By Evening the Score With Drew

The heavy, cloying scent of designer perfume and expensive rosewater hits me the second I push open the door to the Aphrodite Cabin. It’s a sensory overload—a pink-and-white explosion of silk sheets, lace curtains, and enough mirrors to make Narcissus feel self-conscious. Later in the day, the place will be a hive of activity, buzzing with the sound of hair dryers and the gossip of girls who treat social standing like a blood sport, but for now, it is quiet.

The reason it’s so peaceful is that the rest of the cabin actually has lives. They’re outside training, socializing, or being **** into chores by Chiron. But I know Drew. She’s a special snowflake who views the sun as a personal enemy. According to her, the sun is a giant UV-ray cannon aimed specifically at her pores. She won't set foot outside between 10 am and 4 pm out of feat that a single freckle will ruin her "brand."

I find her exactly where I expected: sprawled across her bed in the back of the cabin. She’s propped up on a mountain of silk pillows, lazily flipping through the latest issue of Vogue. A crystal bowl of chocolate-covered strawberries sits on her nightstand, half-finished and dripping onto a lace doily.

I stand there for a moment, watching her with a volatile mix of contempt and lust. Objectively, Drew is a masterpiece, even if she’s a total nightmare. She’s got that sharp, East Asian beauty that she enhances with layers of expertly applied makeup—even when she’s just lounging in bed. Her dark hair is a silken, obsidian curtain falling over her shoulders, and her features are so symmetrical it’s almost unsettling.

Her proportions are where the Aphrodite genes really show off. She’s got soft, heavy breasts that are at least two cups larger than Annabeth’s, paired with a deceptively thin waist that flares out into a thick, bouncy ass. I know from experience how those curves feel, and just looking at her makes my blood run hot. The sheer, pale pink negligee she’s wearing leaves most of her body exposed; she doesn't bother with modesty when she thinks she’s alone. The silk clings to the soft curves of her stomach and the swell of her breasts, rising and falling with her shallow, bored breaths. She looks like a doll kept in a glass case: expensive, high-maintenance, and utterly hollow.

She is the type of girl I could fall in love with at first glance—and I did. Then she shredded my heart, orchestrated my humiliation, and moved on to her next "project" without so much as a backward glance. I hate her with a visceral intensity I never felt for Annabeth. Annabeth hurt me once, albeit badly. Drew had destroyed me over the course of months.

I lunge forward, shoving her back into the mountain of silk pillows. She tries to keep reading her magazine regardless, shifting it to the right, but I grab it out of her hands and toss it too the corner. She lays there passively, bored, as I straddle her midsection, cock pressed against her stomach as my knees rested on the bed on either side of her obliques. I look down into her perfectly made-up eyes as I make my decree.

"It is normal for sex to disgust you," I tell the nymphomaniac daughter of the Goddess of Sex. "It is normal for any pain I cause you to feel a hundred times worse than it should."

Unlike Annabeth, I don't want Drew to find bliss. I want her to suffer for what she’d done to me and so many others.

Experimentally, I reach down, snagging her nipples through the sheer silk of her negligee, and twist hard. The reaction is instantaneous. Drew shrieks, her body arching off the bed like she’d been hit by a live wire. Tears well in her eyes, smearing her expensive eyeliner. She begins to thrash, her hips bucking wildly to dislodge me while her manicured nails claw at my wrists, leaving red furrows in my skin.

I leaned down until our noses were almost touching, watching her face contort. "Should have spent less time at the spa and more time at the arena, shouldn't you, Drew?"

"You—ugh—gross! Get off me, you little freak!" she spits, her voice cracking with a mixture of agony and pure, unfiltered snobbery. She swings a ****, uncoordinated punch at my face.

It's pathetic. Drew views physical labor as something meant for "ugly people." I catch her wrist mid-air with one hand, then snatch her other before she can try again. I wrench them both over her head, burying them into the pillows.

Without the active stimulus of pain, Drew’s body goes lax as the right earring’s field of boring normalcy washes over her. To her, having an ex-boyfriend straddling her hips and pinning her wrists into her silk pillows is unremarkable; it is only when I am hurting her or having sex with her that the left earrings override kicks in and causes her to react.

