Karen Mercury (28 page)

“Oh, I’ll fuck you, all right,” Tabitha snarled roughly. She didn’t let up on the slapping, each punishing blow sending a fresh wave of stimulation through Foster’s balls and prick. “You like being fucked, don’t you, slave? You like being dominated, shown who is the big frog around here.”

She fucked him in earnest now, big, sweeping lunges of her hips that filled him to the hilt, then took the leather glans back down to the anal rim. Worth, his enormous erection displaying how hot this scene made him, caught Foster’s submissive mouth in a voracious kiss. For now, he merely squeezed Foster’s bulging, oily prick.

Then Worth pulled back and muttered against Foster’s mouth. “You like it when the master fucks you, don’t you, you lowly, mewling slave. You enjoy being violated, having your body plundered.”

All right, that was perhaps taking it a bit far. Foster would tolerate it from his wife but not from his partner! So he resisted, stiffening his thighs and torso. “No! I am doing this under duress! Take your hand off my penis immediately, you damned buffoon!”

Of course, this only made Worth massage his meat even more sensuously and purr, “You
like
it, don’t you, you lowdown, worthless slave.”

“Oh, he likes it, all right,” Tabitha panted. “He likes being penetrated by a thick, long pole like this. Admit it, slave. You like being fucked by other men. It makes you hot to be impaled by a cock. It makes you randy to be screwed by a juicy, thick, exploding prick.”

That was it. “Worth,” Foster whispered. “I’m about to—”

Foster exploded forcefully then under the insistent caresses of Worth’s palm. He gave one resounding groan that seemed to vibrate the very walls, and shot out across the bed’s counterpane. The streaming arc of jism instantly puddled on the tufted bedspread, and Worth coaxed more seed from him with his loving hand.

“That’s good, slave. Show your master how much you like being fucked up the ass. It makes you hot, doesn’t it? You’re craving that long, thick black prick up your ass.”

Little transparent bubbles swam before Foster’s eyes, and he was certain he’d collapse on the bed. Tabitha slowed down her humping but still held him by the hips as she mounted him. She clearly enjoyed being the male aggressor.

“Good slave,” she growled, slapping his rump less harshly now. “You display to me how fired up you get when you’re fucked well. You shot that semen nearly all the way to the wall.”

But now, instead of falling into a delicious slumber, a fresh wave of vigor came over Foster. He would have to repay this minx in kind for what she had done to—for—him.

* * * *

Tabitha knew that once she had properly fucked her husband, it would rile him to greater heights. She had no idea, though, that it would turn him into such an animal that he would tear the harness from her pelvis, toss it to the ground, then fling
her
onto her back on the mattress.

He took a handful of the necktie in one fist and tied it to a headboard rail so she couldn’t squirm away. “All right, Captain Badeaux,” he said menacingly, with only a hint of the playful husband she loved dearly. He was very good at playing the assertive dominant one. “You’ve had your fun. Now it’s time to let me take my pleasure.”

Tabitha squirmed in fake protestation. “Oh, you damned rebellious slave!” She was a horrible actress and she knew it, but men never critiqued a woman’s acting skills in moments like this. As he immediately speared her with his still-hard cock, she flung her arms above her head and gripped the rails of the headboard. Fucking her husband up the ass had made her so randy her pussy actually squished as Foster skewered her with his beautiful tool.

She loved his sinewy hips, she loved digging her nails into the meaty globes of his reddened ass, she loved his lean muscularity as he held his torso above hers, allowing her to breathe. She dug the heels of his boots into his calves, wide open for him while pretending to protest. “You’re going to hang for this act of rebellion. You can’t just fuck a kitchen wench and get away with it.”

“I’ll fuck you if I want to,” Foster snarled, then gasped as he was violated himself.

Over Foster’s shoulder, Tabitha watched as Worth greased up his throbbing pole. Poor Worth hadn’t gained any satisfaction today, and the strapping buck was raring to go. As he impaled his partner’s ass, Tabitha felt a shudder go down Foster’s spine. Gooseflesh pebbled his shoulders and butt, and she squirmed more strenuously under the weight of the two men.

