Trope/s: criminals and outlaws, first time, forbidden love, hurt/comfort, rescue, thrill of the chase
Heat Rating: 5 flames
T.A.G. You better hope you’re not it!
Blurb Attention: This book contains explicit sexual content between consenting assassins and not so innocent professors. There are depictions of masochistic masturbation, male chastity, breath play, watersports, humiliation, and torture by eighties hair bands with ginger sprinkles on top.Phew! Now, that that’s out of the way, Hi. I’m Mr. No your friendly communications agent for The Assassins’ Guild AKA T.A.G.I’ve been authorized by the head honcho himself, Mr. H, to release approved records from the agent files.Agent Code Name Mr. W was recovering from a near death debacle by way of an easy assignment in a small mountain town. Red flags sprang up immediately around the seemingly innocent English professor. Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery Jacob Peters presented, Mr. W made plans to do what he did best, watch , wait , and then capture and interrogate.But even the best laid plans can go awry and what Mr. W discovered derailed his plan to kill Jacob.Find out what brought Mr. W to his knees in this first release from the archives of The Assassins’ Guild.
About the Author
A.G. Carothers is actually a dragon very cleverly disguised as a human. They are a non-binary author of LGBTQIA Romance and Urban Fantasy, who enjoys writing original and entertaining stories. They are very excited to share the worlds they’ve created with you.
A.G. currently lives in Tennessee with their platonic life partner, who is not a dragon. They yearn to live back in Europe and will some day. In their spare time they are addicted to losing themselves in the lovely worlds created by other authorsA.G. is committed to writing the stories they see in their head without restrictions. Love is blind and doesn’t see gender, race, or sexuality.
Healing from the Shame
of Religion, Rape, Conversion Therapy & Cancer
Author: Kerry
Ashton
Publisher: Lynn Wolf Enterprises
Cover
Artist: Kerry Ashton
Release Date: April
17, 2019
Genres: A Gay Memoir
featuring M/M Romance & some hardcore sex
Tropes: Forbidden
love, Rape, Mormon Religion
Themes: Coming out,
Forgiveness, Overcoming Religion, Rape, Police Surveillance & Arrest,
Conversion Therapy including Electric Shock Treatments, and a 16-year battle
with rare cancer
Heat Rating: 5
flames
There are many erotic
passages—most are hard core, erotic and explicit passages, all M/M. Many
deal with scenes of sexual humiliation, degradation, group scenes, S&M
and/or the gay male leather scene.
Length: 120 000 words
/348 pages incl. 14 pages of B&W photos from author’s private collection.
The first paragraph of Kerry Ashton’s new memoir explains a lot: “I told this story once as fiction
in the 1980s, but this time I tell the truth. I even tell the truth, in #MeToo
fashion, about being violently raped by another man when I was 18, with a knife
held to my throat—a secret I kept from everyone, including myself, for over 40
years. The rape, like other experiences I endured while a student at Brigham
Young University, where I came out in the early 1970s, had a profound impact on
my later life. But this story is not so much about my rape or my coming of age
at BYU, as it is about the lifelong effects of shame itself, not only about how
I internalized and inherited a wounding shame from my Mormon upbringing, but
also how I eventually unshamed myself. It is about the journey of a
lifetime, finding spiritual growth, self-discovery and healing along the way,
while encountering many miraculous events that pushed me forward through
darkness toward the light.”
Telling about his experiences during his four years at BYU—the
rape, falling in love for the first time, police surveillance, harassment and
arrest, while enduring three years of conversion therapy and electric shock
treatments—provide the structure of Kerry’s memoir. But intermittently, the author
shares memories from his childhood, growing up Mormon in Pocatello, Idaho, and
later from his adulthood, as well as from
his professional career as an actor and writer, both in L.A. and NYC,
describing encounters with Barbra Streisand, Elizabeth Taylor, Bette Davis and
Julie Harris, while detailing his experiences with Tennessee Williams and his
brief affair with Stephen Sondheim. Lastly, he talks about the 12 years he
spent in therapy, about his 16-year battle with cancer, how he eventually rid
himself of the shame internalized from his Mormon youth, sharing glimpses into
his sexual journey from his innocent youth through S&M and the gay leather
scene in mid-life to the loving monogamous relationship he now enjoys.
