RICHIE INJOCKNITO

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.

Just Desserts

               Brent loved hitting the gym late-night, because he had it all to himself; no waiting for scrawny wimps curling the bar in the squat rack, or doing weird crunches on benches. Brent lifted hard, like a beast, and it showed. He had a big, thick body with hard hairy muscles, the kind you only get from years of football and wrestling plus a couple decades of heavy weight training; not from imitating Men’s Health workouts and eating Clif bars like some of these losers.

Then in walked a Harry Potter-looking fella wearing a sweatband and lifting gloves and carrying a duffel bag that weighed as much as he did. Brent was pissed. Seriously, the little guy wouldn’t weigh 100 pounds if he was carrying a pit bull. Back when Brent first signed up, Global Gym was an old-school meathead environment with rugged, competitive athletes only. Now every desk-jockey too scared to sign up for Crossfit was starting to crowd the place, and now this underfed little weiner interrupted Brent’s peace and quiet at 1 am… He was pissed, and of course the little douche was standing in the squat rack as soon as Brent wanted it—doing friggin upright rows with the bar! It was that kind of bullshit that made Brent target him. Brent stood behind him, casting a wide shadow on the slight man, a cold sneer on his face until the pencil-neck noticed and hurried out of there.

“’Scuse me sir,” said the pale, malnourished guy later on, pushing his thick glasses up his face. “I’m Terrence. Think you could spot me over here?”

Brent looked over and laughed: Terrence had loaded up a bar with 5 pound weights on either side. Brent rolled his eyes. “Yeah, gotta be careful when you’re going heavy,” he said, gobs of sarcasm in his tone. “Gonna set a new PR?”

So, just to fuck with him—and because there was nobody around to say anything—Brent watched the little wuss bust out seven reps, and then he lightly put his fingers on top of the bar and pressed down. “C’mon little man!” Brent barked as Terrence’s face turned dark as a plumb and tears streamed from his squeezed-shut eyes. After he’d made him suffer long enough, Brent reached down and yanked the bar up with one hand.

“Don’t sweat it kid, you’ll get it next time,” Brent snickered as he strode toward the locker room. “Geez, what a little fairy!”

In the locker room he undressed, carrying his towel as he walked to the shower naked. “Who cares of that little puss sees me?” he thought. “Give him a few ideas about what a man’s supposed to look like,” he said taking a look down his big hairy body with his long, swinging cock. As he soaped up he admired the pump in his quads—man, they were swole as hell tonight! Had to be, after the hour of punishment he put them through.

He heard something outside the shower—just the slam of a locker door and the sound of that little mouse of a man shuffling around. Then he heard something else, like the little guy was singing along to his iPod or something. Brent ignored it and leaned forward to wash the lather from his hair.

But something was off. When he leaned forward, the water was shooting way over his head. Confused, he grabbed the showerhead (why did it seem higher up than usual?) and angled it so the stream of water rinsed him clean

Before Brent could figure out what was up, he heard that guy Terrence out in the locker room, but he wasn’t singing; no, he was talking in a rhythmic, monotone voice. It was kind of like… chanting? And it got closer to the shower.

“Hey, what’re you doing out there you little freak?” Brent shouted, but his voice came out high and shrill like he’d just huffed a balloon full of helium. He slapped a hand over his mouth. “What the…” He sounded like a chipmunk!

Looking down at himself he was shocked to see the thick covering of hair on his body seemed to be thinning out. He looked closely and watched it pull back into his skin. Seconds later he was completely bald from neck to ankles—even his pubes! For some reason he looked smaller without all his hair… no, he was smaller… his body was slimming down, his shoulders narrowing, and he watched in horror as his muscle slowly drained away like he’d sprung a leak.

               In horror, he realized that he was now eye-level with the shower faucet handle. Seconds later, it was at his forehead, then it was above him. What the hell was going on? He reached up to turn it off, ready to sprint out of the shower, when through the curtain he saw the darkened outline of that pipsqueak Terrence, still chanting in words Brent couldn’t understand. Meanwhile, he felt an insane itching from his back, by his shoulder blades. He contorted his dwindling body to scratch but he just couldn’t reach.

