You still have a few hours to vote for the next chunk of the interactive I’m doing. Follow the link, give it a read, and tell me what you’d like to see next!

What does academic probation mean, exactly? Easy–that means that when jocks like you get out of line at school, when they thing they’re too good to follow the rules, that their athletic prowess makes them untouchable by any authority, the principal decides they need a few weeks to relearn their place in the world.

I own you for the next two weeks–smirk all you want, but you have to do everything I say. Yes me–old fat Mr. Gannigan–but trust me, you like daddies, don’t you? Nothing tuns you on like an old fat fucker with a big old cock. Don’t try to deny it–after all, you can’t. Yeah, confused? I see that terror in your eyes. Looking at me a bit differently now, aren’t you? Eyes can’t quite seem to tear themselves away from my crotch, it seems. I know you want it–and you’ll get it, trust me.

Yeah, it’s a bit smelly–I don’t shower all that much, but go on, taste it–I guarantee you’ll hate the taste, but you won’t be able to stop eating all that cheese out from under my foreskin. I was gonna have my weekly shower tonight, but I wasn’t expecting to have a new jock to play with! No showers for me then–just a few, nice long tongue baths.

But you want to know the best part? When your two weeks are up, you’ll be back to normal, mostly–but not completely. Maybe you’ll still find yourself craving the smell of my sweaty ass crack. Maybe you’ll enjoy your own musk a bit more, since you’re going to skip all the showers for the next two weeks as well. Hell, Aaron? That quarterback of yours? Mr. Lewis fucked him so much that boy keeps a plug in his hole 24/7 now.

Now–here’s your orders. Go get dressed in the nastiest, smelliest football gear you can find in the locker room, and then come meet me in the parking lot. Detention’s at my apartment tonight, and we’re going to break you in right away–trust me, you’ll love it.

Source: justaguync74

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.

Rick and the Beast – Part 1

“Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!…”

Rick had never had a drink before in his life. He took the end of the funnel in his mouth, and the chant grew louder. But what could it hurt? He was at college! This is what college was for! The beer hit him fast, and he sputtered out the first bit, got the end of the funnel back in his mouth, and tried to keep up, the cheap, unlabelled beer from the keg tasting like slightly bitter water. He finally quit, when he couldn’t keep up anymore, let out a big belch, and people whooped and hollered. He grinned, feeling like he belonged.

An hour later, with five more cups of beer pushed onto him by guys from the frat hosting the party, he was smashed, stumbling down a hallway, trying to find a bathroom where he could either shit or puke or both. He ended up puking before he could find one, into a handy bucket the frat had hopefully left out for that very reason. He wiped his mouth, let out another belch and figured that the smart thing would be to excuse himself quietly. Turning around, he saw the hallway was blocked.

At least six and a half feet tall, weighing in at a rumored 300 pounds of nearly solid muscle, hair and cock, was Jim Newman–known around campus as “The Beast”. The prize athlete from the school, a senior already being scouted for the NFL draft, and he was staring right at Rick–short, big gutted, Rick Trubert, on a partial scholarship from Smalltown, Nowhere.

“Did…” Rick started to say. His heart was caught in his throat for some reason. “You saw that, I bet…”

The Beast didn’t say anything, but came forward, pushing right into Rick’s personal space, abs to moobs, and Rick’s heart caught again. He was panting, and…and hard? Why the fuck was he hard? He wasn’t gay, he’d had sex with girls and everything, but there was…a smell. The Beast’s musk enveloped him, this rank, filthy smell, and something about it was making him hard as a rock. “You looked good with a funnel in your mouth, piggy,” The Beast leered down, “Bet you’d look even hotter with my cock stuffed in there instead.”

“I’m…I’m not…”

“You think I give two shits?”

“Please–”

The Beast squatted a bit, reached under Rick’s gut and found the hard cock like he’d expected it to be there. Rick tried not to groan, but did anyway, loudly.

“Ya know, maybe not throat tonight. Looking at you now, I’m thinkin’ ass.” With his other hand, The Beast pulled up the bottom of his tank, revealing his hard abs, shiny with sweat, and Rick leaned in, snorting, licking up salt. When The Beast opened a bedroom door, Rick didn’t hesitate to follow. The Beast bent him over the bed, yanked down his pants, and fucked him raw, forcing Rick to bite down on a pillow so he didn’t scream, the ten inch cock buried deep into his guts, filling him with cum, and then Beast zipped up and left, but not before getting Rick to mumble out his cell number for him. Rick was happy to be drunk; it disguised the pain. He pulled up his pants, feeling cum and a bit of blood leak out into the back of his underwear, and fled back to his dorm room–thankfully, it was empty.

