Jocking, The: Third Quarter

13:00

«3»

By CallMeCrazy

[b]13:00: TWENTY YARD INTERCEPTION

[/b]Colin Venetelli had gone to college without any idea what he wanted to do in life. It didnít help that his freshman roommate had convinced him to join a fraternity, who introduced Colin to the joy of passing out from liquor. In fact, the only thing Colin enjoyed more about frat life than the drinking was the next morning. The confusion and haziness, trying to recall a dream. And of course the pictures and random chicks in bed were a perk. He had once possessed the average man body, but had since gained a rather defined beer belly.

Having discovered that math was actually his forte, Colin chose accounting as his major. Senior year, living in the frat house sounded like a convenient option. The only downside was that he would have a roommate again. And since his friends have moved out and on with life, he got an underclassman.

Snake Casillas stood as the largest man Colin had ever seen. His body just pumped with raw masculine energy. Biceps with thick veins overflowed the sleeve of the shirt which was pressed across his solid chest. He stared vaguely around the room before setting his eyes on Colin.

"Colin?" The deep bovine voice asked.

"Yo, whatís up man." The grip on the larger boy nearly crushed Colinís rough hand. Snake carried in his belongings, mostly clothes primarily made of spandex. The rest of the day was a collection of formalities. Right around midnight, Snake went to bed. Curious as to why he would sleep so early, Colin asked if something was wrong.

"Oh, no dude. I got practice in the morning. Iím on the football team."

"Oh. Cool dude."

[indent]Colin awoke at ten Monday morning. He glanced across the room and found the empty and unmade bed of his new roomie. The boxers he had worn to bed were tossed on the ground and his closet door was hanging open. Although he wasnít curious by nature, Colin decided to scavenge through Casillasí stuff. And though they were both Italian, Snake seemed to embody the physical stereotypes. Colin was just under six feet, with shoulders that easily defined any shirt. And unlike traditional Italians, his skin was rather pale.

[/indent]Arching his back in a deep morning stretch, Colin hoisted himself from his bed, scratching his furred chest. The open closet invited him to explore Snakeís belongings. Everything inside the closet seemed to be made of tight spandex. He had a few dress clothes including one suit. Inspecting one of the smaller spandex shirts, he saw the label embedded with a 4X. He pulled the comically large shirt up and held it against his own body. It could easily wrap around him, and, even after seeing Snake, Colin doubted that this shirt fit the athlete. Then he noticed a pair of tight pants lying on the bottom of the closet. Looking around the empty room, Colin slowly bent over and lifted the stretchy red pants off the ground. He could fit his entire body through one of the massive pant legs, but the waist seemed incredibly narrow. Absentmindedly, he glanced into the small cupboard again and notice a small crate entirely filled with jock straps. Colin wasnít about to go rummaging through some dudes personal effects, but they all seemed exceptionally large. So large, in fact, that he gingerly lifted one off the ground. It looked like some gift from a seedy adult shop, prepared to cover genitals for the most gifted porn stars. He quickly dropped the underwear and brushed his hands on his legs.

Heading for a morning shower, Colin encountered some more of Snakeís things. A bottle of shampoo and some body wash. He moved the bottles to one corner of the shower and proceeded to bathe.

"Shit!" He yelled as the cold morning water attacked his unsuspecting body. He was more a pretty boy, and preferred his water hot and steamy. But that was life, and he took his shower quickly. With two weeks before school starting, Colin had a lot of free time that afternoon. After a few hours of surfing the web, the room phone rang. Having never gotten a call in the room before, Colin was a little startled.

"Hullo?"

"Colin? Yo, dude this is Snake."

"Whatís up Casillas?"

"I need something from my room. There are a few forms next to my bed, could you bring Ďem down to the field. I fucking forgot and I canít leave practice."

"Sure, no sweat."

"Thanks a bunch dude. Oh, and could you grab one of my undergear shirts and pants. Itís fucking cold out here.. See ya in a sec." Colin signed as the phone clicked. At least he had something to do, rather than sit around all day. No one else had moved in yet, only him and the football team it seemed. The papers were right on the desk, and they seemed to be a collection of consent forms, mostly about injury, but one was very odd. Something about personal rights. Deciding not to think about it, Colin opened the closet again. He noticed that there was a huge collection of matching shirts and tights on the left side. Snake possessed an interesting array of colors: blacks, whites, red, blue, yellow, green, yellow, and even a grey. Colin decided on the red pair he had examined earlier. Gathering the items in his arms, he headed toward the stadium.

