TV commercial
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 22
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Danny lounged naked on the studio couch, one leg draped over the armrest, cock resting heavy against his thigh like it owned the room. Crystal burst in wearing a tiny white dress that hugged every curve she’d been sculpting just for him. She clapped her hands like a little girl on Christmas morning.
“Daddy! Guess what your perfect little Crystal did for you?” Her voice was all sugar and helium. “I got you into television commercials! Real ones! Fitness and health products—big brand! They want YOU!”
Danny’s smug grin widened. He reached out, cupped her ass possessively, and squeezed hard enough to make her squeak. “Good girl. Knew you’d be useful for something besides warming my bed.” He gave the cheek another proprietary pat. “Now show me that tight little body while you tell me the rest.”
They walked into the main studio. Crystal leaned close, whispering, “The director’s an independent feminist. Short hair, no makeup, hates men like you on sight. Be… careful?”
Danny’s golden eyes (still hidden behind blue contacts) flicked ahead. The woman striding toward them—Bamith, mid-thirties, severe ponytail, clipboard like a shield—radiated cold professionalism. But his super senses caught everything: racing pulse, dilated pupils locked on his long, manicured nails and the soft androgynous lines of his face. She wanted him. Badly. The feminist armor was paper-thin.
Bamith stopped, offered a stiff handshake. “Mr. Vos. I’m Bamith. Director. Let’s keep this professional.”
Danny took her hand, lifted it, and kissed the knuckles with theatrical tenderness. “Professional? Darling, I’m always professional… at making women forget their principles.”
Bamith’s cheeks flushed. “This is for a major fitness supplement line. You wear tight black underwear with our logo, bare torso, bare feet. Simple gym movements, then finish with a powerful, smug bicep flex. That’s it.”
Danny’s voice suddenly shot up an octave, razor-sharp and absurdly eloquent. “Oh, how delightfully quaint—demanding I flex for the camera while pretending my very existence isn’t already the ultimate advertisement for superior male aesthetics. One might almost call it ironic, given that your little feminist fortress is already crumbling at the sight of a real man’s nails.”
He blinked. Bamith blinked. Crystal blinked.
Danny cleared his throat, returning to his normal smug baritone. “…Anyway, I’ll do it.”
Bamith swallowed. “Fine. Just… behave.”
In the dressing room Danny turned full sexist predator. The makeup artist (cute brunette) got her ass groped while he demanded “extra shine on these lips so the boys at home know what real lips look like.” The dresser (blonde) had her tits “accidentally” brushed while he complained that “real women should be on their knees adjusting my package, not standing there like scared little mice.” The refreshment girl nearly dropped her tray when he told her, “Sweetheart, the only thing you should be serving is this cock after the shoot.”
Crystal had to beg Bamith twice not to cancel. “He’s worth it. Please.”
Finally Danny emerged wearing nothing but the tiny black logo underwear. He snapped selfies—mirror shots, flexing, sweat already beading—and posted:
“Another day of letting peasants watch perfection sweat for their amusement. Ladies, keep dreaming. Boys, keep crying into your protein shakes. Real men don’t hide what they were born to dominate. #Number8Rules #YourWifeIsNext #FeministsNeedRealCockToo #GodDoesntWearPants”
Hashtags continued in vicious, condescending glory.
Filming began.
Danny stalked onto the set like he owned the gym. Cameras rolled from every angle. He moved with sensual arrogance—slow bench presses that made his pecs balloon, cable pulls that turned his lats into wings, squats that made the underwear ride dangerously high. Crew sprayed water across his torso to fake sweat; the droplets raced down every cut like liquid diamonds. All the while he thought only one thing: how delicious it would be to break Bamith, to make that proud feminist beg.
Final shot: he dropped into the most muscular pose, bicep peaked to obscene height, smug grin locked on camera.
“Cut!” Bamith yelled, voice hoarse.
Danny sauntered back to the dressing room, groped the refreshment girl one last time, signed a few autographs on cleavage, then dressed in silver shorts and gold tank. Another round of selfies:
Crystal ran up, threw her arms around him, kissed him deep. “This is huge, Daddy! National exposure! Your face on TV every night!”
Outside, evening was falling, streetlights flickering on. Danny’s cock was already stirring again at the thought of the driver waiting in the Uber.
Who Danny chooses?
