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About neuheimeer

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  1. Alles gütte aus der neue arbeit! Und jezt auf der gym!

  2. neuheimeer

    How To Make The Rugby Team [PART 2]

    I really celebrate this story. Keep'em continue, and congratulations for that hard work!
  3. In need for a new life

  4. neuheimeer

    Rugby Transformations

    The story is now uploaded on the archive. See that right now.
  5. The original story from Icsis right now here. Agent #4 knew he had strict instructions from his boss not to make their activities too obvious when he went to Busch Stadium in St. Louis to take in the Cardinals-Brewers game that afternoon, but the agent, who’d been a flashy college soccer player before his other talents were “discovered” by the boss, couldn’t just discreetly change the guys like his comrades. No, this agent, whose well-muscled body pressed gently into his yellow and black Mizzou t-shirt and gray cargo shorts, let a grin creep over his handsome face under his backward-turned Cards hat as he thought about the plan that he’d put in motion over the last couple days. He was really quite proud of how elaborate it was--first turning the trainers of both teams, then replacing the groundskeepers and ticket-takers with the squad of late-teen, early-20s guys he’d picked up wandering the quads in Columbia, Springfield, Iowa City, Champaign…all of them handsome, tightly-built fuckers who’d professed to be straight when he first met them. Hell, they probably had been straight before the agent got a hold of them. Now all those guys were fucking each other in the back rooms of the stadium, as their work was done for the day. All that remained was to see the effect of all their efforts. #4 had gotten to know a couple of the guys from the boss’s molecular biology research facility over the past few months, and they’d slipped him a large sample of some of the stuff they were working on. Highly potent, they’d said, not exactly experimental but not something you’d want to use without a heavy dose of caution. The agent took that seriously, sure--that’s why he was there to back things up if they got iffy. And hey, the stuff had worked on his collection of Midwest college hunks with no seeming ill effects. Albert Pujols had just laced a sharp single to short that Milwaukee’s J.J. Hardy had barely been able to keep in the infield, leaving the Cards’ Skip Schumaker on third, Rick Ankiel on second, and Pujols on first with only one out. The crowd, which had been unusually quiet for St. Louis, now edged forward on their seats in the 3-0 Redbirds ballgame. Milwaukee’s pitcher, Dave Bush, was starting to sweat. Things weren’t about to get any easier--Chris Duncan now waited at the plate, with Troy Glaus’s imposing figure in the on-deck circle and Yadi Molina perched on the steps of the dugout in the hole. After them came second baseman Adam Kennedy and the pitcher, Chris Carpenter, just back for his first start of the year, but if it got that bad, Dave knew he’d be in serious danger of leaving the game anyway. Fortunately for Bush, Agent #4 wouldn’t even let Duncan finish his at-bat. With the press of a button, certain carefully placed canisters lodged in each base and in the grass of the infield and outfield released a long, slow spray of mist--the very stuff that the agent had borrowed from his buddies. At the same time, the boxes for the Schumaker bobbleheads that had been distributed to the crowd each released a smaller spray of the same cocktail. Duncan sniffed once before the stuff took effect. Chris’s body practically exploded with muscle, tearing the white Cards jersey he wore down the front, buttons spraying in every direction. One hit the Brewers catcher, Jason Kendall, on his mask -- Kendall pulled the mask off to see what was happening, but no sooner had he done that than he caught a whiff of the mist wafting up from home plate and he, too, began to grow. By this point, Duncan’s jersey was in tatters on his now much better muscled torso, complete with a ripped set of pecs and a solidly defined six-pack. The well-built St. Louis outfielder, pale-skinned before, now had a deeply tanned upper body that was essentially shirtless as he pulled the remains of the white fabric off and dropped them unceremoniously on the ground. Of course, at all the other games, the agents had carefully covered the players with tight-fitting rugby jerseys and rugby shorts as they changed -- Agent #4 would get to that in time, but for now he didn’t see any reason to cover up the gifts he was endowing the baseball players with. That much was obvious, in fact, as Duncan’s lower half grew just as his upper half had, his thighs and calves swelling against his baseball pants, and his ass rounding into a ripe, delicious muscle butt just asking to be fucked. In front, his 7-inch cock had grown into a 10-inch beast of a dick, leaking freely into his ridiculously strained pants. Chris turned to face Kendall, and the catcher’s breath hitched, his own newly thickened pecs and abs tightening in excitement at seeing the transformed rugby jock. Not only was Chris Duncan’s body changed into that of a shredded rugger stud, but his face -- a little unremarkable before, to be polite -- had become one of the most handsome Jason had ever seen. The hunky Brewers backstop didn’t realize that his own cheekbones had tightened, eyes darkened, and jawline solidified and broadened and covered with coarse stubble, to make his face that of a gorgeous rugby Adonis as well. Jason couldn’t focus on Chris, though, and he grunted loudly as he bent over, his catcher’s gear ripping off as the straps couldn’t hold back the cords of muscle layering onto his calves, his pecs, his obliques. Jason’s gray jersey tore at the shoulders as his biceps swelled hard into the shirt, and his lats and delts flooded the space between his body and the fabric, then overflowed, ripping it down the back. “Fuck me…” Jason muttered as he glanced down at his own radically transformed body, then up at Chris Duncan’s fantastically muscled figure. “If you say so,” Chris answered. He came around the other side (avoiding the umpire, who was now on his knees swelling fast and furious into his black uniform as well) and lifted Jason Kendall’s now 220-pound rugby jock body to his feet. Within seconds Chris had Kendall’s pants, which had been struggling to contain his newly massive glutes, thighs, and quads, down around his knees and was fucking the hot athlete’s bubble butt ass for all he was worth. Jason’s cock, an inch thicker and four inches longer than it had been, spilled pre-fuck freely onto home plate as he moaned loudly at being drilled for the first time. Down at first, Albert Pujols had felt suddenly aroused as he smelled something weird. His 8-inch Dominican cock rose rapidly into his baseball pants, making a ridiculous tent in the white fabric. Quickly, as he heard Prince Fielder groan loudly behind him, the feeling spread over the rest of his lower body, making Pujols’ already massive thighs, swollen calves, and handsome butt tingle and twitch as they began to grow. The Cards slugger’s ass began to rip through his pants as he bent over, the round, iron-hard globes bulging with new muscle. He felt his cock swelling too, rising harder and longer and fatter into his jock. Eventually Pujols reached down and ripped his pants open at the crotch, literally tearing them apart with a loud moan. He knew he was fuckin’ strong, but he couldn’t believe he had the strength to do that until he looked down and saw that his biceps had probably doubled in size and become twice as ripped, each striation of muscle beautiful beneath the golden skin. “Mierda,” Albert grunted as he flexed his new arms, watching them tear the seams of his jersey. His pecs matched his arms cord for cord, and his stomach, powerful but a little soft before, transformed in an instant into an absolutely cut eight-pack of jacked abs. Pujols involuntarily arched his back and thrust his crotch out as his back carved itself into slabs of lat and delt muscle, his pecs burst through the front of his Cards jersey, and his now 11-inch dick erupted out of his shredded pants, spraying his thick cream all over the grass in front of first. “Daaaamn, mother fucker…” came a voice from behind him as he coaxed the last of his load out of his now obscenely huge dickmeat. Pujols grinned, his broad smile now enough to make a straight man horny, as he felt a pair of muscular arms wrap around his tight obliques, one stroking his tight stomach, the other dropping to begin squeezing the hot first baseman-turned-rugby hunk’s prick and cup his heavy balls, then felt a massive, hard body press against his back and an achingly hard dick press and throb against his gorgeous ass. “You’re a fuckin’ Latin god, man,” Prince Fielder continued. The Brewers’ first baseman’s own transformation was even more stunning than Pujols’. Fielder had been a really hefty guy, just like his dad, a guy who if he’d tried to get on a rugby field wouldn’t have lasted fifteen minutes without wheezing to the sideline. All that had changed, however. Prince’s bloat had turned to bulk, his belly firmed into a rigid muscle gut, the bricklike abs seeming to swell out from his body, his chest hardened into two mountainous pecs, his arms tightened into a tremendous series of bulging muscles, his shoulders spread wide like a bodybuilder. Fielder had lost something like 30 pounds of fat and gained 20 of it back in muscle. His ass cheeks were like bowling balls pressing insistently into his uniform pants, and his cock -- the one Albert had felt demanding entrance to his own new bubble butt even through the fabric of both their pants -- was nearly a foot of thick meat. The former first baseman (now rugby jock forward) had also picked up a face that made Pujols’ 11-incher, which had just fired a massive load a few seconds earlier, spring up against Albert’s rock-hard belly again. “Me?” said Albert in English. “Holy fuck, man, look at you.” He whistled before sliding his hands down around Prince’s new jacked stomach, then over the 260-lb monster’s huge fucking prick and ass that felt like it could trap a dude’s dick in its viselike grip and milk his balls dry. A moment later, the two ex-first basemen were coming together in a deep, passionate kiss, the first either had shared with a man in his life. They were too caught up in their own sudden homoerotic attraction to notice that just a few feet away, at second base, a fucking hot threesome had just formed. It had started with Rick Ankiel and Brewers shortstop J.J. Hardy suddenly bending and swelling into their uniforms. “Fuck, man, what the fuck’s goin’ on?” Rick grunted, though he could feel perfectly well what was happening to him as his pecs, shoulders, and arms erupted with new strength, doubling in size but picking up sharper and tighter definition along the way. “I don’t…fuck…I don’t know,” J.J. groaned. His cute blue eyes were alternately clenched tight in a combination of pain and deep pleasure or looking down in astonishment at the incredible body he’d already grown in the past several seconds. It was clearer as J.J.’s gray jersey ripped in several places -- his neck and shoulders ripping through seams at the top of the uniform, his muscle-fattened pecs popping off two of the buttons down the front, and his lats and traps pushing the fabric to its limits in the back. Each new tear exposed a little more of the hunky Brewer’s new smooth, well-tanned skin. And increasingly, with each second that ticked by, Rick Ankiel found himself a little more attracted to him. Which was weird, because Rick Ankiel had never been attracted to a guy before…ever. At all. But now as he stared at J.J.’s transforming body (his bulging biceps…fuck! and that ripped eight-pack of cobblestone abs…holy shit) and felt his own muscular athlete’s body change and continue to grow itself, Rick had to admit that his cock was rising and hardening into his increasingly strained white uniform pants. “I feel…fuckin’ weird, dude,” Rick said, and he could hear that his voice had deepened to a sexy baritone (what the fuck, he thought, since when is a dude’s voice sexy? especially mine?) that made J.J. look up immediately. “Well, you look fuckin’ good, dude,” Hardy responded. Like Ankiel, he was stunned at his own comment, and couldn’t figure out where that thought had come from. But he knew at the same time that he believed it deeply, so deeply that he couldn’t even bring himself to take it back, especially as he glanced up at Rick’s still-transforming body, now ripping into his white Cards jersey and uniform pants. The dude was gorgeous, his fine, muscled-up body now on display for anyone and everyone who wanted to see (a number that was rapidly growing to include more and more of the men on the field and in the stands). And it was clear from Rick’s ridiculous 9-inch tent in his pants that he too was enjoying what was happening to him. Not that J.J. had a lot of room to talk. Or move, or do anything, for that matter, as he now bulged impossibly hard into his own gray uniform. A few seconds after glancing over Rick Ankiel’s rugbyfied form, Hardy ripped completely out of his own jersey, leaving the shreds on the ground next to second, and leaving his own tanned, hard-muscled torso exposed to his opponent. The former Milwaukee shortstop now stood 6’3”, 230 lbs of solid power. His abs gleamed, his pecs danced as he flexed his arms and shoulders proudly, and his much tighter but stronger obliques led down to his belt and a pair of gray uniform pants that barely held back the hunk’s incredibly thick 10.5-inch dickmeat, grown 4 inches in length and nearly an inch in girth from its previously average size under J.J.’s now strained Under Armour sliding shorts. He grinned, his already handsome smile spreading over a broader, sharper jaw than before. His longish sideburns and cute goatee had grown and changed into a generally stubbled jawline, his brown hair had grown out into a slight shag as he lost his Brewers hat, and his pretty blue eyes shone even brighter than before. But Rick, typical guy, wasn’t focused on J.J.’s face. “Fuck me,” he said in a loud whisper, “I need that fuckin’ cock inside me right now.” He didn’t stop to think how he could possibly be saying something like that, but instead unbuckled his belt and pulled what was left of his uniform pants down over his thickly-muscled ass and jacked quads. Hardy grinned, unbuckling himself too and forcing his own pants down, no easy task given the bubble of his muscle ass, the expanded size of his rugger jock legs, and of course the rock-hard, nearly 11-inch obstacle that his new eight-pack, solid obliques, and handsome treasure trail pointed directly toward. J.J. grabbed Rick and kissed him deeply, both guys’ hearts racing at the feeling of another powerful man’s lips and tongue fighting with his own for dominance, then he flipped Rick around and began sliding his thick ass-fucker up along his hole, making the horny Cardinal moan in anticipation. “Yeah, fuck me dude, slam that hard fuckin’ beast in my ass,” Rick hissed. J.J. was kissing all over Rick Ankiel’s powerful neck and shoulders, his hands playing with Rick’s new overgrown pecs and tweaking the fat nipples. He whispered into Rick’s ear: “You gotta lube me up first, stud, before I break your cherry ass in.” Rick was about to turn around when they both heard a voice from below them: “I’ll take care of that, buddy.” The two changed players looked down in surprise to see Skip Schumaker’s smiling, handsome face staring up at them for just a moment before he ducked his head and swallowed J.J. Hardy’s obscene 10.5-inch cockpole almost halfway down in one gulp. “Fuhhhhhhck…” J.J. groaned as the Cards center fielder, who’d wandered away from 3rd base at the first scent of the agent’s spray, began a masterful set of strokes with his tongue on his fellow ballplayer’s dick. Rick, meanwhile, was in shock -- sure, he had felt himself change, and his preferences shift suddenly from big-breasted girls to thick-muscled, thick-dicked guys. But he couldn’t believe that Skip, innocent, rookie Skip, but also chick-loving, chick-banging, could-get-any-girl-in-St.