The Fourth Day

The breakfast bell clangs through the morning mist like a bronze alarm clock nobody asked for. You slide into your usual spot at the Hermes table between Connor and a newer kid whose name you haven't bothered to learn, stabbing mechanically at a pile of scrambled eggs. The pavilion fills with its typical cacophony—clinking plates, shouted insults, someone from the Demeter cabin complaining about the non-organic butter.

Then you spot them.

Percy and Annabeth enter through the east colonnade, walking close together. His arm is draped around her shoulders, but it looks less like a display and more like he's physically holding her upright. His face is gaunt, the hollows beneath his sea-green eyes carved deep, his jaw locked in a grim, thousand-yard-stare expression.

Annabeth is wearing Percy's shirt.

It's an oversized blue-and-white flannel, rolled at the sleeves, hanging past her mid-thigh. Beneath it, dark leggings cover every single inch of her legs. Not a trace of last night remains visible. Not the chain of hickeys you branded down her throat. Not the handprint on her hip. Nothing. She has buried what you did to her beneath her boyfriend's clothes.

Something hot and ugly detonates behind your sternum.

You chew mechanically, watching them settle at the Poseidon table. Percy pulls her chair out for her. She gives him a small, tired smile—private, meant only for him—and your fingers tighten around your fork handle until the metal bites into your palm. You know, just from what she's wearing, that she spent the night in his cabin. Percy Jackson wrapped her in his flannel and held her until morning, ignoring the fact that he was cradling a girl who belongs to someone else.

The image lodges in your skull like a splinter. You hate it. She was yours, yours, yours, yours, yours...

Connor nudges your elbow. "Dude, you're bending the silverware."

You unclench your hand, dropping the warped fork onto your tray, and flash a breezy grin. "Tough eggs."

The resentment festers through morning drills and lunch, refusing to burn off. Every time something comes close to distracting you, you catch a blue flash of that flannel moving across camp—at the climbing wall, outside the Big House, reading under the willow by the canoe lake—and the irritation sharpens into something serrated. Worse, she hasn't sent the practice video. You check your phone obsessively between activities. Nothing. By the time the campfire dies and the harpies begin their rounds, your patience has curdled into cold, calculated fury.

You find her at nine-forty behind the Poseidon cabin. She has changed out of Percy's flannel into a zip-up hoodie and jeans—still covered head to toe.

"Why did you cover the marks?" you ask without preamble.

Her brow creases. "What?"

"The hickeys. The bruises. You covered all of them today. Percy's shirt, leggings, the whole nine yards."

"I didn't realize I needed to leave them showing today," she says carefully, her arms folding across her chest. "You told me to wear the bikini yesterday. You didn't say anything about today."

"Use your head, Annabeth. We already established that the curse feeds on public humiliation. I told you the marks needed to be visible. That principle doesn't expire after twenty-four hours. Any marks I leave on you need to be displayed. Every day. No exceptions."

Her lips press into a thin line. A flash of frustration crosses her face before she swallows it. "You're right. I'm sorry. I should have connected the dots."

"Did you at least practice?"

Silence. Her gaze drops to the dirt between her sneakers.

"I tried," she says quietly. "I couldn't. I was too sore from last night. From the new thing. I could barely sit down today without wincing. There was no way I could dance on a pole."

She meets your eyes again, and you see the profound exhaustion weighing her down.

You exhale, trying to pull off disappointed but not angry. "The covering up—that cost us. Badly. The curse read it as active defiance. Not ignorance—defiance. And combined with the fact that you didn't practice again today..." You shake your head slowly. "We're deeper in the hole than we've ever been."

Her throat bobs. "How much deeper?"

"Deep enough that a striptease isn't going to cut it tonight. Not even close. We're past that. The interest has compounded to a point where I need to take you somewhere more... intensive." You hold her gaze. "Tonight is going to be longer and harder than anything you've experienced so far. I need you to understand that before we go."

She processes this with the mechanical efficiency of someone who has accepted that the floor keeps dropping.

"How long?" she asks.

"You're going to be spending the night with me."

A muscle in her jaw jumps. She nods once—a tight, surgical motion.

"Strip," you tell her. "Everything off. Right here, right now. We're not wasting time on the island."

