Page 24 of Sure as Shooting

Chapter Ten

Huntley was enraged like all possessed.

First, all of that pretentious claptrap about the riceman pillow book, the ridiculous swing with the wooden dildo, and worst, Whit’s “crafty idea” to duplicate the outrageous position. Then, his two housemates had vanished surreptitiously, all full of themselves with the idea they could treat Belle’s conniptions—whatever that involved—with the same techniques Whit had used on Huntley.

It was simply too much. Huntley sat at his desk attempting to write tomorrow’s speech. He was so distracted with imaginings of what the duo was doing in Belle’s bedroom, he didn’t get very far.

While I do not hesitate to denounce the Indians for their murders and robberies, we should not forget there may be circumstances which could excuse their hostility to whites. They probably feel that they themselves are the aggrieved party, looking upon us as trespassers and invaders in their country, and seeking to take away their homes. It might be they class us with the Spanish invaders of California, whose cruelties in Christianizing them are fresh in their memories.

Was this too merciful a speech? Many Californians had been victims of Indian atrocities, and many were willing to adopt the methods of old-timey Spanish missionaries, who had brought in converts with the lasso.

However, after many more sips of lukewarm brandy, Huntley became restless listening to the pelting of rain against his windowpane, and found himself wandering in the hallway by the bedrooms of Whit and Belle. He paced, then dared to press his ear to the door, and heard…nothing.

Nothing? Whit had told him that during medical massage, it was best to keep up a light banter. At least Whit could have found a metronome by now! Huntley would remember later to keep an especial lookout for a metronome in his trade dealings, but now the steady drone of rain was probably drowning out all other noise, and curiosity was making him loco. Knowing that this door could be pushed open without turning the knob, Huntley opened it an inch without making the whisper of a sound, and bobbed his head this way and that to see what was happening.

Belle was fully clothed—well, not “fully,” but she wasn’t nude to the waist as Whit had requested Huntley to be during the procedure. No, her drawers even covered her knees, so perhaps they hadn’t gotten to the shoulder massaging portion yet. She lay on her back, legs slightly splayed apart. Whit sat on the edge of the bed at her hip level, and he was touching her with only one hand, the other hand lightly holding a different oil bottle between his thighs.

Whit seemed to be barely moving. After awhile, Huntley could tell he must have been jiggling his right hand somewhere in the vicinity of Belle’s crotch, and it struck him. Whit was masturbating Belle through the slit in her drawers!

Huntley was so aghast he snorted aloud, but the tapping rain must have drowned out the sound. What sort of medical therapy was this? Well, about the same sort of medical therapy as Whit had practiced when he had frigged Huntley to fulfillment! To practice it on him was one thing—it had certainly achieved the desired purpose of relaxing him, and he hadn’t slept that well in months. But it was definitely an affront of an entirely different order for the alleged physician to be practicing such an intimate act on Huntley’s maid, right under his own roof!

And ultimately, Whit’s frigging had riled Huntley to even greater heights. He had awoken refreshed and full of vigor, but only for about ten seconds, until he recalled the private and deeply personal act. Instead of relaxing him, then, Huntley had been forced to walk about having meetings with Colonel Barbour and the commissioners, pretending to be focusing on Indian matters, when really he couldn’t get the image of Whit’s enormous donkey cock out of his mind. After the masturbation, when Whit had sat back on the couch relaxed and full of himself, his long, thick tool had filled the crotch of his trousers almost to the bursting point, and Whit had seemed unashamed. This sight had stirred Huntley to a passionate extent that was no doubt perverted, something only a twisted sodomite would feel.

And memories of Whit’s broad hand robustly pumping his own penis made Huntley’s cock elongate and stiffen, even during deadly boring treaty palavers. It was embarrassing beyond belief to be unable to stand to utter the proper oaths of respect to departing Indian chiefs as they left for their Fresno River reservation. Memories of dalliances with women never intruded on business affairs. No, those recollections evaporated the moment they had passed. Now it seemed it was all Huntley could fix on, that oily hand corkscrewing around his prick so expertly Huntley had come off in record time, and with shameful force.

But perhaps worst of all, Huntley had literally shoved Whit into Belle’s arms by suggesting he perform his technique on women! The surgeon had not lost any time in doing so, as he was now frigging—is it called that with women?—Belle’s cunt through the slit in her drawers! Not only was she allowing this to occur, but her arms were tossed above her head in abandon, and her silken, brunette hair was coming loose in locks from her bun, slithering across her pillow.

