Milking the Bull

[Muscle Growth; Muscle Drain; Trait Theft; Shrinking]

The candidate is a rail-thin blond kid who showed up in a monogrammed pink polo and khakis like he just stepped off his yacht after 18 holes at the club. The procedure is monumentally pricey and he’s paying out of pocket, so I assume he’s a trust fund brat. He greets me with a smug smile I want to slap. I assume there are people who work in his house whose first names he doesn’t know. “Alistair,” he says as his limp handshake dissolves in my grip. That was his name walking in, mind you. I met a lot of Roberts and Richards who walked out of this lab calling themselves Bob and Rick without a thought.

That smugness fades when I bring him into the antechamber and ask him to strip down. He chuckles uneasily at first but I repeat my command: “Strip to your underwear.” He seems anxious as he undoes his belt buckle. When his pants go down, I can see why: you’d think a guy who never has to think about money would spend some of that money on steroids, growth hormone, a personal trainer, whatever. I could see that he had the vestiges of genetic potential there--a tiny mound of pectoral muscles, probably from the 10 pushups he couldn’t talk his way out of in 7th grade, and some decent calves, but his legs are about as thick as my wrists. Still, he’s got a soft pale tummy and a flat, saggy ass, the only fat deposits on his tiny little frame.

The clipboard says he’s 26 but I bet he gets carded buying cigarettes. There’s not a hair on his pasty body, although his navy blue boxer briefs have a decently stuffed pouch. I couldn’t wait to see what happened with that.

Stripped down like that, he walks slumped over, his head down, hands covering his crotch. I want to tell him to move those hands; that bulge is the most impressive thing on his little frame! But I’m always kind to these guys when they come in. No matter how scrawny, I knew I’d be staring up at him on the other side.

The scanner looked like an airport metal detector. I motion for him to step in and start it up. He’s healthy, decent bones. His gene-profile said he would make a good athlete. It’s too bad nobody told him that when he was younger, although I wonder if he would have even bothered putting in the effort. I felt how soft his hand was when I shook it. He spends his days tapping screens. I bet he has someone who carries his luggage for him.

The genetic profile is a bonus, but not at all required. I’ve seen obese blobs with diabetes ride up on a motorized scooter who break world powerlifting records within two weeks of their treatment. If the candidate’s body lacks the potential, the process puts it there. But those who already have the potential have it amped up beyond belief. Don’t ask me how it works; I’m just a lab tech. I barely understand it. I just know how to run the machine.

The exposure staging looks like a big microwave. I can tell he’s nervous about going in there. “Don’t I need, like, lead to protect me or something?” What a weaselly little voice! I imagined him snapping at a flight attendant in first class.

“The agent is gaseous,” I tell him while tapping as I shoo him through the door and seal it, spinning the wheel to engage the locks. Claustrophobia hits him then, which isn’t an uncommon reaction. The walls, floor and ceiling of the staging room are a sickly yellow with a neon green grid along them. I see him on my view screen but there are no windows looking out. As far as he knows, he just walked into an execution chamber. Naked and alone, with no way to get out, he knows his daddy and his bank account can’t help him here.

Not like I could stop it even if I wanted to. The override requires three passwords I don’t have and two keys that were on opposite sides of the facility.

The gas flows out. It’s thick and blue, just like it looks when we milk it out of our “cow”--within seconds Alistair, holding his breath and waving his arms, is gone. “I can’t breathe!” They all say that. He’d better breathe if he wants to get the most of the agent into his system during exposure. My screen is just opaque blue smoke but I can hear him hyperventilating. I know all that fog is getting into his bloodstream.

The heart is the first thing to change. I guess it’s painful, like cardiac arrest, but when the pain fades it’s the euphoria of physical perfection. A superior muscle pumping blood through veins that are lengthening and expanding, snaking through the body, varicosities unraveling and springing back to life. If I ever win a scratcher, this will be the first thing I sink my cash into. No way could I swing it on my salary, even on a payment plan.

His breathing starts to slow as the gas fades to green; green means inert. I click on the vents and I can see him again. He looks exactly the same. They all do at first, and just like the others he’s looking down at himself disappointed to see the same bony frame and neglected physique. I’m surprised he doesn’t bark complaints at me immediately, but I would imagine the cellular transformation overtaking him must be an extremely disorienting sensation. He won’t stop blinking his eyes. He looks like he’s got something to say but he can’t focus enough to get it out.

