The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

When Camden Stevens, a 42-year-old writer, is invited to mentor four gay youths at remote Wildhill Farm, he finds himself with a dream, come true.

Logan, the 18-year old virgin, Dean the troubled show-off and Kenny the farmer’s lad, both 19, and Gabriel, the 20-year-old esoteric, are all keen to develop their skills. Cam’s job is to mentor them in their writing and their sexuality – and he has carte blanche to do that in any way he sees fit.

The boys are launched on a week of self-discovery as they explore their writing and each other through a series of erotic games. Somewhere, in the mix of youth and sex, Camden unexpectedly finds love.

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm paperback [249 pages. Coming soon]

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm Kindle [£2.22 – $2.99]

Other novels


The Mentor of Wildhill Farm: Kindle Edition

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

The Mentor of Wildhill FarmThe Mentor of Wildhill Farm is now available on Kindle as an eBook download – and in Kindle Unlimited for free. This is a M/M Romance/Erotica novel (adults only) in the older/younger niche.

“Camden Stevens, a forty-two-year-old writer with a passion for younger men, is invited to mentor four gay youths at an isolated farmhouse. His students are budding writers in their late teens, all keen to explore their creativity — and sex. Camden must mentor them in both, and expects them to work hard.

What he doesn’t expect is a youth like Gabriel, and what he doesn’t know is that the man who set up this fantasy-come-true has a motive of his own.”               $2.99             £2.22

My Amazon Author page

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm: New Gay Erotica

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm

The Mentor of Wildhill Farm is my second full-length MM romance/erotica novel. I put it that way because, apart from being a romance, there’s a fair amount of erotica in it. I’m currently in the editing and preparing for publication stage but my wonderful cover designer has come up with a few covers. Here’s the one I am currently playing with. I think it says it all apart perhaps from the erotica element, but we don’t want to frighten Amazon.

The Mentor of Wildhill FarmThe Mentor
of Wildhill Farm

Camden Stevens, a forty-two-year-old writer with a passion for younger men, is invited to mentor four gay youths at an isolated farmhouse. His students are budding writers in their late teens, all keen to explore their creativity. And sex. Camden must mentor them in both, and expects them to work hard.

What he doesn’t expect is a youth like Gabriel, and what he doesn’t know is that the man who set up this fantasy come true has an ulterior motive.

The links will be posted here when the book is ready. It will be in Kndle format and available as a paperback.

The Greek Boys part 1: Free Gay Erotica

The Greek Boys
[Part one of three]



I saw the lad again tonight, plucked up courage and winked at him as I passed. That, as it turned out, was all I needed to do. It is now dawn, he’s just left, and I have to get this written before I forget. Not that I ever will.

I had been on the island for only one evening when I started to realise two things about the local lads. One, they were desirable and two, they wore tight jeans even in July when the sun was burning. I had only been on the island two days when I realised a third thing: Many of them looked at me strangely whenever I walked by their café in the tiny, half-ruined back street of the village. Later, I realised something more: I was going to have one of these lads before I left. He looked at me, I looked at him, and I knew instantly.

I was staying at a friend’s apartment. He’d let me rent it for the whole month of July, and I had exclusive use. A balcony overlooked a delightful view of ancient houses, a courtyard below and trees rambling down a valley to the sea a mile away. The balcony room was furnished with a large sofa, wall hangings and old photographs of the island dating back at least one hundred years. Off this ‘salon’ was my bedroom. A large double bed that I hoped might see more than a little action, a wardrobe and a table were the only things in it. From another door off the salon, a short corridor led to the front entrance, a bathroom and a small kitchen. Outside, I had a courtyard with fruit trees and steps leading to a private entrance yard guarded by ornate metal doors. The place was private, cool in the heat of the day, and comfortably warm in the evenings. I’d be happy here for a month.

After recovering from my flight, an overnight journey was finished off by a boat ride to this remote place, I spent my second day exploring the village, checking out where the cafes were, the shops and the tavernas, and seeing how far the beach was. I familiarised myself enough to find my way home through the intricate maze of cobbled alleys and unlit passages. It was while doing this that I passed by the café. It was the local lad’s hang-out, not a tourist in sight, pop music playing and a collection of youths hanging around at tables outside. From my quick recce, I guessed it was a place for those in their late teens and early twenties. I saw no-one older than thirty.

It was while checking it out that I noticed the looks. In the few seconds it took me to pass, look into the gloomy inside then out at the pavement tables, I noticed the strange expressions. A couple of the guys stopped their heated conversation and stared at me, then carried on chattering in their indecipherable language while cocking their heads in my direction. I was clearly a talking point, and I had no idea why. Assuming it was because I was the only tourist to be staying in their neighbourhood, I took no notice, nodded at them and carried on. I didn’t let myself be intimidated, I’m thirty-two, I work as a builder, live in London’s East End and can handle a few inhospitable foreigners if I have to. I’m also up for a bit of trade with the same kind if they’re consenting, cute, younger and gagging for it.

