Of course, I'm not "on" anything. I just haven't told Eric that I'd been transformed. Changed into this muscle-laden milk machine by drinking the cum of another. Since the transformation, I've gained almost twenty-nine pounds of muscle -- I now weigh 218, my bodyfat 6% as of this morning's workout -- I've lost most of the hair on my body, the tiniest bit clinging to the root of my cock. It fell out over the course of a couple of days, an itchy process at best, especially when it fell from my ass and my balls. But now that the rug is vacuumed and the shower drain unplugged, I admit that I like the look. My skin shines and is baby soft to the touch. Tender and sensitive. My nipples ache when I wear a shirt, and they rub, erect under cotton, and poised as they are on the edge of my pecs, I show them off constantly. My looks have become rugged, my body smooth.

Eric isn't fooled, I'm sure. He thinks I'm taking some kind of steroid, to have weight gain like this. And there are times when I want to show him -- feed him -- but he worries me a little. In college, he excelled as a football player -- a defensive end -- and he's played hockey since he was a boy -- he plays now on a semi-professional team -- so he's remarkably aggressive. His thick shoulders need no pads. An animal. Caged. He dates hundreds of women, leaving them as soon as he's "scored." And he's a terrific workout partner, always competitive and pushing. But straight, and homophobic in the way athletes become.

Just a little less than 200 pounds, Eric claims he doesn't want to get big -- it'll interfere with sports -- but the way he's eyeing my new mass as we do our chest workout, I can tell he wants some size. We're benching, preparing to do a set of 225. Eric has already gone, repping out eight, and I'm settling back to start, Eric at my head, ready to spot. Before the transformation, I was only able to get four, now, I'll get ten easily. And the pump is phenomenal.

After I re-rack the weight, I sit up and flex my chest. Our eyes meet. "Grrr," I say, bouncing the pecs back and forth once. When I stand, Eric is in my face, and even though we're alone in the gym -- it's mid-morning, after all -- he lowers his voice when he says, "All right, buddy. I don't know what you're on, but I want some."

"Eric..."

"I'm serious," he says. "Two weeks ago, you could barely handle that weight, and suddenly you're doing ten. And look at you -- you're huge! You're fuckin' huge. Tell me what you're on. Seriously."

We look at each other, in that moment, but I'm just not sure. Sure, some of the guys who have fed from me have been straight. And homophobic. Barely any touching. If they could milk me into a glass and then drink, they would. When I'm dry, after they've fed, when they themselves are compelled to ejaculate, they beat themselves off with me at a distance -- one guy even went into the bathroom! He'll never have me again. And Eric and I are friends, lifting partners.

"I don't think you can handle it," I say, and put my hand on his shoulder. "Honest, man."

He shrugs me off. "Don't fuckin' tell me what I can handle. If it gets me big, I can handle it." His intensity is as focused as his heaviest set. What can I do?

"Okay," I say, stepping over the bench and away from him. "Come with me, and I'll show you."

**************************************

At my apartment, the tv on, I strip off my shirt and pose in the dining room mirror. Eric has his off just as fast, and we make a pretense of posing into the mirror, as if we aren't checking each other out. My chest is better now, the deep striations and the bold, round muscle bellies, but this is only now. For the year that we've lifted together, Eric has always been superior. He's been bigger, stronger, the leader of our pairing. The dom. And now that I'm bigger, I'm sure, he's not feeling the same power. Well, if he'd relax, I'd take care of that for him.

As I flex, raising my rib cage and squeezing my pecs between my arms, Eric stops his pose and speaks. "Look at that," he says. "What the fuck are you on?" He jams his finger between the halves of my chest, and I flex harder, around his finger, holding it in. (With that, my dick twitches in my gym pants.)

"It's not what I'm on," I say. "It's what I've become."

"What do you mean?"

I twitch the muscle of my chest -- a sharp release of breath. "It's probably easier if I show you," I say. "Now, don't freak. I don't want you to freak."

"I'm not gonna freak!" he says sharply. "Will you just show me?"

