Thursday, July 4, 2013

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Going for the Gold 6


Copyright © 2012

Chapter One

To speak of California was like mentioning the end of the world.

—The World Rushed In: The California Gold Rush Experience, J.S. Holliday

Near Sutter’s Fort

June 1846

When Milo returned down the hill from pissing behind a rock, Stuttering Zeke was talking to a stunningly handsome soldier.

Every nerve in Milo’s skin became alert—tense, tingly, on fire. He went to stand next to the luscious soldier. He put his hands on his hips and cocked his head, just vaguely listening to their palaver. But really, he was studying the craggy face and bowed lips of this reprobate corporal.

Milo knew Corporal Vargas was a reprobate mainly because he was from Spain. They were all deviant buggers in Spain. But this deviant bugger’s demeanor was entirely sensual. His lush lips curled up arrogantly at the corners, and his thick tousled head of hair was hidden under the ratty cloth turban he’d fashioned. Some tendrils that escaped at his neck gave him an erotic, almost girlish look.

The lashes fringing his malachite-green eyes were also girlishly long. Those were the only feminine features of this devilishly delicious soldier. He was obviously powerfully muscular under his fringed leggings and the navy shirt with stars on the collar. The naval supplies issued to Frémont’s California Battalion, however, hadn’t lasted long. Most battalion men wore a mishmash of clothing, handmade or stolen, and this fine specimen of manhood was no exception, with his Digger moccasins. A brace of pistols in his gun belt, the requisite bowie knife, a sword, and a rifle slung across his back, and Corporal Vargas was bristling like a porcupine with armament.

“I’m telling you, Zeke. Is it Zeke?” asked Corporal Vargas. His tone wasn’t Spanish at all. He’d obviously been born in the States. Milo wondered what conflict ran through this beautiful soldier’s emotions, to be sympathetic to a rebellion that promised to take away the entirety of Alta California from Spanish rule. Vargas was of Spanish extraction, yet he’d obviously never set foot on Spanish soil.

“Stuttering Zeke Merritt,” Milo clarified, just to draw attention to himself. “Leader of us Osos.” The men had decided to use the Spanish word for bear as their emblem. It was suggested by the many bear hunters in their midst, fresh from the blood and fat of the bruin.

Frémont had dubbed Zeke lieutenant of their irregular battalion. Milo didn’t think that was a good choice. Zeke was constantly roostered on some colorless Dutch liquor called schiedam, and his temper was quite fiery. Not that Milo thought Frémont should’ve chosen him, either. He was nearly as bitter and roostered as Zeke. No, someone like the ungainly, rational Semple, or his friend and former neighbor Grigsby, should have been chosen.

Vargas considered Milo, as though he hadn’t noticed him before. The pupils of his dazzling green eyes dilated in appreciation. “Stuttering Zeke,” Vargas repeated obediently, dazedly, as though mesmerized with Milo. Slowly he returned to his train of thought, clearing his throat. “Yes. Well. I was just telling, ah, Stuttering Zeke here that a Lieutenant Gillespie just came from President Polk with messages for Frémont. And I don’t mean to sound skeptical of my own commander, but I think Frémont may be fomenting your rebellion.”

“What was Polk’s message?” Milo asked eagerly.

“That’s the thing,” said Vargas. “Gillespie went through Mexico to get here, so of course he destroyed the written dispatches and just verbally told Frémont the gist. Gillespie seems to be Frémont’s confidential advisor, his adjutant. They’ve known each other a long time. Anyway, Frémont hasn’t given us any orders yet, but lots of guys are speculating he has orders from Polk to wage war against Mexico.”

Dobry,” muttered Milo in Polish. Good. Louder, he declared, “We must be allowed to defend ourselves and our companions-in-arms who were invited to this country by a promise of land for our families.” Mexico wasn’t responsible for the deaths of his wife and daughter, but their proclamation that they would extradite “foreigners” sent Milo over the edge, forcing him to leave his farm behind and joining up with the other irate Osos. They had as much right to farm in California as the Spanish “Californios.” The rumor that the Spanish government in Mexico City wanted to drive foreigners from the settlements had everyone up in arms—leaving their families and farms to find Frémont and see what could be done.

