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

by Karen Mercury

  When Milo swatted her cunt, the stinging and tingling made her heart race. This fearsome brute of a man had bound her and was slapping her, and lust surged through her female organs. Yesterday this would have been unthinkable. But his brutal dominance excited Tallulah. He was a man through and through, an out-and-out animal, sensual and untamed.

  Her husband, Ned, had been so mild-mannered it was an even more devastating shock when, on the trail to California, a female friend had informed her he’d been humping every lady on two legs, and even some of the Digger squaws they passed. Maybe it was better to have a man who laid all his cards on the table. Milo made no pretense of being a sensitive, caring fellow, although Tallulah was certain one lurked beneath the rough exterior—somewhere. How delicious it would be peeling back the rough layers, to see caring in his eyes, to nestle his head against her breast, to cuddle his magnificent torso.

  She could tell by the heft of the penis he rubbed against her thigh that he was not strictly a ganymede. She had seen men who could flow either way, and the idea that she was the first woman he’d touched since his wife stimulated her, too. She spread her slippers farther apart on the carpet to display her willingness to be mauled. It was very arousing that he was still fully clothed, yet he’d manfully managed to practically peel her to the buff. He didn’t seem irritated by the derringer she had in her garter, either. Most men would’ve taken it off a long time ago.

  He gave her pussy a few more clammy slaps that sent shivers deep into her abdomen. She saw herself through Milo’s eyes. I am not a bad-looking woman. I’ve aged well, even through all the travails I’ve undergone. I’m shapely with full, high breasts. Why shouldn’t a man this thoroughly gorgeous desire me? “Corporal Vargas seems the shy type, the traditional—ah!—sort who would not want to be seen making love to another man.”

  “Yes,” Milo agreed roughly. “He is. He thinks if he lets me dominate him he doesn’t have to admit he’s having sex with another man. But I’ve already had sex with him twice. That’s my limit. You’ll have to choose someone else for us to toy with.”

  “You have so many—ah!—rules to your sexual pursuits, Mr. Stephens.” She liked calling him Mr. Stephens. It made what they were doing seem even more taboo.

  “I have to have rules.” He tweaked a nipple. Tallulah had never felt more curvaceous, desirable, pretty. “Without rules, everyone gets hurt. With rules to adhere to, there are never any unexpected surprises.”

  “Is two encounters your limit with women?”

  Milo paused and a consternated look came into his eyes. She had succeeded in baffling him. “I wouldn’t know. My wife was my first and only woman.”

  A victorious thrill surged through Tallulah. I am only the second woman he’s toyed with? He’s so stunningly handsome, he could have courted one of Vallejo’s beautiful daughters, Leese’s daughters, the Richardson girls. But her hands were literally tied, so she could not display to Milo how special this made her feel. I’ll drop to my knees, that’s what I’ll do. I’ll take his lovely fat cock into my mouth and drain him dry, like he did to Corporal Vargas.

  But before she could act out her desire, Milo switched from slapping her cunt to diddling her. Four-Fingered Sam had never bothered arousing her, nor any of his predecessors she could recall, and Ned had apparently been spending too much time diddling other settler’s wives to bother with her. Tallulah was so taken aback by the intensely erotic, enormous shiver of delight that spread through her uterus when Milo fingered her.

  “You like this, don’t you?” A nasty, dirty tone came into Milo’s voice. With his lovely European accent, the way he licked her earlobe while talking dirty, and the enormous erection he humped her thigh with, Tallulah nearly sobbed with joy at having found him. She nuzzled his face, plying him with kisses, and brought one slipper up against the sideboard to balance herself and give his hand better access. She rubbed her greasy tits against his buckskin shirtfront, bursting with pride that she had the capability of making him hot. Imagine all the women he’s bypassed the past five years. Women drooling, admiring his superbly rounded butt, women dying to get their hands on such a luscious specimen. He’s been secreting himself away from life for too long. He’ll see. I’ll have him eating out of my palm shortly. He can’t remain aloof against my wiles. Only, now he’s got me in his palm.

  “Oh, God. Oh, God,” Tallulah whispered, gyrating her hips to indicate she wanted him to speed up his fiddling with her clitoris. For a man who had only been with one woman, he certainly was a skillful lover. And it was quite unselfish of him to toy with her, as he’d pleasured the corporal, putting the needs of others first. She kissed Milo’s face with loud smacking sounds, frantically, over and over—his bowed lips, his lovely hawk’s nose, the cleft of his chin. “You know just where and how to touch me.”

