Come Back To Me

by Edmond Manning

Come Back to Me - Edmond Manning
Editions:Paperback: $ 17.00Kindle: $ 4.99ePub: $ 4.99PDF: $ 4.99

After years of lying, scheming, and dangerous manipulation, Vin Vanbly finally gets what's coming to him: love.

How can he survive unstoppable, uncontrollable love when his very nature demands he control everything? Clues about his one true love—tantalizingly hinted at in each of the books in The Lost and Founds series—come together in four life-changing stories.

In No Kings, a sex hookup with a parking lot stranger reveals more about Vin’s life as a Lost King and his destiny than he could have dreamed. In King Fitch, Vin meets the last king in his long legacy, one final King Weekend before he withdraws from the world to an anonymous Latin American jungle. The Lost Ones recounts a terrifying kidnapping by street thugs from Vin’s past. In King Malcolm the Restorer, Vin’s mysterious relationship with his older brother—and the soul-crushing secret which drew them together—is finally revealed.

Through it all, Vin Vanbly struggles to survive. But what if he is destined for more than mere survival? Is he finally ready to embrace the truth and remember who he was always meant to be? Once there were a tribe where every man was the one true king and every woman the one true queen…

This book is on:
  • 1 To Be Read list
  • 1 Read list
Cover Artists:
Pairings: M-M
Heat Level: 5
Romantic Content: 5
Ending: Click here to reveal
Character Identities: Gay
Protagonist 1 Age: 18-25
Protagonist 2 Age: 36-45
Tropes: Age Difference, Alpha Character, Big Character / Little Character, First Time, Hero and the Great Quest, Love Can Heal / Redemption, Married Life, Most Mindblowing Sex Ever, Opposites Attract, Trickster Hero, Wide-Eyed Innocence
Word Count: 120,000
Setting: New Jersey, St. Paul, Minnesota, Chicago
Languages Available: English
Series Type: Same Universe / Various Characters

The events of this story take place in 2005


Here he comes.

Walking across the parking lot, he appears lost in his iPod world. He looks up, and his eyes jump wider, catching me staring at him. Jeans and a T-shirt, both flattering his light, muscular frame. Pleasantly plump biceps indicate he lifts more than twice a week, but this kid isn’t entering any competitions—not yet at least. But he’s young. His life could take any number of directions.

His face hints at a swarthy ethnicity—definitely Italian. Or maybe…Greek? His features present as strong, masculine even, yet pleasantly curved. Closer now, I see his five-o’clock shadow and shiny black hair—short, but long enough to curl slightly behind his ears, an overall appearance suggesting he is older than twenty-five. He’s not. He’s twenty-four. People can’t hide their true age from me. I know.

He’s a hottie. Anyone would agree.


He affects nonchalance as he swaggers closer, as if he can’t feel my penetrating stare.


I’m watching you, kid.

Over the years I have cultivated a few useful skills, including letting someone feel the weight of my presence. When I stare at you, you know it. He draws near me—he has to—to enter the convenience store.

Look up again, kid. Glance my way. I’m right here.

I parked my truck right under the fluorescent lights, closest to the front doors. I stand between their glow and true darkness in the parking lot. As he approaches, his reflection ripples in puddles, the last hour’s rain still shivering in lopsided circles across the surface. When he passes he smiles feebly, a friendly grimace.

I lean in his direction—a slight change in my posture—forcing him to decide whether to alter his trajectory or ignore me. He ignores me. I inhale him. I don’t smell anything particular, but that wasn’t the point. I want him to sense my interest.

He pushes open the glass door with the flat of his right hand. A chime bings.

There! His hand shakes.

I draw a thick cigar from my favorite outdoorsman’s jacket—brown leather lined with red flannel—and light up, continuing to lean against the tailgate. I should have time Sunday afternoon to tune up this piece of crap before returning it to the rental place. I heard a few odd sounds when I drove it here from the motel.

He may not face me in this moment, but I believe he’s aware I’m checking out his ass. Pretending to ponder some purchase from the front shelf. I think he’s too nervous to move. Pretending to ponder, ponder a purchase, pretending to ponder a purchase, possibly pretending to ponder

Stop it.

Look at the ripe curves of his ass.

