Medical check up
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 9
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Cherri stood frozen for several heartbeats, chest rising and falling rapidly, thighs still clenched together. Then she blinked hard, swallowed, and forced her scientist brain back online. She cleared her throat, voice shaky but determined.
“Angel… I—I need to run some tests. Basic vitals, blood work, maybe a quick scan if the machine didn’t fry everything. Just… sit. Wait here. I’ll grab the portable kit.”
Angel tilted his head, amused. “Tests? On me? How cute. Fine. Go play doctor, Sugar Tits. Mommy will behave.”
He turned toward a sturdy-looking lab chair—metal frame, padded seat, rated for heavy equipment. He lowered himself carefully, but the second his full seven-foot, muscle-dense weight settled, the legs buckled with a sharp metallic crack. The chair collapsed inward; Angel toppled backward in a slow-motion comedy of physics, landing flat on his back with a thunderous thud that rattled glassware on nearby shelves.
For a single second he lay there, stunned, white hair fanned out like a halo. Then he reached back, rubbing one massive, rounded glute with an exaggerated pout.
“…I didn’t even feel that,” he muttered, genuinely surprised. No pain. Not even a bruise. He flexed the cheek under his palm—granite wrapped in silk—and grinned. “Guess I really am unbreakable now.”
Cherri bit her lip to hide a smile, then hurried out of the lab before he could catch her expression.
Alone, Angel stayed on the floor, long legs sprawled. He propped himself on one elbow and resumed his exploration with renewed hunger. His free hand roamed—tracing the deep valleys between pecs, dipping into the shadowed gutters of his abs, circling the navel before sliding lower. He lifted one leg, admiring the way the thigh muscle bunched and released, veins pulsing like rivers under porcelain.
Then his gaze returned to his cock—still semi-hard, monstrous, veined, glistening with residual custard-cum. He brought one long, chrome-pink nail to the slit again. This time he didn’t hesitate: he pushed the entire finger inside, knuckle-deep, stretching the sensitive opening around the intrusion.
Sharp, electric pain-pleasure lanced through him. His back arched off the floor; a low, guttural “Splurge” tore from his throat as another small orgasm rippled through his core. Thick, warm custard erupted around his embedded finger, coating his hand in glossy ropes.
He withdrew slowly, watching the viscous strands stretch and snap. Without hesitation he brought the cum-drenched finger to his lips and sucked it clean—slow, deliberate, tongue swirling around the claw. The taste hit him again: musky, sweet, addictive.
“Mmm… liquid divinity,” he purred, smirking at the ceiling. “No wonder everyone wants a taste. I’m fucking ambrosia.”
Cherri returned a few minutes later, pushing a rolling cart loaded with portable medical gear: blood-pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, stethoscope, syringes, vials. She stopped short at the sight of Angel still sprawled naked on the floor, lazily stroking himself.
“Um… you can sit up now,” she said weakly.
Angel rose in one fluid motion—graceful despite his size—and towered over her. Cherri tried the basics first. The blood-pressure cuff wouldn’t fit around his bicep; the cuff tore when she tried to force it. The stethoscope couldn’t find a consistent heartbeat through the wall of pec muscle. The pulse ox clip snapped in half against his finger.
Finally she pulled out a syringe, aiming for the crook of his elbow. The needle pressed against skin—and bent. She pushed harder. The metal snapped clean in two with a tiny ping, leaving not even a scratch on him.
Cherri stared at the broken syringe. “Your muscles are… too dense. Too hard. Nothing’s getting through.”
She tried again—lips, the thin skin of his cock head. Same result: needle bent, then snapped. No puncture. No blood.
Angel watched with growing delight. “So… am I bulletproof now, doc?”
Cherri shook her head slowly. “I—I don’t know. We’d need ballistics gel, high-velocity rounds… but judging by this?” She gestured helplessly at the ruined syringe. “Probably.”
Angel’s grin turned feral. “Good enough for me. Time to blow this popsicle stand, Sugar Tits. I’ve got a new body to break in and a world that hasn’t met its new god yet.”
Cherri nodded quickly. “I’ll bring the car to the back exit. There’s no camera coverage there. You… you’ll have to crawl through the doors. They’re not built for—for this.”
She hurried out.
Minutes later Angel crouched at the lab’s rear service door, seven feet of muscle folded awkwardly. The frame was standard human-sized; he had to turn sideways, duck, and inch through on hands and knees, shoulders scraping metal, pecs dragging on the floor. He emerged into the night air with a dramatic sigh, straightening to his full height under the stars.
Cherri’s hatchback idled in the shadows. She flung open the back door. Angel stared at the tiny rear seat.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s all I have,” she whispered.
He sighed theatrically, then contorted himself inside—knees to chest, head ducked, shoulders wedged against the windows. Cherri threw every spare lab coat, blanket, and hoodie she could find over him until only a vague mountain of fabric was visible. She slammed the door, climbed in, and drove.
No alarms. No guards. The gate guard barely glanced up as she left.
Twenty minutes later she turned onto a quiet side road that wound into dark woods. Moonlight filtered through the canopy. The car bumped over roots and gravel until she pulled into a small clearing and killed the engine.
Silence settled.
Angel’s muffled voice came from beneath the pile of clothes.
“Well, Sugar Tits… you’ve officially smuggled a god. Now what are we gonna do with me?”
Cherri turned in her seat, eyes wide in the dashboard glow.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I’m yours. Whatever you want.”
Angel pushed the blankets aside, unfolding himself until his head brushed the roof. He grinned down at her—seven feet of smug, sculpted perfection.
