The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting)

by Karen Mercury

  “This is Milosz Stefanski,” Vallejo said somewhere in the murky back recesses of Reynaldo’s addled brain. Milosz Stefanski? Reynaldo knew for a fact he’d falsely introduced himself as Milo Stephens. But then many people tried to make their foreign names sound more American, especially if engaged in the business of securing land for America.

  Reynaldo was glad a length of table separated them, laden with dishes of potatoes in their jackets, pumpkin and garlic, tongue and garlic, cabbage and garlic, and tomatoes and garlic. In fact, the aroma of pepper and garlic infiltrated everything, but Reynaldo was stunned senseless by the return of that magnetic, beautiful bumfucker from the shores of the Sacramento.

  And Milo wasn’t avoiding Reynaldo, wasn’t looking down at the table or nervously clearing his throat. He pierced Reynaldo with his icy blue eyes directly as he made his little bow, and after that Reynaldo wasn’t aware of much for several minutes. Señora Vallejo scooted a couple of diners apart to set a new place for Reynaldo directly across from Señor Stephens, he of the luscious ass and powerful build. Red wine was poured from a decanter into a glass for Reynaldo, but his fingers only lingered on the glass. He could not tear his eyes from this magnetic but fearsome settler.

  Of course he hadn’t forgotten their encounter on the Sacramento shores—not for more than several minutes at a time within the past two weeks. Reynaldo had trucked with other men before. Naturally. What else was there to do in the Far West, especially in Frémont’s California Battalion? They just tramped endlessly up and down the coast, seeing no enemy, for most Californios were as disgusted with Mexican rule as they were. Why not enjoy a sweetly sucking, eager mouth, even if it was that of another grizzled battalion member greatly in need of a dentist? No one cared much as long as the end result was an explosive orgasm.

  But even there, in the realm of “crimes against nature,” this Polish immigrant had stood out from the rabble. Reynaldo had first been stimulated by his curvaceous ass. Reynaldo was further riveted by his beautiful, piercing aqua eyes, his hawk’s nose that told Reynaldo he was no doubt of Jewish extraction. But the way he had dominated him on the river! That was the crowning glory, and Reynaldo was still in shock that he had allowed that to happen.

  He had never been bound before—practically ravaged against his will by this brutal stranger. Yet, even more oddly, he had stood there submissively, allowing his wrists to be bound, unashamed that his cock jutted hungrily, visible for a mile around, even to those filthy spectators who stood there gripping their own johnsons. What was wrong with him? Reynaldo had pondered this nearly every moment since then. What sway did this powerful Polish stranger have over him that he’d happily, even eagerly allow himself to be violated in such a savage way? Worse still—and enjoy it…Perhaps there was a sort of power in being the submissive party—in being the one who was desired.

  Dios mío, how he’d enjoyed being ravished by that mouth-watering stud! Reynaldo justified it that Milo had taken the time to pleasure him as well, soaping up his prick and frigging him with a vigorous fist. Milo had been polite enough to get a bead on that spot inside him with his own bursting cockhead, jiggling it back and forth over the spot so the jism spurted from Reynaldo’s penis with unusual force. Reynaldo told himself that it showed concern and caring, even when Milo had rudely brushed aside his polite talk after the fuck was over. “I don’t care if I never see you again,” Milo had said, with as much concern in his voice as if his wagon had just run over a prairie dog. Even the soldiers who had just drained the seed from their compatriot’s pricks had more manners than that.

  Reynaldo loathed this pendejo. It made him question every foundation he thought he stood on, to get so hot over a domineering, barbarous brute like this.

  Oh. Lieutenant Gillespie, seated a few chairs down next to Dr. Semple, had been spouting some righteous-sounding blather. Reynaldo hadn’t been paying attention because Milo, between thoughtful bites of potato or pumpkin, kept flickering his gaze to Reynaldo, as though expecting something from him. Reynaldo didn’t know what.

  Gillespie was droning, “The Mexicans wish to drive out the Americanos. The vaquero gathering these horses is sheer proof of that. Frémont has been required by our government to find out foreign schemes in California and counteract them.”

  Milo’s eyes flickered now as he paid attention to the conversation. “We agree with you, Gillespie. Californios don’t want to participate in a useless struggle. Comandante Vallejo here was just saying he wishes that the United States keep and annex California.”