-Louis-that-he-wanted Skip was on his knees deep-throating this Brewers jock’s fuckpipe. How could this guy that he’d gone out to bars with, picked up girls with, done such typical straight rookie baseball jock shit with be down there worshiping another dude’s thick piece? But he couldn’t very well deny it as Schumaker’s tongue, lips, and throat gave J.J.’s fat cock the best working-over it’d had in years. And, of course, like all the others, Skip was growing. No sooner had he latched his hungry lips onto J.J. Hardy’s prick than his biceps tore through his jersey sleeves at the bottom and at the shoulder, then all along the arm, revealing the new, deeper-sculpted muscle beneath. That was soon followed by the front three or four buttons shooting off his jersey as Skip’s pecs ballooned into unbelievable mountains of muscle, each topped with a ripe, suckable nipple, and each still bulging into his red UA even as the jersey began to fall away. His bull neck packed on muscle, making it easier for him to swallow another four inches of J.J.’s jockpole, burying his cute face in his rival’s crotch. From the back, Rick, who was stroking his own prick the entire time, could see that the shape of Skip’s ass was honing into jock muscle butt perfection. As the undershirt began to ride up Schumaker’s muscled-up back, Rick could see the taut v-shape leading down to the Cardinal hunk’s beautiful bubble butt ass, still constrained by his white uniform pants but pushing out in such a gorgeous round bulge that Rick’s mouth began to water. Apparently J.J. was feeling the same way about the transforming stud athlete, as he pushed Skip’s powerful throat and lips off his raging hard dick a second later. “You gotta stop, stud, or I’m gonna fuckin’ blow right down your throat.” “I don’t know what’d be so bad about that,” Skip answered, his head still down, “but you were just promising this good-lookin’ guy a hard fuck, so I’ll back off.” He got up off his knees, his own heart pounding with lust and excitement beneath his thick pecs as he lifted off the under armour and felt the other two guys’ stares on his new body. “Holy fuck,” whispered Hardy. Skip’s pecs were fantastic, shining mounds of tanned ruggerjock power, jutting out from a flat wall of muscle that descended to his absolutely ripped ten-pack of abs. (I didn’t even know you could have a ten-pack, J.J. thought, but there they were.) Beside that, Skip’s sides had sharpened into divine curves of power down to his belt, below which a rock-hard, dripping wet cock, whose 13 bottle-thick inches could only be rivaled by the one a certain Brewers outfielder was about to grow, made an obscene, unmistakable tent in his white uniform. And above his pecs and now massive neck, Skip’s already handsome face had hardened into refined, flawless beauty. His head had stayed shaved with a little stubble, but an almost equal amount of stubble covered his squared chin, sharp jawline, and tight cheekbones. Skip wet his medium-thick, powerful lips with his tongue as he stared right back at J.J. Hardy’s perfected physique, his gorgeous blue eyes gleaming. He put his hands on his hips, his pecs, biceps, and delts flexed, and grinned. His cock twitched noticeably. Somehow his Cards hat had ended up backward on his head, the little MLB logo above his beautiful face one of the few remnants of the baseball player he’d been. “Hey, bud,” Skip said. His voice was pure sex. “Oh, I’ll fuck Ricky here,” J.J. said, “but you’re not backin’ off, that fucker’s goin’ in my tight jock ass the same time.” Skip just smiled a little broader, his already aching dick straining a little harder into his pants as he imagined fucking the beautiful guy in front of him. “But now you need a little lubing up too…” J.J. dropped to his knees, his baseball pants still hanging stubbornly just at the bulge of his handsome ass and his fantastic package, and began unbuckling Skip Schumaker’s own uniform pants. “Holy fuck, holy fuck…” the hot Brewer was whispering to himself as he stared at the outline of Skip’s cock. He stroked Skip’s abs as the belt came undone, letting the pants fall just an inch to hitch on his muscle butt’s sharp, jutting bulge, and revealing a hint of the red compression shorts beneath the pants. But as J.J. saw the cockstud’s dick bulging even more obviously into those shorts, he couldn’t be patient any longer, and simply ripped the pants from Skip’s body, tearing them right down the middle with a loud grunt as his powerful arms and chest flexed angrily. Skip was fucking turned on as hell by this rugby jock literally ripping his pants off him, and his 13-inch beast began leaking copiously into his underwear. That only made J.J. more eager to get to Skip’s fat dick, and he immediately began pulling the shorts down. Again, not easy when Skip’s hard-as-steel ass and quads strained against every inch of the fabric, but eventually Hardy got them going, each inch letting the horny athlete see more of Skip Schumaker’s tan, nicely veined v-shape leading down to his perfect cock. The cock that J.J. Hardy quickly enveloped in his mouth, the first time he’d ever sucked a dude off before, but only the first of what was to be a long series of blow jobs for his teammates, his St. Louis opponents, and now-massive, utterly hung fans that day. For now he focused on making Skip feel good -- and he was doing a damn good job of that as the former outfielder moaned in pleasure, feeling J.J.’s throat clench around a good half of his unbelievable dickmeat. Rick, for his part, decided to get J.J. ready for the fucking that was to come by contorting his godlike body into perfect position to eat out the hot jock’s gorgeous muscle ass. But J.J. eventually pulled back, and immediately pulled Rick to his feet, spun him around, and wrapped his muscular arms around the hunk’s ripped torso, driving his 10.5-inch prick deep into Rick’s ass without so much as a warning. Rick ate it up, moaning in deep pleasure as he was fucked by another hung jock for the first time ever. Hardy quickly turned back as he got into a nice pace, letting Skip get a magnificent view of Rick’s high, powerful ass being pummeled by J.J.’s prick, and J.J.’s own fantastic backside, tight and muscle-bound and waiting for his fuckstud to finish him off. Skip didn’t wait a second, moving forward and wrapping his own fucking jacked arms around J.J.’s new body, groping his pecs and kissing his thick neck. Skip couldn’t believe how good it felt to touch another guy -- a ripped, beautiful, intensely hot guy, sure, but a guy nonetheless. The young Cardinal’s heart was racing. Sweat trickled over his pecs and down his back to his flawless ass. Skip looked at J.J.’s body as never before, felt the hardness of his stomach, appreciated the raw power of his arms and legs and cock, and knew that his own body now possessed that power too. Skip wanted more. He slid his dripping wet, more-than-footlong cockmeat deep inside J.J. Hardy’s muscle ass. Hardy grunted, not moaned like Rick, although the hot Cardinal that he was fucking had quieted down and was taking his ass-pounding like the ripped, masculine man that he now was. Soon, though, as J.J. got used to the incredible size of Skip’s new dick and the fullness of his tight hole when the gorgeous jock was buried in his tight butt, he grinned widely and began pumping harder into Rick’s ass, getting into a nice fuckrhythm. Back and forth J.J. Hardy’s stacked jockbod went, his sensitive, broad cockhead stroking Rick Ankiel’s prostate, then his own sweet spot getting nailed by Skip Schumaker’s massive 13-incher. His pecs tingled. His hands were a whirlwind, one stroking Rick’s drooling cock, his bicep clenched in passion, the other reaching back to clutch Skip’s head as the Cards stud licked and kissed J.J.’s trunklike neck. Rick, meanwhile, was in deep throes of pleasure as J.J. dicked him hard and deep for what seemed like an hour. The 9-inch cockpole he’d grown was red, swollen hard, and dripping prefuck on the dirt at an increasing pace. When J.J. reached forward to start tweaking his nips, Rick finally just lost it. Grunting loudly, he flexed his entire muscular upper body tight and felt his cock seize and harden more than he’d ever been hard before. A moment later he growled out, “Aw fuhhhck…” and sprayed second base with a huge baller jock load, his dick firing his hot cum like a cannon all over the infield. “Fuck me, fuck me…” Rick kept grunting as J.J. pounded him harder, Ankiel’s hole seizing hard around Hardy’s bulging cock. “So fuckin’ hot, Rick, bud, aw shit…damn, dude, your ass is fuckin’ tight, unnhh, gonna milk my fuckin’ dick, ain’t ya, buddy?” J.J. had his eyes clenched now, fucking Rick harder than he’d ever fucked a girl, spurred on by Skip’s accelerating, intensifying strokes. “Fuck me like a bitch, dude!” Rick yelled, and J.J. did, till his own 10.5-incher fired the biggest load he’d ever shot deep in the Cardinal’s burning hole. Hardy’s own previously untouched hole wasn’t going to stay dry for long, either, as Skip grinned, watching the two absolute gods in front of him cumming hard, hearing them roar profanities, and feeling his own 13-inch monster getting ready to pump the contents of his low-hanging balls hard into J.J. Hardy’s ass. Skip kept nailing J.J.’s backside for a couple seconds before finally the middle hunk turned his head, grinning widely. “Dude,” he said in a husky whisper, “dick me, Skip, drench my ass, fuckin’ empty your balls inside me, buddy.” The Cardinal rookie’s breath caught. “Fuck…I’m about to, bro,” he muttered, then grimaced as his mind-blowingly hot prick exploded in J.J.’s hole, soothing the burn of his intense fucking and making Skip groan out a stream of vulgarities. His massive dick must have poured 15 shots of rugger jock juice into his buddy’s tight hole before Skip’s pecs and biceps and abs all relaxed slightly and he was able to pull his still-hard giant out. But Skip had barely caught his breath before he felt J.J. Hardy surge forward and kiss him deeply, the two guys sharing their first kiss and loving every erotic second of it as their pecs rubbed together, their hands traveled all over each other’s jacked bodies, and each of them just soaked up the utter masculinity of the athlete he was making love to. Damn, thought Skip, if I’d known hookin’ up with guys was this fuckin’ hot, I’d have done it a long fuckin’ time ago. Then all thoughts disappeared from his mind other than how horny he was for J.J.’s dick as Hardy spun Skip’s muscular body around and began running his once-again rock-hard prick along Skip’s tight ass. Soon Schumaker’s pretty face was clenched in pleasure at the feeling of J.J.’s fire-hot dickmeat sliding against his own prostate, his nipples rock-hard on his fantastic pecs, his huge cock already at full mast again. Rick might have been jealous at J.J. getting to bust his teammate’s cherry, if he hadn’t immediately been drawn to the round muscle butt that Rickie Weeks had grown, the former second baseman’s already utterly stacked build sharpening and growing taller into a 6’1”, 225-lb rugby jock god. Rickie’s jersey had long since ripped off, so Ankiel was free to wrap his hands around to clutch Rickie’s massive pecs as he began to slide his cock deep inside the young Brewer, making Rickie’s own 10-incher begin leaking hard on the dirt. For Dave Bush out on the mound, things had been going haywire in his head for the past few innings. The agent’s boys hadn’t set his canister up right, and it had been leaking a little bit constantly since they put it out there. (The Southern Illinois all-male a cappella group that had sung the national anthem discovered as much after they got back to their seats and started getting aroused, then touching each other, and eventually growing huge and chiseled and kissing and fucking each other right in their free front-row seats.) Dave had progressed along the same line, and it hadn’t much helped his pitching this afternoon. At first, it had just been a nagging boner, always a pain when you’re trying to get your motion right and struggling with your command. Dave couldn’t figure what the hell had him so turned on -- it wasn’t just that his jock was rubbing against his cock the wrong way or something, no, he was genuinely aroused, as in, he would have shucked his tight baseball pants and started jacking his nice 7-inch dick right there on the field if he hadn’t been able to keep control of himself. But for the virile 28-year-old pitcher, control was something he was having more and more trouble exercising, both in terms of his general state of arousal (damn, my dick’s fuckin’ hard, Dave thought, without noticing it had grown to 9 inches) and in terms of what he found arousing. When Skip had been batting, it was just kind of a vague attraction that he’d never felt toward a guy before, like for some reason he just liked looking at Skip. It got more concrete when Rick came to bat as Dave glanced over Ankiel’s well-formed body, and admired Skip’s ass and well-muscled torso as he glanced over to first before winding up. (He didn’t feel his own ass gradually shaping into a perfect muscle butt.) And finally, as he inhaled more of the juice, and Pujols came up, Dave felt his mind express his new feelings for the first time. Shit, Pujols is a hot mother fucker, ran unbidden through his head. Love to just powerfuck that dude’s tight ass all afternoon, his new libido added. Unfortunately, every brain cell occupied with checking out Albert Pujols was not occupied with making the right pitch -- hence the