
Taking Big Guys Down a PegCash keeps my content flowing. Venmo: @brandedx2
616 posts
Http://youtu.be/UoZ8v2joYg4 This Little Diddy Is IT--everything I Love About Muscleman Transformations.
http://youtu.be/UoZ8v2joYg4 This little diddy is IT--everything I love about muscleman transformations. First we have the perfect setup: two average, dorky (for the gym) skinny guys getting laughed at and bullied by the big cocky bodybuilder. (And look at the big guy's ass when he turns around. Amazing.) Then the big guy is cut down... And the best part is, while he shrinks and becomes scrawny, all that size is now his burden because he's got loose skin hanging everywhere. On top of everything, listen to the way the formerly-big guy's voice turns into a shrill squeal at the end. Oh man.
-
waffleman99 liked this · 1 year ago
-
glaaaaaaadfit reblogged this · 1 year ago
-
glaaaaaaadfit reblogged this · 1 year ago
-
glaaaaaaadfit liked this · 1 year ago
-
lefthanded82 liked this · 2 years ago
-
the-galaxy-savers liked this · 2 years ago
-
thefitlangguy reblogged this · 2 years ago
-
legendx91 liked this · 2 years ago
-
iainlewisfourth liked this · 2 years ago
-
koolbr79 liked this · 2 years ago
-
namecbbb liked this · 2 years ago
-
bigbellytruck liked this · 3 years ago
-
dennisgroww liked this · 3 years ago
-
lmaonoooooooooooo liked this · 3 years ago
-
tyler7550 liked this · 3 years ago
-
jsecrazy liked this · 3 years ago
-
maletransformationfixation reblogged this · 3 years ago
-
maletransformationfixation liked this · 3 years ago
-
tf-station reblogged this · 3 years ago
-
poohwater liked this · 3 years ago
-
insertusername77 liked this · 3 years ago
-
plubbd liked this · 4 years ago
-
nicholashakim liked this · 5 years ago
-
balthazarthedjinn reblogged this · 5 years ago
-
balthazarthedjinn liked this · 5 years ago
-
maletransformationfixation reblogged this · 5 years ago
-
tj-transformation liked this · 5 years ago
-
cleareyesfullheartscantlosee reblogged this · 5 years ago
-
bodyswap-possession-shapeshift reblogged this · 5 years ago
-
goncstate93 liked this · 5 years ago
-
ryusensworld20 liked this · 5 years ago
-
heady-power liked this · 6 years ago
-
lockdown99 liked this · 6 years ago
-
dullestcactus liked this · 6 years ago
-
gege2007 liked this · 6 years ago
-
spacedoutwulph liked this · 6 years ago
-
jmp-m2 liked this · 8 years ago
-
manonmansplainer-blog liked this · 8 years ago
-
zane-parker liked this · 8 years ago
-
adam99481 liked this · 9 years ago
More Posts from Brandedx2
Pin Cushion
Since I wrote the bar schedule, I had first pick of the shifts. I was fair, of course, picking up the dreaded Monday and Tuesday lunch shifts (guaranteeing me about 20 dollars between the two!). Of course I put myself on Friday and Saturday nights--not only are they guaranteed money (and 90% of my weekly income, usually), but they’re also the nights where I need my strongest bartenders on, and I just happen to be one of them. But Sunday nights tended to be my favorite shifts. Sundays were either hit or miss. The business usually centered around the football schedule, and since my bar wasn’t really a sports bar (we only had one plasma--I think it’s written somewhere that you need at least seven to be considered a sports bar) we usually lost our business to the hot wings/beer special/TVs on every wall places. But after dinner, and after the game, it was all up in the air. Sometimes, it’d be a ghost town, with maybe one or two quiet “sit-and-socialize” drinkers. That was always fine--they were low-maintenance, generally drank expensive drinks, and generally left as soon as they got the vibe that I wanted to go home. Occasionally, I’d get a crowd that was in the mood to tie one on--Monday morning be damned!--and people would pile in. Once you get a crowd in, it just keeps growing--you need a crowd to make a crowd. Since it was Sunday, I’d work the whole crowd alone, keeping all of the tips to myself, not splitting them with another bartender, a barback or the bouncers. That was the kind of Sunday I’d had--I got slammed, everyone left, and all I had to do was clean up and take my cash home. It was just before midnight, but all of the drinkers had moved on to greener pastures (which was fine with me). I had the tables all cleaned, the chairs all up, the floor swept up, and I had cleaned the whole bar. Since I was the only guy in the building (I’d sent the other employees home hours ago), I was taking my time. The crowd had been fairly demanding. It hadn’t been more than I could handle, but being able to take my time was nice. I’d done about a grand in sales, and I was trying to guess how much I’d made for the night. I figured at least 30 percent, maybe even more--some of my buddies were a little sauced and dropped some bomb tips on me. 300 bucks for a Sunday night was gonna be a pretty nice prize to take home. Little did I know, I’d get the chance to take home something much better. I’d just started counting the drawer when I heard the banging on the door. “Sorry!” I yelled without turning, “We’re closed!” But the banging continued, even louder. With the number of bars in town, I couldn’t understand why anyone would persist at a locked door when he or she could just walk forty feet and find another bar. I dropped my shoulders, puffed up my chest and spun around, ready to deal with this asshole. Then I got to the door, and realized that no matter how big I try to look, the guy in question wasn’t going to bat an eye. I recognized him immediately. Even if I hadn’t thought of him while cranking it once or twice, there was no mistaking this guy. The guy wasn’t anywhere near as tall as I, probably only about 5’10”, but whenever he was around he made me feel small. The distance from shoulder to shoulder was just about the width of the door--I couldn’t see all of him through the glass panel. He seemed pissed, too, his massive chest (that stuck out about a foot in front of him--I doubt he could’ve touched his hands together comfortably!) was heaving up and down pretty heavily. His fists were pumping over and over, and I watched as the thickness of his forearms throbbed. Wish my forearms did that, I thought. The guy’s name was Casey Atkins. The only reason I knew that was because he left his credit card the night before. I was assuming that’s why he was about to break through the door on a Sunday night. I quickly unlocked the door and opened it. “Here for your--” He swiped me out of the way (it looked like a casual swipe, but it knocked me up against the wall) and strode in, turning sideways to get through the door. I was almost in awe for a second of his stride--his massive legs swinging around each other, his arms held out by his gigantic lats making him look even wider than he was. “You have my fucking card!” he yelled, pausing as soon after a few steps. “What the hell? Where is everyone?” he barked. “We’re closed,” I said, walking back behind the bar, trying to get control of the situation. “That’s kinda why the door was locked.” “You have my card!” he repeated. I nodded, opening the drawer to look for it. “I know,” I said, “Because you left it here.” …when you walked on your tab, y’drunk, I wanted to add, but didn’t. “Would you like me to close your tab to your card?” I asked, “or would you like to pay cash?” “My tab?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “I don’t have a tab, I wasn’t even here tonight!” The sad part is, Casey didn’t even seem that drunk. Consistently, every time he came in, he’d come in three steps and pause, examining every corner of the bar. Half the time whatever he was looking for wasn’t there, and he’d just turn around and step sideways out the door. If he stayed, he’d march up to the bar proudly, his huge chest sticking out far ahead of him as he leaned against the bar, posing like he was the main event. The first time he’d come in, I thought he was. He was too big to sit in any of the stools, but dressed like most of the mid-30’s wannabe pretty boys were: brightly colored polo shirt, tight jeans with “fading effect” and holes in the knees, just a touch of well-manicured light brown scruff under his chin. Casey’s twist on the look was that his polo shirt was XXXL, his jeans MUST have been special ordered, and his jaw line was so strong and sharp you could use it to chisel marble. The thing about him that caught my eye was not just that he looked like a huge bodybuilder, but that his muscle wasn’t cut or hard at all--it was all just huge, massive, bloated muscle, all over. I wondered if he took a shot of HGH a day, followed by a steak or two. Most people took a look at a guy that size and thought three things: “Steroids,” “Arrogant,” and “Dickhead.” That was what I liked to refer to as size-bigotry, and as usual, I was determined to be on this guy’s side (for a number of reasons). I got him his drink (Stoli Razz, soda and a splash of cran--an order