“A fit horse furry finds an old treadmill in his basement, but what starts as a simple workout turns into an unexpected transformation that leaves him questioning his own body.”

Another image I liked at the time, but now I can't find the link :c sorry

The story is short, but I found the idea interesting.

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“The treadmill”
by Bynnie-Jackalope
The basement smelled of dust and damp wood when the horse went down, carrying a couple of heavy boxes against his chest, his well-trained, athletic arm muscles standing out.
He set the boxes in a corner with a satisfied snort, and as he stepped back, he clumsily bumped into an old decoration. The object toppled over onto something, which caused the blanket covering it to slip off and reveal a treadmill. The horse tilted his ears, surprised.
“What’s this? … must’ve belonged to the previous owner,” he muttered, crouching down to inspect the machine.
He plugged in the cable, and the machine came back to life. He tested the controls, and everything appeared to be in order. The horse smiled, shaking his head.
“Looks like it still works. Might do me good to get in some extra cardio, with the contest so close.”
He went back upstairs, leaving the machine ready to help him with some exercise before the bodybuilding competition.
The next day, he returned prepared with a water bottle and a towel. Shirtless, he displayed the sculpted body he had worked on for years. His thick, yet well-groomed, coat barely concealed the sharp definition of each muscle.
He turned on the treadmill and started slowly. The machine creaked a little under his weight, his hooves striking with a steady rhythm while he stretched his arms, holding onto the rails only to make sure the thing wouldn’t break.
“(Weird that this was down here),” he thought with a crooked smile. “(The previous owner didn’t look like he walked much… more the type to roll.)” The thought drew a brief laugh.
Once he finished warming up, the horse pressed the treadmill’s buttons to increase the speed. The belt accelerated, and he began to jog with a steady stride, air moving in and out of his lungs with total ease. His torso was defined, with abs visible beneath his coat, and his body fat percentage was quite low.
However, as he continued, something subtle began to change. A slight curve appeared in his abdomen, just a faint swelling pressing against the elastic of his shorts. Then the sharp abs started to blur, covered by a soft layer of fat.
Step by step, the curve grew more noticeable. His belly began to push outward, swelling slowly into a small gut that bounced in rhythm with his run. His thighs thickened gradually, powerful muscles melting into softer flesh. His rear also expanded, filling out the shorts.
Unaware of the change, the horse kept jogging, wiping sweat from his forehead with the towel. His breathing grew heavier, his pecs rising and falling, softening and losing definition, but the most striking change was the soft dome of his belly, spilling over his waistband and wobbling with every step.
His arms thickened with a layer of fat that jiggled when he wiped away the sweat. His once-chiseled chest became a pair of soft mounds, swelling further until they resembled large, heavy man-breasts, bouncing with each stride.
His breath turned into constant panting, sweat running down his thick neck, now with a double chin. His puffed cheeks gave his face a rounder look, jiggling with each movement.
Every step made his whole body shake like jelly. His thighs rubbed together, soft and thick, as he struggled to keep up with the treadmill. His enormous belly sagged to the sides in folds of fat. The horse had gone from a competition physique to a soft, heavy body.
He couldn’t go on anymore—his lungs burned, and he panted constantly, tongue hanging out in desperation for a drink. With clumsy movements, he fumbled at the buttons of the machine with sweaty fingers, gradually lowering the speed until the belt finally stopped.
He remained leaning forward, gripping the rail with both hands to keep from collapsing. His dripping mane fell over one side of his face, plastered with sweat. Each breath came as a ragged gasp, his huge belly hanging forward, a soft, heavy mass swaying enough to brush his knees. His shorts, stretched to their limit, hugged his fat rear like a second skin, ready to burst—another pair that wouldn’t survive the week.
Minutes dragged by as he could only pant and swallow, waiting for his heart to calm down. Finally, with a snort, he stretched out a trembling hand for the bottle nearby. He took a long swig of his cold, super-sugary soda, the bubbles burning down his throat.
“Ah… just what I *buuurp* needed,!” he said with a tired smile.
When he finally straightened up, his belly jutted out huge and round like a yoga ball, straining the fabric of his shorts. Resting atop it was a pair of heavy, soft pecs, jiggling with each movement of his torso.
He took a step, his legs trembling like those of a fawn—though in truth they were thick, massive, more like an elephant’s, and softer than a pillow. Sweat drenched his whole body, dripping from his forehead, sliding between the folds of his gut, and soaking the shorts. He stumbled up the stairs, puffing, each step a colossal effort.
In the middle of his exhaustion, the horse thought, "(Why the hell had I decided to try that machine? I hadn’t trained in ages, and I was completely out of shape)”. He shook his head, snorting again.
The only good thing was that the workout had left him with a ravenous hunger. And he had just ordered food. The thought made him smile. When it arrived, he’d stuff himself until he passed out. After all, the eating contest was coming up soon—and he had to train for that too.

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