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Milk Man 2
|We escape the suburbs and the urban sprawl and the snarled traffic by taking
backroads out of town. We're greeted by an expanse of land that seemingly
appears from nowhere, greenly welcoming us, free of the pollutants of the city
-- the colors always seem just a bit brighter, just a hair warmer, once away
from all that. It's a pleasure to be out in the sunshine, to breathe the clean
air, to feel the wind on my skin. I can't believe I'm about to say this --
proof enough about how much I've changed, I guess -- but it's a pleasure to
exercise. I'm actually ENJOYING myself while I work out.
Our formation is still tight, our line well-spaced -- the Herd is on the move. We zip along on our cycles, gears whizzing and breathing paced. Because I'm the calf, because I'm the initiate, I ride at the end of the line -- part of the test, I guess, seeing whether or not I can keep up, whether I'm worthy of the team. So far, so good. Of course, we're only about five miles out.
They don't ride in the order in which they themselves were initiated -- Jersey has referred to Ayrshire as the former "Rookie" a couple of times, yet Jersey rides at the back of the Herd, directly in front of me -- two BEHIND Ayrshire. More, Angus has claimed to me to have trained ALL of the Herd, yet Angus rides second behind Holstein, and has referred to Holstein as the first of them to have been recruited by the BULL. It doesn't make any sense.
Holstein, his quiet, commanding presence and his lanky musculature, followed by the gorgeous sinew of the smaller, ripped Angus. The red-headed superteen, Ayrshire, rides third. Muscularly, Ayrshire's the smallest of all the guys, probably only ten pounds on me, making him around two-twenty five or so, but he's stunningly beautiful, full of youth and cocky potential. Next, riding fourth, the mustachioed old man, Shorthorn, with his mature, Texas-twanged muscle packed on that short, little frame. But even the old man rides in front of Jersey, the gigantic Italian street-thug with the over-active libido.
I've been studying Jersey's legs as we pedal along. Of course, I've looked at all the guys, in their bike-wear that resemble cow costumes, their nicknames brazenly emboldened across their shoulders like a football team. I've looked at them all, but I've been studying Jersey. He's the biggest, the most massively muscled man I've ever seen in my life, this side of the BULL. To hesitate to say Jersey weighs three-hundred pounds is only to keep from giving the impression of him as bulky. When you see the big, pro bodybuilders clocking in at three-hundred during the off-season, bloated thick from growth hormone and carb-heavy diets, it's easy to get the idea that that's the only way a man can actually WEIGH three-hundred pounds -- to bulk up -- like the weight is just not humanly possible in a healthy way.
Yet, there he is in front of me, pedaling those heavy legs madly to keep the cadence of the rest of the Herd. He might not have a lot of endurance with a build like that, but he's got all the strength of will he'd ever need, and the muscle to back THAT up. His calves catch my eye, diamond-shaped and powerful, but his hamstrings hold my focus. I mean, I know this is a story about chests and pecs -- probably the most beautiful muscle-group there is -- but to ignore Jersey's legs is to do a disservice to even the most casual lover of muscle.
First, I'm awed by the thickness, the structure -- the foundation necessary to support the frame of his gigantic upperbody. And this is coming from a former fat guy, whose poor legs were always exhausted from hauling around bulk. Instead, Jersey's legs brag of power. They carry his size around and ache for other chances to show off. His hamstrings flex with each beat of the cadence -- the "biceps of the leg," as Angus calls it. And Jersey's hamstrings are as clearly defined and over-pumped as any other man's arms.
It doesn't help that his bike shorts are the same hue as his skin, where if I squint just right, I can pretend he's completely naked. I have a feeling he'd prefer that. If I were as big as Jersey, I'd prefer to wear nothing, too.
Angus says I should do Shorthorn first -- claiming Shorthorn's the best in the sack -- but I find myself drawn to Jersey. Maybe just that Jersey's the biggest.
We pedal on.
