Milk Man 2

The Origin Story


By AbsMan420


It's a dull thud, not a knock -- he's obviously hammering the door with the base of his fist. From the depths of the sound's resonance, his very large fist. Then the dark rumble of a voice from the other side of the door, his voice -- the BULL. "Hey, Shorthorn? What the fuck?"

Shorthorn hurries into his pants as I pull my shorts up, fumble with the belt, the clasp -- Shit! He's gonna break the door down! "Hold on!" Shorthorn calls, in a tone more angry than afraid. Then, to me, he stage-whispers, "Git under the desk!"


He tosses me my t-shirt. "Git under the desk. Git!" he whispers -- his pants are still open as he walks to the door. I quickly dart around the thing, pull out his chair, and dodge into the space -- a tight squeeze for someone of my proportion, but just enough. I hear Shorthorn unlock and open the door. "Can't an old man be incontinent with some privacy?" he says, and despite the humor, his tone shows his mock-annoyance. "You forget I have my own bathroom in here?" It explains why he's buckling his pants. Smart dodge.

I can hear the BULL enter the room, the heavy steps of his purposeful stride. "I forgot," the BULL says, his bass tones operatic in their depth. "Look, I'm pissed off. Holstein's disappeared."

Shorthorn shuts the door. "What?" he says.

What? I think, mouthing the word.

"You heard me. I haven't seen him since before you guys went on your little ride yesterday."

"He didn't go home?"

"No, he was a no-show last night. And he wasn't there when I got up this morning. Do you think he might'a joined up with Jersey?"

That's the question. THAT'S why he's here -- it doesn't have anything to do with me. Well, at least it doesn't have anything to do with Shorthorn and me being together, and that's something of a relief. On the other hand, I am crouched into a tiny space beneath a man's desk in order to hide my guilt. Maybe Holstein's disappearance DOES have something to do with me, if only in an oblique sense.

Shorthorn snorts. "Are you kiddin'? Holstein sidin' with JERSEY? That's almost laughable." Someone sits on the edge of the desk, which creaks a tiny bit of protest.

"You don't think...?"

"No," says Shorthorn, his voice so close that I know it's him sitting above me. "I admit, I'm surprised Holstein ain't confronted you. He was pretty pissed off yesterday. Angus told you what he did, didn't he?"

The BULL's voice is a little quieter, a little less forceful. "Yeah," he says. "I know what he did."

"I ain't gonna lie to you," Shorthorn says. "If Holstein had been there, this whole thing with Jersey probably wouldn't o' happened. Like him or not, Holstein runs a tight Herd, but I don't think he'd join up with Jersey. Too much history there."

"Well, we need to find both of 'em, together or not. I'm not gonna have stray cattle running around, especially one willing to steal a calf from me. Can you put a trace on their accounts? Find out if either of 'em are using their credit cards or anything? That'd be a start."


"Good," grunts the BULL. "Now, on another subject, how would you feel about suckin' my dick? Like I said, Holstein wasn't there this morning, and I'm still ridin' my last feedin' from Ayrshire."

Shorthorn gets up off the desk. "That'd be my pleasure," he drawls. "Always happy to serve you, my BULL."

The BULL chuckles. "I love when you tough-guy tops give up to me," he says.

"A-yup. Yer the only man's ever broke me, BULL."

Another laugh, a shuffling of bodies, the unzipping of pants, and I hear the wet sounds of sex, the muffled moan of the BULL as Shorthorn sucks the cock I've only seen in plastic and fantasy. Another sound from the BULL, a moist release of air, and the desk heaves around me as a massive weight settles on it.

I lift my head a little bit -- a little bit is all I can. My head pushes into the underside of the desk at the same time as the BULL's heavy ass rests against the top. I can hear Shorthorn's slurp, inches from me, and the BULL's grunting vocalizations. And as nervous as I am at the moment, not just from fear that the stupid desk will collapse from the weight of the two beasts atop it, shifting from the involuntary thrust of the BULL's hips, I can't help but be turned on. The very idea of what they're doing, visualizing it, it starts to get ME hard. It's the first time I've ever been aroused by the SOUND of sex.

Balled up the way I am, crouched down like I'm doing a cannonball into the deep-end of a pool, I can't even touch myself. My cock pushes uncomfortably in my shorts and I can't even move to adjust it -- I gotta be careful or my chest will start to grow.

And then, with a creak of the desk, one last massive thrust, the BULL cums. I hear his roar and sense his release -- it fills my ears, my being, my soul, and I cum myself, barely able to control my own voice. I almost scream along with him.

I hear Shorthorn -- his mouth obviously stuffed full -- groan in his throat, and the wet smack of his spunk on the side of the desk. Seems like when the BULL cums, everybody cums. I quietly fight gasping, trying to even-out my breath.

