Milk Man


By AbsMan420


They're frilly little white lacy things, the briefs I wear now. Very feminine, I think -- they certainly wouldn't be my first choice, but they do look good on me. Eric likes them, and of course, that's why I wear them. Eric likes them a lot, the way they hug my smooth, round muscular ass, my full package -- they DO look good on me. Eric gets an immediate hard-on when he sees me in them -- so, maybe I DO like them. Yet, even with all this, Eric still insists that he's not gay. He just needs to fuck after he feeds, he says, and I'm convenient. So he dresses me in these silly lingerie things, one piece lace bodysuits and silky undergarments, and feels my hard muscles under the soft material while he fucks me, telling me it reminds him of women. Of course, at 218 and 6% bodyfat, I'm no woman, but compared to Eric...

My friend Eric weighed 294 pounds this morning, when he left for his photo shoot, and not an ounce of fat on him. It's probably hard to imagine someone his size -- I mean, I guess everybody's seen the pro bodybuilders when they're all bulked out on the off-season, 'roid guts and all that, but this isn't like them. This isn't Kovaks or Dillet, who compete ripped at 250, but bulk up to 300 in the winter. This is a guy who weighs almost 300 pounds, ripped. This is a guy bigger than the biggest guy, and in competition shape. Thickly muscled and veined, he can't cover it in clothes. In his ultra-baggy XXXL everything -- he gave up on pants awhile ago, then got corporate sponsorship, and the Company had them specially made for him -- he looks like a pro-football lineman, but that his taught waist betrays him, his massive chest gives him away, though maybe you don't realize how ripped he is when you see him in clothes.

He originally said he'd stop at 250. At 250, he said he could use a little more to balance his height, so he'd stop at 260. At 260, I forget the excuse, but suddenly we were working for 270. And there WAS work involved. For me. He stopped making such huge gains after a while -- after 240, I think. At first, he packed on twelve, fifteen pounds in a feeding, after a while below ten, til where we are now: two or three per session. And strangely, his sex drive had shifted up in inverse proportion to the weight he'd gain. When he'd make big muscle gains, his orgasms were driven from compulsion, and he'd collapse in exhaustion, while his body grew. As he began gaining fewer pounds per session, he was able to use more energy for the sex, so those post-feeding moments gained intensity. And the bigger he got, the more dominant he became. Seriously. There have been days when he's sucked my nipples until they've bled, when he's fucked me, and fucked me, and ground me into the floor fucking me, and I've barely been able to walk.

Now, we're shooting for 300, and he swears he'll end it. "No one, no bodybuilder is 300 pounds," he says. "I'll make a fortune!"

It's crazy, the amount of money he's been making. You wouldn't think there'd be such a market for freak muscle, but you'd be wrong. The photo sales alone make him double the amount he'd earned before he'd... before he'd put on the size. Add to that the seminar fees, the personal training, the "private" posing sessions, he's making a mint. And he LOVES it!

Honestly, he absolutely loves it. I wouldn't have thought it of him, but he really enjoys the attention, the media, the celebrity-thing that Americans all seem to dream of. And, like most successful celebrities, he's got a great hook -- he's drug-free. He's not cycling, he's not shooting up, he is one-hundred percent natural. Natural bodybuilder. Natural freak. Understand, that word is NEVER used in pro bodybuilding. NOBODY is "natural." EVERYBODY uses. You just learn how to cover whatever they're testing you for.

Well, Eric can take any test at any time and come up negative, and he's gone through some very thorough medical analysis . Doctors, trainers, sports therapists, all they can report is "normal." He tests negative for every steroid and derivitive there is. All negative. The doctors comment that he has a rather high testosterone level, but it's not being artificially induced. "He's simply genetically gifted," they conclude. "And very lucky."

