Beneath Me

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 2 Beneath Me

FIRST thing I noticed when I pushed aside the plastic flaps was the breadth of the pressman descending the metal rungs from a top unit. Nice ass, round, full, but that wasn’t what struck me. Nor did I think further than safety precautions at seeing the thin, bleached-blond ponytail flip out of his collar as he, without so much as noticing my entrance, leapt up and, with the toes of one foot on the edge of the conveyor, bounded over the rapidly exiting newspapers to adjust the ink keys on a far unit. Like hell he hadn’t noticed me. At six foot one with size fifteen shoes that cleared a corner before I did, much to my annoyance, everyone noticed me. His backward baseball cap left much to be desired— well-worn and splattered with a variety of colors—but his shoes held me captivated: Chuck Taylor high-tops, red, without a single splotch of ink. Unable to move, I continued to stare as he crunched up the newspaper in his hands and chucked it toward a waste buggy. Still, he ignored my presence. Even as he greeted another pressman who’d entered from an open doorway to my left and stood no more than two feet away. After a brief, heated exchange, which I could not hear above the whir of what sounded like a rickety water system and the clanking and grinding of the thirtyyear-old press, Converse Man scrambled up another ladder. I approached pressman number two, introduced myself as Mark Hicks, his new production manager, and inquired about this accident waiting to happen, demanding to know

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 3 who the idiot was and what he was doing in my pressroom. He shook his head, then leaned to within inches of my ear and shouted, “That’s Ben Moody, our pressroom supervisor.” Great. The pressman offered what I gathered was a sympathetic smile. “Come on. Ben’s got it handled—short run, eight-page tab. I’ll show you your office.” Just what I needed my first day on the job: an invitation to play king of the mountain from King Kong. I could envision Moody atop the high stack of units, pounding his chest and screaming a challenge. It was only a matter of time before my pressroom super and I locked horns.

WEEK three, and already the tension between Ben and me was so thick either of us would need a hatchet to chop our way through. We’d spoken little beyond initial introductions. Ben came to work, did his job, and left for home without as much as acknowledging that I, his production manager, existed. I hadn’t any reason to speak to Ben, though, in all honesty. I’d been filled in from day one here: “Ben has it handled.” And he did. Despite my wariness with the situation, with Ben in general, his utter disregard for safety, and his seeming disrespect of authority, the man proved to be one hell of a pressman, and the guys respected him as supervisor. All of them, over the weeks, had commented on Ben’s ability to listen and to take note of the most intricate details—whether the problem involved people or machines.

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 4 Though his existence in my pressroom pricked at my ego, the longer I was forced to endure the sidelines, the deeper my curiosity about this man grew. I noticed little things, at first, like his work ethic—never late, never sick. Come rain or snow, my ass. Hell, he was more dedicated than most postal workers. Never had I known a pressman as loyal as Ben Moody, either—like a big, shaggy St. Bernard with brains and huge hands. Perfect, huge hands, even when dirty. I resented the fact that he made me notice, and more so, that my men liked him. One detail—I tried repeatedly to dismiss it as frivolous— drove me nuts too. During my stroll each morning through the pressroom, I was compelled to check out his shoes. What can I say? The man had great taste. Of course, to my dissatisfaction, I got the same answer one day to the next— no ink. Nothing would be more satisfying than seeing what I imagined his prized possession—his size nine Converse AllStars—marred beyond repair. A dab of cerise would do the trick too. Since I’d arrived, we’d printed two jobs using that ink. How he managed not to step in any spills irked me, especially, since I carefully avoided what I was beginning to believe were strategically placed dribbles every morning yet still managed to track colorful splotches of cyan and yellow into my office one day. Much to my surprise, that afternoon, near the end of his shift, Ben appeared in my doorway. His light rapping at my open office door garnered my attention, and I looked up from my paperwork, immediately hiding my shock with mock concern. “Is there a problem?” I asked. I mean, that was the logical reason for his sudden appearance, no? He leaned, smiling—one of his secretly admired, cheeky