The house pretty close to the stadium, and it was only a few minutes later he headed inside. There was a guard at the door, designed to protect the practice from photographers and the general annoying human. Colin has to sign and initial two forms about his entry. One agreeing to no photography. The other saying that he was not to disturb the practice. Annoyed at the doorman, he walked down the hall as directed and arrived at the locker room.

Colin had never seen the locker room, but it was how he imagined. Rows of lockers, well lit, some things thrown around. But nothing interesting. Colin marched onto the field, searching for the bulging-muscle man. While Snake was the largest man on the field, the other jocks certainly took up their share of space. Upon seeing the stranger, the new head coach stormed over.

"Who are you?" The man demanded.

"Um, Colin Venetelli."

"Venetelli? Italian, huh? Are you here for practice?"

"Uh, no. Umm, I have some shit that Casillas asked me to drop off."

"Snake!" The coach roared. Instantly the big linebacker turned and headed toward the two.

"Yes sir! Oh hey dude!" Snake slapped Colin on the arm roughly. "Yeah, this is the shit." Taking the forms from his hand, Snake handed the papers over to the coach. After examining them for a minute, he nodded in satisfaction.

"Alright then. Weíll proceed. And what about that?"

"Fucking cold sir," Snake replied.

"Go change," the coach ordered. Nodding promptly, Snake took the spandex from Colin and headed toward the locker room. Colin proceeded to follow but a hand stopped him.

"Thanks Venetelli. Iím Coach Nick Cast." And he extended his hand toward Colin, who accepted it warily.

"Hello."

"Sir! Oh sorry, itís a habit. Coaching is about control. Sure youíre not trying out for the team?"

"No, . . sir. Donít know why youíd want me."

"What? You and Snake. Two Italians are better than one."

"I suppose."

"Get outta here. We gotta practice."

"Goodbye sir."

Snake passed Colin on the way out, and gave a small wave. Staring widely, Colin was amazed to see that the tights clung to his body was though wet. Shaking his head in confusion, Colin headed to enjoy the rest of the day.

[indent]Colin woke from a deep haze at six Monday morning. He could vaguely hear Snake getting ready. For some reason, he was tempted to remind the man to put on some warm clothes, cause it would be cold out. But he ignored it, he had no idea how Snake liked to practice. After he left, Colin lay in his bed, trying to go back to sleep. Finally, after two hours of deep frustration, Colin hoisted himself out of bed.

[/indent]Arching his back in a morning stretch, Colin scratched his small patch of fur on his chest, enjoying the hard feeling of his small but developing pec. He glanced around the room, noticing that Snake always left his boxers on the bed. At least, he probably would. This was only the first morning. The slightly muscular man marched over to Snakes closet to explore the mammothís clothes. His collection was largely spandex, though he did own a few suits. Glancing at one of the shirt, he noticed that 4X was embedded inside. Holding the shirt against his body, Colin hoped that one day he could fill out that shirt. A pair of red tights lay on the bottom. Pulling them up to examine, Colin realized how muscular Snakeís legs must be, and wondered what his squat weight was. The waist seemed like a match for Colinís own, but he was sure that Snake had a six pack on his body, while Colin had a flat stomach. The pile of mammoth jock straps in a tub at the bottom made him wondered if his roomie was endowed everywhere.

He quickly hopped in the shower, standing over Snakeís own products. His nude form was quickly covered in ice cold water, but he paid it no mind. Absentmindedly, he reached to the side for his own bath products. His hand brushed through the air as realized that he didnít have any. Letting out a small roar of frustration, he considered borrowing from Snake, but decided against it. He walked out of the shower, dripping water off his body as he marched across his room for the towel he left. As he toweled off his short, black hair, the phone rang. Pausing for a moment, he hopped over the other bed to answer it.

"Hullo?"

"Venetelli? Yo, dude this is Snake."

"Whatís up Snake?"

