Beeftoweak - Tumblr Posts

(Photo by @zoroaster666--check out his awesome tumblr of nullos/gelded pics, expertly done with deviously sexy stories, or check out his whole catalog on TF-spot, where he's got a whole slew of unbelievable art, folder after folder of deliciously devious pics covering all sorts of different fetishes. http://tf-spot.com/index.php/profile/zoroaster If you haven't seen his stuff yet, YOU ARE MISSING OUT!) ---------- RICHIE PIGCOGNITO by Brandedx2 Richie thanked me in his post-game interview. "Thanks to my main man Andrew, who makes all this possible." I was touched, really, that the big guy thought so much of me. Nobody followed up on the comment--none of those reporters stepped back to interview me or anything--because they're all too up in arms over the other ways the big Guy's changed. It's funny because back in the day, when I was just an equipment manager, Richie was actually pretty rude to me--when he acknowledged me at all. Then came his ACL tear, and that experimental surgery they said was going to change his career. Turns out they fixed him up with tissue transplants they got from pigs, made him good as before--better than before, to be honest. When he hit the field again he was a force to be reckoned with, back in the news again, and you might even say people started to forget what a big bully he used to be. Then one day Richie was in meetings with the coach and the team doc all day, and from then on he didn't shower with the team anymore. It was weird how hush hush they were, but nobody got any answers when they asked why--until coach tapped me to stand guard to make sure the big guy had privacy while he showered. At first I didn't think much of it--just an NFL star being a prima donna. I'd stand with my back to the room and tell Richie how great he played or how impressive he was in practice. Most of the time he ignored me, but I'm a friendly guy and, above all, a fan. The third or fourth time I stood watch while he washed up I heard him making some weird noises. I thought he was hiccuping at first until it got louder. He was grunting, real loud, snorting, and then he squealed--just like a pig! I knew I wasn't supposed to or nothing, but I had to turn around. Big Richie had a panicked look on his eyes (never saw that before!) and had clapped a hand over his mouth. That's when I saw what was up: the big guy had about eight nipples! I knew that wasn't like that before. He turned around and I saw something else--a little curly-cue tail poking out about the swirls of hair around his big meaty ass. I kept my mouth shut, didn't say a word. That's how I kept the job, I think. But a couple weeks later, halfway through a game against the Dolphins, Richie pulled off his helmet and his face was different. His nose was all flat and had sprouted out, like a big old pig's snout, and two little tusks poked out over his lips. It must've happened during the last couple plays, I guess, but they got it on TV and it was a big deal. During halftime Richie panicked and the coach had to talk him into playing. I really felt for the guy, whose ears had gotten furry and floppy before he got back on the field. I guess the other players were harassing him really bad, but he was like a wrecking ball out there... And fast too! Never seen a lineman play like he did. My job changed then. Richie wasn't afraid to shower with the other guys anymore (sometimes they'd joke around, tweak his piggie nipples or yank on his little tail), but the guy had different needs now. His hands and feet fused together into hooves so there's a lot of stuff he can't do by himself so I just tag along with him and give him a hand, lacing up his cleats and getting his football pants up. He developed a real barnyard stink to him, too--no matter how much he washes up. After practices and games now I take Richie out to a back room where they had a trough set up. I fill it up with slop--apples, oatmeal, beef scraps, heads of lettuce--and he buries his head it in and goes to town, grunting and squealing like a pig the whole time. He likes it when I scratch behind his ears or rub the sides of his belly while he chows at his trough. And after he's done--coach doesn't know about this, nor does he need to know--Richie's eyes fall on the bulge in my pants (I can't help it--seeing that big bohunk squealing away while his piggy tail twitches, I get all riled up) and he looks even hungrier than I do when I first pour out his slop. He gobbles down my cock and sucks me dry, fills his piggy belly with my spunk, and even shoots a load from his little pig-cock (that changed, too, although Richie's not complaining anymore). The reporters are still making a big deal over it, but Richie takes it like a champ. Last week I overhead coach talking with the doc--the changes aren't stopping and sometimes Richie's brain is more pig than man. They figure he'll finish out the season strong but it won't be long after until he's walking around on all fours. I think they're going to let me take care of him when he goes full-on pig. Sometimes when his mind porks-out and he dives into trash barrels for food or hungrily goes for other guy's cocks in the shower, you can see a moment where he snaps back to himself and he's really scared of what's happening to him. But when we're alone together, nobody gets Richie to calm down like I do. So when the time comes I'll be the one to take him down to a farm and find him a comfy pen and maybe a nice sow, and he'll get the cozy retirement a real champ like him deserves.

RICHIE INCOCKNITO

by BrandedX2

Richie stood on unsteady feet in the shower steam, still barely awake and definitely hungover from the night before. His phone, sitting on the tank of his toilet, buzzed again, nearly vibrating off the edge. It was his buddy Eric, the Bills center, texting him once again to find out about what had happened last night after Richie disappeared from the club with the creepy pale chick who had freaking out all the rest of their fellow Bills buddies by sitting at the bar and staring with her weird black eyes. Eric had been blowing up Richie’s phone all day, texting him relentlessly; in fact, it was the only reason he’d gotten out of bed, since he’d much rather have been faceplanting his pillow.

“yo Richie you bang that goth skank?”

“Wanna hear the scuzzy details you perv”

“Wake the fuck up scumbag aren’t we hanging out today”

After a dozen texts Richie agreed to meet up with Eric for some drinks (damn, he was enjoying the offseason) during which he’d tell the whole tale. There wasn’t much to say: Richie was so drunk he couldn’t see straight, decided he needed to get home before he passed out on the dancefloor, and the chick just happened to be near him when he made the getaway. She was easy prey, moaned like a maniac and left on her own in the morning without a word.

Richie leaned into the shower spray and soaked his big hairy body. His chest hair was plastered against his chest in a weird formation, like a misshapen circle, and suddenly he remembered how that freaky chick had scooped his load out of her puss after the third time he’d hollowed her out; then she smeared it on his chest like she was fingerpainting.

What a weird chick, he thought as he rubbed a bubbly lather over his big frame. Memories came back in little flashes: she was talking in some weird language, head cocked back, staring up at the ceiling. He’d been too drunk to figure out any of it, or to care, so he just rolled over and passed out—he thought. His brain had just sort of turned off then.

As Richie rinsed he felt a little of the post-blackout haze leaving his brain—and at the same time he became painfully aware of his rock hard cock, standing nearly straight up against his belly. Damn! It’s like it had shot up like an arrow. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d had a boner so insistent. And sensitive--just the feeling of the water hitting it was like a rough handjob! Fuck, he thought, staring down his big frame at the steel pipe practically staring him in the eye, pulling his balls tight… Eric would be over soon, but he had a key. He could wait on the damned couch while Richie took care of this thing.

As soon as he got his hands on it, Richie almost keeled over… It was like getting a blowjob on ecstasy. He felt like his brain was short-circuiting, fireworks going off in his head with each pump of his fist up and down his shaft. It didn’t take long before—BAM! He felt the blast of cum splatter his forehead, then another covering his cheek. He swooned so hard he almost fell off his feet—it was like that cumblast had come from his fingers and toes. He stumbled for a second, eyes closed, hand against the tile wall, trying to steady himself as he recovered from what had to be the biggest cumshot of his life…

Something was wrong. His hand brushed against the shower knobs, which were usually at about waist height for him, but they felt about nipple-height. He reached up and realized the shower was spraying over his head. A second ago it was aimed right at him.

Wiping cum off his face, he stumbled around awkwardly as he opened his eyes and gawked at his surroundings: his shower… looked HUGE! For a second he thought he was in somebody else’s place. He’d have to jump to reach the shower head now, and it looked twice as spacious as it had before. He wobbled unsteadily, disoriented by the shift in the surroundings—until he looked down and saw his cock. It was slowly deflating but it was enormous, easily twice the size he was accustomed to, and the added weight pulled on his groin. His balls also felt big, swinging pendulously between his knees. He stared at the thing, big as a mule’s cock he thought, afraid to touch it—but when his fingers reached out, he felt it (oh God did he feel it—damned thing was more sensitive than ever!). It was his.

What the fuck was going on?

He shut the shower off with a squeak and stumbled out of the shower, yanking down a towel that felt huge and heavy in his hands from a rod that was above his eye level. After he’d wiped himself down, he took a look in the mirror. He was still him, it seemed—just with a massive cock—but everything else in the mirror looked gigantic, and he was only taking up about half the space he normally did.

As his phone buzzed again—dammit, Eric, whatever it was could fucking wait, he thought—his brain slowly wrapped around his situation: he now stood a little over half the height he’d had before, while he cock hadn’t changed size at all. He compared it to reference objects around his bathroom: his razor, his toothbrush, the toilet plunger; they all felt giant and weighty in his hands, but held next to his cock, they looked about the same as they always had. This shit wasn’t possible!

Grabbing his phone (which seemed big as a brick to him now) he thought about who he would call—911? Coach? Eric was on his way over—no way could he let the big beefy center see him like this! He estimated he wasn’t taller than maybe four feet, now. He could barely see over the bathroom counter.

Before he dialed anyone, he noticed the last text that had come through—some number he didn’t recognize:

“If you spill your seed in the next 24 hours you will greatly regret it”

The fuck did that mean?

In a panic Richie realized he had to get out of there—coach would help him. He was the Bills’ greatest asset for chrissakes! He was a prime piece of football machinery—no way they were gonna leave him like this, like a midget! As he ran he felt his junk swinging against his thighs, then up against his belly. It was hard to maneuver with this added weight attached to him—he found himself waddling back and forth as he went. To make matters worse, his apartment seemed entirely unfamiliar now that everything was twice as big. He shied away from the weight bench in his living room, trying not to think of how heavy those big dumbbells looked now, and stood for a moment in front of his 60 inch plasma screen. It seemed movie theater sized now.

In his room, Richie yanked open a drawer and started to pull on underwear—then stood, mouth agape, after the boxers he’d tried to pull on were up around his waist. He barely filled up half them, the waistband circling him like a hula hoop, and they hung all the way down past his knees. A glance in the closet revealed a bunch of jeans that looked like they were as tall as he was now, and even though his trunk still looked as thick and beefy to him as it had always been, to his clothes it was no bigger than a little kid’s waist. The fuck was he going to wear?

He settled on a Bills jersey he had in the back of his closet that fit him like a damned dress (but at least it covered his little-big-dicked-body up!) and a set of flip flops (that stuck about four inches out behind his heel). Then he grabbed a Bills cap—it covered most of his head, like a little kid in his dad’s hat, but at least nobody would see his face.

He couldn’t believe the image in his full length mirror as he assessed himself. Could that really be big Richie Incognito? There was no time to think about it. He had to get to Coach’s. Coach’s cell went right to voicemail, but he figured he’d just go straight to Coach’s house, directly.

Soon as he stepped out of his apartment, any feeling of confidence he had in his plan evaporated. Everything was huge. There were people out there, and they seemed MASSIVE—but as he looked, he realized they were just normal-sized, average folks. If he was his normal size, he’d be looking down on them, probably intimidating them, twice their size. A chubby kid walked by and Richie realized they were eye-to-eye.

Worse than the size of everything was his big floppy dick—it just kept swinging around his little groin with every step, nudging the front of his jersey obscenely. And every time his cock touched the fabric his whole body blushed, his pulse quickened, the way he used to react when a girl deep-throated the thing. This shit was too much—but as he turned around to go back in his apartment, he realized he didn’t have his keys on him. He was locked out! He was gonna have to just book it for coach’s and just hope everything worked out.

He tried to look nonchalant as he waited for the elevator doors to open—I’m just being paranoid, he thought; nobody’s staring, and if they are, they sure as hell don’t know who I am. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open—and Richie was almost knocked over by the busty blonde amazon (to him) who walked out.

“Oh, I’m sorry little guy!” she said in a sing-songy voice she might use to speak to a puppy. He stared up at her—and his gut went cold when he realized he knew her. She lived on his floor, and he’d fucked her once with no plans to follow up on it. Now she squatted down to look in his eyes and patted him gently on the head. “You okay?”

“Fine,” he said, suddenly shocked at his voice—it was higher, like he’d huffed some helium or something. That was too much—he stomped past her into the elevator and punched the button for the lobby, staring at the wall until the doors closed.

“I’m still big,” Richie thought, eyes closed, running his hands over his body. To him, it felt the same—he was still a big, massive lineman with wide shoulders, a build like a brick shithouse and a thick ass and legs to push all the mass around. Then his hands got to his cock—ooooooh, he shuddered—and his eyes snapped open. He wasn’t big. He had to look up to see the highest elevator buttons. But he had to quit feeling sorry for himself—he was a goddamned NFL beast, and he had to start acting like it.

Then something happened—he shivered, his skin rising in goosebumps, and his whole body tensed. Then his jersey seemed to be swallowing him up—his hat suddenly sank over his head like a bucket, covering it entirely. When he shook it off, his eyes fell behind the red and blue fabric as it seemed to turn into a collapsing tent he was lost in. He kicked off the flip-flops as they threatened to pop his big toes off. He thrashed around on the floor, trying to shake off whatever was happening to him, as the jersey collapsed like a giant deflating balloon around him.

When it stopped, he lay there on the floor of the elevator, looking up at the giant 62 he saw printed backwards on the “ceiling” of jersey that lay above him, each number about the size of his own body. In horror he looked down and saw that, still, his cock had gotten no smaller—Jesus, it was over a yard long now! His balls were like big heavy melons, his ballsac collecting in wrinkly piles around his feet. As he tried to stand, he realized it was a great effort to drag this big fucking thing around—and every time it touched anything (the ground it rested on; the jersey that surrounded him; his own body, which brushed up against the huge member every time he moved) he moaned aloud, overwhelmed by the sensations zapping his brain.

Still, he kept on, fighting for a way out of the jersey, finally coming to the neck hole—and as he peered out, at an even more enormous elevator (he figured he was about as tall as the fire extinguisher on the wall, so—what was that, two feet?!?!?), hauling around a grotesquely overgrown dick and bowling-ball-sized balls that were so sensitive a stiff breeze could make him cum… he felt the fight die out of him. He saw his phone, which had landed in the middle of the elevator when he’d shrunk again. He’d need to use both arms just to pick it up now. He couldn’t reach the elevator buttons anymore, let alone a doorknob. How the hell was he going to get to coach’s now?

He jumped when the elevator dinged loudly, and retreated back into the jersey as the doors slid open, his eyes nearly bugging out as he saw his buddy, Eric Wood, buffalo-sized center of the Buffalo Bills, who now looked as massive as a house to him. He actually felt Eric’s heavy footfalls as the enormous man stepped into the elevator, too into his phone to notice the tiny man hiding in the discarded jersey on the floor of the elevator.

Then—Eric looked down. His deep voice boomed, “What the fuck?”

