Page 41 of A Good Prospect

Sal tried to imitate those hookers, but being inexperienced didn’t stand him in good stead. He knew, as a recipient of a good sucking, which techniques were most effective, so he tried to pump his head in and out while writhing his tongue all about the veined member. He knew from Ophir’s strangled whimpers that he was doing an acceptable job, and it made him so hot he clamped his own thighs around Ophir’s leg and humped him, as Ophir had done when licking Tamasin’s sex. Oh, no. This would not do at all, to ejaculate inside his own clammy calzoneras, so Sal used an adept hand to unbutton his broadfall, allowing his penis to spring free where the warm air bathed it.

He worked his jaw intently around the pulsating cock, snorting against Ophir’s steamy pubic mound, gripping his partner by his slick bare hips. Sal was so absorbed in this scintillating task he barely took note when a little slip of a sylph—Tamasin in her flimsy nightgown—appeared soundlessly, propping her butt on the stove alongside Ophir.

She looked salaciously down at Sal with a sly smile as she gathered up the hem of her gown in her hand. It rose like a curtain, revealing inch by inch of her shapely white leg which she positioned to maximum advantage, displayed out on tiptoe so her calf muscles flexed. What was this little siren up to? Sal was so awestruck by her sudden appearance he released Ophir’s cock with a suctioning sound and sat back.

But Ophir would have none of that, and he gripped Sal’s neck harshly. “Ignore her, you peón!” he growled, giving Sal the title of the Sonoran laborers who worked for the higher-up patróns.

Sal resumed his chore, noisily gorging on the heft of the large, dusky cock. But he could hardly ignore this graceful, snowy spirit who had now gathered her skirts about her hip and was artlessly smashing the pads of her fingertips in the folds of her quim, looking directly and meaningfully at Sal. She now took to stroking the erect prepuce of her clitoris, hitching a bare foot alongside Ophir’s on the stove’s handle to give Sal an unfettered view. How brazen of her! But Sal supposed she had been influenced by the activities of the men who hadn’t been overly prudent in their lusty displays. She half-closed her eyes and stuck out the tip of her tongue to salaciously lick her upper lip as she cocked her hips forward, diddling her button. Sal was fascinated by the relatively thin strip of reddish-blonde hair that sheltered her clit. He had never seen a woman frig herself—why would a prostitute do that?—and he increased his humping of Ophir’s leg nearly to the point of shamefully ejaculating.

Now Tamasin took the flats of her four fingers and fell to frantically rubbing the entire span of her clitoris, emitting little ladylike gasps like the boil of a teakettle. Again Sal’s sucking stilled—Ay dios, he would finish that ladylike orgasm for her with his own mouth, instead of letting Ophir get all the glory!—but just as he thought Tamasin would launch into that gut-wrenching spectacle she didn’t even know was an orgasm, she slithered down the front of the stove.

Her knees completely caved in and her butt settled on the floor. Sal gasped in fear she’d injured herself, lodging the burgeoning crown of Ophir’s cock firmly against his tonsils, and Sal choked loudly. Ophir rattled him by the scruff of the neck, ordering him to “Suck me, peón! Suck your patrón until I spew down your throat!”

Being ordered about by someone who had, until recently, clearly been his inferior reinvigorated Sal, and he applied the flat of his tongue to long bovine licks of the entire penis, gulping the delicious little spurts of ejaculate that erupted when a man was close to climaxing. When he peeked to see if Tamasin was all right, she gave him a wicked little grin and slid over between Ophir’s outspread feet! Now she intended to pleasure Ophir, leaving Sal out in the cold once more?

But no. Propping herself with one palm flat on the floor and her neck scrunched against the stove, the wily vixen squeezed the bare globe of Sal’s ass and inhaled his cock down her own throat!

Sal had been sucked by many women before, but never by a lovely innocent such as Tamasin, a beautiful, naïve woman he loved. His reaction was instant. He shuddered, a delectable shiver of lust shooting down his spine directly into his balls and penis. Gooseflesh rose on his shoulders, nipples, the surface of his ass as the sweet obeisant girl struggled to gobble his prick, munching away at every inch she gained.

Ophir must have seen her, for he said soothingly, “That’s good, little girl. Pleasure your patrón.”

When Tamasin’s incisors accidentally nicked the tip of his urethra, Sal nearly swallowed Ophir’s prick whole, and that’s when Ophir gasped, “Good God almighty!” and exploded in Sal’s mouth. Sal grunted around the juicy penis as he felt the contractions roll down its length, and he managed to gulp the first spurt that shot over his tonsils. He couldn’t keep up with milking the eruptions of jism that followed—he swallowed one load, but the next jet nearly dribbled out his nostrils, and some of the semen trickled out the sides of his mouth. But he wanted to be as proficient as the whores who had pumped his prick, so he kept swallowing and snorting.

