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Milk Man 2
A Short Interlude with Shorthorn
|So I've just been morphed into a massive bodybuilder, transformed into this muscle-bound milk-machine, and there's nothing on TV. I click through the channels as I sit here on the hotel sofa, disappointed that I can't even find a strong-man competition on ESPN2 -- and that's a classic stand-by. I'm wearing Jersey's discarded cargo shorts, the belt cinched tight, but nothing else. There's no need, now.
I've been huge for almost an hour, but I don't think I'll ever get used to it. I took a shower right after Jersey fell asleep, because even though it felt kind of sexy to have sticky skin from the drying drops of my own milk on my torso, I wanted to be clean. Let me tell you, it's one thing to have sex with your new hard body, it's quite another to spend time exploring it with your hands as the hot water cascades down newly-created ridges -- especially if you used to be fat, like I did. I used to spend time trying NOT to touch my body, but being almost forced to by its own gross size.
Now, I'm into it. The feel of muscle is so different than fat -- firm, but pliable -- resistant. I want to touch myself forever. I might need to, just to be sure it's still there and this isn't some wonderful dream. So I showered, but couldn't find anything to wear -- I didn't want to sneak in the bedroom and disturb Jersey's sleep with my clumsy search -- so here I am in Jersey's own shorts -- the ones he threw off when we were having sex earlier -- and there's a dirty t-shirt in the bathroom that looks big enough, but I won't put it on unless I have to. I don't feel like wearing shirts anymore, anyway.
I click around the channels. I'm so fucking horny! Is that a side-effect of having a body like this? Of being what I am now? A fucking cow?
I want to go out and show off. I want to walk down the street with my perfect body exposed and shout, "Look at me!" to the shocked public. I want to be the exhibitionist I've always fantasized about being -- that I CAN be, now. But for some mysterious reason, Jersey has all-but ordered me to stay in the room. Don't go out, he said. Don't talk to anyone. Nothing until he wakes up.
I wish that just ONCE I understood what the hell was going on around me.
Just then, as I sit here channel surfing, subtly feeling my beautiful new muscle, my sexual appetite growing, the chirpy beep of a cell-phone rings in the lower pocket of the cargo shorts I'm wearing, Jersey's shorts. I hadn't noticed he'd had a phone in there.
It's pretty small, one of those folding-cover jobs. Looking at the cell-phone in my hand makes me notice my fingers -- I mean, really notice them -- even THEY show muscular growth. My fingers are thick. Sexy.
The Caller-ID reads "SHORTHORN."
Shorthorn? Just thinking the name makes me picture him -- though my memory is tainted by my lust -- I see his solid, powerful body, the rough gray hair on his balding head, his sexy mustache. I remember his healthy endowment, his beautiful, abundant cock.
I answer the call before I think better of it. "Hello?"
Shorthorn's coarse voice, softened by his Texan accent. "Guernsey? That you, boy?"
"Yeah. I'm wearin' Jersey's shorts and his phone was in the pocket."
He grunts. "Where's Jersey now?"
"Asleep," I say. "He was just... uh..." I find myself rubbing my tit as I picture Jersey suckling my newly-transformed body. "I'm... I've become..."
"I know," Shorthorn drawls. "I reckon I know what you've become. Where are you, Guernsey? Are you at Jersey's apartment?"
"I don't know. I just woke up a little while ago. I don't recognize..."
"Is there a big New Jersey Devils banner hanging over the sofa?" he asks, interrupting me. "Is the place full of sports memorabilia and old athletic equipment that smells like stale sweat? That'd be Jersey's apartment."
"No," I say, shaking my head like he can see me. "We're in a hotel. I don't know where -- in a city, though." Standing, I walk to the window. I'd been so busy looking at myself, I hadn't taken the time to figure out where I was. I pull back the curtain and glance down to the street -- we're probably on the fourth or fifth floor. I have a fleeting moment where I wonder if people passing by will look up and see my fantastic new body.
Glancing at the street sign at the intersection below, I know where I am. I say, "Oh!" under my breath. We're still in our hometown, but for some reason, we're staying at a hotel when, according to Shorthorn, we could easily be staying at Jersey's apartment. Why aren't we at Jersey's apartment?
