The Clifton Jocks

The first day of school.

For some students, it was a day of excitement and new beginnings. Others felt nothing but stark dread. For the majority of the student body, it was something between the two. There was a knowledge that they were all entering a significant, formative part of their lives, and the next few years were either going to match up to their expectations or they wouldn’t. But either way, they’d be learning more than academics. They’d be learning life.

The town was Clifton, and the school, unsurprisingly, was Clifton High. The school’s massive gymnasium was adorned floor-to-ceiling with athletic banners. Most sports were represented, but it was clear where the priorities lay: prominently hanging from the center of the roof were the football state championship banners, displayed in the one place where they could be viewed by any spectator in any seat. There were even special lights trained onto them, like miniature spotlights that subliminally attracted the eye.

Many eyes were trained to the banners this morning, in reverential awe. For a first day assembly, the gym was surprisingly quiet. Greetings were exchanged between friends, plans for the year being discussed, but many students were stone quiet for the simple reason that they didn’t know anyone. Clifton’s legendary reputation for excellence in athletics and academics attracted many transfer students, and many town newbies, whose families had moved to a new town just for them to flourish in this seemingly perfect school that turned out the best, brightest – and most beautiful – young people.

“Alright, guys, we’re getting started soon, please take your seats,” a powerfully structured man in a shirt and tie spoke into the microphone. His deep voice had a trustworthy, authoritarian edge to it, and it was assumed that he was the principal of the school. Which is exactly what he was. He fit the Clifton stereotype perfectly: tall, handsome and broad shouldered, well-dressed. The flecks of gray in his closely-cropped hair indicated wisdom, as did the slight creases in his still-sharp face. He was probably close to 50 and had aged very well.

“Aren’t the boys at this school supposed to be, like…gorgeous?,” a pretty blonde girl wondered aloud to her new group of friends. “I heard it was like hottie central here, but I’m not seeing a lot.”

“Right? I thought this school was nothing but jocks.” The girls’ conversation was loud enough to be heard by several (now slightly wounded) young men. “I only see, like…” – the girl craned her neck to look around – “three or four jocky guys.”

“Principal Powers doesn’t count.”

“He’s like the cutest one,” the blonde sighed, defeated. “Maybe things will improve. Maybe we’ll get hot transfers.” Her eyes brightened at the thought.

“Alright, alright, we’re gonna get down to business here,” Principal Powell boomed. His voice carried through the gym naturally and didn’t need a microphone, even over the small din of the students. “Welcome to Clifton High, ladies and gentlemen!”

The teachers applauded the students, and the students hooted and hollered.

“We’re all very excited about this upcoming year, and we have every intention of making it the best one in the history of Clifton High!”

More applause. More yells.

“My name is Dr. Lyndon Powers, you may call me Principal, Principal Powers, Dr. Powers, Mr. Powers, whatever you like, but please, don’t call me-”

The back doors on the opposite side of the gym, behind Dr. Powers’ back, flew open with a boom. The principal turned around, and every student craned his or her neck to see what poor soul was tardy to the first day of the year. Only God could help them now.

The young male specimen who swaggered through the double doors gave no indication of apology. Light seemed to beam from behind him, as if he were a musician in a rock concert. He was tall – 6’4” – and muscular, very muscular, especially for a boy in his mid-teens. Powerful arms bulged out of his shirt sleeves and a broad, rippling chest created a shelf in his athletic-cut t-shirt’s front. The v-neck of the shirt showed of the irresistible curves of his neck, with tendons and muscles roping up into a beautiful jawline and square chin. He had a blindingly white smile on his face – not an apologetic smile, but a winning one nonetheless – that was framed by deep dimples, and his golden-blond hair spiked out over a jock’s flat forehead. Bright blue eyes gleamed from under his straight blonde eyebrows. His jeans were supposed to be loose-fitting but sat snug over his thick thighs, swollen crotch and buff ass.

Seeing all eyes on him, he locked eyes with Principal Powers, who gave a disapproving smirk. “Late already, Mr. Griffith?”

“It’s on me,” came a shout from behind the muscled jock, and another man appeared. Huge, like a bodybuilder, stuffed into a polo shirt and khaki pants. His silver hair was buzzed and his salt-and-pepper goatee trimmed with military accuracy. The students had been so astonished by the size of their jocky peer, but now couldn’t find the words to appropriately describe the body of the coach who accompanied him. They’d seen bodybuilders in magazines, but never this close. “I’ll explain later,” the Coach thundered across the gym floor. “Adam’s late because of me, it won’t happen again.”

The young stud moved swiftly to his seat in the front row, saved for him by his two letter-jacket-clad buddies. Right as he arrived, Dr. Powers couldn’t resist giving an introduction that was equal parts genuine and sarcastic: “Ladies and gentlemen, Adam Griffith, your quarterback.”

The boys applauded in pure respect, while the girls began to drool at the dream in front of them. Adam Griffith was more of a man than any of his classmates, his muscled body always on view in his workout gear, uniform, casual wear, or whatever he happened to choose. He loved showing off his young, firm body, with its huge muscles. And he knew his face looked like it was from an Abercrombie or LL Bean catalog, so All-American and boy-next-door, with a naughty little smirk that indicated there was something a little devilish lurking under the wholesome exterior.


Of all the kids running around the track on the first day of physical education, Fletcher Haskins was the slowest. Even his new friend Winston, a stereotypically small, thin nerd, was outpacing him dramatically. Heck, Winston was keeping up with the faster half of the pack. Fletcher’s being in jeans did not help his case: assuming that there wouldn’t be any actual physical activities happening on the first day of school, he hadn’t brought a change of clothes. That had proven to be a very, very big mistake. Around and around the track they went – Fletcher was positive he’d already jogged eight or nine miles.

“That’s your first half-mile! Keep going!”


Didn’t Coach Thornton understand that these were not his legendary jocks? That maybe he should take it easy on them on the first day? He’d had all summer to torture his willing, strong athletes, who were positively eager to get their asses kicked; why did he need to keep on killing the other 95% of the school that wasn’t composed of sexed-up, teenage muscle jocks?

Fletcher was extremely out of shape from sitting on his ass all summer. Not fat – no, he wasn’t fat at all – but with nary an ounce of stamina, just being out in the hot sun was bad enough. Coach Thornton had not given a flying fuck that Fletcher didn’t have workout clothes. “Not my damn problem.” The sweat pouring onto Fletcher’s t-shirt was embarrassing enough, but the fact that he had a pattern of moisture forming in the crotch of his jeans was positively mortifying.

Fletcher stumbled off the track. Just need to breathe, for a moment, just need to breaTHLUUARRRRGGHHH.

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Coach Thornton muttered to himself as he saw the ginger-haired scarecrow puking his guts onto the patch of grass between the track and the long jump pit. “Griffith!,” the coach bellowed, loud enough that the runners on the track slowed before they realized they were not being addressed.

Adam Griffith jogged up alongside his coach, oozing respect. The handsome young jock was in a white workout tank and loose black Under Armour shorts, showing off as much of his muscle as he could – the beefy, square chest, bulging arms, tan skin, along with the broadest set of shoulders at Clifton High, teacher OR student. He looked specifically created for Nike endorsements and Men’s Health covers, as if there was a place where the most perfect athletes were brought up like purebred puppies. Adam’s ass looked like a shelf jutting out of his shorts, the waistband of which was halfway down the spherical glutes and revealed a royal blue pair of briefs. “Yes, sir?”

“Who’s the slowpoke over there?”

Adam thought back to the studying he’d been instructed to do and to the roll call at the beginning of class. “Fletcher…last name, last name…” Impatient with himself, Adam snapped his fingers. “Haskins! Fletcher Haskins, sir.”

“Yeah, well, he’s fletchering all over my grass right now.” Coach Thornton stared for a few moments at the pathetic form barfing across the track. “Boy just got his number called up.”

Fletcher stumbled back onto the track and speed-walked around the bend to where he saw the Coach and – oh shit, Adam Griffith. The ultimate jock. Even though it was just the first day, Fletcher had already figured out that he was a fucking loser compared to Adam Griffith – every guy at Clifton was, really. Adam Griffith was physically perfect. Once he’d waltzed into the assembly, it was game over. Every girl’s eyes had been locked onto the rippling V-shape of Adam’s back, hunched casually in the front row. None of the girls had been able to see the annoyingly cocky smirk on Adam’s very aware face. He couldn’t see the hundred eyes, but he’d known they were staring right at him.

