Spider Angel
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel stood motionless for several long seconds, chest heaving, the dying hum of the machine fading into silence. His mind lagged behind his body—brain still expecting the familiar six-foot-four frame, the lithe dancer’s build he’d spent years perfecting. Then sensation caught up.
He looked down.
His pecs—already massive before—had ballooned into obscene, striated shelves that jutted so far forward they completely obscured his feet. He couldn’t see his own toes. The realization hit like a slap: he was huge. Seven feet of impossible, sculpted power wrapped in porcelain skin and feminine curves. Thick blue veins snaked across every swollen muscle like lightning frozen under glass. His abs were so deeply etched they looked carved with a chisel, each ridge shadowed and vascular. Biceps, even unflexed, peaked higher than softballs.
He lifted one arm—slow, testing. The bicep bunched into a mountain bigger than a basketball, veins pulsing visibly across the surface. He placed delicate, long-fingered hands on his pecs. The palms looked almost comically small against the sheer mass, manicured nails now extended into glossy claws that gleamed under the lab lights. He squeezed. Hard, unyielding granite beneath velvet skin. A low, involuntary moan escaped him as orgasmic currents shot from the contact straight to his groin.
He flexed the bicep again—watching in the reflective console screen as the muscle ballooned, splitting light into sharp shadows. He traced the peak with reverent fingertips, moaning louder. The embarrassment evaporated. Shock burned away. In its place rose something hotter, darker: certainty.
He was perfect. No—he was more than perfect. He was divine.
His ego, already a towering inferno, swelled to supernova proportions. Smugness became absolute certainty; narcissism hardened into religious self-worship; megalomania bloomed into visions of empires kneeling at his feet. He breathed deep. The inhale thrust his pecs forward another inch, nipples scraping the remnants of his shredded shirt. His cock—now monstrous, wrist-thick, veined like a roadmap—twitched and hardened instantly. Fat, custard-like globs of cum already oozed from the slit, plopping heavily onto the growing pile between his feet.
He lifted one hand, admiring the long, razor-sharp nails—perfectly manicured even through the transformation, glossy pink chrome catching the light. He dragged them slowly across his pecs, tracing the deep striations, pushing the tips into the shadowed recesses between muscle fibers. The sensation sent fresh shivers of pleasure through him. He dipped them lower, into the carved valley of his abs, circling his belly button before sliding one long nail teasingly into the slit of his cock. The slit parted easily around the claw; he gasped, then—slowly, deliberately—pushed the entire finger inside.
Sharp, sexual pain lanced through him—bright and exquisite. His hips jerked forward involuntarily. “Splurge,” he hissed between clenched teeth as a small, shuddering orgasm rippled through his core. A fresh glob of thick custard-cum welled up around his embedded finger, coating it in glossy warmth.
He withdrew the finger slowly, watching the viscous strand stretch and snap. Without hesitation he brought it to his lips, sliding the cum-covered digit into his mouth. He sucked with deliberate pleasure, tongue swirling around the nail, tasting himself—salty, musky, sweet like overripe fruit. He pulled the finger out with a wet pop.
“Mmm… tastes like victory,” he purred, smirking at his reflection. “And a little bit like godhood. Who knew I’d be this delicious?”
A wicked laugh bubbled up between moans.
“I didn’t believe you,” he rasped, voice deeper, velvet-purred. “Thought you were just desperate—throwing out fairy tales so I’d let you keep your stupid degree. But look at me now…”
He took a step. The new mass fought him—center of gravity shifted, limbs heavier—but after one clumsy stride everything clicked. Muscle memory rewrote itself. He glided forward like liquid.
A full-length mirror hung on the far wall. Angel stopped in front of it.
He stared.
Seven feet of androgynous perfection stared back: impossibly narrow waist flaring into rounded hips and thick thighs, waist-to-shoulder ratio obscene, pecs so massive they cast shadows across his abs, arms hanging like coiled pythons wrapped in silk. White hair cascaded past his shoulders in fluffy waves. Face sharper, lips fuller, eyes larger—every feminine feature amplified while power radiated from every pore.