We must be hiding, I realize. That makes everything Jersey said make sense.
Shorthorn's questions prove my suspicion. "Do you know where ya'll are?" he asks. "Do you recognize anything? What do you see?"
I take a moment before I say, "I know where I am, Shorthorn, but for some reason, I don't think I should tell you."
So of course, he takes a moment before he says, "Fair enough, boy. Fair enough. How 'bout this, then? How 'bout YOU come see me?"
"Look, Shorthorn, I don't think..."
"Hear me out, boy. Hear me out. Listen, there's no point in tryin' to keep this secret: the BULL is lookin' for ya'll. No doubt Jersey was waitin' on you to finish your transformation before he busted outta town -- easier to travel when both of ya'll are conscious. You've figured that much out on your own, ain't ya?"
"Yeah. I guess I have."
"Well, listen," he says, his voice earnest, "here's the thing. I think you're really hot, Guernsey. Really hot. And I really want to fuck that fine ass of yours 'afore Jersey steals you away, or before the BULL gets ahold of you, whichever comes first."
He lets me have a moment with that before he continues. "So, if you're in the city -- and I'm pretty sure you are -- why don't you mosey on over here to my office and we can get it on? I promise I won't tell the BULL about it. I give you my word, Guernsey. It'd just be you and me havin' a good ol' time, nothing else."
"I believe you," I say, keeping my voice down even though I know Jersey is sleeping soundly in the bedroom, full of my milk. Ah, guilt already. "But I don't think Jersey would want me to."
"Jersey won't even know. He just drank from you, right?"
I smile at the memory, the tingly reminiscence of my nipples -- it felt so good. "Yeah," I say. "About a half-hour ago."
Shorthorn barks a short laugh. "Plenty of time! You got three-and-a-half, four hours before he even starts to wake up. And that's not countin' the snooze button."
"He said three hours."
"He was lyin'. Trust me, Guernsey. I've fed the man before. I know how he sleeps. Besides, how long you think we're gonna be? I'm at work, Guernsey. This is gonna be a quickie. Hell, even at MY office we gotta get somethin' done."
"Is that a yes?" he asks.
That's how I find myself walking to his office, which, as it turns out, is only three blocks away from the hotel where we are. I not only wear Jersey's cargo shorts, but his workboots as well -- the only clothes of my own I can find are my biking outfit -- which wouldn't come close to fitting me now anyway -- and bike shoes with pedal-clips. I opt to wear Jersey's workboots -- they're sexier anyway. I have the t-shirt I found in the bathroom stuffed into the rear waistband of the cargo shorts -- I'll put it on when I get to Shorthorn's building. That's the only time I'll need to demonstrate propriety.
Here I am in the street, strutting along in the morning sunshine. The light bounces off my tight skin, reflecting my muscular power. People turn their heads and stare, in awe of my size -- no one can believe it. I flex for them, albeit casually, as I walk along.
I wish I was wearing sunglasses, that way I could feel a little more anonymous. Right now I just focus on NOT meeting anyone's eyes. I want them to look at me. I don't want to have to look at them.
My dick flops back and forth within the cargo shorts -- how obvious it is -- but instead of shame or the fear that dictated my old life, I'm proud of my cock. I'm in love with it. I want the world to envy its thickness, desire its length. I want them to wish they were me.
I don't even try to control my building erection.
A woman gasps as she steps out of a building and almost walks into me. As her eyes slide up and down my body, she involuntarily gulps when she passes my package. I smile, say "'Scuse me," and move on. My only interest in women is showing them what they can't have.
I wait with a small group at the cross-walk, focusing on the walk sign as they steal glances at me. No one has dialogue, but I hear stray comments like "Holy shit!" or "Jesus!" or "Look at that!" as the crowd builds around me. At the signal, they part like peasants allowing the royal privilege and then follow me across the street. The people crossing against us, as they themselves gasp and stare at my unexpected perfection, yield as well. It's trippy -- I love it.
