Dorian Gray. Beautiful and charming, he hides his true nature from everyone in the dark recess of his soul.
An artist is the creator of beautiful things, but what happens when that art conceals the true nature of one’s soul?
Dorian Gray, a charismatic and beautiful man, is about to find out that with beauty there comes a cost. Living a life of debauchery, he realises that time and age no longer affect him, not when the evil that is now his life is sucked into the vortex of his reflected self.
As Dorian Gray sets out to prove himself to all around him, he realises his acts of vileness and hatred will hurt the people his cold heart has grown to care for. His love knows no bounds, but it is that love that ultimately leaves him alone, only knowing the self-disgust that is now his life.
This is a story of a young man who will set out to live his life to the fullest even if that destroys everyone and everything around him, himself included.
General Release Date: 15th November 2013
He felt that the eyes of Dorian Gray were fixed on him, and the consciousness that amongst his audience there was one whose temperament he wished to fascinate seemed to give his wit keenness and to lend colour to his imagination. He was brilliant, fantastic, irresponsible. He charmed his listeners out of themselves, and they followed his pipe, laughing. Dorian Gray never took his gaze off him, but sat like one under a spell, smiles chasing each other over his lips and wonder growing grave in his darkening eyes. A man like he could cause havoc on the world, like a powerful God bringing pleasure and pain to the Earth. How many times had he dreamt of having a life such as the one Dorian Gray could acquire? The depravity, the eroticism, all of it was right at the tips of his strong, beautiful fingers. Harry wanted it all, wanted everything Dorian had to offer.
At last, liveried in the costume of the age, reality entered the room in the shape of a servant to tell the duchess that her carriage was waiting. She wrung her hands in mock despair. “How annoying!” she cried. “I must go. I have to call for my husband at the club, to take him to some absurd meeting at Willis’s Rooms, where he is going to be in the chair. If I am late he is sure to be furious, and I couldn’t have a scene in this bonnet. It is far too fragile. A harsh word would ruin it. No, I must go, dear Agatha. Good-bye, Lord Henry, you are quite delightful and dreadfully demoralizing. I am sure I don’t know what to say about your views. You must come and dine with us some night. Tuesday? Are you disengaged Tuesday?”
“For you I would throw over anybody, Duchess,” said Lord Henry with a bow.
“Ah! that is very nice, and very wrong of you,” she cried; “so mind you come”; and she swept out of the room, followed by Lady Agatha and the other ladies.
When Lord Henry had sat down again, Mr. Erskine moved round, and taking a chair close to him, placed his hand upon his arm.
“You talk books away,” he said; “why don’t you write one?”
“I am too fond of reading books to care to write them, Mr. Erskine. I should like to write a novel certainly, a novel that would be as lovely as a Persian carpet and as unreal. But there is no literary public in England for anything except newspapers, primers, and encyclopaedias. Of all people in the world the English have the least sense of the beauty of literature.”
“I fear you are right,” answered Mr. Erskine. “I myself used to have literary ambitions, but I gave them up long ago. And now, my dear young friend, if you will allow me to call you so, may I ask if you really meant all that you said to us at lunch?”
“I quite forget what I said,” smiled Lord Henry. “Was it all very bad?”
“Very bad indeed. In fact I consider you extremely dangerous, and if anything happens to our good duchess, we shall all look on you as being primarily responsible. But I should like to talk to you about life. The generation into which I was born was tedious. Some day, when you are tired of London, come down to Treadley and expound to me your philosophy of pleasure over some admirable Burgundy I am fortunate enough to possess.”
“I shall be charmed. A visit to Treadley would be a great privilege. It has a perfect host, and a perfect library.”
“You will complete it,” answered the old gentleman with a courteous bow. “And now I must bid good-bye to your excellent aunt. I am due at the Athenaeum. It is the hour when we sleep there.”
“All of you, Mr. Erskine?”
“Forty of us, in forty arm-chairs. We are practising for an English Academy of Letters.”
Lord Henry laughed and rose. “I am going to the park,” he cried.
As he was passing out of the door, Dorian Gray touched him on the arm. “Let me come with you,” he murmured.
“But I thought you had promised Basil Hallward to go and see him,” answered Lord Henry.
“I would sooner come with you; yes, I feel I must come with you. Do let me. And you will promise to talk to me all the time? No one talks so wonderfully as you do.”
“Ah! I have talked quite enough for to-day,” said Lord Henry, smiling. “All I want now is to look at life. You may come and look at it with me, if you care to.”
Their eyes locked, and although the two gentlemen had plans of enjoying the fine weather, neither moved. It was then, as the air stilled around them and the reality of their close proximity solidified, that Dorian leaned in. So close to Lord Henry’s mouth, Dorian could smell the scent of clean man. Doran dipped his gaze down to the other man’s mouth, noted the fuller bottom lip, and ached in his trousers to feel how full they truly were.
“You look at me as though you wish to devour me young Dorian,” Lord Henry murmured, his voice thick, his slacks becoming uncomfortably tight. It wasn’t that he was ashamed of such bodily reactions while with another fellow, it was the fact that the young man in front of him made those reactions so pronounced. His desires for Dorian were carnal and fierce, and all he could think about was pressing his body against the young lad’s and feeling male flesh to male flesh.
Dorian Gray was a virile, potent man who sent every part of Lord Henry’s senses reeling. Since first setting eyes on the attractive young man, Lord Henry had been achingly needful of feeling Dorian’s fresh, lively body close to his. His shaft was painfully stiff beneath his trousers, and although he would like nothing more than to feel Dorian’s young, supple hands gripping his member, bringing him to a pleasure that would rival all others, a small part of him stood back.
Dorian looked upon Henry as if the sun had opened up and washed his body with light, brought him to a place that defied all logic. It wasn’t foreign to Lord Henry that Dorian was frightened slightly, that what would happen was not something that he was accustomed to doing.
“Come here, Dorian,” he murmured, willing the young lad closer. When Dorian was inches from him, he smiled, reassuring Dorian and possibly himself that this was something to make them both feel alive. The pleasure he knew he would find with Dorian’s body would surely rival all others. He reached his hand out, ran the tips of his fingers along the smooth, supple skin of the young man’s cheek, and felt himself stiffen further. Oh yes, this would certainly be an encounter that would put all others to shame, Lord Henry thought with lust.
Dorian followed Lord Henry to the chaise and let him pull him down beside him. The smell of the older man’s cologne was like a thick hand wrapped around his stiff shaft. Had he ever been this hard for another person? When Lord Henry took the hand he held and brought it to the front of his trousers, Dorian couldn’t help the moan that slipped from his mouth.
Jenika Snow
Jenika is just your average woman. She lives in the too hot northeast with her husband and their young daughter. Thankfully, he shares her unusual sense of humour and naughty nature, so finding material for her stories isn't a problem.
Along with taking care of their daughter, they have to keep an eye on Milo and Otis, their spunky cats. When not writing, Jenika works full-time and attends nursing school. Writing is Jenika's number one passion, but since life gets in the way, she isn't able to write full-time (at least not yet).
Jenika started writing at a very young age when her first story consisted of a young girl who traveled to an exotic island and found a magical doll. That story has long since disappeared, but her passion for writing hasn't.
Oscar Wilde
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