Rusty
"Find a man!" her mother had been telling her since she came of age. "But why?" the milkmaid replied. "A woman needs a man! To cut wood! To fix the house! To plow the field!"
But the milkmaid saw no need for a man, not for any of that. She cut wood for her mother every day. She had fixed the chimney when the storm blew the top down - making the mortar, fitting the stones.
And she was a milkmaid! No plowing was required! She put the cattle in the pasture; she brought them back to the barn; she milked them and carried the milk to the cans for the dairy to fetch.
They made a good living, and no man was going to make that any better.
Still some days, when she tended the cows in the field, she wondered. Other women needed a man, for children and to make a family.
She would like a child.
Could she, without a man? These thoughts occupied the long hours.
One day a bull crossed the fence from the neighbor's field. She was not alarmed; the neighbor would soon come fetch it.
But the bull began to sniff at her cows, bothering them and turning them. Soon the bull had a group of cows under a tree.
It heaved itself up! straddling a cow. Now it had its red member, swelled many times its normal size, dangling between its legs!
It plunged it into the cow, bellowing and thrusting. After a moment it withdrew, a gush of white spume accompanying the now-reduced member.
For its part the cow took no notice, even continuing to browse the tender grass in the partial shade of the tree.
All afternoon this was repeated, the bull getting huge, the straddling, the bellowing and the spume, the cow unconcerned.
Was this why she needed a man? To straddle her, to impale her! To produce the white spume?
This thinking consumed her thoughts all that day and the next.
The neighbor came to fetch the bull.
"You owe me six cruckets! To pay for the bull's service!"
"I did not require the bull! I did not make a bargain with you! It's your fence and your bull!"
She sent the neighbor away, muttering about calves and taking it to the mayor. She was unconcerned; she had truly made no bargain and would not pay.
In a season her brown cows whelped fine spotted calves - spotted like the bull! Now she knew what she had suspected.
The neighbor came demanding a calf; she gladly gave it him, to quell the argument and because this new learning was worth a calf.
For children she would have to be impaled. But how to produce the spume? Was the cow or the bull responsible?
Reasoning it was the cow that made the calf, then the bull had little to do with it.
Perhaps it was only the threat of further impalement that induced the cow to create one!
She experimented on herself. First with her fingers she investigated the folds beneath her bush. There was indeed an opening for a member to impale here.
It was even exciting to explore! First her hand pressing at the opening, then one finger inside, then two or three!
She soon switched to bigger things - a carrot from the garden, washed at the pump. A gourd handle. A cucumber - that was best! Slick and waxy with just a hint of bumps!
But no spume. No children.
One night, watching mother churning the butter and pouring off into a bowl, she thought "The white spume! Buttermilk is similar, and it's produced by the churn!"
So, when mother retired that night, she determined to try. The dasher had a long smooth handle protruding from the cover. Very like the bull's member!
Removing her breeches and standing over the churn, she carefully lowered herself until the handle met her delicate hole. Ouch! It was rough.
Thinking quickly, she took some butter and worked it into the dasher, then tried again. Wriggling a bit, the handle was soon inside her!
The bull had plunged - so she reached below and grasped the dasher, plunging it into herself.
Oooh! That was nice!
A little more plunging and she was worked up into a lather. She began to hump up and down, matching the dasher thrusts with lowerings of her hips. This was better!
Before she knew it, she was flowing. Her knees felt weak, but careful! don't fall upon the churn! She plunged one-two-three times more on shaky knees, then it happened.
A sudden flow from her body, covering her hand! She lifted carefully off the handle, then collapsed onto the hearth rug. She lay there a bit, just quivering and breathing.
When she had her senses back, she examined her hand. Yes! She had done it! A white spume, clearly!
She repeated the experiment most nights for a fortnight. It was lots of fun, it occupied her quiet evenings, and if it brought a child then all the better!
But no change occurred that would seem a child was on the way. She didn't throw up like the women of the village said should happen. She didn't get huge in the stomach. And she certainly didn't produce a child.
Lying in the sweet hay one day, watching the cows and the clouds and absently diddling herself with two fingers, she spoke aloud.
