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The Going for the Gold Collection, Volume 1 (MMF)

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Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

Heat Rating: SEXTREME
Word Count: 206,837
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In Working the Lode, Zelnora Sparks took a risk when she came to California. Little did she know she would meet up with mountain man Cormack Bowmaker. Together they discover gold, but they are being tailed by a notorious bandit. Will he turn against them or join up?

In Either Ore, in 1848 San Francisco, Lola Moreno is a housemaid for Gage Lassen, a withdrawn bachelor. When adventurer Harrison Bancroft arrives, he unlocks the pain from Gage’s past, allowing passion to emerge. A group of cruel enforcers threatens their bond of secrecy, and the trio is forced to make a stand.

In A Good Prospect, Salvador Palomares, owner of a vast California rancho, has wasted years in drunken cattle driving and horse racing.  When he saves the life of Ophir, he is surprised to hear gold has been discovered and his land invaded by a gang of ruffians determined to take control.




A Siren Erotic Romance


Karen Mercury is a Siren-exclusive author.


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Bigler came racing forward before they even reached the store, brandishing the eagle feather quill in his hand. “Sister Sparks! I do believe I’ve found gold at the mill!”

“Keep your hollering down,” Cormack reminded him.

He was proud of the calm way Zelnora took this news. “Well, Brother Bigler, we’ll just have to do some investigation then, won’t we?”

She released his arm when they entered the store. Erskine, Quartus, and the redhead Miss Mercy Narrimore canoodled by the counter, drinking whiskey from the looks of it, and paying no mind to the gold as Zelnora marched into a back room and came back with some items that she slapped onto the counter.

“The Indians I’ve spoken to here at the fort have known about gold in these parts for many generations,” Zelnora said, accepting the eagle quill from Bigler. “The gold is supposed to be guarded by evil spirits. There’s a lake not far from here with plenty of gold, but there is a fearful animal, a sort of dragon who likes human flesh.” She poured the little nuggets onto a tray which she carried to the only window, turning it this way and that with one eye closed. Next, she took out an eyepiece to examine the crystals more closely.

Cormack and Bigler exchanged greedy looks. “Can you find out where this lake is located?” Cormack asked Zelnora.

“I sure can try.”

Bringing the tray back to the counter, she said, “I spoke to one of Sutter’s workers not long ago. From Hermosillo in Mexico. He told me we can find pounds of gold in quartz veins in the Sierra. One would only need a batea, which as far as I can tell is just a simple wooden bowl for washing the gold. He just kept saying batea, batea.”

“Can you locate this fellow?” Bigler asked tremulously.

Zelnora, eyes still affixed to the gold nuggets, blindly reached for Cormack’s bowie knife on his belt. He assisted by handing it to her. “I sure can try,” she said quietly, vaguely, holding one of the tiny nuggets on the counter and scratching its surface with the knife blade.

Quartus came wobbling over now, curious. “I can find gold with my divining rod!” he again declared, bolstered by a healthy application of “bug juice.” Fortunately, he fell silent then, fascinated by the doings of his wife. Her next step was to vigorously rub a nugget against the wooden countertop, then sniff it. The men became alarmed when she reached for a steel hammer and, with one bang, flattened a nugget on the tray.

Bigler cried, “What are you doing?”

A slow smile radiated across her face as she gradually stood to an upright position. Her eyes were fixed only on Cormack, however, when she said in a reverent tone, “This is gold.”

Bigler let out a walloping yee-haw to the heavens above while Quartus leaped up and down clapping his hands, twirling around in little circles chanting, “Gold! Gold! Gold!” to the same tune as the earlier song about Jake Herring thumping it. Even Erskine and Mercy ceased their canoodling and swiveled their heads with interest toward all the commotion.

Without tearing her shining, wide eyes from Cormack, Zelnora came round the counter and grabbed the front of his shirt in her fists. She fairly stood on tiptoes in her zeal. She resembled a lovely Madonna with her round brown eyes, her gleaming curls escaping from the mantle of her rebozo. “Cormack,” she whispered. He could barely hear her under the ecclesiastical hollering of the two gold-crazed converts. Now even Erskine was clapping Bigler on the back as Mercy set out more tin cups for whiskey. “Gold. Gold. Do you know what this means? From the size and character of those specimens, that area seems to be much richer than the gold fields of Georgia! It must have washed down from the mountains during the recent torrents. Where descending waters meet an obstacle or projecting rock, in the riverbed and also the declivities, we can find pockets of gold. Gold!”

