Of Death and Desire: Available now!

by Jude Mason
ISBN 978-1-60659-559-6
Publisher: Phaze
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October 15, 1898

Dear diary, that's how you're supposed to begin these things, or so I assume. I never in a million years thought I'd write in one, let alone under these circumstances. This was Jonathan's doing. When he asked me to make this entry, it was something I had to do, for him. He's given up so much.

The beginning. Yes, that's where I should begin and then let his accounting tell the tale.

EXCERPT

Soft wetness surrounded his cock. A gentle tugging, sucking, encouraged an erection. His balls churned. His hips rose, buttocks clenching to extract the last ounce of pleasure from…

The head of his cock brushed the back of a throat. He knew it was a throat—Philip’s.
He twisted to his side. The mouth followed; the sucking increased. He groaned. His hips pulled back, then thrust forward. The sensation was exquisite. Hot, tight, and the air brushing his belly was the sweetest tickle. His heart drummed wildly, threatening to burst from the emaciated confines of his chest. He slipped his hand down and paused, afraid.

He balled his hands into fists; one at his side with the sheet gripped tight, the other empty, aching, on his belly. His hips found a rhythm, a gentle thrusting that had him breathless with desire. Teeth scraped along his shaft, Philip’s signature sucking technique. Lips pressed to the base of his cock; again he was sure they were his lover’s. His climax neared, balls churned and crept in close to his body.

“Please!” He woke with a start. His heart raced. Sweat trickled from under his arms and formed a pool of coolness beneath him. Automatically, he rolled onto his back, right hand going to his groin, to his cock. Aching, rampantly erect and throbbing, he was a heartbeat away from spewing. “Philip,” he groaned, bewildered, filled with lust.

Thrusting the bedclothes aside, he stroked himself. The hard length slid through his fingers easily, pre-cum slick. A stroke, and his body tensed, another and his balls boiled. Too long without release, too long alone, he shuddered and sobbed as a stream of spunk arced toward the ceiling then splattered on his chest. Another followed a heartbeat later; his toes curled. He choked back a sob and thrust himself into his fist. The next few pulses coaxed only an oozing dribble of his essence from him and coated his fingers. He squirmed for a moment, enraptured in the much needed release.

But, then his dream came back to him. Philip’s mouth. Philip’s teeth and tongue. And then the memories of his death hit.

“No!” The single word tore from him, a vehement denial of his loss, his longing, and the heart-wrenching sorrow that just wouldn’t allow him any peace. But, even as he remembered the dream and thought of how much he’d loved Philip, the pain was just a little less.

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