High Stakes Championship Game

[6 word request: Basketball Team Shrinks After Losing Championship]

The players were on the bus, settling, exhausted, into their seats, instagraming their victory and dreaming of the celebratory steak they were going to demolish. Michael and Deion, the water boys, headed to the losing team’s locker room for “cleanup.” They had popped bottles of champagne on the bus, showering each other in suds before downing some. Neither Michael nor Deion would have traded their task for the luxury of getting buzzed on pricey bubbles.

“Careful opening the door,” Michael said to Deion, who had never done this before. “Usually they think they can get out under the crack. Some get stuck. We’ll have some nasty smears to deal with if we’re not careful.”

They crouched by the locker room door and peered underneath. Sure enough, a dark-skinned, muscular arm poked out, the hand waving wildly. The whole limb was no bigger than a matchstick. “It’s funny,” Deion said as Michael pulled out a debit card to shove the tiny struggling athletes back inside. “Imagine being tiny as fuck but still not tiny enough?”

“It’s all those damned muscles,” Michael said, his mind flashing on the tall, powerful bodies of the men he had spent the entire championship game studying. He was only 5’9’ tall, and while some would say he looked “ripped” when shirtless, he felt like a nothing next to the enormous basketball players he could only look in the navel. Michael squatted next to the door and said, in a voice slightly lower than normal, “We’re about to open this door. If you don’t move you’ll be squashed or stomped. You’ve been warned.”

Deion smirked. “Ain’t you a badass!”

Michael shrugged. “This isn’t my first time. We won the championship last year. And the year before that, well… that’s a story I’ll tell you another time.”

Michael opened the door carefully, seeing the little brown bodies fleeing as he entered. “Watch where you step from here on out,” Michael said, putting a hand on Deion’s shoulder. “They’re like rats. They get underfoot easily and squish like nothing.”

“Gotcha,” Deion said. The locker room was littered with piles of clothing--socks were still in Jordans, jockstraps still warm inside basketball shorts, jerseys on top, as if the athletes had just evaporated out of them--which wasn’t far from what had happened. Like roaches, tiny little melanated bodies scattered as the two water boys entered. Deoin thrilled at the sinewy little muscles, shiny with sweat, flexing and pumping as the men fled the giant intruders. “Look at their little dicks swinging!” Deion said, licking his full lips as he looked around.

Because of the door’s hydraulics, it was still slowly shutting behind them when Deion noticed a thick-bodied little light-skinned man hauling ass to the exit. Deion swiped out at the little guy, barely yanking him away from being squashed against the doorjamb as it slammed shut. “Too slow little man!”

Deion had noticed the guy on the court during the game--a point guard named Marcus. The little man--now just four inches tall--panicked as Deion’s fingers closed around him. The feel of that warm little body against his skin was amazing! Deion lightly squeezed and the tiny guy shrieked in a high-pitched squeal. “Last time I saw you, you were looking down at me!” Truthfully, the green-eyed beauty had mesmerized him during the game, and Deion had watched the athlete move like lightning across the court, imagining the piece of meat tucked between those thick muscular thighs in those baggy shorts.

Motherfucker was 6’10” last time Deion had seen him! Towering over him. Deion imagined the big man climbing into his bed, hearing the springs creak as his thick, towering limbs crawled on top of him. Now that the man was the size of his middle finger, Deion had to chuckle. “Look at that little thing!” he said, poking the little guy’s dick with his pinky. The little athlete shouted as Deion’s huge digit squashed his dick, but it did become unmistakably hard seconds later. Relative to the little guy’s size, it was just as juicy and impressive as Deion had imagined it would be--except now it was the size of a grain of rice.

“We can play with them later,” Marcus said, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder as he slammed a large tackle box on the ground. He undid the latches and produced a small glass tube. “Get him sealed in there. Once we’re back home, Coach will divvy these little fucks up. He’ll give each of us two for a job well done.”

It pained Deion to part with his little prize. He raised the tiny man to his lips and gave him a long kiss. “I’ll see you later,” he said, smirking at the way the tiny man shielded his ears from Deion’s “booming” voice.

While Michael kept his eyes open for shrunken basketball players, he was more interested in the piles of still sweaty uniforms lying around, seemingly free for the taking. He lifted a size 17 Nike to his face and, checking to make sure Deion wasn’t looking, raised the shoe to his face and inhaled its humid, musky smell for a moment. He imagined the big foot filling out this shoe, pictured the man wearing it looking anxious as it suddenly got loose. Less than a minute later, what housed his massive feet was now big enough for him to fit inside. What a feeling that had to be, towering over the world and then finding yourself shrunken to insignificance inside your own shoe.