So, I do. With my right hand, I begin squeezing my dick through the layers of sweat pant and cotton thong that cover it. Since it loves the attention, it springs to life almost instantly -- as if the situation didn't have me half-hard anyway.

When I first became a milk-man, I had to be in the deep throws of excitement before the transformation would begin. My cock had to be up and hard -- I had to be stroking it -- my breathing heavy, before the physical aspects kicked in. Now, I could almost force the change playing with myself, getting half-hard, and concentrating.

I shut my eyes lightly -- I can't look at Eric -- bow my head, and begin flexing my chest, squeezing it between my arms, feeling the blood rush in, the muscle pump. For this, I open my eyes. The more it's happened, the more I've begun enjoying watching the metamorphasis. The more I like watching my chest swell, growing beyond the pump, expanding, mass flowing in like liquid. Flex. Inhale. Flex.

And I feel when I'm at my peak. My chest, now ridiculously out of proportion, shy of cartoony, throbs atop my rib cage. The nipples beckon. My cock is pressing against the confines of the thong, demanding release.

For the first time since, I look at Eric. I can't help but smile and flex when I see him, his jaw agape. "Oh, my god," he whispers, hypnotized by my tits. "I've heard... but I never saw... I always thought it was locker room bullshit. But this..." He slowly reaches out his hands and touches the outside of my pecs. Swollen as they are, the skin -- stretched so tight -- is outrageously sensitive. I inhale sharply. "Holy fuck," he says, as he pinches my nipple -- it makes me shake! -- "Look at you." A drop of milk comes off on his finger. He holds it before him and examines it, turning the finger back and forth. "What the fuck...?"

"Taste it," I say, smiling. I can't help but flex my pecs. I'm their slave when they're in this mode. They must be suckled. I become a regular whore when I'm like this. That's why my friend PecBoy -- himself a milk-man, the guy who made me -- told me to never transform alone. It aches. I have to be sucked.

Slowly, he raises his hand to his mouth. Staring in my eyes, he touches the drop to the tip of his tongue. I know what'll happen next.

He is surprised by the taste -- how good it is. He sticks his finger completely in his mouth and even begins to suck on it, unconciously, like an infant. The taste of my milk re-awakens this instinct. He realizes his finger is just a finger and his focus shifts to my pecs, my swollen man-tits. This causes me to flex, which causes his finger to slip out of his mouth. He's hungry now.

"Drink, man," I say, and I offer him a tit. He rubs his hands over the mass of muscle, making sure to stroke across the nipple. With his flat tongue, he licks the trail of drops across his palm. With a far away smile, he bends to my breast and takes me in his mouth.

Most men, caught in this metaphor, suckle like babies. They drink slowly, lazilly, caught in the erotic fantasy. Eric draws forcefully, attacking the breast, chewing the nipple, pulling the liquid into his mouth. The pain is savage. My erection throbs.

Before I can even touch myself, I feel the pec is almost empty. Eric senses this too, and pulls his head back, away from the tender nipple, a puzzled look in his eye. "The other side," I gasp, moving his head with my hand, until he faces the left pec. "The other side."

He smiles, and sits on the arm of the sofa, where his head is level with my chest. He holds his arms out to me, and I go to him. With one hand, he holds the underside of my pec, supporting it's mass, and he reaches around me with the other, hand on my middle back, and pulls me close. But, I soon discover, it's not tenderness -- it's possessiveness. A hard grip, from which I can't escape. And when he sucks my left tit, with his leverage advantage, I'm helpless, and he empties me like a straw in a fountain drink.

On his final draw, he pulls so hard that the force makes me cum. I haven't even gotten my cock out of my sweatpants, but the cum empties into the material of my thong, warm and wet. When he senses I'm empty, he pushes me away. I take a few steps back and kneel, breathless.

