Milk Man II: Part 2 -- Little Calf

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I don't feel like eating.

Take a moment with that, especially if you're an overweight person, and read it again -- I don't feel like eating. I'm FULL.

And not the kind of "full" like after a thanksgiving meal, gorged on turkey and tannin. I mean, a contented, lion-napping-on-the-Sahara full, like you've taken in enough to satisfy your need, but not enough to slow you down.

Following the image, I stretch out on the floor in the warm sunlight, unable to gather the will to travel to the bedroom, luxuriating in relaxed comfort, ready to nap and easily digest.


He fed me milk from his muscular pec, unbelievable as that may sound. If I hadn't been there to see it, if I hadn't tasted it, felt the life in it, I'd never believe it myself. Yet there I was, suckling this massive beast, creamy warmth filling my mouth and throat, swallowing gulp after gulp, hungry for more.

And god, he had more. Gallon jugs, blocked only by his rubbery-soft nipples. It took all of my eating skills just to finish him. But I did. I didn't waste a drop. And as I pulled the last few squirts from him, he orgasmed, shooting strong ropes of cum from his untouched bull-cock.

Some of it got on me -- impossible to miss a target this large, I suppose -- but as I wiped it off my hip, as I moved to lick it off my fingers, he said, "No you don't. Not yet." Then he licked it off himself, saying, "You gotta earn that honor." He made a silent motion toward my own erection, and added, "You gonna take care o' that?"

I beat off in front of him, kneeling there as he posed before me, saying "Hurry up!" as he flexed. "What takes you so fuckin' long to cum? You pee shy, too?"

Finally, not because of his derision, rather a sudden unignoreable biological need, I could do nothing BUT cum. I couldn't control the moment if I had to. I shot with a force I'd never before experienced -- the orgasm of the physically fit. Finally, I collapsed back in a heap as the last few bubbles gurgled from the tip of my dick, this mood of exhausted satisfaction beginning to manifest.

He tossed me his card -- his CARD, for God's sake! -- after he'd re-dressed. He said, casually, "Call me later if you feel like doin' this again." With that, he left, and I just watched him go, unable to even know what to say. Still in this euphoric state, I dressed quickly and hurried home.

My apartment is only three city blocks from the gym, but I barely made it -- I was exhausted. Not physically exhausted, like I couldn't walk that far, but tired, like I'd had a heavy meal and needed sleep. Collapsed on the floor, in the place where I'd started this narrative, small pillow from the sofa under my head, I fell asleep, contented, dreaming of muscle growth and leaking pecs. Erotic battles in my subconscious -- images of masculinity transferred through breast milk.

I wake with a start, because the angle of the sun is different, which makes me realize that I've been out longer than it's felt. I feel like I've power-napped, like twenty minutes of good, healthy rest. I feel ready to go, energized, enthusiastic. According to the clock on the VCR however, I've been out for about three hours. And even though it's time for "The Simpsons" in syndication, I have too much energy to waste watching tv -- and who would've thought I'd ever say THAT? It's not until I stand that I realize something's different -- something's not right.

Still dressed in the clothes I worked out in, when I stand, my baggy gym shorts fall to my feet, like some Vaudevillian comedy routine. Sighing, rolling my eyes -- no matter how good I feel, something always happens to make me look like an idiot -- I reach down and pull them up.

But they're too big.

Read THAT again: they're too big. Where normally, the elastic would hold my ample middle snugly, there is now nothing to hold. I'm keeping them in place with my hands, thinking, "Yes, these are MY shorts. No one's playin' a joke on me." But they don't fit.

The realization dawns before I can even find words. Of course, through my baggy t-shirt, I don't see the change, but there HAS been a change. If my shorts don't fit, and they're the same shorts, it's because my waist must be smaller. Repeat: my WAIST must be smaller.

Unfortunately, my immediate instinct is to go to the scale instead of the mirror. Untangling my feet from my shorts in two easy steps, I head to the bathroom. My first disappointment comes on the scale.

I weigh the same -- two-hundred and forty-two pudgy pounds. If you're over six-foot, you can be two-forty, probably pretty easy. But trust me, when you're five-nine, two-forty is a whole different ball game. Take that from a guy with a thirty-eight waist. Well, with a formerly thirty-eight waist, if my shorts are to be believed. And I want to believe my shorts.

That's when I think to look in the mirror. There, even in my baggy shirt, I can see the difference. I AM smaller. Thinner. My gut... my always-thick middle...

I swear, I RIP the shirt off. Clumsy from my haste, I yank it over my head, blinding myself with the blue haze of the material for a moment, then seeing myself cleanly, clearly in the bathroom mirror, as if for the first time.