Eric jokingly tells them it's because he drinks milk, and the next thing you know, connections are made, your people talk to my people, and Eric's shirtless torso is plastered all over the city with a thin, liquid white moustache on his upper lip. "Wanna get big?" he's asking. "Drink milk." Corporate sponsorship born.

He's talked about competing at times, getting involved in the professional scene, but he doesn't have the drive for that. He freely admits it. He only poses for money, he says. And he likes being a freak more than an athlete. "People pay attention to me because I'm a novelty," he says. "If they see me on the stage competing all the time, I'll lose my originality." Of course, it's not like him to admit right out that he just likes being a sex object, that he just likes being worshipped, but that's true, too.

So he's become more of a model, a celebrity, than pro athlete. It's a shame, really. Three hundred pound guys may be common place on a football field, but not built like Eric -- I tell you. I've seen him in football pants. On the other hand, his schedule is flexible, his time is his own, and he isn't causing any damage to his magnificent body. All in all, he could've made a worse decision.

He's off doing a beefcake shoot this morning -- actually, he should be home pretty soon -- for which he has great humor. He treats the whole beefcake thing like a joke. I gotta give him credit, he's so secure with his body and his looks that's he's willing to dress in just about anything, and of course make just about anything look good. He's worn nearly every harness, brief, posing trunk, spandex short, thong, daisy duke, jock strap combination there is. He's never done nude, and I give him points for that. Not that he's got any problem showing himself off there, either, but he saves that for his "private" sessions -- I think his humor is pretty wry where that's concerned, too.

He spent hours at the mirror this morning, staring at himself, shaving his face. He has a make-up girl who does him, waxes his eyebrows, and makes the most of the dimple in his chin, but he allows me to shave his body. He knows how much I love doing it, and he feels it's a reward for the services I provide him. Well, maybe more of a treat, or an extra bonus. He wasn't a particularly hairy guy before... before he'd put on the size, but as he grew, the hair on his body gained density, on his chest and his legs. He doesn't like the hair that grows on his back -- that's ALWAYS kept smooth -- but he goes through phases with the rest, sometimes hair, sometimes not, sometimes long, sometimes manicured. He changes his look often and successfully. I prefer him smooth, like he prefers me, but he does what he wants.

He's got a scruffy goatee right now, a #1 buzz, and his body hair is the same-length buzz as his head and chin. Although he looks good, I'm anxious for him to get back to a smooth phase. He's kind of scratchy at the moment, like a short hair dog or an old brush, and it tickles the sensitive skin around my nipple to such a degree that it's almost painful. The more I mention it, the longer he keeps the goatee, so I'm trying something different right now -- NOT talking about it. Maybe that'll work.

When he finally gets home, about an hour later, he wears only his baggy gym shorts and a backward Yankees cap. He squeezes into a parking space in his two-seat convertable, which he manages to dwarf, his upper body seeming to burst out of the top of the car, sporting new shades, and a little silver chain around his neck. "Hey, little bro," he says, bursting into the room. "I had a great fuckin' shoot." When he sees me, really sees me in these new little white lace briefs, he pauses. "Damn," he says. "Turn around."

I show him my ass, my incredible hamstrings, framed in white lace. I give him several different angles. "Mmmm," he says, and I feel the flat of his hand on the round of my butt. "Looks very nice."

Photo shoots get him horny. Seducing the camera gets him all worked up, he says, and there's no way to relieve it. Sometimes after particularly hot shoots -- when they accidently stumble onto one of his real-life fantasies -- he'll come home and fuck forever. "Baseball gear today," he growls, pressing his package into the crack of my ass. He's still wearing his cup. "You know what that does to me."

I know. It means I didn't wear the briefs in vain. With that, I allow the transformation to begin. I inhale deeply, rib-cage expanding, and allow my chest to fill the space. I barely need to be on the rise of arousal to transform myself, to allow my pecs to fill, to feel my nipples spread, then pop to attention, to become the "Milk Man" -- as we call it when we're playing superheroes, "Milk Man" and "Pec Boy."