I doubted any of this lot were and, sighing (because they were all tanned, fit and wearing tight jeans, but this was not my home turf), I carried on back to my apartment.

As the holiday progressed, I passed by the Andras Café at the same time each day on my way back from the beach. Each day the same lads were sat around drinking cold coffee and playing backgammon, and each day they threw me a look. I started to make it a custom to say hello and learned the Greek word from a fellow tourist so that I could surprise them. It didn’t make a difference. They still just stared blankly at me with their huge, brown eyes. Each day I sighed, and each night I jacked off with one of their bodies in my mind.

One in particular.

A slim guy in his late teens, whose eye I had caught on my first passing. He had short jet black hair, a smooth, closely-shaved face, and a cocky grin. His torso was shaped by a worked-on chest, and slim hips, and the oh, so tight jeans that rose in his crotch to a tantalising mound as he sat with one leg rested on the other. He always sat apart from the other boys as if he was an outcast, and that appealed to me.

I winked at him last night and made sure I walked very slowly. I’d had wine with my lunch and the afternoon had been spent lying on the busy beach staring at men in wet trunks. Straight lads with their girlfriends had posed around me, and I had flicked my hungry eyes to crotch level at any chance I had. That made me hornier than usual, and something about the day told me that the night was going to be special. I was right.

As soon as I had winked at the slim one, he winked back and flashed me a quick smile. Immediately my heart was up and pounding, and I knew I’d started something. By the time I’d passed his table, he was leaving coins by his half-finished coffee and standing. I walked on and heard him follow.

I turned up the steps that led to the narrow lane and my apartment. After a few paces, I heard someone coming up behind me and knew it was him. I didn’t turn back, just carried on – in case I’d misread things, and he was only going home the same way. I didn’t feel threatened, it’s not that sort of place and, like I said, I can handle myself. I came up to my front doors, got the key into the metal gate and went inside. Should I leave the door open? Why not?

I climbed up the steps to the apartment and pushed open the front door. The apartment was bathed in late afternoon light, diffracted through the lace curtains, filling the corridor with a magical, pink glow. I left the front door open and went through to the salon. The French windows were open to the view, and I stepped out onto the balcony, hoping to see the lad standing below, waiting for me to invite him up. The alley was empty apart from the sounds of sparrows, a far off cockerel and a slight breeze annoying the fig trees below. My heart sank, and I realised I’d got the whole thing wrong. He wasn’t interested in me. He was at least ten years younger and probably had a girl waiting for him somewhere. I turned back into the flat, deciding that a cold shower and a quick wank was what I needed to drive him from my mind.

The shower did nothing to stop the swelling in my cock, and by the time I got out, it was still semi-hard, hanging over my filling balls and craving attention. I grabbed it with a fist and gave it two hard yanks. That was enough to get it upright and to attention. It stood out seven inches in front of me waiting for me to carry on. I left it there and padded through to the bedroom. The day’s wine had tired me, and I decided that I needed a siesta more than a jerk-off. Heading for my bed, I walked back into the salon.

He was standing in front of the window, his back to the sunset and the long white curtains shielded the light, sighing in the breeze. His hands were on his hips, and his jeans had been undone at the stud. I couldn’t make out his expression, but he didn’t move when I came in, naked and still damp, still hard. I stopped in my tracks, first with shock and then with uncertainty. He was in my room; he would have to be the one to make the first move.

And he did. He took one pace towards me, looked over his shoulder as if to check he was not being watched, and then made another step closer. His arms rose in a shrug, and he smiled broadly and winked. I didn’t move a muscle. His expression changed to concern.

‘I should go?’ he said, and his accent was heavy.

I shook my head, my eyes fixed on his.

‘What should I do?’ He whispered, and I had the impression that he had no idea what should come next. This was new to him.

‘What you want,’ I whispered back.

I had still not moved. My cock was still straining towards him, water dripping from my heavy scrotum. Another drip trickled, tickled and ran there while I waited. Waited and watched.

He kicked off his dusty sandals, and I looked at his long, brown feet. My eyes rested there a while as I heard him pull his t-shirt over his head. A crack of static, a rustle of material. My gaze darted, and I saw two tufts of thick dark hair as he raised his arms. His chest tightened, defining pecs with a small V of hair between them. His arms were strong and I guessed he worked as a labourer. His head caught in the neck of the shirt which was then pulled free as his face came back into sight. He was still looking directly at me, uncertain, wanting assurance.

I raised a smile, stood my ground and gazed into his deep brown eyes as, at the edge of my vision, I saw his hands fall again to his waist. He undid his jeans with one slow, deliberate movement and then waited. I stared at him, looking back at his face and raising one eyebrow. He shrugged again, asking what he should do next. I cocked my head. Whatever you want.