There is some chatter as we pass the ten-mile mark. Over the headset, I hear Angus say, "Ayrshire, I forgot to check on this at the school. Did you remember...?"
Ayrshire's voice cuts in. "Yeah, I got it. Though I gotta confess, I hate like hell to give it up."
There is laughter up and down the line at this. I don't get the joke. "I reckon you'll find somethin' to take its place," Shorthorn says -- more laughs.
Ayrshire jumps in again -- I like his bravery, the way he keeps leaping back into the fray. "Maybe I'll start with you, Shorthorn."
"Boy, just give me the chance. I'll fuck the livin' shit outta ya. That goes for the rest of you boys, too -- you too, Guernsey. Anytime any of ya'll want a good fuck, ya'll come see me."
Laughter then, but not derisive -- rather, warm and accepting. The communal laughter of a brotherhood. "Sign me up," says Angus.
Holstein's voice surprises me, but it seems that even he has a lighter side. "I wouldn't mind a little of that," he says, still matter-of-fact, light or not.
Then Ayrshire, with the topper. "Do I gotta supply the Viagra?" he asks.
There is laughter mixed with groaning, mixed with dangerous "ooooh"s. "Boy," Shorthorn says, "you always make it so hard for yourself."
Ayrshire -- "Bring it on, pops."
I hear Shorthorn's chuckle, promising Things to Come, when he asks, "And what about you, Guernsey?"
"Feelin' fine back here," I say, easily finding the comm-button on my helmet. "How many more miles we got?"
"That's not what I wanna know, Guernsey," he says. "I wanna know if you want a good fuck."
They're all listening. That's the problem with these stupid helmet sound-systems. How badly I want to confess how much I'd like Shorthorn to fuck me, but I don't want to screw up anything I might have with Jersey. Obviously, the direct answer is out.
I say, "I think the real question is whether or not YOU want a good ride."
The laughter -- success! Even Ayrshire's "Ooooh, doggie! Sounds like a challenge, Shorthorn!" is light-hearted and fraternal. The spirit of these guys is amazing.
Shorthorn chuckles. "You keep talkin' like that, Guernsey, and you're gonna get me all hard..."
It's then that Jersey joins in, panting heavily. "Yo... you keep yer hands off 'im, old man. I saw him first."
Is there tension? Will it escalate? I'm not certain until I hear Shorthorn speak again. "That's fine, Jersey. That's fine," drawls Shorthorn. "You can have him first. But I reckon there's gonna come a time when he wants QUALITY instead of QUANTITY."
"Fuck you, Shorthorn," says Jersey, barely keeping his breath. "Don't listen to him, Guernsey."
Holstein interrupts then, and nobody gives HIM shit. "Gentlemen, NO ONE'S gonna get our new calf until the BULL's done with him. And the BULL isn't gonna get him if he doesn't make it through today. So, why don't we just take one thing at a time, okay?"
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, Holstein."
Pant. Pant. "Uh-huh." But Jersey turns to face me, drenched in sweat, and blows me another kiss. He turns back to face front when I smile.
I can only imagine how we look as we zip through these cross-road, one stop-light towns that suddenly pop out of the topography. What do these country guys think when they pass us in their rusty pick-ups on the road? What image is some farmer's daughter left with after catching a fleeting glance of six over-muscled cyclists pass by while she drinks lemonade on the front porch?
And what if they knew the truth? How would they react? Hell, I hardly know the beginning of the truth myself and I'm so turned-on, I can hardly stand it. I wonder if that's how those two yahoos that just blew by us in the Chevy 4x4 would feel? Doubtful.
Cornfield after cornfield -- I'm lost in this maze of farmland. The miles speed by with hardly a word over the comm-helmets. We've gone over eighteen according to the odometer on my handlebars, yet I still feel good. Clearly better than Jersey, who takes a drink of water and then squirts the bottle over his head. Jersey is exhausted, and his cadence shows it, but he pedals on.