For some reason Milo’s outburst made Corporal Vargas smile, charmingly. He was really quite boyish but probably at least the same age as Milo’s thirty and five years. “You are so eloquent.”

Milo snarled, “I get fired up. When we arrived in California, we were denied even the privilege of buying or renting the lands of our friends. General Castro is threatening us with extermination if we don’t depart without our arms, our beasts of burden. Driven through deserts inhabited by hostile Indians to certain destruction! With Frémont on our side, our rebellion will surely prevail.”

Vargas’s face hardened. “Those are flowery words, Mister…”

“Milo Stephens.” He rarely told anyone his birth name was Milosz Stefanski. If he was to fight for Americans’ rights, he had better sound like an American. He had sailed from Poland right after the November Uprising fifteen years ago, so he considered himself an American. “They are flowery words because they are righteous words! Right, Zeke? A prosperous government must originate with its friendly and happy people—not these spooks in Mexico City who have already seized the mission’s properties and oppressed the laboring people of California!”

Vargas looked around as though afraid someone might overhear them. “Those are fine words, Mr. Stephens.”


“Milo. You’re a very magnetic and fearsome speaker. I can see you have righteous reasons to dislike the Mexican government.”

Milo tried to exhale his anger. “I have a farm a hundred miles up the Sacramento River. When I heard two hundred Spaniards were coming to burn my wheat and drive off my cattle, I knew I couldn’t just sit there waiting for them, yanking on my bone.” His fervor for his cause was such that he nearly risked alienating this stolid solider, who, after all, seemed skeptical of his own commander.

Zeke added, “Spaniards did send some Digger Indians to burn down my house.”

Corporal Vargas said, “I sympathize with you. I really do. I’m just worried that Frémont, with the goading of all you hotheads, will search for any excuse to justify starting a war.”

“But you’re a soldier,” Milo said, as gently as he could muster. “Don’t you want a war? What else do you do all day but tramp around from place to place, shooting elk and cougars?”

Vargas insisted, “Don’t you see? Frémont can’t tear around like a renegade, starting premature wars, acting on his own prejudices. He’s been angry with Castro since we were driven out of Monterey, and I fear he’ll use any slight justification to begin aggression. He’s not supposed to do anything without the sanction of the United States.”

Milo chuckled. Reynaldo Vargas was very handsome when self-righteously riled. He was probably just as handsome in other attitudes, as well. “And what’s wrong with that? We all know Polk will declare war sooner or later. Frémont is only being very farsighted. Listen. I’m going to bathe in these cool waters. I’m not a funky roughneck like the rest of these dogs. Vargas, your soldiers are more rough-looking than us frontier Osos.”

With a knowing wink, Milo shouldered his rifle and started off toward the Sacramento River. That had been his goal ten minutes ago, anyway, and he had soap in the possible bag slung over his shoulder. Let these rowdy loafers run around smelling like a three-day-old dead skunk. Although as a recent mountain man himself, he normally would be wearing an animal on his head like some of these men. He’d just had to stop trapping and start farming because the beaver appeared to be all trapped out.

He could feel Vargas’s eyes on his ass as he strode to the river. Dobry. Milo knew from past experience that Vargas would take his bait. He knew he had a curvaceous ass that looked tempting between the fringed leggings tied about his hips. Women were so scarce in California, men had practically started an uprising a few weeks ago when a thieving prostitute had been hung near Sutter’s Fort. This scarcity meant that most men put aside their normal mores from the Old States in order to enthusiastically bugger any fellow who caught their fancy. And Corporal Vargas had caught Milo’s fancy.