He dragged both hands down his torso—fingernails scraping lightly over veined abs—then gripped his cock. It throbbed in answer, another thick rope of custard-cum splattering the mirror. He laughed again, low and filthy.
“Fuck… I’m gonna ruin empires with this body.”
Megalomaniac visions flooded him—not just sex, though that loomed large: armies of worshippers on their knees, cities burning at his whim, governments toppled by a single flex, entire industries remade in his image. He would be the new order. The new god. The only god.
His cock pulsed again. A solid, flexible rope of cum—thick as a finger, strong as steel—shot across the room and smacked wetly against the wall inches from Cherri’s head, sticking there like industrial adhesive.
Angel blinked. Looked down at the glistening strand stretching from his slit to the wall. He tugged experimentally. It held fast.
He grinned.
“Spidercum,” he purred, licking his lips. “Guess I’m the friendly neighborhood god now. Spider-Man’s got nothing on me—except maybe better PR.”
He fired another rope upward, thick and taut. It stuck to a ceiling beam. Angel gripped it—his new strength made the line feel like a steel cable—and pulled himself up in one smooth motion. The rope held his entire seven-foot, muscle-packed weight without stretching.
Once on the ceiling, he laughed—bright, manic—and fired more ropes in rapid succession. Thick strands arced across the lab, sticking to pipes, beams, light fixtures. He released the first rope and leaped, catching the next mid-air with effortless grace. He swung between them in lazy, powerful arcs—white hair whipping behind him like a comet’s tail—testing the limits of his new body. Each swing sent jolts of pleasure through his over-sensitized muscles. He whooped with delight, voice echoing off the walls.
Cherri stood twenty feet below, knees trembling, soaked and speechless. She whispered, barely audible:
“…holy shit…”
Angel’s new senses caught it—every syllable crystal-clear, as though she’d whispered directly into his ear. He released the last rope, dropping silently to land en pointe in front of her like a ballerina completing a grand jeté.
He flexed one bicep right in her face—peak rising higher than her eyes could track.
“Spider-Man wishes he had my web,” he whispered, voice dripping honey and venom. “And my cock. And my everything.”
He towered over her, radiant, untouchable, a living monument to his own perfection.
“Time to play, Sugar Tits,” he purred. “And this time…you’re not the one holding the strings.”
He looked down.
His pecs—already massive before—had ballooned into obscene, striated shelves that jutted so far forward they completely obscured his feet. He couldn’t see his own toes. The realization hit like a slap: he was huge. Seven feet of impossible, sculpted power wrapped in porcelain skin and feminine curves. Thick blue veins snaked across every swollen muscle like lightning frozen under glass. His abs were so deeply etched they looked carved with a chisel, each ridge shadowed and vascular. Biceps, even unflexed, peaked higher than softballs.
He lifted one arm—slow, testing. The bicep bunched into a mountain bigger than a basketball, veins pulsing visibly across the surface. He placed delicate, long-fingered hands on his pecs. The palms looked almost comically small against the sheer mass, manicured nails now extended into glossy claws that gleamed under the lab lights. He squeezed. Hard, unyielding granite beneath velvet skin. A low, involuntary moan escaped him as orgasmic currents shot from the contact straight to his groin.
He flexed the bicep again—watching in the reflective console screen as the muscle ballooned, splitting light into sharp shadows. He traced the peak with reverent fingertips, moaning louder. The embarrassment evaporated. Shock burned away. In its place rose something hotter, darker: certainty.
He was perfect. No—he was more than perfect. He was divine.
His ego, already a towering inferno, swelled to supernova proportions. Smugness became absolute certainty; narcissism hardened into religious self-worship; megalomania bloomed into visions of empires kneeling at his feet. He breathed deep. The inhale thrust his pecs forward another inch, nipples scraping the remnants of his shredded shirt. His cock—now monstrous, wrist-thick, veined like a roadmap—twitched and hardened instantly. Fat, custard-like globs of cum already oozed from the slit, plopping heavily onto the growing pile between his feet.
