AUTHOR: Robert Cage & Kathryn Sparrow
SERIES TITLE AND NUMBER: Submit for Redemption Book 1
PUBLISHER: Storm Moon Press
RELEASE DATE: April 17, 2015
GENRE: BDSM Romance
TAGS: Gay, BDSM, Contemporary, LGBT, M/M, Military, Romance
HEAT LEVEL (1 being no sexual content, 5 being erotica): 4
LENGTH: 99,300 Words
When Army Ranger Captain Everett Palmer enters gay BDSM club Cuffed Links, he is seeking brutal punishment for what he perceives to be an unforgivable failure: allowing an entire squad of men under his command to die while he worked to defuse a bomb at his base. Everett initially wants only pure pain, which professional interrogator and jaded British aristocrat Colonel Phineas Bainbridge is more than prepared to give. Their meeting, however, is not at all by chance.
Phineas has been contracted to coerce a false confession from Everett, implicating the captain in planting the bomb. Phineas has tortured many men in the past, but there is something different about Everett Palmer, a man whose sheer purity of soul causes the colonel to question his every selfish, devious act and legion of war crimes.
In Submit for Redemption: Book One – Submission, erotic romance and spiritual redemption come from the most unexpected places – from the seedy extremes of a smoke-laden, neon-drenched bondage den to the tropical, hedonistic pleasures of Phineas’ private Greek island.
On this unbidden psychosexual odyssey, Everett and Phineas find exactly what they don’t expect: a chance to redeem their troubled souls and fulfil their every romantic ideal. But the clock is ticking. The deeper Phineas falls in love with Everett, the harder it becomes to finish his assigned task. If he succeeds, the consequences may be far more explosive than he ever anticipated.
DELETED SCENE & COMMENTARY
Bleached Butts, Sugar Daddies, and Dangerous Liaisons
Hi everybody! I’m Robert Cage, one of the co-authors (along with Kathryn Sparrow) of Submission: Submit for Redemption, Book One. Thanks for hosting us today.
Book One has been available for roughly four months now and we’ve had the privilege of receiving lots of varied feedback from review sites and fans.
Since it’s the debut novel of a (hopefully) long-running series, Book One is intended to set-up multiple character arcs and stories, though the focus is primarily on our two MCs, Army Ranger Everett Palmer and British duke Phineas (Finny) Bainbridge. It’s stocked with almost twenty characters in all, in various supporting roles, spread across locations as exotic and diverse as Afghanistan and the Greek Isles. We’ve gotten plenty of praise for the richness of our palette, but it’s definitely not like most Romance novels that maintain a singular focus on the two MCs all the way through. It contains a good dose of action and thriller elements as well, as you can see from the above excerpt.
A good part of the book takes place on the fictional private island of Phineas (named after its lord and master) who received it as a birthday present at the tender age of four, which gives you an idea of Finny’s father’s measure of reality.
Finny is running like hell for most of Book One. Having finally found a man who can both withstand the levels of pain Finny enjoys inflicting and who also seems to have a curiously high set of moral standards—that Finny is well aware he himself lacks—Finny is desperate to avoid the contract job he has been assigned: to force a false confession from Everett, by any means necessary. But the deeper Finny falls for Everett, the more he sees himself reflected back in the young soldier’s eyes—a damaged, unhappy man plagued by guilt and self-loathing and urgently in need of love, caring, and affection. As more than a few readers have astutely noted, Everett is more than Finny’s romantic ideal. Everett’s a proxy for Finny—a morally-sound rendition of the man the duke has always aspired to being, but which he’s lost so long ago, drowned in a morass of self-indulgence, self-pity, greed, and cruelty. It’s Everett’s love alone that can redeem Finny, if Ev can only get through to Finny in time. In Book One, he’s well on his way—Finny goes from rabid tiger to paternal pussycat in Book One, seemingly overnight. But is this the real Finny?
Kathryn and I thought it might be interesting to contrast a more dysfunctional master-sub relationship as a B-story that ran linearly to Finny and Ev’s courtship, one that hinted at the danger Everett has unknowingly subjected himself to by allowing Finny to whisk him away to paradise. As much as Finny appears to be morphing into a new and better Dom (courtesy of Everett’s love) there are still vestiges of the duke’s evil past lurking everywhere. We never wanted our readers to forget who Finny is at this point in the series—one of the most diabolical, amoral torturers on the face of the earth, hiding behind his refined aristocratic lineage. The sub-plot with Cornelius (Neil) Woolridge, another of Finny’s associates in his contract torture company, Stratham, and his sub, Clark Farris, was added as a cautionary fable that foreshadowed potential looming threats to Everett.
