Glitz and Glam
Undeserved Ascendance
chapter 3
by
copier
· original author:
an188
The golden haze of late afternoon sunlight spilled across Havenridge’s legendary boardwalk, turning the wooden planks into a shimmering runway of salt-kissed promise. Waves crashed lazily against the piers below, but today the usual river of tourists had dried to a pathetic trickle. Only a handful of sun-bleached locals shuffled past the shuttered souvenir stalls and flickering neon signs. Perfect for two predators who thrived on attention.
Strutting side-by-side like they owned the entire coastline were Glitz and Glam—the Glam Sisters.
Glitz moved with explosive, bouncy energy, her mile-long legs devouring the planks in sharp, confident strides. Her spiked mohawk bangs framed a face that screamed trouble: sharp cheekbones, glossy black lips curled in a permanent wicked grin, and vivid cyan-teal eyes glowing behind bright blue-green contact lenses. Her extravagant fin-like ponytail—bright teal with darker stripes and three deep-teal spots—swished like a living banner down to her calves. The dark-navy crop top hugged her toned midriff, cyan pom-pom bouncing between perky breasts, while the seafoam-and-teal triangle miniskirt barely contained her athletic hips. Thigh-high tights clung to every curve, cyan pom-poms jiggling at her stiletto heels. Fingerless gloves flexed as she cracked her knuckles, long black-and-cyan nails gleaming.
Glam walked with cooler, predatory grace, one hand lazily linked with her sister’s. Her straight teal bangs fell like silk blades over half-lidded eyes, while her darker navy ponytail—edged in bright teal with two cyan star sparkles—cascaded like liquid midnight. The high-collared deep-teal crop top featured a teasing upside-down heart cutout that framed the swell of her chest; one detached sleeve fluttered dramatically. Her jester-collar seafoam miniskirt swayed with every step, triangular flaps and tiny bells tinkling softly over dark-navy tights patterned with diamonds and stripes. Bright-teal gloves completed the look—one over the sleeve, one teasingly underneath—making every gesture look like an invitation and a threat at once.
They were twenty-one, tall, slim, and sculpted from years of trapeze and street gymnastics—long, powerful legs, tight waists, and lean muscle that rippled under sun-kissed skin. Identical in arrogance, non-identical in flair. Orphans who never looked back. Lesbians who had chosen each other the moment they understood what desire really meant. They bickered like cats in heat and fucked like the world was ending, but to the outside world they were simply “the biggest bitches around”—smug, snobbish, narcissistic megalomaniacs who believed every other human existed for their amusement. No friends. Only each other. And the occasional street-artist circle they tolerated for scouting purposes.
Today they had chosen the eastern boardwalk for their show.
A small crowd of maybe eight people gathered as the sisters launched into their routine. Glitz cartwheeled first, ponytail whipping like a teal comet, landing in a perfect split that made her skirt ride high enough to draw appreciative whistles. Glam followed with a graceful handspring, catching her sister mid-air and hoisting her overhead in a flawless one-armed press. Their bodies pressed together—Glitz’s thighs locked around Glam’s shoulders, abs flexing, breasts brushing—before they spun into a dizzying double flip. Glitz launched herself into a triple backflip, landing in Glam’s waiting arms. They flowed from lift to throw to catch with acrobatic precision that looked effortless and erotic at once: bodies arching, muscles straining, skin glistening under the sun. Glitz laughed maniacally the entire time, blowing kisses at the tiny audience. Glam’s smirk never wavered, cool and superior.
The finale was their signature: Glam balanced Glitz upside-down on her shoulders, then powered into a spinning helicopter toss that sent Glitz soaring ten feet high before she tucked, twisted, and landed in a dramatic crouch right beside her sister. They struck their pose—hips cocked, hands on each other’s waists, identical smug grins—waiting for applause.
A few pity claps. A couple of coins clinked into their hat.
Eight dollars and thirty-seven cents.
Glitz’s grin froze. Glam’s eyes narrowed.
The sparse crowd drifted away like they’d seen something mildly interesting on their way to somewhere better.
