******
Noah had a hard time doing
anything more complicated than breathing as he stood in an honest-to-God
brothel. The place had sexual vibes echoing as if they’d been made yesterday.
“So okay, then. If you need
anything else, dial nine on the phone.”
Frank waved and left him alone
in his room. Finally.
From the moment he’d stepped
foot in this town, Noah had sensed the vast history throbbing just under the
street’s concrete. Impressions of gunslingers, miners, and the occasional drunk
strolling through town had told him he’d stepped into another place—time—entirely.
Some areas were like that, full of history that reached out and slapped him.
But nothing could have prepared him for the impact this building had. Or its
manager.
According to the oh-so-helpful
Frank, Lara Graham had arrived in town six months ago. She worked for Ida
Knowles with the hopeful intent to eventually buy the property. The place had
recently begun to prosper as guests from far and wide came to stay in the very
place where the lusty madam Cecilia Fine and the infamous outlaw Finnegan Fury
had loved and lost back in 1856.
The history of the place seeped
through the walls of the building, but it was the image of Lara that had held
him fast. She looked exactly like the
woman in the portrait he’d been ordered to bring back. A living, breathing work
of art come to life. The same full lips curved up in a smile, those expressive,
rich brown eyes, so mysterious yet daring. And that body…
He stifled a groan, wishing
he’d indulged in some quick, meaningless sex before flying out here. Because a
man who hadn’t had sex in nearly five months, confronted with even half the
things he was now seeing, would be hard-pressed to focus on this case.
Downstairs, when he’d looked at Lara’s mouth, he’d seen a ghostly overlay of
slick, glistening red painted over her lips. Then a woman’s transparent tongue
had darted out to lick suggestively, hinting at all kinds of things Lara might
do for him.
No, not Lara. That other woman. The one from the portrait.
Noah tried to get a handle on
his sweltering libido when another image coalesced into a moving picture on his
bed.
“Oh fuck. You’ve got to be
kidding me.”
Two naked men were all over a
woman clad in nothing but garters that held up netted stockings. He had a sense
she was a working girl, one of the Lady Fine whores and two of her customers
who’d paid for a tumble. Cowboy hats, dusty clothes, and grimy boots lay strewn
in one corner, while the rest of the room lay under flickering shadows of
candlelight.
As he watched, the noise only
he could hear grew louder. Moans and groans, the sucking and smacking sounds of
lips over moist flesh. Noah’s cock thickened in seconds—already hard from his
recent thoughts of Lara—now eager to participate.
Noah liked to watch, and he
liked to play—rough. So the sight of
one guy’s head between the woman’s thighs, his cheeks rubbing against her smoky
hose while he gorged on a wet cunt, was bad enough. But when the other fucked
her face hard enough that she choked around him, Noah had to move to better see
the three of them in action.
In and out, the rough guy
pushed into the whore’s mouth with eager strokes, his balls mashing against her
chin with each shove forward. The woman didn’t seem to mind it much, or she was
that good an actress, because she pulled his thighs toward her, encouraging his
advances. She shivered and sucked harder as she made whimpering sounds hinting
at a climax. The rough guy stilled and yelled out as he came, then pulled away
from her. He stepped back and stood next to Noah, the pair of them keen on the
outcome still pending. The man kneeling between the whore’s plump thighs reared
back, mounted her, and fucked her until he too climaxed.
No condoms, no talking other
than grunts and groans. A small pile of coins sat on a washstand across from
the iron-post bed, and the creaking of the bedsprings told its own story. After
the last man came, he pulled out, and the three lovers smiled at one another.
The ghosts of yesterday
vanished until all that remained in the room were Noah, his hard-on, and the
same bed soon occupied with new patrons. The scene shifted into another vision
of oral sex, this one between two women totally intent on one another.
Sixty-nine had become his new favorite number.
Unable to rebuild his shields
until he took care of his own needs, Noah grabbed a few tissues, undid his
pants, and masturbated to the hottest sex he’d seen in some time. To his
annoyance, he kept imagining Lara Graham on her knees, on her back, taking a
nipple or a cock between her lips. The urge to dominate Lara, to bend her to
his will, tempted him to let loose the bands on his honest needs. The dark
desires he normally kept secret threatened to overtake him. Lara, bound and
pliant. Submissive, his to play with, his to own… The fantasy only made his rushing orgasm that much more
powerful.
Though he didn’t want to be
here, and he didn’t like his odd sense of connection to the woman in the
painting—to Lara—he couldn’t ignore it. But he could avoid the shame
accompanying his base hungers by pretending they didn’t exist. Like he always
did. At least his release abated the need, if not his desire. But when a new
couple materialized, fucking on the floor, he focused hard to will away the
visions still pressing his psyche, for fear he might inadvertently seek out
Lara to make his fantasies all too real.
Nothing
is ever fucking simple when it comes to Jack Keiser’s missions.
_______________________________________________
RetroCog by Marie Harte
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