From: an179397@anon.penet.fi (Stroker Al)
Reply-To: an179397@anon.penet.fi
Date: Thu, 25 Jul 1996 07:59:48 UTC
Subject: DAIRY DIARY (M/M, M/machine, JO, Bestiality)
WARNING!!!!!!!!!!!!
THE FOLLOWING STORY IS A WORK OF SEXUALLY EXPLICIT FICTION
INVOLVING MAN TO MAN SEX (AND OTHER COMBINATIONS) IF THIS DOES NOT
INTEREST YOU, OR IF YOU ARE UNDER LEGAL AGE, DO NOT READ THIS STORY!
July 24, 1996
Dear Readers,
Greetings from Stroker Al.
This is the first installment of a story that I have not
completed yet. It is not my usual practice to post unfinished work, but
because of the diary format of this tale, I decided that it might be fun
to make an exception this time. I enclose below the prologue to the
story, which will be followed immediately by the first diary entry in
another posting, labeled (2/?). My plan is to post subsequent
diary entries as I write them. That way I keep writing, you keep
reading, and maybe we'll both enjoy it more. Anything's better than
these long waits between posting new stories.
If you don't want to start an incomplete story, wait a couple
weeks until I've finished and look for a posting marked "Dairy Diary"
(Complete!), which will indicate that I've finished the story and have
compiled all the diary entries into the fewest number of segments that
can be successfully posted.
From that point on I will only post the story in its complete form.
Enjoy!
Stroker Al
PS: I have another story, "Alterations" in the works and nearing
completion, so be patient. Also, its my goal to complete the Friday 13"
series sometime this summer. That should involve about 3 more stories.
Watch for them
* * *
"Dairy Diary" (1/?)
By Stroker Al
"Sean, wake up!"
And awaken he did, jerking his head up and blinking his tired
eyes to behold his monitor screen streaked with rows of meaningless
repeated characters. Ultimately it was only the throbbing waffle-iron
imprint the keyboard had made on his face as he dozed that clued Sean in
to the origin of the electronic hieroglyphics in front of him.
"Sorry , Ken. " he muttered to his boss, who stood behind him
with hands on hips and shaking his head at the sorry state of his finest,
most brilliant program developer. "I'm nearly finished with the SATYR
upgrade. I only dropped off for a second. Really!"
"Well, that's not nearly long enough, young man. I am ordering
you to stop this instant. Shut down your terminal. Now!" Ken barked.
"But Ken...." Sean tried to protest.
"No 'buts', young man, " Ken cut him off sharply, and then
softened his voice and expression with a concerned smile. "At least not
the kind of 'buts' you're always tossing around here to give yourself an
excuse to overwork yourself to death. Go home. Now."
"There are segments of SATYR that need tighter reorganization,"
Sean pleaded as earnestly as he could, though unable to disguise the
thick exhaustion in his voice.
"That's what I pay the editors to do, Tiger. Get out of here."
"I can do a better job than any of them."
"Not if you keel over dead from a heart attack at 25. Now stop
being a goose and go start your vacation. Or else how are you going ever
be able to lay Nimrod another golden egg like SATYR?"
Sean tried and tried to think of some argument to throw back at
Ken, but could not. He was so worn out that even his sharp wit was
failing him. To his horror, he started to blubber right there in his
chair at his desk in front of his boss. Ken, however, was nonplused by
this rare display of vulnerability and remained standing next to the
sobbing young genius, moving only enough to allow one arm to encircle
Sean's trembling shoulders.
"There there, Sean. You were way overdue for a good cry. Now
remember, we all agreed to this weeks ago: you and I and the board and
corporate heads. Your vacation accrual is not just a benefit of your
job. It is a mandatory part of fulfilling your contract with us. You
need rest, relaxation, fun, fresh air."
He hesitated for a moment and then continued in an even softer
voice. "Your coworkers inform me as well that you haven't scored a piece
of ass in months."
The remark caused Sean to catch his breath in mortification at
having been betrayed by his lazy, gossipy fellow programmers.
"It's only the opinion of a boring, middle-aged ostensibly
straight married man, of course, and you can take it with a grain of
salt, but Sean, it seems to me that for a young single man of your
intelligence, fine looks and, heh heh, 'ample' income, your, uh,
austerity, seems, well ..... unnatural."
"I resent that!" Sean cried, leaping up from the chair, trying to
look indignant but coming off as merely embarrassed. "My personal
life..." he began,
"..or lack of..." Ken interjected discreetly.
