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eBook Category: Erotica/Gay-Lesbian Erotica/Romance
eBook Description: There's something incredibly hot about a tight butt and the sound of a paddle hitting it. The stories in the Paddle Toy Box are all about that, exploring what guys get up to in, and out of the bedroom. In Sore Winner, by Kiernan Kelly, Morgan is the president of a company that's successful, but exhausting. A cruise seems like just the thing until he has to share the best suite on the boat with Adam Rose, billionaire playboy. Will the mistake ruin his vacation? In Rough Edges, by Jane Davitt, Steve and Michael have a dom/sub relationship, which is great for Steve, who needs someone to keep him in line. When a series of bad days culminates in Steve acting out, he wants Michael to use the paddle he craves, but Michael won't hit Steve in anger. Can they both find a way to get what they need? Finally, in Boredom Through the Ages, by BA Tortuga, Knox and Isaac from Timeless Hunger are a little restless, and needing to remember what's important. Can Knox find a creative way to get Isaac back on track?

eBook Publisher: Torquere Press/TOY BOX, Published: http://www.torquerepress.com, 2008
Fictionwise Release Date: March 2009

31 Reader Ratings:

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Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: eReader (PDB) [72 KB] , ePub (EPUB) [92 KB] , Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [55 KB] , Portable Document Format (PDF) [515 KB] , Palm Doc (PDB) [61 KB] , Microsoft Reader (LIT) [101 KB] , Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [126 KB] , hiebook (KML) [167 KB] , Sony Reader (LRF) [110 KB] , iSilo (PDB) [50 KB] , Mobipocket (PRC) [63 KB] , Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [104 KB] , OEBFF Format (IMP) [93 KB]
Words: 18534
Reading time: 52-74 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Portable Document Format (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED
ISBN: 1603705376

Sore Winner

By Kiernan Kelly

The Coral Queen of the Caribbean was her full name, and she well deserved such an illustrious title. She was over a thousand feet long from bow to stern, weighing in at more than one hundred-thirty tons. She boasted fifteen decks, four formal dining rooms, an entire shopping mall, and over two dozen smaller bar-and-grills, nightclubs, casinos, and theaters. The Queen was a floating, luxury playground, and for the next week, I had free reign to play in her sandbox.

I needed this vacation--badly. Five years of scrimping, saving, living in a dive apartment, and working nearly twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week as I fought to carve out a territory in the marketing jungle of New York had taken their toll. I was getting old before my time. Gray already streaked the auburn hair at my temples by my thirtieth birthday.

Failure was never an option. I don't lose. Even as a kid, I was always driven to win. If I was in a competition, a spelling bee or a board game, I did my damnedest to win and usually succeeded.

I hadn't changed much as an adult. My personal life was nearly non-existent, and I had to pinch every penny until it screamed, but I was determined to make a success of my marketing company or die trying.

I knew I was reaching the end of my rope with my business. Funds were low; I had a minimal staff, creditors breathing down my neck, and just enough left in my personal bank account to buy a bullet and rent a gun. It all came down to one client, one last shot at making it big. For the last year and a half, I'd worked day and night on the Anderson account--schmoozing, wining and dining the client to lock them in--and scraping the bottom of my bank account in the process--then overseeing the new campaign.

Anderson Tires was an old family business, stodgy and stuffy; their previous ads lacked the slightest bit of creativity. My assistants joked that the first chariot wheels were probably made by the Anderson people, and they were still using the same ads now as they had then. We decided to bring them kicking and screaming into the twenty-first century, going after the younger, hipper consumer.

We held our breaths when ads went live six months ago, and didn't exhale until the numbers started coming in. To our vast relief, all indicators pointed to a successful campaign. Anderson Tires was suddenly edging out the giants in the tire business, emerging as the most popular brand on the market, and they owed it all to my team's collective creative genius. The slogan--"This ain't your Grandpa's rubber"--was becoming a household catch phrase. The client was happy, my creditors were thrilled, and my bank account was ecstatic. The downside--if it could be called that--was, while my financial worries were over, my work had just begun.

As a direct result of our success with the Anderson account, the phones began ringing off the hook. Everyone, it seemed, wanted the new darlings of Madison Avenue, Manchester Marketing, to work on their new ad campaigns. I turned away more clients than I accepted, and still had too much of a workload for the company to handle. I rented a larger office, and hired more staff. I gave my assistants a raise, signed the lease on a much more spacious apartment near the office, allowed myself one long, piteous sigh, rolled up my shirtsleeves and got to work.

"Morgan, if you don't take a vacation, you're going to implode. You look like something the cat coughed up." My secretary, Janice, had been with me since I first opened my doors for business, and was the only person in my employ who dared address me so casually, and remind me of how shitty I looked in the same breath.

"We're a success. That's all that matters. I never lose, and I don't intend on starting now. We have new clients, Janice. Do you realize how much work we have to do?" I never looked up from my keyboard as my fingers flew across the keys, typing up an idea for the Van Dyke account.

Janice reached down to the outlet and pulled the plug to my computer. I blinked at the suddenly black screen. "Are you crazy?"

"Another day or two with you and your Type A personality, and I'll be ready for a rubber room."

"I need to--"

"Take a vacation," she said firmly, reaching over the desk to poke me in the shoulder. "Do you realize you almost took off the copyboy's head because he pushed the wrong button in the elevator? The poor kid nearly shit his bloomers."

"Janice..."