Gold. Cormack kissed Zelnora, sweetly and gently, loving her with his mouth. He kissed her again and again as she grasped his shirtfront, nearly melting into him. Ho, boy, was he a perverted old hard case to get an erection when they had just discovered gold? He should be more concerned about his future riches. Gold, gold, gold…

As Quartus was now performing some new movement of polka steps, Zelnora broke away and walloped her husband a backhand across the chest. “Cheese it, Quartus! Captain Sutter told us to keep quiet any news of a mineral strike—there are bandits roaming the countryside ready to stick knives in us like porcupines if they hear of this.”

At the mention of “bandits” Quartus stopped his dance. His round eyes behind the spectacles spoke of his romantic reverence for highwaymen. “Bandits? Bear’s ass!” And he stumbled off to get some more bug juice.

“Sister Sparks!” bellowed Bigler, holding his tin cup up on high. “You are absolutely certain of this, then?”

“Oh, yes, Henry! This gold is of the finest quality, perhaps twenty-three carats. Give me some of that whiskey!”

At that moment, the door’s bell tinkled, and a local corncracker and a Californio entered, beaming from ear to ear in puzzlement at the spontaneous spree in Brannagh’s store. “Miss Sparks!” the farmer called. “What’s all the hubbub? Did we get a new supply of Forty Rod?”

Ho, boy, Forty Rod. Just a whiff of that firewater would kill a man at that distance, even around a corner. To distract the farmer, Zelnora went into the back room with the tray of gold and brought forth a presumably good bottle of some liquor.

Shoving it at the farmer, Zelnora said, “This brandy is of the quality that the Duke of Orleans drinks, Mr. Leese. Try some. Mercy, give the men cups.” Returning to Cormack’s side, she whispered fiercely, “Cormack. We simply must go back to Coloma and see to what extent this gold pans out. If we discover it’s worth pursuing, we build what’s known as a rocker, a sort of cradle to facilitate the process. But we can’t let anyone see what we’re doing. How will you hide it from Marshall?”

Cormack tipped his head to one side. Marshall? Who gave a flying fuck about Marshall? It was easy enough to hide the gold signs from him. “More to the point, Zelnora…What about Brannagh? If you come up to Coloma, what will you tell him?”

“He’s away for yet another week and a half. That’s plenty of time, right?”

Cormack thought, and nodded.

“Viva Carlos Quinto!” the Californio cried at the taste of the Duke of Orleans’ brandy.

Death or glory!




Cormack lowered the neckline of Zelnora’s chemise so that one plump breast bounced free. She smiled leonine to indicate her approval as Cormack urged Joaquin’s face toward her. “Effective methods, you would say?”

Joaquin licked between Zelnora’s breasts slowly with a fat tongue. Watching another man lick his woman aroused Cormack, wondering what Zelnora must feel having a strange man accost her while her fiancé watched. She grinned lazily, gripping Joaquin’s shoulders with her fingertips. Cormack slid one sure palm around the slope of Joaquin’s luscious ass, running two fingers between his spread thighs to tickle the sensitive bulge between his balls and asshole.

Joaquin muttered, “You have very effective methods, pelirrojo,” before diving down to slurp Zelnora’s nipple into his mouth.

Ho, boy, Cormack wanted to feel that dark, hot pole in his fist again. He was no longer ashamed to enjoy the hard plumpness of another man’s stimulated prick as it pulsated in his grip. But tonight he needed to please Zelnora. He wanted her to esteem Joaquin just as much as he did, and that would mean risking his own jealousy while watching the bandit pleasure his woman.

“It would distress me if you needed assistance mounting,” Cormack murmured into Joaquin’s ear.

Zelnora was inching up her skirts. He was slightly shocked to hear her salaciously say, “Joaquin needs no assistance mounting.”

Cormack nibbled on the velvety side of Joaquin’s neck. “Kiss her,” he commanded.