In the published version of Book One, this B-plot with Neil and Clark remains, though it is greatly cut down due to word-count limitations. Book One contains a scene that infers Clark’s eyes are wandering elsewhere—namely to Blair Cavendish, the effeminate sub of another one of Stratham’s partners. This news gets back to Neil (via his own valet, Oliver Livingston) and accounts for Neil’s “demonstration” to Clark in the interrogation room where Neil is torturing a suspected traitor inside Stratham. Neil is genuinely interrogating a suspect but he’s also trying to relay the consequences of Clark leaving him for Blair. This vindictive act is something Finny might have tried before falling in love with Everett, but which would appall him by Book One, when he’s fallen head over heels with Everett.
Clark and Blair’s sexual chemistry isn’t altogether unsurprising as Clark and Blair routinely perform on-stage sex shows, at their master’s request, for the titillation of all the Stratham Doms. This first cut scene details the inferred flirtation between Clark and Blair by the pool that is only referenced in Book One. The romantic interplay between these two will only get more intense in coming series installments, much to Neil’s dismay.
“Seriously though, what does Cornelius do for fun? It’s a legitimate question, Clark!”
Blair finished his second mimosa and gestured to the attending waiter for another. Clark’s sunglassed head tilted back in the chaise as he stared idly into the cobalt blue expanse of the west side swimming pool, which was becoming less and less populated, many of the guests apparently already preparing to depart for early flights that evening. He reached to a side table, where a silver tray supporting the remains of a large breakfast sat, forking the last of his eggs benedict into his mouth, chewing slowly.
“Oh, I don’t know,” Clark replied, slightly annoyed at the mention of Neil. “Reads—inventories his collections—shoots things. Can we not talk about that right now?” He turned to his side, propping his head with a towel, his eyes caressing Blair’s slender figure. “To be honest, just the thought of going back tomorrow makes my head hurt. It’s just so—goddamn boring! And if that fucking Livingston asks me one more time if ‘Master Cornelius’ would ‘approve’ of something I want to do—I’m gonna string him up and use him as a punching bag.”
Blair laughed, facing the well-built man beside him. “You miss Dallas, don’t you?” he asked.
Clark nodded morosely. “I miss the freedom I had in Dallas more than anything. I miss driving my own car—hanging with my buds. I’m sure your New York friends don’t think twice about you being chauffeured everywhere in a limo, but it’s embarrassing when most of mine are struggling to make their rent. I really miss the beach—driving down to Corpus for some waves, a sixer iced and ready to go. The beach parties there are completely off the hook—surfing, bonfires, sometimes till dawn. Jesus! Blair, do you realize master was actually close to helping me get my acting career going again at one point? Not that it was ever going anywhere to begin with.”
“Well, you certainly excel on stage,” Blair murmured, smiling and cocking an eyebrow. “Did you ever do anything except those commercials?”
Clark groaned. “The gym ads? ‘My time in the limelight’ as master says. Those days are gone. It’s getting so I’m even afraid to ask him for anything. And not—stuff! I’ve got more credit cards than I can fit in my wallet. But—something for me—a career, maybe? Is that so bizarre? At least you have the theater and the galleries.”
Blair nodded, taking another draught of OJ and champagne. “You were pretty magnificent, by the way—last night on stage. And I ain’t whistling Dixie.” He turned and gave Clark a wink. “You know I could still feel you inside of me when I woke up this morning? I think Al was a little jealous. He kept asking me for specifics about your technique.”
Clark chuckled. “Secrets of the pyramids,” he said cryptically. “You were no slouch yourself.” He grinned back at his friend, focusing on Blair’s small but superbly defined pecs. “Have any plans for this afternoon, besides the mani pedi?” he asked, sounding a touch more hopeful than he would have liked.
“Oh, you bet I do, doll,” Blair instantly shot back. “Massage, salt scrub, facial, cut and style... I’m even getting my little ol’ asshole bleached. Care to watch?” He reached out and tickled his fingers sensuously up Clark’s thigh. Clark crossed his legs, fighting off the unexpected erection.
“Not so little anymore, thanks to me,” Clark rebuffed, mock serious, but with a touch of pride in his voice. “Why do you do this shit to me? Seriously though... I can’t think of anything better… though your skin tech will have to hold me back from dirtying it up for you.”