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 5 smiles I’d happened to notice over the past few weeks, capable of taking away my breath. It worked. I shifted in my seat, trying to hide that I had any trouble at all inhaling. “I noticed you tracked some ink,” he said, producing a spray bottle and rag in one hand before dropping to his knees in my doorway. Paperwork forgotten, unable to find my breath or my mind, I sat mesmerized, speechless, hating myself for anticipating the top of his soiled cap and his occasional profile to peek overtop my desk as he crawled about my office, spraying the solvent onto the inky stains on the carpet before scrubbing each one away with ease. His presence had me all sorts of twisted inside, and I couldn’t deny that the closer he moved to my desk, the tighter my stomach knotted. Not a pressman… never a pressman. I’d never gone for one— or anyone beneath me, for that matter—and I wasn’t going for one now, no matter how cute. White-collar and bluecollar had never mixed well. Cute… ugh. I was three seconds from dismissing him and his odd behavior when suddenly he wedged those shoulders of his under my desk from the other side. “U-um… Ben?” Not much of a dismissal, but those few, incoherent sounds were all I could manage as he lifted one of my feet by the heel of my ginormous work boot. Though I heard the spray nozzle and realized he was working to remove the ink from my sole, I wanted him out from beneath my desk. Jesus. His meaty grip slid from my heel, curled around my leather-covered ankle, sliding higher, up under my pant leg, to my calf. I fought to think of anything other than hands as broad and as strong as Ben’s on me elsewhere. Anywhere

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 6 and everywhere.… Shit. If I couldn’t get him out from under my desk, I was busted. Pressmen I’d worked with over the years had one-track minds—with mouths and, many times, actions, to match. Wasn’t sexual harassment if no one pressed charges, right? I found myself looking the other way more often than not, unsure what to think or to say when even the straight men joined the raucous behaviors. If he outed me, I’d never live this down for months to come. My tented pants, obvious to anyone with half a brain, confessed my desires, but I was ninety-nine percent certain, from the way Ben massaged each of my calf muscles, he had similar wants. As I put my concentration into other things, like how in the world he kept his Converse All-Stars spotless, he retreated from under my desk and got to his feet. Part of me thought about prying the secret out of him, but logic dictated I get him out of such close quarters. The sooner the better. Our gazes met—mine troubled, his hinting at mischievous— and again, he smiled. Again, those broad cheeks widened, and this time, I received two perfectly placed dimples, one on either side of his full lips—the ones he usually reserved for his conversations with finicky commercial print customers. “I got it,” he said, apparently proud of himself. Without another word, he spun around and headed out my door.

MONTHS went by, with Ben frequenting my office until his visits turned into somewhat of a daily “after work” ritual. And I found that I really didn’t mind as much as I had at first thought I might. Most times, the topics pertained to

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 7 work—print clients, subordination issues, or requests for funding for new parts for the press. Other times, though, Ben would simply shoot the breeze. I never knew what to expect from him, one visit to the next, but he had this uncanny way of making me smile, even when I didn’t feel the least bit inclined. One day, Ben’s upbeat spirit got me laughing so hard, I knocked my electronic pencil sharpener off the desk, toppling it to the floor. All hilarity ceased. My face grew hot, and then hotter as I examined the broken pieces, realizing it was beyond repair. “Fucking klutz.” Ben’s reply was to unplug the dead sharpener, gather up its remnants, and turn to me as he exited my office. “I can fix this,” he said. Sure he could, and I was born yesterday. I didn’t argue.

WHEN he showed up the next day after work, sharpener in hand, I was quite shocked. “Think this’ll be good enough for you?” He looked around my office, then back to me. I was too fixated on the sharpener, its plastic casing patched together with super glue, to catch the cheeky comment. He flipped it on its side and showed me the bottom. “I left duct tape here for reinforcement, but no one will notice. See?” He set the sharpener upright, plugged it in, and fumbled for a pencil from my cup. Disappointment crept across his face, and for some reason, I found myself hoping I hadn’t put it there. Knowing me, I’d rolled my eyes upon first seeing the half-baked

