Wednesday, 1 July 2015

Jack and Danny - One Top and His Brat.

Book of the month for July 2015 - The Jack and Danny Chronicles. If you're a fan of traditional, tongue in cheek, honest to goodness one Top and his brat fiction, then the Jack and Danny Chronicles are just the ticket. Packed full of laughs, quips, disasters and of course spankings.

Smashwords Offer - 50% Off!

Promotional price: $2.00
Coupon Code: DC24P
Expires: August 1, 2015 


Meet Daniel Macintyre, a young, happy go lucky, short but beautifully proportioned romantic and intellectual action hero, at least in his own mind.

From computer fires to escaped tarantulas Danny seems to causes chaos wherever he goes. He wouldn’t mind so much, but none of it is ever his fault, well, hardly ever!

Danny’s partner is the stereotypically tall, dark and handsome Jack Kinross. When it comes to communicating with Danny, Jack relies heavily on sign language executed by hand, though often aided and abetted by a large wooden hairbrush.

Jack does his best to keep his mischievous young lover in line in this comic tale of misadventures.

Warning: contains strong language, highly improbable situations and gratuitous use of puns.

Want to know more about Top/brat fiction? Then click here for my take on this highly original genre of fiction. 

Sunday, 31 May 2015

Moving On - Book of The Month for June

Happy Summer! Let's hope the sun puts his hat on and beams some rays over the UK - Bright, sunny, but not too hot, that's my ideal summer. I'm still working on the new Tarn and Twinks tale, it's going slowly, but at least it's going. I'm trying to stay focussed and optimistic, despite more health setbacks.

Book of the month for June 2015 is a reader favourite - 'Moving On.' It features Andrew and the eccentric, strict, but kind hearted Thomas. Andrew is a young man with a tragic past, one he has striven to bury deep within his mind. A doll's house triggers a melt down. Memories begin to resurface. Driven by self-hate and fear, Andrew takes flight. It's up to Thomas to track down his young lover and help him face up to his demons.

Get 30% Off at Smashwords by quoting the promo coupon code GZ472
Expires: July 1, 2015

Excerpt - You can also read a free 20% of the story over at Smashwords.

 Part One

The Dolls House

The dreams returned the night following the visit to the car boot sale.
I awoke with a start, my sweat dampened t-shirt clinging to my body, chilling me. I could still hear the voice from my dream, a whisper that seemed to rush from my mind and reverberate around the room. I lay still for a moment fighting back a sense of panic and then got up and headed downstairs, much to Bob’s delight. He didn’t often get company at this inauspicious hour. Rising arthritically from his basket he tottered towards me to be petted. Leaning down I scratched him gently behind the ear and was rewarded with a rusty purr of appreciation.

Scooping him up I rubbed my cheek against his craggy face for a moment.  “How about you and I have a little nightcap together, Bob, huh, how does that sound?” His cloudy orange eyes gazed at me approvingly and I gave a small laugh and set him back down on the floor.

Going to the fridge I got out the milk and poured some into a bowl, reasoning that at his age he was entitled to have a treat once in a while, and for that matter so was I. He greedily fell on the forbidden fruit while I just as greedily helped myself to a large measure of cooking brandy, the only available alcohol in the house, downing it in one. It was rough and really better suited to lighting a barbecue than quaffing neat, but still, needs must and all that. Just as I refilled the glass Bob let out a small mew of pleasure, alerting me to the fact our little party had been gate crashed by his favourite human being in the entire world. I didn’t echo the sentiment, especially not when said human smartly removed the glass from my hand and tossed the contents down the sink. I gave a mew of my own, one of indignation and protest.

  “Thomas, I hadn’t finished with that!”

  “I beg to differ.”

Oh how I hated it when he said that.

Re-corking the bottle with firm efficiency he put it back in the cupboard.  “If you’re having trouble sleeping,” he tapped my rump,  “the last thing you need is alcohol, it’s a stimulant.”

  “Not if you drink enough it isn’t.” I glowered at him resentfully.  “What are you doing up anyway, you usually sleep like the dead. Has Halloween come early this year?”

Ignoring both the comments and the dirty look he grasped my upper arm and escorted me out of the kitchen, switching off the light and saying calmly, “if that cat is sick because of the milk you gave him, you’re cleaning it up.”

