Spenser would play the game. He was flattered by Chess’s overwhelming admiration for his muscular body. So what if Chess chose to display his desire with a deviant sort of domineering attention? Some fellows were just made that way. They were too ashamed to admit they were aroused by other men’s bodies, so they made it look as though they were punishing the object of their lust.
Whap!
The riding crop cracked out loud and sharp in the hotel room. Even in this new hotel the walls were paper-thin, but nothing much was looked at askance in the Far West. Spenser had heard a fellow snoring in the next room, but that was now blotted out by the spanking smacks he obediently received.
Not obediently enough, apparently, for Chess now tossed aside the whip and grabbed Spenser by the reatas that tightly bound his wrists. He snarled against Spenser’s throat, “I’ll teach you to confuse me with some lunkheaded dandy in a top hat.”
He yanked Spenser by his bonds. Spenser’s eyes rattled in his head as he allowed the brute to jerk him toward the narrow bed. With no free hands to break his fall, and his feet tangled in his pants and boots, Spenser fell onto his back on the mattress, bouncing a few times. His prick was so stiff it didn’t even rest against his stomach but pulsated in the air, violently reddened.
All Spenser could do now was raise his torso about a foot and glare at his seducer. He knew that from this position, his ridged abdominal muscles stood out in even sharper relief, and he felt proud that he was such an object of carnal desire.
He wasn’t really angry. He was enflamed with lust and intrigue, all the more so when Chess wrenched his boots and pants from his legs in a few expert motions, his eyes flashing with his superior command. Chess then stood tall at the foot of the bed, the picture of the brawny degenerate. Spenser watched, fascinated, as Chess methodically removed his own shirt with a great deal more care than he’d given to Spenser’s shirt. As expected, Chess’s pectorals were deliciously meaty, covered with a sprinkling of satiny hair, the pebbled nipples a tasty shade of burgundy.
“You need to learn where your position is, you damned vaquero.” With a few snaps of his wrist, Chess’s prick was in his hand—thick and hulking, as though it weighed heavily in his fist. Chess didn’t even need to look aside as he grabbed a bottle of some sort of oil and dribbled it over the impressive phallus.
Spenser wondered if the other man wanted him to protest. Sometimes they did. “You’re never getting away with this,” he said mildly.
He was gratified when the corner of Chess’s mouth quirked up appreciatively. “Oh, yeah? Don’t you know that I get away with everything in my life? I’m a privileged bastard and always get my way.”
Spenser squirmed, knowing that every time his shoulders jerked from side to side his admirable penis also bobbed alluringly, and Chess looked about to drool. “Well, you’re not getting your way this time,” he shot back.
Chess kneeled on the mattress between Spenser’s thighs, not even bothering to strip off his own trousers. Chess choked his gleaming, shiny glans between his thick fingers, and a look that was almost fond came over his face. Chess’s eyes swept over Spenser’s body, taking it all in, like some of those serious art appreciators at the
poses plastiques
gallery—the ones who truly were interested in the body as a work of art.
“You think so?” Chess grinned. “Well, I’m the ranch owner, buddy. You do what you’re told. And you need to learn your position.”
And with that, he lowered himself over Spenser. With his thighs he spread Spenser’s and rubbed his cockhead against Spenser’s exposed asshole. “Your position is underneath me.”
He entered Spenser then with a sharp intake of breath, a hiss. Chess’s eyes squeezed shut with delight, and Spenser could see the eyeballs quivering under the closed lids. Spenser could do absolutely nothing, other than perhaps kick the assailant in the calves, so he tried to relax into it, dropping his torso back onto the mattress.
He’d been fucked before but never in this completely submissive, almost female fashion. As he relaxed into the fucking, his thighs dropped to the mattress, and he even hitched a heel around the back of Chess’s leg. Chess shuddered and was very still for the first minute or so as he eased his throbbing phallus inside Spenser. He barely breathed as though meditating, afraid of hurting Spenser or perhaps—this was most likely—afraid he would climax too soon.
Then all at once, Chess lunged right into it with abandon.
