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Dean Yeagle – Legendary American Animator & Cartoonist, born in 1950 in the United States, known for his character ‘Mandy’, who has frequented the pages of Playboy Magazine.
After graduating from high school, Yeagle went to art school, leaving after a year. He began his animation career in a small studio in Philadelphia with a summer job, giving him his first taste of the industry. He served four years in the Navy during the Vietnam era, and later worked for Jack Zander (who once animated Tom and Jerry cartoons for MGM) in Zander’s Animation Parlour, New York.
Seven years after starting at Zander’s Animation Parlour, Yeagle began freelancing, working for most of the New York animation studios before starting his own, Caged Beagle Productions, in 1986 with Nancy Beiman. Caged Beagle produces TV commercials, CD-ROMs, sub-contracts or consults on features and character design.
Yeagle has worked as a designer, animator and director, and he was nominated by the National Cartoonist Society (NCS) for the 2003 Gag Award for his work in Playboy Magazine

Dean Yeagle





Read “The Girl at the Farm”

a Short Story Inspired by Dean Yeagle

Click to Read The Girl at the Farm

I’ll admit, it’s a pretty unbelievable story, but the guys at the bar love to hear me tell it. It’s one of their favorites – but I have to swear to them every time that every word of it is true. Once I’m done telling they’ll always bombard me with questions, trying to trip me up, trying to find some little detail that doesn’t make sense. Usually it takes about three or four beers before any of them will even grudgingly admit that it might be true.

I don’t blame them for being sceptics. Most of them had never been that far out of town, and certainly hadn’t ventured onto any of the surrounding farms. They didn’t know just how strange things could be out there.

 

Well, I did. I was a postman for quite a number of years, and for a good portion of those my beat was the remote little farmhouses out in deep country that barely ever got more than a letter. It was a trek – let me tell you that.

 

But there was this one farmhouse that I always looked forward to visiting. I never saw the guy who owned it, but every time I pulled up by their mailbox there would be this absolutely gorgeous girl just lazing around at the top of the drive. Sometimes she was smoking, sometimes picking flowers, sometimes even sunbathing. No matter what she was up to though, she always took the time to greet me while I dropped off their mail. It wasn’t long before me and this girl – Cindy was her name – got to talking. It was just a few words here and there at first; little snippets of chat as I dropped off her mail. But then, as time went on, I found myself stopping and talking more and more.

 

Cindy wasn’t just pretty – she was… how can I put it… sensuous. She would touch me on the arm when we spoke, and brush her blonde hair to one side. She had the most enormous breasts, and she always wore these little denim dungarees that she was practically bursting out of. I never saw her with anything but a smile all over her face. She was a thing of beauty to look at. So you can’t blame me for accepting when she invited me in for a cup of tea. It was a generous offer that soon became a staple part of my round. After a couple of hours trucking around in the hot sun I’d stop off in Cindy’s cool, tiled farmhouse kitchen and drink ice tea and make small talk. Little known to her, most of the time I was probably hiding a decent erection as well. I wanted her, and I wanted her bad. There was just one problem – girls like that always have big, jealous husbands. I figured he must be out working the farm, which is why I never saw him. But nevertheless, I lived in fear of ever running into her man.

 

That fear only increased when Cindy and I finally did it. It had been a long time coming, but it was worth the wait. It was a beautiful summer day and the kitchen was baking hot.

 

“I just wish I could strip down naked,” Cindy was saying. “I love being naked. Feels so natural, like. You know?” What the hell, I figured. I couldn’t take this torture anymore. “Well, why don’t you?” I said. “Strip down.” She shot me a sly grin. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” “You bet I would.” And that was that. Before very long Cindy was naked, and I was taking her from behind as she bent over her solid wooden kitchen table. She had a glorious body, and to finally be able to run my hands over her slim waist and huge, heavy breasts was the relief I’d been longing for after months of just watching.

 

She was crazy too, and hungry for it. She wriggled and moaned while I nailed her, and then when I was done she turned right around, went down on her knees and used her mouth to get me hard again almost straight away. The second time we did it with her lying on the table, legs spread, her hands gripping the edges as I thrust.

 

This soon became a pattern. I would stop off in the middle of my route at Cindy’s farmhouse for some cool tea and the wildest sex I’d ever had. It was mind-blowing. But the whole time I was quaking in my boots, afraid that her husband would turn up at any moment and chase me off his land with a shotgun. It turned out though, that I need never have worried. We were lazing around on the floor of Cindy’s lounge one evening, when I happened to mention to her about my worries. When I said that I was worried her husband might discover us, she burst out laughing.

 

“What’s so funny?” I demanded. “My husband?” she said. “You think I’m married. Geez, you are a one.” I frowned. It took me a minute to work out what she was saying. “You mean you’re not married? Seriously?” “Not a bit of it!” she cried. “I own this place. The guys who run it… well, they work for me! I certainly ain’t married to none of them!”

 

We had a good laugh about that – especially once I told her just how nervous I had been. And then, without the looming threat of her husband on the horizon, I rolled back on top of her, kissed her neck, and began round two.

 

And that’s how Cindy and I met! Like I say, it’s a pretty unbelievable story – and the guys at the bar always throw a ton of questions my way after I tell it. Maybe they believe me. Maybe they don’t. Either way, they sure do like to hear the story.

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