Tyrese Rutherford was bored out of his mind as he, his mother, and a small tourist group of pear-shaped corny yokels were lead through an Amish community in upstate New York. Tyrese was a city-boy, through-and-through, born and raised in the concrete jungle of Queens. He was not accustomed to being around trees, open spaces, farmland, and mud, which he carefully avoided as to not fuck up his sneakers. He was not a nature-boy. Even Central Park was an exotic local in Tyrese's mind, since he only went to Manhattan maybe once or twice a year. Coming out to the middle of nowhere wasn't his idea, of course, it had been his mother's. Latisha Rutherford had always held some weird romantic fascination with rural life. Farms, horses, jugs of milk, all that shit. To her the Amish were like fairies or some shit, since they got to live in magical perfect fantasy land where nothing ever changed and nothing bad ever happened. You never had to worry about an Amish crackhead coming at you with an AIDS infected needle. You never heard about some Amish buggy doing a drive-by. To Tyrese though, the Amish were just especially boring White people.
"And here we have our dairy barn, where we bring in the young dairy cows for milking. We only use a little of the raw milk for drinking, the rest gets churned into butter or made into cheese since those things last longer."
The tour guide wasn't the sort you'd normally expect. You know, and old nerdy White lady with nothing better to do since it was her husband cutting the checks. This tour guide was one of the Amish, and a girl no less. She was cute, if strangely petite. Tyrese figured she was eighteen, since she was working, but she was a foot shorter than he was, and Tyrese wasn't even the tallest brotha around. She had big blue eyes, freckles, a button-nose, two braided pigtails of long blond hair peeking out from her bonnet, and she was missing one of her front teeth, which caused her voice to unintentionally whistle from time to time. Cute, but not really fuckable. She was flat-chested and had no ass. Tyrese liked curves.
The cute little tour guide had mentioned that her name was Maybelle or something.
"Oh, ain't that the cutest thing," Latisha whispered to his son. "They even make their own butter. They don't have to go to the store for nothing."
Tyrese nearly burst a blood-vessel trying not to roll his eyes. These people had no internet, no basketball court, no shoe stores, no video games, and they probably weren't having any sex, so what was so dope about some homemade butter?
"Oh goodie!" Maybelle giggled. "We get to see some butter being made. This is my older sister Fannie working the butter churner. Looks like she's churning up a big load today, and it must be especially thick, judging by the way her she's pumping it with both hands. Care to tell today's tour group about churning butter, Fannie?"
"Sure. I love talking about working the pole," Fannie responded with a slight chuckle, perhaps indicating that she was aware of her double-entendre.
Tyrese heard Fannie's voice before he saw her face. He wasn't really paying attention to the tour. He was busy skimming through an article on his smartphone about his favorite rapper, Lil Nigga, and his latest single, "Killin' Cops and Slappin' Bitches," but Fannie's voice shook him so hard that he nearly dropped his phone. The bitch had a voice that was deep, raspy, and had a haughty little chuckle in. It was not the sweet, innocent, awkward voice one would expect of a rural Amish girl, but was more like the voice of an experienced jazz singer who spent all day smoking weed, drinking whiskey, and sucking huge cocks.
Tyrese looked up and saw what had to be the finest White bitch he had ever laid eyes on (and he had laid his eyes on quite a few fine White bitches). Fannie was tall, blond, blue-eyed, and built like Supergirl if Supergirl had huge tits. The puffy black dress and bonnet which Fannie were wearing was intended to preserve her modesty, but no amount of clothing could hide that body. Fannie had broud shoulders, perfect posture, and her tits jutted outward like two perfectly shaped 'oblate spheroids' (to use a term he remembered from astronomy). Tyrese was certain he could see her nipples poking through the thick material of the dress. They must have been as hard as iron spikes to be visible through such a thick garment.
Fannie's face was perfect, like a supermodel, and although she had a few cute freckles she didn't have a single visible pores, even though she was glistening with sweat. Her lips were naturally pink, puffy, and twisted upwards with a cocky smile, the kind of smile that only an utterly confident bad bitch would have. Tyrese was sure he wasn't just letting his horny eighteen year old mind read too far into it. He was sure that this lily-white blond-ass Amish girl was a bad bitch.
The sight of her churning butter was unmistakably erotic. She was sitting low on a stool with her legs spread open, and even though she was covered by a bunch of long black skirts, the bulging muscles of her thick thighs showed through. She had both hands on a tall wooden stick which Tyrese immediately imagined was his penis, and she was pumping that big stick up and down with slow, powerful, dominating strokes. Tyrese had never seen butter-churning before, but he was certain that Fannie was the best in the world at it. She was putting her whole body into it, thrusting her tits out with each stroke, and rocking her ass back and forth on the stool.
When Fannie spoke, Tyrese nearly popped a nut.
"I just love churning butter," Fannie rasped with a knowing smile. "I love getting my hands on a hard pole and pumping it until the cream inside the barrel starts to thicken. I love how easy it is at first, but as the cream gets harder so does the work, and you start to realize what you're worth as a woman. Most girls can't churn a barrel in a single sitting, but I can. That's what separates a girl from a woman, I think. Whether or not they can get the job done."
Fannie pumped the stick back into the barrel, and a small glob of buttery cream popped out and onto her hand. Fannie chuckled haughtily and licked it off her fingers with a twirling pink tongue, and she she sucked up the residue.
"Mmmm . . . I just hate it when the cream comes up prematurely," Fannie chuckled.
Tyrese felt like he was about to cry. He was terrified that his erection was going to show through his baggy jeans. An erection as big as his was hide to hide. His dick hung a soft six inches from his toned body, and it maxed out at nearly ten when properly aroused. Tyrese's cock was so hard at the moment that it felt like a solid twelve.
The only two people who seemed oblivious to Fannie's erotic overtones were her little sister Maybelle (who was grinning like a happy idiot) and Tyrese's mother, Latisha.
"So you enjoy churning butter, Fannie? It ain't a chore for you?" Latisha asked, genuinely curious about the life of an Amish farm girl.
"Of course not," Fannie said, her hot blue eyes falling upon Tyrese for a moment, or so he hoped. "Some girls treat it like it's a chore, but not me. I love everything about churning up a big load of butter. I love the feel of the stick in my hands. I love the exercise of putting my whole body into it. I love the result most of all, getting a big warm load of butter to enjoy as a reward for my work. Nothing more satisfying than seeing that thick butter come up on the table. I'd put it on everything if I could. My vegetables. My bread. My breasts."
"Your breasts?" Latisha asked.
"My chicken breasts," Fannie clarified
"Oh."
"Thanks Fannie," Maybelle said with an innocent little giggle. "Alright, everyone. Let's go to the forge and I'll show you all how our blacksmith makes our nails and horseshoes."
The tour group of pear-shaped yokels trotted along after Maybelle like a herd of bipedal cows, but Tyrese hung back.
"You alright, boo?" Latisha asked her son.
"Uh . . . Yeah, yeah. I'm just . . . Uh . . . I need to use the bathroom . . . And call a friend back. I'll catch up."
