Training Ivy [How The West Was Done 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Everlasting) (9 page)

Seating herself again, Ivy asked the men behind her, “Could anyone else at the Cow Palace have a ring like that?”

“He does have a foreman—”

Neil’s sentence clogged his throat when Harley put his hands upon him. Harley first placed his hands on Neil’s shoulders, positioning him where he wanted him to stand. But when Harley’s palm moved ever so lightly to his hip just inches from his erection, Neil held his breath.

“Here,” said Harley. “Stand off to the side so we can see you from the thighs up.”

The couch wouldn’t begin to cover his erect cock. As Neil strove to conjure up the most recent corpse’s image in the hope it would deflate his cock, the solid, erotic heat of the engineer next to him prevented this from success.

“I don’t think we really want the photograph to show…” Neil mumbled.

Harley’s voice came, humid and seductive, right behind his ear. “Oh, yes, we want to show,” he asserted.

And, amazingly, Harley’s broad, talented palm slid over to boldly grasp and squeeze his stiffened penis!

Neil gasped, relieved that Ivy was facing the camera obediently. What sort of inverted poof was this world traveler? Was this something they ran around doing in India? Yet Neil didn’t have the presence of mind to elbow the fellow away, and of course the sensation of having his bulging prick fondled sent rushes of lewd hunger through his limbs.

Harley muttered in his ear, “This is
exactly
what we want to show.” He squeezed the entire stiff pizzle in his hand again, even making circular motions against the underside of the shaft with his thumb before releasing him and returning to his camera.

Neil was left gasping, little clear bubbles swimming before his eyes. That was it—it must be some Far Eastern thing. Harley seemed schooled in those arts, and his fiery eyes—and his peach pits—betrayed that he had interest and perhaps experience in the sort of “Italian fashion” Neil had been schooled in when hobbled in New South Wales.

Great balls of fire!
Would Harley be dredging up all those perverted, lewd, yet scintillating memories? Neil had to stay far away from this lecherous cove, especially if Harley intended on competing with him for Ivy’s hand.

“Shortridge has a ranch foreman?” Ivy asked innocently, ignorant of the entire provocative scene that had just played out behind her back. “Might he wear a ring like that?”

“We can’t move,” Neil advised breathlessly.

“Nonsense,” said Ivy. Louder, she called to Harley, “This is the new sort of camera, is it not? I had my photograph made in Hyde Park with one like this.”

“Yes,” said Harley. “You need only hold still for a few seconds. Starting…now.”

Neil literally held his breath when Harley withdrew a slide to expose the plate. What did Harley intend to use this piece of pornography for? It would be useful as blackmail. With a sudden fright, Neil realized Harley could use it against him to win Ivy’s hand, threatening to literally expose her to the offending image if Neil didn’t back down.

Why had he allowed Harley to manipulate him like this? He had just been so shocked, that was all. It wasn’t every day a man came up behind one and massaged one’s penis. Well, not in the Far West, anyway. In New South Wales it had been known to occur every day. Over there, out of boredom, men quite often forcibly frigged or sucked on one another—strictly out of boredom. But once you knew who your chums were and had everything worked out, it became a pleasant daily occurrence. What else was there to do when the day’s cattle were rounded up other than to mutually frig a chum till both were satisfied?

“Done.”

As Harley slid the plate from the camera, Neil came around the couch and sat next to Ivy. They turned to each other so their knees touched, and Neil took her hands in his. “Yes, he’s got a ranch foreman who might possibly wear a ring like that. I know you’re probably exhausted from travel and all the excitement of today—”

“Don’t come in the kitchen,” Harley instructed as he spirited his plate down the hall.

“—but I would like to make an appointment with you after breakfast tomorrow to show you the telegraph office. If you sincerely wish to operate the telegraph—”

“Oh, I do!” Ivy cried brightly, squeezing his hand in hers.

