Chad was flying through the air. Hands were reaching for him from the through of men watching Max strip. He must be in a gay strip club. He sailed right into a waiting raised hand. The rough calloused hand closed on Chad, and brought the shiny garment up to his billboard size face. It was Coach Sinclair.
The coach whispered, "Hello, Chad. You worked out so well as my quarterback, I've decided to train you for a new position."
Chad gasped mentally before being thrust inside the dark warm dankness of Coach Sinclair's jockstrap pouch.
The music blared. Coach danced. Coach sweat. Chad absorbed. Hours dragged on. Chad was pulled out. He tried to inhale, but he was still a pair of shiny shorts. At least the air was fresher than inside Sinclair's crotch.
Sinclair was back in Terry's dressing room, and Terry was dressed in Chad's freshman football jersey and Chad's lucky jockstrap.
"The first part of the spell worked perfectly, Terry," said the coach. He shook Chad out of his crumpled form and spread hom across his knee.
Chad's mind was confused like he was swimming underwater in lead boots. Coach did this to him? Who the fuck was Terry? And what the hell did being changed into underwear have to do with athletic training? If it was athletic training? Chad had an uneasy feeling he was about find out what was in store for him next, and he didn't think he'd like it.