When I turn to face him, I'm between his spread legs, his strong hands support my lower back. I reach between his arms, inadvertantly flexing my swollen chest, and I slip my hands up his inner thighs, until I'm supporting his cup, which I gently press into his swelling erection. He moans.

"I'm feeling like we can get three hundred today," I say softly, working the cup like a codpiece.

He buries his face in the cleavage between my pecs, kissing and licking, nipping. "You get me to three hundred," he says, kiss, peck, "and I'll give you a great reward."

I smile. "Reward? What's better than this?"

He suddenly crushes me to him, bear-hugging me, enveloping me. He is so much more powerful than me. God damn, I wish I was that big. We're chest to chest, and his scratchy hair is driving me wild. Any reward is fine. Just suck me!

"You get me to three hundred," he says, "and you can do anything you want with me."

I don't even hesitate -- that's how much I already know -- and I look right in his eyes. "I wanna fuck you," I say.

"Except that." He releases his hold then, and grabs the bottoms of my pecs. He clamps down on the left nipple and draws so hard I'm speechless.

***************************************** When he wakes a couple of hours later, he finds me at the computer, writing as usual. He wears his gym shorts still, though I can see his hardening cock pushing its way out of the material. "Hey," he says. "I'm horny as fuck."

"You must be three hundred, then," I say, and swivel the chair to face him. There's little doubt of it in my mind, as a matter of fact, when I turn and look at him. He's so densely muscled, so big, it's absolutely mind-boggling. And when he gets an erection, hold me back. It's so hard to resist him.

"Lets find out," he says, and hulks his way to the bathroom. I hear the scale groan, then hear him say, "Holy fuck."

When I walk in the bathroom, he's still on the scale, bent over reading. "What's the verdict?" I ask.

He looks at me, smiling, misty-eyed. "302," he says. "I'm fucking three hundred and two pounds!" He raises his arms above his head, like he scored, the triceps just hang off of him.

I come up behind him then, and wrap my arms around his thick torso, almost stopped by his wide lats. I press my package into his ample ass. "I guess I get to fuck you," I say, teasingly.

He breaks away from me, and faces me. "What the fuck is it with you and fucking lately?" he asks. "Since when have you been a top?"

I'm defensive. "Hey, I used to fuck all the time, before...." I motion to my comic book pecs. "I didn't always used to be the woman."

He laughs. "You're the one with the big tits," he says. "Look, you ain't fucking me. I'm not gay."

"Well then, what?" I counter. "You said three hundred and anything!"

"Aw, Jesus..."

"I suppose you won't even suck my dick. Three hundred pounds and you won't even suck my dick."

He sighs and backs up, hanging his head with a disgusted look. "All right, all right," he says. "MAYBE I'll suck your dick. But, dude..." he emphasizes, tapping my chest, "I'm not gay. You're not gonna fuck me." He turns away, walking back into the living room. I watch the globes of his ass shift back and forth -- God DAMN, I wanna fuck that ass! -- when he turns back and says, "Okay, compromise. I won't let you fuck my ass, but I will let your fuck any other bodypart you want. After all, three hundred's three hundred. How's that?"

I nod. "It's a fine compromise," I say.

"So then, what's it gonna be?" he asks, posing for me in the shafted light of the living room. "My leg? I know you'd like to rub yourself on my big quad, wouldn't you?" He flexes the muscle of his upper leg -- bigger than my torso -- bigger than DeMayo plus Demey with a side order of Platz. "Yeah, but you've done that before. Maybe my abs," he says, flexing his hard eight-pack. "The ridges are just like a washboard. The texture alone would get you off. You want my abs?" he asks.

"Not your abs," I say. I'm hardening in my silky nightshorts.

"You wanna mount my big back," he asks, twisting and flexing, "and ride me like a bronco bull? You wanna put your hard cock between the thick planes of my back, grab onto my crazy traps and fuck yourself silly?" He moves in closer to me, dominating my personal space. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "That's not what you want, is it?"