I told this story once as fiction in the 1980s, but this time I
tell the truth. I even tell the truth, in #MeToo fashion, about being violently
raped by another man when I was 18, with a knife held to my throat—a secret I
kept from everyone, including myself, for over 40 years. The rape, like other
experiences I endured while a student at Brigham Young University, where I came
out in the early 1970s, had a profound impact on my later life. But this story
is not so much about my rape or my coming of age at BYU, as it is about the
lifelong effects of shame itself, not only about how I internalized and
inherited a wounding shame from my Mormon upbringing, but also how I eventually
unshamed myself. It is about a lifetime journey of spiritual growth, self-discovery
and healing, including many miraculous events along the way that pushed me
forward through the darkness toward the light.
Growing up in Pocatello, Idaho in the 50s, in the heart of Mormon
Zion, was like growing up in Oz, where Mormons kept me on a religious path the
way the Munchkins told Dorothy to follow the yellow brick road. Most American
families felt pressure in those years to appear like the perfect U.S. family
seen in TV shows likeFather Knows Best and Ozzie and Harriet. But in our
insulated Mormon community in southeastern Idaho, the expectations of appearing
like a perfect family increased dramatically.
With a population of 35,000, Pocatello was Idaho’s second largest
city in the 1950s. It is now twice that size if you count the suburbs. Home to
Idaho State University, Pocatello was and still is very LDS—as members of The
Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day-Saints call themselves.
In Pocatello, like all LDS communities, church membership divided
into wards. My family and I were members of the Pocatello 15th Ward, one of
several wards within Alameda Stake, and among the more than 40 LDS wards in
Pocatello. As LDS Brothers and Sisters, we proselytized Gentiles—as we
preferred to call non- Mormons—but we never socialized with them, since the Prophet
had warned us “to avoid the mere appearance of evil.”
To survive in my LDS family and Mormon community, I had
to pretend to be a perfect Saint the way my parents did.
Both of my parents were raised dirt poor during the Great Depression. Mom was
barely 17 and Dad only 20 when they married during his military furlough, prior
to Dad shipping out
with the Navy to serve in the South Pacific during World War II.
After Dad returned from the war, my parents had four babies in six years. The
firstborn, my oldest brother Dennis, was expected to be the responsible one.
When he couldn’t live up to all that was expected of him, he became the family
scapegoat. My sister Denise was assigned the role of Daddy’s little girl, his
perfect Mormon princess, and the sweetest of all of us. Craig would later make
Dad proud as a popular athlete in school and in his later and highly
successful career in public education. Without knowing it, Dad had claimed
the first of his three children as his own. So when I came along, being the
youngest and Mother’s last chance, she claimed me entirely for herself. As my
New York therapist noted decades later, “Whether you were a boy or a girl, she
knew she would name you Kerry, since she expected you to carry and meet her
emotional needs from then on.”
Both of my parents had dormant and repressed shame boiling within
each of them. Sometimes, as my siblings and I made our way down the LDS yellow
brick road, my parents’ shame came sailing at us like the fireballs thrown by
the Wicked Witch.
I don’t know how old I was when Mom lay me out naked on a changing
mat, as I waited for a new diaper. I only remember that when she wiped down my
genitals, my “little pee-pee,” as Mom called it, sprang to attention. “Oh,
dear!” Mother exclaimed, removing her hand from my penis as though she had just
touched a hot poker. What Mommy had been doing to my pee-pee had felt
pleasurable. I wanted the feeling to continue, but when I reached down with my
right hand, to rub the spot that had felt so good, Mom smacked my hand away.