“I just-” Fletcher stopped when he saw Adam staring at him with an unreadable expression, and he got the distinct impression that he’d just interrupted a conversation in which he, Fletcher Haskins, was the main topic.

But why the hell would they be talking about him?

“I just threw up, can I take a seat for a second?”

Coach Thornton looked at him but didn’t answer. It was Adam who stepped forward and said, with his big, gleaming, dimpled, perfect smile, “Let’s go get you some electrolytes, dude. Come with me.”

Fletcher looked at the coach, who nodded that it was okay. Wow, Adam Griffith was taking him to get some Gatorade. The coach had probably told him to, but still, that was a really nice thing to do.

Fletcher obediently followed his muscular peer through a side door of the school, heading past the supply closets and a back entrance to the cavernous gym. “Wait here for a second,” Adam ordered, and Fletcher nodded. Adam walked into Coach Thornton’s office – was that allowed? – and headed to the minifridge that sat in a corner. Through the office door’s foot-wide glass pane, Fletcher could see Adam crouch down and…wait, was he unlocking the fridge? Why would a refrigerator have a combination lock on it? And why would Adam know the combo; were he and the coach really that tight?

Adam grabbed a bright blue bottle of sports drink and headed back toward the door before he looked down at the bottle. Fletcher saw Adam tear a piece of masking tape off the bottle. There was something written in black marker on the masking tape, but there was no way Fletcher could see what it said, other than being able to deduce that it was a label of some kind. Adam breezed out of the door, which clicked shut behind him. “C’mon, you can drink this in the locker room, there are benches in there for you to sit.”

Fletcher wanted to rip the bottle out of the veiny hand and guzzle its contents right down. He knew that would be an awful idea, so he didn’t. Adam’s stride was primal, one shoulder moving after the other as he stalked toward the open door of the locker room. After Fletcher had followed him through it, Adam allowed it to close.

“Here you go,” Adam said, casually tossing the bottle to Fletcher, who fumbled with the catch for a few moments before the bottle fell to the floor. Embarrassed, Fletcher bent down to pick up the sports drink he so desperately craved. Trying to maintain some of his dignity, he decided to make a joke out of it. “Can’t believe I just botched a catch in front of the best catcher in the state.”

Adam looked confused. “What?”

“Y’know, you’re the quarterback. You catch…footballs……right?” Oh shit, do quarterbacks not catch the football?

“Oh Christ, you REALLY need this drink.” Adam walked up, practically ripped the lid off the bottle still in Fletcher’s hand, and even began tipping the drink upward before Fletcher brought it to his lips himself.

SO good. Fletcher guzzled down three-quarters of the bottle before he took a breath and licked off the liquid left around his lips.

“You drink like a fucking pussy.”

Fletcher looked at Adam with hurt confusion. He went speechless and suddenly didn’t want to drink anything more. But he was so thirsty. He turned to the side, hiding the bottle slightly and wondering if maybe it was his wrist or something that made him “drink like a pussy,” as Adam had said. He finished off the rest of the drink and as he took the bottle away from his face, he noticed the remains of what looked like an “F” left from the marker bleeding through the tape. F for Fletcher? That didn’t make sense.

“You gonna just sit there like a lameass, or are you going to say thank you?”

“I…thanks, I guess.”

“You guess? Fucking pussy, don’t even know if you’re thankful for something. I’ve met little girls who were more man than you are. Fuckin’ pussy.”

Fletcher’s lip curled. “Stop calling me a fucking pussy.”

“Oh yeah?” Adam smirked defiantly – triumphantly. “What are you gonna do about it, pussy?”

Fletcher leaned a hand on the bench. “I…fuck, I…I dunno, I…” His other hand rubbed against his temple. He winced.

“Feeling it activate? You’ve been waiting a long time for that drink. All that prep, all those supps.”


“You should let it activate, you’re such a pussy, it’s not like you can hold something like that back anyway.”

“STOP.” Fletcher staggered to his feet, and Adam immediately rocketed onto his own, towering over the gangly nerd. “Stop calling me a pussy!”

Adam laughed cruelly and placed two fingers in between Fletcher’s bony chest. “And like I asked, what are you gonna do about it? Fight me? Fucking pussy, I’d kill you.”

“You’re such a…a…fuck! You’re a fuck!”

Adam’s chuckles crescendoed into a genuinely amused laugh. “I’m a what?”

Fletcher’s eyes were blazing with rage now. He’d never seen red like this. Flames seemed to circle his reality. “You’re such a fucking fucker! Fucking dipshit cockyass fucker…” The voice was getting harsher, louder…deeper. “FUCKING FUCKER, CALLING ME A FUCKING PUSSY!” And, without thinking, Fletcher balled his hand into a fist and hooked it toward Adam’s face. The jock didn’t flinch. Adam’s palm stopped the fist and crunched it back into the wall. Fletcher squealed in pain.

“There’s a little aggression,” Adam purred. “How about more where that came from, you little weakling?”

“Fucking cocksucker, I’m no pussy, I…mmmmrggghhhh, I, I, I, I, nnggrrraaaahhhhhhhh!” Fletcher buried his head in his hands and screamed, not a high-pitched shriek, but more of a roar. “GRAAAAAHHHHHHHH!”

“Take it like a man,” Adam said, slapping the back of Fletcher’s red head. “Or are you not a man?”

The head snapped up, eyes now heavy and sleepy, as if Fletcher was stoned to high heaven. “I’m a fuckin’ man,” he retorted, but it didn’t sound like he meant it.

“Oh yeah? I think I’m a fuckin’ man,” Adam smirked, bobbing his pecs up and down, causing ripples all over his tank. The straps groaned from the weight shifting. “Where’s your chest if you’re such a man?”

“I…” Fletcher was finding it so hard to talk. “I have…chest.”

“Oh yeah, girlie boy? Then where is it?”

Fletcher grit his teeth together and flexed his chest with all his might, groaning like a man benching 700 pounds. “Grrrrrrrruuuhhhhh…” Adam smiled when he saw two tiny shapes suddenly push against Fletcher’s t-shirt. “That’s a pretty weak chest, pussy…matches the rest of you.”

Something snapped. Fletcher stood up and roared, the tendons in his neck standing out, his face going as red as a fire truck. His fists were clenched and caused veins to run up his forearms…then along his biceps, then through his shoulders…

Adam heard the guttural yell getting deeper, and suddenly Fletcher’s voice cracked and dropped a solid octave. A giant wet spot appeared in the nerd’s jeans, and Adam laughed at it. “Just cum in your draws, my man?”

Fletcher didn’t answer. He was still yelling himself hoarse. And as he did, every muscle in his body seemed to flex, and then tense and vibrate and grow. Biceps blew out of his arms. His chest filled in and started to tear his crewneck. His thighs touched for the first time, his calves filled up his pant legs. There was a crack as his shoulders broadened, and the yelling stopped as Fletcher squealed in pain, like a wounded puppy.

The changing nerd dropped to the bench and felt his firm ass for the first time, like a built-in seat cushion. Exhausted, sweat pooled on the floor in front of him as he huffed out open-mouthed breaths, his enlarging shoulders shaking. His eyes stared emptily at the puddle of sweat in between his legs. “Huh, huh, huh, huh…”

Fletcher’s head fell back against the lockers as he felt his body swelling out of his clothes. He looked down with his eyeballs, unable to control his neck, and saw his sleeve tearing from the mass of his biceps. Then his chest really started to bulk up, and his shirt was tearing more and more, shredding now as his back came in, and Fletcher just wanted to breathe, to understand, understand how he could grow a back like Adam’s – bigger than Adam’s – in a few seconds, understand why the hands resting on his knees were so huge now.

Adam watched the red hair shifting colors, as if the sun were shining brightly on it. The honey-streaked blond on Fletcher’s head looked so much better than those carroty curls. As his hair lightened, his skin darkened, turning the formerly pasty nerd whom the sun had exhausted into a man of the outdoors. “You’re looking good, bro, looking real meaty and manly, like you should look.”

