Thirty-five Feet of Pure, Unfiltered Diva Tyranny
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 21
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Verosika Mayday had officially plateaued at thirty-five glorious feet of cartoonishly muscular, hyper-feminine perfection, and she was making damn sure the entire compound knew it was the greatest gift they would ever receive.
She spent her days ruling from one of three locations: her enormous reinforced bed (now the size of a small football field), the Olympic-sized swimming pool that doubled as her personal bathtub, or the custom-built throne that looked like a pink velvet volcano. Everywhere she went, the ground trembled. Everywhere she spoke, her staff was expected to laugh at her jokes or risk becoming furniture.
This morning she was on the throne, draped in a silk sheet the size of a circus tent, lazily petting Loona like a very large, very horny housecat. Loona purred between breasts bigger than compact cars, completely content to be treated as a living stress toy.
Verosika snapped her fingers. The sound cracked like a whip.
“Entertainment!” she demanded. “And make it good, or I’ll use one of you as a footrest. Again.”
A trembling crew member rushed forward with a comically oversized cigarette — specially rolled by a black-market factory that thought they were supplying a movie prop department. The thing was the length of a telephone pole. Verosika plucked it from his hands, lit it with a blowtorch another terrified staffer held up on a crane, and took a drag so deep the cherry glowed like a signal flare.
“Ahhh,” she sighed, exhaling a smoke cloud that filled half the warehouse. “Finally, a cigarette worthy of these lips. The old ones were basically toothpicks. Pathetic. Who wants to live in a world where a goddess has to smoke something that fits in a peasant’s mouth? Not me, darlings. Not me.”
She expected laughter. She received it — immediate, slightly hysterical, and very convincing.
Drugs were the next circus. Her metabolism burned through normal quantities like tissue paper, so now the team smuggled in shipments measured in tons. Verosika would casually snort lines the size of garden hoses off a mirrored table the size of a billboard, giggling like a schoolgirl while the crew tried not to have collective panic attacks about federal agents showing up.
“Relax, my little ants,” she drawled one afternoon, powder dusting her perfect nose. “If the law comes knocking, I’ll just sit on them. Problem solved. You’re welcome.”
Alcohol came in metal barrels the size of oil drums. She drank them like juice boxes, her insane metabolism burning most of it off instantly, leaving her pleasantly buzzed and twice as tyrannical.
“More wine!” she bellowed, crushing an empty barrel between her thighs like it was a soda can. “And don’t water it down this time, or I’ll water you down — with my foot.”
Food was the biggest joke of all. Regular meals were impossible to hide, so Odette had discovered that straight milk acted like rocket fuel for her enhanced body. Now tankers arrived daily. Verosika lounged in her pool-bath, drinking from a repurposed fire hose while Loona happily lapped from a giant bowl at her feet.
“Mmm, dairy for the deity,” Verosika purred. “The peasants get kale smoothies. I get an entire dairy farm delivered fresh. Life is so fair.”
Sex was the cruelest joke. At thirty-five feet tall, no one on the team could physically handle her anymore. She was forced to masturbate — an event that required clearing the room, reinforcing the floor, and still ended with the kind of seismic moans that made the walls shake. She would lounge on her bed, fingers the size of tree trunks working between thighs thicker than redwood trunks, breasts bouncing like wrecking balls, cursing the universe between gasps.
“Ugh, this is ridiculous!” she snarled mid-session one night, voice echoing. “I’m a goddess and I have to fuck myself because the rest of you are built like action figures. Someone invent a dildo the size of a city bus or I swear I’ll start stepping on people for fun!”
Her staff tried desperately to keep her transformation secret. The compound had been expanded again — higher ceilings, wider doors, reinforced everything. Electrical appliances were useless; a special giant screen the size of a billboard had been mounted on the wall so she could watch her own old music videos and critique them loudly.
“Ugh, look at tiny me,” she scoffed, pointing with a finger bigger than a surfboard. “So cute. So… small. I was practically a peasant back then. How did any of you even stand me?”
No one dared answer.
Verosika had become a control freak on a biblical scale. She insisted on approving every decision, no matter how minor. She held “divine court” every afternoon, forcing crew members to bring her their petty dramas.
Two staffers fighting over a parking spot? Verosika made them arm-wrestle her pinky finger. The loser had to polish her toenails for a week.
A couple arguing about jealousy? Verosika declared the jealous one “right” and ordered the other to buy them both gifts and thank her for the privilege of being corrected by a goddess.
Her dominance had grown with her body. No one even thought of quitting anymore. The fear — and the twisted thrill of serving a living deity — kept them loyal.
Verosika leaned back on her throne, Loona happily nuzzling between her breasts, and sighed in smug satisfaction.
“Life is good when you’re this big,” she announced to the empty air. “Now someone make me laugh before I get bored and start redecorating with people.”
What happens next?