I'm caught between shock and joy, horror and elation, fear and attraction. My gut is maybe half the size it was this morning -- I've gone from sloppy blob to bulky linebacker. I mean, I don't have abs, but I don't have a roll, either. How could the scale have me at the same weight as I was this morning?

Then my shoulders catch my eye, my arms, my chest -- all bigger -- fuller. More muscular. I've lost this fat around my middle, but gained this muscle throughout my upper-body. THAT'S why my weight hasn't changed -- I've lost AND gained. And muscle is heavier than fat.

Teeth chattering, I begin to flex in the mirror, unsure of exact poses but happy to experiment. Big, round, bulky muscles. I look like the powerlifters I've seen in magazines, heavy with size but smooth in shape. When I see a vein in my left biceps -- Get that? A vein! -- something I've never had before, I get an almost instant erection -- something which I've had before, but rarely at this intensity.

Look at me! Look at what drinking his milk has done to me!

I watch my arm flex as I stroke my dick, taken by how manly masturbation suddenly seems, watching that stud in the mirror -- me! -- get off on his own muscles. If I concentrate, I can bounce my chest. The muscle is loose, but responsive. That there's a chest at all is enough to get me off. I'm ready to cum before I even have a chance to explore any other muscle group.

Then another part of me thinks: who needs another muscle group when there's chest?

That brings me to orgasm. Chest alone. I shoot hard, strong, all over the mirror and the muscular reflection of the hunky man who causes it. All because my chest has grown.

Then, the truly amazing thing -- my energy isn't even slightly diminished. There's a feeling of post-orgasmic bliss for sure, but instead of the brief moment that it usually lasts, it seems to swell, expand like the rest of me, settling into a baseline of relaxed energy, like power at my fingertips that seeks the next level of erotic fulfillment. Almost immediately, I want to beat off again, as sexually charged as a moment ago.

Instead, I choose to use the energy as a launching pad. There are so many questions that need answering that exploration of my physical self -- no matter how satisfying -- must be put on hold. Like, how happy am I that none of my underwear fit? Mixed blessing. The only thing that stays on my firmer waistline -- the only thing that comes close -- are a pair of spandex/ nylon hot shorts that I bought from an online site like, three years ago, because they looked really good on the model -- a bulky muscleboy that, in my fantasies, I could pretend was me.

The shorts are white with black blotches -- "Dalmatian" the ad-copy read -- to me, it looks like cow-hide -- and they appear to be silk, or perhaps rubber. They barely, barely fit me. I only put them on once -- the day they arrived in the mail -- and was so horrified by the way I looked in them, the way my fat hung over the edges, that I buried them in the back of my closet, too humiliated to return them, secretly determined to someday wear them with pride, hoping to look better than the model who inspired this embarrassing impulse-buy in the first place, knowing in the back of my head that that day will never come.

Now that it has, the briefs tease me in my hands, reminding me of our last go-round, but my dick is anticipatory, eager to try again, unafraid, so I step into them rather quickly.

They fit.

No. They don't just fit. They FIT. They fit like they were made for me, or that I was made for them. They ride my waist instead of squeezing it, arching along the rounded bottom of my abs, holding my ass and inner thighs firmly, showing their thickness, but not their bulk.

They hug. They hold. They emphasize. Even my package is improved by them, and that's saying something. My half-hard dick lies in front, plump and tempting.

God DAMN, I look good!

Again flexing in the mirror, this time in the bedroom, where the diffused sunlight hits me from high and right, casting muscular shadows across my torso, my dick grows rock-hard beneath the tight, form-fitting material.

Still, even with all that, my chest is still my focal point. Even my big dick points to it. I can't ignore it in the mirror -- it feels too good to flex. I feel the bulky mass with my hands, cupping the ample muscle in my grip. My erection throbs.

When I pinch my nipples, I shoot again, soaking the cow-hide hot shorts in my uncontrollable cum, my moan almost a scream. Again, that post-orgasmic euphoria settling over me, washing me with energy and self-esteem. Catching my breath, and catching my eye in the mirror, I'm again turned-on by how fucking hot I look -- I can feel my dick start to harden in the damp pouch.

Before I fully succumb to the idea of beating off again, I think, "No! You have questions! Get answers! Call him -- the BULL. Call him. Remember. He gave you his card."

Reluctantly, I tear myself away from my handsome reflection, wanting little more than to stand there all evening and satisfy myself. But since it was the BULL who gave me these improvements, it's worth being torn away. I'm looking forward to hearing his gruff, commanding voice. I'm hoping to drink more of his milk. I need to.