I open the exit gate and he strides out confidently, shoulders back, chest thrust out. The changes go pretty quickly from here. He’s already got a five o’clock shadow. His eyebrows darken to brown, then all his hair is jet black and his scruff is a little beard. They all end up dark and swarthy no matter what they looked like before. He’s getting bigger with every step; I can hear each footfall significantly heavier than the last.

His muscles and tendons pop and crack as his frame stretches and reshapes to accomodate the influx of mass. By the end of the hallway, he’s looking me in the eye and outweighs me by about thirty pounds. He grunts with every step and I can hear his boxer briefs shredding--the most absurd sight on this swelling man is the overstuffed bulge, like a football and two grapefruits shoved in there. 

I open the door for him and gesture to the evaluation area. By the time I’ve followed him through he’s a few inches taller than me and looks like he could one-hand me through a wall with little effort. One big grunt and a sigh of relief--the last of his boxers shreds and his huge dick swings free, like a monstrous pendulum slapping against his thickening quads. His balls look so heavy--like they’d blacken my eye if they were dropped on my face.

It’s weird where my brain goes when these guys blow up like this around me.

My first few times through this process, these beasts intimidated the shit out of me, but I’m used to it now. They’re just big animals. You show fear, you become prey. The only language they understand after we’ve changed them in confidence.

He can’t keep his eyes off himself now. He’s running his hands through the thick pelt on his chest, flexing his big arms and chuckling at their mass, the thick veins running through them and the pronounced peak crowning each of them. He doesn’t know how to flex like a bodybuilder (we’ve got a pamphlet I’ll give him on his way out) so he’s just bouncing his pecs, grabbing handfuls of them, marveling at the way the massive mounds of flesh in his legs wobble and crunch up every time he moves. He measures his quads with his hands, no doubt doing the math that they’re bigger around than he used to be just a few minutes before.

“Look how fucking hairy I am,” he says in a voice that makes the room shake. The smell coming off him is potent--like six NFL players crammed in a small locker room after a brutal practice. He’s not even sweating; that’s just what a four-foot wide pile of muscle gives off at rest. I would imagine a good portion of that delicious stink is coming from that big beast hanging off his vascular, hairy groin. Jesus, that thing is veiny! I remember comparing his legs to my wrists before--his monstrous dong is about the size of my forearm now. But I’m a professional, so I don’t gawk. I’ve learned to get all the glimpses of all that meat without being noticed.

He hops on the freight scale without even being asked. He’s got a waddle now; he’s rolling his tree-trunk thighs around each other instinctively now, but his widened stance seems to have him a little off-balance. I’ve seen these big bulls just topple over sometimes. One guy fell right on top of me. I didn’t complain.

Alistair weighs in at 315 now. He’s 6’5” tall. He thuds around now. He’s going to be crushing furniture when he gets home. He won’t stop petting his hairy forearms or the silky wisps across his abs. It’s itchy at first; most of these guys don’t end up keeping them. There’s a pamphlet on waxing techniques he’ll get in his exit packet.

His eyes light up when the wall behind him slides away and reveals gym equipment. The funny thing is, at first these guys just want to see what this body can do. But I can see in his eyes, as he starts doing one-handed pullups and curling 95 pound dumbbells with ease, something unlocks inside him. At first he’s staring at himself in the mirror, watching his hulking physique ripple and bulge as he moves more weight than he ever dreamt of.

A few minutes later, his eyes are dazed. He’s not looking at himself anymore; he’s just feeling what his body is built for. Blood pumps into those muscles, they get warm, a light sheen of sweat. His smell intensifies; it hits me like a fog twenty feet away. I can’t focus on his performance notes on the tablet. I can tell his thoughts are engulfed in a thick haze. When he hits 60 reps on the leg press, I wonder if I’m going to have to tranquilize him to get him out of there. It’s happened before, and sometimes three darts isn’t enough.

When he stumbles away from the machinery like he’s drunk, I can see another instinct taking over. That big cock is rising, and his lip is curling up. He snorts, fills his massive lungs to their capacity--bloating out his chest even more--and then inhales a hurricane gale across my face. He’s got my head in his hand a second later--can’t believe how fast some of these monsters can move!--and he’s shoving my face in his pit. God, that thing is like a jungle, and I’m getting a faceful of his musk in its most concentrated form. I drop the tablet; I hear the screen crack but I don’t care. It’s my turn to lose myself to a frenzy, my tongue out, digging as deep into that muscle pit as I could while he holds me against his body.