1. Danny forgets about the director and approaches the driver, intending to make her his.
2. Danny approaches the director and tries to seduce her.
“Daddy! Guess what your perfect little Crystal did for you?” Her voice was all sugar and helium. “I got you into television commercials! Real ones! Fitness and health products—big brand! They want YOU!”
Danny’s smug grin widened. He reached out, cupped her ass possessively, and squeezed hard enough to make her squeak. “Good girl. Knew you’d be useful for something besides warming my bed.” He gave the cheek another proprietary pat. “Now show me that tight little body while you tell me the rest.”
They walked into the main studio. Crystal leaned close, whispering, “The director’s an independent feminist. Short hair, no makeup, hates men like you on sight. Be… careful?”
Danny’s golden eyes (still hidden behind blue contacts) flicked ahead. The woman striding toward them—Bamith, mid-thirties, severe ponytail, clipboard like a shield—radiated cold professionalism. But his super senses caught everything: racing pulse, dilated pupils locked on his long, manicured nails and the soft androgynous lines of his face. She wanted him. Badly. The feminist armor was paper-thin.
Bamith stopped, offered a stiff handshake. “Mr. Vos. I’m Bamith. Director. Let’s keep this professional.”
Danny took her hand, lifted it, and kissed the knuckles with theatrical tenderness. “Professional? Darling, I’m always professional… at making women forget their principles.”
Bamith’s cheeks flushed. “This is for a major fitness supplement line. You wear tight black underwear with our logo, bare torso, bare feet. Simple gym movements, then finish with a powerful, smug bicep flex. That’s it.”
Danny’s voice suddenly shot up an octave, razor-sharp and absurdly eloquent. “Oh, how delightfully quaint—demanding I flex for the camera while pretending my very existence isn’t already the ultimate advertisement for superior male aesthetics. One might almost call it ironic, given that your little feminist fortress is already crumbling at the sight of a real man’s nails.”
He blinked. Bamith blinked. Crystal blinked.
Danny cleared his throat, returning to his normal smug baritone. “…Anyway, I’ll do it.”
Bamith swallowed. “Fine. Just… behave.”
In the dressing room Danny turned full sexist predator. The makeup artist (cute brunette) got her ass groped while he demanded “extra shine on these lips so the boys at home know what real lips look like.” The dresser (blonde) had her tits “accidentally” brushed while he complained that “real women should be on their knees adjusting my package, not standing there like scared little mice.” The refreshment girl nearly dropped her tray when he told her, “Sweetheart, the only thing you should be serving is this cock after the shoot.”
Crystal had to beg Bamith twice not to cancel. “He’s worth it. Please.”
Finally Danny emerged wearing nothing but the tiny black logo underwear. He snapped selfies—mirror shots, flexing, sweat already beading—and posted:
“Another day of letting peasants watch perfection sweat for their amusement. Ladies, keep dreaming. Boys, keep crying into your protein shakes. Real men don’t hide what they were born to dominate. #Number8Rules #YourWifeIsNext #FeministsNeedRealCockToo #GodDoesntWearPants”
Hashtags continued in vicious, condescending glory.
Filming began.
Danny stalked onto the set like he owned the gym. Cameras rolled from every angle. He moved with sensual arrogance—slow bench presses that made his pecs balloon, cable pulls that turned his lats into wings, squats that made the underwear ride dangerously high. Crew sprayed water across his torso to fake sweat; the droplets raced down every cut like liquid diamonds. All the while he thought only one thing: how delicious it would be to break Bamith, to make that proud feminist beg.
Final shot: he dropped into the most muscular pose, bicep peaked to obscene height, smug grin locked on camera.
“Cut!” Bamith yelled, voice hoarse.
Danny sauntered back to the dressing room, groped the refreshment girl one last time, signed a few autographs on cleavage, then dressed in silver shorts and gold tank. Another round of selfies:
“Wrapped another masterpiece. The director almost fainted when she saw what a real man looks like. Keep simping, ladies. I’ll keep winning. #SuperiorGenetics #FeminismDiesHere #Number8OwnsYou”
Crystal ran up, threw her arms around him, kissed him deep. “This is huge, Daddy! National exposure! Your face on TV every night!”
Outside, evening was falling, streetlights flickering on. Danny’s cock was already stirring again at the thought of the driver waiting in the Uber.
Who Danny chooses?
1. Danny forgets about the director and approaches the driver, intending to make her his.
2. Danny approaches the director and tries to seduce her.
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June 13
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