"...is none of your business or any one else's at Nimrod!" Sean
finished uselessly.
"Ordinarily, no, you're right," replied Ken.
"So you think getting fucked three nights a week in the back room
of The Utility Pole like Martin Kruger does makes him a better
programmer?" Sean spat bitterly.
"Goodness, no," Ken answered, visibly shocked, yet showing only
the vaguest trace of distaste. "Nor does it make him a worse one,
apparently. But you have to admit, Sean, he does seem a bit cheerier
than you do most days. And I don't think it's so much a question of what
specific things a person does as it is how much energy he puts into them
and how all these interests and activities balance each other out."
Ken paused and looked questioningly at Sean. "The Utility Pole?"
"Every weekend," Sean sneered. "Well, almost. Anyway, he's a
shameless slut," he grumbled.
Taking mental note of this tidbit of info for later reference,
Ken nevertheless was not to be sidetracked by Sean.
"Anyone talking to Martin can tell right away how enthused he is
about his life on or off the job," Ken continued. "You, on the other
hand, Sean, appear increasingly to have no life whatsoever. That worries
me, and not just because I'm your boss. It should worry you too."
"But the quality of my work..." Sean tried to protest.
"No. I refuse to fall into the trap of discussing this further.
Now you've met us halfway on this so far, so let's see it through, okay?
Personally I think you'd have had more fun on Mykonos for two weeks than
you're going have on your uncle's farm in Wisconsin, but getting you out
of Chicago at least is a start."
Sean nodded, but said nothing. Pouting, he began to gather his
things from the desk, while Ken stayed and watched him.
"Remember, that letter you showed me from your uncle is not going
to be enough verification by itself. You had better actually BE there at
the farm when my secretary phones tomorrow evening, or else. "
"Yes, Ken. I'll be there,' Sean shrugged, pulling on a ragged
canvas jacket.
"And you are to write in your journal every day just as the staff
shrink instructed you to do and mail us the carbons, or so help me young
man, I'll see to it your contract is not renewed. I mean it!"
Sean stopped and turned to Ken, laughing out loud. "As if Nimrod
is going to let any other company snap me up."
Ken just shook his head, a little sadly. "Sean if you don't get
some rest and put a stop to your obsessive behavior, you're not going to
be of any use to us or any other company. Or to yourself. Do you really
want SATYR II to wind up being your swan song?"
Sean just looked at his feet for a minute and sighed, then
continued gathering his things.
"And two weeks was merely our compromise, son. If you want to
stay away longer, don't hesitate. You have hundreds of hours built up.
I know its hard for you to accept this, Sean, but Nimrod could survive
one quarter without you if it had to."
Sean tried to push past Ken to the door with an armload of
folders and equipment, but his boss stopped him. "Leave the folders on
the desk, please. And the laptop."
"It's mine!" cried Sean, hugging the little faux briefcase to his chest.
"Nonsense. I happen to know that yours has been in the shop for
weeks. Put it down."
Sean just stood there, ready to burst into tears again, so Ken
had to gently remove the laptop and folders from his arms and put them
back on the desk himself. "It's useless, my boy. We wouldn't accept any
work you generated while on vacation anyway. Besides, you'd only spill
salsa on this one as well."
Sean thrust his fists into his jacket pockets and fled the room
without turning back. Ken watched him push through the main office past
through a throng of well-wishing coworkers, and somehow knew that upset
as Sean was now, that he was going to be all right.
"DAIRY DIARY" (2/?)
By Stroker Al
Curdistan, Wisconsin
Saturday, Aug. 10, 1996
9:00 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Or should I write, 'Dear Dr. Halberstam, Ken, and board members
of Nimrod Inc.'?
As Alice, our coke-sniffing cunt of a front secretary has no
doubt already reported to you, I arrived safely at dear Uncle George's
farm late this afternoon. If I seemed rude to her on the phone, well
perhaps that was because her call interrupted my first sit-down country
supper with my Uncle and his family. Everyone knew it t'wer for me since
nobody 'round these parts phones at suppertime. Thanks to Alice, my
biskits n' gravy curdled right there on my plate!
I heartily recommend Trailways buses to any of you who are
planning an interstate journey of this magnitude. Imagine, I traveled
an entire two hundred miles today and it only involved three bus changes
and six hours on the road. And with all that, the friendly efficient
personnel only managed to lose ONE of my two suitcases. The 'station
manager' in Curdistan believes that it's on its way to Eau Claire and
hopes to have it back to me within mere DAYS.
