Sure as Shooting

by Karen Mercury

  What was Whit doing? He barely seemed to be moving. After awhile, Huntley could tell he must have been jiggling his right hand somewhere in the vicinity of Belle’s crotch, and it struck him. Whit was masturbating Belle through the slit in her drawers!

  Huntley was so aghast he snorted aloud, but the tapping rain must have drowned out the sound. What sort of medical therapy was this? Well, about the same sort of medical therapy as Whit had practiced when he had frigged Huntley to fulfillment! To practice it on him was one thing—it had certainly achieved the desired purpose of relaxing him, and he hadn’t slept that well in months. But it was definitely an affront of an entirely different order for the alleged physician to be practicing such an intimate act on Huntley’s maid, right under his own roof!

  And ultimately, Whit’s frigging had riled Huntley to even greater heights. He had awoken refreshed and full of vigor, but only for about ten seconds, until he recalled the private and deeply personal act. Instead of relaxing him, then, Huntley had been forced to walk about having meetings with Colonel Barbour and the commissioners, pretending to be focusing on Indian matters, when really he couldn’t get the image of Whit’s enormous donkey cock out of his mind. After the masturbation, when Whit had sat back on the couch relaxed and full of himself, his long, thick tool had filled the crotch of his trousers almost to the bursting point, and Whit had seemed unashamed. This sight had stirred Huntley to a passionate extent that was no doubt perverted, something only a twisted sodomite would feel.

  And memories of Whit’s broad hand robustly pumping his own penis made Huntley’s cock elongate and stiffen, even during deadly boring treaty palavers. It was embarrassing beyond belief to be unable to stand to utter the proper oaths of respect to departing Indian chiefs as they left for their Fresno River reservation. Memories of dalliances with women never intruded on business affairs. No, those recollections evaporated the moment they had passed. Now it seemed it was all Huntley could fix on, that oily hand corkscrewing around his prick so expertly Huntley had come off in record time, and with shameful force.

  But perhaps worst of all, Huntley had literally shoved Whit into Belle’s arms by suggesting he perform his technique on women! The surgeon had not lost any time in doing so, as he was now frigging—was it called that with women? Huntley wondered—Belle’s cunt through the slit in her drawers! Not only was she allowing this to occur, but her arms were tossed above her head in abandon, and her silken, brunette hair was coming loose in locks from her bun, slithering across her pillow.

  The brandy burned jealousy in the pit of Huntley’s stomach. That they were doing anything without his participation riled him, but such an intimate act to which he was not invited, well, he just wanted to burst in the door, tear Whit from the bed, fling him across the room, and…and what? Leap atop the woman and give her the real, proper satisfaction of a man that a woman craved by plunging his erection into her cunt? Fucking her deep, hard, fast, and senseless? Until her head wobbled on a rubber neck and she clung to him, crying out in tears? Yes, that would have been a much more acceptable occupation than this nonsense he was now witnessing.

  And what was the point of their activity, Huntley wondered, when it was impossible for women to be frigged to anything near the same fulfillment that a man achieved? How would a woman gain the same relief from the technique, when women didn’t have orgasms? Was it merely the pleasant sensation of having her pussy twiddled that was supposed to take her mind off her hysteria? Or, more heinously, was Whit just using this flimflam as an excuse to get Belle hot as monkeys, so he would be the first—at hand, so to speak—to leap in when she was wet and prepared for his horse’s cock?

  Huntley leaned, breathing steam from his nostrils against the doorjamb, watching Whit speed the activity of his wrist as Belle accordingly gasped, reflexively humping her hips into his hand, her head flopping about like a fish on a hook. He couldn’t see Whit’s face, so couldn’t tell if he was concentrating with professional acumen or taking an equally lewd enjoyment, but Huntley was certainly riled up watching the spectacle.

  He was riled with arousal and outrage simultaneously. Nobody would certainly notice him peeking through the door, as Belle was now holding her breath and Huntley could tell by the bunching of Whit’s shoulder muscles that he was really working her pussy now.

  “No, no, no!” Belle called out in a whispery, reedy tone.

