Karen Mercury (2 page)

Of course, Chess wasn’t here for the art appreciation, either. Some of these talented dolls who could hold poses for hours would actually come and sit with one and talk. If they hadn’t had much success acting onstage—they were all striving actresses—they would even leave the building with one for an additional fee—a much more hygienic companion than a prairie flower.

Chess found a seat and accepted a whiskey without even looking away from the stage. Among the twenty women holding poses were two men. One was playing Adam to the doll’s Eve, but Chess was instantly riveted by the stud in tall sandals and a “fleshing” skin-like loincloth, who athletically brandished a sword.

This Hercules made Chess’s mouth water. This magnificent specimen of masculine flesh was far superior to any he had viewed in London—those lithe young message carriers who made much more money in the
poses plastiques
salons. No, this fellow, well, just the silhouette of his flared nostrils in his aquiline nose brought tears to one’s eyes. With his messily shaven head just ripe for mussing, he could have been a Roman slave. But with his outstanding well-muscled build, he made the perfect delicious Hercules.

His normal occupation must have been something athletic, for actors did not jaunt about engaging in sport. Most of the errand runners Chess had seen posing in these tableaux were pleasing enough, but this fellow could crush a bison’s windpipe with one hand. It was difficult to get a model’s attention when their eyes needed to remain fixed on one spot. In London there had been a secretive code of hand gestures, but Chess doubted there was such a code in the sticks of Laramie.

Chess finally addressed the person who had served him the whiskey. “Who is that Hercules fellow?” he whispered.

The barmaid answered, almost dreamily, “He’s a ranch hand, I think, name of Spenser. Would you like some absinthe?”

Absinthe?
Why did people keep bringing that up? Was that such a common drink in Wyoming Territory? Chess put the strange request out of his mind in order to hand the barmaid some coins. He did not want to waste precious time taking his eyes off this stud. Even Hercules’s flaccid cock bulged firmly, long and thick in its fleshy juiciness. Chess could make out the ridge of the mushroom glans as it lay cradled against the muscular thigh. “Bring that beauty to me, that Hercules, at the Union Pacific Hotel.”
Look at that horse’s cock. He’s built like a brick house
.

The barmaid readily took the money, but there was hesitation in her voice. “You don’t wish one of the girls? The one who poses as Eve, for example?”

Chess didn’t care, but it might mix things up a bit to include a doll. “Sure. Send… Who is the most enthusiastic about, shall we say, athletic doings?”

“Oh, definitely the lady pretending to be Eve.” She pointed. “She’s very tough. She can carry the largest liquor kegs.”

Chess didn’t care—he just wanted the Hercules. So he stood and briskly said, “Room one-thirty-one.” Chess imagined that Hercules’s eyes flickered to view him as he left the Morning Star Gallery. Chess finally glanced at the barmaid’s behind as she bustled off to do his bidding. Hell, she had a fine, buxom figure, too—much too meaty to be one of these
poses plastiques
dolls, which is why she was probably stuck being a barmaid. Then again, some women had other aspirations. Maybe the barmaid didn’t want to be a stage actress. Or maybe she was so ugly she would make a freight train take a dirt road.

The odd room of ethereal actresses posed as marble statues gave way to the rowdy, loud, dusty street. It would take some getting used to, this Far West backwater where the main pastimes seemed to be hooting at the few women citizens and falling face-first into the horse’s drinking trough. There seemed to be an awful lot of rowdies and loafers out West compared to the staid civility of Hyde Park, New York, where Chesney and all his siblings had been born.

Some of these lollygagging fellows seemed to be so dumb they couldn’t drive a nail into a snowbank. They seemed to be made in hell for the purpose of converting the town into a theater of blood. This was evidenced by some slobs who were knocking each other into the middle of next week in front of the Bucket of Blood. One guy banged the other’s head on an enormous brass spittoon, and the whaled-upon fellow responded by slamming it over the other’s head like a hat.

