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Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 11
by
copier
· original author:
Carolyne let her phone drop onto the bedspread, screen still glowing with the fresh carousel of lace-clad selfies. The notifications kept coming—pings like little dopamine darts—and each one sent a shiver racing down her spine. She stood in front of the mirror again, breathing slow and deliberate. One hand trailed up her ribs, over the swell of her breast, thumb brushing the lace-covered nipple until it peaked hard. The other hand slid lower, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her panties.
She watched herself in the reflection—dark eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Slow circles at first, teasing, savoring the wet heat already building. Her breath hitched when she found the perfect rhythm. The nanobots registered every spike in arousal, every flutter of her pulse, cataloging it alongside the darker fantasies that flickered behind her eyes.
She reached for the phone again, awkward one-handed. Switched to the front camera. This time she didn’t pose sweetly. She angled low, knees slightly bent, free hand cupping herself through the lace while the other held the phone. Arch of the back. Head tilted back so curls spilled wild. Lips bitten red. The shot was blatant, shameless, pornographic in its confidence.
Caption:
“Feeling dangerous tonight.
Who’s brave enough to look? 😈
#LaReinaUnleashed #BodyBuiltForSin #ComeGetLost #TheyStareIDontCare #PuertoRicanVenom”
She posted before the afterglow of hesitation could catch up.
The flood started almost instantly. Likes skyrocketed. Comments poured in—thirsty, reverent, jealous, desperate.
She scrolled, still touching herself lazily, reading aloud in a low, mocking purr.
“‘Goddamn, Caro, you’re unreal.’ Aw, papi, you have no idea.” Sneer. “Keep worshipping from afar.”
“‘This should be illegal.’ Mmm, keep crying about it.”
“‘I’d sell my soul to touch that body.’ Cute. Too bad souls are cheap and I’m expensive.”
“‘How are you even real?’ I ask myself the same thing every morning, bebé.”
Each message fed the heat coiling in her belly. The nanobots amplified it—turned admiration into a physical rush, envy into a dark, addictive thrill that pulsed between her thighs. She felt worshipped and feared in the same breath, and it was better than any touch she’d ever given herself.
Then one comment stood out, buried among the thirst traps.
@IronPulseGym: “You training to be a physique competitor or what? 👀 That’s some serious muscle definition coming in. Check this thread if you’re serious about stage-ready aesthetics: [link to ironpulsefitness dot com / female-bodybuilding-models-2026]”
She tapped the link.
The page loaded—glossy photos of women carved from granite and sunlight. Posing under bright lights: double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Quads like braided steel, delts like cannonballs, abs like cobblestone streets. Glutes so striated they looked etched. Veins mapping across forearms and lower abs. Necks thick with traps. Eyes fierce, unapologetic.
Carolyne’s fingers stilled against herself.
She imagined it—her own body pushed further. Shoulders rounded and capped, arms thick with peaked biceps even at rest. Lats flaring wide enough to make doorways feel narrow. Quads sweeping out, hamstrings etched, calves diamond-cut. Abs so deep they cast shadows. A body that didn’t just command attention—it demanded submission. People would stare, whisper, want, and fear. Men would shrink. Women would envy or worship. Professors would bend. Strangers would avert their eyes or beg for a glance.
Power. Real, physical, undeniable power.
Her breath came faster. She backed toward the bed, never breaking eye contact with her reflection, and dropped onto the sheets. Legs spread. One hand between her thighs again, faster now, the other pinching a nipple through lace. She pictured herself on stage—oiled, posing, the crowd silent except for the collective intake of breath when she hit a front lat spread. The fear in their eyes. The desire. The knowledge that she could break them without trying.
The fantasy tipped her close—thighs trembling, hips lifting off the mattress.
Then her stomach roared.
Not a polite growl. A violent, hollow pang that doubled her over, hand flying from between her legs to clutch her abdomen. Hunger—sharp, stabbing, existential. The nanobots had burned through reserves building microscopic upgrades; now they screamed for raw material. Protein. Carbs. Fats. *Now.*
“Fuck,” she hissed, curling inward.
