Trey Didnt Notice Anything Was Different Until He Hit His Third Pose--his Arms Seemed Stiff, Legs Seemed

Trey didn’t notice anything was different until he hit his third pose--his arms seemed stiff, legs seemed heavy for some reasons. He was starting to get kind of inflexible, and as he tried to hit a side chest he noticed his mobility was impeded--by his own body. The audience watched as Trey’s body started to swell like rising dough. In minutes his 4% contest physique had swollen out to a thick, bulky off-season body--well over 300 pounds, and counting. Trey tried to play it off, trying not to at least finish his routine, but he knew by the look on the judges’ faces and the shocked gasps of the audience that something was seriously going on. And his body just kept swelling... ...400 pounds came and went quickly, and still his body gained mass. His massive quads pushed his legs apart. Soon he wobbled awkwardly, his feet so far apart that he worried he’d loose his balance and topple over. His arms had swollen so much that they now stood out straight, resting on the massive swollen lats that kept spreading, making the already gigantic frame even wider. Trey’s terrified face was soon swallowed up as his traps engulfed his head. Only his panicked eyes were visible around the mass of muscle, and he stood with his limbs out straight like a grossly exaggerated anatomy chart. The only movement he could manage was the wiggling of his fingertips, the only sound he could make past the traps and pecs that had swollen around his head was a faint whimpering, and still his body kept growing... And offstage, Cody, who was in second after prejudging, slipped the woman with the spray-tun gun $500 for adding his special additive before giving Trey his final spray.

