Saturday, October 11, 2014

National Coming Out Day: A Message

I know it's late, darlings, but I won' take much of your time.

See, it's National Coming Out Day, and I wanted to put this out there:

I love you. Even if you think nobody else in this world will love you after you step out of that closet, you're wrong. I can't promise anyone else. I don't have that power. But I can promise you that I'l be waiting for you in the living room with a glass of wine when you step your way out.

Please come out. You'll be happier for it.


Saturday, September 6, 2014

Torquere Twitter Takeover

Hello, darlings!

Today, from 10-12 Pacific time, I'll be commandeering the Torquere Press twitter account @torquere. So, if you have any questions and such for me, feel free to drop on by and give me a shout there. Of course, you can shout at me any time you like on my Twitter, @dehartslist.

Take care,

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: I Am His

I wait in the room, staring at the corner. Beige walls. And I hear his footsteps approach. My breath draws short. Each footfall is an eternity away, the thump echoing from hardwood. I judge his position by the quality of the sound. Softer as he steps onto the throw rug. My body tenses when I feel his heat behind me. A hand, rough with strong, squared fingers, rubs along the nape of my neck. He kisses me between the shoulder blades, trailing down, tracing my spine. He leaves off just before touching my bare ass.

I feel his hand again. He traces the outline of my collar, pressing leather gently into the skin. My mouth quivers. My everything quivers at his touch. I close my eyes, smell his cleanness. I am his, tonight.

His voice is molten, flowing over me, heat to the bone, to the core, to the soul. "Follow me."
I turn my gaze to the floor and stay behind his footsteps, following smooth-shaven calves to the bed. When he sits, I kneel, push my head to the floor.

He touches me again, fingers kneading the soft skin of my ass, working down, pressing into the hole. But not inside. Not yet. I know I haven't earned the right.

"Across my lap."

Without a word, I rise and lay over his knees, let my body go limp. My cock presses against the warmth of his thigh. I'm already partway hard.

He strokes the curve of my hip, then up. I can only wait. Sound will prolong it. Flinching will prolong it. His hand leaves and I can't help but tense. Even knowing the pain it will cause, I can't fight the reaction.

His hand lands on the tender skin, heat, stinging pain. One cheek, then the other. He says nothing, doesn't count, and each strike is harder. When he hits me, my body moves, rubbing my cock against smooth thigh, hardening me.

I keep track in my head. Fifteen strikes to each side, and he keeps his rhythm. I breathe with them, keeping as silent as I can. In when he pulls back, out with each swat of the hand. Soon, I hardly feel a thing, just the impact, his skin to my skin, heat to heat, rough to smooth.

And he stops. He rubs my shoulders, leaving my ass to radiate heat and pain as everything settles. I feel the wetness of precome I left on his leg.

"Sit in the corner." He wraps his fingers into my hair and guides me up. I go. It's on the opposite side of the room. The hard wooden chair. I cringe as I lower myself into it. It hurts to sit, and he knows it. And he knows that I won't move. I am his.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "Jack off."

I do, and the thrill fills me. This is new. I do not question.

I never question him.

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: Intermission

It wasn't a movie. It wasn't slow and delicate with soft lighting and a full moon. It was the middle of the day on his lunch break and he slammed his body against me as soon as he stepped over the threshold. "Bed. Naked. Now."

Off I ran, tripping as I ripped out of my pants, left them in the hallway, my shirt on top of the dresser, my boxers flung across the room onto the TV. I fell backwards onto the bed just as he came in. He kneeled and lifted my legs by the knees, exposing my hole to the chill of the air conditioning. He flashed me a simple smile, then his face went down. Hot, humid breath washed over the tender skin. A warm, thick tongue pressed against my entrance, lapped at it, worked the muscles until I relaxed, opened up, let the warm, wet pressure slip inside. I bit down on my knuckle to try and keep from groaning. But it didn't work.

And when I groaned, he pressed even deeper, slicking the hole with spit. And, like always, he pulled away too soon. His tongue flicked against my balls, sending tiny fluttering sensations all the way up to my cockhead. I focused on them. Almost too much. I almost didn't notice his finger against my hole. It was rough, callused from working on cars. I squirmed lower, taking it deeper. I felt each knuckle pop into me, all the way down to base. He moved it inside me, warmth and pressure, massaging an ache I hadn't realized was there until he tried to address it. in and out, curling and twisting through folds of soft, sensitive flesh. There was no longer any point in trying to hold back my groans.

In with a second finger, stretching me open. I knew he didn't have time to go all the way, and I wondered. But this wasn't a book. I didn't spend my time worrying about the eventualities. It was the middle of the day and my man wanted me, and I wanted him to have his way with me. I wanted whatever he had to give me, and every bit of it.

I didn't get it. he slipped his fingers out and climbed on the bed, curled against me. His hard-on pressed the rough fabric of his pants against my bare flesh. He whispered warm words into my ear. "I have to leave. Don't get dressed. I want to think about you waiting while I'm at work."