I’m an ass man. I love ass.

Seconds ago, when I saw those muscular cheeks filling out his worn jeans, I knew I would spend significant time tonight coaxing those twin mounds to part for me, to welcome me inside. I can’t stop thinking about his body. I’ve never met this kid before tonight. I haven’t stalked him online. I haven’t been to his home or somehow insinuated myself into his life. The newness of this feeling thrills me. Anything is possible. I can already imagine this ruggedly beautiful man stretched naked on my motel mattress, atop the shitty, threadbare bedspread, goose bumps making tiny ridges along—I can only guess—his otherwise smooth ass. But who knows? Maybe he won’t give himself to me.

We’re about to find out.

He receives change for the bottle of water purchased, and ambles toward the exit. He stumbles for a second when he sees me exhale a thick cloud above my head, and I breathe in the sweet burned scent we cigar smokers fetishize. When he opens the door, the dull mechanical bing recognizes his humanity and passing presence. He stands outside, almost unsure, and nods at me, preparing to stroll by with affected ease.

I want this kid’s ass. His ass in those worn jeans. I’m not hard, but I am sure my dick is plumping out.

I glance down. Yup. I’m tenting.

Suck in more smoke.

When he’s a foot away, I exhale, swirling mists of cigar smoke right into his face.

He freezes, a deer in headlights. That trite expression never seemed truer. At this moment, as a car enters the parking lot, its headlights sweep across the puddles and fill his black eyes with white, reflected light. His entire body goes rigid.

Got him.

“Boy,” I say in a low tone meant to be remembered.

He blinks a few times, unsure what to do, and I see a muscle in his neck tense. I want to caress it, to kiss it. He stumbles beyond me, my next cloud of cigar smoke chasing after him. He crosses the parking lot, moving faster the farther he gets away from me, until I can’t see his ass anymore.


I smoke my cigar, trying to enjoy this unique New Jersey night. It’s warmer in November than I assumed it would be. The sky remains sullen, pouting after its outburst, thick gray clouds obliterating and obfuscating any source of moonlight.

Obfuscating. Obfuscation.

Wait, that’s strange. Why isn’t my brain playing word games with obfuscate?

Never mind.

His lips were thick, full with a dusty-rose color when he licked them, right after the smoke hit his face and his eyes filled with light. Within the hour, I intend to drag the head of my fat dick across those lips, wiping precum on them. I’m sure he’s gonna taste my load tonight. This makes my dick pulse. I haven’t jacked off in a week.

But if we fuck, no condoms. I’m going to fuck him raw. Can I really fuck him bareback? What would a Lost King do, Vin? You know. You always know. Fuck him raw. Come inside. I steel my resolve. I’m a Lost King. Why not sink into it?

Three minutes pass. Four? Probably only two. It always seems longer when you’re waiting for someone. There—the edge of the parking lot—the tip of his shadow appears, and he’s standing still, hesitating before returning. He knows if he comes back, he will submit. Come on, kid.

Come back over here.

Another car pulls in.

On Foster Avenue, a few cars plow by at a reduced speed, respecting the wet pavement. Not too much traffic in this neighborhood after nine at night. I arrived three days ago. Those out this night live here, the ones who accept this neighborhood’s mostly undeserved reputation. It really is a cool neighborhood. Just not a fancy part of Newark. Four blocks away, the city morphs into industrial parks, two or three rogue bars, an abandoned church, and another more desolate convenience store. The yellow sign announcing the convenience of this particular store flickers in and out of existence, unable to commit to living.

Here he comes.

I ensure plenty of cigar smoke creates a fog for him to walk through as he strides purposely toward the front doors.

He flashes an embarrassed smile, and under his breath says, “Forgot something.”

I say, “I’ll bet. Stop walking.”

He halts. A young woman sprints from the newly parked car toward the entrance. She is chased by an equally young man, who yells something unintelligible at her.

“Wait for them to pass,” I say.

He stays.

I blow more cigar smoke in his face. He inhales it and coughs. Once they are inside, I speak.

“What you forgot…it’s not in there.”

I stand right behind him.

Speaking low, I say, “What you forgot, kid, is to thank me.”

He shivers. “Thank you? For what?”

“For deciding to fuck you.”