               Terrence stopped with the weird language and quickly drew the curtain aside with one hand. Brent used his hands to cover up his (now tiny, even in proportion to his shrunken body) exposed cock. He stared UP at the guy he’d looked down on just minutes before, horrified as everything continued to grow around him.

               “If I said I was sorry, I’d be lying,” Terrence said with a grin, sliding his dropping glasses back up his nose. “The spell I just cast is supposed to give you your just desserts… and it looks like it is!”

               Brent scooted backwards to the back of the shower, pressing against the wet tile. He rubbed against it, struggling to ease the itching in his back which had only grown stronger. He was now only about knee-high to Terrence… no, now he was ankle high, maybe a few inches. The shower expanded around him on all sides, more like a giant canyon now than the tight quarters he’d squeezed his big body into earlier.

               Terrence turned the shower knob and with a squeak the water stopped. Brent looked at his giant adversary, adrenaline pumping, and then just made a break for it, trying to stay away from the huge gurgling drain. Then he stopped, the back-itch now an intense burning, and then… POP. He felt something unfold behind him, then heard high-speed clicking that quickened into a buzz.

               Behind him he saw rainbow, iridescent wings like a butterfly, flapping so fast they were a blur. And then he lifted off the ground.

               At first he felt sick as he buzzed through the air, unable to stay upright, narrowly missing walls on several occasions, but then he started to get the hang of it. He could fly! Nothing else felt right, but maybe he could at least get away from Terrence first and figure out what was going on.

               “Got you!” Terrence shouted and slapped his hands together around Brent’s little form, holding his wings still.

               “Let me go!” Brent squeaked.

               “I’ve got a better idea,” he said. Brent couldn’t see past Terrence’s huge fingers (he estimated himself at about four or five inches tall) but he felt himself moving quickly.

               Then he was dropped into a little metal cage, the top slammed shut. He could work a hand out the bars but no more. He barely had enough room to flap his wings. Being confined suddenly filled him with an unfamiliar, unnatural dread. But nothing was more unsettling was the thought that he was dangling from Terrence’s grasp, or the sight of Terrence’s face looming huge before him as the bespectacled man got a look at his catch.

               “Well… looks like YOU’RE a little fairy now!” Terrence said, and then laughed so hard Brent had to clap his hands over his ears. Minutes later, they were still ringing.

               Brent bounced around the inside of the swinging cage as Terrence walked across the locker room, finally holding it up to a mirror. Brent almost couldn’t believe the reflection he saw. Inside the cage was a frail naked man with short hair and a slim boyish physique as well as shimmery wings behind him.

               “No!” Brent shouted. “Let me go! Turn me back! Please!”

               “It’s irreversible,” said Terrence, clucking his tongue. “The spell gives you the reality you deserve. If only you’d deserved something a little bit better!”

               Terrence then opened up Brent’s locker and started going through his bag, holding up items like Brent’s jockstrap against the cage to compare sizes. At one point he pulled out his phone and pulled up a gym selfie Brent had taken earlier that night, holding it up to show Brent exactly how much he’d changed.

               Brent looked at horror at the massive, bulging grizzly in the picture, and looked at his own body, which had grown a bluish hue and had started to sparkle.

               “Well, let’s get you in the bag with your things and get you out of here,” Terrence said. Brent shrieked as his cage was plopped into Terrence’s duffel bag and he was zipped loudly into darkness.

He Thong did it again, with another mindblowingly amazing pic based on one of my stories. Good lord--his artwork is always next level, and this is no different. I gotta say, it's unreal to see my own ideas expressed through his deliciously demented artwork. SO GREAT.

(And if you look, he's also done another shrunken Tarzan story--it's pretty amazing, so check it out!)

