To get some new clothes
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 8
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Sarah soared higher, the cold January wind whipping her endless black waves like a victory flag. The world below shrank to toy size—highway scars, frozen fields, distant sodium glows of sleepy towns. For the first time in her life she felt small in the best way: a little girl playing pretend in a sandbox the size of the Midwest.
She giggled—high-pitched, girlish, deliberately obnoxious—and tucked her arms in tight.
“Wheeee! Look at me, Mommy! I’m flying! I’m a princess airplane!” she squealed in full mock-baby voice, doing lazy barrel rolls that sent her hair whipping in glittering arcs. “Vroom vroom, bitches! Coming through!”
Then she spotted it: the dark hulk of Millford Outlet Mall, shuttered for the night, parking lot empty except for a lone security SUV. A wicked grin split her fuller lips.
“Ohhh, what’s this? A big toy box just begging to be opened?” She licked her lips slowly. “Time to play dress-up, darlings.”
She dove—sharp, controlled, aimed straight at the roof above what used to be Forever 21 before it went bankrupt. No hesitation. She punched through the corrugated metal like it was wet cardboard. Sparks flew. Alarms shrieked somewhere far below. Insulation and drywall rained around her as she landed in a perfect three-point crouch amid racks of discount athleisure.
Dust settled. Fluorescent lights flickered on emergency power.
Sarah stood slowly—seven-foot-four of glistening, sweat-slicked goddess in the middle of a ransacked juniors section—and looked around with theatrical contempt.
“Ugh. This place smells like polyester regret and broken dreams.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “And the lighting? Honey, even my pores look offended. This is what they call fashion in flyover country? Feh.”
She strutted between racks, talons clicking on cracked linoleum, hips swaying like she was walking a nonexistent runway. Grabbed a sparkly pink crop top. Held it up to her massive chest. The thing looked like a handkerchief.
“Seriously? This is for children or really committed anorexics?” She tossed it over her shoulder. Another—neon green sports bra. “Cute. For ants.” Flick. A flowy sundress. “Adorable. If I wanted to cosplay as a picnic tablecloth.”
Nothing fit. Of course nothing fit. She was built like a Greek statue that had mainlined HGH and spite.
Annoyance flashed—then inspiration.
She planted her feet, thighs flexing into sweeping teardrops, and spun.
Once. Twice. Faster.
Wind howled. Racks rattled. Clothes lifted off hangers in a swirling vortex. She became the eye of her own tornado—hair whipping, breasts bouncing with centrifugal force, glutes clenching like steel. The store turned into chaos: jeans flying, hoodies tornado-ing, thongs whipping past like lewd streamers.
She laughed—sharp, nasal, delighted—and started walking through the maelstrom, still spinning, vacuuming armfuls of fabric into her orbit. With casual flicks she hurled pieces at walls, mirrors, mannequins. Glass shattered. Mannequins toppled like drunks at closing time. A sequined jumpsuit wrapped itself around a ceiling sprinkler and triggered it—cold water rained down, soaking everything.
She stopped abruptly.
The tornado died.
Clothes rained gently around her like expensive confetti.
Sarah stood in the wreckage—now wearing the only things that had survived intact and stretched to (barely) contain her: a tiny black strapless crop top that rode so high it was basically an underboob bandeau, the fabric straining heroically across her rock-hard breasts, and a white mini skirt so short it barely qualified as clothing, hugging the obscene curve of her glutes like shrink-wrap on a masterpiece.
She turned to the full-length mirror that had miraculously survived.
Pose one: hands on hips, chest thrust, double biceps. Peaks rose like mountains under golden skin.
Pose two: side profile, ass popped, hair flipped dramatically.
Pose three: most muscular—everything exploding, veins popping, lips pursed in smug perfection.
She blew herself a kiss in the reflection.
“Listen, mirror,” she purred, Brooklyn thick and syrupy, “you’re looking at the moment fashion peaked. Everything after this is just cosplay. I’m not dressed. I’m weaponized.”
She pulled out her phone—miraculously intact in the chaos—and started snapping.
