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Subject: {ASSM} Sarah and the Stranger {Claire Kellis} (MF MFm Fm oral anal incest) [2/14]
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Date: Tue, 15 Jul 2008 12:10:03 -0400
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Sarah and the Stranger
a Novel by Claire Kellis

Summer, 2007



Chapter 2: _In Aid of Bud_


In the shifting gleam of dawn the barn's eastern face glowed a striking
royal blue.  A tall building under a gambrel metal roof, it attached two
silos built in more prosperous times.  Alongside it the spring breeze 
soughed through meadow grass, accompanied by the lowing of cows and then
the squish of milk into tin buckets, sounds that barely registered on 
the mind of the barn's sleeping occupant.

Pain throbbed in his ribs with every deep breath.  He twisted and 
turned, trying for comfort and moaning inadvertently.  Suddenly an angel
descended and made his existence tolerable.  His nostrils filled with 
her rose-water odor.

Something large and soft compressed his nose, lying heavily around his 
mouth.  He smelled milk, wetting his lips.  He responded in the ageless
manner, suckling avidly.  His dry mouth filled with a delicious flow too
sweet for cows' milk despite the earlier lowing.

He must be dreaming of his dear mother, because a woman seemed to be 
giving him milk directly from her breast.  She soothed his brow and 
spoke in a soft contralto, telling him he would be all right, that she 
would nurse him back to health.  His eyes opened briefly, only to have 
his vision fade.  Trying to recall the sight, he relapsed into 
blackness.


* * *


Having slaked the stranger's thirst, Sarah dragged the old tub next to 
his cot and cleaned out the spider webs.  Soon the men showed up with 
pails of water from the house tank, heated by the woodstove still fired
up from breakfast.  She had already laid out four towels with 
washcloths, a new toothbrush she remembered in the bathroom cabinet, and
her husband's comb.

Stranger and husband were about the same height.  The new man could wear
the white shirt and brown trousers.  She even found clean underwear.  
Though not silk, Tim's brown socks might just do the trick.  But it was
sad going through his clothes for a stranger.  They still smelled 
faintly of Tim.

Grandfather and grandson poured the steaming water into the bathtub and
added pails of cold water from the horse trough until she pronounced the
temperature right.  She added a bar of ivory soap.  The stranger 
remained unconscious.

"Jack, honey," she said, "after we get this man in the tub, please check
on Joseph.  He should be waking up and trying to climb out of his 
playpen.  Keep an eye on him while I take care of this one.  They's a 
bottle in the icebox."

All three lifted the stranger gently from his cot into the water.  Her 
two men stood by afterwards to watch her begin.  She applied a soapy 
washcloth to the stranger's face, scrubbing gently, careful to keep 
water out of his eyes, glad he was out cold while she cleaned the gash 
on his forehead.  She noted his bushy eyebrows.  While feeding him his 
liquid breakfast she had already felt and enjoyed the morning bristle 
upon his chin.  Oh, to feel them on her breasts every morning!  The skin
tingled under her blouse.

His elbows were abraded, along with the knuckles of both hands.

"Look here," said her father, taking the hand from her.  "He's sure been
in a fight."

"Maybe," she admitted.  After recovering the appendage, she noted, "His
hand's as big as yours."

"And his dick's bigger," said her father dryly.

"On soft," Jack chimed in.

She said admiringly, "Big hands suit a farmer."

"Or a tit squeezer," said the old man with a wink.

"Cows love 'em," agreed Jack, grinning at his grandfather.

Her hands on the hard muscles had renewed her itch.  Sarah ceased 
scrubbing the torso and looked up.  "Do you know if the telephone's 
working?"

"Ain't tried it this morning," answered Jack.

"Daddy, call the doc if it is and see if he'll come out.  If not, then 
we'll have to send for him.  Jack, go check on the baby like I told you.
Daddy, while you're in there, fill up another pail of hot water."

Preceded by the lad, Jeff walked through the barn doors, closed them and
went on to the kitchen.

Alone with her new man at last, Sarah took a breath and studied his 
features.  He was handsome enough in a rugged way, with a square chin 
and thin nostrils but sensuous, full lips.  The dimple in his chin 
pleased her.  She wondered how his voice sounded.  Uncle Ted's was deep.
She'd bet the stranger's would be attractive, not effeminate and 
pinched, like that of Percy, the banker.  She peeled back one eyelid: 
brown eyes.  Tim's eyes had been brown.  The manhood seen last night 
compared with Tim's too -- when soft.  She wondered if it would respond
to her this morning.  She tossed her head.  It had to be cleaned, didn't
it?

