The gym
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 10
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Sarah pushed through the double doors of the Havenridge College gym like she was making an entrance at Fashion Week—except this was fluorescent-lit mediocrity, and she was now seven-foot-four of living, breathing blasphemy against normal human proportions.
She wore a bubblegum-pink one-shoulder cropped sports bra that strained heroically across her rock-hard, gravity-defying breasts, the single strap digging into one golden-bronze deltoid like it was trying to survive a war. Below, black athletic boyshorts hugged her obscene glutes so tightly the word PRINCESS glittered in rhinestones across each cheek. Every sensual sway of her hips sent the letters winking under the lights. Her long jet-black waves cascaded past her knees, brushing the backs of her calves with each exaggerated step. Nipples poked visibly through the thin pink fabric—hard, proud, daring anyone to look away.
Heads turned. Mouths fell open. Weights clattered to the floor. A guy mid-bench press dropped the bar with a metallic clang that echoed like a dropped jaw. Sarah felt every stare like champagne bubbles on her skin. She loved it. Craved it. Fed on it.
She threw her ass side to side with deliberate laziness—left cheek up, right cheek up—each roll a slow, taunting invitation. “Eyes up here, schlemiels,” she muttered under her breath, but the smirk said the opposite: Keep staring. Worship.
As she strutted past the regulars, she flexed lazily—biceps curling just enough to make the peak rise like a cartoon mountain, quads sweeping out with every step, lats flaring under the cropped top like wings. A girl on the treadmill tripped and caught herself on the rails. A meathead doing curls froze mid-rep, barbell trembling. Sarah caught his eye, licked her fuller lips once, slow and smug, then kept walking.
She spotted her two favorite minions—Chloe and Mia—near the squat racks. Both were mid-conversation, both froze when they saw her.
Chloe’s water bottle slipped from her fingers and burst on the floor.
Mia’s jaw actually hit her sports bra.
Sarah glided over, hips rolling, PRINCESS sparkling with every sway.
“Hey, besties,” she purred, Brooklyn accent thick and syrupy. “Miss me?”
Chloe blinked rapidly. “Sarah…? What the actual fuck? You’re… you’re huge.”
Mia’s eyes were saucers. “Like… actually huge. Your arms are bigger than my head. And your ass—Jesus, is that real?”
Sarah tilted her head, batting her long lashes with perfect innocence. “What are you talking about? I’ve always been this fabulous. You two need new contacts or something?”
Chloe reached out hesitantly, fingertips brushing Sarah’s bicep. The muscle was warm steel under golden skin. Mia followed suit, palm flattening against the sweeping quad.
Sarah flexed—slow, casual, devastating.
Biceps ballooned. Quads carved deeper. Glutes clenched into granite shelves that pushed the rhinestone letters outward. Lats flared. Abs rippled under the cropped top.
Both girls gasped. Chloe actually staggered back a step. Mia’s hand flew to her chest like she was having an episode.
Sarah giggled—high, wicked, delighted. “See? Same old me. You’re acting like I’ve never done legs day before. Come on, don’t be dramatic.”
She hooked one massive arm around each of their waists—effortless, like picking up designer handbags—and steered them toward the free-weight area. “You’re helping me film today. Content doesn’t make itself, bubbelehs. Move those little legs.”
They stumbled along, too stunned to resist.
Sarah set up her phone on a tripod near the dumbbell rack. A small crowd had already formed—guys pretending to stretch, girls pretending not to stare. She didn’t acknowledge them. Queens don’t beg for attention; they simply take it.
First set: dumbbell curls. She picked up the heaviest pair—100-pounders—like they were made of Styrofoam. No strain. No vein. Just effortless. She curled them slowly, watching her peaks rise in the mirror, biting her lip to keep from laughing. They felt like feathers. She could’ve curled the entire rack one-handed.
She filmed it anyway—slow reps, hair flipping dramatically, lips pursed in mock exertion.
Next: shoulder presses. Same 100s overhead. No shake. No grunt. Just smooth, goddess motion. The crowd grew. Phones came out.
She transitioned to hip thrusts—loaded the bar with every plate available. It looked ridiculous on her frame. She slid under, planted her feet, and thrust. The bar rose like it weighed nothing. Glutes popped with each rep, PRINCESS flashing like a neon sign. She moaned theatrically on the last few—pure theater.