Still, the water gives me the idea, so I reach for my own bottle. Just as I start to drink, I hear Holstein say, "Okay, here we are, gentlemen."
Here we are, where? It's the middle of fucking nowhere. Here we are pulling off the road in the middle of a cornfield, for God's sake -- there hasn't been a sign of civilization in miles. We stop, dismount, and the guys stretch, catch a quick drink. They nod to me, or say, "So far, so good." -- "Keep it up, Guernsey." -- and the like.
Angus steps over to me -- hardly winded -- and says, "Well, this is the place."
I'm taking off my helmet when I ask, "What place?"
"This," he says, motioning wide with his arm, "is where I met the BULL. It's where my bike broke down that day -- remember? I told you this story, didn't I? Well -- here we are."
I'm still confused. "That's the Big Ride? To HERE?"
Suddenly, Ayrshire's hands are on my shoulders. From behind me, he says, "The BIG part of the ride hasn't even started, yet."
When I turn to face him, I see Jersey standing over by the bikes without his shirt on, sweaty and pumped. Everything I imagined that could possibly be hidden by a spandex bike shirt is totally revealed: the rounded, smooth stomach, the impossible pecs, the dark brown nipples. Jersey has the body of every fantasy I've ever had. He sees me looking and smiles, unconsciously reaching down and adjusting his package.
Ayrshire is still in my ear, his hands still on my shoulders. He looks as I look, at the flirtatious, but hopelessly muscular Jersey. "Look at those pecs," Ayrshire says. "That's a shitload of milk right there."
I chuckle. "That's a shitload of EVERYTHING right there."
"He-e-ey," he says while a smile grows on his face, turning me around and studying me, "you got it for Jersey, don't ya? You like that big, musclebound bozo."
I shrug him off. "I... I don't know. He's hot. You're ALL hot. But, he's..." I can't continue, so I shake my head and change the subject. "I just want to find out how to become one of you."
Holstein stands by the edge of the corn and calls, "Let's go." One by one, the guys follow him into the rows of tall plants, leaving the bikes behind. Ayrshire pulls the saddle bag from his cycle and heads in as well. Then, Angus is beside me, leading me by the arm into the corn -- I go willingly. We don't speak.
I can hear the guys in front of me, walking -- someone's jogging -- but I can't see for shit from the thick rows of vegetation. Every now and again I see the pattern of one of the Herd amongst the green, but it's not hard to follow. Angus holds my hand as he leads me through the tight rows.
Finally, we come onto a little oasis -- for lack of a better term -- a huge maple tree growing in the dead center of this field, which has seemingly been here longer than the field itself. There's a ten-foot clearing around it, and by the time Angus and I emerge from the corn, the other guys are already lounging around its base.
Jersey and Shorthorn are both shirtless already, and Ayrshire is playfully pulling his off like a strip-tease to entertain them, exposing his exceptional stomach and his over-sized nipples, pink and puffy. Jersey and Shorthorn are an appreciative audience, hooting and hollering at the improvisation. Proportionately, Shorthorn isn't much smaller than Jersey. As a matter of fact, his body would probably be considered more ideal to a judge at a bodybuilding contest, even if the prize usually went to the taller man. Almost to make up for his height, almost like an apology from God, Shorthorn has a cock that's not to be believed. He's not even trying to hide the dangerously thick erection he's starting, looking at Ayrshire and licking his lips, unconsciously stroking his own big chest.
Holstein sits against the base of the tree, lost in thought, slowly chewing on a long piece of grass, not paying attention to the horseplay -- so to speak -- next to him. He's the only one who still wears his sunglasses.
"Guys," Angus says, calling order. "GUYS! Thank you, Ayrshire. Guys, Guernsey has come a long way to the Sacred Field, both philosophically and physically -- he's trained very hard, come further than any of US had to -- and now he seeks to join the Herd."
The guys applaud, though Holstein shows little enthusiasm.
