Page 17 of Sure as Shooting

“Well, that Steve Holt character was overly interested in her, even if he did think she was an Indian,” Whit said calmly. It obviously did not have the same effect on him, rubbing another man’s nipple in a circular pattern. That was good. Doctors were no doubt oblivious to the same techniques practiced over and over again. “But once she gets up the grit to start speaking to people—she’ll have to start ordering her own produce, for example, or merely purchase a dozen eggs—they’ll soon find out. I recommend that either one of us sticks close by her at all times.”

“What about when we’re off on campaign? You want to accompany us on the next one to the Merced River and close to your beloved Ahwahnee Valley. Don’t let Bud know that, when you find him. I don’t need him going off all half-cocked ahead of time, randomly beheading Indians in his zeal.”

Whit’s powerful hands swept down the plane of Huntley’s lower back, the thumbs describing knotted patterns and releasing painfully exquisite rushes of blood down the backs of his legs. Whit had to vault himself off the ottoman a few inches to put his weight into this procedure. “I plan,” he said huskily, “on bringing Belle on campaign with us.”

Huntley’s eyes popped open. He barely noticed Whit slithering loose the gown’s belt from his hips, drawing the silk down to expose his uplifted ass to the brisk winter air. Now Whit could view his throbbing prick, so elongated it felt like a block of wood, the heat nearly burning his inner thighs. “What benefit is there in bringing her along?”

Whit massaged the globes of his ass, almost lovingly rotating the mounds, the pads of his thumbs coming so dangerously close to the sensitive opening of his asshole Huntley could feel his testicles twitching, expanding. He felt so hot he was sure steam was rising from his body. But he wasn’t becoming sleepier. Just drunker and lustier. “I can see great benefit,” Whit said nonchalantly. “She knows the area, knows the mountains. She can help us scout. The main problem standing in our way is, how willing will she be to help us discover her brethren?”

“I can see that being a major obstacle,” Huntley agreed breathlessly. “What benefit is there for her, helping us find Indian sign?” Whit stroked a thumb directly against his furrowed asshole, and he mindlessly gasped, raising his hips slightly off the silk, urging himself toward the pleasuring hands.

Whit’s voice quieted. He sounded almost drunk himself. “That will be the problem. We can only hope that she agrees that it’s best for all Indians if they just turn themselves in. They’ll be rubbed out eventually anyway, and this way, the government provides for them.”

Apparently, Whit continued with a few more sentences, but Huntley didn’t hear them. One stroking hand delved between his thighs to encase his balls in a hot, oily hand. As Whit fondled his balls with a blunt manipulation, Huntley kept telling himself it was part of the medical massage treatment. Lifting his hips, he subtly humped the silk of the dressing gown, gooseflesh rising on the crests of his ass as Whit dribbled oil directly to his testicles. Huntley sighed with approval and spread his thighs even further apart as he humped the couch, the rubbing of the silk against his cock bringing him halfway to the brink of orgasm.

What was Whit saying? Laudanum? “Laudanum?” Huntley gasped. Whit titillated his full sac so expertly with his right hand, while his oily left thumb continued to rotate creamily against his asshole. God’s holy trousers. Was bringing him off part of the medical plan? If so, Huntley would go with it. Whit was a physician. Maybe he knew by some secret indicators that Huntley was bucking to go, hot as a monkey, and right now all he could think was Please touch my cock. Please touch my cock. For God’s sake, touch my cock.

It wasn’t shameful, part of a sodomite’s repertoire. It was a medical necessity, to get his blood flowing properly again.

“Yes, Belle has asked me for laudanum…”

The finger was inserted slightly into his anus while the palm assiduously massaged his balls, slithering down to grasp his penis. The fingers described orgasmic ecstasies of tiny figure eights, intricate calligraphy of Arabic symbols that felt like the mouths of eight prostitutes lapping at his prick. Instantly a flood of semen rushed up his prick just shy of exploding out the head, and Huntley heard himself gasp loudly. Raising his pelvis from contact with the couch, he held himself up on all fours as though begging to be fucked.

