Joel had always wanted to be on his local rugby team, but he never even had the courage to try out. Instead he would watch and fantasise about playing with the huge burly men, so much so that one night before bed he even wished for it. Closing his eyes before bed, he whispered “I wish I could be on the team.”
The Trickster with a cruel smirk, obliged. The next morning Joel awoke disoriented, no taller than a centimetre. His tiny frame sprawled on what appeared to a smelly and stained bed sheet, the brown and yellow stains wafted hideous smells that assaulted Joel’s tiny nose. Before Joel could have a look around something huge shifted, as he turned he saw a massive white wall of flesh behind him. It took a moment for Joel to realise what it was but as a huge thunderous fart escaped from the jiggling mass of flesh Joel knew what it was. The smell of shit washed over Joel making him splutter, cough and gag, the mountainous ass cheeks oozing their fecal odour made Joel’s eyes water and his legs unsteady. Joel could barely comprehend what was happening when the smelly cheeks began to move, Joel tried to scramble away but the bed sheets were slippery with sweat and soon a shadow eclipsed him and landed on him with a soft plap.
Dave the captain of the rugby team, waking up from a long night of drinking from their victory yesterday turned over his naked body, his bare, sweaty backside glistening like a moon, dropping it onto Joel. Joel’s tiny scream was swallowed as Dave’s flabby, unwashed cheeks engulfed him, squashing the tiny man into the humid crevice of his butt crack.
The impact was a nightmare. Joel’s tiny frame was squashed into the slick, doughy flesh. The heat like a sauna filled with rancid lard. The smell was a putrid cocktail of sweat, stale farts, and neglect, coating Joel’s skin like a greasy film. Dave’s cheeks, heavy and slick, pressed him into a claustrophobic prison, his limbs pinned helplessly. Coarse hairs scratched his face, and the slick sweat made escape impossible. Joel tried to shout for help but instead was met with a lazy, guttural fart erupting from the dirty asshole mere metres away. A wet, roaring blast like a storm rang in Joel’s tiny ears. The hot, noxious gas, reeking of rotten eggs and spoiled meat, blasted over him, stinging his eyes and throat, leaving him gagging, his dignity obliterated.
For Dave he stretched and grabbed his phone and began checking his texts, as he wafted his duvet the scent of his last ass blast hit him. Dave laughed, oblivious of the torture he had caused as he smelt his own fart and looked at his phone. Joel tried to scream and move but he was stuck, trapped and impossibly small.
As the morning progressed the farts grew worse, each one wetter, hotter, and fouler than the last, fueled by the cheap lager of the night before. Joel’s world was a cycle of suffocating pressure, rancid gas, and relentless motion, his pride shredded with every degrading moment. He tried clawing at the skin, but it was futile, his tiny hands slipped on the sweat-slicked surface, and Dave remained unaware of his passenger.
After hours of bed rotting Dave finally decided to get up but instead of showering, Dave, true to his slothful nature, yanked on his stained, too-tight shorts, sealing Joel in a suffocating pocket of fabric and flesh. The captain of the rugby team would continue his day and the rest of his life without the knowledge of his new tortured prisoner, while Joel finally could to be on the rugby team, although living on the captain’s ass was not what he meant by being on the team.
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