Review Tuesday Moved to Thursday: Hand Job by Spencer Dryden

Hand Job by Spencer Dryden

Fireborn Publishing, 2014

Jack Reed, the hero of Spencer Dryden’s Hand Job, is an accomplished handyman, an aspiring author, and a typical guy—frequently horny, but shy and somewhat clueless in the face of female allure.

Like many journeyman authors, he’s a regular in a local coffee shop, where he works on his writing. The barista Jodie is always friendly, but in real life she’s a good deal more reserved than in Jack’s fantasies. Then one day Jodie reveals that she has a second business, as a palmist, and invites Jack to her shop for a reading. Her suddenly flirtatious demeanor has Jack’s head spinning, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to get to get closer to the lovely Jodie—or Madam Charise, as she calls herself in her alternative profession. In his wildest dreams, though, Jack never imagined things could get as hot and heavy as they do when Jodie takes control.

Hand Job is a lively, light-hearted tale about fantasies fulfilled. Jack’s wry humor and fundamental respect for women make him a very appealing character.

She showed the figure, the youthful energy, and sunshine of a thirty-something. But the lines on her throat, creases at the edge of her smile, and the small crows' feet at the corners of her eyes told of a woman probably in her mid to late forties. She was easily ten years older than me, still a fine looking woman, but not a child. And with an exotic moniker, Madam Charise, embossed on the card in a swirling scroll. Now she was a woman with two first names and still no last name. I couldn't imagine creating an identity for myself as a writer or a handyman with just one nme. Neither—Jack nor my last name, Reed—had much pop standing alone. Together as Jack Reed they generated all the excitement of a bowl of macaroni. Both her names excited me. She exuded a confident sexuality. Like me, I think the other male patrons came in as much for a shot of fantasy as a shot of espresso.

Meanwhile, Jodie is a chameleon, presenting a different persona in each of her roles: coffee shop employee, fortune teller and home owner. Mr. Dryden manages to paint a picture of a surprisingly complex character despite the tale's brevity.

There’s lots of lusty, mutually enjoyable sex in this book as well, much of it initiated by the older and more experienced Jodie. Wisely, Jack follows her lead. Meanwhile, the chapter where Jack allows himself to write Jodie into one of his novels is absolutely hilarious.

On Sunday, back at my apartment, I honored my day with her the best way I could as a writer. I inserted her into my latest story, opposite the super spy and brazen hunk, Rex Lowe. Cast as his Eastern European contact, Britta Sundstrum, they were closing in on a terrorist network based out of Munich. Britta possessed all of Jodie's allure but projected a bit more edge. Of course, Britta had to be younger and have bigger breasts. Rex hasn't been enlightened yet, as I have, about the pleasures of an older woman.

I added a few fantasies of my own. At their first meeting at a posh restaurant, sparks flew between Britta and Rex. It ended with a bang in the cloak room. Easy access to her sex was provided by the crotchless pantyhose she wore beneath her otherwise unrevealing navy blue skirt and jacket.

As you might guess, things get wilder from there.

Hand Job will take you on a roller coaster ride through the male erotic imagination. I guarantee you’ll enjoy yourself. 

 

The Kindness of Strangers: Looking For Charlotte

By Jennifer Young (Guest Blogger)

I don’t believe that people are truly bad — or not many of them, anyway — which is why I don’t tend to have real villains in my books (though that may change in the future). Even my baddies aren’t serious villains; they either don’t do things that are truly dreadful or they are forced into doing the bad things by circumstances or by other people. They act with regret, or look back on the results of their actions with regret; but they aren’t really bad.

That is why Looking For Charlotte, my latest book, has no villains. It’s the story of Flora Wilson, who becomes obsessed with searching for the body of a murdered toddler, Charlotte Anderson, to bring closure to the child’s bereaved mother. Flora’s motives aren’t altogether altruistic, but the aim is nevertheless positive: she wants to help someone, even though it’s someone who she’s never met.

You might, with reason, argue that the murderer of a toddler must be a villain of the highest order and that’s a question that Flora asks herself as she searches. It’s a question that Charlotte’s mother, Suzanne, asks herself too; but because the murderer, Charlotte’s father, was a man suffering form mental illness, even Suzanne challenges herself to tackle the seemingly impossible task of forgiving him.

