Wild to the Bone

by Peter Brandvold

  Her lips opened, and he could feel the sharpness of her teeth and then the wetness of her tongue licking him.

  She pushed his hand down from her face, pressing it to her right breast and groaning more quietly now as she continued to fuck him.

  Haskell looked up at her. Her pretty, heart-shaped face between the wings of her long hair was touched with the salmon pinks and purples of the sunset out the window to her right. The light danced softly in her hair, flashing on the lightest strands as they continued to slide back and forth with every rise and fall of her sweet ass.

  Haskell swept her hair away from her face, brushed his thumbs across the nubs of her impossibly smooth cheeks. As the crackling of the honey continued against his cock, he said in a voice deep and hoarse with his effort to hold his passion in check, “Miss Cybill, if you ain’t careful, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’ve done this before.”

  “Never with anyone as big as you, Bear.” She turned her face to kiss one of his hands as she rocked up and down, her hair jostling now across her jiggling breasts. “I can feel your wonderful cock all the way up in my stomach.”

  “Not that far.”

  “Feels like it.”

  “Don’t bother answering if you’d rather not kiss and tell, but who was it, a big-city college boy?”

  Cybill stopped rising and falling. Her eyes were smoky as she quirked her mouth corners up alluringly, blinked once, cupped her breasts in her own small, pale hands, lifting them up against her chest, and said, “I’ll tell you all about him if we can do it doggie-style.”

  Haskell laughed as he sat up and slid to one side. She gave a delighted chuckle and lifted off of him, crouched down to kiss his honey-coated cock, continuing to massage her breasts, and then dropped to all fours.

  She wagged her taut, round ass, and Haskell knelt behind her, closing his hands over her hip bones. He slid his hand between her butt cheeks and against the furry mound beneath her small, pink asshole.

  She was so hot and wet that he knew he’d have no trouble sliding into her again.

  He didn’t. As he bottomed out inside her, she lifted her head and said, “Oh!” Her damp hair tumbled down her slender back toward the flare of her beautiful hips.

  “Oh, God!” she cried as he started to fuck her.

  Her body shuddered as he slid in and out of her. She lowered her head until her forehead was pressed deep into her pillow, her forearms lying flat. She said, as though from far away, her voice husky with passion, “This is how we used to do it.”

  “You and who?” he said, slowly sliding in and all the way out before shoving his swollen head through her snatch once more. “Eastern boy?”

  “No eastern boy, silly. I went to a school for girls, and Emma Willard doesn’t allow conjugal visits.” Cybill giggled. “Oh, fuck, that feels good. Could you start fucking me just a little faster, Bear? If you don’t, I fear my heart is going to burst!”

  “Shhh!”

  “OK,” she said, giggling.

  “Who was it?” he wheezed, fucking her only slightly faster. The friction made his cock feel as if the fire had been stoked ten degrees hotter beneath that honey pot.

  “A young cowboy . . . in my father’s employ,” she said between labored breaths. “Back at the . . . ranch—oh, Jesus, I feel like I’m being fucked with a pump handle!”

  Haskell chuckled. “You mean, before you left home?”

  “That’s why Father . . . finally let me go . . . to New York and attend the school I’d been dreaming of attending . . . ever since I’d read about it in Harper’s Magazine. He caught me and Jimmy doing it like this . . . or not quite like this! . . . in the old bunkhouse. On a pile of horse blankets. Oh, it sounds so . . . so dirty to talk about it like this . . . with you . . . here . . . now. With your cock inside me!”

  “Musta been quite a shock to the old man.”

  Cybill giggled. “At the time, I was quite horrified . . . until I realized . . . that I’d fucked my way . . . off the ranch. I . . . I always . . . felt a little guilty—oh, God, yes, faster, that’s wonderful—about Jimmy, though. My father chased him off the ranch—oh, Jesus! oh, Jesus!—though I heard he’d been . . . heard he’d—oh, fuck me, Bear!—picked up by the Slash-Bar Z.”

  Haskell felt sweat dribbling down his cheeks and into his beard. He was thrashing against the girl in earnest, her hip bones in his hands, drawing her toward him, away, toward him, away . . .