Still staring straight ahead, he says, “Oh.”

I wonder how many other older bears he’s wandered by, hoping they’d recognize the light in his eyes, the furtive glance to see if they recognize him—a man who wants to be controlled but doesn’t know how to express such a desire after an initial “hello.”

“Thank me, buddy. Go ahead.”

Another car pulls into the parking lot.

“Thank you?”

“No.” My voice makes him jump. “‘Thank you, sir,’ is how to say that.”

“Thank you, sir.” He whispers into the wet night, and he trembles. Now he knows. The battle is over and I have won. I place my hand on the back of his neck and grip it.

“Good boy. That’s my man…”

He squirms. “Someone looking out…they might see us from inside.”

“They might.”

My thumb massages his neck, and I stand close enough for him to feel the heat of my strong presence. Despite the very public circumstances, he moans.

With gentle pressure, I guide him around the truck to the passenger side.

“Get in.”

He tugs on the door handle and it relents with a squeaky groan. He climbs in and pulls the door shut while I take my time returning to my side. Crush out the lit cigar on my boot heel. He watches me with nervous surprise through the windshield. Do you know what you’re doing, kid? Are you ready for this?

When I hop in and slam my door, he touches the case of beer bottles between us and shyly asks if he should move it.

I ignore him.

He blushes and moves the bottles to the floor, stabilizing them with his feet on either side.

The engine flips over with husky grumblings as if questioning his logic, his decision. Last chance, kid.

“My name is Mark.”

I nod in acknowledgement.

We drive in silence.

I know he wants to talk, to ask questions, to know me better. His brain will make this entire scene more okay once he can validate I’m a regular guy, a nice guy even, someone to be trusted. It’s a little cruel, keeping him in silence. But he already knows everything he needs to know. He’s going to get fucked.

The motel is a run-down piece of crap, a haphazard construction in a U formation, individual rooms cut from the long rows, like stingy pieces of birthday cake. Or maybe this place washed ashore from the nearby ocean, perhaps after a few years rotting at the bottom. The siding’s fat vinyl slats evolved into tired gray yet remain colorless at the same time. A weak orange neon sign blinks VACANCY, and the poor sign must get no rest because there’s no way this place would ever be fully occupied. I wanted a cheap motel with cheap walls. I want temporary neighbors to hear him groan and beg and howl when it happens. I want this night to be trashy and mind-blowing.

I’m gonna bareback him. No condoms.

Shit. Can I do this?

I navigate the parking lot, avoiding plastic take-out containers and splatters which may have once been food.

“Is this place even open?” Mark chuckles nervously, trying to initiate conversation again.

“Bring the beer.”

We walk the wet, black pavement in silence, him trailing me, following my lead. Even the parking lines are geriatric, faded to the point of irrelevance.

Using the motel’s one concession to the modern world, I stick a plastic card into the slot to unlock Room 1_1—what I assume is meant to be Room 111, since the middle digit has gone AWOL. I send him in first. Get in there. Feel it. Absorb the squalor of this skanky room where you lose your virginity.

Once inside, he pauses, unsure what to do with himself. Should he sit on the bed, or will I pounce on him there? Set down the beer? But where? Or maybe he should start out kneeling…he just doesn’t know. He glances around the room, stalling.

I like his confusion.

He sets the beer on the tattered floor, and several bottle necks clink together nervously, expressing hesitation regarding whether they themselves should stay. I left a dim lamp on, a beaded brown lampshade missing as many beads as it possesses, but it might have been more of a kindness to leave the room dark. The wide, sunken bed does not inspire comfort; the stained carpet does not encourage going barefoot. Nothing in here suggests relaxation. Cigarette burns aligned atop the cheap plywood desk, suggesting someone waited impatiently. The whole history of seedy, gritty residents has conspired to leave behind their indelible print and oily residue. It’s disgusting. I love it. I belong here. The perfect home for a Lost King.

From behind, I breathe against his neck. It’s too dim to see the tiny hairs rise, but I feel them against my stubble. My arms fold around his stomach, thick hands meeting on his belly, and I pull him in to my chest.

“Relax,” I whisper. “It’s okay…it’s okay…”

He doesn’t relax; he isn’t relaxed.