But Sean, my lad, I can imagine you saying, weren't you going to
drive your own car to your uncle's place ? Didn't you want the freedom
to pick up and go somewhere else if Curdistan got too hayseed for you?
Well, plans change, my dear know-it-all mentors.
My car wouldn't start, for one thing. Perhaps that was because I
didn't even try the ignition. And perhaps THAT was because the damned
thing is still in pieces strewn across the floor of the garage I rent
from three months back when I decided I was going to replace the engine
block myself--again. Call me stubborn, but when you love machinery like
I do, its hard to entrust it to someone else, even if you don't have the
time to do it yourself.
Oh hell, I can take or leave auto mechanics. The real truth is I
couldn't AFFORD to have someone else fix the fucking car this time.
That's right Ken, I'm BROKE.
How can that be, you ask? A 25-year old, single queerboy making
seventy thou' a year and he's broke? Let me count the ways.
First there's my co-op that I bought outright, which was a big
mistake, but there you are. Then there are my student loans from MIT
(yeah, I know. I was just too busy to apply for scholarships), and then
there's the fact that I eat out at restaurants for every fucking meal
every day all year around. There's cab fare, books, magazine and paper
subscriptions, blah blah. You get the picture.
Well almost. That's all pretty standard stuff. You wanna know
where the real money goes? Obviously a bunch goes toward new computer
hardware and software, but believe it or not, you know what the biggest
chunk goes for? Porn videos and sex toys.
Oh yes. I've amassed the most incredible collections imaginable
of both, the cream of which is on its way to northern Wisconsin in that
bloody suitcase. But I left a few good ones behind for you to enjoy,
Ken, in case you ever feel like dropping by my building while I'm gone.
There's a key taped under my desk just for you. You can come over and
beat off with 'the boys' and your wife will never know . Or bring ol'
Martin over with you to keep him out of the bars. He'll let you fuck him.
Think about it, Kenny. I've got pre-condom videos, pre-video
films; I've got every title you ever rented when your wife was out of
town, and as you'll notice while scanning my packed shelves, I even
preorder new titles from about 6 different gay studios. Hell, I've even
got straight vids, if you like that sort of thing, Ken. You haven't seen
Julie Christie get raped by a computer in "The Demon Seed" until you've
seen it in on my 42 inch screen.
So now you understand why Mykonos was out of the question.
Besides, If I could have afforded to go somewhere to chase boys on my
vacation, I'd have picked a place like Hong Kong and gone cruising for
closeted young Asian financiers.
Alas, Uncle George's dairy farm seemed to be my only option at
the time, though now that I'm actually here--yikes!--what was I thinking?
I'm racking my burnt out brain to come up with some other place I could
go, like to hang out a few days with one or two of the least excessively
nerdy guys from other cities I've met at software conventions or
something, but sadly there isn't anyone really that I could stomach. I'm
stuck here now, in any case, at least until the next Saturday's bus.
That is unless I can find some farm hand whose bathed this month to drive
me back to town in exchange for a blowjob.
It's time I described my sophisticated hosts. Half the Erickson
clan greeted me at the bus station (also known as the side door of
Milt's, Curdistan's only grocery store) by holding up one of those
ridiculous signs, as If they were afraid of missing their city boy cousin
amidst the mob of other people that were bound to disembarking at
Curdistan. "SEAN?" the sign said, complete with question mark in red
magic marker on cardboard cut from the back of a cereal box. Country
corn flakes no doubt.
My Aunt Fran did all the talking from the start, as soon as she
released me from her suffocating bosom.
"George was all set to come just himself to pick you up, but the
boys and I decided to come along at the last minute." she chattered.
I gathered from all the excitement that the arrival of an such an
esteemed guest as myself was rare. You should have seen her sons all
line up with their overalls all brushed off and their hair all neat and
combed, one by one offering me a big, freshly washed hand to shake. It
had been more than 12 years since I'd laid eyes on any of them, so I
couldn't tell them apart, but all that straw colored hair and the ruddy
red corn-fed faces sure brought back memories.
After politely waiting out my tantrum over the missing suitcase,
Fran tried to reassure me that with four grown boys at home they were
bound to have plenty of 'duds' I could wear. Hardly what I was worried
about, Aunt Franny!
Next we boys "piled" into the back of the pickup and rode the 15
teeth-gnashing miles of pothole-shredded dirt road back to the family
farm. En route I was cajoled into trying to identify each of my cousins
by name, and to their endless amusement I got every one wrong. It didn't
help that the truck had no shocks, which made their faces blurry and my
brain feel like it was being purreed, but I think the real trouble was
that, close up, these three all looked older than they were. I assumed,
wrongly, that Sam, the youngest at 22, must be the fourth cousin who
hadn't come along to greet me. Turned out that Sam and Joel--both younger
than I, mind you--had the biggest beer guts and bald spots of the three.