  Someone was ladling stew onto Reynaldo’s plate, but he suddenly didn’t wish to eat. He gulped the wine to stop his stomach from growling. Vallejo pointed at Milo with his fork and said, “I’ve been disgusted with Mexican authority for years, that’s true. They are swiftly sending my country backward, not forward in terms of civilization. Architecture is in its infancy. Agriculture is done by ape-men. My countrymen’s idea of culture is strumming a guitar while bullfighting.”

  Another settler of the Oso party known as Grigsby said, “How many cannon have you, Vallejo? Castro is going to have it in for us when he hears we’ve taken his horses.”

  “I have nine big guns guarding this fort,” said Vallejo. “Two twelve pounders, the rest nine pounders. However, we’ve been nearly out of ammunition for some time now.”

  “You can’t get any from San Francisco’s Presidio?” asked Milo.

  Reynaldo didn’t hear Vallejo’s answer—and apparently, neither did Milo. An American woman bustled into the dining room and completely ripped the men’s attention from the conversation about guns.

  She was a lanky beauty, nearly as tall as Milo and Reynaldo. Her sloe eyes looked to be ringed with kohl like a Far Eastern belle, although it was probably just their duskiness. She walked erect and proud, the corners of her leonine mouth turned up with confidence as she served a couple more platters of frijoles or tortillas. She moved on slippered feet, dressed in the Californio style—a camisa bodice with short cap sleeves that revealed sun-browned arms, a bright orange sash cinching her narrow waist.

  It was her buoyant bosom that seemed to have riveted the Polish settler’s attention, bobbling saucily under the cotton of her camisa. As suspected, Milo wasn’t just a rough, ferocious brute who enjoyed manhandling other men. Reynaldo could tell by the hungry sheen in his eyes that Milo wanted to enjoy this bountiful American woman as well. This knowledge caused the pit of jealousy in Reynaldo’s stomach to burn even stronger. He could not live with himself to know he’d been dismissed by this brutal stud who then moved on to dominate this poor, gentle creature. He would protect her from this animal.

  Reynaldo nearly lashed out in anger when she went to remove an empty bowl near Milo’s elbow and Milo dared to touch his fingertips to her wrist. It seemed that they shared a knowing look. So they were acquainted with each other! Milo had already begun to work his savage magic on the hapless woman!

  Everyone else must have seen, too. Vallejo even stumbled in his speech. “But until war is officially declared, your hands are tied. Frémont can take no official action without word from Polk.”

  “But I have brought word from Polk to Frémont,” Gillespie said impudently. “Two weeks ago I brought word through the isthmus of Panama from the States.”

  “And he has told Frémont to wage war in so many words?” asked Vallejo.

  “Not in so many words,” said Gillespie. “But we are familiar enough with his viewpoints to know how to interpret his words.”

  “Excuse me,” muttered Reynaldo. No one heard him or seemed to care as he made a pile of his napkin and rose from the table. He knew they would just assume he wanted to visit the backhouse, and he swiftly followed in the American woman’s footsteps. Reynaldo was a lifelong bachelor, though not by choice. Women simply didn’t marry soldiers, and the few women a soldier bumped into were either prostitutes or the former shells of themselves, worn and haggard after the life-sapping journey across the plains. This was the sprightliest woma
n Reynaldo had seen in years, and he was determined to put his stamp on her.

  It was not to be.

  All the cookery was done in outbuildings to keep smoke from the house, and Reynaldo headed for the courtyard. Turning a corner, Reynaldo got just a glimpse of a sort of pantry where Californio women arranged the cooked dishes and put finishing touches on platters before his arm was yanked and he was slammed to the wall.

  Milo pinned him with a forearm across the Adam’s apple, his thighs pressing Reynaldo into the wall. “Pinche guey.” You fucking idiot. “Where do you think you’re going? Coincidence you get up the moment Señorita Tillie leaves the room.”

  “Jesús Cristo. Tu maldito desgraciado.” You fucking bastard. And I’m glad you just told me her name.

  Now Milo pinned him with his hips as well as forearm. The lusty bulge between Milo’s leggings pleasantly reminded him of their river encounter. Milo’s stiff cock nestled urgently against Reynaldo’s.

