Spunky Brewer
Avery Sam
Spunky Brewer
by Avery Sam
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Spunky Brewer
by Avery Sam
© 2025 Avery Sam
All rights reserved.
Author: Avery Sam
Contact details: averysam.parachute371@passinbox.com
Book cover, illustration: Avery Sam
Editing, proofreading: Avery Sam
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Table of Contents
Copyright Information
Table of Contents
Mixing Up a Batch
A Kiss From a Pretty Girl
Strange Brew
Fine Piece of Ass
A Crazy Dream
Just Like Old Times
The Hands of Destiny
A Really Exciting Idea
Overheated
Pretend Date
Kiss Me, Daddy
Supercharged
Time for Bed
Old-Fashioned
First Dibs
One Drop at a Time
Also by Avery Sam
Mixing Up a Batch
“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 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 splodge 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.
A Kiss From a Pretty Girl
The next weekend, my hands were shaking as I carefully loaded my beer into the trunk of my car.
Ainsley had graciously volunteered to join me, saying she wanted to support me and see what all the fuss was about. With the weather still fearsomely hot, she was dressed in a skimpy off-shoulder sundress that barely went past her tight little bottom.
I wanted to tell her to go inside and change, but the truth was that I knew the judges were likely to be older men, and having her by my side couldn’t hurt my chances of walking away with a ribbon.
“How many other people are you up against in the beer competition, Daddy?” Ainsley asked me on the drive over to the fairgrounds.
“Well, I don’t know,” I said, easing my old rustbucket into a parking spot. “But probably at least a couple dozen, I reckon. People in Texas really love their brew.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Ainsley, flashing me a big smile. “Yours is the best. I just know you’re going to win!”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, baby,” I said, letting out a little sigh of relief when I switched off the engine and removed the keys from the ignition.
“Sure thing!” said Ainsley, giving my thigh a little squeeze before hopping out of the car.
She offered to help me carry the beer over to the judging area, but there was no way I was going to risk my brew in anyone’s hands but mine. Walking slowly and keeping my eyes fixed on the ground to search for any unexpected gopher holes, I didn’t let my breath out until my beer was safely resting on the table labeled “No. 18, Cummings IPA.”
“Wow, look at all the people!” gushed Ainsley.
Once I’d checked that the table legs were firmly locked in position and weren’t going to collapse, I looked around. Sure enough, there were already crowds of people making their way down the midway, and there was a distinct odor of fried foods in the air despite it being only nine o’clock in the morning.
“Can we get something to eat? I’m starving,” said Ainsley.
“Here,” I said, peeling off a $20 from my money clip that I really couldn’t afford and handing it to her. “You go get whatever you want. I’ll come join you once I get finished setting up.”
“Okay, thank you, Daddy!” said Ainsley, giving me a big smile before she went skipping off in the direction of all those enticing aromas.
As I watched her leave, I sent up a silent prayer, hoping that the boys her age were still all asleep in their beds so they wouldn’t see her braless boobs jiggling around underneath the thin fabric of her sundress.
Thankfully, most of the folks I could see milling around were in their 40s or older, the Heritage Festival not exactly being a mecca for teens. Frankly, in an era where most people are glued to their phones, it was a miracle that public events like this could still draw a crowd of any kind, but I guess older folks still appreciated the excitement that a festival could offer.
When I was finished getting everything set up, I went off in search of Ainsley.
As I walked through the throngs of people, I saw that most of them were already eating breakfast tacos or chowing down on fried pies. I saw a few younger women, but they were all plus-sized individuals, to put it kindly. Somehow, my girl had managed to keep a trim figure in a world where it seemed like everyone was packing a few extra pounds, including me.
I didn’t see Ainsley around any of the food stalls, so I decided to head back to the beer area so she’d know where to find me. Alas, the number of people around my station was disappointingly small, just three or four folks pausing for a moment to sip one of the free samples I’d set out. I knew that the judges wouldn’t arrive until noon, but I’d still hoped that people would be eager to try my beer.
