a look at The Elder Man by Katherine Wyvern #Gay #Fantasy #Romance @KatherineWyvern @evernightpub

On April 11, 2020April 10, 2020 By Casey's CornerIn Authors & Books, PublishersLeave a comment

Today we have Katherine Wyvern, an amazing artist and wonderful writer, visiting! Welcome, Katherine. 🙂 To see her art relating to her story and learn more about her, be sure to visit the link in the message below that she shared with us.

* Thank you so much for hosting me today with my new release, The Elder Man. This story is very close to my heart, and to my life!
* Over two years ago I made a drawing of my favorite model as an antlered forest god. It sat quietly in my album for almost 12 months, but it kept pushing invisible roots all over my soul, until suddenly last year, this story began to write itself. It was light and sexy and full of humor (poking fun at city people baffled by the countryside is my revenge for how befuddling the city is to me!) but I soon became aware that there was more to it than met the eye.
* In fact it became a tapestry of all the things I love most in my life, my barely tamed garden and my woods, my animals, my sculpting and natural building, my simple, off grid lifestyle, and the beauty and antiquity of the Dordogne, the region in SW France where I have been living for almost 10 years. I wanted to give a face to the bone-deep magic that I see and feel in all this.
* My forgotten but still powerful forest god is the form I chose to express all that is wondrous, healing and grounding in my life.
* Or maybe *he* chose me, and did his own thing. My characters notoriously tend to do that. I did a number of illustrations, at different times, for this story, and I am delighted that one of them found its way to the cover of the book, thanks to Jay Aheer and Evernight Publishing. You can see them all on my blog, here: https://katherinewyvern.blogspot.com/2020/04/the-art-of-elder-man-coming-tomorrow.html

Blurb

Uncovering and divulging an outlandish conspiracy will put a hard bump into any journalist’s career, and Armin can only blame himself when he’s dispatched from Frankfurt’s skyscrapers into the depths of rural France on the unglamorous job of writing about a cobbing workshop.
* Natural building is messy, dirty and sweaty work, but it has its consolations. For example, Van, the greying but undeniably hot master cobber teaching the workshop. Sure, the man is a hopeless tree-hugger, with embarrassing notions about ancient folklore and religions, but he’s still worth a week-long fling, right?
* When Van is revealed in all his majesty and power as a long forgotten forest god, however, the week-long fling might well become entangled with eternity, on the edge between life, death, madness, and immortality.

Official Excerpt (PG-13)

It was a recurring human figure, subtly hinted, here and there, never whole, never obvious, always just suggested in the curve of a tree trunk, half hidden in shade, and always crowned with horns or antlers, sometimes real antlers.
* It seemed almost to Armin, once or twice, that Van’s wandering, wavering shadow had antlers of its own. Enough wine, he thought, blinking. What I need is black coffee.
* “Why the antlered man?” he asked over Monica’s voice. The non sequitur took everyone by surprise.
* “Eh?” blared Monica.
* “I beg your pardon?” asked Mark, completely thrown.
* Armin felt suddenly bashful and a little stupid, not to mention rude. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. It’s just that I keep seeing him everywhere, and I wondered…”
* Edith, Meintje and Ella looked at him quizzically, all three head tilted to one side rather comically. Rebekka looked vaguely around, as if trying to catch the shape that everyone had missed.
* Armin decided he could either explain or let them all think he was stoned, drunk, or tripping, so he pointed with his index finger to the wall. “I am not hallucinating. Look, right there by the window. And there, where the shelf meets the pillar. You can see an arm and a shoulder. And just outside the fireplace, near the table. He pops up all over the sculptures, if you look.”
* Van was smiling. Jean-Pierre harrumphed, frowning, and crossed his arms in front of his chest. Allie shot him a quick apprehensive glance.
* “Why the antlered man? Who is it?” repeated Armin, a little confused, looking at Van.
* Van shrugged. “He’s … Amun, and Silvanus and Pan, and the Leshy and Veles and Svyatibor … even the Minotaur, perhaps. There is a picture of him as old as fifteen thousand years in a cave in the Ariege, la grotte des Trois-Frères. The Sorcerer. Prancing fellow with antlers and a thumping big dong.”
* Every woman in the room, including the young girls, giggled.
* “Van!” said Allie.
* He grimaced theatrically. “Sorry. All these old horned males. What can I say?”
* “Van!”
* “Anyway, some would say he’s the Devil, too, and Baphomet. And lately, just the Horned God. It all got twisted about since the Christians started messing with the old deities. And the Wiccans just made one big stew of it all to cover all the bases and be on the safe side. They may not be wrong however. In France, the Gauls came to call him Cernunnos or Carnonos or Cerunincos, which all simply mean the horned one or the antlered one. I suppose we might go with Cernunnos.”
* He smiled.
* Allie looked at him adoringly. Jean-Pierre scoffed.
* “Wherever you look, there was always a god of the forest, the earth, the water… a god of low places, valleys, sources, meadows. His trees were always small trees. Healing trees. The willow, the elder, the rowan. Not a sky god. Not a war god. He was also, as often as not, a god of agriculture and fertility. And death and healing, even resurrection. Fall, winter, and spring, the seasons. Nature again. It was easy in the old days to believe in such a divinity. And it was wise to pay tribute to him. Forests, fields, death, rebirth, the cycles and forces of nature were rather more … central.”
* “They still seem central enough in this place,” said Edith, smiling.
* Van bowed.
* “But why the antlers?” asked Josefine. “It seems awfully impractical, even for a forest god.”
* Van gave a wry laugh. “It sure is,” he said. But then he sobered and added, “There has always been something mystical about the stag and his antlers, in all the old Indo-European cultures. The stag was important enough to have his own constellation, roughly where modern astronomers place Ophiuchus. The Celts put it nicely, saying that the stag carried the solar disk in his crown. His antlers and his strength are greatest in the autumn, and they are lost in the winter and emerge again in the spring. He incarnates the death of nature and its awakening. He and Cernunnos are avatars of the fall, of the death of nature and its rebirth. Cycles again.”
* “Is that why he’s sculpted everywhere?” asked Armin. “Do you, like—er—believe? In this… god?”
* Van scratched his graying beard and gave him a roguish grin. “Let’s put it this way. Just on the off chance he’s still walking about in these parts, I’d rather not piss him off. Those olden gods…” He waved a hand and rolled his eyes, and everyone laughed, but Armin held eye contact with him for a moment and had a feeling Van had not spoken completely in jest.