*             *             *

 First off, Eric thought, why the fuck would Richie leave a jersey lying in the middle of the elevator? There was also a hat on the floor, and a pair of flip-flops—did Richie just get strip in the elevator and stride off butt-ass-naked? Not like he wouldn’t put it past the big oaf—Richie was a wild man, after all.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing that myself,” Eric thought with a smirk, as the image of his buddy Richie striding around proudly in the buff made his cheeks red—but then he put that thought out of his mind, like he always did. Richie was his buddy, Eric had a wife, it wasn’t like that. They were in the NFL for chrissakes.

But still.

Then Eric noticed Richie’s phone, face down in the middle of the elevator. Jeez, was his buddy drunk already? He was less bothered by the earliness of Richie’s debauchery and more by the fact that he was left out of it. Eric crouched down and plucked Richie’s phone off the ground—and then he noticed something.

The jersey moved.

Maybe his eyes were playing tricks on him, he thought, leaning forward—jeez, he could really smell Richie’s scent coming off the jersey in warm waves, like he’d just been wearing it a second ago—but then a little lump in the jersey moved around. Eric reached one thick paw down and yanked the jersey up off the ground.

It was Richie—no doubt about it, he’d recognize his best buddy anywhere—but he was naked and barely knee-high to Eric now. Funny thing was, his cock hadn’t changed size at all (and Eric would know; he’d seen Richie’s cock in the showers hundreds of times; he could’ve sketched it blindfolded). It looked cartoonish on him now, though, and it seemed to be weighing him down. Poor little Richie pressed himself against the elevator wall, shaking. It was hard to tell because they were so damned small, but he looked like he had fear in his eyes (something Eric hadn’t thought possible before).

Eric stood for a second, overwhelmed by the situation—maybe even a little bit dizzy. His mouth was dry, heart pounding in his ears—what was the matter with him? He just couldn’t stop staring at his buddy looking all little and helpless, but with that big juicy—fuck, juicy? Where’d that word come from?—cock…

“Hi Richie,” Eric finally exhaled in a low voice.

“Eric! Buddy! You gotta help me! I dunno what’s happening to me but… I’ve shrunk twice already! We gotta get me to coach or the team doctors or…”

Eric smirked. “God, Richie, what’s up with your voice?” He sounded like a friggin chipmunk! Just then the elevator dinged—Richie suddenly crouched down, holding himself, shaking even harder, and Eric started like a little kid who got caught looking at his dad’s porno. Panicking, he reached down and yanked up his shrunken buddy without a thought, wrapped him in the jersey, scooped up the phone, hat and flip flops and stood against the wall, trying to look nonchalant.

A little guy with glasses walked in. He gave Eric the up-down look that he usually god (“Gosh, you’re big!”) but then punched a button. “Play it cool,” Eric repeated to himself, and punched Richie’s floor. He’d go back to Richie’s and they’d figure something out.

Then it dawned on him—that warm thing in the jersey he’d just tucked into his armpit, the thing squirming and wriggling around and kicking him in the side… that was Richie! He couldn’t help the swelling in his shorts just then, and he prayed the skinny guy didn’t notice.

Eric darted out of the elevator soon as the doors opened, desperate to take another look at his little prize, but there was a kid carrying a skateboard coming one way, an old woman sorting through mail coming the other. He couldn’t bust out a shrunken football player with a megacock until he had some privacy. As he fumbled with the key Richie’d given him awhile ago, he felt the jersey start to shake like crazy—then it felt different.

Lighter.

Eric slammed the door behind him as he plopped the jersey on the counter and shook out its contents. Richie was still in there, and he tumbled out on the granite countertop, landing flat on his back. He was even smaller now, about the length of a football, but that cock was still there, now about two-thirds as big as his whole body.

“Richie! You got smaller!” Eric shouted, prompting tiny Richie to cover his ears. The little lineman’s protests came out even more high-pitched than before—Eric could barely make them out. “Except your cock,” Eric said in a softer voice. With a shaky hand he reached out and touched it, felt its warmth and its velvety softness and he gently ran his fingers up and down its shaft like he was stroking a little dog, all the while Richie kicking and writhing and squeaking wildly at the touch. The tip was slobbered with something sticky—Eric gathered a big gob of it on his finger and raised it to his lips. “Mmm…” he moaned as he savored its taste. Then he noticed the inside of the jersey, gooey with Richie’s precum, which he’d probably drooled out on the walk up here.

It happened again—Eric almost missed it, so focused on the hardening cock of his dreams, right there at his fingertips—but Richie’s whole little body flexed suddenly and then started to pull in on itself while his cock somehow managed to become even more engorged. Eric put a big meaty hand on the counter next to his tiny buddy to measure—the hand was bigger than the man. With his sausage-thick index finger he gently reached out and rubbed little circles on Richie’s tiny, hairy chest. The hairs were so fine now they felt silky. Then Eric brought his other hand around to the big balls that were crushing Richie’s tiny legs. As he stroked the big, bulky mounds, a musk filled the air. Eric had smelled it before, in the locker room, the smell of testosterone flowing hard, but he had to get up to it close, breathing in the thick, smoky scent. He couldn’t help it as his tongue lolled out of his mouth, gently tasting Richie’s big nuts, enjoying their salty manliness as he gently licked up the shaft which stood almost straight up from the counter, still managing to fill with blood somehow.

The end of Richie’s cock burped up some precum which came to fall on Richie’s little head. The little lineman coughed and sputtered, trying to wipe away the gobs of his own broth that kept coming as Eric’s tongue started moving more and more vigorously up the length of Richie’s delicious cock. He ignored his buddy’s barely audible squeaks as he suddenly found himself leaning forward and swallowing the big cock whole.

He’d never done this before—hadn’t even allowed himself to picture it for more than a few seconds before sweeping it out of his thoughts—but Eric was completely engrossed in the feeling of Richie’s big cock going down his throat, intoxicated by the power he had (because what could Richie even do about it?). With one hand tightly gripping the base (and absolutely no concern for the six inch body attached to it) Eric started swallowing the cock whole, running his tongue over it, slobbering over the big bone as he deep-throated it again and again with more enthusiasm than he’d ever had for eating his wife’s old puss. And then, he was rewarded—the cock stiffened and jerked and a hot load shot down his throat. He swallowed as much as he could but some still spilled out of his mouth. The cock came out of his mouth with a pop and then he wiped the dribbles of Richie’s hot load from his face with the back of his meaty hand.

“Holy shit,” Eric groaned on unsteady legs. “God-damn, Richie, that was amazing… you can’t say you didn’t like that too…” His eyes fell on the spot on the counter where his little buddy just was.

His cock remained, unchanged from when Richie was full-sized, but Eric couldn’t see the rest of him.

Grabbing the cock off the counter, he examined the other end—maybe Richie’d just shrunk again, even tinier, but as Eric inspected, he couldn’t see any evidence of his pal. It was strange to think, but it was like Richie had disappeared entirely, leaving only a disembodied cock—which was still warm, still throbbing, still stiffening in Eric’s grip. Fuck, he could still feel a pulse!

“You in there, Richie?” Eric whispered, trying to find even an imprint of a face in the dick’s veiny surface, to no avail. After double-checking that the door was deadbolted, Eric walked to Richie’s bedroom, lightheaded and giddy, holding Richie’s hot erection against his chest. Within minutes he was squatting naked over a mirror he’d set on the floor, rubbing the stiff hot cock against his hole, his fingers and toes tingling with the sensation. It wasn’t long before he’d shoved the whole thing in, lubed by the copious amounts of spunk oozing out the end, and started fucking himself with it, moaning, “Yeah big Richie, fuck my big ass Richie, oh fuck yeah…” until it fired a huge load into his massive lineman ass, and he collapsed blissfully into Richie’s bed, petting the cock like it was a kitten, every inch of him still tingling…

*             *             *

FUCK! Richie thought. DAMMIT CALL A DAMNED DOCTOR YOU DUMB FUCKIN APE! He could hear his own thoughts as loudly as if he were shouting, but he couldn’t seem to project them—Eric didn’t seem to hear him, he thought. He was also vaguely aware of his surroundings—he was on his bed, he knew, next to Eric—that fuckin faggot, who would’ve thought? When I’m normal again I’m gonna bust his jaw and rip his fuckin dick off—but his “vision” seemed only black and white and kept fading in and out (and yet he didn’t seem to have eyes).

Eric had used Richie to fuck himself four times now—Richie was still waiting to wake up from this nightmare, trying so hard to get the memory of being surrounded by Eric’s tight, humid ass out of his mind—but he’d taken a break, thank God. Richie couldn’t move, couldn’t communicate, could only lay there, every inch of his “body” tingling with every single sensation. When would it end, he wondered miserably, when Eric’s hand reached down and lifted him dizzyingly into the air, then lowered him down to his mouth.

Eric’s tongue was a magnificent torture, and Richie was powerless to fight sliding past those big lips and down that warm wet throat—fuck, yeah, suck me, big man, suck me, swallow me, make me cum, yeah—fuck, cock, ass, hard load fuck hard fuck hard cum cum cumcumcum…

…the fuck? That kept happening, for longer and longer periods: he kept forgetting who he was, what he was, his whole brain swollen with blood, the urge to ejaculate the only thing on his mind, if he even had a mind. The worst part was: it was absolute ecstasy, a true joy that seemed to sing through Richie’s core. How many more times was it going to happen before he got stuck that way? Richie wondered miserably as Eric got off the bed and thudded away. Seconds later he heard Eric peeing, then moaning, then heard the big Center shout: “What the fuck?” in a much higher voice.

“Fuck, Richie, it’s happening to me too! It’s contagious!” Eric shouted, and from what Richie could “see,” big Eric had stumped down in height, his own cock (which wasn’t that big to begin with) retaining its size on his reduced frame. “I’m gonna get us help buddy,” Eric squeaked, grabbing Richie by the root—ooooooh, fuuuuuuck, Richie thought wildly—and then heading quickly for the door.

Richie suddenly hit the floor with a thud, and as he rolled over, he bumped into something else. It was a cock; Eric’s cock, now attached to a tiny little football player, immobilized by his cock’s massive size. Seconds later, with a squeak, Eric’s body disappeared, leaving only his cock behind.

It was quiet for awhile, Richie pondering the situation while his ability to “see” faded in and out. Would anyone he fucked shrink like he and Eric had? Was he ever going to fuck anyone again? Had he been lying on the floor for minutes or hours? Had it been days? Eric’s dick had come to rest just next to Richie’s and they touched, gently, Eric’s stumpy tip to the center of Richie’s shaft. Richie couldn’t help but savor that touch, that warmth, that super-powered nerve cluster that was making him see colors and feel sensations he’d never imagine before. He prayed it would never ever end…

His ecstasy was interrupted by the click of his front door unlocking and several light footsteps across his floor. The last thing he was aware of as his vision faded away was that creepy goth chick, leaning over him, dangling the key she’d stolen the night before.

“Ah, two of you, hunh?” Her voice grew further and further away as Richie felt himself becoming less and less a man, more and more just a cock. “I always knew you big football boys played with each other off the field. It looks like I’ve got two nice cocks to add to my collection, the only useful parts of you overgrown gorillas. You little pee-pees are going to fetch quite a penny indeed…”

And then, nothing, because cocks can’t hear, don’t think. The rest of Richie’s existence was just getting hard and cumming, over and over, and nothing more.

RICHIE INJOCKNITO

by BrandedX2

Ever since that freak incident that ended Clay Matthews’ career, Richie had been impossible to be around. He’d demanded security cameras in every inch of the locker rooms, he wanted 24-hour personal security, and he was insisting that various members of the auxiliary staff be fired—anybody who gave him a “bad vibe.”

               “You can’t be too fucking careful. I guarantee I’m a prime target for this kind of thing,” Richie barked at his coach, Rex Ryan, kicking a chair across the head coach’s office. “Not enough is being done here!” Richie was a massive investment, the greatest thing the Bills had going for them—and they weren’t doing enough to prevent someone from chemically turning him into a weakling!

               Rex rolled his eyes, tired of Richie’s tantrums. “We’re getting cameras installed and we’ve beefed up security,” he said, watching his star offensive lineman’s hulking body heave with anxious rage. “We can’t just go firing people on a whim,” he said, putting his foot down.

               The employee in question was one of the team’s assistants, a young guy named Perry, who Richie constantly insisted was leering at him, spending too much time around his locker. And Richie swore that little fucker was sniffing his jockstrap once.

               “He washes your uniform, jackass. Quit being paranoid and focus on your job. Nobody’s trying to sabotage you, dumbass.”

               Richie stomped out of Ryan’s office, not ready to give this up yet. He had plenty of enemies, tons of people who would love to see him cut down to size. He was sure he’d be the next target after Matthews, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily. As he passed that little queer Perry in the hallway, he lunged at the little guy; Richie was easily twice his size, and Perry jumped like someone had shot at him. “Stay away from my shit, you little fag,” Richie warned.

               Eric Wood, his fellow offensive lineman and the only one on the team who was unafraid of Richie’s shows of aggression, smirked at his buddy. “Richie, you’re an NFL lineman, over 300 pounds—and that hundred-pounds-soaking-wet little guy has you shaking this bad?”

               Richie flashed a sneer at Wood, who didn’t even flinch. “I can tell when somebody’s looking at me like I’m a t-bone steak,” he said, no stranger to attention. “That kid’s fucking obsessed with me, just like the guy who fucked Matthews’ life over. If anybody was gonna fuck with me, it’d be him.”

               Eric shrugged, flashed Richie a grin, and said, “If I were you, I’d be more worried about the million and a half people out there who hate your fucking guts.” Richie socked him hard in the arm and headed into the locker room, watching the little fag Perry leave with a stack of towels. After a deep inspection of his locker—he was pretty sure everything was where it was supposed to be—he suited up for practice and headed to the field with his teammates.

               About an hour in, it was clear to everyone that Richie was playing like shit. He’d started off strong, but started feeling dizzy after his blood got pumping. He was afraid to admit it, but he felt sluggish and was getting sloppy, even though he’d started the day at full strength. Worse than anything, his cock was bothering him: his junk had gotten increasingly warm as time passed and his cock and balls had started to throb with his heartbeat. Coach Ryan called him over and asked him what was up.

               “I dunno, Coach,” Richie said, starting to shake—had somebody slipped him a drug? Was he going to shrink into a little pussy like Matthews? “I gotta see the team doc, now!”

               Happy to have the annoying lineman out of his hair for a bit, Coach Ryan told him to go get checked out, and Richie hustled off the field.

*

               Richie sat on the examination table wearing only his jockstrap while the Doc looked him over. He flexed his torso as he watched the Doc roll his eyes. “You’d better start taking me a little more seriously, Doc,” Richie threatened.

               The Doc shook his head. “You feel weak and your genitals are irritating you,” he replied, crossing his arms. “I think the only thing that’s entered your system is another sexually transmitted disease. But I’ll take some blood tests and we’ll see if we can figure out what’s wrong with you.” After drawing a few vials of blood, the doctor left the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Richie alone.

