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Milk Man
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| Okay, so when NYCBlackMuscle posted the first chapter of his excellent foray into my MILK MAN universe, he included a link to my original MILK MAN series, posted on the MEGAPECS website. I'd completely forgotten about that page (created so many years ago -- mid-90's). They carried my original story, and I wrote a couple of "exclusive" chapters just for them. Well, when I went to write the sequel, brilliantly titled MILK MAN 2 (thank you), I excluded the events of what was chapter 4 of the first series (the one I'd written "exclusively" for Megapecs) -- besides, for the plot in MM2 to "work," I needed to conveniently gloss over the events of chap4 anyway. Naturally, I'd completely forgotten chap4 even EXISTED after all these years until I followed NYCBlackMuscle's link. What a surprise. Reading it, it's definitely mine -- my style, my rhythm, my "clever" word-play. So, since I'm certain my exclusivity contract has long ago expired, I'm posting this "lost" chapter here. The entire MILK MAN series -- and the MM2 series -- are available on O'Melisso's site (and soon on my new TOMofMARYLAND site). Let me know what you think. |
| Okay, this is balls. Lemme tell you -- it's so awesome. I walk into the gym -- well, honestly, I saunter into the gym -- weighing almost two-hundred and fifty pounds -- 247 to be precise -- wearing baggy gym pants and a double-XL t-shirt, still a little tight -- I love THAT! -- and all eyes are on me. I can feel them -- the transfer of energy. They watch from the moment I enter to the moment I leave, some in shock, some amazement, some awe, probably more lust than I'm ready to admit to, definitely envy. It's cool. If I was them, and saw a guy like me walk into a gym, I'd stare too. It wasn't that long ago that I WAS one of them -- six-one, one-ninety, in shape, great abs -- well, maybe a little better than one of THEM -- still nothing like what I am now. My friend Mike -- who I jokingly call "PecBoy" -- introduced me to a whole new world of erotic weight gain, feeding from the milk he produced in his pecs. I went from 190 to 218 that day -- twenty-eight pounds for those of you doing the math -- where I plateaued for a long time -- happily, I might add -- until I inadvertently transformed my lifting partner and roommate Eric into a three-hundred pound-plus, hyper-muscled milk machine. Eric feeds me, now -- an interesting role reversal. Twice daily -- mornings being my favorite, half-awake, half-hard, wrapped in the warm covers, in his ridiculously over-muscled arms, slowly nursing from his swollen breast -- again in the evening, usually after we lift, pumped and raging with testosterone, wrestling for dominance. I forcefully take the milk from him then, dreaming of the day I'll be big enough to take his ass, too. I never thought I'd be this big. I mean, when we're kids, we all fantasize about an Atlas body in seven days, or how cool it would be to tear from our clothes like the Hulk, maybe utter a cry to the gods and be transformed by mystical lightning, but we all know it for what it is -- fantasy. Even me, and I've been a gym rat for years -- over ten -- even I recognize the limitations of genetics. Some guys are created to be huge, some guys aren't. There's no secret formula -- no matter what the folks at the vitamin stores tell you -- and steroids won't do much for you if you're fighting the losing battle of lineage. Believe me, I've tried. I've done so many cycles of unpronounceable names that even if there'd been a rumor of muscle growth, I'd be injecting it into my ass. If there was an advertisement in the back of the magazines with some muscle freak touting some new something, I'd buy it. I had no pride. Drops under the tongue, pills by the barrelful, electric do-dads vibrating the muscle bellies, nothing was too farfetched for someone as desperate as me -- and countless others. How ironic then that I should put on over forty pounds in the last couple of months simply by drinking the milk produced by my lifting partner. I'm still a hard-gainer -- which is incredibly frustrating -- even with a "secret formula" I have trouble putting on serious size, but we're making steady progress. I get two or three pounds of lean mass per session -- as opposed to the eight or nine Eric would get from me. At first we thought it might be his milk. After all, he didn't fit the profile of the average Milk Man -- I've met five or six now, and all of them are built like I was, and all of them bottoms -- but he's since tested it on other guys, and they've made great gains -- remind me sometime to tell the story of Eric's football buddy Bomber -- he got drafted midseason by the Jets -- as he went from a pudgy, gut-dominant left guard