Milosz Stefanski could care less about the prostitute who had been given the necktie party. He’d been happily bumfucking only men since his wife and daughter had died at the hands of Indians on that godforsaken Oregon Trail in forty-one. He didn’t want to—couldn’t—open himself up to the tender emotions even looking at another woman brought surging up inside him. Women were frail creatures and susceptible to every ailment that came down the pike. Who wanted to risk associating with them?

Yet he still had the drive, the fired-up lust of the vigorous pioneer. Since there were so few women about to torture him anyway, Milo had easily fallen into a habit of seducing any attractive buck he crossed paths with. It had seemed foreign and strange at first, but it had become such a compulsive habit it was now like a drug that one had to return to again and again to feel pleasure.

In fact, Milo had turned into something of a libertine. His prick was already halfway erect when he kicked aside his moccasins and stepped out of his leggings and pantaloons. He peeled off his filthy shirt. He’d paid Digger women to wash some clothes for him and was waiting for their return. He was accustomed to plunging into the melted snow waters of the Sacramento, which he did now. The water shocked his blood and numbed his skin, but he plowed on through the glittering sheet of water. Coming to a deep pool, he treaded water, as the river bottom was far below his feet. He dipped his head backward into the frigid water, instantly numbing it. But when he emerged into the bright sunlight, clarity and peace began to spread through him.

Milo floated on his back for awhile, feeling lighter than air. He deserved to rest and bathe if he was going to spend the next several months engaged in warfare. There was plenty of time for flea-riddled bedclothes, trying to sleep next to snoring, belching soldiers. For now, Milo wanted to float in the pure, clean waters.

His cock twitched as his mind drifted back to the virile soldier, Reynaldo Vargas. Milo knew that the curly-haired buck would succumb easily under his prodding. He knew it wouldn’t take long to taunt and tease that potent bugger to a healthy climax. Since surrendering to this Greek love type of life, Milo had heartily accepted his own domineering nature. He liked subduing other men, watching as their faces turned from innocent protestation to debauched joy. While Milo’s method of coaxing was usually quite brutal, it was always a pleasure to watch the men cave as bliss washed over them. By the time Milo cut them loose, they were usually a bowl of pudding in his hands.

His prick was throbbing against his hip bone when a large splash sounded off the shore. He’d been on alert for weeks now since hearing about Castro’s proclamation, so he snapped to attention, eyes wide, treading water. His heart near about stopped when he realized his pistols were on the beach. But shortly, in a shower of diamond droplets, the soldier’s head emerged through the water’s surface, and Milo exhaled violently with relief.

“What in hell, Vargas? I thought you were a band of greasers.”

Vargas bobbed just five feet from Milo. The reflection off the water’s surface played against his sculpted, resolute chin. “Sorry about that. You’ll get your greasers soon enough, I fear. You have a farm upriver, you said. Did you take an oath and convert to Mexican citizenship to be allowed to purchase the land?”

“That I did, several years ago. It made me no difference at the time as long as I was allowed to own land. Now the rumor is Mexico is disallowing conversion and will expel all pioneers once the spring thaw clears the passes in the mountains.”

A shadow passed over Vargas’s eyes. “That’s what I heard, too. I can’t say as I blame you for being a rabble-rouser. I’m just saying I doubt the veracity of Gillespie’s message to Frémont. I think the Pathfinder is more of an explorer than a soldier, and he’s going to interpret any message as an invitation to claim more land under his own glorious name. That’s all. One can’t just tear around starting a war with an entire country without direct orders.”

Milo chuckled. “That’s Manifest Destiny for you.”

Vargas smiled, a low smolder that had Milo’s penis lengthening even under the icy water. Perhaps this expedition won’t be so painful and unpleasant after all. Vargas swept his arms over the water’s surface and kicked away toward an overhanging rocky ledge where the water was so deep and cold it was turquoise. Milo stroked toward shore and grabbed the bar of soap, glad he always carried a length of reata rope in his possible bag as well. One never knew when one might need reata.