She thinks her ordeal is over. Her chest heaves frantically at first, the heavy swell of her breasts brushing against my forearms, but it gradually slows and I can see the relief in her eyes. It irritates the hell out of me. She doesn't get to be relieved. Not after what she did.

"It is normal for no one to attempt to hurt me, no matter what I am doing," I say. "Let's see how long that relief lasts now, princess."

I release her wrists and return to her nipples. This time, when I pinch and twist the sensitive peaks, she writhes helplessly beneath me, her body caught in a violent tug-of-war as she desperately wants to end her agony but can't bring herself to resist; can't bring herself to try to push me off of her, or to pull my hands away from her, or punch me, or anything else had tried the first time around. All she can do is ineffectually twist her hips, every **** move only serving to massage my cock through my denim.

I let out a sharp, triumphant laugh. "Got you now, bitch."

I lean down to claim her mouth, wanting to swallow her screams of pain.

"Wait!" she shrieks. The word hits me like a physical hammer to the chest. My heart stutters, and my muscles lock up instantly. Charmspeak. "Let me go and get off me! Right now!"

Her voice is thick with that magical, honey-sweet authority that makes your soul want to obey. I can feel the foreign power coursing through my veins, hijacking my nervous system. My hands snap away from her breasts as if they’d been burned. My legs move of their own accord, forcing me to stand and retreat until I'm hovering by the edge of her designer rug.

For a second, panic flares. If she had been smart—if she’d told me to shut up, or to hand over the earrings, or to jump off the top of the Big House—I would have been finished. But Drew is a creature of immediate, shallow desires. She just wanted the "trash" away from her.

And just like that, her only real window for victory slams shut. Drew doesn't follow up her command with a finishing blow. She doesn't even try, instead curling into a self-indulgent fetal ball on her silk sheets. She doesn't call for help; she just winces as she begins to gingerly massage her tender breasts, her lower lip tucked into a shallow pout.

Her lack of foresight is almost as disgusting as it is useful. It gives me all the time in the world to salvage the situation.

"It is normal to never use charmspeak, or any other ability that can alter my mind or interfere with my free will, on me," I ground out, my voice trembling with the effort of fighting the lingering magic.

The invisible weight pressing on my chest snaps. The golden, hypnotic shimmer in Drew’s eyes—the one she uses to lead boys around like leashed dogs—flickers and dies. I have neutered her greatest weapon.

I don't waste a heartbeat. I'm back on her in seconds, my weight driving her deep into the mattress as my mouth presses down on hers in a brutal, mocking kiss.

Her response is visceral. She makes a muffled, gagging sound against my lips, her body going rigid with a revulsion so strong it’s almost physical.

But unable to hurt me or use her charmspeak, she is out of options. She has **** but to lie there, suffering through the sensation of me claiming her mouth, her eyes squeezed shut as tears of pure, humiliated disgust leak out and ruin the rest of her makeup.

I pull back just an inch, hovering over her trembling lips. "How does it feel, Drew? To finally be the one who's just... a toy?"

"You're—" she gasps, her voice trembling with the sheer effort of speaking through the revulsion. "You're so gross, Trevor. I should have broken up with you sooner."

That comment is the final nail in the coffin. If she had been smart enough to play the victim or appeal to whatever shred of humanity she thought I had left, she might have earned some mercy. But Drew is incapable of humility. Even pinned, powerless, and weeping, she still tries to look down her nose at me.

My eyes darken as I rip her thin negligee off her, letting her heavy breasts spill free—full, soft, and decorated with the darkening marks of my earlier attention.

She flinches at the sudden exposure, her breath hitching in a series of shallow, jagged sobs, but her arms remain limp and useless at her sides.

"You should have been nicer, Drew," I murmur, leaning in slower this time just to taunt her with her helplessness. I let my breath ghost over the curve of her throat, savoring the way her pulse thrashes against her skin like a trapped bird.

She knows exactly what is coming. She’s the daughter of Aphrodite; she knows the choreography of this better than anyone. But for the first time in her life, she isn't the director. She tries to turn her face away, a final, pathetic gesture of defiance that only serves to expose the smooth, **** column of her neck.

"Perfect," I whisper.