I run my hands along the jut of his lats, their mass filling my grip, like cables. His face is inches from mine, our eyes locked. "No," I whisper. I slip my hands up into his armpits, following the ripples of his obliques, then pull them back until I'm cupping his heavy pecs, barely in my hands.

"You want my pecs," he says. "You wanna fuck my big pecs." He bounces them before me, back and forth, as I cup them.

"I do."

Eric slides to his knees, until his massive chest is level with my growing erection, sitting back on his haunches. His pecs are a great slab, broken down the middle with a groove just wide enough, just deep enough for my smooth, pink cock. He flexes, bunching the halves of his chest together, showing off the depth of his cleavage. "Step over here, Pec Fucker," he says. "Step over here, Mr. Thinks-he's-gonna-top-the-three-hundred-pound-Man, and rub that pretty little cock on my perfect body. Get your reward for being my bitch."

I put my feet on either side of his torso, bending at the knee for support -- I grip his ribcage with my legs like I'm riding a horse -- and slip my hands down the buzz of his head, settling them on his big traps, at the insertion point next to the shoulder. My pommels. With his big hands, he grabs the base of my ass -- still in silk -- and presses my hips to his big muscle, the feel of the material so soft between my cock and his hard pectoral mounds.

I begin to thrust, slowly at first, determined to enjoy my reward, the freak on his knees before me, but am finding it hard to control myself. His muscle is firm, but giving, and when he flexes, it sends shivers through me. My breasts cry to grow. to become my milk-filled tits, but I don't allow it. I'm surprised by my ability to control the transformation. Perhaps there will come a time when I will again have normal sex! When I can be the fuck-ER again. When a sexual encounter won't be entirely about MY breasts.

I thrust with renewed vigor -- feeling like the man -- against his massive chest. With ease, he rips my underwear away. I can now feel the stubble of his chest hair, tickling my ridged cock. I'm seconds from cumming.

"Hold on," he says, and pulls my hips away. His face is inches from my cock. He looks up at me. "I'm not gay," he says, "but I sure do appreciate being three hundred pounds." With that, he leans forward and takes my cock in his mouth. He explores the moment, tries some different things, decides it isn't so bad, and actually creates a healthy rhythm. When he grabs the back of my balls and squeezes, I lose it. I cum right into his throat.

He gags, and chokes, but I can't stop thrusting. I don't really want to. There's something almost instinctual about thrusting deeper on orgasm, planting the seed. He swallows, so not to choke, and pushes me away -- I fall to the floor before him. "Aw, fuck!" he yells. "You fuckin' came in my mouth, man!"

"I'm sorry," I sputter. "I didn't even realize how close...."

"Aw, man. Aw, fuck." He stands then, trying to spit, not finding the saliva -- he's already swallowed most of it -- and then he suddenly weaves, catching himself on the arm of the sofa, like he'd lost strength in his legs. "What the fuck?" he mumbles. "What the fuck is wrong with me?"

As he falls onto the sofa, fighting to stay awake, I realize. It hits me like that, the sudden knowledge. The sudden REMEMBERED knowledge -- and the warning! "Oh my god," I say. "You drank my cum!"

"Not because I wanted to" he says, a whispery voice. "Why am I so sleepy..." He can't keep his head up.

"Oh, Eric, you're gonna sleep for a while," I say. "You're about to go through some changes."

But he's already out. So I cover him with the afghan, check the clock briefly, and go back to the computer, where I type this guilty chapter.


Eric doesn't wake until the sun is about to set, great golden shafts streaking across the living room. He rolls over and makes low moaning sounds, comfortable in the warmth of the light, resisting conciousness. I've nervously sat around for the last six hours, anxious for him to wake, dreading him to wake. His reaction is not going to be positive.