Flora and Suzanne, living separate lives, plough their way through traumas and difficulties, through grief and failure. And they don't just find support along the way; they give it, too. Life is cruel but the cruelty is unintentional. People do things that hurt others — sometimes, as Suzanne learns, to the point at which they might think they were better dead. But every corner hides a secret kindness, an act of fellowship from a stranger.

Villains are a staple of romantic (and other) fiction but they don’t pop up that often in real life. One day I’ll write about a villain and I promise I’ll make him or her eye-poppingly evil, lacking in conscience, a stranger to remorse and one whose regret comes only from being caught. But you won’t find that person here.

In lacking a villain, I don’t think that Looking For Charlotte is any weaker than it would be with a wicked lead or antihero. Instead it offers a cluster of everyday heroes, passing by and casting the magic spell of a good deed as they go.

Blurb

Divorced and lonely, Flora Wilson is distraught when she hears news of the death of little Charlotte Anderson. Charlotte’s father killed her and then himself, and although he left a letter with clues to her grave, his two-year-old daughter still hasn’t been found. Convinced that she failed her own children, now grown up and seldom at home, Flora embarks on a quest to find Charlotte’s body to give the child’s mother closure, believing that by doing so she can somehow atone for her own failings.

As she hunts in winter through the remote moors of the Scottish Highlands, her obsession comes to challenge the very fabric of her life — her job, her friendship with her colleague Philip Metcalfe, and her relationships with her three children.

Excerpt

She turned the card over and looked at the photograph of Stac Pollaidh sitting proud above its carpet of rocks and lochans. She’d climbed Stac Pollaidh as a child, on a Duke of Edinburgh expedition from school, in searing heat on a June day and she hadn’t enjoyed it. Walking wasn’t really her thing. She didn’t want to walk now. All she wanted to do was to drive up and down forever in this land of ghosts and legends and look at the mountains; and then one day a pretty blond child would appear by the roadside, beckon her to stop, and lead her away forever.

A tapping on the window startled her. She jumped, turned her head, and saw a concerned face. In front of her a car was parked in the lay-by, a big blue Jeep, its spare wheel smeared in mud. It had arrived just after she had, and decanted a family. She’d watched them setting out for a walk, strung out along the path.

The face was kind. She wound the window down hastily. ‘What?’

The man outside had a round face topping a knitted jumper in navy, worn under a waxed jacket. He drew back a little. ‘Sorry. Don’t want to interfere. We wondered if you were all right.’

She must have looked distressed. God, how she hated being an object of pity. She looked at this pale face of the city man, heard the London accent, recognised a stranger like herself. ‘Thank you. I’m fine. But it was kind of you to ask.’

‘I know I shouldn’t interfere,’ the man said, backing away, apologetically, ‘but my wife... Well, you were sitting here when we went for our walk, that was all.’

She gave a quick glance at the dashboard clock. She’d been sitting there with her hands on the steering wheel for over an hour. ‘No, no. It’s all right.’ She was appalled at herself. She must have sounded terse. ‘Really. It’s very kind of you. Actually, I’ve had some bad news, that’s all. So I was just sitting.’

His good-natured face flushed with the Englishman’s embarrassment at having barged in with misplaced goodwill.

‘Goodbye then.’

‘Goodbye. Thank you.’

He got back into the car and roared out of the lay-by. Two faces, children captivated by the sudden moment of drama, twisted round and peered towards her as it disappeared along the winding grey road. Yes, that was it. Pity. Concern. Whatever.

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Author Bio

I live in Edinburgh and I write romance and contemporary women’s fiction. I’ve been writing all my life and my first book was published in February 2014, though I’ve had short stories published before then. The thing that runs through all my writing is an interest in the world around me. I love travel and geography and the locations of my stories is always important to me. And of course I love reading — anything and everything.

Links

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Website

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Sneak Peek: Pool Man by Sabrina York

[How can you resist him? ~ Lisabet]

A fun, flirty romantic romp…with a twist!

Paige Barber needs a vacation. She can’t resist her best friend’s offer of a remote vacation home on a private Caribbean island. Jimmy, the sexy pool boy, is part and parcel with the offer. But recently dumped Paige has no intention of taking advantage of that amenity…until she sets eyes on Jimmy. He’s not a boy at all, but the sexiest man Paige has ever met.

And he can cook. Oh, man, can he cook!