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 8 contraption. I couldn’t remember. So what if Ben Moody’s frugal? An excellent quality for a pressman. In reality, my pencil was sharp. I was happy. “Listen, I’m thinking about getting out of here early today. Cracker Barrel sound good to you?” His first reaction was no reaction at all, really. He simply stared at me as if I’d lost my mind. Maybe I had, though I’d thought any awkwardness was behind us. The crew had frequented Cracker Barrel for lunch and dinner many times together over the past few months. “If you’re busy—” “No.” He glanced down at his uniform before returning to meet my stare. “Mind if I get cleaned up first?” “Sure,” I told him, returning to the checks I’d been making out for the suppliers. I didn’t have a problem with how he looked. Pressman who worked on older, smaller presses almost always looked as if they’d crawled out from under a 454 Chevy big block. I’d only intended to show him a bit of gratitude for piecing together my— And that’s when it hit me. In his mind, I’d just asked a subordinate out—on a date. Hello. Harassment. Lawsuit. I met his gaze. His stare was intent, his smile surer than ever. What had I done? I began backtracking, something about forgetting I needed to drop my car by the shop…. He cut me off. “We can take my truck. My house is on the way.” Hands shaky, I locked my briefcase in my locker, slipped my cigarettes and lighter into my shirt pocket. I

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 9 would definitely need at least one before this afternoon was through. “If you’d rather I don’t smoke….” “I don’t mind, Boss,” he said as he stood in my doorway and, with a wave of his arm, beckoned me to step out of my office ahead of him. Though he’d finally acknowledged my position, his chivalrous act was most unsettling. All those days he’d sat in my office after work, talking, I’d not once thought of it as anything other than a professional relationship. I brushed past him, feeling the heat of his stare on my ass with each step I took. Bad choice. Stupid move. Blue-collar men were taboo in my book, date or no date. Upon exiting the building, he stepped ahead of me and had the passenger door unlocked and opened for me before I reached his truck. Wearing that damnable smile, he squelched any remaining doubt as to whether or not he looked at this as a date. “I’ve wanted to get you alone for so long,” he said. Unsure what to say, I stared, mentally chastising Little Mark down below for his swell of elation. Ben stared back at me, expecting a reply I could not form. A pressman…. The thought of tangling myself up with one—signing up to learn Chinese seemed suddenly easier. These guys were perfectionists, unafraid of a little grime if it meant getting the job done right, brusque, and, more often than not, stubborn as hell. I should know; I used to be one. After a long minute, the same disappointment that showed from my earlier lack of gratitude crept over his features. Without another word, he shut the truck door, went around, and crawled behind the wheel. Thank God I’d brought along my cigarettes.

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 10

RANCH, stucco, new paint, blue on beige. His yard looked well kept. Nice, was my main thought as we pulled into his driveway. He exited the truck without a word and walked to his front door. Yep, I’d pissed him off. I shuddered at the thought. One of the reasons—the main reason—I didn’t get mixed up with blue-collar guys. Why had I moved from printing to behind-the-scenes crunching numbers? My lanky ass wasn’t the rough-and-ready type. One drunken bar rumble ten years ago had been enough to convince me I wasn’t fighting material. After unlocking his front door, he turned back toward the truck and to me. “You coming?” Not any time soon, from the sudden shift in the air. I yanked on the handle and crawled out of the truck, closing the door with a slam. “In a minute,” I hollered, waving a cigarette high. He left me to my vice and to my thoughts, both of which were slowly killing me. After two cigarettes, I entered the front door of his home with a tentative knock. In greeting, I received only the sound of running water. As I looked around the modest living area, I realized two things—Ben was a simple man, and his personal life was as structured as his professional one. Tidy and in order. Even his easily 500-plus DVD collection was alphabetized. I didn’t realize the water had cut off until a few drops soaked through the shoulder of my shirt; warm breath ghosted over the back of my neck. Jesus. Right behind me. I

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 11 twisted to look over my shoulder. Water trickled from his long bangs, drizzling over—from the heavy scent of Skin Bracer—his freshly shaven face, and onto his bare chest. Did he have on a towel? I spun around, shoved Master and Commander back onto the shelf, suddenly feeling rather insignificant in his quaint little home. His hand settled on my lower back, and I twisted back only far enough to meet his gaze—a predatory one. He smiled, and part of me wondered if he was laughing at me. “Make yourself at home,” he said, then turned away. Warmth disappeared from the small of my back, and a chill raced over me. My wet shoulder felt colder as he crossed the room to a hallway. I couldn’t peel my gaze from the towel draped low on his hips, and my inquisitive mind got another answer it had, against my will, wondered about for months— Ben was definitely a bear. Staring at his retreating form, I didn’t think my dick had ever been harder. Fuck. At this rate, I’d need another cigarette. “You coming?” he hollered from the depths of the hall. Déjà vu rushed through me at his simple question. Maybe not all was lost, but I took my time, didn’t want to appear desperate or eager. The man sure had a strange way of showing interest, if he had any interest in me at all. At this point, I had doubts. Maybe I’d misjudged the situation and we’d be headed to lunch shortly. I caught sight of his towel-covered ass disappearing into the last room on the right. When I finally entered, he stood in a pair of briefs. Dry, except for his hair, he fiddled with various buttons and dials on what looked to be a homemade sound studio set on a tall counter built into the wall. He tossed me a sideways glance.