I look over to discover him sitting up, his feet on the floor, hands on the edge of the sofa, his head hung. Even from the seated position, it's obvious how much he's grown -- as if he could BE bigger! He raises his head slowly, making eye contact with me immediately. I'm suprised when he smiles.

"I feel fuckin' great!" he says, standing, flexing his arms out to his sides. He goes through several poses -- bam! double bicep -- bam! most muscular -- bam! side chest! -- before he speaks again. "I'm not kidding! I've NEVER felt like this after a feeding. This is fuckin' awesome! It's better than cocaine shooting crack!"

"You're bigger," I say.

"Fuck yeah, I'm bigger," he says, flexing for himself, couple of bicep squeezes. "Feels like about 325." The scale says 326, but we don't quibble over the difference. He poses in the bathroom mirror. "All in my chest," he says, watching himself. "Look at that, man. I've put on twenty pounds, all in my chest." He's fascinated by himself, coming to terms with how out-of-portion he suddenly is -- and when you think about his normal size, that's saying something -- how juvenile superhero he appears. His upper pecs are a shelf, that's how far they balloon away from his collar bone, the mass of his middle pecs, even with the deep striations, the outer pec thick, deep and rounded, and his curved lower pecs -- the nipples poised on their edge, erect and ready -- casting shadows on his ab wall. "I guess I'm just about perfect," he says, hypnotized by himself.

As his erection grows, his breathing deepens. "And I'm horny as a motherfuck," he says, almost bragging. "Man, if I'd known drinking your cum was gonna make me feel like this, I would've done it a long time ago."

"Flex your chest," I say.

He smiles -- a sudden twitch in his erection. "With pleasure," he says. As he flexes, as he bounces back and forth, he reaches full hardness, and I take his big cock in my hand, through his gym shorts, and gently squeeze it. He releases his breath, but continues posing for me, catching it again. "Hot," he says, panting. "This is so fucking hot."

He begins squeezing his chest along with his regular exhalations, in time with the tempo of my hand. He begins flexing it in earnest, the more he's aroused, a suddenly viscous circle.

And then it happens. His chest grows.

He's confused by it, aroused by it, afraid of it, curious about it -- I know. I've been there -- but he also can't stop it, even if he tried. And probably wouldn't if he could -- it feels that incredible. "What the fuck is happening to me?" he moans, expanding his rib cage each time he inhales, flexing his growing pecs on the exhale. They grow bigger, and bigger, until they finally reach their maximum, and he stops involuntarilly flexing. A crazy freak, he looks like one of those morph pictures you can download on the web, all swollen and super-massive -- his nipples are as large as targets.

"What's happened to me?" he asks, his voice dripping with lust, as he reaches up and touches them, as he cups their new mass in his hands. When his fingers slide over his nipples, he gasps. He moans. "So sensitive," he says. "What's happened to me?"

"You drank my cum," I say, matter of factly. "Anyone who drinks my cum becomes like me. What I am. What you are, now."

He growls, "Oh my God," and I can't tell if it's reaction to me, or his own hands on his nipples. He hasn't stopped handling them. And so help me, I wanna handle them, too -- I know how tender they are, how erotic. They're glorious, and inches from my face, swollen and tempting. When his nipple play causes his lactation, there are tears in his eyes -- he's inches from ecstacy.

I pull his hand away from his pec, saying, "Don't resist." He's confused, but when I put his thick fingers in my mouth and lick the milk off of them, he finally smiles. And understands.

He allows me to move my head to his breast. When I flat tongue his aeriola, he says, "Oh, my God, will you just fuckin' drink!" then grabs the back of my head, and pushes me into the pillow of his chest. Smothered there in the unimaginable mass of his muscle, I drink. I suckle. I taste the flow of his milk, when he screams, "Oh, fuck!" and begins to beat on his cock. "Oh, fuck YEAH!"