She thinks it will be easy returning to the real world after an utterly wanton and sensuous week in the arms of a hot, hard, perfect man. 

But it’s not. It’s not easy at all.

Read an Excerpt:

The house was quiet and shadowed as I padded back to the pool. I didn’t see any sign of Jimmy, which was just as well. My dreams had been filled with him; he’d haunted every crevice of my sleep. I felt like I’d been steeped in him, reliving every touch, every glance, every fantasy.

Those dreams clung to my consciousness, as dreams sometimes do, stoking a hunger I hadn’t even realized I had.

I’d been kind of joking when I’d invited Jimmy to my room, but in truth, it hadn’t been a joke at all. I wanted him. Really wanted him. Needed him, maybe.

Needed the oblivion a wild, steamy, pointless affair could provide.

My ego ached after Harlan’s betrayal, but it was more than that. It was more than assuaging a hit to my self-esteem.

I simply wanted Jimmy.

Wanted him in a way I’d never wanted a man before.

Maybe it was the isolation. Maybe it was the magnificent surroundings. Maybe it was simply the fact that he was hotter than hot. Certainly hotter than Harlan with his bad-boy-biker persona, his bull ring. His tattoos. Nothing about him had been real in the end. Nothing about us had been either.

The tiny lights strung around Marlee’s patio glowed as they bobbed in the breeze. The waters of the hot tub steamed a warm welcome, bathed in a surreal blue that shone like a beacon in the gathering night.

I tossed my towel on a lounge chair and stepped in. And hissed.

Warmth lapped at me. I sank, allowing the water to consume me slowly. My skin shivered as I eased deeper, all the way to my neck. I turned around and leaned against one of the benches formed in the tile and closed my eyes.

Heaven.

I owed Marlee. And I owed her big time.

This place was, indeed, heaven on earth. And Jimmy… Well, the jury was still out on that one. Marlee had been frank. “Paige,” she’d said. “You need to get laid. And trust me, if anyone can help you forget about that douchebag Harlan Rivers, it’s my Jimmy.” I tried not to let it bug me that she’d put it that way. My Jimmy. Not that I had any ownership of him. Not that I wanted it.

I just wasn’t used to sharing men with my best friend.

Remembering the ripple of his pec beneath my palm, I nibbled my lip.

I could probably get over it…

“May I join you?”

I opened my eyes at the deep voice, at the question tinged with a throb.

My heart stuttered. My breath caught.

Gawd.

Jimmy. Standing there next to the hot tub, wearing nothing but a tight black Speedo. Everything I had imagined under his casual clothes, everything I had hoped for, was there. Thick muscles roping his chest and forearms, thighs like tree trunks, a flat, taut belly, sculpted abs and a tantalizing dark line arrowing toward a magnificent bulge.

I nearly swallowed my tongue.

“May I?”

Oh lord, I’d been ogling. “Yes. Please. Come on in. The water’s fine.”

Yeah, lame. Cliché. But there you go. It was the best I could come up with. My brain, apparently, was on vacation as well.

The water rose as he eased in. His groan echoed off the shadows. He’d taken off his glasses so I had an unfettered view of his face. When his eyes closed, in that moment of bliss as the water enveloped him, when his lips parted…I thought, perhaps, that was what his O-face would look like.

One could hope.

Many men were like monkeys when their crisis descended. Which was why I rarely looked. I was possessed of the sharp, sudden urge to see Jimmy in ecstasy. To watch him come.

Okay, not so sudden. But definitely sharp.

Though he sat across from me, the hot tub wasn’t too big, and his foot nudged mine. I didn’t jerk away, though my first inclination was to do just that. I reminded myself that any advance had to come from him. Jimmy was Marlee’s pool boy, not a sex slave. And if he wasn’t interested—I ignored the dark dip of my mood at the thought—that would be that.

So when his foot grazed mine, I steeled my spine and left it there. Next to his.

Our gazes tangled. His toe slipped up my ankle, a tentative foray. A fluttery thrill, an unexpected shower of arousal, trickled through me.

I stroked back.

His focus on me intensified, though it flicked, for a fraction of an instant, to my breasts. They bobbed in the water, as breasts often did, buoyed and jubilant to be released from the bondage of gravity. He licked his lips. My nipples pebbled as I imagined his mouth on them.

His eyes narrowed then raked their way back to my face. “How-how did you sleep?”

