Court of the Queen
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 10
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The gym doors swung open and the rest of the class poured in, chatter dying mid-sentence as eyes locked onto Sharon.
She stood near the net in those obscenely tight black leggings—fabric stretched so thin over her quads and glutes that every striation and curve showed through like shrink-wrap on marble. The shredded sports bra remnants had been tied into a makeshift bandeau, barely containing the heavy swell of her new DD+ breasts; deep cleavage and underboob spilled over the top edge. Her abs were carved into brutal eight-pack relief, veins tracing delicate rivers down her lower belly to the navel piercing that now sat like a diamond centerpiece on a granite sculpture. Long, glossy hair cascaded to mid-glute, swaying with every confident shift of weight.
Heads turned. Whispers erupted. Phones lifted discreetly.
Sharon felt every stare like champagne bubbles on skin.
Her ego—already stratospheric—swelled to dangerous new heights.
She planted her feet wide, rolled her shoulders back, and flexed both biceps casually. Peaks rose like softballs under velvet skin; veins popped along the peaks and forearms. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face as she caught a sophomore girl’s slack-jawed stare.
“Take a picture, sweetie,” Sharon called sweetly. “It’ll last longer than your self-esteem.”
She toyed with her navel piercing—twisting the little barbell between manicured fingers, letting the metal catch the gym lights while her abs danced under the motion. Jealous glances rained from every direction. She drank them like fine wine.
Tammy sidled up, grinning like a hyena. “Bitch, you’re serving main character energy*l so hard the plot’s bending around you.”
Lily crossed her arms, eyes sparkling with wicked humor. “I’m genuinely offended my genetics didn’t get the memo. You look like if Aphrodite hit the heavy bag for a decade.”
Megan said nothing—just stared, pupils blown, cheeks flushed crimson. Her breathing had gone shallow; she kept shifting her weight, thighs pressing together.
The gym teacher—Ms. Rivera, early thirties, athletic but no match for this—strode in carrying a volleyball. She stopped dead when she saw Sharon.
“Strong,” she said, voice clipped. “That outfit is… excessively revealing. Tie something around your waist or change. Now.”
Sharon met her eyes, smiled sweetly, and flexed her abs again—slow ripple from ribs to pelvis. “Can’t, Coach. Everything else ripped. Wardrobe malfunction. Tragic.”
Ms. Rivera’s jaw tightened, but she clearly didn’t want a scene. “Fine. Just… behave.”
She blew the whistle. “Volleyball today. Two teams. Strong, you’re with your usual crew—Tammy, Lily, Megan, plus Sarah, Jenna, and Mia. Opposite side gets the rest.”
The girls hustled into position. Sharon took middle blocker, towering presence alone enough to make the other team shrink.
Serve.
The ball rocketed over—Sharon read the trajectory in a heartbeat. Her sharpened senses caught every spin, every arc. She exploded upward—vertical leap obscene for her size—arm whipping like a piston. The spike slammed the floor so hard it bounced into the bleachers.
Point.
The other team gaped.
Sharon landed lightly, ponytail whipping, and shot them a wicked smile. “Oops. Too strong?”
Her team erupted. Tammy whooped. “That’s my girl!”
Next rally. Setter sent it high—Sharon called positions with military precision, brain moving at light speed. “Lily back-left, Megan cover the pipe, Tammy rotate!”
They obeyed instantly. Sharon faked a block, read the setter’s eyes, dropped back, and dug a vicious kill attempt one-handed—then transitioned into an instant counter-spike that cratered the court.
Point after point.
She toyed with them.
A soft lob? She let it drop an inch from the line just to watch panic. A weak serve? She returned it with topspin that made the receiver flinch. Every kill ended with a flex—biceps popping, abs crunching—or a slow hair toss that sent her mane rippling down her sweat-slick back.
The score hit 18–4.
Sharon’s friends were feral with excitement.
“Keep feeding me!” she barked—voice carrying effortless command. “Lily, set higher—I want to posterize these bitches.”
Lily grinned, tossed a perfect arc. Sharon launched, body a coiled spring of power and grace, and hammered it so hard the opposing libero dove and missed by a foot.
Game.
25–7.
Humiliating.
