This page includes excerpts from pre-publication books that are still undergoing editing, as well as minor spoilers for the books.
The cycle consists of the following series: The Eternal Dungeon, Life Prison, and Michael's House.
¶ Coming soon. Booktrailer.
The Eternal Dungeon, a historical fantasy series set in a land where the psychologists wield whips.
Sops are bad enough. I've had to work with too many of them; they go around talking about flowers and beautiful light and how nice the world would be if everybody was kind to each other. Meanwhile, I'm lugging a fifty-pound barrow of rocks and thinking to myself that the world would be better off if midwives examined every baby at birth and killed the ones who are sops. After all, we swat annoying flies.
Tops are worse, there's no doubt of that. While the sops are singing on about joy and love, the top is screaming in your ear that you'd better move your bloody butt faster or he'll smash your face in. He means it too. I think I was about eight when I realized that the world is one giant prison with us bottoms as the prisoners, and the tops as our guards and torturers. Seemed obvious to me that the only thing to do was for the bottoms to make a well-planned attack on the tops and tumble their bodies into the midden where they deserve to lie. By the time I was twenty, though, I'd given up on convincing anyone else of this obvious fact, and there's no point in trying to run a revolution on your own. That only gets you into trouble.
It's a pity I didn't remember that on the night I put a dagger into Mendel's chest.
¶ New installments coming soon. Read the current installment of Rebirth.
Life Prison, a historical fantasy series about male desire and determination in Victorian prisons.
"Sir?"
"They should be shot. Every one of them. Will, if I find out who they are."
Ulick wondered whether his expression held the proper amount of bewilderment. It must have, for in the next moment, from the corner of the room, came a quiet voice. "If I may, sir. . . . I believe that your new guard may need to be briefed on our situation."
"Eh?" Mercy's Keeper twisted round in his chair to stare at the speaker. "Oh, rather. If you say so. You explain, and I'll get on with . . ." He waved his hand expansively over his desk, embracing both paperwork and food.
"Thank you, sir." The speaker, who was standing in the shadows, raised his eyes to Ulick. Looking into them, Ulick had the momentary feeling of falling down a deep well. He considered himself moderately good at reading expressions – it was one of the skills that had led him to take up guard work – but nothing lay behind those eyes to tell him what the other man was thinking.
¶ New installments coming soon. Read the current installments of Mercy's Prisoner.
Egon raised his chin and looked Halvar straight in the eye. "We didn't intend for it to happen."
"No, I'm quite sure she didn't intend for it to happen." Halvar's voice remained cool, though quiet. "At sixteen, she was young enough to believe you when you told her that you were infertile. I'm only surprised that you have continued to use that tale, since none of your other bed-mates believed it."
Egon's face grew warm, and he shifted his hands from the arms of the chair to his lap, lounging back in an effort to look relaxed. "I thought it was true. My parents only ever had one child, though they made love often, and they told me that my uncle—"
Halvar's discipline rod shot out to full length; it crashed down upon the chair arms with a crack like lightning. Egon, who would have fallen out of the chair if the rod had not barred his way, went rigid and pressed himself against the chair's straight back.
Halvar leaned forward; his eyes were the color of an arctic sky. "I am not a fool, Egon," he said softly, "so do not treat me as such. If you are a fool, and believe the words you are saying, then I suggest that you rapidly educate yourself. You cared not whether you impregnated that girl and ruined her life – you cared nothing for her or for any other woman you have bedded for the past ten years. All you care for is your own pleasure."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Pleasure.
It would have been nice, though, to be a demi-god. To worship at another man's feet and then, just for a short time, to accept the other man's worship. It was a vision that gripped him, luring him back time and time again to the frequently boring weekly meetings of the Mayhill Sexual Education Society, popularly known as the Black and Blue Club.
As Loren made his way down the dimly lit stairs leading to the club's cellar meeting-place on that autumn evening in 1985, his mind was focussed on trying to find something to say to these people that he hadn't said a dozen times before. He was one of the founders of the club, so he had belonged to it now for eight years, long enough to give several dozen talks. And since most of the people in the society had been there for the same eight years, it was becoming increasingly difficult to be original. Like being forced to teach a Philosophy 101 class every year for the rest of one's life, Loren thought with a sigh as he pushed open the door to the brightly lit basement.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks.