bases-loaded situation in which Bush found himself. But fortunately, that didn’t end up being much of an issue as the spray deployed fully, and Dave Bush was suddenly thrust full force into the transformation he’d been gradually undergoing for the last half hour. The Brewers pitcher finally got it as his jersey ripped off immediately, cords of muscle slicing through the fabric like knives, shredding the shirt that had been slowly but surely tightening on Dave’s upper body. His new stacked torso was now in full view, eight-pack abs that had bricked onto his stomach out of nowhere, a pair of terrifically defined pecs that hung firm and supple off his chest, shoulders that had broadened nearly three inches into the wingspan of a top-flight rugby player, and guns that would help Dave stop forwards in their tracks on the defensive end. All of this was complemented by Bush’s hulking thighs and quads -- they’d been big before as a pitcher’s needed to be, but nothing like this. And his ass, oh fuck, Dave Bush’s ass, which had had a decent bulge to it even before he changed, now rose high, tight and round into his utterly strained uniform pants, showing off his muscular power but also begging to be taken and dominated by one of his buddies now changing all around him. Craig Counsell was more than happy to step in. The third baseman, who’d been a six-foot, 180 string bean of a ballplayer, walked over to Dave, who was just staring down at himself in astonishment, letting his hands run over the tight definition of his ripped frontside. But as he glanced up and saw the now 6’1”, 210-lb Craig standing in front of him, his own gorgeous torso bared and his fat jock dickpipe rising hard and demanding into his ridiculously strained pants, Dave knew what he wanted now, and that was muscle and cock. He grabbed Craig by his tight ass and thrust their bodies together, kissing his teammate deeply. “You’re fuckin’ beautiful, dude,” Dave whispered. “You’re one to talk,” Craig answered, enjoying the feel of Dave’s thick, muscular body rubbing against him just as much as he’d been enjoying the feel of his own chiseled muscles, both a far cry from the bodies each man had carried before. It was incredible for Craig, especially, to suddenly have become this hulking mass of rugby muscle, but still with enough agility to be a skilled player and enough softness of touch to make Dave’s 11-inch cock feel really, really good as Craig unbuckled his belt and dug into his dangerously taut pants. Craig hadn’t realized until Dave began stroking his hardened cheeks that his once boyishly handsome face had tightened and covered with stubble, making him look as rugged as any player in the league. And as Craig sank down to his knees to start deep-throating Dave Bush’s fat dick, and Dave felt Craig’s new stubble brushing torturingly over his sensitive cockhead, it sank in for him that this was a man sucking his cock, a tightly-muscled, impressively hung, ridiculously hot man. Oh well, Dave shrugged, putting his hands to Counsell’s newly thickened shoulders and enjoying the ride. In the outfield, the mist of the formula Agent #4 had picked up from his buddies at the main office had not left the Brewers’ players untouched. At first, Ryan Braun, the Crew’s 6’1”, 200-lb left fielder, hadn’t been close enough to the spray to feel anything, and simply stared in at the orgy of jocklust that had suddenly gripped his teammates and the Cards players around the diamond. His companion in center field, 6’2”, 200-lb Mike Cameron, was likewise unaffected for a few seconds, mumbling, “What the fuck?” to himself. But the agent’s squad of ripped college boys had done a good job, and the canisters they’d planted in the outfield eventually reached their targets. Ryan sniffed twice as the stuff hit his nose, unknowingly inhaling thousands of molecules of the incredible mixture, which instantly spread from his lungs throughout his already powerful body. Ryan was suddenly horny, his medium-thick 8-inch pole rising firm and throbbing into his gray road pants, making an obscene outline in the fabric. No sooner had his hand moved to start groping his hardened prick than the rest of his body began to tense and firm up too, and then to grow. Ryan could hear his teammate Cameron grunting loudly from several yards away in center field, but couldn’t focus on that for now as he felt his chest and arms and shoulders swell rapidly into his uniform. Now he groaned himself, his biceps instantly stretching the fabric tight, his delts and traps protesting against the seams of his jersey as they broadened and thickened, bulging waves of muscle cascading over Ryan Braun’s shoulders, a little more of the solid bulk hanging onto the stud outfielder with each throbbing flow. Braun felt like his entire body was on fire as he continued to pack on muscle. His chest, swollen into a pair of massive fucking pecs, had no trouble splitting his jersey right down the middle as he leaned back, thrusting forward his newly grown mountains of powerful jockmeat, and let out a loud and throaty moan. The tattered pieces of Braun’s uniform now hung loosely off his indescribable shoulders, chest and arms, the bits of cloth doing little to cover the taut, brawny, well-tanned bulk that pushed ever more threateningly out. Ryan’s lower half was growing, too, his thighs thickening and sharpening their definition and his calves hardening into sleek columns of rugby jock power. Broad shelves of muscle swelled into his uniform pants as he bent slightly, tearing the remnants of his jersey from his now-shredded upper body. Sweat glistened on Braun’s tanned traps and lats, dripping down over the v-shaped definition to nestle in his increasingly strained pants. The hunky Brewer’s back and shoulders and triceps gleamed with new athletic beauty. “Fuck, dude, look at Braun.” A sandy-haired sophomore from Wash U had been lazily watching the game with his buddy from the front row of the left field seats. Now he was bent over the railing, his cargo shorts at his ankles, grunting happily as his jacked, formerly straight friend slammed his overgrown cock into the sophomore’s tight muscle butt. Both of them had girlfriends, but they weren’t much on the boys’ minds after their encounter with the agent’s formula, the two transformed studs now preferring each other’s new ripped, hard-muscled bodies over the softness of chicks. The blond looked up at the sound of his buddy’s voice. If the other guy had been looking, he would have noticed that his friend of three years was more handsome than he’d ever been, his shaggy hair hanging perfectly over his forehead and ears and his cheeks and jawline solid. The stud’s gorgeous blue eyes peered out at Ryan Braun. “What a fuckin’ ass,” he agreed softly. Indeed, Ryan’s butt had tightened up and packed on a few pounds of solid muscle, enhancing its supple bulge into Ryan’s pants and making the two college boys’ mouths water. It was the kind of change they might not even have noticed before, but now that they were attuned to such things, they couldn’t help but taken in the round, muscular beauty of Ryan Braun’s bouncing muscle ass. And as Braun turned to the stands, revealing the fat cock that had grown 5 inches to a jaw-dropping 13-inch monster of a dick, bulging and tenting Ryan’s uniform pants so much he would have been embarrassed if he weren’t so fucking horny, the two boys (and many other new male admirers) almost totally lost control. And it didn’t help when Mike Cameron showed up behind Ryan, his own body transformed into a work of muscular splendor, each bulge of his pecs and ridge of his abs and traps exposed to the lusty onlookers now that his jersey had ripped off, and his massive fucking 12-inch dick freed from his pants but still fighting Cameron’s jock, its utterly ridiculous bulk struggling with the hopelessly strained white pouch for supremacy. “Ho-ly fuck, son,” said Mike, his strong arms wrapping around Ryan’s newly thickened chest and his handsome fuckpipe wedging itself in between the left fielder’s perfect ass cheeks. “You were good-lookin’ before, boy, but shit if you ain’t the hottest fuckin’ thing on this team right now…” Ryan just groaned happily, grinding his flawless muscle butt, cheeks clenched and dimpled, into Mike Cameron’s cock. He didn’t think about the fact that he’d been a straight baseball player a few seconds earlier, or how disgusted the old Ryan Braun would have been with getting dry-humped by one of his teammates. Instead he just grinned and flexed his entire muscle-bound torso, pecs, biceps, traps, abs and obliques flaring, then let Mike unbuckle his pants and slide them down, followed by his UA compression shorts. That exposed Ryan’s enormous, drooling 13-inch dickmeat to the astonishment of the boys in the stands, many of whom now had fat cocks that nearly rivaled Ryan’s in size and power. The hot Wash U sophomore, his own bobbing 10-incher leaking freely as his buddy nailed his prostate over and over, actually licked his lips as he watched Ryan’s prick pop out and slap against his shredded abs. And as Cameron eased his own behemoth gently but forcefully inside, making Ryan’s already tense body tighten up even further in sexual pleasure, the college hunk sprayed his load all over the railing and the warning track below. “Fittin’ his name right now,” said his friend, feeling the sophomore’s ass grip his own cockmeat as he shot and watching as Braun flexed his left bicep as he held the back of his head, and the right as he stroked his own pecs. They heard a guttural moan to their right and saw three other dudes, Cardinal fans in their late 20s and buddies from work, had changed their outlook on sex slightly in response to the spray. One of them, who’d been wearing an old Jim Edmonds jersey but had ripped right through it, was on his knees deep-throating the fat 10-inch pipe of his pal, who had shucked his jeans (which wouldn’t have fit anymore anyway) and now stood in his boxers, ass and quads tight against the cloth but his newly grown studmeat poking out the slit far enough for his formerly straight friend to slurp it down, the standing guy’s hand guiding his buddy’s head. The hunk’s shirt, a decently form-fitting Pujols t-shirt, had long since been removed from his swollen, carved upper body by their third friend, a cute, wholesome blond from rural Missouri who had lost his own shirt and was erotically grinding his nipple-capped pecs against his bud’s ripped lats and kissing his muscular neck. This Cards fan’s cock, grown into a 10.5-inch powerfucker, had been freed from the restrictive confines of his jeans, which like his buddy’s were ridiculously strained by his taut muscle butt anyway, and now slid up and down the welcoming crack of the middle stud. On the field, Ryan moaned loudly as his 13-inch beast exploded all over the grass without even being touched. Ryan was in pure ecstasy as his cock, grown to almost ridiculous proportions, pumped the entire contents of his overloaded balls onto the spot where he’d been standing minutes ago, no idea he was about to be transformed into a massively muscled rugby hunk. And when Cameron spun around, exposing his taut muscle ass above his shucked pants to the lusty eyes of the guys in the stands, he saw his teammate engaging in similar horseplay across the outfield. Gabe Kapler, the right fielder, had to that day been the strongest, most insanely ripped player on the team at 6’2”, 190 lb. That hadn’t changed, though he now measured 6’3” and weighed in at a sick 225, all 35 new pounds made up of lean muscle, packed onto his arms, pecs, back, legs and ass. He wasn’t alone -- a couple Cardinals fans who’d been heckling him all game for his bodybuilding and revealing photo shoots (“Hey, Kapler, when are you gonna do Playboy?” “Hey Gabe, bet you have fun with the other girls in the locker room!”) had made it out onto the field. The minute they started changing thanks to the spray in their boxes, and their sexual interests started shifting to the hung, ripped guys sprouting up around them, of course Gabe had been the first guy to draw their attention. “Hey, buddy,” said one of them, a handsome, scruffy-haired blond who’d grown into model-like perfection under his now tightly strained old red Rolen t-shirt, each bulge of muscle clear at his shoulders, arms, pecs, and stomach. Gabe had to admit, the guy was pretty fucking hot (I can’t believe I just thought that, he thought). “You want to go?” The other guy, a godlike kid of only about 19 whose cinnamon skin showed his Mexican blood, was licking his lips as he stared over Gabe’s changed body. His left hand snuck up to tease his nipple on his bare, muscular chest. “I dunno, man,” said Gabe, marveling at his own newly resonant voice. “You guys were bein’ a couple of tools earlier…and you weren’t really up to my standards then.” They both looked down at that. Gabe’s 10-inch cock twitched; it was such a fuckin’ turn-on playing with these hot studs. But then they both looked up again, and their eyes twinkled as they smiled. “Well, we promise not to be any bigger tools than the ones we’re sportin’,” said the blond, and Gabe looked down as the guy clutched what had to be at least an 11-inch prick under his jeans. The other guy’s white mesh basketball shorts with red seams and lettering were tented hard by his thick 9-incher. “That’s not much of a promise,” Gabe answered, his heart pumping faster under his hot pecs. The Latin stud grinned. “And I’m sure we’re…” He placed Gabe’s hand on his left pec. “more than up to your standards now.” The former ballplayer began stroking the guy’s chest unconsciously as his other hand wrapped around the blond’s ripped stomach and sides. Seconds later, the Mexican god’s lips were crashing against Kapler’s as the two muscle hunks made out furiously, and the cocky blond dropped to his knees, his tight bubble butt ass squeezing into his jeans, and shucked both Gabe’s strained uniform pants and his buddy’s tented shorts, alternating between the two guys’ massive dickpoles as they kissed, till both of them were dripping hard and had to steady themselves by grabbing onto the hot blond’s ripped, bulging shoulder. Back in the infield, Jason Kendall was now pounding the umpire, who’d shed all his gear and turned into a pretty fucking beautiful guy of about 25, while Chris Duncan was being double-teamed, his mouth full of Albert Pujols’ huge dick and his ass being reamed by his teammate Yadi Molina’s new 11-incher. Molina’s soft figure had tightened up and muscled over, making him look nothing like his overweight brothers and much more in the shape of his new rugby squad mates, with bulges of muscle pouring out of his torn jersey at the sleeves, shoulders, and back, and a fantastic ass and set of thighs and calves straining his uniform pants. The Cardinals dugout, where a lot of the Redbirds had been waiting for their chance at bat, had been one of the