J.P. Barnaby – The Life of an Escort Part 1 (NSFW)

The Life of an Escort

Part One: Dinner with a Gentleman

By J. P. Barnaby


“Simon, it’s good to see you again,” Mr. Chauncey greeted me as I came down the porch from my third floor walk-up. His silver BMW gleamed from its place next to the curb, and I smiled at him. Always smiling. It didn’t matter that another lover had just walked out on me because I refused to cash in one of my investments to go with him to the Caribbean. You work too hard, he’d complained, you never have time for me. I could see his point, but what Jeremy never understood was that I only had maybe three more good years left. After that, I could cash out and open up a spa. I had a plan, one that he didn’t want to be a part of. I just wish he’d have told me that six months ago and saved me the headache.

“It’s good to see you too, David,” I told Mr. Chauncey as he took my hand and pumped it vigorously. David and I have had a standing appointment on the last Friday of every month for a year. The evenings all went the same way: picked up in his silver beamer, whisked off to a fabulous dinner, interesting conversation, and a quiet kiss goodnight. He paid generously for my time and my conversation, never asking for anything more. I loved these evenings with him where I could almost be myself.

David’s sweet kindness warmed me and I surprised us both as I leaned forward and kissed him lightly. The chaste kiss made him smile and he touched my cheek before he took my hand and led me to the car. As always, he held the door open for me, and while some men might feel emasculated by the gesture, I found it charming. David’s consistent respect for me was always a welcome change from the men who wanted a rented boy to degrade.

“I was thinking of something different for tonight, if you’re interested,” David said suddenly as he slipped his key into the ignition. “Something a little spicier…” I looked at him, wondering if he finally wanted to take our agreement to a different place. The heat in his eyes made me think maybe he was ready, but his posture still looked tense.

“I like spicy,” I whispered and leaned a bit closer. He rested a hand on my leg and smiled.

“Good, I thought maybe we could try the Hanging Dragon. It’s a new Chinese place over on Wells,” he said casually. Oh, he meant food. I wasn’t sure how I could have misread that, but I settled back in the passenger seat and put on my seat belt. Neither of us mentioned anything about adding a little spice to our agreement as we drove toward the restaurant in the Gold Coast.

The atmosphere changed again when the host seated us in a booth and David rubbed his foot against mine under the table. He never openly acknowledged the gesture, so I couldn’t be sure that the soft touches were intentional. I wanted to touch his hand in the same intimate way, but our relationship had never been one of open affection. David was a very handsome, masculine man in just the way that I liked. I’m sure sex with him would have been a joy, but he’d only ever been interested in my company, not my body.

At one point after the server brought the dumplings, which I love, I may have closed my eyes and moaned at the taste of them. Nothing beats a perfectly prepared Chinese dumpling dipped in a sinful sauce. I thought, when my eyes opened again, I saw David adjust himself under the table. The tables were tall, and the lights were dim, so it may have just been wishful thinking on my part because his calm demeanor never changed. I may also have imagined the higher temperature in the room when our eyes met, or it could have been the heat of the food.

Our conversations ranged from books to movies to the latest commentary on the social political climate for our LGBT community. David was only in the closet in theory. He didn’t advertise his sexuality, but he didn’t hide me when we went out. I’d never asked him why he continued to have dinner with me every month when he could have a meaningful relationship with someone else. Someone, who, I’m sure, would not understand our standing date.

“I missed this,” David said suddenly as he pulled out his credit card. Sliding it into the little plastic sheath with the bill to pay for dinner, he sighed quietly and looked up.

“Missed, what?” I asked, cautious because I’d misread the spicy comment earlier.

“Missed conversation with an intelligent man, missed a relaxing dinner with someone I liked being with, and I missed getting out and having a good time. Things have been really busy at my office lately, and it’s been a lot of late nights with some truly boring people.” David smiled, and handed the bill to our server who disappeared quietly. Oh. Why did I hope that he missed me?

“Well, I’m glad that you’re having a good time,” I responded quietly. The server returned with his receipt and put our odd little discussion on hold.

