Talk with Stolas
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Blitzo sprawled on the ruined couch, legs spread wide, his new hypertrophied body gleaming with drying sweat and cum. Every flex sent ripples across shredded abs and ballooned pecs; he couldn’t stop touching himself, long purple nails tracing vascular grooves like he was mapping stolen treasure. Stolas lounged beside him, ghostly-pale muscles still flushed from the pounding, gold-painted lips curved in lazy satisfaction. The genie’s forked tongue flicked out to lap a stray rope of saliva from his own chin.
Blitzo tilted his head, violet eyes narrowing. “Okay, smoke daddy, let’s talk rules. What’s the catch? Can’t bring people back from the dead? No wishing for more wishes? Some bullshit like that?”
Stolas chuckled, low and theatrical, sliding closer until their thighs pressed together. One long, gold-clawed finger drifted to Blitzo’s left pec, circling the pierced nipple with deliberate slowness. The claw grazed the sensitive bud, tugging gently on the metal ring. Blitzo hissed through his teeth, cock twitching back to half-mast.
“Darling,” Stolas purred, voice dripping aristocratic honey, “there are no limitations. No petty mortal restrictions. No ‘cannot kill,’ no ‘cannot love,’ no tiresome ‘three-wish cap’ beyond the initial binding. I am Efreet-Ifrit royalty, forged in stellar fire. Reality bends like wet silk for me.” He pinched the nipple harder, rolling it between claw and thumb. “You may wish for galaxies to kneel, for time itself to crawl backward, for every cock in the world to ache for yours alone. Whatever your wicked little heart desires.”
Blitzo’s breath hitched, pleasure sparking down his spine, but annoyance flared hotter. “Fuck. So I just blew my first wish on muscles when I could’ve asked for—” He cut off, brain churning. Then his lips curled into a slow, sly, predator’s grin. He turned fully toward Stolas, violet eyes glinting with sudden malice. “Wait. If there’s really no limit… can I wish for an infinite number of wishes? Without it backfiring, without you twisting it to screw me over?”
Stolas threw his head back and laughed—deep, rolling, genuinely delighted. His silver-gray hair spilled across massive shoulders. “Oh, my delicious peacock. Yes. You may. And because you ask so prettily, I shall not twist it. No loopholes, no cruel fine print. Pure, endless power.” Red-slit eyes glowed brighter, pupils blown with lust and something dangerously close to adoration. “Make the wish.”
Blitzo leaned in until their noses brushed. “I wish for infinite wishes. As many as I want, whenever I want, no limits, no twists, no expiration. You serve me until I release you or the lamp is destroyed.”
Stolas snapped his fingers. A pulse of violet-black energy rolled through the room like thunder trapped in velvet. “Granted,” he intoned, voice echoing with ancient finality. “As long as you hold the lamp—or it remains in your possession—I am yours. Command me, my muscled master.”
Blitzo’s wicked cackle filled the dorm. Infinite wishes. Infinite power. So many evil, delicious things flashed through his mind—world domination, endless cash, turning every muscle-bound jock into his personal worshipper—but right now, sex drowned out everything else. His cock was already rock-hard again, thick and leaking.
“Perfect,” he growled. “First new wish: make my cum thick and sticky like warm custard. Loads of it. Every time.”
Stolas’s grin turned feral. “Done.”
Blitzo lunged.
They fucked like animals unleashed. Blitzo pinned Stolas face-down on the mattress, massive quads flexing as he drove in deep, hips snapping with brutal rhythm. The bedframe cracked on the third thrust. Stolas moaned theatrically, claws shredding sheets, begging in French and Latin between gasps. “Oui—plus fort—ruin me, mon dieu!”
Furniture toppled. The desk splintered when Blitzo bent Stolas over it. Mirrors cracked from thrown bodies. Walls dented. Cum—now custard-thick, opaque white, clinging in heavy ropes—splattered everywhere: ceiling, carpet, ruined couch, even the ceiling fan blades. Blitzo roared through his first orgasm, pulling out just enough to paint Stolas’s shredded back.
“SPLURGE!”
Another round, Stolas riding him reverse, lats flaring, ass clenching like a vice. Blitzo’s nails dug into ghostly hips, leaving red welts. “Fuck—take it all—”
“SPLUURGE!”
