at once.” I could hear the gloat in every word. For so long I had begged to be sent East, to study, first in boarding school, and then at university. Father gave in, I believe, just to quiet me, and because, at such a young age, I held little use for him. But there, in Boston, I could live as I wished, with my books, and in my mind, alone and quite content to be so. I could be literate and educated and revel in such things as befits a learned man. But Grandmomma never saw the need for such lofty education and told me as such in almost every letter she sent. Yes, like the son she bore, she ever wrote in declarations, though that is the usual state of the world in her eye; every letter she sent to me reflected duty, honor, and obligation to my father and his ideals of masculinity, and, of course, to the vaunted Goldsmith name. Vaunted, indeed. I happen to know my Grandfather Goldsmith was a dry goods salesman from Michigan. It was my father, his son, who went into Idaho as a lad and made his fortune in the mines. Our name is no more hallowed than the tradesmen who gave it to us in the first place. A smith, after all, is one who works with precious metals, not one who possesses them. Our name should be a reminder of the humble beginnings of our family and the promise that a man may make his own way in this world. But no, to Grandmomma, to Father, we are the first family of the territory. We own the largest manor; we hold the most land; we possess the most wealth. It is all that matters to them.

I suppose I should find it ironic our name is Goldsmith; Father, after all, made his fortune in mining silver. “The Silver Baron of the Western Lands.” That is what they call him in the Eastern newspapers. How oft would I read of his latest coup. And then the other fellows would stand around me and ask, “Is that truly your father, Goldsmith?” As if they did not know. But most of them—Fulton, Hardwicke, Matthews, and the like—all they cared about was money, too. Only Feldspar understood how little it meant to me. Only Feldspar understood that what I cared about was the books, the words, and the ideas contained within. Those were the worlds that meant so much to me. Not money, not industry, and certainly not mining. Just the words. How I longed to be part of that world, to be part of the discourse of scholarship and books and ideas. It is in my disposition to be of that world.

It is who I was meant to be.

Or so I always believed.

But then again, of what consequence are my own beliefs and ideals?

I doubt I shall ever see Feldspar again. I had not thought of that until now. I suppose I should feel disconsolate over that but…truly, I feel nothing. Perhaps I am simply resigned to my fate. Perhaps I am incapable of such feelings, or feeling anything but for my books. I have never had many friends, and those I do are such friends of the sort one exchanges pleasantries with, and not the sort one shares one’s innermost confidences and expressions. Even Father, hard man that he is, has Abernathy, his lieutenant, with whom he plots and plans for the future, for the next mine or the next land grab or the next political power play. I have no one. Then again, perhaps I need no one. I fear I do not have any such innermost desires for companionship.

All I have ever truly cared about are my books.

Well, and, of course, Dora. My sister. Older by a year. A carefree child, though, I suppose, no longer a child. Her letters mean almost as much to me as my tomes. And while I am sure she did not care to receive my surely dull correspondences of what I had been reading and what I had been learning, she always paid attention and always asked her little brother to tell her more. And oh, how she loved to hear of Boston, of the Old North Church and the Quincy Market Hall and the teeming masses of people from all walks of life and corners of the nation—indeed, the world. Oh, she herself never expressed any desire to see it. That is not her way. But at Christmas I would send her etchings I purchased from the booksellers of the sights of the city, and she always wrote that she felt as if she had glimpsed it for herself. Yes, it will be good to see her again, to walk with her amongst the gardens and whisper conspiratorially about Father’s demanding ways. But that does not counterbalance the loss of school. And she will be wed soon, I would wager, and then she will be gone as well.

The train is stopping presently, as we are pulling into Chicago. Perhaps I will disembark and stretch my legs. Our family car affords me every luxury and every privacy, but the only other soul I have seen since leaving Boston is Cheevers, our man, and dull sort that he is, he has done nothing but sit in a corner and stare blankly afore, pausing infrequently in his ruminations to serve tea. I asked him, as we pulled out of Philadelphia, what he might be pondering so deeply, but the question seemed to puzzle him most earnestly, so much so that I gave up any hope of an answer. Yes, I think I shall disembark upon Chicago and perhaps converse with a fellow passenger or two, at least to exchange a pleasantry or any news of the journey. And possibly—one can hope—there will be a bookseller at the station. It will be three more days before we reach Boise. And two more after that to home, if the roads are good. Something new to read would gladden my heart indeed.


