MILK MAN 2 -- pt9: The Bastard Bovine

By absman420
published August 21, 2019
Summary

Guernsey gives his first milking

I wake slowly – awareness creeps in detail by detail. I’m warm, and dry, and wrapped in comfortable softness. I’m in a bed. With that realization, I roll on my side and allow myself to drift off again. So relaxed…

The dreams have been coming almost non-stop, images mostly, lost feelings, recovered memories. I remember the breast, the pink invitation of the nipple, the instinctual need to suckle. I know the fulfillment that comes only from that infantile instinct. It’s the base of need – it’s Freud’s playground.

But the breast isn’t feminine. It’s muscular and square – it’s blocky and bloated. It’s masculine. It’s strong. Oh, the need – the yearning – reaching for it with my mouth brings me back up into the plane of reality, unfortunately, and waking. Drifting in and out of the fugue state.

Through the veins of my eyelids, I see the glowing red that can only be sunlight. Opening them, squinting, glancing around, my immediate thought is “Where the hell am I?” because I recognize nothing familiar. Ignoring the small hint of panic, I realize I’m in a hotel room – a nice one at that – a suite. The bedroom is a separate area, with what looks like a beautiful bath connected to it. The “living room,” I think, must be through that door over there. Listen – I hear a television on, tuned to “SportsCenter.”

Whoever brought me here – and I suspect Jersey – is in there. So I throw back the covers to get up. To answer my need to pee.

Immediately, I see it – I sense it – I’m aware of it. And let me digress a moment and say how much I love to laugh at those muscle-growth stories where the hero doesn’t realize he’s been transformed until he sees himself in the mirror – sometimes, he even takes a leak or some other morning ritual, but doesn’t realize he’s morphed until he sees his reflection. It cracks me up. It’s like when a cartoon character doesn’t fall until he realizes he’s hanging in midair.

I know from the moment I throw back the covers. I see the size of my arm in the motion and feel the added mass when I do. I realize immediately what’s happened to me. Glancing down at myself with a mixture of excitement, arousal, and a little fear maybe, all of that, I see what I’ve become, what I’ve dreamed of and fantasized about – maybe what I’ve feared a little – since I was old enough to know what masculinity was. I only want a mirror now for curiosity, not confirmation.

I’m huge. I mean, this isn’t like before, when I was comparing myself to underwear models, fitness contestants, or at-home gym spokesmen. No, not like that. I mean, I’m HUGE – freaky.

I’m thick and heavy with muscle. I can feel the added weight, the new dimension of width, the mass that accompanies the size. I always knew what it was like to carry fat, but never how it felt to carry muscle – with my new center of balance, my now-graceful athletics – not the dull, dead weight of cellulite, just the fluid power of athleticism.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stare down at myself. Even now, upon waking, my new muscles are pumped and full. As big as – maybe bigger than – the bodybuilders, the powerlifters, the juice-filled freaks that populate almost every SoCal gym. It’s hard to take it all in – hard to focus on any one part. My rounded delts, my bulging biceps – look at my quads, their teardrops – the flexible bricks that form my abwall.

Look at my cock, half-hard and thickly waiting its turn. Good Lord, even there…

I stand to make my way to the bathroom mirror. I feel so powerful, so utterly masculine. The width of my back forces my arms away from my sides. I don’t walk so much as I strut. It takes a little practice to navigate my thighs around each other. It feels so fucking good.

I can see my outline in the wall-sized mirror before I even click on the light, my almost impossible thickness, my unbelievable mass – my silhouette can block out the sun.

Then there’s light. A touch of a button, and I can clearly see what I’ve become – the total picture. Initially, my reaction is shock. Disbelief. I’m so radically different. I mean, it’s my face staring at me – okay, heavier, the jaw and forehead more pronounced – but it’s me, maybe even a little more handsome than before.

And it’s my body – I recognize it as my body, my structure – just now massively muscled. I’m gigantic, bigger than I’ve ever dreamed – almost as big as Jersey himself, certainly bigger than Shorthorn – I’m the bodybuilder of my fantasies, except…

Except my chest is out of proportion. Like Jersey, and Shorthorn, and even Angus – all of them, I suppose – my pecs are too big to be considered symmetrical with the rest of my build. Square-shaped and blocky, chiseled from abundant flesh with deep grooves and striations, my chest pulls focus from anything else I might try to look at. Look at my nipples – MY nipples – the way they’ve swollen and hardened, the way they invite the eye, and hopefully the tongue. Try to look away, and be pulled right back.

Small pops and bounces lead to flexing which leads to aggressive posing. Seeing my biceps peak like softballs under my skin, my lats spreading wider and wider, the grooves form in the cuts of my quads, it just gets me more turned on. Look what I’ve become. Look at that chest!