It was just intermission.

Wednesday, August 13, 2014

Tiny Tale Tuesday: Memory

The five of us sat around the table, dealing out cards, sipping drinks mixed way too strong. But we were young. Everyone does that when they're young. You wouldn't know it looking at me now, but I was a looker, once. So was he. Long shaggy hair the same brown as burnt cream, full lips, bright, jade colored eyes. He was unshaven that night, the first signs of scruff showing through on a sharp chin and hollow cheekbones. The long hours of the night had left his eyes rimmed red.

He laid his hand out on the table. "Unless you can beat a flush, you're fucked, boys."

I locked gazes with him and spread my cards out in front of me. I had absolutely nothing, but it made him flinch for half a second. When he looked, he grinned at me. "Nothing."

I nodded. "Complete shit."


He was the last to leave. I still remember it sometimes, when I look at the door. Living in the same house, the memories are inescapable. He had a sandwich bag of change that he won from us and a big doofy grin on his face. We'd been there for half an hour, him leaving while all the bugs in the neighborhood came in for the afterparty.

And then he was on me. I can't recall every detail, can't say how he led into it, or if he led into it. But I remembered him against me, his lithe frame and long limbs wrapping around me. Slender fingers worked under my waistband and down around my dick. He stroked up and down. It wasn't some silly romance story. It wasn't how I imagined anything ever happening. It was simply sex, and I fell into it. I clawed into his ass, feeling rough denim over taut muscle. Still he stroked me, up and down, restrained by the tightness of my jeans. I tasted his lips, his tongue, his cheeks. Stubble scratched down my jawline. I smelled the shampoo and the sweat in his hair as we moved. He thrust my back against the wall with a smack, and sill his hand worked.

I pushed him back, hardly able to breathe. I couldn’t come up with anything poetic or lovely or life-changing. "You know where the bedroom is."

"I do unless you moved it."

I nodded and let him lead me backward. I stumbled and ran into my own door, leaned against it and almost fell again when he pushed the door open. We collapsed onto the bed. He undid my jeans and released me. I couldn't help but sigh. I'd wanted it for so long, so many poker games and parties and summer swims, watching him in nothing but trunks or a Speedo or a dripping wet towel barely hanging on around his waist.

But this was better than any of that. Better than I ever could have come up with.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Ananse, Puck, and Coyote: Sexy Tricksters

Darlings, I have an idea. And it's not one that I found in the bottom of a wine bottle, this time. It makes me a little bit nervous as well, darlings, but I'm going to trust it.

I have a thing for tricksters. A big thing. A naughty thing. They're so sexually charged and unpredictable and... well, kind of slutty, to be honest. Maybe not every one of them, but enough to make it a general trait of the archetype. And we all know how much I love a good slut.

My idea? Novellas or novelettes based around tricksters. Ananse, the great spider. Maui, the creator of the Hawaiian Islands. Puck, the fair sprite of A Midsummer Night's Dream. All erotic, of course.

My question to you is this: who are your favorite tricksters? Who do you want to see writhing in orgiastic passion. let me know and who knows? They might end up in one of the books. Of course, you'll have to subscribe to stay abreast of it all.


Saturday, August 9, 2014

Fan Fiction: Good or Evil?

Darlings, darlings, darlings! I feel wonderful and reinvigorated. Wine for all! Wine and whiskey and chocolate and men! Well, maybe not men. I've left them all a bit exhausted. But wine and chocolate and whiskey, those I can provide.

If you don't know, I got my start in fan fiction. I know, I know, it's not the most socially acceptable way to go about things… but when have I ever been known to be socially acceptable?

A lot of people take issues with fan fiction, and I can see why. It's not all that marketable, it's not always original, and an awful lot of it ends up in the public eye unpolished. But I don't think at all that these are bad things, to be honest.

Not marketable: let's ignore Fifty Shades. We'll just let that one slide right under the radar. Yes, fan fiction isn't terribly marketable. Obviously, you can sometimes get into shared world or extended universe books, but it's very hard to work with those things.

But does everyone start out writing marketable fiction? Of course not. No one does. Why not fan fiction?

Not original: Let's look at this. Fan. Fiction. It's derivative by nature. That's the nature of the work. Yes, it can be original, in a sense, but there's always a tether to something else. Not to mention that there are only 36 plots in the whole world, no matter the origin of your characters of settings. Deal with it.

Not polished: I have one statement on this. It's the same statement I make on any and all self-published work: a lot of it is unpolished. But a lot of work that is submitted to a 'legitimate house' is also unpolished. We as the reading public simply didn't see it. While I'm a big supporter of editing prior to publication, the fact is that we are, in fact, seeing what would have, before the self-publishing revolution, never made it out. So it's not all that strange, really.

The point is that fan fiction is not inherently evil. Not at all. I might even begin writing it again. Who knows? The idea has been occurring to me lately. If you stick around and subscribe, you may just see something interesting coming out.