to the biggest, most shockingly ripped defensive lineman in professional football. At three hundred twenty-six pounds and four percent body fat, Eric is perhaps the biggest bodybuilder on the planet. The mass he carries in his upper body alone is simply mind-boggling. Imagine the size of his shoulders, the roll of his traps. Imagine the vein along his biceps, snaking down under his skin, his forearms, his thick wrists. See how his lats are like wings, wedged hard above his surprisingly small waist -- the normal bloat of roid-gut never experienced. Look at the power of his legs, the thick, thick hamstrings. The sweep of his thigh. Catch the jut of his calf. He's close to parody. You've seen his pictures by now -- he's in all the magazines -- usually with the work "freak" plastered somewhere on the page in some heavy, obtrusive font -- but it's more fun to imagine. So imagine that body at rest, on the sofa, leaning back while you kneel between the legs, masterfully sucking the cock. Think of what it would feel like when those redwood thighs settle on your shoulders and begin to squeeze your head. Listen to the low moan as you settle the tip of his penis deep in your throat. That's my world. He tells me I give the best blow-job he's ever had. "And I've had lots of girls," he says with a smile, sure this is a compliment. "You haven't had girls lately," I say, gently squeezing his balls. They're the size of plums -- this is what truly separates him from the other hulking bodybuilders, his full genetalia -- even enhanced -- not shrunken from years of steroid abuse. He laughs. "Haven't needed 'em." Stroking his own massive pecs, he allows the transformation to begin. Now, it's IMPOSSIBLE to imagine this. It is incomprehensible unless it's seen -- not even then, really. I'm not quite sure I can adequately describe it without making it sound silly-- and I consider myself to be fairly adept -- but his chest just swells to a proportion that would be cartoony except that he's alive in front of me, that I can feel his heat. His pecs are round. Ripe. Watermelons. Incredible. And maybe I'd stop and take a picture or something, but it's like -- a pheromone kind of a -- and I just -- I GOTTA have it. I'm aching with hunger. And lust. And need. I mean, if someone -- even Eric -- were to try and keep me from them at that moment, I might go insane. I might fight blindly. And to actually put that swollen nipple in my mouth, to taste him, the slightly salty tang of his skin, is to know he's alive. And real. To feel his heart beat as the first drop of his milk spills onto my tongue. To draw from him in the rhythm of his breathing until we find a comfortable tempo, that's when I realize I'm living my fantasy, and I'm so grateful. It feels so good. I have energy. Power. When I wake after a session, after I weigh myself, stoked with that number, I'm alive in short, punchy sentences. I'm thrusting with verbiage. I need to fuck. I need to tackle. And take. And dominate. I don't even give a shit what it's connected to, as long as I'm fucking it. I've always been a rather submissive guy -- which was why PecBoy chose me to be a Milk Man in the first place -- a bottom. But lately, I haven't been much into getting fucked -- and Eric hasn't pressed the issue, preferring head, or hand jobs. Although I remember a time when he would fuck me without passion, use me like a piece of meat. When he was straight. No, rather -- before he became a Milk Man himself. He seems different now. Lately, he's been all cuddly and lovey-dovey. He still won't let me fuck him, though. And that's all I want to do lately is fuck. I mean, he'll give me head in an instant -- and he's pretty good at that -- nothing like looking down and seeing his shoulders and traps flex and he bobs on my cock -- but he won't give me his ass. "I'm not ready," he says, when I press. "I want it so bad." To him, it means something. To him, it symbolizes masculinity somehow. His giving his ass to me in some way translates to him being a woman. And when you have huge, leaking man-breasts, you've gotta hold on to what little vestige of self-image you have. If only I could make him see that those big pecs make him even more masculine. But he's just not ready. "Not yet," he says. Which leads me where I am now -- the gym -- and speaks a little about my motive for being here. I'm gonna find me some tight little ass and curb this nasty urge. I'm wearing a pair of Eric's boxer shorts beneath my gym pants so my dick will flop as I walk. I display the goods. All eyes are on me, and I love it. Pumping up is fun. Filling the muscles with blood feels good even if I don't really need the workout. When I remove my gym pants, revealing my baggy nylon shorts, the hem of my boxers barely visible beneath, I begin squatting in earnest. Two twenty-five