that surprised me coming from this tank) and while he leaned against the bar, casing the crowd quietly, I asked, “So, do you compete?” He just didn’t respond, kept sipping his drink and looking around. I could’ve easily handled any response but that. Maybe he didn’t hear me. “So,” I began, “uh, where do you lift?” He stopped, turned sharply toward me and growled, “The gym.” Then he turned his back to me. At that point I wasn’t yet ready to accept that this guy was a douche. Besides, it was good to be friends with big guys--they know what they’re doing, obviously, and can give good tips, spot when you’re lifting big-boy-weight and can be a good “hook-up” to certain hard to get “supplements.” As he turned his huge back to me, I examined just how wide and thick it was, watched it taper down to his waist… and then marveled at how massive his ass was--no wonder he couldn’t sit in a stool. (Okay, “training” wasn’t always the only reason I would talk with these guys.”) “So, how much you squat, man?” I asked with a friendly smile on my face. He turned back to me, looked me up and down, and rolled his eyes. “More than you, pal,” he said slurping the last of his drink and slamming it down. He then walked right out the door--turning sideways so he’d fit through it--without leaving a tip. Casey’s demeanor never changed no matter how many times he frequented my bar. Sometimes he wouldn’t tip, sometimes he’d tip around 10%, if he was in a good mood. Often I’d see him look over the shoulder of another bar patron and say, “Are you kidding? This guy’s not worth that much.” Once I watched him talk with two young women, pretty obviously hitting on them. He offered to buy a drink for them and they refused. Despite this, he persisted. I couldn’t hear what he said after, but I watched him point to his left arm, roll up the sleeve, and flex. The girls just turned away, unimpressed. “C’mon!” he said loudly. “It’s bigger than your head!” A part of me was really turned on by his brazen arrogance, while the rest of me thought, Dude, you’re making all bodybuilders look like tools. Another time I heard him use the line, “Oh yeah baby? I’m big all over you know.” To be honest, if he hadn’t been the fodder for hundreds of spank-fantasies, I would’ve just told him to take his really lame lines and sidestep out the door. But now, I not only had his credit card, but I had him alone in my bar after hours. I imagined, for just a second, what I could possibly do to this guy, considering the tools I had at my disposal. I wondered if I had it in me. “You walked on your tab last night, and now I need you to pay it, either with this card or with cash,” I explained calmly. He puffed up his chest a bit, dropped his shoulders, trying to use his size to intimidate me the way I had tried to earlier. It was much more effective this time. “Oh yeah?” he said. “How much was my tab?” I could tell from the sweet smell of his breath that he’d been drinking. He wasn’t drunk, but he probably wouldn’t pass a breathalyzer, and I imagine that it’d make it a little easier for Casey to just haul off and hit somebody without thinking. Plus, he was pissed, probably because he was alone this close to last call. I may’ve been a pretty big guy compared to most people but this guy could’ve definitely clobbered me. “It was $35.04,” I said. “We’ll just call it $35 even if you want.” Casey looked me up and down again and smirked. Probably doesn’t see me as much of a threat, I thought. “Fine. Charge it,” he said. I turned around, a pit in my stomach. I tried to work up the nerve to pull out my one trick on this big meatstack. I’d thought about it for so long, but actually having the opportunity right in front of me made my gut go cold. I took a deep breath and turned around. “Y’know, I forgot something,” I said, turning with a smile on his face. He glared sternly up at me, but it still made me feel small. Not for long, if things turned out the way I wanted. “When you were here last night, a woman bought a shot for you, but you left before I could give it to you.” He grinned cockily. “What woman?” I scanned my memory, struggling to think of a woman, ANY woman, who’d been in at the same time as big puffy Casey here, but I came up with nothing. (Who was I kidding? I didn’t notice ANY women, ever!) “Uh, you know, that chick who was checking you out the whole time you were here. You had to notice. It was obvious.” He smiled and nodded. “Oh, yeah. What kinda shot? Can I pick it?” I shook my head. “It was a very specific shot, her recipe. Really expensive. It’s kind of strong though. It might put you under.” He rolled his eyes. “Geez. C’mon.” He held out his arms, presenting his size as proof against intoxication. I didn’t complain. I walked behind the bar, pulled out a mixing tin and scooped some ice into it. Then I went into my backpack and casually pulled out a small box. The meatstack didn’t notice, probably overwhelmed by the idea of a woman buying him a drink for a change. The box was about the size of a folded checkerboard, and pale green. I placed my thumb on the seam on the long end and popped it open. The inside was black, and held ten small bottles, like ten little liquor nips, each one a different color. About six months back, a strange old man had come into the bar on a slow rainy day. He was white but had a thick Jamaican accent. He told me his name was David, born in England but grew up in Jamaica. He drank for hours, talking the whole time, and I was friendly to him. At the end, he paid his tab and tipped me a hundred dollar bill. Every time he came in after that I was courteous to him, buying him appetizers, letting him skip ahead of the line, forgetting to ring in all of his drinks. Then, after about two months, he told me he was leaving, that he’d never been back, but because of how kind I was, he had a gift. He gave me the box and explained its contents to me. I’d always thought there was something mystical about David, so I had no choice but to believe him. But I’d never used it. I wasn’t sure how I could without attraction unnecessary attention. Imagine that you have the ability to fly--when would you use it? Eventually, someone would see you, you’d be picked up on radar or a satellite would get a picture of you. You’d be in the news forever, you’d be mobbed by people people, scientists, the government… But this night, with this big old meatstack, I felt courageous. I was gonna have some fun with this guy, fun I’d needed for a long time, and nobody was gonna be any wiser. I drew out the blue one and the red one, putting a drop of each in the mixing tin. Then I put the box away, throwing in some vodka, lime juice and triple sec. I strained it into a shot glass and handed it to him. “Purple?” he said, narrowing an eyebrow. He downed it quickly, slamming the empty glass down. “That’s it? What was so strong about that?” I watched him for a few seconds, waiting for something to happen. I really had no idea how long it would take, or if it’d even work when mixed with alcohol. “Okay, I’m going to run your card now…” I pulled his card from the drawer and pretended to swipe it. I then stood there, trying to watch him without watching him. “You okay?” I asked. “You look a little flushed.” He looked fine, but I wanted to know how he felt. “I’m fine. What’s taking so long?” he asked. He seemed to be getting agitated again. “Sorry,” I said with a dumb smile, “Sometimes the machine takes a little while to run cards through.” “I gotta piss,” he said, stomping off toward the bathroom. I sat there for a moment, wondered if David really was just a crazy old man. If he wasn’t, I didn’t want Casey in the bathroom when the fun began! Half of me wanted to march right in there, but if the colored oil in the bottles was just that, nothing more, I’d be in a hell of an awkward position. I turned and swiped the card, my confidence gone, my excitement deflated. Maybe it was for the best. What would I have done if the oils had worked? What if someone came looking for Casey? I started getting down on myself, letting my stupid fantasies get the best of me. I heard the door to the men’s room slam open and Casey started stomping down the hallway toward me. I put his credit card and the slips on a clipboard, ready to hand it to him, when I noticed his footsteps getting slower. “What the hell?” I heard big ol’ Casey say. I was struck by his tone of voice--it seemed devoid of the usual arrogance it usually held. It actually sounded like he was worried! I stepped out from behind the bar and looked down the hallway--and then I saw him. Casey’s already bloated musclebod looked even more inflated--and his clothes had been stretched to the limit! His traps had blown up around his head, freezing it into place. His chest and back had expanded out, causing his shirt to come untucked and creep up around his belly, which, still looking solid, had bloated