Milk Man
by AbsMan420
Part One
We met at the gym, Mike and I. Of course, I called him "PecBoy" behind his back, to my lifting partner, or any of the other regular morning guys, and they knew exactly who I meant. That guy, Mike. PecBoy. And what a set he had, ridiculously out of proportion with the rest of his body, square-shaped, thick and muscular. Not that his body was bad; he was in great shape, about ten pounds heavier than me (all in his chest), but still not the muscle-head type that I desired. I liked my men meaty and big, in the chest AND the leg. And all PecBoy had to recommend him was, well, his pecs.
So we were friends in that pat on the back, give him a spot way that guys in the gym get, and I never gave much more thought to him than that. Well, one curiousity:
The muscle-heads LOVED him! In the morning, when we usually lifted, there weren't any really big guys in the gym -- big guys favoring the evenings -- so I didn't see this much. But on the odd occasion when we both lifted in the evenings, it was really evident: the big muscle-heads loved him. They invited him into their circles. They laughed with him. They'd throw an arm around his shoulder. And he would always leave with one of them. Always. But, whether they were leaving to have sex, or grab a beer, or do some steroids together, I couldn't say. I didn't think PecBoy was gay. And I was sure that ALL of the various muscle-heads he'd left with over the year or so that I'd known him weren't.
But, like I say, it was an oddity. Just something I'd noticed. For a little guy, the big guys sure dug him.
So, this one morning, my lifting partner couldn't make it -- for whatever reason -- and it's just PecBoy and me in the free-weight room. And we're both doing chest, so we decide to throw in together. We flat bench, incline dumbell, decline bar, and it isn't until we're doing our cable flyes that we both take our shirts off, watching the striations flex and bunch with each rep. It's a heady trip. And I love it.
Of course, PecBoy is swelled to almost comical proportions. The blood gorges his muscle, stretching it beneath his skin. Between sets, we pose in the wall mirrors. I'm admiring my own cleavage when I say, "I love chest, man. Look at that. Fuckin' awesome." Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not huge. I'm six-one, one-ninety, so I'm no slouch, but I'm not a huge man. I'm big, and I have a fantastic stomach, but I'm no muscle-head. "I can't wait to have a chest the size of yours," I say.
PecBoy flexes for me, bouncing the muscle back and forth. He smiles. "You wanna have a chest this big?" he asks. "Cause when you got a chest this big, all anyone ever wants to do is suck on it. You into that?"
"Yeah," I say, and smile. "I love it." And my nipples are so sensitive, I think, but don't say, that it drives me wild!
"Like, how into it?" he asks, moving closer. Our chests are almost touching, and he quietly says, "Like, would you like to suck mine?" He flexes them then, and they jump. Massive.
I smile. "Yeah." And I flex my own back, and they bark like a small dog, holding their ground, not afraid of the big dogs in front of them.
"C'mon," he says, and we slip on our t-shirts and go to the locker room. The only people in the gym are the fatter ladies on treadmills and a few old men who don't look twice at us. Lifting in the morning has it's advantages. In the locker room, we duck into the small space containing the gym's only tanning bed. PecBoy locks the door behind us. In this small room, there's barely enough space for us both, plus the bed, but I don't mind being pressed close.
PecBoy already has his t-shirt off again, and those massive mounds are before me. I run my finger down the split between them. He flexes at the bottom, and holds my finger. He smiles. "You wanna suck 'em?"
"Yeah," I say, hoarsly. With both hands, I cup them.
"Then suck," he says. He sits on the little plastic child-sized chair next to the tanning bed, and I kneel between his out-stretched legs. I wrap my right arm around his torso, gripping the ridge of muscle on his lower back, and lower my head onto his left nipple. I lick it first, circling it with my tongue, then gently bite the tip. When he suddenly inhales, I take it in my mouth, a huge chunk of his pec, then pull my mouth back and settle on his nipple. With my left hand, I play with his free pec.
He tilts his head back and sighs, breathing deep. With my body pressed against him, I'm suddenly aware of his dick, coming to life between us. Feeling it harden against me turns me on, so I suck a little harder. "Oh, man. You're good," he says. He puts his hands on the back of my head, and presses me into him.
I slip out of his grip, and lick down his torso, over his hard abs, tongue into his navel. He leans back in the chair, and flexes them for me. My abs are better, but his are flat and firm. A four-pack. And his cock has grown hard beneath his shorts. And when I pull them down, the jock-strap too, and release it, it lays big upon his belly.
And so, I suck it, this nice big dick. He's shaved his balls smooth, I notice, and trimmed back the pubes. The nice blonde mass that was left seemed extreemely well-manicured, and it framed his dick so well, that to not suck would seem rude. Some lawns invited a picnic.
And as I blow, PecBoy breathes heavier. I look up at him as my head bobs and my fingers tickle his balls, and I watch his rib cage expand and then deflate, over and over. His head is thrown back, and his eyes are closed. And then he starts flexing. On every exhalation, he squeezes the mass of his chest. Like he's doing reps. Fascinated, I even out my rhythm to accommodate him. "Yeah," he gasps, when he realizes what I'm doing.
Then I notice, on the next inhalation I see -- I think I see -- that his chest has gotten bigger. Has it grown? Is that possible? I watch carefully. He flexes on his exhalation, squeezing hard, and throws his chest out on the inhalation, stretching the muscle. Stretching.
And it has grown! His pecs have grown! They're bigger, I think. What's happening?
But I don't stop. I can't. I need to see where this is going.
And it continues. He gasps -- he moans -- he flexes the muscle, and it swells. It's of freakish proportion now, and his pecs almost resemble tits, but for their shape and the obvious muscle that forms them. He places his hands on either side of my head and lifts me off his cock. His chest fills my vision, the edges of his pecs inches away. He says firmly, but softly, "NOW suck 'em."
His nipple is in my face, the aereola stretched over the freakish muscle, and it's firm when I take it in my mouth. And this time, when I suck, my mouth fills with milk. I pull my head back and look.
He's leaking it. It's just dribbling on the tip of each nipple. He sees my concern. "Drink it," he says. "Trust me."
So I do. I put my mouth up to his waiting nipple and drink his milk. It fills my mouth, thick and sweet and I swallow every delicious drop. I close my eyes and suckle. When he moans low in this throat, he begins masturbating himself. I can feel him. "Yeah. Drink."
I could. Forever. His milk is like nothing I've tasted before, rich and creamy. Sweet. I notice then that this pec is slowing down, and I know that the other is full, so I switch sides, and suck his other pec. He presses his free hand into the back of my head, smothering me in his chest, while he beats himself hard with the other.
Suddenly, the milk is gone, and he is about to come. I sense that as easily as I sense myself.
"Do you wanna be like this?" he asks, and I pull my head back. He flexes his chest for me, and continues his jerk. "You wanna be like this?" he repeats. "All kinds of men'll want to drink your milk. You'll see what happens. You'll see what it does. It's fucking amazing." He throws his head back and wails on his cock, ready to shoot. "You drink my load," he says, "and you'll be just like me. Men will line up to suck your tits. You'll see why." He beats. "You want it?" he asks.
I'm caught in the fantasy. I'm thrilled with the thought. "Yes," I agree quickly, smiling. "Yes." And I go down on him. And I barely get the tip of his cock in my mouth when he shoots his load. And my mouth is full of a different taste, distinctly different, but the two fluids mix beautifully. PecBoy heaves his load into me, and I swallow it all.