They rolled across the floor, knocking over lamps, bookshelves collapsing in avalanches of paper. Blitzo flipped Stolas onto his back, hooked those long legs over cannonball shoulders, and pounded mercilessly until the genie arched, forked tongue lolling, and Blitzo erupted again.
“SPLUUURGE!”
By the end the room looked like a war zone soaked in glaze—sticky white ropes dripping from every surface, pooling on the floor, stringing between broken furniture. They collapsed in the wreckage, chests heaving, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered through cracked blinds.
Blitzo woke naked on the ruined mattress, every hypertrophied inch crusted with dried custard-cum. The room reeked of sex, ozone, and vanilla body oil. Stolas—equally bare, ghostly muscles gleaming—knelt beside him holding a silver platter piled with breakfast: fluffy pancakes dripping syrup, bacon crisp and perfect, fresh coffee steaming in a porcelain cup. A single red rose lay across the edge like an offering.
“Good morning, my lord,” Stolas murmured, voice soft and reverent. He set the platter on Blitzo’s lap, then raised both hands. Violet-black smoke swirled from his fingertips.
Magic washed over Blitzo in warm waves. Dried cum vanished, skin cleansed to a flawless bronze glow. Hair restyled itself into perfect purple spikes. Nails buffed to mirror shine. A fresh layer of shimmering oil slicked every muscle. Clothes materialized—skin-tight black vinyl pants that hugged his massive quads and obscene bulge, a cropped mesh tank that bared every ridge of abs and the heart tattoo, gold chains heavier and flashier than before. Purple lipstick reapplied itself with a glossy pop. Even the piercings sparkled anew.
Blitzo stretched, muscles popping, feeling like a god in designer sin. He took a bite of pancake, smirking around the fork. “Not bad, smoke slut. Keep this up and I might keep you forever.”
Stolas bowed his head, red eyes gleaming with submissive hunger. “As you command.”
Blitzo stood, towering, shredded, unstoppable. He grabbed the copper lamp from the nightstand—now polished to a wicked gleam—and tucked it inside his waistband against warm skin. Infinite wishes. Infinite power. Infinite fun.
He strode toward the door, boots crunching over shattered glass and sticky puddles, gold chains jingling like victory bells.
Time to show the world what a real god looked like.
He kicked the door open and stepped out into the hallway, ready to ruin someone’s day.
Blitzo tilted his head, violet eyes narrowing. “Okay, smoke daddy, let’s talk rules. What’s the catch? Can’t bring people back from the dead? No wishing for more wishes? Some bullshit like that?”
Stolas chuckled, low and theatrical, sliding closer until their thighs pressed together. One long, gold-clawed finger drifted to Blitzo’s left pec, circling the pierced nipple with deliberate slowness. The claw grazed the sensitive bud, tugging gently on the metal ring. Blitzo hissed through his teeth, cock twitching back to half-mast.
“Darling,” Stolas purred, voice dripping aristocratic honey, “there are no limitations. No petty mortal restrictions. No ‘cannot kill,’ no ‘cannot love,’ no tiresome ‘three-wish cap’ beyond the initial binding. I am Efreet-Ifrit royalty, forged in stellar fire. Reality bends like wet silk for me.” He pinched the nipple harder, rolling it between claw and thumb. “You may wish for galaxies to kneel, for time itself to crawl backward, for every cock in the world to ache for yours alone. Whatever your wicked little heart desires.”
Blitzo’s breath hitched, pleasure sparking down his spine, but annoyance flared hotter. “Fuck. So I just blew my first wish on muscles when I could’ve asked for—” He cut off, brain churning. Then his lips curled into a slow, sly, predator’s grin. He turned fully toward Stolas, violet eyes glinting with sudden malice. “Wait. If there’s really no limit… can I wish for an infinite number of wishes? Without it backfiring, without you twisting it to screw me over?”
Stolas threw his head back and laughed—deep, rolling, genuinely delighted. His silver-gray hair spilled across massive shoulders. “Oh, my delicious peacock. Yes. You may. And because you ask so prettily, I shall not twist it. No loopholes, no cruel fine print. Pure, endless power.” Red-slit eyes glowed brighter, pupils blown with lust and something dangerously close to adoration. “Make the wish.”