By the end, half the gym was watching. Whispers. Gasps. Someone muttered “steroids” and Sarah shot them a look that could’ve curdled milk.
She stopped the recording, reviewed the footage, smirked.
Upload.
First video caption: “Morning pump check 💪✨ When your dumbbells feel like toys and your reflection is doing the Lord’s work. Sorry if your gym crush just got a new religion 😘 #QueenSarah #GluteGoddess #PrincessPower #WeightsAreForMortals #BuiltLikeThisOnPurpose #SorryYourManIsStaring #NarcissistAndProud #JewishAmericanGoddess #BetterThanYourPR”
Second clip (the hip thrusts): “Hip thrusts so heavy they should come with a trigger warning 🍑 Who needs progressive overload when you’re already overloaded? Bow down, peasants 💅 #AssForDays #PrincessOnTheThrone #CondescendingAndConfident #EgoOnFleek #IFBBWho #SorryNotSorry”
She hit post. Notifications exploded.
Chloe and Mia stood frozen beside her.
Chloe finally found words. “Sarah. Seriously. What the hell happened? You’re like… seven feet tall. Your arms are huge. You just curled 200 pounds total like it was a salad fork.”
Mia nodded frantically. “And you’re glowing. Like, actually glowing. Spill. Now.”
Sarah turned slowly, towering over them, hands on hips, chest thrust forward so the pink bra strained audibly.
She blinked—big, innocent doe eyes.
“Girls. What are you even talking about? I’ve always been this tall. Always been this strong. You’re acting like I didn’t carry both of you home from that dive bar last semester. Which I totally did. In heels.”
Chloe opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Sarah leaned down—close enough that her hair brushed their shoulders—voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Relax. It’s just good genes, good lighting, and better contour. You should try it sometime.”
She straightened, flashed that smug, predatory grin, and sauntered toward the exit—ass swaying, PRINCESS glittering, crowd parting like the Red Sea for Moses’ hotter cousin.
Behind her, Chloe and Mia exchanged a look that said one thing clearly:
Whatever happened, it wasn’t “good genes.”
And whatever came next was going to be biblical.
They...
She wore a bubblegum-pink one-shoulder cropped sports bra that strained heroically across her rock-hard, gravity-defying breasts, the single strap digging into one golden-bronze deltoid like it was trying to survive a war. Below, black athletic boyshorts hugged her obscene glutes so tightly the word PRINCESS glittered in rhinestones across each cheek. Every sensual sway of her hips sent the letters winking under the lights. Her long jet-black waves cascaded past her knees, brushing the backs of her calves with each exaggerated step. Nipples poked visibly through the thin pink fabric—hard, proud, daring anyone to look away.
Heads turned. Mouths fell open. Weights clattered to the floor. A guy mid-bench press dropped the bar with a metallic clang that echoed like a dropped jaw. Sarah felt every stare like champagne bubbles on her skin. She loved it. Craved it. Fed on it.
She threw her ass side to side with deliberate laziness—left cheek up, right cheek up—each roll a slow, taunting invitation. “Eyes up here, schlemiels,” she muttered under her breath, but the smirk said the opposite: Keep staring. Worship.
As she strutted past the regulars, she flexed lazily—biceps curling just enough to make the peak rise like a cartoon mountain, quads sweeping out with every step, lats flaring under the cropped top like wings. A girl on the treadmill tripped and caught herself on the rails. A meathead doing curls froze mid-rep, barbell trembling. Sarah caught his eye, licked her fuller lips once, slow and smug, then kept walking.
She spotted her two favorite minions—Chloe and Mia—near the squat racks. Both were mid-conversation, both froze when they saw her.
Chloe’s water bottle slipped from her fingers and burst on the floor.
Mia’s jaw actually hit her sports bra.
Sarah glided over, hips rolling, PRINCESS sparkling with every sway.
“Hey, besties,” she purred, Brooklyn accent thick and syrupy. “Miss me?”
Chloe blinked rapidly. “Sarah…? What the actual fuck? You’re… you’re huge.”
Mia’s eyes were saucers. “Like… actually huge. Your arms are bigger than my head. And your ass—Jesus, is that real?”