out as well. His arms were sticking almost straight out from his sides, and his shoulders had begun to shred the seams of his shirt. He had to walk with his legs even further apart, as they’d bloated up so huge that they pushed each other apart! The button on his pants went flying, and I just smiled as I watched him. The determination on his face, and the slow, exaggerated way he was walking, reminded me a bit of the Stay-Puft Marshmallow man. That, of course, was the red oil doing its thing. “Don’t worry,” I said with a grin, “those clothes will be a lot roomier very very soon.” “What’d… you…” Casey’s face was turning red and he was panicked, beads of sweat dripping down his forehead. His shirt had split up each of the arms and along his shoulders, and it was beginning to tear itself into a v-neck. His jeans were holding their own, but they looked like they were squeezing him pretty fiercely. I wondered how long it’d take before they shredded--but I didn’t have to wait that long. The blue oil kicked in. Casey’s muscles all seemed to flex in unison (which I could’ve watched all day!) but then he started to… deflate. His body didn’t lose one bit of the density he’d just gained, but his overall size started to diminish. His strained clothing relaxed as he started to pull backward in it. Now free to move, he started moving toward me--tripping over the jeans which had fallen to his feet. Stunned, he looked up at me from the floor. To him, his clothing was growing around him, trapping him. He stood up, his torn shirt draped over him, but tripped again, falling into the mess. The clothes flopped around a bit as he struggled in them, and but the movement in the pile got smaller and smaller. Then, it stopped. I quickly ran to the door and locked it, exhilarated by what I’d just seen. I couldn’t believe it--not only did the oils work, but I’d be taking home my very own little meat blimp that night! I walked back to the pile, looking at the little lump moving around under the torn blue polo. “You okay in there man?” I asked, my voice full of mocking. I wanted to just fish him out of the pile, but I also couldn’t wait to see the look on his face. Casey finally found the edge, coming out of the spot where one of his shoulders had busted out of the shirt. He emerged and stood on top of the pile of clothes, staring around in awe of the room around him. I’d guess he was probably about six inches tall--and he looked about six inches wide, too. It was the first time I’d seen him naked (and the first time in a long time I’d seen anyone naked!) and I was glad that the version I got to see was the “inflated” version. He still seemed awkward with his over pumped body (which was already pretty heavily pumped to begin with). I stepped forward, dropping my shoulders and puffing out my chest like I’d done earlier. Only this time, I was the size of a building to him! “What happened to you?“ I said, laughing. Since it was quiet in the bar, I could hear that he was talking, but he was too tiny to project his voice very far. He sounded like a radio that was down too low. I just shrugged as I looked at him, shook my head. “What’s that big man? I can’t hear you!” In a move that surprised me, he took off between my legs. My instinct was to stop him with my foot, but then I remembered that I might squish the poor little guy. I didn’t want to be shrinking guys down left and right, so I kind of wanted to make this one last. Instead, I just watched him run. He reminded me of the little brother from A Christmas Story, the way his super inflated arms bounced, out straight from his side, as he ran. I watched him at the front door for awhile, laying into it with his whole body, trying to get it to move. “Ease up, meatstack,” I said loudly, “you only weigh a few ounces, big man. Plus, it’s locked. Don’t go hurting yourself.” I stood over him for a moment, hoping that he’d at least cower in fear, but no, stubborn little Casey just kept throwing himself at that damned door. I reached down carefully, nervous to finally touch him, and wrapped my fingers around him, picking him up. It was like holding a warm pincushion. He started to wiggle as soon as I grabbed him, so I wrapped by thumb and pinky around his waist, draping the other fingers over his shoulders as I picked him up. As he rose from the floor to my face, he stopped moving--I feared at first that the shock had killed him, but no, my little meat blimp and his tiny enlarged heart were still kicking. I held him up to my face and tried to make eye contact. Course the little meathead wouldn’t look me in the eye. Instead, he started swinging at me--he was actually trying to punch me. The hilarious part was that his over muscled arms couldn’t bend enough to connect with my face, so I just grinned as his fists swung in tiny arcs at my face, not even coming close. I wanted to hold him close and breath deeply, smell what naked Casey smelled like. I wanted to put his legs in my mouth. I wanted to shove him in my pants, trapping him in my boxer briefs against my dick (which was now as long as he was tall). I wanted to cover him with… I dunno, frosting… and lick it off him slowly. But damn--I was still working! I still had to close the bar. I walked behind the bar and set him facedown in one of the sinks. I had to laugh--he was laying on the mammoth meat pillows of his chest, unable to get the leverage to stand and so thick and wide that he couldn’t flip to either side. All the while, as he struggled, he had to realize he was in a sink that was barely a foot deep! “You stay put!” I said patronizingly as I went out back to finish the nightly reports. I could barely concentrate as I finished up for the night. Never in my life did I think such a huge fantasy would become a reality for me--and now, of all people, it was the guy I’d spanked it to about two-hundred times. What was I going to do with him, though? How long could I keep him? What if someone starts asking questions? I decided to cross those bridges as I came to them. I hurried out to the bar again, a little nervous that somehow my little meat blimp had made it out. I smiled as I saw him. He had righted himself, and was finally on his feet (which couldn’t have been easy!) but there was no way he could scale the smooth metal walls. I stared down at him and smiled. “You ready to go?” I asked. He shouted a couple things at me, but once again his voice was just too soft to be heard. I leaned over. “Speak up big man,” I said. The word “big” in and of itself was usually enough to give me a jolt in my pants, but using it to describe Casey--who was now huge and tiny all at the same time--was driving me wild! I leaned over, where I could hear him more clearly. “Turn me back!” he screamed. “Make me big! You can’t do this to me!” I stared at him and took a deep breath. “Okay. Fine. I’ll do it.” He stopped, stared quietly at me for a moment in disbelief. I bet he was wondering if it could be that easy. “Just close your eyes,” I said, “and stand perfectly still and I’ll make you big again.” He did as I told. I almost felt bad for him as I pulled out the soda gun, aimed it at him, and nailed him with a blast of soda water. Casey’s whole body seized and he fell forward again, crying out and falling forward again. I watched him struggle, watched his titanic ass-cheeks and his huge back flexing as he tried to right himself. I smiled, reached down and picked him up again. He seemed a bit more comfortable in my hands, probably because the soda-water was freezing cold but my hands were warm. I held him up near my face again and he just stared at me. I watched his big chest heaving. With my other hand, I put one finger on his chest and pressed it gently--not enough to hurt him, but just enough to prove a point. I think I still pressed the wind right out of him. “You, little man, are nothing now,” I said. “However you came in, you’re tiny now. You’re a rodent. You’re my pet and I OWN you.” I wasn’t entirely certain if my points were hitting home so I held him closer to my face. “UNDERSTAND?” I said. “YOU’RE A PET NOW. YOU’RE MY PET. GET USED TO IT.” I pulled a Styrofoam to-go container out from behind the bar and set him in it. He just sat there motionlessly, looking around. From his perspective, it probably took him a bit to figure out what it was. He struggled to use his meatstick arms to push himself to his feet but before he was up I had the lid closed on him. I used a couple of pieces of scotch tape on the edges, just to be certain, and then threw them into the bag. I walked over to the pile of his clothes and picked them up. I’d have to dispose of them, somewhere nobody would look for them. I picked up his polo shirt and just looked at it--he’d pretty much hulked out of it before he’d shrunk away. I turned it around and around in my hands. It was so big! I checked the tag--just as I thought, it was size XXXL. I