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- Herausgeber: Olympia Press
- Kategorie: Erotik
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015
The Singing Wind
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The Singing Wind
Rod McGraw
This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
Chapter One...
The Bulls Head Saloon was packed. Burly, sweaty miners elbowed in against the long bar. Brightly clad dance hall girls moved among them, deftly fending off the pawing hands of the bearded, drunken miners. Smith moved in the shadows at the back of the dark saloon, sweeping up the sawdust and mixture of expectorations, cigar butts and trash that accumulated hourly in the saloon.
The mood of the miners was growing ugly. Smith shivered inwardly and tried to keep his eyes off the stout, hairy bodies of the men yelling and shouting at the long bar. Something was going to happen. Smith could fed it in the air, sense it with every fiber of his being. He had lived in Tombstone long enough to be able to recognize the signs Of trouble. Still, Tombstone was better than the desert and the Apache.
Smith swept the pile of trash toward the back door, careful not to appear in a hurry. One thing he had learned in his three years in Tombstone was not to make any sudden moves. Especially not in the Bulls Head Saloon. Countless men now digging up cactus in their graves had learned that lesson the hard way. Sudden moves spelled trouble. A flash of movement in the corner of a drunken man's eye meant sudden death to somebody as nervous guns spat their lethal flame of death. Many a bystander had gotten in the way of a stray bullet and died. Accidental death in Tombstone was a daily happening.
Smith shivered inwardly and forced himself to maintain a steady sweeping motion. The back door was only a few feet away. He could duck into the dark alley and retreat to hole up in his stable room until the din and noise had died down and the drunks either passed out or went to bed somewhere. Later he would come back and mop up.
Charlie Brubaker began spouting obscenities, his loud voice rising above the din, a beer glass in one hand and a six-gun in the other. Smith shivered. The presence of the burly, bearded, black haired mountain of a man made him nervous. Brubaker was the leader of the Tombstone miners and a giant of a man stretching nearly six and a half feet in height and weighing close to two hundred thirty pounds. His shoulders were the width of a wagon yoke and it was said he was hung like a bull. Smith licked dry lips and felt his hands tremble on the broom handle. He cast a glance toward the doorway. He was less than five feet away. In a minute he would be able to slip through the door and knife through the dark night to his stable room where he would burrow down in the warm hay and wait out the noisy drunken miners.
Brubaker mounted a table, feet planted wide, hands gesturing as he spouted angrily at the circle of men ringing him. Smith shot a quick glance at him and spotted the scantily dressed saloon girls on the fringe of the group. Brubaker stabbed one finger toward Gail Concord. The redheaded beauty met his stare and shook her head angrily. Smith paused to lean on his broom and watch them.
“You too good for me, lass?” Brubaker shouted at her.
Gail stood straight, red hair tossing back on the bare nape of her neck, tiny hands spread wide on curving hips, bare legs planted firmly. She stared at Charlie, showing no fear of the miner's feared wrath.
“I don't go with the beer, Charlie,” she shouted back, anger riding her voice like the snap of a whip. “I run the joint for Tom Morgan. The girls work for me. Pick one of them to vent your lusts on!”
Charlie tossed back his head and laughed heartily. “I've had all of them!” He roared, wagging one finger at her. “Now I want you! I've heard tell you're the best of the lot!”
Gail shook her red head slowly. “I wouldn't have you even if I was working the trade,” she said, voice filling with scorn and derision. “The way I hear it, you're too big for any woman!”
An uproar of laughter filled the saloon. Brubaker stopped momentarily, his fat face flushed. He tipped the beer bottle and emptied it in one gulp, then hurled it against the far wall to smash into a hundred pieces. Brubaker planted his hands on broad hips and stared hard at Gail, Saliva running down his bristly chin.
“So I'm too much man for you, eh? That what you're saying, lass?”
“You're not only too big for my girls but you're too cruel in the way you use them, Charlie!” Gail thundered, her voice hard. “You've put more than one of my girls out of commission for three days at a time with that weapon of yours!”
