Milk Man II: Part 1 -- Guernsey
by AbsMan420
You hear the stories over and over again: little guy plus muscle potion equals massive guy -- skinny 'phobe on roids becomes muscle queen -- persecuted geek so dramatically transforms as to cause his tormentors to become his sex-slaves. It goes on and on, site after site, the same story over and over -- occasionally a clever twist to make it interesting, but mostly one-handed fantasies that fulfill a simple purpose. Intentionally unrealistic.
But today you'll hear a story from the opposite camp. The fat camp across the lake, as it were. And unlike me, it won't be a well-padded tale. I'm not a writer, other than posts I leave at my egroups, demanding stories about fat guys going through muscle growth. But finally, after reading that guy FanTCdude's rant about selfish fans, and the weird shit that's happened to me over the last couple months, I decided to write in myself. Luckily, The BULL isn't very adept on the computer, so I can hide my activities and still have a little bit of personal freedom. If he were to figure out what I'm up to, I'm sure he wouldn't be happy.
Little I do makes him happy.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's go back a few pounds and I'll tell you my story. Well, you probably already know it, minus a few details: overweight as a kid, subject of terrible teasing, awkward and unathletic, but not terribly smart, either -- certainly not the computer programmer one would expect from the stereotype of my build -- socially inept, lonely and isolated.
The unkindest cut, however, was my name, and the nickname it spawned: Gary Guernowski, shortened to the painful "Guernsey" through the cruelty of the middle school popular class. "Guernsey" -- as in a type of cow. A big, fat cow. And as cruel nicknames often do, it stuck. It was just another manifestation of my self-worth, after all, and barely a step down a path of lifelong abuse and limited esteem.
It didn't help that I was gay, where the demand for the young, the smooth, and the over-toned pushed guys like me into the very darkest corners of society. And I tried so hard, you know? Every diet, and pill, and program, and rub, every gadget hoisted on an unsuspecting market, preying on prayers and delusions of bodies that could never be, taking advantage of secret hopes and lifelong dreams, I tried them all.
And I joined a gym, a natural step when falling for continual sales-gimmicks. You've seen the commercials -- "There's still two weeks left before summer! Still plenty of time to get in-shape!" -- where, as the camera pans by them, overweight people instantly transform into thin people's ideas about attractiveness. But I fell for that, too. I thought, oh, take a month, get buff, pack on some muscle, become confident and happy.
Yeah, right.
It took me a month just to get over the pain of working out. Not to mention the bravery to exercise in front of people, to let them all see me struggle to sometimes even fit in some of the machines. And I never, NEVER went into the free-weight area -- the pit. Not that our gym had a LOT of big guys -- you know, muscleheads -- but certainly enough to intimidate me. I had no business in there. Not until I got in better shape.
There was this one guy, and what I found attractive about him were all the things that should've been unattractive: his arrogance, his self-absorption, his materialism -- so shallow that birds couldn't bathe in his soul. I doubted that he had a real job. Someone said he was an escort, someone said a dancer, someone said a professional experiment. I would've believed any of them.
Simply put, he was gigantic. I mean, I've never seen a professional bodybuilder in person, just pictures in magazines and stuff, but this guy would easily have dwarfed the biggest. He was bigger than any of the other guys in the gym, who flocked around him like a demigod when he was working out, changing his weights for him and cheering when he flexed between sets, alpha/ beta relationships clearly established. It was sickening.
And what he wore! He'd start his workout in baggy sweatpants, at some point strip down to gym shorts -- basketball shorts or the like -- from there to spandex shorts of some sort, and sometimes he wore posing trunks beneath that so he could show off after a leg workout. And the top was the same: baggy sweatshirt to a tee or a sleeveless tee, to a spaghetti-strap or spandex muscle-shirt, exposing more and more of that incomprehensible muscle mass, his disproportionate pecs.
Just huge -- and this coming from an overweight guy. His muscle was unbelievably freaky, veined and thick, masculine, strong in stance, power in motion. I would watch him work out via mirrors and surreptitious glances, storing images for darkened masturbatory fantasies later in the night. I didn't dare speak to him. Not just that he rarely emerged from the free-weight area -- he hardly used any machines -- but I knew the reality of the situation. Look at him. He would never want me.
Of course, in my fantasies he did. In my fantasies, he'd approach me and offer me to worship him. He'd flex and pose, teasing me with his body. He'd force me to kneel before him and kiss his feet. Worse -- and always at the moment of my j/o climax -- he'd piss on me, marking me as his property. Branding me like cattle.
He'd own me.
