Milk Man


By AbsMan420


We met at the gym, Mike and I. Of course, I called him "PecBoy" behind his back, to my lifting partner, or any of the other regular morning guys, and they knew exactly who I meant. That guy, Mike. PecBoy. And what a set he had, ridiculously out of proportion with the rest of his body, square-shaped, thick and muscular. Not that his body was bad; he was in great shape, about ten pounds heavier than me (all in his chest), but still not the muscle-head type that I desired. I liked my men meaty and big, in the chest AND the leg. And all PecBoy had to recommend him was, well, his pecs.

So we were friends in that pat on the back, give him a spot way that guys in the gym get, and I never gave much more thought to him than that. Well, one curiousity:

The muscle-heads LOVED him! In the morning, when we usually lifted, there weren't any really big guys in the gym -- big guys favoring the evenings -- so I didn't see this much. But on the odd occasion when we both lifted in the evenings, it was really evident: the big muscle-heads loved him. They invited him into their circles. They laughed with him. They'd throw an arm around his shoulder. And he would always leave with one of them. Always. But, whether they were leaving to have sex, or grab a beer, or do some steroids together, I couldn't say. I didn't think PecBoy was gay. And I was sure that ALL of the various muscle-heads he'd left with over the year or so that I'd known him weren't.

But, like I say, it was an oddity. Just something I'd noticed. For a little guy, the big guys sure dug him.

So, this one morning, my lifting partner couldn't make it -- for whatever reason -- and it's just PecBoy and me in the free-weight room. And we're both doing chest, so we decide to throw in together. We flat bench, incline dumbell, decline bar, and it isn't until we're doing our cable flyes that we both take our shirts off, watching the striations flex and bunch with each rep. It's a heady trip. And I love it.

Of course, PecBoy is swelled to almost comical proportions. The blood gorges his muscle, stretching it beneath his skin. Between sets, we pose in the wall mirrors. I'm admiring my own cleavage when I say, "I love chest, man. Look at that. Fuckin' awesome." Now, don't get me wrong: I'm not huge. I'm six-one, one-ninety, so I'm no slouch, but I'm not a huge man. I'm big, and I have a fantastic stomach, but I'm no muscle-head. "I can't wait to have a chest the size of yours," I say.

PecBoy flexes for me, bouncing the muscle back and forth. He smiles. "You wanna have a chest this big?" he asks. "Cause when you got a chest this big, all anyone ever wants to do is suck on it. You into that?"

"Yeah," I say, and smile. "I love it." And my nipples are so sensitive, I think, but don't say, that it drives me wild!

"Like, how into it?" he asks, moving closer. Our chests are almost touching, and he quietly says, "Like, would you like to suck mine?" He flexes them then, and they jump. Massive.

I smile. "Yeah." And I flex my own back, and they bark like a small dog, holding their ground, not afraid of the big dogs in front of them.

"C'mon," he says, and we slip on our t-shirts and go to the locker room. The only people in the gym are the fatter ladies on treadmills and a few old men who don't look twice at us. Lifting in the morning has it's advantages. In the locker room, we duck into the small space containing the gym's only tanning bed. PecBoy locks the door behind us. In this small room, there's barely enough space for us both, plus the bed, but I don't mind being pressed close.

PecBoy already has his t-shirt off again, and those massive mounds are before me. I run my finger down the split between them. He flexes at the bottom, and holds my finger. He smiles. "You wanna suck 'em?"

"Yeah," I say, hoarsly. With both hands, I cup them.

"Then suck," he says. He sits on the little plastic child-sized chair next to the tanning bed, and I kneel between his out-stretched legs. I wrap my right arm around his torso, gripping the ridge of muscle on his lower back, and lower my head onto his left nipple. I lick it first, circling it with my tongue, then gently bite the tip. When he suddenly inhales, I take it in my mouth, a huge chunk of his pec, then pull my mouth back and settle on his nipple. With my left hand, I play with his free pec.

