Super fun in the junkyard
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 13
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Verosika strode out of the warehouse with the effortless grace of a predator on the prowl, her black halter-style sports bra clinging to her massive, firm breasts like a second skin, the thin straps straining over her broad, sculpted shoulders. Below, her black form-fitting athletic shorts hugged her wide hips and powerful glutes, riding up just enough to tease the golden-orange glow of her thighs. Every step was a symphony of sensuality—her shapely, firm bottom tossing side to side in hypnotic rhythm, muscles popping and flexing without conscious effort, drawing eyes like magnets. Her long, voluminous platinum blonde hair with pink highlights cascaded behind her like a living cape, swaying with the motion.
Lute and Odette hurried after her, steps quick and uneven. Lute's usual stoic facade cracked—her nipples hardened visibly against her crisp shirt, breath coming in short bursts as she stole glances at Verosika's undulating form. Odette fared no better; her lab coat felt too tight, glasses fogging slightly, a flush creeping up her neck as she fixated on the play of glutes and hamstrings, her own body responding with unwelcome heat.
"Where's the gym?" Verosika demanded over her shoulder, voice a sultry command that vibrated through the air. "I need to play."
Lute cleared her throat, eyes darting. "Ma'am, equipment shipments are delayed. But… there's a scrapyard out back. All the demo metal from renovations—beams, pipes, junk vehicles. It's… makeshift."
Verosika's nipples hardened at the thought, poking against the bra's fabric. A wicked smile curved her lips. "Scrapyard? Sounds deliciously trashy. Lead the way."
She pivoted and marched onward, the group trailing. Several female team members scattered across the compound—hauling crates, wiring lights—froze mid-task. One dropped a toolbox with a clatter, staring open-mouthed at the bronze giantess striding past: muscles rippling like coiled serpents under taut skin, hair fluttering like a banner of conquest. Whispers erupted—"Is that… Verosika?"—but she ignored them, smug satisfaction blooming in her chest.
The scrapyard sprawled behind the warehouses: a chaotic graveyard of industrial refuse under the mountain sun. Thick steel beams piled like forgotten bones, pipes of varying diameters scattered in rusty heaps, an ancient tractor half-buried in weeds, and a dilapidated rusty pickup truck listing on flat tires. Verosika smirked—it looked far more entertaining than sterile gym machines. She wasn't sure of her exact limits yet, but after shattering furniture and hoisting beds like toys, she knew she transcended human bounds. And she loved it. No longer just a diva; now a goddess, power humming in her veins.
She started small, warming up with a casual flair. Picking up a thin metal pipe—maybe two inches thick, ten feet long—she gripped it mid-length and bent it effortlessly into a U-shape, muscles in her forearms and biceps swelling sensually under golden-orange skin, veins threading like elegant jewelry. Sweat began to bead, trickling down the deep valleys between her traps and delts, pooling in the cleft of her cleavage before dripping onto the dirt. "Child's play," she purred, tossing it aside like a discarded straw.
Emboldened, she grabbed a thicker beam—a solid I-beam from some old structure, weighing easily 300 pounds. She hoisted it one-handed, balancing it on her palm like a waitress with a tray, then curled it toward her chest—bicep exploding into a veined peak, triceps flaring in perfect horseshoe definition. Sweat flowed freely now, glistening trails snaking between her shredded abs, dripping from the undersides of her breasts. She laughed—a low, throaty sound—and twisted the beam into a pretzel knot, metal groaning in protest as her lats spread wide like wings, quads stabilizing her stance with rock-hard tension.
Absurdity crept in as she escalated. Spotting a cluster of smaller pipes, she gathered a handful—five or six, each as thick as her wrist—and wove them together like braiding hair, fingers denting steel as easily as clay. Her back muscles danced under taut skin, sweat sluicing down the deep channel of her spine, pooling at the small of her back before soaking into her shorts. "Look at this—arts and crafts for super-bitches." She shaped the bundle into a crude heart, then crushed it flat between her palms, pecs contracting sensually to add pressure, sweat dripping from her chin onto the compressed metal.
The comic escalated. She eyed the old tractor—rusted husk, probably a ton or more—and squatted low, glutes flaring outward in perfect teardrop shape. Gripping the undercarriage, she lifted—effort straining her face briefly, but up it went, held overhead like a trophy. Sweat poured now, rivers tracing the contours of her obliques, dripping from her elbows. With a giggle, she spun it like a pizza dough—once, twice—muscles in her core twisting fluidly, then slammed it down, crumpling the hood. "Who needs spin class?"
Lute and Odette watched from the edge, transfixed. Lute's breath hitched, nipples straining against her shirt, a damp warmth spreading between her legs as she shifted uncomfortably. Odette fared worse—lab coat unbuttoned slightly for air, glasses slipping on sweat-slicked nose, thighs clenched against the insistent ache, wetness soaking through her tights.
Verosika saved the best for last: the rusty pickup truck. She circled it like prey, then bent at the waist—ass thrusting back toward her audience in deliberate tease—and slid her hands under the chassis. With a grunt, she heaved—quads and hamstrings exploding into definition, calves balling like diamonds. The truck rose, balanced overhead, her body a pillar of sensual power: sweat cascading between breasts, down abs, dripping from fingertips. Then, with manic glee, she crushed it—arms closing like a vice, metal screeching as cab folded, frame buckling into a compacted ball the size of a beach toy. She dropped it with a thud, chest heaving, sweat flying in arcs.