The men let loose wild uproarious guffaws. Brubaker beamed at his audience. He withdrew his six-gun and cocked the hammer back and pointed it at the ceiling.
“Well, now, that's too bad, lass, 'cause I'm going to put you out of commission for at least a week!”
Belly laughs rumbled out of the miners. Smith felt compassion for the redheaded beauty. Gail didn't belong in this honky-tonk. She had class and the kind of beauty reserved for better things. Still there was nothing he could do to help her. He was not going against Brubaker and his miners. Neither would the bartender give her a hand. Brubaker wanted her and he was going to have her.
“I'm gonna strip you naked and take you right on top of the bar, lass. Every man jack in the Bulls Head Saloon can watch me nail you to the bar with my weapon of love!”
The miners laughed heartily and slapped one another across the backs. Brubaker leaped to the floor with an earthquaking rumble. Gail turned, darting suddenly on bended hands and knees, slipping between a miners legs and racing toward the back door. Brubaker cursed and toppled the guilty miner with one swing of his powerful right hand, sending him whirling across the room to crash against a table, splintering it with his weight as he fell heavily to the floor.
Gail cast a wild eyed glance at the bartender, who turned his back to her. She moved quickly toward the back door. Smith felt chills run up and down his backbone. Gail darted a quick look at him as she dashed toward the open back door.
“Detain him, Smith,” she whispered as she moved by him.
Smith gulped and turned as Brubaker rocked to a halt before him, small green eyes blazing with fury, thin lipped mouth snarling in contempt.
“Why didn't you stop her?” Brubaker roared in a demanding voice.
Smith felt the fear heavy in his heart, paralyzing his mind. He quaked in his boots before the angry miner. Brubaker glared at him, his foul breath forcing Smith to retreat a step. Brubaker doubled his mammoth fists and shoved him against the wall, holding him immobile. Smith trembled from head to toe. Brubaker cursed and spun him to the floor. Smith fell heavily, the broom clattering against the warped wooden floor as Brubaker charged toward the alley door. The broom tripped the miner neatly across the ankles, pitching him forward into the alley on his face, causing him to howl in pain and anger.
Smith got to his feet quickly, spinning around for an avenue of escape. The miners moved toward him in a-body, their faces grim. Smith spun back toward the alley doorway just as Brubaker filled the opening.
“Get him!” Brubaker roared.
Smith spun back toward the bar but hands reached out to grab him and hold him. He tried to fight free but strong arms pinned his arms behind his back, holding him fast. Brubaker moved up to confront him, cold green eyes glittering with anger.
“You tripped me on purpose, you Tittle bastard!” Brubaker growled accusingly, rock hard fists waving under Smith's nose.
Smith stared at the fists, shaking his head, perspiration breaking out on his body. He tried to talk but no sounds came out of his parched throat.
“I oughta whip you within an inch of your life but you're no man!” Brubaker sneered in contempt. “You wouldn't last ten seconds in the ring with me. You're nothing but a coward and a swamper. Ain't that right, Smith?”
Smith swallowed hard. He nodded his head, eyes fixed on the man's belt buckle, unable to raise his head and meet the fierce penetrating gaze of the miner.
Brubaker laughed, a deep rumble rolling up out of his chest. “I hear tell them Apache out on the desert took all the fight out of you. That right, yellow dog? That how it is?”
Brubaker's voice was growing mean. Smith nodded quickly, eyes riveted to the man's crotch. Suddenly he realized the man's crotch was swelling outward. He blinked his eyes. The stories he'd heard were true. Brubaker was built like a bull!
“I tell you to get down on your knees, you'll do it, won't you, Smith?”
Smith squeezed his eyes shut. He nodded. Pain was one thing he could not endure. The Apache, Disalin, and his renegade band of Chiracahaus had taught him that. Disalin had taken Singing Wind away from him and proven him a coward before the eyes of his only true love.
