Blowing Off Steam Page 6

  Again, Field didn’t protest, only looked upon Rushy’s undertakings with what seemed to be amusement. For a man inexperienced with the carnal audacity of other men, he sure took it in stride when Rushy jerked the end of the line, raising Field’s bound wrists above and behind his head. When satisfied with the height, Rushy knotted the line around the mouth of the speaking trumpet that was bolted to the floor. He knew it was obvious he was thoroughly familiar with the pulleys and trinkets of the wheel house, but he was more aroused than ashamed.

  Field was now plastered to the window glass, utterly helpless, and Rushy humped his hips against the engineer’s, mashing his erection against the other man’s. Roughly yanking Field’s shirt so that a button popped to the deck, Rushy fingered one beaded nipple like he’d been yearning to do in the hooker’s cell yesterday. This time, Field had no option to run away. It was heaven to finally have the athletic chest under his hands—and under his submission—and Rushy instructed, “You’re going to like being manhandled.”

  Field’s reaction was surprisingly mild, seeing as how his arms were now pinioned behind his neck. A smile even played at the edges of his luscious mouth. “I’m not made of glass,” he said simply.

  Aroused to even greater heights by the engineer’s submission, Rushy bent at the knees and flicked his tongue across the puckered areola. Field’s hips twitched and Rushy locked his arms around his waist, laving the nipple with the flat of his tongue before diving in to nibble with his incisors. Rushy delved his fingers into the moist, satiny depths of Field’s enticing underarm, gratified when Field gasped so loudly it seemed even the revelers on the hurricane deck below could have heard him. Rushy gnawed and supped at the musky, smoky sweat that slicked Field’s pectoral, then buried his face in the pungent silk of his underarm.

  Field swiveled his hips so ardently against Rushy’s abdomen his stiff erection seemed near to erupting, and Rushy wanted to accommodate him. Endless teasing was all right for folks schooled in such particulars, but Rushy allowed as it might be too much for a babe such as this delicious engineer. That, and all the blood had probably drained from Field’s hands.

  So Rushy undid the broadfall buttons restraining that magnificent penis, his hand burrowing into the humid crotch to grasp the slick root in his fist. Yet when he sat back on his heels, all set to admire the length and beauty of the drooling tool, he noticed movement on the other side of his pilothouse windows. His head snapped aside and he came nearly face-to-face with a greasy, gnarled old goat. This old salt leered down at him as he chewed on the stem of a pipe and clutched his own crotch suggestively, his bulbous nose smearing oil or something worse on the other side of Rushy’s window. He must have clambered to the roof of the texas to get an eyeful such as this.

  But Field was panting alluringly, and when Rushy rose to his feet he saw the pleading in Field’s soft eyes. However, the two lusty youths who now hoisted themselves onto the texas roof joined in the game, elbowing each other and making pretend—or maybe not so pretend—masturbation gestures against their own broadfalls.

  Rushy said, “They’re watching like we were a monkey show.”

  Field glanced aside but didn’t seem concerned. “Charge them extra for that show,” he said slyly.

  Rushy didn’t need any more coaxing. Touching his open mouth to Field’s, he licked the roof of Field’s mouth while gripping the drooling cock in his fist. Semen dribbled out the tip and Rushy used the lubricant to grease up the pole, heavy and veined in his fist. But he wanted to watch the spectator’s reaction at such a sight, and when he turned his head aside, he saw the youths weren’t so frolicsome anymore. Dead serious they were now in their masturbation, mashing their bulging broadfalls against the window and elbowing aside the feeble old salt, who nearly toppled over the edge of the roof.

  “They’re admiring your whopping hard cock,” Rushy told Field, sliding his other hand between the thighs to handle the firm ball sac. “You like to be admired?”

  “Who doesn’t?” Field admitted. “We’ll never see them again.”

  Rushy became even more sparked at his friend’s boldness, and he set to passionately frigging that beautiful cock, corkscrewing his hand up and down the length of it, drawing the tool out as far as he could for the viewing pleasure of their admirers. With his bound hands behind his head and his hips jutting out lewdly, Field was the perfect sculpture of a submissive Apollo.