He tilts his head back and sighs, breathing deep. With my body pressed against him, I'm suddenly aware of his dick, coming to life between us. Feeling it harden against me turns me on, so I suck a little harder. "Oh, man. You're good," he says. He puts his hands on the back of my head, and presses me into him.

I slip out of his grip, and lick down his torso, over his hard abs, tongue into his navel. He leans back in the chair, and flexes them for me. My abs are better, but his are flat and firm. A four-pack. And his cock has grown hard beneath his shorts. And when I pull them down, the jock-strap too, and release it, it lays big upon his belly.

And so, I suck it, this nice big dick. He's shaved his balls smooth, I notice, and trimmed back the pubes. The nice blonde mass that was left seemed extreemely well-manicured, and it framed his dick so well, that to not suck would seem rude. Some lawns invited a picnic.

And as I blow, PecBoy breathes heavier. I look up at him as my head bobs and my fingers tickle his balls, and I watch his rib cage expand and then deflate, over and over. His head is thrown back, and his eyes are closed. And then he starts flexing. On every exhalation, he squeezes the mass of his chest. Like he's doing reps. Fascinated, I even out my rhythm to accommodate him. "Yeah," he gasps, when he realizes what I'm doing.

Then I notice, on the next inhalation I see -- I think I see -- that his chest has gotten bigger. Has it grown? Is that possible? I watch carefully. He flexes on his exhalation, squeezing hard, and throws his chest out on the inhalation, stretching the muscle. Stretching.

And it has grown! His pecs have grown! They're bigger, I think. What's happening?

But I don't stop. I can't. I need to see where this is going.

And it continues. He gasps -- he moans -- he flexes the muscle, and it swells. It's of freakish proportion now, and his pecs almost resemble tits, but for their shape and the obvious muscle that forms them. He places his hands on either side of my head and lifts me off his cock. His chest fills my vision, the edges of his pecs inches away. He says firmly, but softly, "NOW suck 'em."

His nipple is in my face, the aereola stretched over the freakish muscle, and it's firm when I take it in my mouth. And this time, when I suck, my mouth fills with milk. I pull my head back and look.

He's leaking it. It's just dribbling on the tip of each nipple. He sees my concern. "Drink it," he says. "Trust me."

So I do. I put my mouth up to his waiting nipple and drink his milk. It fills my mouth, thick and sweet and I swallow every delicious drop. I close my eyes and suckle. When he moans low in this throat, he begins masturbating himself. I can feel him. "Yeah. Drink."

I could. Forever. His milk is like nothing I've tasted before, rich and creamy. Sweet. I notice then that this pec is slowing down, and I know that the other is full, so I switch sides, and suck his other pec. He presses his free hand into the back of my head, smothering me in his chest, while he beats himself hard with the other.

Suddenly, the milk is gone, and he is about to cum. I sense that as easily as I sense myself.

"Do you wanna be like this?" he asks, and I pull my head back. He flexes his chest for me, and continues his jerk. "You wanna be like this?" he repeats. "All kinds of men'll want to drink your milk. You'll see what happens. You'll see what it does. It's fucking amazing." He throws his head back and wails on his cock, ready to shoot. "You drink my load," he says, "and you'll be just like me. Men will line up to suck your tits. You'll see why." He beats. "You want it?" he asks.

I'm caught in the fantasy. I'm thrilled with the thought. "Yes," I agree quickly, smiling. "Yes." And I go down on him. And I barely get the tip of his cock in my mouth when he shoots his load. And my mouth is full of a different taste, distinctly different, but the two fluids mix beautifully. PecBoy heaves his load into me, and I swallow it all.

Finally, exhausted, he falls back into the chair, and slowly breathes. Strangely, I don't feel the need to cum myself, so I get up, adjust my half-hard cock in my shorts, and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. The aftertaste of his milk still lingers, and strangely, I feel sleepy. I make a little joke to myself about warm milk, and am still chuckling when PecBoy wakes and begins dressing. "Something funny?" he asks, when he sees me.

I shake my head. "I'm sleepy," I say. "And I made a joke to myself about warm milk."