  Was Whit hurting her? Huntley’s palm slid down his abdomen to grip his own erection, pulsating hotly against his hip. Belle seemed more to be talking to herself, telling herself to stop doing something. It was both odd and stimulating at the same time, with the rain pummeling the planks of the house ferociously now. Whit leaned more assertively into Belle, murmuring some encouraging words, obviously concentrating with great force on his task, while she gripped handfuls of the sheet so fiercely her knuckles turned white. Was she achieving whatever result Whit had promised her? Did women simply reach such a crescendo of pleasure they could bear it no more?

  Huntley squeezed the length of his prick and sighed moistly against the doorjamb, nearly on the brink of getting off himself just from witnessing such an oddly erotic scene.

  But then a sharp, metallic tapping came from his right. Huntley was stunned, wrenched from his reverie. The front door knocker! Instantly panicking that Whit or Belle would hear it, Huntley leaped into action, taking giant strides down the carpeted hallway, skidding around the corner into the foyer. Yanking open the door, he had to squint through the rain to see Phil Din’s face under his dripping slouch hat.

  “Sorry to bother you, Major,” said Phil, already using the title recently bestowed upon Huntley. “But a new missive has arrived from the ‘Great White Father in Washington,’ and Colonel Barbour wants to review it with you.”

  “Certainly. One moment.”

  Huntley retreated to the coatrack to grab an oilskin and a slouch hat of his own, feeling like a man wrenched into another century. Luckily, the oilskin would hide his erection. But nothing would be able to erase the image of the lovely Belle, all stretched out like that, humping Whit’s hand with such abandon.

  * * * *

  Huntley was having a dream.

  It was one of those utterly fantastic occurrences where, when one is within the dream, one becomes aware that it is a dream. Yet one is still completely incapable of controlling the events from inside the dream.

  He was at Bridger’s Fort on the Green River five years ago, in 1846, when his wife had succumbed to fever. He knew Lilith lay dying in a miserable shack, but members of the Boggs party he’d been traveling with were trying to prevent Huntley from seeing his dying wife. Huntley was mad with rage, flailing at anyone who tried to come near him. They all seemed to fall away like glutted leeches, yet every time he took one step toward the shack, more pioneers clung to him, among them James Reed and Jim Bridger himself.

  Huntley felt as though he was shrieking at the tip-top of his lungs, and he kept thinking to himself, This is only a dream. Lilith has been dead for five years. If I can somehow wake, I won’t have to keep reliving this nightmare all over again.

  Jim Bridger, that old hair-raising scout himself, in particular kept grabbing Huntley by the arms and rattling him about, saying, “You don’t want to see Lilith. You need to go into the Deep Grassy Valley and find the woman with the golden lotus.”

  Huntley took his fury out on Bridger, bellowing, “Why should I believe you? You’re the one who sent Reed and Donner into your flatheaded cutoff, only to perish in the Sierra after eating their own countrymen!”

  For even in the dream, Huntley recalled it was Bridger who had sent the folks later known as the Donner Party to their deaths by recommending a jackass cutoff that would drive more commerce to his trading post at Bridger’s Fort. Huntley might have gone with Reed, had he not been grieving for his wife, and later left on the well-trodden trail with Boggs and a few others who actually made it out of the Sierra with all of their body parts still attached.

  But Bri
dger insisted upon bloviating about the golden lotus and other crappy gas that made no sense, until at last Huntley shrieked, “This is only a dream!”

  And was finally in his bed, rain still pattering reassuringly against the window glass.

  As was usual with nightmares one realizes is a nightmare, on a sudden Huntley felt safe and secure, completely forgot about the Bridger mess, sighed, and slept.

  Only to become aware of a much better dream.

  Something hot and wet like a tongue tickled the underside of his cock. Immediately his slavish penis swelled into life. Huntley stretched his spine thoroughly like a giant panther. He could even feel himself smile as the mouth gained confidence, feathering the entire prick with tiny arousing flicks, from the firm head of his cock then sensuously down to his balls.

  Huntley heard his dreaming self gasp when the disembodied tongue fell to pleasuring his balls with the same tiny angel’s licks, like a housecat lapping a bowl of milk. He found himself vaguely wondering if it was this sort of dream that preceded those funny morning ejaculations, when he woke up with a stiff prick only to find he’d erupted recently. The dream mouth was quite a cock-lapper, vigorous in its enthusiasm, and obviously quite experienced, as a dream cock-licker should be, better than any hooker. The tongue laved his scrotum with such loving relish Huntley felt the jism spurt up the underside of his cock and stiffen his glans with seed.

