She groaned, moaned, squeezed his cock tightly in her left fist.
Her nipples grew hard as sewing thimbles.
She sank down to her knees, taking his jutting manhood in both her hands, looking up at him. “I want to suck it.”
“Go ahead.”
“It’s big.”
“I’ve been told.”
Emma touched the tip of her tongue to the underside of his member, beneath the swollen mushroom head, and narrowed an eye as she gazed up at him. “My pa warned me about you.”
“What’d he say?”
“He said you were a charmer. That you’d probably come around one day. He just wanted me to be prepared.”
“So ... are you prepared?”
She smiled, slid one of her hands down the length of his cock to cup his heavy balls in her hand. “I think so.” She closed her mouth over the swollen mushroom head and ran her tongue around on it.
“Oh,” Haskell said, grabbing the sheets in his fists and lifting his chin toward the ceiling. “Oh, yeah. Oh, Christ ... ”
Her mouth was warm and soft and wet. She sucked the head of his dong for a good long time and then slowly slid her lips down it until the end of his cock was halfway down her throat. Her mouth contracted around the swollen, thudding shaft.
Haskell’s heart surged, hammered against his breastbone.
Emma gagged and pulled her mouth off of him, raking a long, ragged breath into her lungs. “Oh, god!” she cried, laughing at the same time.
Her eyes crossed as she gazed up at him, her lips slathered in saliva. His cock was lathered in spittle, as well. Haskell curled his toes. Pre-come bubbled up out of the dimple at the end of his staff.
“Our father in Heaven,” Haskell said through gritted teeth, reaching down, placing his hands on the girl’s slender arms, and drawing her to her feet. “Hallowed be your name ... ”
Emma’s breasts jostled as she moved. They were the size of pale melons—ripe melons ready for plucking from the vine. The light-red nipples jutted from the pink areolas that covered the tips of each splendid bosom, which angled slightly away from the other. They were swollen and hard with desire.
Haskell took each in his hands and squeezed it as he swirled his tongue around inside her belly button.
“Oh,” Emma said, wrapping her arms around his head, mashing his face against her slightly convex belly, her breasts sloping against his forehead. “Oh ... oh ... oh, god, your tongue feels sooo good!”
“’Your kingdom come, your will be done,’” Haskell resumed the prayer, pushing her back slightly and rising from the edge of the bed, “on earth as it is in heaven.”
She wrapped both hands around his jutting mast again, and gave him a foxy half-smile, gazing up at him from beneath her brows. “Are you a Christian man, Marshal Haskell?”
“Sometimes,” Haskell grunted, turning her around and shoving her down on the bed. “In trying times like these,” he grunted again, trying hard not to blow his load. The girl’s hot mouth and frisky tongue has stirred him to an inner frenzy.
He crawled onto the bed, crouched over Emma, wrapped his arms around her, and slid her farther up on the bed. Her eyes were glistening. Her mouth was swollen. Her hot breasts rose and fell heavily as she breathed. She spread her knees. She kept tugging on his cock, mewling, and grinding her heels into the cornshuck mattress.
She was a lynx in heat.
“Fuck me,” she breathed. “Fuck me, Bear!”
Chapter Five
Haskell pried Emma’s hands off his cock, which was so hard he thought it would split like a boiled sausage.
He lowered his head and licked his way down her body, starting at her neck. Her skin was sweaty, salty, and nearly hot enough to burn his mouth. He licked his way down through the valley between her heaving breasts, kneading them with his hands, and down her belly and into the warm, moist, tangled hair at her snatch.
“Ohhh!” she groaned, arching her back when he flicked his tongue across her clit, swollen to nearly the size of an almond. “Ohhhh, gaawd!” she cried, louder, when he stuck his tongue into her snatch.
She dug her heels deeper into the mattress and arched her back, lifting her bottom several inches up off the bed. Haskell, his head buried in her pussy, pushed her back down on the bed and held her there fast with his head as he tongued her.
She sobbed and groaned and writhed beneath him as he lapped at her womanly core.
Haskell had tumbled with enough women to know when he had one at nearly the point of climax. He pulled his face out of her snatch.
“What are you doing?” she screeched. “Please, don’t stop!”