He slipped a hand under my t-shirt smoothing it over my chest and belly as we lay in bed. “What’s on your mind, love? You were full of the joys of spring this morning, persuading me to go to that wretched car boot thing at the racecourse, and ever since you’ve been snapping and snarling like a dog with a tick in its tail. What’s bothering you?”

I rolled away from him, lying on my side. “Nothing, well,” I glanced back over my shoulder, “apart from the fact I fancied a little drink to help me sleep and you act like an outraged Salvationist.”

He let out a psychoanalytical sigh, “listen, when you get out of bed at two in the morning to drink cooking brandy, then clearly something is bothering you. Either you voluntarily come clean and tell me what it is or I don my Dom’s cap and make it a point of discipline until you do. I might start suggesting you go to bed straight after dinner each evening. How does that sound?”

  “Huh,” I gave a contradictory grunt, “you can suggest all you like, but I won’t bloody go.”

He kissed my cheek, “oh, believe me, Andrew my honey, you’ll go, and if I catch you near that brandy bottle again, you’ll regret it. You know perfectly well that alcohol isn’t a problem solver.”

No, I thought sourly, but it’s a bloody good listener and it doesn’t nag. I kept my opinion internalised. Thomas was apt to be crabby if disagreed with on that particular point.

I graciously permitted his hand to slip inside my shorts and employ an altogether less alcoholic but still persuasive means of inducing sleepiness in me, and one at least guaranteed not to leave me with a hangover. The subsequent release of tension brought pleasure, but sadly it was transient and tension soon returned, and not in a good way. Cuddling into Thomas’s comforting arms I made a determined effort to block all anxious thoughts and make myself believe that everything was the same as it had been before the visit to the car boot sale.
Almost a week later, while turning the car in to the road on my way home from work, a ray of spring sunshine hit the chrome bumper of a passing motor, momentarily dazzling me. I closed my eyes for a split second against the glare and when I opened them, there she was. She was standing by the side of the road. I’d been expecting her. All the same it was a shock. My stomach gave a sickening lurch and I hunched over the wheel, fearful lest she see me. I managed to park the car on the drive without mishap, though my hands were shaking and my heart pounding so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

Thomas came into the hall, his homely features shaping themselves into a frown of disapproval as I slammed the front door hard behind me and hurled my bag aside.

  “I take it you’ve had a bad day at work, Andrew, but is that really any reason...”

I didn’t give him chance to finish his sermon on the morality of door slamming and bag hurling. “I help pay the fucking bills, so I reckon I’m entitled to slam a door when I feel like it. In fact,” I opened the door and childishly slammed it shut again. “I’m entitled to slam it as many damn times as I like.”

  “I can’t say I care for your attitude, how about you go out and come back in again, preferably in a more civil manner.”

“Look, Tom, I’ve had a shit day and I just want to go for a bath.” Evading his attempt to take hold of my arm I headed swiftly up the stairs and locked myself in the bathroom.

Turning the taps on I sat on the loo seat bunching my lower lip between a thumb and forefinger and chewing at the skin as the bath filled, ignoring the index tapping on the door.

  “Andrew, open this door please,” the index tapping turned to a four-knuckle knock. “I want to talk to you.”

Turning off the taps I stood up, leaning my hot forehead against the door’s cool grained wood. “I’m sorry for snapping your balls off, Thomas. I didn’t mean to take my mood out on you.”

  “Do as you're told and unlock this door at once.”

Taking a deep breath I unlocked the door and opened it. He looked stern and I made haste to apologise again.  “Sorry, Tom, I’ve got a headache. I’ve had a pig of a day at work. Alex has been on my back over bloody paperwork, I’m sick of her nagging. I just want to have a quiet soak in the bath and de-stress.”

His demeanour softened and he rubbed my arm, “take a couple of paracetamol, sweetheart, there’s some in the bathroom cabinet. I’ll make a start on dinner, don’t stay in there too long, okay?”

  “Okay,” I managed to prevent my threatening tears from sounding an echo in my voice.

Closing the door I locked it again, leaning my back against it. The tears overflowed and I slid down to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Closing my eyes, I began rocking slowly back and forth as a scene insistently unfolded in my mind.

