A month pass
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 21
by
copier
· original author:
an188
A month had passed since Danny’s coronation on the bodybuilding stage, and the ripple had become a local tsunami.
Celebrity Fitness—once a mid-tier chain of glossy gyms—was now his. He’d bought it outright using the first wave of sponsorship money and a few creative accounting maneuvers Crystal “suggested” (read: executed while staring at him like he was the Second Coming). The gyms still bore the old logo on the outside, but inside every mirror now carried a discreet “Curated by Danny Vos” plaque. Memberships tripled in the first three weeks. Women signed up just to glimpse him during rare, choreographed “guest appearances.” Men paid premium fees to train in the same space he supposedly used—even though the private gym he’d built in his apartment remained untouched except for photo ops.
He wasn’t globally famous yet. The internet had only begun to wake up to his existence. #Number8 trended regionally. Fan edits of his stage routine racked up low-six-figure views. Thirst tweets multiplied daily. But the really big checks hadn’t started clearing. That didn’t bother him. Money was fuel, not the destination. The destination was still the same: the kneeling of every human being on the planet beneath his feet. Everything else—contracts, cameras, crowds—was scaffolding.
Crystal had been busy. Billboards along the Havenridge ring road now featured him in gold posing trunks, sweat cascading down bronze-painted pecs, one arm flexed so the bicep peak looked photoshopped. Online ads for pre-workout powders showed him mid-crab shot, veins like lightning, caption reading: “Unleash the beast. Or just look like one. —Danny Vos.” Social-media posts were carefully curated: him in silver shorts with energy-drink logos, gold briefs with activewear brands, always half-naked, always glistening. Blue contacts stayed in. Hair “dyed” metallic gold became his signature look. The full extent of the transformation remained hidden behind plausible deniability.
Every time he left the apartment a small swarm materialized—mostly girls, phones up, voices high and breathless. “Danny! One flex, please!” “Sign my phone case!” “Are you single?” The attention was oxygen; he drank it like fine whiskey. But it also itched. He was supposed to be a “dedicated athlete.” That meant visible gym time, visible discipline, visible broccoli-and-chicken-breast meals. Fast food runs became covert ops—hood up, back entrances, burner delivery accounts. The private apartment gym was for Instagram only: carefully staged deadlifts, sweat applied with a spray bottle, grunts overdubbed later.
The publicity went straight to his already swollen head and metastasized. Women were no longer people to him; they were categories: beautiful ornaments, eager sex toys, obedient maids. He spoke to them in a lazy 1950s drawl laced with 21st-century venom—always from a great height, always assuming they existed to serve. Lesbians, he explained to anyone who’d listen (and many who didn’t), simply hadn’t met a real man yet. Give him five minutes alone with one and she’d be begging for cock like all the rest. Empathy? That was for humans. He wasn’t one anymore.
Crystal had fallen hardest.
What started as professional representation had curdled into acquisitive, physical addiction within days of the first contract signing. She called him “Daddy” in private, sent him nudes at 3 a.m. marked “for approval,” scheduled her entire life around his whims. They weren’t “officially” dating—he refused labels—but she was his satellite, orbiting, desperate for the next touch, the next promise of more. He fed her just enough affection to keep her hooked, enough cruelty to remind her who owned the leash. He dropped hints about being “more than human,” watched her pupils dilate with religious awe, then fucked her until she sobbed his name like a prayer. She was being reshaped—slowly, deliberately—into the perfect lieutenant: loyal, vicious when aimed, blind to everything but him.
One Tuesday morning in early April his phone lit up while he was still milking the last drops into the toilet bowl.
“Splurge.”
He flushed, washed his hands, answered on speaker.
“Daddy!” Crystal’s voice was sugar-high, little-girl breathy—the register he’d trained her to use. “Good morning, my big strong prince! Did you sleep like a king? Are you ready for your surprise today? It’s gonna be sooo big!”
Danny smirked at his reflection. “I remember, kitten. Photos at the studio. You gonna tell me what for, or do I have to spank it out of you?”