What should he do? Who should he call? No, he couldn’t tell anyone. Who would even believe him? The Beast was well known as a pussy hound; nobody would believe that he’d fuck a guy. He laid down on his bed, trying not to cry, trying not to think, when he felt his phone buzz. He checked it–a couple text messages from an unknown number.

left you a present pig

check your pocket

Rick noticed then that he had a strange bulge in his back pocket–he reached in and pulled out a jockstrap–The Beast’s jockstrap. The Beast’s stinking…well worn jockstrap. He pressed it to his nose, it had the same stink on it that he’d smelled in the hallway, and unable to stop himself, he had his cock in his hand, and he was jacking off. He noticed that his underwear was wet and tacky already…had he cum while The Beast was fucking him earlier? He could kind of remember in the bedroom, begging him to fuck his hole harder, grunting and snorting and panting like a fucking pig…yeah, he’d cum, he’d cum harder than he ever had before. He waded up the jock and shoved it in his mouth, sucking the sweat, piss and dried cum from the fabric, and while one hand kept stroking his pig cock, the other slipped around behind to his sore, wrecked hole, probing it, slipping two and then three fingers in, unable to stop.

After several minutes of abusing himself he shot again, and kept the jock in his mouth as he came down from his orgasm. Realizing what he’d done, he threw it across the room, and saw a few more messages had arrived on his phone.

think you should cum to my room and thank me pig

r u there?

fuckin answer pig I dont like waiting!!!

Rick’s thumbs tapped out a few replies, but he kept deleting them before sending them. His roommate came back from a different party, and Rick had to cover himself up quickly, and only then did he realize he’d never sent a message back. That was probably for the best…but he had to silence the phone–the stream of messages didn’t stop coming in until the early morning, and he deleted them all before he could give into the temptation to read them. He kept the jock, though–he hid it from his roommate, but before long the only way he could get a load of cum out was with it pressed to his nose or stuffed in his mouth, but he never replied to The Beast. He was too terrified. He didn’t have to worry though–The Beast would be more than happy to hunt him down.

(To be continued Friday)

In some ways, Eric just never really managed to grow up. If anything, he seemed like he wanted nothing more than to go back to high school and relive what he considered to be his glory days–captain of the football team, and boyfriend of the entire cheerleading squad. Or, at least that’s how he told it. Some of his friends who’d stuck around after high school knew better, and they’d listen to his stories become wilder and more fanciful, fabrications piling up on fabrications, but eventually it seemed like even Eric was starting to believe his stories at some point.

Still, not everyone was impressed by Eric’s braggart talk, and one old codger in the town, a man named Old Willy, who never seemed to age, and who’d lived in the small mountain town for as long as anyone could remember, was growing a bit tired of listening to Eric’s drunken bullshit at the bar when he was trying to watch his sports teams.

“Eric,” he finally said one afternoon, “Would ya shut up with yer piles a bullshit fer once in yer fuckin’ life?”

“Oh shut up Willy–no one gives a fuck what you have to say,” Eric replied, before guzzling down the rest of his beer.

Fed up, Willy walked over to Eric and whispered something into Eric’s ear for a couple of minutes, and the young man’s eyes went from something close to humorous to a horrific stare for the remainder, and then Willy sat back down, and Eric was silent for a moment, before he stumbled out of the bar, recalling the lies Willy had told him, about how he’d been enslaved one afternoon by Edgar, the old, obese janitor at the high school, hypnotized by him into the perfect jock slut, raped over and over by the fuck machines Edgar had designed specifically for his jockslave, and Eric tried to drive home to his parent’s house, but he lived with Edgar now…didn’t he? Why had he even left the house? He hadn’t left his master’s dungeon since he’d graduated high school.

When he got out of the car, his clothes had become a modified football uniform, his ass and cock exposed, and he went into the house before finding the machine he was supposed to be training on, and climbed on, letting it pummel his ass with the huge dildo Edgar loved using on his jockcunt until he was so loose he could barely tighten up again. And back at the bar, Willy grinned, his mouth half-toothless, excited to head over to his friend Edgar’s house for a piece of that uppity jock asshole. After his game was over though–he couldn’t miss his game for anything.

The Doctor and the Loser

***WARNING*** Contains light scat.

***

“Good afternoon team.”

“Good afternoon Dr. Jacobs,” the football team replied in near unison. They were all seated on the benches in the locker room, their eyes empty and glazed, just staring at the jeweled necklace the doctor was wearing. Standing next to him was the team’s coach–a very large, hulk of a man, but he looked like he might fall over at any moment; his arms were limp, his back slouching forward. The only part of him that held any tension was his neck, which craned his head around so he could keep looking at the jewel the doctor was wearing. It was so beautiful after all–he didn’t want to stop looking at it. He never wanted it to leave his sight for as long as he lived.

