Danny win
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 16
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny strode onto the stage with deliberate, predatory sensuality—each step a slow roll of hips and shoulders, bronze-painted muscles catching every spotlight like liquid metal. Power radiated from him in waves; smugness curled his full lips; narcissism lit his (disguised) blue eyes with cold fire; arrogance lifted his chin so high it seemed he was looking down on the entire planet. The metallic-gold posing trunks—number “8” glittering across the waistband—rode obscenely low on narrow hips, the pouch already straining visibly.
The audience—over a thousand strong—went dead silent for one heartbeat, then erupted into a collective gasp that bordered on religious awe. Phones flashed like strobe lights. The other competitors who trailed behind him might as well have been ghosts; their oiled, pumped bodies suddenly looked average, almost pitiful next to the 7'0" bronze colossus who now owned the stage.
Danny’s ego ballooned so fast it felt like his skin might split. His cock thickened rapidly inside the tiny gold pouch, the head pushing insistently against the fabric, outlining every vein. His nipples—already diamond-hard from the walk—thickened further, darkening to deep bronze points that tented forward. The stunned, lust-drunk stares from the crowd fucked every black corner of his soul. He had never felt this superior. Not when girls begged at his feet pre-meteorite. Not when he crushed drug dealers like insects. This was worship on a scale he’d only fantasized about.
“Number 8!” someone in the front row yelled, voice cracking. Phones zoomed in. Social media ignited instantly: cropped shots of his shoulders, close-ups of the vascularity snaking over his forearms, wide shots that made the other men look like children. Hashtags exploded—#WhoIsNumber8 #FreakShow #ImpossiblePhysique #SteroidKing or #GodWalksAmongUs—alongside frantic speculation: “That’s Danny Vos from Havenridge College… but how?” “No way that’s natural.” “Bro grew a foot and 200 lbs in a week???”
The announcer—voice trembling—called the mandatory poses.
Front double biceps. Danny planted his feet wide, fists clenched at his ears. Biceps erupted into twin peaks so high and peaked they cast shadows on his traps. Forearms looked carved from granite; veins like garden hoses snaked from wrists to delts. His lats flared so dramatically they pushed his arms outward at 45-degree angles.
Side chest. He pivoted, one arm bent across his torso, the other extended back. The pectoral shelf projected forward like armored plating; striations danced across the surface with every micro-flex. His oblique tie-in sliced so deep it looked photoshopped.
Back double biceps. He turned, spread his lats until they resembled wings. The Christmas-tree detail in his lower back was obscene—every serratus and spinal erector standing in razor relief. Traps rose to kiss his ears; hamstrings separated into individual cables.
Most muscular. He dropped into the crab pose, every muscle group exploding at once. Neck veins throbbed; delts ballooned over traps; abs crunched into an armored twelve-pack under the bronze sheen. Sweat—thick, rubbery, almost syrupy—poured off him in sheets, tracing every cut, pooling in the deep separations, dripping onto the stage in audible plops. Stagehands rushed forward with towels, slipping in the viscous puddles.
The other competitors kept stealing glances, their own poses faltering. Danny had casually drifted to dead center; they orbited him like lesser moons. Their sweat was thin and watery; his was heavy, sticky, leaving dark glossy trails down his thighs and calves.
Individual routines began.
Before his turn, Danny slipped backstage to a private bathroom. Door locked. He tore the gold pouch aside; his cock sprang free—already leaking. He braced one hand on the wall (cracking tile), gripped the base with the other, and stroked furiously. The orgasm he’d been holding back since morning erupted in thick, metallic-silver ropes—liters of it, splattering the toilet bowl, overflowing, running down porcelain in viscous streams. He moaned deep and guttural, head thrown back, bronze paint streaked with fresh sweat. “Fuck… yes…”
He cleaned up just enough, tucked himself away (still half-hard), and returned.
The announcer’s voice shook: “Contestant number 8… Danny Vos!”
The crowd detonated—cheers, screams, whistles. Phones stayed up.
Danny’s solo routine was pure, arrogant theater.
He chose a smug, bass-heavy trap remix—slow build, heavy 808s, lyrics dripping bravado. He moved like sex and violence fused: slow, rolling shoulder pops into explosive crab shots; hip thrusts that made the gold pouch bounce obscenely; deliberate turns that showcased every angle of his androgynous perfection. Sweat flew off him with each flex—thick droplets arcing through spotlights, splattering the front row. Stage crew mopped frantically between transitions, slipping in the glossy pools.