It was odd, watching Joaquin clamp his lips over Zelnora’s eager mouth. Cormack’s instant reaction was to yank a handful of Joaquin’s hair till his neck snapped and paste him in the nose. He stayed this overwhelming feeling by deepening the bites to Joaquin’s neck and unbuttoning his calzoneras with long, nimble fingers.

He would direct Joaquin. If he was the one guiding their actions, he reckoned he would not feel this possessive envy whenever Joaquin laid a hand on Zelnora. So he squiggled his tongue up and down the side of Joaquin’s strong neck while sliding a palm down his belly to unleash his cock. Fingering the long, dusky prick caused Joaquin to rock his hips, pressing his erection into Cormack’s hand, deepening his wet kisses upon Zelnora. With his thumb, Cormack described unctuous wreaths about the crown of the prick, making Joaquin gasp against Zelnora’s mouth and gooseflesh sprinkle the globes of his curvaceous butt.

Cormack revealed his own cock, desiring to rub drops of semen against that succulent ass. It was no different than rubbing against a woman’s backside, after all, although Cormack could not fool himself that he did not handle a slick, hot penis. The sweaty meat pulsated as Joaquin humped his palm, Cormack rotating his pumping as though milking a cow, up, down, and over the tip of the erection. The bandit’s pleasured moaning incited Cormack to release his own ecstatic growls while he nibbled on his earlobe, daring to glide the entire length of his mammoth penis against that juicy ass. Joaquin grunted, whether with approval or not, Cormack only knew by the sudden pulsing of the cock in his hand. As Zelnora’s thighs were spread and she panted invitingly, teats bouncing happily, Cormack urged the quivering prick toward her pussy.

Joaquin was pressed between the two lovers. Perhaps as it would have taken too much effort to complain or extricate himself, he allowed Cormack’s massaging fingers to guide him to Zelnora’s honeypot, and with a deep groan, he entered her to the hilt.

“Ah, eres una mujer encantadora,” Joaquin uttered against Zelnora’s mouth.

Cormack was surprised to hear Zelnora reply in Spanish also. “Eres una hombre apuesto,” she sighed. You are a beautiful man.

Now that he had his friend pleasantly seated, to further stave off the jealousy that a foreign body lay atop his fiancée, Cormack thought it only equitable to pleasure himself against that delicious raw butt, uplifted for his taking. Plunging his hand between the outspread thighs, he cupped the pulsating testicles in his palm, abrading their fullness with loving squeezes and mushy caresses. Joaquin fucked Zelnora slowly, holding himself up on his elbows and gazing down into her face, eyes locked on to hers. Only occasionally did his pupils quiver and contract with ecstasy. Otherwise, he was the picture of concentration, as though he wished to remember every pore on his beloved’s face.

Ho, boy, the buoyant succulence of Joaquin’s ass as Cormack smeared his quivering cock over the trembling, meaty muscles. He could gratify himself against that ass—why not? It would be nearly the same as fucking Zelnora himself, to hump that delicious butt in tandem with Joaquin’s thrusts. Arousing the bulging balls with his palm, Cormack positioned himself gently atop the desperado and lunged his hips, stroking his cock against the smooth flank.

“That’s good, Cormack,” Zelnora urged sweetly, without removing her gaze from Joaquin’s. “Fuck his heavenly rump. Revenge yourself for how he shamed you.”

Fuck another man? That thought had not occurred to Cormack—at least, not today, so far. Yet the idea filled him with such lust, he nearly climaxed against the resilient ass, and it seemed that Joaquin spread his thighs even wider to signal his acceptance. Yes, he would revenge himself for that public cock-slapping he’d received, when several odious brigands had stood around with erect pricks enjoying the sight of Joaquin demeaning his pride, as well as his stiff and yearning penis.

Greasing up his pole with spittle, Cormack gently fingered the tight opening. Had Joaquin debased other men in this manner before? He was certain this snug passage had never accommodated another man’s cock. When he slid a finger up the ass, shocked at the slick heat clutching him, Joaquin inhaled sharply, but did not alter the slow, languid fucking he was giving Zelnora.

