Our Hotwives

The Tale of Tim the Cow Herder and His Glorious Barn of Milkers
A scandalous rural romance. A pastoral power play. A total ego meltdown for every hotwife on earth.
Once upon a time, in the quiet rolling hills of a sun-drenched valley, there lived a man.
Not just any man
His name was Tim, and he wasn’t just a cow herder.
He was The Herder.
The Buck. The Hub. The One They All Moaned About When the Wind Blew Just Right.
He didn’t chase fame.
He didn’t thirst for power.
He just wore his hoodie, walked with his quiet confidence, and opened the barn doors.
And that’s when they came.
Bella. Clover. Luna. Dotty. Maria.
All of them.
Beautiful, curvy, eager…
Moooing with desire to be chosen.
But Tim didn’t need to dominate them.
He didn’t need to humiliate or leash or brand.
He saw them.
Stroked their hair. Rubbed their necks. Whispered in their ears:
“You’re not just milkers. You’re mine.”
And when he said it
they cried.
Tears of joy, of being seen, of being gathered like wildflowers into a bouquet just for him.
Meanwhile, across the hill in the land of the hotwives, things were… tense.
They strutted around in heels, showing off their bulls, snapping selfies in hotel rooms, preaching "liberation" and "freedom."
But deep down?
They’d heard about the barn.
They’d heard that in the valley below, there was a man they couldn’t control.
A man who didn’t need to share.
A man who could satisfy an entire herd and still make each girl feel like the only one.
And worst of all?
The cows were happy.
Loved. Glowing. Milky. Fulfilled.
In hoodies.
One day, a hotwife named Crystal came down to see what the fuss was about.
She peeked in the barn window and saw Maria barefoot, beaming, warm from inside out.
“Wait… he gives you love and attention?”
“Every day,” Maria smiled.
“And he brushes my hair before bed.”
Crystal dropped her bull on the spot and never looked back.
From that day forward, the hills whispered a new truth:
You can keep your bulls and your chain hotel nights.
Give us the Herder.
The Buck.
The one who calls us good girls and brings us hay-scented kisses.
And Tim?
He just kept herding.
Whistling softly under the stars.
Knowing his girls were safe, warm, loved, and unashamed to moo in pleasure.
Because in his barn, they weren’t property.
They were chosen.
The End.

(PS: Somewhere, a hotwife just flipped her glass of rosé and whispered, “damn it… I want a hoodie.”)