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Milk Man 2
Beginning the Big Ride
|The sun rises on the day, the day I've been waiting for since the BULL first
came into my life some three weeks ago. I barely slept last night in
anticipation. It's like being a kid the day before your family leaves for
Disneyland -- though in those days, the dream far outweighed the actual event.
In this case -- at least according to Angus -- it'll be just the opposite.
"Every one of us remembers his Big Ride," Angus has said. "It's a moment of
passage, like a Bar Mitzvah, or a fraternity induction. It's a big step toward
becoming one of us."
And God knows, I'm hell-bent on becoming one of them -- and reaping the rewards.
So this morning I'm up and about before the alarm next to my cot rings. I dance in the shower while I shave, flexing my glorious abs as the water cascades down the rockwall of newly-revealed muscle, where the flab USED to be. I've never been this happy. All my life, I've been the dark, depressed fat-boy hiding in the corner. Now I'm the me of my dreams.
Go, pick up one of those magazines, or catalogues. They're laying around your apartment, or downstairs in your condo, perhaps in the bathroom stacked on the tank of the toilet: "Undergear," or "Prevail Sport," or "California Muscle" -- one of those, the ones that sell pouch-briefs and thongs, posing trunks and bunny-wear. You've got them. Admit it. If you're a self-respecting queer, you've got them around somewhere.
Anyway, look at that guy on the cover. Scan through and get a refresher on the type of man that fills the pages. Find your favorite -- the ethnic with the bedroom eyes, the clean-cut college boy, the older man with the sculpted bodyhair. Look at his tight muscle, his near-lack of bodyfat, his sultry expression.
Now look at ME. Look at me and see your favorite overshadowed. Those guys in the catalogues? They are NOTHING on me! I mean it -- I'm serious. I am now everything I never thought I'd be. Even when I used to fantasize about having some magical, perfect body, I never imagined anything as beautiful as I have now. I mean, abs ASIDE -- and why on earth would I want to put abs aside? -- I'm carrying less fat than a diesel-fueled marine, a marathon runner, a contest-ready bodybuilder.
"Shredded." That's the word you can use to describe me. "Ripped" is a level I passed yesterday. Today I'm shredded. I'm five-nine, two-hundred fifteen pounds, with an unbelievable twenty-nine inch waist. Check that -- twenty-NINE inch waist (when flexed). Three weeks ago, when I first drank the magic milk of the BULL, I was two-hundred forty flabby pounds with little musculature to speak of, a thirty-eight pant tight on me. Today, I'm two-fifteen, bodyfat forgotten, abs carved by the chisel of the god of muscle. I only wish I was taller...
It's funny. At each stage of my progress, I've always thought that I've become the best that I could be. When you start out in a horrible place, I guess, any improvement is amazing. Then, all of a sudden, I'd surpass what I thought was going to be my maximum, and my feelings about myself would magnify, amaze me again, and emotionally, I'd be right where I started.
But now, if any more improvements in my physique are possible, I can't imagine what they could be. I'm as perfect as I'm likely to get. But I've thought that before. I guess I'm just out of imagination. I mean, why use imagination when the mirror is so convenient?
No wonder then that Angus scheduled my Big Ride for today -- even though he hasn't told me exactly what the Big Ride entails, I'm certain that it's a cryptic reference to being fucked by the BULL and whatever ceremony goes along with it. I'm certain it's a reward.
Which just proves my point: I've achieved a level worthy of the BULL. And today -- finally! -- I'm going to get fucked by him. Man, I can't wait. Angus has been preparing me all week, stretching out my hole after I drank his milk, readying me physically for the intrusion of the BULL's cock. "It's kind of big," he's said, sliding one, two, three of his own thick fingers up inside me. "And you gotta be relaxed and ready for it." Full on Angus' milk, full of his fingers, relaxation is easy.
I'm giddy, I tell you. I feel like dancing, and singing, "Today's the day I get fucked by the BULL! Today's the day I get fucked by the BULL! Bring... it... on!"
Fortunately, I don't. At that moment, Angus enters the bathroom carrying a towel and a pile of clothes. I turn, naked to face him -- my cock is in its constant state of half-ready. I flex my abs, to please him for sure, but also to please me. I've come to love showing off. Little rivulets of water trickle down the grooves. "Hello!" I call in a voice that betrays my sing-songy feeling.
