Tuesday, September 26, 2017

SPORTING A RED BUTT available now!

Hi all,

I've started publishing collections of M/M spanking erotica under the name Ace Regent. The first of these collections, Sporting a Red Butt: Four M/M Tales of Sports and Spanking, is available now on Amazon! The stories are similar to past J.A. Rock fare, but I decided on a separate pen name because Ace Regent's focus is kink rather than romance, and Ace's books are all collections of short stories, rather than novels. So don't necessarily expect HEAs (though many of the stories have romantic undertones), but expect a lot of (loving) discipline.

You can sign up for Ace’s mailing list to receive news and excerpts specific to Ace Regent. Or, if you're a member of the J.A. rock/Lisa Henry joint newsletter This Rebus Does Not Work, I'll send out Ace updates there as well.

In the world of competitive sports, adrenaline runs high—and egos run higher.

Some young men can’t check their attitudes without a little help from a coach, a teammate, or a good friend.

Some young men have a secret craving to be kept in line the old-fashioned way.

Two longtime friends discover another side to their relationship during a high stakes table tennis tournament where the loser faces stinging consequences. A talented but lazy college swimmer receives some extra motivation from his coach. A shy, ambitious equestrian experiments with an unorthodox method of stress relief with his trainer, and an arrogant wrestler who embarrasses his mentor during a dinner party finds the tables turned in humiliating fashion.

Bratty or shy, ambitious or indolent, the men in these four tales all end up getting exactly what they need: hard disciplinary spankings at the hands of those who care about them. 

Excerpt from Sporting a Red Butt:

“Take stock of your body.” Elias’s voice was low but firm. They’d been doing this exercise for the three years Elias had been his trainer—usually while Malthe was in the saddle. Take stock of your body. Where is your weight? Where are you holding tension? How do the reins feel in your hands? What sort of energy do you get from the horse beneath you?

            Malthe tried now to divide his body into components, take stock of each one. Encountered only chaos.
            “I can’t,” he said tightly.
            “Why not?”
            He didn’t answer right away, afraid if he did, he’d start shouting. And wouldn’t that be perfect barn gossip? Soft-spoken Malthe, who kept his head down and did his work with precision and dedication, having a complete meltdown. In front of Elias, no less.
            “Shit,” he burst out. “I fucked everything up! The qualifiers for Nationals are basically here, and if this is the way I’m gonna ride, then why am I even bothering?” His voice sounded horribly loud. He’d never lost his temper in front of anyone before, except maybe once or twice in front of his mother as a teenager. He’d certainly never spewed his problems at Elias this way.
            He flexed his fingers, nearly curling his hands into fists. Three years of Elias’s quiet, patient direction. Of Malthe’s hard work and utter devotion to the sport. Of shared looks that sometimes lingered a little too long. Of Malthe, too shy, too afraid of ruining their working relationship to ever ask.
            Could you ever want me?
            Do you want me?
What would Elias think if he knew the full extent of Malthe’s obsession with perfection? If he could witness the moments of violent self-loathing that Malthe tried his best to keep private?
            Yes, Elias could read his moods—sometimes seemed to read his mind. But if he knew everything…
            He’d think I was a headcase.
            Now Malthe did clench his hands into fists. Let the sharp ache of his realization send more words tumbling out of him. “I’m a fucking loser. I don’t know why you ever took me on! My control on the lateral movements is shit; my flying changes don’t even happen half the time. You made me believe I had a—a potential that I just don’t. I hate…” He dug his nails into his palms. “This,” he finished lamely.
            “Done?” Elias’s smile was not unsympathetic.
            “I don’t know,” Malthe muttered.
            Elias set his water aside. Placed his clasped hands on the table and leaned forward. Malthe almost drew back at the hot, prickling sensation that went up his spine. Elias’s blue eyes were soft, but his tone was firm.
            “You are a talented rider. The work you’ve done with Brise makes me envious.”
            Envious? Internationally ranked Elias Jeppessen, envious of him?
            “Your form is beautiful. Your ability to take direction, a dream for any trainer. You could easily go to Nationals, and you could do very well there.” Elias paused. “But you’re too much in your head. You let your anxiety and frustration get the better of you. I sense that. Brise senses that.”
            Malthe’s neck and face heated.
            “You control it well, from an outside perspective. You do. But it still affects your horse. It affects the team. And you. You push yourself too hard.”
            “I need the practice.”
            “You need to rest, eat, and have a life outside of this.”
            Malthe stared at his hands.
            “Trust me,” Elias said, leaning forward a little more, as though in an effort to get Malthe to meet his eye. “That’s the only way I’ve stayed sane.”
            “You’re out here every day,” Malthe protested. “You live and breathe this.”
            “Used to. Now I also go to the movies, read books, watch stupid shit on the internet.” He sat back. “Find some hobbies. Relax a little. You’ll be a better rider for it, believe me.”
            Malthe finally raised his head. Looked right into Elias’s eyes and said, frankly, “I don’t know how.”
            Elias waited, patient as always.
            Malthe shook his head. “I really don’t. It’s this vicious cycle in my head. I’m riding great, and then I fuck something up, and then I hate myself so much I can’t even…I can’t get past it. I’m stuck there. So I tell myself I need to practice more, and more…”
            Elias drummed his fingers lightly on the table, fighting a smile. “Believe it or not, you’re not the first rider to have this problem.”
            “I know,” Malthe whispered. He noted how stunning Elias looked right now, dressed in his short-sleeved navy polo and breeches a slightly darker gray that Malthe’s. He wanted to believe Elias could help him, even as he feared being honest with the other man. “I’ll do better, I promise,” he said very quietly. “You won’t have to waste your time with this again.” He started to rise.
            “Malthe.” Elias’s voice was just this side of sharp. Malthe’s head snapped up and then he stilled, barely out of his seat. “How is this a waste of my time? Coaching you is my job.”
            And there it was. A reaffirmation of exactly what Malthe had been telling himself. This is a working relationship. He wants you to snap out of this so you don’t fuck up his reputation as a trainer. Not because he cares about you.
            Bleakness settled over Malthe again. “I don’t know what to do,” he murmured, more to himself than to Elias.
            After a long, unbearable silence, Elias said, thoughtfully, “I might have an idea.”
            Elias opened his mouth but didn’t say anything for a moment. “It would require a lot of trust from you.”
            Sunlight from the small window caught the gold in his hair. Made his pale eyes sparkle.
“You can say no, of course. I don’t want you to think I’m crazy.”
            What the hell was he talking about? Was he going to perform some kind of back alley lobotomy on Malthe to get rid of those self-loathing thoughts?        
            “Wh…what’s the idea?”
            Elias studied him another few seconds, then seemed to make a decision. “Come with me.”
            Malthe followed him out of the lounge and into the deserted tack room. Elias pulled the main door shut. Malthe inhaled deeply. He’d always loved the scent of this room—leather and sawdust and the salty tang of horse sweat. Elias walked past the rows of gleaming dressage saddles and perfectly hung leather bridles to the canister of crops and whips. Malthe stopped, the faintest twinge in his gut.
            Elias drew out a long, thin black dressage whip with a silver-tipped handle—the one he preferred when he rode. The whip was well-made—carbon core covered in tightly braided nylon, forty-four inches long, with a three-inch lash.

            Were they going riding?