Then there was Ben, a mere four years older than I, but already making
thirty look like a thing of the distant past.
"Where's Nathan?" I asked after a pause just long enough for me to
retrieve the missing cousin's name.
"He had to hop out on the way here." Joel said. "Get the cows off
the road. Mend a fence. "
Looking at these three laid back brothers It was hard to imagine
anyone in the family could have been troubled to lift their lard ass out
of the truck to attend to any chores. I couldn't believe the damage that
butterfat, hopps, and Jesus, I don't know, cornsilk(?) appeared to have
wrought on these farm boys, despite their eternally youthful ice blue
eyes, yellow hair and dutchboy pink cheeks.
You see my cousins take after Aunt Fran more than Uncle George.
They've got her German stockiness and the Scandinavian looks that her
husband lacks. Uncle George is fairly small, dark and wiry, like me and
like my father was. I'd forgotten till today just how MUCH like my
father he seems.
Well, not everyone sees the family resemblance, however. Get a
load of the first wisecrack I overhear from the locals as the family is
walking me past the barn that sits between the garage and the farmhouse.
"Who's the Jew boy?" says a voice softly, but distinctly from up above
through the opening in the hayloft.
I'm the only one who appears to hear this remark, and without
slowing my pace, I turn to look up and I glimpse two guys sitting next to
each other on a pile of hay. The redheaded one on the right in the blue
work shirt is looking towards the other, familiar-looking, shirtless
blonde one, apparently waiting for a reply which never comes, at least in
my hearing. A second later we on the ground have moved out of visual
range of the men. Fran is still gabbing away, seemingly oblivious,
about dinner and home made ice cream and watermelon.
Dr. Halberstam, do I look Jewish to you? Sure, I'm thin, pale,
with thick, wavy dark hair, but I hardly have an olive complexion or
Semitic features. Well, it must just be an indication of how deep I've
wandered into WASP country here, folks. The second I realized that the
Zeke in the hayloft was referring to ME, I had an impulse to turn around,
unzip my fly and wag my uncircumcised dick at him. Not that such a yokel
would have necessarily grasped the subtlety of my gesture.
Instead I keep smiling and nodding and walk up onto the great
porch of the house with the family where we stand for a moment, the
reason for which is unclear to me until I hear the footsteps approaching
in the dust behind me.
"Put on a shirt, Nathan, we got company," Fran says, not entirely
successful at disguising the anger in her voice.
"I'm aware of that, Mama, " the young man replies evenly, at
which point I allow myself, to turn towards him as casually as possible.
By the time I am facing him, he has bounded up onto the porch . Just
before my eyes can adjust to his features at such close range a glimpse
of the redheaded bubba heading off in the distance away from the barn
reaches me. Then next thing I focus on are two round brown nipples on a
broad, bronze chest and a muscular golden-furred forearm extending a
large, callused hand to me.
"Sean, do you remember your cousin, Nathan ?" George asks me.
Yes, I say, shaking his hand, but I really mean no. I don't
remember him at all. Not like this.
"S'cuse my appearance," Nathan says, grinning and rubbing off the
sweat that dots his washboard stomach. "I've been out mending a fence."
"Oh yeah, in the barn, " I hear Joel mutter to Sam. "More like..."
"Oh, no problem, " I say, overlapping Joel and missing what he
says because I can't just stand there and look stupid in front of this
golden stud.
Whoa, Ken! My cousin Nathan makes Martin Kruger look like Nick
Nolte or someone. The reason the sight of him shirtless up in the barn
looked so familiar is because he looks as young, trim and gorgeous today
as Ben, the oldest, did as a teen the last summer I visited the farm. I
remember following Ben around everywhere like a pest with my little
faggot heart aflutter because he always went shirtless back then. For
Ben to attempt such a display now, I must say, would be a scary thing.
But NATHAN! !!!! Woof woof!
How did the boring butterball that I pretty much ignored as a child, ever
grow up to become such a hot looking man? He's five years younger than
Ben but he looks like he could be his son! I am crushed when he finally
releases my hand and his beaming, melting gaze goes neutral. He's one of
those guys that shines on everybody, it seems, and naturally shuts down
to low gear when not focused.