Fletcher smiled. Sweat poured into his open mouth.

“You need to work your upper pecs more, keep your chest from looking like tits.”

Fletcher felt the now familiar anger and flexed. Muscle grew out farther from Fletcher’s collarbone, creating a beefy pair of square pectorals, chiseled from marble.

“Oh, and your shoulders, work on the traps more, need to keep that neck safe.”

There was something inside of him. A desire to please, to conform, to be exactly what Adam wanted him to be. Two hulking trapezoid muscles bulged out from Fletcher’s thick neck.

Adam was having too much fun. “That ass needs to be a fucking engine for your line of work.”

Obediently, Fletcher let his already-bubbly butt swell into a giant booty, splitting the seam of his jeans. As if they were connected, the zipper of his fly started to break from his penis growing longer and larger, the way a real man should be hung.

“Too bad you got that beta face, real alphas look-“

“Nnnnrggghhhh,” Fletcher interrupted, as his head squared off, with a massive jaw that looked stolen from an artist’s pen. His soft, saccharine face hardened into a tough maw. The fuzzy eyebrows arched into the most intimidating of stares. The lopsided mouth straightened into a solid, terse line, and the new jock’s chin grew out into a boxy cliff. Even his forehead had flattened, letting the brow ledge jut out over deeply-placed eyes.

“Aw, yeah, there it is. That’s a jock face, man. Fuckin’ alpha. I love how you can tell a dude’s a jock just with his face, that big jaw and the forehead and all that shit.” Adam smiled when Fletcher smiled. The nerd – what was left of him – breathed in and out through his mouth, panting desperately, his dim eyes staring straight at Adam. Fletcher wanted to say something, Adam could tell. His lips were moving the tiniest bit, trying to form the beginning of a word.


“What happened to you?” Adam finished the question. “You decided you didn’t want to be a pansy-ass little dickweed anymore.”

Fletcher’s hazy grin went from ear-to-ear. “Nahhhh.” He slumped forward, utterly exhausted, cock still leaking into his pants. One thick arm dangled between his knees, the other cradled his chin, which ached from the growth of bone.

“What, you think you’re done now? Guess you still are a pussy, deep down,” Adam needled, his voice not as cruel anymore, but he was still staying that word. In the haze of his cracked-out mind, Fletcher realized that two words were being repeated a lot, ‘pussy’ and ‘work,’ and he thought maybe they were, like, trigger words, because when Adam called him a pussy, he instinctively reared up and his eyes flashed all angrily, even though he was too tired to stand or say anything, and he felt his body aching, both from growth and from the desire to grow more.

“Ahhh, that got your attention,” Adam grinned. “But it’ll still take a lot of work before you hit 210. You’re probably gonna plateau at 200 because you’ll build your body up but you’re not enough of a jock to live that life, you’ll always be a pussy nerd, even with a halfway-decent body.”

Fletcher shook his big, meaty head vigorously, disagreeing with the assessment. He was only 6’1”, he could hit 210, he could hit 210 easy. Just had to work on his chest and shoulders, and his legs…

The muscles he saw in his mind began to match the muscles on his chiseled body. The crests grew out, the slopes deepened. Fletcher tiredly curled his arm upward and watched the last intact piece of his sleeve shred down the center, a big baseball of a bicep knotting itself onto the bone, all veiny and pumped. His thighs rubbed together painfully, his back was sore.

“Oh, okay, you lucked out, pussy,” Adam said calmly. “Guess your genes are better than I thought. But 220, that’d take some serious ethic…I mean…WORK ethic.”

Adam watched the outsized muscles in front of him swell even bigger. Chest was getting BIG now, not just big for a high school kid, but big for any man. Heavy, cumbersome pecs that could pull a man down if he didn’t have the back to hold them up. Good thing Fletcher’s back was as wide as about three lockers now, although his waist looked impossibly small. As his legs cramped up, Fletcher tried to stand, anything to alleviate the pain, but he couldn’t find the strength. He was frustrated with how weak he was. He was so big but so weak. Fletcher clenched his fists and released, clenched and released, clench, release, over and over, feeling the blood pump into his arms. Hands. Big. Big hands. Manly. Fletcher. Man.

In Fletcher’s empty head, Adam’s words seemed to vibrate and bounce around like an echo. He didn’t want to listen, but he heard every word. “You look good at 220, bro, but I mean, I’m 225, and that’s about as big as I can go ‘cause I’m the QB. You gotta be bigger. People will think you’re a pussy if you don’t work to be at least 230.”

Fletcher released a low, guttural moan as more cum poured onto the floor, mixing with his sweat. The muscles were just vanity, now. His arms plumped into extreme mass, his chest so big that he felt like he was standing on top of a mountain when he looked over it. He could see it peripherally. Fletcher didn’t want to sit, so he leaned his back – the shockingly huge back – against the locker and sweat streamed down the metal from it, like a waterfall.

“Fuck, dude, you’re such a jock. Bigass head, bigass body. 230 is awesome, I wonder how you’d look at 240? Not like anyone will ever confuse you for some pussy named Fletcher, but with your hard work, I think 240 would be a breeze.”

It was a good thing that the former Fletcher’s feet had cracked many sizes larger, because otherwise they wouldn’t have been able to hold up the precipitous mass of the confused jock. He wobbled on his tree-trunk legs, quads and hamstrings jiggling like jello. The strengthening of his core made it look like his stomach was only abdominals, and when Adam smashed his fist directly into it, the meathead didn’t even react. He just stood there and began to laugh, a high giggle at first that dissolved into a bassly chuckle, “Heh heh heh heh,” as he happily spurted shots of cum onto his stomach. The grooves of his abs looked like an irrigation system as the cum disappeared into them.

Adam got lazy and just said it. “Pussy work. 250.”

Big pink nipples stretched out into the size of Oreos as the meathead’s chest grew even more. His delts swelled as big as his square head, his arms just as large. Fletcher stared emptily into space as he cracked wider and bigger and stronger, the air reeking of sweat and cum, his flaring nostrils filling with the scent.

“Oh noooo,” Adam said in a syrupy-sweet tone. “You’re so big it’s kinda impractical. But you have to stay at 250, it’s good that you’re that fucking huge, you ain’t no pussy…just gotta work to cut out some of that fat.”

“OOOOOOGH,” the new jock squealed, his balls tensing as his body fat plummeted, the cuts in his muscles so deep they looked almost painful. Adam didn’t know it was possible for triceps to stick out so far that the edges were visible from the front. Or for a chest to be that big, pecs so large that Adam wondered if the jock could even raise his arms in front.


The competitive math team, known as the mathletes, had an orientation before school started, so Winston at least knew a few people on his first day. He had watched his new friend, Fletcher, stumble off the track to vomit and then be led away by the quarterback. Poor Fletcher really was in bad shape and Winston hoped that the uber-jock wouldn't pick on him too much.

But just in case, he claimed he needed to use the restroom and ran into the locker rooms. The oppressive heat combined with the intense marathon to soak Winston's gym clothes. His dark hair, uncombed and long enough to cover his eyes, was currently matted to the top of his head.

He quickly shucked off the soaked t-shirt and shorts and slipped into his normal clothing. In a vain effort to hide just how small his body was, Winston had worn extremely large clothing to the first day at his new school, although most of the clothes he owned were appropriately sized. First, he slipped into a pair of boxers before grabbing his shirt - a XXL that would have had more shape on a clothes hanger than the bony body of Winston. His pants were oversized as well, baggy jeans. Adding a pair of tennis shoes, Winston went in search of his friend.

He assumed that Adam would have just taken Fletcher into the gym lockers, but they weren't anywhere to be found. It occurred to him that the sports teams probably had special areas, since they had so much gear and equipment. Winston had a vague knowledge of sports; his father had played football in college and had hoped against hope that his son would be a strapping man like himself. No dice.

Winston meandered through the locker room before finding a hallway that seemed to connect to a different part of the sports complex. When his parents had told him over the summer that they were moving to Clifton, Winston had immediately Googled the school. It had a lot of hits and all were about the amazing football team. Thus, he wasn't surprised that the school owned a separate complex just for sports. After all, ticket sales could pay for a lot. Still, this mammoth building was intimidating.