Angus smiles, checking me out. "You're like a child on Christmas morning," he says. "And the presents are just beginning." I finish drying with the towel he's handed me, spending extra time on my torso, simply to feel the hardness. Believe me, former fat guy, there's nothing like feeling ridges under the towel and knowing they're yours.
Angus approves. It's in his eyes, though he says nothing as he hands me the clothes. It's a cycling outfit -- white bike shorts with a silver saddle, and a white shortsleeve nylon bike shirt with a silver yolk and shoulder bar. On the front is the logo I saw on the BULL's card -- the words "BULL's Herd" with little cartoon horns adorning either side. On the back, across the silver yolk, are the words "LITTLE CALF" in black, football-jersey letters.
"Put 'em on," Angus says. "We need to get going. The Big Ride takes some time. And I still have to introduce you to the Herd."
Introduce me to the Herd? I think. Is the whole Herd gonna be there when the BULL fucks me? They gonna root me on? Maybe I DON'T want to join this weird little club. On the other hand, it might be kind of fun to have an audience when THIS beautiful body gets fucked by the BULL's perfect one. Maybe everybody DOES need to see the new Guernsey.
The bike shorts fit like a glove, the saddle-pad lifting and shaping my package, pushing it right out front, my half-hard dick obvious in the silver pouch, showing me off perfectly. The shirt is even better. Every rip and striation, every bulge and crevice, every subtle turning of curving shape, it shows all. I unzip the front and expose my recent cleavage, the BULL's logo stretching across my ample left pec.
Angus wears his nylon warm-ups, but smiles enthusiastically at my outfit. "It's gonna be a good ride," he says, wrapping his strong arm around my neck, leading me upstairs and out the door. I can't help but feel indebted to him, close to him -- I've been living the last two weeks on his milk, for heaven's sake -- so fraternal, which makes me want to meet the others like him.
Maybe soon like me.
THAT thought puts the spring back in my step.
Outside, the first thing I see are two bikes mounted in the back of Angus' truck. He says, "That one there on the right is gonna be for you." The bike he motions to is a silver Cannondale road-racer, beautiful -- if not expensive. A bike like that's gotta be close to two, three grand.
"For me?" I ask. "You're kidding."
He shrugs. "Well, you gotta finish the Ride first."
"That's my prize for finishing?"
Angus' laugh is a snort. "Dude," he says, jerking me by the arm he has wrapped round my neck, "that's the consolation prize." Pulling me in close, he presses his forehead into mine, like wrestlers before takedown, or sinewy elk before a fight. He quietly says, "You finish the game, you get the HOME version!"
We kiss then, standing there next to his truck, deep and passionate, masculine and hard. Finally, he breaks the moment, lowers his sunglasses from the top of his head to his eyes, and says, "C'mon, let's go." Within seconds, we're in the truck and on the road.
"We meet at the high school," Angus says, as he drives, looking at me only when he has a point he wants to stress. "It's fairly central for everybody and has parking."
"I wish I knew more about what to expect," I say, trying not to sound petulant, or sulky. Clearly this isn't going to be what I think it is, unless somehow, the BULL's waiting at the finish line. I find myself slowly stroking my abs with my hand.
He shrugs that off. "It's more fun this way," he says, taking a risky left onto a side street. He looks at me. "If you knew what to expect, you might not have as much enthusiasm. This is a rite of passage, you know. There WILL be some pain involved."
He continues, unabated. "But it's nothing none of the rest of us haven't gone through. It's not that bad. You might even come to enjoy it."
The conversation pauses as he lets that sink in. There hadn't been any mention of pain or sacrifice before now. So far, it's been one very pleasant muscle-growth story. I mean, at least the only pain has been cardio -- and cardio is hardly horrible pain. I've actually learned to like riding the bike. Not that the results hurt.
Maybe change the subject.
"What are the other guys like?"
He has no immediate answer for this, sticking out his lower lip as if he's weighing the options. "I don't know," he says. "Like any bunch of guys, I guess. The usual types. There's the funny one, and the serious one, the pretty-boy, and the dumb one, the brain -- by the way, I'm the brain -- just like any other group. Well," he says, flexing his chest so his pecs pop, "there's a couple of differences."
We both laugh at this, as he turns into the school drive. "Don't worry, Guernsey" he says, putting his hand on my knee. "You're gonna do all right."