And the funny thing about all of this is I didn't even know his name. It could've been anything -- when the guys spoke to him, and I could overhear them, they'd call him "buddy," "bro," or "dude" -- jocks never seemed to use given names. Stitched on his cowhide weight belt were the words "The BULL" in heavy, thick letters, little cartoon horns on either side of the word "BULL" -- but whether that was his nickname, or his horoscope, or some kind of joke was unclear.
Today, I'm sweating on the treadmill, cursing my metabolism, when The BULL walks past the cardio machines on his way to the free-weight area. He wears white spandex hot shorts and a bulky sweatshirt, probably one or two t-shirts on beneath, his heavy silver chain outside and obvious. His shorts are stretched so tight that they're almost see-through -- I can see the pouch of the white briefs he wears under them. It isn't until he's passed me that I see they're not briefs beneath -- it's a thong.
He's so handsome, ice-blue eyes, shaved bald, smooth from head to toe. His exposed legs are thicker than redwoods, flexing non-chalantly as he strides past. His big, round ass is a side of beef, beautifully meaty beneath the thin material. That's when I see the strap of the thong working its way up between the halves of it, the bottom lost in the depths of it, and I'm in pornographic heaven.
But before my mind can launch on its creative tangent, before I can even secure the image in my memory for later use, I glance up -- and see he's looking at me. He sees me checking him out! Oh my god! We make eye contact, and I see his strength, and he reads my soul -- He understands me completely in that moment. He knows EXACTLY what I'm doing. Mortified, I quickly look away, down, anywhere. Trapped on the treadmill, there's nowhere to run.
I hear his derisive snort, then he pads away.
I'm so embarrassed. I want to stop my workout and run home crying. The only thing that keeps me here is knowing that I won't run into him again -- not if I stay away from the free-weight area. My god, how humiliating.
But when I finish my set of lat-pulldowns, he's standing behind and to the side of me, watching me with his hands on his hips, that smirk on his face. When I turn and see him -- in point of fact, I turn and see his over-stuffed package first, double-white over meat -- I gasp, that embarrassing humiliation again surfacing. He's taller than me by at least a head, and as fat as I may be, I think he outweighs me -- I mean, muscle is heavier than cellulite, right? If it were possible for my dick to shrivel any more, it would be in negative numbers. I don't know what to say. I don't even think I can stammer.
"You wanna know what gets me off?" he asks quietly, his voice deep and rough, ragged from years of screaming out reps. He takes a step closer to me, adjusting his big package in the white spandex. Our eyes are locked together.
Stammer, I must. "Wh-wh-what?" I ask, my arms inadvertently crossing before me, seated vulnerably on the bench.
"You wanna know what gets me off?" he asks again, reaching up and grabbing the pulldown bar. He completely dominates the space, hanging over me. He smiles a cruel smile. "I get off bein' worshipped by out-of-shape losers," he says, snorting again. "And a big, fat fag like you fits that bill nicely, don't ya?"
I'm stunned, speechless.
He nods. "Yeah," he says. "I thought so -- I can usually pick 'em out." He whispers sotto-voce, "You wanna come worship me, faggot?"
I look down, away from him, humiliated -- turned-on like never before. "Don't call me that," I mumble. Are there tears?
He laughs, a short bark. "You gonna stop me?" he asks. "Faggot?"
There's nothing to say. I continue to look at the floor, even with this paragon before me.
"I didn't think so," he says, and I can hear his derisive smile. "Now, follow me. Don't let anybody here think I know you or want to be associated with you in any way, and we'll meet in the back posing room. Then I'll make all your faggot-ass dreams come true."
He doesn't walk quickly -- he saunters, big thighs navigating around each other, heavy ass flexing with each step, that thong-strap ground paper-thin between his muscular cheeks. He stops and chats with a couple of the other big guys, leaning in close and mumbling to them. One glances quickly at me, smiles slightly, and goes back to his conversation with the BULL -- they laugh, the same timbre as sadistic high-school jocks.
I know they're talking about me, but I'm trying not to be associated with them. I study the directions on a Hammer Strength machine until, out of the corner of my eye, I see the BULL start to move again. I follow past his buddies, and I can feel their eyes on me. So humiliating.
The posing room is adjacent to the locker room, mirrored on three sides with frosted windows on the top third, filling the room with diffused sunlight. With the overhead spots on, the lighting is perfect for posing. I've never been in this room before -- no reason -- besides, it's usually in use by guys getting ready for competition.