Payback for Squealing

As Trent walked out of the club, he was aware of the little man following him out the door. This was the second place he'd gone that night where he'd noticed the little guy sitting a dozen feet away, sipping a drink, seemingly minding his own business. He'd thought nothing of it. He'd only noticed the guy because he was so damned tiny: maybe four and a half feet tall, spindly little limbs and totally bald, not even any eyebrows. About ten feet down the street Trent stopped, turned, crossed his big arms. His follower walked hunched over with weak little steps, but he stopped when Trent did. The little guy also crossed his arms. It was 3 am, and other than the thump of the bass from inside the club, there was no noise. This part of town was pretty dead at this hour. "Mr. Wood?" asked the little man in a wheezy voice. "You a fan?" Trent asked. He'd had a hell of a career as a bodybuilder back in the 90s during the heyday, and he still made a living doing guest poses and modeling for supplement companies. Trent Wood's competition days were long over, but he was still a big name in the sport. Unfortunately that carried with it the downside of a lot of creepy little fags wanting to buy some time close to his muscles. That kind of thing creeped Trent out. "Oh no," said the little man. When he stepped into the street light, Trent realized that the guy was probably in his 30s, just woefully underdeveloped and completely hairless. All night Trent had thought his creepy admirer had been a shriveled up old-timer. Maybe he had some kinda syndrome. "I'm not a fan at all. I've been sent by my employer to deal with you." "Deal with me?" Trent said, an eyebrow raised. He may have been years from stepping onstage, but he was still a gigantic freak of offseason mass with a big roid gut and a frame like a refrigerator. His sickly assailant looked to weigh about two-hundred pounds less and was no bigger than a middle-schooler. The door to the club swung open and Gunther, the head of security, stepped out to get some air. He gave Trent a nod when he noticed the straggler on the sidewalk with him. "Everything okay big guy?" Gunther asked. "Nothing I can't handle," Trent called back. His follower was now standing next to him, and Trent could barely see the little guy over the arc of his pecs. Gunther chuckled and headed back inside. The follower was staring straight up at Trent now, completely unswayed by the bodybuilder's massive size. His mouth curled up in a thin little grin revealing a dark yellow smile. Something about the little man smelled wrong--like an infected sore. Trent felt some goosebumps on the back of his neck, but otherwise didn't move an inch. "I was hired by a man named Rocco Felicitano," the little man said, and now Trent had goosebumps just about everywhere. A few years before, Trent escaped the attention of some DEA agents trying to bust him for distributing steroids by dropping the name of the main supplier. Rocco went to prison for life, but he still had serious mob connections on the outside. Trent had actually believed he'd escaped retribution--until now. Rocco Felicitano had a reputation for sadistic vengeance, and if this feeble man had really been hired by Rocco, it meant there was something Trent wasn't picking up about this situation. It meant serious trouble, too. "Hired to do what?" he said, taking effort to steady his voice. The little man just snickered, a high-pitched wheeze. "I didn't squeal on Rocco, I swear," Trent blurted out. "I am neither judge nor jury," the man said. "I'm simply out to perform a job for payment." Trent scanned the little guy for a weapon--a gun, maybe a needle, something to subdue him. His assailant raised both of his spider-thin arms, hands open. "Oh, I am truly unarmed, Mr. Wood," he said, doing a slow turn to reveal that he really didn't have anything on him. The little man's eyes slowly traveled the outline of Trent's large, bulky frame. "Certainly I don't pose a threat to a man of your stature," he croaked. "A man your size could squash me like an insect, no?" Triggered by the phrase, Trent clenched his fists. He was right, he could--and he planned on doing it sooner than later. "But you see, I am an artist with talents specific to getting rid of fellows just like you," the man said. The little man reached out slowly, his arm shaking so much Trent thought he might die from the effort, and poked Trent's massive pec with one bony finger. Trent scanned the area quickly: Gunther was inside, there was nobody on the street and an alleyway behind him. "I've had enough of this shit!" Trent roared, grabbing the little man and shoving him into the alley. He stomped after him, his whole torso flexed with rage. He felt a sharp pain in the back of his head, then vertigo like he'd just stepped off a rollercoaster. He blinked his eyes to clear them, then looked around. Somehow he was lying on his back in the alley now. He looked down to see weak, wobbly limbs. He felt tired and so tiny. Every movement felt slow, and he heard a chuckle--it chilled him to hear the sound of his own laugh coming from someone else, but as he looked up, he saw a gigantic man approaching--and he looked exactly like him! Or at least, how Trent used to look. "What--how did you--" Trent wheezed, staring up at the impossibly huge body in front of him--a body that he'd built, that used to be his. "I told you," said the man in Trent's old deep voice, "I am an artist." He grabbed Trent's fragile shoulders and hoisted him into the air. Trent thought he would be sick from the feeling of being lifted off the ground like he was nothing. He kicked out with all the strength this little body had--a pathetic effort--and then big fists that used to be his clenched around his throat. The snapping of his twig-like neck was the last thing Trent ever heard. With a sigh, the assassin set the tiny, broken body back on the ground. He examined his new form--it was massive, stronger than anything he'd ever inhabited before, and quite attractive to boot. His hand slid into his back pocket and fished out a wallet--full of cash and cards. In a few days, the withered form he preferred would have magically healed, and he could leave Trent's form behind, a lifeless shell to be found later on. They would assume he'd died from heart failure due to steroid use, and the little assassin would move on to his next victim. But until then, he thought, sliding one massive paw into his pants and feeling the massive cock that was now his, he would live as Trent Wood and have a little fun. ------------------ I cobbled this story together really quickly after rediscovering a book from my youth. The third book in the Forgotten Realms series The Cleric Quintet (Night Masks) opens on a scene where a huge warrior has his body-swapped by a weakling assassin who kills his old body, waits for it to heal, then leaves the swapped-body as an empty shell. At 16, I wasn't expecting this opening scene--nor was I expecting the several weeks of furious masturbating it coaxed out of me. I had no idea what about it had gotten me so torqued. It wasn't long before I read Big Time and started twisting off to quirky stories seven days a week, year-round. Bodyswap is a hell of a genre. My favorites, it should be obvious, are stories where a big guy gets swapped into a little body. It differs from muscle theft in that the victim doesn't just lose his size and his power, but his whole identity. Beyond being unrecognizable, there's another person running around as him, living his life, and there's nothing he can do about it. There's something spectacular about the idea that a big beast of a dude who believes in the permanence of his best qualities--his size, his strength, his ability to dominate most everyone else--gets it all snatched away, and he finds himself in a puny body that he formerly regarded as weak or insignificant. Talk about taking a guy down a peg. I wrote this story quickly to break up the monotonous formula of the first few stories in my queue--basically, big football player is made weak and helpless and bullied. They're formulaic because that's what gets me off. I'm all for creativity but what pushes my buttons is a certain sequence of things. Still, to keep my readers' interests I'll throw in a little diversity once in awhile.

Angel doesn't strike me as the kind of guy I'd normally get wet over being taken down a peg (he's not exactly the cocksure meathead I like to watch lose everything) but this kind of transformation is hot as hell.

Normally I like the victims to have a shadow of an idea of what they used to be (it makes the transformation that much more delicious) but it's interesting to imagine Angel changing, unaware of anything being wrong, while everyone else reacts to the new him.