Her fingers find the zipper of the hoodie. She drags it down with a harsh metallic rasp, shrugs the fabric off her shoulders, and lets it fall into the pine needles. Beneath it she wears a simple white tank top. That follows in one fluid pull over her head. No bra tonight—her breasts hang free, full and heavy in the cool night air, her nipples tightening instantly. She kicks off her sneakers, hooks her thumbs into her leggings, and peels them down along with her underwear in a single, efficient motion.

She steps out of the pile and stands before you entirely naked, the distant glow of the camp's dying embers painting amber streaks across her golden skin.

"Good girl. Remember, once we are on the island, you need to stay in-character all the time. You can't break character like you did yesterday," you say, and grab her wrist.

The world folds. Pine and woodsmoke dissolve into jasmine and warm salt air. When reality reassembles, you're standing inside the luxurious penthouse Hephaestus had built overnight. Polished hardwood floors stretch beneath a vaulted ceiling of pale limestone. Through floor-to-ceiling windows, the moonlit ocean glitters endlessly. Annabeth stumbles slightly on the unfamiliar surface, catching herself against a marble kitchen island. Her bare skin prickles with goosebumps in the climate-controlled air.

"This way," you say, steering her by the small of her back toward a wide set of double doors at the far end of the bedroom.

You push them open. The walk-in closet is enormous—cedar-paneled walls lined floor to ceiling with racks of clothing that shimmer under recessed gold lighting. Aphrodite's handiwork is unmistakable. Corsets, harnesses, sheer bodysuits, latex dresses, and heavy leather straps hang in neat, color-coded rows. The air smells faintly of roses and new leather.

Annabeth freezes in the doorway. Her eyes sweep the collection with the rapid, cataloging precision of a strategist surveying an armory—except every weapon here is designed to be used against her.

"What is all this?" she breathes, speaking in her normal voice. A second later, she realizes her mistake, and forces a smile on her face. "I mean—what is all this, Daddy?" she asks in a brighter tone.

You walk to a specific section—black leather, heavy hardware—and pull a piece from its hanger. A full BDSM harness suit: matte black leather straps that crisscross the torso, frame the breasts without covering them, cinch the waist, and connect to a matching set of thigh bands with steel O-rings at the hips. It leaves everything exposed while binding everything in place.

"You remember how I said that your outfit from yesterday won't cut it if the curse got any worse?" You hold it out to her, the metal rings clinking softly. "Well, your failures mean it has gotten worse. We needed a new wardrobe for you, so Aphrodite lent a hand. This is her contribution. Put this on."

She takes it with both hands, turning it over, her brow furrowing as she tries to figure out how to put it on.

"Can you help me get dressed, Daddy?" she asks, disguising that she's given up by pitching her voice up into a bright, artificial sweetness layered with practiced innocence. She forces her lips into a tremulous, eager smile, leaning into the doorway. "I want to look my best for you."

You smile at he surrendering and turning to you for help—something she wouldn't consider a few days ago—and take the heavy leather harness from her hands, turning it over in your palms. The metal links clinks softly, a cold counterpoint to the warm salt air drifting in through the penthouse windows.

"Arms up, Baby Girl."

She doesn't hesitate. Both arms sweep over her head, her bare breasts lifting with the motion, the soft underside of her ribcage expanding beneath golden skin. The recessed lighting catches every contour: the smooth, unbroken plane of her stomach, the subtle dip of her navel, the faint goosebumps prickling across her forearms in the climate-controlled chill.

You step behind her. Your chest presses flat against her bare back, radiating heat. She shivers at the contact—fabric against naked skin—but holds her position, arms locked above her head, her eyes fixed on the full-length mirror at the far end of the closet.

You loop the main strap over her head, settling the heavy collar flush against her throat. Your fingers take their time with the buckle at the nape of her neck, knuckles dragging deliberately across the ultra-sensitive skin right behind her ear. She swallows hard; her pulse hammers frantically in the hollow of her throat.

"Hold still," you murmur, drawing the two main shoulder straps down over her collarbones. The matte black leather bisects her chest diagonally, creating a diamond boob window that leaves her breasts completely exposed. You adjust the positioning with clinical, maddening slowness—sliding a strap a quarter-inch to the left, then back—your fingertips grazing the outer swell of her left breast with every micro-adjustment.

