A Big Council Meeting

The heavy oak table of the Rec Room, once the site of **** war councils, now serves as the stage for my amusement. I lean back in the head director's chair, feeling the velvet heat of Drew’s mouth working rhythmically between my thighs. Under the table, she is a silent, diligent machine, her movements practiced and relentless.

Bianca di Angelo sits perched on my left knee.

Thanks to Aphrodite's blessing, her skin is a perfect, sun-kissed olive, and her dark hair is a river of silken raven waves held back by a gold band set with a massive, thumb-sized emerald. She is focused entirely on a bowl of chilled grapes, her movements graceful and vacant. There is a certain chill to her skin, a remnant of Hades' bloodline, that I find refreshing in the humid afternoon. She is completely naked, save for the staggering amount of jewelry I've draped over her. Gold bands circle her wrists and ankles, and light gold chains adorn her waist, shimmering against her hips. Most notably, I’ve fitted her with gold nipple clamps connected by a chain so short it forces her breasts into a permanent, tight valley, her peaks constantly aroused and straining.

"Status report, Beckendorf," I drawl, reaching up to idly flick the chain between Bianca's breasts. She lets out a soft, melodic hum—not of pain, but of simple, programmed acknowledgement.

Charles Beckendorf doesn't look at me. He occasionally glances at the center of the room where the real show is happening, and even more rarely at Bianca's naked form, but every time he does, his eyes carry a mixture of arousal and embarrassment. For the most part, he keeps his eyes down, looking at the blueprints.

"The... the foundation for the West Wing nursery is set," Beckendorf says, his voice gravelly and strained. "Hephaestus cabin is installing the automated feeding systems and the climate control. It’ll be ready for the first... wave... of births in two weeks."

"Good," I pick up my goblet. The silver is cool against my palm. "Bianca, darling. I’m thirsty."

Without a word, the daughter of Hades leans back, arching her spine with a fluid, unnatural grace. Her dark, almond-shaped eyes stay fixed on the ceiling as she offers herself up. I tip the goblet, watching the expensive red wine spill into the deep valley of her cleavage. It pools there, held in place by the tension of her skin and the short chain. I lean down, burying my face in the scented warmth of her chest, slurping the liquid directly from her body before it can trickle down her stomach.

Across the table, Nico di Angelo flinches. He’s staring at his sister—at the bare skin, the gold chains, the way she looks like a high-end temple ****. He looks physically ill, but for all his dark power, there is nothing he can do. He just sits there, staring at his sister with a mask of heartbreak.

In the center of the room, Miranda Gardiner is earning her keep. She’s currently draped over the lap of Harry from the Demeter cabin—her own half-brother. I hadn't issued a normalcy command for her actions, only an absolute order that she service every man in the room. The result is delicious. Harry is weeping silently even as his body betrays him, his hands gripping Miranda’s waist as she rides him with a mechanical, **** intensity.

"Clockwise, Miranda," I remind her, my voice muffled by Bianca’s tits. "Don't get stuck on one. Everyone deserves a turn before the sun goes down."

Miranda looks over her shoulder at me, her face a mask of wide-eyed horror, smeared with the evidence of her previous "tasks."

She knows exactly what she’s doing. She knows the boy under her shares her blood. She knows her boyfriend, Sherman Yang, is sitting two chairs away, **** to watch.

The son of Ares has his teeth gritted so hard I can hear them grinding from across the room. He knows, rationally, everyone here is just following orders, but watching his girl be used like a communal rag is making him vibrate with a suppressed, impotent rage.

"Lighten up," I tell him, coming up for air and wiping a stray drop of wine from my chin. Harry groans and cums into his sister. "She's only got a few more to go and then it's your turn. How do you want her, Percy?"

Percy Jackson looks at Miranda with a mixture of disgust and a sea-green gaze that is currently clouded and dull. His jet-black hair is messy, falling over his brow in that classic 'just-off-the-beach' look, but his tan has turned a sickly sallow. "I'll use her mouth," he decides, his voice hollow.

I look at Sherman. "Just one more blowjob and then you can use her. I might even let you keep her for the rest of the night. How does that sound?"

"Thank you, Camp Director," Sherman grinds out, the words tasting like ash.

Pleased, I nod. I'm about to ask about the upcoming training schedules when the door bangs open. I turn, startled, and see Annabeth standing in the doorway. She looks as shocked as I am as her intense grey eyes dart around the room, landing on the chaotic tableau: Bianca naked on my lap, the nursery blueprints, and finally, Percy with Miranda's mouth around his cock. She flinches, and Percy freezes, his mouth opening as he struggles for words that don't exist.

Before he can speak, Annabeth rasps, "I... I didn't know there was a meeting. I'm sorry. I'll... I'll go."

She turns to flee, but my voice stops her like a leash. "Stay, Annabeth."

She halts mid-step, her shoulders trembling, and turns back to face me. The daughter of Athena has seen better days. Her hair, which usually hangs in princess curls, is a bird’s nest of tangles. Her eyes are bloodshot, rimmed with a mix of exhaustion and a frantic, starving hunger.

