Lu take a shower
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 10
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Lu had to duck and twist to force his seven-foot frame through the bathroom doorway, shoulders scraping the frame like a reluctant god being squeezed into mortal architecture. The doorframe groaned in protest, but he made it inside with a low chuckle. The master bathroom opened up before him—marble floors, double vanity, a rainfall shower enclosure that, mercifully, had been designed for luxury suites rather than standard rooms. Even so, the showerhead hovered at chest height on his new body, aimed squarely at the upper swell of his pecs.
Nakedness had always been his preferred state—back when he was merely a beautiful conman, he’d lounged nude in penthouse windows, reveling in his own reflection. Now, with this sculpted, golden perfection, shame felt like a concept invented by lesser beings. He stepped into the enclosure, cool tiles warm against his soles, and twisted the tap.
Hot water erupted instantly—scalding, steam billowing like dragon breath. The jet slammed into his pecs and cascaded down the eight razor-cut bricks of his abs. Lu groaned, not in pain, but in raw, animal pleasure. The heat registered—intense, almost blistering—but no burn followed. No redness, no sting. Just delicious warmth sinking into muscles that drank it like sunlight.
“Interesting…” he murmured, voice echoing off the tiles.
He lifted one massive palm and pressed it directly into the stream. Boiling water pooled in the cup of his hand, steam curling around golden fingers. He felt the temperature—knew it should cook flesh—but his skin remained flawless, white as fresh snow, impervious. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
“Invulnerable,” he whispered. “Of course.”
Washing became a performance. He had to contort—bending at the waist to reach his lower back, lifting one tree-trunk thigh onto the built-in bench to soap the inner quad, twisting sideways so the showerhead could at least pretend to rinse his traps. The hotel’s miniature bar of soap looked absurd in his palm—like a sugar cube in a giant’s fist.
He lifted it, smirking. “What am I supposed to do with this? Polish my pinky toe?” Still, he lathered it carefully between his fingers, building a rich foam that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and luxury. Then he began.
The first glide of suds over his pecs sent a shiver through him. He cupped one massive slab, squeezing gently; the muscle jumped under his touch, striations dancing. A low moan escaped. He moved lower, fingers tracing the deep gutters between abs, pushing into each valley until his long nails scraped sensitive skin. Pleasure sparked—sharp, electric, addictive.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded. “I was vain before, but this? This is obscene.”
He groped harder—kneading his biceps, squeezing his lats until they flared like wings, sliding both hands down to grip his quads and feeling the steel cables flex beneath velvet skin. Every touch amplified. Friction became ecstasy. His cock—already half-hard from the heat—swelled thicker, veins pulsing golden under the surface.
He wrapped one enormous hand around the shaft. The other braced against the wall, tiles cracking faintly under his palm. He began to stroke—slow at first, savoring the drag of wet skin on skin, then faster, rougher. Moans built in his chest, deep and resonant, bouncing off marble.
“Fuck… look at me,” he growled to his reflection in the fogged glass. “Perfect. Divine. Un-fucking-touchable.”
His head fell back, tongue lolling past swollen lips, eyes rolling white. Face flushed deep rose-gold. Hips bucked. The pressure coiled tight—then snapped.
Splurge…
Spluurge…
Spluuurge!
Thick, custard-like ropes erupted, gallon after gallon, piling in the center of the shower pan in heavy, glistening mounds. The jets battered the mass, but it took long seconds for the viscous stuff to slowly dissolve, swirling down the drain in oily spirals.
Lu exhaled shakily, bracing both hands on the wall. Water cascaded over him, rinsing away the last traces. He laughed—low, triumphant.
“Masturbation has officially replaced sex as my favorite hobby,” he declared to the empty bathroom. “Who needs partners when you’re your own masterpiece?”
He shut off the tap, stepped out, and reached for a towel. The bath sheet was laughably small—barely covered one shoulder. He dried himself anyway, rubbing briskly, then draped it around his neck like a scarf.
Power still thrummed in his veins, restless. He needed to *use* it. Not just flex and come—something real. A robbery. An ATM ripped from its moorings, a jewelry store window shattered with a finger flick, a bank vault peeled open like a tin can. The thought made his cock twitch again.
But not here. Not yet. Charlie was in the next room. He’d wait until she slept, then slip out—fly to some distant city, take what he wanted, feel alive in the most primal way. No trail back to the hotel. No risk to her.
He padded naked back into the bedroom, towel still slung around his neck.
The dining table had been transformed.
Silver domes covered every surface: lobster tails glistening with butter, wagyu steaks still sizzling on cast-iron platters, towers of sushi, chilled caviar, a chocolate fountain bubbling beside fresh strawberries, a half-dozen tiered dessert stands groaning under macarons, éclairs, and gold-dusted truffles. Champagne chilled in buckets; crystal flutes caught the lamplight.
Charlie’s voice floated from the terrace doorway—bright, teasing, edged with something darker.
“Daddy? Dinner’s ready. Come see what your little girl ordered for us.”
Lu paused in the bedroom doorway, golden eyes narrowing with amusement and curiosity. He couldn’t see her yet—just the soft glow of terrace lights outlining her silhouette against the mountain night.
He smiled—slow, predatory, intrigued.
“Coming, Princess,” he rumbled, voice carrying like distant thunder.
