Page 45 of A Good Prospect

Ophir didn’t seem to mind being fairly suffocated by the mass of Sal’s cock. He obligingly dug his fingers into the mounds of Sal’s pumping ass and drew his knees up to the roof, helping to bowl Sal forward and into his mouth. Now Sal hunched over Ophir, virtually fucking the slurping mouth. Tamasin watched from her vantage point on her ass where she had been bowled over. It was a most stimulating sight to peek between Sal’s thighs and see the fulsome sack of his testicles slapping against Ophir’s throat. Ophir suckled the phallus all the way down to the root, stroking the trunk with the flat of his tongue.

When Tamasin realized that she was sitting on the toe of her slipper with a quim so spongy she rocked back and forth with increasing pleasure, she knew she couldn’t just sit there. She wanted to crawl out of her skin! Her eyes darted to various implements in the stable. One part of her mind must have remembered how Sal had luxuriated and exploded when her little middle finger had slid up his behind, for her eyes quickly alighted upon…her riding crop?

Leaping to her feet, Tamasin scurried over to where she had last placed the crop. Given to her by Doña Carmen to complete her “proper” Californio riding attire, it was made by expert reata men, encased in leather, with a small leather paddle at the end. Slapping it experimentally into her palm, Tamasin grinned devilishly to think this probably wasn’t the use Carmen had intended for this implement. But when she kneeled again behind Sal’s pumping ass and slapped the muscular globe with the small tongue of leather, his gasp definitely indicated excitement.

She slapped his ass a few more times, a tad more forcefully each time. Each time the muscles of his thighs, ass, and shoulders clenched a bit tighter until he was simply one delicious sculpture of bunched masculinity humping Ophir’s face. She became bolder, tickling his asshole with the leather spatula, and his cock twitched and lunged inside Ophir’s mouth.

“Tamasin—” Sal gasped.

“Yes?” she whispered sweetly, then punctuated her false innocence by lightly cuffing the mound of his testicles with the crop.

“Ah!” Sal cried, and this time she wasn’t sure if it was truly painful, so of course she had to try it again. The power felt so freeing, being able to elicit such a severe reaction in the man whose every last nerve must be on fire at the moment. He slowed his humping and seemed to be holding his shapely buttocks up for Tamasin to get a better angle, so she swatted a bit harder, just a few tiny smacks so that his burgeoning balls jumped with each slap. The sinews of his forearms were shivering with tension, and he squatted so closely over Ophir’s face she was afraid she might accidentally swat the poor boxer, so she withdrew the tantalizing crop from her fiancé’s rump. She had a new idea for the instrument.

“What are you doing?” Sal gasped, turning his head aside and glancing down at her. He had not asked that when she’d been spanking him—no, he had accepted that unquestioningly—so she assumed he was in somewhat of a rush.

“In a hurry?” she teased, and plunged the leather-covered handle of the crop into her wet cunt.

She knew instantly from the widening of Sal’s eyes and the slowing of his humping that this fascinated him. So she worked the handle in and out a few times, just enough to coat it in her plentiful juices. Withdrawing it, she brandished it for a moment before his gleaming eyes. His nostrils flared in that manner that was both enticing and erotic, and she pinched one of his beaded nipples before rubbing the knob of the crop directly against the bud of his asshole.

Sal’s eyelids fluttered, his penis twitched in Ophir’s guzzling mouth, and he gasped like a surprised virgin when she rotated the knob up his channel. Tamasin held herself steady by slapping a palm against his powerful shoulder, nearly sliding with the curtain of sweat that slicked his skin. When she flicked her fingernail against the tip of his hardened nipple, his eyelids shut completely, and his eyeballs rolled about crazily. His lower jaw hung slack as she worked the knob up his asshole—where was that spot that had forced him to ejaculate last time?

“Oh! Holy mother of Joseph!” he whispered between clenched teeth, and she knew she had found the location.

As she jiggled the crop to titillate the heavenly place, she lowered her head to bite lightly on his enticing nipple, and that’s when he erupted in Ophir’s mouth. It was odd—she could feel the convulsions around the crop handle as though threatening to suck the instrument inside him, and she had to jiggle harder to keep a grip on it. She heard Ophir swallowing and choking and had to smile to herself, knowing the semen was filling up his throat and coming out his nostrils, too.

Sal gasped uncontrollably, little hissing intakes of breath like a coiled snake as he spilled his seed in his partner’s mouth. Tamasin suckled at his nipple and agitated the crop in tiny little spurts until Sal’s gasps turned into shouts, and he released Ophir’s head.

He now pushed at Tamasin’s head. “Stop, stop,” he said weakly.

She giggled. She looked at her fiancé now almost shyly as he continued to jerk and twitch. A drip of sweat fell off the tip of his nose.

She tossed the riding crop aside, where it banged up against an anvil, and one of the horses whinnied in irritation.

Ophir, still fully clothed, was scrambling backwards on his butt. He propped himself up against a stall, hands dangling between his knees. “Hey,” he said weakly. “The stable hand ain’t going to clean that up.”

“No,” Tamasin agreed. “The housemaid will.”

Sal, too, fell back against a beam, his penis pulsating as it lay against his hip. “Caramba. Let the patrón do it.”

Tamasin crawled between Sal’s thighs to pack his penis away, as she felt a wife must certainly do. “What is this about The League blockading us?”

Sal’s face went blank as he apparently searched for an answer. “Well, ah…”

Ophir said, “She’ll find out soon enough.”

Sal cast his partner an ungrateful look. “Well, yes. They’re blockading the road to Bear Valley, so none of the Sonorans can get out of the Sierra.”

“I thought they wanted them to leave.”

“They do—it wasn’t the intention to keep them in. The intention was to prevent supplies getting up to us.”

All three scrambled to their feet when they heard hooves approaching, and Knut’s wavering singing abruptly petered out. Tamasin scampered to grab the candle, and they went to the stable doors to see what the uproar was.

“That’s Parmalli!” Ophir said in a hushed tone, and this fact obviously had great importance. The two men dashed down the hill, Tamasin following. Parmalli was an Italian woodcutter who had benefited Sal greatly in the building of his house, ore-crushing mill, and other outbuildings, and now Tamasin approached in time to hear him exclaim,

“Don Salvador! The League men, they waylaid me when I was just a mile past the Merced River!” He leaned weakly against his sweaty mount while Knut pressed a skin, presumably of whiskey, to his chest. “They turned me away—they were blocking the road! They warned me that any new attempt to get through would be met by a rifle ball!”

Knut looked about at the night sky with big housefly eyes. “I wonder how close they have come.”

Sal clapped Ophir on the shoulder. “Let’s go bring reinforcements to the night watchman over at the Black Drift Mine. We have plenty of men. Parmalli, how many men were in that blockading party?”

“Maybe twenty. They have guarded every pass, and marksmen are watching out everywhere. I am sorry, Don Salvador, but I just turned around and came back, as they suggested.”

“I would do the same,” Sal assured him, but Tamasin knew Sal was lying.