This page includes excerpts from pre-publication books that are still undergoing editing, as well as minor spoilers for the books.
The cycle consists of the following series: The Eternal Dungeon, Life Prison, and Michael's House.
¶ Coming soon. Booktrailer.
The Eternal Dungeon, a historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.
The faintness went beyond Elsdon's voice this time and entered his body. He could feel the sweat upon his skin; he wondered whether he had turned white. He blurted out, "What if I'm innocent?"
The Seeker's green gaze did not waver. "If you are innocent, then I trust our time together will be short. I would far rather find a prisoner innocent than guilty; too many prisoners are sent to us, and the quicker that we can release them from here, the better. If your release is to the lighted world rather than to the executioner, it is likely to come more quickly. But we are commissioned by the Queen to ascertain the truth of accusations of death sentence crimes, and we are committed to fulfill that commission. Please don't waste my time with false pleas of innocence, Mr. Taylor. It will only make our time together more difficult."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Rebirth.
Life Prison, a historical fantasy series about male desire and determination in Victorian prisons.
I was tired of being told by the guards that I was fortunate to be assigned to Mercy. Moving my eyes to watch Avery strap on the heavy belt holding his whip and his dagger – I'd once tried to steal a guard's dagger and had received a broken wrist to mark that occasion – I asked, "Why the transfer?"
Avery's smile dropped away. He looked down at the belt he was adjusting. "My request. I wanted shorter hours; I've been having troubles at home with my youngest."
I would have laughed if I hadn't known the dangers. He had troubles? I had nothing but contempt for guards who whined on about their domestic problems, while surrounded by life prisoners who knew that death was the only mercy they would ever receive. I turned my head, which had been resting upon my forearms, and rubbed the incipient smile from my face before saying, "Who's the new guard? Anyone I know?"
Avery paused in the midst of buttoning up his vest. He looked at me with that searching look he had given me during the first week of our acquaintance, before he had become certain of how I would behave. In a voice I could not read, he said, "I doubt it. He's from Compassion."
It is never truly silent at Mercy. Even late at night you can hear the sounds of groans and screams. Now, in early morning, Mercy was a cacophony of sound: prisoners shouting to each other from their cells; guards ordering them to be quiet or joining the conversation, as the mood took them; the clang of metal from cell doors opening and the hiss of fire from the central pit. In this cell, where the inner door was closed, the air was dark and chill, and I felt pinpricks cover my back.
Hoping that my voice was as unrevealing as Avery's, I said, "One of the sadists?"
¶ Coming soon. More information about Mercy's Prisoner.
Michael's House, a historical fantasy series set in an Edwardian slum.
Michael said, without looking up, "Necessary expenditures. Expensive ones, alas, but I can't afford to acquire shoddy equipment."
"Let me see." Janus knelt down beside him and pulled the cloth back.
He could not recognize most of the items before him, which he instinctively knew was a bad sign. He finally let his hand fall on an item he recognized – a hunting crop – and held it up toward the light. It was stiff, in the manner of whips used by carriage-drivers; the leather upon it was soft.
Michael took the crop from his hand, rose to his feet, and swished the whip through the air for a moment before bringing it down, hard and accurate, upon a cockroach crawling up the wall. The crushed victim fell lifeless from the wall; satisfied, Michael sat down crosslegged and began to clean the remains of the insect off the crop with the cloth.
Looking over at him, Janus said, "You almost make me believe the story about you."
"Which story?"
"The famous one."
"Oh, that one. Yes, it's true." There was no change in Michael's expression, and he continued to wipe the crop clean, like a craftsman polishing his work.
Janus felt his stomach tighten. Once, early in their acquaintance, he had asked Michael tentatively what his work was like. Michael had said in a flat voice, "I'm the one who controls what happens," and had left the matter at that, much to Janus's relief.
It was better not to know; Janus had instinctively realized that. Why was he committing such folly as to question Michael now? Yet even as he thought this, he heard himself say, "I don't understand how you could do that. To tie someone up . . . to hurt him . . ."
"They liked it."
Janus heard the change to plural and winced. "How can you be sure of that? Just because their bodies reacted . . ."
Michael sighed, placing the crop back with the other equipment. "Janus, a whore has a very great advantage over any other person in the world. Let us say you're a married man and you ask your wife whether she enjoyed her time in bed with you. If she says yes, you have no way of knowing whether she is telling the truth."
"So how does a prostitute know what the truth is?" Janus asked in a tight voice.
