The Obedient Servant [Going for the Gold 6] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (9 page)

“Enterprise,” added Semple.

“Initiative!” declared Bidwell. “Stephens has got it in spades! I once saw him wrestle a cougar barehanded!”

Akers chimed in, “I saw him confront a grizzly barehanded—he had no pistol in sight!”

Reynaldo rolled his eyes. Everyone in California knew it was impossible to successfully wrestle a bruin. Many of these Osos were former grizzly hunters themselves. But it gave Reynaldo an opening to finally speak to Tallulah. “Can you believe that? The claims these
pendejos
make!”

But her shining face indicated she was carried away with lust and enthusiasm, too. Milo must have really dazzled her with some fancy erotic moves—Reynaldo didn’t want to imagine what. “I know it’s not possible to wrestle a Cuffy, but I do believe Milo would make an excellent commander. He’s so very strong, determined, bold.”

He’s bold, all right.
Reynaldo narrowed his eyes as Milo accepted rounds of congratulations from his fellow Osos. Stuttering Zeke didn’t even seem to care about being taken down a peg. He, too, was handing Milo a glass of ale—perhaps relieved he didn’t have the responsibility of being captain anymore.

Reynaldo sighed. “Well. If this is the way we’re heading, toward the ‘rule of the people’ without the authentication or command of our government, I term it anarchy of the highest order.”

“But Frémont sent a message that these were his orders,” said Tallulah. She went behind the bar and began pouring out beers that were snatched up as quickly as she lined them on the bar.

“I’m still skeptical of that.” Reynaldo gulped down some ale because he was thirsty, not out of any great sense of celebration. “It will all become evident in a couple weeks, but I’m telling you, this fort has only a few field pieces, and the carronades are more for show than for use due to lack of ammunition. I checked the barracks—there are less than a hundred pounds of powder, very few canisters and grapeshot. We have not powder to work the cannon, and we won’t be able to long resist the Mexican army. We have maybe a hundred rifles, but how many soldiers to arm them? Thirty?”

The innkeeper didn’t appear to be concerned. She had that lovely catlike smile and seemed to be looking up at Reynaldo from under her sooty, long lashes. He thought it was a shame that she had to work her fingers to the bone at this Blue Wing Inn. She had that pickled rummy, Origin, who appeared to be drinking more bug juice than he was serving. Reynaldo would consider it an honor to be allowed to assist such a bonny gal, but it appeared that Polish
pendejo
had already sunk his domineering tentacles into her. This was proven shortly when Milo went behind the bar as though he owned the place and even put a hand on Tallulah’s ass, a mark of ownership.

“I’m not afraid of the Mexican army,” said Tallulah as she fussed refilling a brass whale oil lamp. “I’ve never seen more than half a dozen of them at one time. You’ve traveled across California a lot. What is the largest regiment you’ve seen?”

She was obviously addressing Corporal Vargas, but that overbearing and swaggering
pendejo
Milo was full of himself today, and answered her. “Do you have a pen, my sweet? I’ll need to write up a proclamation immediately. I’ve never seen more than half a dozen Mexican soldiers either. Besides, the day we proclaim California a republic, most Spaniards will be satisfied and pleased. I doubt Castro wants to march what few men he has all the way up here from Monterey just to save a vineyard.”

“Of course,” said Tallulah. “I’ve ink and paper in my office, just in back.”

Reynaldo was livid. Not only was Milo seizing a fort with no previous declaration of war from the Unites States, he was rubbing Reynaldo’s face in the fact that he’d won the day with Señorita Crabtree. A wave of pungent pussy juice wafted over from Milo’s manly person and Reynaldo exploded with rage. The
pendejo
could’ve at least washed his hands after frigging the gentle creature.

Slamming some pesos onto the bar, he grabbed a bottle of forty-rod and stormed out of the Blue Wing.