Her nipple tightens into a hard, aching point. Her breath catches.

"Just making sure it sits right," you say.

"Of course, Daddy," she manages, her reflected smile straining at the edges.

You reach down into the walk-in closet's velvet-lined accessory tray, your fingers brushing past a row of silver chains until they wrap around a short, heavy leather leash. Without breaking eye contact in the mirror, you snap the heavy steel clasp directly onto the O-ring at the front of her new collar. It closes with a sharp click.

Annabeth’s eyes dart down to the strap resting against her chest, her fingers twitching at her sides as the reality of what she is wearing—and what it implies—crashes over her.

"My Baby Girl isn't that smart," you kiss her ear. "This is so Daddy can make sure you don't wander off."

"Thank you for looking out for me, Daddy," she whispers, her voice pitched into that bright, artificial sweetness.

Laughing, you kiss her ear again, harder this time, before dropping to one knee to fasten the thigh bands. The buckles sit high on her thighs, framing the apex of her legs. You run your palms slowly, upwardly, along the backs of her thighs, your thumbs curving inward to press into the tender skin of her inner legs. She shifts her weight instinctively, her knees pressing together to block you—a micro-second of self-preservation before her conditioning overrides her. She catches herself, parting her stance wider, baring herself completely to your inspection.

You thread the left strap through its steel O-ring, your knuckles pressing firmly into the exact junction where her thigh meets her ass. She makes a small, choked sound—half gasp, half swallowed protest—her fingers curling into tight fists at her sides.

"Good girl," you murmur, fastening the final buckle on her right thigh. Like how the top left her breasts bare, so too does the bottom leave her crotch and ass completely exposed.

You stand, taking her by the hips and turning her fully to face the mirror.

The harness transforms her into something mythic and illicit. Matte black leather crisscrosses her torso in razor-sharp geometric lines, cinching her waist down to an impossible degree, framing her bared breasts, while the steel hardware winks under the warm closet lights. The leash hangs from her throat down past her flat stomach. She looks like a prize captured from a conquered city—a princess turned into a slave for the enemy king.

Annabeth stares at her own reflection. The manufactured smile trembles, but holds. "How do I look, Daddy?" she asks. Her hand rises—shaking slightly—to touch the leather collar at her throat, her fingers tracing the heavy steel ring where the leash anchors. "Do you like your Baby Girl in this?"

You step up behind her again, your chest pressing flush against her bare back where the leather leaves her skin exposed. Your hands find her hips, your thumbs hooking through the steel O-rings at her sides while your fingers splay wide across the warm, taut curve of her lower stomach.

"You look incredible," you murmur against the sensitive shell of her ear, watching her eyes widen in the mirror.

You roll your hips forward, pressing the rigid, aching bulge of your erection directly against the bare curve of her ass. The denim of your jeans is rough against her smooth skin, and she inhales sharply—a quick, stuttering pull of air through her nose.

"Feel that?" you ask, grinding slowly, forcing her to register the full, heavy outline of your cock. "That's what you do to me, Baby Girl. Just standing there in leather and chains."

Her throat works through a desperate swallow. In the mirror, her grey eyes are glassy, tracking your hands as they slide upward from her hips. Your palms coast over the leather waist cinch, fingers dragging across the bare skin between the straps until they cup both of her breasts from behind. You heft their warm, heavy weight into your palms, your thumbs brushing lazy, torturous circles over her stiffened nipples.

"Thank you, Daddy," she breathes, arching her back slightly without realizing it—a completely involuntary offering, pressing her ass more firmly against your grinding pelvis. "I'm glad I make you feel good."

You roll her nipples between your thumbs and forefingers, pinching with slow, escalating pressure. Her breath hitches audibly, her stomach tensing hard beneath the harness. A fierce flush blooms pink across her chest, cutting a stark contrast against the black leather lines.

"You're the sexiest thing I've ever seen," you tell her, gripping the leather leash lightly in your left hand and tugging it just enough to tilt her chin upward.