While his brain is likely screaming, “Why am I here?” the rest of his body seems compelled to stay, if not relax.

I kiss the soft, olive-colored skin on his neck, rubbing the same square of flesh with my chin, while simultaneously massaging his stomach in tiny circles, letting him adjust to the feeling of me wrapped around him. He tenses when he feels my lips against him, but then he breathes, and pushes back a fraction. He melts a tiny, tiny bit. The degree he relaxes is so small, but matters so much.

After another minute of my comforting presence, my hands move in fluid motions, go under his shirt, and slowly drag it over his head. He’s shirtless in a cheap motel room with a man he met only minutes ago. His body stiffens. My hands return to his smooth, brown tummy, circling the wispy trail of hair leading to treasure below.

He’s self-conscious and nervous again, anxious about what I think of his body. I know this because I know. It’s cute, really. This adorable muscle boy is into bears…and he’s nervous about how I’ll perceive his body. Worried I might judge him and find him lacking. I feel his sudden anxiety through his shoulders, in his taut breath, in the way he shifts his legs uncomfortably.

I kiss his neck with wet lips, and he shivers.

My left hand travels his chest—more hard muscle than his shirt revealed, that’s for sure—up his neck to his chin, and I tip his head back onto my shoulder. I stroke the front of his neck, like a dog’s, while kissing him, the rough texture of my tongue tasting him, taking his measure. He tastes clean. In a room this layered with dead skin and unidentifiable odors, that’s saying something.

He’s never been with a man before. Hell, he’s never been with anyone. He’s a virgin.

I’m going to fuck a virgin without a condom.

My dick rises instantly, as if responding to an alarm. Ready.

A virgin.

No condom.

Do it, Vin Vanbly. Be the Lost King you’ve always been. Fuck him. Fuck him and come inside him.

With my right hand, I unsnap his jeans.

His body stiffens. “I’m—I’ve never done this.”

“I know. Your body already told me.”

He moans, less moan than soft air escaping him, a secret exposed with a quiet vocalization.

My left hand joins my right and I unzip his jeans, holding him close to me. I allow the back of my thumb to graze his pouch, bulging now, lumpy and semihard if I’m not mistaken.

I’m not mistaken.

“It’s okay, baby…” I coo into his ear, “You want this…you want this…”

I push his jeans to the floor and command him to step out of them and his shoes.

He wears sexy low-rise briefs, white ones, and as he leans over to remove his jeans, I see the deeper cleft of his ass crack. My dick throbs. I can’t believe I’m going to fuck a virgin. I can’t believe at my age my dick can still squirt out precum without being jacked. This kid is really doing it for me.

“Turn around. Face me.”

He obeys.

Instinctively, my left hand reaches under his balls. With fingertips, I stroke them. My right hand reaches around to cup his perfect ass. My god. It’s flawless, a combination of muscle and plumpness curving into ripe perfection. No one has ever parted these cheeks!

He breathes awkwardly, staring into my eyes, trying to understand my silence.

“Will you…undress?”

I don’t answer him.

His eyes plead with me already, wondering how rough I’ll be, how gentle, where our mating will fall in between. Our lips are already close, but I move my head closer, and his eyes widen, as if scared we might touch. My right hand finds the crack of his ass, and I swear it’s taking all my self-control not to rip off this underwear and bite his damn ass cheek.

I speak into his parted lips. I want him to smell my warm breath.

“I’m going to give you an order. Turn around—face away from me, and slowly pull down your briefs. When you do that, Mark, you’re mine. Do you understand? Your submission is complete, and your nudity is a contract agreeing you freely give me your body to use for the night.”


“All night. All mine. No resistance. Think carefully. This night and this opportunity will never come again. Are you ready? If not, get dressed. I’ll drive you back.”

He stands before me, bewildered, recognizing a way out of this, but not sure he has the power to take it. I remove my hands from his body and take a step back.


He regards me again, and his face reveals reluctance melting into imploring. Don’t push me too far. I’m new to this. Oh, Mark. You’ve no idea what I planned for you.