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 12 “Thought you might appreciate my CD collection too.” I caught his statement and his look, barely, as I tried my best not to drool over the corded, work-muscled hunk before me. Instead, I moved my attention to his queen-sized poster bed—complete with a homemade box canopy and rails lined with strategically placed eyehooks. “You modify your own furniture?” I felt stupid before the last word left my lips. By the man’s admission, he was looking for affirmation on his wall-to-wall music collection, or maybe his body. I wasn’t sure which, really, but I’d commented on his bed? “I built it myself.” With a snap of my neck and a whistle, I met his gaze. “Very skilled,” I said, and much to my surprise, I meant it. His expression appeared almost sinister, as if sizing me up. “In everything I do.” If not for the waggle of his brow, I might have missed the innuendo. I quickly took up scanning his CDs—Aerosmith, Guns & Roses—not really my style, but Metallica? Oh yeah. “Never pegged you for a Metallica fan.” He plucked the CD from my hand and inserted it into the player. As he punched through the selections and adjusted the volume, I looked on, once again speechless. What did he expect me to say to that one—“I like it hard?” I’d be lying though, if I said I didn’t kick myself when “Nothing Else Matters” wafted from what had to be the most exclusive surround sound system I’d ever experienced. I caught myself humming and quickly shut up. No one deserved to hear me croak out a tune.

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 13 Little Mark jumped to attention as Ben’s strong arms embraced me from behind. I failed miserably at hiding a groan. “You okay?” he asked, resting his chin on my shoulder, swaying us almost gently to the music. “Not sure,” I said, and at that point, I really wasn’t sure what in the hell was going on. Ben’s mastery of push me— pull me had me confused, maybe intimidated. Hell. “I don’t know,” I managed the brief statement with his lips trailing along the side of my neck. He released me and backed away. I’d offended him again. Despite my trepidation at being in a pressman’s bedroom, I don’t think I’d ever felt like such a loser. “Are you okay?” I turned to ask and noticed first, his red face, and second, the bulge in his briefs. “Maybe—” “No. It’s okay,” he said, turning away. “I thought— nothing. Ready for dinner?” He picked up a pair of jeans from across the foot of his bed. “Ben.” My heart went out to the guy. Never had it crossed my mind he was a romantic at heart. I touched his arm, stopping him from pulling the jeans up his leg. “It’s okay. Really.” His jeans pooled at his feet as he reached for me, drew me against him, and captured my mouth in a kiss that took my breath faster than his smile ever had. He held me flush, his kiss firm, commanding… perfect. Jesus. I liked men who loved to kiss, who knew how to do it. Ben was definitely one of them. He traced the seam of my lips with his tongue, asking for entrance, and my knees turned to jelly. If not for the strength of his arms, I’d have melted to a pile of babbling

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 14 goo. Without preamble, he allowed me to come up for air. Winded, I could do little but pant. “Was that good enough for you?” he asked. Pressed together at the hip, Ben’s arms the only thing holding me up, I couldn’t have been happier. Of course his kiss was great. Little Mark twitched under Big Ben’s pressure, seconding my opinion. Was the man dense? As I offered him a curt nod, I began to wonder. His hesitant smile faltered as he twisted around, intent on lowering me to the bed, but tripped over his pants and fell on top of me with a loud, grunted, “Sorry.” I couldn’t help stifle a laugh. The situation was funny, and I’d seldom heard that word from any of the men I’d been with. What stopped me was the flush on Ben’s face, the thin line of moisture I noticed welling in his eyes. He leaned to one side, looked away. I wriggled free one arm, cupped his chin, and brought him back to face me. “Kiss me,” I said. He covered my mouth with his, demanding, forcing my lips to part, his tongue meeting mine stroke for stroke. Mouthwash—spearmint, I could taste it, suddenly wishing I’d at least brought a pack of Certs. “It’s okay,” he said, pulling back while running his fingers through my hair. It wasn’t okay. I still felt self-conscious, and even more so that he sensed my doubt in a single kiss. “I really should give the habit up.” Chuckling, Ben rolled off me to the side. “I like the flavor.” Head propped on one hand, he traced the buttons of my shirt to the clasp of my workpants. “I like the way you smell too.” He likes—what? Little Mark strained against my zip,