Finally, exhausted, he falls back into the chair, and slowly breathes. Strangely, I don't feel the need to come myself, so I get up, adjust my half- hard cock in my shorts, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The aftertaste of his milk still lingers, and strangely, I feel sleepy. I make a little joke to myself about warm milk, and am still chuckling when PecBoy wakes and begins dressing. "Something funny?" he asks, when he sees me.
I shake my head. "I'm sleepy," I say. "And I made a joke to myself about warm milk." He puts his arm around my shoulder, real buddy-buddy. "Wait'll you see what it does for you. Go home. Catch a nap. Then, gimme a call. I'll explain everything."
And with that, he's out of the room. I follow him, and we're both in the locker area. "But... what happened?" I ask him, but I'm so tired. I just want to crawl into a bed and drop off. I can barely keep up with him.
"Go home," he says. "Go to sleep. Call me when you wake up." And he's almost out the door. I'm so exhausted. "But for God's sake, do yourself a favor," he says, turning back. "Don't beat off first thing. Not until you call me." At least, that what I think he says. But sleep. Sleep is what I need. My body tells me. I can barely keep my eyes open. And when I look up, he's gone.
I don't know how I get home; I don't remember the trip. I'm suddenly aware of being in my room, falling into my bed, not even removing my clothes and, with his taste still lingering in my mouth, dropping into a deep, dark well. Unconcious.
When I wake, the first thing I notice is the angle of the sun. It's different. Later in the day. I glance at the clock and see that it's 5:56. I went to the gym at eight in the morning. Had I really slept for almost nine hours?
The next is the need to pee. I get up out of bed, still in my baggy sweatshirt and gym pants and go to the bathroom. Sleep was what I needed, apparently. I feel fantastic, re-energized, and it isn't until I'm pissing that I glance in the bathroom mirror.
And I see it.
I'm bigger. I look heavier in the reflection. And I think, "Sweatshirt is fittin' me just right." When I finish peeing, I pull the sweatshirt off over my head, and I stand staring at my reflection, amazed.
I am bigger. I've gained weight. Muscle weight. And much of it in my chest.
I hop on the scale, waiting to see my normal 190-192.
207, the scale reads. Two-hundred seven.
I step off the scale and watch it spin back to zero. Then I step on again. 207. In eight hours, I've somehow gained seventeen pounds.
I turn back to the mirror. It's true. Look at me. Almost twenty pounds...
I'm thicker through and through, though my upper body seems to have benefitted more than my legs. My neck, my traps, my round shoulders, by big guns -- veins rolling down the sides, twisting around my forearms -- but my chest -- the focal point -- my chest is magnificent. Big, meaty mounds, split across the middle, seperating the upper pec from the lower, a deep groove of cleavage between. My nipples are spread and poised on the very edge of the muscle, almost ready to slide to the underside of the mass. As I flex them, they jump, and bounce, and perform for me. As I play, my dick comes to life, twitching itself.
Oh, how I want to play with myself. How easy it would be to masturbate to my own image. How I could get off on my chest alone. But I remember PecBoy's words: call him before I beat off the first time. As hard as it is to take my eyes off myself, I go to the phone and dial PecBoy's number. While the phone rings, I begin to stroke my pecs with my free hand, still in shock. "Yeah?" PecBoy answers. "Hey," I say. "It's me."
"Oh, hi!" he says, his tone brightening. "Little earlier than I expected to hear from you. How're ya doin'? Feelin' pretty good, I expect."
"What the fuck has happened to me?" I ask, flexing in the little mirror over the sink.
"Gained some weight?" he asks, laughing lightly.
"Seventeen pounds!" I say, incredulous. "How?"
"The milk," he says. "That's the magic of the milk. A guy drinks it, he gains like, ten to twenty pounds of lean muscle. Pretty cool, huh?"
"It's amazing!" I exclaim. "I look fucking amazing!" I flex, as if he can see me. "And my chest..."
"Yeah?" he asks.
"It's just like yours. Out of proportion. Big. What'd you do to me?"
"Well, you see, you drank my milk, so you gained muscle weight. And you, my friend, also drank my come, so you've become like me. A milk man, as it were. A PecBoy."
"What?"
"It's simple," he explained. "You get turned on, aroused, hard, and your chest will swell up, fill with milk. When a guy drinks, it's the most amazing feeling in the world. You'll see. He'll drink from you, and he'll grow. You provide his nutrition. It'll drive you wild, sexually. And you'll come like crazy. And when you come, you lose the pump; the feeding stops. Big guys will do anything for you. You'll see."
"Okay," I say. "But, why me? Why did you decide to give this power to me? Are there a lot of people like this? Milk men?"
"Some," he answers. "You'll know who they are -- it's like radar, or something -- and after a while, you'll be able to spot the initiates -- guys like you -- who need to be brought to the power."
"Guys like me?"
"Guys like US," he says, and laughs. "You haven't masturbated, have you?"
I touch my half-hard cock briefly, then slide my hand back up to my chest. I want to. "No," I say. "But I want to."
"Don't!" he says, quickly. "Here's what to do instead..."
And that's how I end up back at the gym, wearing a spandex muscle shirt and a pair of gym pants. I've resisted the urge to work chest -- we'd just worked it that morning, after all -- and am lifting back instead. I look magnificent. Already pumped, and not even done with my warm-ups, really. My upper body is fighting the confines of the spandex, and my tight thong is another reminder that I've gained weight. Seventeen pounds, I think. And my chest rises above it all, pumped even though working back, my nipples barely covered by the material, rubbing coarsely underneath. Huge. I'm huge.
I'm doing bent-over rows, lost in a set, and I don't notice the approach of the Muscle Head, but he's standing there when I re-rack the weight. One of the gym's biggest men -- Jason, his name is -- who occassionally nods to me when I pass, but a speaking relationship has never materialized. And now he stands behind me, massive, thick, his chin as wide as his neck. He wears big, loose clothing, but his huge muscles are woefully evident. "Hey," he says. "Mind if I work in with you?"
"Sure," I say, feeling good. "I'm not gonna go as heavy as you."
"I'm not goin' heavy," he says, and advances the bar. As he passes me, he eyes my chest -- it's now out of proportion, after all -- and while he looks, before I'm aware of doing it, I flex it quick, and make it bounce. He immediately looks me in the eye, and half-smiles. "I thought so," he says quietly. "You a Milk Man?"
And I see no reason to dodge him. He asked just the way PecBoy said he would, in the right code. "I am now," I say.
He puts his big hand on my shoulder, suddenly posessive. He smiles -- I've never seen this big monster smile before -- and says, "I want to feed." Just the way PecBoy said.
I shrug. "Sure."
With that, we gather our gym bags and leave. The workout never happens. My apartment is right across the street, so I suggest we go there. He nods in a way that makes me realize going to my place was expected.
Inside, he motions for me to sit down -- which I do, on the sofa -- and, standing before me, he pulls of his shirt, revealing his massive torso. He begins flexing for me. Double bicep. Side chest. Lat spread. His face is intense, serious. His body is magnificent.
I'm getting hard watching him. My dick grows and strains against the tight thong. I try to adjust it with my right hand, but when I touch it, my cock throbs to life. I gasp.