Blair sharply jerked his head, staring into Clark’s now exposed eyes. He seemed braced to say something cutting but merely licked his lips. “Well,” he finally said. “This weekend’s held more than a few surprises, none of which have been... unwelcome.”
“Glad to hear it,” Clark said, letting out a pleased sigh.
As Neil is somewhat of a dark mirror to Finny, Oliver Livingston, Neil’s valet, is something similar to Habib (Finny’s valet). He’s more of a snitch for Neil and may or may not be either jealous of Clark or attracted to him. In this continuation of the previous deleted scene, he makes more of an impression. Livingston will become a critical character later on, with much more dimension, but for now, Clark views him only as an annoyance, a living, breathing spy camera, who goes above and beyond to ensure Clark has no secrets from his master. Incidentally, Livingston also plays a pivotal role in the prequel I am currently writing, a novel called The Rich Man’s Cheeseburger.
Both men turned at the sound of clicking heels, advancing at a brisk cadence towards them. A moment later, the portly, balding form of Oliver Livingston was standing to the right of Clark’s deck chair, inspecting the two young men as a drill sergeant might scrutinize two recruits he didn’t particularly care for. Unlike all of the other valets, Livingston clung to the same set of bland formal livery he had worn from the first day Clark had met him: black tailcoat, silver vest, gray striped trousers. Clark was convinced the man slept in them and simply ironed them each day upon rising. He reminded him of P. G. Wodehouse’s Jeeves with a bad case of hemorrhoids.
“Mr. Clark, sir,” Livingston announced, bowing curtly. “You’re due on board the yacht in under an hour. Would you care to think about getting dressed, or perhaps I can bring you something if you wish to continue... relaxing,” he finished, in almost a hiss, glaring intently at Blair who rolled his eyes and yawned in response.
Clark sighed and got up, allowing the valet to drape a navy silk robe over his broad shoulders. “It seems I have plans,” he said uneasily, taking in Blair’s pitying expression. “I’ll look forward to seeing the results of your... whitening,” he added, smiling as Livingston fretted needlessly with his robe, utilizing a small lint brush and then adjusting the drape of the silk at the belt.
“Livingston, please!” Clark spat, giving the man a deadly look. The valet backed off a few steps. “What’s this about, anyway? We’re going fishing or something?”
“I wouldn’t know, sir. I’m only a servant, after all. Master merely asked me to fetch you. And, of course, sir—I simply want you looking your best for master, as always,” he said, smiling humorlessly.
Clark set off for the main house, fuming inside, vividly aware of the dogged uniformed presence behind him every step of the way.
In Book One, there was also more material that delved deeper into how Clark met Neil, and which explained just what appeal the older Dom had for Clark. We didn’t want Clark to appear to be solely hunting for a sugar daddy. Clark, as all our characters are, is damaged in many ways. This last deleted scene should give you some insight into what keeps Clark enthralled with Neil from an emotional, physical, and sexual perspective.
Each day when Clark would close his refrigerator door, his eyes would come to rest upon Neil’s business card, tacked up by a worn magnet from Tarrant County College—where he would be lucky to even finish his associate’s degree.
But Clark wasn’t one of those guys—he wasn’t a gold digger! At least, he never saw himself as one.
But yet, the day he got his mother’s first hospital bill, Clark made the call, his hands shaking and drenched with sweat. He had gotten Neil’s assistant, of course—a woman with a British accent—who seemed to know almost instantly who Clark was. Neil had returned the call in five minutes—as if he, Clark, were someone.
To his amazement, he soon found that he was—in Neil’s eyes at least. Behind all of Cornelius’ bluster and bad manners, Clark came to learn that Neil was essentially a very lonely person with a very soft heart buried—well, somewhere. He had seen that side of him, many times, though lately not as much.
You’ll never have to worry about a thing, my little pork chop. You’re with daddy now.
Clark shuddered. The words seemed genuinely creepy as they played back in his head today, but they hadn’t been at the time Neil was courting him. Their lavish candlelit dinners in the plantation’s vast dining hall, the warm summer nights on the terrace, their weekend trips to Italy and France (on the Stratham jet, of course)—all of it seemed delightfully unreal. And he loved the power the man exuded: he was treated like a king everywhere he went, and Clark soon found that influence extending to himself, as well.
