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Milk Man 2
A Last Night of Freedom
|My eagerness is reflected in my half-erect cock, my never-ending hard-on, the
way it precedes me as I walk, flopping before me unashamedly. The longer I
have this new body, the less inhibited I become. Every time I cum, it seems, I
improve a little more. I'm gorgeous. For the first time in my life, I'm built
and beautiful. Okay, I'm not as ripped-up as those muscle-queens in the
magazines, those pretty-boys with their perfect abs and painful striations, but
I'm the bulky linebacker from every football fantasy. I'm the powerlifter with
the thick middle, the heavy legs, and the hulking traps.
I'm the pecs.
Oh, my lord God, I'm the pecs. Blocky and strong, thick and square, they dominate my upper body. No matter how wide my shoulders might be now, no matter how peaked my biceps, no matter how rounded the bottom of my gut, nothing can pull focus from my chest. No saggy man-breasts or puffy bitch-tits -- like this morning -- only tight, strong skin, nipples so firm they look stretched. Laughing to myself, flexing in the mirror, bouncing the halves of my prize back and forth, I think, "THIS is the reason you should always drink your milk."
I tear through everything I own, trying to find something to wear when I go out. Though stretched in a completely new way -- tight in the shoulders and loose in the stomach -- my shirts all still fit, but I settle on the only wife-beater I own, which allows me to accent my now impressive shoulder and trap development, as well as exposing my arms. Of course, the way the cotton material clings to my bullet-hard nipples, casting little cone shadows down the curve of the muscle, cannot be denied. Let's call it what it is -- my pecs are simply incredible, and the way the seam of the wife-beater slopes down, exposing the cleavage in the front and the insertion points on the side which form the border of my armpit, is too incredible NOT to show-off.
It's a fantasy come true. And it's not easy for me to tear myself away from the mirror -- everything becomes an opportunity to primp. I have a more difficult time with pants, however. Nothing comes close to fitting in the waist. Until today I was a thirty-eight, flabby and undefined, hanging over my belt even then. Now, I'm not sure what I am -- at least a thirty-four, if not smaller -- God, I can't believe I'm saying that! I haven't been a thirty-four since I was sixteen.
I end up in a pair of cargo shorts -- my cum-soaked cow-hide spandex hot shorts beneath. The cargo shorts are the only things that are still slightly loose in the thigh, with my black webbed-leather belt cinched so tight around my waist that almost a foot of extra strap hangs down my left quad. First thing tomorrow, I'm gonna have to shop for some new pants.
But for now, I've got orders to follow.
It's my last night of freedom, HE'd said, the gigantic musclefreak BULL. The god whose milk I drank, causing this incredible transformation in me. My last night of freedom. We'll see about that.
My instinct is to go to the leather bar -- I prefer the company of men, not twinks -- but my desire to show off my body, especially to the queens who have always been so cruel to me, laughing at my lame attempts to talk to them, or worse, ignoring me completely, is so strong that I can't ignore it. I'm almost compelled to go to the dance bar -- the Black Sheep.
There's a line, and just as I'm about to head to the end of it -- as is my habit -- the bouncer signals me in. The line murmurs their disapproval, but the heavily-muscled bouncer ignores them, and whispers, "Go on in, sexy. And if you can't find a man later, you come find me." I meet his eyes, and he winks, then pushes me inside with his hand flat on my ass.
It's my body, I realize. My body got me in the door. My body scores me a free drink from a bartender who's well-built, but not quite as hot as me. I give him a smile, a quick bounce of my pecs, then move away in search of something better, suddenly knowing I can use him all night for drinks if I choose -- my new body allows that -- my new body will allow me to use anybody. No wonder the BULL insisted I go out tonight -- it's so empowering.
Even now, at eleven-thirty, the dance floor is packed. The unheard thump of the sub-woofer alters heartbeats and metabolisms until the group pulses as one, bathed in the ever-changing light show. The frenetic pace of the dance nearly impossible to ignore, I make my way deep into the club, enjoying the looks and blatant cruising that comes my way. I'm just as hot as I thought I was when I looked at myself in my bathroom mirror two hours ago. Maybe more. Their looks confirm it. I can't help but feel like I'm improving even now, like I'm growing, tightening -- perfecting still from the BULL's milk -- or maybe feeding off the sexual energy of the club. I wouldn't mind looking in a mirror, but there's none to be found. I'll just have to continue to judge my improvement by the way guys are looking at me.