"Yeah," he says, flexing his arm in front of my face. "Get that fucker hard. Let yourself get turned on, man. Enjoy my big muscles." He poses. Then he drops his sweat pants, revealing his legs, his massive package, his own big cock poking against his underwear.
I'm stroking myself now, through the material of my own pants. Then he steps into me, and presses his massive quad against my package. He's huge -- a tree trunk -- but I shamelessly wrap my legs around his and begin humping. "Yeah," he says. "Get off on it. Fuck my big leg."
It feels so good, rubbing my cock on his big quad. I throw my head back and shut my eyes, thrusting. I find myself starting to flex my chest with each thrust, squeezing as my ass contracts. Feels fucking great. I can feel the blood rush to my pecs. A great pump.
"Yeah," he says. "Get off on me. Get it ready for me."
I increase my tempo. Thrust and flex. Thrust and flex. My chest feels so fucking good, like after a heavy set, incredible pump. Feeling big.
When I open my eyes, I see it. With each flex, my chest is growing. Truly growing. Truly huge. The mounds rise and swell. My tits. My beautiful man tits. I flex and squeeze. Bigger. I want them bigger. Flex.
And now they are. Huge. My skin stretched to it's max. The nipples raw. My chest is so big and so round that I can barely see over it. I reach up with my hand and touch it. The mounds are real. I feel them. I'm huge. I pinch my nipple. Oh, the sweet, sweet pain. I shut my eyes. And then, I feel liquid. I open my eyes.
On my finger tip, there's a drop of white milk. As I look past it to my nipple, a new drop forms there. I put my finger in my mouth and taste it. Milk. Delicious milk.
My milk.
And then, as if I'm ready and primed, Jason kneels between my legs. With his big hands, he cups my pecs. Smiling, he says, "Oh, yeah." He lowers his head to the right one, and begins to suck.
How can I describe it? As the fluid moves through my muscle, out my nipple, into his mouth. He suckles, this hulking monster, on arm wrapped around my body, pulling me into him, the other running up and down my side, cupping the other pec, squeezing and pinching. He drinks.
I'm so turned on. He grunts as he swallows, sucking so hard as to pull the milk from me. My nipple is on fire. Pain. Pleasure. I'm so turned on. I'm hard as a rock. With my right hand, I begin stroking my cock, pounding to the pulse of his swallows.
This continues. And when finally we level off, he releases the right nipple from his mouth and moves to the left. With the first swallow, an electric shock. I'm back to being rock hard and re-stimulated. I then realized what happened. The right one was empty. He'd moved to the left. The meal was almost over.
Steadily, he suckles. I pump. Then, at the end, he draws one mammoth draw, and it shoots me over the edge. I come. I scream and I come -- the most incredible climax of my life. Shooting and shooting. Exhausted. Spent.
Jason stands, and wipes his mouth. I glance down at my chest. No longer swollen, my pecs have shrunk to the size they were before this... this feeding for Jason. Jason is still in his underwear, his cock half-hard and pointing to the side. He massages his big package as he licks his lips. His eyes are half closed. "You wanna suck it?" he asks, gripping his cock.
In way of answering, I slide off the sofa and kneel before him, pulling his underwear down and over his thighs. His cock slowly rolls to the front and points at me. Wrapping one arm around his leg, I gently grab his balls with the other. Slowly, I take him in my mouth. He moans, dreamily. For a moment, I suck him like that, getting to know his cock, introducing it to my mouth. Then, he sits down on the sofa, and I crawl in his lap. He moans while my had bobs, taking his big cock. And suddenly his big hand is resting on the back of my head, quickening my pace.
Just like that, he shoots. He arches his back, holds his breath, flexes, and shoots, filling my mouth. I choke down the first throatful, then find a comfortable pace to swallow the rest. He's asleep before my head is even out of his lap. I smile, remembering how sleepy I'd been after my first meal. I lift his legs up onto the sofa, and cover him with a blanket. I resist the urge to crawl in with him. Instead, I shower, and clean up.
He doesn't wake for three hours. I spend most of that time watching the rise and fall of his breathing. When he finally does wake, at eleven-thirty, he greets your gaze with a thin, almost embarrassed smile. "How long have I been out?" he asks.
"About three hours," I say, sitting in the chair across from him.
"Well," he says, throwing back the covers and standing, "how much do you think I got?" He stands there before me, in his underwear, and I see he's bigger. He's gained weight. The same way I had. "You got a scale?" he asks, already heading toward the bathroom.
"Bathroom," I say, following him. He's already found it, about to stand on it, when he says to me, over his shoulder, "At the gym, I was 236. Let's see how nutritious you are." He laughs and gets on the scale. After a second, he looks at me and smiles. "248," he says, motioning me to look for myself -- which I do -- "Twelve pounds. Not bad." He flexes in the mirror. "Looks like I got it mostly in the legs," he says. Then, to me, "I always get it in the legs."
He dresses and leaves in the space of five minutes, shaking my hand at the door. He asks if I know Mike -- PecBoy -- and when I say that I do, he asks if I was taking over his clientele, cause he preferred me to Mike, having made more lean mass gains with me than he ever had with Mike. I smile and say that he can do that with me whenever he wants. He winks, says, "Deal!" and shuts the door behind him.
I'm left to ponder what I've become.
Part Two
It doesn't take me very long to become established. Whether word travels or there's something about us that the muscle-heads can sense, I can't say. I've become so popular so fast, that my regular lifting partner is suspicious. Not that I was able to adequately explain my sudden weight gain when I first became a Milk Man, but Eric, my lifting partner, let it go with a raise of his eyebrows and a "Sure, don't tell me what you're on."
Of course, I'm not "on" anything. I just haven't told Eric that I'd been transformed. Changed into this muscle-laden milk machine by drinking the cum of another. Since the transformation, I've gained almost twenty-nine pounds of muscle -- I now weigh 218, my bodyfat 6% as of this morning's workout -- I've lost most of the hair on my body, the tiniest bit clinging to the root of my cock. It fell out over the course of a couple of days, an itchy process at best, especially when it fell from my ass and my balls. But now that the rug is vacuumed and the shower drain unplugged, I admit that I like the look. My skin shines and is baby soft to the touch. Tender and sensitive. My nipples ache when I wear a shirt, and they rub, erect under cotton, and poised as they are on the edge of my pecs, I show them off constantly. My looks have become rugged, my body smooth.
Eric isn't fooled, I'm sure. He thinks I'm taking some kind of steroid, to have weight gain like this. And there are times when I want to show him -- feed him -- but he worries me a little. In college, he excelled as a football player -- a defensive end -- and he's played hockey since he was a boy -- he plays now on a semi-professional team -- so he's remarkably aggressive. His thick shoulders need no pads. An animal. Caged. He dates hundreds of women, leaving them as soon as he's "scored." And he's a terrific workout partner, always competitive and pushing. But straight, and homophobic in the way athletes become.
Just a little less than 200 pounds, Eric claims he doesn't want to get big -- it'll interfere with sports -- but the way he's eyeing my new mass as we do our chest workout, I can tell he wants some size. We're benching, preparing to do a set of 225. Eric has already gone, repping out eight, and I'm settling back to start, Eric at my head, ready to spot. Before the transformation, I was only able to get four, now, I'll get ten easily. And the pump is phenomenal.
After I re-rack the weight, I sit up and flex my chest. Our eyes meet. "Grrr," I say, bouncing the pecs back and forth once. When I stand, Eric is in my face, and even though we're alone in the gym -- it's mid-morning, after all -- he lowers his voice when he says, "All right, buddy. I don't know what you're on, but I want some."