last places to change, since the guys had put canisters only in the on-deck circle. Of course that did mean Troy Glaus, who’d been waiting to hit next, had been one of the first to turn. Already a huge guy, the Cards’ third baseman took one whiff of the stuff, and within seconds had become a monster of a man. There was a low rumble from deep within the thick-muscled infielder as he bent over, a rumble that grew slowly into a loud roar of lust and strength and power as Troy stood up straight, his insanely muscled arms ripping his jersey from his upper body and revealing the new form he’d grown to his teammates in the dugout. By then, they too were growing. As Adam Kennedy, the St. Louis second baseman, stared at Troy’s mountainous pecs and ridged washboard abs jutting out from his powerful torso, then let his gaze descend over the hunk slugger’s 12-inch bat tenting his uniform pants relentlessly, he felt himself go hard too. What the fuck’s wrong with me, he thought helplessly as his 6’1”, 195 lb. body instantly began packing on tight, corded muscle, his shoulders broadening, his chest growing rounder and thicker, fat nipples pushing out into his strained jersey, his arms flexing more and more powerfully as biceps, triceps, delts, forearms thickened and sharpened with definition. Adam groaned as his face reshaped into a more beautiful, more perfected version of himself, all tight jawline and hard cheekbones. Seeing Adam’s gorgeous new face, Troy felt his huge dick spurt a dollop of prefuck into his jock, and he moaned softly. “I’m gonna fuck you hard, bro,” Glaus said in an oversexed growl, flexing his entire shredded torso at once, traps, pecs, biceps, abs, and obliques surging forward in a display of power that actually made Kennedy’s expanded cock harden and grow another inch. But as he moved forward to where Adam was quickly unbuckling his pants and releasing his now thick, leaking 10-inch prick, a massive figure stepped between them. “Not before I’m done with you, stud,” said Chris Carpenter. Troy’s jaw nearly dropped at the sight of the beautiful man in front of him. Chris had stayed at his pre-transformation 6’6” but had added 20 pounds of pure muscle to grow into a 250-lb rugby Adonis. His face had tightened into the picture of male beauty, his solid cheeks and jaw covered by a thin layer of dirty blond stubble. Carpenter’s chest and stomach were insanely jacked, each clutchable pec topped by a ripe, juicy nipple and each staggered ab of his new eight-pack defined so clearly Troy thought he could probably hide a few quarters in there. And as Chris struck a pose for his previously bigger, muscular teammate, now his equal in gorgeous jock power, Troy couldn’t help but stare at the ex-pitcher’s fantastic guns, which had already torn his jersey to shreds. Below that, Carpenter’s quads and ass, already strong for a pitcher, had thickened so hard with jockmeat that they’d ripped through his pants, leaving the remnants of the uniform hanging off his tight 30-inch waist. That also meant his sliding shorts left nothing to the imagination, and Chris Carpenter’s thick, leaking footlong-plus dickpole swelled painfully hard along his leg. “Fuck me,” whispered Glaus, staring at Chris’s massive cock. “That’s the plan, Troy,” Chris said, walking up the steps. “That’s the plan.” As he planted a deep, passionate kiss on Troy Glaus’s lips, Adam Kennedy’s handsome ruggerstud body was under assault by three guys from Ladue, just out of college, who’d lost their t-shirts and polos to their new, unbelievably muscled up bodies and whose cocks now pressed 10 or 11 inches into their cargo shorts. One of them kicked off his sandals and undid his belt, shucking the shorts and rubbing his throbbing dick along Adam’s improved muscle butt. Another dropped his pants and boxers, exposing his own tight, round ass to Kennedy’s dick as Adam wrapped his hands around to grip the hot 24-year-old’s gorgeous pecs and cut abs. The last guy hit the deck, swallowing and sucking his bro’s cock hard with a lust for other hot dudes that he hadn’t felt before five minutes ago. The foursome quickly got to it, revving up their new libidos as they watched Chris Carpenter going to town on Troy Glaus’s bulging muscle ass, making the hunk groan in deep pleasure as his hole got fucked for the first time. Above them in the stands, Agent #4 was enjoying a hot blow job from another changed guy, this one a 19-year-old stud who was coaching high school football in his first summer off from college. One puff from the guy’s Skip Schumaker bobblehead and he’d been on his knees for the agent, pulling off his belt and shorts and gulping down his 11.5-incher as the football jock’s own prick strained nearly a foot of thick cockmeat into his black mesh shorts, getting off on eating dick like he never thought possible. He glanced out of the corner of his eye at his two buddies from school that he’d brought to the game, and saw that they had both ripped out of their shirts and were kissing deeply, adventurous hands roaming over heads covered by backward-turned caps, sharp lats, bulging bis and tris, muscle butts pressing high and round into tightly strained camo cargo shorts and red mesh Cardinals shorts. The stud on his knees blew his load in his pants right then, soaking through his boxer briefs and his shorts, and as he picked up the pace the agent was right behind him, creaming this stud’s throat hard. He glanced up through lidded eyes to see the satisfied look on his jock’s face as he swallowed his first juicy load, then around at the other guys still fucking uncontrollably in the stands and on the field. Changing them into rugby boys would come later -- for now, this was just fucking fine. Thanks guys for the reading. Soon more stories from the archive.
  6. The original story from Icsis right now here. In Arizona, where the Diamondbacks had just started their game against the Florida Marlins, things were progressing in much the same way. Starter Doug Davis was on the mound with Hanley Ramirez at first after a lead-off walk and Dan Uggla at the plate. But this time, it was the outfielders that felt something first. Eric Byrnes grunted as his body began to change spontaneously—he hadn’t even had time to feel strange before he started to grow. Byrnes’ cap and glove rapidly disappeared as his already muscular body packed on something like 25 or 30 pounds of thick meat. He didn’t notice as Uggla slammed a ball to center, over Chris Young’s head. Young retreated along with hotshot 19-year-old right fielder Justin Upton, till finally he retrieved the ball and threw it in to shortstop Stephen Drew, J.D. Drew’s little brother. Uggla now sat on 2nd with Ramirez on 3rd. No sooner had he done that, though, than Chris felt a sharp surge of energy in his body, and suddenly turned to look at Justin, an unknown lust in his eyes. One glance at Justin’s face let him know that the hot rookie was feeling the same things he was. Upton pulled off his hat and dropped his glove as he stared into Chris’s eyes. “Fuck, man, what the fuck’s happenin’ to us?” Justin grunted. He felt his chest growing and hardening, and his arms bulging into his sleeves. Young was already throwing a 9-inch boner in his white uniform pants, checking out his teammates like never before, as they continued to grow and bulge into their tightening jerseys and pants. Davis, despite his rough start, now had two strikes on Miguel Cabrera as Eric Byrnes kept changing. Byrnesie, the consummate skirt chaser, now had a mind full of handsome, jacked men. Eric’s eyes clenched as he envisioned his old teammates, Bobby Crosby and Eric Chavez, feeding him their massive cocks in the A’s dugout—but as weird as that was for a guy who’d never dreamed about giving his teammates blow jobs before, it was just as weird that he imagined Crosby and Chavvy as huge, cut, beautifully muscled versions of themselves, with cocks almost twice their old size. And what’s more, he was becoming more and more like them with each moment. As Eric’s jersey changed into a white and red rugby shirt, clinging dangerously to his now slablike pecs, cobblestone six-pack, and fantastic biceps and delts, his imagination shifted to his other recent team, the Orioles. There was an utterly ripped and hung Nick Markakis, posing for Eric, flexing his thick pecs and cut arms as he fucked some unknown O’s call-up, blond and jacked, the kid’s dick dripping and his own pecs and abs clenched hard. There was an equally muscle-bound Brian Roberts, sucking fervently on the fat cock of Erik Bedard, his cute face impaled on the Canadian stud’s huge dickhead, his hand down his own football shorts, jacking his thick 11-incher as he grabbed at Bedard’s solid butt. Cabrera had struck out and now Mike Jacobs was batting. In left field, Byrnes’ cock, swollen to 9.5 inches, now bulged demandingly into his white shorts, his fist pumping furiously. The hunky left fielder’s ass was beautiful, its handsome bulge into his shorts tight, hard and ready for a thick rugby jock dick. Why was he thinking that? Rugby jock dick? He was a straight baseball player. Right? Fuck. No…real fuckin’ men played rugby, all the fuckin’ studs played real sports. And there wasn’t anything wrong with wanting one of those studs to fuck his tight jock ass after the match either. Byrnes’ whole body was tense with sexual excitement. His daydreams started to blend—thick-muscled rugger jocks Rich Harden and Nick Markakis kissing deeply, stroking each other’s cocks and abs and pecs, a ridiculously built Huston Street bent over with Brian Roberts’ huge cock planted in his throat. It was as his current teammates started to mix in that Eric felt himself losing it. And it was at that point that somebody—Florida’s on-deck batter Josh Willingham, to be precise—finally noticed that the Diamondbacks’ left fielder was pumping out a load onto the outfield grass, and Chris Young was fucking Justin Upton’s sweet bubble butt against the center field wall. Josh, a handsome young outfielder himself at age 28, dropped his bat and stared, his left hand moving instantly to his hardening 6.5-inch dick. Behind him in the Marlins dugout, which unbeknownst to the team was slowly rising and shifting up into a sideline, Jeremy Hermida and Matt Treanor, among other guys, were unexpectedly boning up too, especially as their eyes wandered over Willingham’s ass, then Mike Jacobs’ ass as he stood in the batter’s box. “You feel kinda funny, dude?” Hermida said to Treanor, groping his hard 7-incher openly. The handsome right fielder’s pants were already tightening against his thickening thighs, blossoming muscle ass, and expanding dick, growing rapidly into a meaty 10-inch Southern boy fuckpole. Treanor, a backup catcher who was married to a hot beach volleyball player, just grunted, “Uh-huh.” His own cock was swollen hard into his pants at 9 inches, and his ass changed into a taut muscle butt. Matt’s torso was thickening and defining itself into a hot rugby stud’s body, his pecs splitting the buttons of his jersey as they grew and rounded. Josh, too, was growing. His ass formed into muscular perfection even as his uniform pants tightened against it and changed into a pair of dark green and black football shorts. Willingham watched as Byrnes jogged in from left, the hunk rugger jock’s muscular form becoming clearer and clearer and Josh’s dick getting harder and harder as a result. Eric’s huge fuckin’ 9.5-inch prick bounced in his shorts as he ran. The game had stopped for good now, and Stephen Drew and Chad Tracy turned to look at Eric. As they began to bone immediately, Josh felt a hand on his shoulder. “Sup, man,” said Mike Jacobs, his other hand reaching down to stroke Josh’s rock-hard dick lightly. “Sides this, I mean,” he added, smiling like a hot, dumb jock at his joke. Josh could tell that Mike had already grown quite a bit—his helmet and bat were gone, and his solid, rounded pecs and thick neck, shoulders and biceps all bulged gently into Jacobs’ jersey, which was now collared and the same dark green color as Josh’s shorts. Mike’s own achingly hard cock tented a pair of the same shorts, and the former baseball stud’s tight ass had become a beautiful muscle butt, its handsome mounds catching the eyes of Conor Jackson, Arizona’s first baseman, and the pitcher Doug Davis. “Dude, what the fuck?” said Josh, staring into Mike’s handsome face. Jacobs’ hand was sliding beneath Willingham’s shorts to start stroking his hard jockpole, which had grown from 6.5 to 10.5 inches, and was now drooling pre-cum. “We were straight.” “Yeah well, shit happens,” Mike said impatiently. He pulled Josh’s jersey off and the extent to which the now-hung Marlin had changed was clear. Josh’s chest was beautiful, each of the two massive slabs of muscle pushing out in tanned, defined perfection, each topped by a ripe nipple that Mike just wanted to suck on right then. Josh’s torso was hairless, smooth, so you could see every inch of his gorgeous form. His abs, fuck. As Mike caressed them gently, easing closer to his formerly straight teammate, he felt the thrilling touch of another man’s strong hand on his stomach, and realized how jacked his eight-pack had become. Josh felt Mike’s bulging biceps under his tight uniform sleeves, and knew that his own arms looked even more stunning, their sharp definition and gentle bulge enough to make a guy’s mouth water. Willingham’s neck was thick and powerful, and his lats, traps and delts all twitched and flexed tightly under his tanned skin as he stroked Mike’s body through and under the former ballplayer’s uniform. As he looked up, Mike caught the hunky rugger stud’s face, now cut and stormy-eyed, the kind of guy you wouldn’t want to be facing in a scrum. That dark look of pure masculinity only made it hotter when Josh Willingham leaned forward and kissed Mike Jacobs deeply. Around short, Stephen Drew was on his knees sucking Eric Byrnes’ massive rugby jock dick, sliding his lips and tongue up and down the full, throbbing length. As he groped Eric’s ripped abs with one hand and unbuckled his baseball pants and dug in to jack his own cock with the other, J.D. Drew’s little brother, just 24 years old, was becoming quite the muscle stud himself. His arms and back and shoulders swelled visibly into his jersey, and he could feel himself that his dick was growing and thickening past 9 inches. Soon Steve would be a shredded rugby boy like Byrnesie and all the others. To one side, Tracy was jacking his own cock and growing too. The third baseman had always been nicely built at 6’2”, 200 lbs., but he had now packed about 25 more pounds of muscle onto that solid frame. Anybody who played with Chad could also tell you the guy was gifted below the belt, and that only became more true as Tracy’s dick thickened and expanded to an 11-inch jock fuckpole, dripping pre-cum, as he jerked it hard. Chad heard a moan to his right and turned to