Attack them
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 15
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Blitzo’s violet eyes burned with raw, unfiltered hunger as thick, oily drops of cum began leaking from the tip of his monstrous cock, soaking through the already ruined black shorts and running in glossy trails down his tree-trunk thighs. His pierced nipples were diamond-hard, chest heaving. He licked his lips brutally, tongue dragging slow and wet across the lavender gloss, leaving a shiny trail.
He could do anything.
No one could stop him.
No laws, no consequences, no pathetic little humans with their rules and their fear. The realization hit like the best orgasm of his life — pure freedom, pure power.
Stolas pressed in close, invisible to all but his master, and licked Blitzo’s ear in a slow, teasing, filthy manner — long forked tongue sliding wetly along the shell, then pushing deep inside the canal with a wet, squelching thrust. “Mmm, Master… no more holding back,” he whispered, voice dripping aristocratic venom and lust. “Unleash it all. Destroy them. Break them. Fuck the world if you want. I’ll cheer every delicious second.”
Blitzo moaned — deep, guttural, pure malice vibrating in his chest. “Fuck it.”
He flexed.
Every muscle detonated at once. Traps swallowed his neck, pecs ballooned outward, lats flared like wings, quads and glutes exploding with power. The tiny black shorts and what was left of the underwear beneath them *shredded* with a wet RRRRRIP, fabric exploding off his body in tattered scraps that fluttered to the floor. He stood completely naked in the middle of the gym — seven feet of hyper-vascular, rock-solid, androgynous perfection, cock swinging heavy and leaking, gold piercings glinting, long purple nails flexing at his sides.
The four bodybuilders stared in naked terror.
Blitzo smirked, smug beyond measure, and spread his arms wide, giving them the full show — slow, sensual flex after flex, muscles rolling and striating like living marble. “Recognize the face yet, boys? It’s me. Little Blitzo. The twink you used to laugh at. The one you beat up in the showers for peeking. The one you called a desperate cock-hungry fag while you flexed your sad little steroid balloons.” He laughed, low and wicked. “Surprise, bitches. I wished for everything. And now I’m going to *take* everything — starting with your dignity, your bones, and every last ounce of pride you pathetic meat puppets still think you have.”
Derek’s mouth opened and closed. “N-no fucking way… that’s impossible—”
Blitzo didn’t wait.
He exploded forward in a blur of perfect martial mastery and punched Derek square in the solar plexus. The 315-pound bodybuilder folded in half like cheap cardboard, air exploding from his lungs in a wet whuff, feet lifting clean off the ground before he crashed onto his back, gasping like a landed fish.
The gym erupted into screams.
Two of the others — Jax and Rico — bolted for the emergency exit. The last one, huge but trembling Tyler, dropped to his knees, hands up. “Please, man — we didn’t know — we’re sorry — please don’t—”
Blitzo’s black heart sang at the groveling. He felt *nothing* but delicious contempt. No empathy. No mercy. Just pure, throbbing joy.
He moved like a hurricane of violence.
Jax almost reached the door. Blitzo caught him by the ankle mid-sprint, yanked him back, and slammed him face-first into a treadmill. The machine crumpled like tin foil. Blitzo flipped him over and rained precise Krav Maga strikes — elbows, knees, open-palm heel strikes — each one calculated to hurt maximally without killing too quickly. Jax screamed until his voice broke.
Rico tried to hide behind a weight rack. Blitzo simply grabbed the entire rack (600 pounds of iron), lifted it one-handed, and brought it down on Rico’s back like a hammer. Bones crunched. Rico howled.
Tyler was still begging on his knees. Blitzo grabbed him by the throat, lifted him effortlessly, and used him as a living club — swinging the 300-pound man into mirrors, cable machines, and benches. Glass exploded. Metal bent. Tyler’s screams turned to wet gurgles.
Stolas had changed outfits for the occasion — now dressed like the sluttiest cheerleader imaginable: tiny gold-and-purple pleated skirt that barely covered his ghostly ass, cropped top stretched across his massive pecs, pom-poms in each clawed hand, silver hair in high pigtails. He bounced in mid-air, shaking the pom-poms with exaggerated theatrical flair.
“Gimme a B! Gimme an L! Gimme an I-T-Z-O! What’s that spell? DESTRUCTION! Yaaaaay Master! Crush them harder! Make it hurt so pretty! Goooo Blitzo!”