"Eric..."
"I'm serious," he says. "Two weeks ago, you could barely handle that weight, and suddenly you're doing ten. And look at you -- you're huge! You're fuckin' huge. Tell me what you're on. Seriously."
We look at each other, in that moment, but I'm just not sure. Sure, some of the guys who have fed from me have been straight. And homophobic. Barely any touching. If they could milk me into a glass and then drink, they would. When I'm dry, after they've fed, when they themselves are compelled to ejaculate, they beat themselves off with me at a distance -- one guy even went into the bathroom! He'll never have me again. And Eric and I are friends, lifting partners.
"I don't think you can handle it," I say, and put my hand on his shoulder. "Honest, man."
He shrugs me off. "Don't fuckin' tell me what I can handle. If it gets me big, I can handle it." His intensity is as focused as his heaviest set. What can I do?
"Okay," I say, stepping over the bench and away from him. "Come with me, and I'll show you."
At my apartment, the tv on, I strip off my shirt and pose in the dining room mirror. Eric has his off just as fast, and we make a pretense of posing into the mirror, as if we aren't checking each other out. My chest is better now, the deep striations and the bold, round muscle bellies, but this is only now. For the year that we've lifted together, Eric has always been superior. He's been bigger, stronger, the leader of our pairing. The dom. And now that I'm bigger, I'm sure, he's not feeling the same power. Well, if he'd relax, I'd take care of that for him.
As I flex, raising my rib cage and squeezing my pecs between my arms, Eric stops his pose and speaks. "Look at that," he says. "What the fuck are you on?" He jams his finger between the halves of my chest, and I flex harder, around his finger, holding it in. (With that, my dick twitches in my gym pants.)
"It's not what I'm on," I say. "It's what I've become."
"What do you mean?"
I twitch the muscle of my chest -- a sharp release of breath. "It's probably easier if I show you," I say. "Now, don't freak. I don't want you to freak."
"I'm not gonna freak!" he says sharply. "Will you just show me?"
So, I do. With my right hand, I begin squeezing my dick through the layers of sweat pant and cotton thong that cover it. Since it loves the attention, it springs to life almost instantly -- as if the situation didn't have me half-hard anyway.
When I first became a milk-man, I had to be in the deep throws of excitement before the transformation would begin. My cock had to be up and hard -- I had to be stroking it -- my breathing heavy, before the physical aspects kicked in. Now, I could almost force the change playing with myself, getting half-hard, and concentrating.
I shut my eyes lightly -- I can't look at Eric -- bow my head, and begin flexing my chest, squeezing it between my arms, feeling the blood rush in, the muscle pump. For this, I open my eyes. The more it's happened, the more I've begun enjoying watching the metamorphasis. The more I like watching my chest swell, growing beyond the pump, expanding, mass flowing in like liquid. Flex. Inhale. Flex.
And I feel when I'm at my peak. My chest, now ridiculously out of proportion, shy of cartoony, throbs atop my rib cage. The nipples beckon. My cock is pressing against the confines of the thong, demanding release.
For the first time since, I look at Eric. I can't help but smile and flex when I see him, his jaw agape. "Oh, my god," he whispers, hypnotized by my tits. "I've heard... but I never saw... I always thought it was locker room bullshit. But this..." He slowly reaches out his hands and touches the outside of my pecs. Swollen as they are, the skin -- stretched so tight -- is outrageously sensitive. I inhale sharply. "Holy fuck," he says, as he pinches my nipple -- it makes me shake! -- "Look at you." A drop of milk comes off on his finger. He holds it before him and examines it, turning the finger back and forth. "What the fuck...?"
"Taste it," I say, smiling. I can't help but flex my pecs. I'm their slave when they're in this mode. They must be suckled. I become a regular whore when I'm like this. That's why my friend PecBoy -- himself a milk-man, the guy who made me -- told me to never transform alone. It aches. I have to be sucked.
Slowly, he raises his hand to his mouth. Staring in my eyes, he touches the drop to the tip of his tongue. I know what'll happen next.
He is surprised by the taste -- how good it is. He sticks his finger completely in his mouth and even begins to suck on it, unconciously, like an infant. The taste of my milk re-awakens this instinct. He realizes his finger is just a finger and his focus shifts to my pecs, my swollen man-tits. This causes me to flex, which causes his finger to slip out of his mouth. He's hungry now.
"Drink, man," I say, and I offer him a tit. He rubs his hands over the mass of muscle, making sure to stroke across the nipple. With his flat tongue, he licks the trail of drops across his palm. With a far away smile, he bends to my breast and takes me in his mouth.
Most men, caught in this metaphor, suckle like babies. They drink slowly, lazilly, caught in the erotic fantasy. Eric draws forcefully, attacking the breast, chewing the nipple, pulling the liquid into his mouth. The pain is savage. My erection throbs.
Before I can even touch myself, I feel the pec is almost empty. Eric senses this too, and pulls his head back, away from the tender nipple, a puzzled look in his eye. "The other side," I gasp, moving his head with my hand, until he faces the left pec. "The other side."
He smiles, and sits on the arm of the sofa, where his head is level with my chest. He holds his arms out to me, and I go to him. With one hand, he holds the underside of my pec, supporting it's mass, and he reaches around me with the other, hand on my middle back, and pulls me close. But, I soon discover, it's not tenderness -- it's possessiveness. A hard grip, from which I can't escape. And when he sucks my left tit, with his leverage advantage, I'm helpless, and he empties me like a straw in a fountain drink.
On his final draw, he pulls so hard that the force makes me cum. I haven't even gotten my cock out of my sweatpants, but the cum empties into the material of my thong, warm and wet. When he senses I'm empty, he pushes me away. I take a few steps back and kneel, breathless.
And he sits on the arm of the sofa, watching me, licking the last drops from his lips. Legs spread, he reaches into his own gym pants, and grabs his stiff cock. Without speaking, without breaking eye contact, he savagely beats himself off, hard, painful strokes. Just before he climaxes, he shuts his eyes, and then he shoots, but cups his hand and neatly catches his load. He hasn't finished cumming before he's overwhelmed by exhaustion.
He slides down into the cushion of the sofa, and falls asleep sitting up, his cupped hand in his lap. I know from experience that he'll be out for a couple of hours, but I crawl to him quietly, and gently touch his knee. "Eric?" I ask. But he's gone, his chin to his chest, his breathing even.
And this is something else I've learned. If, after someone feeds, I drink their cum, I recuperate faster, full of energy and recharged eagerness. If I don't, I'm tired and listless for the rest of the day. And hungry. Ridiculously hungry. And always for meat. My need for protein is so great that I drink four or five shakes a day.
And so, Eric passed out before me, I lick the cum from his hand, the salty taste filling my mouth. The last of it gone, I flat-tongue his palm. Then I lick the last drops from the tip of his dick, watching him to make sure he's not waking, and put his cock back in his jockstrap, adjusting his package, and settling his gym pants back around his waist.
He sleeps on.
When he wakes, two hours later, it's with a start. He looks quickly around the room, taking it all in, then jumps to his feet, legs spread, ready for action. Then he sees his reflection in the wall mirror. He sees the change. The mass. Slowly, the smile spreads across his face, and he begins posing. "Holy fuck," he says, moving from pose to pose. "Holy fuck."
