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

by Karen Mercury

  He was rather pleased with himself. Not only had he mortified the soldier into slinking back into Vallejo’s supper hall, Milo was confident that he’d successfully seduced the man. He was confident Reynaldo would be back for more, a situation that was surprisingly to Milo’s liking. Two sexual encounters with the same man had been Milo’s maximum before this. Now he found himself eagerly looking forward to another. It pleased and frustrated him at the same time, because he didn’t want to want the soldier. Quick in, quick out, that was Milo’s normal motto.

  And now he’d been compelled to pay a visit on the dark-haired beauty who ran the Blue Wing Inn. He told himself he was just trying to ensure Reynaldo didn’t get there first. But increasingly, he had to face facts. I want to mount that beauty, to ride her so hard she cries out. Like Vargas just did, gasping and moaning like a woman when I sucked on his prick. Perhaps it was just an overabundance of self-esteem in his lovemaking skills, but his success with Reynaldo had spurred him to greater heights.

  He considered that perhaps he was prepared to touch another woman again.

  It terrified him, but it was something he knew he’d have to face eventually. Touching women led to feeling affection for them. And the more affection one felt for a woman, the more devastation wrenched one from the land of the living when they passed away. Women were so frail, so susceptible to every disease, every Indian attack—every rampaging male hell-bent on pillaging and rape. And Tillie—Tallulah Crabtree, he’d discovered her name was, from gossiping with Vallejo and Jacob Leese—was alone in this world, if you didn’t count that roostered assistant of hers, Origin. They had gotten along well when they’d conversed last night.

  Tallulah seemed to consider Milo a ganymede, so he’d have to set her straight. He wasn’t a ganymede. Anymore.

  So, all full of himself and pumped up on forty-rod and sherry, Milo had come to the cunning two-story house Tallulah occupied behind the Blue Wing Inn. The feminine touches—roses in flowerpots, a well for wishing and not water—softened his heart further. This scared him just as it stimulated him.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” Tallulah now shrieked. “¡Ponga el consolador abajo!” Put the dildo down.

  It was time to show himself. Drawing his Colt revolver, Milo stepped through the doorway and found himself jamming the barrel into a Californio’s temple. “You heard the señorita,” he snarled in his best menacing European tone. “Ponga el consolador abajo. And leave those frilly drawers here, too.”

  The Californio Carlos Reyes, who had seemed determined to keep a grip on his treasures even with an American woman leveling her derringer at his head, quietly replaced the items on a chair. Carlos saluted Milo on his way out the door. “Adios, Capitán.”

  Milo liked the way Tallulah’s mouth hung open. She had such plush lips, as though her mother were Persian or some other Middle Eastern beauty. Her hand that held the derringer hung limply at her side. “Capitán? You know that reprobate? Is he one of the Osos?”

  “Yes,” Milo had to admit, holstering his pistol. “We have some Californios in our ranks, ranchers sick of being ignored and taxed by Mexico. I have no idea why he called me Capitán, though. Stuttering Zeke is the leader of us Osos.”

  Tallulah smiled now, replacing the derringer in her garter. Of course this involved sliding her puffy Californio skirt up past her knee as she turned her ankle sideways to Milo. He knew she didn’t mind doing this in his presence because she imagined he only got hot for men. Maybe he should continue that pretense if it meant getting an eyeful of her lovely gams.

  She said, “Then why didn’t I see Stuttering Zeke at Vallejo’s house? You, Dr. Semple, and your friend Grigsby were the only Bears invited.”

  Milo strolled about the parlor—the house was so small it didn’t have a proper foyer. There was a river rock fireplace, though, something sorely lacking in most California houses due to the “mild winters.” One of Milo’s Virgin Groves leagues sat at five thousand feet, and his first task had been to build a fireplace. It got as cold as an earthworm up there. “Stuttering Zeke has a special hatred for Vallejo, so it wasn’t prudent to invite him. Better to only invite the diplomatic corps.”

  She was such a pixie when she smiled! “Oh? And you were the most prudent one they could think of? The fellow who hides behind the bar while I smash crockery against my lover’s head?”