Suddenly Richie’s cock felt like it was broiling in the oven—Richie hopped off the table. A few moments before the heat was almost pleasant, but now it felt dangerous. Shit, his whole crotch was dripping sweat--felt like the jockstrap itself had heated up! Reaching down,he tried to yank it off, but fumbled; it felt like it had adhered to his skin somehow. He panicked as he tried to dig his fat fingers under the edge of the jockstrap to no use. "The fuck--" he began, and then went silent as the jockstrap started melting, like hot wax, slowly spreading down his legs. Seconds later, it's gooey remains gently absorbed into Richie's skin, and it was gone. He stood there, naked and shocked, and stared at his big form in the mirror, wondering if he'd been slipped some sort of drug.

Suddenly Richie's vision grew hazy, like he was looking out at the world through gauze, and he started as he felt himself slowly sinking to the floor as his limbs started to sag under his weight. He tried to yell for the doc, but his voice came out a hoarse whisper, and then nothing. One last look in the mirror and saw his skin had faded too a pale white and was drooping limply to the floor like a cartoon character. He turned to the door and tried to crawl for help, but he was moving more slowly with every second. The warmth had spread to his entire body, felt like it was blanketing his thoughts. He started to feel pleasantly numb, and also something else--lighter, like his body was evaporating. It was too much for him to comprehend, and as he settled back on the floor, praying it would end soon, he found himself just staring blankly up at the ceiling. He couldn't move--he couldn't even feel a body too move, just stared up at the tiles and the fluorescent lighting which seemed impossibly far away as waves of numbness washed over him.

Richie was startled from his daze by the sound of footsteps, and the Doc's voice: "Incognito?" he asked.

"I'm right here!" Richie shouted.

"Where the hell did he go?"

"Fuck--doc, I'm on the floor... Paralyzed or something! Can't you hear me? Dammit!"

Suddenly realized the Doc was standing above him--and he was HUGE! He seemed big as a building, the room bigger than any stadium Richie had ever played in. The Doc crouched down, which only further emphasized how big he was--or was Richie small? What the fuck had happened?

"What, is he running around naked?" Said the doc, one eyebrow cocked in confusion. He reached down and Richie screamed (although, apparently, only he could hear it) as he felt the Doc's fingers grasp him, felt himself lifted effortlessly off the ground. The sensations were mindblowing, like he'd taken a hit of super-ecstasy, and he was overcome by panic as he tried to make sense of his own body. He felt so small, and light, and hung limply in the hands of the Doc who picked him up without effort.

Looking around, the doc turned (dizzying Richie with the sudden movement), facing the mirror, and it took Richie several seconds to comprehend what he saw: the doc wasn't holding Richie, but a jockstrap--probably the jockstrap Richie was just wearing. As the Doc moved his hands, Richie felt himself move in sync with the image of the jockstrap in the mirror.

"I didn’t study for over a decade to take care of that overpaid gorillas’ laundry," sighed the Doc, stomping into the hallway, while Richie silently tried to wake up from this dream. "Hey, you--you're on the auxiliary staff, right?" asked the Doc. Richie couldn't see who he was talking to, his vision fixed to face straight up from the Doc's hand no matter how much he struggled to move.

"Yes sir," said a high-pitched, familiar voice.

"You wanna just take this to the laundry? I've had enough handling egotistical athletes' dirty laundry today."

"Sure," said the voice--and as the Doc handed Richie over, the helpless lineman saw the face of Perry, just as big as the Doc had been, as he reached out and grabbed Richie tightly.

Then they were moving, the surrounding passing in a blur as Richie lost all sense of direction. Perry gathered Richie up into a tight ball, clutching him in his fist--Richie bellowed and moaned as his senses were twisted by the feeling of being twisted in ways he'd never imagined before. Richie heard a door squeak open, felt Perry hurry inside somewhere, and then he was dropped on something cool--tile? Where the fuck was he?

"How do you like your new body?" Perry said, leaning in closely to Richie.

"What the fuck is going on?" Richie screamed. "Did you do this?" But the sound seemed to stay in his own head--he couldn't feel a mouth or a tongue to speak with. He tried to concentrate, to get control of his freakish new shape. After a few moments of struggling, he managed to emit an airy gasp--but that was all, and he felt exhausted.

"Aw, there's still a little human in you," Perry said with a chuckle, poking Richie in various places with his fingers. Every touch was like a gentle burst of sexual pleasure in Richie's mind, disrupting his feelings of rage and helplessness.

"Lemme show you," Perry said, suddenly lifting Richie up--okay, now he could see, they were in the locker room, near the sinks, and in the mirror Richie saw Perry holding a jockstrap. He could vaguely make out some features imprinted in the jock's fabric--holy shit, was that his FACE?

"I am not a jockstrap!" Richie screamed, as he watched the image of his face slowly evaporating in the white cotton. "I am not a fucking jockstrap!"

"If it makes you feel any better," Perry said, rubbing the jock against his face (Richie squealed as he was overcome by the unbelievable sensitivity of his jockstrap body), “You were absolutely right—you DID have an admirer, and he paid me to slip that formula onto your jockstrap. And now I’m going to deliver you right to him!"

Suddenly, Perry started--Richie could hear the sound of people approaching. "Thank God," Richie thought, "someone's gonna save me!" But Perry just quickly shoveled toward something--a locker? Richie heard it open, felt himself shoved into darkness—“Enjoy your new life as an object!” Perry whispered as he slammed the door shut. Then, nothing.

For a little while—seconds, hours, Richie was too overwhelmed by his new state to tell the difference—Richie squealed, silently, adjusting to his hypersensitive new body, the feeling of being crumpled up, trying to feel for arms and legs that just weren’t part of him anymore. The darkness seemed to soothe him, and he started to collect his thoughts. He was sure this was no dream, as impossible as it seemed, and he had to figure a way out. There was noise outside, in the locker room. There had to be some way he could get their attention. As time passed, though, a dull numbness settled over his senses. His panic subsided, and he felt himself starting to relax…

           …fuck! He wasn’t a jockstrap! He couldn’t just give in! Perry had said there was, “still a little human,” in him. He realized with horror that it was starting to fade away.

           Suddenly the locker door squeaked open. Richie was blinded by the sudden light. A thick hand suddenly grabbed him and held him up—it was Eric! He stared into his buddy’s big burly face, overwhelmed by the massive size of his teammate, and by the feeling of his fingers clutching him tightly. “It’s me!” shouted Richie, remembering that before, he’d been able to make his face appear with some concentration. He put everything he had into it, and tried to force out some words, but all that came out was a soft hiss and a faint exhalation. Eric grinned, his eyes lighting up.

           “Well, lookie here,” he said, looking around the locker room. There didn’t seem to be anyone left hanging around. “Is that you, Richie?” Richie’s heart leapt—Eric had figured it out, and he knew the big lug wouldn’t let him down. Eric leaned forward and inhaled deeply. “Wow, Richie, you sure smell clean.”

           What the fuck? Eric didn’t seem surprised at all. “C’mon man!” Richie shouted. “Get some help!”

           “You’re not gonna smell clean for long,” Eric said, gently hanging Richie from the open locker door. From his new vantage point, Richie could see that Eric had stripped down to his own jockstrap, which he yanked down with one thumb. To Richie he looked like a hairy mountain of man, bigger than anything Richie’d ever seen before. “You’re gonna be my new lucky jockstrap,” Eric said sweetly. Richie felt a sickening rush as Eric grabbed him and slid his massive thighs into each of Richie’s holes.

           “No!” Richie shouted. “Don’t fucking wear me! NO!” But Richie knew his protests weren’t heard. As he slowly slid up Eric’s tree trunks, he was shocked to feel himself suddenly filled with Eric’s big, uncut cock and his hefty balls. Suddenly he was overwhelmed by Eric’s warmth, the sweaty funk of his crotch, the taste of his slowly stiffening member.

           “Look at that,” Eric said, patting his jockstrap-buddy. “Looks like my cock is where your brain used to be!” The part of Richie that was furious at what had been done to him, that was terrified of this situation, slowly faded away. His own thoughts seemed to die out, overwhelmed by his senses which were now full of Eric Wood… and he loved it. He gently squeezed around Eric’s sex—gently massaging against the thing that filled him, the thing he belonged to now. Eric moaned softly as Richie slipped into a dull, blissful trance.

           Later on, Richie was startled into awareness again when he felt himself stripped from his master’s body. He’d never felt so empty before, so desolate and alone, as he felt the big, warm, smelly body getting further and further away from him.

           “Jockstraps don’t sleep in a bed,” Eric said, staring down at him. “They sleep in a drawer. See you tomorrow, Richie.”

           Richie screamed, to no avail, as Eric slid the drawer shut. Richie wailed all night, even though no one could hear, until Eric took him out again the next day.

“Lookin real beefy, Frank,” Donny said as he started rubbing down the big musclecam star’s legs with some oil. “Damn straight,” Frank the Tank said as he felt a gentle tingle over his skin--no biggie, really, since he always got a charge whenever the cameras clicked on. He stripped off his shirt, letting Donny’s admirational hands wander, oiling down every inch of him. Frank started strutting around, unaware that since Donny had rubbed on the “special oil,” he’d gained about twenty pounds of watery chub.

“Check out these fuckin biceps,” Frank said cockily, and Donny gave the big arms--jeez, they looked bigger than usual, like he’d just gotten a massive pump. Frank made his pecs bounce, but it felt weird, like they... jiggled a little?

“I bet you’ll look really impressive after you’ve packed on another hundred pounds!” Donny said. Frank just smiled, suddenly starting to feel that something was off. Donny patted Frank’s face, causing the big guy to flinch--he reached up and his whole head felt swollen, his hands sinking into soft cheeks.

“What the fuck?” Frank said, turning suddenly, knocking the bottle of oil off the table behind him when his massive ass swung much wider than he’d expected. Frank’s hands moved down and inspected the newly massive rear end, impossibly round, jiggling up and down with each step.

“NOW you’re a real tank,” Donny said, poking Frank in the round tummy that had expanded out from where there had been abs just a minute ago. Frank reached down to hold his own belly down as it expanded like bread dough. He wobbled back and forth on thighs that had swollen with fat. Donny jiggled Frank’s new chins and then spun him around to the mirror.

The former bodybuilder was now a quivering mass on fat legs that tapered down like an ice cream cone. His arms hung out at an angle now, pushed apart by his widening midsection. With a snap his posing trunks popped off--his dick disappeared in the surrounding chunk, not that Frank could see it past his massive gut anyway. Frank took a step backwards in surprise, but, unaccustomed to the new center of gravity, he toppled over, crying out in surprise when he landed on his gargantuan ass.

“That’s right, Fatty Frank the Tank,” Donny said as Frank’s mass finally stabilized. “You’ve gotta weigh over six-hundred pounds... and I’m gonna fuck that fat ass...”

Immobilized by his bulk, tears streaming down his face, Frank whimpered as he felt Donny’s hands starting to delve into his big, deep crack--knowing that every second of it had been broadcast live to all of his fans.

http://www.footballbiggins.com/gallery/displayimage.php?pid=2952 His door was unlocked, just as I knew it would be when I received the frantic text from him: "It's happening. Come quick please." Two steps in the front door I could smell him, a hot, sweaty, post-game musk that filled his apartment like a fog. The change must have hit him immediately after the game. As I'd asked, his jersey and his jockstrap were neatly folded on a chair set out in his hallway. I held each up to my nose and breathed in deep; this was the price I demanded for coming over to help him regain his old form again. Well, it was one of the prices. He was in his room, and as always I was blown away by the size of him. His normally big and beefy frame had swollen out into a large, blubbery mass, and he sat on his oversized rump in the middle of the floor, arms and legs sticking out straight from his nearly spherical torso. "Jesus, Rob," I said, licking my lips as I looked him over. "You're the size of a damned minivan!" That was only the slightest hyperbole; in reality he looked about the size of a Prius. His swollen head looked like it was about to be swallowed by the mass of flesh it sat on, a pile of chins and neck rolls. His still adorable face blubbered at its center. He sobbed and whimpered as he wiggled his fingers and toes, unable to move anything else, completely immobilized by his mass. I did a slow lap around his body and his eyes followed me as far as they could. I'd warned him there would be a price when I'd used my gift to expand his athletic prowess, making him a gigantic (but still human-looking and mobile) lineman who dominated the game. Like the others, he hadn't listened (to his defense, I hadn't been specific about it beforehand either). Now, every so often, he'd feel a gurgle in his belly, a tingling in his huge ass, and he'd know it was coming, and as hours would pass, his frame would expand outward--that is, of course, until I showed up to deliver my remedy. "Please," he begged, his fingers suddenly flexing and fluttering wildly. "I can feel it happening again! You've gotta--" His whole form quivered for a few seconds, and then it started to rise like bread dough. His normally gruff voice squealed and whimpered at a high pitch as the expanding mass of his torso swallowed up more of his arms and legs. When it was over with, he was just a six-foot wide mass of jiggly hairy flesh. I yanked at my waistband with one thumb and my sweats slid off effortlessly, my dick springing forth. He looked away now that he saw it, the instrument of his freedom, but I didn't react to his shyness. With one hand I held his sweat-soaked jockstrap, dripping from his victory on the field today, up to my face. With the other I slowly and deliberately jerked myself off while using my foot to nudge at the crevice between Rob's legs. He shuddered and exhaled when I nudged his little dong, nearly lost in the folds of his expansive body. Soon I was leaning up against him, rubbing my cock against his form, sinking my hands into him and moaning. I tried to control myself, tried to make it last longer, but I got carried away. I bit my lip as I spilled my load into my hand. His breath caught as he saw it, the remedy to this condition, my recently spat cum. I had to slide his desk chair over just to get enough height to reach his head, and then I slowly held out drippy palm toward his mouth. His tongue reached for it desperately, and I made him work for it. Then, feeling pity, I let him lap at my palm, sliding each of my fingers into his mouth for him to suck clean afterward, lingering with my thumb. Next time I would make him wait, maybe a day or so, see just how big he would get if untreated, really push the limits on him to make him that more desperate for me to cum. It took effect almost immediately. I stumbled on the chair as his body collapsed in on itself. He moaned as the flab receded, his body taking on a human form again. When he had arms and legs that could bend and flex, he stood and rubbed his hands over them. It slowed before either of us expected. On a regular day he was massive man, well over 300 pounds of NFL-bound Tackle beef, but now his frame held an extra hundred pounds. He looked like he might one day when he retired, still large, but far too big to be athletic. He was rotund, portly in a way he could never use on the field. He twisted his torso, trying to examine his still over-inflated body. "Why aren't I normal again?" he begged. "Rob," I said, grinning evilly and jiggling one of his flabby extra chins for emphasis, "you haven't been normal for years. Looks like you're going to need an extra dose if you want to be yourself again." Staring at his big bloated out athletic form, my recently spent dick started to rise again, and I couldn't help but smirk as Rob's eyes widened. He knew what he was going to have to do. Behind me, in my discarded sweatpants, I heard my phone buzz as texts came rushing in. No doubt Rob's teammates were feeling their own effects. I imagined Craig, desperately punching the buttons of a phone the size of his own shrunken body, trying to text me before he was too small to do so; or Jared, tapping out a message with his thumbs just before they hardened into hooves and his face pushed into a snout over piggish tusks, realizing suddenly that soon he wouldn't be able to speak a word that wasn't, "Oink." They'd have to wait. I may need a microscope to find Craig's miniscule muscles, and Jared's mind may have gone totally animal as he squealed around as a full quadruped, but Rob was my favorite. As Rob's swollen naked form lowered to its knees and he stared at my hard cock with a determined look, I tried to push the thoughts of the other guys out of my head. Rob was, after all, my favorite.

