Kimberly Wright's day had begun just as most had for the past three years: she was up well before dawn and well before any of the others in the family; she stoked the fire and added fuel; she dressed warmly to collect water from the nearby creek, one bucket of which would be poured into the kettle dangling over the growing flames; she again left the cabin to milk the goat, collect the chicken eggs, and dig potatoes from the still mostly-frozen ground; and (her last act before the others began to rouse) started breakfast. Nothing new; nothing different.

One by one, the others in Kimmie's unusual family began slipping out of their beds, dressing, and making their ways either into the kitchen, out to the barn, or into the fields to perform their own morning chores. She told Nicolas and Carla as they headed for the door, "We need to get the rest of the potatoes out of the ground before it thaws, or they'd start rotting."

The 18-year-old male and female twins confirmed the order and headed out. Still in the kitchen, their 28-year-old aunt, Laura, pulled clothing down from a drying line that ran diagonally in one corner. She asked, "Are we going on a run today?"

"I don't think we have a choice," Kimmie answered with obvious reluctance. She looked to a nearby bed and to the 6-year-old child still sound asleep in it. Pressing the back of her hand to Elizabeth's forehead, Kimmie reported, "Lizzie's still burning up. We have to find some meds to get her fever under control."

"We still don't know what's wrong with her?" Laura asked as she distributed the relatively clean clothes to the beds of those they belonged to. Seeing Kimmie only shake her head, Laura asked, "If we don't know what's wrong with her, how we supposed to treat her?"

Kimmie looked to the woman with whom she had shared a bed since shortly after the Blackout. Over these 8 years together, they'd learned to practically read each other's thoughts. Laura knew what Kimmie's plan was, and she didn't like it. She offered, "We can try someone else, somewhere else."

"No, we can't," Kimmie contradicted her. "Our only choice is Bentonville. They have the only doctor for, what, a hundred miles?"

"The price..." Laura began without finishing the thought.

"I'm willing to pay it," Kimmie said. She saw her lover open her mouth to speak and cut her off: "No! I will pay it."

She went to the door and called the others back inside to eat, and the family sat down to a breakfast. It wasn't much in regard to either variety or quantity. They'd eaten everything else they had over the long, cold, hard winter, so breakfasts recently had been mostly the same: half a potato, 1 egg, a small glass of goat's milk, and a similar volume of apple sauce. Today Kimmie ate only the first and last of the items, giving her share to the children, of whom she considered not just Lizzie but Nicky and Carla, too.

"I'm going into Bentonville today," Kimmie told the twins as the family set about cleaning up the table and dishes. The expressions and reactions displayed the children's lack of enthusiasm for the idea. Nicky demanded that he be allowed to go, to do his part as the man of the house, but Kimmie shot down that idea, just as she always had before. "We'll be gone likely until close to dark. I'm taking Lizzie with me. She needs to see a doctor."

That led to an animated discussion on the topic. The twins were unfortunately well aware of how dangerous the nearby town could be. Although neither of them had ever asked, Kimmie suspected that one or both of them might also have been aware of the price Kimmie often paid for goods and/or services on her ventures to the Bentonville.

Eventually, Kimmie brought talk on the subject to an end and sent the twins off to finish digging up the potato crop. She dressed against the cold and armed herself with the sword she'd made from a piece of farm equipment. Other than her knife, it was her only weapon after having used the last of the ammunition to her revolver more than 2 years ago.

"Be careful," Laura whispered to her lover after giving her a soft but meaningful kiss. Laura had already bundled up Lizzie, and together the pair took the sick and still sleeping (or unconscious?) girl out to the cart attached to the backside of a Schwinn adult tricycle. The padded the wire frame trailer and added yet another thick blanket to both cushion and warm Lizzie. One last kiss from her life partner, and Laura said, "If you're not back before dark, I'm taking the children, the car, and the television, and leaving you."

They laughed together, hugged, and then parted as Kimmie pushed one of the bike's pedal down to begin the more than 6 mile ride to town and, hopeful, an end to the little girl's suffering.

