Explore her new body
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 6
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Sarah rose to her full seven-foot-four, towering like some kind of ghetto-fabulous Amazon goddess over the smoking crater. Sweat glistened on her golden-bronze skin like she’d just stepped out of a high-end spray-tan booth that cost more than most people’s rent. Her jet-black waves dragged behind her like a mink stole that reached the ground, still perfect even after the cosmic glow-up. Naked. Sweaty. Absolutely unbothered.
She planted her hands on her newly massive hips—those hips that could now probably bench-press a taxi—and let her long acrylic talons (still that obnoxious hot-pink gel) roam her own body like she was appraising stolen merchandise.
“Oy vey, would you look at these thighs?” she purred in full Brooklynese, squeezing the sweeping quads so hard the muscle popped under her fingers. “These are giving ‘I could crush a man’s skull and still look cute doing it.’ Mamash gorgeous.” She dragged her nails up the inner sweep, moaning low and theatrical. “Mmm, feel that? That’s money, baby. Pure six-figure legs.”
Her palms slid back to cup the obscene, high-riding shelf of her glutes. She groped them shamelessly, kneading like she was testing challah dough at Zabar’s. “Helloooo, tuchus! You used to be my pride and joy—now you’re a whole felony waiting to happen. So firm, so round, so ‘don’t even think about sitting behind me in traffic.’ I’m obsessed.” She gave each cheek a sharp slap—crack-crack—the sound echoing across the empty highway. Her fuller lips curled into a smug pout. “Schmuck drivers would crash just trying to keep up.”
Up to the waist—still cinched tight enough to make a corset jealous. She traced the brutal ten-pack with one talon, hissing in pleasure. “These abs? Feh, they could grate parmesan. I’m basically a human Vitamix now.” Then higher. She hefted her enormous, rock-hard breasts, bouncing them once like she was testing melons at the Union Square Greenmarket. “Oy gevalt, these bubbies! Used to be a solid C-cup—now they’re giving ‘pay my tuition or I’ll smother you’ energy. Look at these nipples—standing at attention like little soldiers. Hello, boys.” She pinched one, rolled it slowly, head tipping back with a throaty moan. “That’s the good stuff. Mamash delicious.”
She started posing—full-on mirror-at-the-gym energy, even without a mirror.
Double-biceps first. Peaks rose like the Manhattan skyline. “Bam! Look at these guns, bubbaleh. I could curl a yellow cab and still have room for iced coffee.” She flexed harder, veins popping like subway maps. “Mmm, yes queen. Serve.”
Side chest—lats flaring, waist disappearing. “This taper? Couture. I’m built like a brick shithouse and still serving lewk.”
She talked nonstop, half to herself, half like she was already filming content.
“So what the hell even was that? Some kind of meteor Viagra for Jewish American princesses? I don’t know, I don’t care. All I know is I went from hot to unholy in like thirty seconds flat. This is bashert, people. This is my moment. The world is about to get a whole new level of oy vey.”
She took a casual step forward. Her delicate, high-arched foot—still somehow pedicured perfection despite the apocalypse—landed on a chunk of busted asphalt the size of a brick.
Crack.
The rock disintegrated into gray dust under her sole like it owed her money.
Sarah froze. Then cackled—loud, sharp, victorious.
“Oy, did you see that? My little princess foot just turned concrete into bubkes! Cute. Very cute.”
She spotted a bigger stone—maybe thirty pounds, half-buried. She bent (hair sweeping the ground like a dramatic curtain), wrapped those long, feminine fingers around it.
Squeezed.
The rock exploded into powder between her palms. Dust sifted through her talons like bad glitter.
She stared at her empty hands.
Then threw her head back and laughed—wicked, nasal, pure Brooklyn triumph.
“Are you kidding me right now? I’m super-strong? Like, comic-book strong? Feh, this is better than a Black Friday sale at Bergdorf’s!”
She spun, scanning the dark fields like they were her personal playground.
Time to test-drive.
She strutted to the shoulder—each step cracking more asphalt like cheap linoleum. Rusted guardrail. She hooked two fingers underneath, yanked.
Steel shrieked and tore like wet tissue. She ripped a ten-foot section free, twirled it once like a baton at a Sweet Sixteen, then bent it into a sloppy heart with a casual flex. “Aww, how romantic. For my haters.”
Next: an old telephone pole, thirty-five feet of weathered cedar. She wrapped both arms around the base in a mocking hug—“Come to mama, you big ugly thing”—and squeezed.
Wood splintered. Roots ripped free like loose threads. She lifted the entire pole overhead one-handed, triceps horseshoeing, biceps ballooning, traps swallowing her neck.
“Seriously? This is nothing. I lift heavier protein tubs on leg day.”
She hefted it higher, smirking.
Then she hurled it—full javelin form, hips snapping, shoulders exploding.
The pole rocketed skyward, spinning, climbing, climbing—until it punched through the upper atmosphere. A brief orange flare as it burned up like an overpriced candle.
Sarah watched the streak fade, hands back on hips, chest thrust forward, hair whipping like a mink in a wind tunnel.
She hit a most-muscular pose—everything popping, veins like rivers, glutes clenching into granite.
“Listen up, universe,” she declared, voice carrying across the empty highway like she was holding court at Katz’s Deli. “Sarah Adler just got upgraded. From JAP to literal goddess. You thought I was a handful before? Bubbeleh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
She licked her lips once, slow and deliberate, then flashed that signature smug, predatory grin—brighter, sharper, more dangerous than ever.
“Time to go shopping for a new wardrobe… and maybe a few new enemies.”