"By a simple test. He waits to see whether the man he has just beaten comes back and pays money to be beaten again." Michael rose to his feet and held out his hand to Janus, saying, "The furniture was delivered while you were in the servants' wing, clearing the kitchen. Come see what it looks like."
Janus could not help but notice that Michael had picked up the crop again, seemingly without conscious thought.
¶ Coming soon. More information about Whipster.
Pentheus's breath travelled swiftly inward. Sert's face turned a bright crimson. Harmon and Enos looked at each other, raising their eyebrows silently. The slaves turned, as if by command, and began gathering together the empty vessels.
Ledwin grumbled, "That is hardly a matter for polite discussion."
"The topic arose earlier," Celadon replied, apparently the only man in the chamber who was unfazed by Nellwyn's words, though his fingers were again gripping his empty cup. "Besides, our Akbarian visitor is not acquainted with our ways. We— No, perhaps you should explain, Pentheus."
Pentheus nodded, then said in a grave voice to Nellwyn, "Such a condition occasionally occurs among the men and women of our land. In some cases, it is clearly willful perverseness and is best met with punishment. In other cases, though, the perverseness is thought to be an illness of the mind that can be cured. Indeed, I have often felt that such a condition is normal in the young – true slavery or mastery comes as much through training as through birth, and when the training has only just begun, it is natural that a young person would be confused as to his or her proper role in life. I think that patience should be shown toward young people who demonstrate perverse tendencies."
Ledwin snorted. Harmon chuckled and said, "You're known for your softness in such matters, Pentheus, but I think we're all agreed that some forms of perverseness can be cured and some can't. I have great respect for any master who takes the trouble to try to cure slaves who are perverse; I think it is unwise to move too quickly to the alternative."
Enos shrugged. "In theory, perverseness may be curable, but I think the best way to prevent perverseness is to make an example of slaves who fall into it. Wouldn't you agree, Sert?"
Sert was still as red as the lowering flames of the candles. "I— It's a difficult subject to talk about—"
"It's an embarrassing topic," Celadon agreed. "Still, some subjects need to be discussed, however unpleasant they may be."
Nellwyn was now sitting rigid in her chair, her hands gripping the loose ends of her gown-belt as though she wished to transform it into a weapon. "And this alternative you speak of?" she said in a chill voice. "Am I to guess that the alternative does not consist of giving the slave the rank he has claimed?"
¶ Coming soon. More information about The True Master.
The boots made their way steadily across the floor as the door moaned shut again, the shadow-shrouded body blending with the dark, rough stones of the walls and the dirt-smeared floor. Then the visitor passed into the dim light that fell from the crack of a window high above, and he could see the calfskin boots, the gold-studded belt, the tight breeches, and, most clearly of all, the flash of crystal wound about the man's ring-finger.
A lord. It did not surprise him; most of the men who had visited him here had been lords or lord-kin. That was why he was here, after all. He kept his gaze cast below the belt; in the chill cell, sweat was beginning to form now on his neck, running down his back and between his bound wrists.
"Lord," he said softly, "I would be glad to pay to you my debt in any way I can."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Debt Price.
Egon raised his chin and looked Halvar straight in the eye. "We didn't intend for it to happen."
"No, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for it to happen." Halvar's voice remained cool, though quiet. "At sixteen, she was young enough to believe you when you told her that you were infertile. I'm only surprised that you have continued to use that tale, since none of your other bed-mates believed it."
Egon's face grew warm, and he shifted his hands from the arms of the chair to his lap, lounging back in an effort to look relaxed. "I thought it was true. My parents only ever had one child, though they made love often, and they told me that my uncle—"
Halvar's discipline rod shot out to full length; it crashed down upon the chair arms with a crack like lightning. Egon, who would have fallen out of the chair if the rod had not barred his way, went rigid and pressed himself against the chair's straight back.
Halvar leaned forward; his eyes were the color of an arctic sky. "I am not a fool, Egon," he said softly, "so do not treat me as such. If you are a fool, and believe the words you are saying, then I suggest that you rapidly educate yourself. You cared not whether you impregnated that girl and ruined her life – you cared nothing for her or for any other woman you have bedded for the past ten years. All you care for is your own pleasure."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Pleasure.
It would have been nice, though, to be a demi-god. To worship at another man's feet and then, just for a short time, to accept the other man's worship. It was a vision that gripped him, luring him back time and time again to the frequently boring weekly meetings of the Mayhill Sexual Education Society, popularly known as the Black and Blue Club.