(OOC: I used Carla as you directed me to do. I'm assuming you're going to correct it in your first post?)

Roger Hamilton was at the north gate entrance to Bentonville dealing with a situation when he looked up to see a woman on a three wheeled bike heading toward him down the cracked, weed-choked blacktop road. He knew it was Kimberly Wright immediately, from both the mode of transportation and her appearance, even at this distance. He smiled, both on his face and in his heart, at the thought of a visit from her.

"Deal with this, Sergeant," he told the man supervising the security team at the check point. More to himself than anyone else, he murmured as he began walking north, "I have more important things to deal with."

Although he was wrong, Roger thought he knew more about Kimberly Wright than anyone else in town. He'd been with the Bentonville Militia since its beginning, just weeks after the Blackout that had so dramatically changed the world and the lives of everyone living in it. As a senior officer in the force -- today he was a Major -- he'd had the opportunity to interview the woman who went by Kimmie when she first began trading in the town. He'd also put out the word that upon her arrival at Bentonville, he was to be informed immediately, regardless of whether he was occupied with other important work or not.

To put it simply, Major Roger Hamilton was infatuated with Kimberly Wright.

"It's nice to see you again, Miss Wright," he greeted her as she slowed her bike to a stop, not needing to put a foot down because of the number of wheels. He waited for her reply, then asked, "And how is the family...? The twins growing up, becoming young adults...?"

Roger had made it abundantly clear as early as 2 years ago that he was eager to see now-18-year-old Nicolas join the Militia soon. He promised Kimmie, "We'll make a man out of him. I'll take personal charge of his training and safety, I assure you. And, of course, you'll be compensated ... paid."

The members of the Bentonville Militia were some of the best paid men and women in town. Only such professional positions as Doctor, Scientific Researcher, Weapons Technicians, and such were compensated as well as those who put their lives on the line to keep Bentonville secure.

Roger had an interest in Nicolas's sister, Carla, as well. Of course, the position he envisioned for the incredibly beautiful, incredibly curvy, and now-adult-age redhead was not one of militiaman but one of bedmate. That wasn't likely to ever happen, of course, and Roger was enough of a realist to understand that. Kimmie had kept the young woman away from Bentonville after she'd once caught Roger ogling her with a hungry expression on his face. The last three or four times he'd laid eyes on her had been at the family's property, when he and his escort had been out and about collecting taxes for their security services.

"Your friend, Laura..." Roger began, hesitating a moment to see if Kimmie would correct his description of her. He was very much aware that the two were lovers. He'd once taken an inconspicuous ride out to their little homestead once for his own information gathering purposes and found them in an intimate situation that left no doubts as to their relationship status. He continued, "She's taking care of the little one I presume ... Lizzie, correct?"

Roger studied Kimmie's reaction to his name dropping and other displays of gathered and recalled information. He had a yearning for knowledge about the people around him, a yearning that was almost as important to him as was his revealing to those people that he had that knowledge. Knowledge is power, his father used to tell him. Knowledge ... and the knowledge of how to use it!

He'd expected Kimmie to have trade goods in the cart behind her trike and, thusly, he hadn't paid much to the cart until there was movement under the blanket tucked around its edges. It wasn't a chicken or kid or rabbit that moved, though, but was little Lizzie instead.

When he learned the reason for Kimmie's visit, Roger didn't hesitate to jump into action. He turned and whistled to the Sergeant who was still dealing with a man who wanted to enter Bentonville without any trade goods. He told him, "Get Miss Wright and her girl to the Doctor ... now!"

He looked back to the matriarch of the farm located to the north, smiled, and reached his hand out. In it was a blue, rectangular poker chip, the style of which -- as far as the non-gambling Roger was aware -- had normally only ever been used in casinos in Europe and the Orient. Bentonville had once been the home of the company that had made these chips and hundreds of other chips specific to individual casinos around the world.

