A Little Diddy I Just Spun Together

A Little Diddy I Just Spun Together

(I wrote this for someone who messaged me complimenting my stories; it's the least I can do for the feedback. I'm hoping he liked it, and I'm hoping he doesn't mind me sharing it here.) So, lemme just sling something together real quick... Let's say you hire a trainer to help you get back in shape. You're blown away when you meet him: 6'4", muscles you can see through the sweatshirt he's wearing, blue eyes that make your stomach tingle and a perfect smile he's not shy about hiding. He shakes your hand and you're blown away by how HUGE his big mitt is, how much smaller yours is in his. There's such a sense of power in his grip, of control. You try to keep your wits about you though, trying to keep this professional. 

First session he shows up in a revealing tank top, and you can tell almost right away what kind of guy he is. He's the guy who's still tan in the dead of winter. He's the kind of guy who could eat a box of donuts and get two more abs. He was the first kid in school to get muscles, the guy in high school girls (and guys) were writing about in their diaries but he had no idea. He's never noticed how easily he gets his way, just by putting a firm hand on somebody's shoulder, flashing that smile, and using a calm, stern voice.

Almost from the first set you realize his training is very "hands on." He's always really close to you while you're lifting. You curl, and he stands behind you, guiding your arms. While you squat, he grips your torso, drops down with you. Every position he's in seems to hammer home JUST how much bigger he is than you, feeling his solid weight behind you, feeling like he's surrounding you on all sides. When you both stand up, he just keeps on standing, casting you in shadow. It's all you can do to keep yourself together. Still, you surprise even yourself with how obedient you are to his instructions. You adhere strictly to his diet, not wanting to disappoint him (and pushing for the spiritual cookie that is his warm grin when he comments how much progress you've made). You take the weird powders and pills he gives you, and you really start to see results... veins in your arms standing out, a breadth to your chest and shoulders you've never had before. 

You start standing a little taller now--except when he's around. Next to him you feel like a candle near a bonfire. You show up to the gym a couple months into training, surprised when he tells you that instead of heavy leg day, you're getting a bonus day of rest. "Rest is when we grow," he assures you. "And with all the progress you've made, you've earned a day off." You're relieved (you hate heavy leg day!) but confused, but when he guides you by the shoulder toward the steam room and tells you he'll be joining you, you're too overcome with jitters to question it. 

It's just the two of you in the steam room, sitting across from each other, and you try not to stare, but the way he's sitting, legs spread, the towel just threatening to open wide and show you everything he's got under there, you can't help but keep him in your peripheral. Then he clears his throat, sits forward, upper body tense for a second, and he grins at you so huge the blood rushes from your head. 

"Just gonna put something in the steam really quick," he says, pulling hidden in his towel and holding it over the steam jet. A thick milky white cloud blasts out and swallows you up. Suddenly you can't see him, or the floor, or anything; it's like your drowning in white. You gasp for air, huffing in the hot humidity, and everything fades out... ...when you wake again, you're lying in a shallow pool of warm, salty water. You feel fine except for massive disorientation and some dizziness. And you're naked! There's a haze in the air, preventing you from getting your bearings. You pull yourself to your feet and look around. 

The room is huge--the ceilings look impossibly high, miles away. And as you're staring up, something familiar comes into view. It's your trainer! He's the size of a building, and though his face looks about a mile or so away, you can still make it out clearly. You're too overcome with the sight to do anything as he reaches down and snatches you up, his big hands tightening gently but firmly around you. 

You're too scared to struggle, and his fingers hold you so snugly you're not sure you could move much if you tried. Your stomach drops out as he lifts you up, a dizzying flight through the air as he starts walking. To you, you're traveling at a high speed, impossibly high off the ground. You can't help but pee a little... and you pray he doesn't feel it dribbling through his fist. Maybe you're so tiny that he doesn't even notice. 

Outside the steam room you feel cool air and you swallow big gulps of it, your pulse pounding in your temples. You're immediately disoriented with the speed you're moving, and by the glimpses of the world outside his fist that you get through his fingers. But a minute or so later you hear a familiar click and a squeak, like the sound of the lockers in the men's room opening but at a different volume and register. 

You hear the sounds of massive items rustling and moving around you, then you're plunked unceremoniously on a hard metal floor. You spin around, taking in the size of the room you're standing in. It takes a second for you to realize that the massive chamber behind you is actually the gym's dinky little lockers. In front of you, your trainer fills up every inch of your view with his massive muscular body. 

He leans in close, his warm, sweet breath blasting at you in big bursts, and then his massive tongue snakes from his mouth, starts at your feet and drags slowly upward. He slurps loudly afterward. "Mmmmm," he purrs, and you shiver at the idea that he was just tasting you. He's only wearing compression shorts, and he reaches forward to snatch you again. You wish for freedom, want just to talk to him, to ask him what's going on, but then his hand tilts. You look down and see him tugging open the waistband of his compression shorts with one finger, and you see the impossibly huge cock and thick heavy balls tucked in there. You'd been dying to see them since you met him, and you're bowled over by their magnitude now. 

Suddenly the pressure from the hand holding you is gone, and your arms grab wildly at the air as you fall straight downward, landing on the soft mass in his shorts with a light thud. He moans (the solid warmth around you vibrates) and lets his waistband snap back. The compression shorts hold you firmly against his cock. You can feel his pulse through veins the size of drainpipes. You panic for a moment, confined and overwhelmed by the heat, but then the rhythm of his bloodflow and of his weight shifting as he walks lulls you, almost hypnotically. 

Outside his clothes you hear him going through the gym, greeting people. You wonder if you could scream to get their attention, if anyone could help you now, or even if you wanted them to. That's when you realize: after your sessions with him, your trainer always went through his own workout! And now you're along for the ride. You nestle in, still bewildered but thrilled at the same time, as you hear him grunting, his gigantic muscles flexing. His scent is your air and you marinate in his sweat.

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.”

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.

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.

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.

Awhile ago I posed a challenge to @absqrst--he picked a guy for me, I picked a guy for him, and each of us had to spin a tale of transformation for that dude. Wow-ee. I picked Joey Swoll--because honestly, they don't get more "cocky prettyboy musclefreak" than this guy--and look at what he spun together! I've said it before, I'll say it again: absqrst is GOOD at this game. (And might I add, welcome back buddy! We missed your fiction something fierce.)