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Meet the Author

Drew Marvin Frayne is the pen name of a long-time author (Lambda Literary Award finalist) who is finally taking the opportunity to indulge his more sentimental and romantic side. When not writing the author lives with his husband of 20+ years and their dog of 10+ years in a brick home in the Northeast. Find out more about Drew on his Website.


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Release Blitz: Santa is a Vampire

Title: Santa is a Vampire

Author: Damian Serbu

Publisher: NineStar Press

Release Date: November 26, 2018

Heat Level: 1 – No Sex

Pairing: No Romance, Male/Male

Length: 76800

Genre: Paranormal, vampire, elf, humor, satire, reindeer

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Simon the Elf wants to tell you the true story behind Jolly Ole St. Nick. Yeah, he’s a vampire. But that alleged gift giver and lover of children hides more than that fact from you. And what about Mrs. Claus and Rudolph? Venture into a world of enslaved elves, enchanted animals, and death wrought by Santa himself. With his sharp wit, Simon will lead you into the darkest realms of Christmas. Warning: Simon cusses a lot. But you would, too, if Santa held you captive.


Santa is a Vampire
Damian Serbu © 2018
All Rights Reserved

Jolly old St. Nicholas. What a laugh.

If you only knew the real story behind Santa Claus. He keeps it buried for a reason, after all. Because you’d hunt him down up there in his North Pole ice castle if you even had a remote idea regarding his real identity.

Mrs. Claus and Rudolph too. Well, maybe not the missus. It’s complicated. But more on them later. Back to Santa.

Let’s peek in on this esteemed man who brings gifts to children and represents the blessed holiday of Christmas, shall we? He would kill me if he found out I leaked this information. Well, I intend to leak it, no matter the consequences, because I’m keeping this in a journal. If you’re reading it, I probably succeeded. Which means dead Simon the Elf, for sure, if he discovers me telling people any of this information. But death might improve my situation since this enslavement sucks big ones. I started this secret blog and will release it without concern for my well-being.

So, if you’re reading it, I’m probably dead.

This first little story will tantalize you, get your feet wet with everything I want you to learn.

It’s late November, so Santa moves around a lot more freely because everyone expects to see him out there, greeting the children and gathering their Christmas orders. A lot of fools dress up like him to please the little kiddies or earn a buck. Everyone sees these fake Santas everywhere they go. Good enough for the real Santa Claus, because it hides him. He appears as another of the fool Santas walking about during the holidays.

That and his silly outfit disguise him—What a costume he picked!—but again it serves his purpose well. The ridiculous beard and red outfit mean Christmas cheer, presents, and a happy fat man coming to spread joy. Of course, he manages a real beard and authentic outfit to intensify the experience when people meet him.

Do you know why he wears red? I do. It hides the blood stains better. Okay, confession time. I’m throwing out my theory, but don’t ask for proof. He never said that or explained the red. It just makes sense to me. Even though he usually cleans the blood up. Oops. Getting ahead of the story again. Let’s take a deep breath and refocus.

By the way, in case you require my credentials, I’m an elf. Trapped against my will to do Santa’s bidding. More later.

Okay, focus. Late November. Turkey Day’s come and gone and Santa enters prime time. He creeps out of the ice palace, chains the poor reindeer to the sleigh, and speeds away, with a couple of elves, including me, enchanted in the sled against our will. We never know, until he issues a command, what he intends for us. Sometimes we ride along to keep him company; sometimes we get clean-up duty; sometimes we have to help.

We fly over various parts of the world, almost land in Germany until Santa spies one of those Secret Hunters. “Dangerous. Let’s go someplace else.”

“Scared, are ya?” I glance over at him. “Ouch!” Santa backhands me. It’s another curse of mine, but one I came to elfdom with. See, I’m a bit of a smart-ass and can’t hold my tongue. Gets me in trouble a lot.

“Let’s find someplace more hospitable.” Santa instructs the reindeer to change course and never answers my question. But I suppose the slap upside the head could be considered an answer, of sorts.

To America, the land of advancement and scientific reasoning. I recognize the coastline right away. Why, even the hardcore Christians dismiss Santa as a legend based on an alleged saint from the past. Saint, indeed. But such thinking helps hide his true identity.