"You're supposed to be in lessons, no? I think the girls were supposed to be practicing oral technique in the South Pavilion. Why are you here?" Annabeth doesn't answer; she stands there, petrified. My lips thin. "If you don't answer, I'll just have to guess. I think you were looking for real experience because practicing on cucumbers isn't the same as the real thing, is it? You've always been an overachiever, Wise Girl. If you want to give every man here a blowjob, who am I to stop you? Get on your knees."

Unable to disobey, her knees hit the floor with a hollow thud. She looks small, shivering in her own skin, while Percy and Malcolm look like they’re watching a slow-motion execution.

"Wait," Annabeth gasps, her voice a fragile thread. "That's... that's not why I'm here."

"Is that so?" I lean forward, shifting Bianca’s weight. "Then why did you come here?"

Annabeth’s eyes flick to Percy, then to the floor. A tear tracks down her cheek. "I... I couldn't take it anymore," she whispers. "The craving... It’s been five days, Trevor. Five days since you touched me."

Across the table, Percy’s face goes ashen. "Annabeth?" he chokes out.

She ignores him, her gaze locked on the floor. "I’ve tried everything. I stayed in the cabin. I tried to work. I tried... I tried to take care of it myself until my hands were raw, but it doesn't stop. It just gets worse. Every hour, it’s like Greek fire in my brain."

"And what do you want me to do about it?"

She swallows hard, her shoulders heaving. She looks at Percy one last time—a look of profound apology and utter defeat—before she speaks the words that end her old life. "I need you to touch me again."

I stand up, unceremoniously dumping Bianca’s gold-draped weight into the chair. With a sharp tug, I wrench my cock out of Drew’s mouth. She lets out a small gasp but immediately begins to crawl after me like a faithful hound.

I stop inches from Annabeth. The smell of her is different now—less like lemon soap and wisdom, and more like sweat and desperation. I sink to one knee, hooking two fingers under her chin and forcing those bloodshot gray eyes to meet mine. I let my thumb graze her lower lip, a touch so light it's a tease.

"There," I say. "I'm touching you. Satisfied?"

Annabeth’s breath hitches. She leans into my hand, her skin burning. "No," she whimpers. "Please... Trevor, please. Fuck me. Just... just once. I can't live like this."

I study her for a long, silent moment. I can feel the heat radiating off her. Percy makes a strangled sound behind me, a half-formed protest that dies in his throat as Miranda continues her work.

I let go of her chin and stand up. "No."

Annabeth freezes. Her jaw drops, and for a second, she looks completely hollowed out. I turn my back on her and stroll back to my throne. I sit down, and like a well-oiled machine, Bianca climbs back onto my lap and Drew slides between my thighs to resume her diligent rhythm.

"Why?" Annabeth’s voice is a cracked whisper, the sound of a woman watching her last hope vanish into the ether. "I know you want to fuck me. You said as much in the attic. I'm offering to give you my body, no strings attached. You don't have to go out with me, take me on a date, or buy me expensive things. You just need to use me like you always wanted to."

I lean back, sighing as Drew’s velvet heat envelops me. "That was before I got that same deal from Drew. That was before I got the Goddess of Love in my bed. Compare to them, you're average. What use do I have for you?"

"I’m still hotter than Bianca!" she shrieks, pointing a trembling, accusing finger at the daughter of Hades. "I’m hotter than Katie! You fucked them, so why not me?"

I let out a harsh laugh, idly flicking the gold chain between Bianca’s breasts. The daughter of Hades lets out that soft, melodic hum, her olive skin glowing under the weight of the jewelry. "Normally? Maybe. But look at you, Wise Girl. You’re a wreck. Your hair is a bird's nest, your skin is sallow, and your eyes are bloodshot. Bianca here is a vision. She's far hotter than you right now. You’ve let yourself go."

The humiliation is total. She looks at Percy, then at Malcolm, then back to me, the last of her pride dissolving into the ether. "I don't care! I'll do anything! Please, Trevor. Just... just fuck me. I’ll do whatever you want."

"Anything?" I say, unimpressed. "Every girl in this Aphrodite cabin would say the same. If you want my attention, you have to earn it. You have to impress me. So, let’s see it. Put on a show for me and the boys. Give us a strip tease."

Annabeth freezes, her face drained of color. Behind me, I hear Percy's breath hitch. But she doesn't say no.

Slowly, with hands that shake so violently she can barely function, she rises to her feet. She doesn't meet anyone's eyes—not Percy's horrified stare, not Malcolm's clenched jaw, not even mine. Her fingers hover at the hem of her orange camp T-shirt. She tries to pull it up, fails, and tries again.

On the third attempt, the fabric bunches under her arms, exposing a strip of her stomach before she yanks it back down, her cheeks burning a deep, shameful crimson.

I let the silence stretch, heavy and thick. Drew’s tongue keeps its steady, rhythmic pace, warm and patient. I rest one hand on Bianca’s cool thigh and wait for the inevitable.

Annabeth closes her eyes, takes a shuddering, ragged breath, and peels the shirt off in one jerky motion, wrestling it over her head with a frantic, uncoordinated grace. The shirt lands in a heap at her feet. She isn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts—full, high, and firm—are bare now, her nipples already tight from the combination of the air and her own mounting shame.