The losing team slunk off the court, heads down. Sharon grabbed her phone, pulled her squad in close—sweat gleaming on every carved inch of her.
First selfie: Sharon center, arms flexed in double-bicep pose, teammates crowding behind making victory signs. Her breasts nearly spilling from the bandeau, abs glistening, navel piercing winking.
Caption:
Just curb-stomped volleyball in a body that wasn’t even trying 💪 Who needs a net when you’ve got THESE arms? Sorry your team forgot how to breathe. #CourtDominance #BuiltDifferent #JealousyDetected #StillTheQueen
Second: close-up on her abs and piercing, one hand lifting the makeshift top just enough to flash the full eight-pack and vascularity snaking toward her hips.
Caption:
Abs sponsored by dairy and pure spite 😏 Keep staring, peasants. This is what winning looks like up close. #SixPackOrBetter #NavelGoals #EatYourHeartOut
Third: group shot, Sharon hoisting Tammy onto her shoulder like she weighed nothing—veins popping along her delts and traps.
Caption:
When your bestie needs a better view of the losers below 👑 Squad stays winning while y’all stay watching. #CarryTheTeamLiterally #StrongerThanYourExcuses #HavenridgeRoyalty
Likes flooded in before they even left the court.
They walked back to the locker rooms, bodies slick with sweat, endorphins buzzing. Sharon’s stride was predatory—every step flexing quads and glutes, hair swinging like a dark banner. Heads turned in the hallway. Whistles. Stares. She soaked it all in, ego ballooning with every jealous glance.
Megan trailed closest, practically vibrating. Her eyes kept darting to Sharon’s sweat-sheened cleavage, the deep cuts of her abs, the way the leggings clung to every curve and striation. She bit her lip so hard it whitened, hands clenching at her sides, thighs rubbing together with every step. She was a mess—pupils dilated, breathing ragged, barely containing the desperate ache between her legs.
Sharon caught the look, smirked, and flexed one arm just for her. Megan whimpered softly.
They reached the locker room doors.
Option 1: The girls corner Sharon, trying to figure out what happened to her. Sharon comes up with a theory about the pill.
Option 2: The girls are too shocked to think about what happened to Sharon, and they continue with the school day.
She stood near the net in those obscenely tight black leggings—fabric stretched so thin over her quads and glutes that every striation and curve showed through like shrink-wrap on marble. The shredded sports bra remnants had been tied into a makeshift bandeau, barely containing the heavy swell of her new DD+ breasts; deep cleavage and underboob spilled over the top edge. Her abs were carved into brutal eight-pack relief, veins tracing delicate rivers down her lower belly to the navel piercing that now sat like a diamond centerpiece on a granite sculpture. Long, glossy hair cascaded to mid-glute, swaying with every confident shift of weight.
Heads turned. Whispers erupted. Phones lifted discreetly.
Sharon felt every stare like champagne bubbles on skin.
Her ego—already stratospheric—swelled to dangerous new heights.
She planted her feet wide, rolled her shoulders back, and flexed both biceps casually. Peaks rose like softballs under velvet skin; veins popped along the peaks and forearms. A slow, wicked grin spread across her face as she caught a sophomore girl’s slack-jawed stare.
“Take a picture, sweetie,” Sharon called sweetly. “It’ll last longer than your self-esteem.”
She toyed with her navel piercing—twisting the little barbell between manicured fingers, letting the metal catch the gym lights while her abs danced under the motion. Jealous glances rained from every direction. She drank them like fine wine.
Tammy sidled up, grinning like a hyena. “Bitch, you’re serving main character energy*l so hard the plot’s bending around you.”
Lily crossed her arms, eyes sparkling with wicked humor. “I’m genuinely offended my genetics didn’t get the memo. You look like if Aphrodite hit the heavy bag for a decade.”
Megan said nothing—just stared, pupils blown, cheeks flushed crimson. Her breathing had gone shallow; she kept shifting her weight, thighs pressing together.
The gym teacher—Ms. Rivera, early thirties, athletic but no match for this—strode in carrying a volleyball. She stopped dead when she saw Sharon.
“Strong,” she said, voice clipped. “That outfit is… excessively revealing. Tie something around your waist or change. Now.”
