I was in a Halloween mood when I wrote this, so no apologies for the extra weirdness. I finished too late for me to comfortably enter it in the Halloween contest so, while I would like you to vote and comment, I would also encourage you to read (and vote on) the other stories which are actually part of the contest.
Poor grammar and editing is nobody's fault but my own. Same with the scarcity of real sex.
*
The old pickup pulled into the end space in front of Butter's general store. The rear rode low, evidently filled with something heavy, but it was covered with a tarp to protect the contents from the elements. The skinny driver got out slowly, his bad leg making every movement painful to watch had anybody been so inclined. In fact, when Jackson walked, most townsfolk found something else to look at, so as not to embarrass him.
Inside the store, the duffers that whiled away their time telling stories, playing checkers, and drinking cold beer (from the bottle), watched as Jackson walked around the open space of the common area gathering a cold orange soda and a bag of vinegar chips. He still had a pronounced limp, but it was already getting better. That's what they always said when he asked them.
Junior Masterson sat across the street behind the wheel of his parked Mustang GT, and had watched as Jackson limped his way into the general store. Jackson's shirt was soaked in sweat despite the cool October air, a sign that he had been working hard since before sun-up. That was good, Junior thought. He liked hard workers, and especially liked it when Jackson was occupied.
Junior smiled at the thought, even as his beefy had pushed down on the back of Maria Burnside's head, forcing her mouth even further down on his cock as his orgasm erupted down her throat. She was gagging, but he didn't care even as her hands slapped and punched him so he would let her go. He knew that she was going to swallow every drop, and clean him up afterward, or her family would soon be homeless and unemployed. He liked the fact that his family had that kind of power. That he had that kind of power.
And if she ever got married, he was sure her husband would thank him for her skills in sucking cock.
When Junior was finished, he pulled the girl's head out of his lap and pushed her to the passenger seat of the parked car. She drew in the life breathing air he had so recently denied her, and tears ran down her face. "Looks like your dad keeps his job for another month, slut. Maybe next time I'll take your ass cherry, and he can keep it for a year. I figure it's worth twice what you got for giving up your pussy."
She fumbled at the door catch. "Fuck you, Junior!" He unlocked the door, and she tumbled out onto the sidewalk. Immediately, she started to retch, bringing up what he had just forced her to swallow.
"You know, I think you are starting to enjoy this, Maria," he chuckled. He turned to watch as Jackson started his truck and pulled out of the space. Where could he be going this time of day? Junior started his car, and pulled the passenger door shut. "I think maybe we should do this twice a week," he said, loud enough for Maria to hear.
His car was roaring away even before she gasped out another, "Fuck you!"
—oooOOOooo—
Darla Dawkins was in the backyard, using the garden hose to water the multitude of plants decorating the deck behind her house, when she heard the truck pull up. The crunch of tires on gravel told her it was a pickup truck, and a heavily laden one at that. The way the engine continued to cough after the ignition was turned off identified as belonging to the Smithfield's. Jackson Smithfield limped his way around the side of her small Cape Cod, his hat held in his hands in front of him. He couldn't be more than twenty two, she thought. Half her age, if appearances and rumors were to be believed.
He stared at her lithe body, ancient in his way of thinking, which showed no signs of being as old as the townspeople rumored. She was dressed in cutoffs and a flannel shirt tied in a not beneath her ample bosom, An a kerchief held back her raven tresses. He nervously shifted the hat in his hands.
"Jackson Smithfield," she announced to nobody in particular. "Something I can do for you?"
He rocked back and forth, from good leg to bad, and fidgeted some more with his hat. She had a Yankee accent, something which added to his discomfort.
"Yes'm, Ms. Dawkins. I, uh, I came to ask a favor." His Southern drawl was more evident than normal. The hat was now showing signs of the sweat from his hands.
"I see. Is this a, 'I want you to watch my cat' sort of favor, or something bigger?"
"Bigger, ma'am." The hat slipped from his hands, and he blushed as he picked it up.
"You know there is payment to be made?"
"I heard. I hope it's enough. I brought a truckload of my daddy's finest. Sweet corn, pumpkins, apples, and fresh catfish I caught this morning. Mamma sent over a kettle of her chicken gumbo. The best we have."
