Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  Why had he allowed Harley to manipulate him like this? He had just been so shocked, that was all. It wasn’t every day a man came up behind one and massaged one’s penis. Well, not in the Far West, anyway. In New South Wales it had been known to occur every day. Over there, out of boredom, men quite often forcibly frigged or sucked on one another—strictly out of boredom. But once you knew who your chums were and had everything worked out, it became a pleasant daily occurrence. What else was there to do when the day’s cattle were rounded up other than to mutually frig a chum till both were satisfied?

  “Done.”

  As Harley slid the plate from the camera, Neil came around the couch and sat next to Ivy. They turned to each other so their knees touched, and Neil took her hands in his. “Yes, he’s got a ranch foreman who might possibly wear a ring like that. I know you’re probably exhausted from travel and all the excitement of today—”

  “Don’t come in the kitchen,” Harley instructed as he spirited his plate down the hall.

  “—but I would like to make an appointment with you after breakfast tomorrow to show you the telegraph office. If you sincerely wish to operate the telegraph—”

  “Oh, I do!” Ivy cried brightly, squeezing his hand in hers.

  “—then I can show you its workings. There’s some saphead attempting to work it now, but he keeps mixing up the signals, as he can’t spell. There was a big brouhaha yesterday when he passed on a message that someone’s mother in California had been killed by a lode. Everyone started gossiping that an ore cart full of gold had tipped over on her. Took us a while to figure out that she had been miffed by a loan, some financial transaction she hadn’t approved of. So, you see, it’s of the utmost importance that the telegraph operator can spell well. I presume you can?”

  “Oh, the best,” Ivy said, all seriousness. Cheering up, she added, “But you will let me come to the Bucket of Blood, dear Neil, won’t you? When you interview that Rodney Shortridge Admiral Lushington?”

  “A saloon isn’t the place for a lady. Your father would have my hide if he found out I allowed you in there.”

  Ivy pouted. She folded her arms under her bosom, causing the wondrous globes to heave upward, nearly popping out of their tight satin casing. “Dear Neil. As you’ve seen, I don’t pay much attention to my father’s wishes or concerns.”

  It was she who leaned forward and kissed him! Neil was so taken aback to suddenly find her soft, plump lips nibbling hungrily at his, he slid his hand up her neck. He plunged his fingers into the mass of curls behind her ear, reveling in the silken feel of her locks that radiated her particular pine scent, inflaming his nostrils. The nape of her neck was still damp from her bath. Neil recalled that she had just been kissing that intelligent debauchee Captain Park, and he opened his mouth to suck on her lower lip.

  Ivy scooted so close she was fairly sitting in his lap. Her left knee parted his thighs, nudging them apart. With a little hop, she vaulted herself up and over him so the floor of her pelvis—her pussy, for crying out loud—was plastered to the top of his knee. Snorting and panting into his mouth, she cupped his jaw in her hands and kissed him slowly, salaciously.

  What a vixen! Layers of various fabrics separated them, but Neil’s knee was deriving vast pleasure from her humping. She clamped her thighs with a vigor and power that led him to wonder what sort of gymnastics she’d been doing.

  They supped on each other’s mouths. Ivy parted her lips and snaked her tongue inside his mouth, giving his tongue little catlike licks. He slid a palm around her backside and gathered a handful of her ass in his hand, hoping to convince her to straddle him completely and plaster her pussy over his erection.

  That was when Ivy gave a little gasp, pulled away from Neil, and opened her eyes wide.

  “Oh!” she cried, as though surprised to discover herself kissing him. “I’m sorry!” And she clambered off his lap.

  “Sorry for what?” Neil whispered, his head agog, missing her already.

  Ivy smoothed down the lap of her skirt, her hair, her bodice. “The claret went to my head. You’re right, a saloon is no place for a lady.” She glanced sideways at him, her uplifted bosom heaving from her panting. “And I, apparently, am no lady.”

  There was a hellcat’s glint to her eye as she grinned, but she left the room then. Sailing lightly on her slippered feet, she only stopped long enough to toss over her shoulder, “I’ll see you after breakfast?”

  Neil didn’t know whether to be horrified or proud.

