Sweaty

[6 word request: feet growth muscle musk foot jock]

I waited five minutes after I saw Cliff enter the locker room, leaving a trail of sweat the likes of which nobody at Global Gym has ever seen, before I decided to head in after him. The guy in the Global Gym polo behind the desk had to go fetch a mop to sop up the puddle around the squat rack.

Certainly big Cliff was pushing weight, but the salty droplets beading up all over him made it look like there was a small shower localized entirely on him. During his last set, I saw the big 300 pound monster actually start to slip while waddling the bar up to the rack. Imagine if the big fucker had slipped and snapped his own neck? That would have certainly mussed up my plans for the day.

The locker room was empty before Cliff came in, another fortunate circumstance that gave me less to worry about. There were a lot of variables in my plan, certainly, but I’ve done this so many times that I’d rather risk failure than spend the extra time securing success. This time I lucked out, and it looked like I would get my way without a headache.

When I get in, the locker room STINKS. I’m sure the casual Global Gym-goer would probably complain about this room, but to me it’s like a bouquet of masculinity. I quickly turn the deadbolt on the door and walk in to breathe in the thick musk. It’s so strong I almost think I can see it, rippling in the air, big clouds of Cliff’s manly funk.

I’m sure the big roidpig stinks after a workout normally, but this excessive smell was thanks to the drug I slipped into his preworkout. His excessive sweat was due to the same thing. That’s phase one of the drug kicking in: your sweat bullets and your pheromones get cranked into the stratosphere. It’s a sign that a big body is getting ready to start shedding his size.

The locker room looks like a pipe burst. I reach down to touch the big puddle spread across most of the floor, having a seat on hte bench while I taste my fingers. The puddle is warm, almost hot, and it’s extremely salty. I can see Cliff’s clothes strewn around the room as well.

First, I go through his duffel bag, fishing out the tainted preworkout (evidence) as well as his wallet and phone. The phone goes right in the toilet. The wallet goes into my bag. “Let’s see,” I say aloud, because I know Cliff is still in there, somewhere. “I’m guessing you stomped in here, quads all big and bloated from about 200 of the most aggressive squat reps of your life…” I picked up his shoes. Each of them still had a sock in them. I took a moment to huff deeply from each warm, humid shoe before setting them on the bench. I squeeze the soaked socks in my hand and give them a lick. I buzz a little on the salt and metallic tang of that sopping cotton. Good god, do I love what I do.

“You taste good, big man,” I say, looking around the room. No sign of him, sadly. Did I wait too long? I wonder.

His compression tights are flopped over the bench. I fish them up and hold them against my face. They’re still warm from his body. “So were these to fall off your body when you started getting smaller?” I called out to him, wherever he was. I imagined him leaning against the bathroom counter, breathing deeply and rubbing a thick hand over his shaved head in a panic, wondering why he was sweating so bad and stinking so bad… too distracted to realize the counter was slowly rising up on him until it was too late.

The real prize, though, is missing. “Where’s your jockstrap, I wonder?” I say aloud, as if he’ll crawl out of whatever hole he’s hiding in to point me in the right direction. I imagine that as the shrinking started, he let the compression tights go, maybe picked them up to examine them--still in doubt that he was, in fact, getting smaller while his clothes remained the same size--then tossed them over the bench. The jock, though, was his last bit of modesty. What if the door opened and somebody saw those roidshrunken balls and his little peanut dick? They were tiny when he was six feet tall. With his size cut in half, and getting smaller, there was no way he could risk anybody seeing that he was hung like a mouse.

I can’t hold off. I grab one of his socks out of his high-tops and hold it against my face, breathing deeply of that big clydesdale’s musk. “God, damn…” I moaned as I swooned on my feet, my whole body tingling as I breathed him in, “you juicemonkeys taste so fucking good…”

While I do want to savor Cliff’s loss, I’m also concerned with my own gain. Can’t I enjoy both at the same time? I slip the sock into my mouth and suck deeply, slurping Cliff’s brew from the drenched fibers.

At this, I do have to sit down, as I feel the taste of those big, vein-gnarled feet sliding down my throat. Fuck, I think, don’t bodybuilder’s have the hottest, blockiest feet? What exercise do they do to get those big hooves?

I can almost feel Cliff’s essence entering my bloodstream, pumping throughout my body. The tingling intensifies and I feel my whole body start to pulse. I open my eyes just as my own average-looking body starts to swell up with some of Cliff’s pilfered size. A relatively flat chest bloats out with muscle pecs. Skinny arms bulge in both directions. My legs are forced apart by their sudden thickness. Behind me I feel the weight of a huge ass growing. I have to adjust my stance to accommodate.

“Godo god,” I say putting the sock down with a shaky hand. “Cliff, you taste… SO FUCKING GOOD!”

I set the sock down with a shaky hand, trying to imagine his big feet sliding into it. I imagine his toes flexing as he squats, grunting, his massive body pressing all that weight skyward. I left some juice in the sock, and there’s another one, too. The tightness in my clothes is comforting, and I still have more to grow!

Plus, I still have yet to find the mother lode: Cliff’s jockstrap.

“So let’s assume,” I said, trying to recreate Cliff’s journey from being the biggest beast at Global Gym to being rodent-sized, “you headed for the door, but the handle is too high! And the door opens in. Maybe if you waited it out, you could slip under the crack of the door, but what hope would you have then? A bald-headed little speck trying to be spotted out there? Nah, you would end up a splat before you shrank away to nothing.”