More photos flooded the internet. Close-ups of his face—recognizable yet impossibly enhanced—sparked frenzied threads: “That’s definitely Danny Vos but… holy shit.” “No way that’s the same guy.” “What the fuck did he do?”
When the scores were tallied, the result was never in doubt.
“First place… contestant number 8… Danny Vos!”
A tall, curvy brunette in a tight dress—smelling faintly of perfume and nervous sweat—approached with the medal and oversized trophy. Her eyes were glassy with awe. Danny bent low, cupped her face with one massive hand, and kissed her—deep, wet, dominant. Tongue invaded; she moaned into his mouth, thighs clenching, a small shudder rippling through her as she came untouched right there on stage. The crowd roared louder.
He pulled back, licked his lips, accepted the medal (draped around his thick neck) and trophy (held one-handed like it weighed nothing), and faced the audience. Arms spread wide. Sweat dripped steadily. He drank their adoration like wine—ego inflating to bursting.
Backstage he left a trail: handprints of sweat on walls, wet footprints on concrete. In the communal shower he stripped the ruined gold trunks off with a casual rip, cock swinging free. He flexed in the mirror—huge, veined, bronze-slick—snapped a full-body selfie: naked, glistening, medal gleaming between colossal pecs, trophy propped beside him.
Caption: “First place was never in question. The rest of you were just background noise. Keep seething, insects. #Undisputed #GodTier #YouNeverStoodAChance #BowToNumber8 #PerfectionHurtsYourFeelings”
He cranked the shower to scalding, grabbed industrial degreaser from under the sink, and attacked the thick, rubbery sweat with a rough-bristle brush. Layers sloughed off in dark orange rivulets; he scrubbed until his skin glowed again—milky-white beneath the fading tan.
Dried and dressed: tiny metallic-gold shorts that left nothing to imagination, skin-tight silver T-shirt stretched to tearing over his chest, flip-flops slapping against tile. He posed with the medal, trophy, and bouquet for another round of selfies—each one more smug than the last.
“Another flawless victory. Try harder next year. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. #StillTheKing #EternalNumberOne #YourHeroesAreMyWarmup”
Trophy under one arm, bouquet in the other, medal bouncing against his sternum, he prepared to leave.
As he leave...
1. Backstage, the other bodybuilders are colluding with Danny, claiming he's a cheater.
2. Danny is horny and he takes a number of girls home for an orgy.
The audience—over a thousand strong—went dead silent for one heartbeat, then erupted into a collective gasp that bordered on religious awe. Phones flashed like strobe lights. The other competitors who trailed behind him might as well have been ghosts; their oiled, pumped bodies suddenly looked average, almost pitiful next to the 7'0" bronze colossus who now owned the stage.
Danny’s ego ballooned so fast it felt like his skin might split. His cock thickened rapidly inside the tiny gold pouch, the head pushing insistently against the fabric, outlining every vein. His nipples—already diamond-hard from the walk—thickened further, darkening to deep bronze points that tented forward. The stunned, lust-drunk stares from the crowd fucked every black corner of his soul. He had never felt this superior. Not when girls begged at his feet pre-meteorite. Not when he crushed drug dealers like insects. This was worship on a scale he’d only fantasized about.
“Number 8!” someone in the front row yelled, voice cracking. Phones zoomed in. Social media ignited instantly: cropped shots of his shoulders, close-ups of the vascularity snaking over his forearms, wide shots that made the other men look like children. Hashtags exploded—#WhoIsNumber8 #FreakShow #ImpossiblePhysique #SteroidKing or #GodWalksAmongUs—alongside frantic speculation: “That’s Danny Vos from Havenridge College… but how?” “No way that’s natural.” “Bro grew a foot and 200 lbs in a week???”
The announcer—voice trembling—called the mandatory poses.
Front double biceps. Danny planted his feet wide, fists clenched at his ears. Biceps erupted into twin peaks so high and peaked they cast shadows on his traps. Forearms looked carved from granite; veins like garden hoses snaked from wrists to delts. His lats flared so dramatically they pushed his arms outward at 45-degree angles.
Side chest. He pivoted, one arm bent across his torso, the other extended back. The pectoral shelf projected forward like armored plating; striations danced across the surface with every micro-flex. His oblique tie-in sliced so deep it looked photoshopped.