Disalin had driven him from the desert and to the questionable refuge of the Bulls Head Saloon in Tombstone. It was true he was scared of his own shadow and less than a man. He was a coward, fit only for swamping out saloons and quaking before the presence of angry men like Charlie Brubaker.
“I wanted that lass,” Brubaker yelled, anger raging in him now. “You stopped me from having her. Maybe that broom tripping was an accident and maybe not. Anyway, I got me a big load and I need relief! You're going to give it to me!”
The miners surrounding them all let out a loud yell of appreciation. Smith swallowed hard. He knew what was coming. There wasn't any way of stopping it. None at all.
“Strip him naked!” Brubaker ordered his men. “Let's see what the puny little bastard looks like without his clothes on!”
The miners howled with laugher. Hands tore at his clothes. Smith bowed his head. He did not protest. He could not fight them. There were too many.
Hands fumbled with his belt buckle. His shirt was ripped forcibly from his body. His pants dropped to the floor. Hands raised his feet, yanking off his boots, leaving him stark naked before the miners and Brubaker who leered at him. Hands fondled his privates roughly, attempting to bring him to full erection. Smith gritted his teeth, letting them have their way, knowing in a few seconds he would be on his knees before the giant, Brubaker, doing his bidding.
A loud hush fell over the saloon, punctuated by Brubaker's laugh of triumph. Smith opened his eyes and blinked. The giant was nude, except for boots and gunbelt. Smith's eyes flitted across the broad, hairy chest, down over solid hips and stout legs and then to the enormous size of his manhood hanging halfway to his knees between muscular hairy legs. Smith trembled. Brubaker was the biggest man he had ever seen. Bigger, even, than any bull he had ever watched attack a cow.
Slowly, powerfully, the limp member arose. A hush fell over the jam packed saloon as the giant instrument of love grew to full erection before Smith's eyes. He blinked back tears. He could never take this man. Brubaker was too big. Almost a foot in length and at least eight inches around the enormous pink head!
The six-gun appeared in Brubaker's right hand. He cocked the hammer back. Smith stared into the mean little eyes and saw the slash mouth twist into a sardonic grin. He shivered and felt weak and helpless and unable to stop this thing from happening.
“Get up on the bar, squaw!” Brubaker ordered, his voice hard.
The miners tittered with laughter. Smith felt his cheeks flush with sudden shame. He was no more than a woman, letting this giant do what he wanted with him, giving into the lusts of the man before an audience of drunken sots.
He felt hands lifting him, then the cold mahogany wood of the bar top under his feet made him shiver. Now he was spot-lighted on the bar top where everybody in the saloon could watch him perform his act of degrading sex. He squeezed his eyes shut. There were at least fifty men in the room as well as two or three of the more brazen dance hall girls. At least the others had left, rather than watch him being subjected to this.
Brubaker leaped onto the bar top and moved close to Smith. Smith wavered as the gun jammed the side of his head and Brubaker's free hand damped down on one shoulder cruelly, forcing him to fall to his knees, the flaunting male thing vibrating within inches of his lips. Now the hand was on his head, pulling him toward the giant maleness. Smith licked dry lips, eyes focused on the hard, throbbing instrument of desire.
“Do it!” Brubaker commanded, the barrel of the gun digging into the side of his head. “Do it or I'll blow your head off!”
Smith closed his eyes and opened his mouth wide. He felt the heat of the throbbing flesh as it burrowed between his lips. He gulped and tried to take all of the gigantic pink head into his mouth but it was impossible. He could never manage it alone. Brubaker pumped his hips at him suddenly, his hand forcing his head forward to meet the thrusting drives of pumping hips. Smith gulped and gripped the bony staff with both hands and tried to hold the man back.
“Take all of me!” Brubaker thundered. “Take every bit of me or I'll ram it up your ass!”
The miners broke out into uncontrolled laughter. Smith felt a shiver wrack his body. He relaxed his hold on the giant's staff and attempted to take all of the huge instrument. Hot flesh filled the cavern of his mouth, pulsating in frenzied excitement, grazing against his lips, plunging deep into his mouth, tickling the tonsils at the back of his throat, making him gag. The huge instrument slipped inside his mouth, beyond the knobby head, gagging him. He clamped down suddenly on the hot throbbing maleness and tried to pull away. Brubaker roared with sudden triumph as he bucked and twitched in ecstasy.