He pulls his sweat pants down quickly, flexing in his jockstrap, exposing his big legs, his big ass. When he finally turns to me, his dick is half hard, laying thick in the pouch. "Fuckin' amazing," he says, smiling. "How much do you think I've gained?" He flexes his arms in front of him. Shows off his eight-pack.
"Scale in the bathroom," I say.
I follow him in, and watch him as he flexes in the bathroom mirrors -- better light -- his swollen package barely held by the elastic in his jock. "At least twenty pounds," he says. "I'm at least 215."
In truth, he's 221. "Fuckin' huge!" he shouts, throwing out his arms and flexing to the ceiling. Then he turns to me, pumped, and smiles. "How soon can I do that again?" he asks.
"I don't know," I say. "I usually wait a day."
With that, he grabs me, and shoves me into the bathroom wall. I'm so surprised, I don't even struggle. He blocks me up against the wall with his forearm, and shoves his massive thigh between my legs, pressing into my package. "We're not gonna wait," he says, and rubs me against his leg. He's so big. So strong. I shamefully feel myself start to harden. "You like that, don't you? You wanna fuck my big leg."
And I do. His new mass is irresistable. I start to pump my hips; I start to pant. He smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Get off on me."
So, uanble to help myself, I surrender. My cock takes over, leading me to pleasure. I rub it against the thick muscle of his thigh. I lose myself in his power. Fucking his leg, I close my eyes and involuntarily flex my chest. Suddenly, I feel his big hand grab my left pec. "Yeah. Breathe man," he says. "Let 'em grow."
I know. I know he doesn't give a shit about whether I'm getting off on him or not, he just wants my milk. He doesn't care about sexual fulfillment, just it's by-product. But there, pinned against the bathroom wall, his thick leg jammed into my crotch, allowing me to get off on him, none of it matters. Not in my surrender.
So I flex my pecs, and let them grow, will them to fill with milk. And they do. They grow. They swell. "Yeah," he says. "There they are. Fuck yeah."
He lowers his head to the left. "Not yet," I say, as his lips touch my stretching nipple. "Almost."
He looks up at me under his brow. "Yeah?" he says. "I'm ready now." And he bites the nipple. I catch my breath and scream. He's sucking -- pulling -- milk from me. Not suckling, forcing. Taking it. The pain. And he empties me that quickly, and moves to the other side. His draws and my thrusts fall into rhythm, together. And I shoot. As he takes the last drops from my aching chest, I shoot into his thigh. My cum spurts past him, only a few drops accumulating on his thick quad. He gracefully steps back.
For the first time, I see it: his own cock -- hard, barely held by his jockstrap. He smiles as he licks his lips, seeing me look. And I want it. I need it. His beautiful cock held out like a meal.
I kneel before him and reach out, gently cupping his package in my hand. I lean forward and gently kiss the material covering him, the jock rough beneath my lips, his cock head twitching but held firmly. I take his package, jock and all, into my mouth. "Yeah," he says, dreamilly. Then, I release it, pulling the jockstrap down. His hard cock rolls forward, pointing at me. I take it in my mouth, and look up at him. I'm amazed that he's letting me. He looks down at me with his eyes half-closed, the corner of his mouth curling in a smile. I begin to lick up and down the shaft, and then deep swallow him quickly. He grunts from deep in his chest.
Wrapping my hand around the base of his shaft, I begin to work the head, circling around the thick ridge, pushing my tongue into his slit. He begins to thrust. "Suck that dick," he moans. Then, forcefully, he pushes me back against the wall, placing his hands on either side of my head, and he face fucks me, lunging his thick cock deep into my throat.
And instead of fighting him, I let him lead. I wrap one arm around his leg, holding his ass, feeling it flex and release as he thrust himself into me. With my left, I gently pull the back of his ball sac, which makes him thrust faster.
Then, all at once, he pushes his cock so deep I'm strangling, forcing myself to control my gag reflex, when I feel him cum deep in my throat. Shooting. Shooting. A never-ending wave. He forces me to swallow.
And then he relaxes, and pulls out. I lick the base of his cock as he removes it, finally tasting the fruit of my labor. Hot and salty.
He steps back away from me, and I collapse, sitting on the floor, trying to catch my breath. "Oh, yeah," he says, flexing his chest and stomach. "I can feel it in me. I can feel it!" He poses in the mirror, his back to me. At once, he reaches down and puts the jockstrap on again. Then continues posing. Suddenly, he weaves. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, then turns to me. He actually yawns.
"How long am I gonna be out?" he asks, sleepily. "I got a hockey game tonight."
"Couple hours," I say.
"Wake me," he says, and darts out the door. I hear him go into my bedroom. When I go in, he's already lying on my bed, in his jockstrap, almost asleep. "You gonna wake me?" he asks, yawning again.
"Yeah," I say. "Sure."
"Excellent." And he's out.
And I think, What the hell is going on?
At seven o'clock, he's still not awake, so I head into the bedroom. I hear the steadiness of his breathing while I search for the light. He's obviously asleep, lightly snoring on the intake of air. I click on the light and suddenly see him lying there atop the covers, on his back, arms over his head. Of course, I'm shocked by the gain of mass, as always, but what catches my eye is the jockstrap, which now barely fits him, fighting to keep the bulk of his package contained, straining over his tubular cock. The cotton ribbing is so taught that I can actually see through the material, the pink of his member obvious.
I gently shake him awake, my hand sinking into the unflexed mass of his shoulder. Soft but strong. He blinks, sees me, and looks down at his body, lifting his arms off the mattress and flexing them. He stands and flexes in the mirror, a crab shot, his traps leaping off his back. "Holy fuck," he says, heading for the bathroom.
I find him already on the scale, his back to me -- massive v-shape -- the straps of the jock atop his skin, no fat on his glutes. They're ripped, too!
"237" he says. "Two-hundred-fucking-thirty-seven! Yes!!!" He wraps one arm around my head, buddy-buddy, and pulls me into the bedroom with him. "Gonna go play hockey," he says, gathering his stuff. It's comical to watch him try to put his sweatpants on over his thickly muscled legs. "Then," he says, turning to me, putting his big hand on my shoulder, "I'm coming back here and fucking you." Suddenly, his hand is behind my neck and he pulls me forcefully to him, so quick I don't have time to react. He kisses me forcefully, then pushes me away. "I'll be back in a couple hours," he says, grabbing his gym bag and heading out the door.
Half-erect, I watch him go.
Part Three
They're frilly little white lacy things, the briefs I wear now. Very feminine, I think -- they certainly wouldn't be my first choice, but they do look good on me. Eric likes them, and of course, that's why I wear them. Eric likes them a lot, the way they hug my smooth, round muscular ass, my full package -- they DO look good on me. Eric gets an immediate hard-on when he sees me in them -- so, maybe I DO like them. Yet, even with all this, Eric still insists that he's not gay. He just needs to fuck after he feeds, he says, and I'm convenient. So he dresses me in these silly lingerie things, one piece lace bodysuits and silky undergarments, and feels my hard muscles under the soft material while he fucks me, telling me it reminds him of women. Of course, at 218 and 6% bodyfat, I'm no woman, but compared to Eric...