He’s like warm steel, slick with his sweat and a soft layer of sleek hair. I’ve felt these monsters before, but every time I’m close up I can’t handle the way they feel. How could they be so hard and so soft at the same time? His heart beats like a drum; I can hear it through his massive ribcage. Little Alistair likes being big and he wants someone to appreciate it. That big cock is drooling big gobs of precum all over my lab coat. He scoops up two fingers full of the shiny stuff and rubs it against my lips. He forces his index finger in my mouth--that thing is huge! iIt’s all he can fit--and keeps shoving it down my throat. He smiles when I don’t gag, then lets me go.

He’s panting now, more out of breath than when he was lifting before. I can see him eyeing his new cock and my little--in comparison, that is; I’m an average-sized guy--body. He groans in frustration, thankfully doing the math that none of my holes was adequate. I’ve had guys try to make it fit before, another occasion when I was happy to have the darts on hand.

Alistair’s letting off a low growl. Poor guy’s brain is being flooded with so much testosterone, his dick begging for attention, his balls throbbing, while his massive body just pulsates with all that power. He doesn’t know if he wants to start flipping trucks or if he wants to explode me with his dick. I make up his mind for him: with both hands I grip his dick by the circumcision scar, my fingers digging in like I’m giving him a deep tissue massage while I start tonguing his big piss slit like I’m making out with it.

The big guy’s body collapses like someone cut his strings. He roars and bucks his hips (yanking me around in the process, but I know enough to maintain my hold) and pounds his massive fists on the ground. Meanwhile his cock keeps volleying gobs of precum so hefty I think he’s actually finished. When it actually happens, it hits me like a big bucket of water. Luckily I shield my face with my arms. While I’m dripping like a freshly dipped donut, the big beast is writhing on the ground, his cock still throbbing (and still draining). All he can do in his post-orgasmic fugue is flex his muscles.

That whole technique, from subduing him by inducing orgasm to safely withstanding the cum blast, is all in the manual. They give us practice dicks to work on during training. Pit-licking is against procedure, however; I’m going to get written up if I can’t sweet-talk Ross in security into blurring out that minute of footage.

While he stands in a room-sized shower, multiple water and steam jets blasting off the mixture of cum and swat matting his furry musculature, I use the dinky little employee shower. He cums three times while he’s in there; I hear him roar each time. Luckily that shower has a huge drain. That advanced libido is all part of the package. We give them pills to suppress it so they can hold a job or go out on a civilized date, but I doubt these guys ever take them.

I say goodbye to Alistair--already calling himself Al--in the wardrobe. He wants to try everything on, but I recommend just grabbing something skimpy and getting his new clothes special-ordered. We’ll e-mail him his new measurements so he can get everything perfectly tailored. With the way he’s getting off on his new body, I doubt the big brute is going to be wearing more than a napkin’s worth of material though.

I won’t ever see Al in person again, I know, but I’ll follow his adventures on Instagram. Maybe he’ll become a competitive bodybuilder like most of them do. Maybe he’ll do modeling or strength competitions, or maybe he’ll just fuck his way across the continent. I always wonder if any of these guys ever think fondly on their short time with me. As of yet, no one has ever called me up asking for use of my dick-manipulating fingers and tongue, but maybe Al will be the one. I’ve been written up too many times for handing out my number, so I’ll have to just follow his social media and hope for the best.

Luckily there’s a milking scheduled just after Al finishes his exit interview, so I head that way. I still haven’t returned Ross’s key card, so I swipe myself in to the observation area. The “cow” is in his room. The window I view him through is a mirror on his side, but he’s aware it’s one-way glass. He’s curling a dumbbell in a chair, turned away from the glass. He doesn’t like us looking at him the way he is now. I click on the speaker and say hello to him. His head turns a little, but he tries to ignore me, tenaciously clinging to what’s left of his dignity.

His name is Antoine something--Vaillant? Some big time bodybuilder before he came to the facility. We get these guys on technicalities. They sign a contract they didn’t really read and end up getting drained of their muscles and size and virility. I used to feel bad for them, but without them we wouldn’t be churning out a brand new goliath every week. 

Antoine used to be something like 6’3”, almost as massive as big Al was stomping out the door. He’s only about three feet tall now, although they replace the furniture in his room every day to make him more comfortable. The room itself stays the same size; it’s like all of his things are shrinking with him, making the room look even bigger.