Souvenirs of a former life (inspired in “The Unfortunate Incident During Thursday’s Practice” by BrandedX2)

RICHIE INCOGNITO WEEK! I'm blown away by how many followers I have. As thanks for the wonderful attention, once I've hit 100 followers we'll all celebrate with a WEEK full of Richie Incognito transformation stories (and art, when I can enlist the appropriate talent). Not familiar with this beef stack? Well, he's 6'3, about 325, plays Guard for the Bills, and seems about as bright as you'd picture a big meatloaf like him would be. Better than that, he's also known as one of the dirtiest players in the NFL, and his bullying of teammates (among other things) got him in some serious trouble awhile back. I'm betting he hasn't learned his lesson. All that makes him the PERFECT candidate for taking him down a peg. Imagine how shocked Mr. Incognito would be to find himself six inches tall and lost in his uniform (and imagine lifting his helmet up and watching his eyes bug out when he got a look at you!). Or imagine all that muscle and size getting plucked away from him while he showered with the team, leaving him a shrimpy little wimp. Imagine his face when he realized he was less than half the size of the guys on either side of him, their big cocks swinging at his new eye level. I've got some ideas, I've asked some artists for a hand, and I can't wait to have a whole week of my favorite side of beef. And if you have any requests for what you'd like to see happen to the guy, lemme know! It can be an 8 or 9 day week--there's no such thing as too much when it comes to Richie.

“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.

The Unfortunate Incident During Thursday's Practice

Carter put the sealed metal case on Dr. Waynerite’s desk gently and shuffled his feet. Sebastian stomped clumsily into the room and slammed an identical case down next to it. Carter noticed Waynerite wincing at Sebastian’s careless handling of the container. Sebastian must have noticed too.

“I’m sure they’re all fine in there,” Sebastian said sheepishly.

Waynerite flicked the latches on the cases open with his thumbs and gently opened them up, grinning. Carter leaned forward, standing on his toes a bit, trying to get another glimpse of what was inside. Waynerite slid a single glass cylinder out of the case, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. It was just over three inches long and an inch wide, and inside was a little man, only slightly smaller than his glass prison, beating his tiny fists against the glass. He was wearing a blue and grey football uniform–the Granite State University colors–and Carter noticed the number 60 on his back. It was one of the guys he knew of from his brief association with a member of the team.

For two years Carter had been assigned to tutor Jerry Ramos, the team’s starting tight end. Number 60 was a hulking defensive end with a thick manly beard named Dean Caldwell, Jerry Ramos’ roommate–was being the operative word, since the bulky man who used to stare down at people from his 6'5" height was now somewhere around three inches tall. Once Jerry had mentioned that Dean tipped the scales at over 325 lbs, and Carter remembers seeing Dean play, laying his opponents out flat with his bulk. Now Dean fell against each side of his glass prison as Waynerite gently tipped the cylinder back and forth. He probably only weighed a few ounces now, and a gentle nudge from a pinky finger would topple the formerly gigantic athlete to the ground.

Waynerite slid the cylinder back in the case and gently ran his fingers along its lid. “So this is all of them? Every last one?”

Carter winced as dopey Sebastian spoke up first: “Naw, but it’s a whole lot of ‘em. Some of 'em didn’t quite make it.” He chuckled, then cleared his throat as Waynerite glared at him.

“We didn’t leave anyone behind,” Carter interjected, trying to resolve the situation. “Some of them… Didn’t make it.” He elbowed Sebastian, who unzipped a backpack and pulled out a soggy paper bag with a squishy mass inside. He set it on the desk with a splat.

“Some of them tried to cross the track around the field before we got there,” Carter explained. “They were so small, the sun on the black tar just kinda… Cooked them. But we cleaned them all up.”

Before Carter had arrived at the field, he had no idea what to expect. Waynerite had told him and Sebastian, who both did a work study with the physics department, that a massive electromagnetic event had taken place around the football field.

“Freak accident,” he explained. “Combination of cosmic forces and the earth’s magnetic field…”

According to Waynerite, one moment the team was practicing on the field in their uniforms with their coaches and staff; the next, the field looked empty, as if the team had entirely vanished. In reality, they’d all been miniaturized, clothes and all, to no more than a few inches tall each.