Well, anyway Fran ushers us all inside and has George show me
upstairs to my room and I notice her, with lips pursed , tossing a
bunched up shirt at Nathan and waving at him to join her in the dining
room. By the time I'm washed up and back down stairs, their occasionally
heated discussion is long over, but I have managed to overhear two or
three key words from Franny in between blasts of the bathroom sink
faucets: 'Worthless' 'Ignorant' and 'dishonest.' I guess that these
adjectives are aimed at the redhead rather than Nathan, whose low,
patient tones fail to yield up a single specific word of his own to be
distinguished by hearing.
When I enter the dining room they are just finishing
setting the table together and the subject has changed to county fair
judges. Nathan has his shirt back on. Damn.
Which reminds me, dear diary, that now that I've filled my
obligation to you, I have an obligation to my penis to attend to. I'm
going to set you aside, turn out the lights, throw down the bed covers
and toss off a nice big load in honor of my cousin Nathan's big round
old-fashioned doorbell nips. I just want to buzz them and buzz them and
buzz them. Even if nobody answers.
Damn, I'd love to hook my electric tit clamps up to those babies
and give him a charge. Of course I can't, because the Trailways Bus boys
are no doubt using them as I write. And my Acu-jack, I'm sure, while
watching my videos and spunking up my Cyber Slut 'zines.
How in the hell am I supposed to get off in the dark here, all by
myself? I tried leaving the light on and jacking in front of the
mirror, but there's no fucking privacy in this place. There's no
curtains or shades to speak of, except for these lacy things that
probably aren't even as substantial as your wife's panties when you put
them on, Ken (and I KNOW you do. Maybe you'll want to discuss THAT in
YOUR next session with the good Dr. Halberstam).
You can see me up here through these big windows for hundreds of
yards, and even from the road, and everywhere I look I see another cousin
or guest or neighbor out there doing something.
But I simply have to wack off, spank my bone, dear Nimrodders.
Maybe eventually I can find a vacuum cleaner with attachments or
something to help me out, but I don't want to freak out my relatives on
the first night. So its lights out, covers down, flat on back, hands on
dick, and somehow or other I'll get my rocks off.
Goodnight, Kenny.
P.S. How's my little SATYR darling baby? How's my precious?
You be damned careful with my little sweetheart
* * *
Curdistan, Wisconsin
Sunday, Aug. 11, 1996
10:20 p.m.
Dear Diary,
Hmmm. Perhaps I've been a little hasty in my eagerness
to get the hell out of Curdistan ASAP. Sometimes perceptions change.
Like yesterday I was in agony, but today I feel like Scarlet O'Hara did
after Rhett Butler hauled her upstairs and ravished her. Ken, you
wouldn't believe the major wad of jizz I ended up shooting in the wee wee
hours of this morning!
That's right, all you Nimrod teammates, you're going to be
treated today to the tale of Sean Erickson's down-on-the-farm sexual
initiation! And remember, it is your duty as concerned board members,
share holders, highly placed executives, personnel officers, supervisors
and mental health resource people to read EVERY WORD.
We all agreed at our last meeting, you'll recall, that my
vacation, along with its detailed documentation, is intended to benefit
the whole of Nimrod Inc. as much as it is me, a key team member. Well
let's huddle, team, and listen up!
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't do it--jack off alone in
bed, in the dark, I mean. I just kept going limp from lack of
concentration. I need STIMULI to keep my weenie wankable, folks, and I'm
afraid my imagination alone has just never been able to cut it. Somehow,
maybe around 2 am, I drifted off to sleep, but it was never very deep,
and by about 4:30 am I was suddenly wide awake again with just my
unrelieved woody and blue balls for company. Damn, how I was missing my
ACU-JACK !
I knew I had to get my rocks off soon, or I was going to be a
mess all day. So I got up and started rummaging through the medicine
chest and cabinet under the sink in the bathroom for some kind of
makeshift sexual aid.
For example, an electric tooth brush holder covered by a condom
makes a nice vibrator in a pinch, I've found. But my advice is to avoid
Sunbeam brand, with that nasty little metal prong that sticks out too
far. It'll punch a hole in your prostate if you're not careful.
No such risk in the Erickson household, however. They're a
manual tooth brushing family, a few members of which I notice are way
overdue for new brushes. Take note: when the bristles start bending
outward, its time to replace the brush.
