Shopping Spree The Remote of Transformation chapter 11 by deleted_user

Brandon stood in the quiet back corner of Trendy Threads, heart racing with that delicious mix of mischief and practicality. He glanced around—no one nearby—then pointed the sleek black remote at his own chest. The remote chirped softly. Blue light swept over him in a warm rush.

“Oh… my… god,” Brandon whispered, voice cracking into a perfect match of Linda’s gravelly, seventy-year-old-trailer-trash rasp.

The change hit like a tidal wave of curves. His slim, gym-toned male frame ballooned outward in all the right places. Shoulders narrowed, hips flared dramatically, ass inflating into two heavy, heart-shaped globes that stretched his new jeans to their limit. His chest surged forward, swelling into the same massive, perky DDs that had destroyed Linda’s blouse earlier—firm, round, and impossible to ignore. His waist cinched in sharply, creating that ridiculous hourglass silhouette. Legs lengthened and smoothed, thighs thickening with soft feminine power while his height settled at 5’8”.

His face shifted last: sharper cheekbones softened, lips plumped, bright blue eyes framed by the same platinum blonde hair that now tumbled down his back in silky waves. In seconds, he was a perfect mirror of the new Linda—young, blonde, built like a walking fertility idol.

Brandon stared down at himself, hands slowly rising to cup the heavy weight of his new breasts. He gave them an experimental lift and let them drop. They bounced with a firm, juicy jiggle.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” he muttered in that grizzled old-lady voice, sounding exactly like Linda complaining about the rent. “These things are heavy. And this ass… good lord, it’s like I’m carrying two beach balls back there.”

He turned sideways in the mirror, admiring the extreme curves with pure aesthetic appreciation. Not sexual—Brandon was still very much gay, and women had never done it for him—but damn if this wasn’t an objectively sexy body. The kind of exaggerated hourglass that made clothing designers weep with joy and straight men forget their own names. Tiny waist flaring into wide hips and that fat, clap-ready ass. Perky tits that sat high and proud. Long, smooth legs. It was pure, over-the-top femme fantasy, and he was currently living in it.

“Iconic,” he declared to his reflection, striking a pose with one hand on his hip, the other fluffing his blonde hair. The motion made his tits bounce and his ass shift heavily. “Serving body. Serving drama. Serving ... well, cunt.”

Grinning like a kid in a candy store, Brandon quickly snatched a handful of clothes from the racks in what he guessed were the right sizes: a couple of cute crop tops, high-waisted denim shorts that looked like they’d barely contain the new ass, a soft sundress, some stretchy leggings, and a supportive bralette that might actually handle these monsters.

He waddled—there was no other word for it—with his new center of gravity toward the fitting rooms, hips swaying dramatically, ass cheeks clapping softly with every step. The sensation was wild: everything moved differently. The weight on his chest, the way his thighs rubbed, the constant jiggle in the rear.

He slipped into a spacious fitting room, locked the door, and dumped the clothes on the bench.

Standing in front of the full-length mirror, still fully dressed in the transformed outfit that had resized itself with him, Brandon ran his hands down his new curves, marveling at the sight.

“Alright, Linda 2.0,” he said in that raspy voice, giving his reflection a sassy wink. “Let’s see what looks cute on this body.”

He reached for the first top, already excited to play dress-up in someone else’s skin.