"Metamorphosis on the Morning Run"
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Jogging used to be predictable. It was just me and Jamie, our matching sneakers slapping the morning asphalt, each of us destined to complain about shin splints and promise that tomorrow we really wouldn’t stop for bagels.
That was before Jamie caught “second puberty.” I’d heard about it online—a weird fluke of hormones that swept some people into a glow-up so drastic you’d swear they’d been swapped with an Instagram influencer overnight.
So I’m standing at the end of my driveway, stretching, when I see Jamie stroll up. But it’s not the Jamie I’ve known since sixth grade.
She (I have to keep reminding myself) has this halo of pale blonde hair tied high—wavy enough for sunlight to shimmer through—and her white athletic shirt cuts off well above her navel. Jamie’s torso is tight, tanned, abs peeking just above the snug blue running shorts that honestly look spray-painted on. And, okay, the shorts are doing a lot for her hips and that new, round arch of her backside. She’s bustier now—way bustier—and there’s no way to ignore the fit of that white sports bra outlined beneath her shirt.
Jamie grins at me, cocking her hip. “You dialing 911 or just staring, nerd?”
I clear my throat, cheeks hot, and grab for my water bottle, desperate for something to hold. “Not used to seeing the girl version of you. It’s like you got airbrushed.”
She laughs. “Yeah, well, you should see my DMs now. Weirdest part is… no, actually, the weirdest part is going for a jog and realizing ‘oh shit, these bounce.’ If I didn’t have this bra, I’d probably get whiplash.”
Jamie hops from foot to foot, her ponytail bouncing, and she catches me glancing—okay, openly staring—at the way her new curves move. It’s hypnotic. And disconcertingly, it brings my old crush out of hiding with a vengeance.
“Was that a look?” she says, glancing back over her shoulder as she starts to jog. “I swear to god, I feel like I’m in a rap video. If you trip, I’m not calling an ambulance.”
I catch up, heart pounding, trying to focus on the rhythm of our sneakers rather than the perfectly exposed slice of her midriff or how her thighs flex with every stride. “Can you blame me?” I mutter, half-joking, half-serious. “You look… different.”
“You can say ‘hot,’” she teases. “Jamie 2.0 is apparently a genetic jackpot. Bet you wish your second puberty was this generous.”
“Still in the ‘awkward stubble and foot odor’ phase,” I say. “Jealous as hell.”
She bumps me with her hip, and the pressure is firmer than before—curvier. It’s electric. “Hey,” she says, voice suddenly softer. “Still me in here. Just, you know, with a killer ass now.”
I look away quickly, mortified that she saw me blushing. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… gonna take me a minute to adjust.”
“Takes me a minute too, trust me.” She jogs ahead, glancing back with a wild grin, midriff glistening with the start of sweat. “But don’t worry. We’ll go slow. And, uh… Don’t freak out if I ask you for a new sports bra rec, okay?”
I swallow, focusing on our feet pounding the pavement, the heady confusion of friendship, attraction, and change burning brighter in my chest than any runner’s high ever could.
Damn. This ritual just got complicated.
This story was generated by user zach3 with assistance by one of OpenAI’s large-scale language-generation model; prompts used to help generate the story are shown below.
Images were generated with OpenAI's AI system, DALL·E 2, or uploaded by the user.
AI Prompts
Prompt: Me and my buddy were both trying to get into better shape. We agreed to go on daily jogs together and it would be kind of our new ritual. But when I found out he had gotten second puberty I was shocked. He has fully transformed into a busty blonde babe. He said he wanted to keep up the daily jog. I just kind of find it a bit more awkward because I have a bit of a crush on him, especially when he talks about how his new sports bra is a life saver. I’m just not used to it yet. Use good and descriptive dialogue when characters are talking and be very descriptive. He is now a busty blonde with a curvy and tight backside wearing a white shirt that shoes off his midriff and some blue athletic shorts that clung tightly to his new peachy backside. The dialogue can be more adult with some swearing. Maybe he catches me looking at some point. Maybe have some more thorough details
Response: Jogging used to be predictable. It was just me and Jamie, our matching sneakers slapping the morning asphalt, each of us destined to complain about shin splints and promise that tomorrow we really wouldn’t stop for bagels. That was before Jamie caught “second puberty.” I’d heard about it online—a weird fluke of hormones that swept some people into a glow-up so drastic you’d swear they’d been swapped with an Instagram influencer overnight. So I’m standing at the end of my driveway, stretching, when I see Jamie stroll up. But it’s not the Jamie I’ve known since sixth grade. She (I have to keep reminding myself) has this halo of pale blonde hair tied high—wavy enough for sunlight to shimmer through—and her white athletic shirt cuts off well above her navel. Jamie’s torso is tight, tanned, abs peeking just above the snug blue running shorts that honestly look spray-painted on. And, okay, the shorts are doing a lot for her hips and that new, round arch of her backside. She’s bustier now—way bustier—and there’s no way to ignore the fit of that white sports bra outlined beneath her shirt. Jamie grins at me, cocking her hip. “You dialing 911 or just staring, nerd?” I clear my throat, cheeks hot, and grab for my water bottle, desperate for something to hold. “Not used to seeing the girl version of you. It’s like you got airbrushed.” She laughs. “Yeah, well, you should see my DMs now. Weirdest part is… no, actually, the weirdest part is going for a jog and realizing ‘oh shit, these bounce.’ If I didn’t have this bra, I’d probably get whiplash.” Jamie hops from foot to foot, her ponytail bouncing, and she catches me glancing—okay, openly staring—at the way her new curves move. It’s hypnotic. And disconcertingly, it brings my old crush out of hiding with a vengeance. “Was that a look?” she says, glancing back over her shoulder as she starts to jog. “I swear to god, I feel like I’m in a rap video. If you trip, I’m not calling an ambulance.” I catch up, heart pounding, trying to focus on the rhythm of our sneakers rather than the perfectly exposed slice of her midriff or how her thighs flex with every stride. “Can you blame me?” I mutter, half-joking, half-serious. “You look… different.” “You can say ‘hot,’” she teases. “Jamie 2.0 is apparently a genetic jackpot. Bet you wish your second puberty was this generous.” “Still in the ‘awkward stubble and foot odor’ phase,” I say. “Jealous as hell.” She bumps me with her hip, and the pressure is firmer than before—curvier. It’s electric. “Hey,” she says, voice suddenly softer. “Still me in here. Just, you know, with a killer ass now.” I look away quickly, mortified that she saw me blushing. “Yeah, I know. It’s just… gonna take me a minute to adjust.” “Takes me a minute too, trust me.” She jogs ahead, glancing back with a wild grin, midriff glistening with the start of sweat. “But don’t worry. We’ll go slow. And, uh… Don’t freak out if I ask you for a new sports bra rec, okay?” I swallow, focusing on our feet pounding the pavement, the heady confusion of friendship, attraction, and change burning brighter in my chest than any runner’s high ever could. Damn. This ritual just got complicated.
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