David was quiet as he drove me back to my apartment. It seemed he had something on his mind, but I didn’t want to push my luck and ask him what it was. I glanced over at him several times during the fifteen-minute drive, but he concentrated on the road and didn’t look back at me. I felt like a teenage girl waiting for her date to acknowledge her.

When we arrived at my building, he merely put the car into park and didn’t say anything for several minutes. The rush of traffic outside the car seemed to be the only sound in the world as I waited for him to explain whatever was on his mind. He took his hands off the wheel. While one rested lightly in his lap, the other rested on the narrow piece of plastic in front of the driver’s side window. A slight movement caught my attention and I saw him adjust himself. Had he been hard the whole ride back?

“David?” I asked, finally breaking the silence in the car. When he turned to me, his expression was sheepish, almost guilty. He looked like a child caught doing something naughty. “Can I give you a little help with that?”

“I…Well, I just…I’ve been busy and haven’t…” His blush nearly glowed in the dim light and I smiled at him, I couldn’t help it. With all of the things I saw and put up with as an escort, his shyness delighted me. Leaning over, I rested my upper body on the console so that my head lay on his shoulder and my fingers ghosted toward his lap.

“Relax, let me make you feel good,” I whispered against his skin as I kissed his jaw. The tension in his muscles eased a bit and he scooted down in the leather seat. I started by pulling his button down shirt out from where he’d tucked it into his dress pants. The undershirt came next before I slid my palm up his flat stomach. The coarse hair on his abdomen tickled my hand as I caressed him. A soft sigh escaped his lips just as they captured mine in a surprisingly sweet kiss.

A quiet moan reverberated against my lips when I rubbed one of his nipples, already hardening in the cool night air. Taking it between my thumb and forefinger, I rolled it, feeling it pebble further under my touch.

“Simon, God…that’s nice,” David whispered to the dark. Of course, Simon wasn’t my name and for a moment, I longed to hear him say “Zach” instead, but David didn’t know Zach. I leaned over, pulling his shirt higher and captured his other nipple between my lips. His back arched and he pushed his chest forward eagerly. I took the opportunity to open his belt and then his pants. Sliding my hand down into his open fly, I stroked him through soft cotton briefs. A wet spot, about the size of a quarter, had already formed where the material touched the head of his stiff cock.

I loved the little whimpers he couldn’t quite contain.

He spread his legs further and lifted up in the seat so that I could loosen the taut pants and rub lower. Gently, I ran my fingers over his balls and felt the texture of his coarse hair against the material of the briefs. His breathing accelerated and he moved his hips subtly in time with my hand, almost as if it were an unconscious need.

“Oh…” The sound was no more than a whisper, but it made my cock throb. Discretely, I brought my right hand up to my mouth and spit into it before sliding it into his briefs. David must not have had this kind of companionship for a while because the moment I wrapped my fingers around his dick, he thrust into my slick grip. Catching his eye, I leaned forward and kissed him as I stroked the thick cock filling my hand. It surprised me to realize that I wanted to crawl onto him and ride him right there in the car. Usually, I had more discretion, more control.

David broke the kiss, panting against my lips as a street sweeper passed the car with a loud grinding reminding me where we were. Sitting in the front seat of his car on a busy street making out like teenagers, anyone could walk by and see us. I stroked him faster, twisting my hand lightly over the head as he pressed is temple to mine. I could tell that he tried to keep his hips still by the way he stopped moving every few minutes and pressed his ass against the seat.

All at once, his head fell back against the seat and the thrust hard up into my hand as his cock erupted over my fingers and the front of his neatly pressed shirt. The leather seat creaked under the strain of his grip and a strangled groan tore through the small space. His eyes were closed tight, as if his entire being were focused on his orgasm, which lasted a surprisingly long time. When his eyes opened, David cradled my cheek in his palm and kissed me. The way his lips lingered, slowly tasting me, warmed me in a way I hadn’t felt in quite some time.

