Spunky Brewer

“What you doing, Daddy?” said Ainsley, interrupting me as I debated whether to add just a tiny bit of yarrow extract to my malt.

“Working on my new recipe,” I said, irritated.

“Okay, well good luck!” said Ainsley. “Me and Tiff are going to practice our cheer moves.”

“Huh?” I said, gulping when I turned around to see my daughter dressed in nothing but a skin-tight pair of shorts and an oversized cropped sweatshirt that showed off her tight, flat stomach.

“I just wanted to let you know so we don’t disturb you,” said Ainsley, giving me a big smile.

“Sure, sure,” I said, my heart pounding as I turned back to my workbench.

Getting the recipe right for my next batch was absolutely critical. The Heritage Days Festival was coming up next weekend, and beer needs a certain amount of time to ferment.

This was it, my one big chance to impress the judges, so the flavor had to be perfect. If I could manage to win a ribbon or, heck, get the grand prize, then every distributor in the state would be calling me, asking to stock my brew.

But if I failed, then I was well and truly screwed. When I quit my job six months earlier, I’d assumed that success would be easy. I’d been tinkering with making my own beer for years, and my friends always raved about its crispness and bold flavor.

I don’t know if they were just lying to me or had different expectations, but everyone else I’d given a sample to just wasn’t interested. I’d tried local restaurants, gastropubs, and even the redneck bar in town, but nobody wanted my beer.

I’d tried adding more hops and using fewer hops. I’d made calibrations to the fermentation process on the malt and experimented with different herbs and spices, but so far, nothing had worked.

Either the color was wrong or the texture was wrong or some damn thing. One guy took a sip of my beer and literally made a sour face. It tasted fine to me, but everyone seemed to want something that I couldn’t produce.

Now, I was running out of money and options. My savings were just about gone, and my wife Maggie had left me because I’d spent all my free time out in the shed, focused on making the perfect beer.

She just couldn’t understand that a good beer was the capstone to a good life, the ideal refreshing beverage after a long day. Beer started with just four simple ingredients: malt, hops, yeast, and water, but together, they created a symphony of flavor. And once a man finds the right beer for him, he has a friend for life.

“Go, team, go!” I heard the girls shouting in unison, distracting me as I debated whether or not to add just a few milligrams of star anise to my current batch.

I’d read on the internet about a guy in Japan who’d won a regional beer contest, and star anise was his secret ingredient. But I was worried that it might add some unpleasant bitter notes because it had a really strong flavor.

“We can win, yes we can!” chanted the girls, their excited high-pitched voices like a drill in my head. Damnit, didn’t Ainsley know how badly I needed this batch to go right?

As it was, I only had custody of her on the weekends. But unless a distribution deal came through soon, they were probably going to cut off the water and power to the house. The judge would be laughing through his sleeve when he found out I was destitute, taking my daughter away from me forever.

“Everywhere we go-oh, everywhere we go-oh!”

I heard the girls shouting, punctuating each word with clapping, making it nearly impossible for me to think straight. As much as I knew my daughter loved being on the cheer squad, my beer was more important.

I turned to go tell her to go practice her damn moves somewhere else when I found myself mesmerized by the girls doing a series of running flips, their lithe, toned bodies perfectly synchronized.

I had no idea what the history of cheerleading was, but one thing was for sure - it was impossible to look away when nubile young girls were cavorting around and shouting in front of you while wearing skimpy outfits.

Her friend Tiffany was no slouch in the looks department, but my beautiful girl had really blossomed over the last year. Her angular, athletic features had become more rounded, giving her a fresh-faced vitality that was truly captivating. And the contrast between her full chest and the tightness of her abdomen and crotch in those little shorts was bewitching.

As the girls continued to shout and perform their maneuvers, I found myself riveted, all thoughts about floral notes and fermentation techniques gone from my mind.

Her mother Maggie had been a good-looking woman when I’d first met her, but somehow, Ainsley had shot straight past that, directly into nubile goddess territory. And every time I caught a glimpse of her tight, round backside, I felt a tingle race down my spine.

