A muscular sexy wish
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 11
by
copier
· original author:
an188
He raised his right arm, flexing the big bicep hard. The muscle erupted into a veined, striated peak the size of a grapefruit, fibers dancing under oiled bronze skin. His thick, pierced cock—still slick from her cunt—twitched violently and began to swell, rising heavy and proud against his thigh, the gold ring glinting. “Mmm, yeah… look at that. Even my dick knows who’s in charge.”
His gaze drifted to the far end of the room. A tall, cracked full-length mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting the wreckage of their fuck-fest. Perfect.
He stalked over, bare feet crunching over shattered glass and cum-slicked floorboards, hips rolling with that same androgynous sway even in his current bulk.
Blitzo planted his feet wide in front of the mirror and began to flex. He started with a double bicep—arms curling up, peaks exploding higher, veins popping like cables. The tank top groaned. Seams creaked. Then—rrrrrip—the shoulder straps split with a sensual pop, fabric tearing downward in slow, ragged strips that peeled away from his swelling traps and delts like gift wrap being unwrapped by a predator. He rolled his shoulders; the back of the tank shredded down the middle, exposing the deep valley of his spine and flaring lats. The front gave way next—shrrrip—the thin material splitting between his pecs, the torn edges fluttering aside to reveal the full shelf of his chest, pierced nipples hard and begging for attention.
Lower, the shorts fared no better. As he hit a most-muscular pose, quads and glutes ballooning, the side seams burst open with wet-sounding tears, the fabric peeling off his massive thighs like banana skin. The crotch seam surrendered last—pop-pop-pop—ripping straight down the middle so his heavy cock and balls flopped free, swinging heavily between his legs, already leaking. In seconds he stood in nothing but the tattered waistband of the shorts clinging like a ruined thong, and the shredded remnants of the tank hanging off one shoulder like a defeated flag.
Stolas hovered just behind him, invisible to the world but all too real to Blitzo, forked tongue flicking as he drank in the sight. “Mmm, darling, those seams never stood a chance. Look at you—ripping couture like it’s tissue paper. I’d let you tear me apart just as prettily.”
Stolas drifted closer, pressed his ghostly-pale lips to the broad expanse of Blitzo’s back, and began planting wet, open-mouthed kisses along the thick ridges of muscle—slow, sloppy, tongue dragging trails of cool saliva over traps, down the lats, across the deep cuts of the lower back. Each kiss made a soft, obscene smack.
“Such a perfect canvas,” Stolas murmured between kisses, voice dripping aristocratic filth. “All that power just begging to be worshipped… or broken. I could spend eternity licking every striation, my lord.”
Blitzo stared at his reflection, pumping out pose after pose, but something nagged at the back of his mind. He flexed harder, turned sideways, tried to admire the V-taper, the sweep of his quads… but it wasn’t enough. The realization hit him like a freight train.
He wasn’t big enough.
Sure, he was huge now—shredded, vascular, sexy as hell—but he could name at least five roid-pumped meatheads at the gym down the street who still dwarfed him. That thought burned like acid in his gut.
He whirled on Stolas, violet eyes blazing with sudden rage and hunger. “Slave,” he snarled—the word alone made Stolas’s cock twitch visibly under his sarong and his red eyes flutter with submissive delight. “Make me bigger. Way bigger. More muscular. Stronger. Sexier. I want to be a fucking monster—seven feet of pure, unstoppable, androgynous perfection. Do it. Now.”
Stolas moaned theatrically, long and filthy, claws clutching at his own chest as if the command itself had made him cum. “Ohhh, my glorious master—calling me *slave* like that… it’s positively indecent. The pleasure is entirely mine.” He bowed low, then straightened with a wicked grin. “As you wish.”
He raised both clawed hands. Violet-black energy crackled between his palms and slammed into Blitzo’s chest like lightning wrapped in velvet.
The transformation hit like a drugged orgasm.
Blitzo’s spine lengthened first—bones cracking and stretching with wet, pleasurable pops as he shot upward to a towering seven feet. His head brushed the ceiling; the room suddenly felt like a dollhouse. Muscle followed in savage, euphoric waves.
Quads detonated outward, each thigh ballooning to the girth of a normal man’s waist, teardrop sweeps so thick they forced his stance wider. Hamstrings and glutes swelled into striated boulders, the ass rounding into two perfect, shelf-like globes that could crush steel. Calves diamonded into heart-shaped monstrosities.