"I need something from my room. There are a few forms next to my bed, could you bring Ďem down to the field. I fucking forgot and I canít leave practice. Can you sign them for me too. That would be sweet."

"Sure, no sweat."

"Thanks a bunch dude. Oh, and could you grab one of my undergear shirts and pants. Itís fucking cold out here.. See ya in a sec."

Colin bent over the desk and examined the forms. Basic consent and health forms, and without thinking he penned down Snake Casillas. Sorting through the closet, Colin decided to bring the red undershirt and pants he saw earlier. The stadium was only a few minutes away, and Colin felt it necessary to jog the entire way, just a little midday workout. There was a guard at the front gate to keep the press out, but he nodded and let Colin pass. Heading straight for the locker room, he couldnít help but feel that everything was very familiar.

The locker room was clean and well lit, with each players name and number clearly labeled. Out on the field, an army of muscular jocks rehearsed for their strange play. Upon seeing the new man, the coach stormed over.

"Who are you?" The man demanded.

"Um, Colin Venetelli."

"Venetelli? Italian, huh? Are you here for practice?"

"Uh, no. Umm, I have some shit that Casillas asked me to drop off."

"Snake!" The coach roared. Instantly the big linebacker turned and headed toward the two.

"Yes sir! Oh hey dude!" Snake slapped Colin on the arm roughly. "Yeah, this is the shit." Taking the forms from his hand, Snake handed the papers over to the coach. After examining them for a minute, he smiled in satisfaction.

"Alright then. Weíll proceed. And what about that?"

"Fucking cold sir," Snake replied.

"Go change," the coach ordered. Nodding promptly, Snake took the spandex from Colin and headed toward the locker room. Colin proceeded to follow but a hand stopped him.

"Thanks Venetelli. Iím Coach Nick Cast." And he extended his hand toward Colin, who accepted it warily.

"Hello."

"Sir! Oh sorry, itís a habit. Coaching is about control. Sure youíre not trying out for the team, Venetelli?"

"No sir. Donít know why youíd want me, sir."

"What? You and Snake. Two Italians are better than one."

"Yes sir!"

"If you ever wanna play, let me know. Some work and youíd be a regular old stud."

"Yes sir! Goodbye sir."

Snake passed Colin on the way out, and gave a head nod. Colin noted how well Snake filled out the tight clothes. He spent the rest of the day thinking about football. Somehow the coachís words rung in his head like a low, large bell, resonating in his skull. The entire day seemed very familiar, like a memory of a memory. But he put it out of his mind and headed off to bed early. [indent]Venetelli awoke at six Monday morning. He sat straight up in bed, brimming with energy. Sweat poured over his heavy body, which stuck to the sheets. Snake sat upright in his bed moments later. Looking over at the wide-eyed Colin, he laughed. [/indent]"Did I wake ya?"

"Uh, no dude. I just woke up. Fuck itís early."

"I got practice."

"See ya." Snake stripped off his boxers without modesty and threw them on the bed. He quickly threw on a sleeveless shirt and jockstrap, along with some running shorts. He hopped out the door, leaving a confusion and sweaty Venetelli.

Arching his back in a morning stretch, Colin scratched his muscular, hairless chest, enjoying the feeling of his pec bouncing in his hand. He hefted himself out of bed and headed straight for the shower. His own boxers lay on the floor beside his bed, apparently thrown off during the night. Much like a primal animal, Colin walked for the bathroom, his exposed dick bouncing against his massive thigh. Warily, he walked in the tiny bathroom, finding it hard to avoid knocking into things. He stepped into the shower and turned on the cold water. He washed the sweat off his glorious body, rubbing his and lovingly over the deep ridges of his abs. He felt the deep cuts in his thighs, allowing one hand to slowly inch up to his incredibly member. Swinging his arms carefully back and further, it seemed strange that his arms couldnít even reach around his back before being stopped by hard muscle. One hand moved carefully through his dark hair, cut in pristine military fashion. He reached down and picked up the bottle of shampoo on the ground, rubbing the creamy lotion into his scalp. Then Colin picked up the body wash and ran the brown liquid over his endowed flesh.