Option 1: They start an unofficial advertising campaign for Verosika's new tour, hiding the transformation she's undergone but hinting at it.
Option 2: Verosika is dealing with problems with her staff.
She spent her days ruling from one of three locations: her enormous reinforced bed (now the size of a small football field), the Olympic-sized swimming pool that doubled as her personal bathtub, or the custom-built throne that looked like a pink velvet volcano. Everywhere she went, the ground trembled. Everywhere she spoke, her staff was expected to laugh at her jokes or risk becoming furniture.
This morning she was on the throne, draped in a silk sheet the size of a circus tent, lazily petting Loona like a very large, very horny housecat. Loona purred between breasts bigger than compact cars, completely content to be treated as a living stress toy.
Verosika snapped her fingers. The sound cracked like a whip.
“Entertainment!” she demanded. “And make it good, or I’ll use one of you as a footrest. Again.”
A trembling crew member rushed forward with a comically oversized cigarette — specially rolled by a black-market factory that thought they were supplying a movie prop department. The thing was the length of a telephone pole. Verosika plucked it from his hands, lit it with a blowtorch another terrified staffer held up on a crane, and took a drag so deep the cherry glowed like a signal flare.
“Ahhh,” she sighed, exhaling a smoke cloud that filled half the warehouse. “Finally, a cigarette worthy of these lips. The old ones were basically toothpicks. Pathetic. Who wants to live in a world where a goddess has to smoke something that fits in a peasant’s mouth? Not me, darlings. Not me.”
She expected laughter. She received it — immediate, slightly hysterical, and very convincing.
Drugs were the next circus. Her metabolism burned through normal quantities like tissue paper, so now the team smuggled in shipments measured in tons. Verosika would casually snort lines the size of garden hoses off a mirrored table the size of a billboard, giggling like a schoolgirl while the crew tried not to have collective panic attacks about federal agents showing up.
“Relax, my little ants,” she drawled one afternoon, powder dusting her perfect nose. “If the law comes knocking, I’ll just sit on them. Problem solved. You’re welcome.”
Alcohol came in metal barrels the size of oil drums. She drank them like juice boxes, her insane metabolism burning most of it off instantly, leaving her pleasantly buzzed and twice as tyrannical.
“More wine!” she bellowed, crushing an empty barrel between her thighs like it was a soda can. “And don’t water it down this time, or I’ll water you down — with my foot.”
Food was the biggest joke of all. Regular meals were impossible to hide, so Odette had discovered that straight milk acted like rocket fuel for her enhanced body. Now tankers arrived daily. Verosika lounged in her pool-bath, drinking from a repurposed fire hose while Loona happily lapped from a giant bowl at her feet.
“Mmm, dairy for the deity,” Verosika purred. “The peasants get kale smoothies. I get an entire dairy farm delivered fresh. Life is so fair.”
Sex was the cruelest joke. At thirty-five feet tall, no one on the team could physically handle her anymore. She was forced to masturbate — an event that required clearing the room, reinforcing the floor, and still ended with the kind of seismic moans that made the walls shake. She would lounge on her bed, fingers the size of tree trunks working between thighs thicker than redwood trunks, breasts bouncing like wrecking balls, cursing the universe between gasps.
“Ugh, this is ridiculous!” she snarled mid-session one night, voice echoing. “I’m a goddess and I have to fuck myself because the rest of you are built like action figures. Someone invent a dildo the size of a city bus or I swear I’ll start stepping on people for fun!”
Her staff tried desperately to keep her transformation secret. The compound had been expanded again — higher ceilings, wider doors, reinforced everything. Electrical appliances were useless; a special giant screen the size of a billboard had been mounted on the wall so she could watch her own old music videos and critique them loudly.
“Ugh, look at tiny me,” she scoffed, pointing with a finger bigger than a surfboard. “So cute. So… small. I was practically a peasant back then. How did any of you even stand me?”
No one dared answer.
Verosika had become a control freak on a biblical scale. She insisted on approving every decision, no matter how minor. She held “divine court” every afternoon, forcing crew members to bring her their petty dramas.
Two staffers fighting over a parking spot? Verosika made them arm-wrestle her pinky finger. The loser had to polish her toenails for a week.
A couple arguing about jealousy? Verosika declared the jealous one “right” and ordered the other to buy them both gifts and thank her for the privilege of being corrected by a goddess.
Her dominance had grown with her body. No one even thought of quitting anymore. The fear — and the twisted thrill of serving a living deity — kept them loyal.
Verosika leaned back on her throne, Loona happily nuzzling between her breasts, and sighed in smug satisfaction.
“Life is good when you’re this big,” she announced to the empty air. “Now someone make me laugh before I get bored and start redecorating with people.”
What happens next?
Option 1: They start an unofficial advertising campaign for Verosika's new tour, hiding the transformation she's undergone but hinting at it.
Option 2: Verosika is dealing with problems with her staff.
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June 13
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