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Jay’s Covers by Design
Release Date: 23 June, 2015
Tyler Knoll was born one wild, stormy night in April 2013.
Of course, Tyler might tell you he was born twenty years earlier, but should we believe anything he says? That’s for you to decide.
In Tyler’s first adventure—like many a gay man before him—he was SNARED by gay porn, wallowing in tales of bigger, stronger, harder….
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TYLER KNOLL’S JUST FOR FUN
This seminal work of the famous author has been rescued from the ether by A.B. Gayle and is reprinted here in its original format, unedited by us and unabridged.
Originally the three stories were published separately with each new release being eagerly anticipated by fans. In an effort to maximize affordability, Snared, Shredded and Slashed will be combined with a brand new episode: Screwed. Expected publication date June 2015.
In the meantime, to introduce you to Tyler Knoll and his unique style of writing, we are releasing his first book as a standalone. The suggestion this is to cash in on popular best-seller lists is vigorously denied.
To be strictly accurate there are lots of changes, so: Even though the author broke many writing rules, an executive decision was made to present the work as closely as possible to the original self-published edition. Any complaints about inconsistency in tone and voice should be directed to his original editor.
All we know is that Tyler Knoll was born one wild, stormy night in April 2013.
Of course he might tell you he’d been born twenty years earlier, but should we believe anything he says? Whatever the date of his conception, Tyler’s writing reflects the books that influenced his life.
First off, like more than one gay man, he was snared by gay porn, wallowing in tales of bigger, stronger, harder. But then his fickle mind was drawn to tales of bondage and beatings.
When a Big Misunderstanding nearly cost him his sanity, or even his life, he turned to another genre for his salvation. But that encounter also proved hazardous—not from the cold, but from irate fans.
Finally, he discovered—like many storybook heroes before him—that sometimes our Mr. Right is closer than we think.
This is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or business establishments, events, or locales is coincidental.
Resemblance to fictional characters? That’s another matter.
The title says it all.
“ARE YOU sure this is the place?” The towering monstrosity of concrete and glass didn’t scream Funtastic Friday to me.
Dilbert checked his cell and nodded. “This is where Rupert said he’d be having drinks with Robert, Rick, and Charles.”
Dilbert had only arrived from Australia a month ago, but he already knew all the other gay guys who worked for the firm. I was lucky to get a passing sneer from them.
He’d complained to Rupert about the drought both here and at home, so I’d assumed we were going to a gay bar. Get lucky. Get laid. Wasn’t that what gay guys do for fun on a Friday night? But this was Classe with a capital “C” and an “e” at the end just for effect. Dilbert might fit in here, but I’d have had more luck if it had been of the other variety. A dingy, poorly lit hellhole with traces of spilled drinks, blood, and semen lovingly impregnated into the bare concrete. This edifice of the capitalistic establishment was right in the heart of the business district. The patrons made more money in a week than I made in a year.
Now to see if Rupert was right. He’d often boasted of the classy fucks he and his friends scored every Friday night, and he thought this might be the answer to Dilbert’s problem. I was surprised when Dilbert insisted they wanted me to come, too.
I can see your raised eyebrows from here. Classy fucks? Hook-ups? That’s reducing men to sex objects instead of the other half of a loving, meaningful relationship!
Well, what do you expect? Unlike a lot of the gay population, I don’t hanker after the gold ring, picket fence, two-and-a-half dogs, and promises of undying devotion. I’m a twenty-year-old red-blooded American! I just want to get laid.
Preferably by a prick that reaches all the way to his stomach.
And halfway to mine.
You know the ones. They’re so long that the last little bit actually hurts as it straightens out some section of your bowel that isn’t too familiar with that kind of kink. TMI? Yeah, well, if that sort of thing bothers you, send the book back to Amazon NOW and demand a refund. Or were you going to wait until you finished reading it first? Typical!
I made a last-ditch effort to avoid a night of boredom. “Let’s go back to the sports bar we went to last Friday. The one with a different rugby match on every screen.” We’d watched reruns of what Dilbert called sevens or fourteens. Numbers that didn’t make a lot of sense and rules that made even less, but I didn’t care. Not with all that bare skin on display as players dived on top of each other, grabbing balls. In the process, we discovered we liked the same kind of guy. Big strong men with muscles on muscles. Holy cow, some of those players were hot. Massive shoulders and thighs, even without padding. The exact opposite of two desk jockeys like us. I couldn’t imagine I’d meet anything like that here.
Dilbert’s eyes brightened for a second, and then his mouth firmed. “Not tonight, Tyler. I need to get to know my workmates better.”
Huh? I thought he was here to get laid.
Dilbert pushed open the heavy glass door and swept into the foyer as if he did this every night. Maybe all Aussies have that degree of confidence.
Now for the biggie. I flashed the fake ID one of my former roommates had made for me. He managed to get drunk most weekends thanks to the number he sold to his freshmen buddies. He did a pretty good job, too, as long as you didn’t look too closely, but this place was so snooty it might require retinal scans and bank balances. Last week, Dilbert had asked me whether I was over eighteen. I know I don’t look twenty-one, because I’m only twenty. But eighteen? Shit!