My friend Eric weighed 294 pounds this morning, when he left for his photo shoot, and not an ounce of fat on him. It's probably hard to imagine someone his size -- I mean, I guess everybody's seen the pro bodybuilders when they're all bulked out on the off-season, 'roid guts and all that, but this isn't like them. This isn't Kovaks or Dillet, who compete ripped at 250, but bulk up to 300 in the winter. This is a guy who weighs almost 300 pounds, ripped. This is a guy bigger than the biggest guy, and in competition shape. Thickly muscled and veined, he can't cover it in clothes. In his ultra-baggy XXXL everything -- he gave up on pants awhile ago, then got corporate sponsorship, and the Company had them specially made for him -- he looks like a pro-football lineman, but that his taught waist betrays him, his massive chest gives him away, though maybe you don't realize how ripped he is when you see him in clothes.
He originally said he'd stop at 250. At 250, he said he could use a little more to balance his height, so he'd stop at 260. At 260, I forget the excuse, but suddenly we were working for 270. And there WAS work involved. For me. He stopped making such huge gains after a while -- after 240, I think. At first, he packed on twelve, fifteen pounds in a feeding, after a while below ten, til where we are now: two or three per session. And strangely, his sex drive had shifted up in inverse proportion to the weight he'd gain. When he'd make big muscle gains, his orgasms were driven from compulsion, and he'd collapse in exhaustion, while his body grew. As he began gaining fewer pounds per session, he was able to use more energy for the sex, so those post-feeding moments gained intensity. And the bigger he got, the more dominant he became. Seriously. There have been days when he's sucked my nipples until they've bled, when he's fucked me, and fucked me, and ground me into the floor fucking me, and I've barely been able to walk.
Now, we're shooting for 300, and he swears he'll end it. "No one, no bodybuilder is 300 pounds," he says. "I'll make a fortune!"
It's crazy, the amount of money he's been making. You wouldn't think there'd be such a market for freak muscle, but you'd be wrong. The photo sales alone make him double the amount he'd earned before he'd... before he'd put on the size. Add to that the seminar fees, the personal training, the "private" posing sessions, he's making a mint. And he LOVES it!
Honestly, he absolutely loves it. I wouldn't have thought it of him, but he really enjoys the attention, the media, the celebrity-thing that Americans all seem to dream of. And, like most successful celebrities, he's got a great hook -- he's drug-free. He's not cycling, he's not shooting up, he is one-hundred percent natural. Natural bodybuilder. Natural freak. Understand, that word is NEVER used in pro bodybuilding. NOBODY is "natural." EVERYBODY uses. You just learn how to cover whatever they're testing you for.
Well, Eric can take any test at any time and come up negative, and he's gone through some very thorough medical analysis . Doctors, trainers, sports therapists, all they can report is "normal." He tests negative for every steroid and derivitive there is. All negative. The doctors comment that he has a rather high testosterone level, but it's not being artificially induced. "He's simply genetically gifted," they conclude. "And very lucky."
Eric jokingly tells them it's because he drinks milk, and the next thing you know, connections are made, your people talk to my people, and Eric's shirtless torso is plastered all over the city with a thin, liquid white moustache on his upper lip. "Wanna get big?" he's asking. "Drink milk." Corporate sponsorship born.
He's talked about competing at times, getting involved in the professional scene, but he doesn't have the drive for that. He freely admits it. He only poses for money, he says. And he likes being a freak more than an athlete. "People pay attention to me because I'm a novelty," he says. "If they see me on the stage competing all the time, I'll lose my originality." Of course, it's not like him to admit right out that he just likes being a sex object, that he just likes being worshipped, but that's true, too.
So he's become more of a model, a celebrity, than pro athlete. It's a shame, really. Three hundred pound guys may be common place on a football field, but not built like Eric -- I tell you. I've seen him in football pants. On the other hand, his schedule is flexible, his time is his own, and he isn't causing any damage to his magnificent body. All in all, he could've made a worse decision.
He's off doing a beefcake shoot this morning -- actually, he should be home pretty soon -- for which he has great humor. He treats the whole beefcake thing like a joke. I gotta give him credit, he's so secure with his body and his looks that's he's willing to dress in just about anything, and of course make just about anything look good. He's worn nearly every harness, brief, posing trunk, spandex short, thong, daisy duke, jock strap combination there is. He's never done nude, and I give him points for that. Not that he's got any problem showing himself off there, either, but he saves that for his "private" sessions -- I think his humor is pretty wry where that's concerned, too.
He spent hours at the mirror this morning, staring at himself, shaving his face. He has a make-up girl who does him, waxes his eyebrows, and makes the most of the dimple in his chin, but he allows me to shave his body. He knows how much I love doing it, and he feels it's a reward for the services I provide him. Well, maybe more of a treat, or an extra bonus. He wasn't a particularly hairy guy before... before he'd put on the size, but as he grew, the hair on his body gained density, on his chest and his legs. He doesn't like the hair that grows on his back -- that's ALWAYS kept smooth -- but he goes through phases with the rest, sometimes hair, sometimes not, sometimes long, sometimes manicured. He changes his look often and successfully. I prefer him smooth, like he prefers me, but he does what he wants.
He's got a scruffy goatee right now, a #1 buzz, and his body hair is the same-length buzz as his head and chin. Although he looks good, I'm anxious for him to get back to a smooth phase. He's kind of scratchy at the moment, like a short hair dog or an old brush, and it tickles the sensitive skin around my nipple to such a degree that it's almost painful. The more I mention it, the longer he keeps the goatee, so I'm trying something different right now -- NOT talking about it. Maybe that'll work.
When he finally gets home, about an hour later, he wears only his baggy gym shorts and a backward Yankees cap. He squeezes into a parking space in his two-seat convertable, which he manages to dwarf, his upper body seeming to burst out of the top of the car, sporting new shades, and a little silver chain around his neck. "Hey, little bro," he says, bursting into the room. "I had a great fuckin' shoot." When he sees me, really sees me in these new little white lace briefs, he pauses. "Damn," he says. "Turn around."
I show him my ass, my incredible hamstrings, framed in white lace. I give him several different angles. "Mmmm," he says, and I feel the flat of his hand on the round of my butt. "Looks very nice."
Photo shoots get him horny. Seducing the camera gets him all worked up, he says, and there's no way to relieve it. Sometimes after particularly hot shoots -- when they accidently stumble onto one of his real-life fantasies -- he'll come home and fuck forever. "Baseball gear today," he growls, pressing his package into the crack of my ass. He's still wearing his cup. "You know what that does to me."
I know. It means I didn't wear the briefs in vain. With that, I allow the transformation to begin. I inhale deeply, rib-cage expanding, and allow my chest to fill the space. I barely need to be on the rise of arousal to transform myself, to allow my pecs to fill, to feel my nipples spread, then pop to attention, to become the "Milk Man" -- as we call it when we're playing superheroes, "Milk Man" and "Pec Boy."
When I turn to face him, I'm between his spread legs, his strong hands support my lower back. I reach between his arms, inadvertantly flexing my swollen chest, and I slip my hands up his inner thighs, until I'm supporting his cup, which I gently press into his swelling erection. He moans.
"I'm feeling like we can get three hundred today," I say softly, working the cup like a codpiece.
He buries his face in the cleavage between my pecs, kissing and licking, nipping. "You get me to three hundred," he says, kiss, peck, "and I'll give you a great reward."
I smile. "Reward? What's better than this?"
