Worse, Angus calls it "good discipline," worse still, "character building." It's the way football coaches and other sadists get people to do the grunt work, the nasty shit, the seemingly ENDLESS hours of back-breaking labor, by calling it "character building." Well, I wouldn't think my character needed so much work.

Start here: focus on my feet doing countless revolutions. See them? Round and round they go, a very steady cadence -- getting smoother by the day. Clearly, there isn't much resistance offered by the pedals, or the gears of the cycle. My speed is quick; my heart-rate high. It's a real bike, not one of those big, plastic monstrosities you see at the regular gym. Angus has removed the back wheel of one of his road-bikes and placed the frame on a stand, where -- like at the gym -- I can pedal and pedal and never reach anywhere, forever in place in his downstairs workout room, sweating without even the benefit of outside wind to offer relief.

I hate cardio; I always have. As my body evidenced, I avoided it like the plague. So, you may ask, what did I do to deserve this kind of treatment? What did I do to earn Angus? I ask myself that same thing over and over, almost at pace with the cadence of my feet. I rewind and replay it in a cycle on my bike, during the cardio that never ends. He's told me his story, little by little over these last ten days since we met at the Black Sheep -- since I became his calf -- and in doing so, he's inadvertently told me a lot about the situation I'm in now, the NEW reality I've entered -- that I've allowed myself to be taken prisoner by.

Angus was a cyclist before he met the BULL, logging hours and miles on the backroads of America. "Terribly thin," he's said. "I was in fine cardio-vascular shape, but I carried very little muscle weight. Although, my legs had always been pretty good..." -- this would be followed by a few random flexes -- indeed, his legs are excellent, muscular and strong, ripped and powerful, but not big, not like a bodybuilder -- "...but my upper body, geez! My arms were twigs. And my chest..." -- the same moment of flexing, popping the massive halves of his disproportionate pecs back and forth -- "...well, nothing like it is now."

"How did you meet him?" I asked that day, pedaling madly as he stood there talking.

"By chance," he said, shrugging. "I think. I was out in the middle of nowhere on a ride when I had a flat, no spare inner-tube and no cell-phone, and he happened to pass by in his truck. Lemme tell you, Little Calf, it was a fantasy come true -- this gigantically muscular, masculine hunk dressed in cut-off shorts and a bandanna getting out of the cab of his pick-up and sauntering towards me, his massive package all-too obvious -- I was in fag heaven.

"'Problem with your bike?' he asked. And you know how that voice affects you the first time you hear it. You know what it does to you. I couldn't even answer him -- it was too much. HE was too much. I stood there staring at this over-sized, pornographic vision and couldn't even so much as fight the erection growing in my bike shorts.

"'Flat tire,' I said weakly, motioning somewhere behind me.

"He smirked, looking me up and down, taking in the obvious reality. 'Looks like you could use a ride,' he said.

"Understand, this was my greatest fantasy come to life: stranded on the side of the road when this macho giant of a muscleman comes to my rescue. It was everything I'd ever dreamed."

I interrupted Angus' story only to tell him that when I'd met the BULL, that one unbelievable day in the gym, the parameters of our meeting fit MY greatest sexual fantasy, too. This didn't seem to surprise Angus, only served to confirm the mystic aura that Angus believed the BULL to have.

He continued. "Well, in MY fantasy, when he'd say, 'Looks like you could use a ride,' I always responded, 'I'd love a good ride.' And he knows what I'm REALLY talking about, so he takes me to his truck and fucks the shit out of me. Over and over again, every time I used that fantasy -- and I used it a lot -- it was almost habit.

"So, when it got said to me that day, by the personification of my dream-man, this realized moment of erotic imagination, I answered automatically. 'I'd love a good ride,' I said, realizing instantly what I'd done.

"We made eye-contact in that moment, and I felt -- I don't know -- I felt like he'd just read my soul, like he'd looked inside me and understood me completely. That moment, it was... magical."

Again, amazed by the coincidence between my story and Angus', I interrupted him to tell him that I'd had that exact moment, as well. He nodded, saying, "That's one of the reasons you're here now. You fit his profile. All the guys have similar stories. Hell, the whole herd is nothing but a series of erotic, muscle-growth short-stories."

"The whole herd?" I asked -- had I heard "herd?"

His look wasn't confused, exactly, more like intrigue, flavored by amusement. He almost laughed. "You, uh... You know you're not the only one, right? I mean, there ARE others. You didn't think this was some little tale of personal romance or something, did you?"

While speaking, I started to slow my pace on the bike. Angus' quick disapproving glance down at my legs brought them almost immediately back up to speed. "I guess I never really thought about it," I said, sure that I would think of little else now -- a whole HERD. "How many are there?"