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 15 begging those thick fingers of Ben’s to free him. A pressman…. I met Ben’s gaze. He winked—I smiled. Yep, I was going for this, despite knowing better. “Little Mark’s anxious.” I managed the short sentence past dry lips. Ben cocked a brow. “You named him?” “Doesn’t every man?” My eyes trained on the fine splattering of dark hair across his chest. He unclasped my pants, slid the zipper… slowly traced the opening, little by little, revealing my tented boxers. “You want this, then?” he asked, stalling his wandering fingers. I wasn’t changing my mind if that was what he expected to hear. I’d resolved to lowering my standards, and I’d be damned if he reminded me of that. “Do something, for chrissake.” Ben traced the swell of my underwear, silent, as if in heavy contemplation. I turned toward him, my body begging for his touch, my hands feasting in the copious amounts of burliness available to me on his torso. “I’ve been with men like you before,” he said. What the hell was that supposed to mean? “Like me?” His rebuttal came on a challenging breath. “Yeah. You know, nothing’s ever good enough for you types.” My hands on his chest stilled, but my thoughts ran at full speed. Just who in the hell did he think he was, passing judgment on me, of all people? His hand disappeared from inside my open pants, and he rolled onto his back, fingers laced behind his head. I followed his move. Fine. I’d wait, play his game… stare at him as he stared back at me in the mirrored canopy. “You add the mirrors?”

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 16 “It was tricky, took me a few tries to get it how I wanted it.” He chuckled again. I liked his laugh… how one side of his face lifted slightly higher than the other side while he did so. Of course, his arms, muscles flexed, hands trapped behind his head, weren’t anything to throw away. “What?” “You’re smiling,” he said to me in the mirror. I was. “Always a good sign for a first date,” he said. His wink told me he couldn’t resist the jab, and I think, at that point, I realized he had me figured out pretty well. “So, this is a date to you?” He let his elbows drop to the bed, lifted his chin a little higher. If possible, his smug grin broadened. “And… what if I told you, you aren’t my type?” Faster than I’d ever witnessed him take a ladder on the press, he took me, had me pinned in the center of his mattress, distracted by his kiss once more… while he fumbled to tie one of my wrists to the bed. Parting for air, he met my gaze. “You know you want this.” I did, and I wasn’t about to deny it. At that moment, I couldn’t recall wanting anyone as badly as I wanted Ben Moody. He finished tying off one wrist, grunted as he moved across me and began fashioning a knot out of an old shoelace to hold my other. “What are you going to do?” Winded from his weight pressing down on me, I had a pretty good idea already. When he didn’t answer, I continued. “I never imagined you into kink.” For a second, his brief laugh sounded above the music.

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 17 “What?” I asked, as he finished affixing my wrist to another eyehook at the top of the bedframe. “I never pictured you for anything but.” He slid down my body, taking my breath with him. My workpants, second. He stopped at my boots and began to unlace them. My eyes snapped shut. Until that very second, I’d forgotten my feet existed. No denying those babies now. He loosened the tongue on my right boot, carried it over my heel, and off my foot. Only a matter of time and I would be enduring his ridicule about their size. My boot made a distinctive clunk as it hit his bedroom floor. He moved to the next and removed it in record time. My eyes shot open when his tongue licked the pad of my big toe. “What are you doing?” His hunched-over image in the mirror drew my attention… the sparse layer of dark hair adorning his well-defined back. A shudder raced over me as he took the next two toes on my right foot between his lips, swirled his tongue around them, then released them with a slurping noise. “What’s it feel like I’m doing?” “Must you answer all my questions with one of your own?” I panted, tugging on my tied wrists while yanking up my knees. He grabbed hold of my legs, freeing one from the confines of my pants and boxers as he held me down. “Oh, no you don’t,” he said, taking the big toe of my free foot into his mouth while he finished removing my pants. “Fuck….” I had to content myself with watching him use his mouth to make love to my feet as I struggled to remain calm, my prick free, the head aching in agony to feel that