And he sits on the arm of the sofa, watching me, licking the last drops from his lips. Legs spread, he reaches into his own gym pants, and grabs his stiff cock. Without speaking, without breaking eye contact, he savagely beats himself off, hard, painful strokes. Just before he climaxes, he shuts his eyes, and then he shoots, but cups his hand and neatly catches his load. He hasn't finished cumming before he's overwhelmed by exhaustion.

He slides down into the cushion of the sofa, and falls asleep sitting up, his cupped hand in his lap. I know from experience that he'll be out for a couple of hours, but I crawl to him quietly, and gently touch his knee. "Eric?" I ask. But he's gone, his chin to his chest, his breathing even.

And this is something else I've learned. If, after someone feeds, I drink their cum, I recuperate faster, full of energy and recharged eagerness. If I don't, I'm tired and listless for the rest of the day. And hungry. Ridiculously hungry. And always for meat. My need for protein is so great that I drink four or five shakes a day.

And so, Eric passed out before me, I lick the cum from his hand, the salty taste filling my mouth. The last of it gone, I flat-tongue his palm. Then I lick the last drops from the tip of his dick, watching him to make sure he's not waking, and put his cock back in his jockstrap, adjusting his package, and settling his gym pants back around his waist.

He sleeps on.

When he wakes, two hours later, it's with a start. He looks quickly around the room, taking it all in, then jumps to his feet, legs spread, ready for action. Then he sees his reflection in the wall mirror. He sees the change. The mass. Slowly, the smile spreads across his face, and he begins posing. "Holy fuck," he says, moving from pose to pose. "Holy fuck."

He pulls his sweat pants down quickly, flexing in his jockstrap, exposing his big legs, his big ass. When he finally turns to me, his dick is half hard, laying thick in the pouch. "Fuckin' amazing," he says, smiling. "How much do you think I've gained?" He flexes his arms in front of him. Shows off his eight-pack.

"Scale in the bathroom," I say.

I follow him in, and watch him as he flexes in the bathroom mirrors -- better light -- his swollen package barely held by the elastic in his jock. "At least twenty pounds," he says. "I'm at least 215."

In truth, he's 221. "Fuckin' huge!" he shouts, throwing out his arms and flexing to the ceiling. Then he turns to me, pumped, and smiles. "How soon can I do that again?" he asks.

"I don't know," I say. "I usually wait a day."

With that, he grabs me, and shoves me into the bathroom wall. I'm so surprised, I don't even struggle. He blocks me up against the wall with his forearm, and shoves his massive thigh between my legs, pressing into my package. "We're not gonna wait," he says, and rubs me against his leg. He's so big. So strong. I shamefully feel myself start to harden. "You like that, don't you? You wanna fuck my big leg."

And I do. His new mass is irresistable. I start to pump my hips; I start to pant. He smiles. "Yeah," he says. "Get off on me."

So, uanble to help myself, I surrender. My cock takes over, leading me to pleasure. I rub it against the thick muscle of his thigh. I lose myself in his power. Fucking his leg, I close my eyes and involuntarily flex my chest. Suddenly, I feel his big hand grab my left pec. "Yeah. Breathe man," he says. "Let 'em grow."

I know. I know he doesn't give a shit about whether I'm getting off on him or not, he just wants my milk. He doesn't care about sexual fulfillment, just it's by-product. But there, pinned against the bathroom wall, his thick leg jammed into my crotch, allowing me to get off on him, none of it matters. Not in my surrender.

So I flex my pecs, and let them grow, will them to fill with milk. And they do. They grow. They swell. "Yeah," he says. "There they are. Fuck yeah."

He lowers his head to the left. "Not yet," I say, as his lips touch my stretching nipple. "Almost."

He looks up at me under his brow. "Yeah?" he says. "I'm ready now." And he bites the nipple. I catch my breath and scream. He's sucking -- pulling -- milk from me. Not suckling, forcing. Taking it. The pain. And he empties me that quickly, and moves to the other side. His draws and my thrusts fall into rhythm, together. And I shoot. As he takes the last drops from my aching chest, I shoot into his thigh. My cum spurts past him, only a few drops accumulating on his thick quad. He gracefully steps back.