Darla turned off the hose and walked around the house to check the truck. The food wasn't the best she had ever seen, but she knew he spoke the truth when he said it was the best they had.
"And what is it you seek? Money? Fame?"
"The hand of Maria. I want to marry Maria Burnside."
"Love potions hardly ever work out, Jackson."
"No ma'am, that's not what I meant. I, uh..." He was caught staring at her again. She was beautiful and curvaceous, which made her very attractive to him. Maria was cute and beautiful, but Ms. Dawkins was...well, she was a mature woman, attractive in a way no girl ever was.
Not only that, she spoke to him like he was an average person, not as a cripple, which made her even more attractive. "We're already in love. But I can't find good work around here, at least not with my bum leg. And I have to find work if I'm gonna be a provider."
He spun the hat around in his hands again, and gathered the courage to ask his favor.
"I was wondering if you could fix my leg. I want Maria to marry me because she loves me, not because of some potion. But I want to be a whole man." He pulled up the leg of his jeans to reveal the badly scarred calf and shin, the result of an encounter with angry bull when he was seven. He had rescued his sister, who had accidentally fell into the bull's pen, but had himself suffered.
Ms. Dawkins looked at him, her head askance, and gave him a smile that sent shivers down his back. It was sweet and evil at the same time. "Good answer, Jackson. I think I can help you out. Lets get this stuff unloaded, then we can head to the pit."
She pulled back the tarp. "There's an awful lot here, Jackson. More than I need."
"I thought so, Ms. Dawkins, but-"
"You wanted to be sure I wouldn't say 'no'?"
He stared at the ground, but finally met her eyes. "No ma'am. I wanted you to know how much this means to me."
—oooOOOooo—
Junior watched from his spot down the road as Jackson unloaded the truck. So, he's come to visit witch Dawkins. No matter the reason, it couldn't be good for Junior. Not with the amount of food they were unloading from the truck.
Junior moved up so he had a better idea of what was going to happen.
—oooOOOooo---
It wasn't his bad leg that made Jackson unsteady as he stood on the two stools. Part of it was that he was naked in front of a woman, in broad daylight.
She was naked, too.
Both of them were covered, head to toe, in a quickly drying layer of the white clay that formed the pit at the back of her small farm. She had told him to stand on the stools so that all the clay was dry before she started.
Ms. Dawkins, a three year resident of the little house out in the woods, had quickly grown a reputation for being a witch. They were all unconfirmed rumors, Jackson knew, because anybody that spoke openly of how her powers had helped them were punished threefold.
He looked around at the pit at the bottom of her yard. The grassy part of her land sloped down for fifty yards to a creek. Two thirds of the way was a depression in the land, and a bowl shaped opening had been dug to reveal the white clay beneath. On the rare times the creek flooded, the pit would be filled to overflowing. Otherwise, and water that ran down the hill would fill the pit about a foot deep. This water was then mixed with the clay, so that it became a thick, white slurry.
It was where the clay witch worked her magic, or so the rumors said.
Jackson closed his eyes so that he wouldn't think thoughts about her body as she washed his crippled leg clean. It just made his imagination run rampant.
He could feel her hands applying the thick, heavy clay to his leg, following each application with short, deft strokes of her strong fingers. "I think that should do it. Now we wait for it to dry."
Jackson opened his eyes and looked down. Ms. Dawkins had added clay to his bad leg, sculpting it to a size and shape to match his other leg. Even now it was drying, and would be indistinguishable from the rest of his clay covered body. Jackson smiled, and looked at the witch. She was smiling back at him, and those thoughts came unbidden to his head.
The big head first, then little head.
Jackson tried to put the thoughts out of his head again, but the image of her naked body was imbedded in his eyes. Underneath the clay, he blushed. "I'm sorry, ma'am."
"Nothing to be sorry about, Jackson. In fact, I'm a bit flattered. Perhaps I could return the compliment?"
"Uh..." he stammered.
She picked up the sponge, and began to wash the dried clay film from his growing erection. "Gotta be clean for the clay to stick, you know. It's gotta dry for it to work. Wet clay washes away, you know?"
She was done cleaning him in a minute, then inspected him to make sure she hadn't missed any spots. When she was satisfied, she reached down into the wet clay at the bottom of the pit.