Cormack growled against the other man’s throat. “You like that, you debauched bandit? I’m doggone if you ain’t dreamed of having a prick up this tight little ass. I’ll fill you up,” he gasped when he pressed the crown of his penis against the opening, “with a bucket of my hot seed, while I—”

“Fuck me like a man, Cormack.”

Joaquin’s imperious demand rang out in the little cabin, divine with elegant Castilian tones. It was a command Cormack could not ignore, and he humped his prick farther up the blistering asshole.

Joaquin seemed to lose his control then. His head slumped forward on a rubbery neck, and he choked on his moans. Not even Zelnora’s nearly virginal pussy had been as hot and tight as this, and it was beyond ecstasy to feel against the underside of his prick the throbbing of Joaquin’s bulging penis inside Zel. He would erupt soon if he did not still himself, but a few more jabs of his bursting prick and Joaquin was jetting spurt after spurt inside the woman.

He could feel it! How odd, the flow of semen up Joaquin’s prick, the clutching at his own prick, the twitching and spasms urging and milking an orgasm from him.

“There. How’s that.” Cormack moaned in staccato sentences. “You want this. A man’s jism inside. Your sweet ass. Go ahead. Spew that jism. You want it. You. Want. Me.”

“Fuck me, Cormack.”





“Did you buy your cow?”

“I have.” After Lola flung her rebozo onto the back of a chair, Harrison could admire the play of dappled sun across her bare shoulders as she worked the dough. Her voice, however, seemed resigned and flat when she said, “I can sell a pint of milk for a dollar to men who haven’t had any in one or two years. And these pies? I can sell fruit pies for a dollar apiece—mince pies for a dollar and a quarter.”

Harrison thought. He supposed it was wonderful that Lola was so enterprising, instead of sinking into the squalor that so many broken frontier women gave in to, but it was also pitiful that Lassen didn’t pay her enough—that a woman of such talents and background had to slave away stoking a fire and chopping apples when she should be…Well, the wife of a dignitary, or some other man of means, such as a lawyer.

However, pie and a glass of milk did sound good. Harrison knew a passel of men who would well-nigh whale into someone for a chance at pie and milk.

“And Lassen lets you keep the income, even though the cow’s on his land?”

“Surprisingly, yes. I use my own money for the ingredients and firewood, and I only make pies when I’ve done all the chores Lassen has set for me.” She suddenly stopped rolling out the dough. Her head sank down on a weak neck as though defeated in something, and Harrison stopped chewing the orange, taking a few steps toward her. When she inhaled a ragged breath, it all came out in a rush. “I get up, make coffee, then I make biscuits, fry potatoes, broil three pounds of steak and as much liver as I can. Then I sweep and set the table, ring the bell at eight, he is eating until nine, I don’t sit until he’s done. After breakfast, I bake six loaves of bread, then four pies or pudding, then it’s lunch, lamb for which I’ve paid nine dollars, beef, pork, turnips, beets, radishes, and that everlasting damned soup every day. For tea he has hash, cold meat, bread and butter, sauce, and some kind of cake. I make his bed every day and do all his washing and ironing, if I didn’t have the constitution of a horse I should have given it all up a long time ago, and he doesn’t even say good day to me.”

Harrison was shocked into silence by this sudden outbreak. He’d known she was disenchanted with Gage Lassen, but he thought she scorned Lassen and trivialized his cold treatment of her. Now it appeared that it upset her greatly. Accustomed to the fluid, warm ways of the Plains Indians, Harrison took Lola by the shoulders and turned her to face him. Yes, a tear dripped down each cheek, and she miserably looked aside at the floor.

“Lola. Meha. Dear heart. I don’t think it has much to do with you individually. Listen to me. He’d be the same cold way if it rained tadpoles and pennywinkles. That’s just Lassen’s way. I’m starting to suspect that it has something to do with that wife who threw him over.”

“I thought so!” she blubbered, finally meeting his gaze, although she shied away from his grip. “But he treats society women with deference.”

“That’s society women, wives of his friends, meha! Of course he has to bow to them on occasion. But have you noticed, as I have, that he virtually ignores every single shopgirl, laundress, every woman who passes on the street? It’s as though he can see right through them. It’s not just you. Lassen is more…interested in the interests of other men.”