  “You’ve got a slippery, juicy pussy. Cunt juice is running down my arm.” Every time he pinched her nipple, it sent a shock wave of lust into her sex. Tallulah wanted to suck on his tongue but she wanted to hear him talk nasty, too.

  Tallulah panted, “If you let my hands go free, I could stroke your cock.”

  “No.” That one word was authoritative, firm. “I want you here, helpless, at my command.”

  “But I thought you were—oh, God!—showing me how defenseless and exposed I am without your protection.”

  Milo smiled against her mouth. His expert fingers were sending a flood of sensation building up in her pelvis. She began to fear what might happen when the dam broke. “Exactly. Is this not a good demonstration?”

  Tallulah tried to laugh, but only a string of gasps came out. “You…fucking…bastard. You really are a—ah! Oh, God! Don’t stop!”

  “What am I?” She could hear the smug smile in his voice. What an arrogant jackass! He knew—and from only being with a single woman in his entire life!—that she was on the verge of an explosive orgasm. She teetered at the precipice for one long, agonizingly pleasurable second, holding her breath. He diddled her with sly, talented fingers, knowing exactly where to tickle her to coax the most massive climax from her. His free hand twiddled an oily nipple—that’s what set her off. In a shuddering paroxysm of spasms that clenched up every last female organ, Tallulah endured contraction after contraction until she begged for relief.

  “Stop,” she whispered. But the bastard wasn’t about to.

  He teased another series of spasms from her that wrenched her vaginal canal as though determined to break something. She was so wracked with the intensity she flopped back onto the sideboard like a beached fish, head banging against the wall, eyes squeezed shut, clamping her thighs together over his hand to make him stop.

  “Too much?” he asked happily. “You come like an erotic, sexy woman. An absolute gusher.”

  “Untie me,” she said weakly. She really wanted to push his hand away—her clitoris was so overly sensitive now, every tickle of his fingers sent shockwaves through her torso, into her nipples. She was also angry that Milo should have so much control over her. No man had ever made her come this powerfully. She was afraid Milo would use it as leverage to manipulate her. He’d have her trained like a faithful dog who kept coming back for more—only he’d said two encounters was his limit! She flashed angry eyes at him. “Untie my hands. If you think you’re going to have me under your thumb just because you can make me come… Besides, what about your ‘two limit’ rule?”

  Milo looked thoughtful as he untied the drawers from her wrists. His long, fat penis still tented out the crotch of his pantaloons, but he seemed to have no desire for his own satisfaction—another attractive trait. “Perhaps the two-limit rule should apply only to men. I could see having a series of delicious romps with you, my sweet.”

  “Oh, you could, could you?” Tallulah massaged her wrists and smoothed her skirts down. “Is that because you don’t care for women as much as you desire men? So you think you can toy with me whenever you want?”

  Milo frowned. “Of course not. Don’t you think I need yo
ur permission?” He drew himself up. “I’m hardly the type to run around forcing myself on people, contrary to what some damned Spaniard calabozo guards say.”

  “I shall need to think about your proposal. I need to go tend to my bar right now.”

  “Of course.” Milo tipped an imaginary hat—he only wore the dingy red scarf tied turban-style around his head like so many of these backwoodsmen.

  Tallulah nearly giggled when she saw he had breast-shaped, buttery imprints on his leather shirtfront. She was just stuffing her own breasts back into her camisa when heavy boots sounded on her front porch. She liked the way Milo spun about and placed himself in front of her, protectively, when her front door burst open, slamming against the wall.

  It was only Origin, of course, fired up on schiedam and political fervor. “This is it! A messenger has come from Frémont that we must take Sonoma! Agh!” Origin cringed at the sight of Tallulah’s bared breasts. He nearly fell back into the wall when his eyes lit on Milo’s enormous erection, bold and audaciously swaying under the tight red cotton. He put a forearm up to shield his eyes from the poisonous sight.

  Milo asked, “Has Frémont had a directive from Polk? Has the United States officially declared war on Mexico?”

  “Well, no, not that we’ve heard.” Origin’s voice was muffled in his arm. “We’re all meeting at the Blue Wing. Stuttering Zeke is so oiled he’s about to storm into Vallejo’s and arrest him on the spot.”

  “I’ve got to get over,” Milo told Tallulah. He seemed confused now, and almost boyish. “Ah, thank you for a lovely time, Miss Crabtree.”

