I’m new at writing erotic stories so I always like to get my facts right. Lately I’ve got very attached to, and even turned on by, our family dictionary and my grandfather’s butter making manual. There’s a whole lot of hot stuff in there if you know where to look. I mean who would have thought that innocent words like ‘butter’ and ‘churn’ would have so many randy meanings. I’m going to use some of them while I tell you about my three hot weeks with Rodney. I’ll probably get carried away from time to time, and wax as they say lyrical, but the butt fucks we shared together were poetry in motion and cannot be expressed by everyday language or even four-letter words. So please bear/bare with me.
Rodney. That was his name. I didn’t take to him immediately. I mean who would get turned on by somebody with a dumb asshole name like that! It really sucks! And so I found out did he. I mean I’ve read quite a few erotic stories and had my dick in nearly as many mouths but nobody in my literary and tactile experience sucked quite like Rodney. He really put the suck in suck-tion. But I’ll tell you about that later.
I met him ‘down on the farm.’ My grandfather took him on this summer to help milk the cows and churn butter. I had to teach him the ropes. As I say I didn’t like him very much at first and didn’t have much patience with him. He had what my grandmother called a ‘fresh bloom on his young cheeks’ although most of it was due to the fact that he went red with embarrassment every time he made a mistake. Also I was always bawling him out. That was before I started balling him of course. Apart from his face and his shirt, the rest of him was pretty white. From what my not-so-naked eye could see that is. He arrived wearing jean cut-offs and an unprepossessing red-checked shirt like the table cloths you find in cheesy Italian restaurants. As I said he really sucked. In every way. As he slipped and slurped on the poor cow’s teats I remembered my grandfather telling me: “We're listening to the sound of a cow being milked, the first step in butter making.”
Of course this took on a whole new connotation when I had his big blossoming butt between my legs as I put a ‘fresh bloom’ on his ass cheeks and he went through the whole gamut of farmyard animals as I fucked him. Mind you I don’t think I actually heard him moo although once he did sound a little bit like a cow in labour. But I’m getting ahead of myself, as usual.
After a while he stopped going red and started getting better. He apologised to me for being such a rookie and I gave him a beer to make up for my evil mood and bad treatment. That’s when my first interest in him developed. I mean there was something about the way he sucked in the warm liquid and licked the froth off the neck of the bottle that attracted my dick’s attention. Soon I was asking him personal things like what he did when he wasn’t milking a cow and whether he had a girl friend and all that shit. I didn’t get much out of him though except that he liked going to the movies and didn’t really have time for girls. That left me with a lot of unanswered questions. I mean if you go to the movies you have time for girls.
My curiosity and dick aroused I started being more friendly with him and even dropped in to see him very early one morning. At sunrise in fact. Thought I would bring him some coffee. My grandparents had fixed him up with a makeshift bed in the hayloft so that he’d always be on hand to do the milking. I climbed the little ladder doing my best not to spill the steaming hot coffee. However this turned out to be more difficult than I expected as I got a steaming hot look at his beautiful bare butt. The sun was pouring through the hayloft window and seemed to be focused on his bountiful buns. So were my eyes. My dick did a mean double-take. And to think he’d been hiding all that away beneath a pair of jean cut-offs. Whoever said all that glitters is not gold had never set eyes on Rodney’s glowing globes.
I sat down beside him and touched his butt. I couldn’t resist it. I know the traditional way to wake someone up is to shake them by the shoulder but I’m an untraditional kind of guy. Anyway his ass cheeks looked like two overflowing milk churns and one usually goes a-milking and a-churning early in the morning. By the way, the dictionary definition of ‘churn’ is to stir or disturb; to make something move violently. I know because I looked it up before writing this. But even before I knew the exact definition my dick was way ahead of me and wanted to be in there churning up a storm. Working its way through Rodney’s hot ass like a knife through butter. I lowered my pants and lay on top of him so he could rise at cock crow, so to speak.
Something in the shy way he’d told me he didn’t have time for girls made me think it might be ‘gay-speak’ for telling me he was interested in boys. I decided there and then to give him the benefit of the doubt and also the benefit of my nine-inch prick. He may have been shamming but he didn’t initially give any indication he was awake so I rubbed my dick up and down his crack like a morning alarm call. Soon his ‘snooze button’ began to stir and didn’t seem at all alarmed. He opened his ass cheeks like a not so innocent child opening his eyes first thing in the morning. Soon his ass and my dick were both wide awake and he agitated his butt so I could work my way in more easily. All this without a single word or a drop of lube although I was oozing plenty of pre-cum in horny anticipation. Holding my breath and hogging his ass.