Angus turns to me. "Guernsey, there are three parts to your Initiation Ritual -- and since they're sequential, I'll only tell you the next when you've completed the first, and the third when you've finished the second. Do you understand?"
"Yeah." I shrug. "I understand."
"Good. Remember, Guernsey, we want you to succeed."
The guys murmur their assent to this. Jersey winks at me.
Angus continues, "We joined the Herd in the following order: Holstein, Jersey, me, Shorthorn, Ayrshire, and now you. In order to be in the Herd, each member of the Herd must accept you, and in accepting you, he must allow you to drink his milk."
"It's a big meal," Ayrshire says. "I hope you haven't had a lot of water."
I look around at each of them -- their chests are so BIG! "I have to drink everybody's milk?" I ask, shocked. Angus nods, the curve of a smile finding its way to his mouth. I look from one of them to the next -- all of them have the same expectant grin. "But... how?" I babble. "How do I do this? I mean, where do I start? I mean, what order?"
They circle around me, all of them, tightening in a ring -- all that muscle, those pecs. "I guess it doesn't really matter," Angus says. "We all have to agree."
So, I decide -- and ultimately, I can't tell you what makes me do it the way I do. Part of me thinks that I should go in the order in which THEY were initiated, but the smarter part of me thinks I should do just the opposite. Like starting at the bottom and working my way up. To me, that seems more respectful. Besides, it puts Holstein last -- and I still can't decide how I feel about him.
With that, I turn to Ayrshire, and his bullet-sized nipples, and I say, "You're first, then. The last is first. Will you allow me to join the Herd? Will you allow me to drink your milk?"
His eyes are the same green as the corn stalks, the angles of his face sharp, his freckled-skin youthful. Ayrshire smiles and says, "Me first? Cool." He grabs his package through the spandex shorts and massages himself. "As for you joinin' the Herd, I say, me not the rookie anymore? Absolutely!" He looks me in the eye and says, "Guernsey, you can have my milk."
Ayrshire allows the transformation to occur, his tight, muscular chest swelling, his nipples popping out further. Even at his biggest, he's still not as big as a relaxed Angus, though his nipples are extraordinary. "C'mon, Guernsey," he says, his voice gaining a dimension of sultriness he hadn't previously had. "Drink it down. Let's go."
I bend over and take his nipple in my mouth. It's so swollen and so hard, it's like a baby's pacifier. The milk fairly gushes out of him, warm and thick with cream. I make a vocalization at the taste, causing Ayrshire to say, while he pants, while I suck, "Yeah, I know. Ironic, isn't it? I have the lowest bodyfat percentage of all the guys, but my milk is the highest in butterfat. What are ya gonna do?"
"Yo, he's gonna drink!" The guys laugh.
It takes no time at all to finish Ayrshire -- there is little volume -- incredible taste, and those big, diamond-hard nipples are fun to play with -- but little volume. As with Angus, the final few draws bring him to orgasm inside his bike shorts, thrusting against me as I suckle the last drops out of him. "Nice," he moans. "Nice. You got good technique. He's got good technique Angus."
"Thanks," Angus says, smiling at the compliment, then asks me, "Who's next, Little Calf?" Well, since I'm going in reverse order, the answer to that is as simple as a turn to Shorthorn.
Shorthorn comes up to my shoulder, and his thickness doesn't help his height. He's transforming before he can even ask, "Me?" His smile is almost hidden by his mustache, but the well-earned lines on his face give his expression away, as he squints. "Well, ya'll knew I was gonna say yes." His pecs grow -- they thicken. So does the magnificent cock hidden by his shorts. I kneel before him, making my head level with his chest. "Look at you kneel, like it's natural. I can't wait until the BULL's done with you, boy."
"Yo, yer gonna have to wait til I'M done with him, too!" Jersey steps up behind me, facing off with Shorthorn. "I told you, old man, this one is mine." I can feel Jersey's presence, as I kneel facing Shorthorn. When I turn my head, I get a view dominated by a wall of Jersey, his huge muscle held in threatening posture, looking over me toward Shorthorn. Jersey has allowed his transformation to begin, as well -- his pecs are MORE than pumped. His cock is hard, too -- but maybe he gets off on confrontation.