for quick sets of fifteen, dropping deep below parallel. After my first working set of three-fifteen -- the rattle of the iron plates keeping track of my pace -- I flex in the mirror, lifting my shorts up to look at the cuts in my quads -- funny how legs have become my favorite bodypart to work -- they used to be my weak point -- that's when I catch a guy looking at me in the mirror. Hot little guy -- maybe five-seven, maybe five-six -- well under my six-one, regardless -- black hair, fair skin, a carefully-trimmed goatee, deep brown eyes with heavy Italian lashes almost hidden by the hard curve of his baseball cap -- good body, pretty big -- if a little heavy in the shoulders and traps. When we make eye-contact, he doesn't look away or run off -- passing a private test of mine -- it means he's not intimidated by someone my size -- he speaks. "I don't see many guys your height doing deep squats," he says. "I don't know many guys who do 'em at all," I say. "You?" I continue flexing, studying my reflection. My lower quad teardrop is spectacular. "Yeah," he says, popping the snaps down the sides of his gym pants and pulling them off, to show me. I admire his confidence. "But it's a little easier for me. I'm a little closer to the ground than you are." He has good-sized legs, a beautiful sweep on his outer quad. Wearing athletic gray spandex shorts, it's hard not to notice his package -- and it's true: God blesses the shorter guys -- but I admit, I'm far more interested in his ass. After a few quick front flexes -- "I'm still kinda cold," he says -- he finally spins around and gives me the view I want. Spectacular. Small, and round. Muscular. Firm. Sitting a-peak the twin columns of his heavy hamstrings -- one of the products of deep-squatting -- it's everything the opposite of Eric -- whose ass is so massive and strong that a work-horse feels envy -- that a professional lineman says, "Damn, that's a big ass." I just want to grab each cheek in my hands and plow right into him. In his baggy t-shirt, so old that it hangs thinly over his rounded muscle, that cocky little baseball cap, pulled low, and the spandex shorts, hugging his little bubble-butt, he's a tasty morsel. My cock plumps as I watch him pose, but I control it from becoming erect. So I join him. We pose together, going from one to the next. "Jesus Christ, you're big," he says, studying me as we flex. I'm purposefully off-hand. "I'm cold, too," I say. "Why don't we get pumped up and hit the posing room?" He turns and faces me, and I even believe that he's considering it. He nods. "Okay," he says, stepping closer to me. "You get off on smaller guys worshipping you?" I smile. And hoarsely whisper, "I'm gonna get off fuckin' you hard up that pretty ass." One thing I've discovered, being my size gives me the confidence to say what I mean. Our eye-contact is long before a smile creeps into the corner of his mouth. He's got a playful side, it seems. "Let's do it," he says. It's fun, going through the workout, hitting all the muscle groups. We remain close to each other, spotting and such, but resist touching. Feeling him close is a great turn-on. We're relatively quiet as well, speaking a little about different exercises or usual weights, or whatever. Nothing about who we are, or who we may be. We're doing our fourth set of bicep curls when he suddenly says, "Let's hit the room." I smile, flexing my bicep before me. "You sure you're ready?" I ask. He's sarcastic. "If I was any more ready I wouldn't be able to walk there wearing spandex." Laughing, I say, "I have that effect on a lot of guys." "I bet." The gym has a posing room in each of the locker areas -- although I've never seen the inside of the women's room -- with a sign-up sheet outside the door that gets mighty crowded in contest season. You can sign up for half-hour blocks -- the most they'll let you have is an hour. Quite a lot of fuss for the little 10'x10' space, but worth the wait. Of course, at this time of day -- at this time of year -- it's vacant. When I click on the overhead and step inside, he confesses, "I think the only time I've ever been in here is when the guy showed it to me when I joined." The door is windowless, and has two seperate locks. They know bodybuilders want privacy when they pose. Even pumped, it takes security before the bodybuilder's loss of inhibition. I'm obvious about locking the door. I want him to feel safe. He's already flexing when I turn around, with his clothes still on. The wall opposite the door is one complete mirror, giving the room a feeling of space. The floor -- like the floor of the locker room -- is carpeted with an industrial gray. "The light in here's great," he says, hitting a double bicep. True, the light is its best feature -- explaining the popularity of the room -- an ambient pink general