I try to view the selection, the buffet of men before me, without catching eyes with anyone -- guys so desperate they think eye-contact is a marriage proposal -- though I love the feeling of being watched, being desired by so many. The energy is amazing -- it's what celebrities feel, and then, unfortunately, grow accustomed to. Such a shame.
I've never attracted this kind of attention before. I've always been another set of invisible eyes in the darkened corner of sexual repression. Now I'm the guy that guys clamber to see. I'm the one that everyone looks at, but no one has guts enough to talk to.
I can't ignore the dance floor any longer -- the throbbing pulse of the bass beckons me. My hips have loosened in my weight change, and they sway to the beat, demanding release. I want nothing more than to celebrate my new beauty, my incredible body, my sense of overwhelming joy itching to express itself in physical movement. I can't fight it.
Why try? I move to the floor, losing my drink somewhere along the way -- not really caring, drunk on my new beauty -- and begin to dance, alone, maybe dancing with the entire group. Doesn't matter. My body needs to move, to flex, to explore its ability and suggestive power. I need to get a sense of my new self -- see if I have limits.
Around me, the heat of aerobic exertion, the smells of sweat mixed with the cologne of this month's popular "Snotty Gay Fashion" magazine fill my senses. But I don't care. This is about me -- MY body, my expression. I raise my arms above my head, exposing my hairless pits, and I can feel the eyes on me. I can feel the hands on me, touching, groping. I allow it -- so few have ever wanted to touch me before. Now, with this body.
We dance. Different men are before me, around me, all with that same hungry look. Some a step back, showing their moves, strutting like peacocks, others in close, simulating sex, rubbing my crotch with their ass or my butt with their dick, depending on their goal. The bravest are front to front, pressing packages together, finding the beat so our cocks can dance. One to the next, man after man, an audition for a hopeless role.
Sweating, absorbed in the beat, I take the chance I'd never before dared -- I remove my shirt. Slowly, arms crossed before me, I dig out the hem from beneath my cinched waistline and pull it up over my torso -- the more skin I expose, the less inhibited I feel -- my healthy, although still imperfect abs, my tight, round nipples, erect, thrilled by the freedom, and finally, the swell of my pecs, the slope of the generous muscle. It's part of the dance. And without missing a beat, I throw the shirt away, another lost necessity.
My sweat makes my muscle shine -- I'm as new as mint-condition porn, untouched and tempting, my pages clean and unstained. I revel in this feeling of release, this uninhibited sexual playground. My last night of freedom? Hell, it's my FIRST.
The men. The beautiful men. They flow by me like water, indistinct, handsome faces, all barely masking their desire. They want me. They want my body. And who can blame them? I want my body. I make love to them all through dance. For anything beyond symbolism, it's only a matter of sifting through the contenders and finding the best. And for right now, that's me.
I see him then, as if on cue, standing by the edge of the dance floor, watching me with a crooked smile on his face, as if waiting to be noticed. Five-nine or ten, around two twenty-five, two-thirty -- about the same weight as me, yet in terms of fitness, he's clearly a level above -- if he has bodyfat, it isn't visible. His skin is seemingly painted on over his muscle -- sharp and defined and rock hard.
Short, blonde hair, spiked up in front, otherwise clean-shaven, the hard angles of his face, emphasizing his lack of bodyfat, his cleft chin, give him a handsomeness that goes beyond his body, if anyone were to choose to be with him for any other reason. Frankly, it's hard to focus on his face -- his pecs keep pulling me back.
He wears a sleeveless, black mesh t-shirt, which clings to him almost as tightly as his skin. Completely see-thru, the light-play on the material cast even darker shadows on the cut of his abs, the depth of his cleavage. His chest is out of proportion with the rest of his build -- and if he has a flaw, it can only be that -- his chest is too big for a guy his size. For a fitness/ underwear model on the heavy side of muscular, his pecs look like they belong to a professional bodybuilder, square and thick, almost bloated, gigantic pink nipples perfectly placed in the lower corners.
Black, lace-front, football-style hot shorts do their best to contain his healthy package, the obvious lump of his cock. His ass is so round, so high and tight that the hem of the shorts ride up, exposing the insertion points of his glutes and the straps of the black jock he wears beneath. His legs aren't heavy, like a bodybuilder, but they're magnificent, ripped, veined, and defined. He looks like an athlete in the prime of shape, obsessive about his upkeep and maintenance.