  Rushy felt as much as saw the arrival on the roof of the hulking Stan Sitwell. Having apparently gotten wind of the frolics in the pilothouse, he leaped off the stairs and joined the others on the roof with a bang that bounced the entire pilothouse, this time actually bowling over the frail old goat, who collapsed out of view somewhere. The youths tried to protest, but they were no match for the gigantic bruiser who pressed his entire maw to the glass, a thread of spittle oozing from a corner of his mouth.

  “Your fireman enjoys the sight, too,” Rushy told Field, now taking the cock into both fists and pumping it heatedly.

  Field glanced aside, his hips jerking at the sight of his ogling audience. “Let him. You’re the only one who’s going to frig me.”

  Field erupted then majestically, Rushy stepping back to give the deviant observers a better view of the jism that splashed against his bare abdomen. Field rolled his head back against his bound hands and uttered strangled animal sounds, his eyes squeezed shut against the ecstasy as Rushy continued to milk the jerking member. Finally, Rushy couldn’t resist gluing his body to Field’s, allowing the semen to continue to spurt between them, rubbing the cockhead with his thumb as he gave great licks to the obedient throat.

  They panted against each other, Rushy’s erection so burgeoning the slightest touch would have set him off. “They wish they were here in my place,” Rushy murmured against Field’s throat, “handling this beautiful cock.” He had never felt so alive, so at home as now, sweat and jism pasting his body to his friend’s.

  They both jumped an entire foot when a sudden blast from the calliope steam organ rattled their senses, deflating both of their pricks in an instant.

  Chapter Six

  Rushy cried, “Now, what’s gotten into old Larry?” Larry Middleman was the only crew member who could play that danged calliope with its thirty-two steam whistles, which had come with the boat and was located astern on the texas roof. Rushy thought it added a festive air for passengers—only not in the midst of a sensual sojourn.

  But the sudden blast of trilling notes had the beneficial effect of startling their audience, one of the youths actually plunging off the pilothouse roof, Stan Sitwell spinning his arms as though about to take a header off the edge. For that Rushy was grateful, and he untied Field from the pulley, easing his arms down gently and massaging them to get the blood back into his hands.

  “Thank God for Larry,” said Field, watching the last youth regretfully leap back down the pilothouse steps. “That playing brings to mind my sister Cynthia in Amsterdam. She could really go to town on her spinet.”

  Field buttoned his pants as Rushy took a quick note of the river’s course. Field stood almost nostalgically at the door watching Larry plugging away at the brass keys. “Hey, it’s not Larry playing,” he said with wonder. “It’s that chef gal. I’m going to go have a talk with her.”

  “The chef gal?” Rushy followed Field down the steps. “Why didn’t she tell us she could play the calliope?”

  The chef, who was now revealed to be a buttery shade of blonde, her long hair done in a chignon like silken drapery fringes, looked up at them with a chipper face. She seemed cheerful enough, a spry gal—a stunner, really—of about thirty years, and Rushy greeted her with, “Ma’am.” He even tipped his captain’s cap.

  Grinning away, she continued her booming and steamy song, and when done, she bounced up on the instant and stuck out her mitt. “Nice to meet you,” she said, pleasant as could be.

  They shook hands all around, and Rushy queried, “And what should we call you?”

  “M
y name?” For the first time she seemed flustered and glanced about as though the answer lay in the willows on the bank. Regaining her assurance, she stated, “My name is Calliope. And I believe you are Captains Rushy Wakeman and Field Trueworthy, chief cooks and bottle washers.”

  She did have a lovely Appalachian drawl, candy-coated and drippy, and she gave the appearance of being capable. Rushy didn’t fail to note the uplifted shelf of her bosom. Perfectly round, her breasts jiggled when she moved in the slightest. He joshed, “Calliope? That’s funny. Because you’re playing a calliope.”

  This appeared to fluster her, too, so Rushy continued, “How are you finding your quarters?”

  Confident again, she chirped, “I’m snug as a bug in a rug! And, kind sirs, I’d like the opportunity to cook your supper this evening, to demonstrate to you my applications of my own particular recipes. I’d heard that you’re smack and smooth out of chefs, and I’d like to impress you with my skills.”