PJ had just started enjoying the emptiness of the gym (which was usually pretty packed at this late hour) and the buzz of his new preworkout when he looked over to notice big Rich Piana leaning against a power rack, resting between sets of squats. He made eye contact with PJ and bounced his eyebrows. PJ turned away, pretending he hadn’t noticed.

He’d been avoiding Rich’s calls for a few weeks now. Twice he’d shown up at PJ’s offices at Blackstone Labs unannounced. Once PJ had to threaten to call security before Rich left, calling him a pussy.

Rich wanted to make a deal with PJ to merge their supplement companies. It was a ridiculous deal; PJ had laughed at it at first, but Rich wasn’t taking no for an answer. Now, in the middle of an aggressive back workout, PJ looked around to find that the gym was entirely empty except for Rich and himself. There was no way he could avoid Rich this time. He turned back to his heavy deadlifts, trying to get busy enough to forget about the gigantic irritant in the room, but between sets he’d turn to find Rich smirking at him from across the gym. It’d be easier, PJ thought, if this guy would just walk over and say what he had to say. PJ grit his teeth; the new preworkout his company’s chemist had cooked up for him to try out was hitting him hard. He was moving massive numbers and did double the number of sets he’d planned on. He couldn’t believe how swole he was when he was finished; he could’ve done the entire thing all over again if his wife wasn’t waiting for him at home.

PJ hit the showers, registering the soreness in his body that set in after he’d finished lifting. His joints ached lightly, and he noticed a persistent little tickle in his jaw. He’d definitely have to see his doc the next day–maybe a trip to the chiropractor and the massage therapist was in order.

As he toweled off his big body, he saw Rich waddle into the room, swinging his bloated arms. “Sup Peej,” he said in his gruff voice. “Got a minute?”

“I’ve given you all the minutes you’re going to get, Rich,” PJ said, tying the towel around his waist. Rich was standing between him and his locker–he’d much rather be clothed when he had this confrontation, but fuck it: if he had to, he’d knock this fucker out naked. “I’m not interested in anything you’ve got for me.” Suddenly the feeling in his jaw flared up. PJ’s tongue searched the interior of his mouth curiously, finding its shape unfamiliar. He tried to ignore it. “See, here’s why you’ll never be a solid businessman: you don’t know how to play the game.” PJ paused, his hand suddenly cramping up. His freshly washed skin felt hot and tingly, and the achiness in his joints started throbbing with his heartbeat. He pushed thoughts of his discomfort out of his mind.

Rich seemed completely unaffected by PJ’s tough words. He crossed his massive arms, waiting for PJ to finish.

“So quit wasting your time hassling me,” PJ finished, starting to walk past Rich. He stumbled, his feet cramping up. He couldn’t put his heel down for some reason, and he found himself standing unsteadily on his toes.

“You feelin’ okay there, PJ?” Rich said, walking a slow circle around PJ with a wide grin. “See, here’s the thing: a lot of people think I am a solid businessman, and that you’re a sinking ship. People have already bailed on you, and you haven’t even noticed, have you?”

PJ was confused by what Rich was saying, but more disconcerting was the crackling sound coming from his jaw. He turned from Rich and put a hand over his mouth, which suddenly felt… Too full? His nipples, suddenly incredibly sensitive, turned rock hard as a cool breeze brushed across them. He took a look down his massive muscular torso and was shocked to find he now had six new nipples spaced out below the old ones right down his abs. They too got rock hard in the chilly air.

“What are you–” PJ found his tongue clumsily trying to navigate around two new growths in his mouth. His hand carefully felt out two “tusks” which poked up from his bottom lip.

“See,” Rich continued, “I made a deal to your chemist awhile ago, and he liked what he heard. But I had him stick with your little company for awhile, slipping you a new product I came up with. You, and your little buddy Aaron, have been taking a nice new chemical for months now, changing you guys on a cellular level. And today we just added something new to make all those changes come to surface. Pretty sure you’re feeling that now, though.”

PJ groaned in response as he felt his face pushing painfully forward. He reached up to press it back with his hands but found his fingers had fused together into two solid masses, solidifying into–fuck, they were becoming hooves! PJ’s breathing had quickened and he noticed with every exhalation he was making an animal grunting noise.

Rich reached out and yanked PJ’s towel off. His body underneath the towel had been changing too: his cock and balls had twisted up into something you’d find on a farm animal, and behind him, PJ could feel the wiggling of a little corkscrew tail sprouting out from his tailbone. At this, PJ SQUEALED–it was the only sound he could make as his face continued to rearrange itself. He could see his own nose now, pushed out into a snout that oozed sticky drool.

PJ couldn’t stay remain balanced on his toes any longer. He wobbled a bit, then collapsed forward. He was shocked when his front hands (hooves?) struck the ground far sooner than he’d expected. It seemed his arms had lengthened (no, his legs had shortened!), his hips rotating so that he could comfortably stand on four legs now.

“Lookin good, PJ!” Rich said, snapping some pics with his phone. He held the evidence up to PJ’s horrified eyes: about half of PJ’s huge muscular body had been replaced by pig parts, fused permanently with his tanned bulk. He could see his shoulders had started narrowing, his torso gaining some flabby bulk, his horrified face nearly overtaken by one of a dumb animal. PJ trotted around on his hooves, wishing there was some way to escape. He squealed and oinked loudly, looking toward the doors. “Oh, yeah, I paid the gym owner to lock the doors. It’s just us in here. Nobody’s going to bother us.” PJ’s hard hooves made a clattering against the tile floor as he moved in a panicked circle.

“So, here’s the thing,” Rich said, squatting down (PJ’s adversary seemed HUGE to him now–but it was more than likely that his own body had gotten smaller, something that made PJ squeal and grunt even more). Rich poked his phone a few times. “I visited Aaron, your CEO, earlier today. Made him an offer he didn’t like either. I warned him I’d have you two out of the way one way or another. He laughed for a second. Wanna see what happened to him next?”

Rich held his phone up to reveal a video of PJ’s business partner, big beefy Aaron Singerman, hunched over his desk, writhing. Aaron looked up at the camera to reveal a face morphing similar to PJ’s had, except it was pushing into a longer snout with big dopey teeth and floppy grey ears covered with velvety fur. PJ was horrified as he heard Aaron let out a long, deep, “HEEEEE-haaaaw!” Then Aaron spun around, the seat of his suit pants splitting open as a jackasses hindquarters burst out.

“So we’ll see how your company does without you two in charge,” Rich said, patting PJ on the head. “I’m gonna buy it for chump change in a few months. But you won’t be around to see it. Arranged for you and your buddy Aaron to be shipped out to a farm. Let’s hope they keep you got breeding, little buddy.” Rich snapped another pic of PJ, then revealed it. PJ didn’t recognize the animal in the picture; there wasn’t a trace of humanity, just a hairy, spotty pig with a confused look on its face. PJ looked around the bathroom, which seemed to have tripled in size. He moved his short legs, trying to get away, but Rich had already snatched him up in his big powerful hands and walked him to the emergency exit which he kicked open to the parking lot. PJ kicked and squealed to no avail.

Outside Rich led PJ to a trailer, plopping the former bodybuilder inside roughly. PJ skitted around the narrow space, covered with hay. Rich waved goodbye to the pig, then flexed his huge arm. PJ looked enviously at the man with his hands and muscles, remembering when he too was big and strong, walking on two legs just minutes before. Now he couldn’t even bend his head to look down at his body, but as he anxiously wiggled, he could feel how fat and useless it had become.

Rich slammed the door shut and PJ squealed and oinked as he realized there was no escape. From another compartment in the trailer, PJ heard a jackass’s long, sad bray. Then he heard a motor start, dragging him toward his new life.

As part of our deal, Coach let me take this guy. I picked him because he was huge and hot, but also cocky, and had been dismissive of me when I introduced myself. Coach wasn’t happy to lose a star lineman, but I reminded him it was only until the end of the season, and sternly threatened to take away the size I’d bestowed on the rest of his team, and then some, leaving him with a skinny little chess team. He quickly gave my choice his blessing.

I used my power on him right after the game, as the team rallied in the locker room over their victory. Big fucker didn’t see it coming, just deflated into his collapsing uniform. The rest of the team was too into their revelry to notice. Coach saw (you could see it in his eyes) but he just told the guys to hit the showers. After they’d all filtered out of there, I popped out of my hiding place, snatched up my new toy, now a beefy little six-inch tall mini-brute whose star athlete status had been heavily downgraded.

He wasn’t happy, of course, but I ignored his squeaky little chipmunk protests and headed home with him cheerfully. At home, I lay down on my bed and plopped him on my stomach. The same guy who’d been a brick wall on the field hours before was toppling to his big juicy ass every time I lightly poked him with a finger.

After dressing him in an ill-fitting uniform I’d yanked off a Ken doll (the jersey only making it halfway down his hairy keg belly) I had him use my hand as a tackling dummy. DAMN do I love that feeling, the gentle force produced by miniaturized muscles. I like to remind them that they used to be able to crush me with one hand as I gently swat them around.

He was feisty and uncooperative, so I had to teach him a lesson: I stripped him down, plopped him naked in the tub, and then whipped out my cock and let loose with a stream of piss. Bullseye! Knocked him right over. He tried to get away, coughing and sputtering, but I followed him with ease. Poor little guy couldn’t believe what a big bladder I had.

I didn’t love pissing on my little men, but you gotta be tough to get tenderness out of these guys. Afterward, I left him in the tub while I took a shower. At first he hid from me but I pretended to ignore him. Soon he felt more comfortable and started catching the suds that rinsed off me and washing his own urine-basted body, his back turned to me. I couldn’t help myself, staring at that bulky little ass wiggling like that, so I snatched him up and held him against my body. With the other hand I worked up a lather of body wash and gently washed him with my thumb and forefinger. He struggled, but my other hand held him still. The fight kind of died out of him while my fingers gently explored his tiny body. I worked a pinky gently into his big rear and elicited a startled squeak; so cute…

Afterward I gently dried him in a big, soft towel and brought him out to the kitchen. I ate dinner (a juicy cheeseburger) with him on the plate, still naked, and he quietly snatched up the crumbs (bigger than his fists) and I tossed him a few chunks of beef and cheese. I even gave him a whole pickle, which he held in both hands and gratefully ate.

Little guy seems to have calmed down, which I was happy about. I really don’t like to employ force with my toys. What this little stud was soon to learn, though, was that just because he wouldn’t be part of the team this season didn’t mean he’d be getting out of practice. He’d be running drills that night, and every one after, on an opponent bigger and more solid than any he’d faced before: my hard cock.

He’d probably rebel, at first, but I had a bunch of ways to soften up these tough little fuckers: he’d end up taped to my dick for a whole leg workout, or I’d shrink him even more and use him as a lozenge, pressed between my tongue and the roof of my mouth for a whole day. (There is NOTHING better than feeling and tasting those beefed up muscles, that solid gut, then flipping them over and getting a tongue full of mammoth ass and thick wiggling legs; aaaah….)

Only took one or two shows of force before they fell into line and at least pretended to have fun with me. This little hottie would be no different. I couldn’t wait to break him in.

After the game, Jason saw the mysterious number pop up on his cell phone. Truthfully, he’d been waiting for it. He snuck away to a private part of the locker room and answered it. “You still wearing it?” asked the mysterious voice.

Jason’s dick went hard, his mouth dry. He slowly ran a hand under his pants, gently fingering the strap of the jockstrap the voice was referring to. “Yes,” he replied weakly. “Good. Go home and make sure you’re alone. Wait for me to call.”

The line went dead, and Jason found himself weak on his feet.

The jockstrap didn’t look remarkable at all. In fact, Jason hadn’t noticing anything unusual about it until he slid it over his legs the day it appeared in his locker (he’d figured it was one of his own). Minutes after sliding it on, he felt a strange buzzing in his backside, a low tickle up his crack that he tried to ignore; he had a game to play. It grew in intensity as time went on, and he couldn’t focus on football at all, only the crazy itch up his backside. He played like shit, got screamed at by his coach, then snuck to the bathroom to stick a thick finger up there to finally hit the spot that had antagonized him all day--but when he finally itched it, he broke into a sweat, his legs wobbly under his weight, as the feel of his finger up his hole sent waves through his body. He almost blacked out. One of his teammates banged on the bathroom door. “You okay in there Jason?” He stammered a response and slid out of the bathroom, prancing like a ballerina as the buzz returned at full force. All he could think about was his ass, and trying to look like nothing was wrong in front of his teammates. 

Back in the locker room he started to undress. When the jock hit the floor, the feeling cut off immediately. He exhaled deeply, relieved to be free of that antagonizing itch, but unable to get it off his mind.

He made the connection instantly--wearing the jockstrap made his ass light up like that--and took that jock home with him. That first night he slid the jockstrap on and kicked his legs up into air, slinging drool as he moaned with two fingers deep in his big ass. He couldn’t believe it when he shot his first load without even touching his own dick. He was even more shocked when he found he didn’t want to stop, milking out four loads before finally collapsing in sweaty exhaustion on his bed, eager to go again but too exhausted to move.

Then came the phone calls, demanding that he wear the jock at all times. He didn’t have to be asked twice.

But this was the first time he’d been given any other order other than, “wear the jockstrap.” He hurried home, as he’d been told, and when he got through the front door of his condo, he locked it, stripped down to the jock and sat back on a chair, one leg up in the air, digging tenaciously up his hole with a toothbrush he’d bought just for the occasion. His heart leapt when he heard the knock at the door--half from fear of being discovered, the other from excitement; he knew it was the person from the phone, and a part of him desperately wanted to meet him.

As Jason unlocked the door, the skinny blonde guy strode into the condo like he’d been there a million times. Jason advanced on him but the blonde, a couple of inches shorter than Jason but easily a third of his weight, put a hand up on Jason’s chest and he stopped in his tracks.

With a smirk, the blonde walked a lap around Jason, whose thick hairy body was dewy with sweat. He felt naked, standing there in only a jockstrap, and vulnerable as the blonde inspected him like he was a farm animal.

This was Jason’s condo--he was a lineman, massive compared to this little wimp! And the blonde had a feminine way about him. He felt a surge of aggression as he tried to take control of the situation, to one-hand the little fag through the wall, but it all died out instantly as the blonde spoke.