I'm at Shorthorn's building almost immediately, and I'm almost sorry for that. I could stand in front of this crowd and flex all day -- maybe I need to think about competing? -- but first things first. Disappointing the folks staring at me in lust and wonder -- myself as well -- I put on the t-shirt I brought along with me, a New York Jets logo in the middle of it, obviously Jersey's, and head into the building. It isn't until I see my reflection in the glass door that I realize a t-shirt doesn't do anything to cover my size and beauty. I look great no matter what I wear -- or don't.
I share the elevator with some fat-ass middle-management, big-gut-over-the-belt type, gross and slovenly. He tries to pretend I'm not in the elevator with him, but when I catch him glancing at me, I say, "I used to be like you."
He looks at me sideways through his little-pig eyes, up and down -- he has more fat on his middle finger than I have on my entire body. "What'd you say?"
"I used to be like you, all fuckin' fat and nasty." I bounce my massive chest beneath my shirt.
He's bitter, sarcastic -- his envy and lust manifests as anger toward me, when he's really angry at himself for looking the way he does. "Oh yeah?" he says. "Then what happened? You drank your milk, right?"
I'm still laughing when I exit the elevator, the fat-fucker behind me silent -- clearly, he's used to being laughed at, even if he doesn't know why. The door closes behind me and he's gone, like all of them -- bound to remember me forever.
Shorthorn has a suite on the seventh floor, although I still don't know what he does, precisely. Doesn't matter, I suppose. I'm not here to look at his resume.
On his office door is a sign for "Abilene Oil" with a logo of a cow standing there stupidly chewing its cud while covered in crude, while more drips down from above. It's cartoony, cute. Beneath that, a nameplate reading "Marshall 'Shorthorn' Sherman -- driller/ cattle rus'ler" -- it makes me smile. The old man sure does have a strange sense of humor.
I'm greeted by a reception area decorated in a south-western theme -- cacti, etc -- with a large circular desk unit. On the wall behind it, too large for the space it occupies, a picture hangs. In grainy black and white, I see an oil well, recently capped. The crew posed before it are exhausted but still humorous, filthy with crude and dirt, black from filth, kneeling in a hasty group-pose for the camera. In the center stands Shorthorn, filthy himself, shirtless, flexing his muscular arms in a double-biceps. They all smile proudly. The plate on the frame reads, "Our First Cap."
A handsome young man is seated at the reception desk, athletic, lightly muscled -- just enough to be bigger than average. He looks up at me as I step into the office, and his eyes widen slightly -- he grunts his approval. "May I help you?" he asks, and I sense his intended layers, the unspoken attraction hanging in the air. His hair is choreographed, and when he tilts his head, it does a little show, dancing into place.
"Yeah," I say, approaching the desk with my confident strut. "Shorthorn's expecting me."
He's got a nice body, this guy. He wears a tight cotton/ spandex blend shirt, which clings to his pretty-boy muscle and exposes his tight arms. Too much jewelry. "Really?" he asks, dripping with sarcasm, like what I say is impossible.
A brief phone call and disbelieving reaction later, we're walking back into the office area. The boy wears these beautiful silk pants, hanging off him like a model in a catalogue, and obviously NOT wearing underwear. His surprisingly large dick flops around as we walk.
A small hallway of several offices, some empty, the occupied hold one exceptionally well-built man after the next, all in suits, or dress shirts and ties, their muscle-size barely contained, confidently going about company business. I have a feeling I know what beverage Shorthorn serves at office parties.
The boy stops outside the corner room and says, "Mr. Sherman's office is right here." He bounces back toward his desk, almost skipping, but stops just before he turns the corner and glances at me -- he can't help but look. I smile and flex my left biceps, impressing myself with my softball-sized peak. When I look back at the boy, he's gone.
With one knuckle, I rap twice on Shorthorn's door. His spirited "Yeah?" gets me inside.
It's the biggest office in the suite, open and spacious -- windows along two walls! -- a rectangular space divided into two areas: office and social. Large desk/ computer workstation, well-crafted -- PAINFULLY well-decorated -- and the sitting area, sofa, coffee-table, entertainment center, Shorthorn reeks of success.