Sure enough, as Michael huffed away at the deliciously pungent shoe, a dark little body tumbled out. Michael was so shocked he let it tumble out, barely able to snatch the miniature man from splattering across the floor at the last second. “Look at you, big hoss,” Michael said as he ran a thumb over the smooth dark skin of Duante, their rivals’ power forward. Every inch of his dark melanated skin was shiny in the locker room’s fluorescents and--with a glance over his shoulder to make sure Deion was occupied--Michael darted his tongue at the muscular little man and ran it the length of his long body.

Then Michael gave the man a nice squeeze, just to remind him how small he was and how big Michael was. Earlier, as the opposing team walked out to the court, Michael had taken a look at Duante--god, tall like a friggin tree! And Michael wanted to climb--and the elite athlete didn’t even notice him. “Probably can’t see guys as low down as I am,” Michael thought as he rans his fingers over Duante’s lean, muscular limbs. He dangled the forward by one foot, holding his hand up high to give the little man a--relative to him--several mile drop to the floor, but then chuckled and put the stud forward in one of the glass tubes and put him in the tackle box.

Then, with Duante out of the way, Michael spent some time with Duante’s clothes. He stretched out the long socks and breathed deeply of their musk before folding them up. The shoes were huge--twice the size of his--and so white they looked like they may glow in the dark. Michael held up Duante’s shorts at his waist and let them fall. They hung down past his knees. Imagine, he thought, being big enough to fill these babies out, so tall this giant article of clothing was no big thing to you!

After packing Duante’s things in a duffel bag, Michael caught side of some dress shoes and an expensive suit that had collapsed into a pile. “The coach!” he thought, delighted to look for the slightly graying, broad-chested man in charge. He couldn’t wait to put the man’s nice thick body into a glass tube, but not before holding it up to make him see his players reduced to tiny insignificant little specimens packed away in little prisons, carted around like property. It must break his heart to see his powerful athletes, honed to perfection, jostled around in a tacklebox like insignificant little things.

“Stop right there!” said a voice. Deion and Michael froze.

From the showers, a man about their age emerged. He was no taller than Michael with an average build, so clearly not one of the players (also denoted by the fact that he hadn’t shrunk with the rest of the team). “Quit sniffing their drawers you fucking perv!” The accusing finger was pointed at Michael, who just shrugged.

“Why the fuck isn’t he tiny?” Deion asked.

“Water boys don’t get shrunk,” Michael explained as he approached the young man with his hands up, illustrating that he was no threat. “Look, man, we’re just here to collect what’s ours. You know the deal: losing team gets shrunk and becomes the winning team’s property for two weeks.”

“Doesn’t mean you get to go around stealing jock,” the rival water boy said. He wore a nametag like a chump: James.

“Look, ‘James’,” Michael said, “We have to take their clothes. You want your whole team strutting around naked when they grow back to full size?”

“You probably do,” James sneered.

“You know that if you get in the way of us collecting what’s ours, you get shrunk too.”

“I don’t believe in that shit,” James said defiantly.

Michael glanced down at the tiny naked players huddling around James’ shoes. “Oh, you don’t believe? What’s that around your shoes? Water bugs?”

James squared up his stance as if to defend his tiny charges. “Stay away from them.”

“Look,” Michael said, putting a hand on James’s shoulder. “I don’t want to see you get shrunk down too, man. You get out of the way, let us do what we have to, and I’ll personally make sure all your bodies get home ASAFP. Sound good?” He reached out and flicked one of James’ locs to tease him. “C’mon, bro, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

James didn’t respond, but he also didn’t move as Deion approached and snatched up the little players trying to climb into James’ shoes to hide. They probably thought James would be their giant hero, and it probably stung that he didn’t lift a finger to save them.

“Go get some pizza,” Michael suggested as James headed toward the door. “Go get drunk. These guys don’t get to boss you around for a bit! Enjoy the freedom.”

“Wait,” Deion said, “Empty your pockets.”

James hastened his pace toward the door, but Michael hustled after him, grabbing him by the back of the shirt (nearly squashing a tiny fleeing player who almost got underfoot as Michael crossed the room). “He’s right. Turn ‘em out, buddy.”

James paused, then yanked out his pockets, producing a shrunken player and the shrunken coach. He gently plopped them in Michael’s hands, glowering before he walked out the door.

Michael looked at his two new prizes. “Wonder what he had planned for you? Was he saving you for you or for himself?” Michael winked at the terrified little men before handing them over to Deion.