“—then I can show you its workings. There’s some saphead attempting to work it now, but he keeps mixing up the signals, as he can’t spell. There was a big brouhaha yesterday when he passed on a message that someone’s mother in California had been killed by a lode. Everyone started gossiping that an ore cart full of gold had tipped over on her. Took us a while to figure out that she had been miffed by a loan, some financial transaction she hadn’t approved of. So, you see, it’s of the utmost importance that the telegraph operator can spell well. I presume you can?”

“Oh, the best,” Ivy said, all seriousness. Cheering up, she added, “But you
will
let me come to the Bucket of Blood, dear Neil, won’t you? When you interview that Rodney Shortridge Admiral Lushington?”

“A saloon isn’t the place for a lady. Your father would have my hide if he found out I allowed you in there.”

Ivy pouted. She folded her arms under her bosom, causing the wondrous globes to heave upward, nearly popping out of their tight satin casing. “Dear Neil. As you’ve seen, I don’t pay much attention to my father’s wishes or concerns.”

It was
she
who leaned forward and kissed
him!
Neil was so taken aback to suddenly find her soft, plump lips nibbling hungrily at his, he slid his hand up her neck. He plunged his fingers into the mass of curls behind her ear, reveling in the silken feel of her locks that radiated her particular pine scent, inflaming his nostrils. The nape of her neck was still damp from her bath. Neil recalled that she had just been kissing that intelligent debauchee Captain Park, and he opened his mouth to suck on her lower lip.

Ivy scooted so close she was fairly sitting in his lap. Her left knee parted his thighs, nudging them apart. With a little hop, she vaulted herself up and over him so the floor of her pelvis—her
pussy
, for crying out loud—was plastered to the top of his knee. Snorting and panting into his mouth, she cupped his jaw in her hands and kissed him slowly, salaciously.

What a vixen! Layers of various fabrics separated them, but Neil’s knee was deriving vast pleasure from her humping. She clamped her thighs with a vigor and power that led him to wonder what sort of gymnastics she’d been doing.

They supped on each other’s mouths. Ivy parted her lips and snaked her tongue inside his mouth, giving his tongue little catlike licks. He slid a palm around her backside and gathered a handful of her ass in his hand, hoping to convince her to straddle him completely and plaster her pussy over his erection.

That was when Ivy gave a little gasp, pulled away from Neil, and opened her eyes wide.

“Oh!” she cried, as though surprised to discover herself kissing him. “I’m sorry!” And she clambered off his lap.

“Sorry for what?” Neil whispered, his head agog, missing her already.

Ivy smoothed down the lap of her skirt, her hair, her bodice. “The claret went to my head. You’re right, a saloon is no place for a lady.” She glanced sideways at him, her uplifted bosom heaving from her panting. “And I, apparently, am no lady.”

There was a hellcat’s glint to her eye as she grinned, but she left the room then. Sailing lightly on her slippered feet, she only stopped long enough to toss over her shoulder, “I’ll see you after breakfast?”

Neil didn’t know whether to be horrified or proud.

This was impossible.

Harley had actually captured an “extra”!

When he’d reached to the open kitchen window to take down the dried plate, he’d nearly dropped it in astonishment. He muttered, “Holy mother of…”

There, standing right next to Neil Tempest, was the distinct image of another man!

This was incredible! It was not the flimsy cardboard cutout image Ivy had been talking about, where it looked as though someone had pasted a photograph onto a board and held it up, pretending it was their departed Aunt Phoebe coming to them in mourning veils with a message from beyond the grave to make sure to wear flannel when it rained.

No, this was a distinct silhouette of a fellow about three inches shorter than Neil but wider in girth by about a foot. Harley could make out eyes, nostrils, and the gaping maw of a mouth that appeared to be trying to tell them something. And a hat. He sported a hat with a rounded crown, like a bowler or a derby. He stood in an arrogant manner, as if he wished to confront someone. The rest of his attire was murky, vanishing into a smoky haze before the couch blocked his legs.

Harley’s suspicions were confirmed. Neil Tempest was a conductor, a medium of the highest order.