He suddenly crushes me to him, bear-hugging me, enveloping me. He is so much more powerful than me. God damn, I wish I was that big. We're chest to chest, and his scratchy hair is driving me wild. Any reward is fine. Just suck me!
"You get me to three hundred," he says, "and you can do anything you want with me."
I don't even hesitate -- that's how much I already know -- and I look right in his eyes. "I wanna fuck you," I say.
"Except that." He releases his hold then, and grabs the bottoms of my pecs. He clamps down on the left nipple and draws so hard I'm speechless.
When he wakes a couple of hours later, he finds me at the computer, writing as usual. He wears his gym shorts still, though I can see his hardening cock pushing its way out of the material. "Hey," he says. "I'm horny as fuck."
"You must be three hundred, then," I say, and swivel the chair to face him. There's little doubt of it in my mind, as a matter of fact, when I turn and look at him. He's so densely muscled, so big, it's absolutely mind-boggling. And when he gets an erection, hold me back. It's so hard to resist him.
"Lets find out," he says, and hulks his way to the bathroom. I hear the scale groan, then hear him say, "Holy fuck."
When I walk in the bathroom, he's still on the scale, bent over reading. "What's the verdict?" I ask.
He looks at me, smiling, misty-eyed. "302," he says. "I'm fucking three hundred and two pounds!" He raises his arms above his head, like he scored, the triceps just hang off of him.
I come up behind him then, and wrap my arms around his thick torso, almost stopped by his wide lats. I press my package into his ample ass. "I guess I get to fuck you," I say, teasingly.
He breaks away from me, and faces me. "What the fuck is it with you and fucking lately?" he asks. "Since when have you been a top?"
I'm defensive. "Hey, I used to fuck all the time, before...." I motion to my comic book pecs. "I didn't always used to be the woman."
He laughs. "You're the one with the big tits," he says. "Look, you ain't fucking me. I'm not gay."
"Well then, what?" I counter. "You said three hundred and anything!"
"Aw, Jesus..."
"I suppose you won't even suck my dick. Three hundred pounds and you won't even suck my dick."
He sighs and backs up, hanging his head with a disgusted look. "All right, all right," he says. "MAYBE I'll suck your dick. But, dude..." he emphasizes, tapping my chest, "I'm not gay. You're not gonna fuck me." He turns away, walking back into the living room. I watch the globes of his ass shift back and forth -- God DAMN, I wanna fuck that ass! -- when he turns back and says, "Okay, compromise. I won't let you fuck my ass, but I will let your fuck any other bodypart you want. After all, three hundred's three hundred. How's that?"
I nod. "It's a fine compromise," I say.
"So then, what's it gonna be?" he asks, posing for me in the shafted light of the living room. "My leg? I know you'd like to rub yourself on my big quad, wouldn't you?" He flexes the muscle of his upper leg -- bigger than my torso -- bigger than DeMayo plus Demey with a side order of Platz. "Yeah, but you've done that before. Maybe my abs," he says, flexing his hard eight-pack. "The ridges are just like a washboard. The texture alone would get you off. You want my abs?" he asks.
"Not your abs," I say. I'm hardening in my silky nightshorts.
"You wanna mount my big back," he asks, twisting and flexing, "and ride me like a bronco bull? You wanna put your hard cock between the thick planes of my back, grab onto my crazy traps and fuck yourself silly?" He moves in closer to me, dominating my personal space. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "That's not what you want, is it?"
I run my hands along the jut of his lats, their mass filling my grip, like cables. His face is inches from mine, our eyes locked. "No," I whisper. I slip my hands up into his armpits, following the ripples of his obliques, then pull them back until I'm cupping his heavy pecs, barely in my hands.
"You want my pecs," he says. "You wanna fuck my big pecs." He bounces them before me, back and forth, as I cup them.
"I do."
Eric slides to his knees, until his massive chest is level with my growing erection, sitting back on his haunches. His pecs are a great slab, broken down the middle with a groove just wide enough, just deep enough for my smooth, pink cock. He flexes, bunching the halves of his chest together, showing off the depth of his cleavage. "Step over here, Pec Fucker," he says. "Step over here, Mr. Thinks-he's-gonna-top-the-three-hundred-pound-Man, and rub that pretty little cock on my perfect body. Get your reward for being my bitch."
I put my feet on either side of his torso, bending at the knee for support -- I grip his ribcage with my legs like I'm riding a horse -- and slip my hands down the buzz of his head, settling them on his big traps, at the insertion point next to the shoulder. My pommels. With his big hands, he grabs the base of my ass -- still in silk -- and presses my hips to his big muscle, the feel of the material so soft between my cock and his hard pectoral mounds.
I begin to thrust, slowly at first, determined to enjoy my reward, the freak on his knees before me, but am finding it hard to control myself. His muscle is firm, but giving, and when he flexes, it sends shivers through me. My breasts cry to grow. to become my milk-filled tits, but I don't allow it. I'm surprised by my ability to control the transformation. Perhaps there will come a time when I will again have normal sex! When I can be the fuck-ER again. When a sexual encounter won't be entirely about MY breasts.
I thrust with renewed vigor -- feeling like the man -- against his massive chest. With ease, he rips my underwear away. I can now feel the stubble of his chest hair, tickling my ridged cock. I'm seconds from cumming.
"Hold on," he says, and pulls my hips away. His face is inches from my cock. He looks up at me. "I'm not gay," he says, "but I sure do appreciate being three hundred pounds." With that, he leans forward and takes my cock in his mouth. He explores the moment, tries some different things, decides it isn't so bad, and actually creates a healthy rhythm. When he grabs the back of my balls and squeezes, I lose it. I cum right into his throat.
He gags, and chokes, but I can't stop thrusting. I don't really want to. There's something almost instinctual about thrusting deeper on orgasm, planting the seed. He swallows, so not to choke, and pushes me away -- I fall to the floor before him. "Aw, fuck!" he yells. "You fuckin' came in my mouth, man!"
"I'm sorry," I sputter. "I didn't even realize how close...."
"Aw, man. Aw, fuck." He stands then, trying to spit, not finding the saliva -- he's already swallowed most of it -- and then he suddenly weaves, catching himself on the arm of the sofa, like he'd lost strength in his legs. "What the fuck?" he mumbles. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"
As he falls onto the sofa, fighting to stay awake, I realize. It hits me like that, the sudden knowledge. The sudden REMEMBERED knowledge -- and the warning! "Oh my god," I say. "You drank my cum!"
"Not because I wanted to" he says, a whispery voice. "Why am I so sleepy..." He can't keep his head up.
"Oh, Eric, you're gonna sleep for a while," I say. "You're about to go through some changes."
But he's already out. So I cover him with the afghan, check the clock briefly, and go back to the computer, where I type this guilty chapter.
Eric doesn't wake until the sun is about to set, great golden shafts streaking across the living room. He rolls over and makes low moaning sounds, comfortable in the warmth of the light, resisting conciousness. I've nervously sat around for the last six hours, anxious for him to wake, dreading him to wake. His reaction is not going to be positive.
I look over to discover him sitting up, his feet on the floor, hands on the edge of the sofa, his head hung. Even from the seated position, it's obvious how much he's grown -- as if he could BE bigger! He raises his head slowly, making eye contact with me immediately. I'm suprised when he smiles.