The harder I draw, the more he enjoys it. I really wanted this to be a tender moment, but he clearly likes the power, and wants it rough. So, intead of suckling, I pull -- believe me, there's more than enough milk. His chest is monstrously huge -- emptying it will be a job. He moans loudly at my new attack.

"There you go," he barks. "That's the way -- TAKE that fuckin' milk!" He pounds mindlessly on his cock. "C'mon, Pec Fucker, little faggot muscle sucker. Other side. Other side, c'mon."

He roughly pushes my head over to his left nipple, and I barely have it in my mouth when he sharply smacks me in the back of the head. "Fuckin' get ON it," he yells. I do, and he regains his rhythm.

I keep drinking until I'm full. I swear to God, I'm full, and there's still more. It dribbles down my chin, tiny liquid lines down the front of my own torso, over the ridges of my abs. "Almost," he says, full-thrust. "Almost."

I take long, steady draws, pulling my head back a little at the end, tightening my grip on the tip of his nipple. Again and again. Harder and harder.

"YES!" he screams, and throws me to the floor. When I look up at him, he's standing spread-legged, his arms out to his sides, his entire massive body flexed, his hard cock pointing straight away from his body, shooting his crippling load, an almost steady stream of cum. His jaw is set, his face flexed, like the Herculean last rep of heavy squats. He roars, throwing his head back, leaning away from the thrust, hips inching forward, squeezing, squeezing.

Finally, the last of him bursts out. He relaxes, panting, his heavy rib cage back to what passes for him as regular. He looks at me, standing over me, sweaty and tired. He's so fucking hot, and when he smiles, he's even better.

He offers me an arm, and helps me to my feet. My belly is so full -- I feel over-stuffed, a Thanksgiving flashback -- and I feel so warm. No, not warm -- as my dick grows below the swell of my stomach, I realize that I'm horny. I reach down and unconciously start to stroke it. I should've remembered this. I've seen this compulsion. The very idea of having his milk inside of me, the feeling, the warmth of it there suddenly turns me on so much that my cock rages to life. And he looks SO good, relaxed and muscular, those massive pecs hanging there. His big thighs, getting between his big thighs...

"I know what you're thinking," he says, his voice low. "I've been where you are. You're thinking you want to fuck me, isn't that right?"

I nod. No point in being evasive. "Yeah," I say.

He turns around, showing me his wide back, his impossible traps, and the round mass of his thick muscular butt. He's a work-horse. He's perfection. "You wanna fuck this hot ass," he says, posing for me. He bends at the waist, touching his toes, his ass spread before me. "Why don't you feel that?" he asks. "Feel the ass of the biggest bodybuilder on the planet."

I gingerly reach out and lay my hand upon it, my other hand keeping time on my swollen erection. How badly I just want to take him -- to just fuck him -- but instead I run my flat hand over the mass of him, over the sweeps and dents. "Feels pretty fuckin' good, doesn't it?" he asks quietly.

"Oh, yeah," I pant.

"How bad do you wanna fuck me?"

"Real bad."

He stands then, and faces me, only a little taller, but easily dominates my size. He glares down into my eyes. "You're not gonna," he says. I step back a little, surprised. I wish I could stop beating on my dick. He takes advantage and presses forward, again in my space. Quietly, he says, "You're not gonna fuck me 'til you're bigger than me." With a little triumphant smile, he kneels before me. Pulling my hand away from my cock, he looks up at me. "I'm not gay," he says, "but I WILL be with a guy who's bigger than me."

He takes my cock in his mouth, and sucks me off in a matter of strokes. Deftly swallowing my load, he mumbles, "THAT'S what I was hungry for..."

As I fall asleep from exhaustion, his milk working inside me, he lays me down on the sofa, so I'm now in the sun's warm rays. "Get some sleep," he says to me. I'm barely awake. "Your next feeding's in three hours. We got a lot of work to do -- I need to hurry and get your ass bigger than me."

I'm asleep before I'm able to reply, but I doubt I'll ever be hungry again. •

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