  “Why is Señorita Tillie any of your concern, you fucking mountain man?” snarled Reynaldo.

  Milo’s response was to wrench Reynaldo by the arm and shove him toward a thick wooden door. He used his knees and even stepped on Reynaldo’s boot heels with his moccasins to urge him through the doorway. They were in the forty-foot tower that connected Casa Grande with the nearly empty barracks around the corner. Milo pressed Reynaldo back against one of the glassless window frames as tall as a man, where he clung to the edge to prevent from being pushed onto the little balcony.

  “I knew you were a deviant bugger,” Milo snarled. “You Spaniards are all twisted buggers who would fuck anything that moved.”

  Reynaldo’s hand was on the hilt of his sword, although he realized he was the one cringing back into the wall. “I’m a son of Barcelona, an alumnus of Yale University. Who are you to accuse me of being deviant? You’re the one who beat my ass before humping me on the river.”

  In a flash Milo had unsheathed Reynaldo’s sword and was pressing the blade to Reynaldo’s throat. How in hell did he do that? Reynaldo was completely helpless around this pendejo! He had been a soldier for ten years and this fucking farmer just came along and got the better of him. This fucking mountain man who had probably been tramping around for years wearing a dead animal on his head—Dios mío! Reynaldo glanced down and was glad that only two Californio soldiers lounged in the dusty courtyard, guarding the calabozo jail.

  While Reynaldo could have easily drawn a pistol and stuck it in Milo’s abdomen, he didn’t. Milo had a gun belt too, like most men in the Far West, and it would just turn bloody.

  Milo narrowed his eyes. “I did that because you wanted it. You enjoyed being bound. Your prick got harder when I tightened the bonds around your wrists.” It was irony of the highest order that when the mountain man said this, he rotated his erection against Reynaldo’s. It was difficult to tell who the most deviant bugger in that tower was.

  “Stand down,” Reynaldo snarled. “You are abusing an officer of the United States Army.”

  As expected, Milo liked that. His mouth curled up at the corners and his iceberg eyes flashed. Milo was just a bent debauchee. That pretty lady Tillie wouldn’t be attracted to a deviant like Milo anyway. “And why do I have the feeling that it makes you hot to be abused?”

  They held a deadlock then, huffing into each other’s faces, narrowing their eyes at each other. Reynaldo couldn’t admit Milo was correct, but his bulging prick told the entire story. When Milo gyrated his hips against Reynaldo’s, their cockheads rubbing together sent a rush of lust down Reynaldo’s spine, filling up his balls with jism.

  “It makes me no such thing,” Reynaldo lied, choking with the pressure of the blade against his throat.

  “I see,” Milo said with delight. And he kissed Reynaldo.

  At first, Reynaldo was a stiff wax figure. Men might bumfuck or frig each other’s cocks into oblivion, but men did not kiss! The novelty of the sensation, and the sensuous mouth sucking on his, soon coaxed his lips open, however. Milo sucked boldly on Reynaldo’s lower lip as Reynaldo relaxed into the kiss.

  It was quite loving, actually, if one were to view them from a distance. And if it weren’t for the rapier blade Milo still pressed to Reynaldo’s throat. But that was just Milo being domineering, the way they both liked. In fact, soon Reynaldo removed his hand from his pistol grip and ran it round the back of Milo’s neck, sinking his fingers in the warm, leather-scented pigtail. This made Milo groan as he nibbled on Reynaldo’s lower lip, and Reynaldo sucked back, massaging the other man’s skull under his fingertips. Milo ground his hips against Reynaldo’s with such urgency it was as though he intended to fuck him standing up there in the tower, as though Reynaldo were a woman.

  All at once, Milo dropped to his knees. The sword clattered to the tiled floor as Milo immediately set to frantically mouthing Reynaldo’s jutting cock through the thin material of the pantaloons. Reynaldo immediately uttered a loud, open-mouthed moan when the hot mouth closed over his cockhead. “Ah!” He shocked even himself and glanced down to note the two troopers looked curiously up at him. Only now they didn’t see two men engaging—they saw a lone American soldier, perhaps masturbating in bliss with his head thrown back. And they liked what they saw, for they circled away from their calabozo post and shaded their eyes as they looked up.

  But another unbidden “ah!” escaped Reynaldo’s lips when Milo yanked down his pantaloons and sank his cock down his greedy throat.

