Awhile Ago I Posed A Challenge To @absqrst--he Picked A Guy For Me, I Picked A Guy For Him, And Each

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.)

This is a story I wrote for absqrst. We each picked a story subject for the other, and Mr. Matthews was his choice for me. Hope you enjoy. WORK OF ART ----- Clay headed to the locker room after his workout, mopping sweat from his face and arms with his towel, finally able to relax after several stressful weeks. Security said they caught his stalker in the locker room, lingering around Clay's stuff. "Probably looking for souvenirs," Mac, head of security, had said, so Clay was instructed to look through his things and make sure nothing was missing. A quick survey of his locker and things looked fine. He froze when he moved the container of body wash and saw something pink underneath. "Anything out of the ordinary?" Mac asked. Clay hadn't heard him come in, was too busy trying to push past the little silky item he'd discovered in his locker. Did this up fantasize about big Clay Matthews in tiny faggy things? What kind of a fruit did this freak take him for? "Nothing," Clay lied, slamming the locker door shut. He wanted this whole mess behind him, certainly didn't want a story on ESPNews going around about this. So far he'd kept the nature of the harassment secret. He didn't need Mac running his big mouth, having to face reporters and deal with this story for as long as the Internet hecklers wanted to hold on to it. He'd get rid of the little pink panties in secret and never think of it again. For the most part Clay's fan base was pretty solid. He had his share of overzealous worshippers and of course the vehement Packers haters, but other than outbursts at games and autograph signings, he never experienced anything unsettling. But this guy was a new level of twisted. It started with pencil doodles on notebook paper, but just weeks later the freak was sending framed watercolors directly to Clay's house. Once it was a three-foot long Clay sculpture. They differed slightly but they all had the same subject: a slender, provocatively posed feminine man with long blond hair and what appeared to be Clay's face. "You are my greatest work of art," the freak wrote in letters he tucked into each package. A few times there were also little pairs of what had to be women's underwear--no man would ever wear anything that lacy or silky. Certainly no man of Clay's size could even fit one leg into them. But the caricature of Clay depicted in each picture wore underwear just like that. "No worries," Mac said. "Guy fully confessed to harassing you all this time. They're gonna nail his ass to the wall." Despite his resolve to put all this behind him, Clay couldn't help but ask: "What did the guy look like?" Mac shrugged. "Tiny. Scrawny. Voice like a twelve year old girl. I told him he was lucky you didn't catch him. You could've squashed him in one fist." "Probably would've liked that," Clay said, faking a laugh. In the shower, as he lathered up his big powerful body, Clay tried to shed the sick feeling in his stomach that the idea of that little perv drooling over him gave him. He was used to women of all types--and some men--saying some pretty X-rated stuff about what they wanted to do to him. It came with the territory: he was a big, good-looking NFL stud. But this sicko's attention felt extra wrong for some reason. As he rinsed away the lather from his body wash, he started to feel himself relaxing. By the time he was fully rinsed he felt great. He'd walked into the shower exhausted but now he felt like he could train for another four hours. His whole body was lightly tingling, and he had to chuckle as his big cock suddenly sprang to life like he was a horny teenager. "Wow," he thought, examining his massive body (and his now massive erection). Of course he had to flex his big arms. "Looks like I put stress behind me like a champ." His euphoria was disturbed for a moment when he opened his locker and saw the little pink undies sitting there all shiny in a silk pool. He shivered, then hooked them with one finger and walked them to the trashcan. That took him past a mirror, though, and he saw something as he passed that caught his eye. Something didn't look right. Still naked (except the lingerie on his finger), Clay leaned into the mirror and studied. His face looked weird--but why? A moment later he spotted it: his jaw looked different. It was narrower, his chin not as broad. But that wasn't possible, was it? Had he got hit in the face when he was working out? He ran the fingers of his free hand along his face and was stunned to watch his own facial features softening right before his eyes. Gone was his chiseled athletic profile, replaced by narrow, round features like on a little kid. He kept blinking and rubbing his eyes but the image remained the same. His own face looked unrecognizable suddenly. Before he was fully able to process this he felt a chill run from his spine throughout his extremities. He saw the changes in his arms, first, as his massive guns started to wane and soften. Not believing what he was seeing he flexed both in the mirror, stunned to see two noodles where big veiny trunks had been minutes ago. His chest slowly deflated, his shoulders sinking, he granite definition on his abs smoothing out, the mass of his legs melting away. Suddenly he felt himself sinking--but really, it was just that his limbs were compressing. He froze as the locker room grew around him and stood horrified when it was over. The man--if you could even call him that-- in the mirror looked nothing like the giant linebacker who'd just flexed in that same mirror minutes ago. His long blond hair still hung down, but it hadn't changed in length, made to look all the more feminine as it fell over his tiny frame all he way to the floor. All of his muscles had melted away, and as he slowly patted down his new form he found nothing but skin and bone; that is, except for his perky little butt. His cock and balls had shrunk like the rest of his muscles, now just a little finger above two raisins. He touched his miniaturized unit and shuddered; just the gentlest nudge gave him sensations so strong he thought he would keel over. His heart pounded in his ears... But also, somehow... In his ass? Suddenly Clay was aware of his little rump in a way he'd never been before. He was shaking, still in shock from the change, but even that little movement stirred something deep in his behind--deeper than he'd ever imagined before, a sudden hyperawareness, a crazy itch he worried he couldn't get to. Tentatively he out a hand back there, gently grazed his own crack, and moaned loudly from the sensations. He had to get help, call out for Mac or call 911, but something kept him glued to his spot. He couldn't let anyone see him like this! He was Clay Matthews, a big huge NFL linebacker! That image in his head, of himself at full height and strength, resonated in his head for several seconds. He wanted to see that in the mirror again, of course, because he wanted to be big and strong again. But in seconds that need changed: he wanted to see big Clay Matthews because he wanted to touch his big biceps. He wanted to smell those muscle pits, lick down his abs to his big cock. After that, the yearning in his little butt took over, and he imagined the big linebacker he used to be throwing him over a bench and fucking him hard. Little Clay moaned, overwhelmed by the images flooding his mind, as well as by the shrill sound of his new high-pitched squeal. He couldn't help but think of every locker room he'd ever been in. All of those big bodies and huge dicks and he'd never taken advantage of any of them. He ached with a need he'd never known. A gentle movement of air made his hard nipples tingle. He knew that this was wrong, all of this, but that knowledge was drowned out by the masculine hunger roaring through him now. His eyes fell on the pair of silky panties in his hand and he couldn't stop himself from slipping them on. As soon as he donned them he creamed himself like a woman, the part of him that hated this now barely a whisper. Of course his stalker confessed after the fact: he'd engineered the chemical in his basement and then destroyed the plans so no one would ever recreate what he'd done. Then he'd slipped it into Clay's body wash. He didn't care that they threw him in jail. Clay's new image was all over the news, and that truly was the stalker's art piece. He nearly began drooling when he watched from the prison television as the great Clay Matthews, months after his career had ended, tearfully recounting how he struggled to go on since he'd been reduced to this. Men in prison laughed at what a little flag the blonde brute had turned into. Some sat quietly, haunted by the thought that, if a tower of masculinity like Clay Matthews could be reduced to that, no man was safe. The stalker looked around gleefully, beaming with pride. And months after the story had begun to fade away, as new sports stories erased the novelty and curiosity of this weird tale, little Clay Matthews found himself in front of a camera once again, draped in the now gigantic jersey he'd once worn on the field, moaning as he took a dick at each end, all while his gorgeous blond locks fell over his dinky little body.

