Cow Boy II, Part 12 (Patreon)

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Note: This is simply a male version of Cow Girl: Laura.

Summary: Sequel to Cow Boy. Decades following Lucas’s ordeal, the cow-person condition is becoming an epidemic. Taylor has the misfortune of contracting the gene. Contains:  Male: pregnancy, belly expansion, breast expansion, butt expansion, multiple breasts, udders, lactation, and more.

Previous Chapter

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Even as Taylor gathered the various cheeses into his arms in preparation of throwing them away, he knew that he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

The close proximity of the cheese blocks overfilling his arms left his belly gurgling and grumbling. The smell was nearly intoxicating.

Taylor staggered to the trash can, sweat now beading over his brow. He stood there blankly, staring into the abyss of aging trash. A mad thought crossed his mind, and he abruptly turned away.

Taylor experienced a distinct lack of control as he piled the cheeses onto the counter, then returned to the fridge for the rest of it. By then he couldn’t tell whether he was hungry or not, but he could not stop fantasizing about filling his body with the decadent treat.

Taylor froze for a moment.

He just needed to think.

“I have class,” Taylor said aloud.

That was an idea he could grasp onto—something he could anchor himself with.

Math was an evening class. Taylor marched himself to his room. He began the familiar, doomed process of pulling out clothes. He found things that were ordinarily somewhat looser on him. Taylor grunted and fumbled as he attempted to squeeze his bloated body into a variety of too-small outfits. Just as he was attempting to jerk some sweatpants up over his pillowy backside, he heard his bedroom door open behind him.

“Hey Taylor do you mind if I borrow—”

“GET OUT!” Taylor shouted at his cavalier roommate.

“Oh, sorry,” Mike backed out of the room.

Feeling flushed, Taylor closed his eyes and tried not to think of the state he was in—his belly bulging out from the bottom of his tank top like it was a belly-shirt, his two pairs of tits on display in the too-tight material. And his pants tugged up beneath his huge ass that it had no hope of accommodating, with said ass turned towards the door.

But how much could Mike have seen, really? It had only been—like—two seconds. Cheeks burning, Taylor abortively struggled with his sweatpants some more. Somehow he managed to get it up, but now it was almost painfully tight, and his butt was truly straining it.

“Taytay, your ass looks great! Though I think you overdid the injections a little,” Mike called blithely from the living room.

“Might be time to cease and desist,” Peter’s drawling voice added sarcastically.

“Shut the fuck up!” Taylor snapped. He cursed as his pants started to tear. “Dammit!”

There was the sound of movement in the living room; Mike and Peter were probably getting ready for class. The three of them had Math together, and if Taylor recalled, there was a test today.

“See you in class!” Mike called. Taylor heard the front door open and close.

Taylor breathed heavily, his four breasts wiggling as they heaved up and down. He shoved his way out of the stifling clothes, and stood naked for a while, resenting himself. He couldn’t miss another test over this. He couldn’t let one stupid mistake with Jack negate all his hard work.

Taylor stormed to the closet and jerked down the one article of clothing he had ignored. It was the type of thing he usually wouldn’t be caught dead wearing. A large, oversized football sweater of Jack’s. It even had Jack’s team number on it. Taylor shuddered.

It was old, and a little dingy. Taylor pulled the atrocious piece of attire over his head, then turned to his mirror.

For once, his belly wasn’t the first thing he noticed. Instead he turned slightly and stared at Jack’s number on his back. It made him look like the type of guy who was so insufferably smitten that he would actually wear someone else’s tawdry sports attire. Worse, it made Taylor look as though he was actually involved with Jack. Taylor nearly gagged at the thought.

Belatedly, he surveyed how the sweater fit him. He ran his hands over his belly. It was still obvious, looking seven months along, despite that the sweater was thankfully loose on him. And his two pairs of breasts—though not pronounced—certainly made some odd protrusions in his top.

But if he folded his arms…and hunched just enough—

Oh, fuck this, Taylor thought, grabbing some basketball shorts off the floor. Though they were old and stretchy, and usually reserved for trudging about his dorm, they were among the few pants that could still fit his fat ass.