was jealous. I could fill out an XL. I longed for the day when I was big enough to fit into Casey’s clothes, and wondered if I’d ever be there. I reached into his pants an pulled out his boxers. They weren’t that exciting, just flat black. I almost felt guilty about doing it, but I held them up to my face and breathed in deeply. I couldn’t get enough of the smell of sweat and man. Part of me cursed myself for not getting them when they were warm. Maybe I’ll keep these, I thought, feeling a little devilish about the whole thing. I picked up his pants and took a look at them. They, too, were huge--not long enough for me but I felt like I could swim in them. I fished through the pockets and pulled out his wallet--I’d go through that later--and his cell phone. His shoes weren’t that impressive--I had a size 13 foot myself, and even XXXL sized Casey only wore a size 12. I just put everything in the bag, hit the lights, set the alarm and headed out. As I walked outside, I walked past the patio to the deck overlooking the Piscataqua River. I dropped in Casey’s cellphone and watched it sink to the bottom. When I got home, I went into my room and pulled the Styrofoam container out of my bag. I was about to cut through the scotch tape when I realized something: Casey was enormous before I did anything to him, and after I bloated him out, he was nearly gargantuan. Even though he was only six inches tall now, it was only Styrofoam! I set the container down on the kitchen table and leaned in. “Casey!” I said loudly, in a commanding voice. I know he heard me. “I’m not opening this container. You’ve got five minutes to bust out on your own, or I’m just gonna toss it in garbage!” He shouted in protest (I couldn’t hear what he said) and then WHAM! The first indentation from his fist came. Then the second. Neither was that impressive. I watched him for a few minutes, watching the whole container wiggle as he struggled to get through it. The longer I watched, the more awkward it became. The cries coming from inside the container started to get more and more desperate and pathetic sounding. I really had to pee, so I headed to the bathroom, leaving the door open so I could hear if he busted out. As I stood there, leaning toward the doorway, listing to the gentle thumps coming from the table, I almost felt a little guilty. The reason I chose this guy was because he was a big arrogant muscle beast. Sure, I made him six inches tall, but I wasn’t sure if I’d still get as turned on if he were some pansy little wimp now. I guess I wanted him to fight back, wanted him to keep that arrogant spirit, and continuously take him down. But now, as I listened to the sounds of his fighting decrease, I got worried that I’d already knocked the fight right out of him. As I came out of the bathroom, I walked up on the box. Casey was barely moving now, the little bitch. I shook my head. I stripped off my black work shirt and draped it over the kitchen table chair. Then I pulled off my khakis and folded them over the chair as well. Standing there, in my wife beater and my boxers, I had to admit, I looked pretty big. I couldn’t imagine how huge I would look to someone who was only six inches tall, especially someone who had balked at me size just hours before! I reached out and took the container in both hands, dug my fingers in, and ripped in half with all of my might. “GRRRRRRRRR!” I growled loudly, holding the two halves as little Casey lay there on the table staring up at me. Before he got over the initial shock, I picked him up, turned him over, and gently licked where his hamstrings met his gigantic melon glutes. His arms swung uselessly in their little arcs and his little legs kicked, but that just enhanced the sensations as my tongue licked the flexing little hamstrings. Soon, my tongue worked its way up between the two masses of his buttocks, and I gently probed the entrance. The two balloons of muscle flexed, trying to stop me, but my tongue finally got in there. Casey squealed--literally squealed!--as my tongue took his anal virginity, and I almost didn’t want to leave it, but there was more of this man to explore. I turned him over, lifted him up and worked my tongue underneath an armpit. The taste was unbelievable, much the way his boxers had smelled--the combination of man and pheromone filling my system. My boxers had tented ridiculously by this point, a wet spot forming on the front. My tongue then slid down his body to his giant pec-slabs. My tongue moved across the front of them, feeling them as Casey squirmed and flexed them, struggling to get away from my tongue. I paused to spend some time on each little nipple, tasting until it was hard, and then I moved my tongue below each pec, licking right under each pec as it flopped up and down, flexing repeatedly. I took my other hand and gently rubbed my fingers over each meat-pillow as if flexed up and down. It was the first time I’d ever felt someone else’s muscles. Even though they were doll-sized, it was still unbelievably thrilling. As I pulled him away, watching him drip with my saliva, I took a long look at his dick. While I wouldn’t admit it to anyone else, I hadn’t really thought to look at his dick until then--which probably goes a long way to give away my virginity, I’m embarrassed to admit. But looking at this meaty pincusion in my hands, watching his cock flop back and forth, I couldn’t help but want to put it right in my mouth… I thought, as I sucked on his tiny cock and balls, that I’d many times told my friends that I’d never suck another man’s dick. I wondered if it still counted if the dick I was sucking belonged to a bodybuilder--a tiny one at that! But since nobody was going to know about Casey, I didn’t think it really mattered. I kept varying the pressure my puffy lips applied, using my tongue to knock around his balls and tickle his tiny shaft. Meanwhile, he was beating his meaty appendages against my fist. It didn’t hurt at all--rather, it almost felt good, like a gentle massage on my face. As I sucked away on his tiny junk, I worked my pinky in between his big blimpy buttocks. By this time, Casey was squealing like a woman, but his cock was rock hard! I wondered if that was because he was really digging this on some level, or because I had him penetrated with my pinky, had two of my fingers massaging his nipples and pecs, and had my whole huge mouth working on his teeny tiny cock and balls--maybe nobody could resist that kind of physical stimulation, no matter how repulsed he was. As I sucked away, I kept closing my eyes, almost forgetting where I was, just repeating the same moves with my fingers, lips and tongue over and over. I kept thinking of the smell of his hot, sweaty body, the feel of his huge muscles struggling against my face and hand, the sound of his tiny voice as he squealed away, unable to put into words what he was feeling, whether it was good, bad, or both… and then… I felt Casey’s whole body squeeze, turning rock hard in my hand, and he dumped his load right into my mouth--just as I dumped my load. My toes curled, fireworks went off in my head, and I felt vertigo, the whole room spinning… I paused, trying to maintain my balance against the table, and lowered the hand carrying Casey from my face. A long strand of cum stretched from his dick all the way back to my mouth, and I grinned. He was panting, gasping for breath, his arms and legs limp. With the other hand, I checked out my boxers. I was definitely going to have to put them at the bottom of the hamper--they were drenched! I set Casey on the table and took off my boxers and wife beater. Then I came back to my little man. He was staring off into space, probably processing what was going on. I just picked him up and gave his plump warm muscles a squeeze. He moaned as I did so, and I casually carried him into the shower. I plopped him on the floor and got in. “Listen up, Casey,” I said loudly. “This is gonna be the first of many showers that we take together.” He didn’t respond. I just smiled and turned the faucet on. Casey immediately sprang to life again, struggling to dodge the warm droplets raining down on him. To him, they must’ve seemed huge, and with his bloated muscle-bod, he had a hard time getting away. I picked up some body wash and squeezed a dollop onto the top of his chest. He watched is slowly drip between the deep cleavage of his manpecs. “Clean yourself up, rodent,” I said with a smile, starting to work up my own lather. The warm water combined with my fading erection made me suddenly have to pee. With a devious smile, I took aim--BAM! I nailed Casey with a hot stream of pee. He looked shocked, confused, as it knocked him from his feet, and as he clumsily tried to crawl away, the stream just followed him. I grinned, the whole way. “Now, you’re marked,” I said. “Now you’re marked with my scent. Now you’re officially mine.”