She giggled—high, helpless. “It’s a surprise! But wear the gold shorts. And maybe… no shirt? Pretty please?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.” He ended the call, stepped into the shower, cranked the water to scalding. Steam billowed. He soaped slowly, fingers tracing abs that hadn’t seen a real rep in weeks, cock already stirring again at the thought of cameras.
Out. Towel-dried. Selfie time.
He stood in the bathroom doorway, one arm raised to grip the frame (bicep ballooning), the other holding a tub of sponsored pre-workout powder in front of his groin—artfully blocking the goods while implying everything. Sweat from the hot shower still gleamed on his skin.
Caption:
“Another day of being objectively superior while the rest of you peasants lift your sad little weights and dream of touching this. Ladies, keep simping. Boys, keep crying. Nature made one of me and billions of you—guess who’s the prototype? #GodWalking #YourGirlfriendIsNext #Number8Nation #BetaMalesStayInTheComments #RealMenDontWearShirts”
Hashtags continued in descending order of cruelty.
He opened the fridge, pulled out an entire cream cake (chocolate ganache, purchased under a fake name last night) and two jugs of cream-thickened coffee. Ate half the cake standing up, drank one jug like it was water. Clothes next.
He stared at the closet with genuine disgust. Silver shorts. Gold tank. Hoodie for the walk. Every layer felt like a prison sentence.
He’d started posting about nudism two weeks earlier—long, pseudo-philosophical screeds about “the liberation of the divine form,” “the tyranny of textile shame,” “how fabric insults perfection.” The posts went viral among certain corners of the internet. He almost believed his own propaganda.
Sighing like a martyr, he dressed. Tight gold shorts. Tighter silver tank. Flip-flops. Backpack with spares. Cream-cake crumbs still on his lips.
Outside: three paparazzi already waiting. Flashes popped. He smiled—slow, predatory—flexed one bicep for them without breaking stride. “Get the good side, boys. It’s all good sides, but try.”
The Uber pulled up. Same driver for weeks now: curvy, long brown hair, glasses, permanent scowl. Feminist bumper stickers on the dash. Rainbow flag pin on her visor. She hated him. She wanted him. The tension was delicious.
He folded his 7'0" frame into the back seat—knees against the front seats, shoulders touching both windows. “Morning, sunshine. Miss me?”
She glared in the rearview. “Just drive, Vos.”
He leaned forward, voice velvet. “You say that, but your pulse jumped thirty beats when I got in. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. You’re dying to know what a real man feels like.”
“I’m a lesbian.”
“Mm. And I’m a god. One of us is about to be proven wrong.”
She gripped the wheel tighter. He launched into a rambling, pseudo-philosophical monologue—his “male aesthetic superiority theory,” a baroque mixture of evo-psych nonsense, Greek idealism, and pure narcissism. Halfway through his voice suddenly pitched high and cutting:
“—and frankly, darling, the clitoris is just a vestigial apology from evolution for not giving women a proper cock. Yours truly is the correction fluid.”
He stopped. Blinked. “The fuck did I just say?”
The driver snorted despite herself. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re wet,” he replied calmly. “I can smell it.”
She said nothing for the rest of the ride.
When they reached Crystal’s studio he leaned forward, lips near her ear. “Wait for me. We’ll go back to my place for dinner. I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”
She stifled a moan. He felt her thighs clench.
Crystal was waiting outside—tight white dress, red lipstick, eyes already glassy. She threw herself at him the second he stepped out. Deep kiss. Tongue. Hands everywhere. Paparazzi flashed like lightning.
Danny let her cling for a moment, then peeled her off with one hand. “Easy, kitten. Save some for the camera.”
She pouted—childish, perfect. “Come inside. The surprise is ready.”
He followed, already hard, already plotting the next move.