  He gasped with pleasure at this dream that was perhaps payment for the misery of the Bridger nightmare. Lustily he thrust his hips toward the mouth, desiring more, and the mouth obeyed.

  The groans of his dreaming self reverberated down his chest and into his cock as the mouth pleasured the bursting head of his penis. “Oh, God, yes,” Huntley seemed to say, to encourage the mouth. It bestowed him now with enthusiastic sucks to the entire head while magically maintaining the gratifying squiggling butterfly licks to the underside, swishing the retracted foreskin about with vigorous and expert delight. With his hands knotted under his skull, Huntley spread his thighs even farther apart and humped the spirit mouth, hoping to spear himself down the ghostly throat. He groaned with wantonness, wishing a spirit hand would join the mouth and take charge. He imagined he even heard delighted slurps, and felt his cock vibrate when the phantom itself groaned deeply with lewd satisfaction.

  This riled Huntley to even more promiscuous heights, the idea that some sort of succubus had come into his bed, performing acts for which he might have to pay later. Huntley had always been able to outwit everyone and every eventuality, like failing to follow the Donner Party into the Sierra. With this certitude he growled in equally bestial fashion, “Suck me. Suck me, you damned demon.” The demon obliged, taking almost the entire length of his cock down a burning hot throat, gorging itself on his heft. Sloppily and with ravenous gusto, his prick was sucked into such a hungry mouth Huntley felt a few squirts of seed spurt out the hole, and the tongue eagerly supped the liquid up.

  Huntley groaned loudly and moved his dreaming hand down to feel the specter, to gain a better traction to fuck the mouth. He was so carried away with the ecstasy of the most expert sucking of his life that it took several seconds for it to sink in. His fingers didn’t find the expected satiny, angelic strands, made of moonbeams perhaps, but a hard skull, nearly bare but for a sparse covering of coarse, close-shaven hair.

  This was no dream. This was real.

  Furious at having been tricked, Huntley was determined to get his payment. If this was the sort of deviant invert behavior Whit was accustomed to, then let him finish the job! Huntley was too close to the edge to turn back now, so he raised his torso from the mattress and flung back the bit of sheet that still covered one leg. Though it was deep in the black of night, with Huntley’s eagle vision he could view Whit’s muscular burnished shoulders the color of terra-cotta tiles hunched between his spread thighs, the muscles at the back of his neck working vigorously. He pumped his eager mouth up and down on Huntley’s cock that had never looked so monstrous, so taut and ready to burst.

  Such an unexpected sight roused Huntley to even lewder pinnacles. In some odd, perverted way, the sight of Whit’s hulking biceps propping up Huntley’s nude thighs as he dived into his crotch like a pig at a trough made Huntley randier than he’d ever been, and he actually had to back off for fear of exploding into that greedy mouth.

  Always one for fresh and invigorating experiences, Huntley gripped the surgeon’s shoulder in his angry claws. Perhaps suddenly aware that Huntley no longer slept, and knew it was him, Whit’s rich chocolate eyes met his. His sucking slowed, but his tongue was as freshly bold as ever, and he didn’t disengage.

  Huntley humped his hips toward Whit, shaking him by the shoulder and demanding fiercely, “Suck me, you deviant bastard. This is what you want, is that right, you damned Molly? Sucking on a big white prick like mine? Lapping away at my balls, taking my fat cock into your hot mouth and—Ah!”

  Apparently it was what Whit wanted, for he set to with a frenzy, gobbling up Huntley’s prick with vigor. Huntley made great lunging arches to meet Whit’s gulps, lewd swinging motions of his hips, while gripping the back of Whit’s head. Obscene words spilled from Huntley’s lips, words he had probably never even used on a hooker, he was so angry and stimulated.

  “Suck me, you damned red fucker. Swallow my whole load of jism. Eat it like you ain’t eaten in—”

  Suddenly, Huntley was choking on his own words. Surge after surge of ejaculate exploded forcefully down Whit’s thirsty throat. Huntley’s torso slammed back against the mattress as he twitched helplessly, hips jerking. He flooded the surgeon’s throat as though he had not come in many months—although it had only been days since he had ejaculated into his friend’s own hand.