As Loren made his way down the dimly lit stairs leading to the club's cellar meeting-place on that autumn evening in 1985, his mind was focussed on trying to find something to say to these people that he hadn't said a dozen times before. He was one of the founders of the club, so he had belonged to it now for eight years, long enough to give several dozen talks. And since most of the people in the society had been there for the same eight years, it was becoming increasingly difficult to be original. Like being forced to teach a Philosophy 101 class every year for the rest of one's life, Loren thought with a sigh as he pushed open the door to the brightly lit basement.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He knew immediately that a newcomer had arrived. The Black and Blue members, often tediously unoriginal in their sexual tastes, were equally unoriginal in their socializing. Under ordinary circumstances, the members would be paired off like animals from Noah's ark: long-term couples mainly, with a few dating couples, and only a very few people, such as himself, who played the field. He would drift from pair to pair, smiling and pretending that he wasn't the mateless bachelor of the group.
Tonight was different. The time was barely five-thirty, a half hour before the talk was set to begin, but already the room was crowded. Word had evidently spread quickly, as it often did in Mayhill. And nearly everyone in the room was jammed into one corner, surrounding the newcomer.
Loren, who disliked looking eager, made his way over to the abandoned refreshment table at the other end of the room, trying not to be conspicuous as he eyed the newcomer. Despite the welcome party massed around him, the newcomer was partly visible, for he was several inches taller than any of the other men, and up to a foot and a half taller than the women. A man was standing in front of the newcomer at the moment – one of the Esses, his arm protectively curled round his em in an evident effort to keep her from throwing herself at the newcomer. So all that Loren could see was the top half of the newcomer's face: attentive eyes, honey-gold skin, and dark hair that curled loosely in a manner that made the newcomer look like a Hollywood sex god. Loren wished that his own hair was so well-behaved.
The potato chips at the refreshments table were as stale as always, the red fruit punch was too sweet, and the chocolate cupcakes were utterly inedible. Loren sampled them all, this being his best excuse for staying on this side of the room. He eyed the small podium at the center of the long wall, the whiteboard stand beside it, and the folding chairs lined up neatly in front of it. He doubted that anyone would be watching him this evening. Not unless he placed the newcomer next to him and used him to demonstrate the finer points of obeisance.
Darn, that was a tempting thought. Loren reached for the punch ladle, his mouth having suddenly gone dry.
In the next moment he spilled the punch onto the table. It ran like blood over the white tablecloth, then dripped down onto Loren's slacks. Loren barely noticed, even though these slacks had managed to last him for six years. The crowd at the end of the room had parted, giving him his first full glimpse of the newcomer.
A body like that of the man who had beach sand kicked in his face, after the man had undergone his wonderful transformation with the help of Charles Atlas. A face that the Hollywood sex god would have killed to borrow: full lips, high cheekbones, and a perfectly shaped nose, neither too broad nor too narrow. Strong hands, bare of any ring. More of that luscious sun-golden skin. And a uniform of bright blue, with gleaming buttons.
Well. This was something new. When the Mayhill police force sent its officers to the Black and Blue Club, the officers were usually disguised in mufti.
¶ Coming soon. More information about Edgeplay in Mayhill.
When he finally dared to look up, the trucker's eyes were narrow again. "Oh-ho," the other man said softly. "So that's the deal, is it? Who taught you that kind of stuff?"
He licked his lips, feeling the cracks there. "A friend."
"I always thought you cowboys must find some pretty wild ways to have fun during those long winter nights on the ranch." He stared down at Dick silently. Dick felt his heart beat hard in his throat, maybe thirty, forty times.
At last the trucker nodded. "It's good to know what you want out of life," he said. "And you're headed in the right direction to find it. Nellies ain't going to give you that sort of entertainment. You need real men if you want that, and you'd better be tough to take it. You're going to have to give in return, though. Not everyone's taste is as narrow as yours."
"I know," Dick said, voice low.
The trucker gave a sharp laugh. "Yeah, you've figured that out, haven't you? You played me a pretty tune to get me to this point."
He shook his head furiously, feeling all choked up. "Nope, mister. I wasn't trying to herd you. If you want—" He hesitated, trying to voice what he'd been thinking. "A gift. That's all. If you please."
The trucker nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. A gift. Your reward for a job well done. Son, you lied before. You are looking for a sugar daddy. It's just a different kind of sugar you want."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Water in a Drought.
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