see that Mike Jacobs was now fucking hunk forward Josh Willingham deep in his muscle jock ass, making the gorgeous Marlin grunt in pleasure. His entire jacked body was tightened and sweating as he felt Mike’s 8.5-incher bottom out in his hole. Jacobs looked up a second later and saw Chad staring. Fuck, Tracy had gotten big—and hot. The D-backs’ third baseman had been a little average-looking before, but his eyes had softened, his face broadened, and his jawline become more like that of the rugby stud he now was. Chad Tracy was a fucking handsome man, and Mike grinned lustily, practically asking Chad to come up and kneel at Josh’s feet, pull the dark green football shorts down further to expose Josh’s aching 10.5-inch boner, and swallow the thick jockmeat in one gulp. Which is exactly what the former straight baseball player did. Josh groaned deeply, muttering, “Yeah, jock fag, fuckin’ eat my dick, oh fuck, dude, suck my huge fuckin’ cock…” His ass was looking fucking fine as Mike Jacobs’ own thick 9-incher pistoned in and out between the two muscular globes. Mike’s hands were wrapped around groping Josh’s meaty pecs and washboard abs, turning the hot Marlin on even more. Back in the Florida dugout, Hermida and Treanor were now making out passionately, all thoughts of their wives, girlfriends, and entire straight jock lives no more than a memory. The two massive rugby jocks kissed deeply, stroking each other’s ripped upper bodies and groping each other’s oversized endowments, Jeremy thrusting his 8-inch prick into Matt’s fist while the gorgeous backup catcher felt Hermida’s fingers pump his 8.5-inch shaft hard and dance over his tender cockhead. As Doug Davis and Conor Jackson had been watching all of this, they barely noticed that they were starting to change as well. The cute pitcher was achingly hard in his white uniform pants, the 8-inch, then 9-inch prick obvious as the fabric tightened against his full crotch and the perky bubble butt ass he’d grown. At 6’4”, 210, Doug didn’t have much further to go, but his body tightened and layered on 20 or 25 pounds of muscle as he stood there, stroking his growing jockpole slowly. Just a few feet away, his teammate Conor was also growing and stroking himself. Conor stared slack-jawed at Mike Jacobs fucking Josh Willingham, and his own teammate Chad Tracy willingly slurping down Josh’s fantastic cock. All of them changed into these… rugby players. All of a sudden, as Conor’s hat and glove came off, that didn’t seem so bad. Conor’s cock was swelling into his pants, tenting them obscenely…7 inches, 8. He could play that game—he was big and strong enough, he thought as he looked down at his chest, now a pair of jersey-straining pecs, and his biceps, massive guns that threatened the sleeves with their new bulk. After all, rugby was for men, guys who loved to grapple with other guys, struggling for superiority, mental, physical…sexual. It turned Conor on so much all of a sudden, his now 9.5-inch dickmeat bulging into his white shorts along with his bouncing muscle ass, the idea of scrumming with a bunch of other sweaty, hot, ripped, gorgeous, amazingly hung guys, gripping pecs, shoulders, stomachs, hard cocks…he just had to whip it out… “Fuck, that’s hot,” Doug whispered. He wrapped his powerful hand around Conor’s thick fuckpole, and the former first baseman moaned loudly, shoving his hands up under his white and red rugby jersey to touch himself, and feeling his new bulging pecs, cobbled abs, swollen obliques. Damn, he was hot. And fuck, Doug was hot too. The 32-year-old pitcher had been kinda cute before, with a ready smile and a goatee often surrounded by a few days’ worth of stubble. But now, the hunky pitcher had transformed into a thick-muscled, absolutely ripped rugby stud whose hulking body strained his red jersey just as much as Conor’s, and whose bubble butt ass and fat 11-inch cock both pushed his white football shorts to the limit. The stubble was still there on the hot ex-pitcher’s face, but looked twice as good as Doug’s jawline had sharpened and his cheeks solidified, his features unbearably sexy. Conor wondered, as he felt Doug jacking his cock and pushing his hands up Conor’s jersey to tweak his sensitive nipples, whether deep down, he’d always been this attracted to Doug. He thought back to when the two straight guys had interacted on the field, slapping each other’s asses after a good play or maybe even getting a little friendlier after a big win and a few drinks at the hotel bar. Suddenly it didn’t seem so strange to think that what had happened to them just now was a natural result of years of bottled-up lust for each other, kept secret and even subconscious to keep the image of the straight baseball player only into banging chicks. But Conor could only think about that kind of shit for so long, as Doug had now slid down his rugby shorts and begun sliding his fingers into Conor’s tight muscle ass while kissing the gorgeous dude deep and hard. And a second later, he felt Doug’s powerful hand move away from his throbbing dickmeat, replaced by the fantastic sensation of a hot, wet, powerful tongue and lips wrapping around his prick. Jackson looked down in amazement to see that Dan Uggla, the jacked muscle stud second baseman for the Marlins, had left second base and was now kneeling at his feet, a good half of his dripping rugby jock meat deep in Dan’s virgin straight-boy throat, the masculine baseball stud massaging the rock-hard length of Conor’s cock with his lips and throat. And not only had this straight jock fagged out for Conor Jackson’s rugby god body, but he was starting to develop one of his own too. As Doug Davis began easing his thick 11-incher gently into Conor’s muscle butt, and Dan’s shoulders and chest ripped through his Marlins jersey, only to be recovered moments later with a collared rugby shirt, Conor looked over to third base. Dan’s teammate Hanley Ramirez, who’d been waiting there to be driven in, was now getting driven into by Stephen Drew’s unbelievably thick 10-inch dickmeat. Drew, transformed into a rugby god, had shoved down Ramirez’s gray baseball pants just enough to expose his muscle ass and was busy passing on the favor to the Florida shortstop, who with each thrust from the dominating D’back grew a little thicker, his muscles swelling a little fatter, his cock straining a little harder into his pants. Hanley’s biceps, forearms, and neck expanded visibly into his chocolate skin, taking Conor’s breath away. In the stands, Agent #3 wasn’t paying attention to the players anymore. A couple of guys from ASU who’d been sitting down the row from him had him a little preoccupied. It had been fucking hot watching them slowly change, growing bit by bit into their polos and t-shirts and cargo shorts, round bulges of lean muscle packing onto their torsos and arms and legs from out of nowhere. It was especially hot the way those little college boy touches that screamed “frat boy” were suddenly absorbed by muscle - the blond’s choker necklace popped off and his brown-haired buddy’s popped collar nearly torn apart by their new trunklike necks, the tattoo of the frat’s letters on the blond’s bicep swelling with the muscle, the Live Strong bracelet on the other guy’s forearm tightening against his tanned skin. Eventually the agent, who was far from bad-looking himself, caught the eye of the two state schoolers. Within seconds, the blond had flipped his hat backwards and was on his knees deep-throating the agent’s big cock, skills he never knew he had making the agent writhe in pleasure, while the brown-haired hunk stripped his polo and let his new body show, dropping the jaws of several guys in the rows behind him, themselves changing rapidly into muscled up rugby fans. As the ASU jock undid his belt and unzipped his jeans, letting them fall slightly to hitch on his improved bubble butt ass and reveal a hint of the boxer briefs below and the swollen 9-inch fratboy cock below that, Agent #3 moaned and creamed his buddy’s throat. Things were heating up indeed in Phoenix. Soon, part 4, the final.
  7. The original story from Icsis now here. As it happened, the changes came to the Indians-Yankees game at Yankee Stadium at kind of a tense moment—the Yankees were up 5-3 in the 6th, but Cleveland was threatening starter Andy Pettitte with only one out. Grady Sizemore had led off with a sharp single to left, and after Grady was moved over with a Jason Michaels groundout, Casey Blake had hit a double and power-hitter Travis Hafner was intentionally walked to load the bases and bring up Ryan Garko, the rookie first baseman. David Dellucci waited on deck. This time, as Agent #2 concentrated all of his mental power on the players on the field, it was the hitter and the battery who changed first. As Pettitte delivered strike one, Ryan didn’t even swing, just dropped his bat and stood there touching his stomach. Jorge Posada was throwing the ball back to Pettitte when he felt a twinge of something too, and as he caught the ball, Andy felt his handsome 7-inch dick plump a little in his compression shorts and tight baseball pants. Ryan Garko was feeling a great deal more than that. His cute face wrinkled in confusion as his slightly loose stomach tensed, firmed, thickened, and sharpened right beneath his fingers. Like Millar, Ryan was a big guy, but like the O’s new forward, Ryan had a body that was transforming rapidly into that of a ripped rugby stud. As Pettitte and Posada stared and tried to figure out what was happening, Garko’s pecs swelled into his jersey, thicker and rounder as the taut nipples squeezed against his red and black underarmor. The changes to Garko’s stomach were clear as his jersey, changing into a looser fabric rugby shirt, red and blue with the Indian on the chest, tightened against the new thick six-pack and curving obliques. Ryan’s ass bulged and firmed up, its hot twin mounds of muscle beautiful under his uniform pants. As if they were jealous, Pettitte’s and Posada’s bodies began following Garko’s lead. Pettitte’s chest thickened and pressed into his uniform, spreading the pinstripes wider and wider, as his biceps and neck surged against the jersey’s seams. Posada’s gear disappeared as his cock swelled into his jock, his cup suddenly gone. Jorgie’s pecs were growing, too, and his face and jaw were hardening beneath his backward-turned helmet. But it wasn’t till the Yankees catcher reached out and wrapped his hand around what he could of Ryan Garko’s massive upper arm, bulging into the new Cleveland rugby jersey sleeve, that he really started to grow. Garko looked over at him and grinned widely, making Posada throw an even bigger boner at the sight of the hunky Indian stud’s gorgeous smile. The New York catcher’s dick swelled from 6 inches to a thick, leaking 9-inch fuckpole. Posada’s thighs and ass were packing on muscle at an unbelievable rate, thickening into slabs of hard jock meat that made Garko’s mouth water. Jorge’s ass became a taut muscle butt, and as his pants rose and tightened into a pair of navy and white football shorts, its gorgeous bulge was perfectly clear to everyone. His hand had moved from Garko’s huge bicep up his thick arm and over his bowling-ball delts and hulking neck to start stroking Ryan’s defined jaw and cheek, even running through the longer, shaggier hair that he’d grown. Ryan just smiled, watching Posada’s own arms bulge with power and definition, and his now-massive pecs and seam-splitting lats and abs push hard into the jersey, still pinstriped but now clearly a rugby jersey, collared with logos surrounding the NY logo on his broad, round chest. “What…unnhh…what the fuck’s goin’ on?” Posada said. His accent, never that strong, was now completely gone, and he sounded like a hunk Latino jockboy out of Miami or LA. He was still confused as Garko turned toward him, his Indians shirt now coming off and revealing a stunning upper body, from his thicker-muscled but more sharply cut six-pack to the rolling muscle of his pecs and his large, suckable nipples, to his fantastic shoulders and ridiculously pumped arms. “You just turned into the hottest Latin rugby player this side of the Atlantic, that’s what’s goin’ on,” Garko murmured, and before Posada could even answer, Garko’s tongue was in his mouth and he was kissing the hot Cleveland stud deeply, his other hand stroking Ryan’s 10-inch cock under the dark red shorts he now wore. Watching from the mound as his catcher and the opposing batter began making out, Andy Pettitte now whipped out his massive Louisiana jock dick, pulling his own navy-white shorts down just enough to let the now 11-inch monster of a prick rise full and hard and pumping out of his pants. Like all the other boys, his big, full balls hung low under his dick, pressing into his shorts, just beneath the waistband. In the back, Andy’s ass, which had rounded into muscle ass perfection, now rose beautifully into his lowered shorts, the two bulges pushing the waist out to accommodate their muscular power. Andy Pettitte was an Adonis of rugby muscle. His perfect chest swelled into his jersey, framed by a thick, veiny neck, broad bulging shoulders, well-defined biceps, triceps and forearms that strained the sleeves of his striped jersey, and a set of abs that no pitcher in baseball, let alone Andy, could have possessed before. Below that, the hunk rugger jock’s thighs were a good 5 or 10 pounds of muscle thicker than his already powerful pitcher’s legs had been, and his calves would have outclassed a champion biker. But as beautiful as his body was, the first thing that David Dellucci noticed was Andy’s face. “Fuck…” Dave whispered softly as he felt himself go hard. He’d never thought about a guy this way, but Andy Pettite’s features had formed into the most handsome face Dave had ever seen, with a perfectly sculpted chin and cheekbones, and soft brown eyes that made the straight baseball jock want to bend over and suck Pettitte’s huge dick right then. Funny, since Pettitte’s own lips were now a pair of strong cocksucking lips that could coax a load out of any of his straight teammates. And what a fucking dick, Dellucci couldn’t help thinking. Dave had never seen a cock that big, not in four years of high school baseball, or four years at Ole Miss, or even in his years in the big leagues. He’d even seen Andy up close before, as they were both from Baton Rouge and Pettitte had struck up a conversation one day when the Phils were playing the Astros. Not that he’d been paying attention, but Dave felt like even a straight guy like him would have recognized a dick like that. Not that Dave was really straight anymore either. His breathing quickened as he walked over to Andy, dropping his bat and helmet along the way. When he finally got to the mound, Dellucci had already grown a good bit, his pecs pushing harder than before into his jersey and his already impressive biceps threatening the