Stepping out of the shower, Venetelli examined himself in the mirror. His rich, dark skin highlighted the huge cuts of his muscles. While the tight military cut highlighted the square chin and face. He rubbed his right hand on the hairless balls and dick lying just below his last abdominal. He coyly played with the growing rod, laughing a deep, hearty laugh to himself. Walking back into the room, he marched over to his closet to look for clothes. Shock greeted him as he realized that he had forgotten to bring any clothes with him. Pondering what to do next, Venetelli snapped back to reality with the sound of the phone ring.

"Hullo?"

"Venetelli? Yo, dude this is Snake."

"Whatís up Snake?"

"I need something from my room. There are a few forms next to my bed, could you bring Ďem down to the field. I fucking forgot and I canít leave practice. Can you sign them for me too. That would be sweet."

"Sure, no sweat."

"Thanks a bunch dude. Oh, and could you grab one of my undergear shirts and pants. Itís fucking cold out here."

"No fucking problem, man. Hey, could I, like, borrow some of your clothes? I forgot all of mine."

"Sure, dumbass. Youíre about my size. Take whatever you need."

"Thanks dude."

"No sweat. See you in a sec." As the phone clicked off, Venetelli turned towards the desk. He found the papers sitting on top. Not bothering to read them, he just scratched Colin Venetelli onto each form.

Opening up Snakesí closet, Colin was greeted by a plethora of spandex clothes. The 4X shirts and pants were just his size, and then Colin noticed a collection of suits along one side. The first problem was that his boxers were soaked form last night. Eying a tub of huge jock straps, Venetelli put one on without thought. He was surprised that it could contain his massive meat. And so comfortable. Since it was cold outside, he decided to wear the underclothes and a suit. He eyed a matching pair of red tights and shirt. Pulling the big tights up and examined their size, Colin thought how to hated that large sizes always have huge waists. But this waist seemed right his size. Pulling the two thick legs through the tight pants, a strange shiver of familiarity hit Colin. But he paid it no mind as he snapped the elastic band over his wait. They fit like a glove, but he immediately proceeded with the shirt. The clothing stretched over the huge pecs, and it descended over his tiny waist. Arms like bowing balls shot out from the sides, with each thick vein on display. Like some strange bodybuilder, the color coded Colin looked in the mirror. The man looking back was a huge, muscular bodybuilder, covered in red latex. He smiled a bit and then grabbed one of the massive suits off the shelf. It was strange that it fit him so well, and he was thankful that he had a roommate who was the same size. He wondered how many other sophomores forgot their clothes.

As he headed toward the stadium, Colin noted that it was a close walk from the house. Arriving at the gate, the guard took one look at him and let him pass. Walking the familiar path to the locker room, Venetelli felt vaguely aware that this had all happened before. But those thoughts drifted from his brain quickly. Upon walking onto the field, he was greeted with the site of the muscular team performing warm ups. The coach spotted the suited Venetelli and rushed over.

"Who are you?" The man demanded.

"Um, Colin Venetelli."

"Venetelli? Italian, huh? Oh, youíre the new guy?"

"Uh, no, sir"

"I told you to wear a suit the first day. And you are Venetelli?"

"Sir, I have some shit that Snake asked me to drop off."

"Snake!" The coach roared. Instantly the big linebacker turned and headed toward the two.

"Yes sir! Oh hey dude!" Snake slapped Colin on the arm roughly. "Yeah, this is the shit." Taking the forms from his hand, Snake handed the papers over to the coach. After examining them for a minute, he smiled in satisfaction.

"Alright then. Weíll proceed. And what about that?"

"Fucking cold sir," Snake replied.

"Go change," the coach ordered. Nodding promptly, Snake took the spandex from Colin and headed toward the locker room. Colin proceeded to follow but a hand stopped him.

"Thanks Venetelli. Iím Coach Nick Cast." And he extended his hand toward Colin, who gripped it fiercely.

"Hello, sir."

"Sir! Oh I love respect from my guys. Youíre going to fit in great.. Sure youíre not trying out for the team, Venetelli?"

"No sir. Iíve never played, sir."

"What? Well, go change. I want you on the team. You and Snake. Two Italians are better than one."

"Sir?"

"Go suit up now Venetelli!"

