Chad was relieved when Assistant Coach Sanchez arrived home. Chad was soaked. Not only had Sanchez worn the school issue Speedo all day, but he had worn it under his sweats when he run home. He was training for a marathon. Chad the living Speedo could hear Sanchez's thoughts, but since being sanitized on Coach Sinclair's orders, no one could hear Chad.
Sanchez was looking forward to showering when he got home. Chad was looking forward to it too. Sanchez had peeled off his sweats when his doorbell rang. Wearing only the Speedo, he answered the door.
There holding a pizza and a 12 pack of beer was a pizza delivery man.
"I didn't order pizza," Sanchez began.
"It's all paid for. Beer too."
"Who sent it?"
The pizza guy shrugged. "Hey, it's paid for, and it's hot and the brewskis are cold. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth."
"Okay, um, thanks." Sanchez took the pizza box, and popped the tab on one of the beers. He raised the can to the rapidly retreating pizza guy. Something nagged at him. The guy looked familiar. He was a big beefy jock, a football player probably. Maybe one of the crosstown teams? He sipped the ice cold beer. He suddenly felt more relaxed and really horny. He was sporting major wood, he turned back into his apartment, and closed the door. The pizza smelled really good. But who sent it? Maybe Malia? She had broken up with him a half dozen times before calling it quits a year ago. Maybe it was a peace offering? Or maybe that coach from the prep school was making good on the bet that the loser buy the winner dinner? But he welched on that bet months ago. Hm? He took a bite of steaming hot pizza. Mmm! Mushrooms, green peppers and tomatoes - his favorite.
Around the corner from the apartment, the pizza boy was in a cold sweat trembling. He said, "Went just like you planned, Coach."
He looked down into Coach Sinclair's eyes, oh shit, he was eye to eye, and looking up. He felt his clothing falling off him as he shrank. A giant hand reached down and extracted him from his now empty pile of clothing. Sinclair shoved the bit of fabric in his pocket, then gathered up the pizza delivery uniform and tennis shoes, and stowed them in his trunk. He drove to the gym, and extracted the former pizza boy from his pocket. He glanced at his watch. He had time for a workout before the hypnotic effects of the pizza would be at their peak. Sinclair stripped down, put on his jock, and headed to the weight room wearing only the former pizza boy.
His alarm went off at 6:30. He picked up his cellphone from under the sweat covered weightbench. He turned off the alarm, and video dialed Sanchez.
Sanchez finally answered the phone.
"Yo, Coach, what can you do for me?" Sanchez said in a slurred voice.
Sinclair smiled at the image on his phone. Sanchez' hairy chest was covered with grease and cheese. His Speedo was tented and stained. One hand holds the phone, while he jerks himself off with the other.
"Looking good, Sancheez, you know I think you never want to take that Speedo off ever, do you?"
"Huh, oh yeah. I never wanna take this Speedo off."
Coach Sinclair delivered his instructions, ending with the repeated admonition, "Tomorrow you will remember to do what I told you, but you will think it's your own idea, and you will not remember this conversation, but you will revert to this trance state when I say your trigger phrase. "
"Yeah, mastuh, I will."
Click.