His torso exploded next. Abs—already an eight-pack—deepened into ten armored ridges separated by deep, shadowed cuts, yet his pecs swelled so massively they began to overhang, making the lower abs hard to see even when flexed. Lats flared like wings, so wide they blocked the mirror’s edges. Shoulders capped into cannonballs the size of bowling balls, traps rising to swallow his neck. Arms—biceps alone now bigger than his old head—veins thick as fingers, forearms corded like ship ropes.
The androgynous beauty sharpened: his waist cinched even smaller into an impossible hourglass, hips subtly wider in that sensual, feminine way, creating a dramatic X-frame. Face remained sharp and pretty—high cheekbones, huge violet eyes, full lavender lips—but now framed by a longer, more graceful neck and wilder purple spikes. Long manicured nails gleamed as his hands grew larger, fingers still elegantly feminine. Skin stayed that deep bronze, now stretched drum-tight over the new mass, every vein and striation glistening with fresh oil.
Pleasure overwhelmed him. Blitzo moaned—deep, guttural, shameless—head thrown back, eyes rolling white, face flushing dark crimson. His tongue lolled out, long and wet, hanging from his open mouth as he drooled in ecstasy. “Fuuuuck—yes—more—!”
His cock, now proportionally monstrous, throbbed and erupted without being touched.
“SPLURGE!”
Thick, grease-like cum hosed from the tip in heavy, solid ropes, splattering the mirror and floor.
“SPLUURGE!”
Another gush—opaque, oily, almost waxy as it cooled—piling up in a large, glistening mound between his massive feet.
“SPLUUURGE!”
The final blast was the biggest, a solid jet that painted the wall and added another thick layer to the growing pile of custard-grease cum.
The transformation ended. Blitzo panted, towering at seven feet, muscles so hypertrophied they bordered on the edge of human possibility—solid, dense, impossibly powerful yet still sleek and sensual in their androgynous lines. His pecs were so huge he could barely see his own abs when he looked down; they formed a deep, shadowed shelf that blocked the view. Every breath made the room feel smaller.
He flexed—slow, deliberate, megalomaniacal. Biceps peaked higher than ever, traps swallowing his ears, chest bouncing with obscene weight. A deep, evil laugh rolled out of him, echoing off the walls like thunder.
“Fuuuuck yes! Look at this! I’m a goddamn masterpiece. Those steroid-pumped gym monkeys down the street? Pathetic little balloons. They’ll look like shriveled raisins next to me. Pump all the shit you want, boys—still gonna be my bitches.”
Stolas drifted forward, red eyes worshipful, claws gently caressing the new expanse of muscle—tracing the deep cuts of the serratus, squeezing a pec so massive it overflowed his palm, sliding down the impossible V-taper to cup the heavy cock. “Mmm, such glorious, obscene perfection, my lord. These peaks could make mountains jealous… and I’d happily let them crush me between them. Every vein is a roadmap to sin. Every striation begs to be licked. You’ve outdone the gods themselves, you wicked, beautiful tyrant.”
Stolas snapped his fingers again.
Magic shimmered over Blitzo’s naked, cum-slick form. A fresh black tank top—two sizes too small even for his old body—materialized, stretched to the absolute limit across his titanic chest, the fabric so tight it was practically painted on, nipples clearly outlined, hem riding up to expose the bottom of his monstrous abs. Tiny black shorts appeared, barely more than compression underwear, the legs riding high on his tree-trunk thighs, the waistband fighting for its life around his flared glutes and the root of his massive cock. His feet were now clad in simple black flip-flops that somehow looked both ridiculous and arrogantly perfect on a seven-foot god.
Blitzo admired himself one last time in the mirror, turning slowly, chains and piercings glinting. He smirked—pure, smug, world-ending arrogance—then grabbed Stolas by the silver hair, yanked him close, and planted a deep, wet, filthy kiss on the genie’s gold-painted lips. Tongues tangled, saliva stretched in thick ropes when he finally pulled back.
Without another word he turned, lowered one massive shoulder, and charged the door.
*CRASH!*
The wooden frame exploded outward in a shower of splinters. Blitzo stepped through the wreckage into the hallway like a conquering warlord, seven feet of muscle, attitude, and pure evil.
What does Blitzo do next?
1. Head straight to the gym down the street to show off his new god-body and take delicious revenge on every roid-head who ever made him feel small.