We swoop over New York, but Santa seldom likes to hunt there because it doesn’t really present a risk. Masses of people living on top of each other, often killing and dying without his assistance. Where’s the challenge in hiding a body in that mess?

Moving right along, the reindeer glide over the little town of Wilmington, Ohio. It offers Santa everything he desires. I know from experience. Remote. Tranquil. Peaceful for the most part. Until a dead body materializes right in the midst of the holiday cheer. Santa’s way of taking a dump on Season’s Greetings in a happy little community.

So Santa guides the sleigh over Wilmington College and sets it down in the town cemetery. We can’t land on roofs yet, without people wondering if Santa’s calendar got all out of whack. Few people enter a cemetery in the midst of a cold November so we can hide out here.

He orders the reindeer to shut up, except Rudolph, who gets to run and do his own thing. He trots off with his bright-red nose high in the air. The other reindeer stay here. I often wonder if anyone questions the sudden appearance of reindeer manure where no reindeer exist. Of course, even if they thought about it, no one would come to the conclusion that Santa hid his sleigh and reindeer in the cemetery for a spell. Because most over the age of seven don’t think he exists.

Once he gets the reindeer squared away, Santa tells a couple of my fellow elves—two I think are big assholes, so you know—to watch the sleigh and get the hell out of Dodge if anyone shows up. Santa can summon us from afar, so no worries there.

Me? I get the distinction of tagging along with him. He makes me his personal assistant on these sublime missions because he knows how much I despise it. The killing. The secrecy. And his perfect disguise of being Santa. Well, this pains me to admit, but I think he also enjoys my company for some twisted reason, especially my mocking of him and constant chatter. We have a complicated relationship, to put it mildly, compelling him to keep me close, no matter how much I detest it.

My compadres snicker as I run along to keep up with Santa. I take a second to stop, turn around, and give them the bird.

We saunter right down Main Street and wave at the passing cars when they honk. I almost puke every time he lets out a jovial, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Little kids run up to him and say hello, followed by asking for presents. He feigns delight and interest while holding back an inclination lurking beneath the surface. Sweet little kid blood.

We get far enough away from prying eyes to meander down a residential street. Then we wander around while Santa scouts the houses and makes an assessment of our target. This goes on for a couple hours, until most children lie sleeping in bed. Even most adults are passed out by now.

One car zooms past. I wonder what they think, seeing Santa amble down the road amidst these houses, lit up for the holidays. Do they think it’s someone’s dad, surprising the kids in disguise? A hired dude going to a party? Maybe it’s a stripper, dressed for the occasion until the ladies (or men) demand the pants and coat come off?

Nope. It’s the Real McCoy. And the lady behind curtain number one, alone in her house as she waits for her husband to get home from the night shift, just became dinner. Okay, I have no idea if a husband on a night shift exists. I lied to make the story better. But the woman sits alone in this normal-sized house. Looks like she’s dusting or cleaning something.

Sometimes Santa walks right up to the front door. Knocks or rings the bell, and the fools open it for him. Listen, even without Santa’s hidden reality, who opens their door for a dude in a Santa outfit unless you’re expecting the stripper I referenced?

Anyway, no front door this time. Or back door. Instead, he touches the side of his big-ass nose, grabs me by my neck, and yanks me along as we fly through the air, land on the roof, and plunge into the chimney. He could get in the fucking house any way he wants, by the way. He does the blackened chimney thing for two reasons. One, for effect. You know, back to living up to the legend and playing by the rules. Despite the fact the sleigh and reindeer remain hidden among the dead in the cemetery and not up here on the roof with us. No one will question a big guy in a Santa costume plopping into their fireplace and shouting out a “Yo!” It may startle them, but since it conforms to the legend, people tend to go with it. Idiots. Two, he does it tonight because I hate it. I hate heights. I hate flying. And I hate when he touches me.

We hit the fireplace grate and roll out onto the carpet in the living room, where we stand in triumph before the poor woman, who gives a yelp. Actually, she screams bloody murder.