Angus smiled and patted my sweaty back in a surprisingly unpatronizing, affectionate gesture. "You make us an even half-dozen, Little Calf. You're the fifth guy I've trained to serve the BULL."

"Really?" I asked, turning my head toward him fast enough to throw beads of sweat into the air. "Four other guys like you?"

Angus smiled again, showing those perfect teeth -- he WAS a prize animal. "He wants a dozen -- a rancher's dozen, he sometimes jokes." He sighed then, and said the next simple statement with so much conviction that it scared me a little. "And anything the BULL wants, the BULL deserves, and the BULL gets."

"You love him that much."

That smirk, that air of patronization, he immediately had it again. He leaned in close to my ear, and whispered, "Little Calf, you've only drunk his milk. Wait'll he fucks you." We made eye-contact then, and he continued. "You'll do ANYTHING to get that again. Just like the rest of us."

Pedaling. Pedaling. Replaying that scene over and over in my head -- little else to do on a stationary bike but think. One man's fuck is SO good that guys willingly become his cattle to have it again. How could that be?

Of course, the second I pose that question to myself, I picture him -- the BULL. I visualize his gargantuan mass, his heavy, dominating musculature. I can see his mind-boggling pecs casting shadows down his rugged lower torso. I remember gasping at the size of his cock, barely contained in the white, spandex hot shorts he wore that day.

And I remember the promises I made to myself when I drank his milk, saying over and over that I'D do anything to have him again -- Anything.

So, why am I so surprised when I hear that same fervent lust from another? Why should I be shocked to discover there ARE others? Others whose lust and desire might possibly dwarf my own?

Pedaling.

I'll be the sixth member of this "herd" -- the fifth to have been inducted by Angus. Four others have already gone through his training program. Four others have been fucked into the BULL's herd, all of them apparently willing to submit again and again to his domination.

Apparently, just like me.

It still doesn't tell me how the BULL became what he is, this morphed-out, ultra-masculine fantasy man, or how he transformed Angus -- or any of them, I suppose -- or what he ultimately has in mind for me, or for any of us.

Distracting me from the thought, the timer mounted on the handlebars begins to beep, signaling the end of my session. I'm so relieved to be done with this stupid cardio that I let all thoughts drain out of me as easily as I stop pedaling, stretching my legs out beneath me and rolling my shoulders while still seated on the bike.

"Session's over," Angus says, stepping away from his desk and walking over to me. I hear the distinctive "good-bye" from the computer's online service behind him. "How do you feel?" he asks.

"For just completing a two-hour, non-stop bike ride?" I say, smiling, swinging my leg over and hopping off, bouncing with my knees. "Surprisingly good."

He chuckles politely. "Take off your sweats. Let's get a look at you."

It's become a pleasure to pull the sweatshirt off, soaked as it is from my stationary journey. I'm not even intimidated in front of Angus anymore. I'd spent my whole life a product of the husky section, hiding fat with shame and layers. But now -- the almost endless cardio, the milk -- what I've become is as shocking as it is erotically stimulating.

I'm in phenomenal shape. Better than I've ever been in my life. Better than I've ever been in my DREAMS. The little bodyfat I now have gathers hopelessly in the spots where cellulite used to be thickest -- my gut, upper legs the base of my pecs. Watching the fat disappear has kept me entertained for the last ten days. Interesting observation: a person loses fat equally from all over the body -- this "spot-reduction" nonsense aside. The places with the heaviest deposits loses it more slowly, so my lower abs seem to be the last area to show improvement.

But I'll tell you what I look like right now, with just this tiny, tiny amount of fat left on my stomach, veins appearing for the first time on my waistline -- I'm sexy. I have the six-pack I've always dreamed of -- probably eight by the end of the week, when I lose this last bit. My skin appears to be getting thinner, too -- this whole thing has felt like one big "tightening," as my muscle and skin touch for the first time without a layer of fat between them. I can't tell you how amazing it feels to go from flabby and loose to tight and defined, to feel the firmness of muscle instead of the softness of fat, to see insertion points instead of rolls. Look, I have abs! Look, I have OBLIQUES!

I strip until I stand before Angus in only my bike shorts, shiny from my sweat. I pose for him seductively, showing him my body, showing him my gratitude with each flex. Every angle, even the blunt hardening of my cock. It's almost a dance -- Angus has assured me that this is what the BULL likes us to do when he requires us -- seduce him with our bodies, the ones HE'S given us. "You're coming along well," Angus says, appreciating what he sees. "Almost all that nasty gut of yours gone. You'll be ready for the Big Ride in a couple of days."