“No, Kerry Lynn!” she said. “You mustn’t do that. That’s naughty!”
My little hand stung and I cried, but the real pain was in the
shame I had just internalized. It was sinful to give myself pleasure! The next
time I remember being shamed happened when I was
five. My father Allan Ashton, an insurance salesman, was 35 at the
time. My mother Millie Jane Ashton was a 32-year-old homemaker. At 11, my
oldest brother Dennis was already a bully. At ten, my sister Denise was the
saintliest among us. At seven, my brother Craig already fit in the way he was
expected to. And I was Mom’s “baby.”
Getting in our car after spending hours in church, I announced my
true feelings from the backseat: “I hate church. It’s so boring!”
Enraged, Dad turned to face me in the backseat. Looking directly
into my eyes, he gave me a dire warning: “Kerry, I don’t ever want to hear you
speak that way again about our Church!”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” I whimpered, already repentant for my out-
spoken honesty, behaving like the best little Mormon boy in the entire world.
Yet, it was not my father’s rage but the look of disapproval on my mother’s
face that had me cowering.
My mother was the only source of love I knew or had ever known. I
could no more live without her approval than the earth can live without the
sun. Clearly, I was trained from an early age not merely to be her baby boy,
but to behave like her exclusive property. Not that Mom or anyone in my family
would have seen it that way; her complete commandeering of my psyche and all that
I was, of my very soul, was not something that she was aware of consciously,
any more than any member of my family was consciously aware of their assigned
roles in our dysfunctional family system. But the fact that I was my mother’s
personal slave is true nonetheless.
Mom had trained me well: A lifted eyebrow meant she was dis-
pleased with me, that my only source of love and companionship might abandon
me. At five, I had already learned the truth: To survive, I had to lie; I had
to become inauthentic and false.
When I was six, I performed in a church play with my family on the
stage of our LDS ward’s reception hall. It was my first appearance on stage and
I was nervous. Some little girls giggled backstage as Mom stripped me out of my
clothes for a quick costume change. Naked and mortified, I was Mother’s
property to do with as she pleased. Once dressed, I stifled my tears and made
my entrance holding my owner’s hand.
That same year, our family visited my Aunt Ruth and her family at
their home in Ogden, Utah. Aunt Ruth had a little girl named Carrie who was
just my age and, like me, loved to sing and dance. After Carrie got up on the
kitchen table and sang, “On the Good Ship Lollipop,” we all applauded.
Wanting me to have my turn in the spotlight, Mom encouraged me to
sing “If I Were King of the Forest” from The Wizard of Oz, since I did a good
impression of Bert Lahr’s performance, complete with dialogue and dance steps,
and I always got rousing applause. “Go on, Kerry Lynn!” she said, nudging me
onto the kitchen table. “Sing the Cowardly Lion’s song!”
I got up on the table, but when I sang, “It’s hard believe me
Missy, when you’re born to be a sissy,” Dad yelled, “Stop singing that song!”
“What?” I asked, surprised as everyone else.
“Get off that table, young man!” he hollered. “No son of mine is
going to perform on a table like a … like a …”
“Like a what?” Mom interjected, getting up in Dad’s face.
Dad shouted back at her, “Millie Jane, pack up! We’re leaving!”
Before I knew it, we were in the car driving home. Sitting in the
backseat, I knew Dad was ashamed of me, but I didn’t understand why. “Why
didn’t you let me finish my song, Daddy?” I asked.
As I began to cry, Dad warned, “That’ll be enough, Kerry Lynn! I
don’t want to hear any more about it!” Dad gave my mother a warning glance.
“This is your fault, Millie Jane!”
“My fault?” Mom retorted. “Why? Because I stand up for him against
you and all your bullying?” Clearly, I was the reason for their fight, but I
still didn’t understand why.
As my parents fought over me, I cried even more.
“Stop crying, young man,” Dad shouted, “or I’ll give you
something to really cry about!” But the more I tried to repress my
tears, the more I sobbed.
