After fishing his third jockstrap from the equipment bag and dousing it liberally with jock-itch spray, the coach saw nerdy Harris Pemberton IV. His family, once upon a time, happened to be big muckety-mucks in town, but Harris is a good example of the depths a family can fall in only a few generations.
He wasn't a bad sort, just rather aimless. He liked to smoke weed, when he could get it, and play videogames. He hated school, and especially hated gym class, as well as coaches and jocks. His clothes rarely fit his puny frame. His mother usually bought from clothes intended for middle school boys, which fit Harris's ninety-four pound body with a little more precision. He stood all of five-foot, seven inches, and had a head of dark, unruly hair and rather piercing black eyes that rarely got animated with delight at anything that occurred in the halls of the school between 7:30 and 3:15.
"Harris," the coach bellowed and stood off the bench. "Get over here."
Harris, startled, jerked his body around in order to face the coach and walked over to the coach, somehow managing to take enough time to irritate the McGurk, who shoved the canvas bag at him and reached the can of jock-itch spray to the sophomore.
"Use that," Coach said, pushing the can into Harris's hand, "and spray all of these jockstraps. Be sure you blast the spray deep into the pouches. Got it?"
From experience, Harris knew it best to go along with Coach McGurk, so he slouched his shoulders and nodded his head.
Inside the bag, still buried beneath the heavy weight of his brother jockstraps, Ryan Standish ruminated on his new life and its purpose. He wanted to find himself wrapped around some guy's, any guy's, cock and balls, breathing musk, tasting sweat, and providing the service of cradling and protecting the manhood it was his duty to support in his fabric pouch supported by elastic straps hugging the glutes of some muscle-bound jock. His mind pulled out a mental image of his old body — the jock Ryan Standish — with only the dimmest awareness of his former connection to it. For all intents and purposes, isolation brought out in the strongest way his dedication to being the best jockstrap he could possibly be.
Harris would much rather have been playing World of Warcraft as he reached into the bag and pulled out the disgusting jockstraps that he knew had been in close proximity with a guy's junk in the not so recent past.
Ryan the jockstrap sensed, in his vague way, movement in the huge canvas bag as Harris's hands dug through the collected jockstraps and pulled out one at a time.
SPRITZ! SPRITZ!
Ryan became aware of an odd, hissing noise, the sound of Harris spraying each of the fabric pouches of his brother jockstraps with the can of jock-itch spray.
When he felt Harris's fingers close around his own form, lifting him out of the bag by one of his elastic straps, Ryan felt like a switch had been thrown.
He remembered. Cy. Coach. Vinnie turning him into a jockstrap.
As he dangled, he tried to figure out who had him. He recognized the kid. Pember-Bottom!
Well, that's the derogatory emphasis Ryan, Horst, and Carter liked to give Pemberton. What's he doing with me?
Ryan the jockstrap started to extend his thoughts to Harris Pember-bottom...err, Pemberton, when he felt his pouch get blasted with a thick, suffocating blast of spray with a distressing chemical smell.
Cough, gag, glug... He struggled to breathe, an irony since he no longer had lungs.
Harris sprayed him a second time, keeping his finger on the nozzle longer so he could soak the interior of the jockstrap.
Glug, glug, glug... Ryan felt like he was drowning.
He took a deep breath as Pember-bottom shook him to dry him out.
"Hey!" Ryan managed a mental shout. "Help me!"
Startled, Harris dropped the jockstrap on the tiles and looked around to see who was shouting.
His pouch now face down on the tiles, his contact broken with puny Pember-bottom, Ryan felt the cloying cloud of jock-itch spray spread into his fabric body. The combination of sweat, jock-itch spray, and even traces of piss and pre-cum from past uses, combined into a heady, natural scent. It's what all jockstraps should smell like. He felt complete.
When he didn't see anyone, Harris reached for the jockstrap. His fingers sent an electric jolt through Ryan's baffled body as he felt his lightweight jockstrap form lifted off the tiles.
Ryan acted quickly. "Listen to me," he ordered. "Don't drop me again." Ryan realized he would go back to being a basically mindless jockstrap if Harris broke their physical connection. He tried not to let the scents from his own pouch distract him.
Harris rotated the jockstrap. "Am I high?" Harris thought. He stared at the sprayed pouch and saw the fabric move of its own accord. As he looked closer, he got the faintest impression of a face outlined in the fabric, but the image faded and wavered as the fabric continued to shimmer in its effort to make Harris notice him.
"I am high," Harris thought, even though he hadn't smoked any weed in days. He could have sworn the face looked like Ryan Standish.