I needn’t have worried. The guy behind the desk gave the ID a quick glance and shoved a leather-bound book at us to sign. Dilbert made me go first, and then scrawled his name and address. I tried to see what he was writing, because I still didn’t know his real name or where he lived, but he’s a lefty, so his arm obscured the page. Apparently he hated his real name, and since he looks so much like the famous cartoon character he didn’t object when someone called him that at school.
We found our coworkers droning on and on about their boring day while checking out the suits at the bar. Not that suits were a big deal in our line of work, but ours cost a fraction of the ones worn by the five guys they were discussing.
Not wanting to be caught staring, I sat facing in the other direction and squeezed the lime into my Corona, happily sipping it while Dilbert chatted like he’d known them for years.
Suddenly, I sensed someone was watching me. I tugged at my collar, loosening my tie a fraction. You’d think a classy joint like this would have mirrors on the walls so you could see who was cruising who without being obvious. No such luck. This was all stained timber and the occasional out-of-focus painting. More like a swanky gentleman’s club than a bar. I’d have to turn around to see if my suspicions were correct. Too uncool!
So why was I depriving myself of the sight of these glorious specimens of executive manhood? Two reasons. Since you’ve read this far, it’s probably time to let you in on a little secret. I’m into all types of porn, but suit porn hovers near the top of the list, hence my reluctance to betray that fact by having a permanent hard-on while checking out their threads. The other reason was because the guys in these immaculate suits all worked on the upper floors of Whoosit & Whatsit.
Now, before you scoff and say there’s no such place, let me assure you that I may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but I’m not stupid enough to divulge the real name of my employers. You might out me to my boss in the mail room.
The thing is, Mrs. Stringer wouldn’t give two hoots if you did. I’m the lowly guy who hand-delivers important contracts to the upper floors for signing. Nothing special. Just a hopeless idiot who barely made it through high school, thanks to his inability to get the middle letters of words in the correct order, and who still can’t see the connection between hippopotamuses—beasts that lurk in mud pools—and triangles. Aren’t they swanky orchestral instruments?
And in case you’re wondering how a dyslexic ignoramus like me can produce such flawless spelling and wonderful prose, it’s called an editor. I’d tell you her name, but then she might show you the original text, and I’d never live down the embarrassment.
Mind you, she wanted me to delete that last statement, saying no editor would ever be so unprofessional, but since she didn’t mind me taking a swipe at readers, she’s fair game.
Damn. Now I’ve lost the plot and we’re not even halfway through the first chapter! I better backtrack over what I’ve told you so far: Bar. Check. Friday night. Check. Suits. Check. Weird feeling. Ah, that’s right. I felt someone watching me. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat.
Rupert, who was sitting opposite me, kept glancing at the group near the bar and then back at me, as if he was watching some kind of tennis match.
But before I continue with this sordid tale, I should tell you more about the other people at my table. You’ve already met Dilbert. As I said, he’s an Aussie. So, if I inadvertently include words you don’t understand, blame him, as they’re probably Aussie slang. He’s working on expanding my vocabulary.
Seated next to Dilbert was Charles. He’s your classic twink. Young. Good-looking. Blue eyes surrounded by lashes that fan out like moth’s wings. They can cause just as much havoc, too. Once he fluttered them at a rich bullfighter who suffered from a wicked streak of jealousy. I heard it took weeks for the gay bars in Majorca to get back to normal after he left.
Sitting beside Charles was Rick the Prick. He isn’t really a prick. He’s actually quite a nice guy, but he was blessed with such a humungous dick that, given his small stature, it makes him look like he has three legs. Especially when kneeling. Which he is. Often. Usually with someone’s dick thrust deep down his throat. I don’t think anyone dares let that thing near their ass. Not that he’d ever offer. Like all of us, he’s a card-carrying bottom.
The ironic thing is that even though Rick’s talented, he isn’t as good a cocksucker as Oral Robert. Stop laughing. And if you’re not, check out Wikipedia. Back? Good. You see, with a name like Robert, and a perdeliction… preledickion… fucking great talent for deep-throating, what other name could we give him?
I’d seen him around the mail room a few times. Not that he spends much time there. Rumor has it that he has a desk job. Not at a desk. Under it. On his knees, checking for any paper clips that might have been dropped. Yeah. As if anyone would believe that excuse.
Once, I’d tried to get him to check under my desk and up-ended a whole box, but he just gave me the finger and laughed. He wasn’t sharing his secrets, at least not with an underling like me. Apparently he had worked his way up to the second-highest floor and was determined to reach the top. Good luck to him, that’s all I’d say.
Dilbert had told me that they came here every Friday after work. Came in a literal and figurative sense. I’d met them all at various times, but never became friends. They were all snobs. Executive snobs. They only fucked guys in expensive suits, and the times we’d come into contact were few and far between. Given my lowly position in the establishment, I wasn’t sure why I’d been invited. Especially with Rupert here.
Ah, Rupert. I deliberately saved him for last.