People in Baton Rouge—whom he didn’t even know—addressed him as “sir.” Pre-accepted applications from top universities magically appeared in the mail. Handwritten invitations to auditions from local casting directors were placed discretely on the breakfast tray Livingston delivered each morning. None of these offers were good enough for Neil, however—he would simply miss Clark too much, he said. And how could Clark really protest? No, he was under this man’s spell—he didn’t know exactly what that spell was, but it was too enjoyable and stress-free to break.
But he did feel something for Neil, he knew he did—deep down. Clark really had loved this man once: he loved how safe he made him feel. He loved his attentions, most of all.
Each day when Neil would arrive back at the estate, he and Clark would have drinks on the terrace, overlooking the vast rear gardens and his first question was always: And how was your day, sugar pop? It wasn’t just a courtesy: Neil really listened—to him. He gave him advice, encouragement, even consoled him when he seemed to need it.
No one, certainly not his mother, had ever taken such an intense interest in him. Even before her illness, she had always been lost in her own addictions, grief, and self-pity, never even noticing if Clark was gone for days at a time. He had never even met his father, despite his constant wheedling for even a clue as to his whereabouts.
And, of course, there was the pain. More than anything, his and Neil’s sessions in the downstairs playroom of the main house had always been a source of great enjoyment to Clark. Nowhere else did his partner seem as masculine, tough or domineering as when he had Clark tied up at his mercy. He didn’t even mind being man-handled by Neil’s hulking ever-present “assistants” on occasion, as long as their actions were monitored by Neil, who always ensured no real harm ever came to him. Oh yes, Neil had earned Clark’s trust over the years. No, it was basically fun and games—all posturing—and it made him come every time. He had begun to almost resent the man’s effortless ability to instill fear, and thus pleasure, in him.
That’s it for now. I hope you enjoyed this look behind the scenes of Submission: Submit for Redemption Book One.
“Well, well, Hel! How’s it hanging?” Woolridge announced gleefully, strutting ahead of Clark to enter a dismal gray room reeking of mold and cigarettes.
Clark froze in his tracks as he stepped over the threshold, immediately behind his master. In one corner, a tall lamp had been positioned to tower over a metal chair adorned with belted restraints. On one side of the cell, a shotgun was being mounted to a tripod by Cornelius’ two goons. A corroded car battery stood on a small table. The centerpiece, though, was the naked man hanging by a set of manacles, his feet barely scraping the dirt floor. He looked vaguely familiar until Clark realized it was Helmut Von Kliensdorf—a man he had only met briefly during other trips to Phineas. He knew he was part of Stratham, yes—but what he did exactly was a mystery.
“Oh, very good. This will do nicely,” Cornelius nodded approvingly, smoothing his immaculate suit and idly fiddling with the diamond and ruby watch fob that hung from his vest chain.
“Take a load off, Clark my boy,” Cornelius offered. He pointed behind Clark to two opulently upholstered leather chairs obviously imported at his master’s behest. They looked to be more suited to the posh city club in which Clark had first met Neil.
Clark backed up hesitantly, but found the two thugs eyeing him suspiciously. “I’ll… wait outside, master,” he said. “You don’t need me for this.” He glanced uneasily at the prisoner for just a moment. The man appeared to be in utter agony. There were dark bruises dotting his abdomen, several burn marks, and more than a few red stripes slashed across his chest.
“Oh, but I do!” Woolridge nodded eagerly. “I want you to at least keep daddy company, unless you also want to... participate! It’s up to you, pork chop.”
Clark shook his head, cringing at the D-word. It never ceased to creep him out, even though he could easily have been Neil’s son. Clark dropped into one of the club chairs, his sweat chilling his skin despite the room’s torpid atmosphere. He took a deep breath, trying to soothe himself, but his exhale leaked out as a strangled stutter.
This can’t be happening. I’ve never seen him like this before. Why is he doing this? What’s he trying to prove? I’ve always known he’s capable of ordering things like this. But to actually... It’s not who he is....
“Now, Helmut,” Woolridge began, slowly circling the hanging man, chewing on his lit cigar with obvious relish. “I was expectin’ to find you a bit more forthcomin’ by the time I arrived, but General Karallas and his men tell me you still don’t have much to say about your obviously intimate relationship with the Linked Rings.”
A ragged gasp burst from the tortured man’s mouth. “Neil... I don’t... I don’t have a bloody clue what you’re on about. If Bainbridge wants me out—so be it! I’ve never even met any of the Rings! I’m only a security officer. What could I possibly have to offer them?”