He was pretty sure he was in the football lockers now. Its space was larger and higher and decorated with images of football players, team colors, and mottos. He had expected something cleaner and more impressive, instead of the metallic, dark warehouse he was currently in. There was the distinct smell of male musk, and furthermore, the locker room was definitely occupied. There was a moaning sound that sort of echoed through the room, reverberating enough that Winston couldn’t quite pinpoint its origin. It sounded sort of painful and deep, but it there was also a sense that the moan was sensual, pleasured. It was distinctly masculine to be sure. The deep grunts and heavy breath probably belonged to one of those jocks.

He turned a corner and immediately stepped back and hid behind the lockers. Adam was there and so was Fletcher. At least, it looked like Fletcher in the face. The gargantuan body on which his thin face sat was not the same body that had been slowly trudging around the track earlier. Instead, Fletcher now possessed a muscular body that would be the envy of most guys his age – or any age. Big, tough and hard as concrete. The face didn’t belong. In fact, it looked like his neck muscles were straining to connect the too-narrow head to the bulky shoulders.

Then it happened. Adam said something, Winston couldn't really hear over the moaning, and Fletcher's face...changed. It literally broke apart and reformed, but now it was wider and flatter and all man. The formerly soft boy was gone, and now there was a square-jawed jarhead that looked like he spent his entire life in the gym or playing sports. Shell-shocked, Winston felt all the breath leave his body.

Adam kept talking to Fletcher and each time he spoke, Winston could only watch as the body changed. The muscles continued to expand, to grow, to consume space in the universe. Fletcher for his part seemed to respond a bit, but mostly he just standing there as each part of his body enlarged.

Winston, absorbed in the strange transformation of his friend, didn't pay attention as he attempted to sneak further into the locker room. In the midst of scurrying like a cat, he tripped over a stool set at the edge of a row of lockers and caught himself by grabbing a hold of the metallic holders, causing a hollow reverberation to echo through the old room. Adam turned suddenly and stared at Winston but Fletcher didn't move. His hulking frame just stood there, each breath causing the muscles of his chest and shoulders to inflate a little further before recessing slightly. Fletcher didn't even turn his head; he faced forward with no connection to the world.

"Well, shit," Adam said casually, but he was in front of Winston before the geek could even react. Winston tried to dodge back but Adam grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled the little nerd to his face. "Goddammit!," he snarled, inches from Winston's face. "Do you know how much you could have fucked this up? How much you have fucked everything up?!" Winston held his breath while staring into Adam's bright eyes that were brimming with anger. "I don't even know what to do with you."

"Grrraaaaaa," Fletcher slurred from his standing position, like an infant crying for attention, although no one would confuse the man’s gutteral moan with a baby’s. His new jock body was beginning to rock in place and his head was starting to slump a little.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" Adam said, dragging Winston toward Fletcher. "I am so fucked. Hey brah, just hang on a second," he spoke into Fletcher's now larger ears. Fletcher seemed to hear him, and his body became more rigid, his throat releasing a slight noise of recognition. Adam turned his attention to Winston once again, who gulped.

"I'm just gonna have to kill you," Adam said matter-of-factly as he tossed Winston onto the pavement. The poor terrified kid did his best to scramble away, but he got all of six inches before Adam grabbed his ankles and pulled him back. Winston sputtered out a plea for Fletcher to help him, but even if Fletcher’s mind had been working correctly, it would have been too quiet to hear. "I can't do a double change,” Adam continued, “and I don't know what they have planned for you anyway. Don't worry, I hear choking's not too painful. You’ll black out before it really gets bad." Adam got down on the ground, grabbed Winston by the throat and began to apply pressure.

"Stop, Adam," a commanding voice echoed through the room announcing the arrival of a very powerful and very dominant man. Adam immediately switched his grip from the throat to the waist to prevent Winston from running. Coach Thornton walked closer, giving the quivering Fletcher a quick once-over before turning his head to Adam in an unmistakable what-the-fuck-are-you-thinking glare.

"Sorry Coach! He snuck in while I was working on Fletcher. I was afraid he’d blow the lid."

"I see," Coach Thornton looked at Winston but spoke to Adam. “I can understand why you thought a homicide would attract less attention.”

Hearing the viciously sarcastic tone, Adam bowed his head and knew he was in trouble. Running suicides, maybe, or something worse…

For his part, Winston was nursing some bruises from being flung to the floor and his eyes were full of water from the momentary choking. He had pulled his knees into a half-fetal position and was cradling an elbow that had smashed into the hard floor. Panicked and exhausted, he wasn't at all relieved by the arrival of the Head Coach.

"What's your name?"
"Winston Price," he answered immediately. He did his best to choke back tears, causing his voice to break as he answered. Winston expected a comment or teasing from either of the other men, but they remained silent.
"Price, huh? Well, buddy, you just got yourself moved up the list. I'll take it from here, Adam."
"Yes sir!" Adam removed his arms from Winston and walked back towards Fletcher, whose body was again beginning to lean from side to side. “Muhhhh,” Fletcher – or the man who had taken over Fletcher’s body, who resembled Fletcher in no way - moaned when he saw Adam headed toward him.

"Follow me," the Coach ordered Winston. Winston felt powerless to disobey, and found himself to hustling behind the silver-haired tower of muscle leading him away from his friend. He turned back as they got near the door and glanced at his friend. Adam was pulling him toward the lockers, talking animatedly. Fletcher for his part had a huge grin on super-wide face. The lids of his eyes were only about halfway open and the muscle creature was nodding constantly as Adam talked.

"You're gonna love being a defensive lineman," Winston heard Adam say as he walked through the door.

Coach Thornton led Winston into his office and closed the door behind them. Winston stood, confused, Thornton marched behind his desk and sat down. There weren't any other chairs so Winston just stood there.

"What's-" Winston began.
"Nope, not yet. I'm not ready to talk," Thornton cut him off. Winston was in shock, and he continued to just stand idly in the office. A few moments later, Thornton looked up from some papers and spoke again. "Front and center!"

Winston slid forward until he was standing in front of the Coach.

"Winston Price, huh? Winston is such a nerd name. Your parents really got what they were asking for." Winston didn't react to the harsh words, but it hurt his feelings nonetheless. "Thank God I'm here to do something about it."

"Sir. Always address me as sir or Coach."
"Um, ugh, what is going on…sir?"

"Well Winston, as you just saw, your friend, um," Thornton paused for a moment to look down at his papers, "…Fletcher is joining the football team." Winston waited for him to continue, but Thornton just stared at him.

"Question?" Thornton asked after the slender math nerd stared at him for a few moments.

"That was really Fletcher? What did you do to him?" Winston got no response. He sniffled slightly and spoke again. "What did you do to him…sir?"

"Oh! Interested in the process? Don't worry your...not-pretty little head about it."

"How, I-I-I mean, what, what the heck is going on?"

"Oh God, stutter much? Fine, if you must know, Fletcher has received treatments in order to make him into a future Pro Bowl defensive end. Left side, I believe."
"Because he's slower than the other defensive end."
"Football business. Now run along. The men have work to do."

There was a long pause, but suddenly the gravity of what had just been said hit Winston. "Seriously?" Winston's eyes were wide as he stared at the Coach, whose head was tilted back down towards his papers.

"Get out. I have work to do."

"You're just going to let me go?"

"Forcing me to repeat myself is not a good idea." Winston immediately backed towards the door, grabbed the handle, and flung it open. He turned around once, just to make sure the Coach didn't have a gun or something, and saw the bulging man of muscle smiling at him.

"Winston," Thornton called out. "Don't tell anyone about this. There could be consequences." The coach turned his head back to his work and Winston was left standing at the door. A cold ripple of fear passed through him and he quietly stepped out into the hall. He stood, back to the door, panting. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest – he could literally hear it beating - and a rain of cold sweat was pouring down his face. He peaked into the locker area once more, but there was no trace of Adam or Fletcher. Or whatever Fletcher had become.

Fletcher in the Pro Bowl? Fletcher Haskins?

