Glory Lands Blog Tour
May 6, 2014 Filed under: guest blogger
I’m excited to be part of the Glory Lands blog tour today. Here’s more on Vastine Bondurant’s latest release. Enter the Rafflecopter giveaway below for fantastic prizes a $100 Victoria’s Secret giftcard or a $100 Amazon giftcard.
A Texas Piney Woods Story
Rural East Texas, 1931. Preacher’s son Emory Joe Logan and a fiddler from Shreveport, Glory Lands, meet and form a tender bond. When they are caught and arrested for homosexual acts by Sheriff Elihu Bishop, the lawman’s sanctimonious bigotry threatens to rip the young men from their families.
Emory Joe’s father, Pastor Charles Logan, is brought to his knees in terror, confusion, and anger. He still regrets not standing up against Bishop when the lawman murdered a youth in cold blood nine years ago.
Now there’s no longer a choice for the preacher to stand up to the lawman. Cold-blooded justice, bigotry-disguised-as-religion, and hatred take on a whole new meaning when they’re standing on his doorstep, ready to take the son he loves.
What Readers Are Saying..
“…This story is beautifully written with charm and a very classy style. ” cathy- (Amazon)
But every so often a story comes along and absolutely annihilates me. Glory Lands is that story…~ Astrid (Amazon)
Oh, Emory Joe was a skinny country boy, a kid hidden deep in the heart of the piney woods. No imposing deity. But to look at him right then—the light in his bashful smile, the trust beginning to bloom in his eyes—he was a god to me.
Eyeing me with a lifted eyebrow that signaled he surely expected to shock me, he shrugged. “I have kissed a boy, you know.”
“Did you now?”
“Yes.” He braced his shoulders, his head tossed back. King of the county, he was. “I have.”
“Well, what do you know.” I nodded.
“Are you shocked?” So proud, so adorable.
“Do you want me to be shocked?”
“What I want is, if you were thinking of kissing me, for you to know it’s all right.”
Jesus Lordy Almighty.
“I’m not shocked.” The power of his gentle light paralyzed me. I wanted to step nearer, but couldn’t. “How could a fella not want to kiss you?”
Offering nothing but a faint turning up of the lips that eased the nervous needles burning my skin, Emory Joe slowly turned and made his way back to the bank.
Once standing on the sandy strip, he dropped his hands to his sides and scratched his fingers on his thighs. “Well, then….”
“You nervous, Emory Joe?” I advanced a step.
“Why, yes, kind of… I mean….”
“Those hands of yours, always a-goin’ to town on your pants legs.”
“Daddy teases me about it too. I am a might nervous.” Just as I opened my mouth to apologize, he tossed back his head, stopped his busy fingers, and smiled. “So….” And, his voice half-sure and half-trembly, he invited, “Would you like to kiss me?”
My pulse marched like a battalion of boots in my ears. I couldn’t hear my voice over the noise, but I thought I said, “I’d like very much to kiss you, Emory Joe.”
And he just stood there. Waiting. Smiling
Did I walk on the water or through it? Somehow I made it to the bank to his side.
He sighed. Those full lips parted and the blue eyes closed. Expectant. Willing.
I leaned, just inches from his lips, so close I could smell the readiness of him mingled with the red scent of the rose in my pocket, and something pleasant and electric filled the tiny space between us.
The touch of his lips. Soft, firm, giving, greedy, innocent, seasoned, sweet, spicy, playful, deadly serious. All that in one breath of a kiss.
Had I fainted? No, I stood on my two feet, but I couldn’t feel my legs. All I felt was Emory Joe and his want.
After a million years stuffed into one second, he pulled away, and I, like a baby bird straining for morsels at feeding time, stretched my neck to bring back the contact.
Happy and scared, I watched while he fumbled with the buckles at the straps of his overalls. Oh dear Jesus. “Emory Joe….”
I’d come to fish only to have the fish leap straight out of the water and into my hands, and it had set my brain spinning off-kilter.
“Shush.” He touched his finger to his lips.
Soon the straps fell from his shoulders and the bib unfolded, falling away. He pulled his shirt over his head to expose his pale chest with its glorious rosy nipples, then bent to carefully drape the shirt over a tree stump.