“That’s it!” Dad shouted, pulling the car to the side of the road.
“You’re getting a beating, Kerry Lynn!”
Wild with shame, Dad jumped out of the car. Deciding that his belt
was not harsh enough, he went along the road and tore a two- by-four from a
nearby fence. Bringing the board back with him, he dragged me out of the car.
“Allan Ashton!” Mom exclaimed. “You are not going to beat our
child with that two-by-four! I will not allow it!” But Dad already had my pants
down and was paddling me when Mom got between us. “Allan, that’s enough! What
is wrong with you?”
Undeterred, Dad continued my beating as the drivers passing by
looked on in horror.
That incident was so emotionally painful for me that I blocked out
any memory of it. It was only after years spent in therapy decades later, and
only after my sister Denise shared with me her memory of the entire event, that
I finally faced the truth.
Regardless of what had made my father so angry that day, he made
it clear to me then that I was a source of shame for him, one he either had to
ignore or obliterate.
******
The Holy War, as I have come to think of it, began on a hot day in
early September 1971, the day I left Pocatello to drive four hours south to
Provo, Utah, to attend Brigham Young University. As in all wars, whether holy
or unholy, it would not be without its casualties.
I spent the morning packing things in my ‘56 Chevrolet, parked in
the spot on the lawn where our driveway would have been had my parents ever had
the money to pave it. A yellow-and-bronze, two- door coupe with cream interior,
a huge cream steering wheel, and black dashboard, the car had class, which is
why I named it Oscar— after the Academy Awards I hoped to win one day.
About the Author
Raised in Pocatello,
Idaho as a Mormon in the heart of Mormon Zion, Kerry attended BYU in the early
70s, where some of the most dramatic events recounted in his memoir took place.
Always interested in
pursuing a career as both an actor and writer, Kerry wrote his first play, BUFFALO HEAD NICKELS at the age
of 17, and published it at 18. Since then, he has published several works,
among them most prominently THE
WILDE SPIRIT, a one-man play with music, in which Ashton starred as Oscar
Wilde, and also wrote the play’s book, music and lyrics. The play won Kerry
critical acclaim for both his writing and performance, and three 1977 L.A.
Civic Star Awards for Best Actor, Play and Direction. The play ran for three
consecutive seasons in Provincetown, MA from 1990-1992, and was produced
Off-Broadway in 1996, winning Kerry a National Award of Merit from ASCAP. The
author now makes his home with his partner Victor Ramirez in South Florida. For
more info, visit www.KerryAshton.com.
Luke Redding’s military background is an asset when it comes to managing The Retreat, but it hasn’t helped him find the submissive he longs for. A secluded life in the New Forest, witnessing a stream of happy couples playing out their fantasies, doesn’t provide much opportunity to develop a relationship either. When a friend’s manipulations lead to him taking on silver-haired Skye as a trainee sub, Luke finds it hard to trust in his own ability to provide the guidance Skye needs.
Skye Ingham wants to explore his submissive nature but the noise and crowds at The Underground are overwhelming. He can’t believe his luck to be taken under Luke’s wing and offered a job at The Retreat. As Luke tests his boundaries, Skye trusts him implicitly, but how can he convince his new Dominant to have faith in himself?
Amid the bustle and excitement of a big house party at The Retreat, Luke and Skye edge their way towards a deeper understanding of each other’s needs and desires. But it will take a final leap of faith to secure their future and open a path to love.
Excerpt
It wasn’t dignified, but Luke twisted around in his seat to take a look at his potential employee as he wound his way between the tables. He hadn’t formed an impression of what Skye might look like, but the reality was better than anything Luke’s imagination could have conjured. Skye was slight, delicate, maybe five feet six or seven, no more. His skin was lightly tan, a coloring that Luke guessed came from his heritage rather than the sun. He had no tattoos that Luke could see and considering that all he wore was a short leather kilt, that didn’t leave much room to hide any. The wavy hair Luke had assumed was pale blond was in fact silver-gray, though the boy’s eyelashes and brows were a much darker shade, which made Luke wonder if the silver was natural.
