by Tanya Chris
Angel and Leo must face the pasts they ran away from before the two can build a future together. They may not be able to change the laws of nature, but they can change the language of love.
Omega Reclaimed is a MM alpha/omega shapeshifter non-MPREG novella.
Aftercare
Aayan Denir knows Garrett Hillier was once a high-powered defense attorney, and—thanks to a leaked photograph—he knows Garrett is sexually submissive, which makes him ideally qualified to defend Aayan's brother from the charge of murdering his sub. Aayan would do anything to protect Syed, even if he doesn't understand how Syed could hurt someone he loves. He could never hurt Garrett. He only wants to take care of him—love him, serve him, cherish him. And maybe torture him. Just a little.
Garrett probably shouldn’t be dating his client’s brother. Right? And what’s the use in a confirmed sub dating a guy who doesn’t want to be a Dom anyway? The important thing is to get Syed cleared of the discriminatory murder charge he’s facing. Aayan is a distraction. But for the first time in the three lonely years since Garrett’s husband died, he’s feeling hope, ambition, and desire. Can he give up the pain he craves to find the love he needs?
As Syed’s trial date looms, Aayan and Garrett explore what a BDSM relationship means for them, and what they mean to each other.
Aftercare is a M/M BDSM contemporary romance about Aayan, a Muslim immigrant who’s not sure he can play the Dom role, and Garrett, a submissive attorney who walked away from his life when his husband died.
Pledged
Pledging a fraternity is always a little nerve-wracking, but Blake’s racing pulse comes from more than a fear of rejection. He’s got one eye on Vadim, Delta Iota Kappa’s muscle-bound Chief Punishment Officer, and the other on that paddle. Pledging D.I.K. is going to be a whole lot more challenging, and exciting, than he ever anticipated.
Vadim’s been waiting three years for a little brother all his own, for someone to torment and humiliate, to initiate into all the pleasure, and all the pain, of belonging to their intimate fraternity for two.
Pledged is a novella featuring lots of spanking, a little humiliation, and a happy ending.
Deep Under
It was a routine traffic stop until the submissive in Jack recognized the Dominant in Maddox. Now Maddox and Jack are walking a dangerous line: on opposite sides of the law by day, on the same side of the bed at night.
Can Maddox trust a man with Jack's past, and does Jack even want him to? One thing's for sure: Jack needs to be punished, and Maddox is just the man to do it.
Deep Under is a BDSM short story.
Anytime, Anyplace
One jock, one geek, not what you think
Copyright © 2017 by Tanya Chris (www.tanyachris.com)
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author.
On the first nice day of March, it was inevitable that the quad would be crowded, that students would line the low stone wall that ringed it, jostling for position and joking noisily. Warmer weather meant that they bounced off each other with smiling gibes instead of hissed warnings as they made their way across the unevenly-paved square. It also meant that the sun was high and bright, glaring off the white stone as it peered over the spire of the administration building.
All of which meant that when Archer looked up in response to a shouted “heads” to find a frisbee coming at him, he tripped, resulting in both the frisbee bouncing off his forehead and his books spraying across the quad. Given the current set of circumstances, that fall was only to be expected and had nothing to do with the row of jocks showing off their bulging biceps in t-shirts.
Archer had noticed the jocks—it paid to be observant—but it was the frisbee and the flagstones and the sun that had made him trip, not the boy with the floppy blond hair who’d been watching him back.
The jocks laughed when he went flying, which was also to be expected. Slapstick comedy, such as he’d unwittingly performed, was universally amusing across all languages and cultures. Laughing at his fall didn’t necessarily indicate ill humor towards him in particular, but there was no need for the boy with the floppy blond hair to call further attention to him by coming over.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.” He stood up, which only brought him about four-fifths as high as the jock, and brushed at his pants. They seemed to be in one piece and his phone hadn’t come out of his pocket and was also in one piece, thank God. It was a brand new Samsung with the Infinity Display, worth more to him than his pride.
The jock scrambled around picking up the books he’d scattered.
“Going to carry those for him, Jordan?” one of his friends taunted from his spot atop the stone wall.
A gay joke. He got it. It probably wasn’t personal, as he didn’t believe there was anything in his appearance that would make his sexual orientation obvious to strangers. Perhaps the boy with the floppy blond hair was gay, but more likely his friend had a sophomoric sense of humor which equated homosexuality with weakness. Lack of originality with respect to humor was a common failing in college-aged men.
He held out his hands for the books, but the boy with the floppy hair, who was apparently named Jordan, didn’t turn them over.
“I could walk you to wherever you’re going,” he offered.
His friends hooted in the background as Archer physically reclaimed his books. “Why would you do that?”
Jordan didn’t seem to have an answer, so he turned his back and resumed his walk across the quad.
“Wait,” the man behind him called. He waited. “Are you sure you’re OK? Maybe I should walk you just to be sure.”
The peanut gallery burst out laughing again. It was too much. He’d tripped and fallen, yes, but that didn’t render him needful of an escort, nor did it justify the level of derision to which he was being subjected.