He puts his arm around my shoulder, real buddy-buddy. "Wait'll you see what it does for you. Go home. Catch a nap. Then, gimme a call. I'll explain everything."

And with that, he's out of the room. I follow him, and we're both in the locker area. "But... what happened?" I ask him, but I'm so tired. I just want to crawl into a bed and drop off. I can barely keep up with him.

"Go home," he says. "Go to sleep. Call me when you wake up." And he's almost out the door. I'm so exhausted. "But for God's sake, do yourself a favor," he says, turning back. "Don't beat off first thing. Not until you call me." At least, that what I think he says. But sleep. Sleep is what I need. My body tells me. I can barely keep my eyes open. And when I look up, he's gone.

I don't know how I get home; I don't remember the trip. I'm suddenly aware of being in my room, falling into my bed, not even removing my clothes and, with his taste still lingering in my mouth, dropping into a deep, dark well. Unconcious.


When I wake, the first thing I notice is the angle of the sun. It's different. Later in the day. I glance at the clock and see that it's 5:56. I went to the gym at eight in the morning. Had I really slept for almost nine hours?

The next is the need to pee. I get up out of bed, still in my baggy sweatshirt and gym pants and go to the bathroom. Sleep was what I needed, apparently. I feel fantastic, re-energized, and it isn't until I'm pissing that I glance in the bathroom mirror.

And I see it.

I'm bigger. I look heavier in the reflection. And I think, "Sweatshirt is fittin' me just right." When I finish peeing, I pull the sweatshirt off over my head, and I stand staring at my reflection, amazed.

I am bigger. I've gained weight. Muscle weight. And much of it in my chest.

I hop on the scale, waiting to see my normal 190-192.

207, the scale reads. Two-hundred seven.

I step off the scale and watch it spin back to zero. Then I step on again.

207. In eight hours, I've somehow gained seventeen pounds.

I turn back to the mirror. It's true. Look at me. Almost twenty pounds...

I'm thicker through and through, though my upper body seems to have benefitted more than my legs. My neck, my traps, my round shoulders, by big guns -- veins rolling down the sides, twisting around my forearms -- but my chest -- the focal point -- my chest is magnificent. Big, meaty mounds, split across the middle, seperating the upper pec from the lower, a deep groove of cleavage between. My nipples are spread and poised on the very edge of the muscle, almost ready to slide to the underside of the mass. As I flex them, they jump, and bounce, and perform for me. As I play, my dick comes to life, twitching itself.

Oh, how I want to play with myself. How easy it would be to masturbate to my own image. How I could get off on my chest alone. But I remember PecBoy's words: call him before I beat off the first time. As hard as it is to take my eyes off myself, I go to the phone and dial PecBoy's number. While the phone rings, I begin to stroke my pecs with my free hand, still in shock. "Yeah?" PecBoy answers.

"Hey," I say. "It's me."

"Oh, hi!" he says, his tone brightening. "Little earlier than I expected to hear from you. How're ya doin'? Feelin' pretty good, I expect."

"What the fuck has happened to me?" I ask, flexing in the little mirror over the sink.

"Gained some weight?" he asks, laughing lightly.

"Seventeen pounds!" I say, incredulous. "How?"

"The milk," he says. "That's the magic of the milk. A guy drinks it, he gains like, ten to twenty pounds of lean muscle. Pretty cool, huh?"

"It's amazing!" I exclaim. "I look fucking amazing!" I flex, as if he can see me. "And my chest..."

"Yeah?" he asks.

"It's just like yours. Out of proportion. Big. What'd you do to me?"

"Well, you see, you drank my milk, so you gained muscle weight. And you, my friend, also drank my cum, so you've become like me. A milk man, as it were. A PecBoy."


"It's simple," he explained. "You get turned on, aroused, hard, and your chest will swell up, fill with milk. When a guy drinks, it's the most amazing feeling in the world. You'll see. He'll drink from you, and he'll grow. You provide his nutrition. It'll drive you wild, sexually. And you'll cum like crazy. And when you cum, you lose the pump; the feeding stops. Big guys will do anything for you. You'll see."