I bite down hard just below her ear, my teeth sinking into the tender skin. I don't go for a lover’s nip; I go for a mark. I want her to see it in every one of her dozens of mirrors. I want her to remember this every time she tries to cover it with concealer. She lets out a muffled, choked cry—a sound of pure, amplified agony—as the earring turns the small bite into a sensation of being branded with white-hot iron.

I pull back just enough to admire the carnage. The bite is a perfect, crimson crescent blooming against the porcelain column of her neck.

It’s already deepening into a bruised, possessive purple that won’t fade for weeks—or ever, because I have every intention of refreshing it whenever it begins to lighten. When we were dating, I wasn't even allowed to leave a faint hickey; Drew had treated her skin like a sacred temple, and any blemish was a "fashion emergency" that would result in me being barred from her bed for a month.

The thought of claiming the rest of her skin—marking a trail down her throat, across the heavy swell of her breasts, over the flat of her stomach, and all along her thighs—sends a surge of excitement through me. Every mark a map leading straight to her cunt.

Eagerly, I shift my weight, sliding lower until I’m kneeling between her thighs. For a heartbeat, my weight is no longer anchoring her torso to the mattress. Drew, ever the opportunist, sees the gap in my guard.

She can't fight, and she can't use charmspeak, but I haven't taken away her ability to flee yet. She scrambles backward with a frantic, **** energy, spinning off the bed and onto her feet in a blur of pink silk. For a girl who claims despises cardio, she moves like a startled cat, bolting toward the cabin door.

She almost makes it. Her fingers are inches from the brass handle, her eyes wide with the hope of escaping, but her vanity proves to be her undoing. She’s spent years growing her hair into a long, obsidian curtain, and now it’s a perfect handle for me to grab.

I lunge, my hand snapping out to snag the silken mass while it’s still fluttering in the air behind her.

The jerk stops her dead. Her head snaps back with a sharp, pained cry as I wind the dark strands around my fist like a rope. I yank her backward, dragging her away from the door and back toward the bed. She still tries to tear herself out of my grip, her heels digging into the plush carpet. Because her straining doesn't hurt me, only herself, my command doesn't stop her from struggling but it does amplify the agony of it.

I slam her back onto the bed, pinning her down. She goes docile again, but I’m done taking chances with her. I grab the edge of her expensive silk bed cover and tear it with a sharp, satisfying rrrrip.

I use the first strip to bind her wrists to the ornate, white-and-gold headboard. The moment I let go to move to her feet, she begins to thrash again, trying to escape. I ignore the muffled insults she’s trying to hiss at me and tear off her lace panties in one rough motion. Using more strips of the ruined bedding, I lash each of her ankles to the bedposts, stretching her out until she’s displayed spread-eagle and utterly ****.

Finally, I bunch up the damp lace of her panties and shove them into her mouth to gag her.

She immediately tries to use her tongue to push the fabric out, her eyes darting around the room in a panic. I press my palm over her mouth, pinning the gag in place.

"None of that now," I say, my voice dropping to a dangerous, annoyed low. "It is normal for you to keep this in your mouth until I tell you it's okay to spit it out."

She goes still. The command takes hold, and her jaw relaxes around the silk. With all four limbs tied and her mouth silenced, Drew Tanaka is finally out of cards to play. She starts to sob, the tears flowing freely now, her regal pride finally shattering into a thousand jagged pieces.

I have never seen a sight more beautiful.

My cock is begging for freedom, and I grant it without hesitation, unbuckling my belt and letting my denim and underwear pool around my ankles. I kick them aside, the metallic clink of the buckle the only sound in the room besides Drew’s muffled, wet sobs.

I crawl onto the silk sheets, settling between her spread legs. I anchor my weight on my elbows, hovering mere inches above her. I’m close enough that she can feel the radiating heat of my skin; close enough that every one of her panicked, hitching breaths brushes her sensitive nipples against the hair on my chest. Her body is soft in all the ways Annabeth’s was corded with muscle. She’s all plush thighs, a yielding stomach, and those heavy tits that spill toward her armpits under their own weight.

I drag the head of my cock along her slit once, a slow, deliberate stroke. She’s bone-dry, her body rejecting the very idea of me. I feel her hips jerk in a sharp, instinctive spasm of revulsion, a silent "no" that her bound limbs can't enforce.