I’d done a quick taste test that morning, and it was the best I’d ever brewed. Whether it was because of the star anise or something else, it had a deliciously complex aroma with just a hint of nuttiness and a clear, refreshing finish.
It was the exact right color, too, a deep amber rather than piss yellow like most commercial beers. I took a seat behind my station in case anyone wanted to ask me any questions about my brewing process, but the folks just downed their sample glass and moved on.
Eventually, Ainsley showed up, carrying the largest cone of cotton candy I’d ever seen. The whirl of pink gauze was almost as big as her head, and she had a grin on her face every time she leaned forward to take a nibble.
“Check it out. Can you believe how big it is?” said Ainsley, her eyes sparkling with delight.
“Looks amazing, sweetie,” I said.
“And only five dollars, too!” said Ainsley, causing me to have a brief but violent coughing fit.
Five dollars for a teaspoon of colored sugar? It was outrageous. But my daughter was happy, and that’s all that mattered.
As Ainsley continued to happily munch away on her cotton candy, the number of people coming through the beer tent started to increase. It was mostly older men on their own, though, I noticed, who had probably ditched their wives in order to come get a little morning pick-me-up.
There was one kid, though, with greasy black hair hanging over his eyes, who didn’t look quite 21 as he reached for a sample from my station. I was just about to chase him off when a big smile broke out on his face.
“Wow, that’s really good!” exclaimed the kid.
“Oh, yeah?” I said, my chest growing warm from the compliment, despite the fact that I doubted someone as young as he was knew the first thing about quality beer.
“Yeah, it has, um... I don’t know how to say it,” said the kid, taking another sip. “It’s almost like it’s sparkling in my mouth.”
“Uh-huh,” I said, scanning his face for any tell-tale signs of intoxication.
“I mean it, mister,” said the kid, draining his glass and tossing it into the bin in the center of the beer tent. “Your beer tastes like I just got a kiss from a pretty girl.”
“All right, get out of here,” I snarled, but Ainsley was giggling.
Nonetheless, the kid’s enthusiasm seemed to spark something in the crowd, and pretty soon I had a line of people at my station. I started pouring beer into sample cups as fast as I could, glad that I’d spent my last 100 bucks on a proper dispenser that preserved just the right amount of head with every pump. Ainsley pitched in, carrying the full sample cups over to the table as fast as I could pour them.
We made a great team, and I could see that her presence was charming the customers as they waited in the broiling heat. Within an hour, I had poured so much beer that I was starting to worry about having enough left over for the judges, but the people kept on coming.
Older guys, younger guys, and even a few wives and girlfriends here and there - everyone seemed to really love my beer! My heart soared when I saw all those people nodding and smacking their lips. No more complaints about it being too sour or too cloudy or too this or too that. Everyone was in agreement that my beer was delicious.
As it got closer to noon, I had the unexpected pleasure of having to tell people that I was all out of free samples. There were a lot of disappointed faces, but I had to make sure there was plenty on hand for the judges. I didn’t dare start hoping that I might get a ribbon, but just knowing that my beer was a hit with the general public was such a relief.
All those long, sweaty hours in the shed had finally paid off. My only regret was that my ex-wife Maggie wasn’t there to see it.
Finally, the organizer got on the microphone and announced that the beer competition was about to begin. My palms were sweaty as I glanced around at all my competitors, every single one of them a guy about my age or older.
Some of them had forked out for professional posters and other accoutrements, making me feel like a piker as I stood there with nothing but three glass steins I had collected over the years and a handwritten sign on card stock. I used to have six steins, but my wife Maggie had smashed the others during one of our many fights.
Ainsley, god bless her, came and stood right by my side as the judges slowly began making their way toward my station.
“Don’t worry, Daddy, I know you’ll do great,” she said, her smile instantly giving me a dose of much-needed confidence.
