Page 4 of Sure as Shooting

The truth he had discovered while going to university in Glasgow. He had androphile proclivities. Perhaps because Scottish lasses—or lasses of most other nations—were not apt to spread their thighs for a man of color, Whit had found release in the “nan-boys” of the back alleys. Through this secretive pastime of his, he had discovered he had a very abrupt and assertive nature. He was quite fond of taking on the role of the aggressive fucker, in particular when he found an invert with thick, sweeping dark hair that he could grasp in his fist while humping, holding his skull fast to his shoulder while he slurped on his expanse of submissive throat. Whit’s cock was larger than most, and perhaps he intimidated some of these nan-boys with the length of it, but in this way he’d discovered that he enjoyed playing the part of the dominant aggressor.

Huntley possessed that luxurious head of hair that Whit admired, and when Whit had embraced him from behind in San Francisco, his penis had prodded a shapely, muscular ass. The athletic slope of Huntley’s lower back was a hard, solid plane, so when Huntley had squiggled the breadth of his shoulders in Whit’s embrace, Whit’s nipples hardened into lusty points to feel the scraping of the frontiersman’s buckskin shirt. It excited Whit to imagine grabbing a handful of that shiny, wavy hair, yanking the head back to rest on his shoulder, and bestowing an openmouthed kiss on those full cupid’s lips. It aroused him even more when Huntley had appeared to enjoy lingering with their bodies plastered together, content to be controlled, perhaps even aware of the fat erection nudging against his rump.

The sorry truth was, even in Whit’s wildest imaginations, this scenario always ended with Huntley walloping him upside the nose, just as he’d smacked that chief into oblivion. Androphiles—especially men of color—were usually looked upon as criminals. But Whit knew he had to follow Huntley into the Sierra foothills—at the very least, he could travel into that mysterious valley and write about those lofty waterfalls in some anthropological journal. In the meantime, he could observe this beautiful specimen of manhood and gauge his reactions to Whit’s muted suggestions. Or, the more whiskey they drank, perhaps the suggestions would not be so muted.

Huntley told Whit, “That lake sounds like the lake of the Mono tribe, lorded over by that Chief Tenaya I mentioned to you in San Francisco. He’s the one who warned me out of the Ahwahnee Valley.”

Whit fingered the rim of his whiskey glass. “I wonder if it’s the same chief who told Bud about it.” He was about to say, “We could go back to Boling’s Hotel and get more information out of Bud,” but he was much more interested in saying, “I suppose there aren’t many acceptable white women to court in these parts. No one that I noticed in San Francisco, anyway, although they claim the female population is exploding, compared to what it used to be.”

Huntley’s face clouded. His beautifully clear brow furrowed, and he looked at a spot on the Persian rug. “Nope. None at all in these parts, unless they come attached to another fellow. And most of the women who make that long, worrisome trek across the plains seem to arrive used up, stale, aged. Ones that make it at all.” He sighed deeply. “My own wife and son were killed coming across the plains—by weather and toil, not Indians.” Abruptly, Huntley straightened and collapsed his torso against the cushioned couch, cradling his glass between his athletic thighs. “I suppose that Bud fellow isn’t such a clown, after all, if we’ve got that in common. I suppose he’d be a good man to have if we get up a battalion to chase down those murderous Diggers.”

Whit frowned, too, and all he wanted to do was reach out and caress that leather-clad thigh. Instead, he said brightly, “I’ve an idea. In Glasgow I studied something called medical gymnastics. Will you allow me to practice upon you? I hate to see you so gloomy, and this has been known to enhance the blood, to invigorate the muscles, and thus improve one’s mood.”

Huntley flashed him a sideways, somewhat suspicious glance. “Gymnastics? If it involves running of any sort, I’m plumb tired out.”

“No, all you have to do is lie there,” Whit assured the man. “Where did the stage driver put my bags?”

“In the foyer, I believe. Just lie here?”

Whit stood. “Yes, it’s very relaxing. Take off everything—your shirt, cravat, whatever else you have on your torso. I’ll be right back.” He looked down at the dubious man and smiled what he knew to be a doctorly, comforting smile. “Trust me. I’m a physician.”

Now Huntley did look plumb tired out, and he grinned feebly as Whit left the room. In the foyer, he rummaged through his medical bag for his bottle of oil of musk root and a square of cotton sheeting. He took this opportunity to adjust himself, unbuttoning his waistcoat and nestling his cock up against his hip. His interest in practicing medical gymnastics against the person of Huntley Ashbury was mostly clinical in nature—all right, maybe fifty percent clinical. Just being allowed to gaze at the frontiersman’s athletic torso would be payment enough. But his desire for the man was so powerful, Whit fervently prayed he didn’t ejaculate inside his trousers the moment he laid his fingertips upon his shoulder.

Back in the study, Whit was gratified to see that Huntley had disrobed as requested. He sat back on the velvet couch with his drink cradled between his thighs, and the vision was so striking Whit gasped. Stunningly beautiful. The smattering of hair spread across pectorals that were indeed juicy and firm, crowned by nipples rosy and peaked. And when Huntley raised one arm to weave his fingers through that thick mane of hair, half closing his eyes in anticipated relaxation, his shimmering deltoid led Whit’s eye to the exposed joys of a silken underarm.

