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.
