Page 5 of Sure as Shooting
He tried to sound authoritative. “Strokes go toward the heart to aid blood flow. I don’t want to rouse you, but you must lower your buckskins beneath your knees.” With a remote physician’s voice, he instructed, “Try to do so without moving the blood away from the heart.”
Like a passive sleepwalker, Huntley slowly placed both hands beneath his chest and raised his torso just enough to unbuckle his belt. His head hung down lethargically—the desired result—his lovely mane of thick hair covering his face as he slid the leather over his ass. Whit assisted him the last few inches, succeeding in clearing his knees before the patient collapsed onto his front again, this time with his chin resting on both folded hands.
It was beyond his most outrageous gratification to view that succulent butt, white in comparison to the rest of the mountain man’s body, delightfully revealed inch by inch, like those bawdy yet bored nautch girls in Paris whorehouses removing clothing one piece at a time.
He should not have suggested this massage to Huntley. Not when the trader presented such an irresistible piece of ripe fruit under his questing hands. Was it too much to think…Huntley would be amenable to being handled more forcefully? He hadn’t walloped Whit upside the head…yet.
Yes, Paris. That was where his story could continue.
Whit smeared more of the musky oil between his palms. “My master’s degree, yes, then my medical degree a year later. I went to Paris for an internship…” Both hands now plastered to the slope of Huntley’s lower back, Whit had to rise slightly off the ottoman to apply the necessary pressure. While his thumbs described circular rotations to the tailbone, his erect cock pointed directly at the savory globes of the Huntley’s ass.
He’d performed this procedure many a time, mostly on male patients, but never on one he so desired to fuck in “the Italian fashion.” He was starting to feel light-headed, so he took a perch on the cushion next to Huntley’s hips and breathed deeply to continue his story. “I returned to New York, opening a medical office on West Broadway…”
When he poised his greasy hands at the lovely gluteal incline, every word of his story completely evaporated, and he swept his palms up the satiny expanse. It seemed that Huntley even spread his thighs apart slightly when Whit leaned into him, rotating his thumbs enthusiastically to part the globes. Holy Mother of Joseph, he could not do this. Could not do this without losing restraint and completely ruining the fine balance he had built up with the trader. I simply must stop, must leave the room. Tell him we are done, this is the end. Whit managed to keep his hands moving in a professionally kneading manner against the ass so buoyantly delicious it was like a baked loaf of bread. When he leaned up another inch and saw Huntley’s penis pinioned to the sheet between his extended thighs, well, Whit no longer had control.
It was extremely odd, the way almost half an orgasm exploded out the length of his cock, soiling his trousers, and probably the sheet on which he sat. This had never happened before, certainly not without being touched.
The heel of Whit’s hand slipped off the greasy slope of the ass, and his fingertips brushed against the tight head of that delicious prick. Whit could have sworn the penis twitched with pleasure, but the next thing he knew, the trader was lunging upright, violently throwing Whit’s torso off his body.
“You goddamned perverted fucker!” Huntley roared.
Whit was on his ass on the carpet, painfully aware of the wet stain at the hip of his trousers. He was so thoroughly mortified he was only vaguely aware of Huntley’s naked torso, his erection standing stiff at attention as he attempted to stuff the prick back into his buckskins. The trader stood looming over him like a pugilist who’d just knocked him to the floor.
Whit put up his hands in protest. “I’m sorry…” he said feebly.
Huntley was having none of it. He even kicked Whit in the thigh—admittedly, not as nearly as hard as he could have—and bellowed, “Get out! Get out of my house, you goddamned degenerate!”
Whit stumbled out of the study so ingloriously, he left behind his bottle of musk oil, remembering to grab his bags from the foyer. It took him an hour just to regain his composure.