I can't believe the energy I have, even after this grueling two-hour marathon. I'm surprisingly horny, but that seems to be what Angus creates with his very presence. "I'm ready right now," I say, holding my hands behind my head and flexing my abs for him -- my beautiful, almost perfect abs. If this "Big Ride" that he keeps cryptically referring to is what I think it is -- getting fucked by the BULL -- then I'm ready. I think. God, I'm so horny.

His smirk, so sexy. "Almost," he says, reaching over and pinching the small amount of fat on the very bottom of my abwall, right above the waistband of my bike shorts, something that doesn't exist on him. "You should be proud. No one has ever had to come as far as you have."

"I'll get there," I say, simple but determined -- my hunger grows by the day.

"Yes, you will," he responds, with the same committed calm. "I've promised him that." He smiles, and casually touches the side of my head, like having affection for an animal -- livestock, almost. "Now, let's get to it ."

So I kneel before him, place my hands behind my back, and start to kiss the springy firmness of his spandex-clad package, pressing my face into the pillow of his balls. His cock brushes against the ridge of my nose and I can feel the blood rushing into it. I lick along the material, down the length of it, and take the cotton covered head into my mouth. He moans above me, and I know what change is happening.

Again.

Stimulating him -- them? -- sexually is the cause of the transformation. As his cock hardens inside his spandex shorts, thickly pushing its way toward his hip bone, so does his chest -- his OTHER erection. It's amazing to watch -- the pecs heave and swell, growing even beyond the proportion they were -- which was too big then to call symmetrical. Angus is ever more lost in his lust -- the bigger he allows himself, the less control he seems to have. At the final point, all he cares about is release.

I continue to chew on his balls, tease his cock, soak the material with my spit, lick with the flat of my tongue, until he says, "You've gotten me ready faster than you ever have before. You're learning."

I wish I could figure a way to post a picture of my view. To try to give you an idea of what it's like to be kneeling before this... this freak. His healthy erection inches from my face, never seen -- (Get that? I have never seen Angus' cock. "Too dangerous," he's said so many times. "But don't worry, Little Calf, one day soon." For the life of me, I can't figure out why Angus' cock would be dangerous.) -- so big, lumped under the spandex, his low-hanging 'nads churning behind it, and his perfect, fat-free ten-pack, all totally overshadowed by the jutting shelf of his pectorals, swollen so big with his milk that I'm kneeling in a shadow.

I feed from him then. I clamp onto his left nipple and forcefully suck the milk from him -- the way he likes -- which in turn is the way the BULL likes -- I'm so fucking hungry.

Swallow after swallow, quart after quart. For the last ten days, it's all I've eaten. I have literally ingested nothing else but his milk, and occasionally water -- and then only in the middle of a set -- for over a week now. I wake in the morning. I do an hour of cardio. I feed on Angus' sweet milk. I nap while I digest. I wake. I train. I do another session of cardio. I feed on Angus' milk. I nap as I digest, then I wake again. And on and on.

It's like adjusting to the cadence of a bike, the constant cycle of the pedals. "Until every last ounce of fat is gone," Angus has said. "Then you'll be able to properly please HIM."

So I take my only nourishment from the cream of my cow. I don't waste a drop, no dribbles, or spills, or nasty leaks -- it's all for me. Feeding puts him into a frenzy -- he bucks and thrusts against my torso as I drink, fucking anything he can. He loves putting his spandex-clad cock into the cleavage of my chest, his favorite groove.

Just before the last gulp, the final draw, the penultimate mouthful, I can feel his orgasm against my torso, his dangerous cum trapped by the material of his shorts -- and the thong he wears beneath. I want his cock so badly.

After the feeding, his milk inside me, digesting, I feel a compulsion to cum, too. Somedays, he lets me beat off while he watches, enjoying me enjoying my new body. The last few days, he has me sit in a chair while he kneels between my legs and blows me, teaching me techniques that will please the BULL, showing me ways of stimulation that I never thought possible. The BULL is lucky to have THIS at his beck and call.

It takes moments for me to reach orgasm. Moments. Angus in turn, swallows every drop from me. Apparently, my cock isn't all that dangerous. Even if it HAS been getting bigger.

After cumming, I'm immediately sleepy -- the effects of drinking warm milk, I think. Angus says, as I'm drifting off, "You've got three hours, then your serious training for the day begins. I think I CAN schedule your Big Ride this week." He pats my ass, and pushes me away.

I sleep on a cot in the weight room, as I have for the last ten days. I'll wake, relieve myself, and begin my next session of cardio. I'm developing good discipline, I think, dreaming of how perfect my body is about to be.

Dreaming of the BULL. •