Milk Man 2

Battle of the Bulls


By AbsMan420


Jersey weighs three-hundred and six pounds. He told me that only yesterday -- though it seems like ages ago -- as we pedaled along on our bikes during the Big Ride, getting to know each other. Five-eleven, three-hundred and six pounds, and like the rest of the Herd, his bodyfat is almost nil. Of course, since yesterday, he's fed from me, and he claims that I add bulk weight -- you know, fatty muscle -- find the irony in that -- so he's even bigger now.

Look at him. Look at his legs. I mean, get out your French curve from your old graphic design courses and plot the slope of his thighs. Watch some brilliant animator capture the shape, the feeling of mass and strength and sinewy grace in simple, thick black lines. Look how they form a stable base for his hulking upper body. Picture Jersey's size if you can. See the immensity of a three-hundred-plus pound bodybuilder, the width of his shoulders, the height of his traps, the depth of his cuts.

Look at his chest. Look at that over-developed, out-of-proportion chest, his tits as big as his ego. They reflect his confidence, his sexuality. Combined with the brute size of his arms, he looks like a superhero, molded for tights and cape. Especially now.

So take a second to imagine what it would be like to meet Jersey as an adversary. Imagine the power a three-hundred and six pound body contains, how much strength it holds. Imagine those muscles driven by rage instead of lust, the way he might use his sheer size for intimidation and victory. Imagine facing him on the football field, or what it would be like to receive a punch driven by the hamhock that he calls a forearm, those five thick fingers curled into a single unit of destruction. Think about what that would do to you, how much it would hurt.

Now, remember that as Jersey's blow is almost completely shrugged off by the gigantic BULL. Sure, he snaps his head to the side, but I think he's rolling with it more than affected by it. When he slowly turns his head back to face us, the corner of his lips curl up in a smile.

The BULL is head and shoulders taller than me, making him nearly seven feet. And as difficult as it might be to imagine someone of Jersey's size and proportion, the BULL is that much bigger. Have you ever seen those morphs floating around the web, like the ones by that "N"-guy? The subjects, with their impossible torsos and gigantic extremities? Those crazy cocks that hang down to their knees? So muscularly over-developed that there's no possible way they could exist as creatures of flesh and blood?

Well, there one stands. The BULL. Even bigger than he was when I first met him a month ago -- taller, thicker. But not a photograph, not a stale image -- he's a living being standing before me. He breaths -- he sweats -- he exists. Dressed in a pair of white tights that stop at the knee, exposing his freakish calves, white gym shoes, and a pinstripe baseball jersey, the "BULL's Dairy" logo where the Yankee symbol should be. He fills the shirt completely, buttons struggling to stay closed over the mounds of his chest, sleeves ready to burst. The shirt-tails hang just long enough to barely cover his groin, though his cock is still visible trailing down his left thigh.

Jersey swings again, a combination, a quick blow to the body and a fist square in the jaw. Again, the BULL hardly reacts, though a tiny drop of blood suddenly appears on his lip. They glare at each other for a moment, as they each realize in their own way how ineffective Jersey's assault has been. Then the BULL lifts his arm and almost casually backhands Jersey, which sends Jersey flying across the room.

He slams into the wall with a force sufficient enough to knock the wind out of him, and dent the drywall. As Jersey slumps to the floor, the BULL takes another step toward him. "You done fuckin' around, Jersey?" the BULL rumbles -- I remember that voice so clearly from Shorthorn's office.

Jersey is on his hands and knees, trying to catch his breath -- he drools onto the floor.

"Thought you were gonna run away from me, didn't ya? Didn't ya?!?" He kicks Jersey in the shoulder, flipping him over and knocking him back. "Steal my power! Steal my calf! I'm gonna fuckin' destroy you!"

As he grabs the front of Jersey's shirt and lifts the three-hundred-and-six pound bodybuilder off the floor with one hand, as he pulls his other arm back and cocks for a punch, I shout, "No! Please!"

The BULL snaps his head in my direction, looking over his shoulder, and I'm suddenly sorry for the attention. His eyes burn in his anger. He quickly gives me the up&down and grunts, pursing his lips. "Shut the fuck up," he says. "I'm gonna finish your training soon enough." He shakes Jersey's semi-conscious body. "C'mon, Jersey. Show me what you got."

