Brandon Twice
patreon
Butterball Bowl
🕑 Added 2019-11-30 00:34:11 +0000 UTC[shrinking, weight gain, animal TF, inanimate TF]
[warning: this story features crushing, vore, and a more sadistic tone than my usual fare]
Lex Rogers was the last guy on my list. Wouldn’t you know it, he walked right into my bar just before closing time, saving me hours of trying to track him down. Was it the luck sigil I cast before I headed to work, or just random chance? I guess I would never know.
He looked around skeptically at the empty chairs and stools. He was probably looking for his high school football buddies. I needed him to stick around for a bit. “Damn, Lex Rogers!” I said loudly. He grinned at the attention and looked down. I doubted he even knew who I was so I helped him out. “Tim! Tim Twiddly!” I said. “You probably don’t remember me.”
“No, I do, I do,” he said. Liar. I popped a beer and slapped it on the bar immediately.
“This one’s on me. Welcome home gift.” He thanked me for the beer but didn’t sit down or take his coat off. That was okay. All I needed was that one beer to do what I needed to.
I eyed what I could see of his body, the way it filled out his jeans and the tight polo shirt under his jacket. “Damn,” I said. “Still in the best shape of anyone I’ve ever seen,” I said.
He shrugged. “Great metabolism,” he said. “I’m planning on it giving out on me any day now though.” He took a swig of his beer. I focused on a few glowing symbols in my head and traced shapes in the air under the bar.
“Naw, man! You were like the first guy in 7th grade with muscles,” I said. What I also remembered, but didn’t add, was that he used those muscles to hoist me upside down and dunk my head in the urinals. I remember him shoving me to the ground playing flag football. I would leave gym class with major bruises. For SOME reason, coach didn’t call him on it.
“My dad was an athlete,” he said. “Just how it goes. I’m focused on more important stuff now.” I’d heard what he was focused on. He was a salesman down in Boston making major money. Lex had confidence that could crush a buffalo from the time he was old enough to recognize his pretty face in the mirror. Of course he was making major deals with that kind of skill. He wasn’t the only one with advantages nowadays.
“You know who’s absolutely gigantic nowadays?” I said. “Tanner Watt. You guys are good buddies right? I ran into him earlier today. He’s a monster! Always a brute, but damn, steroids have done that guy some favors! 6’5” and I swear, 300 pounds. Muscles on muscles. Every inch of him flexes every time he moves.” What I didn’t add, of course, was that Tanner wasn’t so big after I had a few words with him. Lex would find out soon enough.
“You saw Tanner today?” Lex said, suddenly interested in what I had to say. “I’ve been looking all over for him.” He yanked the bottom of his shirt down and shifted in his pants awkwardly. He wasn’t aware of what was happening--yet.
“Yeah, I did. You guys have that football game tomorrow, right?” I couldn’t hide my grin as I saw a little belly poke out, his midsection starting to balloon, pushing his shirt up. Behind him, his bubble but was starting to swell up as well.
“Yeah, the Butterball Bowl,” Lex said. “It’s tradition. All the football alumni come back and--” Suddenly he burped, deep and guttural. It caught him by surprise. He stared at the beer, then down at the belly that was forming. “What… the fuck…” he said, grabbing a handful of his newfound chunk.
“It’s not the beer, if that’s what you’re thinking,” I said. He backed away from the bar, thrown off by the big wobbly ass that had appeared. Every pound that appeared on his body was jiggly flab, something he had probably never experienced in his life. It wasn’t long before his shirt split down the sides, the seat of his pants popping to shreds. He looked up at me with big chubby cheeks and double chins. Gone was that beautiful jawline, those chiseled cheekbones, but those pretty blue eyes were still there. Goddamn him, I thought; even pretty when I’ve turned him into a fatass.
He held up plump hands that looked unfamiliar, then stared at me. I’d heard it all: “This is impossible! What are you doing to me? This can’t be happening.” Hell, I’d heard all those classic lines that day alone. But Lex didn’t say anything. He just turned to run for the door.
Then stage 2 kicked in. In a moment his whole body dwarfed down by about a third. Star quarterback Lex Rogers, star of his D1 college team, tumbled to the ground, his feet tangled in the tattered remains of his jeans. A few minutes ago he was exploding out of them, now he was too small to fit in them.
By the time he got to the door, he was only about two feet tall. His body looked like a scoop of mashed potatoes now. He tried to jump but even his powerful legs couldn’t move that much mass off the ground. (That’s what I loved about this particular spell: I was making guys bloat out with more mass than their body had ever held, then shrinking them down to little pipsqueaks. They experienced too much size and not enough at the same time.)
When I got to the door, he was only six inches tall and a plump round little doughboy. Despite his tiny size I could barely recognize the smoking hot jock that had tormented me for years while starring in every sexual fantasy I ever had growing up. “That’s enough,” I said. “Don’t worry, you’ll make your little Butterball Bowl tomorrow. So will all the buddies you couldn’t find today.” I snapped my fingers and his pudgy little body went limp. I felt like I was holding a fat puppy when I picked him up. His squishy body was so warm, his big dick almost lost in the flab surrounding it. I gave it a few nudges, happy to finally see it even though it was the size of a grain of rice now. I gently wrapped my little prize in a muslin bag, put him in the backpack full of shrunken, obese former football players I had behind the bar, and locked the front door. After I closed the bar, I had a lot of work to do. I’d be up all night, probably!