You angle her mouth toward yours and kiss her—deep, unhurried, your tongue sliding past her parted lips. She reciprocates, less mechanically than she had in the past, showing she's learning and quickly. Her lips are softer, her body melts backward against your chest, and her tongue meets yours with desperate hunger.

You break the kiss, dragging your mouth down along her jaw, planting a hot, bruising line of suction against the side of her throat just above the leather collar. Your hips maintain their slow, hypnotic grind—a constant, rhythmic reminder of what is waiting for her.

Your free hand drops from her breast, tracing the center line of her flat stomach. Your fingertips follow the deep groove of her abs downward, hovering just a millimeter above the damp, burning heat between her thighs.

She cant's her hips forward involuntarily, chasing the contact, a pathetic, silent plea.

"Eager," you observe against her neck.

Her reflection flushes a deeper, burning crimson. "I just want to make you happy, Daddy," she whispers, but her voice cracks on the syllable, betraying the raw, aching need humming through every inch of her body.

You pull your hand back, denying her the touch, and return it instead to her breast—squeezing firmly, possessively, your thumb flicking her hardened nipple hard enough to draw a sharp gasp from her lips.

"Good," you whisper, wrapping a single turn of the leather leash around your fist to keep her tethered right where you want her. "Because tonight, you're going to."

---

It takes a monumental act of willpower to keep from ravishing Annabeth right there on the Persian rug of the walk-in closet. But you have something far better planned.

You reach down, your fingers curling into the thick leather of her collar. "On all fours, Baby Girl."

She drops without a word, her knees hitting the polished hardwood with a soft thud. You pick up the end of her leash, and lead her out of the penthouse, down the wide corridor, and into the private elevator. The descent is smooth, dropping through the island's stone core until the doors part onto a subterranean vault of rough-hewn basalt.

The dungeon is lit by the flickering, amber glow of divine fire shards mounted in iron sconces. The air here is cooler, carrying the rich, heavy scent of damp basalt, hot metal, and oiled leather. Vaulted ceilings ribbed with dark stone stretch into the shadows, while heavy restraint furniture and racks of gleaming implements line the walls.

Annabeth’s looks around as she crawls. You feel more resistance through the leash as she slows down and becomes more difficult to guide.

"What do you need me to do down here, Daddy?" she asks, her voice small, her grey eyes locked on a massive St. Andrew’s cross bolted to the far wall.

Unfortunately for her, you don't have anything as benign as a cross in mind tonight.

"You've been falling behind, Baby Girl," you say, stopping her with a sharp tug on the leash before reaching down to plant a crisp, stinging open-palm slap across her bare ass. She gasps, pitching forward onto her elbows. "And skipping practice has consequences. Time to take your punishment like a big girl."

You resume walking, guiding her past the St. Andrew's cross, past the suspension rig and the padded benches, heading deep into the back of the chamber where Hephaestus’s more elaborate, custom-tailored machinery lurks in the low light.

You stop before the master apparatus.

It is a masterpiece of divine sadism. At its core is a heavy oak pillory—a thick beam featuring a semicircular cutout for the neck and two smaller cuffs for the wrists, hinged securely at one side. But extending downward and backward from the frame is a complex industrial steel rig: padded leather body straps, adjustable thigh cradles, and ankle locks designed to pin a victim in a permanently bent-over, highly exposed position.

And beneath the frame sit two articulated mechanical arms. Each is tipped with a silicone phallus enchanted to perfectly replicate your size, shape, and temperature. A sleek control panel on the side dictates speed, depth, and rhythm. Coiled neatly on a nearby hook is a variable-output electro-stimulator with thin wiring and adhesive pads.

"Stand up," you command, tugging the leash upward. "Get in position."

She rises from the floor, her movements stiff with apprehension. She steps up to the pillory beam, folding her torso forward at the waist as instructed. Her honey-blonde curls spill forward, and her neck settles precisely into the padded wooden cutout. You swing the upper beam down and drop the heavy brass latch into place. Her wrists slot into the smaller cutouts on either side of her head, and you lock those down too. She tests the hold instinctively—a small, involuntary tug—and finds zero give. No matter how much she thrashes and squirms, she won't be able to escape.

