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)