These days, this particular chip was used by visitors to the town as a pass, allowing them access to most of the town's facilities and services. There was a second such chip, this one red, which was more restricted in nature, so much so that Roger wasn't even allowed to have one on his person without the expressed permission of his superior, the Colonel, who was, of course, the leader of Bentonville and its Militia.

"Do I have to remind you not to lose this, Miss Wright?" he asked kindly. He knew he didn't, but he would have been remiss to not ask. The last person who had lost such a pass was still in a cell at the Sheriff's Department. (Of course, that wasn't so much because he'd lost the pass and was more about the fact that he'd transferred it to someone else without authority.) He told her, "Go with the Sergeant, Miss Wright. He'll get you to the Clinic. I'll come check on you shortly."

Kimmie was conflicted about her feelings upon seeing Roger Hamilton at the entrance to Bentonville. The good news was that the Lieutenant or Captain or Major or whatever he called himself these days would, undoubtedly permit her access to the town and to its Doctor. The bad news was that it was to him that she would have to pay the price about which she and Laura had spoken.

Of course, there were worst men in this world for whom she could open her thighs, so, there was that at least.

"It's nice to see you again, Miss Wright," he greeted her as she pedaled around the line of people looking for entry into the trading town.

"Thank you," Kimmie said with a non-committal tone. Needing him to believe she felt the same way about him, she forced a smile and responded, "It's nice to see you as well."

"And how is the family...?

Kimmie cringed at the question, fearful of just what Roger might ask during the friendly conversation he was initiating. Although Roger had never asked and Kimmie had never offered, she was fairly certain that he understood that she was not only a lesbian but was Laura's lover. That didn't stop him from demanding to put his cock in her as payment for goods and services on her necessity-only visits to Bentonville, though. Sometimes she wondered if his excessive generosity at times wasn't based upon the misogynistic thrill he got from violating her body in that way.

Of course, maybe it wasn't misogyny. Maybe he didn't know and simply lusted for her?

"The twins growing up, becoming young adults...?" he continued.

"Yes." Kimmie responded simply. She knew Roger wanted Nicky for the Militia. She also knew she'd kill Roger before she'd ever let that happen. The Family had had a hard winter, and they were on the verge of starvation now as Spring was nearing. But Kimmie would rather quit eating or eat dirt and straw than to fill the cupboard with food bought from Nicky's pay as a Bentonville Militiaman.

"Your friend, Laura..." Roger began, hesitating.

Kimmie clenched her jaws, fearful of where Roger was taking the conversation. It was bad enough that she let him fuck her without the knowledge that she played for the other team. She couldn't even imagine the sexual tension between them if Roger was actually aware of her preference.

Of course, unknown to her, Roger was already fully aware of her relationship with Laura and had been since before the first time he'd found release deep inside her.

Still referring to Laura, Roger asked, "She's taking care of the little one I presume ... Lizzie, correct?"

Kimmie threw her leg over the trike's seat to put both feet on the ground, giving Roger a clear line of sight to the cart behind her mode of transport. Coincidentally, the 6-year-old moved about at that moment, pulling the blanket from her head and exposing herself to his view.

"Lizzie's sick, Major," Kimmie said, recalling what the US Army insignia on his jacket had meant when there had been a US Army. "May I take her to your--?"

She wasn't able to finish her question before Roger turned and whistled loudly to another militia member. A man with the inverted chevrons of what Kimmie thought were Sergeant insignia hurried over as his superior officer ordered, "Get Miss Wright and her girl to the Doctor ... now!"

Roger looked to Kimmie again and handed her a pass. He asked her if she understood the ramifications of losing it, to which she smiled and answered simply, "Of course, Major."

He told her to go with the militiaman, finishing, "I'll come check on you shortly."

Kimmie was tempted to respond, Really, that isn't necessary, I'll be fine. But she knew that there was still payment to be made for the Doctor's services and any potentially-rare medications that might be necessary. Instead she only said, "Thank you, Major."

At the clinic, Kimmie described the little girl's medical situation to the Doctor, adding at the end, "Please, whatever it takes to save my daughter."