He had been so primed by guzzling Ophir’s delicious prick he knew it wouldn’t take much before he was drenching poor Tamasin, but the little hellcat—Ophir’s duckling and gentle flower!—did something even more surprising. She must have wetted her middle finger with her saliva, for she now slid it effortlessly up his ass while slurping his penis. She just brazenly slid it past the first couple of knuckles until she tickled that spot that Sal knew would set him off. Before he could disengage himself from Ophir’s flagging prick, he was convulsing around her naughty little finger, against her bewitchingly innocent tongue.

The semen splashed against her teeth which once again nicked the explosive head, but her finger never ceased its tantalizing tickling of that spot up his ass. She seemed talented as hell at this, and as long as she tickled, Salvador continued to deposit load after load, filling her mouth until he heard her gurgle and spit some out.

Sal stroked the curls that tumbled over her shoulders, releasing Ophir with a loud gasp. Ophir let out a wail like a giant dying cat and staggered away from the stove, seemingly bowlegged. Tamasin, too, turned her head aside to let the final few spurts splatter on her cheek, and it was Sal who urged her finger from his rear, simply because he couldn’t tolerate the ecstasy any longer.

Slipping both hands under her armpits, Sal tried to raise Tamasin to her feet. But his own knees protested the unfamiliar kneeling position he’d been locked in for many long minutes, and they both swayed as though corned. Tamasin giggled, wiping her face with the back of her hand, and they shared conspiratorial grins. Semen had dribbled out her nose, too. Sal gave up, sitting on his behind and letting his pulsating prick cool off in the air, while Tamasin used the stove handles to drag herself to a standing position.

When Sal finally cleared his head and clambered to his feet, Ophir had stuffed his penis away and buttoned his calzoneras and was now leaning against the table cradling Tamasin to his bare chest. The woman smiled in adoration when Sal approached, smearing locks of hair from his forehead.

“Do you think we can sleep now?” Ophir asked. “Even in this heat?”

“Did I do well?” Tamasin suddenly cried.

“Pshew,” said Salvador, still reeling. “Excuse me?”

“I was trying to imitate the way you suck Ophir, Salvador. Did I do well? I am sure you’ve received much more talented ministrations from more…talented women before, but—”

Sal took her by the upper arms and bent at the knee so he could look her in the eyes. “Of course you did well. Why else do you think I would…” He became shy, so used a euphemistic term. “Reach a crisis so fast?”

Tamasin blushed now, looking down at Sal’s boots. “Well. Maybe because you were already stimulated from sucking on Ophir.”

She truly looked adorable like that, pretending to be shy, while the devil was in the glance she cast up at him.

Sal smiled, but determined booted steps clomped up the front porch stairs, and both Sal and Ophir leaped for their pistols that were lying on the table, Ophir placing Tamasin behind the broad muscular target of his torso. They had cocked their hammers before the hapless Knut even entered the kitchen, staggering like a Virginia fence, his own gun belt so haphazardly buckled about his waist the pistols were well-nigh banging against his knees.

Knut held up his hands defensively. “Whoa, whoa! Step back, you banditos! I do not wish to become some miner’s ventilated breakfast!”

The men holstered their pistols, but Sal saw Knut looking daggers at their crotches and bare chests. When Tamasin’s nightgown-clad form was revealed, the lawyer visibly jumped and cringed toward the foyer. His face, normally flushed red from the exertion of bending the elbow, even paled and his lower lip jiggled in terror. “I will tell the Frenchmen not to expect breakfast in the morning!” he said dramatically.

Sal frowned, shouldering his gun belt in preparation for going upstairs. “Why shouldn’t they expect breakfast? What’s that paper in your hand?”

Knut looked at the paper as though he’d never seen it before, then brightened. “Oh, jah! A courier came from Savage’s trading post.” Sal tore the note from Knut’s paw, but Knut informed them of its contents, anyway. “Savage tells in horrifying detail of the one thousand prospectors who have descended upon Bear Valley! All fugitives from Hornitos, Quartzburg, and the other towns who want to cleanse the hillsides of every Spaniard with the slightest tinge of evil.”

“’Tinge of evil’?” Ophir echoed.

“Jah, I tell you, my amigos. It is just as I predicted. All the trouble is arising from various definitions of the term ‘unoccupied.’ If a miner goes home to dinner and leaves his claim for more than twelve hours it is declared unoccupied, and anyone can seize and legally hold it. We will be forever standing at our own doorways defending them from depredation!”

Sal barely heard Knut—he was too busy trying to decipher Savage’s handwriting. Once Savage’s meaning sunk in, Sal looked at his friends with a face deadened of emotion. “Savage says a ‘moving engine of doom’ is heading toward Bear Valley. Some two hundred Mexican war veterans from Mormon Gulch, looking for the heads of…” He squinted back at the note. “’Two hot-headed Frenchmen of the red republican order.’”

There was a brief silence while the exhausted citizens of Hell Hollow pondered the meaning of this. Then Knut said brightly, “Well. I was going to sleep with those Frogs in the office. But I think I will repair to my usual bedroom.”

”Mata,” Sal said tiredly. “Mata los chingados Yanquis.” But he knew it was futile.