When we make eye contact, he smiles and pops his chest. I run my hands down the sides of my torso and squeeze my own ass -- I wouldn't mind having that guy up inside it. If there's one man in this bar that someone with a body like mine deserves, it's him. As he saunters toward me, the crowd seems to part to allow him his way, yielding to his beauty. We never break our stare. My dance is seductive.
He's taller than I thought, at least four or five inches on me, so he's probably five-eleven. The frenetic pace of the crowd becomes a blur around us -- time slows and allows us this side-pocket, removed from the mainstream. We move slowly together, erotically dancing to our own beat, millimeters away but not touching. His eyes are bright blue, deep and unfathomable. He seduces me with barely a look.
Finally, he speaks. He leans into my ear and says, over the music, over my heartbeat, "You have many men in your power right now." At least, that's what I think he says. Perhaps this is how gorgeous people communicate. "You feel it, don't you?"
I do feel it. They all want me -- they desire me. And because I hold the choice of who I end up with, I hold the power. He's absolutely right. "Yes," I say back to him, floating in my ecstacy. "It's amazing!" I spin quickly before him, allowing the entire room a look.
He grunts. "And as you learn to control it, it'll get even better!" I'm even more aware of his handsomeness, his lack of bodyfat, creating even stronger angles on his face. The only softness comes in his bright blue-gray eyes and his puffy lower lip. That smirk, arrogant and patronizing. So much like...
"I'm Angus MacGowan," he says in his rich baritone. "You must know who sent me."
As we dance into the back corner of the floor, where it's no less private, but at least darker, he inhales deeply and rhythmically, and the same phenomenon I'd witnessed before, though on someone else, begins -- his chest, beneath the thin, see-through material, begins to expand. The flashing lights of the dance floor almost seem like a strobe, catching him moment by moment, bigger each time. His pecs grow, stretching the shirt to the edge of its endurance. His nipples seek freedom.
He's freakishly out of proportion now, beyond any development that might be considered reasonable. And the bigger he gets, the more lusty his expression becomes.
"The BULL," I say, unable to take my eyes away from his enormous breasts. We dance slowly, our packages locked together, outside of the beat that enslaves the others.
"Touch them," he says, casually putting his hands behind his back, as he continues the sway of his hips.
Unable to resist -- unable to WANT to resist -- I reach out and softly lay my open hand against the swelled curve of his bulbous pectoral. Involuntarily, he inhales, a quick little jerk of air that he tries to control. He obviously wants me to believe he's being casual, even though he's clearly turned-on. It's muscle, firm and thick, yet pliable at the same time, a waterballoon at the point of bursting, not a breast. Not glandular, but muscular.
It grows slightly in my hand. As I stroke the mass, I notice a wet spot under the nipple, where the fabric is damp. He smiles slightly. "If I let 'em get much bigger, they'll start really leaking," he says, leaning into my ear to be heard over the music.
"They can get bigger?" I ask, incredulous.
With one hand, he touches the side of my head in a gentle gesture of affection, and covers the hand I have on his pec with the other. His tone is serious, professional, instructional. "You must drink my milk to be my calf," he says quietly, stroking the side of my head like I'm a pet, "and then I'll train you to be ready for HIM."
With my free hand, I cup his other pec, the one with the wet nipple. It's so full and heavy. He can't help but groan -- his chest seems almost as sensitive as a normal man's cock. I make eye contact with him again -- he's almost lost in lust -- and say, my voice quivering, "I don't understand."
"Drink," he says, leaning his head back, slightly closing his eyes. I'm not sure if it's a command or a desperate need. "And understanding will come." With force, he pulls my head to his chest, my lips against the mound of muscle, the damp material of his shirt pressing into my cheek. "Drink," he says again, his tone rough -- beyond desperate. "Hurry."
He's so anxious, I don't even pull his shirt up. I suck his milk through the cotton/ spandex material. It reminds me of being a kid and chewing on a wet washcloth during my bath. The milk flows from his muscular breast, and I swallow one mouthful after the next, literally pulling it through the cloth with my own suction. He moans with each forceful draw -- he's getting off on it. "Harder," he growls. "Suck it."