Walking back through the halls, Winston kept looking behind him and peering around corners before walking. A couple of guys on the football team approached him, two hulking bruisers in their navy blue letterman jackets and khakis. Winston dodged to the side and clung to the wall. The studs didn't even notice him as they passed, their blabbering conversation keeping them entertained.

Winston arrived back in his history class and took his normal seat in the front row. Fletcher would probably have sat to left, they had spoken earlier about having the same class, but that seat sat empty today. The history teacher walked in the room. Mr. Grant was a short, thick man, without a noticeable neck. He had a sort of jolly demeanor, but he marched around the room with a sort of predatory dominance. Winston was normally a very devout student, but the events in the locker room ran through his mind as lightning speed. Each moment he saw the changes in Fletcher, that handsome and stupid face nodding dimly as Adam was talking about "finishing" him, talking about a D fence end or something. Mr. Grant called on him, and Winston found himself blushing as he realized he hadn't been paying attention. He was forced to shrug his shoulders and Mr. Grant asked someone else the question. The rest of the class passed in a similar manner, with Winston focusing solely on what had transpired.

Outside of class, a couple of other members of the math team caught Winston in the hallway.

"Winston, what's up? You doing okay?" Harry, a tall, extremely thin ginger asked.

"That was completely unlike you. You're usually the first to answer any question," Diego, a second-generation immigrant from Colombia with oversized glasses and a voice that refused to drop, said.

"Yeah, you look spooked," the final member spoke. This was Trevor, although everyone called him Tribble because he was obsessed with Star Trek and had 15 siblings.

"I'm...yeah, I'm fine," Winston said, although his inflection failed to convince them.
"You sure?" Tribble asked.
"I, um…I saw something."
"I, uh, something…I saw Adam, y’know, the quarterback, talking to Fletcher earlier."
"We all did. Right after he blew chunks everywhere," Diego spoke nasally.
"Did you guys notice though? He was bigger," Winston said.
"Bigger how?" Harry asked.
"Like, bigger. His muscles were bigger. He grew a lot, really fast." The words left Winston's mouth and he felt a strange sensation, like his stomach rumbling but instead it was near his heart.
"I don't remember that," Diego said.
"Well, they were. His arms were a lot bigger, and veiny." Winston held up his in the mock gesture of drinking out of a water bottle. As his did, there was a strange sort of popping sensation that emanated out of his arms. Like he could feel something rolling around inside his arm muscles, stretching them out. He thought of Fletcher's big arms and Winston felt a pang of jealousy pass through him. Big arms like that were really nice.

"Are you sure you're feeling okay?" Harry inquired again. Winston glared at Harry and his nostrils flared. For just a moment, he had felt the distinct urge to beat the living shit out of Harry.
"Yes, I'm fine. I feel great actually." And he really did. Winston felt the blood rushing through his body. He felt alive and strong and also a little light-headed.
"You sure?" Harry asked again.
"Did you not fucking hear me?" Winston's eyes narrowed as he leered at the other boy. Harry was normally a few inches taller than Winston, but right now Winston felt he was looking him square in the eyes. He bore straight into him and Harry turned away and looked at the ground. Winston allowed himself a satisfied snort.

"Yeah, I feel real good actually." He was clenching and unclenching his fists, feeling a rush of blood pump through him with as he flexed his wrists. Each flex sent a ripple up his arms, sending a tiny wave of energy rippling through his biceps and triceps. They felt taut and strong and the sleeves of his shirt were beginning to press into his muscles. Winston wriggled a finger underneath the tight cotton of his t-shirt sleeve.

"Anyway," Tribble said, trying to defuse the tension and get past Harry's obviously hurt feelings. "So, we ready for mathlete season?"
"Yeah!" Diego said and Harry smiled in acknowledgement. Winston just rolled his eyes.
"What?" Tribble said, noticing Winston's continuing distance.
"What? Oh hey, nothing. Just not feeling real - mathlete - right now." Winston was bobbing his pecs up and down. A moment ago they had been nonexistent masses, but each push was inflating them slightly. His oversized shirt, already filled at the arms, was beginning to rise in front as two hard mounds of flesh began rising like islands in the ocean. Winston suddenly caught himself and realized what he was doing. He stared in awe at his chest and arms. Sure, they weren't huge, but they were a hell of a lot bigger than they had been earlier today.

His shirt was tight! Like, legitimately TIGHT!

"Oh sh-sh-shit!" Winston said, his eyes wide with fear again as he looked at his friends. They all turned to him confused, and Winston felt himself sizing up the pathetic nerds. Slapping a lunch tray away from Tribble, giving Diego a swirly, but when he looked at Harry he felt a strange throbbing in his hands. Just one punch. Just one…"No!,” he yelled at himself, making his friends give him an odd look. “Coach Thornton! He told me not to tell anyone!"

"Tell anyone what?" Tribble asked again, although annoyance was beginning to creep into his voice.

"About... about Fletch...uh, er…Fletch. No, Fletcher. They turned him into some meathead muscle jock!" As the words left his mouth, Winston felt something snap in his head, as though a tense rubber band as finally caved in under the weight and now the whole system was slack. The world around him suddenly seemed... different.

"Winston, I think you should see the nurse," Harry chimed in again.
"Don't fucking make me repeat myself!" Winston snarled as he balled up his right fist and slammed it into his left palm. God, that felt good. It would feel a whole lot better on the dweeb’s face.
"What the heck is wrong with you Winston?" Tribble said, pushing Harry behind him.
"Nothing bro! I feel fucking chill. He just got me worked up s'all," Winston cracked his head from side to side and felt a new sensation, as his neck was surrounded by thick corded muscle in the form of high traps. Idly scratching his stomach, he could feel the muscles rippling like water, digging deeper and deeper into the growing flesh, forming harsh lines of a glorious six-pack on his formerly flat stomach.

"You don't sound alright," Diego said. Winston imagined shoving Diego into a locker for a second before he shook his head and was overcome with sheer terror. "Holy shit! Coach is doing this to me!"

"Go see the nurse, Winston," Tribble said, this time stepped back and taking the other nerds with him.
"No, please dude, you gotta believe me! He turned Fletcher into a football player and he's doing the same to me. Fletcher's a defensive end nowohhhhnoooooo…" the words flowed out of Winston's mouth as an earthquake happened on each side his body, splitting him in half and spreading his body apart. His shoulders broadened and widened, turning him into a space-consuming being. The entire hallway seemed to shrink in size as the jocky nerd hulked outward. He could feel his lats shrieking as muscles flowed into the new space, making his back wider and deeper. His shoes began to burst at the front, as his feet grew to support his heavy mass. Winston was taller than the other dorks now, and flashed them a cocky grin. He banged onto his chest like Tarzan, feeling the heavy flesh tighten as he hit himself with all his might. Finally, he snorted again and began to pound his fist into his palm.

"Fucking little losers man. I gotta get me some brahs!"

The dorks called after Winston, but he sauntered away. For the first time, he got to feel the powerful stride of his new legs. Bulging quads and thick, meaty quads tighened and relaxed as he strutted forward, his chest high and his crotch forward. Winston smiled with pleasure feeling the two globes of his ass, now gigantic, pushing his body forward. Like never before, he felt alive and powerful. He spotted a few guys in letterman jackets across the way and approached them.

Peyton and Kip recognized Winston's face from some of their classes, but were shocked at the muscle nerd swaggering forward, bursting out of his duds.