Haskell knelt between her spread legs, sat back against his heels. He grabbed her legs under her knees and drew her down toward him, sliding her sopping, glistening pussy toward the head of his bulging cock. She lifted her head from the pillow, widened her eyes as she stared down past her frantically expanding and contracting belly at his throbbing member.
“Oh, Lord,” she laughed, “you’re gonna kill me!”
“We’ll see, darlin’.” Haskell drew her toward him until he was sliding slowly, slowly ... ever so slowly inside her.
She watched for a time, panting like a woman in labor. “Oh,” she wheezed as his cock slowly disappeared, sliding deeper and deeper into her. She threw her head back on the pillow, the chords standing out in her neck. “It’s like ... it’s like being fucked with an axe handle!”
“Should I stop, darlin’?”
“Don’t you dare!”
Haskell chuckled.
He bottomed out inside her, then shoved her back away from his hips until she was nearly off of him, just the very head of his cock snugged inside the petal-like flesh showing pink inside her wet pubic hair. He pulled her toward him again, the folds of her pussy opening to receive him, his thick, bulging cock disappearing inside her once more.
“Oh, god,” she said, and swallowed, reaching above her head to grab two willow sapling spools of the headboard. “Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!”
Gradually, the hotter and wetter she got, the easier he was able to slide in and out of her. He increased his pace until he was drawing her toward him and then away in a near-violent frenzy. He bucked up hard against her, his flesh smacking hers.
The bed squawked and pitched like an angry mustang. Emma squealed and howled, holding tight to the spools above her head. Her breasts bounced in circles on her chest, the nipples hard and jutting.
“Oh, god!” she cried. “Oh, god! Oh, god!”
Haskell grunted as he hammered away at her.
They were going at it so violently now that a picture dropped from a nail to crash to the floor. The lantern on the dresser guttered and smoked, its mantle ringing. Both of the willow spools Emma was clinging to broke, and she grabbed two more.
Haskell felt as though his cock was about to explode. He forced back his desire, reciting the Lord’s Prayer again in silence, but there was no way he could keep from reaching his fulfillment within another minute or two. Emma’s madly jouncing breasts were colored gold by the watery lamplight, glistening with sweat. Sweat glistened on her belly, as well. Her pussy was like a small, hot hand clenching him, releasing, then clenching again while bathing him in hot honey.
Hearing something, Haskell stopped.
Emma stopped screaming.
The bed fell still.
A man’s phlegmy voice called from the front of the house, “Miss Emma—you all right in there?”
Emma’s eyes snapped wide in shock and horror, and her cheeks turned red. She turned her head toward the half-open door. “I’m just fine, Riley! Thanks for checking on me, though!”
“All right, then.” There was a throaty chuckle and then the front door closed.
Emma and Haskell exploded in embarrassed laughter.
The interruption had helped to damp down some of the lawman’s flames. He began riding Emma again, his pace slower. He savored each measured stroke. Gradually, he increased hi
s rhythm until they were going at it again like two lusty minks, grunting, groaning, cursing, and causing another picture to fall from the wall.
Another spool broke off in Emma’s hand, and she reached for another one.
When Haskell could feel that she was close to her time, he placed his hands beneath the small of her back and held her hips up taut against his belly. She curled her toes.
Emma screamed as her pussy shivered around his cock, bathing it in wave after wave of hot cream.
When she’d stopped spasming and had begun to relax, Haskell pulled his still ramrod-hard staff out of her, leaned forward and slid it up her belly.
“Squeeze your tits together!” he yelled.
“What?”
“Squeeze your tits together!”
“Oh!”
As he rammed his nearly bursting cock up between her splendid, swollen orbs, she squeezed them together, sandwiching them around his cock. He thrust twice with his hips. His come jetted up from the top of her cleavage to cover her chin, throat, and shoulder with his thick, milky jism.
Emma laughed and licked the come from her lips.
Then she cleaned his cock with her mouth.
They slept with their limbs entangled for the rest of the long night. Haskell slept dreamlessly.