  Chapter Eight

  This was impossible.

  Harley had actually captured an “extra”!

  When he’d reached to the open kitchen window to take down the dried plate, he’d nearly dropped it in astonishment. He muttered, “Holy mother of…”

  There, standing right next to Neil Tempest, was the distinct image of another man!

  This was incredible! It was not the flimsy cardboard cutout image Ivy had been talking about, where it looked as though someone had pasted a photograph onto a board and held it up, pretending it was their departed Aunt Phoebe coming to them in mourning veils with a message from beyond the grave to make sure to wear flannel when it rained.

  No, this was a distinct silhouette of a fellow about three inches shorter than Neil but wider in girth by about a foot. Harley could make out eyes, nostrils, and the gaping maw of a mouth that appeared to be trying to tell them something. And a hat. He sported a hat with a rounded crown, like a bowler or a derby. He stood in an arrogant manner, as if he wished to confront someone. The rest of his attire was murky, vanishing into a smoky haze before the couch blocked his legs.

  Harley’s suspicions were confirmed. Neil Tempest was a conductor, a medium of the highest order.

  Harley barely had time to admire Neil’s own crystal clear image. The microscopic detail of the collodion process rendered Neil as a sunbrowned Greek statue, finely molded with shimmering skin. Harley could make out the prominent veins that laced his forearms, bulging with vitality. Neil had folded his hands in front of his crotch in a feeble attempt at covering his stiffened penis, but it was really difficult to mask such an admirable tool.

  When Harley had grasped the stupendous meat and given it a bold squeeze, Neil hadn’t made the slightest motion to defend himself. No, quite the opposite. The cock had expanded under his very palm, Neil’s eyelids had fluttered with the sudden lusty shock, and when Harley rubbed the underside near the crown, Neil gasped.

  Harley had known he was a lover of both men and women for a long time now—his voracious sexual appetite demanded it. Neil Tempest was a prime example of a choice, virile man who had lived by his own physical might for decades, and it was Harley’s overwhelming desire to seduce him. He imagined running his tongue over the brawny chest peppered with soft, oily hair, flicking that hard nipple with his tongue tip, and then sucking on it until Neil’s cock distended with need.

  If this was an unacceptably perverted desire, Harley didn’t stop to ponder. He rarely ever tried to correct himself anymore back to the straight and narrow path of alleged righteousness. He’d given up long ago trying to tame his wild satyr’s nature. Ivy Hudson was a delectable example of womanhood, and Harley looked forward to romping with her to a greater extent. But the notion of cavorting with this athletic stud pleased Harley equally.

  If he was going to exist happily in the untamed Wild West, he had better find a gratifying outlet for his overabundance of lechery and sensuality. And he had the impression that Neil Tempest would not turn him away.

  Harley’s eyes went back to the “extra” that had busted his way into his photograph. Derbies were not often seen in the Far West, slouch hats and sombreros being the headgear of choice for the Western man of fashion. It would probably be fairly easy to—

  “Harley. May I come in?”

  Why, son of a gun, if it wasn’t Neil Tempest himself tentatively peering in through the swinging kitchen door. His lovely cornflower-blue eyes glittered in the lamplight as he looked
about at the chemical baths and photographic equipment. He was the most stunning man Harley had seen in ages. Best, he seemed unaware of his beauty. His spikily shorn hair could have been more carefully coiffed, but it would have detracted from his rough-and-ready, sensuous air.

  “Come right in.”

  Harley stood by the counter holding the glass negative up to the lamplight. Neil stood so close behind him Harley felt his breath against his neck. “It came out all right? Everyone is white.”

  “It’s a negative,” Harley said mildly. “I’ll have to print it on paper later. But see? The detail in your image is incredible.”

  “And…” Neil leaned forward to point a forefinger at the glass. “Who is that fellow next to me? Is this one of those trick photographs?”

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No, there was no trickery involved. This cove standing next to you is what came out of the bath. It’s what they call an ‘extra.’”