Then, he leaned past me and opened the glove box near my knees. Handing me a few fast food napkins, he started to clean himself up the best he could. The magic of the moment had ended, and we had other things to contend with.

“Thank you for a wonderful evening, Simon,” David said quietly as he counted bills from his wallet. As I watched distractedly, I started to notice that he counted out a few too many. It finally dawned on me that he was giving me a tip for services rendered. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I got him off because I wanted to, not for a bit of extra cash.

For the first time in a long time, I had to remind myself who and what I was as I took the cash and climbed out of his warm car for the cold bed waiting for me in my apartment.



Award winning romance novelist, J. P. Barnaby has penned over a dozen books including the Forbidden Room series, the Little Boy Lost series, and Aaron. As a bisexual woman, J.P. is a proud member of the GLBT community both online and in her small town on the outskirts of Chicago. A member of Mensa, she is described as brilliant but troubled, sweet but introverted, and talented but deviant. She spends her days writing software and her nights writing erotica, which is, of course, far more interesting. The spare time that she carves out between her career and her novels is spent reading about the concept of love, which, like some of her characters, she has never quite figured out for herself.


Web site: http://www.JPBarnaby.com
Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/JPBarnaby
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/JPBarnaby



A. Catherine Noon – Information Overload

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One of the largest problems of the internet culture is too much information.  We are bombarded with too many options.  Back in the day it used to be just television.  Now it’s television, email, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, smart phones, tablets, and more – distraction, distraction, distraction.  Then there are the real demands on our time:  kids, spouses, friends, work, chores, school, etc.

If we are an author, like to write, or even just hoped one day to set fingers to keyboard, what are we to do to get around these pitfalls?

I wish I had a magic button for us.  (It’s the X key on the keyboard.)  I wish a spell could do it for us.  (Get a black cat and let him sleep on your computer.)   But it’s like they say in the Nike ad – “Just do it.”

Great.  But how?

My advice?  Cheat.  Beg, borrow, or barter.  Play with it.  Experiment with any idea that you can get your hands on.  Lock yourself in the bathroom with your laptop.  Hide your notebook under your shirt and go for a walk in the park.  Take a bus ride and let the people around you distract your brain so you can concentrate.

Think I’m kidding?  I’ve done all of these things.  So have others I’ve known who write.  You don’t have to be perfect, you just have to write.  Which is all well and good, but about what does one write?

If we don’t already have an idea (and, let’s face it, if we did, we wouldn’t be asking this question, right?), there are lots of places to get them.

Here are a few ideas:

Beg – set a digital timer or the timer on your smart phone for twenty minutes and sit with a blank page in a notebook or on your computer.  Close off all other distractions – unplug your internet or turn off your wireless, don’t answer the phone, and ignore the doorbell (you might warn your family and close friends first so they don’t panic if you’re suddenly AWOL).  See what comes out of your mind without judgment.  Just write whatever’s there.

Borrow – enter “writing prompt” in Google to see all the options available to you.  Pick one at random and go for it.

Barter –  play with your memory.  Make a list of everything in your bedroom or your desk at work.  Then do it for your desk from ten years ago.  Then try ten years in the future.  Experiment with moving your imagination from place to place.

What works for you?  I’d love to hear in the comments.

Join me during the month of April for a free workshop on Coffee Time Romance, Using Prompts to Expand Your Repertoire.

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“It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.”

– E.E. Cummings


My links: Blog | Website | Facebook | Twitter | Goodreads | Amazon | LinkedIn | Pandora
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Team Blogs: Nightlight | Nightlight FB Page |  Beyond the Veil | BtV FB Page | LGBT Fantasy Fans and Writers |LGBTFFW FB Page
Publishers: Samhain Publishing | Torquere Press


Check out BURNING BRIGHT, available from Samhain Publishing.
Check out EMERALD FIRE, available from Torquere Books.
Check out “Taking a Chance“, part of the Charity Sips 2012 to benefit NOH8, available from Torquere Books.

Watch for TIGER TIGER, coming July, 2013, from Samhain Publishing.