  Tallulah gave a little curtsy, now that her breasts were safely clothed. “Thank you, Mr. Stephens. I’ll let you know my decision on your proposal. I must come with you to the Blue Wing. If those roostered men are going to start tearing up my bodega, I’ll need more protection, some troopers. Origin, you can uncover your eyes now. We are decent.”

  Origin took his arm away from his eyes warily, but Milo’s stupendous erection seemed to terrify him. “Corporal Vargas is trying to be the voice of reason down there, but I tell you, nobody feels like waiting any longer. There are only two troopers to protect the barracks today, and they are out catching cattle for Vallejo. Any more liquor and this town has fallen!”

  Tallulah encouraged Milo out the door. She was right behind him. “I don’t know how levelheaded I wish you to be, Mr. Stephens. Once we gain independence, settlers will flood to California, and that can only be good for both our businesses.”

  Milo looked hotly at her as they strode to the inn. “I’m not one of the more levelheaded ones, no. I see my farm and cattle threatened and I just see red.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Tallulah agreed. And she thought he was the most admirable and brave man she’d ever known.

  Chapter Six

  “Frémont has not even given notice to Captain Sutter at his fort!” cried Reynaldo. “Sutter is a great friend of Americans. We cannot take this action without his knowledge.”

  Moved by oiled passion, Stuttering Zeke bellowed, “Sutter is from Switzerland! And he’s way over there near the Sierra. Let us make our own destiny here in Sonoma!”

  Milo said with disgust, “You’re from Germany, Zeke. And I’m from Poland. Let’s not become confused with matters of national righteousness. We are all Yankees, plain and simple.”

  Reynaldo shot the lecherous farmer a look of disgust. Milo had come stumbling in the door of the Blue Wing smelling of sex. He was followed by the ravishing Tallulah, who boasted the moist skin and sprightly eyes of a woman who had just been well-fucked. Reynaldo burned with envy. First, the pendejo had waylaid him in the tower, distracting him with a fabulous cocksucking. Now he had reached the divorced innkeeper before Reynaldo had a chance! Reynaldo vowed to not become distracted by that pendejo farmer again. This meant war.

  Reynaldo shouted, “Frémont has become a leader of thieves! Semple, you agree with me. He outright stole those three hundred horses on the Cosumnes.”

  Milo strode so close to Reynaldo the soldier could smell the fishy scent of pussy. Pendejo. “And your speech smacks of sedition, Corporal. Who are you to publicly doubt your commander’s orders? We must take and secure this headquarters of the Comandante of the Frontera del Norte in the name of the United States. Who is with me? Grigbsy! Fowler! Beaulieu! Bidwell! Zeke, I know how you feel about Vallejo.”

  “He’s a bushwhacker!” yelled Stuttering Zeke. “We can’t trust anyone whose last name ends with the letter O! Vallejo is a greaser through and through.”

  “Hey, now,” said Reynaldo, whose first name ended with an O. “If we take action without official orders from Polk, we’re nothing but insurrectionists!”

  “The handwriting is on the wall,” Tallulah said soothingly, standing at Reynaldo’s side. “We can no more stop California from seceding than we can push a rising flood tide back.”

  Milo put a foot on a chair and said loudly, “I solemnly declare our object to invite all peaceable and good citizens of California who are friendly to join us in good order and equal rights!”

  “You must write a manifesto, Stephens!” yelled Cowie, a youth who had been a saddler. “You are the most literate of us all, the most eloquent.”

  “Yeah”— Stuttering Zeke chuckled—“I’m a stumped old yokel, if the truth is known. You write a manifesto, Milo!”

  “Why don’t you lead, Milo?” said Grigsby, who Reynaldo knew to be a fellow farmer of Milo’s on the upper reaches of the Sacramento. “Stuttering Zeke here is a hothead liable to lead us into the shit.”

  Fowler said, “Yes, we choose you as commander, Stephens.”

  The final straw was when the gorgeous innkeeper added her two pennies’ worth. “Yes, I think that’s a splendid idea! You need someone with drive and gumption.”

  “Enterprise,” added Semple.

  “Initiative!” declared Bidwell. “Stephens has got it in spades! I once saw him wrestle a cougar barehanded!”

  Akers chimed in, “I saw him confront a grizzly barehanded—he had no pistol in sight!”

  Reynaldo rolled his eyes. Everyone in California knew it was impossible to successfully wrestle a bruin. Many of these Osos were former grizzly hunters themselves. But it gave Reynaldo an opening to finally speak to Tallulah. “Can you believe that? The claims these pendejos make!”

