Masculinity Drain - Tumblr Posts
“Hey, what are you looking at?” asked my son in his gruff tones.
“Nothing,” I said, looking away quickly.
Ever since yesterday, I’ve noticed myself growing younger and my son growing older as if my age is draining to him. I seem to be the only one aware of it. I was staring becuase I realized we’ve passed the line and I’m definitely younger than him now. He’s gotten so masculine and alpha… and I kinda like it.
Which is why when he barks out “Hey kid, get me a beer,” as an order, my dick jumps as I rush to comply.
Half a Gronk is Still a Gronk
(This idea was a request pitched to me. Hope you like it, dude! And remember folks, I’ll pretty much write any story if the idea turns me on, so shoot me those requests!)
Everything looked weird to Gronk, like he was in a fun house—the chair he was sitting in felt huge, the floor too far away, his feet barely able to touch. The only thing he could wear was his shirt—it had been a tight polo shirt when he put it on, but now it fit him like a dress. The worst was other people—the cops at the station looked HUGE to him—until he looked down and remembered that he wasn’t 6’7” anymore. But he kept forgetting, and the size of things kept spooking him. He jumped like a startled bunny when one of the cops put a big hand on his shoulder.
“Sorry, little feller,” the cop said, chuckling. “Didn’t mean to startle you. But I’ve good news, little guy.”
Gronk grit his teeth at the cop’s condescending tone. He’d been at the station for about three hours and a brutal hangover had set in awhile ago. He’d about had it with this place. “Good news huh?” he said. He wasn’t used to his voice yet—even though he tried to deepen it, it still came out high-pitched, like he hadn’t gone through puberty yet.
“We checked your fingerprints, kiddo, and it turns out, you really are Rob Gronkowski.”
Kiddo?! “No shit!” he shouted—sounding more like an angry little girl than anything, but he didn’t let his pipsqueaky voice undermine his anger. He hopped out of the chair and stood to his full height—which was just over the burly cop’s waistline. He stared up furiously, though. “I’ve been telling you guys for hours to check my fingerprints if you don’t believe me. Maybe now we can find the bitch who did this to me!”
The big cop’s nostrils flared and he put both hands on his hips as he bent over, growling through clenched teeth. “Listen you little shit: I dunno if you’ve looked in the damned mirror lately but you’re not a big football star anymore! So you better learn not to talk to full-grown men like that, before one of ‘em stomps you like the little bug you are!”
Gronk felt his stomach drop away like he was on a rollercoaster. The size of the man looming over him filled him with a feeling he was unfamiliar with—intimidation. The big cop’s explosive anger overwhelmed him, and Gronk felt his knees going weak, his vision going grey, and a sudden warm wetness down the front of his shirt, and then poor little Gronk fainted dead away on the floor.
* * *
If he got up close to the mirror, really got a look at his own face, he could tell it was still him. Sort of. His whole head was smaller, his features all softer. He looked like—not his brother, since all of his brothers were twice his size now, but maybe his son? He still had a hard time getting into bars, since his ID looked like his old self. But even if people had heard about what had happened to him (and a lot of people had, since it was all over ESPN a dozen times a day), after the first few bouncers had made a spectacle of him (one of them demanding a picture while he held Gronk at arm’s length with ease) he quit trying.
In fact, he was tired of going out into public at all. It was too much when people wanted to get pictures with him—holding him up off the ground or asking him to flex his little arms next to them. Way worse than that was the number of people who would pat him on the head after talking to him, or the people who would mistake him for a kid.
Then there were the people who would chase him down, screaming, “Patriots suck!” He’d never been seriously injured, but he’d been shoved off his feet and tossed around a bunch of times. He didn’t have it in him to report them to the police.
He weighed himself daily to see if there had been any change, and checked his height against a mark on the wall, but each day it was the same: he was four foot nine and 87 pounds. Every day he wished for any other number on the scale, but it was always the same.
He bought a weight set for his house (specially made for his size) and lifted every day, but his body just didn’t seem to want to add any muscle. He ate as much food as he could stomach (about three slices of pizza filled him to overflowing now), trying to put on size in some way, but there were no changes. The doctors said he was basically healthy, although his testosterone levels were incredibly low. Strangely, his body seemed to resist the testosterone injections they prescribed him. His levels would spike for about twelve hours, then drop back to nearly nothing.
No matter what he tried, he couldn’t undo what that bitch had done to him.
* * *
They’d fucked like bunnies on meth for four hours. Gronk had decided to take a Gatorade break while the girl—some dark-haired chick he’d picked up at the club whose name he couldn’t even remember—fished around her giant bag for something.
“You’re on the pill, right?” Gronk said as he lounged in the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He couldn’t remember if he’d asked her before, but he’d dumped a half-dozen loads in her without a condom.
“No,” she said with a grin. She walked back up to the bed wearing this huge fancy gold necklace with a huge onyx stone on the front. With her mouth she worked Gronk’s lazily flopped-over dick into a steel pipe again while he moaned, a grin on his face, his hands behind his head. Then, as she lowered herself onto it, she said, “I’m three months pregnant.”
“Wait—what?”
But something had happened—his whole body was tingling all over, and a weird shadow flowed out of the stone on her necklace, sliding over his body like warm oil. It felt like a carpet of tiny fingers tickling him as it flowed around him, like it was sizing him up, then it covered his whole body. Through all of this he couldn’t move a muscle, and through all of this, she fucked herself on his cock.