Swimming out to where Vargas frolicked in the shadows of the overhang, Milo tossed his items on a little beach, stood where the water only reached his knees, and soaped up his hair. He wanted to gauge Vargas’s reaction to his thick, long cock waggling in midair as he pretended to squeeze his eyes shut against the foamy soap. He was gratified that Vargas didn’t bother averting his gaze. Indeed, the soldier’s jaw even went slack, and Milo could swear he could see his pupils dilate with awe. Just his luck this stud would prove to be a cocksucker, when Milo was the one who liked tasting that choice morsel.

Milo sat on the sandy river bottom in order to rinse his hair. He was delighted when Vargas surfaced from the river, water streaming from his beautiful limbs, and approached him with hand held out. “Soap?” Vargas requested.

From this angle Milo was face-to-face with Vargas’s impressive tool. It swung at half-mast too, its enormous mushroom head shiny and satiny in the reflected sunlight. A sprinkling of silken hair peppered Vargas’s well-developed pectorals. A fine line of glossy hair arrowed down the center of his taut abdomen, drawing Milo’s eyes to the delectable pubic mound where the cock jutted so boldly.

“All right,” he agreed, blindly reaching for the bar on the bank.

But instead of handing the bar to Vargas, Milo kneeled before the soldier and gripped one of his hips. He applied the wet bar of tallow to the delicious layer of fat covering the pubic bone and rubbed salaciously, hooking his thumb under the base of the cock. Vargas merely groaned, deep and resonant in his abdomen. Jamming his fists against the small of his back, he angled his pelvis obscenely toward Milo’s face, throwing his head back with abandon.

It was nice to have such instant submission at his fingertips, but sometimes Milo liked them to put up a battle. No fear, he will soon. He’ll be bucking and snorting as he struggles against my domination. For a few moments, Milo was content to massage the savory pubic bone, satisfied with the way his kneading made the lengthy meat wag before his hungry mouth.

Corporal Vargas groaned to show his approval as Milo moved the foamy bar to handle the dangling ball sac. Vargas gyrated his hips as though fucking the air. Milo approved of the soldier’s lewd abandon, uncaring who might come over the rise to bathe and watch them so engaged.

Not many men cared who saw, and in fact, a few battalion privates came crawling over the embankment. A lusty heat spread through Milo’s limbs as he slid the bar of tallow along the length of the panting cock. The fellows on the embankment froze—Milo could tell they held their breaths.

Vargas did, too, his head tossed back submissively, his glorious throat bared. Milo frigged the beautiful cock vigorously. He gave it a few healthy, talented jerks with his fist, squiggling his thumb about the bulbous head. He knew that Vargas was prepared for him to spear it down his throat. The privates on the hill apparently thought so, too, as they all quickly unsheathed their tools and began pumping away in earnest. Vargas even slapped a palm to the back of Milo’s skull, urging Milo’s face toward his crotch.

Milo tricked Vargas. Quick as a bolt of lightning, Milo was on his feet behind Vargas, cinching both of Vargas’s wrists in one fist. “March,” he growled into Vargas’s ear, kneeing the soldier in the backs of his own knees, buckling his legs.

No doubt taken by surprise, Vargas obeyed. He stumbled through the shallows to the shore, where Milo chucked the soap onto his possible bag. He knew from the way Vargas’s cock remained stiff that he was not dismayed at this turn of events. Bending in one fluid movement, Milo swiped the reata coil from the sand, tossing one end over the crook of an overhanging oak branch. Swiftly, with the experience of a seasoned ruffian and vaquero, Milo knotted the reata around Vargas’s wrists at the back of his neck, joining both free ends into a rapid square knot. Vargas could have struggled much more violently, instead only putting a nominal jerking of the limbs into it. Perhaps Vargas relished what was coming, too.