“That’s my girl.”
“Angel… I—I need to run some tests. Basic vitals, blood work, maybe a quick scan if the machine didn’t fry everything. Just… sit. Wait here. I’ll grab the portable kit.”
Angel tilted his head, amused. “Tests? On me? How cute. Fine. Go play doctor, Sugar Tits. Mommy will behave.”
He turned toward a sturdy-looking lab chair—metal frame, padded seat, rated for heavy equipment. He lowered himself carefully, but the second his full seven-foot, muscle-dense weight settled, the legs buckled with a sharp metallic crack. The chair collapsed inward; Angel toppled backward in a slow-motion comedy of physics, landing flat on his back with a thunderous thud that rattled glassware on nearby shelves.
For a single second he lay there, stunned, white hair fanned out like a halo. Then he reached back, rubbing one massive, rounded glute with an exaggerated pout.
“…I didn’t even feel that,” he muttered, genuinely surprised. No pain. Not even a bruise. He flexed the cheek under his palm—granite wrapped in silk—and grinned. “Guess I really am unbreakable now.”
Cherri bit her lip to hide a smile, then hurried out of the lab before he could catch her expression.
Alone, Angel stayed on the floor, long legs sprawled. He propped himself on one elbow and resumed his exploration with renewed hunger. His free hand roamed—tracing the deep valleys between pecs, dipping into the shadowed gutters of his abs, circling the navel before sliding lower. He lifted one leg, admiring the way the thigh muscle bunched and released, veins pulsing like rivers under porcelain.
Then his gaze returned to his cock—still semi-hard, monstrous, veined, glistening with residual custard-cum. He brought one long, chrome-pink nail to the slit again. This time he didn’t hesitate: he pushed the entire finger inside, knuckle-deep, stretching the sensitive opening around the intrusion.
Sharp, electric pain-pleasure lanced through him. His back arched off the floor; a low, guttural “Splurge” tore from his throat as another small orgasm rippled through his core. Thick, warm custard erupted around his embedded finger, coating his hand in glossy ropes.
He withdrew slowly, watching the viscous strands stretch and snap. Without hesitation he brought the cum-drenched finger to his lips and sucked it clean—slow, deliberate, tongue swirling around the claw. The taste hit him again: musky, sweet, addictive.
“Mmm… liquid divinity,” he purred, smirking at the ceiling. “No wonder everyone wants a taste. I’m fucking ambrosia.”
Cherri returned a few minutes later, pushing a rolling cart loaded with portable medical gear: blood-pressure cuff, pulse oximeter, stethoscope, syringes, vials. She stopped short at the sight of Angel still sprawled naked on the floor, lazily stroking himself.
“Um… you can sit up now,” she said weakly.
Angel rose in one fluid motion—graceful despite his size—and towered over her. Cherri tried the basics first. The blood-pressure cuff wouldn’t fit around his bicep; the cuff tore when she tried to force it. The stethoscope couldn’t find a consistent heartbeat through the wall of pec muscle. The pulse ox clip snapped in half against his finger.
Finally she pulled out a syringe, aiming for the crook of his elbow. The needle pressed against skin—and bent. She pushed harder. The metal snapped clean in two with a tiny ping, leaving not even a scratch on him.
Cherri stared at the broken syringe. “Your muscles are… too dense. Too hard. Nothing’s getting through.”
She tried again—lips, the thin skin of his cock head. Same result: needle bent, then snapped. No puncture. No blood.
Angel watched with growing delight. “So… am I bulletproof now, doc?”
Cherri shook her head slowly. “I—I don’t know. We’d need ballistics gel, high-velocity rounds… but judging by this?” She gestured helplessly at the ruined syringe. “Probably.”
Angel’s grin turned feral. “Good enough for me. Time to blow this popsicle stand, Sugar Tits. I’ve got a new body to break in and a world that hasn’t met its new god yet.”
Cherri nodded quickly. “I’ll bring the car to the back exit. There’s no camera coverage there. You… you’ll have to crawl through the doors. They’re not built for—for this.”
She hurried out.
Minutes later Angel crouched at the lab’s rear service door, seven feet of muscle folded awkwardly. The frame was standard human-sized; he had to turn sideways, duck, and inch through on hands and knees, shoulders scraping metal, pecs dragging on the floor. He emerged into the night air with a dramatic sigh, straightening to his full height under the stars.
Cherri’s hatchback idled in the shadows. She flung open the back door. Angel stared at the tiny rear seat.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“It’s all I have,” she whispered.
He sighed theatrically, then contorted himself inside—knees to chest, head ducked, shoulders wedged against the windows. Cherri threw every spare lab coat, blanket, and hoodie she could find over him until only a vague mountain of fabric was visible. She slammed the door, climbed in, and drove.
No alarms. No guards. The gate guard barely glanced up as she left.
Twenty minutes later she turned onto a quiet side road that wound into dark woods. Moonlight filtered through the canopy. The car bumped over roots and gravel until she pulled into a small clearing and killed the engine.
Silence settled.
Angel’s muffled voice came from beneath the pile of clothes.
“Well, Sugar Tits… you’ve officially smuggled a god. Now what are we gonna do with me?”
Cherri turned in her seat, eyes wide in the dashboard glow.
“I… I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I’m yours. Whatever you want.”
Angel pushed the blankets aside, unfolding himself until his head brushed the roof. He grinned down at her—seven feet of smug, sculpted perfection.
“That’s my girl.”
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June 13
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