| Straight: Serial Stories: Wolf Creek Chapter 11 (3/6) |
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the center of the supper table conversation. He was a veritable stallion of a man, the epitome of the rugged, handsome, square-jawed, determined man in his virile late twenties battling the elements, whatever they were—and winning and possessing what and how he pleased. His stories were awe-inspiring fables of man, in concert with other men, battling the elements and prevailing. And the way he told them to those who worshipped at his feet was spellbinding. Most of those who retreated to the ranch when he was there—and he continued to come to the ranch three or four times each year for some three decades after it opened—were caught in his web and refused to miss either the communal dinners or the after-dinner salon. As driven as most of members of the art and literary set were, however, most of them then retired to their own well-appointed rooms to work late into the night on their craft. Some, however, including such as the writer of hard-boiled detective stories, whose Catholic wife would never divorce him, and the bitchy but brilliant New York playwright whose lesbian lover would never accept the reality that the playwright was bisexual, took advantage of this time and of having “coincidentally” come to this private haven at the same time, to fuck for long hours behind closed doors. After the first few days of this initial gathering, the atmosphere became too heady for the far more simple-lifed Frank Wolf, and he “discovered” that he needed to get out on the range for a week or two and ride his fences to make sure they were being maintained. Ada regretted his leaving, but she knew that he wasn’t rejecting what she had made of the ranch but could only personally take it in small doses. She also regretted the thought of her bed being unoccupied for as much as two weeks, but Estelle very soon erased that concern. The swishing tail of Frank’s horse was barely out of sight before Estelle had taken Ada’s hand and the two had retired to Estelle’s rooms, where Estelle slowly disrobed Ada, sat her on the edge of the bed, and slowly descended her ruby-lipped kisses down between Ada’s spread legs and made Ada arch her back and claw the bedspread with her fingernails and pant and moan and writhe to multiple orgasms under Estelle’s expert ministrations. After Frank had been gone nearly two weeks, J. Harvey Kincaid came to Ada one morning and pouted that he was bored and that it was all her fault. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ada said, most distressed because she easily discerned that Kincaid would be the ranch’s mainstay attraction of other celebrities for years to come if he was kept happy. “Yes, life just isn’t exciting enough here. I’d actually come to hunt the elk that I was told were the most magnificent here. I’m told there’s a good dude ranch for that up in Wyoming, though.” “Hunt elk?” Ada said. “Yes, we have elk up on the timberline on Hahn’s peak, no more than a four-hour ride from here. I often have gone up there to paint. There are elk in some of my paintings, you know.” “Yes, I know, Ada,” Kincaid said and he gave her that big, handsome, melting smile he was so well known for. “The elk in your paintings are what first attracted me to you.” “My elk?” Ada said with a little frown. “That’s quite a compliment for a woman, you know.” |
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