Big Barney's Bouncer Blues
It was only 8 o'clock and Barney already had a potential brawl in the bar that he's got to diffuse. As he rushed inside, wedging his barrel-shaped body through the clusters of drunk college kids, it dawned on him that this scuffle might be his own fault. Barney was the head bouncer at the Draft, where entitled kids with heir dads' credit cards drank $1 well drinks until they couldn't even stand. He worked the front door, maintained the line outside, and ID'd the little shitheads as they came in. "I take shits bigger than these fuckers," Barney often thought as he compared his bulky powerlifting frame to the bony kids in skinny jeans walking in and stumbling out. That night Barney saw Craig Oxfelter, the star left tackle of the university team, approach the front door with his hot little blond girlfriend. Of all these little runts, Ox, as Barney called him, was the only one he can respect. He was 325 lbs of shaven-headed athletic steel, and at 6' 6" tall, towered over his peers. Even Barney felt a little tinge of intimidation when he shook Ox's big bearpaws. On top of being an absolute beast, Ox was polite and respectful, even though he could fold most of these kids (and, to be honest, Barney himself too) in half with little effort. So Barney waved Ox and his sweet little girl over and let them cut the line. "Thanks Bar," Ox said with a massive fist bump. Of course, this little blonde-haired fratkid, acting like he had big arms in a size S tank top, had something to say. "What the fuck is this? Big fucking caveman gets to cut the line but we gotta wait?" Barney knew the kid's name: Clifford York the third. He'd tossed him and his two little lackeys Ben and Paul, who were at that moment rallying to their buddy's side in their equally unimpressive tank tops, out of the bar a handful of times before. "Easy little guy," Barney said to Clifford as Ox and his girl strode into the bar. "When you're the big man you can call the shots, got it?" The three frat boys roiled a little to themselves but seemed to get over it. Until later, when the bouncer Barney called Hawkeye (because nothing ever escaped him) saw the three frat boys confronting Ox near the dance floor. Ox and Clifford were chest to chest (or rather, chest to stomach, since Ox towered over his opponent) when Barney got there so he immediately put his brawny body between them. It was a rare sight, Ox moving toward violence off the field. Normally he was a peaceful giant everybody loved, or at least knew better than to screw with. "I'm getting real sick of having to toss you guys out of here," Barney said to Clifford and his sidekicks. "That's bullshit. You automatically side with the big mongoloid?" chirped Clifford. Guys like him, who did crunches and curls and called it a day, loved to mouth off to bigger dudes. If the big dude walks away he's a pussy. If he swings he's a bully. Barney was tired of little fucks like him, but since he was on the clock, he decided to be diplomatic. Turning to Ox (and a little worried, because Ox was barely putting any force in and Barney still had trouble holding him back), "You don't want this, Ox. You've got too much going for you. And they don't want this either, big man," Barney said, thumbing at the three underfed guys behind him and eyeing up the big bald lineman, who was big and solid as a brick wall. "They know you'd squash these fuckers with one hand!" "I'd like to see him try!" Cliff shouted. He reminded Barney of a little yippy dog. "Me and my boys would cream that dumb ape." Barney tried to surpress a smirk. "C'mon, Bar, they've been heckling me since we came in, harassing my girl," Ox rumbled in his deep voice. "You're better than these little pipsqueaks," Barney said. "Just head to the bar and grab a drink for yourself and your lady, on me, and ignore these Mosquitos." Ox shook his head, grabbed his girl's hand and headed to the bar. Then Barney turned to the frat trio. "You guys start any more trouble in my bar and I'm banning you for good." Clifford leaned forward to retort, but his buddy Ben grabbed him and whispered something in his ear. Then all three of them got these shit-eating grins that made Barney want to knock them all out right there. But then they bowed their heads and dispersed back into the crowd. "No more troubles in the bar," Clifford said in his weaselly voice. Back at the front door, Hawkeye spotted some kids drinking smuggled beers in the line about twenty people back. Hawkeye was a sturdy kid, but Barney decided to handle it. He was roughly the size of a refrigerator with the kind of size only a lifetime of heavy deadlifting can build. He easily yanked the beers away from the punks and one-handed them each into the street. As he returned to his post, Hawkeye looked panicked. "I just saw Ox follow those three punks out the side door to the alley!" he blurted out. Barney darted around the building to the alley, hoping he got there in time to stop Ox from turning those guys into three messy stains on the wall. The alley was foggy for some reason (fucking kids and their vapeing), and dark (because Mel, the owner, was too cheap to buy a lightbulb for back there) but as the fog cleared, Barney saw the three frat guys, completely unharmed. Ox was nowhere to be found. "You punks come out here to fight?" Barney said, looking around for the massive lineman. "Just to talk," Clifford said with a smarmy look on his face. "And the big meathead decided he was headed home." The story didn't add up, but nothing about this scene did. "All right, back inside. I'm seriously on my last nerve with you guys." He let them back in through the back door. Before he left the alley Barney heard something weird--a high-pitched moaning from behind the alley dumpster. Sure enough, leaned up against the wall back there was a tiny little bald kid, completely wasted. With a deep sigh, Barney hoisted the kid to his feet. He was light as a feather, couldn't weigh more than 90 lbs, 5 feet tall if he was lucky. Barney chuckled when the kid's sleeve fell back to reveal a tribal tattoo that looked ridiculous on his bony arm. "Kids think they can just buy their badassness. Too lazy to lift up a damned weight." When he got a good look at the shrimp, stumbling on unsteady legs, he worried that they'd served a minor, but it was just a really small, underdeveloped guy. Barney didn't remember seeing the kid come through the front door, but then again he was so small he might have just slipped by. The shrimp was completely obliterated, no doubt because a guy that size would be wasted on only a couple of beers. "Can't drink like the big fellas, can ya little guy?" Barney chided. He really was tired of picking up after little punks who didn't know their limits. The shrimp tried to focus his eyes. "Baaaarrrrrr..." he moaned, his voice so high Barney doubted he kid's testicles had dropped yet. "No more Bar for you little guy," Barney said, hoisting the shrimp over his shoulder and walking him out to the front. Sure enough, the night remained interesting: Hawkeye had seen the frat trio again harassing Ox's girlfriend, but Ox was nowhere in sight. "I'll deal with them," Barney said. "You take this little guy and get him in a cab and out of my sight." He handed the shrimp over to Hawkeye like he was nothing. When Barney saw Clifford getting grabby with Ox's girl, he took great pleasure in grabbing Clifford by his pencil neck and hoisting him into the air, marching him out the front door. He swung wildly but his Barney barely registered the struggle, or the protests of Clifford's little lackeys. Barney tossed Clifford on the sidewalk. "As long as you see me at this front door I don't ever want you coming back!" Barney declared. A small crowd gathered around to see. Clifford hopped to his feet and Barney hoped he would throw a punch. He couldn't wait to waste the kid. But Clifford's two buddies grabbed him, again whispering in his ear, and the fight left Clifford's body. He dusted himself off and confidently walked away. As they passed Hawkeye, Clifford stopped to point at the shrimp, who was propped up against the building and barely coherent. The shrimp lunged at the three but Hawkeye easily caught him and pulled him back--a mercy move; even if he'd been stone sober, the frat guys would have easily wasted the little pipsqueak. Barney was thrilled to see the three disappear around the corner. "I've got a cab coming," Hawkeye said, steadying the shrimp with one hand. "Thing is, the address this kid's giving me is the football house. No way does he live there." "Doesn't matter," Barney said. "I'm tired of looking at him." Ox's girlfriend stopped to thank Barney on her way out the door. "Where's your boyfriend?" Barney asked. "He left like an idiot to fight those punks and never came back," she said. "I'm kind of pissed at him." Suddenly, for some reason, the shrimp whimpered and reached out for her. Poor guy was struggled to get even a single word out but was too wasted to do even that. "You know this kid?" Barney asked. She backed away with a look of disgust on her face. "Never seen him before in my life." As she walked away, Hawkeye threw the shrimp in a cab. He held one skinny arm out the window as it pulled away like he was reaching for her. "What a creep," Barney said, happy to finally have all of this college kid nonsense resolved with his night almost over. "I'd hate to be him when he wakes up tomorrow." The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and Barney was thrilled to finally punch out and head home. Tomorrow was a big squat day, and he had to be up early. Still, the night kind of felt unresolved. In the parking lot Barney spotted the trio again and his adrenaline surged. Clifford was leaning against his car! Now that he was off the clock, with no witnesses, he couldn't wait to put these punks away. "I'm giving you one warning to step away from my car, and I'm really hoping you choose to ignore it." Barney walked slowly now, swinging his huge arms to emphasize his bulk. He couldn't wait to cream these fuckers. "I tell ya what," Clifford said without moving a muscle. "You move me from this spot and we'll all take off, and you'll never have to see any of us again." Barney snorted. He grabbed a handful of Clifford's shirt, noticing that the two sidekicks had moved in to flank him. But before he could do anything further, all three started to chant in some weird language--like Latin played backwards or something. Just the sound of the words made Barney's head hurt and shocked him breathless. Suddenly a thick fog rolled in around him, so dense Barney couldn't see anything. As it slowly dissipated, Barney was shocked to see Clifford, whose shirt he still held in his hand, had gotten huge somehow! Barney was staring up at him--and, he realized in a panic, the two others behind him! He let go of Clifford and stumbled back, disoriented. Then he noticed it wasn't just the frat guys: his car, all the other cars, the whole parking lot had gotten bigger somehow. Then he looked down and saw an unfamiliar body. Since he was a teen his bulk had impeded his view of the ground, but now his body was narrow and spindly. His clothes had shrunk to accommodate his new body, now the size of a ten year old. "What? How?" Barney squeaked in his new body's voice, a pit in his stomach that grew with Clifford's widening smile. "A little fraternity magic. A trick we use to get rid of our enemies. So come on, big man. The deal still stands. Move me and we'll leave." Clifford's flunkies each grabbed one of Barney's scrawny arms, holding him easily. Little Barney audibly pissed his pants and the three fratboys keeled over with laughter.