Flexed one bicep—vein snaking over the summit like a river on a map. Smoldering look at the camera.
Another shot: both arms curled, lats flared, waist vanishing into impossible taper.
Caption: “Late night gains check 💪✨ Who needs New Year’s resolutions when you’re already built different? Sorry not sorry if your gym crush just got upgraded 😘 #QueenSarah #GluteGoddess #BicepBraggingRights #BuiltLikeThisOnPurpose #SorryYourManIsStaring #NarcissistAndProud #JewishPrincessGlowUp #IFBBWho #BetterThanYesterdayBetterThanYou”
She hit post. Likes started rolling in before she even pocketed the phone.
Then she grabbed several oversized shopping bags—ripped the handles wider with casual strength—and began stuffing them: whatever looked expensive, stretchy, or slutty enough to survive her proportions. Leather leggings, bandage dresses, metallic bodysuits—all going in.
Halfway through, she froze.
A tiny red light blinked in the corner.
Security camera.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
For a long second she considered waving. Giving them content. Letting the world see Super Sarah in all her glory.
Then she smirked.
“Nah. Not yet. I’m keeping this little glow-up exclusive for now. Let them speculate. Let them drool. The reveal’s gonna be biblical.”
She focused.
Heat bloomed behind her eyes.
Twin ruby beams lanced out—precise, surgical. One camera after another popped, melted, sparked and died. Plastic dripped. Smoke curled.
She scanned the ceiling, the corners, the exits.
Gone. All of them.
Satisfied, she shouldered the bags—easily a dozen, stuffed to bursting—and looked up at the jagged hole she’d made in the roof.
“Time to bounce before mall security gets their sad little flashlights out.”
She bent her knees, quads and glutes exploding with power, and launched upward.
Through the ceiling again—concrete and rebar parting like tissue. Cold night air rushed to greet her. She burst into the sky, bags swinging, hair streaming, a dark comet trailing smug laughter.
Below, the mall sat dark and violated, alarms finally wailing in futile protest.
Above, Sarah Adler climbed toward the stars—already plotting her next move, her next outfit, her next conquest.
The world had twenty-four hours left of normal.
Maybe less.
She is flying...
She giggled—high-pitched, girlish, deliberately obnoxious—and tucked her arms in tight.
“Wheeee! Look at me, Mommy! I’m flying! I’m a princess airplane!” she squealed in full mock-baby voice, doing lazy barrel rolls that sent her hair whipping in glittering arcs. “Vroom vroom, bitches! Coming through!”
Then she spotted it: the dark hulk of Millford Outlet Mall, shuttered for the night, parking lot empty except for a lone security SUV. A wicked grin split her fuller lips.
“Ohhh, what’s this? A big toy box just begging to be opened?” She licked her lips slowly. “Time to play dress-up, darlings.”
She dove—sharp, controlled, aimed straight at the roof above what used to be Forever 21 before it went bankrupt. No hesitation. She punched through the corrugated metal like it was wet cardboard. Sparks flew. Alarms shrieked somewhere far below. Insulation and drywall rained around her as she landed in a perfect three-point crouch amid racks of discount athleisure.
Dust settled. Fluorescent lights flickered on emergency power.
Sarah stood slowly—seven-foot-four of glistening, sweat-slicked goddess in the middle of a ransacked juniors section—and looked around with theatrical contempt.
“Ugh. This place smells like polyester regret and broken dreams.” She wrinkled her perfect nose. “And the lighting? Honey, even my pores look offended. This is what they call fashion in flyover country? Feh.”
She strutted between racks, talons clicking on cracked linoleum, hips swaying like she was walking a nonexistent runway. Grabbed a sparkly pink crop top. Held it up to her massive chest. The thing looked like a handkerchief.
“Seriously? This is for children or really committed anorexics?” She tossed it over her shoulder. Another—neon green sports bra. “Cute. For ants.” Flick. A flowy sundress. “Adorable. If I wanted to cosplay as a picnic tablecloth.”
Nothing fit. Of course nothing fit. She was built like a Greek statue that had mainlined HGH and spite.