Strange the thoughts that go through your head as you enter somebody for the first time. The gentle rocking of his ass against my dick reminded me of something out of my grandfather’s butter making manual. Something I’d learned years ago: “As the churn box rocks on the cradle the cream rolls over on itself to make butter. This gentle action does not injure the butter.” But of course by now I was intent on rocking the shit out of his churn box and curdling his cream till it steamed. There was something so hypnotically horny about taking it slow and letting his ass call the shots that, as we rose and fell in a kind of orgasmic prelude to a sexual death dance, I thought about something else I’d read. About the annual butter dance in Nepal where a whole pantheon of gods are fashioned out of butter and dancers dance around them. As the dancing works itself into a frenzy the body heat of the dancers melts the gods and they flow back into the earth. As I told you there’s some really hot shit in those there manuals.
Subject to my solicitations, Rodney’s butterchurn butt was beginning to writhe and rotate real good and was most definitely working itself up into a frenzy. In fact the body heat between us was fairly sizzling and, just as the butter sizzles in the pan at the first touch of a porterhouse steak, I felt my dick slip spitting and sizzling into his hot buttermilk ass. This time he let out more than a morning groan and lifted his bulging butt high in the air so I was able to work my hand under him and grasp his rigid dick. Suddenly his name made sense. His dick was like an iron rod.
“Fuck me, you fucker!” he cried.
When I obediently obliged he treated me to his own personal interpretation of a huge variety of farmyard animals which turned me on even further so that between the two of us we nearly raised the hayloft roof. Fortunately we were out of earshot otherwise who knows what my grandparents would have said or thought. We humped and heaved and groaned and growled until we almost set fire to the straw beneath us with the spontaneous combustion our bodies were producing. And all that because I’d decided to serve him breakfast. I may not have spilled the coffee but I sure as hell spilled my load and made hot buttered toast out of his ass.
“That was fucking great,” he said. “Thanks.”
“Likewise.” I said.
“Why were you such a fucking shit to me?” he inevitably asked.
“Maybe because I wanted to fuck the shit out of you.” I replied for want of something better to say.
I was grateful we were having this inane conversation now and not before. It might have dampened the fire between us. Thank goodness I’d taken the bull by the horns so to speak.
“I can’t wait to do the same to you.” he said.
“Me neither,” I said in my friendliest but still most detached manner. I didn’t want him to think I was an easy lay or a butt slut or something although I couldn’t wait to get Rod’s rigid rod deep inside me. Later as a token of our new friendship and trust I showed him some extracts from my grandfather’s beloved butter making manual.
“Wooden stompers are tongued and grooved and are set up in the body to make leakage impossible. They are fastened in place by wrought iron rods with ball bearing gudgeons which can be tightened if necessary to prevent the bottom pulling loose. The churns are made up of a strong frame and body and a perfect friction clutch and by the action of one lever may be changed while at full speed.”
He laughed. “Sounds more like a sex manual than a butter making manual.” he said.
I had to agree. “Maybe we should try it sometime.” I said.
Instead I got to try my dick in his mouth. It had been not such a secret ambition since I first saw him drinking out of a beer bottle. I told him so.
“Ok,” he said as easily as if I’d ask to look at his photo album or something.
“Open your pants,” he said.
”Just like that,” I said. “Without any preliminaries.”
“You didn’t need any preliminaries with me. Besides I don’t need an excuse to beat around your bush.”
He was right. Anyway my dick was already tenting my pants. I opened my fly and he opened his fly trap. It was instant heaven as I knew it would be.
True to his word, there was no beating about the bush. No licking or tentative sucking. Just one long endless draw on my dick as if his mouth was a suction pump.
I suppose you’re sitting back waiting for Joncy to open his book of horny descriptive adjectives: awesome, mind-blowing, earth-shattering etc. Sorry, but you’re not going to get any. None of them are adequate so you’ll have to invent some for yourself. Suffice to say he reduced my stalwart nine-inches to a broken breadstick. I was mindless, boneless and dickless by the time he’d finished with me. Of course there was a fair amount of licking and sucking but that was only after I’d shot my entire load in his mouth which, while it may have been amply ‘tongued,’ was not ‘grooved to make leakage impossible’ as the manual rigorously recommended. At the time of writing I’m looking forward to my next butter churning lesson as he bears down on me with his ‘ball bearing gudgeons’. He’s found an interesting paragraph in our ‘text book’:
“You churn the butter in a steady and methodical motion. With a vertical plunger, push the dasher up and down in one second cycles. The dasher is something similar to a broom handle. As it goes up and down in the churn, it agitates the cream. You have to keep doing this for about thirty or forty minutes. If you want to make it come quicker you have to build up the rhythm and add warm liquid.”
Now doesn’t that sound like a perfect definition of fucking to you!
I’ll let you know how it goes.
The Badpuppy.com model in these pictures is Petr Kalvoda
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