"Fuck, yeah!" rumbles the BULL. I can hear Shorthorn lapping and slurping and cleaning him off. "Take it all, Shorthorn. Yeah, that's the way -- like it's a reward. My cum is a reward." A moment, then he adds, "You could use a little more size, anyway."

Shorthorn chuckles.

Abruptly, the BULL stands -- the desk, relieved, stretches back to place -- and pushes Shorthorn away. "I gotta take a leak," he says. "Where's that bathroom again?"

Shorthorn's voice, smacking his lips, "Over there."

"Excellent," says the BULL, his voice moving away from the desk. "Get your shit cleaned up. We gotta start lookin' for those guys."

A door opens. Closes. A second later, the strong sound of the BULL's stream.

Suddenly, the desk chair is pulled away, and there's Shorthorn. "Time to go, boy," he whispers. "Git!"

He grabs my arm and helps pull me out. As I stand, I look around -- over there on the other side of the bookcase, there's a frosted door, the bathroom. I can see the shadow of the BULL -- the mass I'd all but forgotten, the heroic width of his back -- he continues to piss.

Shorthorn literally shoves me out the office door. He winks and shuts it quietly behind me.

I run out of the office, trying to put my shirt on and hastily buckle my pants. The receptionist smirks as I speed by. "Come again," he calls after me.

It isn't until I'm in the elevator that my heart starts to find its regular rhythm, my breathing evens itself out -- and it isn't until I'm in the confined space of the elevator that I realize I reek of sex and cum. Jersey's shorts are stained from my orgasm, a little trickle heading down the cuts in my thigh. I wipe myself off, unable to resist licking my fingers.

God damn, I'm good.

When the elevator opens on the lobby, I ignore the stares and reactive sniffs and hurry out of the building. Back in the street, I run. There's no time to enjoy the public exhibition -- although I'm sure the way my pecs bounce when I run turns more than a few heads. I cover the three blocks between Shorthorn's office and the hotel where Jersey and I hide in less than a minute, dodging cars and slow-witted pedestrians.

I'm barely winded as I step into the elevator of the hotel, though a light sweat has broken out evenly on my skin -- my new body is in incredible athletic shape. Riding to our room, it's the first time I realize what a narrow escape I just had. NOW I'm shaken.

A swipe of the room key, and I quietly open the door.

I can hear Jersey snoring.

Thank God!

I immediately search for a clock. There, on the TV stand. Reading the time and quickly doing the math, I realize the whole trip to Shorthorn's took about an hour and a half, which means Jersey's been asleep for a little over two, which means I've had three orgasms in less than three hours.

I like those numbers!

I intend to take a quick shower, to wash the smell of sex off myself, but once I start soaping up, once I start feeling my magnificent body, it turns into a slow, sensual experience. I waste almost a half an hour getting to know myself, feeling every inch, every crevice and nook, every fold and ridge, flexing each individual muscle, worshipping every inch.

I ache to transform again. I want to see my chest at its biggest -- I want to be swollen and almost painfully engorged -- I have a growing hunger to feed others.

I turn the shower off only when the hot water starts to wan. Using the last of the room's towels, I dry off, then wrap it around myself, low on my hips. The fog on the mirror keeps me from seeing myself completely -- a shame. I can only see how hot I am when I look down at myself.

When I step back into the living room, I jump when I hear Jersey's voice. "Yo, took you long enough," he teases. He stands naked in the doorway to the bedroom, leaning against the frame, arms crossed, ankles crossed, big dick flopping along his thigh.

He's bigger.

My milk made him grow. He's more muscular, larger -- maybe ten, fifteen pounds -- but there's something else. He looks... different. Well fed. Full. I can't put my finger on it.

He flexes into a most-muscular, then opens into a double-bis. "You put some good bulk on me," he says. "I haven't felt this thick since I played ball in college." He flexes his legs, rubs his stomach. He's not quite as defined as before -- it especially shows in his abs.

I'm confused. "What... what did I do?"

He continues posing, showing his hamstrings and his lat spread. "You know each of us has our own special thing, right? Angus ever tell you that?"

"I've heard," I said. "What do you think mine is?"

He smiles, flexing his smooth, undefined abs. "You add bulk," he says. "You know, fatty muscle, not lean mass like me."

"Fatty muscle?" I ask. I'm disappointed -- he can read it in my tone.

"Yo, bro, don't be down! Bulk muscle i'n't bad. You'll be wanted material, man -- football players, off-season bodybuilders, powerlifters. Lotsa guys want bulk."