2. Feel the sudden, gnawing hunger of a seven-foot muscle monster and stroll into the nearest restaurant, using his sheer intimidating size to eat everything in sight for free.
His gaze drifted to the far end of the room. A tall, cracked full-length mirror leaned against the wall, reflecting the wreckage of their fuck-fest. Perfect.
He stalked over, bare feet crunching over shattered glass and cum-slicked floorboards, hips rolling with that same androgynous sway even in his current bulk.
Blitzo planted his feet wide in front of the mirror and began to flex. He started with a double bicep—arms curling up, peaks exploding higher, veins popping like cables. The tank top groaned. Seams creaked. Then—rrrrrip—the shoulder straps split with a sensual pop, fabric tearing downward in slow, ragged strips that peeled away from his swelling traps and delts like gift wrap being unwrapped by a predator. He rolled his shoulders; the back of the tank shredded down the middle, exposing the deep valley of his spine and flaring lats. The front gave way next—shrrrip—the thin material splitting between his pecs, the torn edges fluttering aside to reveal the full shelf of his chest, pierced nipples hard and begging for attention.
Lower, the shorts fared no better. As he hit a most-muscular pose, quads and glutes ballooning, the side seams burst open with wet-sounding tears, the fabric peeling off his massive thighs like banana skin. The crotch seam surrendered last—pop-pop-pop—ripping straight down the middle so his heavy cock and balls flopped free, swinging heavily between his legs, already leaking. In seconds he stood in nothing but the tattered waistband of the shorts clinging like a ruined thong, and the shredded remnants of the tank hanging off one shoulder like a defeated flag.
Stolas hovered just behind him, invisible to the world but all too real to Blitzo, forked tongue flicking as he drank in the sight. “Mmm, darling, those seams never stood a chance. Look at you—ripping couture like it’s tissue paper. I’d let you tear me apart just as prettily.”
Stolas drifted closer, pressed his ghostly-pale lips to the broad expanse of Blitzo’s back, and began planting wet, open-mouthed kisses along the thick ridges of muscle—slow, sloppy, tongue dragging trails of cool saliva over traps, down the lats, across the deep cuts of the lower back. Each kiss made a soft, obscene smack.
“Such a perfect canvas,” Stolas murmured between kisses, voice dripping aristocratic filth. “All that power just begging to be worshipped… or broken. I could spend eternity licking every striation, my lord.”
Blitzo stared at his reflection, pumping out pose after pose, but something nagged at the back of his mind. He flexed harder, turned sideways, tried to admire the V-taper, the sweep of his quads… but it wasn’t enough. The realization hit him like a freight train.
He wasn’t big enough.
Sure, he was huge now—shredded, vascular, sexy as hell—but he could name at least five roid-pumped meatheads at the gym down the street who still dwarfed him. That thought burned like acid in his gut.
He whirled on Stolas, violet eyes blazing with sudden rage and hunger. “Slave,” he snarled—the word alone made Stolas’s cock twitch visibly under his sarong and his red eyes flutter with submissive delight. “Make me bigger. Way bigger. More muscular. Stronger. Sexier. I want to be a fucking monster—seven feet of pure, unstoppable, androgynous perfection. Do it. Now.”
Stolas moaned theatrically, long and filthy, claws clutching at his own chest as if the command itself had made him cum. “Ohhh, my glorious master—calling me *slave* like that… it’s positively indecent. The pleasure is entirely mine.” He bowed low, then straightened with a wicked grin. “As you wish.”
He raised both clawed hands. Violet-black energy crackled between his palms and slammed into Blitzo’s chest like lightning wrapped in velvet.
The transformation hit like a drugged orgasm.
Blitzo’s spine lengthened first—bones cracking and stretching with wet, pleasurable pops as he shot upward to a towering seven feet. His head brushed the ceiling; the room suddenly felt like a dollhouse. Muscle followed in savage, euphoric waves.
Quads detonated outward, each thigh ballooning to the girth of a normal man’s waist, teardrop sweeps so thick they forced his stance wider. Hamstrings and glutes swelled into striated boulders, the ass rounding into two perfect, shelf-like globes that could crush steel. Calves diamonded into heart-shaped monstrosities.