“Very nice,” the blonde said, raising an eyebrow. He reached out and scooped Jason’s jock-clad cock and balls up in his hand, holding them up like he was weighing them. When the blonde dropped them, he smelled his hand. Jason whimpered, and felt shameful for doing so.

“You haven’t washed it, have you? You’re enjoying what my little jockstrap is doing for you, aren’t you?” The blonde walked behind Jason (who wanted to turn to see what was going on back there but couldn’t get his head to obey) and fell to his knees. He started gently blowing on Jason’s crack, using his hands to spread it open. The big lineman shook on his feet, whimpering like he was in heat. His high-pitched moaning humiliated him but he couldn’t fight the sensations blasting through his body, greater than any thought he could muster.

“Good. Looks like you’re ready,” said the blonde as he walked around to Jason’s front again. “Just a few alterations that should be kicking in... now.” He punctuated the last word with a loud snap of his fingers and suddenly the buzzing in Jason’s ass roared with the force of a jet engine, spreading through his entire body.

Suddenly the blonde seemed to grow--fuck, the whole room seemed to enlarge. Jason looked wide-eyed up at the ceiling, which grew further and further away. Then he looked down at himself. His big body was compressing, his bones compacting, his dense musclefat body reducing.

Well, almost all of his body. He felt a swelling in his asscheeks and watched in horror as they inflated like truck tires. He put two hands down on them to find them swollen up like a shelf behind him. The large buttocks were firm but he could sink his hands into the soft warm flesh--and that feeling made a line of drool pour from his mouth down his chin. The feeling of this impossibly huge ass made him feel unwieldy, his center of balance totally different from what he was used to. He wondered what sitting down would feel like.

On his front, he watched as his cock dwindled like the rest of him--but his balls swelled up like his ass! He couldn’t believe how big they’d gotten. He reached down with a hand and couldn’t hold all of his big swollen sac. He needed two hands just to lift their new bulk. His cock-head was all that was left of his shaft, sitting on top of the massive swollen balls and starting to drool out precum in a slowly spreading sticky stain.

The changes more or less finished, Jason looked up--UP!--at the blonde. His eyeline came to about the blonde’s navel. Jason’s beefy lineman body had remained in proportion (with the exception of the changes to his junk and his caboose) but he couldn’t believe how small he felt next to the BIG blonde--the word “Master” suddenly appeared in his head with a capital M. Master smirked down at him and patted him on the head. Jason leaned into the gesture.

Suddenly Jason’s thoughts reordered themselves. Wasn’t he supposed to be big and strong? No, that couldn’t be. He was just a little guy--and from the looks of his body, he had an ass built just for fucking and a useless little nub of a cock that sat on two massive bull-balls just waiting to spill gallons of cum. His body seemed structured for only one purpose: pleasing his master.

The buzzing in Jason’s ass had spread to his brain, drowning out all other thought, and Jason looked hungrily up as his master dropped his pants and revealed his own swollen dick. Jason looked around Master’s condo, thankful to have someone to serve, and couldn’t wait to feel that juicy cock inside him.

Jason Gamble

Post-Olympia (a story in the Omar Bell universe)

[I wrote this story a long time ago. It takes place in the Omar Bell universe; if you're unfamiliar, just check out http://omarbelluniverse.blogspot.com. I first learned of it waaaay back from Chirenon's old site. The stories take place in a world where a scientist named Omar Bell released a chemical that transformed all white men into small, feminine "bois"--not only did they lose their physical stature and strength, but they also lost their mental resolve, becoming meek, flighty versions of themselves. The world becomes dominated by women and black men. I always liked to imagine what this would do to the bodybuilding world. Thus, this story was born. Check out @chirenon and @gendertransformation if any of this tickles your fancy; some of his stuff is fantastic, and his work is very well done.] Jay peeked cautiously through the curtains, careful not to let anyone get a glimpse of him. There was a big dais set up, probably for them to walk along. It was the Olympia expo, the gathering of professionals in the fitness industry before the legendary competition that night. A crowd of women, hard-bodied and tan, as well as two black men with the ripped proportions of physique competitors had gathered to the spectacle. Jay was used to walking around amongst that crowd, bathing in their adoration and respect, but now the attention seemed daunting. He pulled the belt on his robe tighter and backed away from the curtains anxiously. "You ready for this big Jay?" PJ said in his soft, high voice. He gave Jay a squeeze on his perky behind. Jay's whole body shuddered at the contact and he backed away from it. PJ winked and smiled. "Get ready, boi," he said, his yoga-pants clad rear-end swaying sensuously back and forth. "You're gonna be our show-stopper." That's what Jay was afraid of. This was the second Olympia since the Great Change, when Omar Bell's virus swept over the world and reduced white men to soft, feminine little bois. All men affected by the virus underwent a shocking change in status as their virility was stripped away over about a month. No one took the change harder than the bodybuilding community. While all white men had a lot to go through to get used to their new smaller bodies, bodybuilders, who'd marched around previously as pillars of masculine size and strength, lost so much more. Men who were used to weighing in at over 250 pounds--sometimes closer to 300--had a much harder time adjusting. Many tried to deny what was happening, frustrated by their waning strength and their loosening clothes. Jay remembered the day he finally accepted what had happened to him, sobbing into a now-gigantic XXXL tank top behind his couch as musculardevelopment.com reporters banged on his door, desperate to get a shot of Jay Cutler, the former four time Mr. Olympia, now smaller than his own wife. The first Olympia show after the virus came and went, all white competitors entirely absent while black athletes, the only real men still able to hold massive amounts of muscle, took over the sport. Jay's wife left him, his career had evaporated and sales for his supplement company plummeted. Then one day, after Jay had avoided his calls for weeks, PJ Braun showed up at his door. Jay was shocked to see him in person. The simpering little boi that introduced himself as PJ in no way resembled the massively muscled, good-looking man Jay remembered. He was now just over five-feet tall (still two whole inches taller than tiny Jay, a difference that seemed great to him) and just a smattering over 90 lbs. His formerly wide, bulging shoulders had compressed, his huge arms now slender and angular. Even more shocking to Jay, PJ had begun to wear the clothes that he'd seen bois wearing in the news: a tiny string tanktop that covered up his sensitive little nipples as well as stretch pants that accentuated his round rear end, the only part of him that wasn't slender. At one point he turned around and Jay saw the words "SLUTBOI" written in shiny gold across his plump backside. PJ was extending an offer to purchase what was left of Cutler Athletics--his own company, now called BlackstoneFit, had begun to offer fitness apparel for men, women, and now bois--but he had an even greater plan ahead of them, one that would involve Jay accepting an endorsement deal with his company. "We're going to change the face of the fitness world--again," PJ lilted in his high voice. Jay wasn't sure he believed what PJ was telling him, but it was the best offer he had going in a world of dwindling possibility, so Jay signed the papers. And now, staring out at the crowd at the Olympia expo, he was seriously starting to regret it. PJ strutted toward the curtain, taking one look back at Jay and the other athletes, and then walked out to the audience. Speaking into a (pink and glittery, Jay noted) microphone headset he projected his shrill voice confidently to the crowd. Knowing that the beginning of the presentation meant his time to go out there was rapidly approaching, and having heard PJ's spiel a hundred times, before, Jay retreated from the curtain, pacing around nervously, while the two other little boi "athletes" lined up to be presented to the crowd. "Many believe that bois have no place in the fitness industry, but today you'll see that the athletic spirit, so ferociously displayed by us when we were men, is still present today! By next year we will see boi competitions across the country--and soon enough, here at the Olympia as well!" Mike O'hearn was the first to walk out. Gone was the huge body that had earned him the nickname Titan, as well as the chiseled jaw he had been known for. Now a tan, lithe little boi, he still had his big curly romance-novel cover stud hair--only now the loose, curvy locks looked even more feminine atop his delicate facial features and long, flirty eyelashes. He strutted out toward the crowd wearing BlackstoneFit's proposed "competition suit" for bois, if the International Federation of Bodybuilding approved their proposal for a Boi category in the sport. Tiny strings looped over his narrow shoulders, holding a small rectangle of shiny purple of fabric against his pert little nipples. The bottom resembled a miniature version of the posing trunks they'd all competed in when they'd been men, but reduced in the rear to show more curvy buttocks, and pulled taut in the front to fit tightly against their tiny boy-nubs. Mike's little top had his name written in glittery letters across it. "It's important everyone recognizes who you are. We're selling your names out there, your reputations. We're not gonna pull this off with your little bodies." Still, it was so small on the tiny piece of fabric that the audience had to lean in just to make it out. Mike walked confidently out against the crowd, ignoring the whispers and giggles. One of the big men in the audience whistled. "Work it, little boi!" he said, and Mike blushed and turned around to present his perky little glutes. Jay shuddered; having heard scary stories about the way bois and men reacted to each other's pheromones, he'd tried his best to avoid having to see any real men since the change. Obviously it couldn't be totally avoided, but he'd never had to face a man the size of these big black behemoths in the crowd. He'd brought this up to PJ beforehand, only to have it casually dismissed. "Well, if they're turned on by you, mission accomplished," PJ had said. "And if you're turned on by them, work it. We've always been pros at working a crowd that's excited by us." Next up was Alexey Lesukov, whose baby-face had remained post-transformation, making him look barely twelve. "I assure you, folks, this boi is of legal age, even though that cute little face doesn't look a day past ten!" Alexey's freakish genetics, which had blessed him with a dense frame stuffed with bloated muscle as a man, still asserted themselves post-change. His bottom was, relative to his slight, thin body, a set of twin melons. His boi-trunks disappeared into its curvature. He walked with a sexy Ursula-esque sway, and as soon as he sauntered out along the dais, the crowd was abuzz with his fantastic behind. "Show 'em what you can do, Al!" PJ said. Alexey smiled a cute, toothy grin and then lithely lifted his right leg straight up in the air, gripping his dainty foot and holding the position. Then he gently lowered his leg back down to the ground and slid to the ground in a perfect split, his big caboose preventing him from sliding all the way down to the ground. The audience tittered. A few people clapped. Alexey rose and took his spot on the stage opposite Mike. Jay noticed PJ's wife, Celeste, casually walking the perimeter of the booth talking on her cell phone, completely uninterested in the show on the BlackstoneFit stage. As she passed PJ she casually patted him on the head without looking at him. He leaned into the contact, nuzzling her hand. In her heels she was easily ten inches taller than her little boi husband. From what Jay had heard, despite the fact that they remained married, PJ and Celeste now had an open sexual relationship. The whispered stories were that Celeste would invite over large black men whose dicks would find a way into both Celeste and PJ. Jay had been horrified to hear that when Celeste and PJ did have sex together, it was with PJ on the receiving end of the strap-on. Rumor had it that PJ's high-pitched squeals could be heard by all of their neighbors. Despite PJ's role as figurehead, Celeste seemed to be the one running the shots for BlackstoneFit, and it was Celeste who Jay was worried about crossing. If he violated his contract, he'd have to deal with her, and he'd seen the forceful way he'd ordered PJ around. Worse, Jay didn't believe he had it in himself anymore to stand up to her. He was going to have to walk out in front of that crowd. "And now," PJ introduced, and Jay loosened the belt on his robe, "the king himself, four time Mr. Olympia--Jay Cutler!" Jay walked out, remembering PJ's orders: "Sway that ass, walk like you own yourself, and look like you're loving it." Jay was wearing a little set of gold boi-trunks, as well as a tiny little top with his name written in white sequins. His hair was still his trademark blonde, still spiked high, and he was as tan as anyone remembered him, but the similarities ended there. His physique was still perfect, but by boi standards: slender shoulders, perfectly thin arms, toned legs and a wide, pear-shaped ass. PJ had smeared glitter along every inch of him, and he felt like the little guy on top of the Olympia statue as he marched in front of the crowd. For a tense moment, the crowd was silent, but then they began to Ooooh and Aaaah. People applauded. He felt a surge of adrenaline, a micron of confidence rising through him, and extended his waifish arms and curled them into what would, on a man or a fit woman, be known as a Double Biceps pose. His biceps barely existed anymore, but the presentation caused a surge in excitement in the crowd. Jay did a turn, presenting every inch of himself, satisfied by their appraisal. Without even looking, Jay sensed real men approaching--the air smelled different, somehow, and he felt a tingling down his spine and in his little nips and boy-nub. He felt a growing warmth and moistness in his ass, a side-effect of the change he wasn't used to--it all felt mildly intoxicating. He watched as Mike and Alexey showed the same signs of arousal, heard PJ's voice start to trail off lazily as well. Then Jay turned and saw them coming. For a moment he felt like he'd never seen any living thing as big as the three gigantic men walking toward him, but then he recognized them, tall and wide and stuffed with pure, bulging, veiny black muscle, and he realized that there was once a time when he was the same size as they were, when he competed alongside all of them and held his own: Phil Heath, Kai Greene and Ronnie Coleman all approached, the crowd parting around them, each of them seeming to generate gravity with their massive size. Jay tried to still his fluttering little heart. He felt his stance start to wobble as his eyes tried to take in what seemed like miles of hard black skin. "Gentlemen!" PJ said, cautiously approaching. "So glad to see some--" "Quiet," ordered Phil without even looking. PJ immediately fell silent--in fact, seemed physically unable to speak, now. "Shoo," Kai said, waving a hand in PJ's direction. The little boi backed away slowly, then tittered into the crowd, while the three huge bodybuilders approached the little bois arranged like trophies on the stage. "Look at this one," Phil said, stroking Mike's big curls with a thick paw. Mike shuddered in ecstasy, his eyes glazing with a far-away look. "What a pretty little boy," he said. "Show me that booty, boi!" Kai said, snapping a finger in Alexey's face. The little boi turned around and bent at the waist, presenting his voluptuous rear for inspection. Kai traced the boi's dramatic curves with his finger, sliding up the ample crack. Alexey let out a shrill yip. Kai tugged at one of Alexey's ears, then scooped the boi up with one hand, tossing him over his shoulder. Phil did the same with Mike, and the two gigantic men strode away, barely encumbered by their little prizes. Jay took in Ronnie's huge proportions as he approached. He was like a brick wall of human, so wide and tall. Jay had a feeling of vertigo as he struggled to take in all of the giant man. Ronnie leaned in and inhaled deeply, the path of his nose starting at Jay's face and slowly trailing down to the little gold boi-trunks covering his tiny little nub. "Mmmm," Ronnie groaned with a sound so rich it vibrated Jay's little nips. "Look at you, little thing," he said. He dug a finger under Jay's shiny top and gave it a twang. "You ain't nothin' but a peanut!" Ronnie turned around and nodded his head away from the stage. He crouched down a bit. It took Jay a minute to realize that Ronnie was prompting him to climb on his back! Very cautiously he looped his little arms around Ronnie's big neck, and then they were off, Jay bouncing against the thick coiled snakes of Ronnie's immensely muscled back, his arms barely able to clear Ronnie's wide traps and non-existent neck. With every powerful stride, Jay felt himself slide back and forth against the wall of muscle, his boynub stimulated to the point that he feared he couldn't hold on much longer, his ass so moist he worried people could see it. The crowd had dispersed at this point, BlackstoneFit's booth completely abandoned. As he watched it disappear behind him, he worried about what would become of him. As crowds parted at the sight of Ronnie Coleman with a little blonde boi on his back, Ronnie extended his big arms to them. "Hey folks, check out four time Mr. Olympia Jay Cutler!" he declared. Jay's cheeks burned with humiliation, but deeper he felt something smoldering, a sexual charge in the background that grew stronger the more Ronnie put him on display. The embarrassment ended when Ronnie approached his hotel room, unlocking the door with his card and then plopping Jay on the bed with one hand. The door swung closed loudly, and Ronnie pulled off his t-shirt with one hand. Jay couldn't help but moan at the display of musculature, still nearly as obscenely large and veiny as when Jay had taken the Olympia title away from him. Ronnie yanked down his pants and Jay's eyes bugged out when he saw the massive python underneath. "Strip," Ronnie ordered, and Jay shyly slid out of his revealing little outfit. Ronnie grabbed the shiny little tank and the teeny trunks and tossed them in the trash. "You won't be needing these anymore, little boi," he said. Despite his anxiety, Jay felt his desire spike dramatically as Ronnie's massive dick started to rise.

