Hard as A Rock: A Paranormal Women's Fiction Gargoyle Novella

By Sara Jay

Canna, a flirty, impish fairy, loves to service just about any client who enters The Pleasure Club, a futuristic sex club. But although the clientele is satisfied, Canna aches for the impossible -- a sexy, larger-than-life gargoyle statue that happens to be a simple décor item… or is it?

Basalt has spent centuries wanting Canna all to himself. Though her nightly visits train her to be his perfect lover, will she still want him when she finds out who he really is?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Changeling Press
• Release date: Jan 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9780641902062

Book preview

Prologue

3,000 Years Ago…

Ares’s wine-soaked lips spat a cruel laugh. More! he demanded, sloshing mahogany liquid as he raised his glass.

Thwack! Another scream-inducing lash landed squarely on the lovely fairy who had denied the god’s advances. Helplessly chained in iron restraints, she trembled, tears running down her dirt-streaked cheeks.

The god’s gargoyle lackey prepared to deal another blow. Basalt’s rock-hard face revealed no remorse. His black stony glare, matte and blank, reflected a soulless monster executing his duty -- no more, no less. Most visitors deemed him their favorite among Ares’s collection due to his dispassion and obedience.

Thousands of years as a slave had taken what little soul he had. When gods forged and claimed you, learning to appease your masters came quickly. Plenty of scars scoring his leathery wings and long, chiseled flanks proved his initial resistance and subsequent taming.

His stoic countenance also displayed none of the turmoil raging inside the body that mirrored his volcanic name. One moment of weakness, however brief, and the wrath of Ares would be his problem, too. Assaulted regularly for merely doing his job, Basalt knew better than to defy his master.

Yet Basalt rarely allowed his flogs to land at full-strength. Conquering the art of controlled torture early in his servitude helped him ensure minimal suffering for his victims. The fact never assuaged his conscience, though it did provide scant, rebellious satisfaction. The same attempt at restraint could certainly not be said of the god’s other monstrous minions.

Basalt cursed himself, his slavery to the war god, his very birth at the hands of Ares who had shaped him from hyaloclastite rock for the purpose of inflicting pain. And for bearing pain, as well.

The night remained young. Several of Ares’s friends -- mostly half-gods, though other monsters managed a spot on the guest list as well -- had yet to taste his stony flesh, his blue-black blood this day. And the god’s parties never ended until every slave lay broken and well-used.

More! Ares crowed. Arrogant gods snickered, leaning back in comfort to watch the show Basalt provided.

Clenching frayed leather, Basalt regarded the beaten fairy. His bulky arm felt like lead. Why did punishing her seem so difficult? How did this tiny thing differ from the hundreds of thousands he had gored, even killed, in his lifetime?

Wet green eyes pleaded with him for death. The young fairy’s long hair fell into her face and over her bare breasts. Drugged and already tortured by two other monsters, she barely registered him as another living being. How could she, when he was little more than a demon?

Raising the whip, he studied her face. Resigned to her own fate, she now merely stood to bear his obligatory brutality. She didn’t