I reached out and put my arm around her waist, savoring the feeling of her warm, tight body against mine. Her mother may have disapproved of my love for craft beer, but at least one person was in my camp.
I then began to smile as I realized Ainsley was, in a way, cheering me on, and I suddenly understood just what a boost her presence must be for all those basketball and football players at her school.
The steins were filled with exactly the right amount of head on top when the judges came over to my station. The lead judge, a man in his 60s with an enormous handlebar mustache, lifted the stein and examined its color before taking a careful sniff.
He and the other two took little sips before setting their steins back down on the table. I tried to get a peek at the notes they were writing, but I couldn’t see anything, and the impassive expressions on their faces made it impossible to guess what they thought of my beer.
But the lead judge did glance over at Ainsley with an excited glint in his eyes, which made my heart soar.
Strange Brew
Suddenly, just as the judges were walking over to the next station, Ainsley broke into a cheer.
“Cummings, Cummings, IPA! It's the best beer you will try today, hip, hip hooray!”
I panicked, thinking she had just ruined any chance of me getting a ribbon, but the judges all broke into smiles, and even a few people in the crowd began to clap.
It truly was a magical moment, only topped a few hours later when the announcer declared that my beer had won Best in Show. Yes!
It was more than I ever could have hoped for. I was on Cloud Nine for the rest of the afternoon, happily agreeing to accompany Ainsley on a few of the rides, including this horrible rollercoaster that made my stomach do a flip as we went barreling down the first drop. Ainsley, however, was shrieking with laughter, so I set my fears aside and focused on enjoying one of the best days of my life.
I even indulged her by buying us both corndogs on a stick. All in all, I probably blew fifty bucks that day, cash that I certainly didn’t have to spare, but what was the point of money if you couldn’t celebrate the good times? The judges loved my beer, and my daughter was happy.
What more could a guy ask for?
As I expected, my phone started ringing off the hook once news of my beer winning Best in Show at the Heritage Days Festival got out.
I nearly messed my drawers when one guy asked if I could provide three semi trailers worth of beer. I was still operating out of my shed at that point, so I regretfully had to turn him down, but it was exciting to know that there was so much demand for my brew. In the end, I made an agreement with a local bar called The Red Pony to supply them with several cases.
With the money they paid me, I could then invest in some new equipment, slowly working my way up until I was able to produce bigger batches. But for now, I had to use what I had, and it took me a whole week working day and night until I was able to make enough for The Red Pony.
As I worked, I felt a bit sad that Ainsley couldn’t be there to cheer me on, but I consoled myself with the fact that I’d see her again on the weekend.
Sweaty and tired, I loaded up my beer into my car and drove it over to the Red Pony on Friday morning. The owner was all smiles as he welcomed me in, directing me where to put the beer.
He then pulled one out of the crate and popped it open to give it a taste test. I was eager to see his reaction, so you can imagine my surprise when he scowled and then leaned over the bar to spit it out.
“What the hell is this?” said the bar owner, a muscular man with tattoos on his bicep. Rumor had it that he had formerly been in a biker gang but had since found religion since getting released from prison.
“Um, that’s my beer,” I said, taking out the blue ribbon from my pocket. “Best in Show, see?”
“Huh,” said the man, shaking his head. “No offense, but it tastes as bitter as an old man’s tears. This shit really won, huh?”
“Um, of course, of course,” I said, puzzled and dismayed by his reaction. “I followed the formula to the letter.”
“Well, maybe my customers will like it better,” said the man. “Most of ’em would drink horse piss if it’d get ’em drunk, know what I mean?”
“Ah, right,” I said, my heart pounding.
On the drive back home, I just couldn’t get over the fact that he’d reacted so strongly to my brew. I mean, yeah, when I had tasted it, it had felt a little off, but I just figured it was because the weather was so hot and that had affected the fermentation process a little. It really was the same formula as the beer I’d entered into the festival, so it shouldn’t have tasted that different.