The tingling grew, a massive crescendo that started in his loins and seemed to spread through him, out to his extremities. The sensation was so strong he almost forgot that he was paralyzed, coated with some mystical black substance, and then—
—as he came, his whole body tensed, and he felt overwhelmed by a new sensation, like more was flowing from him than his load. He felt like he’d been turned inside out, emptied out like an old purse into whatever-her-name-was, and the black matter peeled away, flowing back into her necklace. Then he could move again.
The amount of alcohol in his system, now in a much smaller body, hit him like a wrecking ball all of a sudden. His consciousness flickered like an old light, but he remembered what she’d said: “Thanks, Gronk,” she cackled. “I just took all of your strengths and gave them to my baby. He’s going to grow up to be every bit the champion you are—or, used to be!” Then he was out.
He woke up hours later and headed right to the police station, where they immediately doubted his identity and he learned his new role in the world. They never did find her--no thanks to his sketchy description of her as, “Some chick with dark hair.” He wondered if he would recognize the kid twenty years later, dominating college ball with all of his stolen skills. Even if he did, what could he do about it?
* * *
They let him come to all practices, all games. Even got him a brand new little jersey to wear.
He tried to tough it out, show his dedication to the Patriots, but he couldn’t handle being around his old teammates. Guys he used to tower over now cast monstrous shadows over him. Being on the sidelines while those big beasts hit each other—it startled him almost every time. All that aggression coming from guys five times bigger than he was… he just couldn’t handle being around it anymore. During games the cameras spent way too much time on him, and people always waited around for an interview.
Gronk couldn’t handle the attention anymore. He was an oddity now, a circus freak. A photo circulated of Gronk walking next to Brady, with the 6’1” quarterback bending over, his hand on Gronk’s little blonde head like he was Brady’s kid. Gronk called it quits then, releasing a statement that he would always love the team but he couldn’t be a part of it anymore.
Gronk kept himself holed up in his house, feeling sorry for himself. Belicheck and some guys from the team kept in touch, but the calls came less and less frequently as time went on. A few weeks after the Patriots had won the Super Bowl, there was a knock on Gronk’s door. It was Edelman.
“How you doing big guy?” Edelman said, pulling off his shades and patting Gronk on the head. “You look good—you getting bigger?”
Gronk blushed (something he’d never done back when he was big) and turned away shyly. Gronk offered Edelman a beer and they made some small talk for a little while, until Edelman surprised him by asking, “Hey Gronk, you still got that hot tub?”
Gronk anxiously tiptoed toward the bubbling hot tub in his bathing suit, anxious about showing so much of his bony little body in front of his old teammate. Edelman had always been a little guy to Gronk—now Gronk found himself at eye level with Edelman’s abs. They both eased themselves into the tub and Edelman let out a sigh.
“You wanna grab me another beer, bud?” Edelman asked.
Gronk surprised himself at how quickly he jumped out of the tub to obey—but that was nothing compared to the surprise when Edelman’s wet bathing suit flopped over his head.
Gronk turned around to see Edelman, totally nude, his hard-on bobbing in the tub. “Sorry,” Edelman chuckled. “Seeing you running around all little just got me excited is all. You don’t expect me to coop up my rod in that suit, do ya?”
Gronk couldn’t believe It, but Edelman’s tone had started something bubbling up within himself. He felt his tiny little nub shoot to its full inch, his little raisin balls tingling hard.
“How bout you grab that beer and get back in the tub? Lose the shorts, too.” Gronk did as he was told. He couldn’t disobey if he wanted, he realized, and that scared and thrilled him.
When he got back (having shed his bathing suit on the trip), he extended the beer to the wide receiver, but Edelman just reached out and lifted Gronk up with both hands. Edelman held up little Gronk, laughing. “Oh man! I can’t believe how light you are! Man, you’re like a little toy!” Gronk’s little dinky bounced as he was shaken around. “Let’s see how much fun you and me can have together, little guy,” Edelman said, slowly lowering little Gronk into the tub, “and then we’ll give Solder a call, see if we can’t make this a party.”
NEW PATRONS-ONLY STORY AT MY PATREON “Myosites Part 2: The Treatment Facility”
The myosite outbreak is spreading wildly. This chapter visits a facility trying to figure a way to stop the outbreak and restore the shrunken musclemen to their former statures. If you like big brawny football players getting cut down to size, top-to-bottom transformations, straight-to-gay stories or feminization, you’ll absolutely love this chapter. Here’s a taste:
I personally supervised the rest of Brad’s intake exam. I went through the delousing room with him, even stripping down naked next to him. I would’ve been a little shy if he was his old titanic self, all tanned and lumpy with overgrown muscles and--no doubt--a massive cock swinging between those tree-trunk legs, but as he was I had no fear standing next to him as we got sprayed down and as the vents pumped in the pink, acrid clouds that were harmless to us but lethal to the myosites. Afterwards I got him dressed in some decent new clothes and showed him to his new room. He’d be getting the bottom bunk under Clyde, a former UFC fighter we took in last week who had started accepting this temporary situation for what it was. Clyde had just started strutting around the facility like I’d imagine he did back when he was a tattooed, bearded brick shithouse (and not a fragile little slip of a guy). He’d be a good support system for poor Brad.
This story is Patrons only, so if you want to get in on the fun, come on over to my Patreon! www.patreon.com/brandedx2
Taylor Decker