He stepped forward, naked and magnificent, every muscle shifting with lethal grace, ready to discover exactly what his daughter had planned for their first night as gods.
Charlie walking towards him dress in...
Nakedness had always been his preferred state—back when he was merely a beautiful conman, he’d lounged nude in penthouse windows, reveling in his own reflection. Now, with this sculpted, golden perfection, shame felt like a concept invented by lesser beings. He stepped into the enclosure, cool tiles warm against his soles, and twisted the tap.
Hot water erupted instantly—scalding, steam billowing like dragon breath. The jet slammed into his pecs and cascaded down the eight razor-cut bricks of his abs. Lu groaned, not in pain, but in raw, animal pleasure. The heat registered—intense, almost blistering—but no burn followed. No redness, no sting. Just delicious warmth sinking into muscles that drank it like sunlight.
“Interesting…” he murmured, voice echoing off the tiles.
He lifted one massive palm and pressed it directly into the stream. Boiling water pooled in the cup of his hand, steam curling around golden fingers. He felt the temperature—knew it should cook flesh—but his skin remained flawless, white as fresh snow, impervious. A slow, wicked grin spread across his face.
“Invulnerable,” he whispered. “Of course.”
Washing became a performance. He had to contort—bending at the waist to reach his lower back, lifting one tree-trunk thigh onto the built-in bench to soap the inner quad, twisting sideways so the showerhead could at least pretend to rinse his traps. The hotel’s miniature bar of soap looked absurd in his palm—like a sugar cube in a giant’s fist.
He lifted it, smirking. “What am I supposed to do with this? Polish my pinky toe?” Still, he lathered it carefully between his fingers, building a rich foam that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and luxury. Then he began.
The first glide of suds over his pecs sent a shiver through him. He cupped one massive slab, squeezing gently; the muscle jumped under his touch, striations dancing. A low moan escaped. He moved lower, fingers tracing the deep gutters between abs, pushing into each valley until his long nails scraped sensitive skin. Pleasure sparked—sharp, electric, addictive.
“Goddamn,” he breathed, eyes half-lidded. “I was vain before, but this? This is obscene.”
He groped harder—kneading his biceps, squeezing his lats until they flared like wings, sliding both hands down to grip his quads and feeling the steel cables flex beneath velvet skin. Every touch amplified. Friction became ecstasy. His cock—already half-hard from the heat—swelled thicker, veins pulsing golden under the surface.
He wrapped one enormous hand around the shaft. The other braced against the wall, tiles cracking faintly under his palm. He began to stroke—slow at first, savoring the drag of wet skin on skin, then faster, rougher. Moans built in his chest, deep and resonant, bouncing off marble.
“Fuck… look at me,” he growled to his reflection in the fogged glass. “Perfect. Divine. Un-fucking-touchable.”
His head fell back, tongue lolling past swollen lips, eyes rolling white. Face flushed deep rose-gold. Hips bucked. The pressure coiled tight—then snapped.
Splurge…
Spluurge…
Spluuurge!
Thick, custard-like ropes erupted, gallon after gallon, piling in the center of the shower pan in heavy, glistening mounds. The jets battered the mass, but it took long seconds for the viscous stuff to slowly dissolve, swirling down the drain in oily spirals.
Lu exhaled shakily, bracing both hands on the wall. Water cascaded over him, rinsing away the last traces. He laughed—low, triumphant.
“Masturbation has officially replaced sex as my favorite hobby,” he declared to the empty bathroom. “Who needs partners when you’re your own masterpiece?”
He shut off the tap, stepped out, and reached for a towel. The bath sheet was laughably small—barely covered one shoulder. He dried himself anyway, rubbing briskly, then draped it around his neck like a scarf.
Power still thrummed in his veins, restless. He needed to *use* it. Not just flex and come—something real. A robbery. An ATM ripped from its moorings, a jewelry store window shattered with a finger flick, a bank vault peeled open like a tin can. The thought made his cock twitch again.
But not here. Not yet. Charlie was in the next room. He’d wait until she slept, then slip out—fly to some distant city, take what he wanted, feel alive in the most primal way. No trail back to the hotel. No risk to her.
He padded naked back into the bedroom, towel still slung around his neck.
The dining table had been transformed.
Silver domes covered every surface: lobster tails glistening with butter, wagyu steaks still sizzling on cast-iron platters, towers of sushi, chilled caviar, a chocolate fountain bubbling beside fresh strawberries, a half-dozen tiered dessert stands groaning under macarons, éclairs, and gold-dusted truffles. Champagne chilled in buckets; crystal flutes caught the lamplight.
Charlie’s voice floated from the terrace doorway—bright, teasing, edged with something darker.
“Daddy? Dinner’s ready. Come see what your little girl ordered for us.”
Lu paused in the bedroom doorway, golden eyes narrowing with amusement and curiosity. He couldn’t see her yet—just the soft glow of terrace lights outlining her silhouette against the mountain night.
He smiled—slow, predatory, intrigued.
“Coming, Princess,” he rumbled, voice carrying like distant thunder.
He stepped forward, naked and magnificent, every muscle shifting with lethal grace, ready to discover exactly what his daughter had planned for their first night as gods.
Charlie walking towards him dress in...
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June 13
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