"I feel fuckin' great!" he says, standing, flexing his arms out to his sides. He goes through several poses -- bam! double bicep -- bam! most muscular -- bam! side chest! -- before he speaks again. "I'm not kidding! I've NEVER felt like this after a feeding. This is fuckin' awesome! It's better than cocaine shooting crack!"
"You're bigger," I say.
"Fuck yeah, I'm bigger," he says, flexing for himself, couple of bicep squeezes. "Feels like about 325." The scale says 326, but we don't quibble over the difference. He poses in the bathroom mirror. "All in my chest," he says, watching himself. "Look at that, man. I've put on twenty pounds, all in my chest." He's fascinated by himself, coming to terms with how out-of-portion he suddenly is -- and when you think about his normal size, that's saying something -- how juvenile superhero he appears. His upper pecs are a shelf, that's how far they balloon away from his collar bone, the mass of his middle pecs, even with the deep striations, the outer pec thick, deep and rounded, and his curved lower pecs -- the nipples poised on their edge, erect and ready -- casting shadows on his ab wall. "I guess I'm just about perfect," he says, hypnotized by himself.
As his erection grows, his breathing deepens. "And I'm horny as a motherfuck," he says, almost bragging. "Man, if I'd known drinking your cum was gonna make me feel like this, I would've done it a long time ago."
"Flex your chest," I say.
He smiles -- a sudden twitch in his erection. "With pleasure," he says. As he flexes, as he bounces back and forth, he reaches full hardness, and I take his big cock in my hand, through his gym shorts, and gently squeeze it. He releases his breath, but continues posing for me, catching it again. "Hot," he says, panting. "This is so fucking hot."
He begins squeezing his chest along with his regular exhalations, in time with the tempo of my hand. He begins flexing it in earnest, the more he's aroused, a suddenly viscous circle.
And then it happens. His chest grows.
He's confused by it, aroused by it, afraid of it, curious about it -- I know. I've been there -- but he also can't stop it, even if he tried. And probably wouldn't if he could -- it feels that incredible. "What the fuck is happening to me?" he moans, expanding his rib cage each time he inhales, flexing his growing pecs on the exhale. They grow bigger, and bigger, until they finally reach their maximum, and he stops involuntarilly flexing. A crazy freak, he looks like one of those morph pictures you can download on the web, all swollen and super-massive -- his nipples are as large as targets.
"What's happened to me?" he asks, his voice dripping with lust, as he reaches up and touches them, as he cups their new mass in his hands. When his fingers slide over his nipples, he gasps. He moans. "So sensitive," he says. "What's happened to me?"
"You drank my cum," I say, matter of factly. "Anyone who drinks my cum becomes like me. What I am. What you are, now."
He growls, "Oh my God," and I can't tell if it's reaction to me, or his own hands on his nipples. He hasn't stopped handling them. And so help me, I wanna handle them, too -- I know how tender they are, how erotic. They're glorious, and inches from my face, swollen and tempting. When his nipple play causes his lactation, there are tears in his eyes -- he's inches from ecstacy.
I pull his hand away from his pec, saying, "Don't resist." He's confused, but when I put his thick fingers in my mouth and lick the milk off of them, he finally smiles. And understands.
He allows me to move my head to his breast. When I flat tongue his aeriola, he says, "Oh, my God, will you just fuckin' drink!" then grabs the back of my head, and pushes me into the pillow of his chest. Smothered there in the unimaginable mass of his muscle, I drink. I suckle. I taste the flow of his milk, when he screams, "Oh, fuck!" and begins to beat on his cock. "Oh, fuck YEAH!"
The harder I draw, the more he enjoys it. I really wanted this to be a tender moment, but he clearly likes the power, and wants it rough. So, intead of suckling, I pull -- believe me, there's more than enough milk. His chest is monstrously huge -- emptying it will be a job. He moans loudly at my new attack.
"There you go," he barks. "That's the way -- TAKE that fuckin' milk!" He pounds mindlessly on his cock. "C'mon, Pec Fucker, little faggot muscle sucker. Other side. Other side, c'mon."
He roughly pushes my head over to his left nipple, and I barely have it in my mouth when he sharply smacks me in the back of the head. "Fuckin' get ON it," he yells. I do, and he regains his rhythm.
I keep drinking until I'm full. I swear to God, I'm full, and there's still more. It dribbles down my chin, tiny liquid lines down the front of my own torso, over the ridges of my abs. "Almost," he says, full-thrust. "Almost."
I take long, steady draws, pulling my head back a little at the end, tightening my grip on the tip of his nipple. Again and again. Harder and harder.
"YES!" he screams, and throws me to the floor. When I look up at him, he's standing spread-legged, his arms out to his sides, his entire massive body flexed, his hard cock pointing straight away from his body, shooting his crippling load, an almost steady stream of cum. His jaw is set, his face flexed, like the Herculean last rep of heavy squats. He roars, throwing his head back, leaning away from the thrust, hips inching forward, squeezing, squeezing.
Finally, the last of him bursts out. He relaxes, panting, his heavy rib cage back to what passes for him as regular. He looks at me, standing over me, sweaty and tired. He's so fucking hot, and when he smiles, he's even better.
He offers me an arm, and helps me to my feet. My belly is so full -- I feel over-stuffed, a Thanksgiving flashback -- and I feel so warm. No, not warm -- as my dick grows below the swell of my stomach, I realize that I'm horny. I reach down and unconciously start to stroke it. I should've remembered this. I've seen this compulsion. The very idea of having his milk inside of me, the feeling, the warmth of it there suddenly turns me on so much that my cock rages to life. And he looks SO good, relaxed and muscular, those massive pecs hanging there. His big thighs, getting between his big thighs...
"I know what you're thinking," he says, his voice low. "I've been where you are. You're thinking you want to fuck me, isn't that right?"
I nod. No point in being evasive. "Yeah," I say.
He turns around, showing me his wide back, his impossible traps, and the round mass of his thick muscular butt. He's a work-horse. He's perfection. "You wanna fuck this hot ass," he says, posing for me. He bends at the waist, touching his toes, his ass spread before me. "Why don't you feel that?" he asks. "Feel the ass of the biggest bodybuilder on the planet."
I gingerly reach out and lay my hand upon it, my other hand keeping time on my swollen erection. How badly I just want to take him -- to just fuck him -- but instead I run my flat hand over the mass of him, over the sweeps and dents. "Feels pretty fuckin' good, doesn't it?" he asks quietly.
"Oh, yeah," I pant.
"How bad do you wanna fuck me?"
"Real bad."
He stands then, and faces me, only a little taller, but easily dominates my size. He glares down into my eyes. "You're not gonna," he says. I step back a little, surprised. I wish I could stop beating on my dick. He takes advantage and presses forward, again in my space. Quietly, he says, "You're not gonna fuck me 'til you're bigger than me." With a little triumphant smile, he kneels before me. Pulling my hand away from my cock, he looks up at me. "I'm not gay," he says, "but I WILL be with a guy who's bigger than me."
He takes my cock in his mouth, and sucks me off in a matter of strokes. Deftly swallowing my load, he mumbles, "THAT'S what I was hungry for..."
As I fall asleep from exhaustion, his milk working inside me, he lays me down on the sofa, so I'm now in the sun's warm rays. "Get some sleep," he says to me. I'm barely awake. "Your next feeding's in three hours. We got a lot of work to do -- I need to hurry and get your ass bigger than me."
I'm asleep before I'm able to reply, but I doubt I'll ever be hungry again.
END