“Shh, my dear one. Shh!” Santa puts his finger up to his lips and winks at her. “Nothing to fear. I imagine you didn’t believe in good ole Santa anymore? Adults so seldom do these days. But as you saw from my arrival through your chimney, I do, indeed, exist!” Santa sweeps his arms out with a flourish, to indicate his body and presence in the flesh.

The woman stops screaming, thank God, before my eardrums rupture.

“And this here is my worthy assistant, Simon.”

“I’m not here because I want to be—” Santa clamps his hand over my mouth and glares a warning. Right. I’ll stop, because getting locked in the ice dungeon when we get back to the North Pole totally sucks.

“Is he all right?” she asks him and points to me.

This is what gets me so pissed off. Stupid fucking people. I want to shout back at her. Hey! Lady! Wake up! A big fat ass plunged down your chimney with a little elf under his control. You scream, but because he wears a red suit and laughs and has a crazy beard, you relax and engage him? Trust me. You do not want to engage him!


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Meet the Author

Damian Serbu lives in the Chicago area with his husband and two dogs, Akasha and Chewbacca. The dogs control his life, tell him what to write, and threaten to eat him in the middle of the night if he disobeys. He has published The Vampire’s Angel and The Vampire’s Protégé with NineStar Press. Coming later this year from NineStar: The Vampire’s Quest and Santa Is a Vampire.

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Release Blitz: Lost and Found


Book Title: Lost and Found – A May/December Gay Romance

Author: Quin Perin

Publisher: Self-Published

Cover Artist: X Potion Designs

Genre/s: Second Chance Gay Romance

Length: 21 500 words/80 pages

It is a standalone story.

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Buy Links – Available on Kindle Unlimited

Amazon Universal Link
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He is…

half my age,

my son’s friend,

and he calls me Daddy.

I brought him to his knees until he did the same to me.

“He was like a greedy little puppy, trying to please me. And goddamn, I needed him to need me.”

A May/December Second Chance Romance with a sprinkle of Daddy Kink. After their first encounter in “Take it All”, Lost and Found explores how Dave and Carter’s relationship took root and blossomed.

As a standalone novella, Lost and Found features explicit adult m/m content, Daddy Kink, age gap as well as romantic elements. The book ends…well, let’s see how it ends, shall we?


“Please,” Carter begged, tears in his eyes. Desperate, that’s what he was. The schedules I’d given him worked most of the time. But he needed the physical contact.

I released his hair and cupped his jaw, fingers digging into his cheeks. “You crossed a line, boy. Now go sit on the couch and think about what you’ve done before I do something I’ll regret.”

There it was again, that daring glimmer in his eyes. His hands almost touched the thick bulge I sported, but he knew better. He receded, never breaking eye contact while I nodded and praised him, “Good boy.”

It took another fifteen minutes to clean up the kitchen and cool down. I felt sick thinking about what had just happened. Our kinky connection almost exposed because Carter loved to play with fire. He wasn’t an ordinary submissive. Not like the ones I’d read about online. He was cheeky as fuck. But there he sat, with his head bent and his hands resting on his thighs, waiting for me to come over.

“I am sorry, Daddy,” he whispered when I rounded the couch and stood in front of him.

“Look at me.”

Staring up at me from the couch, he worried his bottom lip, chewing the right side of it until it was raw and swollen. I hated that habit.

“Stop biting your lip,” I ordered and brushed my thumb over it. The moment we connected, Carter’s eyes slid closed, and the tension seemed to flow from him. It’s what he needed, my touch, my affection.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured when I dipped my thumb into his mouth, pulling his lower lip down.

“You gonna make it up to Daddy?” Arousal was beating rage into submission, shutting off my brain. I needed to punish him as much as he needed me to do it. He’d won.

I made him undo my jeans. Which he did with such enthusiasm, I almost forgot the way he’d behaved. Next, he pulled down my briefs, letting my pulsing erection jut free. He tried to catch it with his mouth, but first it slid over his cheek, a string of precum landing there. I’d never seen anything sexier.

I moaned at the way he worked me into his mouth. That tight and warm heat. That goddamn tongue teasing me. I placed my hands on the back of his head, helping him to take in more. I’d never had someone suck my cock like they fucking loved it. Until Carter did exactly that. He slurped and moaned, his hands at the back of my thighs pulling me in deeper. He was going wild, bobbing and pumping and making my knees shake. I freed my balls while he went at it, blinking up with those big brown eyes, glazed with lust.