The moment Harrison uttered those words, a shudder went up his spine. The interests of other men. Since meeting Gage Lassen, he’d been uncomfortable with the other’s physical closeness, the way he stood just a tad too near, eyes just a tad too heartfelt. True, Harrison was fixated upon the man’s physical presence in a jealous sort of way. He wished his own skin to be that creamy café au lait instead of the blinding white that burned so easily in the sun. And Lassen’s features, so dusky, full, and sensual, not thin and austere as Harrison saw his own face. Yes, that was it. He was merely envious. That was why he tracked the man with his eyes, and felt an ardor spreading through him when they stood close together.

Lola must have perceived his thoughts just then, for she sniffled and asked childishly, “It had occurred to me that perhaps Lassen is…more comfortable around men.”




Rivulets of fresh hot water rolled down the exquisitely steamy pubic bone, and when Harrison nimbly unbuttoned the broadfall with the fingers of his other hand, the velvety purplish penis sprang forth into his palm, urging him to murmur, “Now, Mr. Lassen. Now. You want to fuck that wet pussy, don’t you? You want to slide it up inside that beautiful, wanton housemaid of yours. You’ve wanted it for years.” It gave Harrison an odd power he’d never felt before, this “allowing” of their coupling.

“God, yes,” Gage hissed against Lola’s swollen mouth.

“She’s beautiful, is she not? And she’s not ‘sluttish’—she’s only meant for me and for you.”

“Beautiful, beautiful,” Gage mumbled as he licked the woman’s mouth.

Harrison’s fist throttled the pulsating, dark penis, his own cock up hard against Gage’s shapely ass. “Lola,” he commanded. “Do you want your boss’ big prick inside you?”

Lola held Gage’s face in her hands, and when she pulled away to cry earnestly, “Yes, yes, Gage, mount me like an animal. I’m wide open.” That did it. That I’m wide open. Swiveling with a great lunge against Gage’s bare ass, Harrison urged his friend, “Now, now, Gage! She’s waiting for you. She’s yearning for you. You don’t want to let me down, do you? This is your chance, your chance to take the most delicious woman in town. Slide up her, Gage, slide up—”

Gage hardly needed any more persuasion, his penis well-nigh being sucked inside of her, Harrison’s fingers jumping out of the way, it was so swift—there was no need to guide or incite this randy bastard. As Lola’s head lolled to one side on a limp neck and she let loose a satisfied groan that Harrison knew she’d never uttered with him, jealousy again flared in his chest. He could only watch for a few moments, the fleshy, well-formed ass pumping away at his woman, the fascinating sinews of Gage’s muscular back roiling like the eddies of a swollen river, Lola’s toes curling to point at the ceiling, and Harrison had to get another rag of tepid water to furiously bathe those exquisitely broad shoulders.

He used the bar of soap this time and scrubbed savagely, rinsing again to splash more water over the undulating muscles, rapidly moving down the sublime slope of Gage’s lower back to the rise of his ass, where he washed more assiduously, cupping the full balls in one palm. The men sloshed around in probably an inch of water on the floor, the childish shuffling of their feet in tandem with the suctioning slaps of the couple’s fucking. Harrison fondled the balls tenderly with the rag, then tossed that aside to slide the bar of soap between the tempting globes of Gage’s ass.

When Gage moaned and Harrison felt a fine tremor run up the backs of his friend’s legs, he knew it wouldn’t be long until he shot his load, so he lobbed the soap atop the rag and slid one, then two fingers up Gage’s ass. The other hand he pressed to Gage’s steamy pubic bone, just above the root of his slimy prick, to stay him, to slow him down. But his questing fingers had the opposite effect, as Harrison recalled from being fucked so thoroughly on the dusty buffalo robe in the City Hotel. There was a certain spot up there, he thought of it as a sweet spot, where the tip of Gage’s prick had just tickled, and that’s when he’d spewed all over his own belly, embarrassingly. It was probable Gage had the same spot, and Harrison wasn’t going to waste the sensation on his fingers, so he withdrew them.

“Whoa, whoa,” he warned Gage, slapping him on the backside in a bullying manner. A grin burst onto his face as he heard himself scolding, “The terms of your employment mean you ream my woman perfectly, but slowly.”