Sharon met her eyes, smiled sweetly, and flexed her abs again—slow ripple from ribs to pelvis. “Can’t, Coach. Everything else ripped. Wardrobe malfunction. Tragic.”
Ms. Rivera’s jaw tightened, but she clearly didn’t want a scene. “Fine. Just… behave.”
She blew the whistle. “Volleyball today. Two teams. Strong, you’re with your usual crew—Tammy, Lily, Megan, plus Sarah, Jenna, and Mia. Opposite side gets the rest.”
The girls hustled into position. Sharon took middle blocker, towering presence alone enough to make the other team shrink.
Serve.
The ball rocketed over—Sharon read the trajectory in a heartbeat. Her sharpened senses caught every spin, every arc. She exploded upward—vertical leap obscene for her size—arm whipping like a piston. The spike slammed the floor so hard it bounced into the bleachers.
Point.
The other team gaped.
Sharon landed lightly, ponytail whipping, and shot them a wicked smile. “Oops. Too strong?”
Her team erupted. Tammy whooped. “That’s my girl!”
Next rally. Setter sent it high—Sharon called positions with military precision, brain moving at light speed. “Lily back-left, Megan cover the pipe, Tammy rotate!”
They obeyed instantly. Sharon faked a block, read the setter’s eyes, dropped back, and dug a vicious kill attempt one-handed—then transitioned into an instant counter-spike that cratered the court.
Point after point.
She toyed with them.
A soft lob? She let it drop an inch from the line just to watch panic. A weak serve? She returned it with topspin that made the receiver flinch. Every kill ended with a flex—biceps popping, abs crunching—or a slow hair toss that sent her mane rippling down her sweat-slick back.
The score hit 18–4.
Sharon’s friends were feral with excitement.
“Keep feeding me!” she barked—voice carrying effortless command. “Lily, set higher—I want to posterize these bitches.”
Lily grinned, tossed a perfect arc. Sharon launched, body a coiled spring of power and grace, and hammered it so hard the opposing libero dove and missed by a foot.
Game.
25–7.
Humiliating.
The losing team slunk off the court, heads down. Sharon grabbed her phone, pulled her squad in close—sweat gleaming on every carved inch of her.
First selfie: Sharon center, arms flexed in double-bicep pose, teammates crowding behind making victory signs. Her breasts nearly spilling from the bandeau, abs glistening, navel piercing winking.
Caption:
Just curb-stomped volleyball in a body that wasn’t even trying 💪 Who needs a net when you’ve got THESE arms? Sorry your team forgot how to breathe. #CourtDominance #BuiltDifferent #JealousyDetected #StillTheQueen
Second: close-up on her abs and piercing, one hand lifting the makeshift top just enough to flash the full eight-pack and vascularity snaking toward her hips.
Caption:
Abs sponsored by dairy and pure spite 😏 Keep staring, peasants. This is what winning looks like up close. #SixPackOrBetter #NavelGoals #EatYourHeartOut
Third: group shot, Sharon hoisting Tammy onto her shoulder like she weighed nothing—veins popping along her delts and traps.
Caption:
When your bestie needs a better view of the losers below 👑 Squad stays winning while y’all stay watching. #CarryTheTeamLiterally #StrongerThanYourExcuses #HavenridgeRoyalty
Likes flooded in before they even left the court.
They walked back to the locker rooms, bodies slick with sweat, endorphins buzzing. Sharon’s stride was predatory—every step flexing quads and glutes, hair swinging like a dark banner. Heads turned in the hallway. Whistles. Stares. She soaked it all in, ego ballooning with every jealous glance.
Megan trailed closest, practically vibrating. Her eyes kept darting to Sharon’s sweat-sheened cleavage, the deep cuts of her abs, the way the leggings clung to every curve and striation. She bit her lip so hard it whitened, hands clenching at her sides, thighs rubbing together with every step. She was a mess—pupils dilated, breathing ragged, barely containing the desperate ache between her legs.
Sharon caught the look, smirked, and flexed one arm just for her. Megan whimpered softly.
They reached the locker room doors.
Option 1: The girls corner Sharon, trying to figure out what happened to her. Sharon comes up with a theory about the pill.
Option 2: The girls are too shocked to think about what happened to Sharon, and they continue with the school day.
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June 13
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