"Yes, sir!" And Venetelli marched off towards the locker room. As he stripped off the suit and hung it in the locker, Snake approached him with practice pants and a jersey. Colin accepted the equipment eagerly, his huge body was overflowing with testosterone at the thought. Or what he assumed was testosterone.

His excitement was soon directed toward learning years of information in a few moments. And he practice drills, Venetelli soon found a well of masculine rage inside himself. It flew through his body, eating away at his old self. Every step and tackle unleashed more rage and energy and masculine power. He practiced with the team far into the night. In the locker room, he stripped off the clothes, walking around in only the nasty jock strap. Cast walked up to him and slapped his ass.

"Well Venetelli? How was it?"

"Great sir! Thank you sir!"

"So, on the team?"

"Yes sir!"

"Great, just sign this last form. This seventh one is the last." Venetelli reached our eagerly and penned his name onto the blank. Cast slapped Venetelli on the shoulder and told him to get some rest. Tomorrow was a big day.

[indent]Venetelli sat up in bed at six am Monday morning. He and Snake prepared for practice in silence, stripping off their boxers and putting on identical jock straps and tights. Venetelli decided to wear the red ones, his favorite. He and Snake marched to the field, where Coach Cast greeted theme eagerly.

[/indent]"Snake and Venetelli. Two Italianís are better than one. And how are my best linebackers?"

"Fine sir!" The two grunted in military fashion.

"Good, now get to practice."

"Sir, yes, sir!"

**************************

Adam was staring silently at the dark walls of his cryptic cell. Part his mind knew that he looked ridiculous, but for some reason he managed to pass the time, however long it was, by slowly following the intricate cracks in the carved stone. Already he had traced three lines around the entire square. Now he was twice around with the same fracture, it seemed to continue forever.

His thoughts actually centered solely around one thing. And that thing was James. He had seen neither hide nor hair of the Indian man since he had been knocked unconscious. Instinctively, he knew that he was alright, mostly because he could be a bargaining tool with Adam. And if Adam was as important as Brock made him out to be, well . . . but he was still worried. And then there was that damn dream, with itís whole kissing scene. Adam kissing James. It was nice, in the dream at least. But why did he dream of kissing James, it wasnít like he had ever considered that an option before. And suddenly, it seemed . . . nice. Kissing a boy was . . . nice. Itís one thing to let other people be gay, itís an entirely different one for a college boy to realize that heís fallen for his best friend. Still, it wasnít bad, just different. New. James could like him too, or he could be freaked out and then they would never speak again. Of course, they may never speak again anyway. But he might not even be in love with him. It could be some weird, freaky one time thing. Or not. It was a vicious cycle.

Once again, he was dragged from his thoughts by the ridiculously loud clang of the metal latch on the door. A slow creak preceded the opening of the entree, with two muscle thugs tossing a small, fragile body into the small hole. As they left, Adam silently lifted himself from the dark corner and moved to examine the body. He let out a small gasp as he saw the delicate form of Kai Cole, his Asian pop star, arch-rival.

"Bloody fucking hell," Adam said as he turned over the body. Kai was breathing, and Adam wasnít sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Somehow, he just knew it was bad.

**************************

"You fucking bitches! What theís the fucking idea, you shit-heads! Do you have any fucking idea who I am?" Chloe had been like this for about three hours. The guards outside her door were being rotated every ten minutes, as she seemed to possess the vocal stamina of a Congressional politician, barking new insults every second. She seemed to be proceeding alphabetically, as she has already passed: alien, asinine, ass, bastard, bitch, coronation, cunt, dog, and freaks. Now it was the time of Ďfuck.í And did she ever.

Despite her vocal attitude, Chloe was too clever to sit and scream for a few hours. Methodically, she had searched the room, looking for the easiest route of escape, and had found her answer in a sealed air duct. That along with her trust, razor-sharp hair pin. And so, to block out the sound of slow scraping, she had yelled. Her lungs were starting to hurt, but the grate was almost open.

"Fucking fuck hole!" Scrape, scrape, scrape.

"Fucking cocksuckers!" Scrape, scrape, scrape.

"Fuck me!" Scrape, scrape, . . . . . .

And then, there was silence.