For the first time, I see it: his own cock -- hard, barely held by his jockstrap. He smiles as he licks his lips, seeing me look. And I want it. I need it. His beautiful cock held out like a meal.

I kneel before him and reach out, gently cupping his package in my hand. I lean forward and gently kiss the material covering him, the jock rough beneath my lips, his cock head twitching but held firmly. I take his package, jock and all, into my mouth. "Yeah," he says, dreamilly. Then, I release it, pulling the jockstrap down. His hard cock rolls forward, pointing at me. I take it in my mouth, and look up at him. I'm amazed that he's letting me. He looks down at me with his eyes half-closed, the corner of his mouth curling in a smile. I begin to lick up and down the shaft, and then deep swallow him quickly. He grunts from deep in his chest.

Wrapping my hand around the base of his shaft, I begin to work the head, circling around the thick ridge, pushing my tongue into his slit. He begins to thrust. "Suck that dick," he moans. Then, forcefully, he pushes me back against the wall, placing his hands on either side of my head, and he face fucks me, lunging his thick cock deep into my throat.

And instead of fighting him, I let him lead. I wrap one arm around his leg, holding his ass, feeling it flex and release as he thrust himself into me. With my left, I gently pull the back of his ball sac, which makes him thrust faster.

Then, all at once, he pushes his cock so deep I'm strangling, forcing myself to control my gag reflex, when I feel him cum deep in my throat. Shooting. Shooting. A never-ending wave. He forces me to swallow.

And then he relaxes, and pulls out. I lick the base of his cock as he removes it, finally tasting the fruit of my labor. Hot and salty.

He steps back away from me, and I collapse, sitting on the floor, trying to catch my breath. "Oh, yeah," he says, flexing his chest and stomach. "I can feel it in me. I can feel it!" He poses in the mirror, his back to me. At once, he reaches down and puts the jockstrap on again. Then continues posing. Suddenly, he weaves. He shakes his head, trying to clear it, then turns to me. He actually yawns.

"How long am I gonna be out?" he asks, sleepily. "I got a hockey game tonight."

"Couple hours," I say.

"Wake me," he says, and darts out the door. I hear him go into my bedroom. When I go in, he's already lying on my bed, in his jockstrap, almost asleep. "You gonna wake me?" he asks, yawning again.

"Yeah," I say. "Sure."

"Excellent." And he's out.

And I think, What the hell is going on?

***************************

At seven o'clock, he's still not awake, so I head into the bedroom. I hear the steadiness of his breathing while I search for the light. He's obviously asleep, lightly snoring on the intake of air. I click on the light and suddenly see him lying there atop the covers, on his back, arms over his head. Of course, I'm shocked by the gain of mass, as always, but what catches my eye is the jockstrap, which now barely fits him, fighting to keep the bulk of his package contained, straining over his tubular cock. The cotton ribbing is so taught that I can actually see through the material, the pink of his member obvious.

I gently shake him awake, my hand sinking into the unflexed mass of his shoulder. Soft but strong. He blinks, sees me, and looks down at his body, lifting his arms off the mattress and flexing them. He stands and flexes in the mirror, a crab shot, his traps leaping off his back. "Holy fuck," he says, heading for the bathroom.

I find him already on the scale, his back to me -- massive v-shape -- the straps of the jock atop his skin, no fat on his glutes. They're ripped, too!

"237" he says. "Two-hundred-fucking-thirty-seven! Yes!!!" He wraps one arm around my head, buddy-buddy, and pulls me into the bedroom with him. "Gonna go play hockey," he says, gathering his stuff. It's comical to watch him try to put his sweatpants on over his thickly muscled legs. "Then," he says, turning to me, putting his big hand on my shoulder, "I'm coming back here and fucking you." Suddenly, his hand is behind my neck and he pulls me forcefully to him, so quick I don't have time to react. He kisses me forcefully, then pushes me away. "I'll be back in a couple hours," he says, grabbing his gym bag and heading out the door.

Half-erect, I watch him go. •