What Yanks My Crank

In the late 90s, on a dialup modem connecting to a fairly uncharted internet, I stumbled upon the story "Big Time" by Ty Blair, and it fired me up forever to love stories about big-guys-made-little.

At the time I didn't even know people jerked off to stories. Pics of Bob Paris in Perfettowear were the apex of my masturbation fodder, and the internet had just one-upped the steady consumption of Flex Magazines that had me burning through bottles of hand-lotion. I've been entranced by big guys of all types since I was a little guy, following my brother and his football buddies around as an annoying little satellite to the huge linemen. What I read in that story woke up something deep, deep down that I never knew I was into.

If you haven't read it (find it; it's worth it), it's about a bodybuilder whose muscles and size are stolen by a skinny little guy. The bodybuilder becomes scrawny and helpless, and the skinny guy becomes a cocky beast who abuses his little victim. I practically drooled at this scenario (my dick literally did, and then some) and couldn't wait to find more things just like this.

From there I ventured out and found a lot of cool erotic fetish fiction in the same vein. There was a ton of muscle growth, a lot of cookie cutter "nerd becomes a huge god" stories and then a smattering of really profound, sensuously detailed stories that revved me up good, but that didn't hit me in the same way. I later found macrophilia and really dug that, too, but again, it was different.

Muscle growth was fine enough because I loved muscular bodies (and with fetishes I often find more is always better--hsmusclboy and gbmorphs are great examples of that) and the accompanying power and cockiness. With macrophilia, small men became giants and big guys became small and helpless, all of which got me starry-eyed and furiously cranking, but even though a tiny bodybuilder was smaller than a dick, he still looked like a bodybuilder, despite the altered relation to his surroundings. I could never get over the idea of those big muscles, the feeling of taking up imposing amounts of space and of heavy things feeling light enough to carry, being taken away from a guy who had defined himself by them. I loved that they would still have to go through somewhat normal lives treated like strangers by their closest friends--or even better, recognized in their reduced states in a way that highlighted their new weakness--but now without the power they'd worked so hard to collect. All that is a long-winded wordy way of driving at what this tumblr's about: big guys put in weakened situations. Muscle theft is my number one fetish. I also love macrophilia, especially when it's a big cocky guy put into the reduced state. Animal transformations get me going too, when a strong sexy guy suddenly finds himself in the clumsy, dependent body of a farm animal or something small and helpless. Inanimate transformations also get me going. Through all of these, it's usually best (although done successfully otherwise, many times) if the big guy retains his own mind, either horrified by the change or aware that the new state isn't right, that he used to be big and strong and there was nothing he could do to get back there.

I've got tons of my own stories I'll feed in little by little, but I'd also like to showcase some of the stories that have rung my bell so hard it's cracked, by guys like absqrst and worldofsize. There are going to be a LOT of football players in my tales. I can't help it; there's nothing sexier than those big, powerful bodies in those pants and pads put into situations of weakness or helplessness. It's my drug. Lastly, I'm open to featuring stories that fit in this umbrella. Only requirement: you gotta make me cum. If it fires me off, I'll share it.

Let's have a ball. There's only one rule: the bigger they are, the more they gotta squirm.