  “That’s impossible,” Neil breathed. Harley swiveled his head to look at Neil, their faces just inches apart. Neil was even more beautiful when he intently concentrated on something. Harley shifted his weight so his right buttock pressed ever so slightly against Neil’s crotch, and the head of security didn’t flinch one shred. “He looks like he’s wearing a derby.”

  “Yes. That’s where you can help. Know any coves in Laramie who wear a derby? A fellow shorter and wider than you, obviously. A derby isn’t the most common sort of hat.”

  “I’ve seen a few,” Neil whispered, still studying the plate. “But with all these Hell on Wheels rowdies coming into town, who knows?” His brow furrowed in irritation. “I’d thank you not to go about distributing this photograph of me, if you don’t mind. You grabbed my prick on purpose. But why?”

  “Hell. I figured while I was at it, I might as well make a good photograph to masturbate over.”

  If Harley expected to shock Neil, it wasn’t working. He merely narrowed his eyes at Harley but didn’t withdraw from the plate. “You’d do such a thing, wouldn’t you? You pride yourself on your lust and stamina, with your peach pits and camphor.”

  Harley grinned, snakelike. Although now he was afraid Neil would snatch the plate away and break it. “Certainly. Why not? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “And you think I’m some impotent jackass because Chang claimed I ordered some prick tea.”

  Harley said evenly, “I thought so at first. But feeling your delicious, plump cock in my hand let me know otherwise.” He raised his free hand to Neil’s chin, and Neil allowed him to tilt his head, to examine him like a physician. “It makes you hot, having your cock fondled.”

  Neil said quietly, “Who wouldn’t get hot? It’s a physical reaction to having your cock fondled.”

  “Your physical reaction was quite extreme. You have a handsome bull’s pizzle, Neil. It lengthened and plumped being massaged by another man.”

  Neil’s arrogant glare was challenging. “I’ve got just as much lust and stamina as you, my chum.”

  This was an erotic challenge Harley was eager to accept. He carefully placed the plate onto the counter and lifted his hand to cradle Neil’s majestic, sculpted jaw. “Is that so? Perhaps you’d be capable of proving that.”

  Neil snorted with derision. “I can—”

  Harley kissed the delicious, full mouth.

  He pressed his parted lips to Neil’s, relishing the satiny feel of the cherubic mouth under his. Neil responded ardently, grabbing ahold of Harley’s shirtfront in his fists and pulling him closer. Soon they were snorting against the sides of each other’s faces, crotches plastered together, the way men were inclined to do.

  Harley backed Neil up against the counter as he deepened the kiss, slinking his tongue against the underside of Neil’s as Neil yanked him close, holding him tightly. Harley lapped at Neil’s twining tongue and licked his palate, rubbing his own burgeoning prick against Neil’s tightly packed crotch. He ran his palm over the shorn skull, the scent of fresh sweetgrass wafting into his nostrils. What a splendid feeling to once again press his body against a hard, athletic male.

  In his exuberance, Harley detached his mouth and took a large slurping bite from the underside of Neil’s fine jaw. “You can prove to me”—he squiggled his tongue along the bone—“that you’re lusty enough to satisfy a hungry woman such as Ivy Hudson.”

  He knew this would anger Neil. Sure enough, Neil rattled him by his shirtfront and hissed, “I’ll show you, you pompous bastard.” He wiggled his hips so his erection stroked Harley’s. “Does this feel like the cock of a man who needs prick tea?”

  Harley chuckled as he nibbled on Neil’s earlobe. “Certainly does not,” he agreed. His experienced fingers undid Neil’s shirt buttons, his hand sliding against inflamed, bare flesh. Good Lord, Neil’s chest was more fully developed than Harley had even dreamed, and he savored the feel of the satiny hair, the molded pectoral, and yes, of course, the distended nipple.

  When he pinched the delicious little nub, Neil gasped and said hoarsely, “That’s it. On your knees. Suck my prick.”

  Harley had no intention of satisfying this seductive man immediately. Arab poets said it was wise to excite one’s partner by playing and toying first, and Harley had always practiced this advice. Delighted with how easy it had been to seduce Neil into toying with him, Harley wanted to torment him a bit. It usually worked better to toy with women, men being impatient and hot of temper. Women saw it more as pleasure than torment, but men, having short fuses in more than one way, were driven to the heights of agonizing ecstasy to be caressed and toyed with.