  The downstairs contained only a parlor and a kitchen, and Milo was loathe to think how close her bedroom upstairs was to that of her annoying assistant, Origin. Did she have to travel to that moronic four-fingered bum Sam’s hacienda in order to fuck? Or had they just fucked here, within earshot of that oiled Mormon rummy? While the sun rose this morning, Milo had tried to pump Origin for more information on Tallulah, but all he learned was they had met in Sutter’s Fort a year beforehand. They were both casualties of the emigrant trail, as Milo had been in forty-one. Although Milo did not think Tallulah’s husband had died. Origin had said, “That marauding son of a bitch took ten years off dear Tillie’s life,” but Milo couldn’t discover exactly what he’d done. Philander, no doubt, at least.

  “Well.” Milo grinned. “The fellow was obviously intimately acquainted with you. I had no idea if that was the sort of…play you engaged in on a daily basis.” He paused in his pacing and allowed his gaze to linger on her face, hoping just the idea of playing would arouse her. It aroused him. Milo’s penis elongated against his thigh, the head stubbornly puffing and making itself known under the cover of his buckskin chaps. He was gratified when her eyes briefly flickered down. He knew he was hung like a potent bull. That used to impress most women, although it did terrify some.

  But something made her ornery again. “I most certainly do not! If you mean those deranged folks who become stimulated by violence and aggression, no, sir, that’s not my idea of play.”

  Milo dared approach her. She cringed back a few inches, so he knew she still feared men after her recent run-in with Sam. Milo feared women, too, so they were on even ground. They were like two frightened deer approaching each other, each prepared to flee at the slightest provocation. “I admit there are some who become aroused by that sort of play. Spanking and slapping can be highly erotic if done in the proper way. But there is another sort of play that is softer, gentler.”

  She tilted her head. “Oh, yes? I’m not saying I would abhor the spanking. If done between two adults who agree to the format beforehand, I see nothing wrong. What I detest is when one of the couple goes off on his own rampage of promiscuity without the other’s knowledge, that is what I’m saying.”

  “Oh, no doubt that’s wrong,” Milo said truthfully. It never would’ve occurred to him to whore around on his wife. He had loved her truly, deeply, wholeheartedly. And he hoped he never loved anyone that thoroughly again. “You had every right to chuck a spittoon at that shit sack’s head. But some people act like that every day of the year. I believe they think life would become too boring without all that violent drama. So you won’t give him another chance?”

  “Not on your life! I’m through with men.”

  “Through with men? Perhaps you’d like a more…physical relationship that doesn’t involve opening yourself up to emotional turmoil.”

  She appeared to consider his words. She even relaxed enough to lean on a sideboard. “What sort of softer, gentler play were you referring to? I am sure I’ve seen it all, here in the savage frontier. I came to California burned by the sun, my ribs poking through my skin, the soles of my shoes parting company with the uppers. A man came to me and offered five dollars if I’d give him one of my biscuits. It occurred to me money was to be had in serving others their basic needs. Now I own my own inn, I had the store and bodega built, and every night I close my oven door on a bag full of silver coins. There is nothing you can show me that I haven’t seen.”

  Milo dared to step even closer. Although she still cringed a bit and narrowed her eyes with skepticism, she was open to him. He raised a hand and touched her face with the backs of his
fingers. “You still need a protector. Let me be your protector. You bring out the sheltering, guardian instinct in me.”

  She didn’t shy away from his touch. “And what would I give you in return?” She smiled coquettishly. “I doubt that I have anything that you want, other than silver coins.”

  “You’d be surprised,” he nearly whispered. It was terrifying, touching a woman’s face. It was even more terrifying to be acting tender and kind. Milo wasn’t accustomed to either of these things. It felt as though a stranger was running his fingers down her brown throat, fingering the indentation of her clavicle. Her expression was soft, curious, as though wondering what he was up to next. “You may be able to wave a pistol at a man’s head, but I’m here to tell you. As a woman, you’re helpless. Even the strongest woman is going to be physically weaker than the weakest man.”