“Oh, fuck you,” he said and then departed so quickly that he almost didn’t catch Jordan’s reply over the volley of laughter that accompanied it.
“Anytime, anyplace.”
That was what Jordan said.
It was a joke, not an invitation, as he reminded himself repeatedly over the next few days, not that the disclaimer helped because he was definitely thinking about fucking Jordan now that the idea had been put in his head.
He wasn’t always good at knowing when people were interested in him as opposed to when they were just pretending to be interested in him as a sort of joke, because feigning sexual attraction seemed like a very pointless joke to him, but Jordan’s words had sounded sincere. He might be one of those straight-ish guys who figured it didn’t count as gay if he topped, but being topped wasn’t what Archer was thinking about.
He wanted to fuck Jordan, to hold him down and hear him—begging, begging—while he drilled him with his surprisingly big dick.
Most people incorrectly believed that dick size was directly proportional to height despite the multitude of studies which showed at best a moderate correlation accounting for no more than half an inch on average with a heavy distribution of outliers.
All of which information was easily accessible on the internet.
Anecdotally, and Archer knew the plural of anecdote wasn’t data, but anecdotally, his dick was a very nice size and looked particularly large with his hand wrapped around it because his hands were proportional to his height. It was like using models with tiny hands in hamburger commercials so that Big Macs looked bigger, proving once again that everything was relative.
Archer refused to avoid that section of the quad with the row of jocks gracing the stone wall, but he did steel himself the next time he walked past them, making very sure to keep his eyes on his feet without looking like he had his head down out of fear, which was a tricky maneuver that required mentally mapping his next four steps and caused him to almost miss the fact that Jordan had fallen in next to him.
“Can I
walk with you?”
“I'm going to the science building,” Archer warned him.
“Oh, cool. Me too.”
“Why?”
“I'm a biology major?”
Jordan didn’t sound entirely sure he was a biology major, or maybe he wasn’t certain that being a biology major was a good enough reason to go to the science building. It was in Archer’s book. He wouldn’t have pegged Jordan for a biology major but that was him stereotyping, which was rude and unscientific and led to incorrect conclusions such as the one he’d jumped to about Jordan only being on campus to look pretty and maybe win football games. It seemed every college was required to have a certain number of those people in order to put out brochures, but Archer was glad to learn Jordan wasn’t one of them.
He was in physics himself, which made their interests adjacent, plus being a biology major should mean that Jordan would know that thing about dick size not necessarily being proportional.
“What year?” he demanded, in an attempt to determine how far along Jordan might be in his studies on that subject.
“Sophomore. You're a sophomore too, right? I've seen you around. I'm Jordan and you’re Archer, right?”
If Jordan was following Archer to mock him, he’d left his audience behind, but Archer could still be reading him wrong. He’d found the best method for ascertaining important facts was simply to ask.
“Are you gay?”
“Yes!” Jordan’s affirmation was both loud and certain, but then he softened it a bit. “Well, I'm bi, but that's gay enough, right?”
“The range of genders to which you’re attracted isn’t relevant as long as I’m included in one of them.”
“You’re definitely included.”
Archer glanced over and found Jordan watching him back, which was likely to result in stumbling given the unevenness of the stones as he’d proven himself a few days ago. He turned his head back in the direction they were traveling. Jordan could conduct his own experiment on the importance of watching where you were going.
“I’m not going to blow you just because you’ve got a lot of muscles and floppy blond hair, you know.” He felt it was best to make that clear. “It’s a common misconception that men who are smaller or smarter are automatically bottoms. I happen to be a top. If we’re going to fuck, it’ll be my cock in your ass.”
“I was going to ask if I could take you out to dinner, but OK. We could do that.”
“Why would you want to take me out to dinner?”
“I think you’re cute?”
“Why is there a question mark at the end of that sentence? I may or may not be cute by some objective measurement, but you prefaced your remark with the words ‘I think’ which puts it squarely in the realm of the subjective. You either think I’m cute or not. It doesn’t require anyone else’s input.”
“I think you’re cute. I was afraid saying so would make you angry.”
“It won’t if you mean it. If this is some kind of joke to make me feel bad, I’ll be annoyed that you wasted my time.”
“I mean it.”
Jordan sounded breathless, as though he were struggling to keep up despite his longer legs. It was an erroneous assumption that a person with longer legs would automatically walk faster than a person with shorter legs, because speed was all about foot turnover which came from adding impetus to the back heel at push-off. Archer would’ve expected Jordan to know how to push off his back heel, given his apparent athleticism, but whatever sport he engaged in that made him look so pumped-up and perfect, it was probably all physical application and very little theory.
“You were in my philosophy class last semester,” Jordan said. “Mr. Barnhardt? Ethical Treatment of Animals? I guess you didn’t notice me. I don’t talk a lot. But I noticed you. You said that thing about how we assume animals have more feelings than plants because they’re closer to us in appearance which is the same fallacious reasoning the leads to racism.”