Blitzo laughed — megalomaniacal, childish, toothy — and kept going.
He uprooted a 1,000-pound leg press machine like it was a plastic toy, bent the steel frame into a pretzel around Derek’s unconscious body, then used the twisted metal as a bat to swat Jax across the room. He tore support columns out of the floor with bare hands — concrete cracking, rebar screaming — and hurled them through walls like javelins. Entire sections of ceiling collapsed in dusty avalanches. The building groaned and shuddered.
His cock stayed rock-hard the entire time, spewing thick ropes of custard-grease cum in sympathetic bursts every time he destroyed something beautiful.
“SPLURGE!” — across a row of dumbbells, turning them into a sticky, slippery hazard.
“SPLUURGE!” — painting the shattered mirrors in glossy white.
“SPLUUURGE!” — hosing down the collapsed roof beams as he ripped them free.
Stolas cheered louder, pom-poms shaking, forked tongue lolling. “Yes yes yes! Break it all, my beautiful monster! Look at that column go — boom! You’re so strong, Master! So nasty! So perfect! More! More! Make the whole street feel it!”
Blitzo finally grabbed the last standing structural pillar — thick concrete and steel — wrapped both massive arms around it, and pulled. Veins bulged. Muscles erupted. The entire building gave a death-rattle groan.
With a final, savage roar he tore the pillar free and hurled it through the front wall like a spear.
The gym collapsed behind him in a thunderous roar of dust, brick, and twisted metal.
Blitzo stepped out through the fresh hole he’d made, naked, gleaming with sweat and cum, still rock-hard, breathing easy like he’d taken a pleasant stroll.
The dust settled.
He looked around.
Option 1: The street was completely empty. Cars abandoned mid-turn, shop doors swinging open, people having fled the sudden earthquake-like destruction. Sirens wailed in the far distance, but for now… silence. Just him, the rubble, and an entire city that suddenly felt very, very small.
Option 2: Security guards and police cruisers were already waiting in a tense semicircle, guns drawn, tasers out, officers shouting orders. “On the ground! Hands behind your head! Don’t move!” Lights flashed. A helicopter thumped overhead. They had no idea they were pointing weapons at a god who could wish them all into red paste with a single thought.
Blitzo’s smug, cum-smeared grin widened.
What happens next?
He could do anything.
No one could stop him.
No laws, no consequences, no pathetic little humans with their rules and their fear. The realization hit like the best orgasm of his life — pure freedom, pure power.
Stolas pressed in close, invisible to all but his master, and licked Blitzo’s ear in a slow, teasing, filthy manner — long forked tongue sliding wetly along the shell, then pushing deep inside the canal with a wet, squelching thrust. “Mmm, Master… no more holding back,” he whispered, voice dripping aristocratic venom and lust. “Unleash it all. Destroy them. Break them. Fuck the world if you want. I’ll cheer every delicious second.”
Blitzo moaned — deep, guttural, pure malice vibrating in his chest. “Fuck it.”
He flexed.
Every muscle detonated at once. Traps swallowed his neck, pecs ballooned outward, lats flared like wings, quads and glutes exploding with power. The tiny black shorts and what was left of the underwear beneath them *shredded* with a wet RRRRRIP, fabric exploding off his body in tattered scraps that fluttered to the floor. He stood completely naked in the middle of the gym — seven feet of hyper-vascular, rock-solid, androgynous perfection, cock swinging heavy and leaking, gold piercings glinting, long purple nails flexing at his sides.
The four bodybuilders stared in naked terror.
Blitzo smirked, smug beyond measure, and spread his arms wide, giving them the full show — slow, sensual flex after flex, muscles rolling and striating like living marble. “Recognize the face yet, boys? It’s me. Little Blitzo. The twink you used to laugh at. The one you beat up in the showers for peeking. The one you called a desperate cock-hungry fag while you flexed your sad little steroid balloons.” He laughed, low and wicked. “Surprise, bitches. I wished for everything. And now I’m going to *take* everything — starting with your dignity, your bones, and every last ounce of pride you pathetic meat puppets still think you have.”
Derek’s mouth opened and closed. “N-no fucking way… that’s impossible—”
Blitzo didn’t wait.
