Page 13 of A Stable Daddy

Anyway, when the little clinic in Denham went up for sale, I took it as a sign. Sure, it was on the opposite side of the country to where I lived, but I decided that was what I needed. To start fresh somewhere completely different. There weren’t a lot of vets vying for the place, either, so I snapped the business up at a steal, delighted that it came with a lot of loyal, longstanding clients who, let’s face it, didn’t have many alternative options.

It’s been a steep learning curve getting back into the swing of long, rural drives along roads that are little more than gravel tracks and red dirt. Getting used to the smell of farms and remote cattle stations and the dust which seems to settle into my pores, not to mention the heat and the sweat and the long-arse days, has been alot.

A year out of practice made me complacent, and I’ve spent what little free time I do get trying to work myself back into shape.

But for all that, this whole experience has been healing in a way hiding in Brisbane never was. As much as I miss my friends and family, I feel more myself now after two months in Denham than I did after a year in Brissie.

However, Denham doesn’t have much in the way of a nightlife. At least, not the kind I’ve been itching for.

As my ute rumbles down the dusty road out of town, I glance at my jacket on the passenger seat. Seeing it makes me smile softly to myself, remembering the kind young Dom who gifted it to me. I still feel a little like I stole a treasured possession from him, but when I left his hotel room the morning after my disastrous final night at The Vault, he insisted that I take it with me. I argued that I’d feel more comfortable taking a cheap t-shirt instead, but Oscar just shook his head and pushed the bundle of buttery soft brown leather into my hands.

“It looks better on you than me, darlin’,” he’d said.

I begged to differ, but I kept it anyway. As well as the pair of grey tracksuit pants he gave me to wear, too. I tossed my lamé shorts in the bin and never looked back.

Over the past couple of months, I’ve thought about Oscar more than what is probably healthy. I’ve often wondered about his story: why he was in Brisbane, where he was going next, and why such a perfect Dom was out there all alone that night.

I also can’t stop thinking about howrightit felt to call him Daddy.

The way he’d spanked me, taking me to orgasm and then providing the most thoughtful, thorough aftercare…God, he’s going to make some Boy very lucky one day.

Jealousy runs through me at the knowledge that it’s not going to be me, even if I never considered indulging with Daddy kink before meeting him.

But I’ll always have the memories of that night. And I’ll always have his jacket. It doesn’t smell like him anymore, but every time I put it on, it soothes and warms me from the inside out, like an invisible hug from the man himself.

The ringing of my phone cuts into my thoughts as it blasts through my vehicle’s sound system, overriding the radio I keep on for background noise. I press the answer button on my steering wheel and smile, greeting, “Hello, Ryan speaking.”

“Doc Sharp?” the voice on the other end of the call asks, sounding a little hesitant.

I glance at the clock on my dash, assuming my receptionist at the clinic has taken her lunch break and diverted calls through to my phone. “The one and the same. How can I help you?”

“Uh, my name’s Dusty and I’m callin’ from Wombat Run Station just outside Yalardy.” He pauses for a moment before ploughing on, “One of our mares is foaling, but we think the foal is breech.”

Immediately, my heart starts hammering. A breech presentation for a horse in foal is one of the most difficult issues to resolve. My brain is already racing through potential complications: damaged internal organs, uterine ruptures, and potentially death to both mare and foal.

“Yalardy, you said?” I start calculating the distance from my current location to the inland town.

“A little west of it, yeah.”

At minimum, I’m looking at an hour and a half. Maybe two hours.

“How long has the mare been labouring?”

Dusty answers my questions as I continue driving in his direction, and he also explains that their usual vet, stationed in Yalardy, is currently in the hospital being treated for a snake bite. It’s shitty timing all around, really.

“I’m going to keep you on the phone and try and talk you through turning the foal for me, Dusty,” I tell him.

He sounds grave when he answers, “Okay.”

We both know just how serious this situation is. It’s a complicated thing for even a trained equine vet to deal with, but I’m still too far out to risk telling him to wait for me. Even so, the foal’s chances aren’t looking good; a thought which hurts my heart to think about.

Dusty tells me that he’s putting me on speaker, and I can hear him talking to other people as he explains what’s happening. Then I start talking him through what he needs to do, asking him questions about what he can feel, and reminding him that he needs to be careful while he reaches inside the mare to try and reposition the foal.

Hope soars inside me when his descriptions sound less like the foal is completely breech and more like its neck and legs are just improperly positioned for delivery.

Asking more questions, tension bleeds from my shoulders when I realise that I’m right. This doesn’t mean the foal is out of the woods yet, but its chances of survival just got a whole lot better.

I keep him on the line as I drive, talking him through every step of adjusting the foal’s position. By the time I’m about half an hour away, the foal has been delivered successfully. Dusty’s relief is palpable when he tells me so, thanking me for talking him through what to do.

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