My rival. Or at least he seemed to think he was. From day one, he’d taken an instant dislike to me. Why? I haven’t got a clue. I’m not better looking or anything like that. With his looks, he could have gone straight to the top without even trying. Just one glimpse of his big, bouncing bubble butt would have had any Top salivating. And didn’t he like to flash it around at every opportunity.
I’m not sure why he hated me. Maybe I had lingered too long in his boss’s office after bringing in some documents to sign. Mr. Harrison’s office. Mr. Dermot Vincent Harrison’s office, to be more accurate. Why shouldn’t I?
Every gay guy in the firm lusted after the big boss. Now there was a vision to jerk off to at night. Over six feet tall, face like a movie star, and a body like a pornographer’s dream. Too bad he was straight. And he had a lovely wife. And three of the most adorable children you could wish for. And, judging by the photo on his desk, a fucking adorable dog. To make matters worse, Mr. Harrison was nice. He always had a smile and a pleasant word to share.
One day, after I left his office, Rupert caught me adjusting my crotch and didn’t hesitate to remind me that Mr. Harrison was off limits. Sheesh, hadn’t the guy ever heard of “Gay for You”? I’m sure just five minutes alone in my company and I’d be able to turn him! As if.
I sighed. Maybe I could get another dog one day. They didn’t care if you were gay.
Holy moly. It was happening again. Worse this time. Like someone had repeatedly run a comb through my hair, making the fine hairs at the nape stand on end. After smoothing the recalcitrant hairs down, I gave my collar another tweak. This was getting ridiculous, but turning around to see who Rupert was staring at was out of the question. I wasn’t that desperate.
Faking a casualness I was far from feeling, I rose to my feet and mumbled something about having to take a leak.
Now, I bet I know what you’re all thinking.
You’ve probably read loads of porn with this setup. No? I have. In them, the hero is followed into the restroom by the man of his dreams. Before he has time to take a piss, he’s shoved against the door so no one else can come in and given a pounding. Yep? You’ve read those, too. I knew you had! Hah.
I took my time putting my chair back in so no one would trip over it. While I did, I checked out the group at the bar more closely. They now numbered six. Given Rupert’s fascination, I was disappointed and surprised to note that the newcomer wasn’t Dermot Harrison, but some instinct warned me that the guy I’d never seen before was the guy Rupert had been checking out. Why? I had no idea. But there was something familiar about him. Maybe it was his stance.
He and all the men in that particular group at the bar looked different from the other patrons, and it wasn’t just the hot-like-burning suits. They stood straighter. None of them had paunches or any of the other problems most guys in suits suffer from. No muffin tops rolling over belt lines or double chins betraying too many three-course, three-martini lunches.
This new guy didn’t have a belt for his stomach to roll over, or a suit for that matter. He looked like he’d just come off a tennis court. In white shorts and a sweat-stained T-shirt, his lack of formal attire didn’t detract from my initial impression that he was the equal of his companions, or maybe even their superior. Whenever he spoke, they inclined their heads politely. They had to. He was at least half a head shorter than they were.
At that instant, the stranger stared at me as if I’d spoken the words instead of just thinking them. Was there a balloon over my head with the words in it? Nah, only if this was a graphic novel.
Hitching my pants to hide the fact my cock had become semi-hard just from looking, I headed off to the restroom.
Now, I bet you think that this guy followed me. Dear, oh dear. You really should stop reading so many gay romances. None of that happened. Instead, I released a torrent of golden piss into the urinal. I didn’t get felt up, groped, or even ogled. Thank goodness. You should have seen the two guys who were in there. Yuck!
If I lingered longer than usual, it was because I was having trouble getting the hand dryer to work. Right? Not because I was too chicken to go out and be the target of that intense scrutiny again. To make matters worse, I hadn’t even had a chance to check out the guy’s package. Those shorts he was wearing wouldn’t have disguised much. Genghis Khan! When would these hormones stop raging? You’d think at twenty I’d have developed some sort of control, but this was ridiculous. Now I had a real hard-on.
Before any of my elderly companions thought my erection might be due to their presence, I sought refuge in one of the cubicles and jerked off. It didn’t take long. Suits, shirts, shorts, shoes, and socks all came off, to be replaced by a veritable orgy of naked bodies. Did I happen to mention that I have a very vivid imagination? No? Well, now I have.
I shouldn’t have stayed in there so long. By the time I returned, Charles, Robert, and Dilbert had disappeared, along with three members from the group at the bar. Now two of the suited executives and the guy in the tennis outfit occupied their seats. In my absence they’d rearranged themselves, so Rupert and Rick were separated by a suit, and the only remaining vacancy was opposite where Mr. Casual was sitting.
I remained standing behind the only vacant chair. To make matters worse, my recently deflated prick threatened to get hard again. I opened my mouth to say I’d better leave, too, when the guy stared at me and mouthed the word, “Sit.”
Maybe he actually spoke out loud, but the blood rushing in my ears drowned out any sound if he did. I swallowed and obeyed his command. As soon as I did, my two remaining friends and the two suits stood and made their farewells.
To view Book Trailer, click HERE