Twenty minutes later, Ken sauntered in, wearing a towel. Clear skin or not, he was not a pretty picture. His moobs jiggled out over his prodigious belly and his stubble, though thankfully clean and crumb-free, was patchy and unkempt.
He grabbed a pair of boxers and changed into a clean pair of cargo shorts and an anime T-shirt, dropping his wet towel on the floor.
Jack’s eyes narrowed and I felt my stomach soar. Another wish? Already? He thought for a second, then opened his mouth.
“I wish Ken would hang up his dirty towels.”
I couldn’t help myself from pushing along the process just a LITTLE further. Hey, let me indulge myself. I’ve been cooped up since Lyndon Johnson was in office.
“I wish Ken would hang up his dirty towels AFTER WORKING OUT.”
I snapped my fingers.
Ken looked down at the towel sheepishly. “Oops, sorry.” He reached down to grab it, but the hand that reached for it did not belong to the Ken we knew and loved. My eyes tracked up a muscular arm with bulging veins to a pair of strong shoulders jutting out of a black wifebeater. Ken’s newfound pecs strained against the thin cotton, and you could count his six-pack from fifty paces.
His thighs were now as thick as Christmas hams, and when he turned around to put the towel on its hook, the two perfect globes of his ass pushed against the mesh gym short she now wore.
Jack smirked triumphantly, not noticing that his wish wasn’t performed exactly to order. That’s what I loved about this gig. The residual magic from the wish makes the transition ever so smooth. My victims hardly notice, unless it’s a truly major change.
“How was the gym, Ken?”
Ken grunted. “Y’know. The usual. Chicks always on my dick about training them, but who would want to waste all that time that we could use for screwing?”
Jack scowled. Ken might look different, but he was still a pig. For now.