Phaze Fantasies, Vol. III Read online

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  Phaze

  www.phaze.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Phaze Authors

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Fantasies III

  Six Tales of Homoerotic Fiction

  by

  James Buchanan, Jade Falconer,

  Eliza Gayle, Jamie Hill,

  Selah March, and Yeva Wiest

  Phaze

  6470A Glenway Avenue, #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 1-59426-544-5

  Fantasies III © 2007 by James Buchanan, Jade Falconer, Eliza Gayle, Jamie Hill, Selah March, and Yeva Wiest

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover art © 2007 by Alessia Brio

  Edited by Kathryn Lively

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  Table of Contents

  Mask *

  Devotion *

  Dragon's Fate *

  Heads Or Tails *

  Hardcore *

  Behind the Beard *

  About the Authors *

  Mask

  by James Buchanan

  Also by James Buchanan

  Twice the Cowboy

  Lord Carabas

  Cry Melusine

  Martín lay on his back under the cottonwoods. Straddling his hips, Hector reached towards the clouds and stretched. Every nerve in Martín's body awoke with the movement. A cloudless azure sky danced above the leaves behind Hector's head as the sun baked their bodies. If you looked too long into the distance, earth and sky would shimmer, melt into each other.

  With eyes of burled mahogany, Hector stared down at Martín. Hector's shiny black bangs fell damp about his face, his lips parted just so, drinking in the dust. The rough wool from the serape beneath Martín's back was so different from the soft plane of Hector's pale skin. Both drove his senses as he ran his fingers up Hector's sweat-slick chest. He marveled at the differences between them: rough hands on smooth flesh, his fingers so dark against Hector's body.

  "Mi Corazón,” Hector drew his thumb across Martín's cheek. Trembling, Martín turned into the touch to kiss his palm. “Don't ever leave me."

  How could Hector ever think such a thing? Martín laughed, “I cannot leave you.” Thick heat sucked the marrow from their bones. The buzz of the cicadas thrummed in time with his heart. He lifted his hips, their pricks sliding against each other, satin flesh rubbing satin flesh. Both men swallowed their moans.

  "You could.” Hector shifted, rubbing their naked thighs together. Such gentle contact was both heaven and hell. “I wouldn't stop you."

  Whispering the words against Hector's burning hand, Martín breathed, “My soul would wither and die if I left you."

  Hector Aritza was so handsome, so special, and his. The blood of Spanish kings ran through Hector's veins. Royal blood was in Martín's heritage, too. His grandmother was the daughter of an Apache war chief who'd been taken as captive by Hector's grandfather. Don Sebastian Aritza Guerrero would roll in his grave if he could see his heir on his knees for the son of a mestizo slave: no matter that Martín might carry Don Sebastian's blood as well. Sinful, wrong, and so good: when they were boys it was just playing. But now, now they shared each other as lovers, as men.

  Bending down, Hector's cock slid against Martín's own throbbing length. Two pricks trapped between slick skin and each other, in Martín's mind the contact neared perfection. He pulled Hector closer and sought his lips. Lingering hints of salt tickled Martín's tongue. The gentle kiss soon turned hard and needful as Hector rocked his hips. Hector's touch churned fire in Martín's own cock. Simple, but so good this way, even if they had to be quick today.

  Hector shivered despite the heat, pressing his forehead into the hollow of Martín's throat. “Corazón! Corazón!” Hector chanted.

  Martín never tired of hearing those words; he would go to the ends of the earth to hear that whispered in his ear. It was true. Their hearts, locked together since childhood, belonged to each other. Martín thrust hard against Hector's belly. His hands sought out every of inch of the lean hard body, running fire up his own arms. Long ago, Martín memorized the hollows, ridges, and scars that made up the map of his Hector.

  Martín added his own voice to that of his lover. “Te adoro!" He treasured Hector beyond reason. Time and again their pricks rubbed each other. The world faded, blurred at the edges, centering only on Hector and how he moved in Martín's arms. Hector gasped. He shook and then slick heat flooded across Martín's stomach.

  Martín's swollen cock ached. He longed to be inside his lover and bring him to shudders again. Instead, he grabbed Hector's hips, grinding himself into the sticky juices cooling between them. Laughing, Hector reared back just enough to stare into Martín's eyes. Lust, satisfaction, and love all poured through the gaze. Martín managed to gasp, “Hector!” before he was carried up and over into ecstasy.

  Hector collapsed, still chuckling, against him. “Te amo, Martín.” I love you! Every time Hector said it, Martín's heart danced like the first time. “Stay with me."

  "Always.” Martín swept his fingers across Hector's shoulder, making the other man twitch. “I was given to you as a boy, and you give yourself to me now.” He smiled to take the sting out of the words. “I could never leave you."

  "I gave you your freedom.” Hector rolled off Martín's frame and onto his back. For a moment he stared up at the endless sky. Then slowly his eyes drifted shut.

  Playing in the slick shine sparkling on Hector's skin, Martín teased, “And bound me to you forever.” It earned him a soft, drowsy laugh. “Don Aritza, you are not allowed to fall asleep on me."

  "Why not?"