I hit a particularly ab-dominant pose, and the pressure of the muscle flexing across my bladder reminds me that I have to take a leak – the reason I woke up in the first place. Lifting up the toilet seat, looking down my glorious torso to the focal point of my cock – a view I think I’ll learn to love, staring down my cleavage and through my abs reminds me of standing at the bottom of the Grand Canyon and following the course of the Colorado river – I’m again amazed at the growth and change. It’s still my cock, after all, but it’s thicker, significantly longer.

The piss streams out of me, making me remember how much liquid I’ve drunk in the last day – probably yesterday, if it’s truly morning now. Pissing adds to my new-found sense of masculinity, and I love feeling the flow while I hold the base of my big cock. A minute, maybe longer, long enough to be considered comical, and I’m still at it. Of course, now I’m losing interest, ready to get back to posing.

Then I’m finally done, and the shake renews my sexual urge, and I can’t help but play with myself as I flush and turn back to the mirror. Before I can fully involved in flexing again, I hear Jersey’s voice call from the living room. “Yo, that you, Guernsey? You up in there?”

I’m feeling my flexed left biceps with my right hand, the hardness, the real-ness – it really IS mine – when I answer, “Yeah, I’m up!” Even my voice is slightly different, as it resonates from my new neck – even thicker, more dense.

“Well, get the fuck in here and lemme get a look at ya!”

Even with that, it’s hard to tear myself away from my reflection – as if it’ll go away if I’m not looking at it, or like I can’t see myself unless there’s a mirror. Walking through the bedroom toward the living room, I can’t help but stare down at myself – LOOK at that body beneath me! Beautiful – and it’s not going away.

I pull open the door to the living room and there’s Jersey, sitting in the middle of the sofa, his arms up over the back-rests, wearing only a pair of cargo shorts, open at the waist, his legs spread wide, and a thick, silver necklace with one of those Italian curly-horns hanging from it, caught in the very top of his cleavage. He’s cleaned-up since the last time I saw him – and it’s my first time seeing him as he really is, this gigantic hunk of a muscleman – his hair undisturbed from a sweaty bike helmet, his skin dry and soft, his face relaxed and smooth.

As I say, and have said before, his body is magnificent, even bigger than me at MY now-impressive size. Jersey is bigger than almost anyone who calls himself a bodybuilder, except maybe the few freaks one sees in the magazines – you know, the guys whose hearts blow out, or whose kidneys explode from their outrageous drug use – and Jersey is clean. His stomach is slightly rounded, showing evidence of drug use at SOME time in his past, but Jersey’s skin is so clear and his aura so healthy that I realize right away that he’s not doing anything now. Why would he need to?

His smile is a smirk, a playful, boyish grin that almost robs him of his masculine power. “Well, look at you,” he says, letting one of his hands find his own package and adjust it. “You put on some good size.”

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s fuckin’ awesome!”

I begin hitting poses, showing him my new muscle from every angle. How badly I want him to want me. Look at this, I think as I flex. Look what you’ve made.

His erection grows right up out of the open cargo shorts, a powerful python that swamis its way out of the basket. It’s as handsome as he is. I don’t know who I love more, Jersey or his massive cock – thank God they come together.

I kneel between his outstretched legs, looking him deep in the eye. Never losing his smirk, Jersey reaches forward and grabs the back of my head with one of his big paws, pulling me in for a kiss. I brace myself by putting my hands on his torso, holding his big lats. For such a big, brutal man, Jersey’s kiss is tender.

I manage to reach between our two massive bodies and put my hand around his cock. I hate saying phrases like “as thick as a beer can” because that’s a cliche, but try as I might, I can’t think of anything better. It takes BOTH hands to encircle him, but I just run one down the length of the shaft, into his open shorts. Jersey moans deeply in our kiss.

When I break it and move to take his cock in my mouth, Jersey says, “Yo, hold on. First things first.” Casually, he reaches up and pinches my nipples, his smirk comes back with my first sharp breath. “Sensitive, ain’t they?”

“Oh!” I try to catch myself as he plays with them. It’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever felt, almost like having two more cocks. Jersey notices my raging hard-on.

“THERE we go,” he mumbles, releasing my nipples and shifting his weight forward on the sofa. He grabs the base of my cock and lowers his head to it, taking me in HIS mouth. Jersey’s technique is so exceptional that he seems to know exactly how to please me – he anticipates my desires. A nibble, a lick, pressure deep in his throat. Talented. Experienced.

My breathing becomes deeper, more rhythmic – Jersey alters his style to match it. As his head bobs, I can’t help but feel my new body, my new muscle – my hands instinctively move to my chest.

And I find that my chest has grown.

I mean, right now – I’m not referring to the growth I went through while I slept, no. I mean, I’ve grown in the last couple of seconds. More, as my hands feel my chest, I’m aware that I’m STILL growing. Each time my chest swells through inhalation, it grows.

Realization. Sudden, shocking realization.

I’m one of them.

As my pecs become engorged in what can only be my own milk, as they inflate beyond comprehension, whole truths come crashing home: it was his cum – it had to be. That’s why I never had Angus’ – or any of theirs. Their cum must be the transforming agent. When Jersey fucked me over the split-rail fence, he turned me into one of them.

