Coach’s Summer Training – Part 3

Jerry Hudson was my final student of the summer, and I had quite the project in mind for him, a transformation I had never attempted before. He was a rugby player at a local college, and his coach was a good friend of mine–he had a special commission and challenge for me, he said. Jerry was a bit of a loudmouth and a braggart, and I could only take it for about ten minutes before finally pushing him to the ground and shoving my foot in his mouth. Much to his surprise, and then his terror, my foot slid in effortlessly to the ankle–he tried to fight me, but for some reason his hands and arms just flopped against my leg like fabric. With my foothold secured, I took a moment to cut away his clothes, and then reached down, grabbed his hips, and twisted his lower body around. Had he still had any bones at all, his spine would have broken–instead, he just laid there, and watched me put my other foot right in his ass.

Now came the real challenge. I concentrated on him, and started making him smaller, watching the twist grow tighter and tighter at his middle. I’d certain turned someone into a sock before–but I’d never tried making one person into a pair of socks. It was obvious from the way what remained of his face was contorting that it must have hurt something terrible, but finally, with a loud rip, he came apart at the middle, and formed into two thick, black, identical calf length socks on my feet. I surveyed the damage. My right foot, which had been shoved in Jerry’s mouth, was screaming–as usual. But the sock on my left foot was saying nothing–no mind at all, aside from a dim instinctual desire to fuck. That was no good–I couldn’t have one sock brainless, so I pressed my feet together, knit the fabric again, and concentrated, forcing Jerry’s consciousness to spread out across both socks, and then, once it was more or less centered and even, I ripped them apart. Even I screamed at that, listening to the pain the two of them felt as I did that, but it did work–Two Jerrys, one on each foot, thinking independently of one another.

Now the coach who had offered this challenge, we’d met quite a few years ago at a leather club one night. I could tell he was a man like me–musky, leathery, willing to inflict pain on other people for fun. I’d thought about wearing him, but how could I make him better? Instead, I started making things for him to wear–for a hefty price, of course. What he wanted was a pair of devoted boot slaves–and so I went to work. Luckily we had similar shoe sizes, so I could wear his boots, conditioning both Jerrys to relish and appreciate the smell of their future master’s feet. I shined the boots twice a day with the socks, getting them used to appreciating the taste of boot black, and the importance of serving boots and feet. Still, with the initial challenge over, I grew a bit bored–why not have a bit more fun with both of them? I knew what their coach liked, after all–and with two slaves, that gives you some room for, shall we say, specialization.

The right one became my newest cum rag, and once he grew more used to absorbing filth, I started branching him out–submerging him in jars of my piss, forcing him to drink all of it into himself. He also worked as my toilet paper, and grew to appreciate the taste of shit along with everything else. After a week, he was crusty and filthy, but he loved it, and was begging me for more filth to eat. Meanwhile, I put the left sock through other exercises–stretching him out, forcing him to fit over my entire fist and arm up past my elbow, decorating him with rings and studs and metal spikes. By the end, the two socks looked strikingly different–and I told my friend to come over, because we would have to finish the work with him present as well.

He was ecstatic, when he saw what I had done, and couldn’t wait to put them on. He did, and I started working the slaves together, telling them that this was the moment they’d been waiting for, that this was their master, their owner, and I started shifting them back. Soon, two young men were kneeling before him, worshiping his feet hungrily–obviously identical twins, and yet they couldn’t have been more different in their appetites. The one serving his right foot was a filthy mess, caked with cum, piss and shit–the other was cleaner, but his entire body was a riot of piercings, and desperate to feel his master’s fist buried in his asshole. The mental split had left both Jerrys much, much dumber–after all, when you only started with one brain, there wasn’t much hope for intellect, but each served his master well for many years to come. But that, alas, was the end of my summer. Still, I’ll have a whole new set of men to train next year, so who knows what might happen then?