sleeves with new ridges and grooves of muscle. He didn’t notice that his own handsome cock was growing, too, throbbing 8.5 inches now into his uniform pants, but Andy sure as hell did. “You’re lookin’ fine, buddy,” Andy said, glancing over the cut Indian outfielder’s body. Dellucci’s thick, carved eight-pack and obliques tightened against what was quickly becoming his red and blue rugby jersey, and his pecs formed into a beautiful pair of rugger jock muscles, followed shortly by his shoulders and neck, both unlike anything you’d ever see on a baseball player. Dave’s face was hardening, his features now equal to those French studs who posed for the Dieux du Stade calendar. Unlike those guys, however, Dave was interested in more than just doing a photo shoot with his ripped and hung fellow players. Andy moaned as Dave began stroking his massive rugger jock dick above his navy shorts, caressing Andy’s firm ass and solid pecs with his other hand. Pettitte’s hand snaked into Dellucci’s uniform pants too, and he quickly discovered that the hot Indians outfielder was still growing himself, his beautiful cockmeat now expanded to nearly match Andy’s at 10.5 thick, throbbing inches. Dave’s pants were soon changed into muscle-strained football shorts anyway, obviously tented by his hard jock dick, where his former straight opposing pitcher in baseball, now muscle fag rival in rugby, still groped and squeezed it. Andy was also taking advantage of the way Dellucci’s new rugby shorts allowed his other adventurous hand to slide in the back and palm Dave’s thick, round ass muscles. The two boys couldn’t restrict themselves to jacking each other off for long, though. As his hair shortened and a thin layer of stubble appeared on Dellucci’s hardened chin and jaw, the hunky Cleveland jock looked up at Pettitte. After Andy met his gaze, it only took a few moments before the gorgeous boys were kissing deeply, making out just like horny straight college sophomores at a frat party. Soon, other players, who’d been stunned by the events going on around the infield before, began to feel themselves start to grow, and change, and started to like it. At first base, Andy Phillips had wrapped his arms, bulking up and hardening into enormous guns, around Travis Hafner’s chest from behind. The thick-muscled Indians DH, instead of shoving him off or at least expressing discomfort with the situation, grinned as he felt his own chest and shoulders and arms tightening and rounding into perfect form under his jersey, and leaned back into Phillips’ embrace. Within half a minute, Hafner’s uniform had tightened and changed into a Cleveland rugby shirt that hugged his ripped torso and a pair of white football shorts, pulled down over Pronk’s massive thighs and bubble butt far enough to allow Andy Phillips, whose thick-muscled torso bulged into a similar uniform and was now that of a rugby hunk, to ease his enormous 10-inch prick into Hafner’s beautiful ass. Travis’s own dick, swollen to 9 dripping inches, bobbed beautifully in the air, Andy half stroking its thick mass, half pushing Hafner’s jersey up to grope and palm the unbelievable abs the Indians slugger had grown. Travis’s face had improved amazingly as well, and he was now handsome enough to make Andy feel like he could shoot deep into his rival’s hole right then. 90 feet away, it took Robby Cano and Derek Jeter 15 seconds to change from slick-fielding, strong-hitting baseball players to utterly ripped, fantastically well-muscled rugby players, Jeter a halfback whose new guns and delts and gorgeous pecs made a mockery of the supposed all-around athlete he’d been before. His dick tented his navy and white shorts hard at 9 inches, and his meaty ass made even the as-yet-unchanged outfielders’ mouths water. Jeter no longer had that pretty-boy face, but had become a thick-jawed, tight-lipped rugger stud who could drive through six men. Cano was a little bigger but no less cut as he threatened the new pinstriped jersey his expanded torso bulged into. He was running his hands over himself in amazement, feeling the rise of his pecs and nipples, the cobbled hardness of his eight-pack and obliques, and the firm, bouncy, inviting bulge of his gorgeous jock muscle ass, when he noticed Jeter. Robby had never been into guys before, and certainly never into Derek Jeter, but this guy looked fucking incredible. Cano instantly decided he had never seen a more beautiful man (though if he’d checked the mirror he might have changed his mind). His 9.5-inch cock went hard just at the sight of the former shortstop. Unconsciously he slipped off his shirt, revealing his carved abs, exposed ribs under rounded, perky pecs, and bowling-ball delts and biceps, all tanned to a golden brown perfection. Jeter didn’t waste a moment. He walked over to Robby, kissed the new halfback deeply, then dropped to his knees, shucked Cano’s rugby shorts, and swallowed most of the massive dick that sprung out. Cano put his hands to Jeter’s head and guided the hunky jock’s skillful mouth up and down his thick cockpole, watching as Derek’s shoulders and back and triceps all continued to swell and flex into his Yankees rugby shirt. But something caught Robby’s eye as he watched his teammate suck his huge cock, and he looked over. “Keep goin’, man, don’t stop on my account.” Casey Blake stood where he’d been on second base when all this started, staring at the scene before him, his hand shoved into his gray uniform pants and jacking his dick hard. He hadn’t really begun to change yet, but it was beginning as he watched the two Yankees go at it. Casey’s pecs broadened and rounded, spreading the “Indians” on his jersey wider. His shoulders hardened and his biceps began to push out into the sleeves of his shirt. As his abs also formed into the solid, hulking six-pack of a prop forward, it was clear that the Cleveland outfielder was more rugby stud than baseball player now. After that, it was only a matter of time before Casey joined the hot couple of Yankees hooking up at second base, which, by the way, was filling in with grass as Yankee Stadium’s well-known form shifted and metamorphosed into a rugby oval. Blake kept stroking himself gently, his dick growing to 8 inches, then 9, then 10 fucking thick, meaty inches bulging into his pants as they shortened and tightened into white shorts just like his buddies’. But Derek and Robby didn’t let him have all the fun for long. Jeter went around Casey’s back, wrapping his thick biceps around the Indian hunk’s sides to clutch his now-bulging pecs, as he kissed and licked the tanned skin of his hulking neck. Cano came to the front at the same time, gripping Casey’s abs and ass through the fabric of his tight uniform (and copping a feel of Jeter’s bulge while he was back there) before kissing Casey hard and deep. Finally, over at third, things had gone a little slower. Alex Rodriguez had begun to change along with his teammates. And truth be told, he didn’t have far to go, at least as far as the mental aspect was concerned. A-Rod had been hooking up with Jeter for years—it would have thrilled their critics to know that all the rumors they peddled were actually true, but the two Yanks kept it pretty well bottled up and covered over with various beards. Physically, though, Alex changed as dramatically as the others. The good-looking Dominican grew and bulged into his baseball jersey even as it started to change, its sleeves tightening against A-Rod’s expanding biceps, its fabric clinging to his abs and pecs as the front of his torso became the thick, impenetrable wall of muscle sported by all rugby players. He was rubbing himself gently as it happened, feeling the jersey change to a rugby shirt, feeling his strong stomach and chest form spontaneously into a fucking ripped set of abs and pecs, each ridge and valley of muscle carved deep into his well-tanned skin. Grady Sizemore watched all of this in disbelief. The stunningly hot young Cleveland center fielder didn’t feel a thing, but he was watching his teammates—David Dellucci, the club pimp, Ryan Garko, the Stanford ladies’ man, Casey Blake, who couldn’t stop talking about his latest prize’s tits—all of them hooking up with other guys? In the middle of a game? And turned into freakishly muscled rugby players? What the fuck was going on? He couldn’t help looking at A-Rod as the Yankee third baseman moaned. Alex’s dick, swollen to 11 thick inches, now tented his navy football shorts obscenely, its massive bulge obvious as it snaked under the fabric. Alex’s thick calves and thighs, not to mention his fantastic muscle ass, were enticing too, but somehow Grady was transfixed by that cock, even though he’d never given a shit about a guy’s cock in his life. Yet now the cute Indian felt his own 7-inch prick start to swell and rise into his baseball pants, and as he looked over to where Jeter was now fucking Casey Blake’s improved bubble butt with his 9-inch beast while Robby Cano sucked lustily on Blake’s own fat 10-incher, Grady’s cock only got harder, now making a clear outline in his uniform pants. “Hey, buddy.” Sizemore looked over to where A-Rod had finished changing and now stared at him with a look that made clear all the things that Alex Rodriguez would like to do to him. Alex licked his full, cocksucking lips as he glanced over Grady’s body, the Yankee loose forward’s dick pressing insistently against his navy rugby shorts. “What…what the fuck is this?” Grady muttered. He didn’t notice, but his own arms and chest were already beginning to grow just like the other guys’. He had a fine, cut fucking build already, but nothing compared to what A-Rod, Jeter, Garko, and Dellucci had become. Sizemore, who was ultra-straight, had a mind that resisted the thoughts flowing over all the players on the field, but he was already boned from what he was watching, and it was only a matter of time before his defenses gave out. Grady saw that over at first, his teammate Trot Nixon had emerged from the Cleveland dugout to join Pronk and Andy Phillips, and the once-mediocre Nixon had become a beautiful young rugby hunk, his facial hair gone, his ass bulging gently into his shorts, and his whole ripped body pumping as he fucked Andy Phillips while Andy kept nailing Hafner. Around where home plate had been, which was now more like midfield of the rugby pitch, the first four guys to change had picked things up. Grady watched in astonishment, his own cut abdomen pushing out into his tightening jersey with new layers of thick muscle, as the new rugby boys formed a hot foursome. Garko’s 10-inch cockpole pistoned in and out of Dave Dellucci’s inviting muscle ass. Dellucci’s hand was pumping up and down Jorge Posada’s huge 9-inch dickmeat, exposed when Andy Pettitte pulled down his teammate’s shorts and impaled his hot ass with his own dripping 11-incher. Posada’s hand was likewise stroking Dellucci’s aching 10.5-inch cock as he kissed the new Cleveland rugger jock hard and deep. All four guys were clearly no longer the straight baseball players they’d been just a few minutes ago, but had grown bodies and developed preferences that drew them to each other’s shredded torsos, perky muscle butts, and massive dicks. The whole time he’d been watching this, Grady Sizemore had been growing and changing too, and when he turned back to A-Rod, the Yankee rugger stud saw to his delight that Grady’s pecs had swollen into huge, round slabs of muscle, each topped by a large nipple, and his stomach was clearly exposed beneath the changing jersey as a jacked, cobblestone eight-pack, the strength of which Grady could never have imagined before. He finally seemed to realize something was up as his biceps, swollen and defined into high ridges and deep valleys of muscle, and his powerful shoulders, now a set of bulging delts and traps, tested the sleeves of his jersey, which were tightening against the tanned skin of his upper arms anyway. Grady’s hands slipped from his hulking chest over his newly cut midsection to grasp the rock-hard dick that now throbbed into his pants at 11 inches. Sizemore was so turned on that his new cockmeat had actually started leaking hot pre-fuck into his pants, which were quickly becoming tight dark red football shorts. The lithe but well-built center fielder’s legs had changed into the thickly muscled, powerful thighs and calves of a fullback. His ass followed suit—it was definitely nice before, but now it had become fucking incredible, the gorgeous twin bulges of muscle into Grady’s red shorts enough to make A-Rod nearly shoot his load without even touching his cock. Grady’s ass was perfect, the round, meaty muscle butt just begging for a thick rugger dick to fill it up. Grady was getting into it now, too, stroking his cock through his shorts and grunting softly as he watched Dellucci and Posada cream all over each other’s cut six-packs. He felt A-Rod’s bulging arms wrap around his sides, the hunky Yank’s hands stroking Grady’s eight-pack under his tight Indians rugby jersey, exposing the beautifully tanned and fantastically muscled torso to the world for the first time. Grady smiled and closed his eyes as Alex pulled the shirt up, revealing inch after inch of Sizemore’s amazing body—after his abs and obliques came his thick, rock-hard pecs, his cut lats and traps, and finally his fucking stacked guns, the biceps and triceps twice as thick and strong as they had been. Grady’s neck was now a bull neck, the tendons straining the necklace he wore, and his face, though still boyishly cute and very handsome, had tightened a little as his jaw solidified and his cheeks hardened into pure masculine beauty. Alex tossed the jersey away and wrapped his hands around Grady’s muscular sides, one tracing the definition of his new eight-pack, the other dipping below the elastic waistband of Grady’s shorts to grope his massive cock, now grown out to more than a foot of dripping, rock-hard rugby jockstud meat, tenting his shorts furiously. Sizemore moaned as he felt Alex’s own 11-incher pressing against the tight muscle of his ass, and he leaned back to kiss Rodriguez gently on the lips. “I don’t know what the fuck they did to us, dude, but I need you to fuck me—hard.” Grady couldn’t believe what he was saying, and more than that couldn’t believe it was true. But he knew it was as he felt the pleasure of A-Rod’s thick jock dick sliding between his two impossibly well-muscled ass cheeks and easing slowly inside his tight virgin ass. “Right there, stud, fuck me, Alex, aw shit buddy,” he grunted, and within seconds Alex Rodriguez was fucking Grady Sizemore, and pumping his thick 12-inch cock in his fist under Grady’s shorts. Not only were these two former MLB stars fucking, but hyper-muscled, ultra-masculine, ridiculously hung versions of them, too. “Damn, look at Sizemore and A-Rod,” grunted a husky, deep voice from what had been the bullpen but was now one of the sidelines of a loud rugby