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her denim shorts. They are loose, worn soft from years of use, and as she pushes them down, they snag on her hips. She hops once, nearly stumbling, then kicks them aside. She is completely naked. Underwear would have been a waste of time for someone who came here expecting to get fucked.

When she straightens, she is a study in raw vulnerability. Sweat glistens along her collarbones. Her thighs press together as if she could disappear into herself, but there is nowhere to hide in this room. The afternoon light paints every curve: the narrow waist, the flare of her hips, the faint white scar across her ribcage. She is breathtaking, and she knows it, which only makes her lack of poise more delicious.

She tries to move, mimicking the dances she's seen the Aphrodite girls practice over the last few days. One hand lifts to her hair, but the motion is stiff and clinical. She sways her hips—too fast, then haltingly slow—finding no rhythm in her movements. Her arms cross over her chest in an instinctive shield, then drop, then cross again. Every gesture screams of a girl who has spent her life in libraries and on battlefields, utterly lost in the realm of the carnal.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on the oak table. “Percy,” I say, my voice conversational and light. “Did she ever put on a show like this for you?”

Percy’s face is a mask of gray ash. Miranda’s head keeps bobbing in his lap, and he gasps as she swirls her tongue. “No,” he says, his voice rough and broken. “She… she always said it was embarrassing. That it was beneath her.”

Annabeth tries a slow turn, arms half-raised like a broken marionette, but her foot catches on her discarded shorts and she staggers. Someone—Beckendorf—lets out a soft, involuntary exhale. Her breasts bounce with the near-fall, and the sound of male breathing grows noticeably heavier around the table.

She ends the performance facing me, her chin held high in a final, pathetic shred of Athena pride, tears standing in her eyes but refusing to fall. The pose lasts barely three seconds before her shoulders sag and she simply stands there, naked and shivering, waiting for my judgment.

Miranda deepthroats Percy, and he starts to cum with a long, guttural groan. I wait for his climax to subside before speaking.

"Well, at least someone enjoyed themselves. I, on the other hand, am disappointed. I'm not sure you’ve earned a single thing. What do you guys think? Malcolm? Percy?"

Annabeth’s head snaps toward them, the pride replaced by a raw, agonizing pleading. "Please," she sobs, looking at her brother. "Malcolm, help me. It hurts. I can't stay like this."

Malcolm looks like he’s aged ten years in a single afternoon. His eyes are wet, his jaw so tight I fear it might snap. He looks at his sister’s sallow skin and the way she’s vibrating with need, and he can see the literal agony the craving is causing her. "Yes," he rasps, his voice breaking. "Just... give her what she wants. Please, Trevor."

I turn my gaze to Percy. He is slumped back, eyes glazed with the afterglow of Miranda’s work, but they sharpen as they land on Annabeth. He looks at the girl he fell into the pit for—the girl he was supposed to marry—naked and begging to be used by another man.

"No," Percy says. It isn’t a scream; it’s a flat, hollow rejection. "I won't do it. I won't vote for you to be ruined like this. No."

Annabeth’s face doesn't just fall; it contorts into a mask of white-hot, jagged fury.

"You hypocrite!" she screams, her voice reaching a hysterical, glass-shattering pitch. "You’re sitting there getting sucked off by my friend! You’ve spent the afternoon watching Miranda be passed around like a tray of appetizers, and you have the nerve to tell me no? You want me to stay in this pain? You want me to rot just so you can keep some pathetic, pristine fantasy of me in your head?"

"Annabeth, I’m trying to save you—" Percy starts, reaching out a hand.

"Save me?" she shrieks, a hysterical laugh bubbling up in her throat. "You’re not saving me, Percy! You’re torturing me! I hate you! I hope every time you close your eyes, you see me like this, begging for a man who is ten times what you’ll ever be!"

The silence that follows is absolute. Whatever was left of their bond isn't just broken; it’s been incinerated and scattered to the winds.

With a sharp mental command, I trigger my own climax, filling Drew's mouth with cum and letting it overflow, a steady, shimmering river dripping onto the floor. I do it slowly, deliberately, showing Annabeth exactly what Drew is receiving while she remains starved.

"Well," I say, standing up and adjusting my pants as Drew begins to lick my seed off the floor like a devoted pet. I look down at Annabeth, who is now weeping openly, her knees having finally given out. "You heard the man. One 'yes,' one 'no.' And frankly, I agree with Percy. You're just not worth my time yet. You’re messy, you’re ungraceful, and you have a great deal to learn."

I point toward the door. "Go find Aphrodite. Tell her I sent you for remedial training. Maybe with her help, you can improve enough to actually be worth fucking. Until then? Enjoy the fire in your blood."

Annabeth stares at me, her eyes wide and shattered, then she scrambles for her clothes. She doesn't even bother putting them on; she just bunches them against her chest and flees the room, her bare feet slapping against the marble until the sound fades into the distance.

With her gone, I turn back toward my council and offer a charming, effortless smile. "Sorry about the interruption, Gents. Now, what's the next item on the agenda?"