Dawson's Dairy Diet

Support Tier-exclusive

Dawson Coman was only twenty-two, but his body defied every expectation biology, science, or imagination could place on the human form. To call him muscular was like calling a mountain a hill—a complete understatement. He was built beyond comprehension. His physique wasn’t only large. It was monolithic. Every inch of his body was an exaggerated portrait of masculinity, inflated to inhuman dimensions.

His pecs were the first thing anyone ever noticed. They pushed outward like a pair of monumental globes of flesh—round, taut, and impossibly full. His pecs rose and fell, accentuating the deep canyon between them and forming a cleavage so pronounced that it seemed like you could hide a building in it. The skin stretched to its limit by the immense volume of muscle packed underneath. Even when standing still, they moved with a slow heaviness that made them look even more gigantic. His nipples pointed downward due to the slope of the muscle and were visibly sensitive, often twitching subtly even without contact.

His arms were thicker than most men’s thighs. His biceps peaked like hills, riddled with thick veins that pulsed visibly beneath the skin. His triceps protruded behind his arms, resembling thick slabs of meat that crowded into his lats. His shoulders were each the size of a medicine ball, making doorways a common struggle. And below all that, his torso tapered into a surprisingly lean waist, creating a mind-blowing contrast that made his upper body look even more monstrously huge.

Even his ass was breathtaking. It was ridiculously round, bouncy, and muscular, straining all the shorts he wore, clapping against one another when he walked, and jiggling with every step. His cock hung thick and long, far larger than average even when soft, and the girth pressed obscenely against the inside of his shorts. His balls were equally oversized, like a pair of full orbs that stretched the pouch of his shorts outward. Everything about him demanded attention.

Dawson’s day began with the familiar ache of fullness. It wasn’t soreness but fullness. His muscles were so saturated with size and pressure that even lying in bed too long was uncomfortable. When he sat up, his pecs lifted high and heavy in front of him, casting a deep shadow over his abs. He stretched, groaning softly as his traps rolled and his arms pressed into his mountainous chest, squishing it inward with a soft bounce.

He moved to the bathroom, barely clearing the doorframe as he passed through sideways. He stepped into the shower stall and turned on the water. The warm water spilled over his body like rivers, tracing the deep canyons between each muscle group. His pecs jutted so far forward that the water had to cascade down their sides to reach his abs. He took his time, lathering the massive curves of his chest with both hands, sinking his fingers into the dense tissue, and massaging out the tension. His nipples were particularly sensitive in the mornings, and the brushing motion made him shudder as his pecs twitched under the stimulation.

He squeezed underneath his chest, lifting and cleaning under the heavy weight of each pec, watching how they bobbed with each motion. His arms flexed from the act of reaching around himself. He groaned softly again, not from exhaustion but from the constant friction of his own overgrown body.

Then came the lower half. Dawson reached behind himself, massaging deep into the massive cheeks of his butt, each bigger than a beach ball. He took his time, scrubbing every curve and crease, using both hands to lift and wash where the cheeks met his lower back and thighs.

Next, he carefully cupped his oversized cock, heavy enough to slap against his thighs with a loud thud. His balls were equally massive, tight, and weighty, overfilled with cum. He cradled them, letting the water run over his palms as he lathered slowly. The sensitivity was overwhelming. A light shiver ran up his spine as he worked around the base and along the thick shaft, making sure everything was clean. He grinned to himself, closing his eyes for a moment. The sensation was too good to let it end fast.

Drying off was another challenge. The towel was comically small compared to his body. Dawson started at his shoulders and worked downward, but his pecs required careful attention. He pressed the fabric gently into the under-curve of his left pec, dabbing slowly as the weight shifted and the whole globe of muscle quivered. His nipples responded to the touch, hardening, and he bit his lip at the sensation. By the time he finished, he was already flushed and slightly breathless. It was like a full-body massage only to clean himself.

Dawson slipped on a pair of shorts that barely clung to his hips. The fabric clung to his thick butt like a second skin. The shorts barely reached mid-thigh, leaving the full tree-trunk scope of his legs on display. The fabric was so tight over his bulge that it left absolutely nothing to the imagination. But he didn’t care. It was his uniform.

He admired himself in the mirror for a moment, admiring how his pecs heaved with each breath. He gave them a flex, and they jumped. He smiled.

“Perfect.”

