I am eager–giddy even–to share this with you. This is the most fun thing I’ve published yet. The book is with the editor currently so I hope to have it up within a week or two, depending on feedback. This is the first in a planned series set in and around a deviant magical university hidden in the mountains of Canada.
When Penrose Academy student Liam Hardwick interns for reclusive billionaire Derek Slate, he finds a man who is gorgeous, haunted, and demanding. The unprepared, poor Liam is shocked by the attraction he feels to this men. Slate, too, is drawn to innocent Liam despite how their relationship might jeopardize all his plans.
Slate’s world is intoxicating for inexperienced Liam, but the billionaire is keeping secrets from the student. Secrets that torment the wealthy man and could prove dangerous for Liam. How far will Liam follow his dark desires? What is Slate researching in Penrose’s restricted archives? What lies behind the red door? And what is wrong with Derek Slate’s shadow?
Erotic, dark, and funny, Fifty Shades of Gay Tentacles will haunt you and draw you tightly into its world of dark sexuality.
This book is intended for mature audiences.
“And if you don’t mind my impertinence, I’d like to take your measurements?” Mister Slate’s voice is absolutely calm as he says this, but his eyes show hunger. I tear my gaze away, afraid that I’ll fall into those shadowy green pools and be swept away.
“Measurements? Are you ordering a coffin for me?” I joke, still not meeting his eyes.
He laughs a bit too long. “Just more apprpriate clothes, Mister Hardwick. These books, much like the Christian bible, are specific in what worshippers must wear.” He notices the alarm beaming from my face and smiles a thoroughly disarming smile. “Don’t worry, Mister Hardwick, my tailor isn’t making you robes or a nun’s habit.”
“If there’s a uniform at least I hope it doesn’t involve any silly hats. I spent a summer working at Hot Dog on a Stick and we had to wear these hats that literally were the ugliest things ever.”
He pulls an old, worn, cloth tape measure of untreated cotton from a pocket. “Now, if you could please strip down?”
For a moment I considered stalling. But why wouldn’t I want to take my clothes off for him? Maybe he’ll take his off, too, and we can measure each other. My hoodie hits the floor. My shirt goes up over my head and I almost scream because suddenly Sebastian is there, behind Mister Slate like his shadow. The guy has little cat feet. He’s a ninja receptionist.
And he’s holding a camera.
“What’s that for?”
“Don’t worry about the photographs,” Mister Slate says. “My tailor has peculiar methods but his work is worth it. He uses hand measurements for sizing and crafting, but the photos will allow him to choose the perfect shade of fabric to match your lovely eyes.”
Sebastian openly smirks at me and aims the camera.
Not for the first time that morning I wonder how many young men have been through this with Mister Slate. Am I the third or the thirty-third? What happened to all the others? And if he’s such a recluse, why does he have so many social ties?
Slate circles around behind me, stands so close that his breath burns the back of my neck. He’s giving off waves of heat like a furnace. My head swims from his presence. And then his arms reach around me and pull the measuring tape tight across my chest and shoulders, restraining me sweetly. My cock jumps in my pants and I realize he’s going to want to measure my inseam and that might be a problem. He holds the tape tautly, squeezing it until his control over me becomes definitive. When he releases the binding a tightness remains, as if the shadow of the cord remained, binding me to him.
He repeats the actions on my waist, my upper torso, my wrists, my elbows. Each time he squeezes until I feel a a measure of control slip away from inside me. Sebastian shoots photos, hovering at the peripherery like a ghost. And as the measure falls away the bindings remain. Slate is behind me for the entire process. What does his face show when no one is looking? Is he always so guarded?
The rope slips around my neck and all thoughts evaporate like fog before the sun. Slate squeezes it sweetly and my blood slows, my breath quiets. He’s standing so close to me now, his body brushing against my back, making my head swim with his scorching heat. His breath tickles my ear. The cord tightens on my neck and my breathing stops entirely. A groan slips from my lips and I’d be embarrassed if I wasn’t so incredibly, thoroughly turned on. My erection is straining against my jeans painfully. Sebastian gets some great shots of it, I’m sure.