Juicemonkeys (intro)

Deacon’s hand was shaking a bit as he took a pull off his coffee cup, gripping the steering wheel with the other. His brain was exhausted, still drenched in sleep, but his body was so jittery, amped from his anger. He focused a bit, steeling the nerves in his hand, and then took one more sip of his coffee before setting it back into the cup holder. He pulled into the first parking space in front of the Fitness Factory. The whole lot was empty except two other cars, and he could guess whose those were. Three in the morning was late, but there was always a consistent “late-night” crowd, a handful of people who didn’t work the 9 to 5 schedule. Deac’s best guess was that the door had been locked, and anyone approaching the doors to the 24-hour club found themselves turned away. This was something the corporate office was going to end up getting complaints about. It was just one more thing on his list. It was, however, at the bottom of his list. Locking the door just had to be done. One glance in the rearview mirror told Deac that the large coffee he’d sucked down hadn’t perked up his drooping face. He wiped his face with both hands a few times, then reexamined to find no change. He sighed deeply, his head slumping against the steering wheel. The corporate office at the Fitness Factory was always coming down on him for his “image in the eyes of subordinates.” Stomping in there still half-asleep, ready to fly off the handle because of the news he’d just gotten wasn’t going to help things. He took a deep breath. Derek would be working, and Deac reminded himself that Derek was a hard-worker and a trusted assistant. There was no reason to blow up at him. HE certainly had nothing to do with what happened. He took a deep breath, reminding himself, “Whatever happens, I will work through it,” and stepped out of the car. It had begun sprinkling lightly, and he closed his eyes and stared upward, hoping it would refresh him a bit. It didn’t. When he opened his eyes, he noticed the “O” in the “Fitness Factory” sign was blinking. “I just had that fixed two months ago!” Deac thought, shaking his head. The night’s to-do list kept getting longer and loner. An orange light blinked next to the card-scanner by the front door, meaning restricted access, just as Deac had guessed. Nobody was there, so Deac could take a little time in cleaning up this mess. He swiped his card and walked in. The front area of the gym was completely empty, nobody even at the front desk. Even the music had been turned off, which was strange, but Deac was guessing that was Derek’s work. Nobody was there, so the music was unnecessary, and Derek knew that Deac liked the quiet when he was stressed out. He walked through the main gym area to the more private area in the back, the “Extreme Training Zone.” As Deac walked through the swinging double doors into the ETZ he saw Derek working behind his desk. Derek wasn’t that tall, maybe 5’9, but he’d spent the past 12 years of his life packing muscle onto his frame, for football, then a short competitive bodybuilder career, and then just because he liked it. Since he’d started working for Deac he’d blown up like a tick, his muscles swelling to huge, bloated proportions. Only the upper third of him extended above the desk, but his huge, mammoth pecs strained the fabric on his Fitness Factory shirt, his hard nipples poking out. His arms hung out at an angle from his body, pushed out by his thick, protruding lats, and looked like two regular men’s legs, straining the seams on the sleeves. He had jet black hair and cool, crystal blue eyes, but his head looked very small between the big, thick shoulders that sloped out and down. The corporate offices had mandated that Derek only be allowed to work out back, in the ETZ, having to use the loading dock to come and go. Derek, who was always in fairly good spirits, took it as a compliment. Many people considered him a freak, but he’d worked hard to become a freak. Deac, on the other hand, thought he was perfect. “So,” Deac began, walking up and extending his hand. Derek’s huge, thick hand surrounded his as they shook. “Tell me what happened.” “Well,” Derek said, closing the folder in his hands and setting it on the desk, “he came in to lift. He was the only one here, thank god. Everything was pretty standard. Workout went pretty good, then he headed for the locker room. I just happened to need to piss at that point, and I headed back there and… there he was.” Deac shook his head. He kept trying to remind himself that this could’ve been worse. “I just don’t get it,” he said, his voice reflecting just a hint of ire. “Joe, of all of them… I mean, I chose him for a reason, and he didn’t give us any indication…” Deac shook his head, beginning to pace. “I would’ve understood some of the others, but… this just baffles me!” Deac stopped pacing and took a deep breath. He was starting to do exactly what the corporation had warned him many times about. Derek stared at him, his face expressionless, and Deac couldn’t help but examine the young man’s facial features. His jaw was so strong and square, his cheekbones so solid. Everything about his face was so thick and angular, but everything below his chin was so… round and massive. Such an odd, but beautiful, contrast, Deac thought. “What’s the status on the situation?” Deac asked. “I left everything exactly as I found it,” Derek said, motioning toward the locker room. “And the ‘situation’ has been contained, but not taken care of.” “Thank you, Derek,” Deac said, fighting against the knot in his throat to be able to smile. He started toward the locker room, ready to deal with what he was about to see. “I need you to pull up Joe’s file and go through the information coded Red. Set that into motion while I take care of what’s in here.” “Already begun, Deac,” Derek said. Deacon gave Derek the thumbs-up as he pushed his way into the locker room. Deac took a careful step into the locker room and took in the whole scene. Most people would just see a towel, some gym clothes, some guy’s cell phone, left around by some lazy kid. But Deac knew better. Just glancing around he could feel the scene playing out in his head with every detail he took in. Breathing in, he found he could still SMELL Joe. As Deac approached Joe’s open locker, he took a moment to close his eyes and breathed DEEPLY. The scent was overwhelming, and he recognized it immediately