Reynaldo stalked blindly toward the two-story barracks, diagonally across the plaza from the inn. Inside the blazingly hot interior courtyard, he passed some olive trees and a wall of organ pipe cactus. The two remaining troopers were out rounding up cattle for Vallejo, and it was dismally quiet except for the clicking of what seemed like hundreds of crickets. Last night he’d been forced to listen to those two remaining vaqueros belching and snoring, and now even they were gone. This Californio way of life was dying out—if it had even flourished to begin with. It was always a thrilling sight to see a fully caparisoned caballero at full gallop, serape billowing, spurs the size of saucers glinting in the sun. In his high-crowned sombrero and velvet pantaloons with all the gaudy trappings the silver mines could produce, such sights had become rarer the past couple of years. Californios weren’t industrious and preferred to laze about playing monte when not on horseback. Their farming skills had barely progressed beyond the scythe, and they looked skeptically at any innovation such as the plow. Their mission system had just left behind a bunch of roostered neophytes who hung about the adobes begging. California’s first library was a deck of monte cards brought by the mission padres.

How he loathed Milo Stephens—and ironically, how attracted he was to the man at the same time. Why did Reynaldo keep falling prey to Milo’s blatant manipulations? It was plain to the biggest dough-head that Milo was an expert at the art of seduction, both physically and emotionally. How could he compete with Milo for the affections of Tallulah, when at any given moment Milo was capable of persuading Reynaldo into another hot session of
illicita libido
? How could Reynaldo court the sloe-eyed innkeeper when any moment might find him behind a barn, allowing himself to be mounted by that satyr? Whatever would Señorita Crabtree think if she saw them as much as frig each other, much less screwing in the violent manner they had done on the Sacramento River?

Yet just reminiscing about it made Reynaldo’s balls shiver with delight. How could he put a stop to Milo’s machinations?

Or, better yet, put a stop to the ardent way he responded to Milo.

Reynaldo puttered about, attempting to write a letter to his brother in Massachusetts. He wound up asking him how the vineyard Reynaldo had planted was faring. Then he remembered Vallejo’s vineyard that Jacob Leese tended behind the barracks. Reynaldo knew from tramping around the Rockies and Sierras with Frémont that men would barter anything for a decent vegetable or fruit—for anything, really, that wasn’t a piece of a cow—so it struck him to go take a look at these vineyards. He had heard last year they’d yielded twenty barrels of wine and four of
aguardiente.
Señorita Crabtree probably sold some of it at her bodega.

He was just stepping into the shade of the crude wooden balcony when he literally bumped into Milo Stephens, apparently on his way into the barracks. Reynaldo’s first reaction was to shove the damned farmer so heartily he banged up against a post. “
Sal de mi camino
,” Reynaldo snarled.
Get out of my way.

“Mi niego,”
Milo growled back. “
He venido aquí para pedirte disculpas.
”
I came here to apologize to you.
He started for Reynaldo again, forcing Reynaldo back inside the barracks.

Reynaldo was intrigued. This masterful
pendejo
—apologizing? Reynaldo leaned against the edge of a sturdy oak table and folded his arms, frowning. Maybe Milo was apologizing for having taken command of what apparently was an illegal rebellion against the Mexican government. “And what does this apology consist of?”

Milo leaned his palms against the table next to Reynaldo. He spoke down at him in a contrite, quiet, sincere voice. “I know I took advantage of you. I know I acted like a fucking cruel-hearted
pendejo
. Maybe it’s true that it’s been my habit to only have two encounters with a man. But by way of apologizing to you, I wish to break that rule.”

What?
While he did feel manipulated, Reynaldo had benefited from their encounters as well. He would not soon forget that hot sucking mouth draining every last drop of seed from his balls. Milo wasn’t a selfish lover. Milo had not even gotten himself off during their rutting in the tower. Reynaldo was taken by surprise at this odd apology for something that hadn’t even occurred, so he didn’t know what to say. He remembered his vow to steel himself against the sexual attractions of this magnetic stud. “There’s no need for an apology, Milo. We were in agreement about what we’ve done. You don’t need to break your rule just to please me. I’m more interested in the ravishing señorita than in your shabby old ass.”

But Milo’s ass wasn’t shabby. He was possessed of a handsomely rounded backside, which he now displayed as he swaggered to the wall and yanked a quirt from a wooden peg. His look was heavy with erotic intent as he slowly returned to Reynaldo, brandishing the quirt between his fingers like a conductor’s baton.