"Oh, how I wish for a child! I wish the butter churn would bring from me the right spume! Or the carrot, or the cucumber!"
It happened a sprite of the wood was nearby collecting pollen for its supper and heard her.
"She thinks a churn can make a child! Or a vegetable! Silly! Of course, it takes iron to make a womb quicken!"
For it was that way with the sprites of the wood.
For mischief the sprite put a thought in her head: "If I fuck the nail on the fence, it will bring forth a child!"
The milkmaid's gaze fastened upon the gate. An iron spike rose proud from the hinge, so that the gate might swing.
"Why not!" she reasoned. "Perhaps it's something in the meadow, that brings forth a child!" She'd even heard women in the village talk of being taken by their husbands on a creek bank or in a wood.
She climbed the gate, scooted along its top until she could bring herself over the hinge. Lowering carefull! carefully! she brought her wet hole to the spike.
It was cold but worn smooth from years of the gate hinge's action. Gently she bobbed up and down, feeling its uncaring length enter her, straightening her insides to conform to its curve, then pulled gently out again.
This was different! She repeated until her legs began to quiver in the familiar way, increasing her bobbing until she was nearly! nearly! there.
Ahhh! She felt the spume begining to spurt around the spike, wetting it and dripping to the grass.
She lost her senses and fell from the gate, landing in the soft hay. For a time, she lay, panting.
The wood sprite had seen all and was amused. For spite it cast a spell, quickening the milkmaid's womb. An iron child, from an iron dick! Then it left.
The milkmaid lay in the sun and considered. She felt no different. Silly girl! To think a child could be made by a churn or a spike! It seemed a man was the only way.
Yet the next day she ate her meal and then threw up. Her mother cast a searching eye upon her.
"Have you been fucking the laborer in the next field? Did he cross the fence and put his long cock into your wet hole?" she scolded.
"No mother! I have had no man! I need no man! It was an iron spike that brought forth a child from me!"
She was jubilant! A child at last!
Mother was doubtful, but what could she do? but watch as her daughter's belly grew, her tits grew heavy, her nipples darkened.
In the time it takes to conceive and grow, a baby was born to the milkmaid under a dark moon. On the bed, straining, her mother caught the strange child as it came squalling into the world.
Its cries were as the gate swinging to and fro in the wind.
"Is it a girl?" the milkmaid asked.
"No, it's a strange little boy. A hard, red, strange little boy." Mother was still doubtful but who could have sired this child? An iron spike? It made as much sense as anything else.
The boy grew. Called Rusty, his favorite plaything was the fire. One day she found him dancing in the hearth, the flames harming him not!
In the woods he could cut saplings with his hands alone, fingers for saw-teeth. Soon he was cutting all the wood, even the mature trees, and carrying them to the axe yard!
He carried the milk now, lifting even the full cans into the dairyman's cart with ease.
In a high wind a stone dislodged from the chimney and fell Crack! onto his head. His mother cried out! sure he had been killed.
But Rusty smiled and skipped to her, showing her how the stone had broken on his hard red head.
The boy grew into a man, and desired to see the world.
One day the dairyman had a tale to tell.
"The Earl's daughter was taken by goblins! They desire the maids of men to do their labor in the dark holes of the mountain!"
"Who will go down and bring her back?" Rusty was concerned.
"No one will go! No one has ever gone into the dark holes of the mountain and returned!"
"I will go! The goblins cannot keep me from their lair!"
The dairyman was going to laugh but considered Rusty and all he knew of him.
"Maybe so! Climb aboard and I will take you to the Earl!"
Rusty hopped onto the tailgate, the cart tipping dangerously from his weight for now he was full-grown and built like iron beams.
Arriving at the manor house, the Earl was mourning his daughter and did not want to see visitors. But Rusty just walked past the guards, ignoring their weapons and pushing the largest of them aside.
"I will bring back your daughter! Take me to the lair of Goblins!"
The Earl had never set eyes on this strange man, red as rust, rough face and hands, hair like iron nails, smooth limbs shining in the light of the fireplace.
"No man can face the Goblins! They are as rock, immune to our weapons!"
Rusty laughed. "I am as iron! Immune to their blows!"
