He let Cherri to go to College
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 17
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Cherri stirred on the couch just as the first pale light of dawn crept across the balcony. She sat up slowly—hair wild, skin still flushed from the night before—and blinked at the mountain of pizza boxes, then at Angel lounging in the steaming hot tub like a contented predator.
“Morning already?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
Angel didn’t open his eyes. One long arm draped over the tub edge, claws tapping idly against porcelain. “Mmm. Time flies when you’re busy becoming a god.”
Cherri stood, stretching, then glanced at the clock. “Shit—I’ve got lab in an hour.” She hesitated, looking back at him. “I… should go. Unless you want me to stay?”
Angel finally cracked one cyan eye open. The thought flickered through his mind—sharp, possessive: *Forbid her. Lock her here. No more university. No more dreams that aren’t mine.*
But then he felt it—the new charisma radiating off him like heat from a furnace. She was already half-broken, half-addicted; one word, one look, and she’d drop everything. The power was intoxicating… but boring if used too soon.
He smiled—slow, indulgent. “Go play nerd, Sugar Tits. I need some alone time with my new body anyway. We’ll talk about your little degree later.”
Cherri’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief, though a flicker of disappointment crossed her face. “Okay. I’ll be back by four. Text me if you need anything.”
She dressed quickly, grabbed her backpack, and slipped out—casting one last hungry glance at him before the door clicked shut.
Angel sank deeper into the water, moaning softly as jets massaged every over-developed muscle. The hot tub was one of his greatest pleasures now—warmth seeping into joints that no longer ached, steam rising around his massive pecs like clouds around mountains. His stomach rumbled again—louder, deeper, a hollow roar that vibrated through his core.
“Fuck,” he muttered, amused. “This body eats like a furnace.”
He reached for his burner phone—waterproof case, naturally—and started dialing.
First pizzeria. Voice shifted—high, bubbly Valley-girl inflection. “Hi, this is Crystal Smith! Like, huge party tonight—can you do, like, fifteen extra-large pepperonis? Extra cheese, extra sauce. And cheesy bread. Lots. Leave it outside apartment 1408, okay? I’m in the shower.”
Next call. Different place. Same voice. “Triple meat-lovers, triple veggie supreme—oh my god, I’m starving. Outside the door, please! Party’s getting wild!”
He worked down the list—six different chains, each triple the usual order. Delivery staggered over two hours. He made sure every instruction ended with: “Leave outside. I’m naked and embarrassed lol.”
The first boxes arrived at 7:45. Angel waited until the hallway camera showed the delivery kid walking away, then rose—water cascading off his towering frame like a waterfall. He padded naked to the door, opened it just enough to drag the stack inside, then locked it again.
By 9:30 the hallway outside looked like a pizza war zone—forty-seven boxes piled high. Angel dragged them all in, stacked them around the tub like battlements, and sank back into the water with a contented sigh.
He tore into the first box—whole pizza folded like a taco, shoved into his mouth. Cheese stretched, sauce dripped down his chin onto his pecs. He chewed, swallowed, moaned. The hunger was primal—bottomless. His new metabolism burned through the calories almost as fast as he ate them. Box after box disappeared—crusts, toppings, entire pies vanishing into the furnace of his body.
He paused mid-bite, hand resting on his abs—still razor-cut, still perfect despite the feast.
“Never been this hungry in my life,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess becoming a god comes with an appetite to match.”
He licked sauce off his fingers, then reached for his phone again—this time surfing the dark web, encrypted browsers, news aggregators, financial forums.
Thoughts raced—faster, clearer than ever. His intelligence had spiked far beyond human limits; every connection clicked instantly, probabilities branching like lightning.
*Strength to crush tanks. Speed to outrun sound. Durability to laugh at bullets. Senses that map the world in real time. Charisma that makes armies kneel.*
And yet…
Conquering the world—enslaving the species—remained a fantasy.
Logistics alone were brutal. He could destroy cities, yes. But holding them? Governing billions? The resistance would be endless—guerilla warfare, nukes, biological weapons tailored to him once they knew he existed. Even if no one could kill him, they could starve him out, poison the planet, nuke entire continents just to deny him territory.
He snorted another line off his nail—cocaine burning clean through his sinuses—and twisted his finger deeper into his cock slit. Pain flared—sharp, exquisite. He hissed, hips jerking, but held back the orgasm with iron control.
*Millionaire is easy,* he thought. *Blackmail. Theft. Stock manipulation with insider knowledge no human could match. I could own half the Fortune 500 in months—legally or illegally.*
Legally: front companies, shell corporations, leveraging his new intellect to outmaneuver markets.
Illegally: extortion, assassination, straight theft—faster, messier, more fun.
He hadn’t decided yet.
Both paths had appeal. Legal meant legitimacy—power disguised as wealth. Illegal meant fear—raw, immediate dominance.
He leaned back, moaning softly as he pushed his finger deeper—pain cresting into blinding pleasure. The urge to splurge surged again; he clamped down, muscles flexing along his length.
*For now,* he decided, *low profile. Build the fortune quietly. Let them think Angel Dust is just another missing porn star. When I’m ready…*
He smiled—slow, cold, certain.
*…then the world kneels.*
He withdrew his finger—slick, glistening—and licked it clean with lazy pleasure.
The hot water lapped at his pecs.
Pizza boxes towered around him.