Mr. O-blimpia
Some people theorized that Kai Greene was behind what happened at the Olympia. Barred from competing this year, he certainly had the motive, and maybe some of the chemists at his supplement company could’ve cooked up the bizarre chemical. But after extensive investigations, police said that there was no evidence Kai was behind it. What they did know was that the chemical was gaseous, fed into the arena through the vents through the whole competition, finally reaching a dangerous concentration just before they revealed the top 10.
People watched, anticipating the winners of that year’s competition, when the chemical suddenly had a visible effect. Cameras were right on Dennis Wolf when it affected him. His whole body flexed at once, but the shocked look in his eyes suggested that wasn’t an intentional display of his physique. All of a sudden, Dennis’ body began to compress, slowly getting shorter without losing any of its mass. He looked around in a panic as his fellow competitors seemed to grow around him.
Dexter Jackson was the next. People couldn’t believe what they were seeing as the big bodybuilder’s height reduced, the rest of his dense musculature compressed into a now-shrunken frame.
In seconds, every bodybuilder onstage was suddenly sinking toward the floor. When the changes stopped, ten men stood on stage, all around three feet tall but with every ounce of muscle still on them. They waddled around on stumped legs, tried to wave their arms, now rendered useless by their incredible thickness. Their posing trunks struggled to contain the new girth of their bulges, which bobbed and wobbled provocatively as they stumbled around on their new stumpy legs. Big Ramy got it the worst, compressed into a little meat blimp, a panicked wiggling of his fingers the only thing he could move as he slowly tipped backward and landed on his back, immobile like an upended turtle.
The audience was silent at first, until the changes spread to them. Suddenly, every man in the room with any performance enhancing drug residue in his system felt the effects of the gas filling the arena. Big, massive bodybuilders suddenly found themselves compressed into chunky little meatplugs, limbs so thick they could barely bend. Gargantuan powerlifters squealed with their new helium-high voices as they found themselves cut down to the height of children, immobilized by their own bulk.
Onstage, a cartoonishly proportioned Phil Heath struggled to get out of the view of the cameras. Every second of his frustrated waddle off the stage was captured, however, and went viral the next day, blasted across every sports website in existence. Pictures of Flex Lewis, squashed down to mini-fridge size, being airlifted to the hospital, his body almost a perfectly muscular sphere, giant traps and a mammoth upper chest nearly swallowing up his entire face.
They ventilated the arena immediately, but the gaseous chemical had already done its damage. They estimated thousands of men were affected, now the height of children with bodies so thick they were considered disabled. None of them could bend their arms enough to grab a steering wheel, or even climb into a normal vehicle. The tops of most counters were now off-limits to these dwarfed musclemen, and shelves were completely out of the question. Regular-sized men regarded the squished-down musclemen with mockery and disdain. They had nothing to fear from these little guys now. All that muscle, but one good shove to the head and they’d fall to the ground and squirm like a beetle.
Months later, neither a culprit nor a cure found, they revealed the top 10 standings and awarded a blimped-out mini Phil Heath with the title of Mr. Olympia. As he accepted it from the man twice his height, wobbling on his unsteady legs, he started to thank God and his fans when a figure stepped out from the crowd.
“Looking thick there, Phil, but you sound like a damned chipmunk.” It was Kai, and while security approached him, Phil squeaked out that it was fine. Phil’s eyes went wide as he stared up… up… up at Kai, who had never seemed so massive to him before. “Congrats,” said Kai, holding out a hand. Phil wobbled, awkwardly contorting himself to meet the outstretched hand without toppling over.
Payback for Squealing
As Trent walked out of the club, he was aware of the little man following him out the door. This was the second place he'd gone that night where he'd noticed the little guy sitting a dozen feet away, sipping a drink, seemingly minding his own business. He'd thought nothing of it. He'd only noticed the guy because he was so damned tiny: maybe four and a half feet tall, spindly little limbs and totally bald, not even any eyebrows. About ten feet down the street Trent stopped, turned, crossed his big arms. His follower walked hunched over with weak little steps, but he stopped when Trent did. The little guy also crossed his arms. It was 3 am, and other than the thump of the bass from inside the club, there was no noise. This part of town was pretty dead at this hour. "Mr. Wood?" asked the little man in a wheezy voice. "You a fan?" Trent asked. He'd had a hell of a career as a bodybuilder back in the 90s during the heyday, and he still made a living doing guest poses and modeling for supplement companies. Trent Wood's competition days were long over, but he was still a big name in the sport. Unfortunately that carried with it the downside of a lot of creepy little fags wanting to buy some time close to his muscles. That kind of thing creeped Trent out. "Oh no," said the little man. When he stepped into the street light, Trent realized that the guy was probably in his 30s, just woefully underdeveloped and completely hairless. All night Trent had thought his creepy admirer had been a shriveled up old-timer. Maybe he had some kinda syndrome. "I'm not a fan at all. I've been sent by my employer to deal with you." "Deal with me?" Trent said, an eyebrow raised. He may have been years from stepping onstage, but he was still a gigantic freak of offseason mass with a big roid gut and a frame like a refrigerator. His sickly assailant looked to weigh about two-hundred pounds less and was no bigger than a middle-schooler. The door to the club swung open and Gunther, the head of security, stepped out to get some air. He gave Trent a nod when he noticed the straggler on the sidewalk with him. "Everything okay big guy?" Gunther asked. "Nothing I can't handle," Trent called back. His follower was now standing next to him, and Trent could barely see the little guy over the arc of his pecs. Gunther chuckled and headed back inside. The follower was staring straight up at Trent now, completely unswayed by the bodybuilder's massive size. His mouth curled up in a thin little grin revealing a dark yellow smile. Something about the little man smelled wrong--like an infected sore. Trent felt some goosebumps on the back of his neck, but otherwise didn't move an inch. "I was hired by a man named Rocco Felicitano," the little man said, and now Trent had goosebumps just about everywhere. A few years before, Trent escaped the attention of some DEA agents trying to bust him for distributing steroids by dropping the name of the main supplier. Rocco went to prison for life, but he still had serious mob connections on the outside. Trent had actually believed he'd escaped retribution--until now. Rocco Felicitano had a reputation for sadistic vengeance, and if this feeble man had really been hired by Rocco, it meant there was something Trent wasn't picking up about this situation. It meant serious trouble, too. "Hired to do what?" he said, taking effort to steady his voice. The little man just snickered, a high-pitched wheeze. "I didn't squeal on Rocco, I swear," Trent blurted out. "I am neither judge nor jury," the man said. "I'm simply out to perform a job for payment." Trent scanned the little guy for a weapon--a gun, maybe a needle, something to subdue him. His assailant raised both of his spider-thin arms, hands open. "Oh, I am truly unarmed, Mr. Wood," he said, doing a slow turn to reveal that he really didn't have anything on him. The little man's eyes slowly traveled the outline of Trent's large, bulky frame. "Certainly I don't pose a threat to a man of your stature," he croaked. "A man your size could squash me like an insect, no?" Triggered by the phrase, Trent clenched his fists. He was right, he could--and he planned on doing it sooner than later. "But you see, I am an artist with talents specific to getting rid of fellows just like you," the man said. The little man reached out slowly, his arm shaking so much Trent thought he might die from the effort, and poked Trent's massive pec with one bony finger. Trent scanned the area quickly: Gunther was inside, there was nobody on the street and an alleyway behind him. "I've had enough of this shit!" Trent roared, grabbing the little man and shoving him into the alley. He stomped after him, his whole torso flexed with rage. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, then vertigo like he'd just stepped off a rollercoaster. He blinked his eyes to clear them, then looked around. Somehow he was lying on his back in the alley now. He looked down to see weak, wobbly limbs. He felt tired and so tiny. Every movement felt slow, and he heard a chuckle--it chilled him to hear the sound of his own laugh coming from someone else, but as he looked up, he saw a gigantic man approaching--and he looked exactly like him! Or at least, how Trent used to look. "What--how did you--" Trent wheezed, staring up at the impossibly huge body in front of him--a body that he'd built, that used to be his. "I told you," said the man in Trent's old deep voice, "I am an artist." He grabbed Trent's fragile shoulders and hoisted him into the air. Trent thought he would be sick from the feeling of being lifted off the ground like he was nothing. He kicked out with all the strength this little body had--a pathetic effort--and then big fists that used to be his clenched around his throat. The snapping of his twig-like neck was the last thing Trent ever heard. With a sigh, the assassin set the tiny, broken body back on the ground. He examined his new form--it was massive, stronger than anything he'd ever inhabited before, and quite attractive to boot. His hand slid into his back pocket and fished out a wallet--full of cash and cards. In a few days, the withered form he preferred would have magically healed, and he could leave Trent's form behind, a lifeless shell to be found later on. They would assume he'd died from heart failure due to steroid use, and the little assassin would move on to his next victim. But until then, he thought, sliding one massive paw into his pants and feeling the massive cock that was now his, he would live as Trent Wood and have a little fun. ------------------ I cobbled this story together really quickly after rediscovering a book from my youth. The third book in the Forgotten Realms series The Cleric Quintet (Night Masks) opens on a scene where a huge warrior has his body-swapped by a weakling assassin who kills his old body, waits for it to heal, then leaves the swapped-body as an empty shell. At 16, I wasn't expecting this opening scene--nor was I expecting the several weeks of furious masturbating it coaxed out of me. I had no idea what about it had gotten me so torqued. It wasn't long before I read Big Time and started twisting off to quirky stories seven days a week, year-round. Bodyswap is a hell of a genre. My favorites, it should be obvious, are stories where a big guy gets swapped into a little body. It differs from muscle theft in that the victim doesn't just lose his size and his power, but his whole identity. Beyond being unrecognizable, there's another person running around as him, living his life, and there's nothing he can do about it. There's something spectacular about the idea that a big beast of a dude who believes in the permanence of his best qualities--his size, his strength, his ability to dominate most everyone else--gets it all snatched away, and he finds himself in a puny body that he formerly regarded as weak or insignificant. Talk about taking a guy down a peg. I wrote this story quickly to break up the monotonous formula of the first few stories in my queue--basically, big football player is made weak and helpless and bullied. They're formulaic because that's what gets me off. I'm all for creativity but what pushes my buttons is a certain sequence of things. Still, to keep my readers' interests I'll throw in a little diversity once in awhile.
Four Game Penalty
Gronk stretched out his long legs, something he normally couldn't do in taxis. He was surprised that his ride from the airport wasn't the car service they usually used, but he was actually loving the ride. The car was swankier than what he was used to, almost limo-style with all leather-interiors, tons of room (important for a guy his size, who wasn't accustomed to being comfortable in most public places) and a mini-fridge full of pricy-looking mineral water. He sipped from one of the fancy blue bottles and made eye contact with the driver. Gronk wasn't the kind of celebrity who needed the divider up; he was a man of the people, and he went out of his way to be good to his fans. Plus, something about the driver made him feel even more at ease. He had on mirrored shades and a nice tux, gripped the wheel with gloved hands; maybe that was it. He kind of had a nice smell too. That was a weird thought, Gronk reflected, but it was true. Whatever the guy had on for cologne, it made Gronk's head feel good. At a red light the driver made eye contact with him that lasted more than a second. Somebody behind them honked--he missed the green by a few seconds--and Gronk chuckled to himself. "You a fan?" Gronk said, leaning forward. "Uh, why yes..." the driver said shyly, "very much. I am a great admirer." He had a weird accent that Gronk couldn't place. "Great to meet you," Gronk said, extending a hand across the partition. "Vidrak," the driver introduced himself with the handshake. "I have noticed you and your team have had an exciting year. One of triumph, but sadly one of controversy too." Gronk chuckled, rolled his eyes and leaned back in his seat, hands folded behind his head. "Yeah, well, you can see all that bullshit all over the news twenty-four seven--everybody dragging Tom's name through the mud. I'm kinda done talking about all that stuff." But after a beat, Gronk did talk about that stuff: "Thing is, whether or not Tom did anything--which they can't prove--how can anybody tell me that punching your wife in an elevator is worth less of a penalty than deflating a goddamned football?" "True," Vidrak said. "It must be difficult to watch your leader go through such hardship." "Y'know, honestly, I wish I could take the punishment for him," Gronk said. The air felt weird for a second, charged, like a shag carpet in the winter. "Truly?" Vidrak said, staring at Gronk now, eyes off the road. "Yeah, man, absolutely. That just goes to show what kind of guy Tom is, how his teammates all feel about him. It's just a damned shame. I just wish the punishment fit the crime, you know?" "Certainly," Vidrak said as they pulled up to Gronk's hotel room. This time something was definitely up--Gronk's skin felt tingly, his hair real sensitive. He felt a sharp sting, like a spark, in his right buttcheek, but it faded pretty quickly. "Yo, Vidrak, I think there's something up with your A/C or something, pal. Might want to get it checked out." "Certainly, Mr. Gronkowski. I apologize if your ride wasn't satisfactory." "Oh, the ride was great," Gronk replied. "Thanks for everything." Vidrak bowed his head, his sunglasses sliding down his nose slightly, and Gronk got a look at his eyes for the first time. They were weird--kinda shiny, like a dragonfly's wing, and they looked almost purple. They shook hands again and Gronk headed into the hotel. Up in the room, Gronk stripped down to his boxer-briefs, clicking on the TV: ESPNews. His first impulse was to change the channel to avoid more nauseating coverage of the Tom Brady scandal, but he was surprised that for once, they weren't ripping it to pieces. He grabbed a beer from the hotel mini-fridge and relaxed his big frame on the couch. Twenty minutes passed and, for once since the Deflategate scandal had started, he could actually watch ESPN without his blood pressure firing up. "Hunh," Gronk said, finishing his beer. "Maybe they've finally gotten the fuck over it." In the shower, he lathered up his muscles and his big dick. The sting in his right buttcheek came back suddenly, and he reached down to rub it. He was shocked when his fingers found a little bump. He poked at it, wondering if it was a zit or something, but when he looked down he saw what looked like a little black stem sticking out of his ass. "...the fuck?!" he mumbled, trying to grip whatever it was and pull it out. But it wouldn't budge. He twisted around to get a good look at it and saw that it was a quarter-inch long and looked like it was made of plastic--and it seemed to be embedded in his skin! His fingers twisted it and it came off like it had been threaded on. It almost reminded him of a tire valve stem. And when it came off, he was shocked by a blast of pressurized air escaping from the tube underneath--the tube coming out of his own ass! After the shock, Gronk was overcome by a wave of dizziness. He leaned against the side of the shower, trying to clear his head, listening to the loud hiss of the air escaping behind him. He felt sick inside and he ached from top to bottom, down to his bones, but he was Rob Gronkowski. No matter how bad he felt he could ignore it, ignore the prickly feeling crawling across his skin, and take charge of the situation. Whatever it was, the escaping air had to be stopped, so Gronk jammed the little black cap back on and twisted it until the sound ended. It took him a few minutes after the sound had stopped to feel like himself again. He shut off the water and stepped out of the tub as his head started to clear. He was shocked at what he saw. First of all, everything in the bathroom looked HUGE. His head only barely cleared the sink, and the shower behind him looked twice as huge as when he'd first gotten into it. The angle of the showerhead pointed way above the top of his head now! He could only see his face in the mirror, and while it looked vaguely like him, it looked so much smaller, without his solid jaw and chiseled features, like an underfed cousin. His knees got weak as he looked down at himself and saw that his body had practically shriveled up. All of his muscles were