From the pocket of my discarded gym shorts -- the ones that are now too big -- I dig out his business card and really look at it for the first time, not just the glance I gave it when he handed it to me -- there was much more to look at, at that time. "BULL'S DAIRY," the card reads, the same cartoon horns I saw on his weightbelt decorate the logo, "Eric Masters, owner/ rancher." On the bottom, a number with a "p" in parenthesis.

Still in my damp hot-shorts, I nervously dial it. When answered, there's a lump in my throat, until I realize I've got a machine, and the lump falls to the pit of my stomach, weighted by disappointment. His deep, gravely tone. "This better be fuckin' important," the recording says, then there's a beep.

I stammer. "Um.. this is Guernsey," I say -- I mean, what do you say? "This is the number you gave me and... Oh, my God, look what you've done to me! I can't believe it! Thank you! Thank you! Please, please call me." Then I give him my number, perhaps a little too breathless, a little too geeky, a little too desperate. But fuck it. LOOK at me -- I want it again. I'll do whatever I have to.

He calls me back about ten angst-filled minutes later, like high school only a hundred-times worse. In high school, it was never your potential body on the line. Immediately, I check my Caller-ID, hoping to catch whatever number he's calling me from, but it reads "BLOCKED CALL." Damn it.

My hand shakes when I pick up the receiver. "Hello?" I squeak. "BULL?"

His voice -- thank God -- his beautiful voice. "You must be pretty happy, fag."

I'm immediately erect. I stutter, "What...? How...?"

He's stern. "Tell me how happy you are, faggot. Get to the thank-you's."

Again, the minute he demands it, I find the words. His command lets loose a torrent of gratitude and praise, which soon turns to worship. I find myself on my knees next to my phone table, calling him a god, willing to do anything -- ANYTHING! -- to again get his pecs in my mouth.

Suddenly, he says, "All right, faggot, enough. I get it." I stop speaking immediately -- I find it almost too natural to obey him. "Here's the deal. I'm gonna hook you up with a guy to calf with..."

"'CALF with...?'" I ask. Did I hear him right?

His tone changes. "Okay, first of all, don't you ever fuckin' interrupt me again. You got that?"

"I'm sorry, BULL," I say, chiding my self for the immediacy of my response. Damn, why am I acting this way? Am I THAT desperate?

Don't answer that. I'm not ready to hear it.

"This just proves what I was gonna say," he says. "You need more training before you're ready for me. I'm gonna hook you up with a guy to calf with, and he's gonna train you until you are."

He pauses, to let this sink in. It would be a natural spot for a response, but perhaps it's a test instead, to see if I'll remember to speak only when he tells me. I'll pass this one -- I learn quickly.

He grunts -- impressed, or disgruntled that he doesn't get another chance to discipline me? Continuing, he says, "I wanna make sure I'm clear about this. You wanna be with me again -- EVER again -- you're gonna do everything my cow tells you. You're gonna obey him the way you'd obey me. So when -- and only when -- my cow tells me you're ready, you get me. Not until -- no exceptions. You got that?"

"Yes, BULL," I say, too quickly again. Damn it.

"Don't fuck this up, little calf," he patronizes. "Bein' with me is gonna be the best fucking thing that's ever happened to you. Now beat off for me -- I know you wanna -- and I wanna hear you cum."

"Yes, BULL," I say, almost ripping my dick out of my hot shorts, kneeling there holding the phone and pumping myself.

"By cumming, you agree to my terms. And believe me, little calf, you wanna cum to my terms."

I'm pounding on my rod, my breath hard. "Yes, BULL," I pant.

In mere moments, he says, "Cum, little calf." And I do. I shoot all over the phone table, the carpet, and the wall. I orgasm for the third time since waking up a little under an hour ago, and it's just as strong, just as powerful, just as emotionally overwhelming as all the previous and more -- with the promise of so much more to come.

I hear him laugh. "Who owns you, little calf?" he says, his tone as derisive as always.

Again, I'm humiliated by the speed in which I say, "You do, BULL."

"Excellent," he says. "Now go out and enjoy your new body. Go pick somebody up and get laid -- you'll find it's easy now. My cow will call you in the morning and your training will start. Enjoy your last night of freedom, little calf."

With that, he hangs up -- the line goes dead.

I put the phone back in its cradle, kneeling there in a pool of my own cum, feeling an energy that's better than any I've ever felt before. I love it -- it humiliates me.

Regardless, he's given me orders. I need to find something to wear.

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