“Alright team, as you know, your coach here hired me so that I could help eliminate the culture of losing which has been the primary reason for these many, many long and grueling losses your team has suffered. Now, when I came here, I knew that a team which had lost for so long would have deep seated roots of failure throughout it. What I didn’t expect, was for so many of those roots to have a single trunk, which could be ripped out so easily. Now team, your coach and I have just had a long, serious talk, and…well, maybe it would be better for your coach to say it.”

The doctor looked over at the coach, but the man didn’t notice–his eyes were still locked on the necklace.

“Coach? Do you have something you would like to admit to your team?”

“Whaa…?” The big man said, noticing for the first time that the doctor was speaking, “Oh…uh…oh yeah, I do.” With some reluctance, the coach pulled his eyes away from the necklace and faced his senior varsity football team. “Uh…team…team, I hate to, uh, have to tell you this. But the doc and I, well, we’ve discovered that…that I’m a Loser.”

The whole room gasped. Dr. Jacobs had told them about Losers before–about how dangerous they were to a team’s chances of winning. The doctor had told them all that they were very close to becoming Losers themselves, and that was the main reason they obeyed him and did everything he asked, no matter how strange. Becoming a loser was simply too terrible a prospect to risk. But to find out that their coach was a Loser? No wonder they’d lost so many games! With a Loser coaching them, they would have been coached to lose!

“What the fuck is a Loser doing coaching us Doctor!” Simon, the team captain shouted.

“Yeah!” Vinny said, “He might have turned *woof* us all into Losers!”

The doctor held up his hands and the team settled down again. “I know, I know. It was never my intention to put you all at risk. I thought I had determined that the coach wasn’t a Loser when he hired me, but I was wrong. You see, the coach had no idea that he is a Loser–after all, Losers are very good at deceiving themselves, but now that we know this, we have both agreed that there is no way he can remain your coach, isn’t that right?”

The coach nodded, his face reddening, “I…I’m sorry boys. If…if I had known, I would have never put you in this kind of danger. But since the season has already started, I technically have to remain your coach…but for now, I’m putting all of you in the hands of the doctor. I can’t think of anyone who might help you all win more than he will.”

The coach took off his whistle and handed it to the Doctor, who placed it around his neck, being sure it didn’t get in the way of the necklace. “Alright,” the doctor said, “I think that’s enough Loser shit for now. Forget him boys! Now, Simon, go lead the team through stretches and a jog!”

“You heard the coach, team!” Simon said, “Let’s go!”

The team all charged past the two men and ran onto the field, leaving the Doctor and the Coach alone in the locker room, and the Coach looked like he was about to cry. “I…I don’t want to be a Loser, doctor! I don’t! Please, please can you help me be a winner like you?” He got down on his knees in front of the doctor, hands clasped, “Please, I’ll do anything–anything!”

The doctor shook his head. “I’m sorry, but once you become a Loser–a true Loser–there’s nothing you can do. You’re going to be a Loser for life…but…well, no, It’s a lot to ask of Loser like you, and I don’t know if I can trust you.”

“What?” the coach asked, “What is it? Please, if it can help–if it can help the team win, if it can help me, I’ll do it, I’ll do anything for you.”

The doctor smiled. “Well, alright. You see, having Losers around can be dangerous, unless they know their proper place. But you, I think you’ll fit into your proper place just fine. Come on, let’s go into my office and have a chat about what you’ll be doing from now on.”

The doctor walked towards the coach’s office, and the coach started to get up and follow him, but the doctor looked over his shoulder, “No. Crawl, you fucking Loser. Loser’s don’t walk like winners–that’s the first fucking lesson we’re going to have to get into that Loser head of yours, got it?”

“Yes, yes, I understand.”

“Yes sir, Loser!” the doctor shouted, “You don’t talk to me like I’m equal to you–I’m not a fucking Loser, do you understand? You address me, and the whole team, as Sir, do you understand?”

“Yes, sir! Yes sir, I understand.”

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to use you after all–you might be the sorriest Loser I’ve ever seen!”

“No!” the coach shouted, “Please sir, please–I’ll do anything–anything!”

The doctor stared at the now sobbing coach, on his hands and knees on the concrete floor, and smirked. “Alright, come on Loser.” The doctor stepped into his new office, and the coach crawled after him, “We have a lot of work to do if we’re going to make you the worst Loser this team has ever seen.”

***

They won.