Thursday, 30 April 2015

Book of the Month - Destiny Calling

Comedy drama 'Destiny Calling'  is Book of the Month

 May 2015

Quote Coupon Code XS47K to get 30% Off  at Smashwords
Expires: May 30, 2015


Is Sam boyfriend material, or simply a boy fiend who’s best avoided?

Destiny lures Colin Leyton to a HMV music store one fine Saturday morning in March where he stumbles across the young and flamboyant Sam Taylor.

Sam has a knack for attracting trouble and a gift for rubbing people up the wrong way.

Against his better judgement Colin finds himself playing white knight when Sam’s antics get out of hand and he lands in bother with two store security guards. He gives him a lift home. Sam tries to charm him into a date, but common sense tells Colin not to get involved, in fact to run for the hills and not look back.

However, destiny hasn’t finished with Colin. Sam comes back into his life in an unexpected way, turning it upside down.

Colin's closest friend Jon turns mentor in a bid to help him sort out his feelings for a man most people love to hate.

Visit my website to read the entire first chapter -

Monday, 27 April 2015

A Nun and Priest Tale - Excerpt

Not a gay romance, but a good story all the same.

This short story contains the physical punishment of a child by an adult. It by no means condones the corporal punishment of children, far from it. It’s written as a period piece, a period in which things such as childhood CP were the norm and went unchallenged.
Being a schoolchild in the 1960’s was a hazardous business, especially if you went to a Catholic school in a poor working class community. Nuns and Priests wielded considerable power and influence. Some used it kindly, while others abused their position and delighted in cruelty.

Meet Father John and the formidable Sister Austin. Who will triumph in a battle of wills over the fate of a small boy? 


God Almighty! Father John, a cigarette clamped firmly between his lips, rose from his battered old desk and strode over to the study window as the sounds of a disturbance reached his ears. He flicked aside the nicotine yellow net curtains, observing the scene beyond the grimy windowpanes. Holy Mary! Bloody kids. They were at it again.  Fighting! It was like living in a war zone.

Father John had a choice. He could ignore the scrapping lads in the street and continue to struggle with writing his weekly sermon, or he could intervene. He chose intervention as a Christian duty that far outweighed sermon writing. Besides, intervention might provide inspiration for the sermon so far eluding him.

After stubbing out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray on his desk, he dashed out into the street and pulled apart the young male warriors, holding each of them firmly by the arm.

The audience that had gathered to watch the pugilists, a fair mix of Catholics, Protestants and non-churchgoers, voiced their disappointment with a pious chorus of ‘aw, Fathers.’

“Aw, Father, they were just getting started.”

“Be quiet, you bunch of violent rascals, standing there, watching folk knock seven bells out of each other.” Father John swept a fierce glare around the thrill seekers, before turning to the boys he held captive, one of whom he recognised all too well. “I thought it would be you, Kevin McNally. What’s going on, eh? What are you fighting about now? There’s no need to be fighting all the time just because you go to different schools. I take it that’s why you were fighting, again? You’re always fighting. You can’t go a day without throwing a punch at someone from Saint Oswald’s primary.”

“He started it, Father. He was calling me names.”