His torso exploded next. Abs—already an eight-pack—deepened into ten armored ridges separated by deep, shadowed cuts, yet his pecs swelled so massively they began to overhang, making the lower abs hard to see even when flexed. Lats flared like wings, so wide they blocked the mirror’s edges. Shoulders capped into cannonballs the size of bowling balls, traps rising to swallow his neck. Arms—biceps alone now bigger than his old head—veins thick as fingers, forearms corded like ship ropes.
The androgynous beauty sharpened: his waist cinched even smaller into an impossible hourglass, hips subtly wider in that sensual, feminine way, creating a dramatic X-frame. Face remained sharp and pretty—high cheekbones, huge violet eyes, full lavender lips—but now framed by a longer, more graceful neck and wilder purple spikes. Long manicured nails gleamed as his hands grew larger, fingers still elegantly feminine. Skin stayed that deep bronze, now stretched drum-tight over the new mass, every vein and striation glistening with fresh oil.
Pleasure overwhelmed him. Blitzo moaned—deep, guttural, shameless—head thrown back, eyes rolling white, face flushing dark crimson. His tongue lolled out, long and wet, hanging from his open mouth as he drooled in ecstasy. “Fuuuuck—yes—more—!”
His cock, now proportionally monstrous, throbbed and erupted without being touched.
“SPLURGE!”
Thick, grease-like cum hosed from the tip in heavy, solid ropes, splattering the mirror and floor.
“SPLUURGE!”
Another gush—opaque, oily, almost waxy as it cooled—piling up in a large, glistening mound between his massive feet.
“SPLUUURGE!”
The final blast was the biggest, a solid jet that painted the wall and added another thick layer to the growing pile of custard-grease cum.
The transformation ended. Blitzo panted, towering at seven feet, muscles so hypertrophied they bordered on the edge of human possibility—solid, dense, impossibly powerful yet still sleek and sensual in their androgynous lines. His pecs were so huge he could barely see his own abs when he looked down; they formed a deep, shadowed shelf that blocked the view. Every breath made the room feel smaller.
He flexed—slow, deliberate, megalomaniacal. Biceps peaked higher than ever, traps swallowing his ears, chest bouncing with obscene weight. A deep, evil laugh rolled out of him, echoing off the walls like thunder.
“Fuuuuck yes! Look at this! I’m a goddamn masterpiece. Those steroid-pumped gym monkeys down the street? Pathetic little balloons. They’ll look like shriveled raisins next to me. Pump all the shit you want, boys—still gonna be my bitches.”
Stolas drifted forward, red eyes worshipful, claws gently caressing the new expanse of muscle—tracing the deep cuts of the serratus, squeezing a pec so massive it overflowed his palm, sliding down the impossible V-taper to cup the heavy cock. “Mmm, such glorious, obscene perfection, my lord. These peaks could make mountains jealous… and I’d happily let them crush me between them. Every vein is a roadmap to sin. Every striation begs to be licked. You’ve outdone the gods themselves, you wicked, beautiful tyrant.”
Stolas snapped his fingers again.
Magic shimmered over Blitzo’s naked, cum-slick form. A fresh black tank top—two sizes too small even for his old body—materialized, stretched to the absolute limit across his titanic chest, the fabric so tight it was practically painted on, nipples clearly outlined, hem riding up to expose the bottom of his monstrous abs. Tiny black shorts appeared, barely more than compression underwear, the legs riding high on his tree-trunk thighs, the waistband fighting for its life around his flared glutes and the root of his massive cock. His feet were now clad in simple black flip-flops that somehow looked both ridiculous and arrogantly perfect on a seven-foot god.
Blitzo admired himself one last time in the mirror, turning slowly, chains and piercings glinting. He smirked—pure, smug, world-ending arrogance—then grabbed Stolas by the silver hair, yanked him close, and planted a deep, wet, filthy kiss on the genie’s gold-painted lips. Tongues tangled, saliva stretched in thick ropes when he finally pulled back.
Without another word he turned, lowered one massive shoulder, and charged the door.
*CRASH!*
The wooden frame exploded outward in a shower of splinters. Blitzo stepped through the wreckage into the hallway like a conquering warlord, seven feet of muscle, attitude, and pure evil.
What does Blitzo do next?
1. Head straight to the gym down the street to show off his new god-body and take delicious revenge on every roid-head who ever made him feel small.
2. Feel the sudden, gnawing hunger of a seven-foot muscle monster and stroll into the nearest restaurant, using his sheer intimidating size to eat everything in sight for free.
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June 13
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