You drop to your knees behind her to secure the secondary framework. A wide torso strap cinches tight across the small of her back, pressing over the harness's waist cinch. Thigh straps buckle firmly just above her knees, forcing her legs apart to match the frame’s wide stance. Heavy ankle cuffs lock her feet to the steel base plates.

In a matter of moments, she is completely immobilized: bent sharply at the waist, arms and head locked forward, legs spread, and every vital entry point utterly helpless.

"Daddy?" Her voice is muffled by her downward angle. "What is this thing?"

"You'll see, Baby Girl. Or maybe not." You reach to the wall rack and retrieve a thick, padded black leather blindfold. You thread it over her crown, pressing it snug against her cheekbones and sealing away her sight. Her breathing accelerates instantly, her nostrils flaring against the dark. "You'll definitely feel it though."

Next comes the O-ring gag. "Open your mouth."

Tepidly, she parts her lips. You slide the cold metal ring between her teeth, forcing her jaw wide, and buckle the heavy leather straps behind her head, threading them carefully through her hair. Her mouth is locked open in a permanent, silent circle—wet pink interior exposed, her tongue trapped helplessly inside.

"Nngh—" she manages, a pathetic sound already bubbling behind the steel as saliva begins to pool at the corner of her lip.

You slide down to the control panel, powering up the two articulated arms. They hum to life with a low, hydraulic purr. The enchanted phalluses instantly warm to body temperature, swelling to your exact dimensions. You adjust their alignment—one poised precisely at the entrance of her pussy, the other nudging against her sensitive asshole—leaving them idling on a slow, shallow cycle. Waiting.

"You said you were too sore from me breaking in your hot little ass to practice yesterday," you muse, stepping up behind her and reaching over the control panel to grab the compact, heavy housing of the variable-output electro-stimulator. "I don't blame you, Baby Girl. Not only were you an anal virgin, but given how tight your pussy was, I can only assume that Percy is packing a pencil."

Behind the steel ring of the gag, Annabeth makes a sharp, choked noise of protest.

"A micro-pencil at that," you continue, entirely unbothered, trailing a finger down the side of her rigid neck as she strains vainly against the pillory beam. "Maybe a few inches on a good day. You need to get used to getting used like the whore you are by a real man. That means getting used to the pleasure—"

You peel the adhesive backing from three small, medical-grade gel pads. Slipping under the steel framework, your hands slide over her hips and up to her chest, pressing one pad firmly onto her left nipple, and the second onto the right. The third you press directly against her wet, throbbing clit, feeling her whole pelvis jump and jerk in the heavy metal cuffs at the contact. You flick the toggle, dialing the unit to its lowest continuous hum.

"Mmmph—!"

Annabeth goes bolt upright in the frame, every muscle in her torso drawing taut like piano wire. The current isn't outright painful, but it is intensely, mercilessly invasive—an unyielding, electric vibration threading continuously through her three most sensitive nerve centers at once.

"—and to the size of a real man," you finish, your voice dropping an octave.

You unbutton your jeans, letting them drop heavily to your ankles. Your rock-hard cock springs free, thick and throbbing, while the enchanted silicone phalluses continue waiting at her gates.

"You need to be able to take me in any of your holes, at any time, Baby Girl. And at any pace—fast or slow. You might not be able to imagine it now, but one day, it's going to feel like your holes were made exclusively for me. They'll be perfectly molded to the size and shape of my cock. This machine is going to help that day come sooner. It's going to help you pay off the interest on the curse and start clearing the principal. Honestly? You should be thankful."

Annabeth's jaw works uselessly around the steel ring. A thin, pathetic line of drool drips steadily from her lower lip, landing in a dark spot on the flagstone floor below.

You step back to the control panel and slide both activation levers upward to their first notch. The articulated arms whir into motion with a steady, mechanical drone, and the enchanted phalluses resume their advance—a glacial, inexorable push forward, moving an inch every second, before withdrawing at the exact same maddening pace.

The phallus aligned with her pussy enters first. You watch from behind as the silicone head spreads her open with agonizing slowness. Her thighs strain against the leather straps, muscles carving sharp, desperate lines beneath her golden skin. A muffled, gurgling sob leaks around the O-ring, and her fingers curl into white-knuckled fists inside the locked wrist cuffs.