And boy would folks react. I'd love to see the new Angel in some super-tiny pink tank top and booty shorts, grinding up on some big orc-looking demon's lap.

Angel the Twink (requested by Anonymous)

Awhile ago I posed a challenge to @absqrst--he picked a guy for me, I picked a guy for him, and each of us had to spin a tale of transformation for that dude. Wow-ee. I picked Joey Swoll--because honestly, they don't get more "cocky prettyboy musclefreak" than this guy--and look at what he spun together! I've said it before, I'll say it again: absqrst is GOOD at this game. (And might I add, welcome back buddy! We missed your fiction something fierce.)

Somebody gimme a story idea for this muscle tick: what would you like to see happen to Morgan Aste to take him down a few pegs?

Mr. O-blimpia

               Some people theorized that Kai Greene was behind what happened at the Olympia. Barred from competing this year, he certainly had the motive, and maybe some of the chemists at his supplement company could’ve cooked up the bizarre chemical. But after extensive investigations, police said that there was no evidence Kai was behind it. What they did know was that the chemical was gaseous, fed into the arena through the vents through the whole competition, finally reaching a dangerous concentration just before they revealed the top 10.

               People watched, anticipating the winners of that year’s competition, when the chemical suddenly had a visible effect. Cameras were right on Dennis Wolf when it affected him. His whole body flexed at once, but the shocked look in his eyes suggested that wasn’t an intentional display of his physique. All of a sudden, Dennis’ body began to compress, slowly getting shorter without losing any of its mass. He looked around in a panic as his fellow competitors seemed to grow around him.

               Dexter Jackson was the next. People couldn’t believe what they were seeing as the big bodybuilder’s height reduced, the rest of his dense musculature compressed into a now-shrunken frame.

               In seconds, every bodybuilder onstage was suddenly sinking toward the floor. When the changes stopped, ten men stood on stage, all around three feet tall but with every ounce of muscle still on them. They waddled around on stumped legs, tried to wave their arms, now rendered useless by their incredible thickness. Their posing trunks struggled to contain the new girth of their bulges, which bobbed and wobbled provocatively as they stumbled around on their new stumpy legs. Big Ramy got it the worst, compressed into a little meat blimp, a panicked wiggling of his fingers the only thing he could move as he slowly tipped backward and landed on his back, immobile like an upended turtle.

               The audience was silent at first, until the changes spread to them. Suddenly, every man in the room with any performance enhancing drug residue in his system felt the effects of the gas filling the arena. Big, massive bodybuilders suddenly found themselves compressed into chunky little meatplugs, limbs so thick they could barely bend. Gargantuan powerlifters squealed with their new helium-high voices as they found themselves cut down to the height of children, immobilized by their own bulk.

               Onstage, a cartoonishly proportioned Phil Heath struggled to get out of the view of the cameras. Every second of his frustrated waddle off the stage was captured, however, and went viral the next day, blasted across every sports website in existence. Pictures of Flex Lewis, squashed down to mini-fridge size, being airlifted to the hospital, his body almost a perfectly muscular sphere, giant traps and a mammoth upper chest nearly swallowing up his entire face.

               They ventilated the arena immediately, but the gaseous chemical had already done its damage. They estimated thousands of men were affected, now the height of children with bodies so thick they were considered disabled. None of them could bend their arms enough to grab a steering wheel, or even climb into a normal vehicle. The tops of most counters were now off-limits to these dwarfed musclemen, and shelves were completely out of the question. Regular-sized men regarded the squished-down musclemen with mockery and disdain. They had nothing to fear from these little guys now. All that muscle, but one good shove to the head and they’d fall to the ground and squirm like a beetle.

               Months later, neither a culprit nor a cure found, they revealed the top 10 standings and awarded a blimped-out mini Phil Heath with the title of Mr. Olympia. As he accepted it from the man twice his height, wobbling on his unsteady legs, he started to thank God and his fans when a figure stepped out from the crowd.

               “Looking thick there, Phil, but you sound like a damned chipmunk.” It was Kai, and while security approached him, Phil squeaked out that it was fine. Phil’s eyes went wide as he stared up… up… up at Kai, who had never seemed so massive to him before. “Congrats,” said Kai, holding out a hand. Phil wobbled, awkwardly contorting himself to meet the outstretched hand without toppling over.