Morning
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 18
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny woke to the faint stench of stale sex, rubbery sweat, and his own metallic cum still clinging to furniture like obscene modern art. The three valley girls lay sprawled across the living-room floor—limp, mascara-streaked, dresses in tatters—breathing shallowly in post-orgasmic collapse.
He stood, stretched luxuriously, cock swinging heavy between tree-trunk thighs. “Rise and shine, princesses. Daddy’s done playing.”
He nudged the nearest one with a bare foot—gentle enough not to snap ribs, cruel enough to make her whimper. “Out. Now. You’ve served your purpose. Don’t make me carry you to the curb like yesterday’s trash.”
They scrambled up, dazed and wobbly, gathering shredded clothes. One tried a pouty “But last night you said—”
Danny cut her off with a high-pitched, razor-sharp giggle that startled even him. “Oh honey, last night I said a lot of things. Mostly lies to keep your little mouths busy. Now shoo—your Uber’s probably already circling the drain.” He blinked, surprised at his own phrasing, then shrugged. Weird. Hot. Whatever.
The door slammed behind them. Silence returned.
Danny surveyed the carnage: silver webs draped over couch arms, expanding blobs still slowly inflating around chair legs, acidic patches eating lazy holes in carpet. He smirked. “My interior decorator is going to hate me.”
He grabbed a heavy-duty garbage bag from under the sink, planted his feet wide, and spun.
Golden tornado erupted—air howling, furniture sliding neatly back into place, every droplet and rope of cum sucked into the vortex like reverse rain. In seconds the living room was pristine again: couch upright, carpet mostly intact, only faint silver stains remaining like abstract expressionism.
The tornado died. Danny stood center-room holding one bulging black garbage bag, now sloshing with several liters of his own thick, sticky essence. He tied it off with a flourish and set it by the door like a trophy. “Souvenir for the landfill. Or maybe I’ll keep it. Vintage Danny ’26.”
Bathroom next. He gripped his cock—already half-hard from the power trip—aimed carefully into the bowl, and stroked with clinical efficiency. No mess, no theatrics. Just release.
“Splurge.”
A single, controlled jet—thick, metallic, almost custard-like—filled the water. He milked himself to the last drop, shook once, flushed. Done.
Shower followed. He cranked the handle to maximum heat; steam billowed instantly. Water hit skin at scalding temperature—hot enough to blister a normal human in seconds. Danny sighed in pleasure, soaping slowly, deliberately. Long fingers traced every ridge of eight-pack, every vein on forearms, every separation in quads. He checked himself meticulously: no residual hardness, no leaking pre-cum. Fully drained. For now.
Out. Towel-dried in three rough swipes. Kitchen raid: he devoured leftover steak, cold pizza slices, an entire tub of protein ice cream—spoon unnecessary—then dressed.
Tight silver shorts that rode high on powerful glutes and outlined every inch of his package. Gold compression T-shirt stretched to translucency across pecs and nipples. Flip-flops. Small backpack slung over one shoulder—change of identical clothes inside.
Selfie: full-body mirror shot, trophy from last night propped beside him, medal glinting between slabs of chest. Caption:
Morning, peasants. Off to collect my tribute. Try not to drool on your keyboards while you scroll. Some of us have empires to build. #GodAmongRoaches #YourWivesAreNext #Number8Forever #CryHarder
Posted. Notifications detonated before he even locked the door.
The convention center expo floor was already buzzing when he arrived. The moment he stepped through the glass doors every head turned. Phones rose like a forest of tiny obelisks. Whispers became murmurs became outright shouts.
Danny walked like a peacock in heat—chest out, hips rolling, smirk permanent. Girls swarmed first—twenty, thirty, then more—giggling, breathless, begging.
“Number 8! Please flex for us!”
“Just one bicep—pretty please?”
“Can I… can I touch?”
He stopped, planted feet wide, raised one arm and popped the bicep. Peak rose like a mountain; veins throbbed under silver fabric. Screams. Several women clutched each other to stay upright.
