How The West Was Done 2 (Patreon)

Why did the juices flow so much fiercer when it was two family members wiggling their bustles instead of two strangers? It was damn perverted, is what it was. But he supposed he’d ceased to qualify for sainthood a long time ago. He would just have to try to enjoy fucking that untried little pussy to a fare-thee-well a little more than he would enjoy holiness.

Another negress—this one from Sofia’s stable, and looking it—came by. Despite Thorne sitting somewhere that precluded cuddling, she took the presence of such a handsome man as an invitation and went to sit on his armrest with another glass of rum punch.

Thorne traded his empty glass for her full one, but otherwise ignored her. Sofia Vergara allowed no crude talk in her parlors and Thorne didn’t feel up to gentle, exploratory conversing. But when the woman, Wanda, rubbed his shoulder, he didn’t stop her. He didn’t want to be rude.

“I haven’t seen you around here before,” Wanda said. “Are you new in town?”

“No. I’m probably the only person who makes any number of trips here.”

“Are you a prospector?”

“There’s no money in color. I’m more like the fellow selling pickaxes.” Then he eyed Wanda for the first time, smiling at her in a way she was used to. The smile of a man greatly approving of her dark beauty.

Wanda ran a hand through her hair—a collection of chocolate-frosting braids that would put a showpony to shame—before bringing it down to that all ten fingers were racked on Thorne’s broad shoulders.

“I think you’re more the kind of guy who has a sledgehammer,” she said, her voice dipping into sultriness.

Thorne relaxed into her touch. “I’m sorry, you’re expected to make a sale, aren’t you? I really shouldn’t take up your time without buying something.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Wanda agreed, digging her fingers into his taut muscles. “But for what you’re getting, sugar, you’re gonna feel like you traded beads to those Indians in Manhattan.”

Thorne grinned. “Indians in Manhattan. That’s clever.” He reached into his vest and drew out a silver coin. “I’m not in the mood for love, but here. Here’s a pistareen.”

Wanda had never seen a pistateen before and didn’t know how much it was worth, but she did know that silver was always worth something.

“I want to put my feet up. You do that and you can have this.”

“You want me to get you a footrest?”

Thorne shook his head. “No, my dear. I want you to get down on your hands and knees right down there. Right where your ample hindquarters will make themselves a good cushion for me. Do we have a deal?”

Wanda considered vague notions of dignity. Then she considered how much she’d been paid over the years to be mouth-fucked, ass-fucked, and fucked raw. Being paid just to let a man’s heels rest on her ass was a hell of a bargain.

She got down on all fours.

“Good girl,” Thorne said, dropping the coin to the floor so that Wanda could look at it before he put his feet up.

Wanda put her hand over the coin, feeling the metallic chill of it far more than Thorne’s bootheels on top of her well-rounded ass.

“Thorne, you give mi casa es su casa a whole new meaning,” Sofia said as she came down the spiral staircase from the second floor where the bawdy house’s real business was conducted.

Sofia was the best advertisement any bawdy house could ever have. She looked better in her taffeta-dripping dress than most looked naked. Even white lace stockings were almost an obscenity when they covered up her finely rounded legs and Thorne knew the corset under her scarlet dress was hardly needed to give her an hourglass figure. He felt like ripping away everything down to her bloomers; it was less lust and more like you’d feel compelled to help a turtle that’d been flipped over. Some things just deserved to be free.

The holy rollers were right about the Garden of Eden. It must’ve been Paradise if a gal like Sofia walked around all day with nothing more to cover her than that long, brown hair.

Thorne picked his feet up and gave a light tap with his boot toe to Wanda’s hip, spurring her to get on her way. Clasping the coin tightly in her fist, she scooted out of Sofia’s way.

Thorne came to his feet. “Shall we?”

And with only a coy smile, Sofia led him back upstairs.

Sofia’s office was as roughhewn and unfinished as the parlor was not. The walls were rough-planked wood, the floors didn’t have a single thread of carpet to muffle the creaking, and the windows didn’t even have glass panes or curtains, just shutters. The only indulgence Sofia allowed herself was a massive oil painting hung on the far wall, showing the harbor of some eastern city.

Thorne knew enough about art to see the artist had put in the details of a masterpiece, capturing finely everything from the ships out at anchor to the fishermen hauling in catches to the markets where those fish were freshly chopped and filleted to sell to cooks who never got their feet wet. The painter’s hand had managed to capture the roughness, the vulgarity of it, without ever losing sight of how it was part of the grandeur of society… the blood running through veins that caused women such a fright once it was spilled.

He didn’t know why a woman who’d worked so hard to come East would include such a glowing commendation of civilization in her private sanctum. Maybe she saw something in it that he didn’t. Or maybe she just had in her the contrariness that was native to all women, civilized or barbaric.

Thorne set his traveling case down on her desk and opened it. Sofia sat down like a poker player joining a game as he fanned out the documents he’d brought her.

“I’m happy to report our holdings have increased in value since the last time we met. With your funding, I bought a controlling interest in the shipyards we discussed, which has just received a commission from the Navy to build a new ironclad. That should be a tidy profit. Our railroad stocks are continuing to pay a dividend…”

On and on he went, to the extent that he’d worry about boring anyone else, but Sofia was like an clever pupil absorbing lessons from a tutor. She understood that far more money could be held in stocks and bonds than in hard money, but otherwise, she was as grass-bellied as any shylock, and took a decadent pleasure in hearing all her wealth recounted to her. The irony to Thorne being how she’d hate to actually be in the halls of privilege she’d earned her way into—not that they could ever forgive her for how she’d earned her money instead of being born with it.

“I can see I chose my partner well,” Sofia said, collecting the deeds he’d brought her into one sheaf with the sensual thrill of a gourmand tasting rich chocolate.

If Thorne was offended by the Mexican woman calling herself her equal, he gave no sign. “Thank you, madame.”

And if she was vexed by his double meaning, she didn’t show it. “I should be thanking you. There aren’t many Anglos who could stand serving under me.”

Thorne’s poker face stayed as deadpan as ever. “You’re not on top of me. I advise you how to invest your money. You take my advice, or you don’t, and I execute your wishes.”

“You do what I want,” Sofia needled, with a little lilt in her voice showing how she enjoyed herself. “Isn’t that being on the bottom?”

“You don’t know what you want until I tell it to you,” he returned.

“So you’re over me?” Sofia asked, coming to her feet. She wasn’t a tall woman, but the less of her was hidden behind her desk, the better as far as Thorne was concerned.

“I don’t think any man’s ever gotten over you,” he told her, looking her figure up and down as she walked around the desk and past him. Her hips filled out her skirt, leaving it no room to go. It clung to her flush buttocks until becoming the limp drapery that fluttered down her long legs.

“Such a clever boy,” Sofia purred. She went to the painting and slid open a cleverly concealed panel like she was taking a piece out of a finished puzzle. Behind the open door was a safe. She turned the dial, bending over a bit unnecessarily to shove her ass out and leave her skirt not a thing to do but dip into the cleft between her two expansive glutes. “I’m glad you’re working with me. Or is that for me?”

“When the job’s one like this, who can say it’s work?”