Lizzie wasn't Kimmie's daughter -- not biologically anyway. Kimmie and Laura had liberated the then-2-year-old from the most heinous of individuals created by the aftermath of the Blackout, a slave trader. The entire story behind the child Kimmie and Laura would themselves name Elizabeth wasn't known, but the assumption was that she'd been taken from her mother by the slaver, either after the former had died or the latter had killed the woman.

Lizzie's addition had increased what came to be known as the Family to 9: 3 adult women (including Kimmie and Laura, of course), 2 adult men, Nicky, Carla, and another orphaned female Camper. At the time of the Blackout, Nicky and Carla -- whose parents had lived in Dallas -- had been at Outdoor School just 15 miles from their favorite Aunt Laura's house. (Laura had not only been a Camper during the summers of 4th, 5th, and 6th grades but she'd been a Counselor for 6 summers as well during high school and college.)

Kimmie had just moved into Laura's apartment a couple of months before the power died forever, and (when the extent of the Blackout became known) the pair of them had hurried to the Camp to get the twins. They'd returned to the apartment, only to leave again when the cities became battlegrounds over food, water, and other now limited and in many cases no-longer-produced resources.

They'd fled to the Rockies, back to the Summer Camp ironically. They'd found food and supplies there and thought they could live there for years if necessary. But after just a few months, the camp suffered the same fate as the cities had when a band of two dozen armed men and women (with children in tow as well) marched up the hill to the Camp with the intention of taking it for themselves.

Kimmie, Laura, Nicky, Carla, and the other 5 headed deeper into the Rockies to escape the cruelties of Man. That escape was short lived, though, when they came across a trio of heavily armed men with two dozen men, women, and children they had captured, bound, and gagged, presumably for the purpose of sale. Kimmie had been flabbergasted at just how quickly society was breaking down, as if it was some bad Hollywood post-apocalyptic movie.

As if enslaving these people wasn't already bad enough, one of the men took an infant out into woods and simply left it there to die or be eaten by wild animals or both. Laura had been the one to see the tragic act, later sneaking over to snatch up the baby and bring it to their own camp half a mile down a deer path. None of their group every learned of the fate of the other hostages which, presumably, had included the mother of the child as well.

And things only got worse. A week or so after discovering the baby they named Elizabeth, one of the males in the group raped the third adult female. A day after that, the second male stabbed to death the rapist. He'd apparently thought his chivalrous bravery might get him some thanks in a sexual sense, because he began pressuring the raped woman into a relationship with him. One night, unable to take what she was seeing anymore, Kimmie landed a heavy, solid tree limb over the man's head, knocking him unconscious.

"We're outta here, right now!" she'd told the others. Within minutes they were packed up and heading down the trail, leaving the man behind them. (No one would ever see him again, let alone learn whether or not Kimmie had killed him with the blow to his skull.)

Ironically, the raped woman (who it turned out had had serious mental problems for years) became unrealistically and rather insanely jealous of Kimmie in regard to the man who'd wanted her to be his woman. She began treating Kimmie harshly, accusing her of having ruined her life by killing her man. The harassment soon spread to Laura, then to the twins, and then even to Baby Lizzie, for whom many allowances had had to be made to find her appropriate food and shelter.

Once again, Kimmie turned to violence to solve the situation. Inviting the woman out to forage in the forest, Kimmie pushed her down a steep, forested drop. Although she didn't check on the woman, Kimmie was fairly sure the fall and the subsequent collisions with tree trunks, rocks, and downed logs had killed her. Kimmie didn't care. She was relieved, actually.

And once again, they were moving. Weeks later, they found the abandoned cabin in the woods. They'd been there since. Not long after having taken up resident, they'd gotten their first visit from Roger Hamilton and the Bentonville Militia. It was made clear to them that because the area was under the Militia's protection, they would be required to pay a tax.