A hot rush of spunk gushed down Smith's throat. He gagged as the rich creamy semen spurted into his mouth and felt a chilling sensation reverberate throughout his own body, thrilling him. His own throbbing maleness stood up hard and straight. He closed his eyes and dug his fingers into the miners flanks and gobbled up every drop of the delicious nectar. He heard the miners chuckling and laughing and opened his eyes in time to see one miner pointing at his own erection.
“The swamper really likes it!” The miner shouted. '“Look at him!”
Suddenly there was a chorus of chants from the miners.
“I get him next!” One man cried, fighting to reach the bar.
Hands shoved him away. Smith wavered on hands and knees on the slick bar top. He looked up into the leering face of Charlie Brubaker, his eyes still glazed with passion.
“Let me at him!” A miner from the rear of the crowd called out, his chest already bared in his excitement.
Another miner dropped his pants, exposing a rock hard erection. “I'm next!” The man cried out.
Brubaker laughed easily. “Sure. Why not? Every man jack of you that wants this cowardly little man-eater can get in line and have at him! He's good this way... better than any woman I ever made do it to me! Maybe we'll take him back to the mine and keep him for ourselves!”
A chorus of cheers went up. The miner laughed uproariously. Smith groaned and sank down on his haunches. Another miner leaped onto the bar, naked and fully aroused. Smith met the man's lusting eyes, pleading with him for his freedom. The man shook his head, laughing gutturally. Smith groaned in despair and resigned himself to his fate.
Smith gripped the naked man's buttocks and pulled him toward him. Between his legs he spotted Gail moving in through the front batwing doors, followed by her lover, Tom Morgan. A quick ray of hope pulsated in his Chest. Morgan had twin six-guns in hand, the hammers thumbed back.
Morgan shouldered to the middle of the pack, waving his guns. Gail followed closely behind him. Brubaker turned from his stance on the bar to spot them. He growled low in his throat.
“Hold it right there!'“ Morgan bellowed, aiming his guns at Brubaker's hairy chest. “The next man who moves gets buried!”
A hush fell over the saloon. Nobody moved.
Morgan caught Smith's eye, jerking his head in an unspoken command. Smith slipped quietly to the floor and bent down to pick up the torn remnants of his clothes. Miners backed away from him as he picked up his things and moved out of the saloon and into the alley. Behind him, Smith heard Brubaker angrily defying Morgan with spouted words.
“Damn it, Morgan! The swamper liked it! You should have seen him doing it!”
“Smith works for me, Charlie!” Morgan countered, his voice hard. “You want sex, you buy a woman! And Gail's my woman... understand?”
Brubaker growled low in his throat. Smith hesitated outside the bar, listening for an answer that did not come. He leaned against the side of the building and pulled on his pants and then shoved feet into worn boots and pulled on the tattered shirt.
Morgan and Gail appeared in the alley doorway. Morgan did not look at him directly. “Go upstairs with Gail,” he barked. “Clean up. II be back later.”
Morgan turned and moved abruptly off down the alley. Gail moved by him. Smith turned to follow her. She climbed the back stairway to the offices and rooms above the saloon. He followed her gratefully.
He hung his head in shame. Gail had witnessed his act of fellatio. She had seen him debased.
Dying would have been easier. Now he had to five with his shame. There would be other moments of degradation in the future. He would have to perform oral sex on other men.
He shook his head slowly. There wasn't any way out.
He was doomed.
Chapter Two...
Smith soaked in the hot soapy water. He leaned against the side of the tub in Morgan's private quarters above the saloon. He tried recalling the days when he had been a man among men with as much courage and bravery as the harsh country demanded. Three years ago he had been such a man. Three long, hard, almost forgotten years ago.
He closed his eyes and rested h [...]