  Reynaldo’s thighs, accustomed to stomping up and down the length of the Sierra Madres, instantly trembled like beams about to snap from stress. All the blood was sucked from his brain and torso into his prick as the talented cocksucker coaxed growls of lechery from him.

  Reynaldo cupped Milo’s skull to his crotch and gyrated his hips, urging his cock in and out of the hot, sucking mouth. Milo was so skilled, his tongue slithering exotic shapes against the underside of Reynaldo’s pleasured cock, and it was mere seconds before Reynaldo was on the verge of shooting his load. Reynaldo tried to slow his lover down by pushing back on his forehead, but Milo only paused long enough to detach his mouth from the cock, slather his middle finger with spit, and slide it up Reynaldo’s rectum.

  The result was explosive. Between Milo tickling with his forefinger the exact sensitive spot he’d tickled with his cock on the Sacramento River, and his gobbling mouth suctioning every lascivious sensation up the length of Reynaldo’s prick, he immediately gushed into the mouth. Milo didn’t let up for a second, reaming out the slit with his tongue-tip as Reynaldo released stream after stream of jism.

  Milo seemed hungry for the salty fluid. He stroked the inside of Reynaldo’s rectum slowly, salaciously diddling the spot that sent another gusher of seed into his mouth. He gulped loudly, regardless of who saw or even heard them, and Reynaldo trembled like an inexperienced youth. Milo gripped his hips to steady him, and good thing or Reynaldo might have collapsed onto the tiles.

  It seemed many long moments before Milo detached his finger and mouth with a loud smack. Reynaldo staggered to the six-foot-tall window on the opposite side of the tower but was mortified to see it let out onto the plaza. His prick swayed like a rubber hose, and he was displaying it to every Digger and lounging Californio in the parade grounds!

  When he recovered enough to stuff his cock back into his pantaloons and turn around, Milo was already standing, dusting himself off, looking down his hawk’s nose at Reynaldo. Reynaldo didn’t want to give this pendejo another opportunity to cut him to the quick as he had on the Sacramento River, when he had informed Reynaldo he never wanted to see him again. So Reynaldo said the first bastardly, uncaring thing that popped into his head.

  “Guess you were wrong.” He narrowed his eyes at the farmer. “You did wind up seeing me again.” Picking up his sword and sheathing it with dignity, Reynaldo turned on his heel and stalked into the barracks.

  He didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until he was down the inner courtyard stairs. That parting image of Milo would st
ay with him forever, he already knew. What an absolutely gorgeous, stunning man Milo was. How Reynaldo would like to plow that superbly rounded ass himself. Milo was so magnetic he had once again distracted Reynaldo from his goal. He had intended to make nice with the American cook, protect her from the brutish likes of Milo Stephens. That stimulating pendejo had once again deterred him from his mission! Perhaps Milo was even now down by the grill in the courtyard, chatting up the lovely lass with the glossy, wavy hair as though she’d taken it out of one enormous braid and let it flow to her waist.

  How Reynaldo would love to nuzzle his face against her neck, covered with a curtain of that hair! How long had it been since he’d courted a belle? Too long. Years! He wanted to scurry over to the adobe oven on some pretext, perhaps request some additional tongue stew or something that would take a while to make. But he must return to Vallejo’s table to complete his mission. Even if he had to sit across from that cocksucking Polish androphile.

  He passed by the laughing troops that were guarding the jail. Their poking erections said otherwise, but they held their jiggling guts and laughed openly at Reynaldo.

  “Silencio,” he growled at his inferiors.

  They did shut up, blinking in surprise, but Reynaldo felt compelled to add, “¡Viva los Americanos!”

  The soldiers did not obediently repeat that.

  Chapter Four

  “Put that dildo down and walk!”

  At first, Milo was amused to hear Tillie’s words. Did he even hear correctly? Put the dildo down? He paused around the side of her front doorjamb, eager to hear this clarified.

  He had come here immediately after the interminable supper with Vallejo had finally concluded. He was pleasantly mellow after several shots of forty-rod and a bellyful of semen. Fired up, even. He had known that virile soldier Reynaldo had been sneaking off to find Tillie, to put his stamp of ownership on her. Milo had put a stop to that pronto, hadn’t he?