Crystal’s surprise:
1. Crystal arranged for him to appear in a television commercial.
2. Crystal arranged for him to appear as a model for a fitness catalog.
Celebrity Fitness—once a mid-tier chain of glossy gyms—was now his. He’d bought it outright using the first wave of sponsorship money and a few creative accounting maneuvers Crystal “suggested” (read: executed while staring at him like he was the Second Coming). The gyms still bore the old logo on the outside, but inside every mirror now carried a discreet “Curated by Danny Vos” plaque. Memberships tripled in the first three weeks. Women signed up just to glimpse him during rare, choreographed “guest appearances.” Men paid premium fees to train in the same space he supposedly used—even though the private gym he’d built in his apartment remained untouched except for photo ops.
He wasn’t globally famous yet. The internet had only begun to wake up to his existence. #Number8 trended regionally. Fan edits of his stage routine racked up low-six-figure views. Thirst tweets multiplied daily. But the really big checks hadn’t started clearing. That didn’t bother him. Money was fuel, not the destination. The destination was still the same: the kneeling of every human being on the planet beneath his feet. Everything else—contracts, cameras, crowds—was scaffolding.
Crystal had been busy. Billboards along the Havenridge ring road now featured him in gold posing trunks, sweat cascading down bronze-painted pecs, one arm flexed so the bicep peak looked photoshopped. Online ads for pre-workout powders showed him mid-crab shot, veins like lightning, caption reading: “Unleash the beast. Or just look like one. —Danny Vos.” Social-media posts were carefully curated: him in silver shorts with energy-drink logos, gold briefs with activewear brands, always half-naked, always glistening. Blue contacts stayed in. Hair “dyed” metallic gold became his signature look. The full extent of the transformation remained hidden behind plausible deniability.
Every time he left the apartment a small swarm materialized—mostly girls, phones up, voices high and breathless. “Danny! One flex, please!” “Sign my phone case!” “Are you single?” The attention was oxygen; he drank it like fine whiskey. But it also itched. He was supposed to be a “dedicated athlete.” That meant visible gym time, visible discipline, visible broccoli-and-chicken-breast meals. Fast food runs became covert ops—hood up, back entrances, burner delivery accounts. The private apartment gym was for Instagram only: carefully staged deadlifts, sweat applied with a spray bottle, grunts overdubbed later.
The publicity went straight to his already swollen head and metastasized. Women were no longer people to him; they were categories: beautiful ornaments, eager sex toys, obedient maids. He spoke to them in a lazy 1950s drawl laced with 21st-century venom—always from a great height, always assuming they existed to serve. Lesbians, he explained to anyone who’d listen (and many who didn’t), simply hadn’t met a real man yet. Give him five minutes alone with one and she’d be begging for cock like all the rest. Empathy? That was for humans. He wasn’t one anymore.
Crystal had fallen hardest.
What started as professional representation had curdled into acquisitive, physical addiction within days of the first contract signing. She called him “Daddy” in private, sent him nudes at 3 a.m. marked “for approval,” scheduled her entire life around his whims. They weren’t “officially” dating—he refused labels—but she was his satellite, orbiting, desperate for the next touch, the next promise of more. He fed her just enough affection to keep her hooked, enough cruelty to remind her who owned the leash. He dropped hints about being “more than human,” watched her pupils dilate with religious awe, then fucked her until she sobbed his name like a prayer. She was being reshaped—slowly, deliberately—into the perfect lieutenant: loyal, vicious when aimed, blind to everything but him.
One Tuesday morning in early April his phone lit up while he was still milking the last drops into the toilet bowl.
“Splurge.”
He flushed, washed his hands, answered on speaker.
“Daddy!” Crystal’s voice was sugar-high, little-girl breathy—the register he’d trained her to use. “Good morning, my big strong prince! Did you sleep like a king? Are you ready for your surprise today? It’s gonna be sooo big!”
Danny smirked at his reflection. “I remember, kitten. Photos at the studio. You gonna tell me what for, or do I have to spank it out of you?”
She giggled—high, helpless. “It’s a surprise! But wear the gold shorts. And maybe… no shirt? Pretty please?”