She tested the water: warm but not hot.  She giggled and said aloud, 
"I'll bet you never had such a good bath.  And it's going to get better.
Too bad you're not awake to enjoy it."

That old itch was stronger than ever, but she returned to his shoulders,
postponing the pleasure.  Dark brown hair grew coarsely under his arms,
another reminder of their difference.  Her hairs were silky there.  
Uncle Ted had loved to nuzzle them, likening her odor to bacon frying, 
pulling individual hairs through his teeth as he teased and licked her.
According to him, most women were too ticklish to appreciate such 
delights.

Mindful of her need, she rose, scanned around the barn and saw the exact
solution: an old wooden seed box.  Balancing it on the edge of the tub 
with one arm, she slipped the other under the man's hips, lifted his 
groin half-way out of the water, slid the seed box under his buttocks to
hold him there and resumed her seat on the stool with a smile of 
accomplishment.

She began with the washcloth on his hips and hard abdominals but soon 
the cloth floated in the water while her bare hands stroked the furry 
torso, careful of the blue bruises.  At last she cupped his privates and
had the grace to blush, not from any strangeness of sight or feel, but 
from what she intended to do to them.  These were the first strange 
genitals she had touched since Tim's when she was fifteen.

The centerpiece was odd indeed with its knob exposed even while soft.  
She fingered it lightly, verifying that with or without foreskin, the 
skin on the shaft still slipped loosely forward and back.  Other long 
fingers separated his testicles, gently isolating the ball-like lumps.
She followed the skin behind them to his anus and hesitating only a 
moment, plunged a soapy finger inside it.  At that moment the meat 
lolling in her other hand twitched and the man moaned softly.

She raised her head to study his face.  His head sagged on his shoulder,
eyes still closed.  She smiled, wondering what he was dreaming.

Her fingers milked him gently.  The mutilated manhood became noticeably
fatter.  The need to lick it was irrepressible.  Briefly she sucked the
organ into her mouth, tasting soap.  She felt it twitch again, swelling
slightly, still flaccid but already a mouthful.

Raising his buttocks further, she put two fingers into his anus.  Oh 
God, nobody was looking.  Could she reach it?  Abandoning the manhood, 
head sideways, she tucked her chin under his scrotum and licked the 
puckered hole.  Her tongue found his sphincter.  He groaned in pleasure.
After verifying his eyes were still closed, she returned to the penis.
It had swollen to hugeness.  He would kill her.  It would be wonderful.

Her mouth slurped it in.  The knob seemed rougher than the protected 
knobs of her previous men and she missed the familiar, nutty odor of 
smegma.  She took it deeper into her throat.  Sometimes she could take 
the full length of Jeff's big organ and always Jack's smaller one.  Jeff
had taught her to control the gag reflex.  But this one was too much.  
By how much?  On a playful Sunday afternoon she had measured Jeff's at 
just over seven inches.  This one was distinctly larger.  She wished for
the yardstick.

She felt the organ twitch and startled, looked up at his face.  Though 
his eyes remained closed, his expression seemed tense, no longer so lax.
Could a man shoot his stuff even when he was out cold?

In fact the stranger was almost awake, drifting in a twilight of 
consciousness, distantly aware of pains in chest and head overlain by 
pleasure in the belly.  His nose reported soap and rose water.  He 
recalled a whorehouse in Marseilles where he had been bathed and 
fellated.  His mind faded back into a dream of complaisant women.  He 
groaned aloud.

She responded automatically by sucking on the still swelling meat.  She
froze, surprised to feel his long fingers in her hair.  She looked up 
guiltily into soft brown eyes and would have withdrawn except that the 
hard hands held her soft red curls firmly above his groin.

When the tableau lengthened, she wanted to say, "My tongue's been got, 
but not by the cat."

Finally he was the one to break the spell.  "I don't know who you are, 
but don't stop."

She liked the deep voice.  Her tongue resumed flicking the twitching 
organ.  His eyes closed.  Her suckling mouth feasted, taking him deep.
Her nostrils flared with breath, although his size nearly closed her 
throat.

The pleasure filled his mind to overflowing.  Again he lay in the French
brothel, feeling teeth on his shaft, tongue on his knob: the work of a 
talented fellatrix.  Again he groaned aloud. 

The mouth withdrew to his tip while a hand pumped his root.  He 
ejaculated to powerful thrills.  In his mind he declared, "I'm coming.
God, oh God, I'm coming!"

Smiling despite her mouthful, she used her tongue in a mixture of 
sucking, stroking and drinking, holding her breath as her nose touched 
springy black hairs.  She had long ago learned to love this moment, when
a man was all hers with far more than his heart in her hand.