The BULL swings, and sends Jersey across the room again, flopping to the floor like a muscular rag-doll after hitting the wall. "No wonder you were slinkin' away," the BULL says, advancing on him once more. "I thought if anybody could give me a good fight, it'd be you, Jersey. But you're just a big, fuckin' pussy."

Jersey fights his way into a crouch -- he needs heroic musical underscoring. "Yo, I ain't done yet," he says. Not exactly a crouch, it's a four-point stance, from Jersey's college days playing the line in football. He launches out of it, driven by his powerful legs and massive, muscular ass. He hits the BULL in the middle of the torso, using his forearms and his legs to push the BULL back.

As strong as he may be, even the BULL can't resist the explosive force of Jersey's charge. He moves back about five feet before he can brace his legs well-enough to fight back. They wrestle for control, strong arms grappling for a hold somewhere on the other's round, swollen muscle.

The BULL must have eighty pounds on Jersey, and at least a foot in height. He's also getting an erection, his huge dick swelling beneath the spandex tights he wears -- what was it Jersey said, that the BULL gets off on humiliation? The BULL seems to find this whole scene merely foreplay. "C'mon, Jersey," he growls as they wrestle, "show me somethin'."

Jersey throws a couple blows to the body, a quick upper-cut on the BULL's lantern jaw. No effect. The gigantic man has no apparent weakness. Laughing, the BULL slams his knee into Jersey's gut, doubling him over, then raises his arms and double-fists Jersey in the back of the neck.

Jersey goes down, collapsing flat on the floor.

The BULL squats down next to him, grabbing his hair and lifting his head so they can look in each other's eyes. Jersey is bloody and bruising -- his left eye is already swollen shut. "You had enough?" the BULL asks quietly.

Jersey groans.

The BULL shifts his weight and places a foot directly beneath Jersey's face. He speaks with a degree of intimacy that surprises me, given the circumstances. "You're never gonna be bigger than me, Jersey. Never. This was your lamest attempt yet. When are you just gonna accept it? I'm always gonna be bigger than you -- and you're always gonna submit to me. That's why I'm the BULL, and you're nothin' but my fuckin' cow."

Is Jersey crying? Is that why his breathing is so shallow and stuttered? Blood drips from his mouth when he tries to speak, hoarsely whispering, "You're the BULL..."

"Right," says the BULL, leaning in a little closer to Jersey's face. "Now say, 'I'm not a bull. I'm nothin' but a piece of shit cow that belongs to you, the REAL bull.'"

Jersey IS crying, the tears course down his face, even from his swollen left eye, blood flows from his nose and mouth. A knot forms on the side of his forehead. "I'm not a bull," he says, fighting actual sobs, dying to maintain his dignity. "I'm nothin' but a piece of shit cow that belongs to you... the REAL bull."

The real BULL pushes Jersey's head down, until Jersey's face is immediately above the BULL's shoe. Openly sobbing, Jersey puckers his swollen lips as best he can and kisses the tops of the laces -- once, twice -- he tentatively licks with his tongue, leaving a bloody streak behind.

The BULL grunts his satisfaction and stands, releasing Jersey from his grip. Jersey continues to kiss the BULL's shoe until the BULL kicks him away. Jersey lies in a heap next to the wall, defeated, quietly crying, holding himself and fighting to stay conscious.

When the BULL turns to me, the first thing I see is his erection fighting the confines of the spandex tights, the way he proudly displays it to me, allowing it psychological impact before he speaks. "And you," he growls, "if you're lucky, you won't get the beating I just gave your boyfriend." He reaches down then and grabs that monstrous cock, adjusting himself, then giving the head a quick pinch. "For right now though, I'm just gonna reclaim my property, and give you the fuck you shoulda gotten yesterday."

"What?" I ask, weakly.