“Fucking empty boardwalk,” Glitz snarled, snatching the hat and shaking it so the pennies rattled. “Who the hell performs at four-thirty on a Tuesday? This was your brilliant idea, Glam!”
Glam folded her arms, voice icy and measured. “My idea? You’re the one who said ‘the east side always has rich tourists, Glitz!’ while you were busy eye-fucking that waitress yesterday. Now look at us—performing for seagulls and pocket change.”
“You’re such a boring bitch sometimes,” Glitz shot back, but she was already laughing, the argument more foreplay than fight. She bumped her hip against Glam’s. “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to throw me around in public.”
Glam’s lips twitched—the closest she ever came to a public smile. “And you wanted an excuse to flash your ass at strangers. As usual.”
They bickered all the way down the boardwalk, heels clicking in perfect sync, hands still linked, bodies swaying with that deliberate, sensual roll of the hips that turned heads even when the heads were few.
Eventually they sauntered up to “Bean There, Done That”—the ramshackle coffee stand that catered exclusively to Havenridge’s street performers, buskers, and hustlers. The young barista, maybe nineteen, with floppy hair and a faded apron, lit up the second he saw them.
“Glitz! Glam! My favorite dangerous duo! The usual—two iced oat lattes and those chocolate croissants?”
Glitz leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter so her crop top dipped just enough. Her black lips curled into a predatory smile. “Mmm, look at you, remembering our order like a good little puppy. How sweet.”
Glam didn’t even bother smiling. She simply stared at him with cool disdain, one teal-gloved finger tapping the counter. “We don’t pay for swill, darling. You know that.”
The kid flushed, already reaching for the cups. “I—uh—yeah, no problem, on the house, like always. You two are legends around here.”
Glitz blew him a kiss that was pure mockery. “That’s right. Legends. Now hand over the pastries before I decide your tip is your dignity.”
He slid two large coffees and two warm croissants across the counter without charging a cent. The sisters took them with matching smug little laughs, Glitz even ruffling his hair like he was a pet.
“Pathetic,” Glam murmured as they walked away, sipping her coffee. “But effective.”
“Men are so easy,” Glitz agreed, tearing into her croissant with sharp teeth. “Even when you’re not into them, a little hip sway and they melt. Pathetic.”
They continued strolling the nearly deserted boardwalk, now in full gremlin mode. Glitz “accidentally” shoulder-checked a middle-aged woman into a trash can, then cooed an insincere “Oopsie!” while Glam flicked a half-eaten croissant at a couple making out on a bench, splattering them with chocolate. When a lone skateboarder rolled past, Glitz stuck out one long leg and sent him sprawling; Glam simply watched with a bored smirk, then stepped over his groaning form like he was litter.
Between pranks they talked money—the only topic that ever killed their mood.
“Savings are fucked, Glam,” Glitz muttered, licking chocolate from her black nails. “Hotel wants another two grand by Friday or we’re out on our asses. We can’t keep couch-surfing with those gross street-artist wannabes.”
Glam sipped her coffee, expression unchanging. “I told you the last big score wouldn’t last forever. Ideas?”
“Rob a bank?” Glitz offered, eyes sparkling.
“Too many cameras, too much heat.”
“Seduce some rich widow and clean her out?”
“You’d enjoy that too much, and widows talk.”
“Start charging for private shows? Full-contact acrobatics?” Glitz waggled her eyebrows.
Glam actually rolled her eyes. “We’re not prostitutes, Glitz. We’re superior.”
They tossed ideas back and forth for twenty minutes—crypto scams, fake OnlyFans accounts, blackmailing a local politician they’d once seen on the boardwalk—but every plan crumbled under their own ruthless logic. Nothing felt big enough. Nothing felt worthy of them.
Glitz finally groaned, flopping dramatically against a railing overlooking the ocean, ponytail whipping in the sea breeze. “We need something huge, Glam. Something that screams ‘we own this city.’ Something that makes everyone else look like ants.”
Glam leaned beside her, shoulder to shoulder, their linked hands tightening. For the first time all afternoon her voice softened—just for her sister. “Then we find it. We always do.”