She released him quickly and backed away.  "How wa' 'at?" she asked, 
grinning, a white streak descending to her chin.  But his head lolled 
with closed eyes.  He was unconscious again.  Was that reasonable?  She
recalled Tim ejaculating on her hip late on a summer night, then 
claiming "Not a chance!" in the morning until she made him taste the 
crackly residue.  Apparently a man could indeed come while asleep.

She spat her mouthful into the bathwater, wiped her lips on a towel and
attended to the long and hairy legs.  Everything about this one was 
hairy.  With long strokes she cleaned him thoroughly, even between his 
toes.  His toenails needed cutting.  For comparison she took up a hand.
To her amazement the nails, contradicting the evidence of calluses and 
blisters, were cut evenly close and smoothly rounded -- neater by far 
than her own fingernails, which she conscientiously tried to file every
night as her mother had taught her.  A nail biter?  No, too smoothly 
finished.  She shrugged.  This mystery would have to wait until he was 
conscious.

She had fetched her father's shampoo.  She washed and rinsed the 
stranger's medium hair, careful of the bump in back, noting that he had
likely enjoyed a recent haircut.  Though she checked with a small comb,
she found no lice.

The barn door opened, readmitting Jeff with another pail of steaming 
water.

"I took that long on purpose," he said with a grin.  "I wanted to give 
you as long as you needed."

Ignoring his implication, she said, "I didn't need the water.  His body
wa'n't as dirty as I expected."

"Still got half a hard-on, I see.  How'd he taste?"

She glanced quickly around but her father's face held a leering grin.  
After a moment's thought she answered, "Soapy."

"God, I'll bet it was a big 'un!  You get his jizz?"

She didn't answer, remembering her fascination on the night when father
and uncle, aided by liquid moonshine, had played with each other's 
genitals.  "You want to feel it, Daddy?  Go ahead."

Jeff's hand immediately enclosed the softening organ, jacking the skin 
up and down briefly.  With a chuckle he held the end up toward her, 
displaying a single white drop in the eye.  She looked away.

Releasing it, he said, "Feels peculiar without the skin, don't it?"

"The tip's rougher than yours."

"Because it ain't protected, maybe."

She pulled the tub's drain plug and waited as the water soaked into the
straw on the dirt floor.  She used the towels on the man's head first 
then worked down his body, drying arms and hands, lingering on his 
torso.

Jeff mused, "Your tits are going to love that coarse hair."

She had already thought her nipples would be in heaven.  She moistened 
at her father's words.  This man was almost hairy as a bear.  Her 
breasts could never get enough.  He might be a better lover even than 
Uncle Ted.  Maybe he would come to her bedroom in the middle of the 
night.  Some nights she slept in her bed when Joseph needed attention.

"Daddy, he has to be turned, his backside is wet."

Though he was 73 years of age, the heavy farm labor had maintained 
Jeff's strength if not his suppleness.  He stood behind the stranger and
thrusting arms through the armpits, lifted the man almost to a stand in
the tub.  Sarah applied her towel gently to the genitals then to the 
buttocks.

"Oh, god, Daddy!  Can you look down?"  

Jeff craned his neck.  "Jesus, somebody sure kicked his ass!  This poor
bastard is beat up all over.  Wonder what caused the falling out."

"Falling out?  You still think he's a convict?"

"Well, a cleaner one."

"Look at his fingernails."  She held up the stranger's nearer hand.

"Holy crap!" exclaimed Jeff.  "They look finer than a Chicago whore's.
Sure don't belong on a hand with all them calluses."

"That's what _I_ thought.  How do you explain it?"

"No man would do that.  He's come from a woman."

"A wife, you think?"

"Could be.  Ask him when he wakes up."

Sarah felt her breasts filling.  "Daddy it's time for me to feed him 
again.  Stay and watch.  It makes you hot, I can tell."

Together they moved him to the cot where she finished drying his feet.
Without bothering to dress him, she hitched up her milking stool, opened
her blouse, bent over the strange face and expressed a squirt of milk 
accurately between the lips, which parted to suckle her nipple greedily.

She arched her back, looking up Jeff.  "Daddy, you know what else I 
love."

He opened his pants, releasing his erection.  She smiled.  "Jesus, you 
are always ready!"

"Next to you," he said hoarsely.  "Giving him your tit is hot as fire."

His eyes glazed over as her mouth closed on him.  Motion in the corner 
of his eye attracted his attention.  The stranger's cock was rising 
jerkily.  Jeff watched it, licking his lips.  "This guy's waking up," he
murmured.