Woolridge fixed Helmut with a snake-like glower. “You’ve been their personal lobbyist now for years, you sack of shit!” he hissed. “His Excellency isn’t stupid. And neither am I! How dare you try to undermine us and Stratham after all we’ve done for you! If it wasn’t for his Lordship, you’d still be selling secrets to the Russian mob. Have you forgotten how we pulled your ass out of that particular deep fryer? You’d be buried in a glacier in Siberia if it weren’t for Stratham!”
Clark’s eyes were darting spastically around the room, frantic to find something else to focus upon. He began to hum quietly to himself until Neil whipped around, glaring in his direction, before turning back to his captive.
Neil’s henchmen had finished fixing the rifle to the tripod and began to move it into place, only a few feet from where Helmut hung. As Clark watched the double-barreled shotgun being carefully loaded with bright red shells, he felt the sickness rising in his throat. The gun was the same piece Woolridge had been using to shoot skeet on the yacht only an hour before—he recognized the distinctive carved black walnut stock. One of the thugs produced a fat spool of wire and began unraveling it.
“I realize that, Neil!” Von Kliensdorf shrieked. “I was merely expressing an opinion! The decisions that Bain—His Grace—is making lately are... erratic at best. I’m merely trying to get him back on the straight and narrow. He’s… confusing business with pleasure—this Palmer situation is a prime example of that. Do you think TLR will take a rejection lightly? They’ll finish us... permanently! We’ll never get another contract again—from anyone!”
Clark’s mouth gaped when the naked, suspended prisoner uttered Everett’s name. Could it really be his friend Ev? But who else with the last name Palmer would be inferred as so close to Bainbridge?
Clark knew vaguely what TLR was, but only from bits of conversation he had overheard Neil spout over the phone, usually late at night. All he knew was that Stratham did jobs for TLR. And he knew what those jobs entailed, didn’t he? He at least knew the type.
So… Ev was a job—a job for Stratham. Things began to get a bit clearer, but that didn’t improve the taste in his mouth. Clark had never known Bainbridge to be as public with his affections as he’d witnessed this weekend. Perhaps he really was only trying to seduce the man to achieve some other end?
Yet, Von Kliensdorf also made it sound like Stratham was rejecting this “job,” and Clark could only deduce that the rejection was because of Phineas Bainbridge.
He really must love Ev. Or he’s falling in love him. But—if he loves him, how could he get him mixed up in—?
Clark sat transfixed as the wire was now being threaded through several iron eyelets embedded in the ceiling, leading straight to an area above Von Kliensdorf’s head. In this moment, he firmly decided what a naïve and stupid notion all of this romantic fantasy was. Love, caring, sacrifice—bullshit! There was no line with these people! Not with Bainbridge and certainly not with Neil. It was all a money-making power-mongering game to them and he, Julian, Blair, and Ev were the tokens who were just moved around a board called STRATHAM.
“No, there’s more to it, I think,” Woolridge was saying, calmly pacing the room. He relit his stogie and mouthed a ring of smoke. “Your specific mention of the 1434 work order, as well as your extreme emotional reaction to His Grace’s decision to forfeit, leads us to believe you know more. Why do you care who His Excellency screws, anyhow? The simple truth of the matter is that you’re jealous of our boys, Helmut. You know they place us in much higher favor with his Lordship, and that pisses the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Cornelius cackled, pleased as the bound man gave a furious jerk in his chains, only resulting in them tightening substantially.
Clark watched the man’s wrists turning a deeper shade of blue and winced at Neil’s casual remark. We’re just tools to gain favor with His Lordship. Was he really surprised?
“You pompous over-stuffed marshmallow!” Helmut screamed. “I don’t give a good goddamn about your perverted little fetishes and your boy toys! But I will say this: I won’t die so you can have them!”
Woolridge bared his teeth, stalking to a nearby wall. He withdrew a long Taser and fingered the trigger, then slammed the crackling wand into Helmut’s chest, causing him to seize and writhe.
“You’ll do whatever the hell we ask of you, you goddamn maggot!” Neil hissed.
Clark hung his head, clapping his hands over his ears, grinding his teeth, trying to drown out the inhuman wailing.
Woolridge tossed the rubber-coated stick to the ground and gestured to a small hoist that was embedded in the ceiling. “You traitorous worm! You should consider it an honor to die for Stratham! But, perhaps you’ll have the opportunity to prove your allegiance shortly.” He chuckled. “Boys, you know what to do next,” he said smugly, nodding to his henchmen. He sighed, ambling back to take his seat beside Clark, who was now on the verge of tears.