He's sitting at the desk but stands when I come in. Crisp shirt and tie, gabardine pants, nothing Shorthorn wears comes close to hiding his muscular development, his freakish endowment. The opposite, in fact. His tailored clothing emphasizes his incredible build, his thick muscle, his bodybuilder body. His knockout tits do their best to escape -- his nipples force themselves against the material.
"Well, howdy-damn, boy. Look at you!" He smiles beneath his trim, gray mustache, showing his Marlboro-man face, deeply indented lines leading to dimples. "Whoo doggie, Jersey will pack the mass on a man, won't he?"
I give him a double-bi. "You like?"
"Shut the door."
Shorthorn inspects me as I stand at attention. He circles me, studying all angles -- he actually touches my ass -- then says, "Take your shirt off."
A pleasure to obey -- my cock quickly twitches -- to expose my beautiful new chest, my massive man-tits. Dropping the shirt on the floor near the desk, I bounce my pecs for him, smirking. When he reaches out to touch them, I reach out in turn to unbutton his shirt. He looks at my hand disapprovingly. "No," he says in a tone that expects compliance. "Put your hands behind your back."
I do -- another twitch.
"Good boy," he says. He only comes up to my shoulder, and I'm bigger than he is, but I obey. Perhaps it's his age -- maybe his aura. "I reckon I ain't the discipline freak the BULL is," he says, feeling my body like I was a piece of meat at the butcher shop, "but I expect to be obeyed."
"Yes, sir," I say, before I realize what I've said.
He smiles. "You can call me 'Shorthorn' still -- we're in the same Herd. You don't know much about this, do you?"
As he lowers his face into my cleavage, he says, "I reckon it's somethin' Jersey's fixin' to tell you as you're runnin' out of town. I wouldn't worry about it." He presses his maw into my sternum, kissing the deepest cut. I roll my head back as he licks along the base of my pec toward the nipple. His facial hair tickles my skin -- my tits want to grow. "Don't grow, boy. Don't do it," he mumbles as his tongue continues its exploration, sensing my thoughts. "You can control it. You don't HAVE to transform."
I'm almost panting. "I don't?"
My question causes him to pull his head away. Perhaps he senses my distress, my need for SOME answers. He keeps his hands on my ribs, holding me in place. "No, of course you don't. You're not a freak, Guernsey -- you can still have regular man-to-man sex. But after drinkin' our milk, you gotta sleep -- and neither one of us have time for that right now. So, there's no milk today. Today's all about fuckin'."
I grunt, and fight the urge to transform -- it's not as easy as you'd think.
"That's not to say I'm not curious about what your milk would do to me."
"What? What do you mean?"
He shrugs. "All of us add muscle mass," he says, breaking contact with me and stepping back. I continue at attention with my hands behind my back -- I sense I should do this until he says otherwise. "Well, to greater or lesser degrees, anyway -- you hardly get any growth at all from Angus or Ayrshire -- though they have other benefits."
Now I'm curious. "Like what?" I ask.
"We each have special qualities," he explains, taking on the natural role of teacher. He paces back and forth. "A guy gets something different from each one of us -- that's why the BULL screens clients so carefully. You know, um, Jersey will get you lots of lean mass and a little boost in testosterone. It's fun to work out for like a week after you've drunk from Jersey. Holstein gives ya height, and I reckon you can see I haven't drunk much from Holstein -- hardly anybody does. But you know that already, don't ya?"
I remember yesterday at the tree, Angus' Sacred Field, and the battle I had there with Holstein. I never considered that I'd have to deal with him again. "I'm just glad I'm not alone," I say.
He smirks. "That's for sure. Now let's see, Jersey gives you lean mass, Holstein height. Angus gets you ripped up -- his milk pretty much DISSOLVES body fat. There's lotsa demand for Angus -- he gets plenty of work. Course, he's a personal trainer at heart, so he tends to take on PROJECTS, not clients like the rest of us." He chuckles. "I reckon you know that, too. You're a product of Angus, really."