as Axe body spray, sweat and Joe’s unique odor. With some of the guys, Deac had become so familiar that he could walk into a room after two had left and identify which two of his men had just been there. Deac took a peek into the open locker and found a photo taped inside. “Joe, you’re 26. You’re not in high school,” Deac said in a patronizing tone as he peeled the photo off the door. Joe and a very pretty girl filled up the whole frame, Joe’s huge arms wrapping around the girl, Joe kissing the top of her head while she nestled into his huge body. Did Joe have a girlfriend? “I was unaware of this,” Deac said, nearly losing his calm for a moment before he took a deep breath and relaxed again, returning to the picture. For a moment, Deac felt himself getting lost in Joe’s photo, looking at the way Joe’s goofy adorable ears stuck out, his strong jaw, his dimples, his bright eyes. He always loved the way Joe’s thick neck slammed right into his huge traps. There were times when Deac had wanted to take a tape measure, find out the distance between each of Joe’s wide shoulders. He laughed as he stared at the photo. “Wouldn’t be that hard anymore, or impressive.” In the locker he found Joe’s lifting gloves, a pair of wrist-wraps, a tape measure… and a preloaded syringe, the plunger-lock still in place. Deac examined the syringe, the chamber full of light brown oil. That damned needle was responsible for all of this mess, in a way. Deac also found a couple of cans of Endo-rush, a stick of deodorant and a can of Axe. Deac sprayed the Axe right in front of him, pumping the air full of Joe again. He shivered as he inhaled, feeling a stirring in his pants. His skin almost felt like it was tingling. For a moment, he was almost enjoying himself, basking in Joe, until he noticed again the one object in the room that hadn’t belonged to Joe, a small black box covered in a black silk cloth, sitting at the end of the bench. Reminded again what he was doing, he cleared his head and went back to examining the scene. Joe was probably giving himself a quick shot of Axe, Deac envisioned, slapping on some pit-stick before heading out the visit the lady. He probably figured she’d complain about the sweatiness, but would still be a little turned on as long as he didn’t stink too bad. He was probably setting the can of Axe back in the locker when he felt something, like a million tiny needles all over his body, and it probably caused him to pause, catch his breath. Deac knelt, finding Joe’s size 14 right shoe turned on his side. It was empty, the right one. Joe’d probably felt dizzy, and when the sensations didn’t abate immediately, he stepped backward, placed one hand on the locker, suddenly realizing that when his foot moved, his sneaker hadn’t! His foot had just slipped effortlessly out of his tightly laced sneaker. Turning around, Deac found the left shoe, with a sock in it, next to Joe’s right sock. He picked up Joe’s right sock and sniffed--MAN did that foot stink! Despite himself, Deac took another sniff before moving on. Joe had probably, at that point, begun to wonder what was going on, his vision switching from focused to unfocused, his mind barely able to comprehend what was happening. My shoes fell off? Hunh? Deac imagined him thinking, his mind not equipped to figure out just what was happening to him. The room probably looked slightly different to him at this point, but Joe probably couldn’t put his finger on it, just that he was suddenly barefoot and he hadn’t planned it. About a foot away from the lockers, Deac found Joe’s gym-shorts. As he picked them up, he found Joe’s blue boxer-briefs still inside. Deac clutched the clothes tightly in his hands and raised them to his face, inhaling the most manly of Joe’s scents, imagining that a portion of Joe’s testosterone had traveled in the sweat from his balls into the fabric, and now Deac was absorbing it into his own body. Deac imagined that after a moment, the tingling sensation had probably begun to grow stronger for Joe, and in a panic, he headed for the door--until his shorts slipped easily off. He probably tried to catch them and hold them up until he found himself stumbling around in the mess. At this point he had probably gathered that the bench was now only a few inches lower than he was tall, and that it was now several more feet across. The room was taking on different proportions to him at this point, too, seeming now more like a spacious gymnasium than a mere locker room. As Joe stood there, trying to figure out why his shorts and boxers wouldn’t stay up, the mesh material probably slipped through his dwindling fingers, and big Joe found himself standing there wearing his cutoff tee like a night-shirt, his arms and necks nowhere near filling the holes they poked out of. Deac walked to the door and yanked up Joe’s XXL workout tee, the sleeves roughly cut off. He held it up, remembering just how huge Joe used to be, his 6’5” hulking form casting an imposing shadow on everyone. Despite his size, Joe had never been a mean guy. He was firm with his opinions, and rarely did people disagree with him, intimidated by his imposing form and his strong, deep voice, but he was generally good-natured and very loyal and honest. Generally, Deac thought, shaking his head. Joe had probably realized, starting to drown in his shirt, that time was a factor, and he started heading for the door as quickly as possible. Deac imagined, for a moment, Joe’s huge, athletic body sprinting desperately, a determined look on his face, as the over-sized looking bright red t-shirt, still soaked with sweat on the sides, grew larger and larger around him. Then, before he ever made it to the door, Joe probably tripped, and suddenly was surrounded in what looked like a collapsing red tent. He probably lay there for awhile, trying to take in the new perspective, covered in red fabric AND lying on red fabric. From the outside, he was just an oddly shaped little bump in the fabric, almost human shaped except way lumpier. Joe probably took a moment, trying to dig this way and that, struggling to find “outside.” Maybe he finally reached the sleeve, recognized the sloppily cut edges as he climbed out, a lump in his throat as he tried to doubt what his eyes were telling him. Then he probably stepped out, looked around. The first thing he probably saw was the door, Deac thought. It was his goal, what he’d been racing for, and