He faces away and hooks his fingers around the band of his bone-white briefs. I can’t tell if he’s deliberately putting on a show for me or he’s truly reluctant. I don’t see his hands trembling. The way the fabric slowly reveals the roundness of his butt is like a sculptor revealing Michelangelo’s David, the muscles, the marble innocence captured in a single smooth curve. I am not sure if drool actually leaves my mouth, but I wouldn’t be surprised. I lick my lips to make sure. He pulls the briefs to his knees, forcing him to bend in front of me, then kicks them free. As suspected, his ass is smooth, no hair in the region until the backs of his thighs, fuzzing his legs with black curls which makes him appear to wear assless chaps.

He’s naked.

His perfect, brown butt, taken from the oven just in time, golden brown. I’m definitely drooling.

I haven’t bothered to check out his junk. It’ll be perfect, I know that.

My lust yells at me to throw him on the bedspread and punch my dick so deep inside that the cashier at the convenience store hears him scream…but that’s not what happens. That’s not how this goes down. He deserves better for his first time.

“Get us both a beer. Bottle opener on the desk.”

While he is engaged, I cross to the bed and sit, leaning against the headboard with the saggy pillows propped beneath my back. I pull out the cigar and lighter so they lie next to me on the bed. When he comes to me, his cock bobs in front, a proud hard dick rising from the black thatch of the carefully groomed base. I missed the opportunity to watch him bend over for the beers—and I regret that—but I trust another chance will come.

“Put your head on my chest.”

He’s embarrassed at first, awkward, but I compliment him on his body, ask him how he works out, while I stroke his thick shoulders, his neck, and kiss the top of his head. He begins to let go and soak in the masculine energy between us. He stretches out and dares—yes, dares is the right word—to drape his leg over mine, muscled and shapely lying across my jeans. He rubs his naked toes against my booted ones, the foot equivalent of holding hands.

We sip our beers and I ask him questions. Listen attentively to his answers. Sometimes it’s quiet between us, and it makes him a little nervous, but I don’t mind.

By his second beer, he’s buzzed. He answers questions in more detail, and his true voice flows out of him more naturally.

I raise his head and angle it toward me.

His heart starts beating faster—I feel it pounding against my chest.

I spend the next fifteen minutes kissing him, guiding him with soft whispers. With my lips, I instruct him in the art of pressure and insistence, and knowing when to relent. He learns to accept my chewing on his lower lip at the end of a long kiss, to suck my tongue while I fuck it into his mouth, and to meet my strong, rough kisses with his instinctive passion.

His hard cock rubs against mine while he’s on top of me. His is roughly seven inches, cut, and it bounces with nervous excitement. His hand wanders down to his dick, and I knock it away.

I throw him off me and he lands on his back.

I’m on top of him instantly, holding down his thick biceps, and he must realize in this moment how strong I am, how powerfully I’ve got him pinned. He can do nothing. I lift weights, too, Mark. I’ve been lifting for years.

I lean down to kiss him. Tenderly.

He moans and squirms, apparently not noticing I have positioned myself between his legs and forced them wider apart with each lunge. Every shade of meaning you can experience through kissing, he has already mastered, as if someone handed him a clarinet and forgot to explain it would take years to learn, so he is amazing from the onset.

I lurch forward, and his legs are suddenly around my waist.

“Oh!” His eyes go wild again.

My spittle is on his upper lip, and his eyebrows arch high in surprise. How did we end up here so quickly? This makes me feel incredibly dirty.

I grin, my twisted, lascivious grin. “You’re a virgin.”

My hard cock strains against my jeans, eager to touch that soft pink spot…a week’s worth of semen weighing down my heavy nuts, bouncing against his tight button.

Even wearing his surprise face, he still looks strong. Strong and yet vulnerable.

I throw his legs higher and dive for his hole. My first kiss is a wet tongue kiss, and I slobber all over it.

The kid gasps.

I dive deeper, running my tongue and scratchy goatee up and down his tender anus, licking, slobbering, coating my spittle over him, his twitching butthole.

He tries to twist away but I grip his thighs and continue my assault. Virgin ass. I’m eating virgin ass. This drives me into a saliva frenzy, and he cries out several times when I nip at the succulent flesh. I want this to be memorable. A week from now, I want him to jack off remembering this. I slobber and slurp over and over, assaulting it and kissing it, licking it like ice cream, long strokes with the broadside of my rough tongue. Soapy. Clean. He did a good job of cleaning his butt.