  Bending at the knees to spread Neil’s thighs, Harley drew the shirt away from the muscular, humid chest. Of course Neil assumed Harley intended on fulfilling his wish, so when he lapped at the delicious nipple with the stiff point of his tongue, Neil cried out with surprise and desire. Puffs of clean spring air floating in the open window mingled with Neil’s natural aroma of sweetgrass. As Harley flicked his tongue across the stiff little knob his own penis was up, hard as a poker.

  But being well-trained, Harley was able to contain and control his own desire. To tease and satisfy women, one must put her pleasure before one’s own. Harley was very familiar with the luscious gratification one could gain by tantalizing another, so he nibbled on Neil’s nipple, sliding a hand down the flat plane of his lower back to grasp his ass in his palm.

  Neil demanded, “Suck me, you goddamned joskin. Suck my prick right now.”

  A joskin was a country bumpkin, Harley knew, and he took exception to this. Perhaps that was Neil’s intention, to rile him further. Straightening his spine, Harley grabbed a handful of Neil’s spiky hair in his fist, snapping his head back so his vulnerable throat was exposed. “There’s one thing you must learn, my fine deputy of Laramie City. You don’t command me. I command you.”

  Neil’s glittering blue eyes examined him with a mixture of fear and intrigue. With utter confidence, Harley took a voracious bite from his exposed Adam’s apple, pleased to feel Neil gulp and swallow drily. Sweeping a hand down Neil’s hard abdomen, Harley clutched his hulking penis and massaged it ever so slightly.

  Neil threaded his fingers through Harley’s hair, keeping him close. “You want to suck me, don’t you? You’re one of those inverted coves who run around craving a cock down your throat.”

  Harley fondled the impressive prick, rubbing the heel of his hand against the bulging mushroom head. Neil’s prick was so long it was cinched up near his sinewy hip, and Harley’s other hand slipped undone the buttons at his crotch. “I constantly crave cock,” Harley admitted against Neil’s throat. “But then, I constantly crave pussy, too.”

  Neil urged Harley down, but Harley stood his ground. “That doesn’t answer my question,” Neil rasped.

  Harley’s hand delved into Neil’s steamy trousers, luxuriating in the crisp hair and padding of delicious fat at the base of his cock. “You’ve sucked on other men in your penal colony, over there in New South Wales.”


  Neil gasped when Harley wrapped his fist around his prick. “There’s not much choice over there. There are no women on the cattle ranches where convicts work.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question.” Oh, this outlaw was a tasty morsel. His prick bobbed heavily in the air when Harley released it. He wanted to see Neil standing there all tender and exposed. So he pulled back a couple of feet and tore the few remaining buttons on Neil’s shirt asunder to lay open the choice, tasty body to his view.

  Neil didn’t flinch. He merely glanced down in curiosity but kept his fingers buried in Harley’s hair.

  Neil was absolutely stunning, an able-bodied stallion who seemed unaware of his own beauty. He lowered one hand to absently stroke his own abdomen, the hand manly and veined like his remarkable aroused cock. His nipples stood out like bullets, and Harley’s mouth actually watered to taste them again. His look was sultry yet nakedly sensitive. He shrugged, jiggling his enticing tool in midair. “I probably did. I preferred to be the one being serviced.”

  The thought of this voluptuous deputy engaging in such lewd acts with other convicts near about sent Harley over the edge. Impulsively—as though he had not considered this before, although he had—Harley grabbed a bottle of lavender oil he had used to dry the photographic plate, unscrewing the cap and drizzling it on the throbbing prick. Gripping the pulsating member in his fist like a vise, Harley stroked it.

  Neil twitched and squeezed his eyes shut as Harley stroked. Touching his mouth to Neil’s chin, Harley said, “And why do you prefer being ‘serviced’?”

  Leaning back against the counter, Neil wedged his hands under his butt, the better to balance. Hips jutting forward, he strained toward Harley’s fist. “I’m not…a fucking invert. I don’t like…sucking men’s cocks.”