he’d made it, but the handle now seemed a thousand feet away. Joe probably stood there, momentarily ashamed to be naked, but overwhelmed by the immenseness of his surroundings. It probably seemed that there was no longer anything his size, everything was huge. Even the tiles on the floor were wider than he was tall. Then, Deac thought, Joe probably made a realization. This world may have looked alien and foreign, completely out of sync with himself now, but it was still the locker room, and it still worked the way it always had. Someone, Joe probably thought, could come in at any moment. Joe probably looked at the door, picturing it swinging into him, smashing him against the wall, the person responsible not even aware that he’d just squashed a little 6’ man. Even worse, Joe probably imagined, would be a single sneaker coming down on him, the owner not expecting a tiny little bodybuilder to be in the way. Joe probably cringed, panicked, and searched for an alternative. Deac returned to the bench and looked down, seeing Joe’s cell phone, open, sitting on his blue towel. Joe probably turned to the bench, seeing his towel, now the size of a football field, hanging some feet above the floor. He probably sprinted to it, his naked shame quickly overwhelmed by his need for survival, and then leapt with all of his might for the hanging blue tendrils. Deac imagined Joe missing the first time, his huge pecs smashing against the hard tile floor, knocking the wind out of him. He probably rolled over, in pain, frustrated, maybe even whimpering a bit, and stared up at the bench above him. Deac pictured Joe backing up again, this time running with twice the fury, leaping up and finally snatching the furry blue fabric, gripping it with all his might. From there, Deac picture, it was all upper-body, hand over hand, as he climbed up the gigantic blue towel, his 6’ inch body causing it to sway back and forth. Any normal man would’ve failed, and even for an immensely strong beast of a man like Joe it was probably a Herculean feat. When he got to the top, Joe probably collapsed, his muscles feeling turned to lead, rolling around in pain and exhaustion, almost blacking out. Then he stood, slowly approaching the goal: his cell phone. It was usually something he kept in his pocket, an almost insignificant weight, but now Joe probably found it to be almost as big as he was. His arms still twitching from his climb up the towel, Deac imagined Joe rubbing his hands together, grabbing on to the cell phone and trying to pry the two halves open. Deac smiled as he put together the scene, his own hand rubbing over the towel where the struggle had probably happened. He pictured Joe’s clenched teeth, his bulging eyes, his face turning red, his neck doubling in thickness and tripling in veininess, his arms pumped to double their size, his whole body shaking and then… it moved, the two halves opened with a loud snap. Again, Joe probably collapsed, exhausted, suddenly shocked, Deac imagined, to find himself resting on keys the size of road signs. He probably, Deac imagined, thought for a moment, wondering who to call. His girlfriend maybe? No, Deac didn’t think Joe would want her to see him like this, a 6 inch man in need of help. The front desk? Perhaps get Derek to come save him? But as Deac looked at the cell phone, which was still on and still left on the number Joe was trying to call, he found the answer: “Walter,” Deac said with a grin, “your best friend. How cute. You almost made it, Joe.” Joe probably got Walter’s number entered and was about to reach for the TALK key, Deac imagined with a grin, when he felt an unbelievable rush in the air, and a huge shadow cast over him, something blotting out all the light. In shock at the sudden eclipse, Joe probably spun around for a moment, seeing an unbelievable mountain of man as Derek reached down to apprehend him. Deac pictured Derek’s sausage fingers wrapping around Joe’s tiny (but still thick, for his size) body, the bulky little appendages failing but not enough to elicit any reaction from his captor. With a deep breath, Deacon turned his attention to the black box. With his thumb and forefinger, he gently gripped the black silk cloth, hesitating slightly. Up until that moment he’d been just imagining things, but he knew that the minute he pulled away that cloth, what existed only in his fantasies would suddenly become reality. With one tug the cloth fell aside, and then he saw it. The black-tinted cube was about a foot on each side, and while it was dark it was still translucent. Inside Deac could see the tiny form, standing there, not moving. Deac picked up the black box and stared into it. His hands against the glass were bigger than the little man inside, and it almost made him smile. He pulled his face close, and saw Joe standing there, naked, shaking. He was probably making up his mind, whether to react with rage or to beg, maybe just terrified at what Deac could possibly be doing there. It was funny, Deac thought, that Joe had all the same parts, all the same size in proportion to one another. His neck was still amazingly thick, his shoulders still broad and heavily muscled, but gazing in at him, they didn’t seem huge, impressive, imposing anymore. Now Joe just looked like a little pet. All of that size and thickness seemed to be neutralized now that he was smaller than Deac’s face. Deac took a look at Joe’s penis, hanging impressively between his legs. He’d always wondered what that had looked like. Deac made eye contact with Joe, took in the beautiful little face, the adorable ears, but the look of despair and anger made it hard to see Joe’s beauty. Deac set the box down and undid the latch at the top. The box was soundproof but not airtight, so Joe could breathe but his insignificant little thoughts would not be heard. Flipping the top open, Deac just stared down at Joe, hands on his hips. Joe craned his neck to take in all of Deac, clenching and unclenching his fists. Then, the little man finally reacted. “You… You did this to me!” he squeaked. Joe’s loud, booming voice had reduced along with his stature. It was pure physics, smaller vocal chords will produce a more slight, higher pitched noise. Every time Deac heard a big meathead open his new tiny mouth, though, it always surprised him. But still, the question troubled him, and Deac had to respond. “Me, Joe?” Deac began. “ME? I did not do this, Joe. You