Something about working on a farm, hauling bales of hay and milking cows, makes you feel like a real man. The minotaur who oversees the barn treats you like one, slapping you on the back and giving you dirty jobs, even though he’s a foot taller than you and twice as wide.
He’s so big, in fact, that sometimes you can’t focus on anything but the swell of his biceps. When he takes his shirt off in the heat and his back muscles ripple, you might swoon.
You force the feelings down. You can’t fuck a coworker, even if you have to crawl home and jack off every day instead.
Breeding season hits, and you spend every day helping the cows until you don’t have energy for anything else. You stay late one night and stop into the barn to grab your jacket when you hear the unmistakable sounds of flesh slapping against flesh. You think a bull has got loose to mount the heifers, and start forward.
It’s your minotaur, braced against a wall, eyes shut, mouth panting, fist around his cock. It’s the biggest you’ve ever seen, bigger than you ever imagined, and you’ve been eyeing his obscene bulge in his tight jeans for weeks. A proper bull cock with a flared head, thick against his massive hands.
You take a step forward, already half cockdrunk. You want to wrap your tiny hands around it, if they’ll reach.
His eyes snap open and lock onto yours. You can’t breathe.
“Please,” he rasps. “I need…”
He pulls you to him, pressing you against his thick belly and barrel chest. He’s huge and sweaty and smells of bull, and he’s so talk his cock rubs against your breasts while you’re both standing. You would jack him off that way, but taking your binder off would take too long. Your thighs are already dripping slick.
He shreds your jeans, lifts you against the wall, and sinks you onto his length. Your eyes roll back at the stretch as he pushes against your cervix. He snuffles your neck and slides you down farther. You press against your stomach, jacking him off through your belly.
Long before you adjust to his girth, he’s driving into you, slamming you against the barn wall, bellowing and grunting. One hand holds you up, the other desperately kneads at your nipples through your binder. “Need,” he groans. “You. Need you. Months. You.”
He jerks inside you, shooting thick ropes that bloat your womb until your belly presses against him. His monster cock keeps every drop inside you.
“Months,” he says again. “And every bull in here bellowing his need to breed, and here you are, perfect little heifer for me, and I couldn’t have you.”
He lowers you to the ground, his cock somehow staying nestled inside you. It throbs, thickening.
He rips your shirt off you, then unfastens your binder. Your heavy D breasts feel different under his appreciative gaze. He palms them, works nipples between his rough fingers. You touch your clit while he spoils your milk bags, praising them with a low, desperate voice.
He’s fully hard inside you, pressing out your belly, massaging every inch of you. He’s going to fuck you until his bull stamina gives out, until you’re bred with his calf, until your udders swell and double in size.
Bulls have instincts to follow, after all.
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