"Okay," I say. "But, why me? Why did you decide to give this power to me? Are there a lot of people like this? Milk men?"

"Some," he answers. "You'll know who they are -- it's like radar, or something -- and after a while, you'll be able to spot the initiates -- guys like you -- who need to be brought to the power."

"Guys like me?"

"Guys like US," he says, and laughs. "You haven't masturbated, have you?"

I touch my half-hard cock briefly, then slide my hand back up to my chest. I want to. "No," I say. "But I want to."

"Don't!" he says, quickly. "Here's what to do instead..."


And that's how I end up back at the gym, wearing a spandex muscle shirt and a pair of gym pants. I've resisted the urge to work chest -- we'd just worked it that morning, after all -- and am lifting back instead. I look magnificent. Already pumped, and not even done with my warm-ups, really. My upper body is fighting the confines of the spandex, and my tight thong is another reminder that I've gained weight. Seventeen pounds, I think. And my chest rises above it all, pumped even though working back, my nipples barely covered by the material, rubbing coarsely underneath. Huge. I'm huge.

I'm doing bent-over rows, lost in a set, and I don't notice the approach of the Muscle Head, but he's standing there when I re-rack the weight. One of the gym's biggest men -- Jason, his name is -- who occassionally nods to me when I pass, but a speaking relationship has never materialized. And now he stands behind me, massive, thick, his chin as wide as his neck. He wears big, loose clothing, but his huge muscles are woefully evident. "Hey," he says. "Mind if I work in with you?"

"Sure," I say, feeling good. "I'm not gonna go as heavy as you."

"I'm not goin' heavy," he says, and advances the bar. As he passes me, he eyes my chest -- it's now out of proportion, after all -- and while he looks, before I'm aware of doing it, I flex it quick, and make it bounce. He immediately looks me in the eye, and half-smiles. "I thought so," he says quietly. "You a Milk Man?"

And I see no reason to dodge him. He asked just the way PecBoy said he would, in the right code. "I am now," I say.

He puts his big hand on my shoulder, suddenly posessive. He smiles -- I've never seen this big monster smile before -- and says, "I want to feed." Just the way PecBoy said.

I shrug. "Sure."

With that, we gather our gym bags and leave. The workout never happens. My apartment is right across the street, so I suggest we go there. He nods in a way that makes me realize going to my place was expected.

Inside, he motions for me to sit down -- which I do, on the sofa -- and, standing before me, he pulls of his shirt, revealing his massive torso. He begins flexing for me. Double bicep. Side chest. Lat spread. His face is intense, serious. His body is magnificent.

I'm getting hard watching him. My dick grows and strains against the tight thong. I try to adjust it with my right hand, but when I touch it, my cock throbs to life. I gasp.

"Yeah," he says, flexing his arm in front of my face. "Get that fucker hard. Let yourself get turned on, man. Enjoy my big muscles." He poses. Then he drops his sweat pants, revealing his legs, his massive package, his own big cock poking against his underwear.

I'm stroking myself now, through the material of my own pants. Then he steps into me, and presses his massive quad against my package. He's huge -- a tree trunk -- but I shamelessly wrap my legs around his and begin humping. "Yeah," he says. "Get off on it. Fuck my big leg."

It feels so good, rubbing my cock on his big quad. I throw my head back and shut my eyes, thrusting. I find myself starting to flex my chest with each thrust, squeezing as my ass contracts. Feels fucking great. I can feel the blood rush to my pecs. A great pump.

"Yeah," he says. "Get off on me. Get it ready for me."

I increase my tempo. Thrust and flex. Thrust and flex. My chest feels so fucking good, like after a heavy set, incredible pump. Feeling big.

When I open my eyes, I see it. With each flex, my chest is growing. Truly growing. Truly huge. The mounds rise and swell. My tits. My beautiful man tits. I flex and squeeze. Bigger. I want them bigger. Flex.

