He continue playing
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 17
by
copier
· original author:
an188
Lu moaned deeply, the sound raw and sexual, vibrating through his colossal chest as the adrenaline surged like liquid fire through his veins. Every flex, every casual display of power, felt better than any lover he’d ever taken—sexier, more intimate, like his body was fucking itself from the inside out. His cock throbbed insistently, dripping thick, custard-like cum in heavy globs that splattered the rusted ground with each step. A glistening trail marked his path through the junkyard, pooling in sticky puddles that caught the moonlight like spilled pearls.
He strolled back toward the office shack, the duffels forgotten for the moment. Why bother with doors when walls were just suggestions? He didn’t even slow down—simply leaned his shoulder forward and walked straight through the cinderblock wall. Bricks crumbled like stale bread, mortar dusting his golden hair as he burst inside. The drip from his cock intensified into a steady stream, thick rivulets of cum trailing down his inner thighs and splattering the dusty floor. The office reeked of abandonment, but now it carried the sweet, musky scent of his arousal.
Inside, he spotted the ancient mini-fridge again. He ripped the door off with a flick of his wrist—metal screeching—and pulled out a six-pack of lukewarm, long-expired beer, the cardboard carrier tearing easily in his grip. He carried it outside, perched on the hood of a crushed sedan, and began popping the metal caps one by one with his teeth. Each bite was effortless; the caps crumpled like foil, and he spat them aside with a smirk. The beer was flat, sour, and stale, but his body neutralized the rot instantly, turning it into a mild, pleasant buzz that amplified the heat pooling in his groin.
He drained the first bottle in two swallows, crushed the glass to powder in his fist, and moved to the next. By the third, his free hand was idly stroking his sweat-slicked pecs, thumb circling a nipple. The fourth went down faster, the buzz sharpening his senses even further. He finished the last bottle with a contented sigh, tossed the empty six-pack over his shoulder—it sailed a hundred yards into the darkness—and stood up, cum still leaking steadily from his cock.
“Now for some real fun,” he murmured, voice thick with lust.
He spotted a cluster of rusted steel poles embedded in the ground—old fence posts, thick as his forearm. He wrapped his fingers around one and pulled. It came free with a wet shlorp of uprooted concrete, dangling in his hand like a limp noodle. He twisted it experimentally, the metal squealing as he shaped it into a crude pretzel, then a spiral, then a balloon-animal dog. He laughed—deep, smug, delighted.
“Like playing with clay,” he sneered. “If clay screamed.”
He discarded the mangled pole and crossed his muscular arms over his chest, standing in the center of the junkyard like a smug emperor surveying his domain. His pecs compressed slightly under the pressure, sweat trickling down the deep cleavage. His cock bobbed, dripping faster now, a steady stream of custard-thick cum pooling at his feet.
“Let’s start with the light show.”
His eyes flared molten gold. Twin beams lanced out—silent, precise, hotter than a welding torch. He swept them across a stack of flattened cars; metal glowed white-hot, then sliced clean through in perfect diagonals. Sparks flew. The top half of the stack toppled with a deafening crash. He pivoted, beams carving through an old engine block, melting it into slag. A rusted bulldozer blade was next—he focused the lasers to a pinpoint, etching his initials “LM” into the steel before bisecting it completely.
He chuckled smugly, the sound echoing off the scrap piles. “Pathetic metal. Can’t even hold up to a glance.” The destruction fueled his arousal; his cock throbbed visibly, the stream of cum intensifying into thick, ropy spurts that splattered the ground like heavy rain. Sweat poured down his muscles in glossy sheets—thick, sticky, sweet-scented—coating his eight-pack and thighs until he glistened like oiled marble.
He cut the lasers, eyes dimming back to sparkling gold. “Bored already. Time for the wind machine.”
He pursed his lips and blew. A gale-force storm erupted from his mouth—strong enough to uproot small trees at the junkyard’s edge and send loose scrap flying like leaves in a hurricane. Cars rocked on their axles; a shipping container skidded ten feet across the dirt. He laughed, then inhaled deeply and blew again—this time focusing on cold. A freezing wave rolled out, frost riming the nearest wrecks in seconds. Ice crystals formed on twisted metal; a puddle of his own cum froze solid mid-drip.
“Hot, cold, whatever I want,” he purred, playing with the breath. He switched between blasts—uprooting a fence post with wind, then flash-freezing it mid-air so it shattered on impact. The power surged through him, addictive, erotic. His sweat thickened, running in rivulets down his pecs and abs, pooling in the deep V of his groin.
Finally, he turned to the real experiment: his super cum.
He gripped his cock with both hands—still rock-hard, veined and glistening—and aimed at a nearby car wreck. A casual flex, and a thick rope shot out, wrapping around the bumper like a lasso. He tugged; the entire front end tore free with a screech.
“Rope cum,” he murmured, smirking. “Useful.”
He aimed higher, focusing. Another shot—this one acidic, hissing on contact as it ate through a rusted hood like acid through paper. The metal bubbled and dissolved in seconds.
“Corrosive. Nice.”
He played further: a sticky glob that hardened into unbreakable bonds around a loose axle, turning it into a makeshift mace; a freezing spurt that encased a tire in ice thick as steel; a hot, molten variant that welded two scrap pieces together permanently. Each test made his cock throb harder, cum flowing freely now in experimental bursts. He shaped it mid-air with wind breath, freezing it into weapons, or lasered it into patterns on the ground.