Buy

Find it on Amazon (free sample available):

Or (with 25% discount and a hot excerpt) at Evernight Publishing: https://www.evernightpublishing.com/the-elder-man-by-katherine-wyvern/

a look at Katherine Wyvern & ‘A Muse to Live For’ @KatherineWyvern @evernightpub #historical #transgender #romance

On February 15, 2019February 14, 2019 By Casey's CornerIn Authors & Books, PublishersLeave a comment

Let’s all give a warm welcome to the wonderfully talented, Katherine Wyvern! Want to know what I mean? Be sure to visit her on Instagram via the link below. Thanks for joining us here today with your story, A Muse to Live For, Katherine!

What would you like to tell readers about yourself?

* I have entered that age when looking at beautiful male models in their prime makes me a cougar, ahem.
* Almost all my heroines are short: that’s because I look at the world from hobbit level. Being so small I am three times more concentrated (read: obsessive) than anybody I know. I am exhaustingly creative in writing, arts, crafts… Sometimes my brain gets friction burns from hurtling at such speed from one universe to the next.
* I love animals, plants, and occasionally even people.
* Like the Highlander I come from a lot of different places. I was born in Italy but lived here and there and consider myself simply and deeply European. I love Europe passionately, its antiquity, its diversity, its quirkiness. All my books are set in Europe, or alternate versions of it.
* I have been writing since I can remember.

A look into…

~ Behind the Scene ~

* Hello, and thank you so much for hosting me and my new release, A Muse to Live For.
* A Muse to Live For is the third instalment in my loosely interconnected “transgender trilogy”, which includes also Woman as a Foreign Language and Spice & Vanilla. While WaaFL and S&V are very obviously connected (they have two characters in common), the threads connection Spice to Muse are much subtler, so much so that I consider it almost a game with my readers to find them.
* Unlike the other two books, which are Contemporary Romance, Muse takes a plunge back into the past and is set in the 1880s.
* This is part of why it took me so long to write it (almost a year, on and off). Much as I am familiar with Victorian England from having read so much Dickens, and Conan Doyle, and the Brontë sisters, and a number of other books written or set in that period, whenever one begins to write, one discovers how many details they are still missing. How much did a shave cost? How did you ride a cab? Where would a poor Irish immigrant likely live? How do you wear a bustle dress? How do you fix one if it’s worn?
* It became so fascinating to research all these things (and much more) that I spent more time in Victorian London than I had ever intended, and once more, a short story became a novel (story of my life).
* The main reason for choosing a period setting however was not the fancy costumes and moody atmosphere, but a desire to write a story about an artist of that amazing period, when the Pre Raphaelites, the Symbolists and the Impressionists were changing the face of art, and to write a transgender character before transgender became a thing, before there were any labels or any sense of belonging to a group.
* It is the deepest trip I ever took into the emotions of any two characters, through obsession, depression, love and wonderful fulfilment, and both characters have some autobiographic relevance to me. It’s my favorite story to date.