Two seconds later, the rear arm begins its own advance. The tip presses squarely against her asshole and she goes completely rigid. Every tendon in her neck stands out like steel cable. The sound she makes is a high, terrified whine trapped deep in her throat. The phallus pushes past her resistance with clinical patience, sinking inward a fraction of an inch at a time while the front arm continues its relentless rhythm.

Both arms reach the absolute bottom of their stroke simultaneously—buried to the hilt—and hold there for an agonizing three-count before beginning their slow withdrawal.

The cycle repeats. Slow. Relentless. Perfectly, mechanically synchronized.

You walk around to her front. From this angle, the movie playing out before you is unbelievably hot: the heavy black blindfold pressing against her face, the O-ring locking her jaw open in helpless surrender, saliva tracking down her chin in a continuous thread. Her breasts hang heavy through the harness window, the electrical pads glowing faintly against her skin, her chest heaving with desperate, ragged breaths.

You step close, fisting yourself once to full, throbbing hardness. Aphrodite’s blessing pulses through you, a heavy bead of pre-cum welling at the tip.

You grip her curls tighter, tilting her blindfolded face upward so the O-ring gag presents that wet, open circle at the perfect angle. Saliva has already glazed her chin and is dripping in a slow, steady thread onto the flagstone. Behind her, the twin arms continue their synchronized crawl—in, hold, out—and each forward stroke draws a muffled, shuddering grunt from deep in her chest.

You rest the head of your cock against the steel ring without pushing in. The warmth of her breath washes over your skin in quick, uneven pulses. "The machine behind you is calibrated to my exact size. It's going to help you get used to my size so taking me back there won't hurt anymore. But the machine can't cum, and yesterday, when I came in your mouth, you choked and spit half of it out. The curse registered that as a failure. If you'd swallowed like you were supposed to, we might have been able to do something milder today."

Behind the blindfold, Annabeth's brow creases in grim resignation as she nods a tiny, constrained acknowledgment. She's still able to focus; to listen. Good.

"So here is how tonight works," you continue. "I'm going to use your throat until you stop choking. And when I cum, you are going to swallow every single drop without spilling. We keep practicing until you hit the bare minimum: three consecutive spurts swallowed clean. That's the baseline for tonight. On future nights, we’ll step up the difficulty until you can handle the machine's maximum settings and take at least ten full loads without missing a drop. By that point, you should be able to meet the curse's demands—in bed, at least—and should be well on your way to paying off the interest the Curse has accumulated, making things more manageable. Can I get a thank you for trying to teach you, Baby Girl?"

Annabeth tries to speak through her gag. It comes out as "Aaack Ooo—" and while she is on the second words, you thrust into her mouth, taking her by surprise.

The head of your cock hits the back of her throat, and her whole body convulses. A violent, choking lurch rips through the pillory frame, the heavy wood groaning against its basalt anchors. Saliva and pre-cum flood around your shaft in a hot rush, spilling over the steel O-ring and dripping heavily off her chin. A thick, strangled gag echoes from deep in her chest.

You hold position, refusing to withdraw. Your thumbs press into the hinges of her jaw, stroking in slow, calming circles.

"Easy. Breathe through your nose," you instruct, your voice low and steady. "Swallow against it."

She tries. You feel her throat contract around your tip once, twice—fighting the reflex, trying to push you out instead of accommodating you. On the third attempt, something gives. The muscular constriction relaxes just enough. Your cock slides another fraction of an inch deeper into the tight, rippling channel of her throat, her nose pressing flush against your lower abdomen.

The sound she makes is somewhere between a moan and a retch, vibrating along your entire length. Her throat spasms around you in rhythmic, involuntary pulses—each one a slick, squeezing wave that runs from root to tip. Behind her, both mechanical arms bottom out simultaneously in her pussy and ass, and her body bucks violently in the restraints, caught between three points of penetration, every opening completely filled.

You withdraw to the head, giving her three seconds to pull ragged breaths through her nose before pushing back in. This time you go slower—mapping the territory, feeling every ridge and contraction of her throat as it struggles to adapt. Four inches. Five. The resistance point. You hold there, rocking your hips in tiny, insistent pulses, and feel her throat flutter and clench before surrendering in a long, wet spasm that pulls you past the barrier and into the deep channel beyond.

