The strip club
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 18
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Blitzo rose from the wreckage of the mattress like a god stepping off a battlefield altar. Sweat and thick, grease-like cum still clung to every ridge and valley of his hypertrophied body, making his bronze skin gleam under the dorm’s flickering bulb. He padded barefoot across the cum-slicked floor to the tall mirror bolted to the wall—a mirror now streaked and splattered with his own release like an abstract painting of conquest.
He lifted one massive palm and swept it across the glass in a slow, deliberate arc. The viscous white sludge parted under his touch, leaving a clear oval window in the center. There, framed perfectly between the deep V of his Adonis belt and the thick root of his cock, glowed the new golden tattoo: the ornate lamp, miniaturized and exquisite, its spout curving lovingly toward the main vein of his shaft, the body nestled like a crown jewel above his heavy balls.
Blitzo’s long, manicured purple nail traced the edges of the tattoo with reverent slowness—circling the filigree, dipping into the tiny shadowed hollows, feeling the warmth of his own skin pulse in time with the faint magical throb of the ink. A low, pleased rumble vibrated in his chest. “Mine,” he whispered. “Forever.”
Stolas rose fluidly behind him, silver hair spilling over ghostly shoulders. He dropped to his knees without being asked, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the backs of Blitzo’s massive calves, up the hamstrings, licking trails through the drying cum as he went. Each kiss was accompanied by a soft, poisonous murmur.
“You’ve always been this way, darling,” Stolas cooed, motherly and wicked at once. “Mean. Dominant. Greedy for every eye, every gasp, every trembling knee. The world was simply too small to notice before. Now it will have no choice.” His forked tongue dragged up the inside of one tree-trunk thigh, collecting a fat rope of custard. “Mmm. Delicious. Keep being cruel, my love. It suits you so beautifully.”
Blitzo’s cock twitched at the words, already thickening again. He did crave it all—cities kneeling, humanity collared, statues of himself taller than mountains—but the hunger right now was simpler, hungrier, more immediate.
“Fun first,” he decided aloud, still stroking the tattoo. “I’ve got eternity. Might as well enjoy the ride.”
He turned his head slightly, violet eyes glinting. “Remember that sleazy little strip club downtown? ‘Velvet Vice’? Used to do amateur nights there. Shook my ass for tips, let drunk businessmen and bored housewives grope me for extra twenties. Got off on making them beg, making them pay just to smell me. Tonight I go back… but this time they’re the ones who’ll be on their knees.”
Stolas hummed approval against Blitzo’s skin, licking another sticky trail from the curve of one massive glute. “Oh yes. Give them a performance they’ll never scrub out of their minds. Make them cry for you, darling. Make them *pay* to cry for you.”
Blitzo snapped his fingers. “Clean me. Dress me. Something sparkly. Something impossible to ignore.”
Violet-black smoke swirled. The cum, sweat, and grime vanished from his body in a warm rush. Skin left gleaming and oiled. Hair restyled into taller, glossier purple spikes that caught the light like amethyst. Nails lengthened slightly, lacquered the same glittering shade. Tight, metallic-purple pants materialized—low enough to show the golden lamp tattoo peeking above the waistband, tight enough to outline every vein and curve of his monstrous cock and glutes. A bright purple T-shirt stretched across his pecs and traps, sleeves already tearing at the seams from the sheer mass underneath.
Blitzo strode out of the apartment without looking back. “Slave,” he commanded casually, “a big, luxurious motorcycle. Now.”
Stolas snapped his golden claws with a delighted grin. “Anything for you, Master.”
A low growl answered from the hallway. A custom black-and-purple beast materialized—elongated chopper frame, chrome so bright it hurt to look at, engine the size of a small car, handlebars high and wide enough for Blitzo’s massive shoulders. The seat was upholstered in supple black leather that matched his skin tone.
Blitzo swung a leg over, settled his bulk, pulled on the matte-black helmet that appeared on the handlebars, and twisted the throttle.
The engine roared like a living thing.
He tore out of the campus lot at reckless speed, weaving through traffic with inhuman reflexes—sharp senses catching every pothole, every swerving car, every wide-eyed pedestrian before they even registered the danger. Wind screamed past. His purple hair whipped beneath the open-face helmet. The tattoo on his groin pulsed warmly against the leather seat with every vibration, a constant reminder of his power.