He woke in the morning to Emma, bathed in golden morning sunshine, gently stroking him back to life. She smiled at him. She was like a naked angel crouched over his belly, her lips as red as cherries, hair like spun honey in the sunlight. She didn’t say anything, just continued stroking him until he came in her hands.
Then he drifted back to sleep.
~*~
A hand nudged him. As though from far away came a man’s soft voice, almost too soft to be heard: “Uh ... excuse me, Bear.”
Sleep had a hard, jealous grip on Haskell. He just wanted to lie here in Emma’s bed ... or the bed of her dead father and Haskell’s old pal, Coyote Kramer ... and savor the memory of his and the girl’s recent lovemaking, and enjoy the smell of bacon and eggs and boiling coffee that emanated through the partly open door from the ranch house kitchen. He could hear her in there, humming softly, happily, while clanging pans around and opening and closing the squawky oven door.
A hand squeezed his arm, shook him so that his head wobbled. The man’s unwelcome voice again: “Bear!”
Haskell jerked awake, scowling and angry. “What in the hell ... ?”
He let his voice trail off when he saw the familiar, craggy, long face of conductor George April beneath the leather bill of his purple wool hat. April was leaning so close to Haskell that the deputy U.S. marshal could smell the sweet smell of plug tobacco on the older man’s breath. “Sorry, there, Bear. You must have been havin’ a good one—grinnin’ like a boy starin’ through the half-moon in the girls’ privy door!”
April chuckled.
“But we done stopped in Denver,” he continued. “If you don’t get off soon, you’re gonna be headed up to Cheyenne.”
“What?” Haskell looked around. A keen disappointment touched him when he did not see Coyote Kramer’s crudely but efficiently appointed bedroom surrounding him. No, what surrounded him instead were the paneled walls, brass bracket lamps and luggage racks and the stiff-backed, plush-covered wooden bench seats of the Denver & Rio Grande Flier he’d caught down in Socorro.
Still, the dream was stubborn. Haskell lifted his head, sniffed the air. “Where the hell is the smell of bacon and eggs comin’ from?”
April straightened his whipcord lean frame, and sniffed. “I don’t smell nothin’ but the usual sweat, coal smoke, and farts. Besides, breakfast is long over. Hell, it’s noon. You must be hungry, Bear. Why don’t you go out and buy yourself a roast beef sandwich from one of the handcarts always lined up on Wyandotte Avenue this time of the day? It’s pushin’ noon.”
Haskell sniffed again. He now smelled only what April had smelled. He wrinkled his nose against the contrast between the smell of bacon and eggs and boiled coffee and the smoke and farts lingering in the coach car. The dream was gone. Damn.
“All right, all right,” Haskell grouched, plucking his hat up off the seat beside him and stuffing it down on his head. “I can take a hint, George. I’ll be on my way.”
“You need any help with your gear, Bear?”
“Nah, I got it.”
“All right, then. See ya next time, Bear.”
“See ya, George.”
Haskell reached up into the overhead rack and pulled his gear down into the aisle—his Henry repeater, saddlebags, canvas war bag strapped to the saddlebags, and bedroll. He traveled so much that he’d learned to pare his possibles down to what he could carry on his shoulders the average distance from a train or stagecoach station to a livery barn or hotel without snapping his back or busting a gut.
He draped the saddlebags and bedroll over his left shoulder, rested the sheathed Henry on his right shoulder, so that, being right-handed, he could pull it down fast, skin it from its leather scabbard, and commence firing if the need arose.
He’d been hauling in owlhoots long enough that there was always some chip-shouldered, snake-eyed hombre wanting to feed him to the crows. Not every day or even every week but enough times every year—and it seemed to be happening more and more often—that he’d learned to grow eyes in the back of his head, and to move quick when he heard someone yell something akin to, “There’s that damn peckerwood of a U.S. Marshal that hauled poor Cousin Clancy in so’s the federal judge could play cat’s cradle with his head!”
Haskell was glad to not hear anything like that now, however, as he stepped down off the coach car’s rear vestibule onto the cobbled platform, the cacophony of coupling train cars rising around him, coal smoke billowing overhead.
As he made his way through the bustling Union Station, he couldn’t resist sniffing the air again. The smell of bacon and eggs and boiled coffee had been so real in the dream that he couldn’t get it out of his head.