He lifted one hand, admiring the long, razor-sharp nails—perfectly manicured even through the transformation, glossy pink chrome catching the light. He dragged them slowly across his pecs, tracing the deep striations, pushing the tips into the shadowed recesses between muscle fibers. The sensation sent fresh shivers of pleasure through him. He dipped them lower, into the carved valley of his abs, circling his belly button before sliding one long nail teasingly into the slit of his cock. The slit parted easily around the claw; he gasped, then—slowly, deliberately—pushed the entire finger inside.
Sharp, sexual pain lanced through him—bright and exquisite. His hips jerked forward involuntarily. “Splurge,” he hissed between clenched teeth as a small, shuddering orgasm rippled through his core. A fresh glob of thick custard-cum welled up around his embedded finger, coating it in glossy warmth.
He withdrew the finger slowly, watching the viscous strand stretch and snap. Without hesitation he brought it to his lips, sliding the cum-covered digit into his mouth. He sucked with deliberate pleasure, tongue swirling around the nail, tasting himself—salty, musky, sweet like overripe fruit. He pulled the finger out with a wet pop.
“Mmm… tastes like victory,” he purred, smirking at his reflection. “And a little bit like godhood. Who knew I’d be this delicious?”
A wicked laugh bubbled up between moans.
“I didn’t believe you,” he rasped, voice deeper, velvet-purred. “Thought you were just desperate—throwing out fairy tales so I’d let you keep your stupid degree. But look at me now…”
He took a step. The new mass fought him—center of gravity shifted, limbs heavier—but after one clumsy stride everything clicked. Muscle memory rewrote itself. He glided forward like liquid.
A full-length mirror hung on the far wall. Angel stopped in front of it.
He stared.
Seven feet of androgynous perfection stared back: impossibly narrow waist flaring into rounded hips and thick thighs, waist-to-shoulder ratio obscene, pecs so massive they cast shadows across his abs, arms hanging like coiled pythons wrapped in silk. White hair cascaded past his shoulders in fluffy waves. Face sharper, lips fuller, eyes larger—every feminine feature amplified while power radiated from every pore.
He dragged both hands down his torso—fingernails scraping lightly over veined abs—then gripped his cock. It throbbed in answer, another thick rope of custard-cum splattering the mirror. He laughed again, low and filthy.
“Fuck… I’m gonna ruin empires with this body.”
Megalomaniac visions flooded him—not just sex, though that loomed large: armies of worshippers on their knees, cities burning at his whim, governments toppled by a single flex, entire industries remade in his image. He would be the new order. The new god. The only god.
His cock pulsed again. A solid, flexible rope of cum—thick as a finger, strong as steel—shot across the room and smacked wetly against the wall inches from Cherri’s head, sticking there like industrial adhesive.
Angel blinked. Looked down at the glistening strand stretching from his slit to the wall. He tugged experimentally. It held fast.
He grinned.
“Spidercum,” he purred, licking his lips. “Guess I’m the friendly neighborhood god now. Spider-Man’s got nothing on me—except maybe better PR.”
He fired another rope upward, thick and taut. It stuck to a ceiling beam. Angel gripped it—his new strength made the line feel like a steel cable—and pulled himself up in one smooth motion. The rope held his entire seven-foot, muscle-packed weight without stretching.
Once on the ceiling, he laughed—bright, manic—and fired more ropes in rapid succession. Thick strands arced across the lab, sticking to pipes, beams, light fixtures. He released the first rope and leaped, catching the next mid-air with effortless grace. He swung between them in lazy, powerful arcs—white hair whipping behind him like a comet’s tail—testing the limits of his new body. Each swing sent jolts of pleasure through his over-sensitized muscles. He whooped with delight, voice echoing off the walls.
Cherri stood twenty feet below, knees trembling, soaked and speechless. She whispered, barely audible:
“…holy shit…”
Angel’s new senses caught it—every syllable crystal-clear, as though she’d whispered directly into his ear. He released the last rope, dropping silently to land en pointe in front of her like a ballerina completing a grand jeté.
He flexed one bicep right in her face—peak rising higher than her eyes could track.
“Spider-Man wishes he had my web,” he whispered, voice dripping honey and venom. “And my cock. And my everything.”
He towered over her, radiant, untouchable, a living monument to his own perfection.
“Time to play, Sugar Tits,” he purred. “And this time…you’re not the one holding the strings.”
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June 13
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