He takes a few more steps, crowding me toward the wall. "Stupid shit cow. I own you," he says. "I just beat up your little weak-ass bull, so you're part of MY Herd now -- and that means I get to take the 'Bull's Privilege' and fuck you whenever I feel like it. And I always feel like it." He smiles, and lowers his voice a notch. "But don't worry," he says, grabbing the thick base of his cock with his hand, "once you get this thing up inside you, you'll always feel like it, too. You'll be the same kind of slave/ whore that all my cows are -- even your little boyfriend over there. Isn't that right, Jersey?"

"I'm not a bull," Jersey whimpers. "I'm nothin' but a piece of shit cow that belongs to you..."

The BULL smiles at me. "See?" he says, continually playing with himself, just pinching and rubbing -- it would take both his hands to get all the way around it. He now has me cornered, the width of his body offering no avenue of escape. "Okay," he says, quietly but with intensity, speaking only to me, "now's the part where you say how sorry you are for all the fuck-ups you've caused over the last couple days, you offer me your ass, and you beg my forgiveness. How fuckin' stupid are you?"

He puts his massive arm up on one side of me, leaning against the wall. "What?" he continues, menacingly, threateningly. "Do you think you're gonna get away? You think somethin's gonna save you now?"

My eyes involuntarily flicker toward Jersey, even though I can't see around the powerhouse of the BULL, but at least it breaks eye-contact, even if just for a second.

"Jersey?" The BULL snorts. "Your little boyfriend's done, Guernsey. Even if he did get up," he says, changing his focus mid-sentence to aim his intent at Jersey, turning his head slightly, "I'd just beat him the fuck back down." He looks back at me and shrugs slightly, a smirk on his face. He whispers, "Now, why the fuck aren't you beggin', yet?"

When I don't speak immediately, he smacks his forearm into my chest, slamming me against the wall.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" My fear makes my voice waver.

He presses himself against me. With his inhuman size and strength, it's a miracle the wall doesn't collapse. His face -- his scowl -- his burning eyes are inches away as he completely dominates the space around us. "Beg me," he growls.

I don't actually cry until I say it. But once, "Fuck me. Please. I beg you" is out of me, I break down. Because -- God help me -- I really DO want to be fucked by him. I've wanted it from the moment I first met him. It was the goal I trained for all those weeks with Angus, in the back of my mind with every stroke on the bike, every rep with the dumbbells. Everything I've gone through since I first drank the BULL's milk that day at the gym was all done with the ultimate intent of being fucked by him at the end, this massive beast who stands to rape me now, anyway.

But to say it in front of Jersey -- to admit it in front of the man I think I love -- that's what's humiliating. And it seems like the BULL knows it, too.

He gets off on the humiliation, remember.

But maybe Jersey will think I'm being forced. Maybe he won't hear the truth in my words. Maybe...

A couple of quick slams into the wall from the BULL's mighty forearm brings me back to his impatient moment. "Beg... me..." he says, his anger rising, "you fuckin' dumbass faggot."

Of course I beg him. And wherever they come from -- the same unknown source that sprung them the first time we were together, perhaps -- the words pour out of me. Slowly at first, uncertain, full of fear, motivated solely by threat -- but then, they gain speed along with confidence -- sentences become longer, frivolous and flowery -- statements become truths as I say them. I DO want to worship him. I DO want him to fuck me. Jersey forgive me, I do.

The BULL presses me against the wall, touching his forehead to mine and rubbing -- where his horns would be, I guess -- allowing me to feel the throb of his inhuman erection. "Feel that?" he grunts, between my words. "That's gonna be up inside you in a minute. Pretty soon you're not gonna be able to think about anything else but servin' it and bein' my cow. Tell me how much you want that."

To answer him, I untie the warm-up pants I wear and allow them to drop, exposing my worst humiliation -- my own erection. When I reach to free him from his tights, he slaps me hard across the face -- my head snaps to the side.

"Don't EVER fuckin' touch my cock without my permission!" he shouts. "God damn, you are the stupidest, most undisciplined mother-fucker I've ever seen. What the fuck did Angus teach you? Anything?" When he slapped me, my body spun toward the arm he leaned on, his left arm, which he wrapped around me, pinning my arms to my sides. A few more rough adjustments, and I face the wall -- the BULL presses into my back. He's so big, so much stronger -- I can't fight him. I don't think I want to.

