Bigger, Stronger, Every Single Day.

Bigger, stronger, every single day.

He broke PRs every time he picked up a bar, his body swelling like bread dough while he slept.

He didn't know it, but soon he'd be an immobile pile of flesh, wiggling fingers and toes, his panicked eyes just poking up over his swollen pecs and traps.

all of your shrinking stories are seriously amazing, i'm a big (get it?! haha) fan! hope you write more soon!

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Just Desserts

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

               “Let me go!” Brent squeaked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MaxiTest 2000

               Weeks later, after it was too late, they tracked down the source: a shipment of MaxiTest 2000 aerosol cans delivered to the supplement shop inside Global Gym. The new test booster was designed to be administered as an inhalant, but there was a flaw in one large batch of the container that caused a slow leak. Global Gym’s massive order of MaxiTest (nearly five hundred cans) slowly spread through the ventilation system the day it was delivered, dispersed throughout the gym before the packages were even opened. They were shelved empty, and unbeknownst to the staff or the clientele, nearly everyone on the premises had absorbed a massive dose of the product within a day.

               Most people were only exposed for a couple of hours, and so the effects weren’t that noticeable. I just did thirty minutes of cardio that day, so I got barely any of it. The guys hit the hardest were the guys who worked there and the trainers, some of whom spent over twelve hours with clients, absorbing MaxiTest with every breath.

               Of course, at first nobody noticed a thing, except the few angry customers who returned their empty cans of MaxiTest 2000. The entire shipment was sent back, and the company issued a recall after the complaints, but nobody knew what effect the leaked product would have.

               The first thing I noticed was Tony, the pro physique competitor, swinging his plumped up arms around even wider lats. He was never as big as the bodybuilders, always near competition shape with perfect aesthetics, but now his whole body had a fuller look to it, even his face, his dark Italian features now spread over a wide blocky head set upon now bulky traps that swallowed up his neck. He still strutted around with his usual cockiness, but his body looked like it’d been inflated with an air hose. Most noticeable was his ass, which, in compression shorts, now bulged obscenely out from his body, bouncing like two huge balloons with ever step. His ripped abdomen had swollen out as well, still ripped and veiny but now thick, almost as wide as his blocky shoulders and bowed out like a turtle-shell. He was obviously uncomfortable with the sudden burst of mass, knocking people with the mass of his huge buttocks and finding severe reduction of his range of motion. Twice I saw him tumble sideways while doing walking lunges, struggling to accommodate his blown-out thighs in his new gait as well as his wider top-half.

               Tony wasn’t alone, either. Rick, the young guy who worked the front desk, spent all day trying to yank his t-shirt down as his doubly-wide shoulders pulled it away from his shorts. At one point I watched him reach for a dropped pen from the floor; his shirt split down the back. Red-faced, he tried to shrug it off, but obviously the normally fit-but-lanky kid had an extra thirty or so pounds on him. Mario, another Global Gym employee and a big beefy bull before the MaxiTest leak, kept having to turn sideways to fit behind the desk. After a couple weeks he’d swollen to the size of a commercial fridge, filling out even his triple XL shirts. He stood in front of the front desk, nodding as people walked in the door. It was clear he could no longer fit behind it; it looked to me like he couldn’t clap his hands if he wanted to.

               The size just kept coming for a lot of those guys. A big powerlifter named Andreas just stopped showing up one day. I’d watched him the weeks before he disappeared swelling like bread-dough, setting new PRs every day but unable to tie his own shoes. The last day I saw him struggling to squeeze his bulk into his car, and watched him frustrated behind the steering wheel which looked crushed by his swollen gut, his arm and shoulder hanging out the window. Then there was Paul, a pro bodybuilder in his 40s who stood about 5’2”. After awhile he could only get around by wobbling from side-to-side. He kept training clients, though, barking out, “More reps!” while he stood there, a little cube of solid muscle with a crew-cut on top.

               It was what happened to Robbie that got the authorities involved and started the investigation. We all knew something was up, but most guys, like I did, assumed these big muscleheads had just gone overboard with the juice. The guys who were most exposed, nervous about what was happening to their rapidly overswollen bodies, were too nervous to talk to anybody about it, and most were terrified that it wasn’t going to stop. But Robbie, the massive superheavyweight who had just won his pro-card two days before the leak, had the most miraculous change of anyone. Most of the other guys expanded outward with their new mass, but Robbie, who was in contest shape, just got bigger but maintained his leanness. It was almost beautiful watching him show up to train his own clients every day looking like an exaggerated anatomy chart. But one day it went to far.

               I was the one who found him. It was almost closing time, the gym nearly empty. I was headed into the showers and I saw something through the steam. It looked as big as a car, almost spreading from one side of the open shower room to the other. The big lug stood there, faced away from me, arms and legs splayed out like he was a big broad X, each limb about as thick as Paul. His head looked comically tiny on his body, which, as I got closer and could see through the steam, I got a better look at: every muscle on his body had expanded to massive size and density. Even the minor stabilizers would put most guys’ biceps to shame with their size and the perfection of their shape. But all together, he was a splendid display of musculature the size of a small sedan, his ass alone bigger than the bumper on an SUV but covered in veiny skin the thickness of that of a dick. I just stood there marveling, imagining that I could only hug around a third of him if I even dared to get so close. I was shocked out of my trance when I realized the unbelievable hulk was whimpering!

               “Who’s… who’s there?” he sniveled, unable to turn his head to look. He’d turned on two showerheads, probably trying to get as much of his mass wet at once as he possibly could before he expanded those last few inches into immobility. I shut each of them off with a squeak as I nervously walked around to the front of this unbelievable naked man, and as I was naked myself, I struggled to keep my arousal hidden as well. Just the smell of him, like an entire NFL locker room exuding from a single massive man, had me hazy with desire, but I put it aside when I saw the terrified look on his face.