He takes a moment to let that guilt sink in before he continues. "And then Ayrshire," he says, rolling his eyes. "That boy's a mess. No surprise, really, given what his milk does."
"What does HIS do?"
Shorthorn snorts. "Libido," he says, smiling. "The boy's like OD-ing on Viagra. It gives you an almost uncontrollable desire -- but I reckon that's not a shock to you, either. Seems to me you're a victim of Ayrshire in a way. Probably wouldn'ta done what you did if you hadn't drunk from him and had had your sense about ya."
"I guess. I don't know."
"Look here, Guernsey," he says, stepping closer, his volume down a notch, his tone sincere, "what happened with you yesterday was not your fault. You were not in your right mind -- you were in the middle of your transformation. No, it was Jersey who was wrong. It's JERSEY the BULL wants -- the BULL ain't mad at you."
"But I tempted Jersey," I say, almost pleading. "I begged him to fuck me. I MADE him."
"No, no," Shorthorn says, putting his hands on my shoulders, looking me directly in my eye. "You didn't MAKE him. Jersey had a choice. He knew better. You were under the spell of your transformation and he took advantage of that. It's not your fault, Guernsey."
I break eye-contact with him, looking down, shamed, embarrassed -- emotions I never expected to have when I became a massive freak -- maybe coming here was a mistake. I gotta change the subject. "So, how 'bout you?" I ask, trying to regain my cool, lifting my head and meeting eyes. "What bonus does a guy get from drinkin' your milk?"
He smiles devilishly. "The best prize of all," he says, releasing my shoulder and fondling his package. "Cock size." He winks.
"No shit...?" I ask, suspiciously.
"You saw my receptionist Michael on the way in. I reckon you saw some of the other guys, too. You don't think they came that way, do you? Partner, I have the best incentive program in the business world -- meet your quotas, get a bigger dick. You'd be surprised how hard my employees work."
We laugh together, chuckling while we share the joke. "So you fuck 'em all?" I ask, and he's suddenly serious.
"I don't fuck any of 'em," he says, shaking his head. "You don't fuck outside the Herd. Can't take the chance of them gettin' your cum. They can drink your milk, but nothin' else. The BULL's the only one's allowed to transform folk. That's why Jersey's in the trouble he's in -- worse for him, he took someone the BULL had MARKED! Jersey was clearly thinkin' with his dick -- a dick I helped him get." He snorts suddenly, and energetically adds, "You should'a seen Jersey when I first met him, all bloated-up on juice, with his shriveled cock and atrophied little balls. He's a damn-sight better now, ain't he?"
I nod, again in memory. "Yeah..."
His smile becomes seductive. "Well, if you liked the student, I reckon you're gonna love the teacher." He pulls me to him and kisses me, wrapping me in a bear-hug, my arms trapped behind my back. As he breaks it, he mumbles, "I'm gonna fuck you like you've never been fucked before, boy. You're gonna go back to Jersey and dream of me. Every time he fucks you from now on, you're gonna think back to this moment and remember bein' full of Shorthorn's cock." He flicks his eyebrows. "The BULL may be bigger, but I reckon no one's got my technique."
I return his smile. "You're a mighty confident fellow," I say, causing him to squeeze me a bit tighter.
"I ain't braggin'," he says, "just statin' facts."
I kiss him, the only option available to me at the moment. I can feel his big cock growing against my own package. As the kiss deepens, he releases me, and I sink slowly to my knees. He holds the kiss as long as he can, bending over slightly, but our lips finally separate as my knees touch the ground. The buckle of his belt is directly before me, but I can see the oblong jut of his cock directly beneath it.
As I unbuckle his belt and unzip his pants, his places his hands gently on my shoulders. Looking up at him looking down on me over the mass of his mature muscle, I reach into his pants, past the soft, silk boxer shorts, and pull out his cock.
It takes both hands.
He's not yet fully erect, still malleable though firm, but he's simply gigantic, his cock the size of a rolling pin. I gasp.
He laughs. "Told you it was big," he says. "Only the BULL's bigger."
