Meanwhile Back At The Ranch

(An excerpt from my novel, "El Dorado", of which I'll publish more if this is well recieved.)

Sarah watched the man's face as he slept in the dim red light of the fever curtains. A stray sunbeam moved diagonally across the thin coverlet and highlighted a small mound in the fabric below his waist. He breathed in and out softly through his open mouth, emitting an occasional snort. What could he be dreaming she wondered. She felt an unaccustomed warmth between her thighs and spread her knees wider, a very unladylike posture but who was there to see? The room was very close, the air still, dust motes dancing in the sunbeam on the raised coverlet at the apex of his legs, had it grown larger? She'd never seen a man up close down there before. Male anatomy she'd seen in plenty over the years around the place between accident, injury and casual dishevel, but always in a hurry or at a distance. Or infants, Matthew and others, which did not count. Like wise the years of her marriage, always in the dark, fumbling and grunting under covers. Guadelupe shoving this strangers bits about like so much sausage to clean beneath and between before putting him to bed was the closest she'd came so far to any real examination of the matter at hand. The air was so still with door and windows closed to keep out any whiff of infection. She undid the 2 buttons of her neckband, opened her collar. No one was moving about, all downstairs taking care of daily business, or off snoozing somewhere, taking the siesta. She put the book down on the bed. Thackeray held no charm for her today. His right arm was thrown up over his head, cutting in half her view of his strong clean face, one mustache, the chin obscured by his upper arm. The other arm was strapped with linen to his broad torso, the hand beneath the coverlet down his side, the coverlet itself rucked down on one side towards her, from shifting in his sleep no doubt when he had dragged his arm out from under. There. Definitely a movement. She reached out and twitched the coverlet down.

Strong thighs, a narrow waste, the ridged stomach muscles clearly defined. And balanced in the crease between thigh and hip lay the root of it all, a smoothly rounded shaft of flesh the thickness of a silver dollar and a handspan long emerging from a bush of tight dark curls. It twitched two or three times as she watched, fascinated, and canted up at a steeper angle, pointing towards his navel. A small circle of stretched skin at the tip revealed a slitted bulbous dome of darker skin beneath. He murmured something unintelligible in his sleep and rolled up onto one hip and it bobbed over in her direction, less than two feet away. The taut circlet of skin at the tip drew back further still with his movement exposing more of the satiny mauve skin beneath. She leaned forward for a closer look, the slit at the top was edged with tiny pink lips, fascinating...

She had to touch it. She reached out and ran her fingertips down the length of it, so warm and pliable, so unlike what she had usually come to expect of a man's skin, coarse, scarred, sunburned and wire haired or pale and fishy looking where not exposed to weather, this was like a baby's bottom but firmer, more defined. She wrapped her hand around it and it responded instantly to her touch like a restive horse, anticipating the riders intention; it lengthened imperceptibly, felt more than seen, the tight skin at the tip rolled back as her hand slid down it and completely exposed the crowning glory, like a lopsided mushroom with a darker purpley rim of skin around the outer edge. It pulsed. It throbbed in her hand ever so slightly and she felt the rib like structure beneath. How could they ever walk around all day with such a thing as this...oh yes, it was a transient condition, like migraine or the monthly, though from what she had seen of men the incidence was much more erratic and varied greatly between individuals...she moved her hand up and down, absentmindedly reveling in the warm feel and touch, her buds poking the loose chemise beneath her shirtwaist all shivery and taut, pleasantly brushing against the fine cotton fabric, it all felt so warm and natural and comforting somehow, so unlike the animal batterings in the dark she'd associated this, and her marriage with...and it JUMPED throbbed with a more insistent beat, his hips moved spasmodically, the coverlet sliding off the back of his thigh with the movement, WHAT to DO?

The moment was at hand. She knew that much, and her in the middle of it. The towell and washcloth were on the nightstand, 7 feet away, on the far side of the bed! Her handkerchief was in her reticule, in her room! The sheets...would be seen, how many times she'd heard Lupe and the girls laughing over stains on sheets and bedding were beyond count. Her skirts...they washed those too! like Matthew's feeding too menial a job for La Patrona, and if he were to awake, as he would shortly, despite the opiate no doubt, all beslimed... It all went through her mind in a heartbeat and was not to be considered.

She scooched forward on the chair and down, eyes tight shut, and closed her mouth firmly over the offending member in the nick of time; it throbbed again and his hips rocked forward more insistently, jamming it down over her tongue, which she had in her moment of resolution determined to withdraw from any more intimate touch, and she marveled in a small corner of her mind at the silk feel of it all and musky aroma as the warm jet erupted over it and down her throat, a burst, and then two more, weaker, fading...He groaned aloud, shocking sound, relaxed again, breathe fading into a partial snore.

She sat as still as possible, releasing her grip on it as she withdrew her mouth, lips clamping as she sought to insure no drop would stain, admitting to herself she could quite get to like this, a 'french', what all the drovers whispered or bragged about, all the while she listened all around herself as intently as she could.

Not a sound. He rolled onto his back with a snort, trapping the coverlet under his hip and she tugged it out, considering her next move. The washcloth. A salty aftertaste. Girlhood myths of poison and pregnancy coursed through her head and she dismissed them immediately as impossible, dark fantasies, the thing happened all the time and some girls bragged of it. She rose as silently as she could, winced at a squeaky floorboard as she stepped around the foot of the bed and got the cloth, dipped one corner in the basin stepped back around again. The thing had gone slightly quiescent, half it's former size, limp and dripping down his thigh, she wiped up deftly and pulled the coverlet back over him, tugged it up over his chest, stepped back around and rinsed the washcloth, squeezed it dry over the chamberpot, smoothed it out and draped it back over the washstand. Still no noise. There. The thing was done. She buttoned her collar up and shrugged her clothes straight, no one now would be the wiser even if he woke up on the instant. And realized she'd wet herself. The slow surge of menses or arousal rather than the hot rush of urine. She bit her lip in vexation. No time. There were rag napkins in the privy, one of them would have to do. And her mouth still felt slick, a foriegn taste upon her palate.

She picked her book up from the floor where it had fallen all unnoticed, closed it softly, and straightened the chair. A last look around the room, everything in order, the man slumbered on but his breathing was lighter, faster. Time to go. She slipped out the door, closing it firmly, not too loud, not too softly, just as if...well, as she had done a hundred times on a hundred other mundane occasions, and stepped off down the hall, out the door onto the outer staircase, down the stairs and punching the buffalo hide doorway aside into the kitchen. 'Lupe stood at the bench top grinding corn in a metate, a menial job she reserved for herself, back and forth, up and down, over and over again. She looked up as Sarah entered but did not stop work. Sarah took the stone jug down off the shelf, uncorked it and splashed a generous measure into her cup. She set the cork back in, gave it a light smack and put the jug back on the shelf. She picked up the mug and knocked it back in one gulp, swished the hot liquor around in her mouth, tongue and teeth and gums, swallowed it down, set down the mug, perhaps a little too emphatically. When had she last had a straight shot like that? At this time of the day? To 'Lupe's unspoken look of inquiry she said; "He's coming to I think, I believe the crisis has passed." Did she say that right? She walked back under the buffalo robe door out to the privy as 'Lupe resumed her monotonous labor, and smiled...