"Yo brah, what's bitchin?" Winston said, offering his hand in the handshake/pat gesture the jocks did.
"Winston?" Peyton said.
"Hell yeah, fuckers!"
"Dude, what the fuck happened to you?" Kip asked, staring at the rippling muscles that were stretching Winston's formerly hugely oversized shirt and pants, which now barely fitting the immensely built man. The question knocked some sense back into Winston.
"Oh dude! No, Coach Thornton. He, uh...he said something to me. About…Fletcher!” There was a long pause. Winston tried to collect himself, but his head was like a pinball machine. “Yeah, no dudes, I was with these fucking nerd fucks. Those fucking losers annoy the fuck outta me, ya hear me?" Winston's eyes were heavy and his body was constantly moving. Aside from the brimming energy, Winston was enjoying feeling every new muscle of body contract and release, the happiness of the flexed hardness and the sweet release as muscle went lax.
"Yeah brah! I fucking hate dweeboids!"
"Fuck yeah dude!" Both Kip and Winston said, before the latter shook his head. "But no, guys, guys, guys," Winston said, trying to focus his thoughts which were running like a naked chick in a horror movie - all flight, no plan. "Coach Thornton did this to me. He told me if I told anyone that they turned Fletcher into a jock something bad would happen." There was a pop and a long-drawn out sigh Winston felt his head split in half, widening as it went. His skull literally enlarged. His nose was big now with a wide bridge, forehead hanging heavily over his eyes, which seemed to fade a little further away. As the jawline squared up, his chin jutted forward and adopted the same rigid square shape, causing his head to look like a box set on his Herculean body. He felt an explosion in his pants as his cock jettisoned inside his underwear, each pump of cum causing the dick to get thicker and just a touch longer. He was destined for a choad. His body grew in mass, causing the seaming of his shirt and pants to begin to rip apart. He was still dressed, only barely, now looking like Bruce Banner about three-quarters into his Hulking, only minus the green skin.

Peyton and Kip weren't the sharpest crayons in the box, but they knew something weird was going on. Winston had been a total math loser whom they had immediately hated earlier. But now he was different. Sure, he had the bitchin' bod of a top jock bro, but his attitude and mannerisms were different too. He wasn't trying to talk up and sound all better; he was talking like a dude. And it was obviously a natural thing to him. In fact, it was hard for them to even call him Winston now, since he looked and acted like such a jock bro.

"Dude, you're fucking shredding your shit!" Kip said. Winston looked at his body, threatening to burst from its clothing cage any second. Each time he inhaled, it looked like the shirt was about to surrender.

Winston knew he was supposed to be scared, but all he could do was laugh. "Fuck yeah dudes. I'm fucking pumped!" He clenched his fist and swung them low to flex his chest as he let out a behemoth roar. His shirt lost the war, and the torn remains slipped onto the floor. Peyton and Kip cheered with the beast as it released, then spent a few moments laughing and congratulating Winston on the awesome act and his well built chest. The inane conversation continued for a few minutes, mostly short phrases of congratulations and praise of his physique.

"Dude, that's sweet. Wait, uhhh, what were you saying about Coach Thornton?"

Winston stopped his chattering and stared Kip in the eyes. It wasn't the sharp, predatory gaze he gave the nerds, but the same empty eyes that all the jocks had outside of sports and dominance. There wasn't anything going on in either boy’s head.

"What?,” he finally droned out.

"You said that Coach Thornton did something to you," Peyton explained.

"I did?"

"Yeah brah! You said, something about, like, talking or shit..." Winston’s hands dug into the hair on his head and felt his old personality assert itself. He looked down at his pumped body. He was in the wrong body…something had happened, something had gone wrong, this wasn’t his body. Wide and high pectorals dangled off his chest, stuck firmly in place but appearing so large they might fall off. Huge veins traversed over his bulging arms, way oversized for any practical need, these biceps were entirely for show. When he raised his arms, he could feel the deep divide of his back tense and flex. Testing himself, his flexed his big quads and laughed a tiny bit as the pants jutted from side to side as he did so. He rubbed his backside and felt the high mound of his imperial ass. Tight, high, and strong, just like a real man's ass should be. Winston fought that feeling, that urge, so primal and raw. He glanced at the two hulks in front of him who gazed forward without a care or thought in the world.

"Oh hey dudes," Winston said, for the first time noticing how his voice had dropped, his formerly rich baritone was now a heavy bass that was almost hard to listen to. "I gotta see Coach. Later!"

"Cool brah!"
"Awesome dude!"

Each step, Winston fought the urge to submit to his muscles. Each moment was desire to assert himself as the predator, the alpha, chest high and shoulders back. It felt unnatural to hunch, to hide his glorious form that embodied all that was good about men and all that was masculine in the world. But then he'd focus again, find Winston again, and keep going.

He arrived back at the locker room and found a strange feeling inside, a sort of communal belonging. He liked this room, he felt good in this room. It was raw and masculine, stripped of everything unnecessary. It had that smell, that scent - dominance, masculinity, and muscle. Oh god, big glorious muscles running and charging and pounding. His nostrils flared and his eyes lit up with the sort of predatory glared reserved for the unworthy.

He found himself at the door to Thornton's office. The door was tightly closed, and he wondered for a moment if it had even opened since he had been there earlier. Man, that was a strange thought. He had been here today. But everything had been different then. Winston flexed his biceps and admired their bulging forms. He bounced his massive glutes, the vigorous motion they created caused him to giggle slightly. He decided to do them together and burst open the seat of his pants. His formerly oversize, then tight, now shredded, pants fell to the floor, leaving Winston standing his boxers, which were inappropriately tight around his dick. He let out a deep guttural laugh that caused his mammoth body to quake up and down. After a few moments, having forgotten why he was laughing, Winston stood up straight, eyes forward, head up, and rapped on the door.

"Enter," the domineering voice commanded from the other side. Winston opened the door and marched his now gorgeous, sculpted, and masculine form inside. He approached the desk but didn't speak, instead just standing at attention as he always did. Finally Thornton looked up from his papers and smiled at the gargantuan man.

"Ah, Winston. Couldn't keep your big fat mouth shut, huh boy?" Coach Thornton chuckled. “I genuinely gave you a chance, but you didn’t take it…actually, that makes you pretty smart.” Winston wasn't sure what the coach was saying, so he declined to answer.

"You look good."

"Thank you sir!" came the robotic reply.

"Yes indeed," Thornton stood up from his chair, and the bulk of muscular weight releasing from the chair caused it to bounce a bit. He walked around Winston, inspecting the man's blown-out frame and muscular development. "I'd say you turned out quite nicely.”

"Thank you sir," Winston replied again, a feeling of pride welling up inside of him from the compliment. There was still a part of him screaming inside, retching against the coach's compliments. But the muscle beast stood his ground proudly.

“I hope your friends aren’t telling you their secrets, because you seem like you really suck at keeping them. ” Thornton paused, before suddenly commanding, “Three point stance!"

Immediately, a pulsing rage built inside Winston. His blood began to boil and his eyes narrowed and nostrils flared. A deep desire to kill, crush, and destroy overrode his brain, shutting down his mind, directing his entire being towards one purpose. He kneeled down, then with one hand firmly supporting him by his fingers, he launched up onto his legs. His ass was thrust high in the air as the weight of his body pressed through the balls of his feet. He held his left hand up, just above his knees, ready to "punch" the opposing players.

Winston was in perfect form almost instantly. He barely moved as Thornton walked around to inspect him once again. A content smile crossed his face and he gave Winston a firm slap on his displayed butt.

"Good man. Alright, get up," Coach Thornton said as he walked back to his desk. Winston's body was still pumping with energy and anger, but he felt it die down slightly. As he hoisted his massive body up again, he saw the coach's smile. Winston found himself again. Except the room was so small now, not scary at all, now that he was a hulking bruiser in boxer shorts standing before the man who did this to him…changed him into this FREAK…

"Fuck! You fucker. You fucking fuck! I fucking know you did this!" The confrontation didn't come out the way he wanted. Winston found himself unable to break the haze that seemed to have descended in his mind. The words were tough, but they were there. He was angry.

"What did I do, Winston?"

"You fucking son of a bitch, don't fucking play with me!" Winston approached the desk angrily, blood pumping through his body, swelling his athletic muscles beyond their current glory. Winston felt strong and powerful and mad as fucking hell. The rage made him more handsome, more masculine. "I know what you did to me!"

"Then what did I do to you, Winston?"

"You turned me into a jock!" Winston's body got a little tighter, the cuts on his muscles got a little deeper. And his formerly large lips faded away as his face adopted a stern thin line for a mouth. Coach Thornton watched the improvements with a knowing eye. “No,” Winston sputtered, observing the even more improved shape of his biceps, feeling the testosterone exploding in pockets around his chiseled body. “No, that’s not fair, YOU already know! It’s not a secret if you know!”

Coach Thornton ignored the panic. "I did, Winston. I turned you into a football player."