It's heavy, too -- warm, almost hot -- I can feel his heartbeat, his life-force. I kiss the piss-slit, and try to open my mouth wide enough to take the head. He growls deeply. "Only Ayrshire's only been able to take the whole thing," he says, putting his hand on the back of my head, gently pressing it in. "Not that that's a challenge, or anything."
No gag-reflex can be repressed enough to handle Shorthorn -- he's simply too big. He fills my mouth like dough, leaving me no room to breathe, much less manipulate, forcing my jaw further and further open. As he slips into my throat, I choke.
"That's okay. That's okay," he says, pulling himself out. I lick and slobber on it as much as I can -- it's a beautiful cock; I just can't swallow it. "I told ya. Don't fret none, boy. Your ass'll be able to take it." He motions to the sofa with his head. "Lean against the back of that."
On the way there, I unbuckle the belt on my cargo shorts, cinched tight to keep the shorts on my perfect abs, my narrow waist -- I love saying that! -- they catch themselves low on my hips, unable to fall over the round mounds of my glutes. I let them stay there, perched precariously, and bend over a little, placing my hands on the back of the sofa.
Shorthorn has slipped out of his pants, laying them on the desk -- "I don't want 'em to wrinkle," he says, shrugging his mighty traps. He still wears his shirt and tie, though he's unbuttoned the bottom few buttons, exposing his well-toned lower abs. His cock juts obscenely up, a slight curve back to himself.
He steps into the space between my spread legs, reaching around my torso and pressing our bodies together. Through the material, I can feel the giant lump of his cock against the crack of my ass -- I'm hungry for it, like I just drank from Ayrshire. He grabs my inner-thighs and flat palms his way up past my package, my own throbbing erection, until he reaches the button of my shorts, popping it open. "You're right lucky I don't rip these right off'en you," he says. Instead they fall to my feet. I step out of them.
While he holds my lower abs with one hand, he opens my ass cheeks with his other, pressing the head of his cock on my hole. "No warm-ups?" I ask, betraying my nerves. "No foreplay?"
"You're gonna do just fine, boy. Once it's inside you, you'll forget about anything else. That's a promise."
So in it goes. I mean... my ass... what it can do...
It just knows. I mean, it's instinctual. It just relaxes. It just opens and invites him in. And the more it gets, the more it wants -- my ass -- it's in control. It reaches out with muscles I didn't realize I had and pulls him in. "Oh, yeah," he says, as he re-centers himself by completely standing and placing his hands on my hips for balance. "Told you your ass knows."
I'm stuffed full of Shorthorn, and it feels so good. And he's right -- when he starts to thrust, all I can think about is the pleasure, the extraordinary pressure and power, the deep, primal need. Everything centers around Shorthorn's magnificent cock.
"Here's the best part, boy," he mumbles, thrusting. "I can control my orgasm -- I can hold it off for hours. How long you want this to go on, boy?"
"Don't stop," I grunt, accepting him. "Don't stop."
He slams deep for a couple of strokes -- it's like ringing a bell inside me. I want to cum! I want to transform! He's so fucking big. "But what if Jersey wakes up?" he asks, teasing me. "What if Jersey wakes up and wants to fuck? Whose cock would you rather have inside you, boy?"
I don't know what to answer. I don't want him to stop.
Before he demands a response, the intercom on his desk beeps. I can feel Shorthorn turn, distracted by it. Clearly he's left word not to be disturbed. Before he can speak, his receptionist's voice comes through the speaker. "Mr. Sherman?" asks the voice, an almost desperate whisper. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Sir, but it's important. The BULL's here!"
"What?" Shorthorn and I say almost simultaneously. I can feel his dick soften.
"He just now barged in, Sir -- he seems angry. AND HE'S ON HIS WAY BACK TO YOUR OFFICE!!!"
"Holy shit," Shorthorn says, pulling himself out of me. My ass doesn't want to let him go until he slaps my butt-cheek with his open hand. "We're screwed."
We're desperately grabbing clothes when there's a powerful knock on the door. "Hey, Shorthorn," comes the BULL's powerful voice, "why the fuck's this door locked?"
Shorthorn and I look at each other. "Screwed," he mumbles.
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