light with a gentle, soft-white overhead spot, casting fuzzy shadows and Vaseline-lens focus. He pulls his t-shirt off over his head and tosses it onto the bench in the back of the room, on the opposite wall as the mirror. His skin is pale, soft, hairless, little pink nipples perched on the swells of his rounded, muscular pecs. Spectacular abs, like a wrester's or a gymnast's. His muscle bellies are all full and round, his u-shaped lats and his coconut delts. Even the brim of his baseball cap, pulled low on his brow, casting a shadow over his face, is curved. I pull my own shirt off as he goes back to posing in the mirror, his tight little ass almost too much to resist in those spandex shorts. I sidle up behind him and reach around his torso -- my dark tan a sharp contrast against his snow white skin -- and pull him to me. His presses his ass into my plumping package, swelling beneath my boxers. I slide my hands down his smooth belly, over his shorts, and grip his inner thighs. My thumbs gently stroke his cock. I bury my face in his neck, at the base of his ear, and suck the roundness of his upper trap. He moans. God, I want to fuck him. He spins around and faces me then, wrapping his arms around the thick of my back. Still pressing into my package, he only comes to my chest in height, so he almost has to tilt his head to suck on my nipple. I resist every urge to allow my transformation to begin, to keep from allowing my chest to fill with my own milk -- it's painfully difficult, but I don't. Instead, I allow his eager mouth to explore, to seek, to worship. With one hand, I press the back of his head into the mass of my pec. With the other, I explore the crack of his ass. He slides down my front, following each deep cut in my abs, tonguing my navel -- enjoying the feel of my growing erection as it presses into his neck. His hands -- which had settled on the base of my lats, slip onto the waistband of my gym shorts and yank them down. Around my ankles, I easily step from them -- still in my gym shoes -- naked before the kneeling little fuck, my cock swings half-erect before me. He barely spends a moment studying it before he spins his baseball cap around until the brim faces the back, and he takes it in his mouth, right to the root. A big job. For several moments, I watch him suck, watch his head bob and his shoulders flex. He's got good form, excellent technique, but he's really just slobbering on it, getting it wet enough to fuck. That's when I glance up and catch our reflection in the mirror. I can't say enough what it's like to see my face connected to this body -- I mean, it's my body, but it's like... my body max-ed out -- my body pushed to its ultimate. When I used to fantasize about being a big bodybuilder, I imagined myself with someone else's body -- I couldn't imagine my own body being like that -- and it wasn't until I became the bodybuilder I am -- until I watched myself grow -- that I discovered it's whole different feeling when it's actually my body. And there I am in the mirror, in this perfect light, with these kick-ass muscles and a hot little italian jock kneeling before me, worshipping my cock, when I give in to my ego and start posing. At first, just my arms -- my big guns -- single bicep, double bicep, extended-arm tricep, hands behind the head with abs -- then I start getting into it. My little jock moans. "So fucking hot," he says, around my cock, as he starts to suck in earnest. For him, I spread my legs and do a front lat spread, raising my chest -- those two perfect mounds of flesh -- my hands at my waist. He wraps his arms around my massive quads. "Flex your back," I say, and he immediately does. Kneeling between my legs, my cock in his mouth, his back to the mirror, he flexes for me -- with me -- together. We're beautiful. His muscular back beneath my huge torso, head bobbing on my dick, my pecs bobbing back and forth as I flex them. I glance down at his ass, strained within the fabric of his shorts. I want it. I'm ready. "Enough," I say, pushing him off me. "I'm ready." "So am I," he whispers hoarsely. He stands, facing me, pressing his body into me, into my erection, and I slip my hands beneath his shorts, cupping his ass in my hands. He's as smooth as me. I kneel then, pulling his shorts down with me, exposing his healthy hard-on -- the thick shaft, the pretty pink head. I kiss the tip, tasting a drop of precum. He moans. "C'mon down," I mumble, pulling him toward me by his cock. He spins and slides his ass down my torso, over my pecs, down the ridges of my abs, until he straddles my rod. My arms are wrapped around him. I chew his ear as we look at ourselves in the mirror -- his small, muscular form dwarfed by my mass behind him. My cock finds his hole easily, and I'm inside him with surprising speed. He knows exactly what