Get to the coach.

The cheerleaders seem to be gathering up in front of the coach, out of your sight, so you hurry, your throat still too sore to cry out. By the time you reach it you've realised your mistake, collapsing against the side of it and sucking in air. Ok, being too quick might not have been the smartest thing you've done today.

After the blackness begins to recede from the edge of your vision, you shakily pull yourself up the back of the bus, and grab the corner to pull yourself around to get the attention of -

Down the street, in front of you, and the few cheerleaders you can see around the side of the bus, a man stands. It's hard to see his face from here, but from his clothes you'd guess he's just another college student. Or you would, perhaps, except for one thing.

His hands are glowing.

The dim purple light shining from the hands held out in front of him shimmers in the dust, but even blinking it still remains. He looks as shocked as you about, staring down at them, stock-still in the middle of the street, unaware of you and the girls before him.

Until he looks up.

And smiles.

A blinding purple flash fills the air, and you feel yourself falling again, your hand slapping against the side of the bus to keep you from hitting the ground, but for a moment your balance fails and you wobble, head swimming, body teetering.

When the purple light fades from your eyes, you find out why.

You gape down at yourself. Slowly, carefully, you reach up with your free hand to cup one of the enormous breasts hanging from your chest. The warmth of your fingers pressed into - you.

You grab the bottom of your top, and pull it up, eyes wide, and as you do your breasts hang freely in the open air, thick red nipples hardening before you. For a moment your mind rebels, unwilling and unable to believe this is really happening, but the gusts of wind playing over the - your - tits break sensations into your mind.

You rub dumbly at your top, and only after a few moment do you realise why. You were wearing a tanktop this morning, nothing fancy, but the fabric under your fingers doesn't feel like cotton. You tug your top down, having to stretch it out over your new chest, and look down at thin white silk, parted to show off a spectacular cleavage. Beneath that, though you find yourself having to twist to look around your chest, your jeans have been replaced by a short denim skirt, hugging hips you didn't have five minutes ago, and long, slender, gorgeous legs ending in short heels.

Your hands flash to your ass, hoping for flat.

The whine that escapes your lips as your fingers dig into soft, curved flesh is echoed by the wails of the girls from the other side of the bus, and the sound brings to back to reality. Or at least what seems to be reality.

Whatever's going on here, as mad as it all seems, it's clear that whoever that guy was, he's involved, and if you look like this his intentions probably aren't going to be good. You'd better get out of here. On the other hand.... who else is going to fix what's happened to you? You're going to have to find someone else, someone who knows what's going on, what's happened to you.... something, at least!