Bree Summers
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 23
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Angel lounged in the jacuzzi like a sultan who’d just conquered the world and was now bored of it. Bubbles tickled his massive pecs while his long, chrome-pink nail lazily pushed deeper into the slit of his cock, sending sharp little sparks of pleasure up his spine. He moaned theatrically, head thrown back.
“Mmmph—yes, darling, that’s the good stuff. Regular jerking off is for commoners. This? This is gourmet self-love.”
But even gourmet self-love got old after the tenth orgasm. He pulled his finger out with a wet pop, licked it clean, and sighed like the entire universe had personally disappointed him.
“Ugh. I’m a seven-foot, bulletproof, cum-shooting god and I’m sitting here finger-fucking myself in a hot tub like some basic OnlyFans thot. This is beneath me. I need to be seen. Worshipped. Envied. Preferably while wearing something that makes everyone question their sexuality and their life choices.”
He tapped one claw against his perfect lips, eyes narrowing in smug calculation.
“New plan, girls. Brand-new bitch. Fresh out the oven. And who better than… Cherri’s long-lost Aussie cousin who just flew in from Bondi Beach to ‘visit her favorite cousin’?” He grinned wickedly, already hearing the imaginary applause. “Brilliant. Flawless. Ten out of ten. No notes.”
He rose from the water like a statue being unveiled—steam pouring off every ridge of muscle, water sluicing between the deep cuts of his abs. He dried himself with slow, sensual strokes, making sure to flex for the imaginary audience.
Then he sauntered to Cherri’s computer, sat down (the chair creaked dangerously), and began researching like a supermodel with a PhD. Australian slang, beach culture, fashion trends, speech patterns—his super-intelligence devoured it all in minutes. He muttered the phrases aloud, practicing the accent until it was flawless.
“G’day, mate! Fair dinkum, that’s a ripper of a day, innit? Oi, throw another shrimp on the barbie—nah, throw me on the barbie, I’m hot.”
He cackled. “Perfect. They’ll eat it up. Or I’ll eat them.”
He opened a dozen tabs and started ordering—everything two sizes too small on purpose. Micro-bikinis, tiny denim shorts, crop tops that read “Bondi Babe,” platform sandals, oversized sunglasses, a heart-shaped belly-button piercing, temporary surf tattoos, long pink extensions, and enough makeup to make a drag queen jealous. He even ordered a push-up bra two cup sizes too big “for the girls.”
While the packages were “arriving,” he practiced. He shaped his body with padding—massive fake breasts that sat high and perky on his already enormous pecs, hips padded just enough to scream “hourglass on steroids.” Fake tan sprayed on until he glowed golden-brown. A tiny heart tattoo on one cheek. Thick false lashes. The wig—long, voluminous, soft pink with a bold darker pink streak sweeping across the front, dramatic swooping bangs framing his face, the rest cascading in silky waves down to his waist.
He zipped himself into the outfit: a neon-pink string bikini top that barely contained his padded chest, micro denim shorts that rode so high they were basically underwear, platform flip-flops, and a cropped tank that said “Sun’s Out, Guns Out.”
Then he stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Seven feet of muscular, androgynous beach goddess stared back—absurdly stacked, absurdly tall, absurdly hot. The outfit was stretched to its absolute limit, but somehow it worked. No one would ever guess.
Angel struck a pose—hand on hip, chest thrust out, one leg popped—and spoke in a high, girlish, perfect Australian accent:
“G’day, everyone! I’m Bree—Bree Summers, Cherri’s cousin from Sydney! Just popped over for a visit, thought I’d soak up some American sun and maybe break a few hearts along the way. Oi, who wants a selfie with the hottest thing to ever hit Havenridge?”
He blew a kiss at his reflection and burst out laughing—bright, theatrical, and one hundred percent convinced the mirror should be clapping.
“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. They’re gonna lose their tiny minds. And if they don’t laugh at my jokes? Their loss. I’m hilarious.”
He grabbed the cocaine brick for one last celebratory line, snorted it off his nail, and strutted out the door like he owned the sidewalk, the city, and the concept of gravity.
The moment he stepped onto the street, the world stopped.
People froze mid-step. Drinks slipped from hands and shattered. A woman dropped her shopping bags. A cyclist swerved, nearly crashing into a lamppost—until Angel casually reached out with one massive arm and stopped the bike with two fingers like it was a toy.
“Careful there, mate,” he said in that bubbly Aussie voice, batting his lashes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin that pretty face. Or my shoes.”
The cyclist stared up at the seven-foot beach goddess towering over him, mouth hanging open.
Angel winked. “You’re welcome, darling. Now run along before I decide to autograph your forehead.”
He continued down the street—hips swaying, chest bouncing, every step a runway strut—completely convinced that everyone was laughing at his jokes (even the ones he hadn’t told yet) and that the universe owed him a standing ovation.
And honestly? From the way jaws dropped and phones were frantically raised, they kind of did.
Option 1: Angel, as Bree Summers, is going to surprise Cherri who is in a cafe with some friends.