  Martín hated to remind them both of why. “Because,” scrambling to his knees and then gaining his feet, he snorted, “your betrothed will arrive from Monterey any day now and you must be close at hand when she does."

  "I don't want to be married.” Hector sat up with a groan and ran his hand through his short cropped hair. The sun twisted strands of silver and gold into the locks as they fell into place. He glared up at Martín. “I don't know this woman except by a miniature painting and a few stilted letters."

  Digging their clothes from a tangled pile, Martín tossed Hector his pants before hopping into his own. “Your father took great pains to arrange this marriage before he died. You should count yourself lucky to wed a Frenchwoman with ties to the Emperor."

  Still sitting, Hector struggled into his tight britches. “I don't count myself lucky at all.” His next words were muffled by his shirt as he drew it over his head. “I would rather just be with you."

  There was no serviceable reply to that. Instead, Martín concentrated on finishing dressing. Drab trousers, shirt, and vest all were better then most men could afford
. Martín finished stamping into worn boots before snagging his rifle from the ground.

  When he turned, Martín almost lost his breath at the sight of his lover. One day he might be inured to the view, but thankfully not yet.

  Hector fumbled with the last button on his short cropped, shell coat as he stood up. The deep green fabric accented warm brown eyes. Every angle and plane of his sharp frame was cast into relief by the cut of his tight clothes. His secretive smile, when he caught Martín staring, caused the man's heart to buck in his chest. Hector sauntered over, slapping the dust from his broad brimmed hat. “You know,” he slid his arm about Martín's waist, “you will always be my true love."

  "And you mine.” Martín reveled in the touch. “But you must act like a proper gentleman, Don Aritza, and be married whether you like it or not. I have the luxury of staying a bachelor if I choose.” They stood together for a moment. Neither wanted it to end. Still, Martín always knew things could not stay as they had been forever. Life demanded other things from them. “We both understood this would happen someday."

  Hector pulled him in tight. “I understood, but didn't want to believe.” Then, with a deep sigh, Hector turned toward his horse, pulling Martín along by the grip around his middle. As they passed, Martín grabbed the blanket from the ground and tossed it across his shoulder.

  Fiel, bay coat shimmering in the sun, whickered a greeting to both men. Reluctantly, Martín disengaged himself from Hector's grip. He loosed the reins tethering the horse to a scraggly Mesquite bush while Hector swung up into the saddle. Passing the reins to the mounted man, Martín grabbed Hector's outstretched left hand with his own. His foot supported by his lover's gave him some purchase. With a grunt Martín swung up behind the other man.

  "Home, then?” Hector shot the question over his shoulder.

  Martín didn't answer, as the query didn't require one. He tightened his arms around Hector's middle when he heard the “Heya!” Fiel surged beneath their legs.

  Horses always ran faster when headed towards their manger, and Fiel was no exception. A wild ride through the bosque brought them to the edge of town where Hector reined him back to fast walk. Not more than a single lane, bordered by loose rock paths, drifted through the pueblo. Whitewashed adobes faced a zocalo filled with scraggly trees and beaten dirt. Holding tight to Hector's waist, they bounced through at a decent clip. When they hit the edge of the small cluster of buildings, Hector spurred the bay into a gallop, heading for home.

  Stands of knife leafed agaves wove among saguaro and prickly-pear. Cactus ringed the perimeter of the hacienda, its red clay roof visible as the horse made a rise in the road. It kept all but the most determined marauder out. That, and the thick adobe wall with its broad grease wood gate and broken glass set into the top. Normally, the gates would be shut tight, only a little inset door left open for callers. Today, however, the entry stood open.

  Rocks dropped one by one into Martín's stomach. That could only mean one thing. Even Fiel sensed it and, snorting, broke the pace himself. Slowing to a walk, they entered the hacienda courtyard.

  As Hector reined their mount to a stop, Martín slid from the back of the animal, adjusting his vest and stamping tight-legged trousers back over his boot tops. He stepped aside as Hector swung out of the saddle and jumped to the ground. When standing together people joked they could hardly tell the men apart, although Hector's fair skin had not been browned by working in the sun, and he cropped his hair short as was the style among important men. Martín carried a few years that the Don did not. But their smiles and the light in their eyes hinted at an unspoken shared lineage.

  A young boy, his loose white pants and open shirt billowing, ran to grab the bridle and led Fiel off to the stable. Martín tousled the boy's black hair as he passed, heading toward the crowd that had gathered around the perimeter of the courtyard. Under the eves of the outdoor kitchen, women in Indian blanket skirts, calico tops, and shawls thrown over their heads whispered to each other as they shushed their babies with bounces. Their husbands stood off in tight knots, trying not to look interested. At the center of their attention a carriage rested, its sides covered in tan dust, and a team of horses stood lathered from their pull. In front of that a woman they'd all been waiting months to catch a glimpse of paced. In her wake trailed a dowdy, older matron, fussing and fretting like a mother hen.