The sun dipped lower, painting the waves blood-orange and teal. The boardwalk stretched empty before them, Havenridge’s millions of lights beginning to flicker on in the distance.
Two goddesses in black and teal, broke, bored, and dangerously hungry for power.
How do they get powerful?
Strutting side-by-side like they owned the entire coastline were Glitz and Glam—the Glam Sisters.
Glitz moved with explosive, bouncy energy, her mile-long legs devouring the planks in sharp, confident strides. Her spiked mohawk bangs framed a face that screamed trouble: sharp cheekbones, glossy black lips curled in a permanent wicked grin, and vivid cyan-teal eyes glowing behind bright blue-green contact lenses. Her extravagant fin-like ponytail—bright teal with darker stripes and three deep-teal spots—swished like a living banner down to her calves. The dark-navy crop top hugged her toned midriff, cyan pom-pom bouncing between perky breasts, while the seafoam-and-teal triangle miniskirt barely contained her athletic hips. Thigh-high tights clung to every curve, cyan pom-poms jiggling at her stiletto heels. Fingerless gloves flexed as she cracked her knuckles, long black-and-cyan nails gleaming.
Glam walked with cooler, predatory grace, one hand lazily linked with her sister’s. Her straight teal bangs fell like silk blades over half-lidded eyes, while her darker navy ponytail—edged in bright teal with two cyan star sparkles—cascaded like liquid midnight. The high-collared deep-teal crop top featured a teasing upside-down heart cutout that framed the swell of her chest; one detached sleeve fluttered dramatically. Her jester-collar seafoam miniskirt swayed with every step, triangular flaps and tiny bells tinkling softly over dark-navy tights patterned with diamonds and stripes. Bright-teal gloves completed the look—one over the sleeve, one teasingly underneath—making every gesture look like an invitation and a threat at once.
They were twenty-one, tall, slim, and sculpted from years of trapeze and street gymnastics—long, powerful legs, tight waists, and lean muscle that rippled under sun-kissed skin. Identical in arrogance, non-identical in flair. Orphans who never looked back. Lesbians who had chosen each other the moment they understood what desire really meant. They bickered like cats in heat and fucked like the world was ending, but to the outside world they were simply “the biggest bitches around”—smug, snobbish, narcissistic megalomaniacs who believed every other human existed for their amusement. No friends. Only each other. And the occasional street-artist circle they tolerated for scouting purposes.
Today they had chosen the eastern boardwalk for their show.
A small crowd of maybe eight people gathered as the sisters launched into their routine. Glitz cartwheeled first, ponytail whipping like a teal comet, landing in a perfect split that made her skirt ride high enough to draw appreciative whistles. Glam followed with a graceful handspring, catching her sister mid-air and hoisting her overhead in a flawless one-armed press. Their bodies pressed together—Glitz’s thighs locked around Glam’s shoulders, abs flexing, breasts brushing—before they spun into a dizzying double flip. Glitz launched herself into a triple backflip, landing in Glam’s waiting arms. They flowed from lift to throw to catch with acrobatic precision that looked effortless and erotic at once: bodies arching, muscles straining, skin glistening under the sun. Glitz laughed maniacally the entire time, blowing kisses at the tiny audience. Glam’s smirk never wavered, cool and superior.
The finale was their signature: Glam balanced Glitz upside-down on her shoulders, then powered into a spinning helicopter toss that sent Glitz soaring ten feet high before she tucked, twisted, and landed in a dramatic crouch right beside her sister. They struck their pose—hips cocked, hands on each other’s waists, identical smug grins—waiting for applause.
A few pity claps. A couple of coins clinked into their hat.
Eight dollars and thirty-seven cents.
Glitz’s grin froze. Glam’s eyes narrowed.
The sparse crowd drifted away like they’d seen something mildly interesting on their way to somewhere better.
“Fucking empty boardwalk,” Glitz snarled, snatching the hat and shaking it so the pennies rattled. “Who the hell performs at four-thirty on a Tuesday? This was your brilliant idea, Glam!”
Glam folded her arms, voice icy and measured. “My idea? You’re the one who said ‘the east side always has rich tourists, Glitz!’ while you were busy eye-fucking that waitress yesterday. Now look at us—performing for seagulls and pocket change.”