She staggered to the mini-fridge under her desk. Opened it. Half a yogurt, three grapes, a sad bottle of water. Nothing.
She grabbed her phone—fingers shaking—opened the delivery app. Pizza. Multiple. Large. Extra everything.
Four pies: one supreme, one meat-lover’s, one buffalo chicken, one plain cheese with extra sauce. Sides of garlic knots, cheesy bread, ranch dip. She hit order, paid extra for “priority rush,” then collapsed back onto the bed, writhing. The hunger felt like claws inside her ribs.
Minutes stretched into eternity. She rocked on her side, teeth gritted, trying to breathe through it. Every second the craving sharpened.
The knock finally came.
She yanked a silk robe over her underwear—barely tied—and opened the door just wide enough to snatch the stack of boxes. “Girls’ night,” she muttered at the wide-eyed delivery guy. “Keep the change.” Slam.
She dropped the boxes on the floor and tore into them like an animal.
Supreme first—folded slices, cheese stretching in long strings. Meat-lover’s next, grease shining on her lips. Buffalo chicken—spicy enough to make her eyes water, but she didn’t slow. She ate standing, then sitting cross-legged on the carpet, then lying on her side when her stomach protested the position. Sauce smeared her chin, her fingers, the robe. She didn’t care. She devoured until the last crust was gone, the last drop of ranch licked clean.
Her body felt heavy, distended, but the hunger finally quieted.
She crawled onto the bed—robe half-open, pizza boxes scattered like fallen soldiers—and collapsed face-down into the pillows. Sleep took her instantly, deep and black.
Inside her, the nanobots surged to life.
They had building materials now. Thousands of grams of protein, lipids, glycogen. They went to work.
Muscle satellite cells activated in waves. Myofibrils thickened. Capillaries multiplied. Hormonal signaling pathways rerouted—natural anabolics amplified, myostatin suppressed just enough. Fat redistributed again—strategic, sculptural. Connective tissue reinforced. Neural efficiency climbed.
The changes accelerated, layer by microscopic layer.
By morning the results would be visible.
But Carolyne slept on, unaware, dreaming of spotlights and trembling crowds, of a body that no longer asked for power but simply *took* it.
How big she grow?
She watched herself in the reflection—dark eyes half-lidded, lips parted. Slow circles at first, teasing, savoring the wet heat already building. Her breath hitched when she found the perfect rhythm. The nanobots registered every spike in arousal, every flutter of her pulse, cataloging it alongside the darker fantasies that flickered behind her eyes.
She reached for the phone again, awkward one-handed. Switched to the front camera. This time she didn’t pose sweetly. She angled low, knees slightly bent, free hand cupping herself through the lace while the other held the phone. Arch of the back. Head tilted back so curls spilled wild. Lips bitten red. The shot was blatant, shameless, pornographic in its confidence.
Caption:
“Feeling dangerous tonight.
Who’s brave enough to look? 😈
#LaReinaUnleashed #BodyBuiltForSin #ComeGetLost #TheyStareIDontCare #PuertoRicanVenom”
She posted before the afterglow of hesitation could catch up.
The flood started almost instantly. Likes skyrocketed. Comments poured in—thirsty, reverent, jealous, desperate.
She scrolled, still touching herself lazily, reading aloud in a low, mocking purr.
“‘Goddamn, Caro, you’re unreal.’ Aw, papi, you have no idea.” Sneer. “Keep worshipping from afar.”
“‘This should be illegal.’ Mmm, keep crying about it.”
“‘I’d sell my soul to touch that body.’ Cute. Too bad souls are cheap and I’m expensive.”
“‘How are you even real?’ I ask myself the same thing every morning, bebé.”
Each message fed the heat coiling in her belly. The nanobots amplified it—turned admiration into a physical rush, envy into a dark, addictive thrill that pulsed between her thighs. She felt worshipped and feared in the same breath, and it was better than any touch she’d ever given herself.
Then one comment stood out, buried among the thirst traps.