AF Henley – On Writing Romance

It will be no surprise to anyone that I start this journal off with the following disclaimer – I am a romantic. Yet in the past several days I’ve found myself teetering on the edge of anxiety as to what that says about a person. What does romance mean? What is the basis of romanticism and how does it affect my writing and my characters? Is romantic synonymous with weak? Foolish?

I start my musing research, as I always do, with Google.

Merriam-Webster classifies romance as a variety of concepts that ranges from a type of literature, to something that lacks basis in fact, an emotional attraction, to a love affair. It’s a language, an instrumental, a literary form, and an action – inclusive of noun, verb and adjective.

That’s a huge scope of categorization and pondering that span I think I understand why. Every one of us, every single person, sees romance differently from the next. (And wouldn’t the world be mundane if we didn’t?) What is believable for one will be laughable for the next. What is idealistic over here could be viewed as repulsive over there.

It’s that diversity that suggests to me the need for a broad character approach. Not every romantic narrative is accomplished through the depiction of wide-eyed, soul-gazing, insta-love or with charming, perfect characters. Realistic portrayals of confusion, bad choices, and questionable judgement lead to two very powerful aspects of fiction:  credibility and relevance.

While every writer seeks to write an adored character, not every character needs to be adorable. Enter the imperfect protagonist—the conceited or the arrogant, the spoiled and the petulant, with the sarcasm that’s a touch too sharp and the brooding that’s a bit too dark—for these are traits that offer far more character development and realisation than the standard model. It’s a rugged journey that begins with regret – but it is a rewarding one to write. For regret leads to guilt, guilt points towards a need for pardon, and pardon is the first trembling step towards recuperation.

Flawed is real; we’re all flawed. We are not, however, all weak. This is the difference, be it in life or fiction, that defines how successful one will be in overcoming said faults.

In writing, triumphing against trauma is conceptual. The use of retaliation is an easy and familiar one. Human beings respond no differently than animals when presented with trouble. There is a natural instinct; the “flight or fight” shove. If that difficulty is further complicated by the removal of choice (i.e. flight option is not available), then the feral reaction of aggression tends to rush forefront, lifting both fists or, for the sake of fictional reference, the brandishing of one’s sword. “I’d kill him,” is not an uncommon sentiment to suffering, be it physically, mentally or emotionally.

So the act of stepping past that outlook is a writing tactic that can prove taxing, even unsettling. Vengeance, however, is a primitive instinct that fans the flames of war, results in rash and irreversible decisions, and turns good people into beasts. Therein lies the difference between humanity and creature – conscience. We have the ability to act better, do better, to be better. So why stop at giving your character mere reprisal when you can shove that angst-ridden bugger into purgatory, force his or her heart to concede and offer up a broken soul some forgiveness?

That’s romance for me. The completion of a union that’s not just physical but heartfelt. The “not only did you fulfill my need but you made me a better person” moment. That kind of love is what transforms a simple character into a hero. And that is a concept that is neither weak nor foolish.

Peace, love and honour,

AF Henley <3


Honour CoverHonour

by A.F. Henley

M/M Historical Romance

Recently docked after a voyage abroad, Emmett wants only to find a warm bed and good food, for himself and the cabin boy he’s taken into his care. Those plans are impeded, however, by an altercation in the streets—with a man he realizes too late is England’s heir to the throne, Prince Andrewe.

When the encounter unexpectedly leads to a position in the royal household attending the prince, Emmett is not certain what to think. On one hand, it’s a reliable income and ensures the safety of his charge. On the other, it’s neither the life Emmett knows, nor an environment that he’s comfortable in. Left to learn his lessons the hard way, Emmett spends his days contending with a spoiled, infuriating prince who leaves him in a constant tangle of emotions.

Then he begins to hear whispers of treason and must make a choice: defend Prince Andrewe, or betray him.

Word count: 45,500

Purchase your copy at Less Than Three Press, Amazon, or Barnes and Noble

Excerpt, bio, and cover artist information available here