stadium. Scott Proctor, a Yankees reliever who had packed about 30 pounds of muscle onto his body in the past 5 minutes, looked up from where he was fucking Kyle Farnsworth over the padded bench of the Yankees sideline to glance at where A-Rod was now full-on railing Grady Sizemore’s gorgeous muscle ass. A-Rod didn’t have uncontested top status for long, though, as massively muscled and impressively hung versions of alternate first basemen Doug Mientkiewicz and Jason Giambi came off the Yankees sideline and quickly encircled the couple, with Jason dropping to his knees to suck Sizemore’s dick while jacking his own 8.5-inch beast hard, and Dougie lining up his 9-inch meat with A-Rod’s sweet bubble butt. Back on the sideline, Scott and Kyle were thoroughly enjoying the show, even as their ripped bodies ground together in a jocklust the two former relief pitchers never expected to feel for each other. Both boys had been good-looking before, and Kyle, with his thickly muscled thighs, powerful ass, and jacked torso actually looked kind of like a rugby player before, but the changes hadn’t spared him. Not only had Farnsworth’s cock grown from an already-impressive 8 inches to a jaw-dropping 12.5-inch bulge into his navy and white rugby shorts, but his abs, pecs, guns, neck and ass, all while staying totally ripped, had become thicker and stronger. And on top of all that, something had changed in Kyle Farnsworth’s head to make him less of a pussy-chasing ultra-straight jockstud top, and more of a hungry, versatile rugger jock muscle fag, who still loved slamming his dick into a hot guy’s tight hole, but also didn’t mind getting his own beautiful ass penetrated by a buddy’s thick cockpole every once in a while—a buddy like Scott Proctor, whose body had changed more amazingly than Kyle’s ever could. Scott’s pecs, swollen with muscle, and his massively bulked up delts, traps, and biceps all threatened his tight white and navy pinstriped rugby jersey. The sleeves rose and fell along with each bulge of Scott’s arms, and his hulking neck tested its strength at the top. All of his newly thickened torso pressed and bulged into the fabric insistently as Scott fucked his teammate deep and long. Soon he had to rip Kyle’s jersey off to feel up the gorgeous prop’s new chest and abs like he’d been dying to do since even before Kyle changed into a ripped rugby jock. Scott didn’t think he was a fag before, but he had to admit he’d had plenty of thoughts about Kyle’s jacked body and how he wished he could have one like it…or have it. And now he had both. As he ripped off his own white jersey too, exposing his newly muscle-bound torso and leaving both hot former relievers shirtless and sweaty, Proctor realized this really was his dream come true. He loved feeling his fat 10-inch cock slide in and out of Kyle Farnsworth’s virgin muscle jock hole, his powerful hands clutching Kyle’s melon ass, gripping his pecs and eight-pack, or slipping under Kyle’s football shorts to pump his footlong-plus muscle stud dick. Kyle was obviously enjoying it too as he moaned, his entire jacked body flexing tight, and came hard into his rugby shorts, 9 or 10 shots of stud jockcream firing out of Farnsworth’s overloaded balls. Scott wasn’t far behind as Kyle’s tight ass squeezed around his prick. He grunted, clutching Kyle’s pecs and pressing his own ripped chest to Kyle’s strong back as his aching 10-incher exploded into the fireballer’s hole. Scott’s own fantastic ass was flexing and bulging into his navy and white football shorts at the same time, the twin mounds of muscle rising and falling beautifully as he drained his balls into Kyle’s ass. “Fuck…” Kyle groaned happily. He turned over as Scott pulled out, and as he lay there stared over his buddy’s jacked physique, the enormous pecs topped by ripe nipples, the magnificently cut eight-pack, the treasure trail down to Scott’s still-hard 10-inch dickmeat, the swollen guns and shoulders. Damn, Scott Proctor had grown into a fucking beautiful man. Just then, Kyle caught Scott’s gaze, and the two former straight MLB jocks both noticed just how gorgeous the other was. Their lips came slowly together, and soon Scott Proctor and Kyle Farnsworth were kissing passionately, their hands all over each other’s ripped bodies. Back on the field, A-Rod had pumped a load into Grady Sizemore’s new muscle ass and Grady had fired one into Giambi’s throat. Now Dellucci and Garko, their own massive cocks done with round one, came over and quickly caught Grady’s eye. The three Cleveland studs didn’t take long to get down to business, with Sizemore taking Dellucci by his fantastically jacked obliques and kissing him deeply, while Garko came around back and slipped Dave’s shorts down, immediately pressing his once-again rock-hard 10-incher deep into the gorgeous muscle butt of David Dellucci. Hungry for a load, Grady knew he wouldn’t have long the way his buddy Ryan Garko fucked. He dropped to his knees, caressing Dellucci’s cobbled torso on the way down, before easing the stud Indian’s thick 10.5-inch prick into his mouth. The old Grady Sizemore might’ve thought this was weird. The cute center fielder, 100% straight, might’ve wondered why he was sucking his teammate’s overgrown cock, or why his own hand was buried in his red football shorts, jacking his own 12.5-inch jockpole, or why Robby Cano was coming over to wrap his cut body around Grady’s and slide his own fat prick into Sizemore’s ass as he caressed and groped and clutched Grady’s ripped pecs and eight-pack and obliques. But the new Grady didn’t wonder about any of this. The new Grady just closed his pretty green eyes, smiled, and sucked harder on David Dellucci’s dripping cockpole. Soon, part 3
  8. The original story from icsis, now here. It was a beautiful day at Camden Yards in Baltimore, one that saw the Orioles taking on the Oakland A's in a matchup of two of the sorrier teams in baseball. But the hot dogs were grilling, the beer was flowing, and the fans and players were enjoying a day at the ballpark all around. But Agent #1 wasn't there to enjoy baseball - he had a job to do. His employer had given him and fifteen other of the top guys in their field the assignment expressly because they were the best. After all, it wasn't easy to work the kind of change on a massive scale that he was about to attempt, and if he let down his concentration for even a second before the process was complete, the resulting exposure of him and his boss could be disastrous. But the agent was confident as he sipped his bottled water, then began rubbing his hard cock through his jeans, lightly touching his pecs through his gray t-shirt, and staring intensely at the infield. Brian Roberts felt it first, his stomach wrenching as he began to grow. His glove fell off his hand and disappeared into thin air as he lurched forward, his chest and arms swelling into his uniform. His hat was gone a second later, leaving his shaggy brown hair exposed. Brian was getting taller now, rising from 5’9” to 5’11”, and the muscles of his torso were really starting to develop. The cute second baseman’s chest bulged into a pair of massive pecs, fantastic mounds of power that were twice the size of Brian’s old chest. His stomach and sides were pushing out, less the deeply cut, trim, v-shaped abs and obliques he’d had before than the solid, bulging, but still-cut midsection of a man who made his living off running into people. Brian’s uniform was changing, too. His jersey tightened to his torso, making even more obvious the changes to his physique, while a collar formed around Roberts’ now bull neck. The design changed as well, now black on the sleeves and shoulders as Brian’s thickened arms and broadened shoulders swelled, and displaying a simple Oriole logo on the chest, surrounded by various corporate logos there and on the sleeves. As Brian’s jersey tightened further, so that it looked suctioned onto his utterly stacked torso, he let out a moan. That finally caught the attention of Kevin Millar, the first baseman. Kevin was feeling a little funny himself, but nothing like what he saw happening to his teammate. Brian’s uniform pants had rolled up into a pair of rugby shorts, into which Brian’s now-hulking thighs and firm, round, bouncing muscle ass bulged dangerously. In fact, Kevin could hardly believe it was Brian he was looking at, had the hot second baseman turned rugby hooker not turned and looked him in the eye. The guy staring at Kevin was definitely Brian Roberts, but a completely jacked-up, rugby-playing version of him. There were a couple final changes—Brian’s already-cute face sharpened and shaped into that of a god, which was exactly what he’d become. And next to his newly-thickened thighs was Brian’s newly-thickened cock, rock-hard as it bulged into his football shorts, throbbing at the thought and the sight of how he’d changed and how his teammates were about to change with him. Even as Brian smiled at Kevin, Millar began to transform. The hefty first baseman was already plenty big, but as he lost his own hat and glove, the size began to take a turn for the better. Kevin’s upper body changed rapidly, and within a few seconds the belly he’d grown had become something that could be termed a muscle gut, were it not for the deep definition and beauty of Millar’s stomach. His pecs lost all their extra weight and added on several pounds of muscle as they began ripping through the buttons of his jersey. Kevin looked down and saw that his pants were already rugby shorts, and he adjusted himself awkwardly as he realized his dick now pushed 10 bulging inches, and was leaking into the shorts. Kevin turned to Brian, now jacking his cock unconsciously, his fucking huge biceps pumping, and Brian grinned as he saw that Millar’s face had lost all the fat too, and the handsome forward’s features now could get even a girl scared of his size into bed. But it was clear as Kevin’s eyes drifted down to Brian’s enormous bulge, and the now-handsome rugger stud grinned widely, that girls weren’t on his mind. “How much you packin’ there, stud?” Kevin asked, his jersey still tightening against his body. Brian fondled his hard 11-inch dick and Kevin gulped. “Why don’t you find out?” The two boys came slowly together. Erik Bedard had gotten off one more pitch after Brian started changing before he too was caught up. The transformation moved faster than average with him—one second he was staring in at A’s shortstop Bobby Crosby, the next he was bent over, clutching his sides as he grew. The cute, soft-spoken Canadian pitcher’s chest exploded into his uniform, which ripped right off his back as soon as his thickening arms, massive shoulders, and broad, powerful back followed suit. All the O’s infielders watched as Erik’s ass grew and rounded and blossomed into a perfect, firm muscle butt, which bulged into the black rugby shorts he now found himself wearing. And that was all Erik wore above his cleats as the shreds of his jersey fell away. As he stood up fully, now a gorgeous second-row forward, and displayed his bronzed, ripped muscle jock body, his 10-inch-plus dickmeat making an obscene tent in his shorts, several other players sprung boners and their transformations were triggered as well. One of them was Crosby, who suddenly felt his chest and shoulders hardening and expanding, as he stared at Erik’s fantastically changed body, every beautiful striation of muscle exposed. Crosby moaned as his nipples, pushed out by his thickening and rounding pecs, brushed against his uniform, which was changing like the Baltimore guys’ into a rugby jersey, green, white, and yellow patterned with “Oakland” across the front at the stomach, clearer with each passing moment as Bobby’s abs bulged and sharpened and deepened. Bobby’s 7-inch cock was straining and growing into his gray uniform pants. His helmet and bat were gone as his neck pressed against his new collar and he felt someone grab him from behind. “What the fuck’s happening to us?” grunted Paul Bako, the O’s backstop, who’d pulled off all his catcher’s gear and now pressed hard into his black and orange jersey like all the others. Bobby couldn’t see Paul’s face, which had become that of a man 10 years younger than Bako had been, his cheekbones cut, his hair short and dark, and his features irresistibly hot. But the gorgeous fullback could feel Paul’s achingly hard rugger cock, swollen to 9.5 thick inches, pressing against his magnificent bubble butt through his new white shorts, with Paul’s huge biceps and strong muscular hands reaching around to clutch both Bobby’s mountain of a pec and his own dripping hard 10.5-inch jockpole, tenting his shorts uncontrollably. “I don’t know, buddy, but I fuckin’ love it,” Crosby answered. The rugby hunk’s shorts were coming down and his round, meaty ass was exposed to Bako’s thick loose forward cock. Crosby couldn’t imagine, as the stadium began to shift and change into an oval, the field into a rectangle, why he’d ever wanted to play baseball instead of rugby. Boys played baseball—men played rugby. And there was no doubt about the fact that Bobby Crosby was a man—a beautiful piece of hot jock ass. His arms flexed and his shoulders pumped under his tight green and white jersey as he reached back to clutch Paul’s head and felt his ass and cock under assault. Brian Roberts and Kevin Millar, now fully transformed into a hooker and a forward, were making out passionately between first and second, although the infield was rapidly covering over with grass. The two studs’ hands ran all over each other’s unbelievably muscular bodies, gripping firm ass cheeks, rubbing pec to pec, stroking biceps and lats and delts. Kevin, who’d never thought of a teammate sexually before, couldn’t believe how hot he was for Brian, and even Brian, who had, was harder and hornier than he’d ever been thinking of one of his buddies on the team. After Erik changed, the two guys playing short and third had begun to grow too, staring at their former pitcher’s fantastic ass. Aubrey Huff instantly packed 30 pounds of muscle onto his 6’4” frame, grunting loudly as his thick muscles threatened his uniform. Fortunately, it changed to a tight rugby jersey a moment later anyway, and Aubrey’s pecs, shoulders, and new guns throbbed with growth under the fabric. As Huff’s features hardened and his chin and jaw squared, Chris Gomez was undergoing an even more drastic change. A thin, kind of awkward player before, he now stood up straight, 205 pounds of muscle on his solid 6’2” body. Chris’s ass swelled into his new shorts, begging for a big cock to fuck it into submission, and Aubrey Huff’s new 10-inch beast was happy to help. As the third baseman wrapped his massive biceps around Gomez’s own newly bulked-up body, Chris couldn’t help but wonder aloud, “How’d we turn into a bunch of mega-hung rugby stud muscle fags, man?” All Aubrey Huff had in response as his dick impaled the