Page 24 of Working the Lode

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Bowmaker

Bowmaker was filled with disgust, yet his traitorous body rebelled against his mind.

Valenzuela tweaked his nipple in a way that was supposed to be painful, but it only sent a current of lust down Bowmaker’s belly and into his cock. He knew his cock was already half-erect owing to some perverted enjoyment at seeing Zelnora’s tits juggled so erotically by another man. She had the most exquisite bosom, and if Bowmaker was a judge of Spaniard sign, this infamous bandit was more harmless than the stories told. He would have killed them by now or at least maimed them if bloodthirstiness was truly his main trait.

This sign, and the way the bandit stood so close to his hip Bowmaker could feel the heat of his own erection even under the serape, made the trail as plain as writing.

Was this the fellow who had been watching him frig himself in the creek? The serape looked similar and the fellow was about the same height. That chap had been watching him stroke his own prick for at least five minutes. If so, Bowmaker might know a way to get out of here alive using only his wits.

Now Valenzuela fiddled with both nipples at once, standing so boldly in front of him their erections nearly touched. “It makes you randy to watch your woman, eh, Señor Mountain Man. You like to watch? I like to watch too. I like to watch a man cry out and tell me where his gold is câched, so I do not have to move onto torturing him more intimately.”

Bowmaker nearly spat in his face, but remembered his goal. Hating himself even more profoundly when his prick elongated inside his buckskins, he said evenly, “Go ahead. Hurt me.” Nothing about gold.

A smile curled the edges of Valenzuela’s handsome mouth and he spun about suddenly, marching back to his flat rock and giving his men instructions. They hauled Bowmaker over to the bandit, the brigand Bowmaker had kicked limping, he noted with satisfaction. Tossing him face up onto Valenzuela’s lap, he felt the hard ridge of the highwayman’s erection against his ass. He leaned back with his bound hands against the sandy rocks, his torso supported by one of the henchmen who kneeled behind him.

Grinning casually as though at an afternoon tea, Valenzuela’s brown paw slid down Bowmaker’s stomach, massaging his taut muscles gently, it seemed. He lingered over his pubic bone, rubbing in a circular motion almost lovingly, his fingertips brushing against the root of Bowmaker’s taut prick. Bowmaker was shamed when his prick twitched and jumped visibly underneath the buckskin. Like the time he had frigged himself while his fellow miners watched, he found it strangely erotic to be admired by another man. And now the other two murderers stood around, occupied with massaging their own crotches, and exhorting Valenzuela,

“Si, si, take it out. Whip him, he’ll tell you where the gold is then.”

“Shut up!” Valenzuela snapped at the miscreants. A pleasant cast came over his face when he turned back to Bowmaker, slithering his long brown fingers around the base of his erection. “Oh my, what do we have here? It seems this rough mountain man is stimulated by the feel of my penis against his muscular ass. The idea that my hand is touching his long, stiff penis. You like that, don’t you, mountain man? A man has a much rougher touch than a woman, eh?”

Bowmaker merely narrowed his eyes at the ruffian and snorted through his nostrils as Valenzuela lifted the embarrassing heavy length of his cock from under the buckskin. It sprang into the hot summer air with readiness, mortifyingly shiny and purplish, ready to spurt jets of semen into the odious fellow’s face. His body was betraying him! Was he truly so eager and desperate for the most repulsive sort of release that he would take more than a pretense of enjoyment out of being handled by this brigand? Yet he’d already known that he loved to display his body for anyone’s pleasure, he loved to be admired, and the way the men marveled at his enormously meaty tool throbbing in the sun, in a man’s brown fist, was the apex of narcissism.

“I see you are well-hung like a bull,” Valenzuela nearly purred, squeezing his cock with apparent relish. His hand swept down to caress Bowmaker’s balls, hard and full to bursting with seed, as the henchman he had punted hobbled over to stand between his feet, forcing his thighs open. Bowmaker saw a wet stain on the front of the henchman’s cotton pants, and he looked to his own prick where a few drops glistened at the tip.

“You can humiliate me all you wish, Valenzuela,” Bowmaker fairly whispered.

Valenzuela grinned. “That is such an…inviting invitation.”

Valenzuela snapped his fingers, held out his palm, and the fourth accomplice handed him a tasseled length of rawhide lariat. Popping it against his other palm while Bowmaker’s nude prick pulsated against his belly, Valenzuela said, “You shall be crying, telling me where the gold is, Bowmaker.” And he spanked Bowmaker’s erection with the rawhide! Again. And again.

Bowmaker squeezed his eyes shut, using an old Far East technique for rising above pain. Yet that was only in anticipation, for he swiftly realized he didn’t need to close his eyes—the “pain” was quite exquisite. Every time the Spaniard spanked his cock, it bobbed in appreciation, turned even purpler, and raged to be allowed to spend. The slaps brought blood to his penis, stinging in an erotic rush of lust. Though the assassin might mean his slaps to be a form of torture, soon Bowmaker thought he would climax just from the sweet salacious needling.

“Ah!” snarled Valenzuela. “I see this is not torment for a depraved hombre such as you—you take vast pleasure in having your cock swatted, don’t you? Don’t you?”

It seemed to Bowmaker that the Spaniard also took vast pleasure, as every time Bowmaker’s hips quivered, he rubbed his ass against Valenzuela’s long prick that throbbed tellingly.