In one of the biggest turnarounds the county had ever seen–the Silverside High Vipers won the district football championships. Hollering and shouting, the players streamed into the locker room, thrilled with their victory, carrying Coach Jacobs on their shoulders, and they gave their coach three cheers of thanks.

“Well done team!” Coach Jacobs said, “I honestly didn’t know if you had it in you all to be winners, but you proved me wrong!”

“Ha, we aren’t Losers coach, but we could have been. We have you to thank for that,” Simon said, and the team started hooting and shouting again, Vinny, on his hands and knees next to Simon, gave a loud howl, the team captain reaching down and giving the back of his pup’s head a long, deep scratching, Vinny rubbing his face up against his Captain, and Master’s, leg, his cock already hardening at the thought of the load of victory cum he would have the pleasure of swallowing soon.

“But now–now we have to announce the VIP!” the coach said, and the team fell silent in anticipation. “And I’m going to go with Mick!”

One of the linebackers started jumping up and down like a girl, and ran over to the coach, giving him a deep kiss. “Oh thank you coach, thank you! I tried so hard, I tried so hard just for you!”

“And you’re a winner Mick,” Coach Jacobs said, giving the big man’s ass a rough squeeze, “Now get in that office there, so I can give you your award.”

Mick licked his lips, and hurried into the office, the Coach following behind him, and left the players’ huddle to disperse into the pairs and triples which had formed naturally over the course of the season. Darren, however, broke away from Lewis for a moment, saying, “Hold on, I gotta piss before we fuck. Hey! Loser! Where the fuck are you? I gotta take a fucking leak, you worthless piece of shit!”

“Here, sir! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m here!” Loser said, as he crawled out from where he’d stayed out of sight. He had to stay out of sight until one of the team members needed him, or else he might break their winning streak. The several months since the good doctor had outed him as a Loser had not been easy for the old coach. He’d been tasked with being the repository for all of the teams loser aspects–all of their waste, all of their abuse, all of their humiliation. It hadn’t been easy, but what else was there for a Loser like him to do? He’d lived in the locker room, wearing nothing other than the oldest, nastiest jockstrap he could find in the lost and found bin. Coach Jacobs had taken good care of him, at least–or at least given him better care than a Loser like him deserved. Still, the diet of junk food and lack of exercise hadn’t helped the Loser’s figure. He was now well past obese, like most Losers are. He also hadn’t shaven or cut his hair in all this time–or taken a shower–and he stank almost as bad as Jerry did in his unwashed uniform, his beard caked with dried bits of shit that had collected there over the many practices and games where he’d served as the entire team’s toilet.

He crawled over and wrapped his lips around Darren’s cock, and drank the young man’s piss down, not spilling a single drop, trying not to moan in pleasure. He really was such a Loser–how else could it be that he would enjoy being one so much? It just felt…so much more natural to let things fall, to drink piss, and eat shit, and stink like a truck stop…with a shiver he felt his cock unload a wad of cum into his jockstrap–he couldn’t even control that anymore, he was such a fucking Loser–but he didn’t stop drinking, and he sucked and licked the head clean before crawling away back to his hiding spot–or he would have, if Jerry hadn’t called him over.

Several members of the team had gathered around him–after all, it was time for him to take off his gear, since this had been the last game of the season. He stripped off his rank jersey and socks, and then his jock, and said to the Loser, “Yo, clean me up, Loser–I haven’t had a proper bath in months!”

Loser went to work, licking Jerry’s body clean as quickly as he could, being very careful to touch him with no part of his body other than his tongue. He couldn’t risk spreading his Loser-ness to anyone on the team after all–and when Jerry was satisfied, he grabbed the Loser’s jaw, and stuffed his months-unwashed socks into his mouth, and then the pouch of his equally filthy jock, which he secured by wrapping the waist strap around the old coaches head twice. “Enjoy it, Loser–and they’d better be clean by the time I come back to school on Monday!” he said, and the team laughed, before they fell back into their sexual bliss.

The Loser crawled off to his corner, soaking the filthy socks and jocks with his saliva, before sucking it back out, feeling his cock shoot another load unbidden into the pouch of his jock. The Coach wouldn’t be happy that he’d shot twice already–he might even put the Loser back in chastity, but that was alright. The Loser deserved it–he knew he did. But if this is what it took for his old team to become winners like they were meant to be–then Loser could be happy with that, at least a little bit.

I coach the local high school football team, and, well, our school isn’t the best in the state, or the best in the county–well, we’re basically the worst out of everywhere. A friend of mine recommended a sports psychologist to me though–a guy who specializes in getting rid of the culture of losing, or something. I think it’s a crock of bull to be honest, but I hired the guy–it can’t hurt right?