Holding himself up on only one elbow, he swung his hips wildly, humping Spenser as though he were a voluptuous woman. Chess reamed him thoroughly from stem to stern with such vigor his balls made loud slaps against Spenser’s ass. Spenser grunted and panted as he strove to accept the massive fucking, now hitching both heels around the backs of Chess’s knees. With his free hand, Chess gripped Spenser’s hip to hold him still, lunging his robust, meaty cock in and out of Spenser’s channel.
“You’re a magnificent stud,” Chess grunted in between strokes. “You’re more exquisite than a statue of Hercules. You drive men wild with your teasing, your taunting. You show off your fine physique, make men want to mount you, dominate you.”
It was heavenly to watch the changes sweep over Chess’s face, to know that Spenser had this power over him. At first, Chess’s look was brutal as he aggressively and savagely fucked Spenser. His pupils dilated, though, as he seemed to finally take in Spenser’s impassive face and truly see him for the first time. His savage assault slowed a bit and his look became almost contemplative and fond.
Spenser found it within himself to grin a little. “I like it when you ride me,” he gasped. A drip of sweat flicked off the tip of Chess’s nose and down Spenser’s face. “You’re a virile buck. You fuck like a regular he-man.”
This last bit seemed to send Chess over the edge. “Oh, hell,” he whispered. His eyes were open and sincere now, his emotions nakedly laid open in this vulnerable moment. “You are one delicious, beautiful stallion.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Chess held his breath and gulped. He tilted his head back as though praying, and Spenser felt the surge of jism up the underside of Chess’s engorged penis. Chess opened his mouth in a silent scream as the semen exploded deep inside Spenser. Spenser felt it overflow down the crack of his ass as Chess pumped him full, imbuing the room with the manly scent of jism and musky sweat.
Chess’s hips shuddered into Spenser as though he intended to press him clear through to the floor. Holy Mary, this brawny buck came forever and a day. An overwhelming need to free his arms and wrap them around Chess’s broad back frustrated Spenser. His squirming in his bonds seemed to bring Chess back to reality, his prick still jerking and twitching deep inside of Spenser.
An exhausted smile spread over Chess’s delicious mouth, but when Spenser raised his torso to kiss him, Chess pulled out and stood. He went to the washbowl to splash his cock, leaving Spenser bound on the bed.
“Hey,” Spenser at last called out. “A little help would be appreciated.”
This domineering brute was so tough, Spenser fully expected him to leave the room without untying him first. He was pleasantly surprised when Chess turned to him with a mild smile and kneeled beside him, conversing as though they’d just been playing faro.
The knots had been impossible to budge previously—if Spenser had wanted to, which he hadn’t—but Chess released them with a few agile moves of his fingers. He was obviously experienced in knots. “So you really rope calves and fix machinery?”
“I do,” Spenser admitted. “I’ve worked for the Wavy Stick, the Real McCoy, and the Triple Horn.”
“I wouldn’t know those outfits. I only arrived in Laramie from New York yesterday.”
“Well, Boswell nearby owns the Wavy Stick. I still work for him, matter of fact, but he’s been getting miffed that I take time off to perform at the Morning Star, so I’m sure he’s going to give me the sack. I don’t care. It’s worth it. If I get enough patrons coming back to see me again, Mr. Sackett will hire me to tour with his gallery. The show isn’t staying in Laramie forever.”
Spenser shook his hands to get the blood back in them, sitting on the edge of the bed. Spenser’s penis, shiny and purple, stood up erect against his navel, but Chess paid it no mind. He seemed to only care for his own satisfaction, although he didn’t move away off the bed, either. He seemed perfectly content to chat.
Winding the reata lengths in his hand, Chess said, “You make a magnificent Hercules. Hell, you’d make a magnificent anything.
Mon Dieu
, you are the most spectacular stud I’ve seen in months, years probably. And I’ve traveled all over Europe, been to the finest salons.”
Spenser studied Chess’s face to see if he was sincere. Of course, many people had told him he was handsome. But here was a fellow who should know, who had been there in more ways than one, and for some reason Spenser valued his opinion. It was strange. It was almost as though he was falling for this masculine buck who had just mounted him as though he were any ordinary prairie flower. Really, Chess had obviously used him for his own relief and would now probably continue on the train to San Francisco, doing whatever European business he was involved in.