  “Well,” said Rushy. “We’ll be getting into San Francisco around six o’clock and after dealing with customs and disembarking all passengers, we’ll be digging into the sausages at the Tadich Grill.”

  Calliope didn’t seem to approve of this response, for her face turned a bit sly. “Yes. I reckon after the show you just put on in the pilothouse, you’ll be hungry for more sausages soon.”

  Rushy’s heart nearly stopped at the implications of this devilish wench. He shared a stunned look with Field, and Field was the first to reply with dignity. “We have no idea to what you’re referring. But we can assure you, whatever sordid activities you’re implying did not take place.”

  Calliope didn’t lose her devilish demeanor, and she practically elbowed them in her camaraderie. “Pay me no mind. I helped you out of your predicament by playing this machine, and that audience scattered like a passel of blackbirds. You can rely on me, sirs. I can be a very helpful employee, capable of wearing many hats. I’ve got my own Derringer, an Arkansas toothpick in my garter, I’m fit as a fiddle, and I can make a rancid possum taste like chicken cordon bleu. I don’t get wallpapered either, like many chefs do. I’ve been through the mill, and I don’t scare easily.”

  Again, Rushy and Field shared a glance, but this time they were smiling like dough-heads. Rushy allowed, “OK, then. We’ll forgo the Tadich Grill tonight if you’re set on impressing us. We’ve got a leg of mutton in the icebox you could try and turn into a cordon bleu. And there’s plenty of claret and champagne. We don’t mind if you get a bit wallpapered.”

  Calliope clapped her hands. “Bully! Mutton is scarce as hen’s teeth. Right now, I’ll go down and rustle you up a cheese platter with olives and anchovies. You’ve got to have those things in your galley, right?”

  Rushy nodded. “Sure, we do.” However, her choice of hors d’oeuvres sounded suspiciously familiar. Just yesterday in Sacramento, while languishing in each other’s arms at the Fremont, hadn’t he and Field been jawing about exactly those items?

  Rushy’s suspicions evaporated, though, with the sudden arrival of Tobias Fosburgh. He came crawling like a scaly critter from the bottomless pit over the edge of the roof, face red, his cravat all in disarray. “There she is!” He struck for the trio standing by the calliope, but his angry, beady eyes were fastened to the female Calliope. To her credit, she didn’t cringe back even slightly in the face of his rage. “There’s the trollop who chiseled me out of my gold! Well, what are you doing standing around, boys? Have her arrested at once and put into lockup!”

  Rushy placed calming hands on Tobias’s shoulders. “We don’t have a brig, Tobias. And I thought you said some hooker on the street with some ill children bilked you?”

  Tobias puffed out his chest, clearly bent on bumping Calliope into the water with its strength. “Indeed I did! And this is the very prostitute who bilked me!”

  Closing his eyes with patience, Rushy turned to Calliope. “Is this true, Miss…?” He realized he didn’t know her last name.

  But Calliope was holding her own ground. Lifting her chin to the attorney-at-law, she wiggled her eyebrows and said, “If Headmaster Smith is under the impression I have ever sold my affections for gold, he must be mistaking me for someone else.”

  “You see?” Rushy tried to calm the irate solicitor, but he flailed his arms like a beached fish.

  “Who are you calling Headmaster Smith, you lowdown woman of easy virtue? Search her bags, Captain! In them I’m sure you’ll find two eagle’s quills of gold dust.”

  “Tobias.” Field laughed. “Everyone has eagle’s quills full of gold dust. Besides. Does this woman here—a chef and a calliopist—look like she has three children?”

  Tobias sputtered so ardently spittle rained onto Rushy’s face. “Because she doesn’t have three children! Fellows, fellows!” Tobias chuckled now, nervously. “I invented that story to cover the fact that I was—well, that I was frequenting the same establishment as you, and in the upstairs portion of the Fremont House as well, where I met with this woman. It just wouldn’t do to be known as an eminent solicitor who also enjoys visiting with women of the town now and then.”

  “Yes,” Calliope said drily. “An eminent solicitor who enjoys spanking young schoolgirls who are too naive to know that’s not really a wooden ruler in his pocket.”

