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Uncle Bob had two teenage sons and one hired hand named Paul.  The
five of us took care of about 300 cows–which, if you don’t know
dairy life, is just barely enough help.  I spent my first three
days on the job mucking out the barns.  It was a good, if
unpleasant, way to work out and a good substitute for my regular
weights routine.

On the morning of the fourth day, Paul woke me at 4:00 a.m. to show
me the wonderful world of milking; it was to be one of my regular
jobs.  After mucking, anything would be a welcome relief, even
though I had to get up at an ungodly hour.

Paul introduced me to an old cow with dark yellow hair, a white
belly, and a placid, trusting nature.  “This is Buttercup,” he
said.  “She’s afraid of the milking machines, so we have to milk
her by hand.  We’d get rid of her, but she was one of your uncle’s
first cows, and a damned good producer, too.”  Paul put the stool
and pail into position, sat down, and instructed, “Now watch me
closely.”

I manuevered closer, fascinated, as he grabbed one teat and gave
it a firm but gentle pull.  “See how I did that?”

“Uh, better show me again.”

“Sure, just watch awhile.”  He took one teat in each hand and began
milking with a steady, consistent rhythm.

I knew I was supposed to watch his hands, but standing over him
like that gave me a clear view down the front of his shirt.  Paul
was one of those Mediterranean types with dark hair and an olive
complexion.  He also had well-rounded muscles, a bulging basket,
and a heavy coat of chest hair that peered out of his
half-unbuttoned shirt.

I noticed that Paul always wore his clothes in such a way that they
seemed ready to fall off at any moment.  He favored shirts that
were one size too large and gaped open when he moved, allowing me
intriguing glimpses of his taut stomach and flexing pectorals.  And
he wore blue jeans that were full of holes in all the right places.

Farm work was hard on clothing, but I think he had something to do
with putting those holes there.  One rip in particular gave me an
unobstructed view of his ass, and I could see that he never wore
underwear.   Hardest of all to take was that we shared a room.  He
slept naked, and there were times I thought I’d go crazy if I
couldn’t walk over to his bed and crawl in.

Suddenly I realized that while I was standing there fantasizing
about Paul’s body, he was staring at me, waiting for a response to
a question.

“What was that?” I stumbled.

He grinned a gentle smile with those perfect teeth of his.  Somehow
I just couldn’t tell if that smile was one of approval or naivete.
“I said, would you like to give it a try?”

“Uh, OK.”  I sat down and he stood over me, his crotch only a few
inches away from my face.  “Give it a try.” he urged.

All I had to do was lean over and my cheek would brush against his
basket.  I could smell his maleness and I longed to turn and gnaw
at his basket, to wet those faded blue jeans with my saliva, to
taste his manhood.

But I resisted somehow; I couldn’t ruin my only chance for tuition
money, not to mention offending my relatives.  Besides, so far Paul
hadn’t given me the slightest indication that he’d take the bait
I put out.  I had to have more to go on than a friendly smile.

Turning my attention to Buttercup, I worked her teats for a while
and finally managed to get a small stream of milk from her.

Sensing my difficulty, Paul nudged me.  “That’s good enough for
today.  I’ll take over.”  He scooted onto the stool I vacated and
efficiently drained Buttercup dry.  I watched his hands intently,
wishing those hands were milking me rather than some neurotic cow
who didn’t know how lucky she was, being serviced by this hunk.

Paul put the pail in the refrigerator and said, “Now I’ll show you
how to handle the rest of the cows.”

That was a piece of cake, thanks to my uncle Bob’s modern milking
machines.  All that I had to do was move the cow into position
(which it did willingly), attach four dildo-type tubes to the
teats, and turn on the machine.