Archer remembered. That had been an excellent point logically, though perhaps a bit far-fetched in terms of applicability.
“I don’t always believe what I say,” he warned Jordan, “but someone had to counteract Mr. Barnhardt’s weepy sentimentality. Philosophy is not psychology. Philosophy is a time-honored discipline which brings coherence to what would otherwise be a chaos of factual information. In fact, there’s evidence that atoms themselves may have certain moral properties. I hope to one day unify philosophy and physics into an overarching approach to ethical existence.”
“I know. I read your blog.”
That stopped him. Literally. He turned to Jordan who had stopped when he did. “You read my blog? All right,” he agreed after a moment’s pause to consider this new piece of information. “You can take me to dinner.”
“And after dinner, maybe we could …”
He waited for Jordan to finish. Sometimes people needed a moment to collect their thoughts and it was polite to give them that moment.
Jordan looked down at the ground before mumbling, “Maybe you could fuck me.”
“Yes.” Archer stuffed his hands into his pockets to disguise the fact that his nicely-sized cock was expanding at an alarming rate. “Yes,” he repeated. “I could fuck you.”
~~~
Jordan picked him up, which was an inappropriate application of outdated gender roles, or possibly just a courtesy, so he allowed it. They went to a pizza place off campus which didn't make sense since they were both on a meal plan, but spending money was a universally recognized mating ritual, so he allowed that too.
The conversation at dinner was spirited. Jordan listened to him, which more people ought to do more often, and when he gave Jordan his turn to talk, which he made sure to do at regular intervals according to social norms, Jordan had interesting contributions, although he had a tendency to drop his eyes and fiddle with the edge of his placemat if Archer made eye contact too long, which was a combination of endearing and arousing. Archer found himself doing it a lot and not always paying attention to Jordan’s actual words.
After dinner they went back to Archer’s dorm where Jordan lurked around until Archer finally said, “I thought I was going to fuck you.”
Jordan jumped for the door, trying to open it for him but since he had the keycard required to unlock it, the gesture failed. Strong as Jordan might be, even he couldn’t open an unlocked door.
Once in his dorm room, Archer waited for Jordan to make a move. Then he remembered that he was supposed to be the top here, which probably meant it was up to him to make it. Jordan was doing the adorably shy thing again, looking at his toes in between quick peeks at Archer’s face. Archer wanted to see him naked. He wondered if Jordan would be adorably shy about that too—try to hide himself behind his hands or something—and decided there was one way to find out.
“You don’t think we should kiss first?” Jordan asked when Archer had him stripped to the waist.
Archer had figured he’d leave the kissing for after the undressing. It seemed inefficient to do it the other way around, but relationships required compromise, so he went up on his toes and got hold of Jordan’s shoulders and pulled until Jordan came down to his level and kissed him.
And that was pretty nice, he had to admit—well worth moving up in the order of business. Jordan’s mouth was warm and tasted like he’d snuck a mint in there on their walk back. His tongue had a rough texture that tickled at Archer’s and his shoulders were round balls of firm muscle. He made a little sound of contentment and then sat down hard on Archer’s bed like his knees had given out.
Archer went with it. He climbed on top of Jordan, straddling him, and that was nice too. It made their dicks line up and allowed him to hold Jordan’s face still so he could go after it with more force. The harder he kissed Jordan, the more little noises came out of him, seeping out around the seal Archer had formed over his mouth. His fingers sort of scrabbled at Archer’s hips like he wasn’t sure where to settle them and he kept leaning farther and fart
her back, almost as though he were trying to get away except Archer was pretty sure he wasn’t.
They landed together, Jordan on his back and Archer falling on top of him, and lying down was even better than the straddling had been except it was now obvious that Archer’s original plan of getting their clothes off before the kissing started had been the better one. It was possible Jordan wasn’t very experienced, or very logical—Archer wasn’t sure which—but either way he’d clearly need Archer to guide him.
Archer sat up, stilling Jordan’s reflexive attempt to follow him with a hand to his chest. It was a very nice chest. Felt good under his hand. But that wasn’t the point. The point was to get organized.
He’d gone out and bought supplies that afternoon, which he now pulled out of his desk drawer and laid out on the bed. He’d also informed his roommate that he’d be commandeering the room for the evening according to the agreement they’d reached at the beginning of the semester for handling situations of this sort. When they’d made their agreement, he hadn’t anticipated activating it himself but, as with health insurance, it was good to have a policy in place before you needed it.
The chances of him having someone like Jordan naked in his bed were statistically insignificant, but that was the thing about statistics. In an infinite universe, any event with a greater than zero percent chance of occurrence, no matter how small that chance, would ultimately occur. People who didn't understand statistics tended to call these lower-probability events miracles.
“You have a lot of muscles,” he observed, even though the observation was trivially obvious.
“Do you like them?”
Muscles were an outdated way of measuring a mate’s suitability. Brains were now significantly more useful than brawn when it came to survival, but the biological preference lingered and apparently he was susceptible to it, because he did like them.