  While the river men laughed, Tobias renewed his tirade. “Do you see what I mean, gentlemen? She is admitting she is a public ledger, open to all parties. How would she know about that if she hadn’t been in the Fremont House, tormenting every man in the place with her, with her”—he fluttered his hands as though describing birds—“with her patent leather shoes and insouciant little braids!”

  Rushy and Field burst into a hearty round of laughter. Rushy didn’t care a damn whether or not Calliope had made a pile at the Fremont House as a hooker. In fact, he rather regretted that she’d been dallying with Tobias Fosburgh—or was it Headmaster Smith?—while he’d been stuck with one of the callow, unenthusiastic emigrants. Calliope was fresh, abundantly ripe, and pretty as a fresh-picked flower. If she had been in the Fremont House, she’d probably been the most desirable woman in town and was probably the one Brannan had been searching for, his “best girl.” It flattered Rushy that she would want to leave a place where she was big dog of the tanyard to come slave on his boat. Rushy was only sorry he hadn’t been able to screw her before she left that employment.

  And if she was running from Brannan, it gave them something in common.

  Tobias was now raving, “Check her bags, I tell you. I’m sure you’ll find a flouncy bonnet in there, with long pink ribbons streaming like taffy!”

  This made them laugh even harder, but now Cincinnatus was yelling from the pilothouse, “Rushy! We’re coming up to Steamboat Slough!”

  Field had to get below, and Rushy had to steer between the snags and hulks of the narrower slough, which was a faster cutoff into San Francisco’s bay.

  Field said soothingly, “Tobias. How much money would you say she took? I’ll make good on it. Minus, of course, her fee.”

  Rushy chuckled all the way up to the pilothouse. The last thing he saw was the blonde stunner in the rich brown satin dress sneering at Tobias. “You blowhard. Before I left the Fremont House, I told Clara to warn all the girls about you.”

  * * * *

  The galley was splendid, situated on the main deck just ahead of the engine room. While Catalina—she should start thinking of herself as Calliope now, a grand and flirtatious name!—had lied about knowing how to turn a funky possum into cordon bleu, she easily found the leg of mutton in the icebox, and it didn’t smell at all. She quickly made the men the promised platter of appetizers and even found a Celestial boy who appeared to be a kitchen hand to show her how to work the dumbwaiter.

  His name was something that approximated Maurice, so she called him Maurice, and he showed her where all the dry goods such as rice and barley were stored. Maurice couldn’t speak much English, but he demonstrated where they tossed the vegetable parin
gs out of a vent. He continuously shoved new enormous flopping salmon at her, and she was curious, until he took her to the hurricane deck and showed her how they got caught in the paddlewheel buckets and were tossed fresh to the deck.

  Calliope minced the mutton and put it on to stew with onions, green peas, cayenne, and lettuce. She made mushroom sauce for a rabbit she roasted in the oven, then set to making a pot of asparagus soup with celery and cream. She could impress the men with her roly-poly jam pudding for dessert, and her glorious fate would be sealed. By the time the boat steamed into San Francisco, Calliope had made a tureen of salmon pate and was baking dozens of biscuits on which to spread it. She finally allowed her mind to turn to the captains of the El Dorado.

  She stood on the port side of the vessel to smoke her cigarro while passengers disembarked. There was a chance someone who had seen her in Sacramento at the Fremont House would see her now. So she smoked looking at the oak scrub of Angel Island and thought about the two lanky bucks she’d first witnessed kissing in the cell of Fremont House and just now again, doing much more in the El Dorado pilothouse. Calliope sighed heavily, as if to rid herself of the immense lust that had poured from her since viewing the two men.

  Sucking on the fetid, crawly members of prospectors had never given her the slightest twinge between her legs. She always had to lubricate herself with bear grease to submit to any of their wallpapered fumblings, and she viewed them more as rank animals who existed only to hand her gold. Sure, she had serviced some of the cleaner, more educated ones, such as Mark Hopkins, Captain Sutter, and Leland Stanford. She genuinely enjoyed the company of men such as that, men who gave her news from back East and made witty jokes. But they were the exception rather than the rule.