he's doing. No fuss. His tiny ass is tight and firm, a delicious fuck. Each thrust allows me deeper -- this is where his deep-squatting pays off -- his control of his ass-muscle is remarkable. He's on his hands and knees before me, and I'm fucking him with abandon, watching myself in the mirror -- getting off on a guy my size -- me! -- dominating the shit out of this little fuck. Feel my power! Thrust! Feel me! Submit! He's watching me flex in the mirror -- he's getting off on me getting off on myself -- so I give him a show. Check this out, fucker! Pow! I'm thrusting so hard, I push his face into the mirror -- I like the idea of trapping him between me and my reflection. And when he begins trying to make out with himself -- when he tries to kiss his own hot mouth -- his mirror image -- I slam myself deeply into him, and cum with force, filling him with my seed. That last thrust forces him up into the mirror, and he cums himself -- I can feel it while inside him. We stay that way, crushed up together against the glass, until we catch our breath, and I pull out of him. He still leans back, and I hug him to me, sucking on his neck. "Lemme clean you off," he says, turning to lick my cock. Of course, I don't want him to swallow my cum -- we all know what would happen if he did that -- it's bad enough I fucked him -- I don't even know if that'll do anything to him -- all I know is I needed to fuck, and he was right there. "Why don't you tongue down the mirror," I say. "I'm gonna go take a shower. When you finish here, you can come wash me if you want." He smiles. "I'll hurry." It's fun to just stand there and have some guy totally take care of me, totally get off on my body. I stand there in the shower with my legs wide and flex whatever bodypart he's soaping. He's erect, but I don't allow myself -- though I let him see a nice chubby. After he's toweled me dry, we dress, and steal a quick kiss in the empty locker room. "Thanks a lot," he says. "You give a great fuck." "You got a great ass," I say. "I hope I can get into it again." He winks -- "Anytime" -- then yawns. "Hey, I gotta get home. I think you've worn me out. I'm sleepy as shit." I smile. The entire way home, I'm caught up in the thought how nice it was to be the man again. I've spent the last few months as Eric's virtual slave, his little sub-bottom, feeding him, turning him into superman, letting him fuck me when he felt like it. Taking it. Makes me angry. Today, it was all about me. My needs. Fucking that guy -- what the fuck was his name? -- ah, who the fuck cares -- fucking that guy was -- what's the word? -- AWESOME. That's weird. Usually I'm better at expressing myself. Usually I can think of the right word. Doesn't matter. You know what I mean. I adjust my package -- my cock leads me. I feel fucking good. As I walk up to the house -- the house Eric's body bought -- the body I gave him -- I'm ready to fuck again. Eric better be ready, too. He's in the bedroom, posing in the wall mirror, taking advantage of the afternoon light, when I find him. Sitting side-saddle on a stool, his hands are behind his neck, his elbows above his tilted head -- a submissive pose, exposing his tender belly. His bulk HAS lost some of it's edge -- he's softer, almost pretty. And what he's wearing! He's taken his old and well-worn wrestling singlet and cut the legs out, high in the thigh, so it looks like a one-piece swimsuit straight out of the Sports Illustrated Annual. It cups his substantial package and barely covers the crack of his ass. His muscle explodes out of it at every curve, but his poses are feminine. He gracefully dances from one to the next, de-emphasizing power for beauty, using the stool as a prop. One of those artsy-fartsy routines, like those fitness fags. "Hey," I say, startling him. He turns as he sees me, all pumped and shirtless from the gym, still in my baggy shorts, my cock hardening. I'm two-hundred fifty pounds of cut muscle, and I'm gonna take what I want. "Thank God you're home," he says, smiling. "I didn't think I was gonna make it." He spins to face me, and I see he's allowed his transformation to begin -- he's brought about his own doom, I laugh to myself. His breasts swell behind the material of the high-cut one-piece. Still side-saddle, he poses for me, raising his arms above his head. His erect nipples harden beneath the shoulder straps of his singlet until they pop from behind, almost of their own will. He walks toward me, swaying his hips, his hands sliding up his torso and cupping his growing pecs. The cut he's put the suit follow exactly the wall of his lower abs -- proving he cut it while wearing it -- and how it contains his substantial package is anyone's guess -- his swelling cock begins to challenge the material. "I am so ready for you." He steps into my embrace and kisses