Skye stopped in front of the table facing Luke and Carey. He clasped his hands behind his back and ducked his head. “Gordy said you wanted to see me, Mr. Hoffman.” Skye’s voice was so soft Luke had to concentrate to catch his words.
“I did, Skye. You remember I spoke to you about a job at The Retreat in Hampshire?”
Nodding, Skye darted a quick look at Luke. Luke caught a glimpse of violet-blue eyes before Skye focused his gaze on the carpet once more.
“Well, this is Mr. Redding. He’s in charge of The Retreat. I want you to wait on us over lunchtime and show him what you can do.”
“Hello, Skye,” Luke said, keeping his voice low and trying to project reassurance. “I hear you’ve had excellent training. We have a mixture of guests staying at The Retreat, but they all have something in common. They love their food. We have a dedicated chef and customers can pick their own menus and eat as much as they want. That means a lot of serving both at table and in the guests’ rooms. Do you think you can handle that?”
Skye scuffed his bare toes into the carpet. “Yes, Sir.”
“And you understand that The Retreat caters for men who are in the BDSM lifestyle, just like here at the club?” Skye nodded and a light pink flush bloomed on his cheekbones. “Sometimes, you might be required to wear very little or nothing at all. Does that worry you?”
“No, Sir.” Skye’s response was barely audible.
Luke wanted to make eye contact with the shy young man but Skye kept his gaze lowered.
“Remove your kilt, Skye,” Carey ordered.
Luke tightened his grip on his drink. He expected Skye to bolt but instead he undid the buckle at his hip, let the leather garment drop to the floor then stepped out of it.
“Hands behind your back,” Carey instructed.
Luke glanced around the restaurant. Almost every man in the place had turned to watch. Skye stood absolutely still, clad only in the mesh thong that was issued to all the serving staff at The Underground to wear under their kilts.
“Fetch two menus, please.”
Luke watched, entranced, as Skye walked away, hips swaying. He might as well have been naked for all the coverage his underwear gave him. He had natural grace and if it weren’t for the slight tension in his shoulders, Luke might have believed he was entirely comfortable following Carey’s orders.
“You’re testing him. Why?” Luke didn’t take his eyes away from Skye as he collected two menus and returned to the table.
“Because you need to be confident that he will do as you ask, when he’d prefer to run and hide.”
“He’s attracting a lot of attention.”
“Are you surprised?”
“Not at all. He’s stunning.”
Carey’s smile turned into a smirk. “Then you can handle him from now on.”
About the Author
LM lives in a small village in the English countryside, surrounded by rolling hills, cows and sheep. She started writing to fill time between jobs and is now firmly and unashamedly addicted.
She loves the English weather, especially the rain, and adores a thunderstorm. She loves good food, warm company and a crackling fire. She’s fascinated by the psychology of relationships, especially between men, and her stories contain some subtle (and some not so subtle) leanings towards BDSM.
LM is winner of the National Leather Association’s Pauline Reage Award for best novel and the 2016 and 2018 Golden Flogger Awards for best BDSM novel in the LGBT category. She has received multiple Honorable Mentions in the Rainbow Awards and won the Action and Adventure category of Divine Magazine’s Book Awards.
Nicolai Valentino is the almost perfect heir to the Valentino Family—impeccably dressed, devilishly handsome, impossibly cold, and absolutely dedicated to a family that scorns his very existence. Born to the infamous Boss and a Japanese woman of no consequence, Nico must fight for respect in a blood-thirsty world that would be much happier to see him with a hole in his head.
Blood runs thick in the Valentino Family. To them, Nico’s little better than water.
Gabriel Delatto is Nico’s right-hand man, his childhood friend, and under the darkness of their ruby red sheets, his lover. But more than that, Gabriel holds the secret to unlocking who Nico really is—the true Nico, not the mask beginning to crack around the edges.
