This story is password protected for newsletter subscribers only.
Want to get in on the fun? Click the button below the password form to sign up for future newsletters.
Tag: gay romance (Page 2 of 3)
Last Night on Poundr
Zane and Micah lay tangled in the rumpled sheets of their Boystown loft, still sweat slicked and buzzing from the night before. The haze of cigarettes and cologne lingered in the air, commingling with the faint trace of poppers. A third body had once been part of the heap, some perfectly forgettable twunk named… Kyle? Keegan? Kian. Definitely Kian. But Kian had stumbled out sometime before dawn, leaving only a cock ring and a half-empty can of IPA on the windowsill.
Zane yawned, stretching his lean, tattooed arms. “Check your phone yet?”
Continue reading
The rectory was still, lit only by the faint golden spill from a desk lamp. Father Brad Whittaker sat at the edge of an old oak armchair, the burner phone hidden in his palm like contraband. The screen glowed in the dark, casting a blue light over his knuckles, which were white from the way he gripped it.
He scrolled an app he swore he’d delete after just one more look. Profiles, a mostly anonymous and faceless parade of torsos and gear, harnesses and collars, whipped past. One profile pinged.
Continue reading
Catch up on chapter 2 of “Eurosong protocol.“
The Voice Cage
Thom didn’t know what day it was anymore, but it had been at least a week since the suit. It hadn’t come off. It hadn’t even loosened.
He’d stopped trying to escape from it after the third day. With the collar locked in place and no zipper, it had been an exercise in futility. He showered in it. Slept in it. Woke up each morning to the same high-necked yellow gloss staring back at him from the bathroom mirror. When he dressed over it—SwedeTV-approved trousers and geometric pullovers—the suit made every layer sit too tight, too high. His skin no longer felt like skin. It felt like packaging.
And, of course, there was the bulge. Or what was left of it.
Continue readingCatch up on chapter 1 of “Eurosong protocol.“
The Measurement Room
The handler didn’t speak.
Nor had he the night before, when he delivered Thom to his new residence just past 23:00. He handed Thom a keycard without explanation and disappeared into the corridor like a shadow from a forgotten nightmare. This morning was no different. Tall, angular, and dressed in SwedeTV-standard black with white piping, he walked precisely five steps ahead of Thom, maintaining just enough distance to preempt conversation.
Thom had counted three right turns, one left, and then a ramp with no apparent descent before he gave up. The broadcaster’s headquarters were impossible to navigate—white on white, matte surfaces broken only by the occasional glowing icon pulsing on a wall panel. No signage, no windows. Even the lighting was unnatural.
Continue readingThe Winner
Tune in over the next several weeks as American folk singer Thom discovers what it really takes to represent Sweden on the biggest stage in Europe.
The carpet was too soft. Every step Thom took sank just slightly, like walking over memory foam. The corridor walls stretched too long and curved just enough that he couldn’t tell if they were leading him deeper or circling back. The production assistant hadn’t said a word since they’d left reception. The tall, expressionless man in a black polo shirt with the SwedeTV logo embroidered on his chest—no badge, no name—just pressed on.
Continue reading
Chapter 1: Caged Silence
The silence roared in my ears. The rubber hood amplified my pulse, the hiss of filtered air slipping in and out of the breathing tube, and the subtle, maddening sound of latex creaking as I shifted the barest fraction of an inch.
I was sealed in, encased from scalp to toe in black rubber, bent at the knees, and arms folded tight to my chest in the smooth, padded hollowness of a hidden chamber. Anyone glancing at it saw nothing more than a piece of designer furniture, a custom walnut bench beneath the living room window. Seamless, elegant, and dead silent.
Continue reading
Jack cradled the overloaded plate like it was fragile porcelain, even though it was just the same scratched-up dinnerware they’d used for years. Still, there was reverence in how he handled it, maybe because of what it carried. Balanced precariously beside a pastrami and Swiss sub the length of his forearm was a half-empty bag of kettle chips and a box of peanut butter cookies.
He was shirtless, his salt-and-pepper chest hair matted in patches from sweat, and the soft swell of his meaty pecs jiggled slightly with each step. His thighs pushed against the fabric of his lounge shorts, and the waistband dug just beneath the curve of his soft, furred gut. Warm, round, and lightly swaying, his belly brushed the counter’s edge as he pivoted toward the living room.
Continue reading
Chapter 1
The inside of U-Shoot-It Firing Range and Supply smelled like oil, sweat, and scorched earth, like the air after a lightning storm, but heavier. Will Reed hesitated outside the doorway, one hand resting awkwardly on his hip like he didn’t know what to do with it. The front desk guy had given him a clipboard and a set of eye and hearing protection without looking up. Standing outside the range’s heavy double doors, he realized he had no idea what came next. The rules were pinned bold, red, and unapologetic to the wall: No rapid fire. Always point downrange. Cross-lane shooting is explicitly forbidden.
The flannel shirt he’d pulled from the rack at the discount store itched against his skin. It still smelled of sizing spray and had the price tag on the inside of the left armpit. He owned the shirt since he paid for it, but it was still just a costume for him. Instead of wearing it, the shirt wore him. He stretched the hearing protection over his head and settled the pads over his ears, then adjusted the baseball cap he’d bought on a whim last week. The brim was too stiff, and the logo too clean.
He looked wrong in this place, and he knew it.
Continue reading
Donovan hadn’t been expecting mail. The knock at the door startled him out of his whiskey-hazed stupor, where he’d been curled on the couch, nursing the ache of something old but still sharp. Patrick was out running laps around the neighborhood, steady and consistent as ever, which left Donovan alone as usual, with his thoughts for company.
He shuffled to the door, opened it, and stopped.
A large, sleek black box sat on the welcome mat. The return label rubbed away into smudged illegibility, but he knew what it was. His stomach tightened as he bent to pick it up.
Continue reading