I manipulate him onto his stomach so I can dive deeper. I prop exhausted bed pillows under him, and he whimpers as I suck his hole into my mouth. I don’t want to distract him from the sensation in his ass, so I shuck my clothes discreetly while glued to his adorable butt. He doesn’t realize I’m naked until I land on his back and align my hard cock with his ass crack.

He cries out in surprise, shocked all those tiny steps taken landed him right here, my cock hungry to tease his virgin ass and also hungry to open it up. I’ve enjoyed this honor twice in my life—taking a man’s virginity—not enough to make me an expert but enough to feel privileged to participate. Yes, it’s an honor. Despite feeling noble and poetic, I want to fuck this ass hard and blow my seed as deep as I can. The dinginess of this skank room and the stink of beer works as an aphrodisiac on me.

I reach for my cigar and the lighter. I have to lean down to reach them, which glides my shaft right between those muscle cheeks, and his whole upper body jerks in surprise. He says, “Was that it? Did you just enter me?”

“No,” I say.

He flops down hard. He groans, exhausted.

He deserves to know the moment when it happens. If done right, impossible moments like that can be remembered and savored for years to come. Even as a Lost King, I will do right by him. I pull back and my cock slides away. I’m not sure my cock is suited to breach him first. Eight and a half fat inches. The amount of precum I’m drooling is amazing, so that will help, but am I really going to fuck him bareback? Can I go through with that?

I don’t know.

I know my status and STD results. He’s got nothing to worry about from me. But it sends the wrong message. Bareback fucked by a stranger for your first time? What kind of precedent is that? I absolutely cannot do this. It’s wrong.

But I can make sure he has a good time anyway.

I light up. Puff out some clouds of smoke and lean forward again. I pull back and glide forward until he learns how to dance with me, to move when I move, following my lead. For someone who has never fucked, he’s a virgin virtuoso, a master of this nonverbal communication. Who is this kid?

“Shouldn’t we use a condom?”

My slick cock glides against him. “No. No condoms.”

Did I just say that?

He shudders and then grumbles as if he wants to protest. I squirm. He sighs, possibly with resignation. I can’t get a solid read on him. I’m sure he’s feeling everything in this moment, a thousand sexual personalities exploding out of him like Pandora’s box, everything unbound, creating more chaotic love in the world.

How could I say no so quickly? Am I going through with this? I can’t. I won’t. It’s not right.

My cockhead stops on his hole, the puckered wet feel of it, and the invitation is now. This is now. This is happening.

“Turn over.”

He says, “Should we pull back the sheets?”

“Nah. When we splatter the bedspread, we will sign the genetic guestbook of this shitty room, adding our names to its history.”

He snuggles back, great affection glowing in his eyes. He’s ready.

I lean into him. “Let’s make history.”

In halting words, he asks, “Don’t people normally use condoms when they first meet?”

I know what he wants.

I say, “This isn’t going to be normal.”

Okay. I’m doing this. For a minute—bare for a minute and then I pull out.

I lift his legs. The cigar cloud hangs over us, protecting us from the room’s other smells, scenting our oxygen with something stronger.

As I lean in to kiss him, the tip of my wet dick kisses his ass, a tandem kiss which makes his lips twist in an unfamiliar pattern. He huffs into my mouth.

Am I really doing this? I brought condoms. We need lube—

My cock sinks into him, an inch. Two inches. His eyes fly open, staring into mine.

What are you doing, you fucking Lost King?

I say, “Now. It’s happening now.”

Our eyes lock. I nudge deeper and his face twists. His eyes accuse me. He’s either saying, “How could you do this?” Or perhaps “Please keep doing this!”

He leans back into the pillow, pulling me with him, and tears squirt out both of his eyes.

He says, “Oooohhh.”

I should stop fucking him, that seems like the polite thing to do, but my cock is not feeling polite, and instead, I feel myself edging deeper into him, a little at least, a depth which should stop soon but it doesn’t seem to happen, and I find his ass gripping me, welcoming me with surprising grace. I don’t think those tears were from pain. I’d stop and get lube if he were in pain. I spit a lot into his ass, quite a bit, but it may not be enough.