“Please, master—let me leave. I don’t want to see this,” Clark whispered, gripping Neil’s hand and squeezing it tightly.
Neil’s mouth twisted in a hateful, jeering rictus. To Clark, it was like looking at the face of a feral animal.
“That’s just too damn bad, isn’t it, Clarky?” he rasped under his breath. “I didn’t want to see you drooling over that little twink earlier today, but I did. Oh no. You’re not going anywhere. You’re going to sit and watch this demonstration—and think about it afterward. Think about what could happen if you decide to trade me in for a younger model. And—mark my words—it won’t be you hanging up there if that happens—oh no!”
“What’s going to happen to Ev, Neil?” Clark demanded. “What the fuck have you got him mixed up in?”
“Oh, you’ll see,” Neil said pleasantly, puffing lazily on his stogie.
“I suppose you’d whore me out for spare change, as well, if it was dictated by Stratham?” Clark spat.
Woolridge turned and cracked him brutally across the face with his palm. Clark’s head dipped low, his face afire. Only a moment later, Woolridge leaned in and gave Clark’s shaking head a tender kiss, then removed the white silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, dabbing at his sub’s cheeks gently.
When he finally spoke, his voice was a gravelly purr. “You know I could never hurt you, sugar pop. It would be like hurtin’ m’self. No, no... there are many others who could be offered up in your place, though. A more effeminate version of yourself, perhaps....”
Clark gasped, feeling close to hyperventilation as he pictured Blair’s innocent face. “Neil, please stop this! I never said you weren’t enough—!”
“Now, Helmut,” Woolridge continued imperiously, stifling Clark with a raised hand. “Here’s how this is going to work. You’ll hang there for as long as it takes, until you tell me all about TLR’s interests, your interests, and what they both have to do with a Captain Everett Palmer, Army Ranger extraordinaire. But time’s a wastin’! In a few moments, the valve will be opening on that dropper of battery acid positioned just above your left cheek.” He smiled, puffing with contentment.
“No need for alarm! Just a few dabs’ll do ya, I think. Look on the bright side! It will give you a little souvenir that you can show off to your friends at TLR—a sign of your loyalty to them. Best of luck keeping still though—as that corrosive liquid eats slowly into your flesh! ‘Cause if ya don’t... that wire which is now wrapped around your forehead will move, each time you jerk your head. If it jerks too suddenly, well... that’ll trip the trigger on that little ol’ trap rifle of mine. And then—you’ll be the one who’ll be finished!” He began to chortle with fiendish delight.
“Now, boy,” Woolridge said, turning to Clark and winking slyly, “make yourself useful.” The fat man leaned back in his soft chair, accepting a tumbler of bourbon from one of his men.
Clark obediently lowered his head, fighting back his tears and repulsion with every ounce of his being, unzipping Neil’s fly.
Not surprisingly, he found his master’s cock at full mast.
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Kathryn Sparrow has had stories spinning around in her head her whole life and finally decided it was time to write them down. After working twenty years in the Software Industry, she has left the engineering world to be a chauffeur mom (because she doesn’t really get to stay-at-home). She lives with her fantastic, geek husband and her two adorable, sometimes infuriating daughters, who are too smart for their Mommy's own good. If she had spare time she would spend it knitting, crocheting, cross-stitching, and doing any other handicrafts that catch her fancy.
Robert Cage has been writing BDSM novels and short stories for close to twenty years, publishing on the Web through various e-book publishers. From 1997 to 2010 he authored four novels and one collection of short fiction under another pseudonym. He has always striven to make his fiction “more story and character-focused than much of what he sees published in the BDSM world.”
Robert has just released his first novel, which he coauthored with writing partner Kathryn Sparrow in the male romance genre. Available now in both Kindle and print formats from Storm Moon Press, it is titled Submit for Redemption/Book One: Submission and is the first book in a multibook series planned by Robert and Kathryn. Robert is currently busy at work on Just Desserts, a novel that is a prequel to Submit for Redemption/Book One: Submission. He and Kathryn also plan to release Submit for Redemption/Book Two: Domination soon, also from Storm Moon Press.
In addition to writing fiction, Robert collects books, music, and films avidly, and also contributes to a number of online film sites as a movie reviewer.
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