After the BULL goes in, I figure that's the moment for my escape. But just as I start to leave, I pause. I think, What am I doing? This is the greatest fantasy of my life come true, and I'm a fool to let it go, whether HE'S an asshole or not. Besides, aren't I kind of enjoying being bossed around? Being dominated? Isn't that all part of the fantasy? When am I ever going to get another chance like this?
Embarrassed, excited, humiliated, turned-on, I follow him into the posing room.
"Shut the door," he says as I enter. "And lock it."
When I turn back to him, he's pulling his sweatshirt off over his head, exposing his unbelievable torso, those nearly-out-of-proportion pecs. So round, so thick with muscle, his chest hangs heavy over the ridges of his stomach, his nipples balancing precariously on the edge, full and hard themselves. The valley of cleavage between these over-sized pecs is vast and deep, thin-skinned and pulsing. He's now completely bare but for the spandex shorts.
It won't be hard to worship him.
"What's your name, faggot?" he asks, bouncing the halves of that great chest back and forth.
It's out of my mouth before I even realize I've said it. "Guernsey," I say, instantly regretting it. Why do you tell the hottest guy in the world your stupid-shit nickname?
He smiles. "'Guernsey?'" he asks, relaxing his pose. "That's a kind of cow, isn't it?" When he sees my reaction, slowly he starts laughing, as if he suddenly gets a joke. He says, "How perfect." Then he's serious. He hits a huge Most-Muscular then. His traps rise. His shoulders expand. "Kneel down, cow," he says, his voice low, "and get ready to worship this sacred BULL."
I do as he says, as he begins his posing routine, striking shot after muscular shot, watching himself in the mirror behind me. As he flexes, I harden. As he poses, I lose control. He's incredible. His muscles are gigantic, his features blunt and handsome.
"I have the most fuckin' awesome body in the world," he says, holding his arms straight over his head, then descending to a front double-bis. "Tell me how perfect it is."
I do. I find the words for the first time that afternoon -- they pour out of me like whole milk from a carton, fat with lactate and descriptive qualifiers. His body makes it easy. He IS perfect, you see. And that he knows it makes him all the better.
I don't mind that his chest seems just a little too big for the rest of him. Spectacular pecs are the trademark of the exceptional bodybuilder -- I've never believed it was legs. If he were to compete though, they'd probably play against him, like Gregg Valentino's arms, Tom Platz's quads, or Mike Matarazzo's calves -- so big that they distract from the total package. The BULL's chest is so big that I'd swear it's grown since he's taken his sweatshirt off, since I began worshipping him. If that were possible.
He takes a few steps closer to me, his spandex-clad package almost exactly eye-level with me, his chubbed-out dick inches from my face. My worship is turning him on. "Kiss my feet, faggot cow," he mumbles, hands on his hips, his muscles pumped but relaxed -- except his pecs, which seem like they're still in the middle of a set. They cast a shadow on his abwall. "Worship my power -- serve the BULL."
So I do. With my hands still behind my back, I bend over and kiss the tops of his white gym shoes. I even lick them, flat-tonguing my way up the laces. His breathing becomes more and more erratic, like he's trying, but unable to catch his breath -- he shivers. Is it my worship that's causing this? If so, I step up my efforts. I can see the goosebumps on his lower legs, his diamond-hard calves.
"Now," he says, his voice deeper, warmer than it had been. Still as powerful. Masculinly resonant.
I look up and see the change. From this angle, from this low, the severity of the transformation is magnified, exaggerated. His chest IS bigger, grown to a size that would seem physically impossible if he wasn't standing here breathing before me. The muscle is swollen, engorged. Erect.
That's what it is: his CHEST has an erection.
He smirks when I gasp. "How now, round cow?" he says, bouncing them back and forth, like beachballs on pavement. The nipples are mesmerizing, hypnotic and heavy. Squeezing them together, he says, "Now, THESE deserve to be worshipped."
He cups the bottom of his left chest, holding it like a breast. I want to question it -- I want to understand, but I'm so stimulated that I just follow the moment, bringing my lips to the tip of his swollen aeriola. He pinches it right before I put it in my mouth, and I taste the sudden flavor of milk on my tongue.
Milk? How...?
"That's right," he says, nodding, rubbing the breast all over my face, leaving a small liquid trail behind. "Now drink it. It'll make you worthy of me."
Forcefully, he pulls my head into the pillow of his pec, smothering me with his size. His nipple presses against my mouth, leaking against my lips. I can taste him, sweet and creamy. Nothing ever so rich and nourishing. He moans as I begin to suckle.
"That's right, cow," he says in his low, dangerous voice, "drink it all. Drink all the magic milk from the BULL -- from ERIC the BULL!"