He’s just got a bureau, a weight set and a bed. Strangely, the smaller weight plates they put in every day are labeled the same as the larger ones when they clearly don’t weigh 45 pounds. It makes them seem like doll furniture.  Why are they so concerned about this dude’s psychology when they know he won’t be here much longer?

“The milking is going to begin soon,” I say, and I know that gets his attention. He finishes curling, then hops to his feet, striding to the mirror confidently. He’s still just as muscular as he was when he was full-sized, just proportionately cut in half. One of these days I want to go in there and make him flex for me. It would really knock the wind out of his sails to grab him under his jacked little armpits and start curling him. Maybe I’d punctuate it with a gentle shove guaranteed to knock him on his muscular little ass.

He puts his hands on his hips, throws back his shoulders, guaranteed to greet the fogs with his head held high. Without any reference points, he almost looks impressive filling out his lab-issued orange jumper. He used to try to hide from them, but that never helped him.

The vents go on and red plumes burst out. In seconds Luke is gone, the room filled with red. From where he stands, the fog turns purple. That violet hue spreads through the room until it all darkens to blue, then gets vacuumed out.

When the room is clear it looks like Antoine’s jumper is empty. It’s still standing, a little crumpled, but a few moments pass before it moves and I realize he’s shrunken inside it. The jumper topples over and I see the lump wriggling inside it. It looks like a dog tangled in a blanket. That beefed up body doesn’t seem very flexible, and it’s a struggle to pull his shrunken head through the neck hole and roll up the sleeves.

He looks like a little kid wearing his dad’s outfit--which is bizarre, considering how wide and built his body is with that lantern jaw and his thick, manly beard. If I were in the room I could grab a handful of that jumper and lift him right off the floor like he was nothing. He’s torn, I can see, between wanting to stay in the ridiculously large jumper or to be naked in front of me. Either way, he’s still only knee-high to me now, so there’s not a lot of dignity left to hold on to.

This isn’t the first time he’s shrunk, but each time he milk about ten applications of the agent from him, he loses an entire foot in height. This time he lost a third of his height. His perspective must have been overwhelmed by the suddenly giant dumbbell he was just curling, the bed he would have to struggle to climb into, and the weights he had no hope of lifting at this size.

“You’re 24 inches tall,” I tell him through the speaker, and it thrills me to watch him slump at the news. “Next time we milk you you’ll be 12 inches,” I remind him. “That’s half your size. You’ll be a fucking action figure. You ever wonder what happens when we milk you again?”

I let him ponder it before I hit him with the awful truth: “The fog rolls in, and when it clears, you’re just gone. I’ve seen it happen to other guys. Sometimes they make noise with their squeaky little voices, but when the fog is thickest, the sound just… stops. I have no idea what it feels like for them. But you’ll know--in about two weeks.”

I don’t know why I take such pleasure in torturing the little fuck. Maybe it’s because, even as little as he is, he’s the most masculine-looking thing I’ve ever seen. I bet when he was full-sized he had his own gravity. People’s neck hair would stand on end and they wouldn’t know why. I bet even big guys would sweat a little bit looking at that big monstrous bull.

That’s why they chose him. His genetic potential was off the charts. He probably had facial stubble as a baby. He’s been king of the pack his whole life. Something about dethroning a guy like that seems like correcting an imbalance.

These guys, like Al, that we make here--they bought their bodies. They become a giant alpha because they forked over money; literal strength through buying power, capitalism in its purest form. A guy like Antoine is just born with all those gifts? Just doesn’t seem fair to me.

I hope I’m there when he vanishes in the smoke. I want to be in that room after. I want to get my hands on the 12 inch jumper he leaves behind. I want to smell him on it, to remember that his muscles used to fill that tiny thing to capacity but then he just popped out of existence.

They’re already prepping for the next cow--some massive dude named Craig Golias. I’m scheduled to give him his intake evaluation (they always think we’re just going to take a blood sample or something, dumb monkeys). From the pics I saw, he looks like a big goon. We won’t be churning out any hairy apes like Al anymore. When we start milking Craig, the guys will all end up swollen muscle-ticks, probably hairless ones at that. I always hate it when we switch brands, but I end up loving it in the end.

And I’m sure I’ll love watching big Craig Golias shrink down, one foot at a time, until he shrinks away to nothing.