Every boy in her school was probably in love with her, and half the teachers, too. How could they not be? She was the living embodiment of feminine perfection.

Her long blonde hair was glossy, and the way it bounced around as she did her high-kicks was positively fetching. She was so beautiful that it took my breath away. Maybe my marriage to her mother hadn’t worked out, but somehow, we’d managed to create an angel.

But the thoughts running through my head certainly weren’t angelic. Just seeing the glint of perspiration on her chest and the deep cleft clearly outlined in the crotch of her shorts had my blood racing. Her friend was certainly curvier and more full-figured, but somehow, I couldn’t seem to care about that.

I only had eyes for Ainsley.

“Ready? Okay!” shouted Ainsley, and then she started doing the splits while her friend did some sort of handstand thing.

I was riveted by how the skin on Ainsley’s taut inner thighs was spreading ever so slightly apart as she wiggled her legs in the air. My god, there really was only the thinnest level of fabric separating her from being naked. And what a thought that was, huh? My daughter eagerly spreading her legs to reveal a perfectly hairless pussy.

No guy would be able to resist that, not even for a million bucks. One look at that pink, fresh pussy, and they’d lose their minds. Their hormones would take over and they’d run through minefields to get one chance at a treasure like that.

And if she was anything like her mother, she’d love it, too, riding that cock like a professional barrel racer. My god, it was really too overwhelming to even think about.

But I guess I had been thinking about it because when I snapped out of my reverie, I was horrified to find that my dick was out, and I was stroking it like there was no tomorrow.

My God! How had that happened? I tried to slam the brakes, but it was too late as I could feel the train rushing down the track. Frantically, I looked around for a rag or something to catch the impending wave of cum that was about to shoot out the end of my cock, but there was nothing, just a few scraps of paper with my notes on them and my beer-making equipment.

With no other choice, I let ’er rip al fresco, sticky drops of jizz flying this way and that. I saw a wet sploge land on the wall of the shed and begin dripping down onto my work bench.

Even the vat where I was mixing my malt got a few white drops spattered across the outside. It was quite a mess, my only consolation being that Ainsley and her friend were still doing their chants, oblivious to the shameful scene just a few feet away.

As quickly as I could, I stuffed my cock back into my pants and then ran into the house to get a sponge. Working as carefully as I could, I began cleaning off my equipment, praying that none of my cum had landed inside my current batch because then I’d have to throw the whole thing out. I was desperate to get a win, but not so desperate that I was going to serve the judges beer laced with jizz.

When I was done, I let out a big sigh of relief. It seemed like most of my seed had landed on the wall, and my beer-making equipment thankfully had avoided the brunt of the damage. But how had this happened in the first place?

One minute, I’d been mixing up a batch, and the next, I was blasting an epic money shot all over everything in the shed. I was obsessed with beer, but making beer didn’t make me aroused, not physically, anyway.

It was only when I heard Ainsley and her friend start up a new cheer that all those guilty thoughts came flooding back into my mind. Had I really just jerked off while thinking about my daughter? That was sick.

No, that couldn’t be it. I was just under a lot of pressure with the festival coming up, that’s all. Plus, the weather had gotten hot, and I’d spend hours in my shed, inhaling alcohol fumes. That’s all it was.

I mean, yes, my daughter was good-looking, no doubt about it, and so was her friend. But I wasn’t some pervert. I was attracted to women my own age, or maybe a couple of years younger than me.

I’d never once been tempted to look at that creepy kiddie stuff that was floating around the darker corners of the internet. My poor brain had just gotten its wires crossed, combining the unfortunate coincidence of my daughter doing her cheer practice with my need for some stress relief.

Yes, that’s what had happened, I was sure of it. Anyway, now that my head felt clearer, it was time to get back to perfecting my recipe for the festival. I leaned in over my fermentation vat and took a long inhalation, savoring the rich medley of complex aromas.

They say a master brewer can tell if the beer is going to be good just by the smell of the malt.

If so, then I had a winner on my hands for sure.