Harley barely had time to admire Neil’s own crystal clear image. The microscopic detail of the collodion process rendered Neil as a sunbrowned Greek statue, finely molded with shimmering skin. Harley could make out the prominent veins that laced his forearms, bulging with vitality. Neil had folded his hands in front of his crotch in a feeble attempt at covering his stiffened penis, but it was really difficult to mask such an admirable tool.

When Harley had grasped the stupendous meat and given it a bold squeeze, Neil hadn’t made the slightest motion to defend himself. No, quite the opposite. The cock had expanded under his very palm, Neil’s eyelids had fluttered with the sudden lusty shock, and when Harley rubbed the underside near the crown, Neil gasped.

Harley had known he was a lover of both men and women for a long time now—his voracious sexual appetite demanded it. Neil Tempest was a prime example of a choice, virile man who had lived by his own physical might for decades, and it was Harley’s overwhelming desire to seduce him. He imagined running his tongue over the brawny chest peppered with soft, oily hair, flicking that hard nipple with his tongue tip, and then sucking on it until Neil’s cock distended with need.

If this was an unacceptably perverted desire, Harley didn’t stop to ponder. He rarely ever tried to correct himself anymore back to the straight and narrow path of alleged righteousness. He’d given up long ago trying to tame his wild satyr’s nature. Ivy Hudson was a delectable example of womanhood, and Harley looked forward to romping with her to a greater extent. But the notion of cavorting with this athletic stud pleased Harley equally.

If he was going to exist happily in the untamed Wild West, he had better find a gratifying outlet for his overabundance of lechery and sensuality. And he had the impression that Neil Tempest would not turn him away.

Harley’s eyes went back to the “extra” that had busted his way into his photograph. Derbies were not often seen in the Far West, slouch hats and sombreros being the headgear of choice for the Western man of fashion. It would probably be fairly easy to—

“Harley. May I come in?”

Why, son of a gun, if it wasn’t Neil Tempest himself tentatively peering in through the swinging kitchen door. His lovely cornflower-blue eyes glittered in the lamplight as he looked about at the chemical baths and photographic equipment. He was the most stunning man Harley had seen in ages. Best, he seemed unaware of his beauty. His spikily shorn hair could have been more carefully coiffed, but it would have detracted from his rough-and-ready, sensuous air.

“Come right in.”

Harley stood by the counter holding the glass negative up to the lamplight. Neil stood so close behind him Harley felt his breath against his neck. “It came out all right? Everyone is white.”

“It’s a negative,” Harley said mildly. “I’ll have to print it on paper later. But see? The detail in your image is incredible.”

“And…” Neil leaned forward to point a forefinger at the glass. “Who is that fellow next to me? Is this one of those trick photographs?”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? No, there was no trickery involved. This cove standing next to you is what came out of the bath. It’s what they call an ‘extra.’”

“That’s impossible,” Neil breathed. Harley swiveled his head to look at Neil, their faces just inches apart. Neil was even more beautiful when he intently concentrated on something. Harley shifted his weight so his right buttock pressed ever so slightly against Neil’s crotch, and the head of security didn’t flinch one shred. “He looks like he’s wearing a derby.”

“Yes. That’s where you can help. Know any coves in Laramie who wear a derby? A fellow shorter and wider than you, obviously. A derby isn’t the most common sort of hat.”

“I’ve seen a few,” Neil whispered, still studying the plate. “But with all these Hell on Wheels rowdies coming into town, who knows?” His brow furrowed in irritation. “I’d thank you not to go about distributing this photograph of me, if you don’t mind. You grabbed my prick on purpose. But why?”

“Hell. I figured while I was at it, I might as well make a good photograph to masturbate over.”

If Harley expected to shock Neil, it wasn’t working. He merely narrowed his eyes at Harley but didn’t withdraw from the plate. “You’d do such a thing, wouldn’t you? You pride yourself on your lust and stamina, with your peach pits and camphor.”

Harley grinned, snakelike. Although now he was afraid Neil would snatch the plate away and break it. “Certainly. Why not? It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”