  But her shining face indicated she was carried away with lust and enthusiasm, too. Milo must have really dazzled her with some fancy erotic moves—Reynaldo didn’t want to imagine what. “I know it’s not possible to wrestle a Cuffy, but I do believe Milo would make an excellent commander. He’s so very strong, determined, bold.”

  He’s bold, all right. Reynaldo narrowed his eyes as Milo accepted rounds of congratulations from his fellow Osos. Stuttering Zeke didn’t even seem to care about being taken down a peg. He, too, was handing Milo a glass of ale—perhaps relieved he didn’t have the responsibility of being captain anymore.

  Reynaldo sighed. “Well. If this is the way we’re heading, toward the ‘rule of the people’ without the authentication or command of our government, I term it anarchy of the highest order.”

  “But Frémont sent a message that these were his orders,” said Tallulah. She went behind the bar and began pouring out beers that were snatched up as quickly as she lined them on the bar.

  “I’m still skeptical of that.” Reynaldo gulped down some ale because he was thirsty, not out of any great sense of celebration. “It will all become evident in a couple weeks, but I’m telling you, this fort has only a few field pieces, and the carronades are more for show than for use due to lack of ammunition. I checked the barracks—there are less than a hundred pounds of powder, very few canisters and grapeshot. We have not powder to work the cannon, and we won’t be able to long resist the Mexican army. We have maybe a hundred rifles, but how many soldiers to arm them? Thirty?”

  The innkeeper didn’t appear to be concerned. She had that lovely catlike smile and seemed to be looking
up at Reynaldo from under her sooty, long lashes. He thought it was a shame that she had to work her fingers to the bone at this Blue Wing Inn. She had that pickled rummy, Origin, who appeared to be drinking more bug juice than he was serving. Reynaldo would consider it an honor to be allowed to assist such a bonny gal, but it appeared that Polish pendejo had already sunk his domineering tentacles into her. This was proven shortly when Milo went behind the bar as though he owned the place and even put a hand on Tallulah’s ass, a mark of ownership.

  “I’m not afraid of the Mexican army,” said Tallulah as she fussed refilling a brass whale oil lamp. “I’ve never seen more than half a dozen of them at one time. You’ve traveled across California a lot. What is the largest regiment you’ve seen?”

  She was obviously addressing Corporal Vargas, but that overbearing and swaggering pendejo Milo was full of himself today, and answered her. “Do you have a pen, my sweet? I’ll need to write up a proclamation immediately. I’ve never seen more than half a dozen Mexican soldiers either. Besides, the day we proclaim California a republic, most Spaniards will be satisfied and pleased. I doubt Castro wants to march what few men he has all the way up here from Monterey just to save a vineyard.”

  “Of course,” said Tallulah. “I’ve ink and paper in my office, just in back.”

  Reynaldo was livid. Not only was Milo seizing a fort with no previous declaration of war from the Unites States, he was rubbing Reynaldo’s face in the fact that he’d won the day with Señorita Crabtree. A wave of pungent pussy juice wafted over from Milo’s manly person and Reynaldo exploded with rage. The pendejo could’ve at least washed his hands after frigging the gentle creature.

  Slamming some pesos onto the bar, he grabbed a bottle of forty-rod and stormed out of the Blue Wing.

  Reynaldo stalked blindly toward the two-story barracks, diagonally across the plaza from the inn. Inside the blazingly hot interior courtyard, he passed some olive trees and a wall of organ pipe cactus. The two remaining troopers were out rounding up cattle for Vallejo, and it was dismally quiet except for the clicking of what seemed like hundreds of crickets. Last night he’d been forced to listen to those two remaining vaqueros belching and snoring, and now even they were gone. This Californio way of life was dying out—if it had even flourished to begin with. It was always a thrilling sight to see a fully caparisoned caballero at full gallop, serape billowing, spurs the size of saucers glinting in the sun. In his high-crowned sombrero and velvet pantaloons with all the gaudy trappings the silver mines could produce, such sights had become rarer the past couple of years. Californios weren’t industrious and preferred to laze about playing monte when not on horseback. Their farming skills had barely progressed beyond the scythe, and they looked skeptically at any innovation such as the plow. Their mission system had just left behind a bunch of roostered neophytes who hung about the adobes begging. California’s first library was a deck of monte cards brought by the mission padres.