Laura had told Kimmie after the Militia departed that they could just move again, but Kimmie didn't think they'd ever find a place any safer. So, they'd stayed, and they were coming up on their 6th year anniversary of being residents of the cabin.

Now, as she watched over the still unconscious and feverish Lizzie, Kimmie heard the doctor murmur in response to her last statement, "Whatever it takes, huh?"

Kimmie felt a chill run up her spine as gooseflesh exploded over her arms, neck, and even her legs. She knew what the Doctor was going to suggest: payment. Before he could, she held the plastic gambling token up before her, informing him, "I'm a guest of Major Hamilton."

That caused the Doctor's face to bind up in a disappointed expression. He turned away from his ogling of her hourglass figure and murmured again: "Your daughter will be fine. She's having a reaction to a tick bite is all. She needs rest and medication, which I'd be happy to furnish to a guest of the Major."

Kimmie detected the sarcastic and somewhat disappointed tone the horny doctor used but ignored it, saying only, "Thank you, Doctor."

Roger was arriving at the open door of the clinic just as Kimmie was flashing the pass he'd given her to the doctor and informing him, "I'm a guest of Major Hamilton."

It didn't take a genius to know what had brought about her statement; in this day and age of rampant illness and injury, doctors had become even more important than their pre-Blackout predecessors, and this particular doctor -- like many men -- enjoyed using that importance to get his dick wet.

In truth, Roger wasn't much different. He didn't consider himself a misogynist, as Kimmie herself thought of him. The true definition of the word was a person who dislikes, despises, or is strongly prejudiced against women. That wasn't Roger; he loved women. His problem, of course, was that he was in love with -- or at the least in lust with -- a women who liked other women and not men.

Did Kimmie hate men? Was she a misandrist, a person who hated men? Honestly, Roger wasn't even aware of that word, so it had never occurred to him to think of the woman as a person who dislikes, despises, or is strongly prejudiced against men. No, Roger knew why Kimmie hated and despised him, of course. She was a lesbian and had a female lover, and yet most of the visits she made to Bentonville included him inviting her to his bed to pay for services, goods, or a combination therein.

You're a pig, Roger had told himself on numerous occasions as he thought of what he often forced Kimmie to do simply to keep her family fed, healthy, and relatively happy. But, he just went on, maintaining the status quo between himself and the beauty from the north because it made him happy.

The doctor caught sight of Roger standing just beyond the doorway eying him critically. He ceased his attempt to gain payment for his services from Kimmie, telling her, "Your daughter will be fine. She's having a reaction to a tick bite is all. She needs rest and medication, which I'd be happy to furnish to a guest of the Major."

Kimmie's response was a simple "Thank you, Doctor."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor," Roger repeated as he entered the clinic. He smiled to the woman in his friendly manner, asking, "Have you eaten this morning, Miss Wright?"

Before she could answer, though, he quickly asked the doctor, "Would your patient benefit from an overnight stay and observation from you, doctor? We want to ensure that the child is healthy and fit before she and her mother return home, don't we?"

The doctor knew which direction Roger was steering him, of course, and while he would have preferred that he himself spent the evening sweating up a pair of sheets with Lizzie's mother, he said exactly what was expected of him: "Yes, Major. For the child's health, she should not be moved until tomorrow."

The doctor glanced Kimmie's way for her reaction, then -- as if Roger's ventriloquist dummy -- told her "Your daughter should be kept here until tomorrow morning for observation. She has a bacterial infection from the tick bite which should be watched, and -- to be honest -- the drugs I am using to treat her are, well, old ... pre-blackout."

"Miss Wright, come, let's get you some food and clean water," Roger said, offering a hand to Kimmie. The odds that she would actually take it were a billion to one, just as they had been when he'd offered it to her on multiple times in the past. If she didn't take it as expected, Roger would simply use it to gesture toward the exit, saying, "My cook is preparing a meal for us. Shall we?"

Kimmie had no choice, of course; payment for services was due, and Roger was intent on collecting immediately. It was barely past noon, so this was not dinner and drinks followed by dancing and maybe the question your place or mine?