“You bastard,” Gage snarled, but with a twinge to his voice that told Harrison he recalled his own previous “terms of employment” when he had pinned Harrison to the bed and forcibly kissed him. He did wind down his humping a bit, but this only caused Lola’s eyes to roll even further back into her head, and she mewed.

“No. Not slow. Faster.”

Harrison unsheathed his own penis and grabbed the jar of lard or whatever animal drippings Lola collected from her cooking. He smeared it scrupulously down the length of his penis, but when his thumb rubbed the greasy, delicious stuff over the glans, he nearly lost it. His entire body jerked in a small pre-orgasmic spasm, and he positioned the bulbous head at Gage’s entrance.

“I’ll show you how fast to go,” he instructed, a bit less certain of his command now.

Gage paused in his fucking now. He must have been aware of Harrison’s intentions, and he seemed to tense while Lola whimpered for more. Harrison understood. It had not been very pleasant at first when Gage had fucked him, being unaccustomed to being used in that manner. And his penis wasn’t as narrow as Gage’s. But with short stiff jabs, he slid past the initial tight ring, and he was in the glorious slick ass, as Gage huffed and puffed, releasing the tension.

“This fast,” Harrison said with more assurance as he gripped the sinewy hips. It was glorious to be in charge for once, to be the aggressor, with the arrogant domineering town treasurer speared on his prick like this. He grasped the ass muscles in his splayed palms as he drove into him, unsure at first if he was hurting Gage—Gage’s whimpers were now starting to sound indiscernible from Lola’s. But when Harrison flung one long arm around his chest, drawing his torso up to slap against Harrison’s own chest—sweat, soap, water, and bad wine all comingling into a mélange of liquids between their bodies—Harrison nibbled on his friend’s earlobe, and the sweet man laughed in an exhalation of tension and ecstasy.

“Lord, Harrison,” Gage panted. “You are really…something.”

“Come on!” Lola cried.

The tremors in Gage’s thighs told Harrison that he had nearly reached that sweet spot, so he slapped the torso back down until Gage hunched over Lola again. Gripping the slick shoulders, Harrison humped him with short quick little jabs. His own balls drew up, hard and full against his body. A great surge of rapture threatened to flood up his penis, but he wanted to feel his friend’s release, to tickle the fluttering of that sweet spot inside Gage. Bending at the knees, he swung one long arm down to slather his palm against Gage’s glutted testicles, and that’s when he felt it.





“Mr. Palomares!” With shoulders squared, the buffoon addressed Knut.

Knut sat up proudly. “How did you know that I am Mr.—” he started to say, but Sal cut him off.

“I am Don Salvador Palomares,” he declared with irritation. Knut looked offended to have not been allowed to be Don Salvador for more than one second. “Who are you, and what is your business?”

“Mr. McCarthy says you should proceed to the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, and meet with him there.” The thug reversed his direction and lumbered back down the street.

Ophir shrugged. “I guess we should follow. Although what will we do with Tamasin while we’re having this confab? We can’t very well leave her in the street with these ruffians.”

“No, not at all. And Knut will turn into a crybaby if we try to leave him out. I suppose we should take her in with us.”

“If this place really does have a thousand drinks, she could amuse herself with some aguardiente.  Didn’t it seem strange that lout immediately knew who you were, as though we were expected here?”

The thuggish fellow vanished into one of the many buildings that had been built in the past couple of months. There was no sign out front, and no drunks were describing zigzag Virginia fences in and out the door, so it couldn’t be an ordinary grog shop.

“Maybe it is sort of an office building, such as we are building in Bear Valley?” Knut suggested when several efficient Americans leaped forward to take their reins.  “But I would really like to know more about these thousand drinks.”

The interior proved to be a large room about twenty feet long, a wide array of different rickety tables and chairs lit by whale oil lamps. Indeed there was a rough oak bar and a barkeep who wasn’t very busy, as there were only three men seated at a center table, so Knut made a beeline for one of the many drinks he was assured were there, taking Tamasin with him.