Perhaps aware of that, too, Valenzuela turned the lariat about and commenced to slapping his erection and testicles with the tasseled end, as if that would pain him more. But it tingled more deliciously as the tassels swept across his balls, Valenzuela apparently not so eager to inflict pain as he was to observe the jutting mass of a male erection.

Locking his eyes onto Valenzuela’s, Bowmaker whispered through clenched teeth, “That’s right. Harder, you vile raider. You like watching my erection get stiffer, don’t you? Did you know I would enjoy being slapped by your filthy hand? Watching my giant cock excites you, doesn’t it? I can feel your hard penis against my ass. Are you imagining thrusting your prick into my ass? But you can’t do it, can you? Because your men are watching—“

As he spoke, Bowmaker noted the color rising in Valenzuela’s face. Indeed, the more Bowmaker taunted him, the angrier Valenzuela got, until he tossed the quirt to the rocks and energetically turned Bowmaker onto his stomach. Now their erections were pressed directly together, Bowmaker’s thighs spread wide by the boots of the limping man. Bowmaker realized that Valenzuela could not admit he was stimulated by the feel of another man. Being of Spanish descent this would debase him, and especially since his denigrating band of desperadoes were watching, he must pretend he was merely attempting to get the gold information from Bowmaker.

Now Valenzuela flagellated his upturned bare ass with the palm of his hand. The globes jiggled with each punishing swat, which in turn caused Bowmaker to rock his hips and his rigid penis against the bandit’s. “You think I would imagine such a low, vulgar thing?” Valenzuela hissed. He smacked his hot hand against Bowmaker’s tailbone, his fingertips straying down to tickle his bursting balls. With his free hand he pressed Bowmaker’s chest down to keep him still. “You are the one so lewd you savor my tormenting attentions.” Leaning down so that only Bowmaker would hear, he whispered, “If I allow you to ejaculate, then you will tell me where the gold is…”

“Oh God, yes,” Bowmaker lied. “Pleasure me, frig me, let me come against your cock…”

“Ah,” Valenzuela moaned steamily, and Bowmaker could swear that he drooled on his neck.

His slaps slipped lower, traveling over his testicles to the thickened root of his prick. He spanked the bobbing prick relentlessly, pausing briefly to smear the drops of semen at the tip around the burgeoning head, his fingers lithe and nimble, vastly experienced in frigging himself no doubt. Well, then, men would be more proficient at—

Ho, boy, he now proceeded to frig him in earnest. Bowmaker gulped boiling hot air as the skillful fingers stroked the entire length of his penis with such gusto he nearly came immediately. He frigged him enthusiastically, alternating with smarting slaps, as though this were his ticket to an instant gold mine and he would die without the feel of hot semen coursing over his fingers.

“Do I humiliate you?” Valenzuela huffed into his ear. “Is that all you want, to have a man paddle your penis you until you explode in ecstasy into his hand? There is nothing more humiliating than—“

Bowmaker could hardly reply, even in jest, as Valenzuela now uttered a strangled cry and leaped to his feet, dumping him onto the sand. Bowmaker was flat on his back, seeing transparent stars against the insides of his eyelids.

“¡Tu maldito desgraciado!” Valenzuela spat at him in a rage. “You best keep your eyes skinned and look behind you. I am getting your gold and leaving your brains behind in its place.” Tearing Bowmaker’s bag of gold dust from his belt, he turned and dashed off up the rise, trailed by his men who swarmed like cockroaches. The last thing Bowmaker could hear was Three-Fingered Jack shouting, “Jefe! Why are we leaving them there?” and the limping fellow yelling, “Now they know who you are—we cannot show our faces around here.”

What? He was the evil bastard? Who had just delighted in groping and squeezing his prick? What sort of lesson was that teaching Bowmaker? How in Sam Hill would that get him to tell Valenzuela where the gold was? No, the only thing that accomplished was to sate Valenzuela’s perverted thirst for a man’s cock, that much was evident. That was not torture that he’d performed on him—that was out-and-out lovemaking, albeit of a debauched nature.

And now here they were. Hands still bound behind their backs. Bowmaker could not face Zelnora—she may not believe it had all been an act on his part. He would be shamed into slinking away back into the barren mountains, alone, if she thought he lusted for the rough admiration of another man.

He heard her scuffle over to him and drop to her knees. “Cormack. If you sit up, my fingers are free. I can probably undo your knot.”

He was glad she did not mention what had just transpired. Raising his torso to an upright position, he said hoarsely, “I doubt it. From what I’ve seen, these knots are the best a sailor can make.”

“Let me try.” While she fiddled with the knot, their backs to each other, Zelnora said, “Are you going to kill Valenzuela?”

Kill him? Well, Bowmaker surmised he should at least make a pretense of that. Say he was looking for the bandit every once in awhile. After today, anyway, Valenzuela would not be fool enough to reveal his face anywhere on the American River, leastways not at any social gatherings. “Why, of course I will, Zel. I can’t let him manhandle you like that and get away.”

“Oh,” Zelnora said dismissively. “I never felt a big threat. After all that talk up and down the river about what a bloodthirsty murderer he is, I just felt he was playing. Like a sort of stunted boy arrested in his youth who never got a chance to play, and now has carte blanche. I never really thought he’d shoot us. In fact, we most certainly want to find him again, only not to rub him out.”

“Not rub him out?”

“No. To get mining information about Sonoran Camp.”