               It was clear he’d been crying, but amazingly the muscles on his head had grown as well, nearly squeezing his eyes and mouth shut with their size, only adding to his panic. It was a far cry from the lantern-jawed blue-eyed Clark Kent I’d always seen him as. His pecs expanded into a shelf at least three feet from his face, and I doubted he could see his nipples, let alone his feet. His abs were the size of gold bars, but I could barely keep my eyes on them because of the massive appendage below them: his cock, which I couldn’t help but compare to my own leg, in length and girth, stood rigid above two football-sized testicles that swung gently in front of him, pressed forward by the six-feet of quads that spread densely on either side. I couldn’t believe he was erect—and throbbing! I kept reminding myself, this man needed my help, he was terrified… but my brain was smoldering with the pure sex of the situation.

               “I need… I think I need help…” Robbie whimpered out his bulky cheeks. “I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this…” I could see his fingers and toes gently wiggling and I wondered if he was able to move otherwise.

               “How much can you… move…” I said, trying to fathom what I could possibly do to help this man out of the predicament.

               “I can’t… not at all… please help…” he begged. Suddenly emboldened, probably by the giant man’s helplessness, I reached forward and placed a single hand on his pec. It felt like warm steel, but he moaned at the contact and I watched his huge dick bob a few times while he groaned through gritted teeth. “Oh god… Oh god, I’m so friggin’ sensitive… Don’t touch…”

               I didn’t mean to but my arm brushed against his massive pulsing dick as I stepped away from him. He squealed, his breathing shallow and rapid, and his eyes shut tight as precum poured out of the massive knob like it was a chocolate fountain.

               Poor guy had so much testosterone going through him, that must have been agony, I thought. My own cock was a steel pole, but my real motivation was that I couldn’t let anyone else come in and see him in this state.

               “I’m just gonna take care of this,” I said softly, approaching his vein-mapped cock like it was a venomous python, “and then I’ll call 911, okay big man?” He just whimpered again—had he gotten bigger since I’d come in? That poor guy.

               Just my breath on his huge organ had him grunting, so I decided to tease him a little bit, gently blowing up and down its massive length, watching precum burp and spew. Using that copious substance as a lube, I started working my hands up and down its length. First I just tickled with my fingers but when I put some force into it, I realized it was like massaging a leg. So I thought, “What a great idea.” I worked my hands up under the head and put some finger, digging in my fingers like it was a deep-tissue massage.

               Robbie’s deep voice hit soprano squeaks as I did that, his whole body seeming to tense and flex at once, like a huge angry ocean of muscle. I stopped my devilish ministrations on his dick for a moment to take all of him in again. That’s when I noticed, very slowly, like a redwood, he was starting to fall.

               There was nothing I could do; gravity took hold and I stepped back to avoid being crushed. He toppled back, hitting the tile with a thunderclap of wet flesh. His eyes darted around, terrified at this new addition to his predicament, but he was still just as immobile. Amazingly, I noticed that his overblown back and his impossibly huge glutes were so swollen that there was a space beneath him, under his (relatively) narrow waist, large enough that a full grown pit bull could’ve walked underneath him without touching him.

               God, that smell coming off him drove me wild… Without thinking I hopped up on top of him, planting a foot on each of his mountainous pecs, and leaned forward to face his monster organ that pointed straight at me. I tongue-kissed the hole like it was a mouth, slurping up the sweetness that spilled out of it by the quart while poor old Robbie went completely non-verbal behind me, barely able to even form guttural noises. Then I couldn’t help it—I’d never have the chance again—I leaned forward and pressed my boner into his piss-hole. It was a tight fit but there was more than enough lubricant; in fact, the flow of precum was so much that it was a struggle to press against it, but still I pumped my ass, feeling his pecs rising and falling below me, using my hands to knead his cock-head while I thrusted…

               When he came, he roared—I thought he was already flexed to the max but his whole body pulsed so hard I was knocked off my feet, and I nearly drowned in the torrent of cum that blasted out all over me. He came with such intensity that I barely noticed the full-body orgasm that rocked me at the same time. It just kept coming, Robbie dissolving into a low groan, me sprayed with hot load for nearly thirty seconds. I tried to stand but found his body so slick with cum that I slipped forward, finding myself face down on him, nearly eye-to-eye with him. I could hear and feel the drum of his giant heart thudding beneath me, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic waves. So much heat came off the man that I wanted to shut my eyes and relent to my blissful post-orgasmic lethargy and just fall asleep, my tongue gently lapping at him, but I came to my senses and got up.

               Robbie still needed help. I’d need to grab the owner (thank God he hadn’t walked in just now!) and we’d have to call the paramedics and probably several fire departments just to get big Robbie out of there. But first—first I had to hide the poor guy’s shame. I owed him that much after what I’d done to him. I started turning on the shower heads, splashing us both with water and rinshing us clean, thankful Robbie hadn’t fallen over the drain. He’d calmed considerably, and as I rinsed his face clean, I saw his once-panicked eyes had relaxed, looking sleepy now. His breathing had calmed, and he looked almost dazed.

               “Th-thank you…” he whispered, and I leaned forward and placed a kiss on his mouth.

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.”

This animated short IS AMAZING. Victor3D's entire catalog is rock-solid macrophilia/size stuff. He's got a solid vid featuring two guys arm-wrestling (which results in one of those guys ending up teeny-tiny, AND swallowed) but this is the bomb. Two guys walk into a gym and each approach a muscle-guy. Muscle transfer ensues. I can't wait to watch this again while I pound my dick like it's the Family Feud buzzer.