“That doesn’t give you the right to start flinging punches, now does it? Weren’t you listening to Sister Austin this morning when she read the scripture in Assembly? What did she tell us to do?  Turn the other cheek, that’s what.”
“Don’t be daft, Father.” The dark haired little boy turned incredulous blue eyes on the priest. “You didn’t believe that load of old rubbish did you? This is Sister Austin we’re talking about here. If you turned the other cheek to her, she’d belt that an’ all.”
Father John fell silent for a moment. He was never a man to ignore the honest truth. “You’re not wrong there, Kevin,” he conceded. “You’re not wrong there. She’s a formidable woman is our Sister Austin.” Guilt and a sense of loyalty towards a fellow holy cloth wearer forced him to add, “it’s just the way God made her.”
“The devil, more like,” mumbled Kevin sullenly. Sister Austin was not one of his favourite people. He couldn’t wait to leave the junior school she presided over like a mafia boss.  Everyone said the Brothers who taught at the boys’ senior school he’d be attending in the autumn were a bunch of savage brutes, but none of them could be bad as Sister Austin.
Father John changed the subject, returning to the matter of the conflict between Kevin and his unknown adversary. He shook the unknown one’s arm. “What name did me laddo here call you?”
Kevin stuck his chin out. “Papist scumbag, and, Father, he said the Virgin Mary wasn’t, cos anyone with half a mind knows there’s no such thing as an immaculate contraceptive.”
Father John repressed a grin. The lad had obviously parroted something he’d heard at home. It had lost something in translation, though whether it was the lad’s translation or Kevin’s was anyone’s guess.  He glared at the unknown boy, a victim of rampant ringworm if the gentian violet patches on his shaven scalp were anything to go by. “Papist scumbag indeed. Well, we can’t be having that. Would you like me to thump him for you, Kevin? I boxed for my college you know. I scored a few knockouts in my time.”
The boy looked alarmed, squeaking. “You can’t touch me. I’ll set my dad on you.”
Kevin puffed out his chest, enjoying his foe’s discomfort. “I’d rather thump him meself, Father. I don’t want me mates thinking I’ve gone soft.”
“Right you are, son. Give it to him good for casting aspersions on our Holy Lady.” Father John let go of the other boy’s arm a second before he let go of Kevin’s arm. The boy took his chance and ran, his mates following hard on his heels, fearful lest the priest’s violence be turned on them.
“Ah, bad luck, Kevin.” Father John feigned regret.  “He got away from you.”
“No bother, Father. I know where he lives. I’ll wait ‘till it’s dark and then I’ll go round his house and pee through the letter box.”
“You’re a good man, Kevin, defending the faith, but if I were you I’d call it quits. Urinating through Protestants’ letterboxes will only confirm their opinion that we Catholics are anti Royalist. It’s the royal mail and all that, they take it very seriously.”
“Uri what, Father?”
“Pissing, Kevin.”
“Gotcha, Father.”
Father John cast his eye around the small group of boys still remaining in the street. “Get off home before the Bobby comes by and takes your names for loitering. Go on lads, there’s nothing to see here now.”
The boys moved off reluctantly. Only one remained.
“You too, Kevin, go with your mates. Get off home now. It’s getting late. Won’t your mammy and daddy be wondering where you are?”
“Nah, me dad’s at the Catholic Club and me mam’s paying the rent man. She told me to bugger off for a couple of hours.”
Father John raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. His Saturday stint in the Confessional looked set to be a bit more interesting this week. He turned the conversation to schoolwork. “Have you learned a poem for tomorrow, Kevin? I believe it’s that time of the month again. I’m visiting your class tomorrow, to talk about serving at the altar, so I’ll be listening to you.”  His heart sank as the boy’s face clouded.
“Where am I going to get a pome from, Father?”
Where indeed? Father John sympathised. For the children of this small, poor community, access to reading material in general was limited, most of it hanging on a nail in the outside loo. The local council deemed the area and its inhabitants unworthy of a communal library. There was one in the main town, ten miles away, but few would travel that far, not for books, and certainly not poetry books. Poetry was viewed as fancy nonsense that served no purpose for kids who were essentially destined to be pit and factory fodder, if they were lucky enough to be employed at all. Poetry was for silly romantic girls or Nancy boys, not working men.
Sister Austin, the formidable head of the tiny Catholic school, of which Father John Cameron was serving priest, refused to take the dearth of poetical material into consideration. She had launched what amounted to a crusade, demanding that each of her small charges learnt a short poem, or a verse from a longer one, in order to purify and culturally extend their common little minds. This torture was visited upon them once a month and was dreaded by all.
Father John sighed again. It would take a braver man than him to dissuade the good nun from pursuing her campaign of cultural improvement. She belonged to a teaching order that gloried in the name of ‘The Little Sisters Of Divine Mercy,’ or, as many called them, ‘The Little Bitches Of Refined Cruelty.’ They were Catholic OO7’S, licensed by the Pope to terrorise. They struck fear into hearts, guilt into souls and the cane into hands and backsides.
“What shall I do, Father?”
Father John’s brown eyes crinkled at the corners and he ruffled the boy’s hair. “Tell you what, let’s pop into the presbytery and see if we can find some poetry among all that boring religious stuff.”
Kevin beamed, his smile giving his rough little features a touch of beauty. “Thanks, Father. Me mam always says that you’re a proper saint, not like that mean old sod Father Dougherty. She says he’s more likely to be in hell than heaven. Is that right, Father, do you think Father Dougherty is in hell instead of heaven?”
“I have no idea, Kevin, and besides, it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.”
“Me mam says no one spoke well of him when he was alive, so why bother when he’s dead? She says if he ends up with a halo in heaven then there’s no bloody justice and when she dies she’d prefer to end up in hell, well away from him.”
“Never mind Father Dougherty, his final destination is not our concern. He is where he is. Now, let’s see if we can find you a poem to learn.”