He signed autographs on posters, forearms, cleavage—each signature huge, theatrical, looping dramatically across skin or paper. “Make sure you spell my name right when you’re moaning it later,” he purred to one trembling blonde.
Booth to booth he prowled, agents scrambling. “Danny Vos. Yes, the one who ruined the open class last night. Start your bidding war now—I don’t do patience.”
He climbed onto a small demo stage with three other bodybuilders—mid-tier pros trying to shill protein. They posed. Danny over-posed. Then he gripped the hem of his gold T-shirt and ripped it off in one violent motion.
Fabric tore like wet paper. Bronze-tan muscles exploded under convention lights. The crowd noise hit decibel levels usually reserved for rock concerts. Women in the front row swayed; one actually fainted into her friend’s arms. Hundreds of phones recorded.
His cock surged instantly—thickening visibly against silver shorts, head outlined clearly. Superiority flooded him like heroin. He was a god among ants and they knew it.
He excused himself—casual wave to the crowd—ducked into a bathroom stall, locked the door. Shorts shoved down. Hand wrapped around shaft. Fast. Brutal. Efficient.
“Splurge.”
Silver cum jetted into the bowl—controlled, contained, flushed immediately. He shook, tucked, washed hands, exited whistling.
A female bodybuilder—tall, olive-skinned, competition-ready in a sports bra and booty shorts—blocked his path. She licked glossy lips, voice husky. “You’re not leaving yet, are you? Bathroom’s right there… quick pump before the next round?”
Danny’s cock jumped again—traitorous, eager. But his mind was colder now. Contracts first. Conquest later.
He stepped close, cupped her chin, kissed her—deep, wet, dominant. Tongue claimed her mouth; she moaned, thighs clenching. He pulled back just as her knees buckled.
“Later, sweetheart. I’m busy collecting checks right now.” He patted her cheek. “Maybe if you’re very good I’ll let you polish the trophy.”
He sauntered away, leaving her trembling against the wall.
As he walk...
1. A man approaches him, offers him a big contract to be the house model for a company that makes nutritional supplements.
2. A sexy girl approaches him and offers him a big contract to be a fashion and fitness model.
He stood, stretched luxuriously, cock swinging heavy between tree-trunk thighs. “Rise and shine, princesses. Daddy’s done playing.”
He nudged the nearest one with a bare foot—gentle enough not to snap ribs, cruel enough to make her whimper. “Out. Now. You’ve served your purpose. Don’t make me carry you to the curb like yesterday’s trash.”
They scrambled up, dazed and wobbly, gathering shredded clothes. One tried a pouty “But last night you said—”
Danny cut her off with a high-pitched, razor-sharp giggle that startled even him. “Oh honey, last night I said a lot of things. Mostly lies to keep your little mouths busy. Now shoo—your Uber’s probably already circling the drain.” He blinked, surprised at his own phrasing, then shrugged. Weird. Hot. Whatever.
The door slammed behind them. Silence returned.
Danny surveyed the carnage: silver webs draped over couch arms, expanding blobs still slowly inflating around chair legs, acidic patches eating lazy holes in carpet. He smirked. “My interior decorator is going to hate me.”
He grabbed a heavy-duty garbage bag from under the sink, planted his feet wide, and spun.
Golden tornado erupted—air howling, furniture sliding neatly back into place, every droplet and rope of cum sucked into the vortex like reverse rain. In seconds the living room was pristine again: couch upright, carpet mostly intact, only faint silver stains remaining like abstract expressionism.
The tornado died. Danny stood center-room holding one bulging black garbage bag, now sloshing with several liters of his own thick, sticky essence. He tied it off with a flourish and set it by the door like a trophy. “Souvenir for the landfill. Or maybe I’ll keep it. Vintage Danny ’26.”
Bathroom next. He gripped his cock—already half-hard from the power trip—aimed carefully into the bowl, and stroked with clinical efficiency. No mess, no theatrics. Just release.
“Splurge.”