“You’re doing so good,” I rasped, “make it up to Daddy.”

His nose nuzzled my pubes, and my balls drew up tight, the tension spiking to new heights, ready to burst. But I didn’t let him finish me. Instead, I yanked him off, eliciting a surprised cry when I spun him around on the couch so his body splayed out on top of it. Carter scrambled, waving his ass at me as though it were my prize. Which it was. But he had to learn he couldn’t risk what we had. Not like that.

Without even undoing his loose-hanging jeans, I tore them down his legs. Another yelp. His underwear and pants pooled around his knees. Gazing over his shoulder with his bare ass on display, I straddled him, my wet cock bouncing with the movement, hanging out of my undone jeans. Carter tried to prop up onto his elbows, but I pinned him down, one hand slamming between his shoulder blades.

“Stay, boy!” I hissed and rubbed my free hand over the globes of his perfect ass. I’d never seen an ass like that, so round and taut and just…yeah, perfect.

Then, the spanking began.

About the Authors

This is Quin&Perin. We are a team of Sultry Gay Romance writers who focus on detailed, toe-curling, and realistic smut scenes with a fair share of dirty talking (Oh, boy). Unlike other authors, we write without the goal of publishing anything. Publishing is just the cherry on top of a cream-covered bubble butt.

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Release Blitz: Mr. Winterbourne’s Christmas


Length: 30,000 words approx.
Cover Design: Natasha Snow
Winterbourne Series
Volume #1 – Introducing Mr. Winterbourne – CURRENTLY FREE – Amazon US | Amazon UK

Lysander Winterbourne has been living happily at Edgeley Park for the last eighteen months. By day he is Adam Freeman’s estate manager, by night, his lover…but Adam never speaks of his feelings and Lysander has no idea whether their relationship is any more than a convenient arrangement for Adam.

When the two men are invited to Winterbourne Abbey for a family Christmas, matters quickly come to a head. Snowed in at the Abbey with a house full of guests, Lysander has to face up to shocking revelations, long-held secrets and a choice he never expected to have to make…

Author Bio

Joanna Chambers always wanted to write. She spent over 20 years staring at blank sheets of paper and despairing of ever writing a single word. In between staring at blank sheets of paper, she studied law, met her husband and had two children. Whilst nursing her first child, she rediscovered her love of romance and found her muse. Joanna lives in Scotland with her family and finds time to write by eschewing sleep and popular culture.

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Release Blitz: Yield

Title: Yield

Series: Bay Area Professionals #5

Author: Mickie B. Ashling

Publisher: Mickie B. Ashling

Release Date: 11/13/2018

Heat Level: 5 – Erotica

Pairing: Male/Male

Length: 275 words

Genre: Erotica, BDSM

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A Sequel to Forged in Trust
Bay Area Professionals #5

A promising encounter takes a dark turn.

Captain Sami Soros and Father Jay Blackstone cross paths at a major European hub. When systems shut down due to a cyber-attack, flights are delayed and the resulting chaos is unprecedented.

After having served three tours in Afghanistan, recently discharged Sami struggles with his new civilian status. Emotionally depleted, and dangerously edgy, he views most of his fellowmen with utter contempt.

Jay is returning to his parish in San Francisco after a month-long retreat meant to shore up a crumbling vocation. All vestiges of spirituality melt away when he sets eyes on Sami.

They begin a clandestine affair fueled by a shared addiction to extreme forms of BDSM. Their relationship goes off the rails, and Jay reaches out to Rino Duran, a former seminarian. With the help of Dr. Ethan Marshall, Rino’s full-time Dom, the established couple attempt to separate truth from lies to give Jay and Sami a shot at happiness.

This novel can be read as a standalone.


Chapter 1

February 2018

Amsterdam’s Schiphol Airport is crowded on any given day, but the scene unfolding when I walked off the Jetway into the arrival area was absolute pandemonium. Twelve hours ago, the computer running the intricate network of arrivals and departures at this gigantic European hub—ranked third busiest in number of total passengers per year—had been hacked. The domino effect of delayed or canceled flights resulted in a maelstrom of missed connections, lost baggage, and queue upon queue of clueless passengers looking for solutions. Weddings, honeymoons, funerals, river cruises, bus tours, reunions, and once-in-a-lifetime business opportunities were too important to be derailed by a bunch of dark-web bandits. Normally efficient and accommodating personnel were inundated with impossible requests, and tempers were pushed to the limit.