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 18 tongue of his. “That tickles—that tickles!” Eyes glazed over, he looked up from his work, met my teary gaze in the mirrored canopy. “I love your feet,” he said. Oh God…. I hurt. I needed off, and I didn’t care how. Could my dick get any bigger? I didn’t think so, as I continued to struggle against his weighted hold. “Does this tickle?” He ran a finger up the center of one foot, and I squirmed. Metallica’s “The Unforgiven” covered his chuckle. “This is torture.” “Is it, now?” He reached up, cupped my ball sac, and gave it a tentative squeeze. “I could show you torture.” “Please, don’t,” I said, while my brain screamed, “Please don’t stop!” Never had I imagined a pressman to be this talented with his hands, his mouth… and so fucking intuitive. I was convinced the man was a genius as I continued to watch him navigate his way up my legs. His lips encircled the head of my dick, and he applied just the right amount of pressure, right… there…. “How do you do that?” I gasped as he unbuttoned the bottom button on my shirt, planted a wet kiss just below my navel. “Fuck—that.” “What?” “That.” “This?” He dipped his tongue inside my belly button, swirled it around. Without hesitation, he cupped my sac and again caressed the skin directly behind it as he fondled my balls in his palm. “Or this?” he asked. Both… all….

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 19 He dragged his heavy cock up the front of my shin, grinding against my leg, the heat from his thighs surrounding my foot as he went ahead, reached higher, and unbuttoned my shirt’s remaining buttons. “Everything you do,” I blurted out. “How do you know what I want”—my breath hitched as he sucked a nipple between his lips—“what I like?” He slid higher, until his fur-bearing chest covered mine. “I watch.” He watched? Of course he did; he was a pressman, trained to look deeper than the most observant of people to see the dots that make up the whole. “Am I that predictable?” I voiced my only concern. His lips captured mine as he pressed me into the mattress with both determination and skill. “You’re not predictable,” he said, hovering above me, braced on his hands. “Or I would’ve had you right here”—his gaze followed my torso to where it disappeared beneath him before glancing to my bound wrists—“where you belong, months ago.” He lowered himself over me, the moisture from his stilldamp hair tickling my shoulder as he nuzzled my neck, bit down and began to suck. Fuck… not a hickey. Yes…. He knew I liked the dark, cerise mark he would leave, having the entire world know I’d been laid claim to. I arched against him, my body pleading for release. “And just where is it you think I belong, Moody?” “Mark.…” His chuckle rumbled from deep within, drowning out Metallica’s “Sad but True,” as he kissed and bit his way down my chest. He continued over my navel one

Beneath Me | Bryl R. Tyne | 20 more time, to my balls, where he licked a broad swath across the underside before teasing me with that come-hither stare and tonguing his way up my stiff prick. “Beneath me, of course.” I closed my eyes, dropped my head to the pillow. Thank God for pressmen.

Get the whole package at http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

About the Author

BRYL R. TYNE is a wrangler by nature and a fiction writer by choice. Balancing as many pronouns as hats, somewhere between the evil day job, promoting authors, and helping a benevolent Sugar Daddy raise the last few of seven kids, Bryl writes. Homoerotic romance is a favorite, but many of Bryl’s stories cross genres. Comedy, fantasy, mystery, sci-fi, horror, and even Westerns, Bryl’s tried them all. Visit Bryl’s Web site at http://bryltyne.com/ and Yahoo!Group at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/panrainbow_seas . You can contact Bryl at [email protected]

More Daily Dose and Advent Calendar packages

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com

Copyright

Beneath Me ©Copyright Bryl R. Tyne, 2011 Published by Dreamspinner Press 4760 Preston Road Suite 244-149 Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Cover Art by Catt Ford This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press at: 4760 Preston Road, Suite 244-149, Frisco, TX 75034 http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ Released in the United States of America June 2011 eBook Edition eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-018-9