*

The bus was champagne drenched with a thick haze of weed when Deion and Michael returned with a fully packed tackle box of tiny men. “Took you long enough,” said Coach as he took the tackle box from him. The chemically-addled players slapped the water boys on the backs as they walked down the bus’ middle aisle, lauding them like they had just won the championship themselves.

Michael was shocked as Vincent, their team’s center, scooted over and offered him a seat. Vincent passed Michael a nearly empty bottle of champagne. Michael swallowed back the frothy remains.

“How’d it go?” Vincent said, his lazy-lidded eyes tinted pink. “You squash any of ‘em?”

Michael smiled. “No casualties,” he said. “Not that I didn’t come close. A couple almost got crushed, one almost splattered on the floor. Hid in his shoe like a chump. I had to bang on the bottom to get him out. Another guy was in the shower when it happened. Got stuck in the drain. Had to yank him out. Almost thought I was gonna tear him in half. He’s lucky he didn’t go all the way down!”

Vincent chuckled. “Who was it?”

“I think his name’s Jaysen. Power forward.” And a beautiful fucking man, Michael failed to add--dark, powerful and statuesque at full height, but adorable in his hand-held size, begging to be squeezed.

Vincent smiled. “That cocky prick. He fowled me during the game, blind-ass refs didn’t do shit about it.”

Someone handed a vape pen across the aisle and Michael puffed in some THC. He giggled out a cloud and handed it off.

As the bus took off, he couldn’t help but remember the championship game two years before. Their team lost that one. Michael could still remember how tense the locker room was after, as everyone waited for “it’ to happen.

Vincent had been standing right next to Michael then. He must have felt something--he cried out, hands went to his bald head, and then he just started to dwindle away. Michael could still remember his uniform seeming to spread out on his body. His shorts fell down first; Vincent had been too shocked to grab them.

Michael remembered feeling unable to get over the sight of Vincent’s shrinking body: still rock-hard and powerful, but no longer exuding intimidation as his jersey started looking like a dress on him. When it hit the floor, and Vincent’s head disappeared into it, Michael had reached out and grabbed the shrinking athlete by the shoulders, as if he could pull him back to full size.

Michael would never forget the feeling of that hard body dwindling in his hands--as if Vincent’s power was just vanishing through his fingers. The big man was doll-sized soon enough, and Michael had to search through the pile of clothes just to fish the little guy out.

Of course, at the same time, the whole team was shrinking, crying out, their voices sliding up in pitch as they become lost in their uniforms. When it was over, Michael cradled little naked Vincent against his chest. Not far away, Michael had noticed Grant’s uniform. His fingers searched through the sweat-dampened clothes to find Grant tucked inside his own jock, smaller than his own cock had been.

Both little men had begged for Michael to hide them. They knew the other team was coming to take them away. Michael remembered feeling powerful for one moment, finally stronger than these elite physical specimens. Hearing their high-pitched voices beg for his help made him rock hard. When the other team showed up, he reluctantly handed them over, lovingly rubbing Vincent’s strong chest with his thumb as he flashed an apologetic face.

But when the tiny men were out of sight, packed into their sound-proof tubes, Michael leaned over to the water boy snatching up the little men like he was trapping mice. “Hey, can I just snag one thing? Then I’ll get out of your way.”

He grabbed Vincent’s boxer briefs. The water boys looked the other way. That whole week he stood in front of a mirror, posing in Vincent’s underwear, imagining his body was strong and powerful enough to fill out those leg holes, to stretch the ass to capacity, to stuff up the basket in front like he knew Vincent did. Then he would think of what humiliating things their rivals were doing to tiny, helpless Vincent--and he’d use the underwear to relieve his throbbing dick.

As Vincent clapped a big hand on Michael’s back, getting him in a playful headlock to celebrate their victory, Michael couldn’t help but remember what he one day confessed about his treatment as a tiny: he had ended up in the possession of their rivals’ coach, who dunked him in chocolate syrup and slurped it off his nude body. He scrubbed Vincent’s little frame with a toothbrush, making him stand under a faucet like it was a shower. He spent his nights in a hamster cage, running mandatory laps on a hamster wheel every morning. One day he was taped to the coach’s inner thigh right before a long run.

As Michael sat next to the big forward, feeling the heat emanating off his huge body, he couldn’t help but imagine him tiny again, helpless, his huge warm clothes just there for the taking, his tiny body just for Michael’s enjoyment. He shifted in his seat to hide his growing erection.