"Oh, yeah. You've trained hard. You're ready."
As we pull into the lot, I see another truck, and a jeep, and what looks like some futuristic, Jetson-style station wagon -- what do they call those things, the "Vibe?" -- all with bike racks, parked together. The guys are there, too, unloading bikes, or checking tire-pressure and equipment, but I don't get a very good look at them -- there's a truly gigantic man walking towards Angus' approaching truck, distracting me.
The brown of his sleeveless cycling outfit almost exactly matches the tanned hue of his skin. Only the slightly olive tone of his obviously Mediterranean descent separate the shades. He's one of the most hugely muscular men I've ever seen, second only to the BULL himself, actually, and probably only fifteen or twenty pounds lighter. His nearly uniform color shows every nook and bulge, including his rather substantial package. I don't know why I'm surprised by the size of his chest, especially knowing how out of proportion Angus is -- much less the BULL -- but I am, anyway. This guy has huge, round pecs that strain even the stretch fabric of his bike shirt -- the Herd logo on the left side, same as on mine, but stretched a hell of a lot differently.
He motions to a pretend wristwatch on his thick forearm, shouting something that neither Angus nor I can hear. "And don't listen to a word THIS asshole says," Angus says to me, smiling at the guy through the glass. "He may talk tough, but Jersey's a bottom, just like the rest of us."
This guy, Jersey, is at Angus' window as we park. "Yo, what the fuck?" he says as Angus unrolls the window to talk to him. "You said nine o'clock, Home, and it's fuckin' almost nine-thirty now. We need to get this thing goin'. Some of us got clients, you know."
Angus gives him a hard look, clearly in charge, even if this guy outweighs him by fifty, sixty pounds. "You scheduled clients on the day of a Big Ride?" Angus asks calmly.
Jersey is immediately apologetic, as if he's been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Every bit of toughness melts away in a moment. He backs up a step, stammering, "Yeah, well, I can handle it. Yo, who puts out the most milk here, anyways?" He gestures to himself as if he needs to, with that funny little cocky street-thing he's got, his accent heavy.
Angus opens the door of his truck and says to me, "This is Jersey." Jersey and I make eye-contact. He raises his eyebrows and nods quickly as a greeting -- he wears his hair in one of those high-and-tight fades, all the rage -- and has surprisingly pretty green eyes, heavy lashes -- that whole Italian thing. He's gruffly handsome. A bottom? I hold up my hand in a waveless wave. "The one who's got no right to be bitching right now," Angus says, hopping out of the truck, facing off with Jersey -- they're almost the same height. Jersey might be a hair taller.
"Yo, okay. I shouldn'ta scheduled," Jersey mumbles, rolling his eyes. "But you're still late."
I slip out of the cab of the truck and hop into the bed, pulling the bikes off the racks when I hear Jersey say, "Jesus, kid, you look good. The pictures I seen was when you was some big ol' fat ass. Shit, take that shirt off."
"Don't take your shirt off," Angus says, as he takes the bikes from me and puts them on the ground. "We're late, remember?"
As Angus removes his warm-ups, his back to us, I face Jersey and quickly pull up the front of my bike shirt, flexing my rocky ten-pack for him. He smirks and touches his own stomach, which is more rounded than rocky, more of a keg than a six-pack, more of a roid-gut than I would expect from one of these guys. Still, it works with his look -- and it's largely overshadowed by the size of his tits -- it's not like I would ever turn him down. "Nice," he says to me, as I hop down to the ground. "I hope you make it."
"He's gonna make it," Angus says, standing there in just his bike clothes now -- solid black, that damn logo in the same place. The material shines like it's wet, or liquid, and moves with the sinew of his cut muscle. "I mean, c'mon Jersey. YOU made it."
"Yah, well..." Jersey stammers, looking at me and smiling apologetically, "I'm kinda big for this long-distance bullshit." He casually flexes the mass of his legs. "If it wasn't for these bad boys, I might not o' made it at all."
"You're huge," I say, the awe not well hidden.
Jersey smiles, grabbing the heft of his package. "Everywhere that counts, kid." A wink.
Angus pulls his bike from against the truck and starts to walk away, snorting. "Don't start that shit, Jersey. Come on, Little Calf, meet the other guys." His back to me again, I read the words "BLACK ANGUS" across his shoulders, the same football-style lettering as on mine, except in white.