*
A lot of locals showed up for the Butterball Bowl the next day, but none of the athletes showed. I was there, of course, just to see the disappointed faces when their heroes never showed. They had a ball and a ref ready to go but not one athlete played a down on the high school’s field on that crisp autumn morning. After an hour of waiting, everyone went home to the turkeys in their ovens, confused about where 24 whole athletes had gone.
That’s when I headed over to the junior high field. It was empty until I showed up. I gave a shrill whistle and a few hooded figures stepped out of the nearby woods.
“The hoods are a little dramatic,” I said as I greeted my buddies: Ben Razor, a scrawny guy with severe mood swings but a tremendous talent for drawing; Tom Twice, my heavyset fellow who still held a D&D game every Friday night, just like he had all through high school; Wendell Sanchez, who played french horn in our high school’s marching band and had only just recently gotten back in contact with me; and Orion West, my ex-boyfriend (and the guy who introduced me to witchcraft and opened up a whole new world for all of us).
“I thought the hoods were appropriate,” Orion said as he threw his back. He was wearing eyeliner of course, and I think maybe some makeup to make him look even more pale. We were almost 30; it was that kind of drama that led to our breakup.
“Where are they?” said Wendell, eyes wide with excitement. I’m sure the “normies” in the group didn’t believe I could deliver. But there were three burlap sacks, tied tightly, lined up at the endzone.
“They’re there,” I said. With a snap of my fingers, the bags untied and fell forward. Orion rolled his eyes.
“As if you’re too good to pull a string,” he said as he reached into the first bag and started to unload the contents. He still resented me that my power grew so far beyond his so quickly.
“Gentlemen, what you’ll see here is our own rendition of the Butterball Bowl, as I described in your invitations,” I said. I reached into one of the sacks and plucked out a little muslin sack, setting it gently on the grass. When we were done, there were 24 muslin sacks in a row. “Now, we’re all aware of what’s going to happen today, but… ahem… our athletes here aren’t. So let’s wake them up and explain it to them.”
I yanked a sack up, eager for the surprise of who was underneath. It was Brick Lockhart, that tattooed caveman who worked as a bouncer at a bar downtown. He had been the first one I had collected. Rather than the imposing brick wall of tattooed brawn he used to be, now he was a foot tall little fatass dressed in a skin-tight brown spandex suit covered in shiny brown feathers. He woke up and jumped to his feet, looking around confused. He looked down at himself, raised his chubby arms to see the wings I had given his costume, then turned around to see the ornate plumage blooming behind him. He looked up at us, men he probably didn’t even recognize--especially not since we were as big as buildings to him!--and then down at himself. He shook his head, jiggling the red wattles hanging off there, and then opened his mouth to scream. Or shout. Or curse us all out.
But no words came out. Just the warbly call of a turkey. His eyes went wide. He stared right at me. I’m sure he remembers me ambushing him while he took a cigarette break at work, blowing up his muscular physique with flab until he could barely move in his security uniform, then shrinking him down until his shirt was like a tent over his head. I’m sure he wondered if I’d turned him into a turkey as well.
“Now, gentlemen,” I explained as Orion raised the sacks off the other miniaturized athletes. “I’m sure you’re wondering if you’re even still human. You are! Those turkey suits are just costumes. And the magic on your vocal chords is only temporary. You’ll get your voices back when our little butterball bowl is all over.”
I saw Tanner, who I had caught leaving the gym for a last minute workout before his Thanksgiving feast, suddenly start awake. He looked around, confused at all of the other fat little men dressed as turkeys on either side of him. He let out his high-pitched gobble too. I wonder if he recognized his former friends and teammates?
The guy to his left was Coach Rinehart, of course, only recognizable by his salt-and-pepper beard. When I’d found him, he still had that build like a grizzly bear, that solid manly gut. At his new size and shape (nearly perfectly round) he didn’t have that icy glare he used to give other men he thought he was superior to.
To Tanner’s right was his own construction working father, Glenn, who I’d caught at Tanner’s childhood home while his mom was in the kitchen cooking. She had headphones in and didn’t hear her big, burly husband calling for help when his hulking frame bloated out with flab. She certainly didn’t hear him when he shrank so small his voice was a chirp that couldn’t be heard outside of the bulky sweatsuit that collapsed down on him.
“So unfortunately none of you will be playing football today,” I said, “which is actually quite a mercy. I don’t think any of you could handle that at your current size and shape. Today’s Butterball Bowl will be very easy. Just run for the other endzone. All of you little turkeys who make it will be pardoned! The rest of you, well…”
Clearly most of my transformed little athletes were still in shock, their pea-brains struggling to work out what was going on, when I blew a whistle that had suddenly appeared in my hands. Some of them took off immediately of course, while others stayed frozen in place and still others just ran in circles.
