“This your first day in Texas?” The man behind the counter asks.
You grumble. Not only is it your first day, but it might be your last. You’ve only been on the ground two hours, and already your cell phone is dead, your driver neglected to show up at the airport, and now they can’t find you luggage.
Typical, you think to yourself, these southern pricks don’t know what the hell they’re doing. But if they don’t find your baggage soon, they’re going to be sabotaging more than your night. After all, there are some important materials in that bag necessary for your promotional meeting tomorrow, or as you see it, the whole reason you came to this hell hole in the first place.
That’s when you see it, like a small black beetle crawling on the corner of your vision: your bag. Alone on an empty, spinning carousel, almost as if someone intentionally placed it there…
You don’t even think to alert the man behind the counter, who’s still on his computer probably doing something else. You quickly rush forward, grab the bag, and head out to the street to hail a cab. You can cover the cost later, you tell yourself. Right now, there’s one priority and one priority only: getting the hell out of there.
Back at the hotel, you flop your bag onto the bed and immediately head for the closest outlet. You plug your dead phone in. Nothing. Shit. You keep trying, but whether its the outlet or the phone, you know something isn’t working.
You walk back towards the bed. Perhaps you packed a spare charging cable in your bag, you try and convince yourself as you unzip the front. You flip open the bag, and your heart stops.
This isn’t your bag. At least, you don’t remember packing a mouth guard, shoulder pads, and a cropped t-shirt with a Texans logo on it.
Your brain goes into panic mode. You dive for your cell phone, only to find out the dead black screen hasn’t changed at all. The land line? But you don’t know the airport’s phone number. Worst of all, you’re starting to feel queazy, and notbecause of those pretzels you had on the plane.
Suddenly, your phone “dings.” Finally. You pick it up to see several text messages from people you don’t recognize.
Coach Bill says: Where the hell are you? Game is tomorrow night.
Someone named Kealia with a heart emoji next to her name says: Sweetheart, you feeling okay?
Who are these people? You ask yourself. But just as you do, your queasiness goes from bad to worst. You run to the bathroom, thinking you’re going to throw up, but instead, the nausea just turns to soreness. And not just in your stomach; in your whole body.
You groan. Bones creak and crack as you glance up at yourself in the mirror. Your thinning hair, your acne scars, and your pathetic frame of a body. This isn’t exactly how you thought things would turn out, and you aren’t just talking about this disastrous night.
But what’s that? It can’t be. You lean in closer to see if your eyes are just playing tricks on you. They’re not; your hair really is turning blonde. Even more than that, it’s coming in thick, and starting to dot your previously clean shaven face.
“What the h—“
But you keel over again. Something is going on under your shirt. You can feel your skin bubbling and your muscles exploding like someone poured acid all over your chest. You tear off your tie, your jacket, and finally your shirt, expecting to find a mess of charred skin underneath.
Instead, you find the chest of a god. Colossal pectorals, six bricks of abs, two hard lines leading down to your crotch. You gasp. This is not your body. What the hell is happening to me??
The feeling spreads up your arms. You watch in astonishment as your biceps bubble and bloat in an almost cartoonish fashion, the muscle jiggling before it hardens as solid meat. Your forearms harden as well, and you feel callous begin to grow on your fingertips. Impossible. You haven’t done anything physical since 9th grade PE. But these are the hands of a pro football player.
You barely even notice your ass stuff itself with muscle, or thighs harden and grow, or your calves inflate like two large apples on the back of your legs. But you do notice as your feet explode through your brand new shoes, two large clompers dusted in the same shade of dirty blonde hair. There’s a loud rip as your pants can no longer hold the sheer volume of leg muscle now staring to solidify and mature.
Back up in the mirror, you look over your ever expanding body. You’re at least a half foot taller now, breathing heavily through your obscenely large chest as the features on your face start to shrink.
You rush to the telephone. The hotel telephone, and call 911. An operator picks up immediately. “911, how can I assist you?” the calm female voice on the other line says.
“Yes! I’m at the— the Four Seasons and I’m… something’s happening to—“
You can feel the timbre of your voice chancing. It’s becoming deeper with every word, more stupid. More hard.
“May I ask who I’m speaking to?” The lady says.
“My name… name is… JJ— UGH!”
You drop the phone. You fall back onto the bed as you feel all the energy and heat rush towards your pelvic region, specifically towards your cock. You tear off the tattered remains of your pants to see that your penis, previously a measly five and a half inches, is now encroaching on what looks like ten.
Higher and higher, it rises up above your sweaty, muscle body. Your balls balloon out as they churn out manly fluids that pump themselves throughout your veins. You vision blurs, you start to loose your grip on the space inside your head. Of the little things, like your meeting, your flight, your life back home. Your own name.
“GAAAAAAGHHHHH!” You bellow loud enough for the people in the next room to hear. You surrender to the pleasure as your cock erupts with milky white spunk. It shoots as high as the ceiling, falling hard and hot on your thick, muscular body. It continues to flow like a broken water mane as you loose consciousness, falling back into a deep and empty slumber.
“JJ? JJ can you hear me? JJ??”
You jolt awake. “Where the hell am I?” You ask as you rub your eyes. “Why the hell am I naked?”
The man above you laughs. “Hell if I know, son. I’m just happy we found you in time.” You smile, as you recognize the man as your coach, your mentor. Next to him is someone from the hotel, your publicist, and you girlfriend.
She smiles. “You sure you don’t remember anything that happened to you? They found you in an awful mess. They say you even called the cops!”
“Well,” you say as you get up, “must not have remembered what happened. Whatever it was thought made me very sore.”
“We’ve got physical therapists for that,” coach says, “now come on, we’ve got a game in less than 48 hours. Put some clothes on and we’ll meet in the lobby.”
Your girlfriend gives you a kiss as they all give you some privacy. You exhale deeply. Everything up there is still a little bit foggy. Like your memories of growing up in Wisconsin, being drafted to the NFL, and meeting the girl of your dreams, are all mixed up with someone else’s lame life.
But it doesn’t matter. Your football superstar JJ Watt, and you’ve got a big game coming up. You delve into your suitcase and put on some well fitting briefs, jeans, skinners, and finally your favorite cropped Texans t-shirt. It falls comfortably over your hot, huge linebacker body, immediately growing heavy with your sweat and cum.
“Gotta love Texas,” you say with a dopey smile, and head out the door.
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