Nonchalantly, she straightened, licking her full lips lustfully, eyes locking on the two aroused women. "Enjoy the show, darlings?"
What happens next?
1. Horny Verosika drags the two girls to an orgy in her quarters.
2. Odette convinces Verosika to let her perform scientific tests on her.
Lute and Odette hurried after her, steps quick and uneven. Lute's usual stoic facade cracked—her nipples hardened visibly against her crisp shirt, breath coming in short bursts as she stole glances at Verosika's undulating form. Odette fared no better; her lab coat felt too tight, glasses fogging slightly, a flush creeping up her neck as she fixated on the play of glutes and hamstrings, her own body responding with unwelcome heat.
"Where's the gym?" Verosika demanded over her shoulder, voice a sultry command that vibrated through the air. "I need to play."
Lute cleared her throat, eyes darting. "Ma'am, equipment shipments are delayed. But… there's a scrapyard out back. All the demo metal from renovations—beams, pipes, junk vehicles. It's… makeshift."
Verosika's nipples hardened at the thought, poking against the bra's fabric. A wicked smile curved her lips. "Scrapyard? Sounds deliciously trashy. Lead the way."
She pivoted and marched onward, the group trailing. Several female team members scattered across the compound—hauling crates, wiring lights—froze mid-task. One dropped a toolbox with a clatter, staring open-mouthed at the bronze giantess striding past: muscles rippling like coiled serpents under taut skin, hair fluttering like a banner of conquest. Whispers erupted—"Is that… Verosika?"—but she ignored them, smug satisfaction blooming in her chest.
The scrapyard sprawled behind the warehouses: a chaotic graveyard of industrial refuse under the mountain sun. Thick steel beams piled like forgotten bones, pipes of varying diameters scattered in rusty heaps, an ancient tractor half-buried in weeds, and a dilapidated rusty pickup truck listing on flat tires. Verosika smirked—it looked far more entertaining than sterile gym machines. She wasn't sure of her exact limits yet, but after shattering furniture and hoisting beds like toys, she knew she transcended human bounds. And she loved it. No longer just a diva; now a goddess, power humming in her veins.
She started small, warming up with a casual flair. Picking up a thin metal pipe—maybe two inches thick, ten feet long—she gripped it mid-length and bent it effortlessly into a U-shape, muscles in her forearms and biceps swelling sensually under golden-orange skin, veins threading like elegant jewelry. Sweat began to bead, trickling down the deep valleys between her traps and delts, pooling in the cleft of her cleavage before dripping onto the dirt. "Child's play," she purred, tossing it aside like a discarded straw.
Emboldened, she grabbed a thicker beam—a solid I-beam from some old structure, weighing easily 300 pounds. She hoisted it one-handed, balancing it on her palm like a waitress with a tray, then curled it toward her chest—bicep exploding into a veined peak, triceps flaring in perfect horseshoe definition. Sweat flowed freely now, glistening trails snaking between her shredded abs, dripping from the undersides of her breasts. She laughed—a low, throaty sound—and twisted the beam into a pretzel knot, metal groaning in protest as her lats spread wide like wings, quads stabilizing her stance with rock-hard tension.
Absurdity crept in as she escalated. Spotting a cluster of smaller pipes, she gathered a handful—five or six, each as thick as her wrist—and wove them together like braiding hair, fingers denting steel as easily as clay. Her back muscles danced under taut skin, sweat sluicing down the deep channel of her spine, pooling at the small of her back before soaking into her shorts. "Look at this—arts and crafts for super-bitches." She shaped the bundle into a crude heart, then crushed it flat between her palms, pecs contracting sensually to add pressure, sweat dripping from her chin onto the compressed metal.
The comic escalated. She eyed the old tractor—rusted husk, probably a ton or more—and squatted low, glutes flaring outward in perfect teardrop shape. Gripping the undercarriage, she lifted—effort straining her face briefly, but up it went, held overhead like a trophy. Sweat poured now, rivers tracing the contours of her obliques, dripping from her elbows. With a giggle, she spun it like a pizza dough—once, twice—muscles in her core twisting fluidly, then slammed it down, crumpling the hood. "Who needs spin class?"
Lute and Odette watched from the edge, transfixed. Lute's breath hitched, nipples straining against her shirt, a damp warmth spreading between her legs as she shifted uncomfortably. Odette fared worse—lab coat unbuttoned slightly for air, glasses slipping on sweat-slicked nose, thighs clenched against the insistent ache, wetness soaking through her tights.
Verosika saved the best for last: the rusty pickup truck. She circled it like prey, then bent at the waist—ass thrusting back toward her audience in deliberate tease—and slid her hands under the chassis. With a grunt, she heaved—quads and hamstrings exploding into definition, calves balling like diamonds. The truck rose, balanced overhead, her body a pillar of sensual power: sweat cascading between breasts, down abs, dripping from fingertips. Then, with manic glee, she crushed it—arms closing like a vice, metal screeching as cab folded, frame buckling into a compacted ball the size of a beach toy. She dropped it with a thud, chest heaving, sweat flying in arcs.
Nonchalantly, she straightened, licking her full lips lustfully, eyes locking on the two aroused women. "Enjoy the show, darlings?"
What happens next?
1. Horny Verosika drags the two girls to an orgy in her quarters.
2. Odette convinces Verosika to let her perform scientific tests on her.
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June 13
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