The brandy burned jealousy in the pit of Huntley’s stomach. That they were doing anything without his participation riled him, but such an intimate act to which he was not invited, well, he just wanted to burst in the door, tear Whit from the bed, fling him across the room, and…and what? Leap atop the woman and give her the real, proper satisfaction of a man that a woman craved by plunging his erection into her cunt? Fucking her deep, hard, fast, and senseless? Until her head wobbled on a rubber neck and she clung to him, crying out in tears? Yes, that would have been a much more acceptable occupation than this nonsense he was now witnessing.

And what was the point of their activity when it was impossible for women to be frigged to anything near the same fulfillment that a man achieved? How would a woman gain the same relief from the technique, when women didn’t have orgasms? Was it merely the pleasant sensation of having her pussy twiddled that was supposed to take her mind off her hysteria? Or, more heinously, was Whit just using this flimflam as an excuse to get Belle hot as monkeys, so he would be the first—at hand, so to speak—to leap in when she was wet and prepared for his horse’s cock?

Huntley leaned, breathing steam from his nostrils against the doorjamb, watching Whit speed the activity of his wrist as Belle accordingly gasped, reflexively humping her hips into his hand, her head flopping about like a fish on a hook. He couldn’t see Whit’s face, so couldn’t tell if he was concentrating with professional acumen or taking an equally lewd enjoyment, but Huntley was certainly riled up watching the spectacle.

He was riled with arousal and outrage simultaneously. Nobody would certainly notice him peeking through the door, as Belle was now holding her breath and Huntley could tell by the bunching of Whit’s shoulder muscles that he was really working her pussy now.

“No, no, no!” Belle called out in a whispery, reedy tone.

Was Whit hurting her? Huntley’s palm slid down his abdomen to grip his own erection, pulsating hotly against his hip. Belle seemed more to be talking to herself, telling herself to stop doing something. It was both odd and stimulating at the same time, with the rain pummeling the planks of the house ferociously now. Whit leaned more assertively into Belle, murmuring some encouraging words, obviously concentrating with great force on his task, while she gripped handfuls of the sheet so fiercely her knuckles turned white. Was she achieving whatever result Whit had promised her? Did women simply reach such a crescendo of pleasure they could bear it no more?

Huntley squeezed the length of his prick and sighed moistly against the doorjamb, nearly on the brink of getting off himself just from witnessing such an oddly erotic scene.

But then a sharp, metallic tapping came from his right. Huntley was stunned, wrenched from his reverie. The front door knocker! Instantly panicking that Whit or Belle would hear it, Huntley leaped into action, taking giant strides down the carpeted hallway, skidding around the corner into the foyer. Yanking open the door, he had to squint through the rain to see Phil Din’s face under his dripping slouch hat.

“Sorry to bother you, Major,” said Phil, already using the title recently bestowed upon Huntley. “But a new missive has arrived from the ‘Great White Father in Washington,’ and Colonel Barbour wants to review it with you.”

“Certainly. One moment.”

Huntley retreated to the coatrack to grab an oilskin and a slouch hat of his own, feeling like a man wrenched into another century. Luckily, the oilskin would hide his erection. But nothing would be able to erase the image of the lovely Belle, all stretched out like that, humping Whit’s hand with such abandon.

* * * *

Huntley was having a dream.

It was one of those utterly fantastic occurrences where, when one is within the dream, one becomes aware that it is a dream. Yet one is still completely incapable of controlling the events from inside the dream.

He was at Bridger’s Fort on the Green River five years ago, in 1846, when his wife had succumbed to fever. He knew Lilith lay dying in a miserable shack, but members of the Boggs party he’d been traveling with were trying to prevent Huntley from seeing his dying wife. Huntley was mad with rage, flailing at anyone who tried to come near him. They all seemed to fall away like glutted leeches, yet every time he took one step toward the shack, more pioneers clung to him, among them James Reed and Jim Bridger himself.

Huntley felt as though he was shrieking at the tip-top of his lungs, and he kept thinking to himself, This is only a dream. Lilith has been dead for five years. If I can somehow wake, I won’t have to keep reliving this nightmare all over again.