I'm crying again -- the fear? the anticipation? -- but I still manage to choke out the words, "Fuck me -- Please, I beg you!"

"That's better," he says, shifting his weight -- I can hear him pulling his tights down, exposing his gigantic cock. I suddenly feel its flesh against my naked ass. "'Cuz want it or not, it's coming."

I remember the Big Ride, when Ayrshire pressed the BULL-shaped butt-plug up my ass while I was drunk on the Herd's milk. I remember thinking that nothing real could be that big -- nothing human. I certainly never thought something that size could go inside me. I've seen those porn movies with braunschwagers and meaty forearms -- but never anything as big as the BULL's cock.

The Big Ride had another effect, though -- perhaps the intended one. It clearly trained my ass to handle the BULL. Full of their magic milk, full of that dildo, riding nearly twenty miles -- it taught my ass to serve and give pleasure. It taught muscle control and technique. Now, as his cock slides in, as my ass stretches further and further, a haze, a trance comes over me -- heavy, hard to think -- a familiarity, a purpose.

The BULL moans deep in his throat. "Made for me," he mumbles.

Like the key fitting the lock, like the final piece of the puzzle slipping into place to form a bigger picture, so then is the BULL completely inside me. I can't say I'm thinking in this moment -- not coherently -- only symbolically, only urges: need -- pleasure.

I only know to react to his powerful thrusts. My body knows how. Let him in deeper.

"Submit to me," he says -- an order or an option?

He's so strong, his thrust a measure of his masculinity -- supreme power. The ultimate man.

"Submit to me!" he yells, another deep push. The crush of the cold, hard wall. More. God, more.

"Fuck me, my BULL!" I manage to say, straining with ecstasy. "Please! I beg of you!"

"Tell me what a muscle-whore you are."

I'm trying to fuck myself on his buried pole -- my ass has almost completely taken over. "I'm a muscle-whore," I say. "I'm a muscle-whore. Please don't stop!"

"Submit to me." A thrust.

"Yes," I say, to entice more motion. My ass. My needs. "I submit to you! I'm yours -- your cow! Your whore!"

He fucks with a renewed vigor, even more masterful than before. My ass knows what to do -- it wants nothing more than his pleasure -- I just have to give up control. "Is there anything better than this, faggot cow? Anything better than my dick up inside you?"

"Nothing," I bark, flexing around the head of his BULL-cock. It's everything those guys said it would be -- better! Ayrshire won't be the only muscle-whore in the Herd anymore, that's for sure! "YOU are my BULL!"

He laughs, thrusting harder -- a reward! "Oh yeah!" he says, grunting on the push. Suddenly, he spins us around so HIS back is to the wall and I face the room. He has one arm still wrapped around my lower torso, and I have to squat a bit to allow his access. I balance my hands against my thighs. He speaks again. "Now why don't you say that to Jersey?"

There, in a crumpled heap against the far wall, bloodied and bruised and lightly crying, lays the heavily-muscled Jersey, holding himself, trying not to hear the sounds of my willing domination. He won't make eye-contact. I don't want to hurt him anymore.

The BULL grabs me by the neck, squeezes. "Say it!"

"I serve the BULL," I say, the tears starting as soon as the words are out -- their truth makes them scald. "I can't help it, Jersey. The pleasure is too much."

The BULL keeps fucking me. Incredible fucking.

"Hear that, Jersey?" asks the BULL. "You ever have anyone tell ya YOU give 'em too much pleasure?" The BULL shoves it in again, ringing my bell with an over-sized sledgehammer. "Tell him who's got the best dick," the BULL says to me. "Tell him whose cock you were made for."

"Your cock," I cry. I just want him to cum and get this moment over with -- no matter how good it feels. "Your bull-cock is the best! I was made for it!"

He laughs, triumphant, then begins long-dicking me, growling "submit" on each thrust. His pace quickens with his intensity. I can sense his impending orgasm -- the idea of bringing the BULL to climax makes me work even harder -- my ass knows what to do, I just need to let it. Give up the control.

Give up.