The two partners approached the center table, and Tyke McCarthy removed his threadbare, misshapen hat. Apparently for one who styled himself the alcalde of this burg, he couldn’t afford a better hat. “Mr. Palomares,” he sneered. He did not extend his hand. “Last time we met, you introduced me to an oak tree and stole some of my workers.”

Salvador placed his sombrero on the greasy table, and nodded guardedly. “Yes, I did. California is a free state, and workers are free to go wherever the pay and the treatment is the best.”

“Well, and thank you for asking me how my head is doing. I see you’ve brought your contingent with you—a colored slave”—he looked Ophir up and down as though he were a steaming pile of cow’s entrails—“and your Swedish manservant, as well as a…”

“Yes, this is my partner, Ophir, as I introduced you before,” Sal said quickly, as Tyke’s eyeballs were already glazing over with a prurient appetite at the sight of Tamasin. Sal did, however, extend his hand to the stranger wearing an extremely wide-brimmed felt hat. “And you might be…?”

The small-eyed fellow shook his hand, but said guardedly, “Thomas Jefferson Green.” The anti-greaser slave-owner narrowed his tiny eyes at Sal. Sal had a feeling this meeting would not go well. The third member of the meeting was the burly enforcer. No one introduced him, and no one was sitting down.

Sal said, “We’re here to discuss collecting rents, and the loss of many of my cattle.”

“Oh, is that so?” Tyke laughed and raised his empty glass in the direction of the barkeep. “Sam, a round of whiskeys all around.”

“No, thank you,” said Ophir.

“Thank you, no,” Sal echoed. “Some water would be nice.”

“Water?” scoffed Tyke. He laughed with his partner, Mr. Green. It was a gruesome sight in one so slimy and repugnant. Sal certainly didn’t want to have to look at his corroded teeth again. “Have you ever seen anyone drink water in these parts, Tom Jeff?”

Tom Jeff shared Tyke’s amusement, and his teeth weren’t nearly as noisome. “Maybe Mr. Palomares is so interested in water because he’s fixing to steal all the Merced water for his own operations upriver.”

Sal frowned. “Steal? You can hardly steal water, Mr. Green. If anything, you’re stealing it from me, as I own this entire part of the river.”

Tom Jeff’s face reddened and Tyke cut him off in a show of forced jollity. “And maybe that’s why he wants a glass of it back, Tom Jeff. Now, here’s Mr. Frostad, how are you, my fine fellow? I see you don’t consider yourself above drinking our whiskey.”

Knut gestured with his whiskey glass. “Jah, Mr. McCarthy, I find it most interesting to compare the different vintages of whiskey from one part of this country to another—”

Tyke nearly bowled over his chair in his attempts to greet Tamasin, who had been hiding behind Knut, soaking her lips in her whiskey glass. “And who might I have the pleasure of greeting?” he said slimily, while Tamasin yanked her hand away from his paw.

Salvador stepped to Tamasin’s side, insinuating himself bodily between Tyke and his paramour. “She is nobody, she is our housemaid.” Already he intended to apologize later to Tamasin for that remark, but he didn’t want Tyke paying undue attention to her. He took her by the upper arm and led her to an empty chair while saying, “Now, we have business to discuss. Knut here has taken my survey of my land, and filed it in San José—”

“As California Land Case Number One!” Knut pointed out with alacrity.

“—so it’s only a matter of time before my ownership is acknowledged. Most everyone in and around Mariposa and Bear Valley has agreed to pay rent for the use of my land in their mining operations. Now you, as alcalde”—Sal loathed bestowing Tyke with that moniker, but flattery would help in this instance—“have the power to persuade people around Hornitos to follow. Knut, show him the claim you filed.”

As he shuffled around in his purse, Knut remarked, “Why do they call this building the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks? It does not appear to be an ordinary grog shop, more of a headquarters for your League.”

“Ah, that’s easy,” Tyke replied happily. “Tom Jeff Green here has served in three Southern legislatures. He had a mighty idea to come to California from Texas and use slaves to grow cotton.”

“Which is why he was ejected from the Yuba River,” Ophir mentioned.

Tyke ignored Ophir. “So Mr. Green here is going back to San José to run for state senator. He has a splendid saloon there known as the Legislature of a Thousand Drinks, so we started up this one here.”