Was it my imagination or was he struggling for words? As though casual talk had no place between us, but he needed the lubricant.

The thought of lubricant, and what we could do with it, flashed through my brain. Fizzled there, incinerating all other preoccupations.

“I slept well.”

“Good.” A rough growl. “The room was to your liking?”

“Yes.”

“The bed…comfortable?”

The word bed made me shudder. Maybe it was just the way he said it, infusing it with meaning, intent.

Or maybe it was simply the fact that he’d slipped nearer.

The breeze shifted and brought his scent to me on wispy tendrils. That intoxicating bite of his cologne made my head spin.

“Are you…hungry?” His voice rumbled, thrummed with double entendre.

“Not for food.” A whisper. I barely choked it out. Because he’d come close, and closer still. “But first… Rules.”

His brow wrinkled. “Rules?”

I nodded primly. Best to just get this out. I held up a finger. “One. Always use protection.”

“P-protection?” He stared at me like a deer in the headlights. Seriously? Had he not known it was going this way? Had he not suspected?

Or was he shy?

I kind of liked that. I kind of liked the fantasy that he didn’t screw Marlee and every one of the friends she sent to him.

He cleared his throat and nodded. “Okay. Protection.” He swallowed. “Any other rules?”

“Just one.” It had to be said. “No talking about Marlee.”

His features froze. His lips opened and closed. “No, ah, talking about Marlee?”

“Exactly.” I pushed off, floated into his arms. He caught me. His hands skated over my wet skin reverently, sending ripples in his wake. “I don’t want anything between us, Jimmy. Not anything at all.”

“Oh God.” He yanked me close. It was a shock, the feel of him so hard and rough against my body, but a delightful one.

“Nothing between us,” I whispered.

“Nothing.”

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Her Royal Hotness, Sabrina York, is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of hot, humorous stories for smart and sexy readers. Her titles range from sweet & sexy to scorching romance. Visit her webpage at www.sabrinayork.com to check out her books, excerpts and contests.

For more information, or to connect with Sabrina, visit SabrinaYork.Com

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Sunday Snog #171: Exposure

So, nobody figured out what book last week’s Sunday Snog came from. The answer is Exposure, my erotic noir thriller featuring feisty Greek-American stripper Stella Xanathakeos. Given the fact that my readers don’t seem to know about this book, I thought I’d feature it for this week’s kiss.

After you’re done here, head back to Blisse Kiss central and sample some of the other luscious kisses on offer today!

Blurb

Sex, blood and betrayal: it's all in a day's work.

Stella is just minding her own business and having a bit of fun, working as an exotic dancer at the Peacock Lounge. Through no fault of her own, she witnesses a double murder and gets pulled into a shady dance of deceit with political bigwigs, mob bosses, dirty cops and scheming widows. Now she's everyone's target; her only chance is to sift through the lies and expose the truth.

The birds wake me at dawn. I’m surprised how alert I feel. Jimmy lies on the pillow next to me, dead to the world. Relaxed in sleep, his face looks even more boyish than usual. I remember him in high school, the skinny kid who was friendly but so shy he could barely talk to me. I never realized that he was secretly lusting after me, imagining incredibly lewd things.

Of course, his boyhood fantasies might be after the fact. Did we even know about oral sex, back in high school? Probably not. Back then, the guys didn’t do much but grope and poke. Still, it’s kind of flattering that Jimmy’s been using images of me to jack off to all these years. It’s strange to realize that if it hadn’t been for Tony’s murder, I might never have known.

I lean over and brush my lips against Jimmy’s. His mouth curves into a smile before he even opens his eyes.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Ah...” Before he can reply, I kiss him, a deep, wet kiss that I hope conveys my affection and my gratitude. He tastes good to me, even first thing in the morning. He grabs me and pulls me to him. His hands begin to wander over my bare butt cheeks. His tongue dances in my mouth. He’s still fully dressed, but I can feel the iron bar of his erection, pressed against my belly. My sex immediately melts; my juices make damp spots on his trousers as I grind my crotch against him.

“Mmm...I was going to make you some breakfast, but it seems as though you want an appetizer first.”

“Stella...Damn, what time is it?”

“Relax, it’s barely seven. Plenty of time to fool around a bit.”

