Cover art: Anna Reith
Length: short fiction / 14,000 words
Published by: Lydian Press
Simon Preston has fought all his life to be the biggest, best, and brightest…but, just for once, he wants someone else to take control.
Confused and embarrassed by his desires, Simon resolves to keep them secret at all costs, especially from his boyfriend, Frazer. Unable to face the thought of potential rejection, Simon vows he’d rather lose Frazer than admit the truth, but when everything comes tumbling out into the open, there’s nowhere left to hide….
“The best part of Safe House is how it illuminates the risk of revealing your true nature to someone new whom you hope will take a chance on you.”
~ Editorial feature at AllRomanceEbooks.com
“Wonderfully rich in sensuality and sexuality, the story shows strength amid vulnerability … ”
~ Rainbow Reviews
” Realistic and sophisticated … Recommended!”
~ Obsidian Bookshelf
“The connection between [Simon and Frazer] is beautiful to see. They can need each other and still seem manly is a credit to M. King’s writing style.”
~ Two Lips Reviews
He’d been into guys like that once: All meat, no brain. The ones he picked up at the weekends, in clubs on the other side of town. He used to take them to hotel rooms, pay his offerings at the altar of what he thought he wanted, and every single damn time, he’d needle himself with regret and shame because it never felt the way he wanted it to. It was never right. They were the ones whose freedom he wanted, whose unconscious, liberated joy he desired. The way they danced, partied like every night was Friday…. They were the ones he’d slap ’til their ass cheeks reddened and they whimpered for more and, if they were good, the ones he tied up and let choke on his dick before he plowed them out and made them beg.
In the morning, they were always gone, leaving him with sweet memories and sore thighs. One or two he’d seen again, but rarely. After the feast, they didn’t interest him. They littered his bed like crumbs, like screwed up napkins and the last traces of rib sauce, and reminded him of his weakness…and that frightened Simon.
On the screen, the muscle boy still ran, pursued by two men in fatigues, their boots rustling through the undergrowth. Shafts of bright sun split through the leaves and dappled his body, and for a moment it all seemed realistic, and the two guys carried a real sense of menace, of urgency. Simon took another swallow of his drink. They caught up with their quarry, and struggled. He was strong but outnumbered, the so-called soldiers each his equal in height and build. Eventually, they felled him, and the scene changed.
Leaves and roots gave way to a square, blank concrete room, one bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling, along with a large iron hook. The fugitive from before was bundled into the room by his captors, body straining as they bound his hands above his head and fastened them to the hook, every inch of him stretched out so that his toes were barely in contact with the floor.
“You tried to run away, filthy little rat,” one of the soldiers grunted, bringing his fist into the captive’s ribs.
The dull smack of flesh on flesh echoed around the empty bedroom. Simon’s breathing deepened a little, his gaze riveted on the bound body. His dick twitched within the confines of his pants. First sign of life from you all night, you inconsiderate bastard. Absently, he adjusted his position on the bed.
“He’s a rat boy,” the other soldier chipped in, and he swaggered over to a metal shelf at the far side of the frame. “We know how to deal with rats.”
He came slowly back to the captive’s side, a rat-tail butt plug in his hand. It wasn’t massive—maybe five inches with a medium girth—but the gleaming black finish and the ‘tail’ that curved out from the base gave it a more imposing air. The prisoner squirmed as the second soldier lubed up the toy, futile struggles against the ropes that bound him. He cried out when the first man ripped down his underpants—not as pristinely white as they’d been when he began his escape, smattered with mud and sweat—and revealed a tanned, hairless ass. His legs kicked, fighting the attempts of his tormentors to introduce more lube and, gradually, the plug. It entered with surprising ease, though he struggled and yelled like he’d never even had a finger up there, which Simon sincerely doubted. Nevertheless, his hand strayed to his fly, his every fiber fixated on the sight of that smooth, beautifully toned body, the plug seated hard up inside him, the plastic rat’s tail curving up between those round, tanned and improbably muscular buttocks.
“Rat boy, rat boy,” the soldiers chanted, but Simon wasn’t focused on them, his mind instead traveling over every inch of that taut and helpless flesh, exposed in all its perfection and ripe for anything from corruption to worship.