Annoyance flashed—then inspiration.
She planted her feet, thighs flexing into sweeping teardrops, and spun.
Once. Twice. Faster.
Wind howled. Racks rattled. Clothes lifted off hangers in a swirling vortex. She became the eye of her own tornado—hair whipping, breasts bouncing with centrifugal force, glutes clenching like steel. The store turned into chaos: jeans flying, hoodies tornado-ing, thongs whipping past like lewd streamers.
She laughed—sharp, nasal, delighted—and started walking through the maelstrom, still spinning, vacuuming armfuls of fabric into her orbit. With casual flicks she hurled pieces at walls, mirrors, mannequins. Glass shattered. Mannequins toppled like drunks at closing time. A sequined jumpsuit wrapped itself around a ceiling sprinkler and triggered it—cold water rained down, soaking everything.
She stopped abruptly.
The tornado died.
Clothes rained gently around her like expensive confetti.
Sarah stood in the wreckage—now wearing the only things that had survived intact and stretched to (barely) contain her: a tiny black strapless crop top that rode so high it was basically an underboob bandeau, the fabric straining heroically across her rock-hard breasts, and a white mini skirt so short it barely qualified as clothing, hugging the obscene curve of her glutes like shrink-wrap on a masterpiece.
She turned to the full-length mirror that had miraculously survived.
Pose one: hands on hips, chest thrust, double biceps. Peaks rose like mountains under golden skin.
Pose two: side profile, ass popped, hair flipped dramatically.
Pose three: most muscular—everything exploding, veins popping, lips pursed in smug perfection.
She blew herself a kiss in the reflection.
“Listen, mirror,” she purred, Brooklyn thick and syrupy, “you’re looking at the moment fashion peaked. Everything after this is just cosplay. I’m not dressed. I’m weaponized.”
She pulled out her phone—miraculously intact in the chaos—and started snapping.
Flexed one bicep—vein snaking over the summit like a river on a map. Smoldering look at the camera.
Another shot: both arms curled, lats flared, waist vanishing into impossible taper.
Caption: “Late night gains check 💪✨ Who needs New Year’s resolutions when you’re already built different? Sorry not sorry if your gym crush just got upgraded 😘 #QueenSarah #GluteGoddess #BicepBraggingRights #BuiltLikeThisOnPurpose #SorryYourManIsStaring #NarcissistAndProud #JewishPrincessGlowUp #IFBBWho #BetterThanYesterdayBetterThanYou”
She hit post. Likes started rolling in before she even pocketed the phone.
Then she grabbed several oversized shopping bags—ripped the handles wider with casual strength—and began stuffing them: whatever looked expensive, stretchy, or slutty enough to survive her proportions. Leather leggings, bandage dresses, metallic bodysuits—all going in.
Halfway through, she froze.
A tiny red light blinked in the corner.
Security camera.
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing.
For a long second she considered waving. Giving them content. Letting the world see Super Sarah in all her glory.
Then she smirked.
“Nah. Not yet. I’m keeping this little glow-up exclusive for now. Let them speculate. Let them drool. The reveal’s gonna be biblical.”
She focused.
Heat bloomed behind her eyes.
Twin ruby beams lanced out—precise, surgical. One camera after another popped, melted, sparked and died. Plastic dripped. Smoke curled.
She scanned the ceiling, the corners, the exits.
Gone. All of them.
Satisfied, she shouldered the bags—easily a dozen, stuffed to bursting—and looked up at the jagged hole she’d made in the roof.
“Time to bounce before mall security gets their sad little flashlights out.”
She bent her knees, quads and glutes exploding with power, and launched upward.
Through the ceiling again—concrete and rebar parting like tissue. Cold night air rushed to greet her. She burst into the sky, bags swinging, hair streaming, a dark comet trailing smug laughter.
Below, the mall sat dark and violated, alarms finally wailing in futile protest.
Above, Sarah Adler climbed toward the stars—already plotting her next move, her next outfit, her next conquest.
The world had twenty-four hours left of normal.
Maybe less.
She is flying...
19 views
·
June 13
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