I follow him, leading my new silver Cannondale-- the bike barely weighs anything. Jersey saunters up to the other side of the frame, walking with me, speaking under his breath. "You fuckin' hot, kid. I wouldn't mind gettin' some one-on-one time when the BULL's done with ya. Maybe you could even bunk in my stall for a while instead of Angus'. Whaddya think?"
My hardening cock might be answer enough, but I try to play it cool. "Maybe," I say. "You know, when my training's over."
He chuckles and places his heavy hand on the back of my neck. "Yo, your training's over," he says. "Today'll prove that."
The other three guys are within view, and my curiosity wins the moment from Jersey. They're all wearing variations of the same bike outfit, like Angus, and Jersey, and me. Angus and Jersey are the only ones in solid colors, though Jersey wears the only sleeveless.
There's only one other really big guy, and he's more big tall than big muscular -- probably six-three, two-forty, two forty-five. As large as he is, he still looks lanky, whereas Jersey -- clearly the biggest of the group -- has fuller, rounder muscles. THIS guy's outfit is white, with large black blotches over the shoulders and the rump, black trim on the sleeves and collar, and a white saddle. Angus introduces him as "Holstein."
"Holstein was the first," Angus says. "And rumor has it that he was the one who transformed the BULL."
Holstein nods, but says nothing. He's handsome, but not striking. Nobody would ever be sorry they ended up with him, but they would always wonder if they could've done just a little better.
"Hi," I say to him. A look -- eye-contact -- but silence.
"Holstein don't talk much," says the little redhead, mock-punching Holstein in the shoulder. Holstein waves him away and mounts his bike. "So don't take his silence for rudeness. I'm Ayrshire," he says, offering me his hand.
"Excuse me?" I ask, shaking it.
"Air-sure," he says, the phonetics obvious. "It's these guys' idea of a joke. I got red hair, so I get nicknamed after the red breed -- the Scottish cow: Ayrshire." He rolls his eyes, but there still seems to be a certain self-pride he unsuccessfully hides. He can't be more than eighteen -- nineteen on the improbable outside -- and at a level of fitness that challenges Angus. He's every teenage jock-fantasy personified. Though his muscles are far too big for someone his age, he's still the smallest of all the guys here -- if you don't count me.
His costume is the same color red as his hair, with a creamy white underside that starts at his package and runs up triangularly to take in his chest. The white is so thin and so silky that every detail of his cock and balls is obvious. Scan up to his magnificent nipples -- conical mounds that stand out against the flat expanse of his pecs -- over abs that are almost as good as mine.
"I'm Guernsey," I say. "And this is the first time my nickname has ever made me fit in."
Ayrshire nods. "This is a good group to fit in with."
Jersey pipes up, sensing Ayrshire's flirt. "Yo," he says to Ayrshire, wrapping a possessive arm around my shoulders, "yer just sayin' that 'cuz YOU don't gotta be the rookie no more."
Ayrshire looks at him levelly, then says to me, "Has Angus warned you about THAT dickbag, yet?" The guys laugh.
I look at Jersey, who's smirking. "No," I say. "But the more I hear..."
"The more you want me," Jersey finishes, kissing in my direction.
"Oh, JESUS," moans Ayrshire, turning away to get his bike. Jersey releases me and chases after him, punching him quickly in the shoulder and laughing. Ayrshire turns around and smacks him back, smirking -- but obviously backing away, almost bouncing in his effort. The last hit taken, Ayrshire makes his getaway with a triumphant "ha!" -- easily outmaneuvering the lineman-size of Jersey.
Jersey turns back to us, laughing to himself, breathing a little from the sudden exertion. He casually adjusts his cock, grown a little harder from the jocular play. Like the rest of him, it's gorgeously thick. He sees me look and winks again.
Only the older guy is left. And I get a sense of his maturity from the gray patch of white in his otherwise dirty-blonde hair, the lines on his face, and the trim gray mustache riding his upper lip. His muscle is thick, but tight -- mature and deep, but his skin has the firmness of youth. He's smaller than Holstein and Jersey -- who seem to be the group's big boys -- but he's bigger than Angus, if just a couple of inches shorter -- WAY more muscular than Ayrshire, but way shorter, too. He has the rugged look of an outdoorsman, a guy who's been around and relies on his experience. He exudes confidence.
