The Catch

I turned slowly in front of the mirror, flexing one arm, then the other, watching the new muscle shift and bunch under smooth skin. My cock hung heavy and thick between my legs, looking even better on this frame. For the first time since I’d dropped dead in that filthy basement, I actually looked like the protagonist of one of my own fantasies.

Then the catch hit.

It started as a faint pull at the edges of the form—like the picture was trying to slip out of focus. I felt it in my core first: a subtle softening, a tiny bit of the old softness trying to creep back into my waist. My arms didn’t look quite as cut. The heroic jawline blurred for half a second.

I concentrated hard, puffing my chest and flexing again with real effort.

The form snapped back sharp. But I could feel the difference now. It wasn’t permanent. It was like holding a deep breath—possible, powerful, but it cost something to maintain. If I relaxed too much, if I stopped feeding whatever cartoon engine was running this, it would slip.

I tested it again, letting my focus drift while I stood there naked.

The softening returned faster this time. A faint roundness at my stomach. A little less definition in my shoulders. My original gut wasn’t back yet, but it was threatening.

So that’s the price, I thought, a slow, hungry grin spreading across my face even as I **** the heroic form back into place. It’s not free. I can look like this… but I have to keep earning it. Rest too long, stay too “pure,” and I go back to being the fat, greasy loser. Sleep the whole night without doing anything depraved and I’ll wake up as the old me again.

I reached down and gave my cock a slow stroke, feeling it throb in my new, stronger hand.

Good thing I have no intention of being pure.

The form stabilized again as dark, filthy thoughts filled my head—Flora’s innocent hand covered in my cum, Melody’s ass in my grip, Tansy’s massive tits smothering me. The heroic body felt stronger when I thought about corrupting them.

I had a few hours, maybe until morning if I was careful. After that, I’d need to do something—touch, trick, claim—to keep this body. Or accept slipping back into the disgusting version of myself.

I looked at my reflection one last time, the smug, handsome face staring back at me, and made my decision.

Rest could wait.

Corruption couldn’t.