**************************

"What is this crap?" Mark Broad turned to his trainer. A palatinum blonde bodybuilder who Mark had just employed a week ago to help him get in shape. The huge man just smiled.

"No, really. It looks like crap." The chiseled man shook again.

"Itís a protein supplement."

"Protein? Supplement?" Mark said, eyeing the jar of grey pills warily. "Cause it looks like," but the man cut him off.

"Crap, I know. Youíve told me."

"Why do I need it?"

"Because Broad-" It was Markís turn to silence the giant.

"Mark, please call me Mark. Broad just isnít me."

"No, I guess not." Mark was a tall man. Out of college, he was starting to pack on the pounds of working life. Without any muscle to give him some shape, Mark was beginning to look like two sticks with a huge roll of fat in the middle. The trainer robbed the paunch gingerly and eyed Mark.

"This," he said, bouncing the fat- causing it to roll lavishly, "is the reason. It will help."

"Protein supplements donít usually help someone slim down."

"No, but it will help muscle grow," the trainer was now moving his hands over Markís tiny shoulders and arms. "And muscle will make the fat look smaller at least. I mean, come on. You said you wanted instant results!"

"I was kidding. You canít get instance results."

"Oh, come one. Iím the best, just gimme a chance." Mark sighed heavily, staring intently into the dark blue eyes of the man. His trainer was inches taller than Mark, and Mark was over six feet tall. He had one of those bodies that only came with inhuman dedication, and maybe unnatural methods. But he was cheery and perky, and had a strangely high voice for a man Mark thought was on steroids.

"Fine," Mark finally submitted. He held out his hand, which the built specimen eagerly took. He shook Markís hand almost sadistically, shaking to the point that Mark thought he may have to amputate the arm to escape.

"Alright! Awesome man, awesome," the blonde smiled even wider. "Well, hereís how it works. Okay, you take . . . ." the trainer began rattling off information about the pills. Mark listened closely, determined to follow the trainerís instructions to the word.

The bottle had not moved in twenty minutes. Markís eyes refused to move from the unlabeled bottle, demanding his unwavering attention every moment. After arriving home, Mark set the bottle on the table and proceeded to do some work. At first the curiosity inclined him to glance at it every hour or so. Then every half an hour, and soon Mark found himself unable to let it leave his site for only a moment.

"Was is this?" Mark lifted the plastic tube off the table, allowing his eyes to search through the bottle, eyeing the dozens of pills contained within. They seemed to call to him, their tiny grey bodies appealing to his imagination. The trainer seemed so sure they would work, he was so intent on Mark taking them.

"What is with that guy?" Mark asked as he thought of the trainer. He had introduced himself the first day, but had asked to be called Trainer. Oddly, Mark found himself unable to recall the manís name. Unconsciously, Mark had begun to jiggle his fat as the trainer had done, rolling the plump up and down. The movement drew Markís attention momentarily away from the pills and toward his own body. His eyes rolled in disgust seeing the flabby flesh. It was his greatest fear, fat.

And if the pills would stop that . . .

The cap had been tossed to the ground without a thought, and the first pill was down his throat before he even considered anything about it. It was tough, swallowing the pill dry, but it was over in a matter of seconds.

And Mark was overcome with a strange sense of satisfaction. All he could think was his trainers bright smile when he agreed to take the supplements. That charming grin of white teeth under tanned skin and full lips.

"Awesome man, awesome," Mark said to himself as he walked toward his living room. He turned on the television and flipped to the evening news. Even though he was interested in the politics of foreign states, his thoughts slowly drifted back to his trainer. He was such a big, buff guy. So absolutely built. He looked like a bodybuilder, or a cover model for some muscle magazine. And he seemed so helpful.

Mark glanced up to see the news channel show a scene from a football game that was being played on another channel. Almost on instinct, Mark flipped over to the channel. It was a professional game. The local team, the Dolphins, were playing the new expansion team, the Soldiers. It was late in the first and the Soldiers already had an impressive lead. Turning his full attention to the game, he was quickly absorbed into the heat of the game. His blood pumped as his watched the plays. He yelled at the screen and cheered with every successful play. Oddly, Mark noticed that he was cheering for the Soldiers. Always an astute Dolphins fan, the sudden change startled Mark. But then the Soldiers ran a touchdown, and Mark reverted into game mode.