STORY FOR MY 2000TH LIKE

He was slugging beers back so fast he didn't even notice that one of them had something slipped in by the guy he'd turned down earlier that day. All he knew was his cock was suddenly super-sensitive and his skin felt all tingly.

An hour after the drug was in his system he noticed his shorts felt kind of baggy. They slid slowly down his big (but slowly diminishing) ass. As he went to yank them back up, he noticed his big muscle-belly had deflated. His stomach was smooth, like it's been years before. Come to think of it, his chest didn't look quite so hairy...

The shorts fell right off; luckily he had a jockstrap on underneath, but even that felt a little loose, and now he couldn't hide the obvious fact that his tree-trunk legs had slimmed down considerably. As he ran a big paw--fuck, his hands were smaller too, with dainty little fingers!--over his narrowing thighs, watching the hair get lighter and lighter, his face tingled like crazy. He reached up to find a silky-smooth jaw, something he hadn't had since he was just a kid.

He felt his confidence draining, suddenly embarrassed to be standing around all those other big hairy men in nothing but a jockstrap. It was like the first day of gym class back in middle school, when all the other bigger, hairier guys got naked and he was nervous to reveal his hairless prepubescent body. Of course, after puberty kicked in and ever since, he'd been a big burly bear, but all of a sudden... He was just a little kid, and everyone was staring.

Yanking up the gigantic shorts, he pranced out on his little legs, gazing up at all the big men he'd been looking down on hours before.

After a successful meet, the three powerlifters lumbered back to the locker room and shed their jumpsuits, squeezing their huge frames through the door to the sauna for a long, relaxing steam.

Little did they know that their opponents had futzed with the steam room controls. The three gorillas dozed off... And when they woke up, they each saw two skinny little chess-nerds sitting next to them where their teammates had been, and discovered a bony ribcage and bird-arms as they looked down over their once ample-frames.

They had no hope of fitting back into their jumpsuits, so they zippered up the shirts and wondered how they were going to explain to their girlfriends (who now towered over them) who they really were.

After he'd recovered from the shock of seeing the skinny flamer's face when he'd looked in the mirror, he'd picked up this phone (not his, he knew, but something about it felt familiar) and saw this pic of himself--at least, the way he'd looked before this twink had hired him to come over for some worship.

But after he'd cum in the twink's mouth, he recalled hazily, something had happened--his orgasm was quadruple its normal force and the aftermath rocked him. He'd sleepily collapsed into the twink's bed... And woken up as the little guy.

And while he slept, the twink, in his old musclebear body, must've taken this pic as a little farewell message and gotten out of there. Now the twink was out there, in his body... And worse, he realized as he pulled on the trampy little thong, the tiny tank top and the skinny jeans, he was now the twink.

He wondered--even if he somehow found his old body... What was he going to do to get him to switch back?

He was friendly when I told him at the gym that I recognized him, that he was my favorite bodybuilder. He smiled when I asked for an autograph and signed my paper without hesitation, unaware that it’d been soaked in a chemical he was absorbing through his skin.

I got him later in the parking garage, just as he tossed his gym bag on his passenger seat. I told him it was nice to meet him, extended my hand (dusted with the potent reagent) to shake. He took it without a second thought.

The reaction was quick–he shrunk out of his clothes while I started filling up mine. The transfer of size wasn’t 1:1, but when he was done he was a barely visible lump in his collapsed compression tights, I pawed at my own new mass, filling out the tank top that had hung like a tent on me before.

Later, when he’d gotten used to the cage and my daily exploration of his tiny body (prodding his dick with a pencil eraser, gently licking the length of his hard lumpy body, swallowing him inch by inch and then spitting him back into my hand–all followed, always, with a gentle bath in the sink and gentle fingertip caressing until he’d fallen asleep on my palm), he recounted to me what the shrinking felt like:

“It was like falling, fast, but my feet were on the ground. I was naked but didn’t know how, stifled by humid heat, choked by a smell–it was my own smell, but magnified so much I didn’t recognize I until later.

"Then when light came in, when you pulled open my clothes to see me, I realized what had happened–and had to swallow the fact that the moist pocket my whole body fit in now used to house my dick. And I thought as I looked up at you–you looked different too, and I wouldn’t have known who you were if you weren’t wearing that tank top I made fun of earlier–that your grip wasn’t as rough or scary as I’d expected when your hand had approached me.”

He tells me these things as he lies, face down, on the hairy mounds of my newly ample chest, completely unaffected by the fact that its size was stolen from him. I gently draw lines with my fingertips up and down his back and he falls asleep in my warm cleavage–until he’s woken by my hot load raining down on him.

Troy’s Ex

[send me pics! cast this story!]

Troy hurried to finish the one drink he’d agreed to have with his ex, Barry, after which he planned on cutting off communication for good. He glanced down, unable to face Barry’s intense grey eyes which had been fixated on him, sizing him up, since he’d walked through the door. Barry motioned toward the bartender, snapping him out of his glass-polishing trance.

“We’ll have another round,” Barry said.

Troy shook his head. “Honestly, I really can only have the one.”

“But we’ve barely talked. I want to hear all about your life since we parted ways.”

“I really have to get going before Dylan starts to worry,” Troy said. He focused on the ice cubes clinking around in the bottom of his glass, afraid to see the look on Barry’s face when he mentioned his new boyfriend.

“Ah, yes,” Barry said, leaning in, his voice getting low. “The new boyfriend. I saw him in your Facebook pictures. He’s quite a large man, a weightlifter or something, right?”

“Powerlifter,” Troy said, clearing his throat, “and he owns his own--”

“I told you, when we were together,” Barry said, turning Troy to face him with one finger, “that I loved you, and also that when I love something, it is forever. Is that not true?”

Troy was silent. His stomach was clenched so tightly he had started to shake. Barry was a slight man, much smaller than Troy, but there was a gravity to him that Troy couldn’t ever face. He struggled to find the words to tell Barry what he’d come here to say, but he lacked the courage to speak them.

“When I let you go,” Barry said, yanking the empty glass from Troy’s hand and replacing it with the fresh Tito’s and Cran the bartender had poured, “it was to let you know how empty your life was without me. I know you know it, and this little charade with your big muscleman… You can’t even maintain it. Once a month I get lonely messages from you late at night, knocks on my door followed by sex that I’m sure you’ve never told your big gorilla about…”

“All that’s over,” Troy blurted out. “I came to let you know I couldn’t do it anymore. I want a life with Dylan. It’s nice and normal and… I don’t love you anymore.” Troy tried to still his shivering lip.

Barry leaned back on his barstool and gently stroked his chin, a look of smug certainty on his face. “If you want freedom to go play house with your big muscle toy,” he said, flicking his eyebrows, “you’ll have to buy it from me. There is a hotel around the corner. You spend one hour with me and I will grant you the freedom you claim you want so badly.”

“But… it’s Dylan’s birthday. I have to be home…” Troy’s voice was half the volume he’d wanted, and it cracked a little at the end. He’d never had power in front of Barry, and certainly didn’t now. “And I promised myself I wouldn’t do that anymore.”

Barry exhaled loudly. “This is your final chance; text that oversized child and tell him you’re going to be late, then spend your final evening with me, or… I will have to go to further lengths to prove that you belong to me. You know what I am capable of.”

Troy shivered. During his time with Barry he’d witnessed things he’d never dreamt of, things that made him question everything he’d believed. Why had he agreed to come see Barry again? Why hadn’t he just ended things over the phone?

Troy’s phone vibrated on the bar. Dylan’s name popped up: “Where u at babe?”

Barry clucked his ton. “Time’s up. I’m rescinding the offer. You made your choice.”

Troy waited for the other shoe to drop. “But… what does that mean?”

“It means go home to your little domestic charade. I can’t stand to look at you for the moment.”

Troy hated how this had gone but he jumped on his chance to get out. At the door, he turned to say goodbye, then changed his mind.

“For the moment!” emphasized Barry, who turned his back.

Troy headed out the door. He drove blindly, desperate to put distance between himself and his ex. After he was sure he was safe (although he never felt truly out of Barry’s presence) he sat down and tried to calm his racing heart. He texted Dylan to tell him he’d be right home, throwing three hearts at the end for good measure.

Troy could smell Dylan as soon as he walked in the door. His boyfriend had no doubt just returned from the gym, his body throwing off clouds of sweat and male hormones. He breathed in the delicious musk, thankful to be safely home again. “You home babe?”

“In here,” Dylan growled from their bedroom. “I found your birthday gift. Couldn’t wait to open it. I tried it on.”

At that, Troy hurried to the door and threw it open. Dylan stood proudly in front of their friend, the dense muscles of his torso squeezed sensually by the harness Troy had bought him. Dylan was 6’5” and nearly 300 dense pounds, covered in hair with a huge burly beard Troy loved to grab handfuls of while Dylan fucked him. Just the sight of him there, unshowered, muscles full and wrapped exquisitely in bands of leather, made Troy weak in the knees. His body was bloated from the massive weights he’d just deadlifted, his impossibly wide and rippling back flowing up into traps that swallowed his neck, legs so thick he had to waddle, thick arms bulging as he crossed them across the shelf of his chest over his firm keg-belly.

“Get over here,” Dylan ordered, and Troy was naked three steps later. He leapt at his lover, who easily hoisted him up and latched on for a kiss as Troy wrapped his legs around him, humping emphatically as he kissed with anxious desperation. Dylan turned around and tossed Troy, who had a larger-than-average gym-built body but was barely a wisp next to Dylan’s bulk, down on the bed.

Dylan was on top of him in a moment, pinning him in the bed, flicking his tongue and using his beard to tease and tickle. Troy felt all 300 pounds on top of him, felt surrounded by his lover’s mass, breathed nothing but his smell, and felt lost in ecstasy, overwhelmed by the moment.

He didn’t even hear the bedroom door open.

“Stop right there, my large fellow,” said a voice that tore Troy from his rapture. It couldn’t be, he thought--Barry wouldn’t come to their house, would he? Yanked from his lusty haze, Troy panicked, reassured only slightly by the idea that his gigantic boyfriend was there to keep them both safe.

But Dylan’s gaze was blank and frozen, his face locked from the moment Barry had spoken. He didn’t seem to be breathing; the thumping heartbeat Troy had felt pounding against him moments before had ceased.

“The metaphor’s a little on the nose,” Barry said, “but it seems you’ve gotten yourself trapped by this excessively large human being.”

Troy couldn’t move an inch; Dylan was frozen, and because of that, Troy was pinned to the bed, unable to wriggle at all. He felt claustrophobic, and worse, he had no idea what else Barry had in store for him. He felt even more helpless that he couldn’t even see Barry; all he could see was Dylan’s hauntingly time-stopped face.

“In case you’re wondering, it’s the harness,” Barry said. Troy could hear his footsteps pacing in half-circles around the bed. “Before our little get-together today I made a stop by here to take a look at this life you made. A few runes carved into this sexy little leather number you got for the big lug, plus an anointing with some oils, and now your beloved is completely in my power.”

“Please, Barry,” Troy begged. “Please leave him alone. I’ll do anything, I promise.”

“You’ll do anything anyway,” Barry said. “You’re mine. You always have been. And now I’ve claimed this elephantine lad as well. He certainly is impressive, if you were a big game hunter.” Troy heard the clap of Barry’s hand slapping Dylan’s massive glutes. “So much unnecessary muscle mass. Must cost a fortune to feed him. And all so he can lift heavy things for a living. You can’t love someone like this. He’s nothing more than an over-sized sex-doll to you.”

Troy felt a moment of relief as Dylan’s mass seemed to move again; it was replaced again by fear as he saw Dylan’s live-again face suddenly contort into a look of pure surprise, his mouth in a cartoonish ‘O.’ Dylan’s weight seemed to fade as the sound of expanding rubber filled the air. Warm flesh was replaced by cold plastic, facial features and nipples and hair and the harness all suddenly became painted-on decorations, Dylan’s mouth now a vacant circular crevice. Dylan’s weight was almost entirely gone, but any feeling of freedom was overwhelmed by the sight of his boyfriend turning into an unliving thing.

With one hand Barry grabbed the Dylan-doll by the shoulder and tossed it at the wall. It floated awkwardly, barely making noise as it bounced off the wall and across the floor. “Not quite as intimidating as he was before I got here, is he?” Barry said, his arms crossed. He stood up the inflatable giant; it was still over a foot taller than him. He bopped it in its face with a playful fist, laughing as it flopped away like it was nothing.

Troy lay on the bed, afraid to move. He had no idea how to debate with his ex, how to get him to turn Dylan back into flesh, and he knew the wrong word would only make things worse.

“Look at this!” Barry said, pointing at the large sex toy’s backside. It was still round and ample as it had been as flesh, but now a bit blockier in shape and lined with crinkly seams. In its center was a port identical to the mouth-hole. Barry playfully fingered it, Then his hands wandered over to the cartoonishly shaped phallis on the front, giving it a few wags, then up to the waist where he thumbed the air-nozzle that had sprouted there. “Again with the spot-on metaphors, but your boyfriend really is nothing more than a lot of air. Suppose I let it all out, rolled him up and set him in a closet. He can still see, hear and feel, you know. All of this plastic ‘skin’ is now tremendously sensitive.” He stroked the inflated “cock” a few more times. “Goodness that must be overwhelming.”

“Barry, turn him back,” Troy begged. The bedroom door was still open; for a moment, knowing what Barry was capable of, he considered making a run for it, but there was no way he could leave Dylan to whatever Barry had in mind.