He went to the kitchen and retrieved a large glass jar from the cupboard. He carefully placed it on the counter, then stood tall and slightly arched his back. He brought his right hand to his pec and began to knead around the nipple in slow circles. The massive pec responded with a faint tremble, and soon, a white stream flowed freely. Dawson exhaled in pleasure.

“There we go. Let’s give the day what it needs,” he said as his milk poured steadily, sloshing into the jar with audible splashes.

Dawson leaned over the counter, panting as he massaged around his nipple. The stimulation sent shivers down his spine as each squeeze made his pecs twitch and contract, and the sensitive tissue reacted with subtle tremors. His cock stirred visibly in his shorts, pressing harder against the taut fabric as the pleasure skyrocketed.

He alternated pecs, working firmly, pressing the dense muscle inward around the areola, and coaxing the milk out in creamy streams. He moaned low in his throat, barely containing the blissful tension.

“Fuck... yeah... just like that,” he whispered, loving the sensation.

His massive cock throbbed harder, straining the front of his shorts, while his balls felt ready to explode. He had to pause now and then, overcome with the intense sensation of release—not orgasmic, but close. Soon, about a gallon of protein-rich milk filled the jar. He stared down at it, flushed and smiling.

“That’s the good stuff,” he whispered.

He downed it slowly, savoring every gulp with breakfast. And with each swallow, he swore he could feel his body responding, swelling slightly more, stretching tighter under his skin. It was only the beginning of his regimen to achieve such an immense body. He knew he had to go to the gym but decided to focus on home chores first. But even those were a challenge.

Doing dishes meant Dawson had to angle himself away from the sink because his pecs were too large to allow a direct approach. Folding laundry required him to squat down, and the motion made his ass pop like overinflated balloons, straining his shorts to the edge. Dusting high shelves involved a symphony of flexing, and his traps and delts rolled constantly as his biceps exploded in size as he lifted.

Even walking around meant constant awareness of his size. He sidestepped doorframes and rotated his torso to pass between furniture. But he moved with surprising grace, like someone who had learned to command a heavy machine.

Then, Dawson grabbed his gym bag and headed out the door, still shirtless. The sun accentuated the exaggerated shadows across his chest and arms. Every step made his pecs bounce hypnotically. His ass flexed with each stride, eating the shorts with every swing. Heads turned. Mouths opened. People gawked, even though they saw him every day. A few phones quietly rose to capture the view. A group of teens nearly walked into a lamppost, watching him pass. Dawson smirked. He didn’t mind. He embraced the attention.

When he entered the gym, conversations died, heads turned his way, and every gaze fell on him. He went to the chest press area, loading weights that would crush a normal man. Even reaching over the bench caused his pecs to shift and press into one another, making him feel intense pressure as each pec was so dense they wouldn’t squeeze.

He began with heavy flyes, spreading his arms wide, pulling the massive mountains of his pecs apart only to slam them back together with each rep. The muscle throbbed, swelling larger with each motion, and the veins rose to the surface as if his skin could barely hold it all in.

Then came incline presses. As Dawson leaned back on the bench, his ass strained against the seat, filling it to its edges and forcing him to adjust until his thick backside fit comfortably. With each press upward, his pecs surged upward and outward, pushing into his chin with the pump. His arms fought to move past the mountainous bulk of his own chest as his range of motion was limited by the massive obstacle of his own flesh.

Then dips. Each descent made Dawson’s pecs crowd together in front of him like an avalanche waiting to drop while his heavy bulge and balls swayed underneath. His shorts stretched with every rep as his ass flexed and hardened, riding up tighter and higher until half of each cheek was exposed.

By the time he finished, Dawson was glistening. Sweat pooled in the canyon between his pecs, running down the deep grooves of his abs and soaking the waistband of his shorts where his cock pressed outward obscenely. Every step afterward felt tighter and heavier. He wasn’t only pumped. He was monumental.

After only thirty minutes, his chest looked even bigger. Reddened, veiny, and glistening.

He paused, and then he posed. Dawson stood like a living mountain of muscle and power. He tilted his head back slightly, closing his eyes and savoring the impressive enormity of his own body. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. Every inch of him radiated power that didn’t only inspire admiration—it demanded it.

People stared silently—awestruck and drawn into the most magnificent body they had seen. They wondered how it felt to carry such a massive size in their skin. They couldn’t even imagine how it felt to be a mountain of muscle among regular men. But Dawson knew and loved it. And it was all thanks to his own milk—the unlimited supply of milk his pecs produced.

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Plot submitted by a Support-tier member as part of the tier's benefits. Scenario based on a muscle morph I did of Dawson Coman.