And now my pecs are swollen with milk. Looking down on myself, at the unbelievable ridge of my upper chest, at the outlandish size of my pecs, I’m surprised by how turned-on I am. I don’t feel freakish – I feel masculine, sexy. Touching them is an amazing rush – they’re as sensitive as my cock, for sure, if not more so – but flexing them proves to be uncomfortable, like flexing your abs when you gotta take a piss. They’re so laden with liquid, it’s hard to move.

So big, so outrageously out of proportion, I want to see them in a mirror, but I’m also being driven by another sudden need. What I really need is someone to drink from them – it’s becoming terribly uncomfortable. Seriously, I don’t think I’ll be able to stand it much longer.

Jersey senses my impatience, the subtle adjustment of my weight, so he takes his mouth off my dick – though he leaves his fist wrapped around it – and looks up. His smirk blooms into a full-blown smile when he sees them. “Sweet,” he mumbles, releasing my cock.

When he touches them with his rough hands, his thick fingers, his callused palms, when he cups them and seemingly weighs them, I can barely control my breathing. When he puts his lips to my right nipple, my skin is so sensitive I can feel every individual hair on his unshaven chin, the tip of his tongue on the tip of my nip. I can barely contain my orgasm.

But when he sucks, and I can feel the movement of liquid actually passing through my pec and into him, I realize a whole new level of sexual excitement. I can’t get enough. Without even knowing I’m doing it, I grab the back of Jersey’s head – the stubble from his tight fade as itchy as wool – and push it into the pillow of my muscle. I moan when he draws harder.

He pinches my other nipple with his free hand, and when I roll my head forward while breathing deeply, I see little drops of my own milk on his fingers. Studying it, I take his hand and put his first two fingers in my mouth, to taste myself. I’m sweet. I’m creamy.

While he suckles on my teat, I suck on his sausage-y fingers – rough skinned, grid-iron thick, fingernails clipped too-short man-hands – covered in the sweetest-tasting liquid I’ve ever had. My own taste – fresh and clean, light and distinct. He curls his palm around my chin and gently pushes my head back – a savanna predator taking his vulnerable prey, a lion chowing down on the meat of a muscular gazelle.

Then the other side. Another sharp intake of breath as the erotic rush spikes again. He’s drawing it out of me now, forcing it. Driving me wild. His rhythm quickens, tempo accellerando, and I’m swept along in the rush. I’m almost empty, but I never want it to end – it’s the most amazing sexual experience of my life.

And then the orgasm that rockets through my body – my chest is cumming, the same throbbing pulse as my cock. I moan, or scream, or somehow vocalize, throwing my head back and ejaculating, involuntarily bucking my hips.

When I look half-lidded at Jersey, he’s smiling, licking the final drops of my milk of his lips. “Tell me that was the greatest thing that’s ever happened to you,” he says, “and I’ll show you something better.”

I’m gasping for air. I feel incredible. “What could be better than that?” I ask.

Jersey stands, exposing his own massive hard-on – an erection pointing straight to his upper abs. He flicks his eyebrows and says, “How ’bout this?”

Laughing, I take it in my mouth.

Jersey fucks me right there on the living room floor. He’s a brute, powerful and passionless – he’s looking to get off, not to make me feel good. His cock fits my ass so perfectly – I seem to almost conform to him. He’s my bull. Of course I fit him perfectly – another manifestation of the transformation, it seems.

Two big musclemen fucking on the floor – dominance manifested. He’s my bull – gotta give him the best fuck possible…

He shoots inside me, shoving himself even deeper. My well-trained ass milks him dry, almost sucking it out. I want every drop.

He heaves over me, the sweat dripping off his brow onto my torso. “Yo, you a good fuck,” he says, slipping out of me. “And you got some phat milk in you, too.”

I smile, picturing myself – this big muscle-bottom lying on the floor after getting fucked by this massive stud – and I’m ready for him again. God, I can’t wait for an again.

He pushes himself up off me. “I gotta take a nap,” he says, standing up. Looking down on me over the size of his own muscles, bigger than mine, he adds, “gotta let your milk do its work.” He steps over me and starts to walk toward the bedroom.

Sitting up and wiping the excess milk off my big pecs, I say, “I have a million questions.”

He turns around to face me, leaning his heavy bulk in the door frame. “Yo, I ain’t gonna be able to stay awake much longer, bro. That’s what the milk does, you know? I’ll answer all your questions when I wake up, okay? Everything – finally. I promise. That cool?”

I shrug. “Yeah, sure.” I can’t stop feeling my body, licking my fingers.

Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “I’ll be up in about three hours. Don’t go no-place, don’t talk on the phone, don’t answer the door – don’t do nothin’ until you and me talk. You got that?”

“Okay.” My muscle feels so good under my hand.

“You listenin’ to me?”

These biceps.

He sighs and shakes his head. “Three hours,” he says, and heads into the bedroom.

I begin to search for a mirror.

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