After three days
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 14
by
copier
· original author:
Three days passed in a blur of power and worship. Carolyne Velázquez had become the undisputed alpha of Havenridge College.
She no longer walked—she prowled. Every step sent ripples through her quads, made her traps rise like armored plates, forced eyes to follow the vascular map snaking down her arms. She wore only what she’d bought in a frantic two-hour spree at the campus athletic store and a nearby boutique that catered to physique competitors: micro-crop tanks that ended just below her pecs, letting the deep cuts of her abs breathe; booty shorts so high-cut they were basically briefs; stringer tanks that exposed the full sweep of her lats; sports bras two sizes too small that turned her enhanced breasts into hard, round weapons. Everything black, neon pink, electric blue—colors chosen to scream dominance. Nothing modest. Everything revealing. Fabric stretched drum-tight over every striation, every vein, every impossible curve.
She didn’t go to class to learn anymore. She went to remind people who ruled.
The first victim was a loudmouth lacrosse player who’d catcalled her on the quad the day after her transformation. Carolyne had smiled sweetly, walked straight up to him in front of his teammates, grabbed his throat one-handed, lifted him until his toes scraped concrete, and whispered, “Next time you open your mouth about me, I break something you actually need.” She dropped him. He crumpled. His friends didn’t move. Word spread like fire through dry grass.
By day two she’d put three more people on the ground—two guys who stared too long without permission, one girl who rolled her eyes when Carolyne cut the coffee line. No black eyes, no broken bones—just humiliating, effortless takedowns that left them gasping and her unscathed. She only touched the weak. Anyone who pushed back with real strength—football players, wrestlers, the handful of people who matched her mass—she left alone with a mocking salute. “Smart choice, papi,” she’d purr as she walked past. They nodded, eyes averted. Respect born of fear.
Her friends orbited tighter, lower. Sofia no longer sketched without permission. Jenna stopped posting anything without running it by Carolyne first. Miguel… Miguel was different.
Carolyne spent hours at the campus gym—not lifting, not sweating, just posing. She’d claim the mirror wall in the free-weight room, hit double biceps, side chest, most muscular—each flex drawing a crowd of phones and open mouths. She never broke a sweat. She didn’t need to. The nanobots kept her recovery perfect, her pumps eternal. She filmed everything: slow-motion front lat spreads, close-ups of quads flexing, POV shots of her walking through the gym like she owned the air molecules.
Her socials exploded. She posted obsessively—dozens of shots and clips a day. Captions grew sharper, nastier:
“Another day another body most of you will never touch. Cry harder. 😈 #ReinaRules #BuiltToBreakHeartsAndBones #VeinsPoppingLikeChampagne #SorryYourGenesSuck #AlphaBitchEra #TheyWatchIDontCare”
“Caught you staring again. Good. Keep staring. Worship is free. #GreekGoddessReloaded #DietFaceDemon #PuertoRicanPowerhouse #BowOrBreak”
She scrolled through the comments at night—thousands of likes, fire emojis, desperate DMs begging for attention. Each one hit like a drug. The nanobots amplified the rush, turning admiration into a physical high that pooled hot between her thighs. She never questioned the transformation anymore. Why bother? The mirror didn’t lie. She was perfect. Superior. Inevitable.
Her hunger for control bled into everything else—especially sex.
That night she dragged Miguel back to her dorm after he’d spent an hour trailing her through the gym like a loyal dog. The door slammed. She didn’t speak. She simply pushed him against the wall, ripped his shirt open with one hand, and kissed him so hard his lip split.
He groaned into her mouth, hands roaming her granite body—trying to grip, failing, sliding uselessly over lats that wouldn’t yield. She lifted him—effortless—carried him to the bed like he weighed nothing, tossed him down.
Clothes vanished in seconds. She straddled him, thighs like steel cables pinning his hips. Her breasts—hard, round, impossibly firm—hovered above his chest. She rode him with punishing rhythm, every downward thrust flexing her glutes and quads, veins popping across her abs with each roll of her hips. Miguel tried to match her—gripped her waist, thrust upward—but she was too strong, too fast, too much. His hands shook. His breathing turned ragged. She laughed low in her throat, leaned down, bit his shoulder hard enough to leave marks.
“Keep up, papi,” she growled. “Or I’ll find someone who can.”
He tried. God, he tried. Sweat slicked both their bodies. She came first—back arched, traps flaring, a guttural moan that rattled the windows. The contraction of her inner muscles dragged him over the edge seconds later; he bucked beneath her, gasping her name like a prayer.
Afterward she rolled off, sprawled on her back. Miguel collapsed beside her, chest heaving, dazed. She pulled him against her side—his head on her thick pec, one arm draped possessively across his waist. Her bicep curled under his neck like a warm stone pillow. He fit against her now—smaller, softer, hers.
She stared at the ceiling, fingers idly tracing the deep cut between her abs.
“Mine,” she murmured, more to herself than him.
Miguel pressed a kiss to the swell of her breast. “Always, reina.”
She smiled—slow, satisfied, predatory.
The nanobots hummed contentedly inside her veins, reading the spike of dominance, the flood of endorphins, the absolute certainty that this was exactly how the world should be.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she’d find someone new to put in their place.
Tomorrow she’d post again.
Tomorrow she’d take more.