But Sarah never faltered.  Jeff wanted to clasp the larger organ but 
suddenly it was all too much to withstand.  Groaning, he ejaculated deep
into his daughter's throat.  Recognizing the imminence, she had closed 
it and took the thick deposit with outward equanimity, withdrawing only
enough to swallow.  Somehow her father's taste was especially 
gratifying.  It was saltier than the stranger's.


* * *


Still dreaming of his French bordello, he soared again to full awareness
and opened his eyes.  At first he didn't recognize the scene.  Focusing
close, he saw just above his face a large pink splotch surrounded by 
pale skin and oozing thin white droplets -- a woman's nipple, by god! --
on a huge breast laced with blue veins, extending up to a sweetly arched
neck.  He saw the underside of a tapering chin, working in what had to 
be suction ... applied to a thick penis leading to testicles dangling 
toward him on the right.  As he watched a glistening white string 
dripped from the chin.

"My god!" he cried huskily, "could I still be in France?"

Sarah sat up, wiping her chin with her hand, and Jeff stepped back, wet
organ dripping.  The stranger raised his head, a rivulet of milk 
escaping one corner of his mouth, wide eyes swinging from her to her 
father.

"Still in France?" she repeated in astonishment, pulling her blouse 
halves up over her breasts.

Jeff groaned softly, not yet fully recovered from the climax.  He 
shuddered, his hand squeezing out the last drop of ejaculate.

The stranger watched the dollop fall.  "You mean I'm not in France?" he
asked incredulously.  His voice was weak but low-pitched.  He shook his
head.  "Where else could you see such a sight?"

Jeff finally tucked his penis away.  "You're six miles from Faresville,
Illinois, and that ain't nowhere near France."

"'Illinois!'" the man repeated.  "I'd say I was hallucinating except for
that dripping cock you just hid."  His eyes swung away.  "This looks 
like a barn?"

"Why not?" asked Sarah.

He took a breath.  "You expect to see ... what you were doing in another
kind of house."

"You mean sucking his dick?"

He grunted.  "Exactly.  You expect that kind of talk in another kind of
house too."

"What kind?"

Instead of replying he licked his lips.  His gaze softened.  "You've 
been feeding me?"

"You were thirsty."

"Thank you very much, ma'am.  From what I saw you're breasts are 
lovely."

"Thank you.  They's busy filling up again.  You still thirsty?"

He glanced at Jeff and said, "No.  Maybe a bit hungry."

"I'll cook you some eggs.  Can you walk to the kitchen?  How do you 
feel?"

"My head's sore," he admitted, adding after a moment's introspection, 
"and my chest hurts on both sides."

Jeff said, "You might have some cracked ribs."

"I don't know if I ought to stand up."  He squinted at Sarah.  "You 
don't mind my nakedness?"

She shrugged slightly.  "I like what you got, 'cept for the bruises."  
She blinked.  "I'm sorry, never thought you might feel cold."  She 
snatched a blanked over him from feet to shoulders.

He smiled slightly.  "Thank you.  Actually I'm not cold, but a naked man
is at a disadvantage."

"What disadvantage?"

Jeff grunted.  "He's right about that.  What's your name, Bud?"

The stranger stared up at the dim rafters.  "That's odd."

Jeff shrugged.  "If you don't want to tell us, I'll just keep on calling
you Bud."

"Something has happened to my memory."

Jeff stood with hands on hips and said with a sneer, "I'll bet you can't
even remember where you spent last night."

"That's right: I can't."

Jeff grinned sourly.

Sarah sniffed at her father.  "Dad, you know he spent last night right 
here on that cot."

"Then the night before last."

The man looked beseechingly at Sarah.  "Perhaps you'll tell me how I 
came to your cot."

"I brought you."

"You?  From where?"

"From a rock beside Springfield highway.  You was out cold, looked beat
half to death, wearing a prison suit."

"'A _prison_ suit?'"

"Black and white stripes, up and down."

"Except your shoes," said Jeff: "too fine for prison.  Who'd you take 
'em off?"

The man's eyes fixed on Sarah.  "You say _you_ brought me here?"

"Across the back of my horse."

"And fed me ... your baby's milk?"

"Yeah.  I got plenty.  Too much."

"And bathed me."

"This morning."

"And ..."  His hand moved beneath the blanket.  "It feels as if ..."  He
shook his head in disbelief.  "Where are my clothes?"

"The shoes are over there.  We burned the prison suit last night."

"I ... see.  That's a lot of help for a stranger in prison garb."

She shook her head.  "I don't think you're a convict."

"You don't?  May I ask your name?"

"I'm Sarah.  This is Jeff."

