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Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 9
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Sarah Adler stepped out of the steam-filled bathroom of her cramped off-campus apartment, the doorframe creaking ominously as her seven-foot-four frame brushed it. The towel—once a generous bath sheet—was now a sad, damp washcloth in her enormous hands. She dragged it lazily across her golden-bronze skin, droplets cascading down curves that looked carved by a sculptor with a god complex. The apartment was a war zone: cracked drywall where she’d accidentally shouldered a wall last night, a toppled dresser she’d tried to “gently” move, splintered floorboards from one too-hard step. She still wasn’t used to the strength. Or the size. Or any of it, really.
“Oy, what a shithole,” she muttered, Brooklyn accent thick. “I need a penthouse. Like, yesterday. This place is giving ‘broke grad student who peaked in high school’ energy, and that’s not the vibe anymore.”
She padded—carefully now—across the ruined living room, hips swaying with predatory grace. The full-length mirror she’d propped against the wall (the only thing still standing) caught her reflection and she paused.
Goddamn.
She turned sideways, admiring the impossible taper: massive shoulders flowing into a cinched waist that flared into glutes so high and round they looked photoshopped in real life. Her breasts—rock-hard, gravity-defying orbs—jutted proudly. Nipples still thick and dark from the cold air. Hair, a glossy black river, brushed the backs of her knees even when she stood straight.
She lifted the phone (screen cracked from when she’d squeezed it too hard earlier), angled it carefully—cropping out anything too explicit. One shot: back to camera, towel draped low across her ass, hair cascading like a curtain, one leg bent to pop the glute. Another: side profile, towel clutched just under her breasts, bicep casually flexed so the peak rose like a mountain. A third: seated on the edge of the ruined bed, knees together, towel barely covering the essentials, hair fanned out behind her, lips pursed in that signature smug pout.
Upload.
First caption: “Just got out of the shower and already serving looks that should come with a warning label 😏 Who needs clothes when the body is couture? #QueenSarah #PostShowerGlow #BuiltDifferent #SorryYourMirrorJustCracked #NarcissistAndProud #JewishAmericanGoddess #BetterThanYourEntireFeed”
Second: “Towel? More like a napkin at this point. Size upgrade includes ego upgrade. You’re welcome, universe 💅 #GluteGoals #BicepBraggingRights #SorryNotSorry #EgoOnFleek #IFBBWhoNeedsItWhenYoureThis”
Third: “When your reflection is the thirst trap and you’re just the photographer. Living my best unbothered life ✨ #SelfLoveSzn #CondescendingAndConfident #PrincessNoLongerBasic”
Likes poured in before she even set the phone down. Comments: “Girl how are you real???” “This is illegal levels of hot” “Marry me” “Delete this my boyfriend is staring.”
She smirked. “Pathetic. Delicious.”
She tossed the towel aside—useless anyway—and let her hands roam again. Palms slid over quads that felt like warm steel wrapped in silk. She squeezed, moaned low. “Mmm. These could crack walnuts… or skulls. Jury’s still out.” Up to the abs—ten brutal ridges she could grate cheese on. She traced each one, shivering at the heightened sensitivity. Touch was dialed to eleven now. Every fingertip glide felt like a caress from someone else.
She flexed her biceps in the mirror—peak rising obscenely. “Look at you, you beautiful bastard. I could curl a Buick and still have energy for cardio.” She turned, hit a back double-biceps—lats flaring like wings, traps swallowing her neck. “This is what winning the genetic lottery and then robbing the cosmic bank looks like.”
Her mind drifted back to the crater. The purple glow. The surge. The orgasm that had rewritten her entire existence.
“What even was that thing?” she murmured, almost tenderly. “Some kind of alien bat mitzvah gift? Divine intervention for the most deserving bitch in the tri-state area? Whatever. I’m not complaining. I went from hot to unholy overnight. But…” She paused, eyes narrowing. “I’m not ready to go full supergirl on TikTok yet. Not till I know the limits. Don’t wanna accidentally level a city block because I sneezed too hard. Slow and smug—that’s the move. Let them think these pics are just filters and good lighting. The reveal? That’s gonna be biblical. And expensive.”
She padded to the bed—mattress sagging dangerously under her weight—and stretched out. The sheets felt like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. She moaned again, thighs parting almost on instinct.
Her sexual appetite had scaled with everything else.
One hand drifted down—fingers tracing the deep V of her lower abs, then lower still. She was already slick, throbbing. The other hand cupped a breast, thumb rolling the thick nipple. Pleasure hit like lightning. She arched, hair pooling around her like spilled ink.
“Fuck… yes…” she hissed, Brooklyn accent turning the word into a drawn-out plea.
Fingers circled her clit—slow at first, then faster. Pressure built impossibly fast. Every muscle tensed—quads sweeping, glutes clenching into granite, abs rippling. She worked herself harder, hips bucking, breath coming in sharp gasps.
“God… I’m so fucking strong… so fucking beautiful… so fucking—”
The orgasm crashed through her like a freight train.
Her whole body locked. Back arched off the mattress. A raw, animal cry tore from her throat.
Splurge.
Spluurge.
Spluuurge.
Thick, clear gushes erupted in powerful arcs—splashing her abs, her thighs, the already-ruined sheets. Each pulse wrung another moan from her, muscles rippling in ecstatic waves. The climax stretched—longer, harder, more intense than anything human. When it finally released her she collapsed back, chest heaving, sweat-sheened, hair sticking to her skin.
She stared at the ceiling, lips curled in a lazy, satisfied smirk.
“Note to self,” she panted, “new body comes with new standards. That was… obscene. I approve.”
She rolled onto her side—careful not to break the bedframe again—and reached for her phone. Fresh notifications. More likes. More thirst.