Taylor tugged, fumbled, and jerked it on over too-many minutes, by which point he could feel the moisture of sweat developing all around his edges. His body was overheated, and his insides felt—discontent, somehow.

To finish off the outfit, Taylor pulled on a baseball cap he reserved for hangover days. Hopefully no one would recognize him as the rapidly growing, poorly-dressed student that he had become. He allowed his fringe to flap down in his face.

The muffled sound of the kettle squealing reminded Taylor of the tea he had been planning to make.

His ass rocked as he slid his feet into some sandals, the seat of his pants nearly to the point of bursting apart again. He walks out of his bedroom and into the living room. To his immense relief, both of his dorm-mates, indeed, were gone.

Taylor crossed the room, still silently resenting himself. He approached the stove and began to reach for a nob to turn the fire off. His gaze passed over the cheese blocks on the counter, and his body froze.

Before Taylor knew what was happening, he was pouring several inches of oil into the bottom of the biggest soup pot he could find. Sanity abandoned him as he moved the kettle onto a cool burner, and replaced it with the pot.

Taylor added generous portions of cream to the oil, emptying the carton that he had intended to use for his tea. Raising the heat, he then started dropping cheeses unceremoniously into the pot.

There were several rectangular blocks of cheddar, and plump fat balls of mozzarella. There was a cheese wheel with cute little triangles of creamy swiss that he popped into the pot one by one. There was feta and blue cheese which he crumbled hastily with his fingers, then monterey jack, and fancy cheeses like gouda and manchego—did these even melt? He dropped in cute little balls of cheese as he unwrapped them from wax, and even added sticks of string cheese, then went as far as dumping a large jar of queso into the pot.

To any other person, the whole mess would be disgusting, but Taylor was nearly quivering as his appetite surged. He idly unwrapped provolone and American slices—which didn’t even count as cheese—tossing them into the pot one by one as he tapped his foot and waited for everything to cook.

No. This is wrong.

Taylor blinked a few times and looked around at the mess of wrappings. Swallowing hard, he turned and dragged himself to the bathroom. He closed the door behind him and faced the mirror.

His cheeks were pink and bright, his face sort of—glowing. His face was fuller than he recalled was normal, and he just looked softer. He trailed his hand down his face, then sighed, and looked down.

Taylor turned on the faucet as he murmured a litany of assurances. “You’re fine…fine…everything is fine…” He was going to return to the kitchen and throw that cheese crap away.

Taylor splashed his face with water, cooling it. He took a deep breath, and turned back to the door. He hated the way his breasts bobbed about uncomfortably in his sweatshirt. He resisted the urge to cup the tender lower mounds.

Taylor returned to the stove. He reached for the knob and attempted to turn it off, but found himself again immobilized, by—by something.

He grunted and reddened, gripping his stomach as it lurched in—hunger? Desire? It was almost tangible, the faintest of stirrings, that left him frozen and trembling, because he just wasn’t full enough.

His body was pulsing. The cheeses were melting delightfully, the pungent aroma filtering through the whole dorm apartment.

Taylor gazed into the pot, where oil had surged up in a thick layer above the whole lumpy mess. The edges were sizzling and getting caramelized, and his innards were nearly vibrating with how deeply he wanted it.

Taylor abruptly turned to a cupboard and rummaged through it. It was dusty from disuse, and it took some searching, but he eventually found a single box of ziti noodles. It would do.

Taylor dumped the whole box into the pot of cheeses. Then he stood there and watched it all cook, feeling saliva collect at the bottom of his mouth and threaten to overflow it.

Taylor glanced at the wall clock above the counter and bit his lip. Damn. Class would be starting soon. He would have liked to leave early with Mike and Peter to get some last-minute studying in.

His patience wearing thin, he absently rubbed his side, and waited minute by painstaking minute, for the pasta to cook.

The smell invaded him, salty and potent, and he could almost taste it in the back of his throat as it strengthened and continued to permeate the air.

The hot oil must have helped expedite the cooking process, because it didn’t take long until the pasta was finished. Soon Taylor was arduously stirring a large wooden spoon within the massive glob of cheese and noodles.

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