Sarah tilted her head, batting her long lashes with perfect innocence. “What are you talking about? I’ve always been this fabulous. You two need new contacts or something?”
Chloe reached out hesitantly, fingertips brushing Sarah’s bicep. The muscle was warm steel under golden skin. Mia followed suit, palm flattening against the sweeping quad.
Sarah flexed—slow, casual, devastating.
Biceps ballooned. Quads carved deeper. Glutes clenched into granite shelves that pushed the rhinestone letters outward. Lats flared. Abs rippled under the cropped top.
Both girls gasped. Chloe actually staggered back a step. Mia’s hand flew to her chest like she was having an episode.
Sarah giggled—high, wicked, delighted. “See? Same old me. You’re acting like I’ve never done legs day before. Come on, don’t be dramatic.”
She hooked one massive arm around each of their waists—effortless, like picking up designer handbags—and steered them toward the free-weight area. “You’re helping me film today. Content doesn’t make itself, bubbelehs. Move those little legs.”
They stumbled along, too stunned to resist.
Sarah set up her phone on a tripod near the dumbbell rack. A small crowd had already formed—guys pretending to stretch, girls pretending not to stare. She didn’t acknowledge them. Queens don’t beg for attention; they simply take it.
First set: dumbbell curls. She picked up the heaviest pair—100-pounders—like they were made of Styrofoam. No strain. No vein. Just effortless. She curled them slowly, watching her peaks rise in the mirror, biting her lip to keep from laughing. They felt like feathers. She could’ve curled the entire rack one-handed.
She filmed it anyway—slow reps, hair flipping dramatically, lips pursed in mock exertion.
Next: shoulder presses. Same 100s overhead. No shake. No grunt. Just smooth, goddess motion. The crowd grew. Phones came out.
She transitioned to hip thrusts—loaded the bar with every plate available. It looked ridiculous on her frame. She slid under, planted her feet, and thrust. The bar rose like it weighed nothing. Glutes popped with each rep, PRINCESS flashing like a neon sign. She moaned theatrically on the last few—pure theater.
By the end, half the gym was watching. Whispers. Gasps. Someone muttered “steroids” and Sarah shot them a look that could’ve curdled milk.
She stopped the recording, reviewed the footage, smirked.
Upload.
First video caption: “Morning pump check 💪✨ When your dumbbells feel like toys and your reflection is doing the Lord’s work. Sorry if your gym crush just got a new religion 😘 #QueenSarah #GluteGoddess #PrincessPower #WeightsAreForMortals #BuiltLikeThisOnPurpose #SorryYourManIsStaring #NarcissistAndProud #JewishAmericanGoddess #BetterThanYourPR”
Second clip (the hip thrusts): “Hip thrusts so heavy they should come with a trigger warning 🍑 Who needs progressive overload when you’re already overloaded? Bow down, peasants 💅 #AssForDays #PrincessOnTheThrone #CondescendingAndConfident #EgoOnFleek #IFBBWho #SorryNotSorry”
She hit post. Notifications exploded.
Chloe and Mia stood frozen beside her.
Chloe finally found words. “Sarah. Seriously. What the hell happened? You’re like… seven feet tall. Your arms are huge. You just curled 200 pounds total like it was a salad fork.”
Mia nodded frantically. “And you’re glowing. Like, actually glowing. Spill. Now.”
Sarah turned slowly, towering over them, hands on hips, chest thrust forward so the pink bra strained audibly.
She blinked—big, innocent doe eyes.
“Girls. What are you even talking about? I’ve always been this tall. Always been this strong. You’re acting like I didn’t carry both of you home from that dive bar last semester. Which I totally did. In heels.”
Chloe opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
Sarah leaned down—close enough that her hair brushed their shoulders—voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“Relax. It’s just good genes, good lighting, and better contour. You should try it sometime.”
She straightened, flashed that smug, predatory grin, and sauntered toward the exit—ass swaying, PRINCESS glittering, crowd parting like the Red Sea for Moses’ hotter cousin.
Behind her, Chloe and Mia exchanged a look that said one thing clearly:
Whatever happened, it wasn’t “good genes.”
And whatever came next was going to be biblical.
They...
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·
June 13
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