Sal frowned. “And what is your business in Hornitos then, Mr. Green? Shouldn’t you be in San José trying to win office?”




That Ophir stood behind him, urgently rotating the head of his massive cock against Sal’s ass, only increased his rapture. To finally glide his cock up her slick, hot passage was enough to bring him off instantly, and to watch her ass rotate and wiggle with pleasure was a treat he’d never experienced.

He was afraid of hurting her at first, thinking perhaps she’d been assaulted in the past. It was an arrogant thought that his penis was overly large, but once he was lodged against the final extremity of her passage, Sal tried to move slower. It was as though her cunt had sucked him in, like the mouth of one of those meat-eating flowers! The sucking and clenching of it compelled him on, the walls of her inner twat gripping and munching at his prick as though it had some masterly, adept life of its own.

When Ophir unclothed his own cock and rubbed the hot crown of it against Sal’s ass, his balls filled to their maximum and drew up close to his body. He had to still himself while Tamasin whimpered for more. Ophir dipped his fingers into a bowl of what was apparently manteca, and Sal could tell by the rigorous motions of Ophir’s bicep that he was slathering it onto his prick. Ophir’s bawdy murmurings only served to heighten Sal’s impending orgasm.

“That’s good, Sal, real good. Keep it up, keep pounding your wife. Isn’t she beautiful all spread out like that? Doesn’t it make your long…thick…juicy cock just want to erupt inside of her?”

“Oh, ay dios, sí, Ophir…” Sal muttered nonsensically. Yes to what? To the achingly exquisite sight of Tamasin with spread legs leaning forward on the bed, or to what Ophir was planning to do with the manteca?

When Ophir’s greasy fingers probed his asshole, smearing the unctuous butter up to his first knuckle inside of him, Sal had to slow his pumping until he was nearly stopped. This made Tamasin mewl with need, so Sal picked her up by the hips and launched her on all fours onto the bed, where he remained crouched over and into her.

“Ah!” she cried, and seemed to like this subservient position where her hungry quim could feel every nuance and slight motion of his penis. When he flexed his cock inside of her, she gasped and jumped, and he knew he could control her orgasm by the movements of his fingers against her clitoris.

Ophir positioned the giant mushroom head of his prick against Sal’s asshole, and Sal’s thighs quivered with anticipation and a bit of fear. He’d never been speared before, much less with an enormous appendage like Ophir’s, but he relaxed into the warm grip of Ophir’s steadying hand on his hip, and Ophir’s licentious words helped calm his trepidation at being invaded like that.

“I’m going to fuck you, Sal, my love, my love.” The bulging crown of Ophir’s prick breached the tight ring of his ass, sending a flood of jism up the underside of Sal’s penis. “Feel yourself inside of Tamasin. Feel her cunt squeezing your fat, luscious cock.” Ophir gave a swift little jab with his prick and he was halfway buried inside Sal. “You’re inside your wife, the woman you love. And the man who loves you is buggering your firm, fleshy ass. Good God, Sal.” He slapped Sal’s ass with such a loud snap the guests downstairs might have heard it, had Knut not commenced to caterwauling on Ophir’s fiddle. “That’s right, my big bull of a man. Feel my cock filling you. I’m gonna fill you with loads of my hot jism.” Another slap. “You like this? Tell me you like it. Tell me you like being bumfucked by my giant, meaty horse cock.”

Sal was so choked up, trying to hold in roars of intense excitement, he could only answer Ophir in monosyllables. “Sí,” he squeaked. “Fuck me, Ophir. Fuck me. With your. Giant prick.”

When Ophir commenced to driving nearly the entire length of his prick in and out of Sal’s asshole, Sal couldn’t hold back. The view of Tamasin’s pure white shoulder blades, so delicate like a bird’s, was enough to send him over the edge. He remembered to pet her clitoris, knowing by the slick bulging that she would soon be squirting her feminine juices all over his hand. He loved that, particularly when she gushed against his mouth, and he tasted and supped her juice.

“Good God, Sal.” Ophir bit the tender flesh at the side of his neck as he pumped into him. “You are one. Big. Delicious morsel of ass.”

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