“Come on Brodie–just come lift with us! Classes aren’t for fucking jocks,” his two frat brothers guffawed and laughed–that was about as close anyone in the house got to a joke these days. After all, Jocks weren’t really known for their subtlety. Well, except for Brodie, and a few others. Against the orders of the study, Brodie still showered himself down at nights, when no one else was awake, and that helped him keep his mind clear enough that he could still go to a couple of classes on campus, even if he was nearly failing both of them. The professors were patronizing–they knew he didn’t really belong there as much as Brodie did, but they also found his attempt charming, and tolerated it. Brodie ignored his bros, and left the frat house, heading for campus–it wasn’t until after a few blocks that he felt warmth in the pouch of his constantly wet uniform, and realized he was pissing himself in the middle of the sidewalk–but the piss streaming out wasn’t what unnerved him–it was that he had completely forgotten to put anything else on over his uniform.
He was standing on the sidewalk in broad daylight, wearing nothing but his yellow and brown, cum and piss stained uniform, cock bulging in the pouch, his muscular, dirty, hairy ass hanging out for everyone to see…but that was normal, wasn’t it? He entertained the thought of heading back to campus and putting on some other clothes–or at least a pair of shoes–but that was ridiculous–the house didn’t have any other clothes. Jocks didn’t get to wear clothes–what did he think he was…a normal person? He felt frozen there, on the sidewalk, not really certain how to take what was happening. He’d worn clothes yesterday, hadn’t he? When he’d gone to class? Or had he? It was hard to focus, with the stench of his piss wafting up from the pavement, and he kept walking before he gave in and started lapping at the puddle. It would be delicious, of course, but if he got distracted he’d never make it to class on time.
He kept going, crossing the road onto campus proper and headed for his campus building. He saw, up ahead, a crowd gathering around a bench–some Nerd was making a scene on the bench. He took a different path, wanting to avoid it. Nerds could be…distracting, for a Jock like him, and that one looked…especially dirty.
“What the fuck is up with that Jock?” he heard someone say, as he walked, “They don’t usually walk like that do they?”
“Yeah, it’s kind of weird–almost looks like a human or something, when it does that.”
God, what was he doing, Brodie asked himself. He knew better than that. He hunched forward and crouched down a bit, so his hands were on the ground and kept walking. He was aware that this position should be…very uncomfortable, if not impossible…but something odd had happened to his body. It was like his legs were shorter–squat and thick–and his arms had lengthened. He seemed almost simian, as he walked, and the copious amount of hair coating his body didn’t help. Still, he felt less naked, with his pelt on. He always felt sorry for swimmers, and the shaving and waxing they had to put up with. So much easier just being a dumb football jock like he was.
He was almost to the building where the class was being taught, when something flying through the air caught his eye. He dropped his books to the ground in a heap and launched after it, tongue hanging out of his mouth, every concern in him pushed aside. A thing was in the air! A ball? No–no, a frisbee! Brodie fucking loved frisbee! He launched himself into the air–a sense of vertigo washing over him when he saw how…high his squat legs could propel him–and intercepted the disk in the air, grabbing it with a sound something between a howl and cheer, and landed on the ground with a roll. Some focus returned to him, and looking around, he realized he’d interrupted a game of catch being played by three normal guys on the quad, and he felt a bit embarrassed.
“God, fucking Jocks,” one of them said.
“Hey, be nice! It’s not like they can help it.”
He loped over, holding the frisbee in his mouth, and handed it to one of the men, who tousled his hair like a kid, or a dog…and Brodie felt a surge of pride.
“Throw!” he said, his voice gutteral, almost a growl. “Throw again! Brodie catch! Brodie good catcher. Brodie play football.”
The guy rolled his eyes, “Hey guys, the jock wants to play.”
“Of course he fucking does.”
“Throw!” Brodie said, jumping up and down, an odd glee and exuberance filling his chest. “Throw for Brodie!”
“He’s not going to stop, is he?”
“How about keep away?” one of them suggested, and the other’s agreed. So the three of them began throwing the frisbee between them with Brodie in the middle, chasing after the disk like a pup, intercepting it often…and sometimes letting it go, because he liked seeing the people happy. Jocks, after all, wanted to make men happy, right?”
They stopped after an hour. Brodie hadn’t thought about his class once, and to thank the men for letting him play with them, he blew them all in sequence, and drank down their piss on the quad. No one really batted an eye at that–after all, Jocks could be a bit…forceful if the didn’t get their way. In the end, Brodie heard the four o’clock chime ring from the bell tower, said a hasty goodbye, and took off in the direction of the fieldhouse. Practice started at four fifteen, after all, and Brodie didn’t want to be late. Brodie wanted to play football! Maybe tomorrow, those guys would be playing frisbee again. He liked frisbee too, and their cum had been delicious as well. Maybe, if he was extra good tomorrow, they’d fuck his dirty ass too.
The End for now…
Bracken's Corner 