Go to eat
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 12
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Blitzo stepped out of the shattered doorway into the bright afternoon sun, seven feet of pure, walking decadence. The ridiculously tight black tank top clung to him like wet latex, stretched so thin across his monstrous pecs that the hard, pierced nipples poked out like bullets, the gold earring clearly visible through the straining fabric. Every breath made the material creak dangerously close to tearing. Below, the tiny black shorts were in open revolt — his cock, already half-hard and monstrously thick, bulged obscenely forward, the twin gold piercings pressing visibly against the stretched material like lewd jewelry trying to escape. The shorts rode so high on his tree-trunk thighs that the bottom curve of his massive glutes peeked out with every sensual, hip-rolling step.
People on the sidewalk froze. A girl walking her dog dropped the leash. Two frat boys mid-conversation just… stopped, mouths hanging open. An older woman clutched her pearls so hard they might snap. Everyone stared at the towering, androgynous muscle-god strutting down the street like he owned gravity itself — bronze skin gleaming with oil, purple spiked hair bouncing, long manicured nails flashing, gold chains swinging between striated pecs. Whispers rippled. Phones came out. No one could look away.
Blitzo drank it in like fine wine. This was it. This was the dream he’d jerked off to for years — being the absolute center of the universe, a sensual, dominant, unstoppable creature that made everyone else feel small and pathetic just by existing. And now? He was free. Truly, deliciously free. One tiny wish and any consequences would vanish like smoke. No cops, no consequences, no one who could ever say no.
His stomach gave a loud, angry grrrrrrrumble.
He smirked, violet eyes narrowing as he spotted the little corner restaurant across the street — “Mama Rosa’s Italian” — the same greasy spoon where, just two months ago, the young owner in his early thirties had grabbed him by the collar and literally thrown him out after Blitzo tried to bolt without paying. The memory still stung.
Perfect.
Blitzo crossed the street in three long strides, flip-flops slapping the pavement. The front door was a standard single-width entrance. He didn’t even slow down. One massive shoulder lowered — CRASH — wood splintered, glass shattered, the metal frame bent outward like tinfoil as he forced his seven-foot, hyper-muscled frame through. The few lunchtime customers — maybe eight people — dropped their forks. Forks clattered. A child started crying.
Behind the counter, the owner — dark-haired, fit but normal-sized guy named Marco — looked up. His face went white. He recognized the sharp cheekbones, the violet eyes, the smug lavender-lipped grin… but the body? The body was impossible.
Blitzo loomed over the counter, casting a shadow that swallowed half the restaurant. He reached out with one long, glittering purple nail and placed it dead-center on Marco’s chest, pushing him backward until the man’s back hit the wall with a soft thud.
“Remember me, little man?” Blitzo purred, voice dripping contempt, smugness, and pure narcissistic glee. “Last time you tossed me out like yesterday’s trash. Today? I’m eating for free. And I’d *love* to see you try and stop me.” He flexed his right arm slowly, deliberately. The bicep erupted into a veined, striated peak bigger than Marco’s head, the tank top screaming in protest. “Go on. Call the cops. Call your mama. Call whoever the fuck you want. I dare you.”
Marco’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
Blitzo laughed — low, wicked — and turned to the nearest table. He barely fit; his massive thighs forced the chair to creak and tilt as he wedged himself in, knees hitting the underside so hard the table lifted an inch. “I’ll have four large pepperoni pizzas, extra cheese, two orders of garlic bread with extra butter, three triple cheeseburgers with bacon and onion rings on the side, two full racks of BBQ ribs, a family-size bucket of fried chicken, six chocolate milkshakes, and a whole apple pie à la mode. And make it fast, bitch-boy.”
Stolas materialized invisibly beside the table, lounging in mid-air like a decadent theater patron, red eyes sparkling. “Oh bravo, my lord! Look at their tiny little faces. They’re practically pissing themselves. Devour it all — make them watch a god eat like the gluttonous king you are. I do so love when you’re filthy.”
The food arrived in terrified waves. Blitzo ate like a starving beast — shoving entire slices into his mouth, grease dripping down his chin, tearing into ribs with his teeth, slurping milkshakes so fast the cups crumpled. He devoured four times what an average person could eat, chewing with vulgar, open-mouthed abandon, moaning obscenely around mouthfuls of cheese and meat. Yet his body stayed razor-sharp — every calorie burned instantly by the insane metabolism of a seven-foot hypertrophied god. Abs remained carved, pecs stayed shelf-like, cock still straining visibly against the shorts.