Orion sprinted after the first few to get halfway down the field. He snatched up one--I couldn’t see who it was--and held him up like a trophy. He squeezed the little guy so hard he shrieked out his turkey warble. The second one he grabbed, he shoved right into his pants. I could see the squirming bulge in his jeans (very close to his other bulge).
The third was Chet Anderson. I could tell because of his blonde beard. Chet actually played in the NFL, but had retired and worked as a personal trainer now. I caught him at the airport. He thought I was his driver. Dummy didn’t even recognize me even though he kicked my ass at prom. Big no-necked Chet, now a waddling little turkey-man, stared up at Orion’s big shoe stomping down at him and froze. All he could do was make a panicked gobbling sound as the shoe plattered him across the field with a sickening crunch.
I looked over at Ben, who held four panicked little turkey-men tight against his chest. He was tossing a fifth into the air like a baseball, catching him and tossing him again, delighted by the hilarious noises he was making. Tom had grabbed one of the sacks and was yanking up little turkey-men two at a time. Wendell was the first to do what I’m sure every one of them had thought about: he grabbed little Hanson Ackles, the beefy redhead stud who had once smashed Wendell’s french horn when we were freshman, and dangled him above his mouth. His tongue darted out, teasing the former linebacker, then Wendell forced the little turkey-man in and swallowed him, feathery-costume and all, whole. I watched Wendell’s neck bulge as his former tormentor disappeared.
The little redhead had company. I remember hearing a rumor that Wyatt Ranger had once gotten head from Wendell at a party. Wyatt had always bullied Wendell, but once I saw Wyatt, the blonde built-like-a-viking stud with the legendary 10-inch cock, leaving Wendell’s house early one Sunday morning. Wendell squeezed little Wyatt around the waist as he gobbled wildly, then slurped on him like he was a lollipop before inhaling him and swallowing him back. At least Wyatt had Hanson to keep him company before they were both digested in Wendell’s dark insides.
I knew exactly who I wanted. I caught Tanner almost immediately, his dad Glenn a moment later. They had started waddling down the field, still burdened by their magically-granted obesity but trying their best to huff and puff toward freedom. I caught them easily. Coach Rinehart took a look up at me, then over at my friends who were all catching, crushing and tormenting the other little turkeys in whatever sadistic ways caught their fancy. I think he saw how gingerly I was holding Tanner and Glenn and thought I would take it easier on him than the others.
I raised up my foot as if I were going to stomp the little Coach into a pulpy mess on the field. I held it there for a bit, really hammering home the idea that he was about to get stomped. But my foot never fell. Instead, I whispered a chant and the Coach shrank down even further. He gobbled in higher and higher pitches as he disappeared into the grass. I wasn’t interested in scrubbing chunks of Coach out of my shoe, but he definitely deserved to get snatched up by a bird or carried off by some ants.
I left Lex for last. Orion had already chosen the turkey-men he was taking home with him. Wendell’s belly was full and he had stashed his prizes as well. (I wondered how many of the little athletes Wendell had snared would end up baked into some sort of pie?) Tom and Ben each had a sack of wriggling, panicked little athletes. With Tanner and Glenn tucked under each of my armpits, I looked down at Lex, my little trophy, and smiled.
He had no idea what I had in store for him, especially after what he had already witnessed on the field. None of the turkey-men actually made it to the other endzone, of course, but since Lex was the last one still on the field and in one piece, I declared him the champion. He gobbled loudly, holding up his hands to defend himself from his fate--then turned to solid bronze and fell over.
I lifted him up and examined the inscription on the base that had appeared at his immobile feet: “Butterball Bowl Champion.” Now he was a trophy of a fat man dressed as a turkey, a far cry from the beautiful man he had been just the evening before when I saw him strut confidently into my bar.
“We should do this every year!” Wendell said as we all left with our prizes.
“It’s going to be hard enough magicking up enough obfuscation for these disappearances,” Orion said, casting a look my way. “Try just enjoying what you got today--the ones who you don’t end up pushing out into the toilet later on, that is.”
Wendell blushed as we all dispersed with our treasures.
Glenn and Tanner ended up in cages in my living room. I set them on a monthly phase so their human minds come and go with the moon. On a full moon, they’re full turkey, body and mind, and I let them run around outside, giving them feed to fatten them up. As the moon wanes, their minds and human bodies return slowly. I allow them their muscular bodies as well (still at 6 inches tall, mind you) although their memories of what they did with the mind of a turkey still haunt them. They loathe the new moon, when they’re fully human again (and back in the cages) knowing that, with every coming day, they’ll be more and more overtaken by their animal instincts and there’s nothing they could do about it.
I had plans for Lex, of course, but as soon as I got him on my shelf, I realized I was more infatuated with the idea of Lex than the reality of him. (Isn’t that always the way?) I left his brain in that trophy, but all he does now is gather dust and watch me go about my day. I often forget he’s there. I wonder what it’s like for him, stuck in there, unable to move, but I don’t spend too much time thinking about it. I’m a busy guy.