Back double biceps. He turned, spread his lats until they resembled wings. The Christmas-tree detail in his lower back was obscene—every serratus and spinal erector standing in razor relief. Traps rose to kiss his ears; hamstrings separated into individual cables.
Most muscular. He dropped into the crab pose, every muscle group exploding at once. Neck veins throbbed; delts ballooned over traps; abs crunched into an armored twelve-pack under the bronze sheen. Sweat—thick, rubbery, almost syrupy—poured off him in sheets, tracing every cut, pooling in the deep separations, dripping onto the stage in audible plops. Stagehands rushed forward with towels, slipping in the viscous puddles.
The other competitors kept stealing glances, their own poses faltering. Danny had casually drifted to dead center; they orbited him like lesser moons. Their sweat was thin and watery; his was heavy, sticky, leaving dark glossy trails down his thighs and calves.
Individual routines began.
Before his turn, Danny slipped backstage to a private bathroom. Door locked. He tore the gold pouch aside; his cock sprang free—already leaking. He braced one hand on the wall (cracking tile), gripped the base with the other, and stroked furiously. The orgasm he’d been holding back since morning erupted in thick, metallic-silver ropes—liters of it, splattering the toilet bowl, overflowing, running down porcelain in viscous streams. He moaned deep and guttural, head thrown back, bronze paint streaked with fresh sweat. “Fuck… yes…”
He cleaned up just enough, tucked himself away (still half-hard), and returned.
The announcer’s voice shook: “Contestant number 8… Danny Vos!”
The crowd detonated—cheers, screams, whistles. Phones stayed up.
Danny’s solo routine was pure, arrogant theater.
He chose a smug, bass-heavy trap remix—slow build, heavy 808s, lyrics dripping bravado. He moved like sex and violence fused: slow, rolling shoulder pops into explosive crab shots; hip thrusts that made the gold pouch bounce obscenely; deliberate turns that showcased every angle of his androgynous perfection. Sweat flew off him with each flex—thick droplets arcing through spotlights, splattering the front row. Stage crew mopped frantically between transitions, slipping in the glossy pools.
More photos flooded the internet. Close-ups of his face—recognizable yet impossibly enhanced—sparked frenzied threads: “That’s definitely Danny Vos but… holy shit.” “No way that’s the same guy.” “What the fuck did he do?”
When the scores were tallied, the result was never in doubt.
“First place… contestant number 8… Danny Vos!”
A tall, curvy brunette in a tight dress—smelling faintly of perfume and nervous sweat—approached with the medal and oversized trophy. Her eyes were glassy with awe. Danny bent low, cupped her face with one massive hand, and kissed her—deep, wet, dominant. Tongue invaded; she moaned into his mouth, thighs clenching, a small shudder rippling through her as she came untouched right there on stage. The crowd roared louder.
He pulled back, licked his lips, accepted the medal (draped around his thick neck) and trophy (held one-handed like it weighed nothing), and faced the audience. Arms spread wide. Sweat dripped steadily. He drank their adoration like wine—ego inflating to bursting.
Backstage he left a trail: handprints of sweat on walls, wet footprints on concrete. In the communal shower he stripped the ruined gold trunks off with a casual rip, cock swinging free. He flexed in the mirror—huge, veined, bronze-slick—snapped a full-body selfie: naked, glistening, medal gleaming between colossal pecs, trophy propped beside him.
Caption: “First place was never in question. The rest of you were just background noise. Keep seething, insects. #Undisputed #GodTier #YouNeverStoodAChance #BowToNumber8 #PerfectionHurtsYourFeelings”
He cranked the shower to scalding, grabbed industrial degreaser from under the sink, and attacked the thick, rubbery sweat with a rough-bristle brush. Layers sloughed off in dark orange rivulets; he scrubbed until his skin glowed again—milky-white beneath the fading tan.
Dried and dressed: tiny metallic-gold shorts that left nothing to imagination, skin-tight silver T-shirt stretched to tearing over his chest, flip-flops slapping against tile. He posed with the medal, trophy, and bouquet for another round of selfies—each one more smug than the last.
“Another flawless victory. Try harder next year. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. #StillTheKing #EternalNumberOne #YourHeroesAreMyWarmup”
Trophy under one arm, bouquet in the other, medal bouncing against his sternum, he prepared to leave.
As he leave...
1. Backstage, the other bodybuilders are colluding with Danny, claiming he's a cheater.
2. Danny is horny and he takes a number of girls home for an orgy.
14 views
·
June 13
Log in to comment