I try to hold onto him, but he pulls away. “Damn, damn. Now I’m never going to catch the guy who threw that brick. The trail’s already cold. I should never have fallen asleep.”

“You didn’t have much choice, Jimmy. We were both totally destroyed. Speaking of which, how’s your hand?” I peel off the bandage and check the damage. It’s a long, nasty cut, running across his palm from his ring finger almost to the base of his thumb. However, it’s closed now, and looks clean, a bit red along the edges but not puffy. “You should stop off in the emergency room. That might heal better with a few stitches.”

“No time. I’ve got to get back to the station and see if we can find out anything about who did this.”

“Let me make you something to eat. I cook a mean feta omelet...”

“Sorry, Stella. I can’t.”

“Well, at least take a shower. You can’t go back to work smelling like pussy!” I show him the wet areas on his wrinkled pants. “I can probably find some clothes of my dad’s that would fit you. There are extra toothbrushes in the medicine cabinet. And you’d better borrow my razor, too.”

I point him to the bathroom. “Go, make yourself presentable. I’ll brew up some coffee for you to take with you.”

Jimmy grins apologetically. “Thanks, Stella. I’m sorry. This isn’t at all what I had in mind for our first time sleeping together.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you.” He gives me another kiss, more sweetness than passion. “When this is all over, let’s go away somewhere. Ever been to Atlantic City? I hear it’s a lot of fun.”

I hug him, thinking that I really would like to spend some serious time with him.

“How about Greece?”

I’ve always imagined myself there alone, independent, exploring the landscapes of my dreams. Walking in the footsteps of my ancestors. But now I have a sense of how good it might be to have somebody special, somebody like Jimmy, there by my side.

Sneak Peek: The Gonzo Collection by Daddy X

Today I’m shining the spotlight on a pretty extraordinary book by a friend of mine, which just came out yesterday. As it happens, I edited this collection of erotica, because I think Daddy X has a unique voice that deserved to be heard.

A warning though—his work will not be to everyone’s tastes. It’s extremely raunchy and somewhat messy. But then, sex is, isn’t it? I find that his comic sense and open-mindedness balance all the graphic descriptions. For the most part, the stories in this book wouldn’t be considered romance, but almost all his characters have happy endings.

If you’re looking for something sexy and very different, consider picking up a copy of this book.

Blurb

“… the only people who really know (the Edge) are the ones who have gone over.”

–Hunter S. Thompson, Gonzo journalist.

Take a ride with Daddy over the edge. You won’t forget the distinctively drawn (and extremely horny) characters you’ll meet between these pages.

An eighteen year old carnival hand nurses a crush for his gorgeous blond employer. A voyeur and his exhibitionist girlfriend find a window to peek through. A woman awaits her man while crouched naked on the floor, rear end pointed toward the door. An attempted rape is thwarted. A spy bites the dust. A man dates and mates with a fifty-foot woman.

Mood and a sense of atmosphere bring it all to life in these twenty one gems of erotic excess.

Excerpt (from “Sex Crimes”)

Fred shouldn’t have followed that young girl. Not up the stairs of the bus. It wasn’t even the line he should have taken home. He tried to look up her skirt. A short denim skirt. Wasn’t his blonde in the window enough of a gamble? Was she not going to be enough for Fred after all?

He couldn’t screw it up, not now, his latest offence just settled a month earlier in court. Because of his new temp job at the bank, the cops had let him go again, on probation, but if there would be another incident, he’d wind up in jail. A sex offender is not treated well in the joint. No, he shouldn’t have followed this one at all. But she looked so cute.

Shouldn’t one fantasy at a time be enough for Fred? He already had the horny lady in the window, even if she didn’t know he was hiding in the bushes. He had a lot to learn about women. Why did this young thing intrigue Fred so?

He shouldn’t have sat across from her either, but there they were, the last two empty seats on the bus, facing one another on opposite benches, the wide aisle between. He could almost sneak a peek under the stiff blue fabric when the standing passengers shuffled around. Her legs were bare, except for the short white socks and sneakers. Such smooth skin on the inside of the young girl’s thighs. A short halter top. Some few light freckles sprinkled between her breasts.

Fred stared out the window, trying to imagine his blonde, to distract himself. He sweated with nerves. Did the young girl wear underwear? Panties? There was certainly nothing at all under the skimpy halter. Thin blue veins visible, just beneath the translucent surface. Such tender skin along her ribs. So much younger than the woman he watched from the yard.