~ Blurb ~

* London, 1884
* An artist lives to create. When Nathaniel’s urge to paint died, so did his will to live.
* Until the night he meets Gabrielle.
* Gabrielle may be just a poor prostitute, but she has the beauty of a Pre-Raphaelite stunner and the otherworldly aura of a fallen angel. She also has a secret. Gabrielle is Gabriel, and when Gabriel’s dark past comes knocking and Gabrielle must abandon her new career as an artist’s model, Nathaniel’s whole world comes crashing down again.
* Better to die than living without her love, and the breathtaking creative drive she brought him. But it’s dead easy to die for a woman. Any fool can die for love. To live for it, that takes altogether more courage, doggedness, and imagination.
Be Warned: transgender romance, queer romance, cross-dressing, m/m sex, anal sex, rape

~ Excerpt ~

* I am not sure how to touch Nathaniel. I want him to kiss me again, I want him to hold me, I want him to look at me that way he does in his studio, when he watches every line of my body and sees a woman. And at the same time, I wish he would see me for what I am, all that I am, once and for all, so I don’t have to hide anymore.
* So I shed my jacket, and the blouse underneath. I shiver a little in the cold when my arms are bared, and he runs his warm palms on my goosebumps, soothing them.
* Then I stand to unbutton my skirts and petticoat, and untie my bustle, and I let it all swish down around my knees, and I stand here naked, in my small chemise, and stockings and corset, and my boots.
* I am still silk-skinned and woman shaped.
* Except for that one thing.
* I steal a glance at his face—I can hardly bear to look at his eyes, standing here so naked—thinking he will wince, or frown. Or scream, what do you know. You can never tell, with a sensitive artistic temperament.
* But he does none of these things.
* Instead he goes to his knees on the floor, like a man about to propose in some play, and with a sort of mute reverence he strokes my thighs and my buttocks, and the back of my knees, through the stockings. When he lays a kiss and then his forehead on the hard of my hip, where the bone pokes sharply under my skin, I put my hands on his crazy hair, and hold him there, and with the barest, lightest touch of his fingertips he caresses the front of my corset, on my belly, and then down, down.
* And to my acute embarrassment, the damn thing shivers to his touch, stiffening, rising.
* Well. He has certainly seen me, now. He really has.
* He is not screaming.
* I pull him to his feet and I step out of my puddled skirts, and gently I undress him. Jacket and shirt and trousers and drawers, socks, everything.
* He is as tall as I am, which I had never noticed, because he always stands with his head bent and his shoulders slumped. He’s not muscular, but there is no fat on him either. He has well-built bones under his lumpy clothes—he badly needs a good tailor—and he would be rather handsome if he held himself straight, with his chin up, and didn’t look so much at odds with himself. He’s pale, but not as pale as I am, and there is just the merest spray of hair on his chest.
* I caress his skin all over as I undress him, and he looks transfixed, as if it had never occurred to him that it takes two to dance this dance. Perhaps he thought I’d make him spend the night on his knees adoring me.
* The heat of his skin is like a deep current, and it draws me to him.
* We stand here mute, the only sounds the drumming of the rain and the swish of falling clothes, and gently kissing lips.
* When I push him to lie on the bed, I have a moment of dread that he might want to do that to me. I cannot have it. I will not be taken that way ever again.
* I’ll make my living giving blowjobs for the rest of my days, I guess.
* But I am not afraid of him. I do not believe he’d be capable of hurting a fly, let alone me.
* “So, do you fancy that blowjob, finally?” I whisper in his ear, smiling, but he holds me close, too close for me to slide down along his body.
* “I love you,” he whispers, his lips on my ear, so that words are made into a caress, “I love you, I love you.”
* “Hush,” I whisper back, bearing down on him, grinding my cock on his. “Don’t say such things. It cannot be. It can’t.”
* “This night, this once, please, let me say it. I love you, I love you, I love you.” His body rises to meet mine, and I feel those tears spilling now, with joy, and grief, and pity. Pity for him, for me, for both of us, lost in this narrow garret under the drumming rain, orphans in this storm, desperately naked in this terrible iron city.
* “Only this once, then,” I whisper. “Tomorrow, you must forget.”
* And before he can answer or kiss me again, I slip out of his arms, and down, along his chest and belly, so he cannot see me cry.
* I have pleasured so many men this way, but never one I loved, and maybe it’s the same thing, and yet it’s something altogether different. He’s all silk and warmth and heaving life and fire pulsing, and his flesh matters to mine, so that my whole body loves his.
* “You—don’t—have—to do this,” he whispers at first, but then he surrenders finally, and lets the pleasure take him.
* I told him, the first time we met, that I’d do him for free. Who would have guessed, then, that I would end up doing him for love?
* And I don’t know if he’s a virgin—but he is indeed quick. His cock grows even tauter on my tongue, and he breathes in short, hard gasps a few times. When his body arches and heaves and his hand fumbles at my cheek, I hold him, and hold him, and hold him… He comes with a broken moan, hotly. I swallow it all.
* On the street I never do. But here, now, with him, I could not bring myself to spit.