Of course, Chess had expected this sort of lively atmosphere in the Far West. He couldn’t expect even a shred of the culture and sophistication of Paris or London, and probably not much of Hyde Park, either. After all, up until the tracklayers had driven the first railroad spikes in sixty-eight, this place had consisted of a few Indians rolled into blankets that were infested with smallpox. Chess should appreciate the spittoon dough-head for being an improvement over that.

When he spied that Bullet Bob jackass exiting the Bucket of Blood, Chess tore across the street to the Union Pacific Hotel, sprinting into the lobby and up the inner staircase to his room. His main concern now was whether or not he had brought enough Macassar oil with him. His father’s anger was still on the fringes of his awareness, but whiskey would blot that out.

Your shenanigans will cost me my reputation,
Simon Hudson had cabled to him in London. It further embarrassed Chess that his sister Ivy, as Laramie’s telegraph operator, and incidentally the wife of Laramie’s marshal Neil Tempest, had obviously seen the cable.
Your only option is to come to Laramie and run Serendipity Ranch. All funds will be cut off unless you comply. Enough is enough. The Spanish fly was the final fly in the ointment.

Chess didn’t know if his father was trying to be funny. Chess doubted it. His father wasn’t known for humorous jests and japes, unless he was falling asleep at his desk. It was only funny to other people later on when Simon had some newspaper glued to the side of his face. But in general, Simon did not engage in pranks.

A few fingers of whiskey later, Chess inspected his leather riding crop. He decided to leave it out on the table so the Hercules stud would recognize his intentions right away. It was never worth it, getting all aroused only to have some stunning stallion turn tail and run. Best to have everything literally out on the table from the start.

“You are certainly an impertinent fellow. To punish you for your insolent assumptions, I am going to pull down your trousers and give you a solid whipping.”

What?
Spenser Murphy was completely taken aback. The French fellow from the Morning Star Gallery certainly was a handsome bon vivant. His fine, high, heart-shaped forehead indicated great intelligence, and his thick shoulder-length brunet hair was neatly pulled back into a soft pigtail. To be sure, he was obviously extremely brawny and well-built—anyone could tell that by the muscular globes of his ass as he moved about the room. He had no waistcoat or necktie, and his shirt was unbuttoned to reveal attractive curls of silken chest hair. His rather thin lips were compressed seriously, but the bow of the upper lip showed he was inclined to sensuality.

Yet they had only been discussing Andrew Ducrow, the circus showman who performed
poses plastiques
on horseback! That made it all the more puzzling why he was demanding to whip Spenser. At first, Spenser pretended he had not heard. “I have heard that Ducrow could ride around the arena several times on the rump of his white stallion,” Spenser said now, to smooth things over. “I would’ve liked to have seen that, Bob. Wearing nothing but his fleshing stocking, standing absolutely still on the rump—”

Bullet Bob gripped Spenser by the shoulder and stood so close Spenser felt pinned by his intense blue eyes, like icebergs. It was abundantly obvious that Bob had a bulging, hot erection—Spenser could feel the heat radiating against his own crotch, and it wasn’t abhorrent.

“This is what I mean! Why do you call me Bob?” The domineering fellow spun Spenser around and cinched both of Spenser’s wrists at the small of his back in one of his own broad, manly hands.

Spenser was so puzzled he didn’t protest this manhandling. “Why shouldn’t I call you Bob? That’s what you told me to call you earlier when we met in the Bucket of Blood.” What an odd fellow! But then, theater people were often quite eccentric. And this brawny fellow intrigued Spenser. He didn’t really seem like the type to organize theatrical plays. He seemed more like—well, some sort of international man of derring-do. Spenser could actually more easily imagine Bob sword-fighting than he could traipsing about a stage giving a shit about the color of the prop flowers.

Bob pressed Spenser against the table with his own slab of a body and snarled in his ear, “I’ve never met you at the Bucket of Blood. I only got into town yesterday. And my name isn’t Bob.”

Spenser felt the tightening hitch of reata ropes between his wrists. This domineering libertine was binding his wrists together! He knew it was some kind of deviant carnal game the theater manager was playing with him, and it strangely excited Spenser. His own prick bulged lewdly over the edge of the table, and he made a nominal effort to squirm in his bonds but only because he knew it excited Bob even more.