He pushed his jeans over his hips, revealing tight white shorts. They shrouded their innocent secret and outlined a proportioned shaft that lay stiffening to the right. Beneath this, the cotton cocooned a perfect roundness, and above the waistband, an eyelash-thin line of hair ran to meet the smoothness of his tanned belly. The jeans slipped lower under their own weight, and his legs, strong from labour and exercise, supported his youthful body. He was powerful yet timid. I continued to drink in the sight of his body and waited. A moment passed, no sound but our breathing and the rustle of wildlife outside. He pushed the denim aside with a kick and took one more step closer.

We were within two feet of each other. I could smell his soap and register his breath, but still, I did not approach. We tried to reach each other’s thoughts. He wanted me to tell him what to do, I wanted to see what would happen. Tentatively, he reached out a hand, smooth skin on the back and rough, worked flesh on the palm. It rested on my chest — broader than his and hairier. His hand slid to rest on my hip. I looked at his body. Taught yet pliable, strong yet uncertain. Unused. Wanting. His hand moved across and his fingers wrapped around my cock. He looked for permission, and I parted my legs allowing my balls to hang free. His hand was quick to cup them, explore them, learn what another man’s felt like. I let him touch me. He was gentle. I let him explore and learn the pleasure of the first sensation of another man’s skin against his own. Finally, he knelt, and his eyes left mine. They travelled my body as mine had travelled his until I could only see the top of his dark head.

The heat of his eager mouth engulfed me as my shaft slipped between his lips, parting that cheeky grin. Still, I did not touch him. I just stood there and let him discover. I let him move his head towards my crotch, then out again, until the tip of my swollen cock rested behind his teeth. Towards me again, where he buried his nose into my damp flesh and sucked my breath through me. His actions grew quicker, and he made quiet groans, sounds of wonder. His arms wrapped around my waist and his fingers dug into my taut, hairy arse muscles as he pulled me harder into him. He clawed in at my arse, gripping firmly as he desperately tugged me deeper into his throat. He pulled back, never letting me free, but taking a deep breath so that he could drag me into him further each time. He held me in his throat longer, his tongue playing around the base of my now totally swollen shaft.

I was soon close to coming. The heat, the sight of the lads in their tight denim, the wine, the youth drawing on my flesh. A few more thrusts and I’d be filling his gullet with cum. I tried to warn him by pulling back, but he realised what I was doing. He read my signals and held me tighter. He wanted me to explode inside him. His hands took one of my arse cheeks apiece, and he slammed me back into his face, my balls slapping up against his smooth chin, my balance almost lost. I grunted another warning, and it only made him more desperate to drink me. His grip tightened, his throat contracted. The heat around my itching cockhead. My balls rising, preparing to unload. His eyelashes brushing against my pubes.

My breathing stopped for a split second.

Silence. My heart pounded, my legs tightened, and I felt myself jettison the first load into the springy softness of his throat. He drew in a breath, made a gasping sound as the second spurt hit somewhere deep within him. Another, my groin jerking against his face. Another load caused him to gag, and I heard him swallow, spluttering as another man’s cum filled his mouth and dribbled over his lips for the first time. He sucked me still and dry, holding my red hot cock in his mouth until my pleasure was spent and the sensation turned to ecstatic pain.

Eventually, he let me go. He released me from his mouth first but continued to hold my groin against his face as he drew in my scent, licked my hairy balls and stroked the back of my legs. He stood and looked into my eyes. A trickle of sweat ran from my brow and into my eye, and it closed instinctively in a wink. He raised a finger and brushed my closed eyelid tenderly with a thumb. He licked my salty sweat from it, all the time questioning me with his round eyes.

His white shorts were now straining against the solid shaft that they could hardly contain. The material was pulled away from him revealing a darkness of shadow and hair. The front of them was moist, his cock upright and primed. He was begging me to do to him what he had done to me. He turned his head towards the open bedroom door and indicated that he wanted us to go in. I shrugged, said nothing, and he let out a frustrated sigh.

‘Please?’ he said.

I refused to reply. He turned and walked two paces towards the room. Stopped and let me view the tightness of the white shorts around his small, round arse. His back was strong enough to support my weight, but his waist was slim enough to allow me to hold it with my fingers nearly touching.

‘Why do they look at me?’ I asked, and my voice stopped him in his tracks. He made no reply, so I went on. ‘When I pass your café, the other young men stare at me strangely. They talk about me after I have passed, I know.’

He turned back then and smiled apologetically. ‘Yes,’ he admitted. ‘We talked about you.’

‘What were you saying?’

He came back to me and placed my hand on his cock. It was warm, tender and small in my large palm, smooth under the softness of his shorts. I knew it was mine for the taking. I put my other hand on his arse, and he made no objection. I knew that was mine for the taking too.

‘We could not decide,’ he said and looked me directly in the eye, drawing me closer.

‘Decide what?

‘We could not decide which one of us you wanted. We all wanted you. You chose me.’

‘You chose me,’ I reminded him.

‘We chose each other,’ he said and kissed me.