fullback’s ass was, “Less talking, more getting your tight jock ass nailed, stud.” “Sounds good to me,” added Erik. He was now behind Aubrey, his raging hard 10.5-inch cock easing into the former third baseman’s ass too. Huff moaned in pleasure at the twin paradises of his cock in Gomez’s tight jock ass and Erik’s raging hard dick in his own thick muscle butt. Aubrey’s ass might not have been worth pausing over before, but now its fantastic bulge was enough to make even a straight guy horny. In the outfield, Nick Markakis was staring in, trying to figure out what was happening to his teammates, when he felt himself start to tense up as well. Nick was a hell of a good-looking guy already, and as his pecs started to bulge fuller, his abs cut deeper and fill out toward his obliques, his arms to thicken, swell, explode into his sleeves, and his back and shoulders to broaden several inches, packing on 20 pounds of muscle along the way, anyone observing might well have shot hard into his pants right then. He was immediately rock-hard, his 8-inch baseball stud cock rising firm and powerful into his loose uniform pants. Nick groaned as he continued to change, his pecs swelling into enormous slabs of muscle with taut nipples pushing out into his jersey and his biceps, triceps and forearms doubling in size, thickness, strength and definition. The sleeves of the jersey tightened and so did the collar, squeezing around Markakis’ fucking trunk of a neck. It was changing to a rugby shirt, as all his buddies’ jerseys had, and his now magnificent, godlike pecs, arms, and shoulders bulged into it demandingly. Nick’s hat and glove were gone as his abs began to change next—he’d always been a strong, muscular guy, with a tight waistline and a gorgeously cut eight-pack. Now, his stomach was changing into the fuller, thicker eight-pack of a hot rugger jock, still all muscle but clearly built to power through defenders rather than extend for a deep fly ball or get around on a fastball. Nick’s pants no longer fit as his thighs thickened immensely and his ass, hidden under his sagged baseball pants till now, rounded and rose to a beautiful bubble butt muscle jock ass, so hot there was almost a shelf below the hunk forward’s strong lower back. The pants were also under increasing strain from Nick’s expanded cock, which as it tented the fabric furiously rose to full hardness, over 11 inches of thick, powerful dickmeat. Fortunately, Nick soon lost the pants completely in favor of short black rugby shorts like his teammates, and his terrific cock and ass were exposed more clearly. He stood up straight with a loud groan, his beautifully muscled upper body straining the seams of his jersey, and his face become even more beautiful, his cheekbones cut like a Greek god and his gorgeous eyes piercing. Just then a moan came from a few feet away. Nick turned to see Corey Patterson, the O’s former center fielder, who had already finished his own transformation into a hot, muscle-bound winger. Corey’s thick arm was pumping as he jacked his big 9.5-inch jockpole under his black shorts and watched Nick’s body grow and swell and thicken, each new cord of muscle making the obscenely hot outfielder-turned-forward even more beautiful. The moan had been Corey’s dick finally exploding into his football shorts, creaming his pants as his own huge pecs and firm stomach flexed and shook. “Fuck, you’re hot, bud,” said Nick, staring at Corey’s impressive upper body. The guy had been small before, but there was no trace of that now. Nick grinned, making Corey’s cock go hard again, then slowly pulled his jersey off, revealing inch by inch the stunning physique he’d grown—cobblestone eight-pack, bulging obliques, round, massive pecs, large, firm nipples, and huge bowling-ball delts and biceps. “I’m hot, shit,” Corey muttered as he groped Nick’s chest. Their eyes met and soon the two jocks were kissing deeply, neither one stopping to question why they were suddenly rugby players or why they were suddenly so into other guys, especially their teammates. Fortunately no one else was in a mood to question it either. In the dugout of the A’s, which was slowly turning into a simple sideline on the rugby pitch that the stadium was becoming, guys were not immune to the wave of transformation. The A’s pitcher was Rich Harden, a muscular, good-looking kid from Canada. He, like the other Oakland players, had watched the changing of the guys on the field, including their shortstop, with a mixture of amazement and disgust. The first sign that something else might be up came when he felt his 7-inch cock rise hard and throbbing against his compression shorts under his gray uniform. Unlike his counterpart Erik, Rich changed slowly as he stared at Bobby Crosby’s newly muscle-swollen and perfectly formed ass getting fucked by a hot, built and ripped version of Paul Bako. Aubrey and Chris were now 69’ing, and Brian and Kevin had moved over to start double-teaming Erik, with Brian’s huge 11-incher filling his throat and Kevin’s massive 10-inch fuckpole railing Bedard’s tight, handsome bubble butt. In the outfield, Nick and Corey were getting more into each other as well. Corey moaned loudly as his hot, thick-muscled Greek teammate fucked him deep and long with his massive 11-inch jockmeat. Nick’s shaved head, scruffy chin and jaw, and beautiful eyes had become even more good-looking with his transformation into a stacked rugby player, and Corey, though 100% straight till this afternoon, hadn’t been able to resist surrendering his muscle stud ass, its firm, round bulges squeezing and flexing tight around Markakis’s dick. Rich Harden watched all of this, and although he knew he should be repulsed, should be turning away, he somehow couldn’t force himself to stop watching the gorgeous rugby boys out on the field, now losing their jerseys and shorts with varying degrees of urgency. And as the hunky, muscular right-hander’s own cock—now bulging 8 inches down his tight pants leg—remained rock-hard and began leaking pre-fuck into Rich’s baseball pants, he began to follow their lead. The pitcher grunted as his chest swelled suddenly and rapidly into his jersey. Its sleeves were shortening and tightening around his already-gorgeous biceps, which were only growing bigger and more cut. Rich’s pecs and shoulders immediately threatened the seams of his A’s jersey, but like the other guys he was quickly losing that jersey anyway in favor of a tight green and yellow rugby shirt just like Bobby’s. His neck became impossibly thick, his chest’s bulge rounded beautifully, and his abs became an utterly thick and fantastically defined eight-pack, clear and obvious under the jaw-droppingly tight uniform. Harden had packed on about 20 pounds of muscle, and he wasn’t done yet. Rich groaned loudly as his cap disappeared, revealing his cute, short-cut blond hair and his stubble, as thick and as hot as Markakis’s on his cut, square jaw. He was still boyishly cute, but like Bedard, his face had hardened and he was now more the statuesque, classically good-looking guy that Markakis was. Rich’s transformation to a hot rugger stud was soon complete, his already gorgeous bubble butt rounding and bulging into a firm muscle ass that would stop a straight man in his tracks, and his cock, thickened to a foot of raging hard jock dickmeat, now tented his white rugby shorts so hard that it quickly caught the attention of a couple other guys in the dugout. “Fuck, Richie, nice cock,” murmured Eric Chavez, stroking his own achingly hard 10-incher through his gray uniform pants, which were quickly changing into white football shorts too. All the guys on the bench had started changing, from Chavvy’s expanding pecs and thickening biceps and forearms, to Swisher’s rapidly hardening stomach, face, chest and ass, to Shannon Stewart’s thickening neck and softening complexion, to even Mark Ellis’s exploding torso. All of their bodies were changing incredibly, transforming each Oakland guy, whether he’d been pretty average like Ellis and Dan Johnson (who were now making out deeply), or already fucking hot like Harden and Chavez. Which is not to say that those boys didn’t go above and beyond the usual changes. Rich had turned back to inspect Eric’s new body, now standing 6’2” and 30 pounds of muscle thicker than when he’d just been sitting there watching the game a minute ago. The hunky former third baseman, now a beautifully muscled flanker, looked back up at his teammate with a face that had been handsome before but now could be worn by a model, his cheekbones and jawline cut, his eyes dark and sexy and full of lust for Rich Harden’s own transformed, massively built physique. Eric’s pecs, huge guns, thick shoulders, and powerful abs all bulged dangerously into his green and white rugby shirt, and his 10.5-inch cockbulge—grown and thickened from his old 7-inch dick—stuck full mast out into the fabric of his white shorts. Chavez’s legs had become hulking trunks of muscle, and as he stood, his powerful, bulging muscle ass was also revealed to his teammates, pressing high and hard into his shorts. “Fuck, buddy, what happened?” Eric asked, even as his strong hands slid around Rich’s tight waist and up to grip the rugger stud’s beautiful pecs. Harden’s hand was slipping past the elastic of his teammate’s shorts to grope and stroke Chavez’s new massive fuckpole, making him grunt softly. Behind them, Swish was jacking off watching the players on the field fuck, his own thick body now grown and developed into a man who could easily pose for one of those calendars. Like Millar, his extra weight all converted in a matter of seconds to layers of tight, well-defined jockstud muscle. Even the handsome cock that he now released to allow Shannon Stewart’s thick cocksucking lips to wrap around it had grown a few inches and thickened to an 11-inch beast. “I don’t know, stud,” said Rich, responding to Chavez’s dazed, lust-choked question. “I don’t really give a damn, either.” The gorgeous outside center surged forward and kissed his buddy deeply. It was funny—20 minutes ago Rich Harden would have told you he’d never had a thought about a teammate in his life, but now he couldn’t think of anything more beautiful than Eric Chavez’s muscular, absolutely shredded, well-tanned body, the picture of male perfection as it tested the strength of his own rugby jersey and football shorts. Rich’s hands were feeling the new power of Chavvy’s stomach, first through the shirt’s fabric, then easing under it to stroke his flexed eight-pack and bulging obliques. The two new rugby jocks kissed like there was no tomorrow, clenching their eyes and totally losing themselves in lust for another thickly-muscled, well-hung athlete. “Unnhh,” Eric groaned. “Fuck me, Richie, fuck me with this huge fuckin’ dick.” His coarse ballplayer hand was stroking Rich’s dick faster and harder now, fucking it into his hand but begging for it in his ripped muscle ass. Harden didn’t have to be asked twice, and he put Chavez against the railing of the dugout and pulled down the shorts, revealing his beautiful, perfectly tanned, utterly muscular ass. His own shorts came down as he ran his hands over Chavez’s back, now more solidly defined with lats and delts and traps bulging into the hunk’s jersey. It turned Rich on so much that he was feeling up his teammate, and a totally ripped, rugger jock version of his teammate at that. He had no idea how or why both teams had suddenly transformed into absolutely beautiful rugby boys with a predilection for other rugby boys, but he hardly minded as he felt the incomparable pleasure of his huge cock sliding into Eric Chavez’s bubble butt ass. Chavvy took the dick like a pro, and within seconds Rich Harden was fucking his teammate full-on, his gorgeous prick pistoning in and out of the stud’s tight virgin hole. Chavez breathed hard, his enormous pecs and jacked eight-pack heaving into his strained jersey, and he felt Rich’s broad cockhead bottom out in his ass, sliding along his prostate and creating sensations in his 10.5-inch cock that he’d never felt before. Rich himself could get a guy to blow just by the way he looked, his powerful thighs and ass slamming his huge dickmeat deep into his buddy’s hole as his massive biceps and pecs held Chavez firmly in place. “Fuck me, Richie, oh holy fuck, holy fuck…” Eric moaned as Harden did just that, forcing more and more power into his buddy’s raging dick, now leaking hard into Eric’s white shorts. As Chavez kept begging for more, and Harden kept giving it, it wasn’t long before the gorgeous, well-tanned, totally shredded former third baseman’s cock exploded in his shorts, soaking the fabric with jockcream. Rich lasted only a couple seconds longer, his 12-inch monster firing 8 or 9 shots of hot rugger juice deep in his buddy’s hole with a long moan. Over in the A’s bullpen, things were going just as nicely for the formerly straight MLB boys. The closer, Huston Street, had been a cute, good-looking kid at 6’0”, 195 lbs., but he’d since blossomed into a 6’2”, 210-lb. jockstud whose 10-inch dickmeat bulged impressively into his shorts beneath his completely shredded torso. Huston had been well-defined before, but this body took that and multiplied it by 100, each striation, each cord, each groove of definition stronger, deeper, harder. It was enough to make Lenny DiNardo’s now-11.5-inch rugby jock dick rise hard into his white shorts next to his massive thighs. Len had been a bigger guy, 6’4”, 190, and he hadn’t grown much in height but his torso and legs and thick, meaty ass had bulked up with 40 pounds of muscle to push him to a sick 230. Both pitchers’ faces had changed too, their cheeks and jaws more solid, their eyes fierce and heart-stoppingly sexy, their hair rugged and stubbled. “Fuck, Len, you turned into a hell of a good-looking guy.” Huston grinned widely as he looked over DiNardo’s ripped physique. Len grinned, obviously feeling the same way about the hot closer-turned-hooker. “You sayin’ I wasn’t before, Street?” Imperceptibly, DiNardo’s hand began caressing Huston’s firm jockbutt through his shorts. “Wasn’t really lookin’ then,” Street said, his heart pumping hard beneath his huge pecs as Len’s hands groped his tight ass and huge thighs, then wrapped around his aching cock. Len was inches from Huston’s full, pretty lips, both of them staring into each other’s jaw-droppingly beautiful eyes. “You lookin’ now?” Huston clutched his teammate’s muscle ass as they kissed deeply, not even wondering how or why this had happened to them. Camden Yards was now a rugby stadium, full of thousands of hot, rowdy rugby fans who, like their idols on the field, had started to touch and explore each other’s ripped, tanned bodies, pulling off tightly-strained t-shirts and stroking massive dicks tenting form-fitting jeans and shorts. In the lower deck box seats, Agent #1 smiled and sat back to enjoy the ride. Soon Part 2