Back in my shed, I went over my notes, checking to see if I’d missed anything. Nope. I’d measured out every single ingredient precisely. But when I took a sip of the stuff I had leftover, I immediately detected some unpleasant bitter notes.
How could that be? Even with some minor variations in the fermentation process, it should’ve come out approximately the same. So where was that award-winning beer, the one that all those people at the festival had lined up to get their hands on?
Maybe there was a malfunction in my equipment. I spent a good hour going over everything, looking for some kind of mold infestation or other cause that would explain how my latest batches had turned out so bitter, but there was nothing. As far as I could tell, that beer should’ve been identical to the one I’d presented at the festival. I had to be missing something, but what?
Then it hit me like a ton of bricks, the little accident I’d had when Ainsley and her friend had been practicing their cheerleading moves. Had some of my jizz somehow gotten into the batch and altered the chemical composition of the beer?
That didn’t seem possible. The alcohol content would’ve denatured the protein anyway. Yet me spilling my seed was the only difference that I could think of between the beer I’d made for the festival and the beer that I’d delivered to The Red Pony.
I got out my phone and opened my browser in incognito mode. Sure enough, semen is 97% water, with only trace amounts of proteins, salts, and minerals. Spilling a few drops into my fermentation vat shouldn’t have affected the taste, but somehow, it had.
I tried searching the internet to see if anyone else had experimented with such an unusual “flavoring” element, but all the results I got were to porn sites.
As I scrolled through a few interesting videos, I began to wonder if maybe I should try to recreate my serendipitous accident from the week prior. Making craft beer is both an art and a science, so it might be worth it to do a controlled experiment just to rule out the possibility that a few milligrams of cum would affect the final outcome.
I poured out some malt and got to work making just enough beer for my personal consumption. I mean, it wasn’t like I was going to let anyone else drink my semen-flavored beer. That would be ridiculous.
Ainsley was dropped off by her mother later that night, and we enjoyed a quiet evening at home on the couch, watching some silly rom-com movie that she had picked out.
I had trouble focusing on the plot, though, my mind still focused on the strange brew I had fermenting out in the shed. During the day, the idea that a few drops of jizz would radically alter the taste of my beer had seemed ridiculous, but in the dark, it suddenly felt like a real possibility.
As usual, Ainsley slept in late on Saturday, giving me plenty of time to do the next step in the process of brewing, which was to boil the wort for 90 minutes and then add the hops.
I had just poured the cooled wort into the fermentation vat and added the yeast when Ainsley came wandering into the shed, wearing only a T-shirt.
“What you doing, Daddy?” said Ainsley, yawning as she rubbed her eyes.
“Just working on my beer, sweetie,” I said, trying not to think about the fact that I could see she wasn't wearing any panties underneath her T-shirt.
“I’m so happy that you won the big prize at the festival,” said Ainsley, giving me a hug, the heat of her body pressed against mine causing my pulse to race.
“Me too, sweetie, me too,” I said with a gulp, suddenly feeling like I was burning up.
“I told all my friends that you make the best beer in Texas,” said Ainsley, leaning over to one side to stretch out her arms.
“Well, maybe one day. Not quite there yet, though,” I said with a nervous titter, unable to tear my gaze away from her lean, lithe body.
“All the boys at school asked me if I could get them some to try,” said Ainsley, flashing me a big grin. “Isn’t that silly?”
“Yeah, it sure is,” I said, trying to control my rage as I pictured a line of insolent thugs with their hands out, wanting some of my precious beer.
“I mean, everyone knows you have to be 21 to drink alcohol,” said Ainsley, her eyes flashing with mirth. “We’re just minors, for goodness sake!”
“Yep, yep, you sure are,” I said, feeling tremendously guilty as all kinds of inappropriate thoughts began racing through my mind.