"I'm tellin' ya, Guernsey. Guys want size. Most guys think, put on mass in the winter, clean it up in the summer. Believe me, Home, you're gonna make a fuckin' fortune." Suddenly, subject dismissed, he claps his hands once before himself then rubs them together. "Now, we got shit to do. We gotta get the fuck outta here."

He turns around and re-enters the bedroom, talking the entire time. "I got some clothes in my gym bag that should fit ya," he says, pulling the big black bag out from under the bed. "You'll prob'ly be able to wear my sizes now. You don't look that much smaller 'n me."

I take the clothes from him -- warm-up pants and a t-shirt -- the pants are too big, the only thing holding them up are my round, high ass, and my big cock pushing its way against the front. Even tying the string at the waistband doesn't help much. "Jersey," I say, "I really want to understand what's goin' on around here. Please." I pull the t-shirt over my head -- THAT fits beautifully, accentuating my now perfect build.

He dials the hotel phone, then holds a finger up to me, requesting quiet. "Yo, hey," he says into the receiver. "Dis is room 420 -- I'll be checkin' out. Yeah, you can leave it on the card I checked-in wit'. Good, good. Yo, you got a shuttle what goes to the train station? Okay, how long? Okay. Okay, buzz me up here when it's ready. Good. T'anks." He hangs up, then turns back to me. "We got about twenty minutes."

"What's goin' on, Jersey?"

He slides into a pair of bikini briefs, well worn, but still not giving the support genitalia the size of his need. "We gotta get the fuck outta town," he says, adjusting his package until he's comfortable. "The BULL's after us -- well, he's after me. I dunno what he'd do to you." He shrugs, and grabs another pair of cargo shorts from his bag. "And we ain't stickin' around to find out. We're gettin' outta here -- hoppin' the train someplace. I ain't ready to take him on, yet."

"So we have about twenty minutes?" I ask as he slides the shorts up over his deadly thighs. More adjustments have to be made to his package before he reaches for a shirt.

"Yeah," he says, nodding, pulling out a sleeveless tee. "We just gonna chill here 'til the shuttle's ready -- try NOT to do the nasty."

"Okay, then do me a favor," I say, sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Yo, anything."

"Tell me the Origin Story."

He's confused, shooting me a look before he slips the t-shirt over his head. "Whaddya mean?" It's a New Jersey Devils trainer.

"Tell me the story of how it all came to be, how it started. Where did the Herd come from? Where did the BULL come from? How did all of this happen? You know, the Origin Story."

He's still confused, and God love him, his ignorance makes him all the more attractive. It IS gonna be hard to keep from "doin' the nasty" -- as he so eloquently put it. "Angus didn't tell you none o' that when he was trainin' ya?"

"No," I say, shaking my head. "He said I'd find out after I got in the Herd. He treated everything like it was some big secret."

Jersey rolls his eyes and smiles. "He's such a dumb-ass. It's all one big college fraternity to him. Okay, okay," he says, flopping himself down on the bed next to me, "I'll tell ya the fuckin' Origin Story. That should fill about five minutes." He props a pillow beneath himself, leaning against the headboard. "Yo, lessee... it started out with Holstein, or Hal Goldstein, as he used to be known.

"He was a skinny little twat, not worth nothin' or even deservin' to call his-self a man. The only thing Hal Goldstein ever did that was any good was gettin' turned into a Milk Man, and I think THAT happened by accident. I can't believe Angus never told you none o' this."

I shrug -- he smiles, then continues. "Well, Goldstein's training partner was this tough guy named Eric Masters. You know, football player, hockey jock -- so gay he was homophobic -- decently big, but not huge. Could o' been if he'd done supps, or geared up, but he wouldn't do the drugs. He was so fuckin' clean cut. Funny." Jersey chuckles to himself. "Anyway, Goldstein starts feedin' him and he starts growin'. And all o' sudden, this hundred-ninety pound guy is shootin' up to two-thirty, two-forty, right? That's when I noticed him.

"I was a regular bodybuilder, junior level, just won my first state contest -- the overall, too -- and I was lookin' forward to findin' a sponsor and gettin' my pro card and a nice contract with Weider and maybe pullin' off the Olympia someday. So all o' sudden there's this guy in my gym goes from one-ninety to two-fifty in less than a month, I wanna know what the fuck he's on, yo?

"So Eric and I become buds. We got the same hunger to get big, you know? Well, turns out that Goldstein, not knowin' his cum is what turns a guy into a Milk Man, accidentally -- he says -- turns Eric into one of 'em."

I interrupt him. "Why do you say it like that?" I ask, crinkling my brow.