Spenser said, “You’re trying to tell me you’re not the manager of the Oddfellows Hall? You said you’re putting on a production of
Hamlet
. You were drinking absinthe and wearing a top hat. I thought that’s why you invited me up to your room, to offer me a part.”

Bob, or whatever his name was, swiftly finished knotting Spenser’s wrists with a violent snap. He ran a hand up Spenser’s abdomen, with great intent pinching a nipple through the thin linen shirt. Instant lust speared down Spenser’s innards directly into his prick and balls, elongating his penis even further. He saw Bob’s eyes dart downward, his eyes warming with appreciation, but his words were harsh.

“I am not that fucking jackass. I’m not even French! Can’t you tell by my accent that I’m American?”

In a sudden fit of anger—Spenser couldn’t tell if it was sincere or put-upon—the masterful fellow rent his shirt so forcefully that buttons flew, pinging against the walls and floor. Spenser squeezed his eyes shut, prepared for the worst. The fellow gripped Spenser’s jaw in his powerful hand and turned his face to his.

“My name is Chess,” he purred, a strange combination of superiority and tenderness. “And I don’t like disobedient men.”

Chess kissed him then! This was odd indeed, but Spenser relaxed into the kiss. Chess’s lips were soft and wet as he feasted upon Spenser’s mouth, and it made him feel desirable to have such a virile buck kissing him improperly like that. Spenser had toyed with other men before—of course he had! He wished to be an actor, and the theater was absolutely overflowing with nancy boys who enjoyed indulging their deviant inclinations.

Spenser had been orphaned at a very young age, so he’d grown up on various ranches, performing the strenuous chores every ranch hand was subject to. Women were so rare as to be fairy tales on most ranches, and what was wrong with indulging in a little sexy male canoodling? Some men even came west simply in order to have an anonymous place to act out their perverted desires. Spenser didn’t mind. He liked sucking on cock like the next fellow. He was easy-going.

Besides, Spenser was very curious to see where this would lead. Chess kissed him with such a hungry yearning it was as though he had not had any physical contact in months, nipping at and chewing on Spenser’s lips. He fondled Spenser’s chest with immense appreciation, Spenser’s rectum quivering with anticipation when Chess tweaked the nipples between his calloused fingers.

It felt wonderfully erotic to be helpless like this, at the command of such a beefy and robust libertine. When Chess’s other hand slapped him on the rump, the sting sent a rush of jism into Spenser’s balls. Chess’s powerful thighs clamped around Spenser, and he humped Spenser’s hip with a thick, mighty phallus.

Chess only pulled back far enough to mutter steamily, “Son of a bitch, you’re a magnificent white stallion.” Spenser realized he still had the white powder dusting his face, neck, and chest. He’d been in such a hurry to come to the Union Pacific Hotel and find out more about the
Hamlet
part, he hadn’t bothered even donning a necktie.

Chess spanked and alternately massaged Spenser’s ass, obviously taking great pleasure in handling and controlling him. He took a large bite from the side of Spenser’s neck, and Spenser allowed his head to loll back submissively. “So you’re only an actor…Spenser. I heard you were a ranch hand. You’re much too well-built to be an actor.”

Spenser gasped when a hand pinched and probed its way down his sensitive abdomen. Chess squeezed his bulging prick only once and quickly moved to unbuckle his gun belt, the revolver in its holster banging against the floorboards. Chess unbuttoned Spenser’s pants and yanked them to his knees. Spenser glanced down at how ridiculous his jutting cock looked, bobbing there in the air, long and veined, obviously pulsating with stimulation.

“I’m a ranch hand,” Spenser gasped. “I ride, rope, brand, fix machinery—
Ah!
”

He cried out when something flat and whip-like struck his naked bottom. Perhaps it was that riding crop he’d seen prominently displayed on the table. “I’d like to ride
you
,” Chess snarled, whipping Spenser’s nude ass several more times. It was a very fine line between pain and pleasure, the sensations radiating out, plumping up his cock to even stiffer proportions.