But there is a pleasure in that pain, he knows. There is only ever pleasure when it comes to Nico, even if it comes from the crack of a whip or on the edge of a blade.
But there’s someone lurking in the darkness, something that neither Nico nor Gabriel truly understand. But there is one thing they do know—
Sai Fox was born and raised in New York City, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that there’s an ever present coffee cup on her desk as she writes well into the night. A chronic insomniac, some of her best ideas come to her right before heading off to bed.
Currently residing in Tokyo, Sai finds most of her time spent writing, reading, and wandering the strange and intoxicating streets that tell thousands of stories… with a cup of coffee. There is always a cup of coffee.
Sai has been writing fiction for well over a decade, enjoying the ability to push boundaries of society and sexuality through her work.
After Detective Jack Beckam’s partner is killed during the line of duty, Jack retreats to a small Indian casino in the Colorado mountains to deal with his guilt. There, he encounters the mysteriously hostile casino manager, Taylor Brant.
Jack is on a downward spiral. Unfortunately for him, the strange forest surrounding the casino only increases his desire to do something reckless. Something desperate. Taylor Brant is not only dangerous, he’s damaged. He’s someone Jack should steer clear of. Yet Jack, hurting and needing to pay penance, tumbles into a series of dark, highly charged encounters with Brant which threaten to shatter them both.
Excerpt
Amusement briefly lit Brant’s gray gaze. “You’re an interesting man, Jack. Under other circumstances I’d enjoy feeling you out.”
“I thought you hate cops. Sounds to me like you’re flirting with one.”
He was immediately embarrassed for having said it. Taylor Brant was one of the most attractive men he’d ever seen, much less had dinner with—but Jack recognized the nugget of fear rolling around in his own gut. He was in foreign territory, literally and figuratively. All his experience as a detective, all his street smarts, meant next to nothing when it came to his occasional and unwanted attraction to specific men. It was like a flare-up of a rash—unpredictable, unwelcome, and woefully incurable.
“I’d be reckless, wouldn’t I,” Brant said, “to flirt with a detective?” Brant’s gaze grew intent. “I’m not reckless.”
“Sounds to me like you’re a masochist.”
“Would it take one to know one?”
The restaurant was emptying out. Jack wished it were busier. Louder. He wished that the waiter was intrusive. He could feel himself sweating and felt ridiculous; he was only sitting there eating dinner.
Brant didn’t appear to be all that relaxed, either. The casino manager was tense. Nervous. Jack was too experienced in studying people to miss the signs. Was Brant regretting his boldness? Maybe they were both stumbling around in the dark in their own ways. It was strange to look at Taylor Brant and consider him anything other than one hundred percent sure of himself.
Or was it? He was well groomed and sophisticated, yet the broken nose hinted at his past experience with abuse. The book, too, suggested deep waters and a hint of vulnerability.
But Jack wasn’t completely sold on Brant being a man you could easily take advantage of. Maybe back then, back when Brant had dated those cops, he had been a man like that. But not any longer. The man sitting across from Jack had been honed by pain, anger, and disappointment. Brant had gone through hell and come out the other side as a more powerful man. It was there in those steely eyes, a hint of the danger he presented: he needed to control every situation he entered because he would never allow himself to be at anyone’s mercy again. He was using his fear to become something—someone—unbreakable.
Jack’s cock pulsed at the prospect of being under Brant’s control, even for an hour. It wasn’t something he’d ever experienced, and the fantasy of it was probably better than the reality. Hell, he didn’t know how he’d react to someone attempting to take the upper hand with him. There was a good chance he’d throw a punch.
About the Author
Tricia Owens has been writing m/m fiction since 2000, after stumbling onto the term ‘slash’ and thinking it referred to horror stories. She is the author of the Sin City, A Pirate’s Life for Me, and Juxtapose City series, among several others. She lives in Las Vegas.
