Page 10 of Blowing Off Steam

“Oh, yes,” Catalina gushed. “Having my big, round titties spanked is ever such a horrible punishment. I would never run away again after that. Especially when they brush up against that long, hard ruler you keep in your pocket.”

Mr. Smith didn’t notice when she rolled her eyes, because his eyeballs were about to pop from his head. “Oh, my,” he raved, reaching out to give one of her corset-clad tits a joggle. “If I spank your big titties enough, maybe some milk will squirt out that I could sup from?”

“Sup away!” Catalina cried, for in the upstairs hallway she’d spied the brunet sailor stumbling from his hovel with an erection that could break a plate tenting the lap of his pants. He wiped sweat from his handsome, ashen face as Catalina shoved the headmaster behind one of the curtains. Moisture bloomed between her cunt lips to recall the two sailors hungrily kissing. What she wouldn’t give for a romp with one or both of those strapping men. But perhaps their acquaintance would be more long-term if she polished off this one last customer—now.

Mr. Smith sat on the edge of the cot. “Now. I’ve heard that you made plans to run away, Evangeline. That is very, very bad.”

Straddling him, Catalina jammed her pussy lips over his scrotum and forced his face into her bosom, her breasts bursting from the stricture of the corset. She shimmied her shoulders back and forth so her tits audibly slapped up against his cheeks. “Yes, Mr. Smith. I’ve been a bad, bad girl…”

Behind all the uproar from the saloon below and the shrieking of the poor grizzly and bull in the street, the steam calliope whistle from the El Dorado tooted, its soothing tones bouncing with the heat waves off the broiling-hot river’s tide.

* * * *

Field stumbled into the saloon for another bottle of whiskey—that hooker had walked off with his first bottle. And now more than ever he needed something to dull the awareness of what was going on around him.

Many whores tried to attach themselves to him, but he wanted to think about business. They would need to hire a few brutish joes, deckhands who could also act as bodyguards, if they kept on running into figures such as Sam Brannan. For instance, right now, it was difficult to tell if these three vociferous miners from Mad Ox Canyon intended to stake him to that bottle of whiskey or crown him with it.

Whipping the bottle from the bar, Field stalked outside and found a shady spot to lean against the building, chugging directly from the bottle.

“I kissed Rushy,” he muttered forlornly.

Yes. He had turned and planted that mushy, tongue-sucking, passionate kiss on his partner.

What in the name of Sam Hill was wrong with him? It had come as a surprise even to himself.

Well, not a complete and utter surprise.

He had admired Rushy’s masculine physique ever since witnessing him toppling over the El Dorado’s rail weeks ago, when he had savored the muscular hindquarters under the clinging, soaking-wet trousers as Rushy sauntered into the customs office. But even since blackmailing the poor riverboat pilot into taking him on as a partner, Field had increasingly become aware of some odd chemical reaction whenever Rushy was nearby. Even when Field was doing something as dull as slinging pump rods by a chain, he took note that a half-nude Rushy lounged nearby, from the waist up clad in only his jaunty cravat, suspenders, and that infernal patent leather-billed cap.

Rushy would find some pretext to reach over Field, leaning his naked torso damned near over Field’s back, in order to open a regulator valve or other. The chemistry in the air between them was so palpable it seemed the merest spark from the firebox should set the very air on fire. Once, Rushy had reached both long arms around him to hold up a piston so Field could adjust the ring that sealed it off from the boiler, and he distinctly felt the outline of a thick, juicy prick pressed up against his ass.

And then, when they ate their cheese and anchovy platter in the saloon at twilight, they laughed so much that Field felt he was with a long-ago brother, perhaps one he’d been separated from as toddlers. Even in these mellow times when the bay’s air felt gauzy and tropical and most of the crew was “up the hill” on their own adventures, Field could not help admiring Rushy’s long, elegant bones moving under his deeply sun-browned skin that shimmered with vitality, as though rubbed with coconut oil.

Then Field would drink another glass of claret and imagine rubbing Rushy’s rippling shoulder muscles with coconut oil, and he would loathe himself for such unconventional thoughts. Only molly boys and inverts who wore corsets and bumfucked lusted after another man’s body. He would fling himself onto his bunk and pump his own cock until he erupted, nonetheless imagining Rushy’s satiny abdomen against his as Rushy’s mouth meandered down the front of his body, his mission to suck his prick.

What humiliation! To lie on his back swimming in the sticky muck of a shameful orgasm! He’d need to find a temporary woman soon—and just now, when he had done exactly that, he had immediately gone lumbering into Rushy’s cell, flung his body across his, and slurped his tongue into his mouth. What had possessed him?

A huge wave of exhaustion and whiskey overcame Field, and he closed his eyes to lean against the building.

“Running from me?”

Field was nearly startled out of his wits when Rushy’s voice came from nearby. He dropped the whiskey bottle, then recovered enough to chuckle and pick it up. “Why would I run from you? I was thinking, Rushy. We really need a couple of firemen to take turns stoking the firebox, and if we found a couple of these strong buffaloes—”

“The kiss.” Rushy leaned languidly against the building, one arm running up the splintered wooden boards. He smeared his wheat-colored hair out of his eyes. “You went like sixty out of that cell, like fire in dry grass when you realized you were kissing me.”

“Shucks,” said Field, taking on Rushy’s syrupy Alabama patois. “I was just too drunk. Didn’t know what I was doing. Got carried away with the whore, and suddenly there was no difference between her and you.”

“Oh.” Rushy grinned as though it was the most normal thing in the world, kissing another man. “I suddenly looked like my face was full of skin powders? A naked, strapping man with a whopping bone pressed up against you, and you mistake me for a whore? I don’t think you were that corned.”

Field tried to swig from the bottle to prove he was corned, but the bottle was empty, so he just sucked air. He shrugged and even swayed a bit. “Men’ve been known to do odd things. You’ve never seen two fellows going hard at it?”

That was perhaps the wrong subject to bring up, for a leer that was definitely salacious came over Rushy’s handsome face. “Many times. Usually when I was one of the participants.”

Field’s heart nearly stopped from shock, but at the same time his prick swelled with an obscene thrill. “Why, how—” Field was glad when a burst of shouting prevented him from finishing his query. A knot of men came rolling from the doors of the Fremont House, a surging mass of punching fists and kicking legs. This was not so unusual and would not have merited attention, but Field did note that one of the combatants was a solicitor he’d been meaning to talk to. This fellow, name of Tobias Fosburgh, seemed perfectly crooked enough to know where they could find a couple of firemen bruisers and maybe help with some of the more questionable aspects of dealing with a stolen steamboat.

“Hey,” said Rushy, pointing. “That’s that traveling showman fellow who sells those Jesus cures.”

“Jesus cures?” asked Field, his interest piqued. “I thought he was a solicitor.”