"Good," you breathe. "Just like that. Now hold it."

You establish a rhythm. Each stroke goes a fraction deeper, holds a beat longer. Her gag reflex fires less and less—still present, but weakening, reduced from a violent convulsion to a persistent muscular twitch you can feel against your shaft. Drool pours continuously around the O-ring, soaking her chin, dripping onto the flagstone in a widening puddle. Her breathing has become a ragged, snorting pattern through her nostrils, perfectly timed to the half-second windows you give her between strokes.

After maybe fifteen minutes of this continuous conditioning—her throat now accepting you to the root with only a faint, trembling resistance—you bury yourself completely. Your hips press flush against her face, her nose mashed against your lower stomach, and you hold.

"First attempt," you announce, your voice a command. "Don't waste a drop."

You let go. The first pulse of cum fires directly into her esophagus—thick, hot, and voluminous. Aphrodite's blessing means the volume is inhuman, each spurt a heavy, flooding rope that fills her. You feel her throat working frantically, swallowing in a rapid-fire gulp, her larynx bobbing hard against the underside of your shaft.

She handles the first spurt. The second one catches her halfway through swallowing, and cum backs up past her reflex, filling the space behind the O-ring until it overflows. White spills over her lower lip in a thick, bubbling cascade, frothing where it mixes with saliva, pouring down her chin in heavy ropes.

She chokes, a gurgling cough racking her body, spraying a fine mist through the ring. But you don't pull out. You stay deep, your cock resting heavy on her tongue, while she sputters and struggles to catch the rhythm.

"Breathe," you tell her. "Recover. We're aiming for three consecutive clean ones, Baby Girl. Reset."

She whimpers—a wet, bubbling sound—her tongue moving sluggishly against your shaft to lap at the residue. Her breathing steadies in slow, shuddering increments. Behind her, the mechanical arms haven't paused for a second, their relentless, synchronized rhythm keeping her lower half trapped in a state of hyper-sensitive overstimulation.

When her breathing normalizes, you push forward again. Her throat opens with far less resistance this time—muscle memory taking over. You bottom out in a single smooth stroke, holding until she swallows preemptively around you, and let the second load build.

You crank the speed dial on the control panel one notch higher. The arms' tempo shifts from glacial to deliberate, each stroke bottoming out with a meaty, wet impact that jolts her forward in the frame.

Then you reach for the stimulator's voltage dial and twist it a fraction clockwise.

The electric hum deepens. Annabeth's reaction is instantaneous and violent—her spine arches hard against the torso strap, every muscle in her legs locking rigid, a high, keening shriek tearing from her throat around your cock. You feel the vibration travel the entire length of your shaft, a buzzing pulse that makes your own nerve endings light up.

"That's it," you murmur, stroking her sweat-damp hair with your free hand. "Let it open you up."

You push back into her throat. She takes you to the root on the first stroke—no gag, no fight. Her throat simply parts, the muscles rippling around you in a wet, practiced sequence. You hold deep and feel her swallow around you once, twice, three times, each contraction pulling you tighter into the slick channel.

The arms cycle faster, and you match their pace, fucking her throat with long, steady strokes timed to the machine's penetration so that every forward thrust fills her from both ends simultaneously. Her moaning loses its panicked edge, settling into something lower, more guttural, more continuous. Her hips start rolling—a desperate, grinding motion against the rear phallus on each backstroke, chasing the phantom depth.

You dial the voltage up another notch. Her whole body seizes, her back bowing as she cums—hard, involuntary, her pussy clenching visibly around the front arm's shaft in a violent sequence of spasms. Four, five, six contractions before she goes limp in the restraints, panting through her nose in wet, ragged bursts.

You don't give her an inch to rest. You bury yourself to the hilt and let go—the second load of the night catches her off-guard as it floods her throat.

She manages the first. She captures the second.

Then the third spurt hits before she’s empty, and the sheer volume overwhelms her.

Cum backs up past her swallowing reflex, flooding her oral cavity until it has nowhere else to go. Thick white liquid spills over her lower lip in a bubbling cascade, mixing with saliva and pouring down her chin in heavy, swinging ropes. She chokes, a violent, gurgling cough racking her frame as a fine mist sprays through the steel O-ring.