"Howdy," he says to me, straddling his bike. He removes his sunglasses so I can see his eyes, which I think is kind of cool. Trust a mature man to have manners. "I'm Shorthorn."
Ayrshire puts up the comment I expect from Jersey. "Referring to his height," he says, "not the size of his dick."
Shorthorn laughs softly, reaching to shake my hand. "He's just jealous because the Shorthorn breed is famous for carrying extra meat." We shake as I place the Texas in his accent. The soft syllables of Shorthorn's speech match the soft curve of his hefty muscle.
His outfit is the most unusual of all the guys. I guess cattle-folk call the color "roan" -- a sort-of gray-yellow with white. The left shoulder of the bike shirt and right leg of his spandex shorts are both solid white, looking like the distinctive markings of an animal's coat. His package looks stuffed full -- his balls obvious and huge.
"Nice to meet you," I say, shaking hands with him. Using a firm grip, he pulls me in close.
"You know," he says quietly, "Jersey's a good fuck. And it's obvious that he wants you. But when the BULL's done with ya, if you should ever decide you want a MAN, you should come to see me instead. You understand me, boy?"
"Yes, I do."
He nods. "Excellent. Long as we understand each other. You let me know."
With that, he releases my hand and re-adjusts his sunglasses over his eyes, so I guess I'm dismissed. Smirking in a sort of disbelief, I head to Angus, who stands over both of our bikes, busy with busy-work.
When I squat down to upright my bike, Angus asks, quietly, "Did he proposition you?"
I nod, swinging my leg over to straddle the bike's frame. "Yeah," I say. "So far it seems almost everybody has."
"Well, if you want my recommendation, do the old man first. Make Jersey wait."
As he reaches for our helmets, he says, "Jersey wants ya -- that's reason enough to make him wait." He hands me mine and continues. "Besides, Shorthorn is fuckin' fantastic in the sack. Here, look." The helmet has a microphone built into the left side -- a little wire that leads to a battery pack. Angus puts the battery pack in the pocket of my bike shirt, on the curve of my lower back.
I'm surprised the helmets don't have little horns painted on them, but I guess jokes only go so far, even with these guys. "What's the mic for?" I ask.
"Plug the little earpiece in," he says, "then you'll be wired for sound. It's how we communicate on the road. Just touch this little button right here." He fingers a button on the side of the helmet. "And you can talk. If you can get a word in..."
Suddenly, Holstein, mounted on his bike -- a better bike than even mine -- takes a place at the center of the group and says, his voice surprisingly loud and commanding, "All right, boys. Let's go. It's a Big Ride for some of us." The others, Angus included, start to move their bikes into position while Holstein continues. "Guernsey, you ride last. Do you need Angus near you? Otherwise, we'll just ride in our regular order."
Why is Holstein giving all the orders? I think. Isn't Angus the leader?
I tap my helmet. "He's right here if I need him."
Holstein almost smiles -- apparently, that was the right answer. "Good enough. Let's roll, gentlemen. Guernsey, keep the cadence. You'll be okay."
We ride out, Holstein in the lead, then Angus, Ayrshire, Shorthorn, and Jersey bringing up the rear. I hook up on the end of the line, a clear view of Jersey's muscular ass before me. Jersey turns around and looks at me, then touches his helmet. I hear his voice say, "Yo, just keep up, Little Calf. Aim for this big muscle right here." It's so clear, it's like he's right next to me. I look up to see him fingering his spandex-covered crack with his thick middle finger.
I hear Ayrshire's voice next. "Though you'll probably feel like passin' Jersey -- he's so damn slow."
"Fuck you, pretty boy. I don't have no problem keepin' up."
Shorthorn's voice: "Those legs of his are as big as Texas. Hard to push that much size around, ya'll."
"Let's can the chatter, gentlemen," says Holstein. "I'd like our new calf to start out thinking that we have a bit of respect for one another."
"Got ya, Holstein."
"Good," says Holstein. "Thanks, guys. Guernsey, keep pace with the Herd. Get into our cadence -- become one of us."
We begin to reach cruising speed, zipping up and down over the hills leading out of town. "I will," I say, setting my aim at the crack of Jersey's beautiful ass.
The Big Ride has begun.
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