did this to yourself. I’ll never understand why, and I don’t want you to explain. I can guess.” He reached up to the locker and pulled down the picture. “Is this her? The girlfriend you never mention? She’s the cause of this, isn’t she?” Joe stared up, his eyes narrowing, his jaw clenching in pain as he stared at the photo, now a giant billboard above him. “It’s always a girlfriend, Joe,” Deac said, tearing the picture carefully in half, separating the part of Joe from the part with his girl. “If you’d just told me we could’ve worked something out, but what’s done is done.” Deac slowly, cruelly crumpled the torn photo of Joe’s girlfriend into a ball right in front of the tiny man. “And now, just so you know, she’ll never know where you went. You’ll be gone, and she’ll be heartbroken for weeks, maybe months. Every time her phone rings she’ll hope it’s you. She’ll wake up in the middle of the night, thinking you’ve come home to her. But you never ever will and she’ll never know why. She’ll probably blame herself.” Deac tossed the crumpled photo into the garbage. “She’ll find somebody else, though. Maybe Walter will step up into your shoes. Maybe some skinny little asshole who’ll treat her like dirt, cheat on her, slap her around, but she’ll cling to him because she’s too afraid of being left alone like you did to her.” Deac took a look down. Joe had turned away, his legs were trembling, one fist held up against his mouth. “Don’t worry, little Joe, it’s better this way,” said Deac, banging on the top of the box to get Joe’s attention. “She wouldn’t want a six inch man. No woman ever would.” He held Joe’s half of the photo down next to Joe. It was bigger than he was now. Joe stared at it, overwhelmed. He turned away, but Deac reached down and turned him back. That was the first time Deac’s fingers touched Joe’s dense little body. The feel of the solid, meaty, manly flesh being casually manipulated under his fingertips was amazing. It was electric. And he wanted more. But unfortunately, he knew he couldn’t have more. He had a job to do. “I was going to make you the strongest, most powerful man in the world,” Deac said, lifting Joe’s photo out of the box and staring at it, remembering “the old Joe.” “You could’ve had whatever you wanted. Men would’ve trembled in your wake. Women would’ve been unable to resist your commands. It would’ve been amazing, Joe. But you had to listen to some silly little girl. And you’ll regret that mistake for the rest of your life.” Joe had begun crying, although he was trying to hold it back. Deac could tell, even though he wasn’t close, Joe’s eyes had become red, tiny streams of liquid were pouring out of each side, his chest heaving, his dick bobbing with each heave. “Take a look,” Deac said turning the photo back at Joe. “That’s the last image of your smiling face you’ll ever see. You’ll forget it after awhile, forget about your old life. And you’ll just wish for your new life to end.” Or, Deac said, considering an option he didn’t want to present, perhaps Joe would be so perverted and twisted by the ordeal that he’ll be brainwashed into thinking he loves it. That’s a rarity, but it would be interesting to see what kind of Joe that would produce. Deac lifted up the box and Joe stumbled back and forth, trying to maintain his stance. Deac couldn’t help laughing. “Your life’s already different. You used to be the most imposing beast of a man around. Now look at you! Any man could smack you around with just his hands!” To illustrate the point, Deac shook the box vigorously from side to side. Joe went flying from wall to wall like a ping-pong, finally collapsing on the ground. The Mini-Boxes that corporate gave them were designed to be impact-resistant. To Joe, it had felt like he was being slammed into foam rubber. The point, however, was to show the tiny man inside the box his vulnerability without harming him physically, and Deac had done just that. “Good luck, Joe, nice knowing you!” Deac said, setting the box down. He slammed the lid shot and locked the latch. He could see (but couldn’t hear) Joe frantically protesting within. He couldn’t tell if Joe was shouting hurtful obscenities or begging to be restored to normal, but Deac didn’t care. He had so much work to do, it was time to forget all about Joe Parotti and move on with things. He dropped the black silk cloth over the box and headed back out to the ETZ. Derek, seeing Deac carrying the box, grinned. “You have some fun with him?” Derek asked, a dopey grin on his face. Deac just smiled. “Now now, you realize we’ve got a job to do. This little thing’s gotta get couriered to corporate, and we need to take care of a few other things. Derek absentmindedly scratched his bulging pec as he nodded. Deac tried to keep his eyes on Derek’s face. “His car’s all taken care of, it’s gone, no witnesses.” “Great,” Deac said, heading for his office. “Plus, I already talked to Walter with the voice-masker.” Deac paused, turning around. “How’d it go?” “Great,” Derek said, “these new voice-maskers corporate sent work perfectly. He really believed I was Joe! He was pissed, but he bought it. So that’s all taken care of.” Deac held the box under one arm as he dug out his card-key again, swiping it to open his private office. He turned around backwards and pushed the door with his butt to open it, carrying the big black box with both hands. “One thing though,” Derek began, “Walter mentioned something about a girlfriend. There’s no mention on the Red coded info of what to do with any girlfriend. I’ve got Walter, his mom, his landlord…” “Forget about it,” Deac said, just shaking his head with a smile. “I found out about the girlfriend too, but let’s just leave her in the dark on this, okay?” Derek shook his head for a moment. “Poor Joe, hunh?” Deac exhaled loudly through his nostrils. “No, Derek, NOT 'poor Joe.' He made his decision, and it was the wrong one, and now that’s over. In reality, my big associate, we should be saying, ‘Poor us,’ because we’ve got a lot of work to do tonight, and in the next week to make up for Joe’s absence.” “Are we gonna change the plan?” Derek asked. Deac stopped, then shook his head. “The plan’s going to continue exactly as it would’ve, period. Leave the rest to me, just keep doing what we’re doing, understood?” Derek nodded. Deac smiled, backed into his office with his prize and let the door slam shut behind him. *end of introduction*