"I'm very pleased to know you, Sarah.  It looks like you saved my life."

"Glad to do it."

"I hope to find a way to thank you properly."

"Ain't it our duty to help people in need?"

"So they say."  His gaze shifted to Jeff.  "She called you Dad."

"I'm her father."

"By blood?"

"Sure."

The stranger shook his head.  "She's the lovingest daughter I've ever 
seen."

"You got a problem with that?"

"It was not a disparagement."

Sarah demanded, "What's that mean?"

Jeff winked at her and said dryly, "You recollect me telling you our 
ways with each other is different from other people?"

"Yeah.  You never did say _how_ they was different."

"Other fathers don't sleep with their daughters."

"Sleep?"

"I mean fuck."

She giggled.  "I figured that.  What kept you from saying it before?"

"They's really ag'in it out there, honey.  If they knew of it, the 
sheriff would come and get us.  I guess they'll hear about it now."

"Not from me," said the stranger, "if that's what you mean."

"Oh, no?"

"That would be rank ingratitude."

"What rank?" asked Sarah.

"It's not how I mean to thank you, not anywhere close.  Do you know who
gave me this beating ...  Christ!  A _prison_ suit?  I've never been 
near a prison."

"Memory coming back?" asked Jeff in a jocular tone.

The stranger hesitated.  "Not exactly.  It's like I know some things but
not others.  There's a word for my condition but I can't remember it."

Sarah asked, "Do you know where your home is?"

"No, I don't."

"How old are you?"

"I don't --  Hah!  _That_ I remember.  I'm 24."

"It's good to know something about you."  She grinned.  "Even if only 
your age."

"We might know a little more than that," said Jeff.

"What?"  Stranger and woman fixed their eyes on his.

"I listened to the radio last night.  Five men escaped from Grissom last
week.  Two's still at large."

"Grissom?" asked Sarah.

"The state prison over towards Salem."

"So you think ...  What about his fingernails?"

The stranger raised his fingertips.  "What's wrong with them?"

Jeff said, "They don't belong with the calluses on your hands."

The man turned his hands over and looked up in astonishment.  "My god, 
someone has truly put me to work!"

Jeff chuckled wryly.  "You can say that again, Bud."

"You think it was the state?"

Jeff shrugged.  "Could be."

The man's chin firmed.  "Then you ought to call the sheriff."

"No!" protested Sarah.

Jeff looked at her, grinned and shook his head.  To the stranger he 
said, "Can't call nobody.  Something dropped the phone line last week, 
maybe a storm.  Here in the sticks repairs is slow."

Sarah said, "That reminds me: got to send Jack for the doctor."  She 
stood up.  "Bud ... guess we'll all call you that till you remember your
name.  I'll go feed the baby and make your breakfast.  How many eggs can
you eat?  With hash browns?"

Bud licked his lips.  "As many as you'll fix, or die trying."

She said stoutly, "You ain't dying, Bud, not's long as I can help it."


* * *


Jack pushed the sleeping baby's carriage out to the barn while Sarah 
fetched a covered tray of eggs and hash browns for Bud, the stranger.  
She held the man's head up with one hand and a spoonful of scrambled 
eggs to his lips with the other.  Having already received his orders, 
Jack saddled the Appaloosa gelding and rode out without another word.

"Are you sending for the sheriff?" asked Bud, eyes on the departing 
horseman.

"The doctor," she explained.  "Jack won't even speak to anybody else."

He ate heartily.  After awhile she said, "I have some coffee for you."

"I use one teaspoon," he said around a mouthful of hash browns.

"We're out of sugar.  How about a little molasses?"

"I'll try it."

When he tasted the combination, he blinked and noted, "That's 
different."  But he took additional swallows whenever offered.

After four eggs had vanished she said, "We had sugar last year and I 
canned some apple jelly.  Want to try it on what's left of your 
potatoes?  Jack likes it that way."

He smiled up at her.  "That sounds interesting."

He ate the sweet combination, smacked his lips and drank the rest of the
cooling coffee.  "Ah, that was so good!  You've saved my life again."

She smiled acknowledgement.

As she covered the tray of soiled dishes, to his surprise he heard 
another high voice declare, "Stinky, Ma."

She immediately took the baby from his carriage into her lap and changed
his diaper.  The pungent odor faded into the barn ambience.  "I expect 
you're hungry too," she said to her lapful of son as she opened her 
blouse and put a swelling breast to the small lips, which closed on it 
avidly.

The man lay watching with his head turned toward her, raising a hand to
brush away the occasional housefly.  "That's a big boy.  He _is_ a boy,
isn't he?"