"Yeah brah! I'm like, a total stud football jock." Winston felt something happening, something was drifting away or breaking apart. A floodgate of thoughts burst into the dim haze of his brain, making it hard to sort through. He couldn't think.
"How do you feel?"
"Fucking awesome dude!" He couldn't think. Not well, but this energy, this boundless rage and power was the most amazing feeling Winston had ever imagined.
"I gave this to you."
"Yeah brah! You totally fucking did. Goddamn, you are just the best motherfucker on the fucking planet, Coach! Seriously, I was some dumb little bitch ass pansy cocksucker but you made me into a real goddamn man!" Winston let out a guttural roar as his ass burst through the seat of his boxers and his cock spurt forward. “GRAAAHHH!” Only the lip of the desk kept Winston from giving his Coach a facial.

The release calmed Winston down, and he stood, panting, before bracing himself against the desk. He felt as wide as the desk, the muscles in his huge back rippling like the ocean’s unharnessed power. Coach Thornton smiled as he pushed a piece of paper forward.

"So, ready to join the team?"
"Fuck yeah!" Winston stepped forward and looked at the paper.
"It's just a consent form. Personal injury and such. Although, there is this one, too."

Winston stood, his mind blank, as Coach Thornton handed him another piece of paper to sign.

"People get what they ask for. A big jock like you can't be called Winston."

"Winston?! I…that’s a pussy name."

"Damn right, kid. So, just sign the paper."

Winston looked at the paper. Despite his cumming, he was still horned up and ready for action. He wasn't smart, he knew that, but he wasn’t illiterate or anything like that. Just a little slower than other people. That was cool. Jocks got brains, that's why you wear a helmet, plus knowing plays and audibles and rules isn't something you pick up in a day. It's a lifetime of dedication, throwing your body and soul into it, and dedicating the space in your mind to it. But Winston hadn't dedicated his life to it....


Stone Price. The last remnants that remained, the tiny strands of Winston hanging desperately inside the increasingly jockish brain were devoured, digested, and reformatted for the happy brain of Stone Price.

His name on the document, Stone Price felt a surge of happiness storm over his brain. He was strong, powerful, and "Solid like a Stone!" Stone flexed a double bicep pose and let out guttural laugh again, and this time Coach Thornton joined in.

"Welcome to the team, Stone."

"Thank you sir!" It felt perfect now. Obedience to the coach, reverence to the coach, his place was on the team. He was part of a well-oiled machine.

Thornton looked at the long hair hanging around Stone’s big mug; once dark, the follicles had turned the same color as undiluted sunshine. “I’d like you to get a haircut,” the coach instructed, and Stone nodded obediently. “I’ll go right after school, sir.”

“Good. Now Stone, I'm afraid you'll have to miss the rest of your classes today. You missed our orientation day, so we need to get you fitted for your uniform. You know your position?" Without a moment's hesitation, Stone answered, "Defensive end sir! Right side!"
"Look at these legs, duh. Because I'm faster than the left!" Stone laughed at the joke and followed Coach Thornton into the locker rooms.


“Mom, I’m home,” Stone bellowed as he walked in through the garage, kicking off the flip-flops his coach had so kindly let him borrow. His thighs rubbed together as he walked, making the material of his team tracksuit swish back and forth. He had to return to the tracksuit the next day, it was just a holdover since his clothes had gotten kinda fucked up that afternoon, although he didn’t remember why. The biggest tracksuit Thornton could find was still at least a size too small, so Stone could only zip the jacket up halfway, leaving his pecs constantly falling out through the opening. Not that he minded.

Stone rounded the corner and saw his mom making dinner. He mumbled another “hi” as he casually strolled in.

There was nothing casual about his mother’s reaction, though. She gave a surprised shriek and the ceramic dish she was holding fell from her hands, sending sharp shards flying all over the kitchen. The dish, thankfully, had been empty.

“What the fuck?!” Stone stumbled back and raised his hands defensively before realizing he’d sworn in front of his mother. “Uh sorry, Mom, you okay?”

“…Stone?” She was walking toward him, but oddly – her hands were up against the wall, her legs wobbly from shock. “Honey?”


Whatever his mom was going to say was interrupted by his dad bolting through the front door. “Honey, Thornton just called, the date got moved up because ohhhhh my God.” Mr. Price caught sight of the hulk in the kitchen, towering over its mother and looking terribly confused now. Stone saw his dad begin to laugh, so he calmed down a little and laughed too and met the hug that was offered. “LOOK at you, buddy! You’re a masterpiece!”

“Well, yeah.” Stone’s handsome face was being touched by both his parents. His sculpted cheeks and too-wide jaw, the alpha-male eyebrows, the gleaming blond hair. “What the hell’s up with you two?”

“Uh, Wi…Stone,” his mother said sweetly, exchanging nervous glances with his dad. “I have a couple errands to run that I could use your help with and…oh…” She trailed off as Stone unzipped his track jacket and dumped it in one of the kitchen chairs, displaying the otherworldly size and definition of his upper body. He pulled in a deep breath and his chest expanded so much that it looked, momentarily, like it would explode.

“Not now, Ma, I wanna take a nap,” the jock muttered as he lumbered over to the fridge, twisted off the milk cap and took a swig straight from the jug. “I’m beat.” A drop of milk ran from his lips and dropped between his pecs, rolling down the cleft like it was a natural spring in the mountains.

“Do what your mother says,” Stone heard his dad command, but the jock just laughed as he put the milk back in the fridge. The Prices watched their son keep laughing as he strolled out of the kitchen and up the stairs…toward his…bedroom…”OH NO, STONE, DON’T GO IN YOUR-”

They raced up the stairs and saw it was too late. Stone was standing in the middle of his room, which now looked much smaller since its occupant was nearly twice his original size. His confusion was palpable. “Where’s all my shit?!”

“Stone, honey, I know you’re confused-”

“CONFUSED?!” The big face went red with rage and both parents took a step back from the hunk they now called their son. “WHOSE SHIT IS IN MY ROOM?!” Stone picked up a Mathletes t-shirt from the floor and held it up against his body. It covered his right pec, his right shoulder, part of his neck and a little of his upper arm. “Mathletes?! Are you fucking kidding me right now?!” Stone took the shirt and ripped it down the center, wiping his face with one side. He growled at it like it was trying to attack him, then wadded it up and threw it at his parents. “GET THIS GROSS SHIT OUTTA HERE!”

“Stone, go take a nap on the couch, and we’ll fix your room, okay?”

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do! I’ll take a nap on my bed if I fucking want to.” Stone defiantly launched himself onto the twin size bed. He smashed one knee into a bedpost, howled in pain and then, as his parents watched, tumbled onto the floor as the bed cracked under his weight and snapped in the middle.

He’d broken his fucking bed.

Sheepishly, Stone brought himself to his feet and hobbled out of the room, pushing in between his parents as he walked back down the stairs. “I wanna nap on the couch,” he shouted over his shoulder, as if it had been his idea all along. As soon as he was splayed across on the sofa, he was out.

After an hour, Stone awoke but didn’t move. With the sofa facing the front hallway, he could see his parents frantically running up and down the stairs, filling a bag at the front door with clothes that he didn’t recognize. Then, strangely, he saw them bringing clothes that he DID know – his polos, his muscle-cut tees, his khakis, his football gear, the half-shirts he worked out in – out of the basement. Except they were all neatly folded and shrink-wrapped, like they’d been in storage for a long time. That was weird…his mind heavy with sleep, Stone tiredly blinked his eyes a few times before letting himself burrow back into the sofa, nodding off once more. He slept right through his father valiantly shoving a queen-sized mattress up the stairs, and his mother changing out the family pictures on the mantle two feet from where he slept.


Stone woke up the next morning sprawled naked across his bed. The sheets had mostly been tossed off during the night, with only a trace of them wrapping around his feet, leaving his sculptured form on display. His wide penis was fully hard and pointing straight the ceiling. Stone's eyes opened hazily and he absentmindedly stroked his hard cock. A silly smile broke across his face and a deep moan escaped his lips. Stone's head was spinning and he had a hard time brushing off the haze of rest. Something seemed wrong, out of place and he couldn't quite figure out what. The stroking on his dick increased its pace as Stone's slow mind began to stretch itself out. Yesterday seemed so odd, like he had a funny dream that could have been real. His pace quickened and his breathing became faster and heavier. Fuck yesterday, this was awesome.