Quietly, I speak. “You’re no longer a virgin.”

He arches up, pushes back against my thick shoulders, and drops down again, unsure which way to pull himself. His head flips left, then right, and he lets out a low moan, all m’s, an mmmmmm so soft it sounds like each letter attempts to sneak out unnoticed.

Haven’t thought of a letter or word thing in a while.


I’d reflect more on this, but he’s riding me or I’m pushing inside him, the last few inches convinced to comply.

He thrashes, and one of his arms shoots out from my grasp, flopping to the right as if seeking a way out.

I shouldn’t do this. I shouldn’t do this. This is irresponsible.

Get a condom. Get a condom. You’re sending the wrong message.

Also, I don’t know how long I will last fucking a virgin ass. Do other tops hunger for virgins? Is this a fetish of mine? He should not let me come inside him. He should save himself for love, someone who loves him back. Not a stranger. Not me. Love must guide him to wait until the right time.

Oh god.

Stop fucking him!

I need to explain about love before it’s too late. How you can’t take for granted the beauty of our sexuality, that is yes, you can take it for granted—that’s sometimes beautiful too, in its own odd way. I’m not sure my explanations will make sense. What am I going to say to this kid, how about explaining there’s nothing wrong with casual fucking if that’s what your heart desires, but your virginity is sacred—

Oh man, I have to say this immediately or it’s going to get messy and globby inside him. Very soon.

I’m dimly aware of the lit cigar in my right hand, ash on the pillow, and the strong curl of acidic scent wafting over us, and he breathes it deeply, a wispy finger curling around the nape of his neck, his short black hair, those big eyes, shining—he should wait for someone he loves. To love someone, to love the person you’re with, is what matters and what I must tell him. Hurry. Tell him about love.

I eyeball him hard. “Love—”

He jerks and tightens his legs around my back, causing my cock to get squeezed hard, gripped by the strength of him, the inside strength of Mark, and, I can’t stop it.

I come.

Our eyes lock onto each other’s, speaking a language without words.

My semen shoots out of my dick like gunfire, blasting shot after shot.

This wasn’t supposed to happen!

Pull out! Pull out!

Instead, I keep jackrabbiting, fucking my semen into him, pushing it deeper, deeper, and what am I doing, my god—now he screams at the top of his lungs, his powerful voice ringing through the room with a ferocity sure to attract notice. Eyes wide open, we scream into each other’s mouths.

Good god, pull out!

His cock squirts me right on the forehead, and he howls again with surprising alarm. Maybe that’s not alarm but joy that doesn’t quite yet know how to be joy, so the surprised alarm infused into his voice is his expression of a new reality.

His eyes search mine, his question obvious. Did that just happen?

My eyes search his. Did that just happen?

We ping-pong this question between each other, over and over, and the proof is my still-hard dick inside him, sawing more slowly, still pumping—and pushing my sperm deeper. My god.

Vin, what have you done? You absolute selfish moron, what the fuck have you done?

We’re afraid to break eye contact, he and I. I am afraid to speak. What can I say? He didn’t insist on a condom, and he could have. No. This is on you. You’re the Lost King. Now you’re really sinking into it. You fucked a virgin without a condom. You denied him a condom.

You came inside him!

My cock keeps pumping him.

Fix this! Fix this you shitty, stupid waste of a man!

He wrenches his head to the side, ripping away from my gaze as if desperate for escape.

I can speak again. I have to fix this.

Fix this!

Mark! Mark! Mark!

I take a deep breath. “Once there was a tribe where every man was the one true king. Odd you may think, and ask yourself how any work got done. But these were not those kinds of kings.”

“No,” he says, and the word oozes out of him, like semen from—no.

His eyes remain closed. His chest rises and falls as he takes longer breaths, and his legs unclench from my back.

I’m still fucking him.

Breathing shallowly, he squeaks out more words. “No kings, Vin. No kings.”

He pants in the half shadow from the beaded lampshade.

Okay, Marky.

No kings.

Reviews:Shelley on Amazon wrote:

Edmond Manning never seems to pull his punches. He doesn't shy away from difficult topics or shameful secrets, rather facing demons head on and often airing them for the world to see--along with whatever bits of wisdom he/his character has gleaned from the experience. By daring to write in this manner,(and particularly in this series) the reader must be patient, just as we must be patient in life.