Buy A Muse to Live For here…
Amazon – US | Evernight Publishing

Thank you for joining us here today, Katherine Wyvern! It was a pleasure getting to know you and your story.

a look at Katherine Wyvern & ‘Spice & Vanilla’ @KatherineWyvern @evernightpub #erotic #gay #GenderQueer

On June 6, 2018May 13, 2018 By Casey's CornerIn Authors & Books, PublishersLeave a comment

Today we have author Katherine Wyvern visiting. Welcome!

What would you like to tell readers about yourself?

* Katherine Wyvern. A gipsy soul who lived in Italy, Norway, Germany, Spain and France, but mostly in a private universe of her own. Writer of hot and twisted tales.

Find Katherine Wyvern here…
Blog | Facebook | Instagram | Twitter | Website

A look into…

~ Inspiration ~

* Hello, and thank you so much for hosting me today and letting me talk a little about my new book, Spice & Vanilla!
* Spice and Vanilla came about as a sum of two different story-lines that screamed to be put into words.
* One was a spill-over from my previous release, Woman as a Foreign Language. In that story there was a male-to-female cross-dresser whose painful past of disclosure and rejection was alluded to only briefly. I wanted to expand on that element, and explore the tremendous emotional rollercoaster that all parties involved in such a coming-out will go through.
* The second story line was sparked in one millisecond when a dear, dear friend of mine described himself as an angel with a bit of a devil inside. That immediately made me want to write this character that is constantly on the fence of… anything, really. He’s gender-fluid, bisexual, a really sweet man with a seriously dark side, and a switch on top of everything…
* That was supposed to be a light and hot short story, but when it collided with the first story-line, it became a full length novel and an incredible emotional journey, with one of the most complex characters I ever wrote… there were times when I thought I’d lose my sanity trying to keep up with Raphael’s twists and turns.

~ Blurb ~

* Time was, when Di could dance all night. Time was, when she could ride any horse in the stable. Time was when she had a fiancée, a future and a home she loved. Until a silver SUV came out of nowhere and broke her life in half.
* Well concealed under a sarcastic, spiny hide, Hugh has a darkly romantic, passionate soul. Torn between love and terror, he’s held the talented, elegant, magnetic Raphael carefully at arm’s length since the day they met.
* Male or female, men or women, kinky or sweet, top or bottom? Angel or devil? Raphael’s life is a string of unanswered questions. And Lucie, his long-hidden female self, may bring it all together or destroy everything he has.
Be warned: cross-dressing, gender-queer, explicit M/M and M/F sex, anal sex, spanking, flogging, bondage, forced orgasm, sex toys