"Joe, short for Joseph."

"Talking already?"

"He's quick."  She smiled fondly down at the round face.  A fingertip 
depressed the breast away from the tiny flaring nostrils.

Bud said, "He must be going on two."

"Eighteen months."

"That _is_ quick.  I'm surprised you haven't weaned him."

"You'd be a lot thirstier if I had."  She looked up.  "You remember 
babies?"

He blinked and shook his head.  "That's funny too.  I can remember them
generally but not particularly."  His eyes enlarged.  "Good god, what's
happened to me?"

Her heart warmed to the horror on his face.  She put out a hand and 
stroked his cheek.  "We'll be sure to ask the doctor when he gets here.
You just ate enough breakfast for two men.  You ought to feel sleepy."

Eyes on hers, he bit his lip.

"Go to sleep," she soothed, "and quit worrying.  You're in good hands."

He nodded weakly.  "I believe that.  Thank you, Sarah; thank you."


* * *


She slid Bud's tray into the carriage.  With the baby on her hip she 
returned to the house, pushing the rickety carriage, leaving the 
sleeping stranger alone in the barn.  The early morning in late spring 
was dry with a warm stillness.  Above the birdsong and flutter of wings
in the row of White Oaks that lined the long lane from the road, she 
could hear Jeff's tractor plowing the southeast forty.  The hens roaming
free in the weedy yard clucked softly, heads bobbing as they pursued 
their instinctive search for insects.  Beyond the "kitchen acre" that 
was her special responsibility, fields of winter wheat, barley and 
meadow grass rippled prettily in the occasional breeze.

She left the baby on the kitchen floor to stack and restack the worn 
wooden blocks left over from prosperous times, and attacked her morning
housekeeping chores.  The morning was half gone before another engine 
sound rose above the farm background.  Its machine rhythm was smoother 
than the four cylinder tractor.  Going to the open front door, she 
verified that the vehicle approaching beneath the oaks was Dr. Spencer's
dark green sedan, a '35 Ford V8.

Returning to the kitchen, she stuffed the baby and a spare diaper into 
his carriage and hurried out the backdoor in time to direct the arriving
car toward the garage.  She waited at the vehicle's dusty fender while 
the doctor in a white suit emerged with his bag.  He was a slim man of 
medium height and serious mien who seldom wore a hat.  Gray hair 
surrounding a bald spot.

He glanced quickly around the yard before blue eyes settled on Sarah.  
"Jack said it wasn't urgent, so I took my time with old Mrs. Bartlet.  
On the way here I remembered that Jack is only fourteen.  I hope he was
right about the urgency."

"Welcome, Doc," said Sarah.  "He was.  What else did he tell you?"

"That you've taken in an injured man who might have broken ribs.  Where
is he?"

"On a cot in the barn.  Come on."

Nose wrinkling at the barnyard odors, the doctor followed her into the 
building.  The day having warmed, Bud had shoved his blanket down to his
hips.  At the sound of the creaking baby carriage he lifted his head.  
"Sarah, I hate to ask you --"  His eyes widened as the doctor came into
sight.

She stopped the carriage on the straw-strewn ground beside Bud.  "You 
need to go?"

"I tried to walk outside, but my ribs ..."

"I've got what you need," she said confidently, raising a large 
half-gourd from a tackle box.

She went directly to him and pulled the blanket below his knees, 
exposing his genitals.  "Separate your legs," she ordered and slipped 
the irregular vessel between them.  She took the lolling manhood between
thumb and forefinger and directed it over the gourd.  "Cut loose."

A flush appeared briefly on his face and chest.  He sighed and a yellow
stream flowed into the makeshift bedpan.  His eyes went from the intent
woman to the man behind her, taking in the black bag.

"You're a doctor, I hope."

"Yes.  I am Hiram Spencer, M. D.  And you are?"

"Believe me, doctor, I wish I could tell you."

Sarah said, "Jeff named him Bud."

"Why can't you tell me?" asked the doctor.

"Something strange has happened to my memory."  Bud sighed.  "For 
example, I know a man in a white suit with a black traveling bag is 
probably a doctor, but where I learned that I can't say."

The doctor sniffed.  "Neither can most people, I'd guess.  Can you 
recall your past life?"

"Not much.  When I try to recollect, it seems to ... slip away."

"He said he was 24," added Sarah.  She milked the last drops from the 
organ in her fingers, rose and took the gourd away.

"Do you know how you came to the Martin farm?"

"No, sir, I don't."

"I fetched him," said Sarah, returning the gourd to the tackle box.  She
had simply pitched its liquid contents out the barn door.