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)

Big Barney's Bouncer Blues

It was only 8 o'clock and Barney already had a potential brawl in the bar that he's got to diffuse. As he rushed inside, wedging his barrel-shaped body through the clusters of drunk college kids, it dawned on him that this scuffle might be his own fault. Barney was the head bouncer at the Draft, where entitled kids with heir dads' credit cards drank $1 well drinks until they couldn't even stand. He worked the front door, maintained the line outside, and ID'd the little shitheads as they came in. "I take shits bigger than these fuckers," Barney often thought as he compared his bulky powerlifting frame to the bony kids in skinny jeans walking in and stumbling out. That night Barney saw Craig Oxfelter, the star left tackle of the university team, approach the front door with his hot little blond girlfriend. Of all these little runts, Ox, as Barney called him, was the only one he can respect. He was 325 lbs of shaven-headed athletic steel, and at 6' 6" tall, towered over his peers. Even Barney felt a little tinge of intimidation when he shook Ox's big bearpaws. On top of being an absolute beast, Ox was polite and respectful, even though he could fold most of these kids (and, to be honest, Barney himself too) in half with little effort. So Barney waved Ox and his sweet little girl over and let them cut the line. "Thanks Bar," Ox said with a massive fist bump. Of course, this little blonde-haired fratkid, acting like he had big arms in a size S tank top, had something to say. "What the fuck is this? Big fucking caveman gets to cut the line but we gotta wait?" Barney knew the kid's name: Clifford York the third. He'd tossed him and his two little lackeys Ben and Paul, who were at that moment rallying to their buddy's side in their equally unimpressive tank tops, out of the bar a handful of times before. "Easy little guy," Barney said to Clifford as Ox and his girl strode into the bar. "When you're the big man you can call the shots, got it?" The three frat boys roiled a little to themselves but seemed to get over it. Until later, when the bouncer Barney called Hawkeye (because nothing ever escaped him) saw the three frat boys confronting Ox near the dance floor. Ox and Clifford were chest to chest (or rather, chest to stomach, since Ox towered over his opponent) when Barney got there so he immediately put his brawny body between them. It was a rare sight, Ox moving toward violence off the field. Normally he was a peaceful giant everybody loved, or at least knew better than to screw with. "I'm getting real sick of having to toss you guys out of here," Barney said to Clifford and his sidekicks. "That's bullshit. You automatically side with the big mongoloid?" chirped Clifford. Guys like him, who did crunches and curls and called it a day, loved to mouth off to bigger dudes. If the big dude walks away he's a pussy. If he swings he's a bully. Barney was tired of little fucks like him, but since he was on the clock, he decided to be diplomatic. Turning to Ox (and a little worried, because Ox was barely putting any force in and Barney still had trouble holding him back), "You don't want this, Ox. You've got too much going for you. And they don't want this either, big man," Barney said, thumbing at the three underfed guys behind him and eyeing up the big bald lineman, who was big and solid as a brick wall. "They know you'd squash these fuckers with one hand!" "I'd like to see him try!" Cliff shouted. He reminded Barney of a little yippy dog. "Me and my boys would cream that dumb ape." Barney tried to surpress a smirk. "C'mon, Bar, they've been heckling me since we came in, harassing my girl," Ox rumbled in his deep voice. "You're better than these little pipsqueaks," Barney said. "Just head to the bar and grab a drink for yourself and your lady, on me, and ignore these Mosquitos." Ox shook his head, grabbed his girl's hand and headed to the bar. Then Barney turned to the frat trio. "You guys start any more trouble in my bar and I'm banning you for good." Clifford leaned forward to retort, but his buddy Ben grabbed him and whispered something in his ear. Then all three of them got these shit-eating grins that made Barney want to knock them all out right there. But then they bowed their heads and dispersed back into the crowd. "No more troubles in the bar," Clifford said in his weaselly voice. Back at the front door, Hawkeye spotted some kids drinking smuggled beers in the line about twenty people back. Hawkeye was a sturdy kid, but Barney decided to handle it. He was roughly the size of a refrigerator with the kind of size only a lifetime of heavy deadlifting can build. He easily yanked the beers away from the punks and one-handed them each into the street. As he returned to his post, Hawkeye looked panicked. "I just saw Ox follow those three punks out the side door to the alley!" he blurted out. Barney darted around the building to the alley, hoping he got there in time to stop Ox from turning those guys into three messy stains on the wall. The alley was foggy for some reason (fucking kids and their vapeing), and dark (because Mel, the owner, was too cheap to buy a lightbulb for back there) but as the fog cleared, Barney saw the three frat guys, completely unharmed. Ox was nowhere to be found. "You punks come out here to fight?" Barney said, looking around for the massive lineman. "Just to talk," Clifford said with a smarmy look on his face. "And the big meathead decided he was headed home." The story didn't add up, but nothing about this scene did. "All right, back inside. I'm seriously on my last nerve with you guys." He let them back in through the back door. Before he left the alley Barney heard something weird--a high-pitched moaning from behind the alley dumpster. Sure enough, leaned up against the wall back there