When the quarter ended, Mark found himself nearly sweating and with a voracious appetite. But rather than raid his cabinets, he went to the table and picked up the jar of pills. Mark hesitated for a moment, trying to recall the trainers orders, but somehow all he could think of was his great new body. Watching his fat melt away to hard muscles. Shoulders three feet wide and as strong as steel beams. Pecs inflated like balloons. And the pill dropped into his mouth. With a simple swallow, the pill traveled down.

Mark rushed back to the game, and threw himself into the couch. Resuming his former focus, he failed to notice that he constantly grabbed his crotch or scratched his ass. He just couldnít sit still. He eagerly watched as the Dolphins ran the wrong plays and were cut down mercilessly by their opponents. Their running back was slammed to the ground by three opposing linemen, each thrusting their massive bodies onto the smaller man. Mark cheered loudly and deeply.

It was half time was he came to again. His shirt and pants laid on the floor, and sweat-soaked Mark, sitting in his boxers, noticed that the pill bottle was in his hand. And he apparently had been eating them like candy. Only three remained, and Mark drank them out of the container. Letting out a satisfied belch, he scratched the cleft under his pec. It wasnít quite as wiggly as he remembered it. It was only when he forced his mind to focus that he realized something quite bizarre had occurred. The fat wasnít completely gone, but his body had undergone some serious treatment while he watched the game. His waist had narrowed further than he could ever remembering it being. And his twig-like arms and legs had filled out with cut muscle. He wasnít a muscle god, or even a model, but he more cut than when he played sports in high school.

Overwhelming panic soon turned to loving voyeurism as Mark began to prance around the room, eyeing the cuts in his body, which he noticed were growing. Marching towards the bedroom, he stood in front of a full length mirror to reexamine his body. The mounds of fat that once accumulated around his gut were gone, and the thin skin was slowly sinking in, forming a set of severe lines that dissected his gut into six areas. Brushing his hand over the newly chiseled area, his mind seemed to sink away, leaving with a fog of confusing appreciation. His fascination grew as did his body. The shapely discs on his chest soon gave way to massive pecs, closer in size to shields than body parts. His thin legs enlarged, inflating with masculine power, each thicker than a tree. His face gained a new look, more square and manly. More powerful. His hair fell out, leaving only a thin buzz on the top. He was inching his way past six feet tall, and was coming close to the four hundred pound mark.

Mark stared, unmoving, at the morphing image in the mirror. Enraptured by the changes, his thoughts faded away, leaving only a strange sense of emptiness, as though he had no purpose in life. His breathing sent the mountains of muscle up and down, a quick pace that shook his body. It took all of his effort to regain any sense, to propel himself to do something other than stand in front of the mirror. Walking into the room, something inside him yearned for a purpose, some direction. He sat in front of the TV again, and watched the replays from the first half on the screen. The infallible quarterback, Brock Cast, went behind the line. He called out some plays and slapped the centers ass once, and then again. He was telling him what to do, and Mark desired that sense of duty.

As he strutted towards the door, Mark had to turned sideways to walk through the doorway, his massively broad shoulders unable to fit straight through. He got in his pick-up truck, and drove to the stadium. Rather than park, Mark left his car running outside the stadium. Heading not towards the main gate, but the players entrance, a huge muscled man greeted the newly jocked drone.

"Broad!" the blonde Brock called out. Awaking from his trance, the huge Broad strutted over towards his master. Stilling growing, Broadís glutes finally ripped apart his boxers, revealing the engorged piece of meat below. He placed his legs wider than his shoulders, an impressive feat, and bent over. As Brockís massive cock rammed into Broad, Markís last thought was, "Hey, thatís my trainer." Then intense pleasure drowned him out, and allowed Broad to rededicate his life to football. As he felt Brock cum inside him, huge veins sprouted around his body and his shoulders reached beyond three feet wide. Finally, a strange fog of happy devotion descended upon Broad. Brock slapped his ass joyfully, happy to have the perfect Center for his team. A mindless man, whose life would forever revolve around the quarterback. They ran back inside, eager to begin the second half.

[b][b]12:00 remaining in the quarter . . .[/b]

[/b] •


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