He exploded forward in a blur of perfect martial mastery and punched Derek square in the solar plexus. The 315-pound bodybuilder folded in half like cheap cardboard, air exploding from his lungs in a wet whuff, feet lifting clean off the ground before he crashed onto his back, gasping like a landed fish.
The gym erupted into screams.
Two of the others — Jax and Rico — bolted for the emergency exit. The last one, huge but trembling Tyler, dropped to his knees, hands up. “Please, man — we didn’t know — we’re sorry — please don’t—”
Blitzo’s black heart sang at the groveling. He felt *nothing* but delicious contempt. No empathy. No mercy. Just pure, throbbing joy.
He moved like a hurricane of violence.
Jax almost reached the door. Blitzo caught him by the ankle mid-sprint, yanked him back, and slammed him face-first into a treadmill. The machine crumpled like tin foil. Blitzo flipped him over and rained precise Krav Maga strikes — elbows, knees, open-palm heel strikes — each one calculated to hurt maximally without killing too quickly. Jax screamed until his voice broke.
Rico tried to hide behind a weight rack. Blitzo simply grabbed the entire rack (600 pounds of iron), lifted it one-handed, and brought it down on Rico’s back like a hammer. Bones crunched. Rico howled.
Tyler was still begging on his knees. Blitzo grabbed him by the throat, lifted him effortlessly, and used him as a living club — swinging the 300-pound man into mirrors, cable machines, and benches. Glass exploded. Metal bent. Tyler’s screams turned to wet gurgles.
Stolas had changed outfits for the occasion — now dressed like the sluttiest cheerleader imaginable: tiny gold-and-purple pleated skirt that barely covered his ghostly ass, cropped top stretched across his massive pecs, pom-poms in each clawed hand, silver hair in high pigtails. He bounced in mid-air, shaking the pom-poms with exaggerated theatrical flair.
“Gimme a B! Gimme an L! Gimme an I-T-Z-O! What’s that spell? DESTRUCTION! Yaaaaay Master! Crush them harder! Make it hurt so pretty! Goooo Blitzo!”
Blitzo laughed — megalomaniacal, childish, toothy — and kept going.
He uprooted a 1,000-pound leg press machine like it was a plastic toy, bent the steel frame into a pretzel around Derek’s unconscious body, then used the twisted metal as a bat to swat Jax across the room. He tore support columns out of the floor with bare hands — concrete cracking, rebar screaming — and hurled them through walls like javelins. Entire sections of ceiling collapsed in dusty avalanches. The building groaned and shuddered.
His cock stayed rock-hard the entire time, spewing thick ropes of custard-grease cum in sympathetic bursts every time he destroyed something beautiful.
“SPLURGE!” — across a row of dumbbells, turning them into a sticky, slippery hazard.
“SPLUURGE!” — painting the shattered mirrors in glossy white.
“SPLUUURGE!” — hosing down the collapsed roof beams as he ripped them free.
Stolas cheered louder, pom-poms shaking, forked tongue lolling. “Yes yes yes! Break it all, my beautiful monster! Look at that column go — boom! You’re so strong, Master! So nasty! So perfect! More! More! Make the whole street feel it!”
Blitzo finally grabbed the last standing structural pillar — thick concrete and steel — wrapped both massive arms around it, and pulled. Veins bulged. Muscles erupted. The entire building gave a death-rattle groan.
With a final, savage roar he tore the pillar free and hurled it through the front wall like a spear.
The gym collapsed behind him in a thunderous roar of dust, brick, and twisted metal.
Blitzo stepped out through the fresh hole he’d made, naked, gleaming with sweat and cum, still rock-hard, breathing easy like he’d taken a pleasant stroll.
The dust settled.
He looked around.
Option 1: The street was completely empty. Cars abandoned mid-turn, shop doors swinging open, people having fled the sudden earthquake-like destruction. Sirens wailed in the far distance, but for now… silence. Just him, the rubble, and an entire city that suddenly felt very, very small.
Option 2: Security guards and police cruisers were already waiting in a tense semicircle, guns drawn, tasers out, officers shouting orders. “On the ground! Hands behind your head! Don’t move!” Lights flashed. A helicopter thumped overhead. They had no idea they were pointing weapons at a god who could wish them all into red paste with a single thought.
Blitzo’s smug, cum-smeared grin widened.
What happens next?
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June 13
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