Come Back To Me is the reader's reward for their patience. Anyone who knows me knows how much I adore this series. It was recommended to me by a friend who said, "You're not going to know what's going on at first and you may hate Vin Vanbly, but stick with it and it'll be worth it."

Understatement of the century. Though each book in the series is unique, they all resonated with me in some kind of way. I could see myself, my feelings, in these characters, and often it wasn't in a good way. I recognized the faults these complex characters struggle with and cheered for them as they were forced to accept their true self.

I'm getting off track because it's difficult to review just this book without relating it to the entire series. Reading Come Back to Me felt as if I finally got to add a giant puzzle piece of the Vin Vanbly saga that I've been missing, hoping for, and waiting for.

And it didn't disappoint. For the first time we get to meet Vin's older brother, we get inside the head of someone other than Vin, and the book is about more than just a King Weekend.

I don't want to give anything away because I'd be super upset if someone spoiled this for me, but anyone already following the series will love this penultimate book. If you don't follow the series, be sure to visit Edmond's website, where he's listed the 4 (FOUR!) different ways readers can enjoy the Lost and Founds, AND THEN GET ON THAT.

Ulysses Dietz on Goodreads wrote:

I guess this is it for Vin Vanbly. Our peripatetic auto mechanic from Minnesota seems to have kinged his last king. In this fifth volume of the tales of the lost kings, one learns, at last, the whole story. Every question one has had about Vin and his eccentric mission is finally answered.

And it’s every bit as horrible as one might have imagined.

But, that aside, the book as satisfyingly wonderful as one has come to expect from Mr. Manning’s feverish imagination and brilliant, playful, powerful prose. (One does so like the letter p.) More than once I found myself sitting in a public place (on the train, in a restaurant) fighting back tears, even as I smiled over some clever phrase or amusing turn of language.

What is it about Manning’s writing that moves me so? There’s a huge amount of sexual activity in this book, as in all of the previous volumes. But for Manning, sexuality, particularly that between consenting adult men, is sacred. I don’t know how else to describe it. Manning brings an intense, highly secular, spiritual element into sex that simply transforms it. This is not to say it isn’t wonderfully sexy, for that it surely is. But it also stirs ups—and is fully intended to stir up—deep emotional resonance that further demonstrates the author’s ability to pluck those heartstrings linking the heart and the brain, even as he’s tickling your fancy with some very dirty activity. Manning’s prose is both heartbreaking and jizz-tastic. (I stole that word from the author.)

“Come Back to Me” is really four books, by the way. Each major section of this long book has the emotional heft of one of his earlier novels, and feels just as complete in spite of its novella-like length. The four stories are tightly linked together and they’re not uniformly told in Vin’s voice. The fact that Vin sometimes finds himself losing control of his narrative in the earlier books is a motif repeated here, because more than once he finds the narrative voice taken away from him entirely and given to someone else – someone who is very important to him and to us.

We meet Mark, and Kevin. We meet Malcolm, Vin’s brother, of whom we’ve heard before. We meet someone I cannot name, for that would spoil the surprise. We are reminded of other kings and queens, and we are reminded how profoundly Vin loves. In this last story of Vin and his kings, Edmond Manning loves the reader with all of his love. Those of us willing to accept that love are truly blessed.

The Lost and Founds series (six books) is complete. This is the first big HEA.

About the Author

EDMOND MANNING has always been fascinated by fiction: how ordinary words could be sculpted into heartfelt emotions, how heartfelt emotions could leave an imprint inside you stronger than the real world. Mr. Manning never felt worthy to seek publication until 2012, when he accidentally stumbled into his own writer’s voice that fit perfectly, like his favorite skull-print, fuzzy jammies. He finally realized that he didn’t have to write like Charles Dickens or Armistead Maupin, two author heroes, and that perhaps his own fiction was juuuuuuust right, because it was his true voice, so he looked around the scrappy word kingdom he’d created for himself and shouted, “I’M HOME!” He is now a writer.

In addition to fiction, Edmond writes nonfiction on his blog,

For more book fun, join his mailing list:

Leave a Comment