  “You ready?”

  “Oh, fuck, yes!”

  “Shhhh!”

  Cybill laughed. “OK!”

  Bear pulled out of her and used his hand to finish her with his fingers, grinding his knuckles up hard against her clit. She convulsed before him, thrashing her ass up and down and mewling into her pillow. She bathed his hand clear up to his wrist with her hot spend.

  When her convulsions started to die, he said hoarsely, “Turn over. Hurry!”

  She turned onto her back, and he slid his throbbing cock up between her breasts.

  “Squeeze your tits together,” he ordered tightly.

  Quickly, she did as he’d instructed, watching in wild delight as, rising up onto his toes, propped on his locked arms, he slid his large organ up and down between her sumptuous breasts.

  “Ah, fuck!” he grunted.

  His seed fairly blasted out of him. She tipped her head back and opened her mouth as it jetted up across her face. She lapped at it, coating her lips with it, as he continued to thrust his shaft between her squeezed-together tits. She chortled and laughed as the jism kept coming until her face was drenched. Several beads were even clinging to her brows.

  Haskell pulled his gradually dwindling cock out of the hollow between her breasts and flopped over onto his back with a sigh. She smacked her lips and giggled.

  “Oh, Christ, you ’bout killed me.” He was still trying to catch his breath.

  She wiped her face with a corner of the sheet and turned over on her side, thrusting her wet pussy against his hip and grinding her face against his chest. “That was fun—my first fuck in two years, and with a man big as you. How tall are you, anyway, Bear?”

  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, drawing her taut against him. Unlike most men he’d heard about, he didn’t like to fun and run. Lying with a girl before and afterward was almost as fun as the tumble itself.

  He pressed his lips to her sweaty temple. “Six-five, give or take an inch.”

  “You were appropriately named.” Cybill ran a hand through the hair on his head. She raked it through his sweat-damp beard and then down through the tangle of thick, dark brown hair matting his broad chest. “A real bear of a man, aren’t you?”

  Bear chuckled. “That ain’t my real name. I got that name when I was still in grammar school, before the war broke out.”

  “What’s your real name, Bear?”

  “William.”

  “No!” She lightly bit his side.

  “Sure as hell. William Barrett Travis Haskell.”

  “Oh, after the Texas commander of the Alamo, of course,” she said, looking up at him, the white line of her teeth showing between her slightly parted lips. The last light touched her cheeks and forehead with pink rouge, and it made her jade eyes sparkle like diamonds. “You’re a Texan. By your size, I should have known. Hey, I think it’s coming alive again,” she added, squeezing the organ resting on his thigh.

  “Just ignore it. Damn thing has a mind of its own. It’s always ready to go when the rest of me is tired.”

  “Oh, I like it.” Cybill squeezed the organ of topic again, and he felt the nerves tingle in his big left toe. “A Texan with a Texas-sized dong. What more could a girl ask for?” She tittered as she lowered her other hand to his crotch and hefted his heavy scrotum.

  While Cybill’s soft fingers continued to ply him very gently under the covers, she wriggled her warm
body against him. Haskell reached over to the bedside table for one of his favored Cleopatra Federales cigars. He loved the dynamite-sized stogies so much that he’d arranged for the Pinkerton Agency to pay him partly in the heavenly smokes from Cuba, a full box of cigars at the satisfactory completion of every assignment.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke in here, do you, Miss Cybill?” he asked the girl, sliding the aromatic cigar—it smelled like chocolate, coffee, and the cognac it had been infused with—back and forth beneath his nose.

  “Not if I can play with your cock.”

  Haskell chuckled as he reached up and struck a match against the headboard. “There’s a deal I can live with.”

  When he’d gotten the cigar fired to his liking, expelling the aromatic smoke out through his mouth and nostrils to catch the last pink of the fading sunset, Cybill continued to play with his cock and scrotum, keeping her face snugged taut against his ribs, occasionally pressing her sweet lips against him.

  They didn’t say anything for a time, both of them just lying there, Haskell smoking, the girl manipulating his private parts, listening to the early-evening sounds of a dog barking and the quiet clomps of a horseman passing in the street outside the hotel.