“You’re a good, good soldier,” Milo snarled into Vargas’s ear. “You listen to instructions and obey.” His own prick throbbed, pulsing in the air just inches from the saucy, shapely ass. He didn’t care if the dough-heads on the hill pulling their own johnsons knew that he wanted Vargas as badly as Vargas wanted him. It always added to Milo’s pleasure if some unknown strangers watched him perform. He especially liked dominating an officer. The unexpected perversion added to his arousal. He liked the idea that all eager eyes were on his throbbing dick. It made him feel even more powerful and potent when unknown blockheads were admiring him—his physique, his punishments, his partner.

Now he yanked the reata taut so Vargas nearly dangled on his tiptoes. He was lean all stretched out like that, his skin tightly pulled across his ribs, his juicy ass jiggling temptingly. Milo couldn’t stop himself from slapping that ass with his wet palm, the slap so loud it resounded up along both riverbanks, even over the sound of the rushing waters. “You’re an alluring morsel,” he said with appreciation.

“What is it you want, you shit sack?” Vargas snarled, unconvincingly.

Milo continued to slowly slap the ass, letting Vargas sway from the gnarled branch. The dick still stuck out urgently at a right angle from the rigid belly, but Milo slapped Vargas’s haunches until he raised red handprints. “The same thing you do,” he said smoothly. Between slaps, he allowed his fingers to tickle the anal ring and wander down to caress the swaying testicles. Now he fondled the soldier lightly, alternating with vicious spanks to the reddened rump. How well Milo knew the tantalizing cycle of pain and pleasure when a talented practitioner alternated techniques like that.

“You like cock, don’t you?” Milo knew his Polish accent aroused men, and he played it up, allowing the syllables to roll off his tongue. “I could tell by the way your beautiful Spanish eyes ogled my crotch.”

“I did no such thing!” Vargas protested weakly. “We were having a civilized conversation about the coming war, that’s all. Let me down.”

“I’ll do no such thing,” Milo repeated salaciously, now slapping both the saucy globe of the ass and the balls as well. Vargas flinched when he smacked the testicles, but his prick remained stiffly engorged, and now Milo quickly bent to swipe the soap from his possible bag.

Vargas hissed in air when Milo slapped his balls, but exhaled with sheer pleasure when Milo squeezed the soapy bar of lard along his dick in his fist. “There,” breathed Milo, as though talking to a beloved cat. “Is this better?”

Vargas relaxed into the frigging, letting his head loll back. “God, yes.”

“Do you want me to stop?” Milo teased.

Vargas’s eyelids fluttered. “Dios, no. Keep on. Keep petting me.”

Milo continued to slap the crimson ass while pleasuring the soldier’s member with the other. He captured the muscular thigh between his own, humping the sinewy hip with his hard prick. Vargas’s penis was so foamy Milo couldn’t admire the bulging, purplish cockhead, so he tossed the tallow bar into his other hand, jamming it between the shapely globes. He grabbed a soapy handful of the swollen testicles while Vargas hissed and flinched.

Milo snarled, “You want me to keep petting you?”

“Yes,” said Vargas, without conviction. “You hurt so good. I don’t know what feels pleasurable and what hurts.”

“It may sting,” Milo allowed, swatting the soapy cock some more, “but your cock isn’t flagging one centimeter, Vargas. You’re a deviant, twisted stud, aren’t you?” Milo swept his hand up to tweak the nipple that was crying out for attention.

Milo saw the gleam of a tear being squeezed from the corner of Reynaldo’s eye. “Tu maldito desgraciado.” You fucking bastard.

Milo smiled. He knew he was a fucking bastard. His eyes flickered to the sick jackasses on the embankment, who had already pumped themselves into spending. He enjoyed watching strangers squirt their ejaculate when he knew it was because they watched him. Milo knew he was an excellent performer, and he kept his physique in good form because that was part of the beauty of his sexual performances. Not only was he not ashamed of being naked, he was proud of his body and sought every opportunity to display it. Tu maldito desgraciado, indeed.

Milo positioned himself behind the dangling soldier. He took some compassion and lowered Vargas’s bound wrists enough so his shuddering shoulders didn’t carry so much weight. Vargas panted with the strain—the pain intermingled with pleasure. Milo soaped up the tight anal ring and plunged his cock up to the hilt.