And outside, the city waited—fragile, unaware.
Angel closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the tub.
Soon.
Very soon.
Angel...
“Morning already?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
Angel didn’t open his eyes. One long arm draped over the tub edge, claws tapping idly against porcelain. “Mmm. Time flies when you’re busy becoming a god.”
Cherri stood, stretching, then glanced at the clock. “Shit—I’ve got lab in an hour.” She hesitated, looking back at him. “I… should go. Unless you want me to stay?”
Angel finally cracked one cyan eye open. The thought flickered through his mind—sharp, possessive: *Forbid her. Lock her here. No more university. No more dreams that aren’t mine.*
But then he felt it—the new charisma radiating off him like heat from a furnace. She was already half-broken, half-addicted; one word, one look, and she’d drop everything. The power was intoxicating… but boring if used too soon.
He smiled—slow, indulgent. “Go play nerd, Sugar Tits. I need some alone time with my new body anyway. We’ll talk about your little degree later.”
Cherri’s shoulders relaxed in visible relief, though a flicker of disappointment crossed her face. “Okay. I’ll be back by four. Text me if you need anything.”
She dressed quickly, grabbed her backpack, and slipped out—casting one last hungry glance at him before the door clicked shut.
Angel sank deeper into the water, moaning softly as jets massaged every over-developed muscle. The hot tub was one of his greatest pleasures now—warmth seeping into joints that no longer ached, steam rising around his massive pecs like clouds around mountains. His stomach rumbled again—louder, deeper, a hollow roar that vibrated through his core.
“Fuck,” he muttered, amused. “This body eats like a furnace.”
He reached for his burner phone—waterproof case, naturally—and started dialing.
First pizzeria. Voice shifted—high, bubbly Valley-girl inflection. “Hi, this is Crystal Smith! Like, huge party tonight—can you do, like, fifteen extra-large pepperonis? Extra cheese, extra sauce. And cheesy bread. Lots. Leave it outside apartment 1408, okay? I’m in the shower.”
Next call. Different place. Same voice. “Triple meat-lovers, triple veggie supreme—oh my god, I’m starving. Outside the door, please! Party’s getting wild!”
He worked down the list—six different chains, each triple the usual order. Delivery staggered over two hours. He made sure every instruction ended with: “Leave outside. I’m naked and embarrassed lol.”
The first boxes arrived at 7:45. Angel waited until the hallway camera showed the delivery kid walking away, then rose—water cascading off his towering frame like a waterfall. He padded naked to the door, opened it just enough to drag the stack inside, then locked it again.
By 9:30 the hallway outside looked like a pizza war zone—forty-seven boxes piled high. Angel dragged them all in, stacked them around the tub like battlements, and sank back into the water with a contented sigh.
He tore into the first box—whole pizza folded like a taco, shoved into his mouth. Cheese stretched, sauce dripped down his chin onto his pecs. He chewed, swallowed, moaned. The hunger was primal—bottomless. His new metabolism burned through the calories almost as fast as he ate them. Box after box disappeared—crusts, toppings, entire pies vanishing into the furnace of his body.
He paused mid-bite, hand resting on his abs—still razor-cut, still perfect despite the feast.
“Never been this hungry in my life,” he muttered, smirking. “Guess becoming a god comes with an appetite to match.”
He licked sauce off his fingers, then reached for his phone again—this time surfing the dark web, encrypted browsers, news aggregators, financial forums.
Thoughts raced—faster, clearer than ever. His intelligence had spiked far beyond human limits; every connection clicked instantly, probabilities branching like lightning.
*Strength to crush tanks. Speed to outrun sound. Durability to laugh at bullets. Senses that map the world in real time. Charisma that makes armies kneel.*
And yet…
Conquering the world—enslaving the species—remained a fantasy.
Logistics alone were brutal. He could destroy cities, yes. But holding them? Governing billions? The resistance would be endless—guerilla warfare, nukes, biological weapons tailored to him once they knew he existed. Even if no one could kill him, they could starve him out, poison the planet, nuke entire continents just to deny him territory.
He snorted another line off his nail—cocaine burning clean through his sinuses—and twisted his finger deeper into his cock slit. Pain flared—sharp, exquisite. He hissed, hips jerking, but held back the orgasm with iron control.
*Millionaire is easy,* he thought. *Blackmail. Theft. Stock manipulation with insider knowledge no human could match. I could own half the Fortune 500 in months—legally or illegally.*
Legally: front companies, shell corporations, leveraging his new intellect to outmaneuver markets.
Illegally: extortion, assassination, straight theft—faster, messier, more fun.
He hadn’t decided yet.
Both paths had appeal. Legal meant legitimacy—power disguised as wealth. Illegal meant fear—raw, immediate dominance.
He leaned back, moaning softly as he pushed his finger deeper—pain cresting into blinding pleasure. The urge to splurge surged again; he clamped down, muscles flexing along his length.
*For now,* he decided, *low profile. Build the fortune quietly. Let them think Angel Dust is just another missing porn star. When I’m ready…*
He smiled—slow, cold, certain.
*…then the world kneels.*
He withdrew his finger—slick, glistening—and licked it clean with lazy pleasure.
The hot water lapped at his pecs.
Pizza boxes towered around him.
And outside, the city waited—fragile, unaware.
Angel closed his eyes, sinking deeper into the tub.
Soon.
Very soon.
Angel...
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·
June 13
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