He pulled up behind Velvet Vice in a screech of tires, killed the engine, and swung off. The helmet came off; he shook out his perfect spikes with a casual toss of his head. Several dancers smoking at the back door froze mid-drag, eyes huge, cigarettes falling from slack lips as the seven-foot muscle-god in shimmering purple sauntered toward them.
Blitzo ducked under the low doorframe into the narrow hallway, shoulders scraping both walls, and pushed open the manager’s office door without knocking.
The owner—curvy blonde bombshell named Vanessa, mid-thirties, always in tight corsets and sky-high heels—looked up from her paperwork and choked on her coffee.
Blitzo bent low to fit through the doorway, then straightened to his full height, filling the tiny office like a storm cloud made of sex and menace. He crossed his arms under his pecs, making the T-shirt creak dangerously.
Vanessa blinked. “Holy… can I help you?”
Blitzo chuckled—low, derisive, dripping amusement. “You really don’t recognize me, Nessie? After all those nights I made your customers cream their jeans on stage?”
Her eyes widened further. Recognition hit like a slap. “Blitzo? No fucking way. You were… you were—”
“Small? Cute? Desperate?” He flexed one bicep slowly, the peak rising higher than her head, veins popping like cables under bronze skin. “Yeah. Then I started going to the gym.” His voice turned mocking. “A little.”
Vanessa swallowed hard, gaze darting from his face to the obscene bulge in the purple pants, then back up. “What… what do you want?”
Blitzo leaned one massive forearm against the doorframe, wood creaking under his weight. “I want the stage. Tonight. Full set. No questions. No cover charge for me. And you’re gonna comp me anything I want from the bar.”
She opened her mouth—then closed it. Something in his eyes—cold, amused, utterly certain—made refusal feel physically impossible.
Blitzo straightened, smirking. “Good girl. See you out there.”
He turned and ducked back into the hallway, already hearing the bass thump from the main floor.
Two possibilities waited inside.
1. Tonight was a massive bachelorette party—twenty screaming women in sashes and tiaras, half-drunk and horny, ready to lose their minds over a god-tier stripper.
2. Tonight was the club’s annual Pride blowout—rainbow lights, drag queens hosting, a packed house of every gender and orientation ready to worship beauty and dominance in equal measure.
Which night has Blitzo chosen to make legendary?
He lifted one massive palm and swept it across the glass in a slow, deliberate arc. The viscous white sludge parted under his touch, leaving a clear oval window in the center. There, framed perfectly between the deep V of his Adonis belt and the thick root of his cock, glowed the new golden tattoo: the ornate lamp, miniaturized and exquisite, its spout curving lovingly toward the main vein of his shaft, the body nestled like a crown jewel above his heavy balls.
Blitzo’s long, manicured purple nail traced the edges of the tattoo with reverent slowness—circling the filigree, dipping into the tiny shadowed hollows, feeling the warmth of his own skin pulse in time with the faint magical throb of the ink. A low, pleased rumble vibrated in his chest. “Mine,” he whispered. “Forever.”
Stolas rose fluidly behind him, silver hair spilling over ghostly shoulders. He dropped to his knees without being asked, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the backs of Blitzo’s massive calves, up the hamstrings, licking trails through the drying cum as he went. Each kiss was accompanied by a soft, poisonous murmur.
“You’ve always been this way, darling,” Stolas cooed, motherly and wicked at once. “Mean. Dominant. Greedy for every eye, every gasp, every trembling knee. The world was simply too small to notice before. Now it will have no choice.” His forked tongue dragged up the inside of one tree-trunk thigh, collecting a fat rope of custard. “Mmm. Delicious. Keep being cruel, my love. It suits you so beautifully.”
Blitzo’s cock twitched at the words, already thickening again. He did crave it all—cities kneeling, humanity collared, statues of himself taller than mountains—but the hunger right now was simpler, hungrier, more immediate.
“Fun first,” he decided aloud, still stroking the tattoo. “I’ve got eternity. Might as well enjoy the ride.”
He turned his head slightly, violet eyes glinting. “Remember that sleazy little strip club downtown? ‘Velvet Vice’? Used to do amateur nights there. Shook my ass for tips, let drunk businessmen and bored housewives grope me for extra twenties. Got off on making them beg, making them pay just to smell me. Tonight I go back… but this time they’re the ones who’ll be on their knees.”