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Friday, 24 April 2015

Not A Gay Romance - A Nun And Priest Tale

From time to time I take a little trip away from writing in my favourite gay romance genre to try my hand at other things. I enjoy writing literary stories and I also enjoy writing little stories set in the 1950's and 1950's. I write such stories under the name of Ester Phillips. Short stories are a favourite of mine, and are, I think underrated these days, which is a shame. The short story is an art form in its own right. You can read a short story on the bus, in bed, on the train, while enjoying a tea or coffee break, or in your lunch hour. Just because a story has less than ten thousand words doesn't mean it has any less merit or content value than a longer story. Short stories are often harder to write than longer ones and they're an excellent way for writers to hone their skills.

Coming soon, a short story by Ester Phillips - A Nun And Priest Tale. I've had this short tale hanging around for a very long time. I dug it out and decided that re-writing it would be a good way to break my recent dry spell and give me some good writing practice. I have enjoyed writing it and I hope some of you will enjoy reading it, even if it isn't M/M in focus.

Meet Father John and the formidable Sister Austin. Who will triumph in a battle of wills over the fate of a small boy? 

This short, comedy-drama, story contains the physical punishment of a child by an adult. It by no means condones the corporal punishment of children, far from it. It’s written as a period piece, a period when such things as childhood CP were the norm. Being a schoolchild in the 1960’s was a hazardous business, especially if you went to a Catholic school in a poor working class community. Nuns and Priests wielded considerable power and influence. Some used it kindly, while others abused their position and delighted in cruelty.

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

Feeling Old Today? Remember - Age Is Only A Number

Do you realize that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we're kids? If you're less than 10 years old, you're so excited about ageing that you think in fractions.
'How old are you?' I'm four and a half!' you're never thirty-six and a half. You're four and a half, going on five! That's the key.

You get into your teens, now they can't hold you back. You jump to the next number, or even a few ahead.
'How old are you?' I'm gonna be 16!' You could be 13, but hey, you're gonna be 16! And then the greatest day of your life ... You become 21. Even the words sound like a ceremony ... YOU BECOME 21. YESSSS!!!

But then you turn 30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There's no fun now, you're just a sour-dumpling. What's wrong? What's changed.

You BECOME 21, you TURN 30, then you're PUSHING 40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it's all slipping away. Before you know it, you REACH 50.And your dreams are gone.
But wait!!! You MAKE it to 60. You didn't think you would.

So you BECOME 21, TURN 30, PUSH 40, REACH 50 and MAKE it to 60.
You've built up so much speed that you HIT 70! 

After that it's a day-by-day thing; you HIT Wednesday.

You get into your 80's and every day is a complete cycle; you HIT lunch; you TURN 4:30; you REACH bedtime. And it doesn't end there. Into the 90's, you start going backwards; 'I Was JUST 92.'

Then a strange thing happens. If you make it over 100, you become a little kid again.' I'm 100 and a half!'
May you all make it to a healthy 100 and a half!

Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away.

Monday, 20 April 2015

It's All In The Gay Stars

Sub’s Horoscopes by Mystified Mog - BDSM Stargazer
Discover what the stars have in store for gay Submissives in the coming days. Today, Aries -

Aries March 20 - April 19:
Aries folk have a strong drive to find their individual style. They love to make their imprint on the world, to be able to say with pride "I did that!" A word of caution, at all costs avoid saying "I did that" on Tuesday evening, as you sit watching the news with your man. He honestly won't be impressed by your proud admission that you were the masked man spotted on CCTV robbing the local Post Office. Lucky prison sentence: one without hope of release, especially since your Top has ominously vowed to wait for you.