  Whit slurped as though the ingestion of another male’s semen was a banquet for the ages, ardently gulping load after load. He held Huntley’s hips aloft as though he slaked his thirst at a bucket. After what seemed like many long minutes, Whit’s slurping slowed, and Huntley collapsed utterly, a forearm flung over his eyes, perhaps so he wouldn’t have to witness anything.

  He must have even fallen asleep then. The next thing he knew was silence. Removing his forearm from his eyes, he looked at the ceiling, the windows. The rain had finally stopped. How much time had passed? Raising himself tentatively, he was almost afraid to peek to the side. But when he saw Whit lounging on his back in much the same position as himself, Huntley oddly felt relieved. He was actually relieved to see the physician reclining back like a hulking athletic animal, ankles crossed, arms flung up to reveal a silken underarm. Huntley realized he wanted to burrow his face into that underarm, to revel in the smooth, burnished chest, to run his lips down the ridged abdomen, to nuzzle the tip of his nose in the hollow of the beautiful throat.

  Huntley even felt fond, looking down upon his friend lying so still in the predawn light. When Whit stirred, peering out from under his elbow at Huntley with such an absence of lust or anger, Huntley even smiled.

  Whit smiled back. “You must be hungry.”

  Huntley almost laughed. “You certainly aren’t.” Surprising even himself, he practically flung himself onto the solid chest and murmured against Whit’s shapely mouth, “I figured you were in Belle’s room pleasuring her. The least you could do was stay here and pleasure me.”

  “I couldn’t agree more—” Whit started to say, but Huntley silenced him with a kiss.

  It was a mild-mannered, almost chaste kiss, as though they were lovers courting. Huntley lightly caressed Whit’s sculpted jawbone with his fingertips, pleasantly shocked to feel the coarse stubble of his short, well-manicured beard. They lightly licked each other’s mouths, and Huntley slipped his tongue to lap at the backsides of Whit’s teeth.

  Whit wrapped his long fingers around Huntley’s neck to keep him close, twirling a big handful of Whit’s abundant hair between his fingers. Almost as though he intended to manipulate him like a puppet on a string. Huntley knew Whit had this assertive side to his personalit
y, and Huntley was perfectly willing to be manipulated. He knew Dr. Whitney had endured a long struggle to succeed in his profession. This had probably contributed to his boldness, his determination to be the big dog of the tanyard.

  They licked each other’s tongues languidly. Huntley nudged a naked thigh between Whit’s. They dovetailed together perfectly, their two athletic bodies meshing sleepily.

  Huntley pulled away when a large wave of grogginess overcame him. He fell back into the crook of Whit’s cradling arm, their thighs still overlapping.

  Whit caressed Huntley’s arm. “You don’t mind the taste of your own semen in my mouth.”

  “I suppose not.” Strangely, it was suddenly as though they were merely friends again. Friends who happened to be lounging on the same bed, utterly nude. “First you pleasure Belle. Then you come to pleasure me. You’re some kind of expert at pleasuring.”

  “That’s part of my profession. Making others feel better.”

  “Yes. But your interest in me isn’t medical.”

  Whit lightly pulled Huntley’s head back with his fistful of hair. He looked into Huntley’s sleepy eyes. “No. And neither is my interest in Belle.”

  Huntley struggled to wake. He could not, would not tolerate this. “So you’re staking a claim to Miss Belle?”

  “I am. Do you take offense to that?”

  Huntley was too sleepy. “I do. I will. Tomorrow.”

  And he fell asleep before his head even hit Whit’s shoulder.

  Chapter Eleven

  Men floundered in the icy, boiling waters of the Merced River.

  Whit was one of the lucky few who hadn’t yet taken an impromptu ice bath in the waters so cold the pools looked nearly black. Whit—and apparently, many of the men—had never experienced anything such as this. At the summits, the snow was fully four feet deep.

  They had struggled up steep, slippery mountains through pines so packed the stars only appeared intermittently out of the gloom. Whit glimpsed many black-tailed deer, their tails bluer than the deer of the eastern ranges, and he’d noted immense grizzly tracks as big as elephant’s feet. Groggy riders, deep in sleepy muttering, completely missed the uncertain wagon road and found themselves wallowing in the snowdrifts. Swearing and oaths broke out, and the poor wise horse or mule who had been led astray had to suffer the spurs and additional fatigue of extricating itself.