  Downstairs, someone was tuning the saloon’s piano, sending an occasional quiet, discordant note through the floor. Somewhere in the hills surrounding the town, a couple of coyotes were also tuning themselves up.

  Forlorn sounds at a forlorn time of the day.

  This time of the day or early evening was never much fun. Haskell was glad to have Cybill in bed with him.

  While his job as a Pinkerton detective was a public one, he often found himself spending way too much time alone between assignments. A bachelor’s mind got to working on him during those long stretches of alone. Especially a bachelor who had no home and who’d been through what he’d been through back during the War Between the States, when Bear, a young Union officer and guerrilla fighter, swept up in the frenzy of the conflict, had fought so fiercely and single-mindedly behind enemy lines, assassinating Confederates and blowing up munitions dumps and rail lines.

  After the war, Bear had wanted nothing more than to return home, to his family’s West Texas ranch, where he could lick his physical and mental wounds. But his father, a Confederate sympathizer who had forbidden his oldest son to join the Union, barred him from the premises. Haskell’s home had been taken away from him, and, that was before Allan Pinkerton, whom Haskell had met during the war, hunted him down and persuaded him to be a frontier operative.

  Haskell removed the cigar from between his lips and blew several smoke rings at the darkening ceiling. He gave a pleased sigh.

  His cock was at half-mast beneath the sheets, the girl’s fingers caressing it with a little more vigor now. He smiled, curled his toes. He found himself liking Miss Cybill Downing, and not just because she enjoyed a good romp as much as he did and knew how to pleasure a man’s equipment. She was smart and pretty, and she was fun to converse with, although he had to admit they hadn’t had much time for idle chatter.

  Now, because he was genuinely curious, he said, “Tell me, Miss Cybill, how come you’re headed home when you seem so against the idea?”

  Cybill stopped running her tongue very slowly up his cock from his balls. “My father can’t afford Emma Willard anymore. The ranch has fallen on hard times due to drought and a glut of cattle on the eastern markets, causing prices to drop.” She continued licking from where she’d left off, and when she got to the head of his cock, causing a lightning bolt of pleasure to quicken his heart, she said, “My mother died some time ago, so it’ll just be Father and me.”

  “And the men who work for him.”

  She smiled and kissed the head of his dong. It made him suck in a sharp breath and curl his toes. “Yes . . . and the men.” She bunched her brows and pooched out her lips, pouting. “Although I don’t know how any other man is ever going to live up to this afternoon and evening, Bear.”

  “Ah, just give ’em a chance,” he said.

  “I think I’ve been properly inspired.” Smiling again radiantly, she shook her sexily mussed hair back from her eyes and said, “Ready?”

  Haskell stared at her pretty pink lips pressed against the underside of the head of his dick. His heart beat heavily. He cleared the knot from his throat and said, “Ready when you are, Miss Cybill.”

  She stretched her lips, her eyes flashing up at him, and then, with a little cherubic giggle, she dropped her mouth down over the swollen purple head.

  As young and relatively inexperienced as she was, she blew him wonderfully, almost as well as two other women he knew—one a wildly beautiful, dark-eyed Yaqui with brick-red skin and high bosom named Sonoma, whom he met whenever an assignment took him to Arizona or New Mexico; and the other a ravishing, black-haired fellow Pinkerton agent, Raven York, who had cobalt-blue eyes, large, round breasts the color and texture of fresh-whipped, buttery cream, and lips as supple as doeskin.

  Bear chuckled to himself and pushed his thoughts away from those two women. One, it wasn’t fair to Cybill. And two, if he let himself imagine the special gifts of either one, he was likely to blow his load down Cybill’s throat at this very moment, and he didn’t want to shorten his and the girl’s fun.

  When she’d tormented him for nearly a half hour, Haskell gave a deep, rumbling groan, clutched the sheets in his fists, bucked up from the bed, and spewed his load into the girl’s mouth.