“Only because you asked so nicely.” He ended the call, stepped into the shower, cranked the water to scalding. Steam billowed. He soaped slowly, fingers tracing abs that hadn’t seen a real rep in weeks, cock already stirring again at the thought of cameras.
Out. Towel-dried. Selfie time.
He stood in the bathroom doorway, one arm raised to grip the frame (bicep ballooning), the other holding a tub of sponsored pre-workout powder in front of his groin—artfully blocking the goods while implying everything. Sweat from the hot shower still gleamed on his skin.
Caption:
“Another day of being objectively superior while the rest of you peasants lift your sad little weights and dream of touching this. Ladies, keep simping. Boys, keep crying. Nature made one of me and billions of you—guess who’s the prototype? #GodWalking #YourGirlfriendIsNext #Number8Nation #BetaMalesStayInTheComments #RealMenDontWearShirts”
Hashtags continued in descending order of cruelty.
He opened the fridge, pulled out an entire cream cake (chocolate ganache, purchased under a fake name last night) and two jugs of cream-thickened coffee. Ate half the cake standing up, drank one jug like it was water. Clothes next.
He stared at the closet with genuine disgust. Silver shorts. Gold tank. Hoodie for the walk. Every layer felt like a prison sentence.
He’d started posting about nudism two weeks earlier—long, pseudo-philosophical screeds about “the liberation of the divine form,” “the tyranny of textile shame,” “how fabric insults perfection.” The posts went viral among certain corners of the internet. He almost believed his own propaganda.
Sighing like a martyr, he dressed. Tight gold shorts. Tighter silver tank. Flip-flops. Backpack with spares. Cream-cake crumbs still on his lips.
Outside: three paparazzi already waiting. Flashes popped. He smiled—slow, predatory—flexed one bicep for them without breaking stride. “Get the good side, boys. It’s all good sides, but try.”
The Uber pulled up. Same driver for weeks now: curvy, long brown hair, glasses, permanent scowl. Feminist bumper stickers on the dash. Rainbow flag pin on her visor. She hated him. She wanted him. The tension was delicious.
He folded his 7'0" frame into the back seat—knees against the front seats, shoulders touching both windows. “Morning, sunshine. Miss me?”
She glared in the rearview. “Just drive, Vos.”
He leaned forward, voice velvet. “You say that, but your pulse jumped thirty beats when I got in. Don’t lie to yourself, sweetheart. You’re dying to know what a real man feels like.”
“I’m a lesbian.”
“Mm. And I’m a god. One of us is about to be proven wrong.”
She gripped the wheel tighter. He launched into a rambling, pseudo-philosophical monologue—his “male aesthetic superiority theory,” a baroque mixture of evo-psych nonsense, Greek idealism, and pure narcissism. Halfway through his voice suddenly pitched high and cutting:
“—and frankly, darling, the clitoris is just a vestigial apology from evolution for not giving women a proper cock. Yours truly is the correction fluid.”
He stopped. Blinked. “The fuck did I just say?”
The driver snorted despite herself. “You’re disgusting.”
“And you’re wet,” he replied calmly. “I can smell it.”
She said nothing for the rest of the ride.
When they reached Crystal’s studio he leaned forward, lips near her ear. “Wait for me. We’ll go back to my place for dinner. I’ll show you what you’ve been missing.”
She stifled a moan. He felt her thighs clench.
Crystal was waiting outside—tight white dress, red lipstick, eyes already glassy. She threw herself at him the second he stepped out. Deep kiss. Tongue. Hands everywhere. Paparazzi flashed like lightning.
Danny let her cling for a moment, then peeled her off with one hand. “Easy, kitten. Save some for the camera.”
She pouted—childish, perfect. “Come inside. The surprise is ready.”
He followed, already hard, already plotting the next move.
Crystal’s surprise:
1. Crystal arranged for him to appear in a television commercial.
2. Crystal arranged for him to appear as a model for a fitness catalog.
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June 13
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