La Reina had no intention of stopping.
She look at Miguel...
She no longer walked—she prowled. Every step sent ripples through her quads, made her traps rise like armored plates, forced eyes to follow the vascular map snaking down her arms. She wore only what she’d bought in a frantic two-hour spree at the campus athletic store and a nearby boutique that catered to physique competitors: micro-crop tanks that ended just below her pecs, letting the deep cuts of her abs breathe; booty shorts so high-cut they were basically briefs; stringer tanks that exposed the full sweep of her lats; sports bras two sizes too small that turned her enhanced breasts into hard, round weapons. Everything black, neon pink, electric blue—colors chosen to scream dominance. Nothing modest. Everything revealing. Fabric stretched drum-tight over every striation, every vein, every impossible curve.
She didn’t go to class to learn anymore. She went to remind people who ruled.
The first victim was a loudmouth lacrosse player who’d catcalled her on the quad the day after her transformation. Carolyne had smiled sweetly, walked straight up to him in front of his teammates, grabbed his throat one-handed, lifted him until his toes scraped concrete, and whispered, “Next time you open your mouth about me, I break something you actually need.” She dropped him. He crumpled. His friends didn’t move. Word spread like fire through dry grass.
By day two she’d put three more people on the ground—two guys who stared too long without permission, one girl who rolled her eyes when Carolyne cut the coffee line. No black eyes, no broken bones—just humiliating, effortless takedowns that left them gasping and her unscathed. She only touched the weak. Anyone who pushed back with real strength—football players, wrestlers, the handful of people who matched her mass—she left alone with a mocking salute. “Smart choice, papi,” she’d purr as she walked past. They nodded, eyes averted. Respect born of fear.
Her friends orbited tighter, lower. Sofia no longer sketched without permission. Jenna stopped posting anything without running it by Carolyne first. Miguel… Miguel was different.
Carolyne spent hours at the campus gym—not lifting, not sweating, just posing. She’d claim the mirror wall in the free-weight room, hit double biceps, side chest, most muscular—each flex drawing a crowd of phones and open mouths. She never broke a sweat. She didn’t need to. The nanobots kept her recovery perfect, her pumps eternal. She filmed everything: slow-motion front lat spreads, close-ups of quads flexing, POV shots of her walking through the gym like she owned the air molecules.
Her socials exploded. She posted obsessively—dozens of shots and clips a day. Captions grew sharper, nastier:
“Another day another body most of you will never touch. Cry harder. 😈 #ReinaRules #BuiltToBreakHeartsAndBones #VeinsPoppingLikeChampagne #SorryYourGenesSuck #AlphaBitchEra #TheyWatchIDontCare”
“Caught you staring again. Good. Keep staring. Worship is free. #GreekGoddessReloaded #DietFaceDemon #PuertoRicanPowerhouse #BowOrBreak”
She scrolled through the comments at night—thousands of likes, fire emojis, desperate DMs begging for attention. Each one hit like a drug. The nanobots amplified the rush, turning admiration into a physical high that pooled hot between her thighs. She never questioned the transformation anymore. Why bother? The mirror didn’t lie. She was perfect. Superior. Inevitable.
Her hunger for control bled into everything else—especially sex.
That night she dragged Miguel back to her dorm after he’d spent an hour trailing her through the gym like a loyal dog. The door slammed. She didn’t speak. She simply pushed him against the wall, ripped his shirt open with one hand, and kissed him so hard his lip split.
He groaned into her mouth, hands roaming her granite body—trying to grip, failing, sliding uselessly over lats that wouldn’t yield. She lifted him—effortless—carried him to the bed like he weighed nothing, tossed him down.
Clothes vanished in seconds. She straddled him, thighs like steel cables pinning his hips. Her breasts—hard, round, impossibly firm—hovered above his chest. She rode him with punishing rhythm, every downward thrust flexing her glutes and quads, veins popping across her abs with each roll of her hips. Miguel tried to match her—gripped her waist, thrust upward—but she was too strong, too fast, too much. His hands shook. His breathing turned ragged. She laughed low in her throat, leaned down, bit his shoulder hard enough to leave marks.
“Keep up, papi,” she growled. “Or I’ll find someone who can.”
He tried. God, he tried. Sweat slicked both their bodies. She came first—back arched, traps flaring, a guttural moan that rattled the windows. The contraction of her inner muscles dragged him over the edge seconds later; he bucked beneath her, gasping her name like a prayer.
Afterward she rolled off, sprawled on her back. Miguel collapsed beside her, chest heaving, dazed. She pulled him against her side—his head on her thick pec, one arm draped possessively across his waist. Her bicep curled under his neck like a warm stone pillow. He fit against her now—smaller, softer, hers.
She stared at the ceiling, fingers idly tracing the deep cut between her abs.
“Mine,” she murmured, more to herself than him.
Miguel pressed a kiss to the swell of her breast. “Always, reina.”
She smiled—slow, satisfied, predatory.
The nanobots hummed contentedly inside her veins, reading the spike of dominance, the flood of endorphins, the absolute certainty that this was exactly how the world should be.
She closed her eyes.
Tomorrow she’d find someone new to put in their place.
Tomorrow she’d post again.
Tomorrow she’d take more.
La Reina had no intention of stopping.
She look at Miguel...
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June 13
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