Option 2: Angel, as Bree Summers, decides to go to the beach and spend time alone.
“Mmmph—yes, darling, that’s the good stuff. Regular jerking off is for commoners. This? This is gourmet self-love.”
But even gourmet self-love got old after the tenth orgasm. He pulled his finger out with a wet pop, licked it clean, and sighed like the entire universe had personally disappointed him.
“Ugh. I’m a seven-foot, bulletproof, cum-shooting god and I’m sitting here finger-fucking myself in a hot tub like some basic OnlyFans thot. This is beneath me. I need to be seen. Worshipped. Envied. Preferably while wearing something that makes everyone question their sexuality and their life choices.”
He tapped one claw against his perfect lips, eyes narrowing in smug calculation.
“New plan, girls. Brand-new bitch. Fresh out the oven. And who better than… Cherri’s long-lost Aussie cousin who just flew in from Bondi Beach to ‘visit her favorite cousin’?” He grinned wickedly, already hearing the imaginary applause. “Brilliant. Flawless. Ten out of ten. No notes.”
He rose from the water like a statue being unveiled—steam pouring off every ridge of muscle, water sluicing between the deep cuts of his abs. He dried himself with slow, sensual strokes, making sure to flex for the imaginary audience.
Then he sauntered to Cherri’s computer, sat down (the chair creaked dangerously), and began researching like a supermodel with a PhD. Australian slang, beach culture, fashion trends, speech patterns—his super-intelligence devoured it all in minutes. He muttered the phrases aloud, practicing the accent until it was flawless.
“G’day, mate! Fair dinkum, that’s a ripper of a day, innit? Oi, throw another shrimp on the barbie—nah, throw me on the barbie, I’m hot.”
He cackled. “Perfect. They’ll eat it up. Or I’ll eat them.”
He opened a dozen tabs and started ordering—everything two sizes too small on purpose. Micro-bikinis, tiny denim shorts, crop tops that read “Bondi Babe,” platform sandals, oversized sunglasses, a heart-shaped belly-button piercing, temporary surf tattoos, long pink extensions, and enough makeup to make a drag queen jealous. He even ordered a push-up bra two cup sizes too big “for the girls.”
While the packages were “arriving,” he practiced. He shaped his body with padding—massive fake breasts that sat high and perky on his already enormous pecs, hips padded just enough to scream “hourglass on steroids.” Fake tan sprayed on until he glowed golden-brown. A tiny heart tattoo on one cheek. Thick false lashes. The wig—long, voluminous, soft pink with a bold darker pink streak sweeping across the front, dramatic swooping bangs framing his face, the rest cascading in silky waves down to his waist.
He zipped himself into the outfit: a neon-pink string bikini top that barely contained his padded chest, micro denim shorts that rode so high they were basically underwear, platform flip-flops, and a cropped tank that said “Sun’s Out, Guns Out.”
Then he stood in front of the full-length mirror.
Seven feet of muscular, androgynous beach goddess stared back—absurdly stacked, absurdly tall, absurdly hot. The outfit was stretched to its absolute limit, but somehow it worked. No one would ever guess.
Angel struck a pose—hand on hip, chest thrust out, one leg popped—and spoke in a high, girlish, perfect Australian accent:
“G’day, everyone! I’m Bree—Bree Summers, Cherri’s cousin from Sydney! Just popped over for a visit, thought I’d soak up some American sun and maybe break a few hearts along the way. Oi, who wants a selfie with the hottest thing to ever hit Havenridge?”
He blew a kiss at his reflection and burst out laughing—bright, theatrical, and one hundred percent convinced the mirror should be clapping.
“Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. They’re gonna lose their tiny minds. And if they don’t laugh at my jokes? Their loss. I’m hilarious.”
He grabbed the cocaine brick for one last celebratory line, snorted it off his nail, and strutted out the door like he owned the sidewalk, the city, and the concept of gravity.
The moment he stepped onto the street, the world stopped.
People froze mid-step. Drinks slipped from hands and shattered. A woman dropped her shopping bags. A cyclist swerved, nearly crashing into a lamppost—until Angel casually reached out with one massive arm and stopped the bike with two fingers like it was a toy.
“Careful there, mate,” he said in that bubbly Aussie voice, batting his lashes. “Wouldn’t want you to ruin that pretty face. Or my shoes.”
The cyclist stared up at the seven-foot beach goddess towering over him, mouth hanging open.
Angel winked. “You’re welcome, darling. Now run along before I decide to autograph your forehead.”
He continued down the street—hips swaying, chest bouncing, every step a runway strut—completely convinced that everyone was laughing at his jokes (even the ones he hadn’t told yet) and that the universe owed him a standing ovation.
And honestly? From the way jaws dropped and phones were frantically raised, they kind of did.
Option 1: Angel, as Bree Summers, is going to surprise Cherri who is in a cafe with some friends.
Option 2: Angel, as Bree Summers, decides to go to the beach and spend time alone.
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June 13
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