Brandon Twice
patreon
Richie Injocknito (Tumblr repost)
🕑 Added 2019-05-21 20:59:08 +0000 UTCEver 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.