Shorthorn is no less primed. He's certainly not afraid of Jersey. "Hey, the calf came to me first, Jersey," he says, cupping one of his pecs in his hand. "He's gonna drink from me first, too."
Jersey's idea of physical intimidation isn't working the way he intends. With football mentality, he presses himself forward, into Shorthorn's space -- Shorthorn holds his ground. I'm beginning to be smushed between these two boneheads, and when I turn to try and speak to Jersey, his swelling chest presses into the side of my face, the muscle pushing me into Shorthorn's growing torso. As they face off, I'm squashed in the middle, four gigantic pecs smothering me, no matter which way I turn.
"Stop it, you two," I hear Angus say. "You're gonna smother him."
Ayrshire: "Knock it off, Jersey! The kid's not pickin' sides -- he's just goin' in reverse order!"
Jersey reaches out and easily pushes Ayrshire away. "Shut up," he says. "I got no fight with you."
It IS the confrontation Jersey gets off on. As he manhandles Ayrshire, I can feel his erection press into my side -- I can feel the wetness of liquid against my face and neck. Holy cow, Jersey's leaking! He scowls down at Shorthorn, pressing my face into the deep cleavage of his chest. His big pecs are like pillows -- warm, living pillows, his pulse a heartbeat away. The muscle is already damp from his sweat, and his salty smell overwhelms me -- I lick him. I just gotta taste it.
Shorthorn doesn't give any ground. Smaller than Jersey though he may be, his titanic thighs are as loyal as Texas linemen, and he's not about to lose a fight to some young hothead. And maybe it's because of Shorthorn's maturity that he seems to sense that this is Jersey's idea of sexual play -- or maybe they've gone through this sort of thing before. Shorthorn, too, has a mighty erection, and his tits are no less loaded.
They grab each other like Greco-Roman wrestlers, around the shoulders, and press their foreheads together, like animals seeking dominance. I'm pressed even harder between them, pecs all around my head -- the heat, the dark moisture.
The milk is fairly running down Jersey's torso, soaking into the brim of his shorts. It smells so good -- I can't resist. Jersey moans as I clamp onto his nipple, rolling his head before coming back to Shorthorn. As I drink his milk -- and he's almost gagging me with the flow -- I can feel Shorthorn against my back, rubbing his big hard dick against my spine. When I push my head back into his pec, I feel the dribble of liquid on my shoulder, and I know he's ready, too.
Releasing Jersey's nipple doesn't stop his flow at all -- he still gushes with the same kind of stream as an unblocked udder. But Shorthorn's tiny nipple holds my focus, dark pink and dripping. He doesn't moan when I take it in my mouth, rather, he makes some kind of throaty sound, something deep and lost. I glance up to see he and Jersey deep-kissing, tongues buried in the other, seeking their own sort of dominance. As I suckle Shorthorn, he reaches down and plays with Jersey's nipples, causing the milk to spurt with each quick pinch.
Shorthorn's milk is sweet, as opposed to Jersey's plain-n-plentiful, business-like milk, homogenized for mass consumption. Shorthorn is fine wine compared to Jersey's boxed-brand. Shorthorn is quality compared to quantity. He was right before when he said that.
I go back and forth between them, as they hump me and each other. I'd say dry-hump -- for both still wear their shorts -- but we three are soaked in their milk, though the milk is mostly Jersey's. We wet-hump instead.
The milk just doesn't seem to ever stop. They're wiping it on each other's bodies, massaging it into the other's muscle as I suckle back and forth. We shine from the wetness -- we're slick and slimy. With my right hand, I reach up and grab Jersey's spandex-clad cock -- with my left, I take Shorthorn's. This is the only place where Shorthorn has any real size on Jersey. His cock is long -- so long -- and so thick, where Jersey's is not unimpressive -- he's bigger than me or Angus -- but he just doesn't come close to measuring up to Shorthorn.
