Good old Horst and Carter. They'd retrieved the dweeb's jockstrap from the fire sprinkler. The dweeb stood there naked except for me. I looked up at Randy Horst, and Stan Carter beyond him. They looked scared, but they were there for me. I felt the dweeb's thumb in my waist band. I was going to be free. No, I heard his mind, he didn't know how to turn me back!
He suggested that Horst might want to wear me before I was changed back. The guy looked at me, and the gleam in his eye scared me, but after pausing he said no.
Weekend? The dweeb was telling my two best friends that he was going to punish me by wearing me all weekend, and he expected them to wear too tight jock straps. Horst would wear the dweeb's and Carter would wear Horst's. It didn't look like Horst was willing to do that. I don't want to stay a jockstrap forever.
I tried to cry, help. I must have succeed in doing something because Carter was pointing at me. Whatever they said was lost on me, as my world was ripped away by the dweeb's latest boner. My perspective was shoved upward, my entire body was strained taut. I saw him reach for the blue jeans. The denim and cold metal zipper pressed against me. The light was gone. I was trapped inside the dweeb's jeans with a sweaty pair of balls and a swollen dick.
"See you in History," the dweeb's muffled voice echoed through the denim. It was only first period on Friday morning, and then I remembered it was a three-day weekend. Was I going to remain like this until next Tuesday?