He knew immediately that a newcomer had arrived. The Black and Blue members, often tediously unoriginal in their sexual tastes, were equally unoriginal in their socializing. Under ordinary circumstances, the members would be paired off like animals from Noah's ark: long-term couples mainly, with a few dating couples, and only a very few people, such as himself, who played the field. He would drift from pair to pair, smiling and pretending that he wasn't the mateless bachelor of the group.
Tonight was different. The time was barely five-thirty, a half hour before the talk was set to begin, but already the room was crowded. Word had evidently spread quickly, as it often did in Mayhill. And nearly everyone in the room was jammed into one corner, surrounding the newcomer.
Loren, who disliked looking eager, made his way over to the abandoned refreshment table at the other end of the room, trying not to be conspicuous as he eyed the newcomer. Despite the welcome party massed around him, the newcomer was partly visible, for he was several inches taller than any of the other men, and up to a foot and a half taller than the women. A man was standing in front of the newcomer at the moment – one of the Esses, his arm protectively curled round his em in an evident effort to keep her from throwing herself at the newcomer. So all that Loren could see was the top half of the newcomer's face: attentive eyes, honey-gold skin, and dark hair that curled loosely in a manner that made the newcomer look like a Hollywood sex god. Loren wished that his own hair was so well-behaved.
The potato chips at the refreshments table were as stale as always, the red fruit punch was too sweet, and the chocolate cupcakes were utterly inedible. Loren sampled them all, this being his best excuse for staying on this side of the room. He eyed the small podium at the center of the long wall, the whiteboard stand beside it, and the folding chairs lined up neatly in front of it. He doubted that anyone would be watching him this evening. Not unless he placed the newcomer next to him and used him to demonstrate the finer points of obeisance.
Darn, that was a tempting thought. Loren reached for the punch ladle, his mouth having suddenly gone dry.
In the next moment he spilled the punch onto the table. It ran like blood over the white tablecloth, then dripped down onto Loren's slacks. Loren barely noticed, even though these slacks had managed to last him for six years. The crowd at the end of the room had parted, giving him his first full glimpse of the newcomer.
A body like that of the man who had beach sand kicked in his face, after the man had undergone his wonderful transformation with the help of Charles Atlas. A face that the Hollywood sex god would have killed to borrow: full lips, high cheekbones, and a perfectly shaped nose, neither too broad nor too narrow. Strong hands, bare of any ring. More of that luscious sun-golden skin. And a uniform of bright blue, with gleaming buttons.
Well. This was something new. When the Mayhill police force sent its officers to the Black and Blue Club, the officers were usually disguised in mufti.
¶ Coming soon. More information about Edgeplay in Mayhill.
When he finally dared to look up, the trucker's eyes were narrow again. "Oh-ho," the other man said softly. "So that's the deal, is it? Who taught you that kind of stuff?"
He licked his lips, feeling the cracks there. "A friend."
"I always thought you cowboys must find some pretty wild ways to have fun during those long winter nights on the ranch." He stared down at Dick silently. Dick felt his heart beat hard in his throat, maybe thirty, forty times.
At last the trucker nodded. "It's good to know what you want out of life," he said. "And you're headed in the right direction to find it. Nellies ain't going to give you that sort of entertainment. You need real men if you want that, and you'd better be tough to take it. You're going to have to give in return, though. Not everyone's taste is as narrow as yours."
"I know," Dick said, voice low.
The trucker gave a sharp laugh. "Yeah, you've figured that out, haven't you? You played me a pretty tune to get me to this point."
He shook his head furiously, feeling all choked up. "Nope, mister. I wasn't trying to herd you. If you want—" He hesitated, trying to voice what he'd been thinking. "A gift. That's all. If you please."
The trucker nodded slowly. "Yeah, okay. A gift. Your reward for a job well done. Son, you lied before. You are looking for a sugar daddy. It's just a different kind of sugar you want."
¶ Coming soon. More information about Water in a Drought.
If you wish, continue to the
Main Bookshelf excerpts.
Cover designs: Dusk Peterson. Cover art credits. Permission is granted for the reposting and reprinting of the covers for the purposes of providing information on the books. Please link to duskpeterson.com if possible.
See the links to the already published texts and videos for their copyright notices.
Pre-publication
text copyright © 1995-2007 Dusk Peterson. All rights reserved. The
text on this page is copyrighted and may not be printed, posted, e-mailed,
or otherwise distributed except with permission of the author. You may
save one copy and print out one copy of this page for your personal use.