The crowd shifts around us, obsessesed with the thump! of the sub-woofer. Do they notice us? Do they think it's part of the dance? Do I care? The pec I'm working on empties, so I lick across the tight confines of the spandex blend, following the rounded shelf of his muscle, and take his other nipple in my mouth, nibbling on it slightly to start the flow. Milk. Delicious milk is my reward.
He coaxes me into a pattern of sucking, coinciding my pulls with the involuntary thrust of his hips. I can feel his erection beneath the lace-front football shorts he wears, pressing against my hip. As I suckle, I feel his hands in the waistline of my shorts -- he's unbuckling them. "Freedom, little calf," he says. My cargo shorts fall to my feet, leaving me only dressed in the black & white cowhide spandex shorts I've been wearing since I awoke with my new body. "Revel in your beauty."
My erection is just as obvious as his, fighting the confines of the material. I don't care that everyone can see it. I want them to. I want them to see my beautiful cock at its best. I want them all to see all that I have.
Freedom. True freedom. Liberation.
That my pants have dropped on the floor causes a bit of commotion amongst the crowd. People look to see the results -- and there we are, two beautiful musclemen locked in embrace, one passionately sucking the gigantic tits of the other through his soaking wet shirt. There are cheers and cat-calls as we dance our way to the center of the floor, a circle opening for us amidst the crowd.
He's empty, although there are several dribbles wetting the material still. The front of his shirt is stained from his milk, two huge wet circles beneath his nipples, the material slightly wrinkled by my chewing. Keeping in step, he reaches down and grabs my rock-hard cock, smiling into my eyes. I echo the motion and put my hand on his, feeling his own erection beneath the laced football shorts. Even here, he's bigger than me.
"Mmm, nice," he says, gently squeezing while he spins me around, so he's against my back, pressing his cock against my ass. I can feel his wet shirt on the skin of my back. My muscled-front faces the crowd, my throbbing rod fighting the confines of my spandex. Look, everyone! I want to shout, so proud. Warm. Look what I've become!
He reaches around and squeezes the base of my erection. I roll my head back on his shoulder as we find the rhythm of our dance, only the thin layers of our clothes keeping us from fucking. The world can see everything -- my muscles, my bloated stomach, full of his milk -- its warmth spreading, numbing -- I love it! Look at me! I am man!
While feeling the dull head of his meat in the crack of my ass, while smiling at the crowd, every one of them envious, while lost in the beat and pulse of the primitive dance around me -- a ritual dance, a trible dance, a fertility dance -- I shoot my load, powerfully pumping a heavy stream of jizz through the thin and tightly stretched material of my cow-hide shorts.
The crowd cheers, so I cum for them. Against my ass, I can feel him cum, too -- almost like he's been saving it -- he grunts slightly in the moment, pressing harder against me. I raise my hands above my head and blow it out, feeling more liberated than ever before. Any inhibition I may have left drains out of me with the final drops of my cum -- unrepressed orgasm. I am now completely new. A blank slate.
"Now you understand," Angus whispers in my ear. "Now you can feel the gift HE's given you."
He spins me around until we're face to gorgeous face, body to muscular body, cock to impressive cock, and we kiss, deeply and passionately there on the center of the floor, while the gaggle of fags around us watch. It's the perfect way to be brought into my new world -- to be reborn. I'm so relaxed, I could fall asleep in his arms.
When the kiss breaks, he says, still holding me, "Well, Little Calf, your training has begun. What do you think of it so far?"
"It's incredible," I say, kissing his neck, allowing my hands to roam to the front of his torso, feeling the damp underside of his pec. "What's next?" -- hoping he'll fuck me.
He smirks. "Let's get out of here."
Damn! He IS gonna fuck me!
We walk arm-and-arm off the dance floor, soaked with milk, stained with cum, our heads held high, proud of what we are, what we've done. I've never felt more masculine in my life, never more sexual. I can't wait to walk down the path he's leading me to.
Or maybe he'll make me crawl.
Either way, I want nothing else but Angus, my cow/ trainer, and through him, my god: Eric the BULL.
To get it, I'll do anything he tells me. I'll be the best little calf he's ever had.
Obediently, I climb into the cab of his truck while the warmth of his milk spreads inside me. I don't know where we're going, but I've never felt safer. I'm with my trainer, so everything's okay. Seduced by the gentle flex of his legs as he shifts, and the soft stroking of my hair by his strong hand, I fall asleep with my head in his lap.
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