I wanted so badly to see the rest of him—naked, buck naked—but I was also afraid of that very thing. The desiring of something so bad you feared it might stop your heart.
But not heeding my silent terror, Emory Joe slowly tugged the overalls until they hugged his narrow hips to show me his flat belly and the tease of golden hair at his crotch.
“Emory Joe,” I whispered.
Had that been a protest or a plea?
With a soft curl of the lips, his eyes holding me in some beautiful suspension like a man leaping from a cliff but not falling, he gave one last pull of the overalls to send them and his underpants to a blue pile at his bare ankles.
In that sunlight filtering through the trees stood a man too comely and heavenly to be tucked out here in the middle of nowhere.
A beautiful erection nestled in a light patch of hair. The tip of his cock, pink as his nipples.
Gone were my thoughts of not being able to take him. I had to have him. Jesus Christ, that proverbial team of wild horses couldn’t stop me now, not with this delicate, naked beauty wanting what I wanted.
Emory Joe lifted a hand to pluck the rose from my pocket. Drawing even closer, he tucked it into the hair at my ear then began to unbutton my shirt.
My breath caught while his fingers fumbled at each buttonhole, the light pressure like the delicate fluttering of a baby chick’s wings. And, then—oh, goddamn, then—when he unfastened my trousers and tugged them along my hips. The tiny gasp he issued when my dick, so hard and aching, sprang free of the denim folds.
After placing our clothes over the tree stump, there we both stood. Nothing between our naked bodies but warm spring air and need.
Emory Joe sank to his knees in the sand, arched his chest and palmed his nipples. “Glory.”
To hear my name loaded with such want, spoken in such an unbearably gentle caress.
I followed suit and dropped to my knees, taking his hands in mine. His hands. Shaking, holding tight.
“Yeah?” I turned up his palms and pressed them to my lips.
The taste of his skin—a delicate mix of faded shaving lotion and roses.
Oh, the wonderful pain in my groin.
“Do something to me.” He turned the request into a soft little moan.
“What do you want me to do?” Grasping his wrists, I pulled him against me. His body, unbearably soft and writhing, the satiny hardness of his dick pressing into mine. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“I don’t know.” With his lips breathing the words onto my neck, he twined his fingers in the hair of my nape and squeezed. “It feels so good, I have to… to….” A whimper. “Please.”
Drawing back, I cupped my palm to his cheek, thumbed the downy stubble. “Have you really ever kissed a boy before, Emory Joe?
“No.” He glanced away to the creek. “Surely not because I haven’t wanted to. There’s just no boys like… me… to kiss in these parts.”
“Then let me see what I can do for a fella who’s never kissed a boy before.” A wispy, quick meeting of the lips. “Lie down, Emory Joe.”
His gaze fixed with mine, Emory Joe let his arms slide from my neck, and he slowly lowered himself onto his back in the sand. “Kiss me again.”
I lay beside him. “You liked kissing, then?”
He didn’t reply, just nodded, parted his lips, and lifted his head a bit.
“How much did you like it?” I sighed the words close to his mouth, reveling in the pleasure of the almost-touch of his lips.
Resting his head on the ground again, he traced his forefinger along my chin. “Very much.
About the Author:
I’m Texas born and raised, an old fashioned, bling-loving girly girl. I love to read and write stories of men and women and the sizzling chemistry that draws them together. Passion. My heart is helplessly bound to romance of a time long gone- gritty, sexy stories of men in fedoras and overcoats. Old Spice Aftershave, Lucky Strike cigarettes, fancy cuff links, hair pomade, mobsters. Clandestine whispers on Bakelite telephones from the shadows of cheesy restaurant phone booths. Stories of a time when sex was all the more sexy because it wasn’t plastered on every billboard—no naked Joes and dames in every ad in every magazine. Lovemaking—hot, sweet-and-naughty, a secret between lovers. My make believe world is sex and danger, hotter than Hades but wrapped up in a deceptive package—gals with soft skin, pretty lace slips, seamed stockings, satin peignoirs, powder puffs and Chanel No. 5. And the tough guys in dress shirts and suspenders who lust to get their hands on the garters they know tease just beneath those kick pleats. I’m a goner for the dynamics of testosterone meets sugar and spice.
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