@IronPulseGym: “You training to be a physique competitor or what? 👀 That’s some serious muscle definition coming in. Check this thread if you’re serious about stage-ready aesthetics: [link to ironpulsefitness dot com / female-bodybuilding-models-2026]”
She tapped the link.
The page loaded—glossy photos of women carved from granite and sunlight. Posing under bright lights: double biceps, side chest, most muscular. Quads like braided steel, delts like cannonballs, abs like cobblestone streets. Glutes so striated they looked etched. Veins mapping across forearms and lower abs. Necks thick with traps. Eyes fierce, unapologetic.
Carolyne’s fingers stilled against herself.
She imagined it—her own body pushed further. Shoulders rounded and capped, arms thick with peaked biceps even at rest. Lats flaring wide enough to make doorways feel narrow. Quads sweeping out, hamstrings etched, calves diamond-cut. Abs so deep they cast shadows. A body that didn’t just command attention—it demanded submission. People would stare, whisper, want, and fear. Men would shrink. Women would envy or worship. Professors would bend. Strangers would avert their eyes or beg for a glance.
Power. Real, physical, undeniable power.
Her breath came faster. She backed toward the bed, never breaking eye contact with her reflection, and dropped onto the sheets. Legs spread. One hand between her thighs again, faster now, the other pinching a nipple through lace. She pictured herself on stage—oiled, posing, the crowd silent except for the collective intake of breath when she hit a front lat spread. The fear in their eyes. The desire. The knowledge that she could break them without trying.
The fantasy tipped her close—thighs trembling, hips lifting off the mattress.
Then her stomach roared.
Not a polite growl. A violent, hollow pang that doubled her over, hand flying from between her legs to clutch her abdomen. Hunger—sharp, stabbing, existential. The nanobots had burned through reserves building microscopic upgrades; now they screamed for raw material. Protein. Carbs. Fats. *Now.*
“Fuck,” she hissed, curling inward.
She staggered to the mini-fridge under her desk. Opened it. Half a yogurt, three grapes, a sad bottle of water. Nothing.
She grabbed her phone—fingers shaking—opened the delivery app. Pizza. Multiple. Large. Extra everything.
Four pies: one supreme, one meat-lover’s, one buffalo chicken, one plain cheese with extra sauce. Sides of garlic knots, cheesy bread, ranch dip. She hit order, paid extra for “priority rush,” then collapsed back onto the bed, writhing. The hunger felt like claws inside her ribs.
Minutes stretched into eternity. She rocked on her side, teeth gritted, trying to breathe through it. Every second the craving sharpened.
The knock finally came.
She yanked a silk robe over her underwear—barely tied—and opened the door just wide enough to snatch the stack of boxes. “Girls’ night,” she muttered at the wide-eyed delivery guy. “Keep the change.” Slam.
She dropped the boxes on the floor and tore into them like an animal.
Supreme first—folded slices, cheese stretching in long strings. Meat-lover’s next, grease shining on her lips. Buffalo chicken—spicy enough to make her eyes water, but she didn’t slow. She ate standing, then sitting cross-legged on the carpet, then lying on her side when her stomach protested the position. Sauce smeared her chin, her fingers, the robe. She didn’t care. She devoured until the last crust was gone, the last drop of ranch licked clean.
Her body felt heavy, distended, but the hunger finally quieted.
She crawled onto the bed—robe half-open, pizza boxes scattered like fallen soldiers—and collapsed face-down into the pillows. Sleep took her instantly, deep and black.
Inside her, the nanobots surged to life.
They had building materials now. Thousands of grams of protein, lipids, glycogen. They went to work.
Muscle satellite cells activated in waves. Myofibrils thickened. Capillaries multiplied. Hormonal signaling pathways rerouted—natural anabolics amplified, myostatin suppressed just enough. Fat redistributed again—strategic, sculptural. Connective tissue reinforced. Neural efficiency climbed.
The changes accelerated, layer by microscopic layer.
By morning the results would be visible.
But Carolyne slept on, unaware, dreaming of spotlights and trembling crowds, of a body that no longer asked for power but simply *took* it.
How big she grow?
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·
June 13
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