She laughed again—low, wicked, triumphant—and started walking toward the Jeep, hips swaying, hair trailing, every step a promise of chaos.
The world had no idea what was coming.
Does she have superpowers?
She planted her hands on her newly massive hips—those hips that could now probably bench-press a taxi—and let her long acrylic talons (still that obnoxious hot-pink gel) roam her own body like she was appraising stolen merchandise.
“Oy vey, would you look at these thighs?” she purred in full Brooklynese, squeezing the sweeping quads so hard the muscle popped under her fingers. “These are giving ‘I could crush a man’s skull and still look cute doing it.’ Mamash gorgeous.” She dragged her nails up the inner sweep, moaning low and theatrical. “Mmm, feel that? That’s money, baby. Pure six-figure legs.”
Her palms slid back to cup the obscene, high-riding shelf of her glutes. She groped them shamelessly, kneading like she was testing challah dough at Zabar’s. “Helloooo, tuchus! You used to be my pride and joy—now you’re a whole felony waiting to happen. So firm, so round, so ‘don’t even think about sitting behind me in traffic.’ I’m obsessed.” She gave each cheek a sharp slap—crack-crack—the sound echoing across the empty highway. Her fuller lips curled into a smug pout. “Schmuck drivers would crash just trying to keep up.”
Up to the waist—still cinched tight enough to make a corset jealous. She traced the brutal ten-pack with one talon, hissing in pleasure. “These abs? Feh, they could grate parmesan. I’m basically a human Vitamix now.” Then higher. She hefted her enormous, rock-hard breasts, bouncing them once like she was testing melons at the Union Square Greenmarket. “Oy gevalt, these bubbies! Used to be a solid C-cup—now they’re giving ‘pay my tuition or I’ll smother you’ energy. Look at these nipples—standing at attention like little soldiers. Hello, boys.” She pinched one, rolled it slowly, head tipping back with a throaty moan. “That’s the good stuff. Mamash delicious.”
She started posing—full-on mirror-at-the-gym energy, even without a mirror.
Double-biceps first. Peaks rose like the Manhattan skyline. “Bam! Look at these guns, bubbaleh. I could curl a yellow cab and still have room for iced coffee.” She flexed harder, veins popping like subway maps. “Mmm, yes queen. Serve.”
Side chest—lats flaring, waist disappearing. “This taper? Couture. I’m built like a brick shithouse and still serving lewk.”
She talked nonstop, half to herself, half like she was already filming content.
“So what the hell even was that? Some kind of meteor Viagra for Jewish American princesses? I don’t know, I don’t care. All I know is I went from hot to unholy in like thirty seconds flat. This is bashert, people. This is my moment. The world is about to get a whole new level of oy vey.”
She took a casual step forward. Her delicate, high-arched foot—still somehow pedicured perfection despite the apocalypse—landed on a chunk of busted asphalt the size of a brick.
Crack.
The rock disintegrated into gray dust under her sole like it owed her money.
Sarah froze. Then cackled—loud, sharp, victorious.
“Oy, did you see that? My little princess foot just turned concrete into bubkes! Cute. Very cute.”
She spotted a bigger stone—maybe thirty pounds, half-buried. She bent (hair sweeping the ground like a dramatic curtain), wrapped those long, feminine fingers around it.
Squeezed.
The rock exploded into powder between her palms. Dust sifted through her talons like bad glitter.
She stared at her empty hands.
Then threw her head back and laughed—wicked, nasal, pure Brooklyn triumph.
“Are you kidding me right now? I’m super-strong? Like, comic-book strong? Feh, this is better than a Black Friday sale at Bergdorf’s!”
She spun, scanning the dark fields like they were her personal playground.
Time to test-drive.
She strutted to the shoulder—each step cracking more asphalt like cheap linoleum. Rusted guardrail. She hooked two fingers underneath, yanked.
Steel shrieked and tore like wet tissue. She ripped a ten-foot section free, twirled it once like a baton at a Sweet Sixteen, then bent it into a sloppy heart with a casual flex. “Aww, how romantic. For my haters.”
Next: an old telephone pole, thirty-five feet of weathered cedar. She wrapped both arms around the base in a mocking hug—“Come to mama, you big ugly thing”—and squeezed.
Wood splintered. Roots ripped free like loose threads. She lifted the entire pole overhead one-handed, triceps horseshoeing, biceps ballooning, traps swallowing her neck.
“Seriously? This is nothing. I lift heavier protein tubs on leg day.”
She hefted it higher, smirking.
Then she hurled it—full javelin form, hips snapping, shoulders exploding.
The pole rocketed skyward, spinning, climbing, climbing—until it punched through the upper atmosphere. A brief orange flare as it burned up like an overpriced candle.
Sarah watched the streak fade, hands back on hips, chest thrust forward, hair whipping like a mink in a wind tunnel.
She hit a most-muscular pose—everything popping, veins like rivers, glutes clenching into granite.
“Listen up, universe,” she declared, voice carrying across the empty highway like she was holding court at Katz’s Deli. “Sarah Adler just got upgraded. From JAP to literal goddess. You thought I was a handful before? Bubbeleh, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
She licked her lips once, slow and deliberate, then flashed that signature smug, predatory grin—brighter, sharper, more dangerous than ever.
“Time to go shopping for a new wardrobe… and maybe a few new enemies.”
She laughed again—low, wicked, triumphant—and started walking toward the Jeep, hips swaying, hair trailing, every step a promise of chaos.
The world had no idea what was coming.
Does she have superpowers?
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·
June 13
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