Outside the clinic, a man in his thirties or so was dutifully waiting with a pedicab; they were actually common in Bentonville, where a company that had made them had once been located. They were almost exclusively for use by the Senior Officers of the militia, thereby relieving some of the work put upon the horses that were used mostly outside the town.

This particular pedicab had been altered a bit. Its handlebars had been turned 90 degrees to accommodate the cabbie, who was missing his right arm from just below the elbow. He nodded to Kimmie -- almost a bow, actually -- smiling wide as he said, "Nice to see you again, Miss Wright."

Roger took Kimmie's hand this time without inquiry as to whether she wanted help and assisted her into the rickety rickshaw. He then took his own seat next to her, putting them very much in contact with one another. He slipped his hand around her back, telling the cabbie, "Take us home, Mister Sykes."

"Yes, Major, right away," the cabbie responded, standing tall on the pedals to get the pedicab moving. He repeated as he often did, "Right away, Major."

The cabbie had ignored the uninvited nickname Roger had given him long ago, brushing it off as easily as shooing away a butterfly that had landed on his shoulder. His actual name was Peter Cramer, not that anyone in Bentonville called him that anymore. Peter had been in Bentonville only a couple of days when -- in a drunken rage -- he stabbed one of the Major's militiamen, killing him. After that, he was tried and given a choice: hanging or the lost of the arm that had wielded the blade. A coward at heart, fearful of death, Peter had taken the latter.

He'd then essentially been enslaved by Roger, and for the past four years Peter had been the man's 24/7 servant. The name by which Roger called Peter had been unknown to him until his new master explained it: it had been the surname of the one-armed assassin in the 1993 motion picture remake of the 1960s television series, The Fugitive. Peter hadn't liked the reference, but then, he hadn't had much of a choice to reject it either. So, for the past for years, he'd been known as Mister Sykes or -- when Roger was pissed -- simply Sykes!

A dozen or so blocks later, the pedicab stopped in front of a small but well-kept home in a neighborhood that looked almost as if the blackout had never occurred ... almost. There were large, deciduous trees out front on the verge of exploding in new spring leaves. The lawn was green and well-kept, another of Sykes's duties which he performed with tools adapted to his disability. The exterior of the home needed paint, as did most structures these days, but all of the windows were intact, the decorative shutters were still in place, and large plant boxes along the walkway had perennials in them, some of which were evergreens and offered the home a touch of normalcy in a very abnormal world.

"Shall we?" Roger asked as he offered Kimmie a hand from the sidewalk. He looked to Peter and said, "Get back to the clinic. Anything the doctor needs, you get him. There is no need for you to report back to me unless there is something important to report."

That, of course, was Roger's way of saying, I'm going to be very busy with this beautiful woman, so don't you dare fucking interrupt me ... while I'm fucking.

"Yes, Major, report to the doctor," Peter answered, again putting force on the pedals and, as he departed, calling back, "Anything the doctor needs, Major."

Again, as he offered his hand and/or alternatively gestured toward the house, Roger asked, "Shall we, Miss Wright...?" And as he always did once he was alone with Kimmie, he added, "Kimberly?"

"Have you eaten this morning, Miss Wright?"

Kimmie considered Roger's question a moment. She hated opening and, potentially, gratefully showing him any appreciation for anything. But it had been almost 16 hours since she'd put any food in her belly, and just the mention of food now made her stomach roll over anxiously. She was about to give Roger a blunt No as an answer, but he turned his attention back to the Doctor, making inquiries as to whether it wouldn't be better for Lizzie to remain in the clinic overnight.

Again, Kimmie's jaws clenched tightly in a combination of blood pressure-increasing emotions. Just as the Doctor did, she knew this was simply Roger's way of keeping her in town for the night. Kimmie had hoped to deliver the little girl to the clinic for treatment, drop her panties to pay for the potentially life-saving service, and then get the hell out of town, all just as quickly as possible.