Whit stepped forward, professionally setting the bottle of oil on the ottoman and shaking out the square of sheeting. “You should lie on your stomach,” he said, “but take off your boots so you don’t muss your couch. This sort of medical massage strokes toxins away from the heart, and they generally wind up emanating out the feet.”

“I’m intrigued,” said Huntley in a new, lazy tone of voice, removing his boots as Whit spread the sheet over the couch. “It’s been years since I’ve even met a real physician. Well, we had one in Frémont’s Battalion of course, but he usually traveled closely with Frémont and didn’t bother with us soldiers who had to sleep on the ground.”

Whit sat on the ottoman. The line of satiny hair arrowed down Huntley’s ridged abdomen, the arrow vanishing into the broadfall of his fringed buckskins. Whit was face-to-face with what was undoubtedly an impressive prick, but his physician’s oath had specified something about “keeping myself far from all seduction.”

“Lie flat,” he instructed. “I learned this medical massage from some fellow visiting Glasgow from Stockholm. It’s a movement gathering steam across Europe. It really improves the circulation.”

So the lanky, delicious woodsman lay on his stomach, splaying one arm over his head, allowing the one closest to Whit to trail on the ground.

Rubbing the oil between his palms, Whit said quietly, “Allow me to tell you some boring details of my own life, to take your mind off any current stresses. You don’t have to really listen or respond. It just helps to have monotonous noise in the room. I normally use a metronome, but my dull voice will have to suffice.” With great trepidation, Whit laid his oily palms against the trapezius muscles of Hunt’s shoulders. The warmth hit him with the force of a rampaging bison, and he barely remembered to apply pressure with his thumbs. “These are effleurage strokes,” he started out, as though he needed to remind himself.

“Ah.” Huntley sighed, his lower jaw going slack.

Whit made long, gliding strokes down the lovely sloping plane of Huntley’s back, squiggling his thumbs between the vertebrae as he’d been trained. It was tantalizing, the way the trough of his lower back began its graceful upward ascent at the hips, but these appetizing mysteries were covered by the rough buckskin. The fringed pants were belted at the waist, so Whit worked the muscles of the lower back, his fingertips occasionally slipping beneath the belt. It took all of his professional restraint to refrain from smacking the rounded rump—it was uplifted as though begging for it, and Whit felt a few drops of semen spurt from the tip of his own cock, no doubt staining his trousers. Whit had spent many a delightful hour smacking the rump of a willing nan-boy, but he had never dared it with anyone he wasn’t paying in coin.

He had actually never had congress with anyone he wasn’t paying in coin, aside from a fellow medical student in Glasgow. One night, while under the influence of Scotch whiskey, they had groped and fondled. The next day, no one spoke a word.

“Ah,” Huntley sighed again, even swiveling his muscular hips into the couch to get a more relaxed angle. “Tell me your boring story,” he nearly whispered.

Right. The boring story. Returning up to the shoulders, Whit swept his expert fingers down the athletic arm, lifting Hunt’s hand to rest on his knee so he could massage each finger in turn. “You might want to know how a half-breed Cherokee came to attend medical school in Glasgow.”

“Certainly,” Huntley said apathetically.

It was stimulating how close the trader’s fingers were to his own burgeoning crotch. Whit could barely remember his own history. He started with the easiest part. “I was born to a Dutch father, who was a pharmacist himself, and a half-breed Cherokee and African mother in New York City in 1817. I attended the African Free School—”

“So you’re thirty-four years of age,” Huntley mumbled.

Whit was so shocked at Mr. Ashbury’s propensity for math he stopped his finger-stroking, merely massaging the forefinger. Huntley’s hand was entirely relaxed, yet he was doing complex arithmetic ciphering in his head! This irritated Whit—he liked to be the one in control—and without forethought he swept his hand back up the arm, laying Huntley’s hand like a dead weight on the carpet, and used both hands to massage the deltoid. His fingers delved into the provocative underarm he had longed to manipulate, the steamy depths making his own prick twitch so violently he was glad Huntley’s eyes were closed.

“Yes, thirty-four,” Whit agreed vaguely. Now, where had he left off in his story? “A tutor of mine helped me apply to several American universities, but of course I was turned down by all of them, although all my tutors agreed I was exceptionally bright.” Pouring more oil into his palm, his fingers delved even deeper, sliding between the sheet and the sinews of Huntley’s seductive pectoral muscles. When his fingertips brushed and then tickled the stiff peak of his nipple, Huntley gasped, his eyelids fluttering. Gooseflesh spread out over his shoulder and down his arm, but he remained passive. Huntley even adjusted his hips again, as though humping the couch.

It took all of Whit’s concentration to continue his monotonous story, for he could feel the semen gushing up the underside of his cock, and he wanted nothing more than to ejaculate all over that muscular, velvety shoulder. “Yes, this tutor helped me get accepted into the University in Glasgow, and I quickly obtained my bachelor’s and then my master’s, all at the top of my class.” His story was helping to distract the trader’s attention from his stroking, so he dared to slip his hand one more time across the athletic chest, this time pinching the delectable nipple with determination, causing Huntley to inhale sharply and arch his head back a bit into the submissive posture Whit so enjoyed. Whit longed to shove that shoulder back and nibble on that nipple—to discover how loudly this delightful pioneer gasped then—but he didn’t dare upset the balance he’d been creating. Massaging the breast area was a part of this medical massage—only perhaps not paying such undue attention to another man’s nipple.