“You have always lacked imagination and whimsy,” Barry said, setting the Dylan doll upright and leaning it against the wall. “All right, let him be flesh again.” The plastic’s odd skin-tone darkened back into Dylan’s tan, his beard and harness emerging from the plastic as the humanesque shape resolidified into the powerlifter’s massive bulk. He breathed again in one desperate gasp and grabbed the wall to hold himself from collapsing. His chest heaved and his eyes looked around in shock.

“Oh my God, thank you,” Troy said. He ran to Dylan, throwing his arms around him.

“Hold him there, big man,” Barry said, and Dylan’s loving embrace suddenly tightened, his hands clasping tight around Troy’s arms.

“The fuck are you doing?” Dylan said. “Babe, I… I can’t move!” Troy was trapped in his lover’s hold.

“Of course you can,” Barry said as he approached them. “But only when I say, as I say.” Something cold and metal clicked around Troy’s neck. “There we are. Now that you’re collared, I don’t have to worry about you trying to run. And just so you know, my large friend, he considered it for a moment there, almost left you there with me too.”

“Shut your fucking mouth!” Dylan shouted.

“No, you shut yours!” Barry said. Dylan’s teeth clacked shut, his lips squeezed together. His face contorted but his mouth remained close, muffling him and preventing him to do anything other than groan. It sounded like he was wearing a ball-gag. Troy sobbed into his lover’s huge heaving chest, full of regret.

“Let Troy go,” Barry commanded, and Dylan did so. “Now, Troy, you remember that collar, don’t you? Go sit on the bed like a good boy while I deal with this big beast here.” Troy felt a familiar tingle spread across his chin as his body operated on its own. Before he realized it was sitting on the bed, hands crossed on his lap.

“Now,” Barry said, “big fellow, you can speak only in response to my questions and only in pure honesty. Do you know who I am?”

Dylan’s lips came apart: “You’re Troy’s abusive piece-of-shit ex-boyfriend, you looney motherfucker!” Then his mouth closed again. His eyes scanned the room nervously, the only piece of him able to move. Troy whimpered.

“And do you know how many times your beloved has made love to me since you the two of you have been together?”

“None?” Dylan said. He didn’t sound sure, and Barry’s smile grew slowly.

“Troy, tell Dylan the correct answer,” Barry commanded.

“Seven times,” Troy said. “Babe, I’m sorry. I can’t… I can’t do anything…”

“What do you say now, of your precious Troy, hmm? What do you want to do now that you know the truth?” Barry taunted.

“I want… I want to smash your scrawny little ass… and sweep the pieces out the front door…” Dylan said resolutely, sneering when he again lost the ability to speak.

“How loyal. Like a dog, aren’t you?”

Then Dylan barked. He looked surprised that he had done it, seemed to struggle against barking again, but failed. “Roof! Roof-roof-rooooo!” He growled through gritted teeth. Barry snickered.

“That’s exactly what you’ll be to me, big fellow. My pet dog. He’ll be a nice pet, won’t he Troy?”

“No, Barry, you can’t,” Troy protested.

Barry inspected Dylan’s huge frame, tracing a finger idly along Dylan’s huge solid gut, over the bulges in his huge arms, down the cleavage between his meaty pecs, along the length of the six flaccid inches hanging between his legs atop two lemon-sized balls. “You’re right, I certainly can’t keep an animal this size. No, I’ve always preferred my dogs to be lap-sized.”

A gentle slurping sound, like the end of a milkshake, filled the air. Dylan’s big body began to slowly compress, his muscles reversing development as his size began to evaporate from his frame. His eyes went their widest then as the room seemed to grow around him and he was overwhelmed by a mindblowing sensation. All of the hair on his body seemed to retract into little wisps and then nothing, his beard the last to go. Troy kept expecting it to stop, but still Dylan lost size, his harnessing remaining tight to his frame as it dwindled, until he was barely four feet tall, his body a narrow wisp of pale flesh. His huge swinging dick was now a little nub, a little slip of nearly empty scrotum clinging tightly underneath.

“Much better,” Barry said, looking down on the man who’d towered over him before. “Now we can crate train him. Speak, doggie!” Barry burst into giggles at the high-pitched yelps that came from the reduced little man.

Dylan looked terrified, both at the helium nature of his voice and at his own helplessness, now by far the tiniest man in the room (a feeling he’d practically never had in his life).

“I’m guessing,” Barry said, licking his lips, “that you’ve always been on the receiving end of this gargantuan man’s sex, am I correct?” Barry reached up and stroked Dylan behind the head. Dylan leaned into the touch and whimpered, and seemed surprised to be doing so. “And I’m sure nobody has ever been man enough to top this big old beast, am I right?”

Barry merely motioned--that was all it took--and Troy’s body, operating on its own, got to its feet. Meanwhile, Dylan fell forward to all fours, arching his back and looking behind him with wide, worried eyes. Barry snapped his fingers and Troy’s dick was instantly rock hard, and he thrust into what was left of his giant boyfriend without any lube or restraint.

Barry sat back and watched as Troy pounded on the tiny man his boyfriend had become. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t protest, but the worst part of it all was… he loved it. His entire body was rocked by waves of pleasure with each thrust, and from the little Dylan’s wild-eyed glaze and the dollops of drool swinging from his jaw, he was in the same situation.

“You know, watching you right now, I really do see that you were right: you’re not meant to be with me. You’re not my equal. You’re meant for this little lap dog. You’re perfectly matched, and I think you should look the part.”

Troy was only vaguely aware of Barry’s words over his own brain-shattering ecstasy. Sure enough, as Barry commanded, Troy’s body began to reduce too. He never stopped fucking little Dylan as he shrank, his muscles draining away with the same soft slurping sound until he was as short and scrawny as the shrimp he was fucking. Or, that is, trying to fuck: by the end, Troy’s dick had also shrunk to a nearly useless nub, and he rubbed it ineffectively against Dylan’s now-gaping hole, struggling to get the right friction he needed to push him over the edge to his desperately-sought release.

“No, little Troy,” Barry said pulling the two little men apart. Each was now a foot shorter than Barry. Even their combined strength in these tiny forms was nothing to him now. Troy panted, desperate for an orgasm that wasn’t coming. “See, it’s just as I worried. Big Dylan here,” he said, affixing a leash to tiny Dylan’s harness, “walked around convinced of his own power, confused about his role as a powerful top, with you, his bottom, but in reality you’re both a matched pair.” Barry clipped a leash onto Troy’s collar and yanked the two of them toward the door. They followed on all fours. “Two weak little pups is all you are. Now your outsides match your insides, and I assure you, you’ll be happier for it. For as long as I allow you to be, that is.”

Troy looked around at their house as they were led helplessly out the front door. Little Dylan looked back, and licked Troy’s cheek and whimpered. “That’s enough,” Barry said, yanking them apart.

Outside Barry led them to his van in the driveway. He loaded each of the tiny men into a dog crate, clipping them shut. Troy sadly slumped to the floor, listening to Dylan scratch pathetically at the walls of his cage. “Now, Dylan, settle down. If you think this is bad, you have no idea how creative I can get. After we get home and I get you two settled in, you’ll be begging to return to this form.”

Deflated Athletes

I would kill for a pic (3D art or drawing) of a football player (some big brick-shithouse lineman) or a super-heavyweight bodybuilder (a massive Dallas McCarver type) with their size suddenly deflated from their big body--suddenly their pads/jerseys are huge on their skinny frame, or in the case of bodybuilders, they’re desperately holding up their now-gigantic poser to cover up their shame. Before/after would of course be the coolest, but I dig the idea that the size of the equipment/posing trunks suggests how big they used to be in a one-shot. If anyone could whip that up, I’d be really grateful (and would gladly write a story to your specs). Alternatively, if anyone could point me in the direction of someone who could help me out, that would be great too.

Rapid-Fire Fiction

I’m going to take my last 10 Liked images and reblog each with a story attached. Not going for high-art, just a gentle scrote-tickle to maybe milk a load or two out of you guys. Been too long since I’ve posted so it’s the least I can do. Here goes.

In high school, Trent and Bryce had never even spoken--Trent barely knew who Bryce was, vaguely recognized the skinny little guy from his yearbook photo but couldn’t recall speaking to him ever. The fact that they ended up getting into the same college barely registered on Trent’s radar.  It was a big campus, so the chances they’d run into each other ever (especially with their different lives: Trent was going on a full ride football scholarship while Bryce was going to study biochemistry or some shit) was pretty slim. That’s why Trent was so shocked the day before he left for summer football camp to find scrawny Bryce banging on his door. “It’s simple,” Bryce explained, producing a small kit containing a number of pills and little vials. “Just take a blue gelcap and a red gelcap before breakfast, then drink the little green vial before dinner.”

 “The fuck is this?” Trent asked, poking the colored pills with his finger.

 “It’s cutting-edge biological innovation--or at least, it might be,” Bryce said with an awkward giggle. “A massive breakthrough in male potency. I needed someone to test it out on, and c’mon, Trent: you’re like the biggest heartiest dude in the world. Serious gains for you would put you on a whole different level!”

 “I’m already on a whole different level,” he chuckled, shrugging his big shoulders. Coach said the line would never be the same with him on it. Trent was skeptical, but a part of him wondered--what if this little dork was on to something? “If this shit makes me grow tits…”

 “Gosh, no!” Bryce protested. “No no no. Well, you’ll grow big hard manly pecs--bigger than the ones you already have, that is…” Bryce gently nudged Trent’s chest. Was this little kid a fag? Trent wondered. These pills better not be a bunch of roofies.

“Fine, whatever, I gotta go,” Trent said. Bryce left, blushing and fumbling as he backed away. Trent considered just tossing the little kit in the trash, but for some reason he held on to it. The first day of camp, he woke up, popped a red pill and a blue pill, and before bed he snapped off the cap of a green vial. The next day he practically sprang out of bed. Every part of his body was brimming with energy. When running laps he’d break away from the other lineman and keep pace with the tight ends and wide receivers. Within weeks he was confidently squatting over 600 pounds for reps (his high school 1RM was 500). His body practically blew up, fifty pounds packing onto his body in no time putting him well over 350--and most of it was solid fucking muscle! Obviously everyone was shocked, suspected him of using gear, but his piss tests all came out clean. Trent was obviously a freak, everyone (including Trent) acknowledged, and he was on his way to the NFL. His first season at a D1 school was going to be epic. Not once did Trent even think to acknowledge Bryce’s contribution--until the kit was almost empty. He couldn’t start the season without it.

The first week of school, days before their first actual game, Bryce finally responded to one of Trent’s frantic e-mails. “I’ll come over today with a refill. Don’t sweat it. Glad you’re enjoying the process.”

 Bryce showed up to Trent’s dorm with a duffel bag. “Where’s the stuff?” Trent asked desperately.

“Give me a second,” Bryce explained. “You know, this is for a project, not just for your personal gain. I have to record the results first.” Bryce pulled out a tape-measure, started measuring Trent’s massive thighs and his huge arms. The diameter of Trent’s chest was big as the distance around a smart car, exceeding the length of the tape measure Trent proudly noted as Bryce jotted the results down in a notebook. When Bryce knelt to measure Trent’s waist, the big man couldn’t even see the skinny nerd over the crest of his massive pecs. (He hadn’t seen his feet in over a month--not that he cared.)

 “Everything’s going according to plan,” Bryce said. “Can you drink this for me?” He handed Trent another vial, this one containing a pale lavender fluid. After three months of ingesting Bryce’s chemicals turned him from a big lineman to a massive beast, Trent was more than eager to down the liquid without question. It numbed his throat, made him feel warm and a little dizzy.

“Can you strip down to your boxers?” Bryce asked. “I need to get some more readings.”

Fuck no, Trent thought, but he felt his hands lazily reaching for his belt, dropping his pants, pulling off his shirt. Yeah, he thought. Let the little fucker get a look at the giant monster he created.

Bryce pulled out a stethoscope, listening to Trent’s breathing. To give the little fag a show, Trent bounced his pecs, frustrating the effort and making the little man chuckle and blush.

“Wow. You’ve turned out better than I could’ve hoped. One last thing I wanted to check out.” Bryce’s hands nimbly yanked Trent’s dick out of his boxers, giving it a few firm strokes. Alarms went off in Trent’s head--but his thoughts were so slow, his brain so mucked down, he just let it happen.

“Ten inches, Jesus,” Bryce gasped. “Have you always been packing this much?”

Bryce’s admiration neutralized Trent’s slow-witted panic about his dick being exposed. He flexed his groin, made his dick bounce. “Fuck yeah,” he growled, although in truth, he’d always remembered his dick as being just over six inches--since his recent added bulk, he just hadn’t seen it in awhile, although he’d thought it felt considerably bigger as he’d furiously jerked himself each night (a side effect from Bryce’s pills, he figured).

“Okay, big fella, one last thing,” Bryce said. He produced a metal halo from his bag and fit it around Trent’s head. “You might want to have a seat. This might be a little disorienting.” Bryce slid a desk chair behind Trent and he sat in it without thinking.

“What… is this…” Trent thought, reaching up to grab at the halo with his thick fingers. He couldn’t get it off. Bryce produced a halo as well, placed it on its head and had a seat on Trent’s bed.

“Now just let things naturally take their course, buddy. Won’t be long now.”

Trent suddenly felt tired, his whole body seeming to go numb, the vision of the scrawny bug on the bed across from him getting further and further away, everything going black…

...and suddenly his vision cleared and he saw a massive dude in boxers removing a halo from his head. The guy had to be 7’5”, over 500 pounds or something! He was so big it looked unreal. Trent’s stomach dropped when his eyes adjusted and he looked down at himself--surprised to see the floor, unblocked by a giant expanse of his own bulk. He looked at his small, soft hands, his skinny limbs, then back up at the giant dude in front of him.

The giant had his face--he was staring at himself! His doppleganger stood, grabbed him by the neck with one hand and yanked him to his feet. (The feeling of being picked up and carried like that shook him to the core.) “Take a look,” his double said in his voice, holding him in front of a mirror.

Bryce’s face looked back at him. The huge guy dropped him on the ground and Trent touched his face, watching the reflection match his movements. This wasn’t possible, this couldn’t be happening--somehow he was Bryce, and he had a good idea who the guy in his body was.

“Bryce? What did you do?” he squeaked in an unfamiliar voice.

“No, YOU’RE Bryce now,” said the giant guy. “And I’m Trent. Take a fucking look at me! I built this body into quite a tank, didn’t I? I could probably win the goddamned Nobel Prize for this work, but I won’t have much use for it.” Bryce, in Trent’s massive body, gave him a shove with just two fingers. Trent was knocked off his feet. “I can’t believe how fucking powerful I feel! And look at this big fucking dick!”

“You can’t do this!” Trent squeaked. “I’ll tell everyone!”

“I destroyed my notes, you little fucking bug. There’s no evidence of what I did. Plus, who the fuck is going to believe that I switched our bodies? Have fun in the crazy house little buddy.”