When the table was nothing but empty plates and sauce smears, Blitzo stood, wiped his mouth with the back of one massive forearm, and headed for the bathroom.
A skinny college kid was washing his hands inside. Blitzo simply grabbed the back of his shirt, lifted him one-handed, and tossed him gently into the hallway like a discarded toy. “Out.”
Door locked.
Alone, Blitzo looked down at the toilet and sinks with scorn. “Stolas,” he drawled, voice thick with arrogance, “my cum’s been especially thick and greasy lately. Hard as fuck to clean up. Make it worse. Like warm axle grease mixed with custard. I want this place ruined.”
Stolas giggled theatrically, clapping his claws. “Mmm, my filthy master — your wish is my delight. Consider it done.”
Blitzo yanked the tiny shorts down. His monstrous cock sprang free — thicker than a forearm, veined, pierced, already drooling. He wrapped one huge hand around it and stroked hard, fast, moaning deep in his chest as he aimed at the toilet and sinks.
The orgasm hit like a freight train.
“SPLURGE!” — the first blast was a solid rope of greasy, opaque white that splattered the toilet bowl and immediately began clogging the drain.
“SPLUURGE!” — thicker, heavier, like warm wax, flooding the sink and overflowing onto the floor in sticky puddles that refused to flow.
“SPLUUURGE!” — the final, longest eruption painted the mirror, the walls, the ceiling, thick globs sliding slowly downward, completely blocking both toilets and both sinks in viscous, custard-grease sludge.
Blitzo sighed in satisfaction, shook the last drops off his cock, and tucked the monster back into the ruined shorts. He unlocked the door and strolled out, flip-flops leaving greasy footprints.
Marco stood frozen behind the counter, face ashen, phone in hand but never dialed.
Blitzo snorted contemptuously, not even sparing him a glance. “Thanks for the free meal, bitch. Tell your mama I said hi.”
He kicked the already-broken door wider and stepped back into the sunlight, seven feet of smug, oiled, unstoppable perfection.
Now the real fun could begin!
1. Blitzo walks straight to the gym down the street, intending to humiliate and punish every bodybuilder who ever laughed at him or made him feel small.
2. The owner finally works up the courage to call the police, and Blitzo has to deal with them — with infinite wishes at his disposal.
People on the sidewalk froze. A girl walking her dog dropped the leash. Two frat boys mid-conversation just… stopped, mouths hanging open. An older woman clutched her pearls so hard they might snap. Everyone stared at the towering, androgynous muscle-god strutting down the street like he owned gravity itself — bronze skin gleaming with oil, purple spiked hair bouncing, long manicured nails flashing, gold chains swinging between striated pecs. Whispers rippled. Phones came out. No one could look away.
Blitzo drank it in like fine wine. This was it. This was the dream he’d jerked off to for years — being the absolute center of the universe, a sensual, dominant, unstoppable creature that made everyone else feel small and pathetic just by existing. And now? He was free. Truly, deliciously free. One tiny wish and any consequences would vanish like smoke. No cops, no consequences, no one who could ever say no.
His stomach gave a loud, angry grrrrrrrumble.
He smirked, violet eyes narrowing as he spotted the little corner restaurant across the street — “Mama Rosa’s Italian” — the same greasy spoon where, just two months ago, the young owner in his early thirties had grabbed him by the collar and literally thrown him out after Blitzo tried to bolt without paying. The memory still stung.
Perfect.
Blitzo crossed the street in three long strides, flip-flops slapping the pavement. The front door was a standard single-width entrance. He didn’t even slow down. One massive shoulder lowered — CRASH — wood splintered, glass shattered, the metal frame bent outward like tinfoil as he forced his seven-foot, hyper-muscled frame through. The few lunchtime customers — maybe eight people — dropped their forks. Forks clattered. A child started crying.
Behind the counter, the owner — dark-haired, fit but normal-sized guy named Marco — looked up. His face went white. He recognized the sharp cheekbones, the violet eyes, the smug lavender-lipped grin… but the body? The body was impossible.