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 2

Phillip Emerson was my next pupil. I’d met him while helping out with a few local wrestling meets at the college level. Part of what I liked about him was he was more than an exceptional all around athlete, he was incredibly smart to boot, in the midst of pursuing some degree in an advanced math program. Just the kind of guy I can destroy, and love every second doing it, usually with a bit of challenge along the way. Wrestling was his chance to not think for a while, he told me, and I figured that by the time we were through, he wouldn’t be thinking much at all. We spent a day in the ring getting nice and sweaty, and I offered him a massage to help him cool down afterward. I started on his shoulders, and immediately his body went limp, and he let out a groan. I urged him to relax, to just focus on his good it felt as I kneaded all the tension from my body. He still eventually noticed what I was doing, of course, once he saw his legs shrivelling up and disappearing into his torso. I started pulling him on, and he couldn’t do anything but flap his withering arms at me, his head shrinking down into his neck of the shirt as I pushed my head through. I sniffed the sweaty fabric and jacked off, making sure to shoot up the front–the first load of seed of many more to come.

As I expected, Phillip was too smart to be a screamer–he was a bargainer. He obviously knew that I wanted something out of him, but he didn’t know what. His mind was too adept for me to wear him down to the breaking point like I had Shawn–so I decided to work on him a little differently. I proceeded with what I had been planning, and I started a long, intense workout regimen which had Phillip soaked in my sweat from dawn to dusk, and as I lifted weights and ran my miles, I counted. I counted steps, I counted sets and reps, and I counted at him, and soon, unable to help himself, he was counting too. He didn’t exactly have much else to do, right? And he did love math, after all. Then, while he was busy counting, I could sneak around in his head, sand off off a little cleverness here, erode a little vocabulary there, take off a little bit of wit over there. By the time he noticed that he was getting dumber, it was too late–then he started screaming.

Thankfully he got too dumb to figure out why he should scream soon after that. Soon his mind was so far gone that pretty much all he could do was count–and not very high at that. He’d usually lose track somewhere around ninety during our runs–that jump to one hundred always seemed to confuse him, so he’d happily start back at one again over and over and over again. He was much better with sets and reps, of course–smaller numbers were better, he said. I had him eagerly sucking up all of my sweat at this point too. You know those fabrics that are supposed to wick away moisture? They don’t have anything on a jock trapped in a shirt sucking all your sweat up and drinking it down for you. I had also been making him bigger this whole time, baggier, with big arm holes and a low scooping neck. When I was happy with him, I decided it was probably time for the finale.

As I said, if I focus hard enough, I can keep someone as clothing even when they aren’t on my body. One morning, I finally peeled Phillip off my wet body, laid him out on a table, got out a black sharpie, and I started drawing. On the back I wrote “MUSCLE FAGGOT”, in big, thick letters, and then filled in the rest with smaller stuff. Some of it was writing–“Musk pig”, “Fuck my holes” with an arrow pointing down the back–but everything else was just swirls and blocks of black ink all over the shirt. He didn’t understand what I was doing at all–but once he was more black ink than white (well, “white” I suppose, he was really more of a dingy brown at this point) I released my focus, and the brand new Phillip Emerson emerged from his form.

He was huge–at least six and a half feet tall, and packed with muscle from neck to calf. Hell, he could have been an amazing bodybuilder, if it wasn’t for all of his tattoos. He was covered everywhere, even up onto his neck, face, and shaved head with tribal swirls. Of course, the centerpiece on his back was “MUSCLE FAGGOT” in massive letters so large it had to be spread down over two lines, and the simple minded oaf didn’t really know what was going on, but he could smell me, he could smell my musk, and so he got down and started cleaning my body for me. I fucked his surprisingly tight hole in return, before dropping him off at his home, a local gym. He lived upstairs there, and worked out day and night–when he wasn’t getting gangbanged by the regulars in the locker room. Being as stupid as he was came with some issues of its own. He was lucky that the owner was a sadistic fucker who loved the idea of keeping a big, stupid, muscle faggot pet for himself and all of his friends. Still, because he didn’t quite understand social standards, Phillip’s dick was kept locked 24/7, so he couldn’t just drop his shorts anytime and start jacking off like a pig during business hours. When he kept stripping his clothes off anyway, his master forced him to wear singlets, because he was too stupid to figure out how to take them off without help–and so he never did, usually wearing them until they started ripping and tearing at the seams, his locked cock obvious underneath the spandex. Needless to say, I keep a membership there now, but rarely to work out–I mostly just like to drop in on my muscle faggot on a regular basis. He’s always so excited when he smells me coming–even though he doesn’t even know why.