That didn't happen, though. Before long, she was reluctantly taking Roger's hand as she exited the unstable vehicle. The man asked politely, "Shall we, Miss Wright ... Kimberly?"

She led the way up the walk to the house, stopping at the door to allow her host to open it. She hesitated before passing over the threshold, as if still deciding whether or not to enter the house at all. But, enter she did, feeling an anxious chill rush up her spine again.

Inside, you would never have known the Blackout had occurred if it weren't for two major changes to the home's interior. To Kimmie's left was the living room, to her right the dining room, and directly before her the stairs to the second floor and the hall to the kitchen. In none of these rooms did you see anything that had once used electricity, with the exception of some of the fixtures in the walls or ceiling, such as lights, sockets, and switches. None of these had a purpose anymore, of course, but removing them would have been a waste of time and, in some instances, would have resulted in holes in the walls or ceilings.

The other post-Blackout change was the lighting: oil lamps and candles abounded throughout the home. In addition to light, they offered the fireplace a bit of help in keeping the home warm, Kimmie imagined. She could just imagine the amount of firewood Roger had burned through this past winter to keep the place comfortable. She could just imagine how many trips his one-armed slave had made out to the wood pile, too.

As she had in the past, Kimmie thought to herself, I wonder where Sykes sleeps at night? The basement, all dank and dark and cold? She somehow doubted that Roger allowed the indentured servant to sleep in one of the actual bedrooms. She wouldn't know, though; Kimmie had only ever been in the home's living room, master bedroom, kitchen, and dining room before. Oh, and the bathroom, too.

"I'll get bathed,"

She headed almost immediately for the bathroom and its big bathtub. Kimmie wanted to get this done and over with, and Roger always had her bathe -- sometimes with his company, either near the tub or in it -- if he had gone to the bother of actually bringing her to his home for her payment. She shed her jacket, laying it over the back of the couch, and began unbuttoning her unflattering yet very utilitarian flannel shirt on the way to the bathroom off the hall.

Roger was very proud of the home he'd created for himself. He'd been one of the original 14 members of the armed group that would ultimately become the Bentonville Militia. This had given him privileges that most people in this post-blackout world could only dream of. Most of the lower ranked militiamen didn't have their own homes, either sharing a home with multiple men from their Unit or living in one of the three troop-occupied apartment buildings, often with at least one roommate.

This concentration of the militia into a limited number of buildings was partly about Unit cohesion and the rapid spread of orders. The depletion of resources, though, was also a key element of the decision. There simply wasn't enough heating fuel, lighting oil, candles, clean water, and food to be dividing it up amongst a vast array of bachelor or even bachelorette pads.

While one might think that all of what Kimmie saw was exclusively due to Roger's compensation as a Major in the Militia, it went deeper than that. While many of the other officers and enlisted men barely covered their outgo with their income because of drink, women, and other vices, Roger was very much a penny pincher, not that pennies were part of Bentonville's currency anymore. He had made a decision to spend his hard earned Chips -- casino chips, Bentonville's form of currency -- on creating a comfortable place for him to live and, when possible, entertain.

"I'll get bathed," Kimmie said, heading directly for the bathroom door off the hallway to the kitchen.

Roger watched her walk away from him; her mentioning of a bath almost immediately caused him to get physically aroused. He told her, "I'll check on lunch."

He followed behind Kimmie down the hall, hoping that when he reached the door he'd get a look at her undressing beyond it. But she closed the door before shedding anymore than her coat. He went onward to the kitchen, finding his housekeeper and cook putting the finishing touches on a meal fit for a king. They chatted a bit before dropping a $5 casino chip on the kitchen island and telling her with an appreciative tone, "You've done me right again, Gloria, thank you. Feel free to take off. I won't need you again until breakfast."

She thanked Roger, found her jacket and purse, and slipped the chip into the latter with yet another verbal expression of her appreciation. She left, and Roger picked up the tray of snacks and a couple of bottles of beer made here in town. At the bathroom door, he knocked, asked if he could come in, and -- without waiting for an answer -- did just that.