A few thick bursts of pearly joy splashed against the washboard abs and Stone smiled as he admired his glorious muscles. Nothing like a good morning jerk. Feeling better now, energized and awake, he stood up, popped his neck from side to side and walked into the bathroom. Flicking on the lights, he was awed at the sight of his mountainous form. The huge pecs were what he first noticed, making every hour at the bench press worth it. He admired the bulges of his biceps that were dissected with huge veins, the glorious delts that spread his shoulders wide, and the perky mounds of power that were his ass. Stone loved his body, worshipped his body, and spent his entire life dedicated to his body.

He hopped in the shower and rinsed off the cum and sweat. He still felt slightly on edge, like he slept really poorly last night. His body felt sort of heavy and tired. Stone just kept trying to shake off the feeling and went back to his room. He glanced over his room and though it felt strange, it looked perfect. Rather Spartan, with a large bed and a dresser. He had a few books on the nightstand, sports psychology and some football and training stuff. There were trophies along one wall, going from peewee through high school. Stone felt like it was time to get rid of them, but his dad wanted him to keep them and he liked pleasing his old man. He opened the top drawer of the dresser and was greeted to a few jockstraps and briefs in either royal blue or white. He grabbed a blue pair and slipped them over his powerlifter quads and buoyant ass. Finally covered slightly, Stone felt a strange compulsion to make his bed. It wasn't hard, he just slept under a sheet - his huge bulk got hot quickly. Still, it felt better this way.

He dug through his dresser for a shirt. A line of athletic t-shirts and polos greeted him. From the pile, he selected a royal blue polo that was the same color as his briefs. Stone felt overwhelmed with school spirit today and wanted to show it. The polo’s seams ran perfectly in sync with his enormous shoulders, and the waist nipped in just so, showing off the natural spread of his lats. He pulled on a pair of tan socks and turned to his closet. A line of slacks in various shades of khaki hung neatly. A lighter colored one - appropriately the color was called "stone” - soon graced his legs. The pants were roomy enough for his well-developed muscles, but they still couldn't hide the athletic prowess of the wearer. He tucked the shirt in and added a brown belt and brown lace up shoes. It was important to look nice and put-together, he knew.

Stone took a final glance in the mirror, admiring his muscle body and well-fit clothing. He flashed a big dumb smile, his eyelids opening just a tiny bit further than usual but still giving him that half asleep look. He rubbed the short fuzz of his hair. The high and tight was awesome, took no effort and made him look tough – well, even tougher. Stone grabbed his bag and headed downstairs.

"Morning mom, hey dad," Stone greeted his parents who were having breakfast at the table. His mom smiled and offered breakfast while his dad just beamed at his son. Stone knew his dad was proud of his jock son, following in his own footsteps, but the look today was really intense - as though he'd just won state or something.

"Sit down Stone," his dad offered and Stone sat next to his father. The two began chatting about football, pro and the high school teams as his mother served him a large breakfast of eggs, sausage, milk, and oranges. Gotta keep the weight up and stay healthy. After finishing, his father offered to drive him to school, since his car was in the shop. Minutes later, they were standing up to leave. As they got near the front, his dad pulled out a package.

"This came later yesterday," he said, pressing the rumpled brown bag to him. Stone's eyes lit up as he tore in the package. Inside, wrapped in a thin layer of plastic that was soon gracing the floor, was his new letterman jacket. Once he’d known he was transferring, Stone had immediately ordered a new one. It was just like his old school, except the coat was royal blue and the sleeves were white leather. It still had the white "F" on the front. Sure, he hadn't technically lettered at this school yet, but that was only a matter of time. He was already a guaranteed starter and a contender for all-state. Quickly, he put the thick coat on. His dad smiled and patted him on the shoulder with the greatest affection. His mother told him how handsome he looked. Stone knew he was going to love this school. Hell, he already did.

Stone's dad dropped him off at the front of the school, offering another strong pat on the shoulder. Stone waved his father off, grabbed his backpack and hopped out of the car. A group of guys were hanging around the front, horsing around on top of a couple of short stone pillars designed to prevent cars from driving into the building. All of them wore a royal blue letterman jacket just like Stone's. And he could tell from their caveman faces and the way their muscles rippled under their clothes that these were his guys. Alpha jocks.

Stone puffed out his chest, rolled back his shoulders, and swaggered on over, allowing each oversized quad to roll over each in other in a predatory stalk.

"What's up fuckers?" Stone said, in a voice more congenial than his word choice, as he approached the guys. They stopped their games and turned to him. One guy, a bit taller than Stone with the thick yet agile build that instantly identified him as the quarterback, stepped forward. His classically handsome presence, with his high chin and assertive stance, instantly commanded respect.

"Hey, brah," he said, offering Stone his hand. The rough hands met in a short display of manly aggression as they simultaneously squeezed with all their might, causing the bulging veins in their forearms to expand further.

Already knowing the answer, Adam asked, "Sweet dude, you the new guy?"
"Fuck yeah, dude! You the quarterback, huh?" Stone barked with enthusiasm.
"Hell yeah I am. Adam Griffith," Adam responded, flashing his big Hollywood smile, causing the air-headed brute to smile in return.
"So, you're a defensive end?"
"Uh, fuck yeah bro! Right side, cause I'm, like, fucking fast," Stone smashed his right fist into his hand as he spoke.

"Sweet dude, careful what you say ‘cause the other end is right….hey, where’d he go?” Adam looked around and saw his muscled-up friend flirting with a couple of blonde girls. “Slade!," the quarterback bellowed, and instantly, obediently, the mountainous man headed over. His size was nearly identical to Stone's: huge pecs, oversized delts and powerful quads. Slade’s face was a picture of raw masculinity with a square head and a low brow, practically reeking of testosterone. His pretty, dull eyes had that distinct sort of haze to them, the half hanging eyelids indicating little going on upstairs. He was dressed identically to Stone, expect that the color of his khakis had a more grayish tint. The only real physical difference was that instead of the crisp high and tight Stone had, Slade's hair was a few inches longer, tousled neatly on his head with just the right amount of gel. While Stone’s hair made him look more like a Neanderthal, Slade’s had the opposite effect – he looked more handsome because of it.

"Hey brah!" Slade said, offering his hand. Stone accepted and they performed the jock handshake/half hug.
"Dude, you're, like, fucking pumped!" Stone said.
"Fuck yeah, brah, been working my ass off all summer!" Slade said as he flexed his bicep. "You’re pumped to shit too, dude, shit you’re a big motherfucker!"
"Fuck yeah! It's like fucking awesome, big fucking jock in the gym all summer.”
"Hell yeah, me too, fucker! You're one badass fucker! Good taste in clothes too!" They all laughed uproariously.

“Fuck, dude,” Slade said, pointing to a huge plastic bag full of clothes that Stone had hauled out of his car. “What’s all that shit?”
“Aw yeah, man, my parents found all this fucking small shit in our house, it must’ve been from when I was in grade school or some shit. I’m putting it in that fuckin’ clothing dropbox shit in the commons.”
“Cool man cool. I mean shit, yeah dude, man, this year is gonna fucking rock. We're gonna, like, fucking sack those pansy bitch-ass quarterbacks. No offense, Adam." Adam gave an indifferent shrug. The two ends were jumping up and down now, getting each other pumped up. One pushed into the other, not lightly. The other responded. There they stood, practicing their pre-game ritual already, shoving each other aggressively while yelling.

"Fuck yeah!"
"We're fucking tough!"
"Gonna pound some fucking offense!"
"Kill those fucking fucker fucks!"
"Fuck yeah!"
"Fuck yeah!"

Adam watched the two aggressive horndogs and smiled. Nearly identical in everyway, from their clothing to their bodies to their simple brains. Clearly, the defense this year was going to be physical and violent. Just the way he liked it. And to think that yesterday they were nerdiest of the mathletes. Adam smiled as he thought about how much he loved this school.

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