Coach’s Summer Training – Part 1

You can just call me coach, if you’d like. I work during the school year working as a PE teacher and coach for a few local high schools and community colleges–but my real fun doesn’t come until the summer. You see, I run a highly successful summer mentoring program for student athletes. I mean, it’s highly successful for me, of course, but let me explain. When I hit puberty, I discovered that I had a rather strange power–I could turn people into my clothing. The effect only lasted until I took them off again, but this wasn’t a real problem for me–see, I was a bit of a slob, and I enjoyed wearing my dirty clothes for days on end. Of course, the first time I did this, when I turned my big brother into a pair of boxers, I was terrified someone would find out, however, I soon realized that everyone had forgotten all about him–as far as my parents and the world was concerned, he didn’t exist. I remembered of course–I could even talk to him while I was wearing him. He wasn’t very happy, as you can imagine, but he’d never been very nice to me. So I started jacking off into him, day in and day out. Eventually I got sick of listening to him beg me to turn him back, so I took him off, but reality never quite picked up where it left off for him. Our parents still didn’t remember him, so he had to leave home, but luckily, reality made space for him elsewhere–as a whore for a pimp downtown. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily depending on your perspective, soaking in my cum all those weeks had left him craving cum. I still talk to him on occasion–he works as a hustler downtown, and he always gives me a discount. He’s not happy about it of course, but he doesn’t exactly have much choice now, does he? Unless he wants me to wear him some more.

Over time, my powers have grown as well. If I focus hard enough, I can keep someone in their inanimate form even when they weren’t on my body for short periods of time. I discovered that I can even change aspects of the clothing, allowing me to better tailor their final forms to my darkest fantasies. I naturally gravitated to an occupation where I could do exactly what I want to do–turn men into clothes and fuck up their lives, but I never could devote my full attention to my clothes during the school year. Instead, I’d become close to a few young men each season, and encourage them to sign up for a week of “personal mentoring” during the summer. Their parents were always thrilled–after all, their children were born to be special, and receive special treatment, right? It didn’t matter that I couldn’t name a single successful athlete who’d graduated from my program–no one seemed to be interested in sports after I got through wearing them. Still, I’d managed to, once again, find three of young men eager to be mentored. Shall we get started?

Shawn Alexander, a high school quarterback with enough skill to go pro if he gets into a decent college team, signed up so I could help hone his leadership skills. Instead, I pull him into my office, and he goes floppy in my arms. I don’t change him right away–I fuck his mouth first. I want to be the last person that senior has sex with in that body, and as I cum, I feel his arms reach around me, his body shrivelling up into mesh, and within moments, he’s a brand new jockstrap soaked in my cum.

He’s screaming, of course. I never really blame them for screaming. Still, I go to work on him quick enough, wearing away at the edges of his cloth mind, forcing him to suck down my cum. You see, even though he’s a jockstrap, he’s still capable of absorbing anything on him or soaked into him, if he puts his mind to it. It takes a couple of hours to eat the seven loads I pump into him that afternoon, but he finally dries crispy, just how I like it. Of course, he thinks that as a reward for eating my cum, I’ll change him back–instead I laugh, and jack off again, and again, and again. Over and over, forcing him to suck my cum dry each time.

He finally broke after six days. Did he really like the taste of my cum? Or was he just being coerced? I told him it didn’t matter, and he started sucking it down all on his own. Sure, he still cried about it for a while, but with a bit of coaching and positive encouragement, by the end of two weeks he was begging me for cum. I frequent quite a few clubs of course, and by this point Shawn had grown accustomed to eating cum other than my own, and I could tell that I was almost ready to return him to humanity.

He needed a few other changes though. For the few weeks I wore him, I consciously made the jockstrap age and wear much faster than usual. By the end of his mentoring session, Shawn looked like he was years old, not weeks, with a threadbare pouch dotted with rips and holes, and straps with fraying elastic that didn’t pull as tight as it used to. I stripped him off, three weeks gone by already, and watched the new Shawn Alexander appear in front of me. He looked like he’d aged close to forty years–in fact, checking his new driver’s license–so I could eventually drop him off at his new home–he was sixty one years old, flabby, hairy, nearly bald with a patchy beard that always felt like dried cum was stuck in it–usually because there was. I never did find out what he did for a living, but I still see him all over town climbing into gloryholes, desperate for as much cum as he can get.