TITLE: Submission
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
PAIRING: Male/Male
LENGTH: 99,300 Words
BLURB
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.
EXCEPRT
“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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AUTHOR BIO:
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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Congratulations authors on your new release it looks fab.
ReplyDeleteThanks Shirley Ann, We appreciate the support and the Twitter Follow! :-) - Robert
ReplyDelete