It was impressive how hearty Foster could be in this regard. He had just splashed such a load of jism across the bed, one would imagine he’d be satisfied for a day at least. But no. Here he was, going hard at it again. He even took all the weight on one elbow, using the dexterous fingers of his other hand to diddle her clitoris. She knew he liked it when her orgasm sucked at his cock, the waves of climax clenching against his prick, urging him on to his own orgasm.

Tabitha murmured, “Now you’re the one being used, you lowly slave. I begin to think you like it. Do you like being humped by the other slave’s big penis?”

“God yes,” Foster gasped. He volunteered, “I like being filled with a bucket load of hot semen.”

This nasty talk inflamed Tabitha. First fucking her husband then being on the receiving end of the two screwing men—it was soon too much for her. She allowed Foster’s fingers to coax her higher, higher into the mindless realm where all the senses shut down. An earthquake could have happened, and she would not have noticed it, that’s how focused she was on her inner core.

When her pussy burst into orgasm, she really did see stars. The walls of her vagina milked Foster’s cock, and she could feel him spasming inside of her. She could tell by the way Worth’s athletic body tensed in one great shudder that he was coming, too. He pumped Foster’s ass with tiny jerking motions, his eyeballs rolling up into his skull as he pounded his partner.

Tabitha’s neck was cinched to the headboard, so she could only wrap her arms around Foster’s broad back and pull him to her. She was nearly crushed under the weight of the two men’s torsos, but thankfully, Worth soon disengaged and stood. The newlyweds collapsed in a loving and sweaty embrace. Tabitha could hear Worth splashing about, washing himself. She knew she had to get up and syringe herself out with the saffron herbal soup she now kept on hand at all times in the icebox—not too awful if she warmed it up first. But it was just too pleasant lying tangled here with her noble, powerful, and spent husband.

It was so quiet she could hear the swish of something papery being shoved under the door. Montreal Jed. He was so horrified by their sexual doings he had taken to shoving pretty much everything under the door. He had once tried to slide a brandied sponge cake, with unfortunate results. Now, Tabitha could hear Montreal Jed standing on the other side of the door, breathing, so she roused herself. She shoved Foster’s inert form off of her and went to get her dressing gown.

Semen flowed down her inner thigh as she looked over Worth’s shoulder. He had folded back the pages of a newspaper, the
New York Evening Post
. She wondered what was so urgent that Jeremiah couldn’t put it on the desk downstairs. She gasped with happiness when she saw her own—maiden—name underneath her article about sheep ranching in the great Territory of Wyoming. Even better, one of Worth’s photographs was displayed prominently, a grassy valley populated with fluffy sheep, Mr. Boswell himself standing handily by with a pitchfork.

“We did it!” she cried and flew to open the door. “Jeremiah, did you see? Worth’s friend at that rag printed my article about—”

Jeremiah stumbled into the room. Evidently, he had been leaning eagerly against the door in an effort to eavesdrop. His curiosity about the sheep article must have been greater than his disgust at their voluptuous antics, for he fell forward with eagerness, crying, “Yes! I must congratulate you on your first serious, nontrivial article that doesn’t involve carpet brooms or oyster canapés.”

Tabitha even hugged him, although she knew he loathed physical contact. She didn’t have to stand on tiptoes this time, because she still wore Foster’s boots. “This is wonderful! If I can continue writing about more important issues, I could make enough money to contribute to the grocer’s bill and suchlike.”

“Yes,” Jeremiah agreed idealistically. “You could even contribute to my salary. I simply had to run this upstairs to you, to take a break from my amalgamating of metals.”

Tabitha’s father had generously allowed Jeremiah to set up a furnace in a Vancouver House outbuilding where he could melt his alloys of Black Hills gold from Foster’s mine, and various silvers and coppers. Jeremiah still disliked Orianna so intensely that he wouldn’t venture to the cottage Foster had set her up in, way across town. Orianna had been jailed for a month after the rodeo and had promised not to use her alchemy to harm anyone else, but Jeremiah wasn’t convinced that Caleb would protect him from her.