His cock now free to spring upward, nearly slapping up against his abdomen in its rigid state, Whit lustily wrapped his hand around it, reaching around Huntley’s raised hips as he came to his knees on the couch behind him. Whit pumped his cock with abandon like a piston, squirming his fingers in all manner of luscious patterns while Huntley fucked the hand in midair. He bucked like an untamed mustang, gasping and exhaling, completely randy and open. He heard his voice like some disembodied specter, uttering unspeakable things such as, “Frig me, god damn it. Frig me!”

Whit wedged his own clothed erection into the cleft of Huntley’s ass as he vigorously masturbated his friend, his fist making obscene squishing sounds as he squeezed and stimulated the entire length of it. Huntley pumped his hips into the fist, arms trembling with the tension of being brought nearly to the brink of orgasm a hundred times in one minute, only to have Whit ease off, slide the hand back down to fondle his balls, leaving his cock bobbing, dripping semen from the tip.

“Frig me, you bastard,” Huntley commanded.

Whit’s voice was irritatingly calm and soothing, close to Huntley’s ear as he coiled his torso over Huntley’s hunched body. “Oh yes,” Whit said smoothly. “Oh yeah. Do it.” He clapped his fist around the penis again and pumped in earnest while muttering profane and lewd filth that seemed impossible, coming from such an upstanding physician. “Oh yes. Do it. Come for me, you big, beautiful buck of a man.”

Huntley was nearly out of his mind with lust. Later on, all he recalled gasping was, “Bring me off. Frig me. Do it, bastard!”

In turn, Whit’s filthy talk brought Huntley to the very apex of salaciousness. “Good Lord, your big, fat donkey’s prick is about to explode in my hand. That’s it, Huntley, that’s it. Do it. Discharge your load, drain yourself of all tension, just climax all over my hand. Spill your delicious seed. Yes, oh, God, that’s good…”

Huntley’s brain became a complete blank when he exploded in orgasm. It didn’t matter that another man was humping him fully clothed, wedging that monstrous prick into the cleft of his ass so firmly he could feel the head of it against his asshole. Huntley spewed stream after stream of hot jism into the oily fist, so explosive he could hear the surge of seed splashing into the burgundy velvet of the couch. Whit squeezed and released his pulsating prick with an expert’s precision, diddling his burgeoning ball sac with the other palm. He seemed to know exactly when it had become too much, when the ecstasy crossed over into agony, for Whit eased up on his pumping, and his trifling with his balls slowed.

“God,” Huntley gasped. “Stop. Stop.” He had to forcibly remove the man’s palm from his prick, and he nearly collapsed on his front. But he found a few shreds of energy, enough to raise him to his feet, his dressing gown pooling on the couch as he stepped clear of it and staggered to his desk. His penis felt like a goddamned third leg, slapping against his thigh as he reeled.

His head was still spinning when he downed an entire glass of whiskey. He remembered that in a few hours he was supposed to meet Colonel Barbour. Goddamn it. Now he had to get up the gumption to turn to his friend and face him, reminding himself that it was merely a medical procedure, designed to redirect the flow of his blood and to ease tension. It certainly had eased the tension in his loins, but now that it was over, the embarrassment at having been so intimate was causing more tension in his head.

Whit leaned back on the couch, most likely carelessly sitting in a puddle of semene glow of conquest and achievement, although his own massive donkey’s prick bulged the lap of his trousers. He didn’t seem to care, beaming upon Huntley as though he were a successful experiment. “That was a most impressive display. I’m sure you’ll sleep like a baby now. I usually perform that technique on hysterical women—you’d be amazed how their temperament evens out, and they become docile and pleasant.”

Stomping over to the couch, Huntley whipped the soiled dressing gown from under Whit’s ass. “Well, maybe it works the opposite on men. Go practice on women some more, if that pleases you!”

As he stormed naked through the foyer to the staircase that led to the second story, it struck Huntley. While that might have been a legitimate medical technique, it was evident that Dr. Whitney was a frenzied bugger, a satyr with an unusual interest in things of a sexual nature. Perhaps he’d even been booted out of New York for his overzealous interest in such things.

Crumbling the stained gown and tossing it into a corner of his bedroom, Huntley at last stood still. God’s holy trousers. He had just commanded Whit to practice his technique on women! What a gump!

He was shoving Whit directly into Belle’s lusty arms.