Next, I threw on some boxers and sneaked downstairs to scope out
the kitchen for appliances and utensils. Amazingly, there seemed to be
nothing I could use. I must confess for a few minutes I was eyeing
Fran's classic black and white Kitchenade mixer (a wedding present from
Dad, for God's sake!) but ultimately decided that no combination of
attachments, speed, or angle of operation was going to help me achieve my
goal safely or quietly enough.
I was about to give up when I noticed the spray nozzle and
flexible hose in the sink. I'm not a water sign in the zodiac, mind you,
and thus have rarely explored the enema branch of the rectal stimulation
flowchart, but by this time I was getting desperate. I was actually
crouched on the kitchen stool with my boxers around my ankles and my bare
butt over the sink, and testing the water temp with my wrist, when I
heard the rooster crow from outside for the first time that morning.
That's when the idea hit me. Or rather, the recollection. It
was the same memory flash I'd had weeks ago in the boardroom when you
paper-pushing fuckers had me backed into a corner with ransom demands for
me to meet in exchange for the continued life of my latest fledgling of a
program. I'll never forget how you threatened to scrap SATYR II if I
didn't cooperate!
The recollection itself was of something I'd always dreamed of
doing If I ever got another chance to visit Uncle George's farm again.
The incident that triggered this long standing desire occurred one
morning 12 years ago when I was being threatened by someone else: my
then-handsome, big blonde cousin, Ben.
The rooster (the same one, maybe, for all I know. How long do
those things live?) had awakened me that morning, and I couldn't get
back to sleep so I had wandered outside and headed for the cow shed to
look at all the big, friendly, spotted Hollies, who were already mooing
to be milked.
Inside the shed, among the cows, I found 17-year old Ben, whose
first chore of the day was supposed to be the milking. He was looking
mighty happy at that moment, leaning back against a stall wall, buck
naked on a tipped back stool with his legs spread, but his expression
changed the moment he noticed me, his pesky, snoopy little moon-eyed
cousin who'd been following him everywhere all week. Now I'd caught him
doing something that he knew he'd really catch hell for if his folks ever
found out.
What I saw throbbing between his legs astounded and fascinated
me. It was brand new then, and Uncle George hadn't even had time to fully
hook it up yet. But of course Ben was an Erickson boy, like me, and you
should all know by now that if there's a way with a machine, an Erickson
boy'll find it.
You could say that I owe my entire career to the once beautiful
and buff young Ben's ingenuity and initiative with his Dad's new milking
machine. Before my widened adolescent eyes, technology and technician
were coupling in a way I'd never imagined possible. Young male flesh and
sparkling new machinery were humming together harmoniously as the
pungent, milky byproducts of my cousin's excess young sexual desire were
being pumped and siphoned off and away to places unknown.
No subsequent vision of automation and autoeroticism has ever
surpassed my memory of catching Ben getting his dick milked in the shed.
I fell in love from that moment with all things mechanical. But nature,
too, had its share in the machinations that eventually led me to my
stellar place in the Nimrod constellation, and deserves credit. After
all, didn't the rooster know the exact moment to crow and wake me, so
that the lowing of the dairy cows could summon me to the shed just in
time to witness for the first time a young male experiencing orgasm? And
this was not just any male, mind you, but my heartthrob of a cousin, the
focus of my first crush of puberty.
Subconsciously, I think the pulsing sleeve that I saw engulfing
Ben's erection became my first standard for assessing sexual equipment.
It would be years, in fact, before I realized that my cousin wasn't the
best hung man on the planet (a fact I'd have possessed long before If
I'd only been paying a little less attention to the machine when my
drained cousin finally disengaged himself from the milker. To be fair to
myself, I must report that I HAD noticed Ben's bulbous pink balls
swinging so low that they seemed in perfect proportion to the mighty,
jutting rod, as well as the arching rubber hose that sprang from the
sleeve and connected to the electric pumping mechanism a few feet away.
But big balls turned out to be the rule among Erickson men, while big
meat was significantly more rare.
As a result, I only returned my focus to Ben the moment he
started threatening me. He was going to beat me up, he said, and rub my
face in cow shit if I told anyone what I'd seen. My heart sunk. his
reaction had been so crude, so unnecessarily defensive. The last thing
on earth I would have wanted to do was get my hunky cousin in trouble.
On the contrary, I wanted nothing more than to join him and share in the
ecstasy that I'd seen flash so blindingly like lightning across Ben's
face just before his features contorted into anger at my intrusion. Oh,
to have been both hooked up to milker by adjacent sleeves, with the pump
churning away! But that was never to be.