“You’re such a boring bitch sometimes,” Glitz shot back, but she was already laughing, the argument more foreplay than fight. She bumped her hip against Glam’s. “Admit it, you just wanted an excuse to throw me around in public.”
Glam’s lips twitched—the closest she ever came to a public smile. “And you wanted an excuse to flash your ass at strangers. As usual.”
They bickered all the way down the boardwalk, heels clicking in perfect sync, hands still linked, bodies swaying with that deliberate, sensual roll of the hips that turned heads even when the heads were few.
Eventually they sauntered up to “Bean There, Done That”—the ramshackle coffee stand that catered exclusively to Havenridge’s street performers, buskers, and hustlers. The young barista, maybe nineteen, with floppy hair and a faded apron, lit up the second he saw them.
“Glitz! Glam! My favorite dangerous duo! The usual—two iced oat lattes and those chocolate croissants?”
Glitz leaned forward, resting her elbows on the counter so her crop top dipped just enough. Her black lips curled into a predatory smile. “Mmm, look at you, remembering our order like a good little puppy. How sweet.”
Glam didn’t even bother smiling. She simply stared at him with cool disdain, one teal-gloved finger tapping the counter. “We don’t pay for swill, darling. You know that.”
The kid flushed, already reaching for the cups. “I—uh—yeah, no problem, on the house, like always. You two are legends around here.”
Glitz blew him a kiss that was pure mockery. “That’s right. Legends. Now hand over the pastries before I decide your tip is your dignity.”
He slid two large coffees and two warm croissants across the counter without charging a cent. The sisters took them with matching smug little laughs, Glitz even ruffling his hair like he was a pet.
“Pathetic,” Glam murmured as they walked away, sipping her coffee. “But effective.”
“Men are so easy,” Glitz agreed, tearing into her croissant with sharp teeth. “Even when you’re not into them, a little hip sway and they melt. Pathetic.”
They continued strolling the nearly deserted boardwalk, now in full gremlin mode. Glitz “accidentally” shoulder-checked a middle-aged woman into a trash can, then cooed an insincere “Oopsie!” while Glam flicked a half-eaten croissant at a couple making out on a bench, splattering them with chocolate. When a lone skateboarder rolled past, Glitz stuck out one long leg and sent him sprawling; Glam simply watched with a bored smirk, then stepped over his groaning form like he was litter.
Between pranks they talked money—the only topic that ever killed their mood.
“Savings are fucked, Glam,” Glitz muttered, licking chocolate from her black nails. “Hotel wants another two grand by Friday or we’re out on our asses. We can’t keep couch-surfing with those gross street-artist wannabes.”
Glam sipped her coffee, expression unchanging. “I told you the last big score wouldn’t last forever. Ideas?”
“Rob a bank?” Glitz offered, eyes sparkling.
“Too many cameras, too much heat.”
“Seduce some rich widow and clean her out?”
“You’d enjoy that too much, and widows talk.”
“Start charging for private shows? Full-contact acrobatics?” Glitz waggled her eyebrows.
Glam actually rolled her eyes. “We’re not prostitutes, Glitz. We’re superior.”
They tossed ideas back and forth for twenty minutes—crypto scams, fake OnlyFans accounts, blackmailing a local politician they’d once seen on the boardwalk—but every plan crumbled under their own ruthless logic. Nothing felt big enough. Nothing felt worthy of them.
Glitz finally groaned, flopping dramatically against a railing overlooking the ocean, ponytail whipping in the sea breeze. “We need something huge, Glam. Something that screams ‘we own this city.’ Something that makes everyone else look like ants.”
Glam leaned beside her, shoulder to shoulder, their linked hands tightening. For the first time all afternoon her voice softened—just for her sister. “Then we find it. We always do.”
The sun dipped lower, painting the waves blood-orange and teal. The boardwalk stretched empty before them, Havenridge’s millions of lights beginning to flicker on in the distance.
Two goddesses in black and teal, broke, bored, and dangerously hungry for power.
How do they get powerful?
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June 13
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