Stolas hummed approval against Blitzo’s skin, licking another sticky trail from the curve of one massive glute. “Oh yes. Give them a performance they’ll never scrub out of their minds. Make them cry for you, darling. Make them *pay* to cry for you.”
Blitzo snapped his fingers. “Clean me. Dress me. Something sparkly. Something impossible to ignore.”
Violet-black smoke swirled. The cum, sweat, and grime vanished from his body in a warm rush. Skin left gleaming and oiled. Hair restyled into taller, glossier purple spikes that caught the light like amethyst. Nails lengthened slightly, lacquered the same glittering shade. Tight, metallic-purple pants materialized—low enough to show the golden lamp tattoo peeking above the waistband, tight enough to outline every vein and curve of his monstrous cock and glutes. A bright purple T-shirt stretched across his pecs and traps, sleeves already tearing at the seams from the sheer mass underneath.
Blitzo strode out of the apartment without looking back. “Slave,” he commanded casually, “a big, luxurious motorcycle. Now.”
Stolas snapped his golden claws with a delighted grin. “Anything for you, Master.”
A low growl answered from the hallway. A custom black-and-purple beast materialized—elongated chopper frame, chrome so bright it hurt to look at, engine the size of a small car, handlebars high and wide enough for Blitzo’s massive shoulders. The seat was upholstered in supple black leather that matched his skin tone.
Blitzo swung a leg over, settled his bulk, pulled on the matte-black helmet that appeared on the handlebars, and twisted the throttle.
The engine roared like a living thing.
He tore out of the campus lot at reckless speed, weaving through traffic with inhuman reflexes—sharp senses catching every pothole, every swerving car, every wide-eyed pedestrian before they even registered the danger. Wind screamed past. His purple hair whipped beneath the open-face helmet. The tattoo on his groin pulsed warmly against the leather seat with every vibration, a constant reminder of his power.
He pulled up behind Velvet Vice in a screech of tires, killed the engine, and swung off. The helmet came off; he shook out his perfect spikes with a casual toss of his head. Several dancers smoking at the back door froze mid-drag, eyes huge, cigarettes falling from slack lips as the seven-foot muscle-god in shimmering purple sauntered toward them.
Blitzo ducked under the low doorframe into the narrow hallway, shoulders scraping both walls, and pushed open the manager’s office door without knocking.
The owner—curvy blonde bombshell named Vanessa, mid-thirties, always in tight corsets and sky-high heels—looked up from her paperwork and choked on her coffee.
Blitzo bent low to fit through the doorway, then straightened to his full height, filling the tiny office like a storm cloud made of sex and menace. He crossed his arms under his pecs, making the T-shirt creak dangerously.
Vanessa blinked. “Holy… can I help you?”
Blitzo chuckled—low, derisive, dripping amusement. “You really don’t recognize me, Nessie? After all those nights I made your customers cream their jeans on stage?”
Her eyes widened further. Recognition hit like a slap. “Blitzo? No fucking way. You were… you were—”
“Small? Cute? Desperate?” He flexed one bicep slowly, the peak rising higher than her head, veins popping like cables under bronze skin. “Yeah. Then I started going to the gym.” His voice turned mocking. “A little.”
Vanessa swallowed hard, gaze darting from his face to the obscene bulge in the purple pants, then back up. “What… what do you want?”
Blitzo leaned one massive forearm against the doorframe, wood creaking under his weight. “I want the stage. Tonight. Full set. No questions. No cover charge for me. And you’re gonna comp me anything I want from the bar.”
She opened her mouth—then closed it. Something in his eyes—cold, amused, utterly certain—made refusal feel physically impossible.
Blitzo straightened, smirking. “Good girl. See you out there.”
He turned and ducked back into the hallway, already hearing the bass thump from the main floor.
Two possibilities waited inside.
1. Tonight was a massive bachelorette party—twenty screaming women in sashes and tiaras, half-drunk and horny, ready to lose their minds over a god-tier stripper.
2. Tonight was the club’s annual Pride blowout—rainbow lights, drag queens hosting, a packed house of every gender and orientation ready to worship beauty and dominance in equal measure.
Which night has Blitzo chosen to make legendary?
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June 13
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