The junkyard was his laboratory, and he was the mad god at play. Sweat poured down his body, thick and aromatic; his laughter echoed as he lost himself in the excess. He was unbreakable, unstoppable, utterly divine—and the night was far from over.
Suddenly...
He strolled back toward the office shack, the duffels forgotten for the moment. Why bother with doors when walls were just suggestions? He didn’t even slow down—simply leaned his shoulder forward and walked straight through the cinderblock wall. Bricks crumbled like stale bread, mortar dusting his golden hair as he burst inside. The drip from his cock intensified into a steady stream, thick rivulets of cum trailing down his inner thighs and splattering the dusty floor. The office reeked of abandonment, but now it carried the sweet, musky scent of his arousal.
Inside, he spotted the ancient mini-fridge again. He ripped the door off with a flick of his wrist—metal screeching—and pulled out a six-pack of lukewarm, long-expired beer, the cardboard carrier tearing easily in his grip. He carried it outside, perched on the hood of a crushed sedan, and began popping the metal caps one by one with his teeth. Each bite was effortless; the caps crumpled like foil, and he spat them aside with a smirk. The beer was flat, sour, and stale, but his body neutralized the rot instantly, turning it into a mild, pleasant buzz that amplified the heat pooling in his groin.
He drained the first bottle in two swallows, crushed the glass to powder in his fist, and moved to the next. By the third, his free hand was idly stroking his sweat-slicked pecs, thumb circling a nipple. The fourth went down faster, the buzz sharpening his senses even further. He finished the last bottle with a contented sigh, tossed the empty six-pack over his shoulder—it sailed a hundred yards into the darkness—and stood up, cum still leaking steadily from his cock.
“Now for some real fun,” he murmured, voice thick with lust.
He spotted a cluster of rusted steel poles embedded in the ground—old fence posts, thick as his forearm. He wrapped his fingers around one and pulled. It came free with a wet shlorp of uprooted concrete, dangling in his hand like a limp noodle. He twisted it experimentally, the metal squealing as he shaped it into a crude pretzel, then a spiral, then a balloon-animal dog. He laughed—deep, smug, delighted.
“Like playing with clay,” he sneered. “If clay screamed.”
He discarded the mangled pole and crossed his muscular arms over his chest, standing in the center of the junkyard like a smug emperor surveying his domain. His pecs compressed slightly under the pressure, sweat trickling down the deep cleavage. His cock bobbed, dripping faster now, a steady stream of custard-thick cum pooling at his feet.
“Let’s start with the light show.”
His eyes flared molten gold. Twin beams lanced out—silent, precise, hotter than a welding torch. He swept them across a stack of flattened cars; metal glowed white-hot, then sliced clean through in perfect diagonals. Sparks flew. The top half of the stack toppled with a deafening crash. He pivoted, beams carving through an old engine block, melting it into slag. A rusted bulldozer blade was next—he focused the lasers to a pinpoint, etching his initials “LM” into the steel before bisecting it completely.
He chuckled smugly, the sound echoing off the scrap piles. “Pathetic metal. Can’t even hold up to a glance.” The destruction fueled his arousal; his cock throbbed visibly, the stream of cum intensifying into thick, ropy spurts that splattered the ground like heavy rain. Sweat poured down his muscles in glossy sheets—thick, sticky, sweet-scented—coating his eight-pack and thighs until he glistened like oiled marble.
He cut the lasers, eyes dimming back to sparkling gold. “Bored already. Time for the wind machine.”
He pursed his lips and blew. A gale-force storm erupted from his mouth—strong enough to uproot small trees at the junkyard’s edge and send loose scrap flying like leaves in a hurricane. Cars rocked on their axles; a shipping container skidded ten feet across the dirt. He laughed, then inhaled deeply and blew again—this time focusing on cold. A freezing wave rolled out, frost riming the nearest wrecks in seconds. Ice crystals formed on twisted metal; a puddle of his own cum froze solid mid-drip.
“Hot, cold, whatever I want,” he purred, playing with the breath. He switched between blasts—uprooting a fence post with wind, then flash-freezing it mid-air so it shattered on impact. The power surged through him, addictive, erotic. His sweat thickened, running in rivulets down his pecs and abs, pooling in the deep V of his groin.
Finally, he turned to the real experiment: his super cum.
He gripped his cock with both hands—still rock-hard, veined and glistening—and aimed at a nearby car wreck. A casual flex, and a thick rope shot out, wrapping around the bumper like a lasso. He tugged; the entire front end tore free with a screech.
“Rope cum,” he murmured, smirking. “Useful.”
He aimed higher, focusing. Another shot—this one acidic, hissing on contact as it ate through a rusted hood like acid through paper. The metal bubbled and dissolved in seconds.
“Corrosive. Nice.”
He played further: a sticky glob that hardened into unbreakable bonds around a loose axle, turning it into a makeshift mace; a freezing spurt that encased a tire in ice thick as steel; a hot, molten variant that welded two scrap pieces together permanently. Each test made his cock throb harder, cum flowing freely now in experimental bursts. He shaped it mid-air with wind breath, freezing it into weapons, or lasered it into patterns on the ground.
The junkyard was his laboratory, and he was the mad god at play. Sweat poured down his body, thick and aromatic; his laughter echoed as he lost himself in the excess. He was unbreakable, unstoppable, utterly divine—and the night was far from over.
Suddenly...
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June 13
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