I took a look around, heading for the toilet stalls. “So I’m guessing your next goal was to get to your phone, but there’s no way you could climb up to that bench at your size, right? That jockstrap probably felt like you were dragging around a parachute at that point, too…” 

Past the showers were the toilet stalls. I see his tank top and savor its smell before slinging it over my shoulder. “So I’m guessing this thing slipped over your shoulders once you were smaller than the neck hole. What were you doing, checking to see if anyone else was here? In the showers or taking a shit, maybe? How small were you when you realized you were alone?” I quietly wondered how small he was when he heard the door open. I wonder if he hoped it would be one of his fans, eager to help out their miniaturized stud-horse, or if he just bolted at the sound of a regular human being. I would imagine a hoss Cliff’s size wasn’t accustomed to being small, let alone TINY. Little guy probably bolted at the first sound he heard.

That’s when I find it: the jockstrap. It’s next to a toilet, just as sweat-soaked as I had hoped, and to my delight, still warm.

I barely have time to savor it when I see the little hulk huddling behind the toilet. He’s only about four inches tall, and with my formula still in his system, he’s still shrinking.

“You gonna come out of there or do I have to drag you out?”

He timidly waddles out from behind the toilet, quivering as he stares up, up UP at me. I stand up as tall as I can, casting a shadow that swallows him on purpose. I kick off a shoe immediately.

“Your little muscles look so CUTE!” I say loudly, and the little titan starts to back away. “Nope, stop right there.” I have my sock off in an instant and pin him to the ground, wiggling my toes in his face.

His blocky little body feels AMAZING flexing under my foot! He’s so warm, still slimy with sweat, and those big muscles twitch and crunch under the gentle pressure I apply with my feet. I imagine the squeaks I hear from him are grunts, but at his size it’s hard to tell.

“I’m looking for a new sneaker insole,” I say, applying more pressure. His little bean-sized head turns red, then purple. “And to be honest, you’re failing the audition. You ready to be a stain on the locker room floor? When you woke up today, 300 pounds and huge, did you realize you were going to end up in a wadded up tissue flushed down the toilet?” 

I pull back my foot and he scurries away. I follow him casually, letting him run. He can’t get far, not with the formula still draining his size away.

He actually makes it past the bathroom stalls. Have you ever seen a big hulking bodybuilder run? It’s the most hilarious thing, their massive arms swinging around their big lats, roid-bloated quads swinging around each other as they sway their bulk side to side. It looks like a tremendous effort to hit a relatively low speed, and at Cliff’s size, it’s even more adorable.

If he makes it to the locker room door, I decide, I’ll let him squeeze under the crack. I’d like him to have a taste of that wild giant world the open gym area is to him now.

But he doesn’t head for the door. He turns right after the toilets and heads to the showers. I can only imagine he’s in a panic, not thinking. There’s only one way out of there!

He makes it to a shower stall and hauls his little body up the tiled lip. “Where exactly are you going?” I ask. He’s in fight-or-flight mode, and he’s not in the shape to fight anything bigger than a cockroach right now. He’s just trying to get away. “What’s the matter? You scared of the BIG GIANT MAN who you snickered at for curling ten pound dumbbells earlier today?”

He realizes his mistake as he stares at the three other walls in the shower. He turns around to see me looming there, I just waggle my fingers at him with one hand and turn the shower on with the other.

He’s only about two inches tall at this point, getting very difficult to see. He watches the water blast over his head and against the wall. It’s the water ricocheting off the wall, cascading toward the drain, which pose a problem for the little guy.

“Watch out! Flood warning! That current is aggressive!” I taunt, tilting the shower head lower so the backsplash hits him harder. At that size it was hard to even think of him as human. More like a little bug that got into my bathroom that I want gone.

When he’s only an inch tall, he can barely resist the water’s power. It drags him along the floor as he grabs wildly at the smooth, cold tile helplessly. When he hits the grate over the drain he thinks he’s safe at first, until he gets even smaller, those holes getting bigger and harder to avoid.

I don’t care to see the ending. It’s a big overture with a little finale. Big Cliff goes bye-bye. I have no idea at what size the big lugs I shrink down actually stop shrinking. Maybe they get smaller than atoms? Who knows. Once they’re out of sight, they’re out of my mind.

It’s that jockstrap that has my attention now. I drop my pants and pull it up my legs. Of course it’s ludicrously large--at first. I hold it against my groin and I can still feel Cliff’s heat, his sweat covering my skin. I breathe deeply as I feel my heart starting to pound double-time.

Fuck! It’s starting! My legs swell with muscle, my own groin bulging out to fill the space of that jock. As I feel it tightening on my expanding body, I sit down (the bench groaning under my weight) and pull on Cliff’s socks. I’m swimming in his smell now, marinating in his sweat, and my body is soaking up the size that Cliff lost.

I sit there with my eyes closed, flexing my expanding muscles and breathing in the smell. When it’s over, I flex what feels like a four-foot-wide slab of muscle--my new torso. I groan as I rise to my feet. My joints ache but I feel so damned POWERFUL. I grunt as I rise to my feet. FUCK! I want to blast through that locker room door like a tank and start swinging around the hundred-pound dumbbells like they were cupcakes.

But I know I have to unlock the door now and slip out through the emergency exit. I gather up Cliff’s things and take them with me. I take Cliff’s keys and prepare to take off in his truck. Anyone looking out the window will see a massive tren-swollen brute driving away in his ride. They’ll think nothing of it. How long will it be before they start looking into his whereabouts? They’ll foolishly search everywhere but the place he met his end: the gym’s plumbing.

I’ll be long gone at that time, strutting my shit at a gay strip club, basking in money and adulation and fucking every beautiful man that smiles my way. His size will wear off, of course, and I’ll have to find another beautiful beast to “squeeze” the testosterone-laden juices from so I can get big again, too. Until then, I’ll enjoy Cliff’s muscle, long past the moment I forget his name.