"Ah, Goldstein was jealous o' me. Little fag, he didn't like that me and Eric were buds, so I think he transformed Eric on purpose in order to keep Eric tied to him. What he didn't know was once he transformed Eric, Eric started feedin' me. And man, the two of us blew up then! Me feedin' from Eric, Eric feedin' from Goldstein, we exploded that winter! At the same time -- to be 'fair' -- Eric was tryin' to get Goldstein to grow along with us. He wanted EVERYONE to be huge." Jersey laughs again.

"Goldstein didn't want to be a part of it. Fuckin' douche-bag. He became a real pain in the ass right about then -- more so than now. I still don't know why Eric keeps him around -- what sense of duty, or responsibility, or guilt. Ah, don't matter. Because of the way Goldstein was acting, that's when Eric transformed me. Here I was spending thousands on supps and drugs and shit, I swallow one guy's magic cum, and I don't need none of it no more.

"Course, I still wanted to compete. I mean, I STILL want to compete -- I love doin' it -- bein' up on stage in some skimpy little trunks, flexin' for a screamin' crowd -- but at the time, neither me or Eric was in competition shape. We was fuckin' gigantic, but we'd just be bloated freaks on stage. We'd win the crowd, but not the contest.

"That's when we brought Angus into the group. Angus was a personal trainer, a cyclist, a triathlete, a nutritionist -- all that -- ripped for shit. He had abs on his fuckin' abs. He had a weak chest, tho." Jersey snorts once more, entertaining himself. "But Eric took care o' that, didn't he?"

"It was Angus come up with all the 'Big Ride' bullshit. 'A creative way to train for competition' he called it." Jersey rolls his eyes. "Yo, I hate all that shit. I was gettin' ripped just by drinkin' his milk -- I hate that bike shit.

"Right about then, Eric comes up with the idea of the Herd -- sort of an escort service with a muscular twist -- guy hires one o' us, feeds, and he gains some weight. Eric runs the whole thing. We become cows for hire -- he becomes 'the BULL.'

"The business fuckin' takes off like crazy! Within half a year, we can barely handle the demand. The BULL can barely handle the money -- it's comin' in hand over fist. Smartest move he made was bringing in Shorthorn. I don't know where they met, whether Shorthorn was a member of our gym or a client of the BULL's or what, but the old man owned his own business, and was an investment banker besides. He was happy to get a new body for the price of handling the BULL's money and business dealings.

"And Shorthorn had another affect on the BULL -- he made more things grow 'n just the BULL's already huge muscle. The BULL's cock became freakish -- almost impossible. Angus added the dildo-thing to the Big Ride so's we'd have a chance of bein' able to take it, but it wa'n't easy. And the BULL ain't the type to go easy -- if he wants his cock in ya, his cock goes in.

"I don't know where Ayrshire come from. We was together as a group about a year, makin' money, bookin' clients, fuckin' the shit outta each other on the side, and then one day the BULL shows up with this kid -- this high-school wrestler -- this pretty-boy -- and insists we induct him. This kid was clearly just a little fuck-toy for the BULL, and none of us really thought much of him -- the BULL had transformed him before we could even break him into the Herd. His Big Ride was just us puttin' on a show.

"Turns out the kid is a HELLUVA fuck. And drinkin' from him'll drive you wild for like a week, but that's about all he's worth. He fuckin' WORSHIPS the BULL, practically BEGS the man to fuck him. It's pathetic!" Jersey shakes his head. "But that's what the BULL likes -- he likes you to degrade yerself in front o' him. He gets off on humiliation."

I remember my own experiences with the BULL -- "gets off on humiliation" is an understatement.

Jersey mock sighs and stretches his arms. "And that's it," he says, getting up off the bed. "That's the Origin Story. Exciting, i'n't it? That filled about ten minutes." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Oh, yeah. Six months later, we add you." He opens his arms before himself in a gesture of "that's all there is -- you know the rest," then he grabs the gymbag.

Just then, a knock at the door, startling Jersey. He immediately calms. "The shuttle," he mumbles.

But whoever's knocking, they're not using their knuckles. It's a dull thud really, not a knock -- whoever's hammering on the door is using the base of their fist. From the depths of the sound's resonance, their very large fist. This moment -- there's something familiar about it...

By the time I realize, it's too late. We've just entered the living room as the door explodes in, kicked off its splintering hinges and flying across the room. It slams against the far wall and topples to the floor with a loud crash. I look back to the entrance in time to see him come in, his massive legs and his powerful stride.

Through the settling dust and broken door-frame steps the giant, muscle-laden BULL, even bigger than I remember -- seemingly pumped-up from his anger. He has to duck his head to get in the doorway.

"Hello, Jersey," he says, his voice low and resonant, his anger barely concealed. "You and me got some things to discuss."

Jersey, realizing his only chance, takes the first swing.

It's on. •

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