me. I return it, though I admit, I'm sick of kissing -- I just wanna fuck -- but I'll do what I gotta do to get into his virgin ass. I settle my hands beneath it, right where his ass meets his hamstring, and gently massage him while our tongues play with each other. He wraps his arms around my torso, pulling me into him, so I can feel his pecs growing between us. His legs spread, he can feel my growing cock as I grind it into him. I bring my hands up along the contour of the suit and gently cup his massive breasts. He breaths in sharply. "They're so sensitive," he whispers. "Go slowly." Laughing while we kiss, I allow him to think that's just what I'm gonna do. As I pull down the straps, I slowly lower my mouth to his pert nipple. Erect, it brushes my lip even though I'm an inch above his skin -- he gasps at this contact. Then, without warning, I clamp down on it, and suck hard, sharp. He screams. I push him down on the bed, so his knees dangle over the edge. On top of him, between his legs, I lower my head to his breast and drink. Take. Draw what is mine. Swallow after swallow. Moaning, he wraps his muscular legs around my hips, settling his feet on my hamstrings. We begin thrusting in unison, almost naturally, with the rhythm of my drinking. I can feel the taught pull of his singlet as it fights his throbbing cock. The other side. Lust. Thrust. His chest is so impossibly big -- right in my face -- MINE! -- snarling like a dog, I chew on my toy. He screams again, beating on the mattress with outstretched fists -- he cums -- I can feel his cock orgasm against my lower abs. But my cock has barely begun to fight. Full of him, I spend a moment with my head against his breast, looking up at him as he catches his breath, smiling weakly. I carefully slide the singlet down his sides, and tell him to lift his hips so I can take it off completely, exposing his enhanced package. I towel off his orgasm as I go. Half-erect, his cock is meaty and tempting, but I've got greater needs. Standing beside the bed, between his dangling legs, I grab his right ankle, lifting the leg up straight, as if to stretch the hamstring. I gently place his ankle on my shoulder. "You got an amazing ass, Eric, "I say as I firmly put his other ankle on my other shoulder. I lean forward, so the he has no choice but to raise his ass off the bed. "An amazing ass. And tonight, it's mine." He can feel my hard cock pressing against his hole now. "No," he says. "I..." "C'mon, Eric," I say, supporting his hips with my hands. "You know you want it. You know you want to be the girl. That's why you cut up that suit like that -- to look sexy. That's why you let your breasts swell the second you saw me -- 'cuz you wanna be my girl. C'mon, Eric. Girls get fucked." He stammers. He wants it so bad. "I... no...." "You know you want it, Eric. If you didn't, you never would have put any promises on it." I hoarsly whisper. "I may not be bigger than you, but I'm obviously more of a man than you. It's time for you to give me what I deserve." With that, I press the head of my cock against his tight hole. He moans, objecting. "Relax, Eric," I tenderly say. "Be a good girl." He says "No...." but it's tone is more of submission -- he DOES want it. Deep down, he knows he does -- the proof of that with the sudden yielding of his hole, the relaxing of the muscle, as he accepts the head of my cock. "That's it. It's gonna feel so good, Eric. Accept it. Relax." I push myself home. He's so tight, surrounding me completely. He moans loudly, which he repeats on each thrust, throwing his head back and sharply gasping in pain, arms outstretched and clutching either side of the mattress. He's fighting it, even half-heartedly. "C'mon, baby," I'm mumbling. "C'mon." I look at his eyes, while he struggles. He's so close. "Do you love me?" he asks -- rather, moans. "Tell me you love me." Right. Right. Anything to fuck. Anything. Even the truth. "You know I do," I grunt between thrusts. "You know I love you." He smiles faintly -- are those tears in his eyes? -- when he suddenly, internally, relaxes. My cock slides easily deeper, right up into his loins, and I hit his prostate like a target finally finding home. The pleasure overwhelms him. His painful screams become lustful moans. He knows who he is now -- my girl -- and I begin fucking him in earnest. Taking his hole. Making it mine. When his cock hardens, and his breasts swell, he puts his hands behind his head. He grows. I start to slide out of him, and he quickly says, "No...." "Roll over baby," I say. "On your hands and knees." He obeys, quickly and eagerly. Behind him, I stroke his massive ass, a cue for him to push it back into my hips -- he's hungry for me. Pushing my cock back into him, he gasps. A better angle. I have to lean over him to get his swelling pecs in my