Picture by dong

My shoes pounded against the vulcanized rubber of the track, the soles absorbing most of the blow before rebounding to keep me running in my lane. My music blared in my ears as I kept pushing, determined to beat my previous mile even if by only a few seconds. My joggers flapped lazily in the wind in tandem with my tank top, flattening across my chest. Sweat poured from my face, the blazing Sun unrelenting in its infrared rays, attacking my skin. My breath came fast and heavy as I raced by the spectator stands, unaware of the one person in the bleachers pointing a device at me.

I didn't notice anything as the stranger activated their device, hitting me in the back with whatever was launched from it. I brushed off the heat of my skin, assuming that the Sun was no longer blocked by a cloud. My mind was too focused on the task at hand, and I didn't perceive the changes in my clothes as they constricted. Their fabric morphed, turning into a pair of breathable spandex leggings and a tight sports bra. I kept running, my legs seemingly unrestrained anymore by clothing, still oblivious as my hair extended past my rear and tied itself into a ponytail.

My hips cracked, the popping of the joints causing me to stumble for a few steps before I regained my balance. My butt started to grow, pulling the leggings to their limit as my glutes became strong and defined. My calves and thighs hardened with long cords of muscle as my feet shrank along with the shoes. My panting changed in pitch, shifting from deep, labored breathing to effeminate gasps for air. Despite all this, I kept up the pace, ignorant of my body's changes.

My heart, already racing, picked up in speed until it threatened to burst out of my chest, which itself was altering. The sports bra started to get tight as my pecs started to gain mass. Soft, doughy flesh poured into my torso, filling the cups of the bra with their alluring curves, giving the clothing a purpose. Sweat trickled down into my cleavage as my tits jiggled with each landing until I wiped my brow with my thin arm.

The finish line came into view, adrenaline giving me a last burst of speed before the lactic acid could cramp my legs. I lifted my arms up as I passed the line, slowing down to check my stopwatch. I took out my phone, flipping the camera to face me, only for an athletic girl to take up the screen. An itch in the back of my mind told me something was wrong, but I ignored it, taking a few pictures before posting them to social media, bragging about my new PB. Too distracted by the barrage of comments from my followers, I didn't see the stranger in the stands pack up and leave, seemingly satisfied with their experiment.