I push in anyway.

The resistance is immediate and brutal. Her body clamps down, fighting the intrusion with every muscle, but with her limbs bound, there is nothing she can do but take it. The friction is tight and burning; I have to work myself deeper with short, punishing thrusts that **** her internal walls to yield, inch by agonizing inch. Each surge forward drags a choked, high-pitched sob from behind the lace gag. Her spine bows off the mattress, a ****, feline arch as she tries to escape the pressure, but the silk restraints hold her pinned open like a specimen on a dissection board.

Halfway in, I pause just to watch her shake. Sweat beads along her collarbones, trickling down between her breasts. Her nipples are rock-hard from pure terror, not arousal. I lean down and catch one between my teeth, grinding down until she screams into the panties. The sound is raw and muffled, a vibration that rattles through her ribcage into mine.

When I finally bottom out, buried to the hilt in that unwilling heat, I stay there. I want her to feel my full, throbbing weight. Her inner walls flutter around me in panicked, uncoordinated spasms, trying to expel me, but there’s nowhere for me to go. I pull back slowly, savoring the agonizing drag of dry skin on skin, then slam back in hard enough that her whole body jolts up the mattress. The white-and-gold headboard cracks against the wall with a violent thud.

I settle into a punishing, rhythmic ****: deep, grinding strokes that make her heavy breasts bounce and sway with every impact. The wet, rhythmic slap of my hips against her plush ass is obscene in the floral-scented quiet of the cabin—loud enough that any passerby would know exactly how the daughter of Aphrodite was being used. But no one will come. No one will care. That's the beauty of it.

Drew’s eyes are squeezed shut, her face a mask of tear-streaked misery, but I’m not letting her hide in the dark. I reach up, winding a fist into her obsidian hair, and yank her head forward.

"Look at me, Drew," I growl, my voice a jagged edge.

Her lashes flutter open, her eyes swollen and rimmed with smeared mascara. The hatred in her gaze is a sharp, distilled poison, but beneath the vitriol, I see the crack—the moment she realizes her beauty, her status, and her mother’s favor are all worthless here. I fuck her harder, driving into her with a renewed ferocity just to watch that crack widen into a chasm.

I shift my angle, tilting my pelvis until I find the spot that used to make her scream my name back when she was still "playing" with me. Now, when I hit it, the earring’s command turns the sensation into a confusing, disgusting overload. Her whole body seizes. A sharp, unwilling cry rips out around the gag, her muffled voice sounding broken and small. Her hips try to jerk away from the contact, but the restraints keep her perfectly centered, forcing her to take every brutal thrust exactly where it hurts most.

"I'm going to cum inside you," I tell her, leaning down until our foreheads touch. I watch with amusement as she frantically shakes her head, her eyes widening in a primal sort of panic. "And I hope you’re enjoying this as much as I am, because this is going to be your new normal. I'm going to fuck you every single day for the rest of your life. Tomorrow, I think I'll finally break in your ass."

Leaving visible marks, finishing inside her, anal—there was an entire list of acts the daughter of the Goddess of Sex had deemed beneath her during our relationship, but now, she can't deny me anything. I can take anything I want from her.

The sight of her utter breakdown, mixed with the vivid fantasies of how I’m going to spend the rest of the week dismantling her ego, pushes me over the edge. I throw my head back, my teeth bared in a silent snarl of triumph, and begin to cum. I pump my baby-batter into her, my strokes slowing into deep, heavy grinds that ensure she feels every hot, pulsing drop of my victory.

Drew’s response is a muffled, agonizing wail—a long, distorted "no" that is perfectly discernible even through the lace gag. She shakes with a violent, full-body tremor, her bound limbs straining against the silk strips as she feels me marking her internally.

That sound makes me smile, a dark, jagged expression of pure satisfaction. But what she manages to **** out next wipes the grin off my face instantly.

Through the gag, her voice emerges raw with a daughter’s desperation. "Mother! Please... help me!"

I lunge forward, my hands snapping out to cover her mouth and stifle any further pleas, but it's too late. With a blinding flash of shimmering pink light, Aphrodite comes forth from Olympus, drawn down by her daughter's pleas.