hands, but he supports my weight easily. As I massage and lightly pinch his nipples, his milk begins to flow. Thrusting long into him, I wipe the leaky milk on his torso, wetting his muscle. He sits up, pressing his hips into my loins, his hamstrings on my quads, and covers my hands on his chest. Together, we spread the liquid on his body. He shines like he's oiled for competition. And there's always more. I wipe it on myself -- I even pull my cock out of him long enough to lubricate myself better with it. I start long-cocking him, slamming in and out. Our rhythm is in sync. Together, we shoot. Me, deep inside him. Him, all over everything. A glorious climax. Unimaginable bliss. We lie there, in our own juices, wrapped together, wet and slick, kissing deeply. This time, I slowly draw the remainder of his milk. Erotically. Sleepily. When I finally give in, I can feel his tongue on my body, cleaning me, as I drift off. I'm the man. He's my girl. And then, falling away from consciousness, I figure it all out. Too late to deal with now. ***************************************** I wake the next morning with the sun streaming down on the bed -- alone. I'm so comfortable, so relaxed, so relieved. I'm also heavier. I can sense it almost immediately. And if my internal gauge is correct -- and believe me, I'm in touch with my body -- I weigh between two sixty and two sixty-three. So big. So masculine. The man. I'm the man. And then it all comes flooding back. "Eric?" I call -- even my voice is deeper. I'm so fucking hot. "Eric!" He appears in the doorway then, all three hundred twenty muscular pounds of him, barely squeezed into one of MY old pieces of lingerie -- the little white, lacey bodysuit that bottoms out in a lace jock strap, instead of a thong, like so many do. He leans in the doorjamb, his arms over his head, his muscle fighting the confines of the material. Even his cock is barely contained. "You're awake," he says, smiling at me. "How'd you manage to get into that thing?" He hits several Undergear poses. "Do you like it?" My cock answers for me, rising beneath the sheet. "Hey, listen," I say, before it takes control, as it always does. "I figured something out. About you, and me, and the milk, and all these forced feedings, and the lingerie." He continues to pose, trying to seduce me. Is he listening? Does it matter. I admit, I'm really only voicing my thoughts to bring order to them. I don't think I'll ever thoroughly explain it to Eric. He sits on the edge of the bed, smiling, and gently grabs my cock, surrounded by sheet. I pull it away. "Listen to me. This is important." "Important," he scoffs. "Don't you wanna touch me in this?" I nod. Resistance is so difficult. "Eric, listen! I figured out what's happened! Me drinking your milk has had this effect on you. On me. Both of us. I don't know." I gently stroke his lacey torso, try to look him in the eye and focus. It's so hard. "It's like, when I drink your milk, I'm sucking away your masculinity." He's confused. He massages my quads while I speak. "What?" he asks. "You see, when I got turned into a Milk Man, I was already a bottom, already submissive, and when you were feeding from me exclusively, I got more and more feminine, but we didn't notice it because we were trapped in our roles. I became your virtual slave. You used to fuck me constantly, without passion. Remember?" He smiled. "I think." He pulls firmly on my balls. "I don't much feel like dominating now." I continue as if he hasn't spoken. "Right. And then, when you became a Milk Man, and I fed off you, I sucked it away from you. I became what you were, and you've become me -- the old me -- the bottom." He turns around and bends over, putting his ass right in my face. "But you like my bottom. You liked my bottom last night." I put my hand flat on the mass of his ass. "I still like it. But you see what's happened, don't you?" He's slow to respond. "Yes...." he says, shrugging. I sit up, turning him to face me. Serious. "So, we have to figure out a way to get back to normal. To balance the scale. And the only way to do that --I think -- is to have you feed from me again, and me feed from you, and keep the cycle going so there's always balance. Do you understand? Does that make sense?" He smiles. "I guess," he says. Then, he suddenly straddles me as I lie on the bed, a leg over each side of my torso. "But before we get started, before I turn back to 'normal,' how about you fuck me again?" My cock says go for it -- fuck him. My mind says get started with the feedings -- transform once again. Go back to being the bottom. I listen to my cock. One last fuck won't hurt. No rush. Eric doesn't seem upset -- he seems content. Probably would be a lot more content with me inside of him. I oblige. • |
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