It had only been in his head, however. All he could smell now was cold sandstone and wood varnish and the potpourri of the hundred or so bodies moving around him, heading toward the platform and the tracks at one end of the cavernous building or toward Wyandotte Avenue at the other end, as well as the smell of tobacco smoke and horse shit and the cattle pens emanating through the big doors opening ahead of Haskell, where golden sunlight shone like that at the far end of a long tunnel.
As Haskell strode under his load, he was unaware of a fond smile curling his mouth as he remembered rising two mornings ago from Coyote Kramer’s damaged bed, refreshed though also a little stiff and sore, his dick chafed, from his frolic with the old-timer’s beautiful daughter. Haskell had dressed and followed the sound of Emma’s humming into the kitchen, where the smell of bacon and eggs and boiling coffee swelled to the size of a vast, sweet raincloud, causing Haskell’s mouth to water like that of a panting dog, and the hunger pangs in his gut to kick like an angry mule.
“Good morning, Marshal!” Emma had intoned, turning potatoes in a skillet sputtering on the range. Then a rosy flush rose in her cheeks and she gave a sheepish little smile as she added, “I mean ... Bear.”
“Good mornin’ yourself, darlin’,” Haskell had said, his lower jaw hanging in shock as he stopped at the end of the dining table to stare at her. At least, he thought it was Emma Kramer, though she looked so different that one-quarter of his brain wondered if the creature he was staring at could be an imposter.
Gone were Emma’s ratty shirt and patched denims and unkempt hair as well as the customary soil smudges on her cheeks and neck. In short, gone was the beautiful savage.
In her place was a sparkling young woman who could have been dropped down from some mythical finishing school in the sky. Emma had pulled her thick, tawny locks into an alluring chignon behind her head and held them in place by a tortoiseshell comb.
Her face was fresh-scrubbed, her eyes wide and sparkling. Her high-busted, long-legged figure was spryly radiant in a clean cream
housedress printed with brown and yellow flowers and edged in white lace. The shoes showing beneath the dress’s hem were not scuffed stockmen’s boots but black patent ladies’ shoes with gold side buttons. The frock was buttoned to her neck, but it fit her voluptuous figure so tightly that the girl might not have been wearing anything at all. The cambric material strained back against the two wondrous mounds of her bosoms that had given him such pleasure the night before.
“You’re not Emma,” Haskell said with mock castigation. “What did you do with Emma, you charlatan?”
Emma laughed as she grabbed a plate off a shelf above her, and began filling it with scrambled eggs, bacon, and a heaping spoonful of potatoes fried with onions and butter. “I don’t know what got into me,” she said as she set the plate on the table. “When I got up this morning, I just felt like throwing a dress on.”
She looked at Haskell, roses blooming in her cheeks, and shrugged.
Haskell went over, wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her.
“Do you like it, Bear?” Emma asked, pulling her head back from his, entwining her fingers behind his neck.
“You’re beautiful, purely a sight for sore eyes,” Haskell said, and kissed her again. “And that breakfast smells so good I’m liable to faint before I can sit down and eat it!”
“Well, you’d better hurry then!”
Something bothered him. He frowned as he held her, and stared into her eyes that gazed up at him, fondly sparkling. “Emma ... ”
“What is it, Bear?”
“Listen, Emma, I ... I ... I’m pullin’—”
“Oh, I know—you’re pullin’ out this morning. Don’t worry. I didn’t take last night as anything more than what it was, dear man ... ” She sandwiched his big, rugged face in her hands and pressed her lips very gently and tenderly to his. “ ... A wonderful night with a wonderful man. In the aftermath of that good ... coring you gave me”—she dipped her chin, blushing and grinning devilishly—“I just felt like dressing a little more feminine this morning than usual, and cooking you a nice breakfast. You have a long ride ahead to Socorro and an even longer one back to Denver. Believe me, as soon as you’re out of here, I’ll be hauling out my nasty old duds, rolling up my shirtsleeves, and heading out to dynamite some water holes!”
GUN TROUBLE AT DIAMONDBACK (Bear Haskell, U.S. Marshal Book 1) Page 4
