Your prison rocks and tilts like a boat in a storm as Dean moves it between his hands. You sense him lowering you down, placing his sneaker onto the floor while he deals with the inquisitive Luke. You can hear that Luke senses something is up, as if the two of them share a mental link. Your steward continues to evade the questions Luke asks him while undoing his bag and placing the remaining items inside. All that's left is his half occupied trainer. You feel yourself moving again, expecting to see the entrance ahead of you blocked out by the giant's foot. You start to press yourself down as deep as you can in preparation, but you struggle to fit neatly. You know that if you can't ball yourself up you'll be crushed as he stands. Yet despite all the movement no foot appears. Instead with a quick and subtle motion, he twists his trainer over the top of his open sports bag before slipping onto his socked foot. Zipping it closed he stands and hastily brushes of Luke who didn't notice your transferal from the sneaker to the bag.
The brief tumble through the air was broken by the pile of warm, damp clothes that had preceded you. After rolling to a stop you sit up and try to scope out your new surroundings, but all light is quickly snuffed out as the zip slides closed overhead. Only a very faint blue glow permeates through the synthetic walls, as well as one or two light beams cutting through holes in the zip cord. A Dean hoists the bag onto his shoulder the bed of clothes beneath you starts to wobble and fragment. You struggle to remain balanced, rolling onto your side and slipping between one of the folds. As Dean walks out of the locker room the contents of his bag find their resting positions, with you buried in the centre, the weight of the garments above you pressing down, solidifying the mass of fabric that entombs you.
Wrapped up in the freshly worn sports gear of the giant jock you get a first hand taste of his masculine smell. What little air reaches you is laden with the muggy scent, every surface around you radiating the same wonderful musk. Everything is slightly damp with sweat, but the fabric wrapped around your thighs is wet, clinging to your skin. You wonder what particular part of Dean's body was held within it, one of his sweatier parts no doubt, now infusing the vibrant smell into your legs. You know his jock strap is in here somewhere, yet your nose cannot differentiate between the heavenly mixture of bodily odors that surround you. An especially strong scent rises to your left, it's source hotter and wetter than the other pieces around you. Without knowing what it is you're nuzzling into you take a sultry lick along it, a neutral yet bitter flavour greeting your tongue. Whatever it is, it smells stronger than it tastes.
It's only a short walk to Dean place. After a breif stay in the confines of his musky sportswear, light comes peirceing through as Dean untangles his clothes, his face brigtly illuminated through the opening of the bag. Now able to see, you notice that your legs had been wedged underneath the armpit of his football shirt, while your headrest had consisted of the backseat of his boxershorts, dark with trails of his perspiration. You shudder - the taste on your tongue is his ass sweat, fresh from his crack. You have to restrain yourself from taking another lick now you're in full view.
He looks down at you, yet his reaction is unclear.
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