The door to the bathroom was opening even before Kimmie considered a response to Roger's request to enter. She was already in the antique, clawfoot bathtub, laying back immersed deep enough to hide her bosom. She could remember long, luxurious baths pre-Blackout, the water infused with soothing oils, bubbles floating on the surface, soft music in the background, and candles surrounding her in an otherwise unlit room. This was not that, though, with the one exception that this bathroom also lacked electric lights, replaced by a pair of scented candles lit by Roger's housekeeper as she prepared the room per his sudden orders earlier while Kimmie was at the Clinic.

"I see you've upgraded," she said, nodding her head toward the source of the hot water in which she now laid, a wood stove and hot water tank paired together via steel piping. Neither of the units were here the last time Kimmie had been. "Efficient."

Kimmie looked to the platter of food and drink Roger carried. Her stomach turned over at the recollection that she hadn't eaten since about midday the day before. Knowing he was doing this for her, Kimmie said softly, "Thank you."

She knew what he wanted to see and, wanting to get this over and done with as soon as possible gave it to him. Kimmie rose higher in the tub until her firm, B-cup breasts rose into view. She gave Roger a moment to appreciate the view, then asked, "Would you like to join me ... or ... should I finish up so that we can go to your bed?"

Roger had already seen Kimmie in his bathtub on half a dozen occasions, and yet each time he laid eyes upon her like this, it made his heart skip a beat and his cock head instantly toward full excitement status. Stepping farther into the bathroom only provided him an increasingly better view of her delicious body only partially obscured by the gently rippling surface water.

"I see you've upgraded," she said, indicating Roger's water heating system. "Efficient."

"Thank you," he said before wondering whether Kimmie was giving him a sincere assessment of the new utilities or simply filling the silence with words. "Gloria was getting tired of hauling buckets of water from the kitchen, so..."

The water heating apparatus Roger had had installed here just a couple of weeks ago was essentially the same as the one in the kitchen: a cast iron, 1990s-era wood stove that featured a water heating coil that circulated water between it and an 80-gallon metal tank that sat between it and the bathtub. A pair of elevated 50-gallon rain barrels just outside the bathroom's exterior wall fed the stove, and in turn the tank fed the tub and nearby sink when needed by its user -- or users, Roger hoped.

Looking to the food he'd brought with him, Kimmie told Roger softly, "Thank you."

"Of course, I thought you might be hungry," he responded with a smile. As soon as he'd said it, Roger wished he hadn't; more than just implying that it had been a while since breakfast, his words could have been seen as implying that Kimmie couldn't keep herself -- and possibly her family -- properly fed. He quickly pointed out some of the offered items, somewhat of a boast of what Bentonville -- and Roger -- had to offer to those who lived here, which unfortunately in Roger's opinion didn't include Kimmie. He finished with, "Can I make you a cracker stack?" He smiled again and chuckled. "That's what my grandmother called'em, cracker stacks, you know, crackers with cheese and meat and..."

He was about to end his description, realizing how silly it was beginning to sound, but it was the sight of Kimmie scooting up the sloped back of the tub and exposing the beautiful, perfect womanly curves of her bosom that really silenced him. Roger ogled his lover's breasts for a long moment, admiring how the water droplets either streamed down her flesh or clung to her darker nubs.

"Would you like to join me ... or ... should I finish up so that we can go to your bed?"

Roger didn't immediately answer; he was stunned by the perfection before him, despite having had this very view so often before. When he finally did speak, he couldn't believe what he was saying: "No, um ... no hurry. You enjoy your bath. I'll just ... sit and watch ... if you don't mind."

He knew what her answer would be, of course, which left Roger without fear of being sent away. He set the platter atop the closed lid of the toilet, which like the rest of the bathroom was spotlessly sanitary due to the professionalism of Roger's maid. He made a cracker stack and handed it out toward Kimmie, saying about the dried fruit bits he'd added, "Gloria cut these up 'specially for you, Miss Wright. She seemed to recall that you liked these."