Instead, he threw me out of the barn and sent me running back to
bed. Somehow he even arranged for the remainder of that visit to have me
banished from all farm buildings except the house. He must have told
Uncle George a whopping huge lie to get a reaction like that from him.
But let's return to the present, shall we? To this morning,
twelve years later, when I neither needed nor wanted the now all-too
grown up Ben's paunchy company. Thank goodness it hadn't been his chore
to milk the cows in years, and that he apparently sleeps through every
rooster crow.
Inside the shed, my eyes zoomed in immediately on the object I
sought, and my candy-striped boxers tented up from the instant resurgence
of my erection. There are several of the milkers now, mounted up
straddling the dividing wall between rows in such a way that each machine
can serve 6 stalls at once. A bizarre thought flashed in my head of all
four of my cousins and uncle George joining me, each in their own stall.
I had no qualms about what I was going to do, but only a moments
hesitation over which stall to use. It would need to be one that housed
a docile, non-territorial animal, or else, I feared, I might get
disturbed or attacked somehow at an inopportune moment. Being a city
boy, and unfamiliar with bovine behavior, I had no idea whether or not
my fears had any basis in reality. In any case, I felt a little
doubtful about my ability to assess the temperament of cows. I ended up
picking the stall with the animal that seemed the cleanest to me. She
was healthy looking, smelled okay, and seemed to have been brushed
recently. She also appeared to have the largest amount of fresh straw
and water, like some kind of favored pet.
She didn't seem to mind when I pulled up her stool and sat down
with my knees apart in front of the dangling hose and milking sleeve. I
unsnapped my boxer fly and let my hard on poke its way through out into
the morning air. Then I guided the sleeve slowly down over the head and
then the shaft of my cock, until the rounded edge of the mouth rested
against my dense brown bush. I adjusted the tension control knob on the
sleeve until my dick felt snugly gripped on all sides for its full length
(7.25 inches erect, Ken, if you're interested! Or how about you, Alice?
Do the mailroom boys all have me beat?)
Finally I was ready. I stood up, butt against the wall, facing
the cow but trying to ignore it, and I reached up and turned the fucker
on.
Whoa, Nellie.
Good-bye ACU-JACK. I'm spoiled now, folks. It was ten times
better than even I had imagined. How could something so impersonal feel
so good? Quite easily, it seems. It proceeded to knead my dick like a
loaf of baguette dough and hummed so sonorously that my teeth were
almost chattering. I started doing deep knee bends as it stretched and
stroked my dong, and soon I was rubbing up and down my exposed pale
white inner thighs with the dewy damp palms of both hands and feeling my
dense, wiry black leg hairs bristle. The power wanking continued as I
rubbed my own alligator-pale belly and then ran my roving palms upward
to massage my pecs and tweak my throbbing little nippy outdoor morning
tits into a state of further excitement.
It was more intimate with me than most lovers have been. Its
urgency was palpable. It was going to make me give, and give till it
hurt. It didn't know or care that It was stroking a guy's dick instead
of a cow's teat. All it was after was the milky white payoff that was
coming, inevitably and powerfully. It was designed, after all, to
squeeze off the biggest load of liquid possible.
Well folks, the ante was upping, it was squeezing and stroking
longer and harder as the dry minutes passed and no fresh boy cream had
yet splattered onto the bottom of the reservoir milk tin. That's when my
big bad balls must have started kicking in, I imagine. Yep, Ken, gay boy
that I am, I still come from a long line of major sperm- producing
breeders. According to Aunt Fran (whom I overheard in our kitchen after
my mom's funeral, of all things), my dad got three girls pregnant in high
school, all on first dates and even while using rubbers, and ended up
marrying the third, who unlike the first two, refused to go off and have
a discreet abortion. He knew and cared jack shit for farming, but the
poor guy was as fertile as a corn field. Truly, from all evidence
gathered throughout the last few generations, involving everything from
wet dream-soaked sheets, girl talk, frequency of conception, and even a
couple of brimming laboratory donations, the Erickson's seminal vesicles
have shown a propensity for working overtime to keep up, like neighbors
at harvest time, just so those billions and billions of spermies will
have a nice, slick vehicle to slither around in.
In the same kitchen gossip, Fran mentioned that Uncle George
knocked her up with Ben the first time they did it. She even bragged
that she had been poor George's first fuck, and, thanks to her
determination and vigilance, and barring unfortunate accidents, she was
going to see to it that she would also be his last.
Finally the pumping reached a fever pitch. The damn thing was
going to squeeze some juice out of me or else. I couldn't resist
standing up on the stool and stroking its stainless steel hub and
fiddling with one of the loose hoses as my excitement mounted.