"You!" responded the doctor under a raised eyebrow.

In a few words she recapped her tale of finding the man and transporting
him by horseback.  "His clothes was torn and bloody," she said, 
carefully not mentioning the stripes.  "We burned them all save his 
shoes.  They're over there against the wall."

"Well, sir," the doctor summarized, "you've had good luck after bad.  
All right, Sarah, when I raise him up, stack that roll of blankets 
behind his back."

The doctor lifted Bud from behind with hands under the armpits, as Jeff
had done earlier.  Bud groaned at the flexion of his torso.  Sarah 
shaped the horse blankets into a mound and the doctor lowered his 
patient upon them.  "On which side did that hurt?" he asked, bringing 
forth his stethoscope.

"Both."

Sarah fetched a milking stool for the doctor.

Applying his instrument, he listened to Bud's back, sides and sternum.
"Take a deep breath," he ordered, followed by "Push it all out.  Now 
again."  A moment later he said, "Cough."  Studying Bud's face, he said,
"Cough again.  That hurts, does it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Any particular spot?"

"All over."

After a while the doctor straightened up and regarded his patient.  "I 
don't believe you have a broken rib, though cartilage and muscle are 
severely bruised.  Either you've been kicked or you've fallen down a 
rocky hill."

Bud shook his head.  "I don't know, doctor."

Sarah said, "He might've been thrown out of a car.  I think he crawled 
up on that rock."

The doctor's attention turned to Bud's head.  He felt the swelling on 
the back and studied the eyes.  "The back of your head took a hard 
knock.  No news to you, eh?  Well, I don't see evidence of a concussion,
which should be good news.  The swelling is already going down."

With the stethoscope dangling from his neck, he swiftly cleaned, 
disinfected and bandaged the forehead gash.  "I know you're concerned 
about your memory, Bud.  Loss of memory is called amnesia.  It happens 
to the brain.  You ought to see a neurologist about it.  I have the name
of a doctor who might be able to help you, if you could travel 100 
miles."

"How long will my memory be gone?"

"Bud, it takes time.  You could wake one morning soon with your memory 
regained.  Or it could take weeks, even months."

Bud's face sagged in discouragement.  "How long until my ribs are 
better?"

"You had quite a beating, however you got it."  The doctor stooped for 
rolls of gauze in his bag.  "I'll bind your chest so movement will be 
more comfortable.  Give me a hand, Sarah."

Together they wrapped the man's chest.

"How's that feel?" asked the doctor.

Bud moved experimentally.  His eyebrows rose.  "Much better!"

"Good!  Then I won't give you a dose of laudanum."

Bud whirled his legs off the cot, cautiously stood erect but sagged 
backwards immediately.  His hand went to his head.  "Dizzy!"

Sarah steadied him against the piled blankets and lifted his feet back 
into the cot.  The doctor pulled the man's eyelids apart for a brief 
inspection before settling back onto his stool and looking serious.  
Outside a tractor rumbled close to the barn before falling silent.

The doctor said, "You're very weak, of course.  You must walk daily.  
Five minutes, then work up to fifteen.  Soon you'll be stronger.  You 
don't know how you got hurt or whether your assailants are still looking
for you, so you need protection.  Stay with Jeff and Sarah.  They're 
good people."

"Anything I ought to feed him?" asked Sarah.

"Just the standard farm diet."

Jeff came into the barn.  "Hello, Doc.  How's he doing?"

The doctor nodded and said, "Badly bruised ribs, amnesia from a near 
concussion, a few cuts and abrasions.  He'll recover fully in two or 
three weeks, even the amnesia, I expect.  He needs to take it easy for 
awhile."

Jeff shrugged.  "Sarah found him, so guess it's up to us to nurse him 
back to health.  When he's stronger I could use his help with the corn.
How long do I have to wait?"

"I'll come back in a couple weeks.  In the meantime let him rest with 
light exercise."  His eyes shifted to the woman and he smiled very 
slightly.  "Read to him, Sarah.  Teach him how to read if he doesn't 
remember.  Find out his skills.  Learned abilities are often retained 
despite the amnesia."

He pulled a blanket from the pile and spread it over his patient's legs
up to the waist.  "Bud, keep in mind, recovering your full memory may be
a slow process.  Jeff can use your help and Sarah would adore it around
the house.  I've known these dear folks for years.  You couldn't find a
better place to heal."

Bud said, "Thanks, Dr. Spencer, for your treatment and advice."  He 
sighed.  "Just one problem: I can't pay you."

The doctor smiled.  "I wouldn't worry about that, Bud.  We have a system
that works for everyone."