Well, he’s been meeting with the team once a week now, and I have to say, he must be doing something right. I mean, we aren’t winning every game, but the team has definitely improved–but…well…

Some of them have been acting strange. I got a call from Jerry’s parents–they’re concerned, because he hasn’t taken off his jersey, jockstrap, cleats, or gloves from last week’s game. He just tells them that it’s his lucky gear, and that if he doesn’t wear it, then the team won’t win a game ever again. I asked him to hang out after practice yesterday to talk to him about it, and when I came out…well, he had his jockstrap off, and he was…sniffing it, and he had a hard on. I don’t know what to make of it. I tried to talk some sense into him, but he just blabbered on about Dr. Jacobs this and Dr. Jacobs that…it was hopeless.

And then, the next day in the weight room, Vinny was doing his bench press, when all the sudden he glazed over, rolled off the bench onto all fours and started barking and panting like a dog. He did it for a good minute, and I had to smack him across the face to get him to stop it, and he didn’t remember doing any of it! It was so bizarre. I think I need to have a talk with Dr. Jacobs about this. I’ll schedule a meeting for tomorrow before practice, and we’ll sort this all out then. I hate to fire the guy, but if he’s doing something weird, I need to know.

“I find that there are much better ways to encourage my clients to commit to their personal training with me. Now, the only clients I take are straight men, but the first hypnotherapy sessions embed them with two very specific rules for the program. First, that they must obey the orders of anyone with a lower body fat percentage than them, and second, to make things more interesting, I make it so they can’t perform, so to speak, with women until they reach their target weight.

It turns out when you’re compelled to suck the cocks of all the jocks I train, that is some strong encouragement for those fatsos to loose weight. A few of them though–man, something happens in their heads. They reach a point where they’d rather suck cock than loose weight, and they just balloon into tubs of lard, and the bigger they get, the more submissive they become. I’ve had to take a few on as personal slaves, just because they wouldn’t stop begging for me to fuck their big asses in the locker room. Still, fat boys sure do know how to suck cock–I’m not complaining.

For most athletes, college football is as high as they go, if they aren’t planning on going pro–and at a division III school, no one ever goes pro. It was the eve of their final game of the year, and someone (the prankster never revealed themselves, but it had to have been someone from the team, they thought) had left the box of shirts at the party house that night.

Laughing and already drunk, all of the football players had put them on, and when they woke up the next morning, hungover and aching, they saw that the shirts hadn’t been joking at all. They were all potbellied, in their thirties, balding, and very confused. When a group of biology students whose experiments they’d sabotaged last year as a prank came by, pretending to be members of the staff, and told them that the reunion was over and they had to get off campus, they had nowhere to go. How could they play, go to class, or even graduate, looking like this? Still, one thing was certain–none of them would play football ever again.

Source: usexybrah

“You’d better suck harder, pig. I swear, you have one of the weakest mouths I’ve ever. I think I’m gonna have to push the button again…”

“No, no please. I’m trying, I really am–”

“Sorry pig, but your time is up for this round,” Jack said, then reached over and pressed the button on the dildo stuck in the fat man’s ass. He groaned, feeling the serum pump into his colon once again, feeling his body jiggle and expand with fat once more. His gut, which was sitting on the bed, descended further and settled out on the covers, his thighs and ass sagging out with fat. Jack fondled the man’s expanding tits and new, quadruple chin, wiping the tears from the big man’s eyes.

The man, in fact, was Grant, who had been the star quarterback of the team. However, with eight loads of serum and each load generating seventy five pounds, Grant was now resting at a bit over 800 pounds, his hopes of going pro over.

“Alright, five more minutes on the clock, make me blow my load, and I’ll stop,” Jack said, and Grant resumed his sucking.

Source: bebearmyfriend

He never knew where the first one had come from. It had come in an bubble envelope in the mail, and when he’d opened it and pulled out the filthy, yellow stained jock, he’d dropped it, disgusted beyond belief. He could…smell it. He had immediately thrown it in the trash, and then gone to wash his hands, but that smell. He couldn’t not smell it, and he’d gone back, again, and again, and again.

Now, his collection was growing. Soon, one wasn’t enough–he’d needed more. At first, he had tried to make his own filthy jock straps, soaking them in his piss, sweat and cum, but it was never enough–it was never right. It needed to be someone else’s filth for him to get off. When the link arrived in his email, it was a godsend. A site devoted to young athletes auctioning off their smelly jocks to old men like him. The bidding wars were outrageous, but he had to win, no matter the cost, and all orchestrated by the jocks, getting rich old men addicted to their stink. They had to pay for booze somehow, after all.