gone! His body was thin--scrawny, even--and he'd lost all of his mass. He had to sit down. Gronk stumbled to the toilet and sat on it, overwhelmed by the fact that his feet didn't touch the ground anymore. He had to be about five feet tall now, if that, and he looked like his weight was cut in half. He wasn't even this small when he was a kid; maybe when he was a really little kid, but he'd been the biggest since middle school! And still, that little valve stem stuck out of his behind like it was now a part of him. It took a few minutes to work it all out: all that air was escaping from inside him, and now he was small... Like he'd been deflated. Deflategate wasn't in the news. He wondered if it was even a thing at all anymore. His mind flashed back to the shiny purple eyes of Vidrak, and the things he'd willing said to the strange man: he'd wished he could take the penalty, wished the punishment fit the crime. "I'm gonna be deflated for four games?" he asked out loud, his gut clenching as he realized that this seemed to be exactly what had happened. He wasn't used to feeling panicked, feeling unsure of himself, but he was wallowing in those feelings now. But that was bullshit. He may have been smaller, but he was still Gronk. He could figure this out. He just had to take control, be proactive. He may have been a fraction of his former self but he could still man up enough to get out of this! He hopped off the toilet and grabbed his boxer-briefs. It was like a punch in the gut when he pulled them up and realized how absurdly huge they were compared to his tiny body now. None of his clothes would fit him anymore. They were all sized for somebody twice his current size! Hanging from the door was a hotel-issue bathrobe. It was sized for an average person, and while it would've barely covered his old body, it would fit him now. (Actually, it was a little long. He kept tripping over it.) Out in the hotel room he picked up his phone. Who could he call? His mom? Tom? Belicheck? And tell them what? Some fucked up genie granted his wish and now he was a skinny midget for the first four games of the season? A knock at the door shocked him. (Why was he so damned jumpy now? "Get it together, Gronk!" he thought to himself.) "Mr. Gronkowski? I'm Roger, I'm the hotel manager. I've got some complimentary gifts to help you enjoy your stay." Gronk heard the click of the door-lock engaging and saw the door swinging open. He sprinted to it and slammed it shut. It was way more of a struggle to push against a casually entering average guy than he would ever be okay with. "I'm good!" Gronk said, shocked at how high-pitched his voice now was. He cleared his throat and tried to speak deeper, but his vocal cords must have deflated too. "I'm all set! Just not feeling great. Come back later!" Then it occurred to him: if he could be deflated... couldn't he be inflated too? He had an idea. He tied the belt on his robe as tightly as he could, grabbed his wallet, and cautiously peered out his door, careful to escape the hotel without running into anybody. On the street, he got a couple looks--after all, he was wearing a white bathrobe--but most people just walked by, their lines-of-sight several inches above the top of little Gronk's head. Catching a cab was nearly impossible. He wasn't used to being ignored like this! At the hardware store, he grabbed an air compressor and stood in line. It felt terrible to be invisible in public like this, barely acknowledged by people he was used to admiring and adoring him, but another part of him was actually thankful nobody recognized him. He'd be the laughing stock of the NFL if the public found out that big Rob Gronkowski had shrunk to a five-foot-nothing pipsqueak. Luckily the cashier ignored the name on his credit card. Behind him, he was noticed a young guy wearing a Patriots jersey, number 87. Gronk's eyes were at the young guy's waist. Finally back at the hotel, Gronk set up the compressor in the bathroom. It cranked on with a load roar and he carefully twisted off the cap to his creepy new valve stem and plugged the compressor into it. After a moment, he felt something. His skin tingled all over again but it didn't hurt like before. It actually felt good. He watched in the mirror as his head slowly started to rise. He ran his hands over his body as his muscles filled back out again, thankful to watch his arms blow back up and his abs knot across his stomach. After about ten minutes, he was back at his normal size, happy to recognize himself in the mirror again. "Yeah Gronk!" he said, relieved to hear his voice was back to its familiar octave. He went to unhook the compressor, but then paused for a moment. His muscles were still filling, his limbs still getting longer. With a sly grin he realized that maybe he could take this freaky situation and make it work for him. He kept blowing up, growing past his old height of 6'6" by just an inch, then a few inches. His muscles kept filling out too--soon he was a massive seven foot tall beast! He flexed his new cannons, felt up his gigantic body. He looked like a pale Hulk now, but still with his sexy Gronk face on a much blockier head. He had to weigh about 350 now--no, maybe even 400! He was going to dominate the NFL, one-handing guys out of his way with ease. As his head approached the ceiling, he estimated his new height about 7'2" tall, and figured that much more would be overkill. He reached for the cap to his valve stem with his new thick, over-muscled hands, but he couldn't pinch it between his fingers. They were too big. He tried to pick it up with the pinkies from each hand, but he just sort of rolled it around the sink. "Damn," he said, surprised by the deep bovine roar of his voice at this size. "Guess I gotta let a little air out first." He yanked the hose out of his ass, but he was surprised when the escaping air, ten times more intense than the first time, blew him forward, into the sink. He watched with horror as the little black cap circled around and around the sink and then went down the drain with a gentle plunk. Panicking, he pawed at the hole, unable to get even his pinky down the little hole. "Maybe if I get a little smaller," he thought anxiously, but something was different this time. The air was blasting furiously out of him now, but instead of shrinking, like he had before, his hands start to flatten out. In the mirror he watched, helplessly, as his face started to slowly collapse in on itself like a soda can. His legs felt like warm noodles and he found himself sinking to the floor. He flailed, but it was like he no longer had bones. His arms smooshed against the sides of the sink as he tried to grab hold of something. No matter how he struggled, he still ended up collapsing against the floor, pooling into a flattened out pile, like he was skin-colored rubber in the shape of Rob Gronkowski. He tried to yell for help but his voice was just a high-pitched squeak. Then the sound of the escaping air stopped and he found himself staring blankly up at the ceiling, unable to move an inch or make a sound. The compressor continued to roar as the hose swung back in forth, just a couple feet away from Gronk's valve stem, and there was nothing he could do to bridge that distance. "Housekeeping!" asked the maid as she stepped cautiously into the room. There was something loud, a buzzing machine in the bathroom, but after a few calls it didn't seem that anyone was home. She tiptoed quietly in, then went to the bathroom to investigate the strange noise. Someone had left one of those machines you use to fill bike tires running, hissing as it sprayed air at nothing. Why would anyone bring something like that to a hotel bathroom? Even more shocking was a pile of tan rubber gathered in a wrinkled pile on the floor. When she examined it further she saw it had a surprisingly realistic face--two eyes staring blankly out, a mouth frozen in an O of surprise--painted on it. She knew a celebrity was renting the room, some famous athlete, and she'd always heard that rich people did strange things with their money. Who was she to judge this guy for having a blow-up doll? On the floor Gronk screamed silently, thankful that someone had finally come in after what had seemed like an eternity trapped motionless on the floor. "Just inflate me again!" he thought, wishing there was some way to move or make a sound to let her know that he was a person... he was Gronk! He wasn't a thing! But Gronk's hopes sank as the housekeeper shut off the compressor and unplugged it, coiling up the hose. Then she reached down and picked him up, holding him in front of her face. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror--a life-sized, completely deflated rubber Gronk doll. Then she began took him by the top of his head and started rolling him up. The sensation was maddening. Even though he was completely deflated and hollow, every inch of him was incredibly sensitive, and the feeling of being coiled into a tube of himself threatened to overload his mind. "No!" he thought. "I'm a man! I'm Gronk! I'm Gronk!" But as she rolled his eyes and ears up, he couldn't see or hear so well anymore. He felt himself being carried, then set on some flat surface. No matter how hard his mind screamed, he was completely helpless. It was going to be a very long four games.