Baseball's for Boys, Rugby's for Men (4)

[iciss]

Same disclaimers: none of this is true (obviously) and is not intended to imply anything about anyone's sexuality (or capacity for rapid muscle growth). Sorry it's taken so long -- this one's obviously a little longer, so hopefully it's worth it.

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.

Oh man, that was awesome! I'm gonna have to read it again to absorb it all in, but your descriptions were great. :-)

[iciss]

Well I know there's a limited audience for these things, so I'm glad you liked it.

[iowamuslfan]

Keep up the great work. I'm loving this series!

[scott2462]

fuckin' hot...as have been the previous installments! great job