A single, controlled jet—thick, metallic, almost custard-like—filled the water. He milked himself to the last drop, shook once, flushed. Done.
Shower followed. He cranked the handle to maximum heat; steam billowed instantly. Water hit skin at scalding temperature—hot enough to blister a normal human in seconds. Danny sighed in pleasure, soaping slowly, deliberately. Long fingers traced every ridge of eight-pack, every vein on forearms, every separation in quads. He checked himself meticulously: no residual hardness, no leaking pre-cum. Fully drained. For now.
Out. Towel-dried in three rough swipes. Kitchen raid: he devoured leftover steak, cold pizza slices, an entire tub of protein ice cream—spoon unnecessary—then dressed.
Tight silver shorts that rode high on powerful glutes and outlined every inch of his package. Gold compression T-shirt stretched to translucency across pecs and nipples. Flip-flops. Small backpack slung over one shoulder—change of identical clothes inside.
Selfie: full-body mirror shot, trophy from last night propped beside him, medal glinting between slabs of chest. Caption:
Morning, peasants. Off to collect my tribute. Try not to drool on your keyboards while you scroll. Some of us have empires to build. #GodAmongRoaches #YourWivesAreNext #Number8Forever #CryHarder
Posted. Notifications detonated before he even locked the door.
The convention center expo floor was already buzzing when he arrived. The moment he stepped through the glass doors every head turned. Phones rose like a forest of tiny obelisks. Whispers became murmurs became outright shouts.
Danny walked like a peacock in heat—chest out, hips rolling, smirk permanent. Girls swarmed first—twenty, thirty, then more—giggling, breathless, begging.
“Number 8! Please flex for us!”
“Just one bicep—pretty please?”
“Can I… can I touch?”
He stopped, planted feet wide, raised one arm and popped the bicep. Peak rose like a mountain; veins throbbed under silver fabric. Screams. Several women clutched each other to stay upright.
He signed autographs on posters, forearms, cleavage—each signature huge, theatrical, looping dramatically across skin or paper. “Make sure you spell my name right when you’re moaning it later,” he purred to one trembling blonde.
Booth to booth he prowled, agents scrambling. “Danny Vos. Yes, the one who ruined the open class last night. Start your bidding war now—I don’t do patience.”
He climbed onto a small demo stage with three other bodybuilders—mid-tier pros trying to shill protein. They posed. Danny over-posed. Then he gripped the hem of his gold T-shirt and ripped it off in one violent motion.
Fabric tore like wet paper. Bronze-tan muscles exploded under convention lights. The crowd noise hit decibel levels usually reserved for rock concerts. Women in the front row swayed; one actually fainted into her friend’s arms. Hundreds of phones recorded.
His cock surged instantly—thickening visibly against silver shorts, head outlined clearly. Superiority flooded him like heroin. He was a god among ants and they knew it.
He excused himself—casual wave to the crowd—ducked into a bathroom stall, locked the door. Shorts shoved down. Hand wrapped around shaft. Fast. Brutal. Efficient.
“Splurge.”
Silver cum jetted into the bowl—controlled, contained, flushed immediately. He shook, tucked, washed hands, exited whistling.
A female bodybuilder—tall, olive-skinned, competition-ready in a sports bra and booty shorts—blocked his path. She licked glossy lips, voice husky. “You’re not leaving yet, are you? Bathroom’s right there… quick pump before the next round?”
Danny’s cock jumped again—traitorous, eager. But his mind was colder now. Contracts first. Conquest later.
He stepped close, cupped her chin, kissed her—deep, wet, dominant. Tongue claimed her mouth; she moaned, thighs clenching. He pulled back just as her knees buckled.
“Later, sweetheart. I’m busy collecting checks right now.” He patted her cheek. “Maybe if you’re very good I’ll let you polish the trophy.”
He sauntered away, leaving her trembling against the wall.
As he walk...
1. A man approaches him, offers him a big contract to be the house model for a company that makes nutritional supplements.
2. A sexy girl approaches him and offers him a big contract to be a fashion and fitness model.
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·
June 13
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