And now they are. Huge. My skin stretched to it's max. The nipples raw. My chest is so big and so round that I can barely see over it. I reach up with my hand and touch it. The mounds are real. I feel them. I'm huge. I pinch my nipple. Oh, the sweet, sweet pain. I shut my eyes. And then, I feel liquid. I open my eyes.

On my finger tip, there's a drop of white milk. As I look past it to my nipple, a new drop forms there. I put my finger in my mouth and taste it. Milk. Delicious milk.

My milk.

And then, as if I'm ready and primed, Jason kneels between my legs. With his big hands, he cups my pecs. Smiling, he says, "Oh, yeah." He lowers his head to the right one, and begins to suck.

How can I describe it? As the fluid moves through my muscle, out my nipple, into his mouth. He suckles, this hulking monster, on arm wrapped around my body, pulling me into him, the other running up and down my side, cupping the other pec, squeezing and pinching. He drinks.

I'm so turned on. He grunts as he swallows, sucking so hard as to pull the milk from me. My nipple is on fire. Pain. Pleasure. I'm so turned on. I'm hard as a rock. With my right hand, I begin stroking my cock, pounding to the pulse of his swallows.

This continues. And when finally we level off, he releases the right nipple from his mouth and moves to the left. With the first swallow, an electric shock. I'm back to being rock hard and re-stimulated. I then realized what happened. The right one was empty. He'd moved to the left. The meal was almost over.

Steadily, he suckles. I pump. Then, at the end, he draws one mammoth draw, and it shoots me over the edge. I cum. I scream and I cum -- the most incredible climax of my life. Shooting and shooting. Exhausted. Spent.

Jason stands, and wipes his mouth. I glance down at my chest. No longer swollen, my pecs have shrunk to the size they were before this... this feeding. Jason is still in his underwear, his cock half-hard and pointing to the side. He massages his big package as he licks his lips. His eyes are half closed. "You wanna suck it?" he asks, gripping his cock.

In way of answering, I slide off the sofa and kneel before him, pulling his underwear down and over his thighs. His cock slowly rolls to the front and points at me. Wrapping one arm around his leg, I gently grab his balls with the other. Slowly, I take him in my mouth. He moans, dreamily. For a moment, I suck him like that, getting to know his cock, introducing it to my mouth. Then, he sits down on the sofa, and I crawl in his lap. He moans while my head bobs, taking his big cock. And suddenly his big hand is resting on the back of my head, quickening my pace.

Just like that, he shoots. He arches his back, holds his breath, flexes, and shoots, filling my mouth. I choke down the first throatful, then find a comfortable pace to swallow the rest.

He's asleep before my head is even out of his lap. I smile, remembering how sleepy I'd been after my first meal. I lift his legs up onto the sofa, and cover him with a blanket. I resist the urge to crawl in with him. Instead, I shower, and clean up.

He doesn't wake for three hours. I spend most of that time watching the rise and fall of his breathing. When he finally does wake, at eleven-thirty, he greets my gaze with a thin, almost embarrassed smile. "How long have I been out?" he asks.

"About three hours," I say, sitting in the chair across from him.

"Well," he says, throwing back the covers and standing, "how much do you think I got?" He stands there before me, in his underwear, and I see he's bigger. He's gained weight. The same way I had. "You got a scale?" he asks, already heading toward the bathroom.

"Bathroom," I say, following him.

He's already found it, about to stand on it, when he says to me, over his shoulder, "At the gym, I was 236. Let's see how nutritious you are." He laughs and gets on the scale. After a second, he looks at me and smiles. "248," he says, motioning me to look for myself -- which I do -- "Twelve pounds. Not bad." He flexes in the mirror. "Looks like I got it mostly in the legs," he says. Then, to me, "I always get it in the legs."

He dresses and leaves in the space of five minutes, shaking my hand at the door. He asks if I know Mike -- PecBoy -- and when I say that I do, he asks if I was taking over his clientele, cause he preferred me to Mike, having made more lean mass gains with me than he ever had with Mike. I smile and say that he can do that with me whenever he wants. He winks, says, "Deal!" and shuts the door behind him.

I'm left to ponder what I've become. •

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