Terry Hollands Week--CALL FOR ARTISTS

Terry Hollands Week--CALL FOR ARTISTS

Anybody remember when I wrote stories about a transformed Richie Incognito every day for a week awhile ago? I’ve chosen a new victim. This big slab of meat, Terry Hollands, is going to be the new subject of a series of transformation stories, in all of which he’s going to end up on the short end of the deal (very literally in some cases). Because I lack any sort of visual artistic skill, I’d love it if anyone could offer any sort of pic (no matter the medium, no matter the transformation) for me to write a story about.

I’m open to just about any scenario in which Terry is changed in a way that puts him lower on the food chain--shrinking, twinkification, muscle drain/theft, inanimate, animal transformation, muscle inflation/immobilization, trait swap, age regression/progression, blueberry transformation... Am I leaving anything out? If any of you talented deviant-minded folks could whip something up, that would be AMAZING. In the meantime I’m going to try to cobble out 7 or more stories where this big fella ends up losing his strongman status. Please please please shoot me a line if you’re interested in collaborating in any way (and if any writers have any ideas to pitch at me, speak up!).

Wow. I done impressed myself.

I can’t believe I just did that--ten off the cuff, unplanned stories, just using the last ten pics I’d Liked as inspiration. I’m exhausted--and a LOADED GUN. Normally (especially when I’m running gear, which I am now) I can’t even get through thinking about writing a tf story without having to jerk off twice, then losing interest. Writing ten, fully-boned up and horny as hell... Let’s just say I’m going to treat my dick like it’s a character in one of my stories (it’s not that big, so it’s definitely a character at the END of one of my stories). Hopefully you folks enjoy. Since it’s impossible for me to tell by Likes whether or not you like the story or just the smokin hot picture at the beginning, feel free to message me about what you liked and what you’d like to see more of, or just to talk about what gets you hot. I aim to be better about communicating with folks on here--even if it’s just with one hand (and it usually is).

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?

My most recent progress pics. Anybody who wants to do some morphing (of ANY type, although I'd probably object to TG or AR), I'd love to see it.

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)

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.