The BULL wraps his arms around me, pinning mine to my sides. He pulls my torso straight up and speaks into my ear, hoarsely barking, "Submit to me!"

And I do. And when I scream, "Yes! I submit! I'm yours!" and when I truly believe it, then my ass allows him in. Truly allows him in. I can feel his cock rising inside me. It's filling my stomach cavity -- it envelopes my heart -- his cock reaches my brain.

His beautiful bull-cock is my brain. He dominates me completely.

"Oh, fuck yeah!" he yells. "I win again!"

And with one last thrust, my BULL shoots -- and his cum fills me like I'm nothing but an empty shell, soaking into me like a sponge, taking over until he permeates every cell of my body. The wave of power that radiates from him, accompanied by his scream, causes my orgasm as well. My untouched cock jerks and spits and shoots a load that reaches all the way to across the room to Jersey.

When I look at him, through my orgasmic haze, I see Jersey's worst humiliation -- he, too, involuntarily orgasms along with my BULL. His hips buck and hitch and a dark wet stain appears on his shorts. He sobs again, unable to accept the truth that is suddenly so apparent: he's no bull.

He's a cow -- same as me.

My BULL and I leave a few minutes later, after he allows me to lick him clean and tuck that glorious cock back into its spandex home -- though I kind of wish that home were my ass. "Wait for me by the door," he says, so I stand at attention in the broken doorway, arms behind my back, gym-pants hanging on the shelf of my ass, half-erect and waiting for his next order while he speaks to Jersey.

"Don't take things that don't belong to you," the BULL says, standing over the broken bovine. "It displeases me."

A couple of vocalizations from Jersey -- gulps or sobs -- and then the quiet words, "Yes, BULL."

My BULL nods. "When you're ready to show me some humility, you can come back."

With that, he turns and marches out of the room, squeezing past me in the doorway. I don't look back at Jersey -- I'm not sure I could bear it. My eyes follow the mass of my new BULL as he ducks his head to get out. He's awesome -- reverential -- he's even willing to give Jersey another chance. "C'mon," he says to me.

As I follow my BULL, a respectful pace behind, I try to sort out my feelings -- but it's hard to think of anything but this god-like beast in front of me -- how I want him to fuck me again. He began a transformation process that changed me from a fat, pitiful loser into some incredible muscle fantasy. He's accepted me into his Herd. He's battled another for possession of me.

So when I look at him before me in the hallway, taking up the entire space with the width of his shoulders, I'm not sure what I feel.

But I think that it might be love.

I follow him to my new life.



I have my first unsupervised client tonight. If all goes well with it, I'll be completely off probation and finally a member of the Herd in good standing. I've been training so hard for this moment, the focus of the last few months, that I'm almost as excited about its completion as I am the event. Imagine, no more punishment.

Well, perhaps the word "punishment" is a bit strong. "Penance" might be better. All I know is I have to get through it in order to get fucked by him again. And they all called THAT right: I'll do ANYTHING to get fucked by him again. So would anyone. So would you.

His cock is magnificent, and I'm made for it. I'm a slave to it.

I'm a fuckin' piece of cattle for it.

I ended up training with each one of them, though significantly less time with Ayrshire than Angus or Shorthorn -- all Ayrshire and I seemed to do was fuck each other. He's like a drug. You drink his milk, you swallow his cum, it makes you horny, and you're right back on him again. It's a viscous cycle.

I think we fucked for literally three days solid before Shorthorn showed up and pried us apart. And after being with Ayrshire for that long, I was more than happy to trade-up to that beautiful cock of Shorthorn's. Damn, it's big -- and he sure does know how to use it. I mean, he's no BULL -- but he knows what he's doing.

Of course, I'm bigger now, too. Not just my cock -- which has shown great improvement after training with Shorthorn -- but my muscle as well. My BULL has decided that I should be one of the bigger breeds -- he wanted me at three-hundred pounds and single-digit bodyfat by the time I started taking clients. As of this morning's weigh-in, cold and empty-stomached immediately upon waking, Angus announced I was three-hundred and two.