But Spenser believed that this buck thought he was magnificent. “I’m sorry for mistaking you for that Bullet Bob swell who wears the top hat. Though I presume you’re not really a ranch owner, either.” Spenser stood to retrieve his pants from where Chess had tossed them. Chess stood too, but it was only to pour himself a glass of whiskey. Spenser told himself that he would have offered Spenser one too, if there was another glass. He sighed heavily. “I know the fellow you mean. I nearly bashed him into the middle of next week only two hours ago, over at the Bucket of Blood. For some reason he was dead set on thinking I was this fellow Marcel he’d known in Paris. A highly annoying frog.”
Chess came toward Spenser now, holding the whiskey glass between his fingertips, and offered it to Spenser. So he
wasn’t
being a selfish lunkhead. Not entirely, anyway. Spenser took the glass gratefully and said, “I couldn’t agree more about the annoying part. He seems to always be roostered on something or other, because he acts like he knows me, too. Keeps calling me ‘duck.’ I tolerate it, though, because he’s putting on that
Hamlet
production I hope to join.”
Chess snorted with distaste and tilted the entire whiskey bottle into his mouth, gulping heartily. He seemed to be on some kind of bender, too. Smacking his lips, Chess exhaled so acridly Spenser was nearly bowled over ten feet away. “Actually, I accidentally
did
wind up owning a ranch here, maybe twenty miles out from Laramie.”
“Really? Which one?” Spenser doubted Chess would tell him. After all, they had just bumfucked each other till they were blue in the face. Chess wouldn’t want to tell him which ranch he owned.
Chess sighed as though the entire weight of the world was on his—very sturdy and masculine—shoulders. “Something called Serendipity Ranch.” He shrugged and uncorked another bottle of whiskey. “I have no experience with any damned cows, but I’m hoping that the current owner will leave his employees there so all I’ll have to do is ride in a buggy in town—
not
with a top hat, thank you—looking dapper and gambling.”
Spenser was astounded. “Why, Serendipity Ranch is a four-hundred-acre spread.” He handed Chess the empty glass so Chess wouldn’t have to drink from the bottle again. “It’s very successful. Neil Tempest introduced sheep there last year.”
Chess gulped about two fingers of whiskey before answering. “Yup. That’s the one. I only bought three hundred fifty acres and all the damned cows. Neil’s keeping the house, so I’ll have to build a new one.” He assessed Spenser in a fresh light now, perhaps a light that didn’t involve filling his asshole with semen. “You’re an intelligent stallion. Where can we find a good barber? We’ve got to get you tidied up if you’re going to audition for our friend Bullet Bob, and I eventually have to have an interview with my father. I’d like to do it without smelling of sweat, whiskey, and jism. This hotel has a bath, but it’s usually occupied with a hundred squalling rowdies.”
“I know just the place, right next to the Morning Star. Wonderful wooden tubs they scent with cinnamon, and a gal who will shave you up just swell.”
“A doll, shaving gents? A Spaniard woman?”
“Not at all. A German lass, I believe. Right bonny piece of calico, too.”
“Well, I’m finding things are very different here in the Far West. Good. Let’s go. I can’t imagine anyone finer to spend my final night of debauchery with than you.”
Spenser was glad Chess hadn’t offered him money for the fucking. He didn’t need it—not yet, anyway—and he wanted to believe they were more to each other than mere fuck partners.
Spenser was already in love with this brutal, powerful man and would have followed him into a bloody Indian battle if he had only crooked his finger and asked.
Fidelia Schiller peeked around the corner. Yes. There was that masterful bon vivant from the
poses plastiques
show. Mr. Sackett had warned her there were two new bathhouse customers, and this robust son of a bitch was one of them, the other being the stunning Spenser Murphy who modeled Hercules. Fidelia knew the bon vivant was one of those
ein Schwuler
fellows who only dallied with other men, though, because he had specifically asked her to send Hercules to his hotel. Fidelia didn’t particularly care about his perverted inclinations. It wasn’t as though she would ever be looking for a husband. But
mein Gott
, this perverted masher was a strikingly handsome, dapper man.