~ Excerpt ~

* Hugh watched him stroking away with great contentment. He was totally worn out after a crazy day at work, and it was not always easy to find the energy to satisfy such an enthusiastic masochist. There were days when he wished Raphael were a bit less fond of being spanked and whipped, but he always did his best to oblige him. The thought of his Raphael going out there looking for release from God-only-knows-whom, and getting hurt for real by some less scrupulous or talented Dom was just unbearable. Still, tonight he would lie back and relax. Mostly. I will have to help him eventually, he thought with a slightly evil grin, but I can take a breather first.
* Raphael stroked in perfect tempo. He was one of the most technically exact musicians Hugh had ever played with, after all. Too exact, in fact.
* It would do him so much good to let go a bit, to just go with the flow, be wild and imprecise and purely passionate. Then he would not need so much of this.
* Tick—tock—tick—tock—tick—tock, went the metronome, and Raphael stroked and stroked. It was a good while before Hugh could tell, from a small furrow between those blond eyebrows, that the unchanging, slow rhythm was beginning to frustrate him. He smiled a bit wider and said nothing, devouring his beautiful quarry with his eyes. He watched, entranced the fluid play of flesh and skin as Raphael’s long pale cock, a nice ruddy purple by now, sank and reemerged into and from his fist, the velvet-like foreskin lapping beautifully over the shinier, silky glans, the testicles bouncing softly to the rhythm as the scrotum was pulled up and released. It was hard to resist the temptation to throw the whole scene to the devil and just take that cock in his mouth and suck it empty.
* This is without exception the best use a metronome was ever put to.
* Raphael’s body was developing a number of small, charming tics and twitches. He briefly lifted his left knee from the mattress then relaxed again. His right wrist was pulling on the strap from time to time, and his breath was coming in slightly ragged bursts.
* Still it took a long time. Too much control, thought Hugh, smiling. Tsk-tsk.
* Tick—tock—tick—tock.
* He slowly unfolded his hands and moved to sit between Raphael’s legs. He spit on his middle finger and watched Raphael’s face, half hopeful, half anxious, as he slowly approached his anus. He didn’t hurry. He let Raphael wait for it. He would beg, in time, Hugh knew, but there was no need for that, not yet. He finally pressed his fingertip to the twitching, tight, live rose of flesh and felt it jolt and spasm. He massaged it in circles, with relish, and didn’t even try to penetrate it. Raphael was shaking all over, trying to press down on his finger, but there was just so far he could stretch, tied as he was. His belly muscles went taut. They were contracting in random, jerky convulsions. Hugh had never seen anything so beautiful.
* Then Raphael missed a beat. His hand had picked up pace, ignoring all orders. Raphael whimpered, trying to compensate to get back in the right tempo. The double change of pace made him squirm all over. He swallowed twice and missed the beat again. This time Hugh slapped the inside of his thigh, very hard. Raphael could take a long regular series of well-spaced blows with relative ease, but a single hard slap coming down out of the blue like that drew a ragged cry from him.
* “You do know what tempo means, I asked?” Hugh said, in a plain chatty voice. He had never had any taste whatsoever for histrionics. He was not, he had never been, a theatrical Dom. He wasn’t in it for setting up a show. He just got the job done.
* “Yes. Yes!” said Raphael, a bit frantic. He managed to stick to the rhythm for a minute longer, until Hugh gently stuck his finger just within the ring of his anus. All of Raphael’s body twisted, and he lost all track of the cold, mechanical rhythm of the metronome.
* And that is exactly what you need, my love. Too much playing by the rules, too much fucking control. You need to find your own tempo, and just let go.
* Five or six fast hard strokes followed. Hugh slapped him twice, on his thigh, and, when he turned suddenly, on his butt. And then Raphael came, on the third slap, as he flopped flat on his back again, crying out in pleasure or pain, or both. It was hard to tell. Semen spurted out in beautiful, long, arched white streamers, splattering over Raphael’s belly, chest, and even his face.
* It is difficult to aim while being spanked hard.
* Hugh watched him coming, avidly.
* He was so naked. So vulnerable, so unguarded. Hugh, who felt, every day, that he might shatter like glass, on Raphael’s unearthly, impossibly graceful, self-possessed beauty, lived for these moments, to watch him released of all self-consciousness and all bonds. Strange, how it took a bunch of leather straps to get him to do that.
* “Ah, oh, shit. That hurt,” Raphael whispered after a minute. “Not complaining, mind,” he added, with a small edgy laugh, wiping some drops of sperm from his lips and eyebrow.
* “Good,” said Hugh, quite composed, despite the erection straining in his pants. Watching Raphael twitching and jolting while covered in glistening semen was not a sight to leave him unmoved. He reached out for the metronome, stopped it and lowered the weight a tad, then started it again.
* This was a faster, business-like tempo.
* “There you go, hot lips,” he said to Raphael, who was still breathing hard from his orgasm.
* “What? Wh—but…”
* Hugh gave him a small devilish smile. Raphael was perfectly capable of coming two or three times in one night, but, like most men, he needed a while to recuperate in between. Well, tonight, he wasn’t getting it.
* “You didn’t think it would be that easy, did you?”
* You can also find an exclusive excerpt on my website, here