Blitzo loomed over the counter, casting a shadow that swallowed half the restaurant. He reached out with one long, glittering purple nail and placed it dead-center on Marco’s chest, pushing him backward until the man’s back hit the wall with a soft thud.
“Remember me, little man?” Blitzo purred, voice dripping contempt, smugness, and pure narcissistic glee. “Last time you tossed me out like yesterday’s trash. Today? I’m eating for free. And I’d *love* to see you try and stop me.” He flexed his right arm slowly, deliberately. The bicep erupted into a veined, striated peak bigger than Marco’s head, the tank top screaming in protest. “Go on. Call the cops. Call your mama. Call whoever the fuck you want. I dare you.”
Marco’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. No sound came out.
Blitzo laughed — low, wicked — and turned to the nearest table. He barely fit; his massive thighs forced the chair to creak and tilt as he wedged himself in, knees hitting the underside so hard the table lifted an inch. “I’ll have four large pepperoni pizzas, extra cheese, two orders of garlic bread with extra butter, three triple cheeseburgers with bacon and onion rings on the side, two full racks of BBQ ribs, a family-size bucket of fried chicken, six chocolate milkshakes, and a whole apple pie à la mode. And make it fast, bitch-boy.”
Stolas materialized invisibly beside the table, lounging in mid-air like a decadent theater patron, red eyes sparkling. “Oh bravo, my lord! Look at their tiny little faces. They’re practically pissing themselves. Devour it all — make them watch a god eat like the gluttonous king you are. I do so love when you’re filthy.”
The food arrived in terrified waves. Blitzo ate like a starving beast — shoving entire slices into his mouth, grease dripping down his chin, tearing into ribs with his teeth, slurping milkshakes so fast the cups crumpled. He devoured four times what an average person could eat, chewing with vulgar, open-mouthed abandon, moaning obscenely around mouthfuls of cheese and meat. Yet his body stayed razor-sharp — every calorie burned instantly by the insane metabolism of a seven-foot hypertrophied god. Abs remained carved, pecs stayed shelf-like, cock still straining visibly against the shorts.
When the table was nothing but empty plates and sauce smears, Blitzo stood, wiped his mouth with the back of one massive forearm, and headed for the bathroom.
A skinny college kid was washing his hands inside. Blitzo simply grabbed the back of his shirt, lifted him one-handed, and tossed him gently into the hallway like a discarded toy. “Out.”
Door locked.
Alone, Blitzo looked down at the toilet and sinks with scorn. “Stolas,” he drawled, voice thick with arrogance, “my cum’s been especially thick and greasy lately. Hard as fuck to clean up. Make it worse. Like warm axle grease mixed with custard. I want this place ruined.”
Stolas giggled theatrically, clapping his claws. “Mmm, my filthy master — your wish is my delight. Consider it done.”
Blitzo yanked the tiny shorts down. His monstrous cock sprang free — thicker than a forearm, veined, pierced, already drooling. He wrapped one huge hand around it and stroked hard, fast, moaning deep in his chest as he aimed at the toilet and sinks.
The orgasm hit like a freight train.
“SPLURGE!” — the first blast was a solid rope of greasy, opaque white that splattered the toilet bowl and immediately began clogging the drain.
“SPLUURGE!” — thicker, heavier, like warm wax, flooding the sink and overflowing onto the floor in sticky puddles that refused to flow.
“SPLUUURGE!” — the final, longest eruption painted the mirror, the walls, the ceiling, thick globs sliding slowly downward, completely blocking both toilets and both sinks in viscous, custard-grease sludge.
Blitzo sighed in satisfaction, shook the last drops off his cock, and tucked the monster back into the ruined shorts. He unlocked the door and strolled out, flip-flops leaving greasy footprints.
Marco stood frozen behind the counter, face ashen, phone in hand but never dialed.
Blitzo snorted contemptuously, not even sparing him a glance. “Thanks for the free meal, bitch. Tell your mama I said hi.”
He kicked the already-broken door wider and stepped back into the sunlight, seven feet of smug, oiled, unstoppable perfection.
Now the real fun could begin!
1. Blitzo walks straight to the gym down the street, intending to humiliate and punish every bodybuilder who ever laughed at him or made him feel small.
2. The owner finally works up the courage to call the police, and Blitzo has to deal with them — with infinite wishes at his disposal.
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June 13
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