  He surprised even himself when he swooped in to take a sucking bite from that clavicle that had beckoned him so enticingly. She gasped but clutched his head and allowed him to back her into the sideboard. While he bit and licked the creamy skin of her throat, he was easily able to snatch up the drawers Carlos had placed on the chair. He encircled one of her wrists in his fingers and yanked it behind her back. He had to press his body to hers to twine the drawers around the sideboard leg, capturing her supple thigh between his. It was entirely foreign to be humping a woman’s thigh like that, much softer and more pliable than a man’s.

  And her smell! Bread baked in the adobe oven emanated from her delightful neck, and Milo could have sworn his lips brushed over a dusting of flour she had smeared there. When he took her earlobe between his teeth he tasted the corn used in making the tortillas. Tallulah was a veritable feast, the least of which was not the sugary scent that rose from between her jiggling breasts when he dared to slide the short cap sleeve of her camisa down, baring her brown shoulder. A bite of that was creamier, softer than any man’s skin could ever be. Milo’s heart raced in both terror and arousal.

  She sighed, caressing his head with her free hand. It emboldened him to hump her thigh, rubbing the underside of his stiff tool against her. He was encouraged when she let loose with a whole stream of ladylike moans, and he clutched her between his thighs like a dog in heat.

  “Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “You’re determined to make some kind of point about how much I need your protection.” She slithered up and down the sideboard, rotating her hips as though rubbing her cunt against the worn corner of the table. “You don’t need to pretend to be attracted to me to make your point.”

  Milo could hear the smile in her voice. Her throat vibrated against his lips as though she purred deeply in her chest. He captured her other hand and joined it to the one bound at the small of her back, twining the drawers around that wrist, too. “Pretend? Why would I need to pretend, Tillie? You’re an absolutely ravishing, spectacular woman.”

  There was a whine in her voice now, but she kept lunging her hips and squirming, the better to stimulate his prick. “But you don’t like women. I saw the way you were looking at that Spanish soldier. As though you wanted to eat him alive. I can’t blame you—he was quite dashing. But how can I ever compete with that?”

  Her wrists secure behind her back, the large mounds of her breasts jutted out proudly. Milo stood tall to finally look into her eyes. It was difficult to seem sincere when his gaze was distracted by the swelling rise of her bosom. She didn’t wear a corset, as most women didn’t in California—merely a chemise under her camisa—and one nipple was very nearly poking out of the bodice. She thinks Reynaldo is dashing. Jealousy burned in Milo’s stomach. On an impulse he swiped a few finger’s worth of soft butter from where it sat in a dish, next to some tortilla crumbs and a wedge of cheese. He gave her what he’d been told was his most seductive smile and slowly applied the grease to her pectoral. “You got the wrong impression that I don’t like women. I said I haven’t touched a woman in five years, since my wife. That much is true. And it’s true I’ve been avoiding women, for my own reasons.”

  Her eyelids were fast sliding shut as he massaged the upper slope of her breast, her head tilting to one side. “But you were so attracted to the soldier you followed him into the tower.”

  “Yes, I did. Why can’t a fellow truck with both women and men? Men have been my toy since my wife’s death.” He felt her stiffen—perhaps he hadn’t mentioned before that his wife had died—so this was a good time to sweep his hand beneath the cotton camisa and squeeze her entire breast fully in his hand.

  “But the calabozo guards said—ah!”

  Tallulah hissed in air when Milo squeezed, her alluring brown nipple popping out between his greasy fingers. Milo had nearly forgotten what it was like to fondle a woman’s breast, and these globes were absolutely luscious. The way Tallulah reposed helplessly, too, her hips thrust forward and her head thrown back, brought out the randy beast in him. Perhaps it would be acceptable for him to handle a woman if he squelched down any potential emotion with raw, domineering lust.

  Taking another swipe of butter, Milo greased up the tit fully, harshly raking his fingers, roughened by reins and the plow, over the rigid nipple. She gasped and twitched like a worm on a hook. “The calabozo guards? What did they say?”