I’d expected a two-hour layover before catching my flight back to San Francisco via Chicago, but my trip from northern Spain had been delayed by an unexpected snowstorm. The result was catastrophic in terms of connections, and I was one among thousands trying to find my way home. There was no point in browbeating anyone for better results as my angry voice would fall on deaf ears.

According to the giant monitors advising weary travelers of time and gate changes, my flight was supposed to board at Gate F6. The seats were all taken when I arrived at my destination, and a quick scan of the adjoining gates revealed more of the same. I’d end up on the floor for an undetermined amount of time unless the airline brought in more chairs.

As I considered my next move, my attention was drawn to a guy dressed from head to toe in unadulterated black. His face and hands were deeply bronzed, incongruous amidst the throng of pasty winter complexions. Squint lines radiated from wide-set eyes, and a thin scar sliced through one dark winged eyebrow. The resulting asymmetry changed the stranger from model perfect to dangerously attractive.

The month I’d recently spent at the Sanctuary of Loyola in Azpeitia, Spain, the ancestral home of St. Ignatius, had been an inspirational setting meant to reaffirm my faith and strengthen my resolve to stay the course. A great waste of time, I thought bitterly, all the while checking out the stranger’s physical attributes. When he met my gaze, my stomach clenched, and I quickly looked away, hyperaware of my thundering heartbeat.

Most sensible men would have turned their backs when confronted with temptation, but I was at my most vulnerable. Daring another look, I found him digging through his pea-green duffel. Along with his puffy jacket, the bag was taking up the adjoining seat, which could be mine for the taking. Resolved to correct the immediate problem, I stomped his way with determination. Some sixth sense must have alerted him because he lifted his head and tracked my progress with hawklike intensity.

I pointed at the spot occupied by his possessions, expecting an immediate response. Instead, his grayish-green eyes narrowed with suspicion. When I didn’t move, he clenched his jaw, gathered up his things, and dropped them on the floor by his feet.

“Thank you,” I murmured, settling on the molded plastic chair.

He ignored me.

The buzz cut, laced boots, duffel, and edgy demeanor screamed military, but the turtleneck and cargo pants gave nothing away. He wore no distinguishing pins to indicate if he was one of ours or a member of some foreign entity. Trying to ascertain more was impossible while he continued to treat me like I was an interloper. While other passengers twitched in discomfort and fiddled with electronic devices, my stranger sat with his arms and legs crossed and scanned the crowd with a predatory stare. I wasn’t qualified to judge, but I got a strong feeling he’d be a formidable fighter if pushed.

His silence was oppressive, and under normal circumstances, I would have attempted a conversation. People usually responded favorably to a cleric, but my dark shirt and white collar were packed away, replaced by more practical winter wear. A thermal undershirt, flannel top, fleece-lined jeans, and sturdy hiking boots had served me well while I tramped the snow-covered pathways in the Basque country. It also worked as a disguise, allowing me to forget I was a priest in crisis with unfinished business back home in San Francisco.

An announcement came through the loudspeaker in Dutch, followed by the same in English, French, and Spanish. There would be another two-hour delay, and free vouchers were offered to anyone interested in a light snack until we were allowed to board.

“Someone will snatch my seat if I leave,” the stranger commented irritably.

“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen if you’ll get me something to eat.”

He glared at me. “How can I be sure you won’t run off with my things?”

Incredulous, I asked, “Do I look like a hardened criminal?”

“You look like you lost your herd somewhere in the Alps.”

“I’ve been called a shepherd on occasion.”

“Can I trust you?” he asked skeptically.

“I’m more interested in black coffee and a sandwich than whatever treasures you might have in your duffel.”

“I’ll hunt you down if you’re lying,” he warned menacingly. “Is there anything you dislike by way of food?”

I shook my head.



“I’ll be back shortly.”

I admired his retreating figure as he walked away. Easily over six feet, he was prepossessing, drawing the eyes of men and women alike as he picked his way through the crowd.