Angus saw my cock twitch as the news sank in and uncharacteristically reached over and squeezed it. He commented about how big it'd gotten as well. Next thing you know, I was fucking him right there on the training room floor, a three-hundred pound monster slamming into his coach's ass. Turns out, as disciplined as he is, as military as he may be, Angus likes to be dominated and controlled by massive musclefreaks. He's completely submissive in the sack. I've enjoyed fucking Angus -- gets him back for all the hours he made me pedal that damn bike -- and Angus enjoys serving me.

I've trained with them all. I've seen how they each handle clients, what they're willing -- and unwilling -- to do. Angus has the lowest tolerance of "shenanigans" -- he's all business. He'll discuss training and diet, but nothing goes on beyond that. At first, I thought Angus was cold and kind of dispassionate, now I know he just aches to be dominated -- if the client FORCED himself on Angus, he'd stand a chance.

Ayrshire gives you the best bang for your buck -- his tips reflect it. Maybe because he gives the least amount of milk, maybe because he's in a constant state of horny-driven readiness, he practically begs every client to fuck him. "Not that any of 'em are gonna be as good as the BULL," he's said to me more than once, even while WE were fucking, "but I just gotta have somethin' inside me."

I gave Ayrshire the dildo back -- the one cast from our BULL's impossible cock. It was like giving a dolly back to a little girl. Ayrshire actually squealed. "You're welcome to play with it anytime you want," he said, giggling, kissing its plastic head. "If I'm not already using it."

Ayrshire's clients tend to be middle-aged or older men, seeking the Viagra-like effects of Ayrshire's milk -- most guys his own age have little trouble in that department, much less able to afford his services. Ayrshire thrives on men with disposable money. Business men on road trips, that sort of thing. Having Ayrshire as your escort can only guarantee a good time -- one that lasts almost a week after you drink from him.

Shorthorn appears to be the least discriminatory. "You go out with guys younger 'n you for the sex," he says, pontificating like erotica's Mark Twain, "and guys your own age for conversations about sex."

He has little free time, what with running his own business and handling our BULL's investments, so he's learned to be quick and efficient. I've seen Shorthorn on his cell-phone booking his next client while his current client suckles at his breast. Worse that they don't seem to mind. I admire Shorthorn. I'm glad he fucked me before the BULL ruined all other men for me.

Tonight is my first solo -- though no doubt it's a mole for my BULL, making sure I do everything right. But he has nothing to worry about. I LIKE the feeling of a man sucking the milk out of my swollen pecs. It's almost better than sex.

It's the life of my dreams.

I miss Jersey. Don't get me wrong. I mean, the reason I'm writing this whole thing down in the first place is because I miss Jersey. After eight weeks of absence, when the BULL ordered us to put Jersey's furniture and apartment stuff into storage until he re-surfaced, I absconded Jersey's laptop. From that, I've been able to piece together some of what he did online -- luckily, the BULL isn't very adept on the computer, so I can hide my activities and still have a little bit of personal freedom. If he were to figure out what I'm up to, I'm sure he wouldn't be happy.

But I'm bound to find Jersey, and make him understand. I'm gonna bring him back.

From his laptop, I discovered that he was a frequent contributor to the "Megapecs" board on Yahoo, and lurked around in the "Muscle Growth Stories" archives as well. That's why I've been posting this story in both of those places. I'm trying to get Jersey's attention -- maybe help him understand my side of this.

Jersey, I just want you to come back.

No one's seen Holstein, either -- although I don't see the big loss there. It's as if he dropped off the face of the Earth. Apparently, there was a large cash withdrawal from Holstein's account on the day of my Big Ride, but no activity since then. The BULL has hired a private investigator to help. Maybe that guy will get to the bottom of it all -- looks like he's already gotten to the bottom of something else -- he's gained a bit of weight in the week or so that he's been on the case.

Just what we need, a PI in the Herd.

Anyway, that's it. That's my story. I didn't expect it to be so long, but it turns out there was more to tell than I thought. Hope you didn't mind. If you see Jersey anywhere -- hell, even if you see Holstein -- please drop me a note. I'll make it worth your while. Finding either one of them would certainly earn you some sort of reward from my BULL.

Jersey, if you're reading this, please get ahold of me.

Please. •

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