To them, Carter imagined, the blades of grass suddenly loomed above them. Even men standing next to each other were suddenly separated by a great distance. They must have fled in a panic, sprinting for something recognizable, and those who were close enough suddenly realized what happened when they got off the field and saw the track, suddenly miles long, and figured out vaguely what had happened to them.

Carter and Sebastian had found the smoking remains of a few of the men dotting the track and collected them in a bag. Carter had tried to feel something–sadness, revulsion–as he collected the remains; “These were people,” he tried to think, but it was so hard to consider them with any significance. They were just little pieces of refuse littering the ground and he was just cleaning up the mess.

The rest of the team was scattered along the field. Carter and Sebastian spent hours on all fours with small, padded tweezers, plucking the terrified little men from their hiding places in the grass and dropping them into little glass containers. Their uniforms made them easy to identify, and Carter and Sebastian just crossed them off the list until they’d found them all.

Carter clearly remembered staring down at each little man he found, getting up close to him. Their reduced vocal chords made their new voices comically high-pitched, shrill squeaks like cartoon chipmunks. They still had their muscles, their thick beefy bodies, but they were nothing against Carter’s tweezers. Even the fastest ones could barely cover a foot before they were captured.

“I accidentally squished a couple,” Sebastian said quietly, kicking at the floor. “Oh, and a couple of times I was so excited that I found them that I shouted to Carter real loud…”

Carter remembered Sebastian shouting like an imbecile, his tiny capture only inches from his face: “I got one! I got one!” The sound was too much for the tiny men, who bled from their ears, nose and mouth. They had no choice but to put them out of their misery with their shoes.

They were just bugs; a gentle crush and they were nothing.

Waynerite nodded and swept the sopping wet bag off the desk into the trashcan. “No worries, boys. Accidents happen. As long as you’re certain you’ve accounted for every last one…”

“We have,” Carter said, unfolding the team roster from his pocket with every name crossed off.

“Including coaching staff?”

“And assistants, and waterboys,” Carter said.

“Excellent. You’ll receive a bonus in your check this week.” Waynerite shooed them away with his hands. “I have work to do.”

Sebastian, obviously happy to be free, headed for the door, but Carter stood in place.

“Dr. Waynerite,” he said softly, working up the courage to get to the question he’d anxiously held in his gut all afternoon, “what do you plan to do with them now?”

Waynerite had the cases open again, examining their contents, clearly looking for someone in particular. “Well, Carter, this kind of accident has to be researched–this is an amazing phenomenon, much to learn, you see.” His eyebrows bounced when he found what he was looking for and slid out a single cylinder, flicking out his tongue as he held it close. Inside was a burly older gentleman, looking worn and battered after several hours in the wilderness of the football field. It was the team’s head coach, barrel-chested, mustachioed Dick Breitbart. “Those who survived will have to be studied to learn the phenomenon’s full effects, and a way to reverse them, if any exists. But I happen to be an expert on exactly the kinds of energies that caused this terrible incident, so it’s more than likely that I’ll receive a significant amount of funding to carry out this study. So I guess it’s fortunate that the school is without a football team now; it seems there won’t be any questions as to where my funding will come from.” He’d unscrewed the glass case and held Coach Breitbart in his hand. Even from several feet away, Carter could see the tiny coach trembling, his eyes wide as he tried to take in the giant world around him, the skyscraper of a human being who now held him in his hand.

“I guess this is an unexpected resolution to our last argument, Breitbart,” Waynerite said with a devilish grin, poking his index finger into Breitbart’s chest with increasing force. “It seems science is going to turn out to be more important than athletics after all.”

Waynerite regarded Carter with annoyance suddenly, as if he’d forgotten he was in the room. “You can go now, Carter,” he ordered.