Questioning my ethics was understandable, considering our circumstances, but it set me to thinking about my past. All my life, I’d been judged by my DNA, which, by all accounts, left much to be desired. The man who’d given me life was a masterful liar, and my mother wasn’t equipped to deal with his manipulative personality. She was seduced, impregnated, and subsequently rushed to the altar by her indignant parents. Predictably, Jack Underwood took off when I was three, packing enough clothes for a short business trip. He never returned, and from then on, it was only a question of time before my grandparents convinced my mother to get rid of me.

I was dispatched to an orphanage in another state where I cried myself to sleep each night. The people in charge offered no explanation, but assured me I wouldn’t be there long. Blond and blue-eyed children were always scooped up first. Within months, I was adopted by the Blackstone family, who changed my name from Jack Jr. to Justin. And thus began my second incarnation.

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Meet the Author

Mickie B. Ashling is the pseudonym of a multifaceted woman who is a product of her upbringing in multiple cultures, having lived in Japan, the Philippines, Spain, and the Middle East. Fluent in three languages, she’s a citizen of the world and an interesting mixture of East and West. A little bit of this and a lot of that have brought a unique touch to her literary voice she could never learn from textbooks.

By the time Mickie discovered her talent for writing, real life got in the way, and the business of raising four sons took priority. With the advent of e-publishing—and the inevitable emptying nest—dreams of becoming a published writer were resurrected and she’s never looked back.

She stumbled into the world of men who love men in 2002 and continues to draw inspiration from their ongoing struggle to find equality and happiness in this oftentimes skewed and intolerant world. Her award-winning novels have been called “gut wrenching, daring, and thought provoking.” She admits to being an angst queen and making her men work damn hard for their happy endings.

Mickie currently resides in a suburb outside Chicago.

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Review: Have (The Need Trilogy #3) by R. Phoenix


Have (The Need Trilogy #3)


A Dark Taboo Tale.

Turnabout is fair play.

Tavi Mirza has been operating under that principle for a few months now, but both he and his brother Rex are keenly aware they can’t avoid the consequences of their actions forever. Sooner or later, the facade will crumble, and when someone ultimately finds out their secret, Tavi’s life will be over. The fates have converged to ensure that the twins don’t remain untouched by its claws, and they must determine where their true loves and loyalties lay.

Can Tavi and Rex protect each other? Or will they allow the past to dictate the future instead of moving forward together?


*This is NOT a standalone and should be read after Want (The Need Trilogy #1) and Take (The Need Trilogy #2). This dark taboo tale contains several kinks that may offend or trigger some readers, including (but not limited to) age play, ABDL, spanking, and humiliation. Not every dynamic or element is 100% consensual.

Though The Need Trilogy is set in The Fate of the Fallen world, the trilogy can be read separately from the series and other books. The main characters do not (yet) appear in the FotF/SQ books, and there are minimal spoilers for the series or other books set in the universe.




This was such an intense book. It was my favorite of the trilogy. I loved how things keep changing so fast for Tavi and Rex. It was a thrilling third instalment.

What I liked the most about the book was the strong emotions that were present on it. Is not like they were lacking in the previous instalments, but I felt a bigger connection with Tavi and Rex’s emotions. There were a lot of moments when I felt heartbroken. I love feeling a bit of angst when I read, so this book was perfect for me. I loved how the struggle with their own feelings and also with doing the right thing.

There are a few thigs I loved without giving too much spoilers away. I enjoy the happy moments Tavi and Rex shared. I wish there were more, but when they let problems aside and just enjoy their company, it was beautiful.

The plot was magnificent. Since the previous book, there have been so much twists that it’s just impossible to put it down. I loved the part secondary characters play in its development. I was particularly charmed by Nyla and there was a character I disliked so bad before, Julian, and now I’m not so sure. He’s definitely intriguing. Almost as much as Desi. Both of them make me laugh so much, even though I’m not so sure their scenes were intended to be funny.

The only thing about it that I didn’t like, and that’s on me because there are clear warnings in the blurb, was the age play. It didn’t bother me as much as it did before. Maybe because I’m used to it or maybe because there is less than it was in Want and Take. Either way there were very few things I didn’t liked about the book. Even not being completely comfortable with the age play, the plot is so good that, if I had the opportunity to read it again, I wouldn’t hesitate.



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