Already he was enticing Reynaldo! Reynaldo loathed himself for staying. How weak could a man possibly be? Unbidden, Reynaldo found himself standing at attention, all senses afire, wondering what plans Milo had for the quirt. To Reynaldo’s surprise, Milo didn’t say a thing about Tallulah, as though he hadn’t heard Reynaldo state his interest. He switched the falls of the quirt at Reynaldo, one eyebrow raised. “But if I
wish
to break my rule, it’s to please
myself
, isn’t it? You flatter yourself to think it’s to please you.” And he turned the quirt around, to proffer the handle to Reynaldo.

Reynaldo took it, unsure what was expected of him, and placed it on the table. The idea that Milo wished another interlude with him had him so fired up his penis bulged in his pantaloons and his breathing came shallow and rapid.
Madre de Dios.
The scent of Milo’s warm leather shirt intermingled with the pungency of Tallulah’s honeypot that appeared to imbue every inch of Milo’s skin. The idea that
this man
had toyed with the bountiful Tallulah made Reynaldo hotter than monkeys. He might eventually be allowed to toy with Tallulah as well. But for now, just the idea that he’d be allowed to touch Milo’s beautifully developed chest was nearly sending him to the brink of orgasm.

But he was still angry with the
maldito desgraciado
, so he reached around to squeeze one of Milo’s delicious haunches. He jerked Milo to him, their cocks nuzzled together, and Reynaldo bent at the knees to rotate his cockhead against Milo’s impressive bulge. He touched the tip of his nose to Milo’s and snarled, “What if it pleases me to take you the way you’ve taken me? By brute force?”

The corners of Milo’s mouth turned up with apparent pleasure. He also gyrated his fat cock against Reynaldo’s as he unbuckled his gun belt and let the heavy thing clatter onto a chair. “I deserve to be violated, after how I’ve treated you.”

Reynaldo kissed Milo then, a big, bold, sloppy man’s kiss. They supped at each other’s mouths as they massaged their pricks together, their jaws working hungrily like wolves slavering at the kill. Reynaldo assisted Milo in peeling the buckskin shirt from Milo’s masculine torso, breaking the kiss just long enough to fling the shirt on the floor. Then they were back devouring each other’s mouths.

Ah, the heat of Milo’s athletic chest! Reynaldo pinched the nipples but soon wanted to do more. Bending at the knees, he flicked his tongue across one salty nub, rubbing his cheek against the soft sprinkling of hair across the juicy pectoral. Reynaldo even delved his face into the delicious underarm, aroused to suck on the tuft of hair there. Milo hissed and gasped when Reynaldo fully suckled on his stiff nipple, and Reynaldo hastened to suck a trail down the center of the firmly ridged abdomen, guided by the silken arrow of hair that delved beneath his flimsy red pantaloons.

“Do it, do it, do it,” Milo commanded, massaging the back of Reynaldo’s scalp, swiveling his hips against Reynaldo’s shoulders.

Clumsily in his frenzy, Reynaldo untied the fringed leggings, brutishly yanking down the leather and cotton all at once. Milo’s plump, rigid dick sprang out at him, but Reynaldo had no intention of giving him that sort of pleasure. So instead, all in a rush, Reynaldo stood, spun Milo around so he faced the table, and shoved him between the shoulder blades so his palms slapped against the table.

Oh,
madre de Dios
, this was one fine specimen of manhood displayed to him. Reynaldo paused briefly to admire the sculpted muscles that played across Milo’s shoulders and back, finely honed from working the plow and roping cattle. Reynaldo smoothed his palm over the exquisitely curvaceous ass, fondling it with affection, then bestowing a harsh smack to it, as Milo had done to him on the river.

“There,” he said with satisfaction.

But Milo chuckled, apparently amused with his feeble efforts to dominate him. He wiggled his shapely ass and nodded at the quirt on the table. “Whip me,” he said breathlessly. “Punish me for how I’ve punished you.” He spread his feet farther apart on the cold floor to display his submission.

Reynaldo had once been submissive for Milo, so he was familiar with how it worked. But he surprised even himself with the eagerness with which he snatched up the quirt. Before he was even aware of it, he was smacking the naked ass with the falls of the quirt—and not lightly, either. Immediately several red welts were raised, and it only fanned Reynaldo’s zest.