Then my climax arrived, as the milking machine rocked me, and I
got more fucking excited than I can remember getting in ages. Groaning
loudly, I blew and blew and blew a load of mancome out of my prick that
just wouldn't quit. The tight sleeve and hose noisily sucked my hot
sticky wad right up the snakey hose and down into the metal reservoir
with several audible splats.
Say, Alice, have you ever, as they say, sucked one of your
hundreds of boyfriends 'dry,' ? How about you Ken? Board members? No, I
don't mean blood sucking, people. Well, I thought I'd been sucked dry
before, but let me tell, you THIS fucking machine REALLY sucked me dry.
My prick was about ready to crumble off into dust by the time I shut it
down and detached my schlong from the milker. My balls had practically
collapsed in on themselves, too.
Then, wouldn't you know it, right after I've tucked my limp and
drained dick safely behind the snapped fly of my shorts, I discover that
I'm no longer alone.
"You're up early," says a pleasant, playful and familiar voice.
I look up to see the boyish grin and clear blue-sky visage of my
adorable cousin Nathan as he approaches the second row of stalls were I
am. It is impossible to read from his genuinely pleased, serene face
whether or not he got a glimpse of what I had been doing with my dick .
He doesn't seem the double entendre type to me, but naturally, after my
disappointing history of cow shed encounters, I am cautious.
"So what do you think of Debby?" he asks me, opening the gate
and stepping into the stall. I stare dumbly at him.
"You NAME them?" I manage to spit out stupidly, turning to look
back at the dangling hose and sleeve that I have just desecrated with my
male member.
He scrunches up his face with apparent incomprehension and
suddenly bursts out laughing. "Not the milking machine, Sean! My COW!"
I go 20 shades of scarlet while he looks me over as if to savor
each one.
"You're a funny guy, Sean." he says. "Now, could you hand me
that stool?"
Awkwardly, I hand it to him and he sits right down, slaps a
bucket under the cow's udders and starts to manipulate the teats until
jets of fresh milk come squirting noisily down into the pail.
"I think she's a real beauty, myself. She's a prize-winning
dairy cow, too. The family won't drink from any other cow's milk."
"Really?" I reply, glad to not be the focus of conversation for
the moment.
Nathan starts to tell me about raising Debby, and about her long
string of county fair triumphs, including a number of second place
ribbons for milk quality, when the cow suddenly moves forward a step,
kicking over the bucket, getting straw in it and spilling half the milk.
"Hey girl, what gives?" Cries Nathan, moving the soiled bucket
out from under her. "She's nervous. I'll have to use the machine. That
always calms her down."
He turns and grins at me. "Something's spooked her. Maybe it's
your cute little red striped drawers, Sean."
A slight thrill passes through me, but I don't know what to say,
so I just look down in that infectious aw shucks manner of the other
Erickson boys.
"I baby her, of course," he says, hooking up two of the sleeves
to her udder, including the one that has just drained the jizz from my
cock. MY mouth drops open but I can't bring myself to speak.
"But, like all champions, she's a little warped. She's always
liked the machine better, and she gives twice as much milk when we use
it. " he says, patting her flank as he rises to turn the machine on.
We stand there and silently watch the machine pump her for a few
moments as I helplessly listen to the sound of fresh milk squirting into
the stainless steel reservoir and mingling with my come.
"Warped." I repeat stupidly.
He smiles at me and puts his big arm around my bare shoulder like
I'm his best pal. "Yep, I'm afraid so. I mean who in their right mind
would prefer that machine to my hands?"
"I can't imagine," I say.
He laughs and laughs and it becomes clear that he's totally on to
me. "You know, Sean" he says finally, after Debbie has stopped giving
and he has removed the brimming reservoir pail from its housing
"sometimes you remind me an awful lot of my daddy." He gives the milk a
shake to see how much cream (and cream-like substance) is floating on
top. A lot, it appears.
"This ought to be plenty for breakfast," he smiles. "Why don't
you go wash up now and I'll see you at the table."
"Wait, you can't....there's...." I stutter, trying to reach for
the pail, which he swings easily out of my range, grinning slyly.
"Oh come on, Sean, non-homogenized milk for one week isn't going
to kill you ." he laughs as he heads back to the house with the pail and
without me, as I stand there open jawed in disbelief.
That's enough for now, dear diary. I know you're all famished to
hear about breakfast, but it will have to wait till tomorrow.
Kisses
Sean
(end part 3 of ?, Dairy Diary)