The climax is soon -- I can sense that as easily as I can my own heartbeat, so I step up my efforts. A pull from Shorthorn, a gulp from Jersey. A nip. A tease. A confident stroke and a sudden swallow.
The two of them shoot at the exact same moment, both of them thrusting in and pushing, bucking in unison. It's a heavenly place to be, crushed between two musclemen at the moment of climax, slick with their milk, but unfortunately, denied their cum.
They separate from me then, each of them stepping back to their place in the circle. They stare at each other, not me -- and I confess, I'm a little disappointed by that. I can't tell what passes between them, but clearly some communication does. Jersey is soaked in milk -- Shorthorn fares little better. I stand uncertainly, dripping, my legs a little weak. It takes a second to get my bearings -- I feel kind of dizzy.
Ayrshire says, slowly, "That was the hottest thing I've ever seen," and makes no secret of playing with himself, even though he'd only cum minutes before.
Even Angus has an erection inside his bike shorts -- his familiar blunt pointing across his hip. Smiling, we look at each other and he says, "You're a mess," then reaches over and tries to fix my hair, which is smeared every which-way from my contact with the others. Angus is so paternalistic -- so familiar. His touch is so gentle.
I wipe my open hand across my lower face in a vain attempt to get the excess milk off. I try to smile. "Will you let me drink lookin' the way I do?" I ask.
Angus raises his arms and wraps them around my neck. "I was the one who wanted you at the very beginning," he says. "You've been my greatest physical challenge, so I don't mind you looking the way you do now. I'm proud you've gotten this far."
I laugh. "Well, I hope you didn't imagine me like this. Who could've thought up this scene?"
He shrugs. "Ah... it's very hot. Besides, I WANT you to join us. Now, take my milk."
I do, like I have dozens of times over the last few weeks. Familiar as an old lover -- the taste of my favorite -- I know just where to reach, just how to touch, just when to stroke. Angus' personality is as much a part of his milk as the others are theirs.
You might think that I'd be sick of drinking milk by now. You might think that after drinking the milk of three different men -- hell, now four -- that I wouldn't want another drop. That I'd be full, or finished -- or at least over-saturated.
But I'm not. God help me, I'm not. I feel punch-drunk, if anything. I feel like I'm on a super-buzz -- some wonderful new drug. Finishing Angus is nothing. Feeling his orgasm against me fires me up for more. But there isn't that much more.
He stands on a little mound of ground, which raises him up more than he already is, making him even taller. He's passionless behind his sunglasses. He doesn't even seem excited about what's been happening. His dick isn't even mildly hard. "You saved me for last," he says. "Why?"
I probably wouldn't be as honest if I weren't feeling so drunk. "You were the only one I was uncertain about," I say, weaving a little.
Holstein nods, pursing his lips -- maybe he's even a little impressed. It's hard to tell. He doesn't uncross his arms or appear open in any way. "So you want to drink my milk," he says quietly. "You want to be one of the Herd."
I nod, still dripping with Jersey's milk. "I do," I say.
"Well," Holstein says, taking a step back, "I hate to do this -- I really do -- but, uh, I gotta say no."
The "what?" that I ask is echoed by almost all the other guys in one way or another.
Holstein holds up his hands as if defending himself, or making a stop-motion. "Look, I don't gotta explain myself. I don't think it's right. And I think we need to stop doin' this to guys. I think you're a nice kid, Guernsey, and this isn't about you personally. But someone's gotta draw the line, and you're not gettin' in the Herd without a unanimous decision, and you're not gettin' a unanimous decision without my milk. So, no. No milk. You can't drink from me. I deny you."
Holstein turns and quickly walks away, leaving me surrounded by the others, empty -- my hopes shattered. My dreams dry.
It's gonna be a long ride home.
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