Blitzo leaned in until their noses brushed. “I wish for infinite wishes. As many as I want, whenever I want, no limits, no twists, no expiration. You serve me until I release you or the lamp is destroyed.”
Stolas snapped his fingers. A pulse of violet-black energy rolled through the room like thunder trapped in velvet. “Granted,” he intoned, voice echoing with ancient finality. “As long as you hold the lamp—or it remains in your possession—I am yours. Command me, my muscled master.”
Blitzo’s wicked cackle filled the dorm. Infinite wishes. Infinite power. So many evil, delicious things flashed through his mind—world domination, endless cash, turning every muscle-bound jock into his personal worshipper—but right now, sex drowned out everything else. His cock was already rock-hard again, thick and leaking.
“Perfect,” he growled. “First new wish: make my cum thick and sticky like warm custard. Loads of it. Every time.”
Stolas’s grin turned feral. “Done.”
Blitzo lunged.
They fucked like animals unleashed. Blitzo pinned Stolas face-down on the mattress, massive quads flexing as he drove in deep, hips snapping with brutal rhythm. The bedframe cracked on the third thrust. Stolas moaned theatrically, claws shredding sheets, begging in French and Latin between gasps. “Oui—plus fort—ruin me, mon dieu!”
Furniture toppled. The desk splintered when Blitzo bent Stolas over it. Mirrors cracked from thrown bodies. Walls dented. Cum—now custard-thick, opaque white, clinging in heavy ropes—splattered everywhere: ceiling, carpet, ruined couch, even the ceiling fan blades. Blitzo roared through his first orgasm, pulling out just enough to paint Stolas’s shredded back.
“SPLURGE!”
Another round, Stolas riding him reverse, lats flaring, ass clenching like a vice. Blitzo’s nails dug into ghostly hips, leaving red welts. “Fuck—take it all—”
“SPLUURGE!”
They rolled across the floor, knocking over lamps, bookshelves collapsing in avalanches of paper. Blitzo flipped Stolas onto his back, hooked those long legs over cannonball shoulders, and pounded mercilessly until the genie arched, forked tongue lolling, and Blitzo erupted again.
“SPLUUURGE!”
By the end the room looked like a war zone soaked in glaze—sticky white ropes dripping from every surface, pooling on the floor, stringing between broken furniture. They collapsed in the wreckage, chests heaving, bodies entwined.
Morning light filtered through cracked blinds.
Blitzo woke naked on the ruined mattress, every hypertrophied inch crusted with dried custard-cum. The room reeked of sex, ozone, and vanilla body oil. Stolas—equally bare, ghostly muscles gleaming—knelt beside him holding a silver platter piled with breakfast: fluffy pancakes dripping syrup, bacon crisp and perfect, fresh coffee steaming in a porcelain cup. A single red rose lay across the edge like an offering.
“Good morning, my lord,” Stolas murmured, voice soft and reverent. He set the platter on Blitzo’s lap, then raised both hands. Violet-black smoke swirled from his fingertips.
Magic washed over Blitzo in warm waves. Dried cum vanished, skin cleansed to a flawless bronze glow. Hair restyled itself into perfect purple spikes. Nails buffed to mirror shine. A fresh layer of shimmering oil slicked every muscle. Clothes materialized—skin-tight black vinyl pants that hugged his massive quads and obscene bulge, a cropped mesh tank that bared every ridge of abs and the heart tattoo, gold chains heavier and flashier than before. Purple lipstick reapplied itself with a glossy pop. Even the piercings sparkled anew.
Blitzo stretched, muscles popping, feeling like a god in designer sin. He took a bite of pancake, smirking around the fork. “Not bad, smoke slut. Keep this up and I might keep you forever.”
Stolas bowed his head, red eyes gleaming with submissive hunger. “As you command.”
Blitzo stood, towering, shredded, unstoppable. He grabbed the copper lamp from the nightstand—now polished to a wicked gleam—and tucked it inside his waistband against warm skin. Infinite wishes. Infinite power. Infinite fun.
He strode toward the door, boots crunching over shattered glass and sticky puddles, gold chains jingling like victory bells.
Time to show the world what a real god looked like.
He kicked the door open and stepped out into the hallway, ready to ruin someone’s day.
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June 13
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