Sarah, standing beside the doctor, looked up with a twinkle.  "I want to
pay for this visit."

Jeff snickered.

The doctor grinned and patted her rump.  "That seems fair to me.  I have
a free moment."

She reversed the baby carriage.  "I have to feed Joe anyway.  Let's go 
in the house."

The doctor closed his bag and followed woman and baby out of the barn.
Jeff stood looking down at Bud with a chuckle.  "You've got a new shirt,
at least."

But Bud had no interest in clothing.  "How will she pay the doctor?"

Jeff grunted.  "Doing what she loves."

"You _don't_ mean ..."

"Maybe you ain't seen yet how much she loves it."

Bud gritted his teeth.  "She'd pay _my_ bills with her body?"

Jeff studied the man briefly.  "Paying your bill is just the name.  
Drink and pussy's the game."

"Whisky?"

"Huh!  I should've said, 'Milk and pussy.'  Ain't been no whisky on the
place in years.  Got a jar of applejack left if you're interested."

Bud considered Jeff's words.  "Is sex a common way to pay a country 
doctor?"

"Who knows?  People don't talk much.  One thing's for sure, practically
nobody's got any money.  Doc Spence has been looking after Sarah since 
she was twelve and started bleeding like a stuck pig.  We was living the
other side of Faresville and I had a car then, a Model-T.  Drove her to
the doctor every month for two years."  Jeff chuckled.  "I was paying 
him right along, but after the first couple months he wouldn't take 
money."

"Did you ask why?"

"Hell, I knew why.  Sarah acts different after she's got her pussy 
stuffed good."

"But you're her father!"

"That's how I knew."


* * *


In the house's unused front bedroom the doctor, less his pants and coat,
lay atop the bottom bedsheet, the tails of his shirt spread wide.  
Sarah, naked, kneeled atop him, her son's thirsty mouth held to her 
breast.  "I miss you, Doc.  You do have a way of fucking a girl and 
making it special."

"How special?"

"You know what a girl needs.  Like now: holding my hips and sliding me 
just the right amount.  Oh, god, Doc!  I'll be coming in a minute."

"Go ahead."

"How 'bout you?"

"You know how I like it."

She laughed deep in her throat.  "God, I love the way we both taste!"  
In a moment she was groaning and shuddering.  Her motion came to a stop
and she leaned back with a small scream.  Her son looked up at her with
wide eyes but identified no threat.  The contorted expression was 
familiar to him.

She rolled off beside the doctor and pivoted the baby beside her.  "Have
a drink while I catch my breath."  The man arched over her, mouth 
descending hungrily.  Her hand found and caressed the turgid manhood.

Man and baby suckled for most of a minute.  Rising up, she laid the 
sleepy baby at the foot of the bed, bent over the man and returned his 
suckling favor until a sudden mouthful became her reward.  When she had
drained him, she looked up with a smile, licking her lips.

"Sarah," he said in evident wonderment, "you are certainly the best 
cocksucker in the county."

She chuckled with pleasure.  "I bet you've tried 'em all."

"Just about, since the Depression.  A lot more women love it than will 
admit.  I wonder if I have time ..."

He slipped off the bed and fetched the pocket watch from his pants.  
"No, unfortunately I don't.  Thelma took an appointment at 1:30.  I'd 
better start back.  Next time I'll make sure that tasty quim gets what 
it wants."

"You'll prescribe for my pussy, Doc?"

"Will I ever!"  He pulled on his pants.  "Look here, Sarah.  Are you 
aware of the mystery Bud represents?"

She blinked.  "You mean his fingernails?"

"A manicure takes ten minutes.  I'm thinking of his diction."

She blinked again.  "Lot's of men have big dicks."  She corrected 
herself.  "Well, a few, anyway."

He chuckled.  "And I'm sure your heart is set on that one.  But I mean 
the way he speaks.  Learning correct speech takes a lot more than ten 
minutes.  He's an educated man, Sarah."

"So what?"

"When he gets his memory back, he probably won't stay here even for 
_your_ charms."

She shrugged.  "That could take a long time."

"Or could happen tomorrow.  Here's what I really wanted you to know: 
recovered amnesiacs typically don't remember what happened to them while
they suffered from amnesia."

"Huh?"

"He won't remember what you're doing for him now."

"Oh."

"I suspect he's noticed how you behave with your father and son.  Ha!  
And with me.  He won't remember that either."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because it may come in handy."

He pulled her against him for a wet kiss before taking up his bag.  From
the door he said, "Send Jack again if anything happens."

"Oh, I will.  Thanks, Doc, for everything."  She wiggled a glistening 
tongue.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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