was a tiny little bald kid, completely wasted. With a deep sigh, Barney hoisted the kid to his feet. He was light as a feather, couldn't weigh more than 90 lbs, 5 feet tall if he was lucky. Barney chuckled when the kid's sleeve fell back to reveal a tribal tattoo that looked ridiculous on his bony arm. "Kids think they can just buy their badassness. Too lazy to lift up a damned weight." When he got a good look at the shrimp, stumbling on unsteady legs, he worried that they'd served a minor, but it was just a really small, underdeveloped guy. Barney didn't remember seeing the kid come through the front door, but then again he was so small he might have just slipped by. The shrimp was completely obliterated, no doubt because a guy that size would be wasted on only a couple of beers. "Can't drink like the big fellas, can ya little guy?" Barney chided. He really was tired of picking up after little punks who didn't know their limits. The shrimp tried to focus his eyes. "Baaaarrrrrr..." he moaned, his voice so high Barney doubted he kid's testicles had dropped yet. "No more Bar for you little guy," Barney said, hoisting the shrimp over his shoulder and walking him out to the front. Sure enough, the night remained interesting: Hawkeye had seen the frat trio again harassing Ox's girlfriend, but Ox was nowhere in sight. "I'll deal with them," Barney said. "You take this little guy and get him in a cab and out of my sight." He handed the shrimp over to Hawkeye like he was nothing. When Barney saw Clifford getting grabby with Ox's girl, he took great pleasure in grabbing Clifford by his pencil neck and hoisting him into the air, marching him out the front door. He swung wildly but his Barney barely registered the struggle, or the protests of Clifford's little lackeys. Barney tossed Clifford on the sidewalk. "As long as you see me at this front door I don't ever want you coming back!" Barney declared. A small crowd gathered around to see. Clifford hopped to his feet and Barney hoped he would throw a punch. He couldn't wait to waste the kid. But Clifford's two buddies grabbed him, again whispering in his ear, and the fight left Clifford's body. He dusted himself off and confidently walked away. As they passed Hawkeye, Clifford stopped to point at the shrimp, who was propped up against the building and barely coherent. The shrimp lunged at the three but Hawkeye easily caught him and pulled him back--a mercy move; even if he'd been stone sober, the frat guys would have easily wasted the little pipsqueak. Barney was thrilled to see the three disappear around the corner. "I've got a cab coming," Hawkeye said, steadying the shrimp with one hand. "Thing is, the address this kid's giving me is the football house. No way does he live there." "Doesn't matter," Barney said. "I'm tired of looking at him." Ox's girlfriend stopped to thank Barney on her way out the door. "Where's your boyfriend?" Barney asked. "He left like an idiot to fight those punks and never came back," she said. "I'm kind of pissed at him." Suddenly, for some reason, the shrimp whimpered and reached out for her. Poor guy was struggled to get even a single word out but was too wasted to do even that. "You know this kid?" Barney asked. She backed away with a look of disgust on her face. "Never seen him before in my life." As she walked away, Hawkeye threw the shrimp in a cab. He held one skinny arm out the window as it pulled away like he was reaching for her. "What a creep," Barney said, happy to finally have all of this college kid nonsense resolved with his night almost over. "I'd hate to be him when he wakes up tomorrow." The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and Barney was thrilled to finally punch out and head home. Tomorrow was a big squat day, and he had to be up early. Still, the night kind of felt unresolved. In the parking lot Barney spotted the trio again and his adrenaline surged. Clifford was leaning against his car! Now that he was off the clock, with no witnesses, he couldn't wait to put these punks away. "I'm giving you one warning to step away from my car, and I'm really hoping you choose to ignore it." Barney walked slowly now, swinging his huge arms to emphasize his bulk. He couldn't wait to cream these fuckers. "I tell ya what," Clifford said without moving a muscle. "You move me from this spot and we'll all take off, and you'll never have to see any of us again." Barney snorted. He grabbed a handful of Clifford's shirt, noticing that the two sidekicks had moved in to flank him. But before he could do anything further, all three started to chant in some weird language--like Latin played backwards or something. Just the sound of the words made Barney's head hurt and shocked him breathless. Suddenly a thick fog rolled in around him, so dense Barney couldn't see anything. As it slowly dissipated, Barney was shocked to see Clifford, whose shirt he still held in his hand, had gotten huge somehow! Barney was staring up at him--and, he realized in a panic, the two others behind him! He let go of Clifford and stumbled back, disoriented. Then he noticed it wasn't just the frat guys: his car, all the other cars, the whole parking lot had gotten bigger somehow. Then he looked down and saw an unfamiliar body. Since he was a teen his bulk had impeded his view of the ground, but now his body was narrow and spindly. His clothes had shrunk to accommodate his new body, now the size of a ten year old. "What? How?" Barney squeaked in his new body's voice, a pit in his stomach that grew with Clifford's widening smile. "A little fraternity magic. A trick we use to get rid of our enemies. So come on, big man. The deal still stands. Move me and we'll leave." Clifford's flunkies each grabbed one of Barney's scrawny arms, holding him easily. Little Barney audibly pissed his pants and the three fratboys keeled over with laughter.