She laughed softly, wickedly.
“Let them drool. Let them beg.”
She closed her eyes, still buzzing, already plotting tomorrow.
The world had no idea what was waking up in this shitty apartment.
But it would.
Soon.
First thing in the morning...
“Oy, what a shithole,” she muttered, Brooklyn accent thick. “I need a penthouse. Like, yesterday. This place is giving ‘broke grad student who peaked in high school’ energy, and that’s not the vibe anymore.”
She padded—carefully now—across the ruined living room, hips swaying with predatory grace. The full-length mirror she’d propped against the wall (the only thing still standing) caught her reflection and she paused.
Goddamn.
She turned sideways, admiring the impossible taper: massive shoulders flowing into a cinched waist that flared into glutes so high and round they looked photoshopped in real life. Her breasts—rock-hard, gravity-defying orbs—jutted proudly. Nipples still thick and dark from the cold air. Hair, a glossy black river, brushed the backs of her knees even when she stood straight.
She lifted the phone (screen cracked from when she’d squeezed it too hard earlier), angled it carefully—cropping out anything too explicit. One shot: back to camera, towel draped low across her ass, hair cascading like a curtain, one leg bent to pop the glute. Another: side profile, towel clutched just under her breasts, bicep casually flexed so the peak rose like a mountain. A third: seated on the edge of the ruined bed, knees together, towel barely covering the essentials, hair fanned out behind her, lips pursed in that signature smug pout.
Upload.
First caption: “Just got out of the shower and already serving looks that should come with a warning label 😏 Who needs clothes when the body is couture? #QueenSarah #PostShowerGlow #BuiltDifferent #SorryYourMirrorJustCracked #NarcissistAndProud #JewishAmericanGoddess #BetterThanYourEntireFeed”
Second: “Towel? More like a napkin at this point. Size upgrade includes ego upgrade. You’re welcome, universe 💅 #GluteGoals #BicepBraggingRights #SorryNotSorry #EgoOnFleek #IFBBWhoNeedsItWhenYoureThis”
Third: “When your reflection is the thirst trap and you’re just the photographer. Living my best unbothered life ✨ #SelfLoveSzn #CondescendingAndConfident #PrincessNoLongerBasic”
Likes poured in before she even set the phone down. Comments: “Girl how are you real???” “This is illegal levels of hot” “Marry me” “Delete this my boyfriend is staring.”
She smirked. “Pathetic. Delicious.”
She tossed the towel aside—useless anyway—and let her hands roam again. Palms slid over quads that felt like warm steel wrapped in silk. She squeezed, moaned low. “Mmm. These could crack walnuts… or skulls. Jury’s still out.” Up to the abs—ten brutal ridges she could grate cheese on. She traced each one, shivering at the heightened sensitivity. Touch was dialed to eleven now. Every fingertip glide felt like a caress from someone else.
She flexed her biceps in the mirror—peak rising obscenely. “Look at you, you beautiful bastard. I could curl a Buick and still have energy for cardio.” She turned, hit a back double-biceps—lats flaring like wings, traps swallowing her neck. “This is what winning the genetic lottery and then robbing the cosmic bank looks like.”
Her mind drifted back to the crater. The purple glow. The surge. The orgasm that had rewritten her entire existence.
“What even was that thing?” she murmured, almost tenderly. “Some kind of alien bat mitzvah gift? Divine intervention for the most deserving bitch in the tri-state area? Whatever. I’m not complaining. I went from hot to unholy overnight. But…” She paused, eyes narrowing. “I’m not ready to go full supergirl on TikTok yet. Not till I know the limits. Don’t wanna accidentally level a city block because I sneezed too hard. Slow and smug—that’s the move. Let them think these pics are just filters and good lighting. The reveal? That’s gonna be biblical. And expensive.”
She padded to the bed—mattress sagging dangerously under her weight—and stretched out. The sheets felt like sandpaper against her hypersensitive skin. She moaned again, thighs parting almost on instinct.
Her sexual appetite had scaled with everything else.
One hand drifted down—fingers tracing the deep V of her lower abs, then lower still. She was already slick, throbbing. The other hand cupped a breast, thumb rolling the thick nipple. Pleasure hit like lightning. She arched, hair pooling around her like spilled ink.
“Fuck… yes…” she hissed, Brooklyn accent turning the word into a drawn-out plea.
Fingers circled her clit—slow at first, then faster. Pressure built impossibly fast. Every muscle tensed—quads sweeping, glutes clenching into granite, abs rippling. She worked herself harder, hips bucking, breath coming in sharp gasps.
“God… I’m so fucking strong… so fucking beautiful… so fucking—”
The orgasm crashed through her like a freight train.
Her whole body locked. Back arched off the mattress. A raw, animal cry tore from her throat.
Splurge.
Spluurge.
Spluuurge.
Thick, clear gushes erupted in powerful arcs—splashing her abs, her thighs, the already-ruined sheets. Each pulse wrung another moan from her, muscles rippling in ecstatic waves. The climax stretched—longer, harder, more intense than anything human. When it finally released her she collapsed back, chest heaving, sweat-sheened, hair sticking to her skin.
She stared at the ceiling, lips curled in a lazy, satisfied smirk.
“Note to self,” she panted, “new body comes with new standards. That was… obscene. I approve.”
She rolled onto her side—careful not to break the bedframe again—and reached for her phone. Fresh notifications. More likes. More thirst.
She laughed softly, wickedly.
“Let them drool. Let them beg.”
She closed her eyes, still buzzing, already plotting tomorrow.
The world had no idea what was waking up in this shitty apartment.
But it would.
Soon.
First thing in the morning...
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·
June 13
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