The girl swiveled her torso to look out the long window behind her. Fred could see inside her twisted top. Was that a nipple, or pink aureole? Lots of white skin. The perfect little ‘Q’ of her bellybutton. The young thing swept back her short black bangs with a flair. A flair meant for him, Fred hoped.

No, no. This couldn’t happen. He couldn’t possibly approach her, not so soon after the last complaint.

With the help of a public defender, Fred had claimed that he was just urinating. An emergency, a need impossible to ignore. How was Fred to know someone had been watching?

A young, female someone did see. The prosecutor had maintained that Fred had been exposing himself.

But this one seemed to be flirting with him, opening and closing her pale legs, bringing back intense images of the recent night’s escapades. A nervous smile pursed the girl’s lips. But you never know, do you? Not when your imagination is going wild. Fred has misconstrued things like that before. But this girl seemed so outgoing...

Even though he’d been a juvenile at the time, his first offence still remained on his permanent record. Sex crimes don’t go away. Fred had thought the same thing that time too, that time on his paper route. He’d thought the young girl wanted him. He knew he was mistaken when the mother called the cops. He’d thought the daughter had wanted to give him a tip, so he unzipped his fly and hauled it out.

Yes, Fred was always thinking things like that. It was just because he was lonely, he told himself. Women don’t really want a guy who shows her his dick before they even exchange names.

Be a real man, Fred. Such a sneak.

But this one seemed different. She made eye contact whenever he looked her way. Or so it seemed to Fred.

She smiled, a shifty, come-on smile, so obviously uncomfortable. Surely she wasn’t used to that kind of thing.

The girl’s limpid stare made Fred’s cock stand hard. Sore, confined like it was in the tight jeans. Maybe he could just get some little relief if he took it out. The bus was crowded. Nobody would notice, though. Not if he kept the newspaper on his lap.

Oh God, he shouldn’t be doing such a thing. Shouldn’t think that way. But she moved so, shifting her ass in place. Her skirt had ridden up in back. Fred imagined her rubbing her little bottom on the hard surface of the bench.

She grinned at him, a self-conscious, enticing affectation.

At least it seemed like she was teasing him. He wondered if her pussy was wet. Maybe itchy. Maybe an itch Fred could scratch? He dared not ask, even though this one looked of legal age. Was there a smear on the seat beneath her? He decided he’d investigate if she exited before he did. Perhaps he’d touch the yellow plastic where she sat. If he found it slippery, he’d probably sniff it too. He thought that this could be better than the blonde after all.

Fred watched his last transfer stop go by. He didn’t want the ride to end. His cock got longer, harder too. He stroked it under the pile of papers, hoping nobody could tell what he was doing. Except the girl, of course. It wouldn’t be so bad if she saw, now, would it? Maybe he was just what she was looking for. Maybe, just maybe, this was the one for Fred.

The crowd began thinning out. More people exited the bus than got aboard at each stop. What would Fred do if left by himself with this sweet thing? Would he do something untoward? Maybe he’d be her Prince Charming. Maybe he’d show it off. If they were left all alone.

Get your copy of The Gonzo Collection today!

Amazon US: http://www.amazon.com/Gonzo-Collection-Daddy-X-ebook/dp/B00WLGVP0K/

Amazon UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Gonzo-Collection-Daddy-X-ebook/dp/B00WLGVP0K/

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About the Author

Daddy X always wanted to be a dirty old man.

He survived the 40’s, 50’s, 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, 90’s, and George W. Bush. He maintained an (almost) steady trajectory through Catholic school, a paper route, muskrat trapping, a steel mill, Bucks County, the Haight Ashbury, North Beach, the SF bar business, drug addiction, alcoholism, a stroke, hep C, cancer, a liver transplant, a year of chemo, a stickup at his art gallery while tied to a desk (not as cool as it sounds), a triple bypass, heart attack…and George W. Bush.

Now he’s old, and it’s time to get dirty.

He’s been with Momma X (greatest editor on earth) for fifty years, but she thinks his stuff is too skievy to deal with. They live in northern California with a ninety pound lop-eared hound (17” wingspan) and two cats. Daddy is also published in anthologies by Naughty Nights Press, House of Erotica and most recently in Cleis Press’ Best Bondage 2015.