Vargas groaned, one enormous shudder wracking his beautiful body.

Milo very nearly lost it. It was so exquisite to spear this athletic buck up the ass like this. The surge of lust shot through his prick and balls, and he nearly teetered over.

But he kept his grip on Vargas’s lathered dick. He paused in his fucking to gather himself and milk Vargas’s thick member. Now, although the spent spectators couldn’t hear him, it was always important to talk dirty to his partners, to assert his superiority over them. He siphoned their cocks while fucking them because he liked to see and feel their semen spurting, flowing over his fingers—or down his throat if he wasn’t in the mood for fucking. But it wouldn’t do to let men know that it was as important to pleasure them as it was to please himself—if not more so. So he distracted them from his frigging by the patter of his nasty talk.

“You like being fucked like this, reamed in and out from stem to stern, don’t you? Hanging helplessly, having another man’s fat cock up your ass? Tingles, doesn’t it? Doesn’t it send a surge of seed into your balls to be fucked like this? You’re helpless, being taken advantage of. You have no control. You can’t stop me from spanking your naughty ass. It plumps your succulent dick up to be fucked like this. Do you feel my prick rubbing against your prostate? That’s the tender, sweet spot you want me to massage. There.” Milo grunted as he diddled his cockhead against what he knew was the most tender, sweetest spot in the soldier’s rectum—the spot that would have him shooting his load so far it would splash against that rock.

Pendejo,” growled the corporal as his anus clenched around Milo’s cock.

All at once, Milo was ejaculating deep inside the soldier. Vargas’s cock twitched and surged as the jism burst forth, drenching the rock six feet away. Milo tried to watch because he enjoyed it so, but the soldier’s rectum was milking his cock, milking every last drop of seed from him. Milo held his breath and remembered to keep pumping away at the spurting cock, but he was seeing clear bubbles dancing before his eyes. No blood was getting to his brain as he emptied himself into the delicious ass. He gulped in air and the bubbles cleared.

It seemed many long minutes before the shuddering ceased and Milo could withdraw. Panting heavily, he untied the soldier, who slowly lowered his arms and felt them carefully as if for broken bones. Milo walked back into the river and rinsed the sweat off his limbs, washed his cock. Milo floated on his back awhile, hoping the corporal would just leave. Milo didn’t wish to become passionate lovers or even backslapping buddies with any of the men he fucked. He rarely fucked the same fellow twice—then only if the man was exceptionally beautiful.

And this one was. So Milo had to beware.

But when he glided back to shore, the pendejo was still there. He’d dressed back in his haphazard uniform and was wrapping his glossy locks in the turban. Milo hoped Vargas wouldn’t speak to him, but he did.

“So are you continuing on to Vallejo’s fort in Sonoma?”

Milo glared at the corporal. He squeezed water from his shoulder-length hair and shook it free of droplets. He snatched his pantaloons from a rock and stepped into them, cinching them about his hips. “Listen, soldier. I don’t care if I never see you again. We both got off and had a pleasant time.” He grabbed his fringed leggings and stepped into those, knotting them about his thighs. “You go off with Frémont. I’m striking out with the Osos. I’ll never see you again.”

He could hear the hurt in Vargas’s voice. “I wasn’t asking for a marriage, Stephens. It was just courteous talk to pass the time.” Shouldering his rifle, he stalked up the embankment to rejoin the troops.

Milo watched him go, his pistols in their holsters bouncing impudently against his sinewy hips. Vargas was right. Why had he been so harsh? They had just shared a monumental fuck. Why couldn’t Milo be a bit friendlier?

He buckled on his gun belt with a snap of the wrist. Snatching up his shirt, he shook it free of sand. Where were those goddamned washing squaws with his clean shirts?

Well, he’d been correct in what he’d said. The Osos were heading for Sonoma, and he’d probably never see the corporal again. All for the best.
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