I couldn't believe it. I had been a strapping young jock over six feet tall with women throwing themselves at me. Now I was a little faggot's jockstrap. It just wasn't right. Everything I knew screamed it was an illusion.
Everything except the giant balls and dick that pressed against me. I was still disoriented, it felt like I was being violated up my butt, in my mouth, and all over my body. I no longer had a butt, a mouth, hands, arms, legs or feet. I was just a pouch, two inch elastic waist band, and a couple of straps. It felt fucking weird.
I cupped the dweeb's balls and dick, wrapped around his legs and waist. I no longer had eyes but somehow I could still see. My view of the lockers vanished as a pair of athletic shorts. I looked down through the opening in the legs and watched him pull on his socks and shoes. The creep was going to wear me for PE!
He started to run. He leapt over my clothes which were piled on my shoes where I had been standing. I bounced up and down with his junk inside me. I thought I was going to be sick.
I could hear the coach's voice, and then I felt fingers grabbing and pulling me. I snapped back into place. Horst and Carter had seen what had happened, I heard their low voices. The calisthetics started. I usually enjoyed working out, but not today.
We bounced around. I was helpless, trapped inside the dweeb's athletic shorts, wrapped around his waist and crotch. It was starting to get warm, and damp.
The thought of how gross and sweaty my own jock got when I worked out really creeped me out now that I was someone else's jockstrap. I swallowed hard or tried to. All I succeeded in doing was tightening the knit of my pouch, which in turn stimulated the expansion of the dweeb's dick. It felt like my mouth was stuffed with mashed potatoes. Something made me think, garlic mashed potatoes. I realized I was tasting his spicy musk. Not half bad I thought as I started to lick, then as I realized what I was doing I wanted to retch.
I just started repeating to myself, "I AM RYAN STANDISH, I AM IN CONTROL." Deep down inside I knew I could do it. I learned early in my sports career that positive attitude was necessary to overcome a bad situation. "I AM RYAN STANDISH," I repeated the mantra. The dweeb was getting hard again, as I repeated my mantra, I realized my lips were moving, or that's what it seemed like, actually, my knit pouch was contracting and expanding in response to my silent vocalizations. I was starting to taste something salty and metallic. Shit, I could guess what it was.
The scores for our team, passes completed, fumbles, field goals, all those stats started racing through my mind. I realized the dweeb was trying to distract himself, no guy wants a hard on in gym class. My mind immediately leapt to the Superbowl, Rose Bowl and Orange Bowl stats. Our minds seemed to merge. I thought of every statistic I could, and the boner subsided.
The bell sounded. The period was over. He was going to change. Hopefully, he was going to change me back.