Through the canvas the boozy voices of miners carried with the campfire smoke in the chilly air. But Ezra Chisolm's focus was on the wet grating against his prick within the small hole it was thrusting. The sharp clench in his balls signaled the release of semen. He could feel it coursing through his hardened member, bursting into the warm receptacle he had paid to rent. As his load flooded the immature body beneath him, he could hear the whimpering there, but he paid it no more mind than he had the distant voices from the creek side.
He rolled off the girl, clumsily jerking his trousers up. Before he left, he spared her a glance, noticing with satisfaction how his jism was oozing from the hairless folds of the puffy little cunt. She couldn't have been more than six or seven, but she satisfied his particular fetish. And in these parts, social mores were cast aside when it came to the availability of a tight and clean cunt. All too often, the only choices were with the questionable hygiene of worn out twats of miner's widows or women who couldn't make the cut in the fleshpots of San Francisco where prostitutes were pouring in after the surprise yields from Sutter's Mill not two years earlier.
Ezra exited to the tent, nodding to the man who had taken his money. Perhaps the girl was his daughter - Ezra didn't know or care. Orphans here were even more plentiful than widows and their legs could be spread just as easily. This man, like Ezra, had learned that there were more practical ways to make money than by panning for gold in the muddy streams of Northern California.
Ezra peddled in tools and dry goods, trading for gold dust near the mining areas. Out here, he could fetch a higher price by allowing the miners to stay close to their claims and not risk losing time by venturing into the city or small shanty towns that popped up like mushrooms after a hard night's rain.
"May stop again on the way out tomorrow afternoon," Ezra said to the man.
The other man shook his head.
"She won't be working tomorrow - have to let her rest. These little cunts get too sore and worn from a night's work. That's the problem with 'em. They're good for maybe every other night. I'm thinking of getting another one to keep a steady business."
Ezra wished the man had thought of that prior to his trip here. But nothing to do about that now and at least his oats were well-sown. He returned to his covered wagon and went to sleep on top of a blanket spread over crates of merchandise.
Edith Rappaport waved the girls onto the wooden sidewalk in attempt to corral them away from dangerous horse-drawn traffic of Market Street. She was one of several women who came west to staff the orphanages rapidly filling with waifs abandoned in the violent and hazardous mining ventures. The plans had been to house thirty girls in her orphanage but now they had over forty. It was taxing, but nothing that good Wesleyan faith and practicality couldn't work through.
A merchant had kindly offered new shoes for some of their charges and she and another worker were herding twenty-three girls to the place so they could be fitted. This was more easily said than done with a group of curious tots amid the streets of San Francisco which were riotous by day and even more deadly to the body and soul at night.
Fortunately, another merchant, seeing their predicament, had parked his wagon in such a way to block some of the traffic from the girls as they were once again put in some semblance of order. Edith thanked the man who politely tipped his cap in return. It was a relief to find some common courtesy in the city, even from one who looked a bit mud-splattered from the gold fields.
"Violet, do we have everyone?" Edith called to the other woman hurriedly counting heads on the sidewalk.
Violet nervously recounted twice more before shaking her head.
"We're missing two, I think. Girls! Do be still!"
Edith joined Violet for another count, confirming the two missing. After checking faces, she turned to Violet.
"We're missing Alice and Sarah. Those two are constant companions so all it takes is one to wander and the other to follow. Keep the others together and take them to Boothby's for their shoes. I shall see if I can find our wayward pair."
A search of the immediate area, including a few steps into a rather sinister alley which was home to things Edith didn't want to dwell upon, was fruitless. Spying the helpful merchant climbing onto his wagon, she waved to get his attention.
"Excuse me sir, but we are missing two girls. Both are aged six; one with red hair and the other with brown."
The man paused and scratched his whiskered chin.
"I can't say that I have, ma'am. But in truth, I was minding my wares and not your young 'uns."
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Mr Double's Palisade A MrDouble Production:
Changes last made on: Monday, February 29, 2016