Jeremiah had a trustworthy boy bring the alloys to Orianna, where she earned her own salary soldering and sculpting the beautiful red, green, and yellow metals into grape leaves and vines for pendants and rings. Technically, little Abe lived with his mother, but he spent a great deal of time at Vancouver House because it was closer to Liberty’s schoolhouse. Foster had a theory that it was never too early to start a young one in his schooling.

Neil Tempest’s associate in Galveston had answered Ivy’s telegram. He had dug up some information on Pierre and Bettina Badeaux. Caleb was right—they had been hanged side by side on Pelican Island in 1821 during a raid on their Red House right after Pierre had returned from the sea.

Foster had roused himself now, stepping back into his pants so he could return to his law office. “You keep making that gold, Jeremiah, you won’t need a salary from us. That jewelry is the biggest boon ever to this family.”

“Well,” said Jeremiah. “We’re fulfilling our Manifest Destiny, aren’t we?” He spread his hands and looked idealistically beyond the bedroom wall. “White men ooze slowly but irrevocably over the Great Plains, the cattle and sheep basket of the wonderful, powerful United States.”

Worth grinned. “Taking what they want, leaving a trail of bloody bison carcasses in their wake. Hey, what’s this round stone in the photograph? I never noticed that before.”

Jeremiah said, “I was wondering that, as well. It does look as though something’s been carved on it, writing of some sort.”

Tabitha took the newspaper from Worth and brought it closer to her face. There, at Boswell’s feet, was a stone that looked eerily similar to the Ezra Kind stone Foster had discovered. Ominously, she said, “Let’s go downstairs and look at your original photograph.”

All four of them clattered downstairs into the front room that was nominally Harley’s study when he wasn’t at his Serendipity Ranch. Worth riffled through a tall stack of photographs and papers, a few crackers and pieces of cheese even crumbling to the floor.

“This is exciting,” said Tabitha, holding Foster’s arm.

“Yes,” said Jeremiah, somewhat sarcastically. “Imagine what deathless tidbits of scientific information are inscribed on a rock. Mankind is holding its breath.”

“Here.” Worth rattled the photograph and took it to another table where there was a microscope. He bent over the eyepiece, focusing it, not breathing. Neither did Tabitha nor Foster, although Jeremiah lounged casually against the window as if certain of the stupidity of the rock.

“Profound statements on the nature of matter,” Jeremiah mused, completely jaded by the entire affair. “Perhaps it’s one of Shakespeare’s lost plays.”

Tabitha and Foster looked over Worth’s shoulder, although they could hardly see anything through the eyepiece. Worth said, “There seems to be some kind of…”

Jeremiah continued talking to himself like a weary, blasé professor. “The map to Atlantis. The Philosopher’s Stone. Or perhaps some cow just kicked up a piece of someone’s fireplace.”

“
That’s it!
” Worth trilled excitedly.

Jeremiah raced to Worth’s side, tearing Foster and Tabitha away. “What, what? What’s ‘it’? What did you see? Get out of my way!”

Worth shoved Jeremiah back. “Let me finish reading it, you blockhead!” he yelled. Enlightenment swiftly took over, though, as he glued his eyeball back to the microscope again. The thrill clearly welled in his throat when he said, “It says right here in black and white, ‘Foster and Tabitha Richmond. Thanks for finding me and giving me…’ I can’t make out the rest.”

Jeremiah was champing at the bit, but Worth allowed Tabitha to take a stab at deciphering the stone, as it was addressed to her. “‘Thanks for finding me and giving me a voice. Your gold mining partner. Ezra Kind.’”

Tabitha could scarcely believe her eyes, so she didn’t pull back from the scope right away. She continued looking at the words, clear as an unmuddied lake, plain as day. A message from the other side from their benefactor, Ezra! No one had noticed the stone when Worth had made the photograph of Boswell showing off his sheep. They would have to return to that spot to see if there really was a stone there.

She could hear one of the men slapping another on the chest. Foster said, “This is incredible! You know what we need to do? Give the original stone a proper burial.”

“Where, though?” asked Worth. “Back up at French Creek?”

“Sure!” declared Foster. “Don’t you think that would help put all the bad voodoo to rest? We can have Caleb ask Ezra if he’d like that, of course.”