Trent couldn’t believe what Bryce--in his body!--was saying, but there wasn’t much he could do. Bryce shoved him out the door, slammed it in his face. Trent wanted to kick the door back open, demand his body back, but he knew he couldn’t--not now that he was 5’4”, 80 pounds if he was lucky. In shock, he turned around and walked away. He seemed to head automatically for a dorm he didn’t recognize--or did he? He mechanically fished keys out of his pocket, knew exactly which one would open the unfamiliar door, then fell into a bed he’d never seen before and cried into the pillow.

Alexey was exactly as the catalog had promised--unbelievably huge and muscular, stuffed into a tight blue shirt, an adorable baby-face crowning the body of a titan. Jim’s heart leapt at the sight of him--Alexey smiled as he approached and offered a beefy hand, but the guy’s unbelievable size was intimidating as hell. Jim, a slight redhead at just over five feet, tried to keep his hands steady as Alexey patted his shoulder--he felt like a child next to this giant!

“We will have fun, I promise,” Alexey carefully pronounced with a thick accent. “What would you like to do first? Walk along ze beach?”

Jim could barely contain his excitement. “Let’s go back to my hotel room!”

Alexey sighed, his huge bulk swelling as he inhaled, then deflating quickly. He looked around anxiously. “I could take my shirt off, we could dance at a bar…”

 “No!” Jim protested. “Hotel room!” Alexey’s size was terrifying but Jim had paid good money for this opportunity.

 Back at the hotel room, Jim poured a glass of champagne while Alexey arranged his things. “So, how did you get like this?”

 “Lots of training and discipline,” Alexey said, puffing up and surveying his wide body from edge to edge.

 “No, I mean…” Jim walked behind Alexey and yanked up the blue shirt to reveal a small metal panel--a small keypad, a dial, and a little screen flashing inscrutable data. “Like this.”

 Alexey signed again. “I… did not understand the contract I was signing.”

 “Well, I’ve read the manual, let’s get this going!” Jim said. “Flex for me!” Jim had a seat and sipped from his glass.

Alexey hit a double biceps pose, then spread his lats. His massive chest stood out like a big meat shelf.

 Jim wasn’t satisfied. “No,” he protested. “Take your shirt off!”

 Alexey was reluctant but did what he was told. He hoisted up his shirt with one hand, needing help from Jim to pull it up over the bulk of his torso (which thrilled Jim to no end). Jim had a seat, breathing deeply from the warm and lightly sweaty garment while Alexey hit some mandatory pose.

“Turn around!” Jim screeched. “Show me your back!”

 Alexey seemed to know where this was going, but obliged anyway. He hit a back double bi, spread his lats wide--but then Jim leapt to his feet and tapped on the keypad above Alexey’s waist. “555 freezes the body, but leaves your head intact, right?”

 Alexey, frozen in place from the neck down, nodded. “Yes.”

 “This is amazing!” Jim said, stripping Alexey naked and taking the time to explore Alexey’s body, his fingers digging into every muscle, probing every inch of the massive Eastern European. “You’re so big... You can get as big as you want now that you had this installed right?” Jim tapped the edge of the keypad with his fingernail--tink tink tink, against the metal.

 “Well… I was very big before it was installed…”

 “But if I remember correctly… 1472, then the star key…” Jim hit the buttons as he said them aloud.

 “Hey, wait, don’t just…” Alexey’s protests fell on deaf ears as the process began: slowly, with the sound of an inflating balloon, Alexey began to rise up, his body remaining proportionate but growing in all directions. No longer afraid of this man who was completely in his power, Jim dropped his pants and starting jerking his dick as he rubbed his hand over the expanding man. Alexey’s face seemed to panic as he rose up and away, seven feet tall, then eight, larger than any human who would ever live, approaching the ceiling with no way of stopping himself.

 “You’re gonna burst through the ceiling!” Jim gasped breathlessly, now straddling Alexey’s inhumanly gigantic leg like it was an unsaddled horse.

 “Yes, I am--please, the reset button…”

 Jim groaned, his whole body went rigid, and he came--just as Alexey’s head touched the ceiling and pressed into it.

 “Okay, okay,” Jim said breathlessly. Let’s take care of this…” He hit the flashing red RESET button and Alexey’s body snapped back to its starting (but still massively muscled) size.

 “Thank you, now please--” Alexey began, still facing away from Jim but struggling to see what was going on behind him.

 “I believe 6-1-1-pound sign causes expansion with no height increase, right?” Jim punched the corresponding code and Alexey’s back immediately started to swell, his arms inflating like tires, his legs spreading apart--mass pouring onto his frame without an inch of height added.

 “Holy shit…” Jim said, sinking to his knees and inspecting the gargantuan ass that was still inflating before him. He dug his face in, tasted its musky depths, licked from top to bottom as Alexey moaned and struggled.

 “Unh… please, be careful… ohhh…” Alexey moaned. Jim could barely hear him from the warmth of Alexey’s ass. Jim emerged and pressed the reset button again. “I guess it wouldn’t be any fun if you got so big your bones started breaking.”

“Yes, please, now… the code to let me move again is--”

 “Y’know, I could shrink you down to the size of my dick, you know. I’d love to see a big guy like you wrestling with my cock like it’s a contender.”

 Alexey’s eyes fell. “Yes, you could.”

 “I’ve studied the whole damned manual, Alexey. I wanted to get my money’s worth. See, I’ve got this interesting little kink… I mean, it’s one thing to fuck you… God, it’s a damned dream come true… but you wanna know what my fantasy is?”

 Alexey’s brow furrowed. He seemed afraid to ask.

“Code 9-9-1-4-9-star,” Jim said confidently. He’d been waiting for this moment. Alexey’s eyes went wide--he had no idea what this setting would do--and his mouth suddenly formed an O-shape. Movement returned to his limbs for just a moment--but then he froze again. His whole body took on a plastic sheen. Suddenly the features of his body lost their details. His face was painted on. He maintained much of his size, but now he had the puffy shape of an inflatable doll.

 Jim fingered the doll’s open mouth hole, played with the same opening between the seams of its blocky rubber ass. “I’ve dreamed of fucking a living blow-up doll for my whole life, Alexey,” he whispered into its drawn-on ear. “Let’s see how many time I have to fuck you before I get it out of my system completely.”

The alien domination of Earth didn’t take too long--they had superior technology, certainly, and the fact that the human race constantly warred with itself made the take-over effortless.

The grey bug-eyed aliens considered themselves kind rulers: they had no desire to enslave anyone, nor did they want to cause any harm. With their technology they repaired the environment and cured diseases. The human race was given food and medicine. Life expectancy was doubled almost immediately, and because of the confiscation of all weapons, war and violence ended as well.

Some things, the aliens decided, seemed a little excessive: many of these humans were simply too large to be feasible members of this new harmonious society. Bodybuilders, strongmen, football players--these were unnecessary professions, and the cost to feed these gargantuan humans was unreasonable and their muscle mass was unnecessary.

Still, the kind alien rulers offered a compromise: a simple process using a device no human had ever seen before to allow these members of society to continue to excessively expand their musculatures, or a reduced diet, intended to slim them down to average proportions within months, allowing them to live normal lives.

The device, a gleaming ray-gun that gave off an unearthly hum even when it was powered down, terrified most people, especially when they were told that the process was permanent: not even the aliens could undo it once it had been done. Most of the men deemed “excessively developed” took the second offer, ate their little freeze-dried alien-designed meals until they blended in with normal society. Big linemen became tall skinny guys. Bodybuilders were just skinny average guys with chests the same size their legs used to be. With time, they forgot what it was like to be big, forgot that it was something they ever wanted.

 Some humans were stubborn, as humans are known to be, and chose the irreversible ray-gun. Leo, a world-record holding strongman, had worked too hard to achieve what he had. He wasn’t born to be anything else, he’d argued when the aliens allowed him to choose his fate. “I was built to lift things and that’s it,” he argued. So the aliens pointed the ray gun at him and bathed him in purple light. Most people on hand thought he’d been disintegrated, but the aliens approached him shortly after, lost in a pile of the clothes he’d been wearing, and placed him in a tiny glass jar.

His girlfriend Jeannie had protested the whole thing, screamed when the ray hit him, and stared at her now-tiny boyfriend in his little glass prison, wondering what she was going to do now. “He’ll need to be processed,” the aliens explained. “Henceforth he will always need a sponsor, as he can take care of himself no longer. You will be eligible to be his sponsor if you wish after his processing.” They walked away as naked little Leo beat against the sides of the jar.

 Only about ten percent of the oversized population chose the reduction process. The football players kept their jobs, of course--the mini-NFL took awhile to catch on, of course. Micro-cameras eliminated perspective enough that people watching at home could barely tell anything was different, although ticket sales plummeted for awhile. Watching professional athletes battle on a field smaller than a foosball table became a novelty, but eventually people got used to it, and the spectacle of the whole thing garnered great attention. The first mini-Super Bowl broke viewing records. Other than the accident in Texas, when a fan burst past guards and smashed his hand down on the field, things went smoothly (and security has been appropriately beefed up since then).

 Bodybuilding shows continued, judges wearing jeweler’s monocles to inspect the tiny athletes’ physiques--which, after the reduction, became monstrous proportional to their six-inch frames. Super-heavyweight bodybuilders in the mini-IFBB (10.1-11.0 ounces) waddled around like super-vascular pincushions of muscle. Who knew the human body could expand to such amazing sizes when it was shrunk down to a height of only half a foot?

 Lastly, the World’s Strongest Man competition continued--rebranded the World’s Strongest Mite--with competitors hoisting up regular-sized objects, dragging around Barbie’s dreamcar and Transformers, and trying to lift regular 12-ounce cans of soda overhead. Halfthor Bjornssen--nicknamed “the Molehill” since he reached his new height of 7-inches, leaving him still a giant among the reduced men--still competes and still acts, although much camera-trickery was needed to make it seem like he wasn’t a mere fraction of his former self.

 All of these men needed sponsors, of course, since they were helpless to survive in society without them. Many were adopted by their wives and girlfriends, while others (like Halfthor, for example) were sponsored by fans who passed an extreme security check and paid a hefty sum of money. (It’s illegal to consider these reduced men “property,” per the alien’s decree, but it was hard to deny that many of the sponsors acted like they “owned” their little men--like the gentleman who sponsored Halfthor, carrying him around in a birdcage most of the time.)

 As for little Leo, his girlfriend considered sponsoring him but passed on the idea (while he was being processed, she found another man--one of normal height--and passed on the idea of caring for her pet-sized ex-) but he was adopted by his coach, who pumped him full of steroids (one ampoule lasted forever with a six-inch powerlifter) and let him train and feed and grow as much as he wanted to. In shock after the process, Leo decided to quit competing (not wanting to be paraded around as an oddity). Instead, he just trains in his little aquarium, lifting heavier and heavier weights, swelling up with more muscle, ignoring everything but the call of the metal.

 His life is quite idyllic, in fact--except when he hears the door-creak, loud as a siren, followed by earth-shaking footsteps as his coach invites friends over to drink and watch him train. Plenty of his coach’s powerlifting clients chose the first option, the sensible reduction, and every one of them gets a charge out of coming over to watch Leo’s swollen little body lift meager weights while drinking beers, and, after a few too many, grabbing hold of Leo’s little body to feel how meaningless it was to have big massive muscles if a normal man could pop them like zits.

(via Strongman 26702 - MyMuscleVideo)

It was lucky for both of us that Terry stepped away from the railing just as my “camera’s” mass-reducing flash went off. Poor guy would’ve ended up dangling from the railing, ending up a tiny splatter on the sidewalk. (I wish I could say it had never happened before to other unlucky fellas I decided to turn my camera upon.)

Instead, he seemed to vanish, his compression pants collapsing to the ground in a heap. I took great pleasure in watching the little lump writhing around under there. As usual, I poked him gently through the fabric, confusing the hell out of the little guy as some unseen force immobilized his powerful body with ease. Then I reached in and fished out Terry’s new body--from head to toe, his body had been reduced to four inches tall (while perfectly preserving his beautiful shape) with one exception: his cock and balls had remained the size they were at full height.

 From the still-warm compression shorts I plucked my new little sex-toy. His now-enormous (to him, that is) dick was like an anchor, a cumbersome appendage that now made up more than half of his meager bodymass. Like all the others, Terry was horrified at the monstrous thing--horrified more when he realized he recognized it, that it was connected to him--but before he could start to freak out, I slid his dick into my mouth and sucked it, slow and hard.

He went silent and limp, overwhelmed by impulses his tiny brain couldn’t handle, but I only gave him a little taste. This was broad daylight, and to an onlooker I was walking around with what looked like a realistic sextoy (not far from the truth, of course). Holding the compression pants up to my face for a long, deep inhale (I love the look on their faces when they see me doing this), I then wrapped him up in them, slipped them in my backpack and headed on my way.

 Back home I unwrapped my new little prize and took a look at him. Terry’s body was fucking perfect--now that he was weighed down by that beautiful dick of his, I took the time to explore it. With my pinky finger I got into the grooves of his abdomen as much as I could, traced the soft firm expanse of his ass, wiggling into his miniscule-grundle, causing his still-human-sized dick to shoot to attention. He got breathless--I’m not sure how bloodflow works after the transformation, how he can have enough juice to inflate a cock as big as his body while still keeping his brain working, but they always seem to get a little woozy when they get hard.

 Then, of course, it’s all about delicious little sensuous tortures. I loved to blow gently against his big juicy cock, tongue his peehole teasingly, slurp his balls into my mouth (causing his whole body to go rigid and quiet). Of course when I’d worked him into a frenzy I’d swallow his dick to the hilt, leaning my head back while the rest of his body rested on my face. I loved to feel them beat uselessly against my nose, squirming their beefy little legs against my chin while I cheerfully hummed a tune.

 After I gave Terry a full workout I let him sleep on a little cushion--a solid thirty minutes without me bothering him, which was hard (I mean, look at him--how can I keep my hands off that perfect body, especially at its modified size, shaped like it’s made just for my pleasure?). But that was all.

Afterwards I woke him up by getting his cock hard and slick with some silky lube while I cocked my heels back and aimed him at my hole--holding them by the root of their dicks, I’m usually able to fuck myself without hurting them too badly. I’ve gotten pretty good since the first few accidents, and with Terry, I got a good rhythm down. His little squirming back there was just icing on the cake--and when I felt him tense up, his cock throbbing as he filled me up with his seed, I came myself, splattering all over my chest.

Afterward I let him unwind next to the puddles of load he’d made me shoot, gently massaging him with a finger while he tried to cope with the earthshattering orgasm he’d just experienced. When the post-cum haze wore off, I noticed him checking out his surroundings, taking a good look at me, at his body, and the relative size of his monster dick.

“If you’re wondering, you are bigger,” I said. “You’ll regain one inch every time you cum in me.” For a moment, I see a flash of hope--until he does the math, and I smile.