“Dr. Waynerite, I was wondering,” Carter asked, his voice cracking as he forced the words out, “if I couldn’t… You know… Since some of them didn’t make it anyway, I didn’t think it would hurt at all if I could take one of them… For my own…”

Waynerite sat pensively for a few minutes before putting Breitbart back in the glass cylinder and setting it on the desk. “You want to take one of these men? For what purpose?”

“…because he deserves it,” Carter said. He’d spent all day on the field, hoping he would find a minuscule little man with an 82 on his back, but Sebastian must have found him. Part of him had hoped Jerry would’ve been squashed or cooked on the track, but another part of him was relieved that he wasn’t. Sebastian must have collected him. If Carter had found the little tight end, Jerry would’ve never made it into the collection.

Waynerite sat back in his chair and folded his hands, looking first at Carter, then at the two cases, the fifty or so powerful men reduced to helpless insects, chirping desperately in their incomprehensible, barely audible voices.

Hours later Carter sat in his dorm room clicking through the pictures on Jerry’s Facebook page. “See that one?” he said aloud. “Look how big you were there!” On the palm of his hand was a playing card, the Joker, on which tiny Jerry Ramos, the team’s musclebound tight end, lay naked and spread eagle, his wrists and ankles affixed to the card with trimmed pieces of scotch tape. Carter held the card up next to the screen. “Wow, you’re about half the size of a PHOTO of you. Jesus, you are TINY!”

The taunting had been fun at first but, like all things, Carter was feeling less and less enjoyment the longer he did it. Still, he couldn’t shake the memory of Jerry’s fake flirtiness during their tutoring sessions, the syrupy tone of voice he’d used in the beginning when asking Carter to just do the work for him. The shame at the eagerness with which he had jumped at Jerry’s every damned stung his belly. He clicked ahead a few photos, still holding up playing-card-bound Jerry for comparison. He stopped at a pic he’d spent many hours looking at, studying ever curve of Jerry’s ripped, bulging body: he was on the beach in a bathing suit flexing one huge arm, the other wrapped around a small blonde girl. Her name was Kelli, Carter knew, and at that moment she was probably wondering why Jerry wasn’t returning her texts.

“You know,” Carter said, turning the card to face the image on the laptop screen, “I could drop this little playing card in an envelope and mail you to her and she’d probably squash you trying to get it open.” He paused to let the words sink in, watching Jerry’s massive chest rise and fall, his rippled abs moving with each breath. “What would she even do with you if she had you? Probably drop you in an aquarium, forget to feed you, too busy dating another guy–a real man, not cockroach-bait like you, huh?”

Carter held the card close to his face, examining the tiny body, remembering when it’d been full sized: the gravity it used to have, the manly smell that filled the room. Jerry’s thick, vein-dissected hands had emanated strength; now he was a fraction of the size of his smallest finger. He examined the dick that used to be massive, remembered staring up at it that one night when Jerry had showed up to his tutoring session drunk. “Look at that little dick. Remember when I was choking on it? Remember when you held the back of my head still anyway?” Carter winced with the memory of the backhands he’d received when Jerry ordered him to keep his mouth quiet about what he’d done.

“Still want me to make you cum?” Carter asked, sliding an unsharpened pencil from his desk. He set the card down flat, nudging Jerry’s flaccid dick with the unused pink eraser. “Let’s see how many times I can get you to cum, little man.” From a different drawer he pulled a box of Q-tips; from yet another he pulled out a half-squeezed tube of lube. He greased a Q-tip and twirled it around, poking at little Jerry’s tiny asshole with it. “Aw, is that too big little man? No worries. Just like you said to me, 'You’ll get used to it.’” With his other hand he prodded Jerry’s cock until it was rock hard. The tiny man squeaked like an old video game as he struggled in vain. Carter couldn’t understand him, not like any amount of begging or apologies would help now. Just like before, it was hard to feel any pity for this little thumbprint of a living thing. Just like Waynerite, he had some research to do: how many loads could he milk out a division 1 athlete? And more importantly, how long would it take him to get bored of his little pet and finally swallow him once again, for the last time?