  Fine, embroidered linen covered the young woman's head and draped about her shoulders. A fringe of ginger curls framed her high forehead. The traveling dress she wore was a demure dark brown, with a high collar for modesty and a cinched waist. Her face could have been beautiful if her expression had not been half so haughty. Lolita Moreau, the soon to be mistress of the hacienda, surveyed her tiny fiefdom as though the peasants might crawl forth and bite her. She snapped a command and her attendant jerked as though whipped.

  Off to one side another woman watched. Doña Aritza, Hector's mother, pursed her lips and seemed to be almost in prayer. When she caught sight of Hector and Martín an honest smile broke over her face. Señora Aritza gathered her skirts and headed across the small court toward her son.

  "Hector,” Martín hissed out of the side of his mouth, “that's your bride?” It was both a question and a show of sympathy. They could only hope the long trip soured her and that it was not her normal disposition.

  Hector swallowed. “The painting made her prettier."

  "Artists will do that.” He nodded, fussing with the scarf at his neck. “If she didn't seem like such a shrew she might fit the image."

  With a sigh, Hector held out his hands for his mother, cupping her frail fingers into his palms. “I see the Señorita arrived safely.” His tone indicated he rather wished she hadn't.

  "Sí, mi'jo, she is here.” Señora Aritza's voice echoed agreement with her son's. After a heavy pause, she continued. “Come, let me introduce you.” Turning, she led them across the yard, her arm laced through Hector's, Martín following a respectful distance behind.

  At their approach, Doña Lolita looked up and smiled. Martín shook off a vision of too many teeth, and reminded himself that Hector was liable to incite smiles in almost anyone. However, when the lady caught sight of Martín standing behind Hector, her dark eyes narrowed and her lips went tight. Apparently, she was not overly fond of the common Mexican. With a final glare in his general direction, Doña Lolita gave her attention back to Señora Aritza.

  "My dear,” the Señora began, pushing her son slightly forward, “my son, Hector Luz Aritza."

  Hector dropped his eyes and stared at his boots. “Muy amable, Señorita. Welcome, I trust your journey was pleasant?"

  "Is that any way for a groom to greet his future bride?” The words poured forth like rancid honey. “Staring at the dirt and unwilling to look her in the eye?"

  Hector snorted and looked up. “No, you are correct.” Turning slightly to catch Martín's eye, Hector raised his eyebrows in question. Martín shrugged. He did not like this woman. It went beyond her demeanor. It went beyond the irrational resentment he had for her ... no woman could take Hector from him. Still, something cold slithered down his spine each time she breathed. For a moment the men held each other's gazes: Martín tried to cover his unease and Hector seemed to offer reassurance. Both broke the link at near the same time. Hector's smile tightened as he returned his attention to his bride-to-be. “Welcome to your new home. I hope you will be happy here."

  Ignoring the pleasantry, Lolita called, “Tante!” Fingers curled, almost pulling the older woman towards her as with strings, “bring me the gift."

  "Gift?” Startled, Hector shifted. His mother patted his arm. Martín stood, suspicion gnawing at his insides.

  The wedding gifts had been exchanged months before between the families. Again he shrugged the unquiet off. It was not out of the ordinary for small presents to be exchanged between betrothed. He should have thought to have one prepared in this event. Such things went with his duties as Hector's mayordomo y compañero. Fingering the sma
ll, etched coin hung about his neck on a cord, Martín's brain scrambled for an answer. Hector gave him the trinket years ago as a token of his love. Absently, Martín's fingers traced the pattern of a hand holding a heart carved into the surface of the metal.

  Ah, well, they hadn't known exactly when the Señorita would arrive. Martín would insure they procured something appropriate before dinner; maybe the crucifix which had belonged to Hector's great-grandmother might be proper.

  A soft snick jerked Martín's attention back. The Señorita held the lapel of Hector's jacket with one thin hand. In the other she held a broach, with the pin back sprung. Two open witches’ hearts, their tails turned to the left, were crowned in gold. Garnets glittered red. Lolita smiled and leaned in to pin the charm.

  "Aye!” Hector jumped back, hand on his chest. Martín stepped to his side, glaring at the woman.

  Fox-like eyes narrowed, Lolita stood and watched as a single drop of blood fell from the tip of the pin. Her gaze tracked it as it tumbled to the earth. Then she looked up. “How clumsy of me,” she purred, “to stick my husband like that. I must be tired.” She folded her hand over the broach. “Perhaps someone could show me to my room."

  Hector was the first to respond. “Of course, Señorita, I will show you to your apartments.” His voice seemed thick to Martín's ears, like he was speaking with a mouth full of molasses. Offering her his arm, Hector glanced at Martín. Maple eyes grew cloudy, then Hector blinked and Martín thought he must have imagined it. Slowly Hector turned and led his bride to be into the hacienda. Martín, the Señora and finally the woman called Tante, drifted in their wake.

  The house had been built by Hector's great grandfather. It was a grand structure: two stories with several bedrooms, a large kitchen, dining hall, and long corridors leading to storage rooms and closets. By the sour look on the Señorita's face, Martín could tell she was far from impressed. True, it wasn't the scale of some homes in the capitol, but still the hacienda had been well furnished. They passed by a life-sized portrait of Virgin and Child and Lolita snorted derisively. Martín always liked that painting.