  She kept up with him for only about five seconds, choking and gagging, some of the pearl substance oozing out through her nose. Then she lifted her head off his cock and massaged him with both hands, quietly laughing and giggling as she pumped him dry on his belly.

  Later, she gave them both a sponge bath, and then they talked some more and dozed. They woke once around midnight, and Bear went down and spread her legs and licked her pussy until she was chewing the sheets to keep from screaming.

  Her ooze ran as warm and rich as tree sap down the insides of her thighs.

  Bear had a few pulls off his bottle of Sam Clay, finished his cigar, and then fucked her once more—slowly, tenderly, kissing her lips, her eyes, her forehead—and they slept more deeply, entangled like two long-lost lovers in each other’s arms.

  Just before dawn, he rose and dressed, kissed her good-bye as she continued to doze, and left her room for his own. He hadn’t left her long before Haskell found himself feeling envious of the men back at her father’s ranch.

  He slept in his own bed for another hour, until his slumbers were disturbed by some unidentifiable sound. Suddenly, he was sitting up, his LeMat revolver in his right hand, the hammer cocked. Blinking sleep from his eyes, he stared at the door. When he dropped his gaze and saw something on the floor in front of the door, he gave a caustic chuff and depressed the LeMat’s hammer.

  Haskell got up, walked over to the door, and picked up the small dove-gray envelope. He slipped the card out of the envelope and opened it.

  The single word “CHEYENNE” had been printed in plain lettering on the inside in black ink.

  Bear gave another caustic chuff and jerked open the door, turning his head to look both ways down the hall.

  Empty. Nothing but dawn shadows.

  But then, he’d known that was all he’d find. Pinkerton’s “doves,” the courier riders who delivered messages from the esteemed head Pinkerton himself to his field operatives, were rarely—if ever—seen. At least, Haskell himself had never seen one. They were shadows, slippery as tooth fairies, the only evidence of their fleeting presence the small dove-gray envelopes they left in passing.

  Even the cards themselves were mysterious, usually only bearing the name of whatever town or place Haskell was to meet either Allan Pinkerton or a field supervisor to be filled in on his next assignment. It was like Haskell’s boss.

  Secretive and mysterious almost to the point of absurdit
y.

  How the man’s “doves” ever knew where to find Haskell, he would love to know. He swore they’d be able to track him to the moon.

  “Cheyenne, eh, Allan?” he said now, tossing the note into a wastebasket and then throwing his head back and raking his hands across his longhandles-clad chest, chuckling. “Cheyenne—yeah, all right. Cheyenne it is.”

  5

  Getting to Cheyenne, Wyoming, from New Haven, Colorado, wasn’t so easy or fast.

  First, Haskell had to complete his current assignment by escorting the payroll money to Montrose and not leaving until he’d seen it locked up in the safe at the headquarters of the Montrose Mining Company. That took two days, since the stage company wasn’t able to run another stage through New Haven until two days after Bear and Miss Cybill almost died. And then the stage ride from Montrose to the Denver and Rio Grande Western tracks in the little, windy, dusty jerkwater town of Rosemary, south of the Wind River Mountains in Wyoming, took another two full days of slow, often treacherous travel through mountains and canyons and over hot, dry plains.

  The train ride east from Rosemary aboard a four-car mail train was in luxurious contrast to Haskell’s previous four days, and he nearly slept for the entire eight-hour ride. When he finally arrived at the bustling depot yard in Cheyenne, he was relatively fresh though covered in coal soot and in dire need of a big steak with all the trimmings, a couple of tall drinks—he’d polished off his bottle of Sam Clay during his few waking moments aboard the flyer—and a long, hot bath, preferably with another pretty damsel impaled upon his staff.

  When the mail train jerked to a screeching halt in front of the long, green-roofed, red-brick Cheyenne depot building, he smacked his lips, blinked his eyes, and rammed his brown slouch hat onto his shaggy head. There were only five other passengers in the single-passenger coach: an old couple with a couple of chickens in a wicker cage, a dapper gent who looked like a successful gambler, and three unshaven, hungover, down-on-their-luck saddle tramps.

  There was no jostling for position as Haskell shouldered his saddlebags and headed out to the coach’s rear platform.