  “They said—ah!—they said—ah!—that they watched you hold a sword to Corporal Vargas’s throat then force yourself on him.”

  Milo frowned. On one hand, it wasn’t true. He’d hardly had to force the corporal to do anything. On the other hand, it appeared to make Tallulah hot, imagining him forcing himself upon the soldier. There was never anything wrong with a little fantasy if it made his partner hot. Milo diddled Tallulah’s nipple, causing her jaw to slacken. Her lower lip shined with a drip of spittle, as though she were drowning in her inner world, unaware of anything outside this room, concentrating. “And how did the calabozo guards enjoy watching that performance?”

  “Ah! They were—they were yammering to the cooking staff that—that—”

  Milo paused his fingers on her nipple. Apparently she couldn’t speak coherently while being manhandled. And with his vigorous humping against her thigh he could feel the semen surge up the underside of his prick. If he didn’t pause he’d be ejaculating inside his own pantaloons, always an embarrassing prospect.

  It worked. She sighed and opened her moist eyes to him. “That you got down on your knees and suckled the corporal to completion.” Her look seemed fond, full of adoration. “You really are a domineering brute, aren’t you? Maybe it’s you I should be afraid of.”

  “They said that? Well. Do I taste like jism, then?” And Milo kissed Tallulah full on her luscious mouth.

  A rush of emotions and lust roiled through him. To be kissing a woman again—yesterday, it was unthinkable! He would rather be lynched than kiss one of these dainty, frail creatures! Now his tongue-tip lapped at the backs of her cunning little teeth and she returned the kiss with ardor, shaking her shoulders so that her mashed tits stimulated his chest, buttering up his shirt.

  Men were an entirely different story. One could maul them, slap them around, and they would bounce back swimmingly. Most men even sort of revered him for it. Being dominated, smacking someone around, these were things that men understood. Spanking and slapping told Milo’s lovers that his heart was hardened to them, that he was a callous, pitiless bastard. It told them he was only there for the sexual satisfaction—that they could not pierce his heart with their ceaseless insistence on becoming ill or dying.

  But a realization raced through him as he kissed Tallulah that already he was opening himself up to pain. She was too beautiful, too graceful, too amiable. How could he harden his heart against her?

  So he slapped her.

  He lightly slapped her buttery breast with the back of his hand, and it made a satisfying smack. He broke the kiss to gauge her reaction. She looked shocked, her eyes frozen in surprise, so he slapped the tit again. It bounced juicily, and a slow smile spread over her face.

  “You bastar
d!” she said with wonder. “You really are a—oh!”

  Milo grinned, too, and smacked her other tit with his greasy hand. “See what I mean? You’re just a helpless wench here, with no way to protect yourself. Anyone can just come up and manhandle you.”

  Tallulah narrowed her eyes. “Yes. Because you tied my hands!” When she squirmed to pretend to protest her treatment, it only made her full breasts sway more enticingly, encouraging him to cuff them again. “And yes. Yes, you taste like jism.” She licked her lips salaciously.

  Now he was comfortable in his element. He controlled her. This he was accustomed to. He could slap her, pinch her nipples, make her pussy quiver with delight and anticipation. “You like it,” he surmised, “that my mouth tastes like semen.” Slap.

  Her nostrils flared when he swatted her tit, but she looked up at him seductively. “Of course. I like the idea of two masculine men going hard at it. Perhaps you’d let me watch the two of you.”

  Milo had to think for more than a second. Did she really just say that? Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that she thought him an androphile. Or perhaps she saw him for what he truly was. A lover of both sexes. A man who appreciated the beauty in the athletic curve of a man’s pectoral and the saucy sway of a woman’s ass.

  “I would,” he replied, “but it’s up to Corporal Vargas.”

  Lifting her skirt, he gave her pussy a little swat. She had braced herself with her feet wide apart on her Persian rug, and he slapped her mons veneris in the slit of her drawers. The slap made a clammy sound and his hand came away sticky. Her pussy was completely drenched with the handling he was giving her.

  Chapter Five

  “I would, but it’s up to Corporal Vargas.”