You pull back to half-depth, your cock resting heavy on her trembling tongue while she sputters, gasps, and whimpers around you.

"Close," you tell her, your tone a mix of warning and encouragement. "You got two. But the third one spilled. That resets the streak. Back to zero, Baby Girl."

She groans—a pathetic, choked sound of exhaustion—her chin dripping with the evidence of her failure. Her chest heaves against the torso strap, and her breath comes in ragged, wet pants through her nostrils. Behind her, the mechanical arms never slow down, maintaining their punishing, synchronized rhythm that keeps her pussy and sore asshole locked in a state of perpetual, overstimulated throbbing.

"Take thirty seconds," you command. "Catch your breath. Then we go again."

She stands trapped in the pillory, trembling from the combined torment of the machine, the electrical current humming through her clit and nipples, and the sheer physical toll of deepthroating your oversized cock.

When her breathing evens out into a steady, desperate rhythm, you don't wait for permission. You grip her hair, tilt her head, and shove forward again.

Her throat opens like a well-oiled machine—muscle memory kicking in with terrifying efficiency. You slide to the root in a single, smooth thrust, your pelvis pressing flush against her face.

"Third attempt," you announce. "If you can do this, we'll be done with the machine for tonight."

You let go.

The third load of the night fires into her throat with volcanic force. Thick, hot, and unending. Aphrodite’s blessing ensures there is no shortage of fuel.

This time, she is ready. Her swallowing reflex triggers instantly, operating with the precision of a piston. Gulp. Gulp. Gulp. The first spurt vanishes down her esophagus. The larynx on the underside of your shaft bobs furiously, milking every drop.

The second spurt hits. She doesn't hesitate, swallowing hard and deep, her throat contracting around your length in a desperate, rhythmic squeeze that pulls a sharp gasp from your own lips. Not a single drop escapes past the O-ring.

The third spurt builds and releases—massive, flooding, and relentless. Her eyes roll back behind the blindfold, her entire body rigid in the restraints as the final wave fills her. She swallows with a violent, final convulsion of her throat muscles, locking everything down. Every single drop is taken clean. Nothing spills.

For three full seconds, you hold position, waiting to see if she'll hold it or choke. She stays completely still, swallowing one last time to clear the trace residue from her palate.

You withdraw slowly. A single, thick string of saliva and cum stretches between the head of your cock and the polished steel ring before snapping back.

"My training is effective, isn't it, Baby Girl?'" You scratch her head like she's a dog. "Clean. Not a drop spilled. And you'll only become a better slut from here."

Annabeth sags against the pillory beam, completely limp, her breathing sounding like a wet bellows. She is dripping from every opening, coated in sweat, saliva, and your cum, trembling so hard the heavy basalt floor seems to vibrate beneath her feet.

You reach over to the control panel, switching off the electro-stimulator and bringing the mechanical arms to a gradual halt. You release the ankle and thigh straps first, letting her legs drop, then unlatch the heavy wooden beam holding her neck and wrists.

As soon as the latches snap open, her knees immediately buckle. She doesn't even make it to the floor; she collapses forward onto all fours, her chest heaving, her body shaking uncontrollably, the leather harness and heavy collar clinging to her sweat-slick skin.

"Are we done?" She asks.

Laughing, you grab the end of her leash. "Not even close. We have to go for the entire night thanks to your fuck-up, remember?" You give her leash a light, casual tug, encouraging her to crawl forward on shaking limbs. "No, we are heading upstairs. You are going to take a bath, and then we are going to be continuing this in bed."

The look of horror on her face makes you laugh.

---

Annabeth disappears into the adjoining master bathroom, while you lounge back against the heavy velvet headboard of the sprawling California King-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against your bare skin. A minute later, you hear the shower start.

Two minutes pass before you decide it's been too long since you've been inside Annabeth and you summon the Rulebook. With a stroke of your pen, you lay down a fresh decree

Old Rule: If Annabeth takes a shower or bath while is Marcus waiting for her, all bruises, marks, sweat, cum, and all other signs of use will disappear instantly, leaving her form pristine, flawless, and immaculate instantly.

The shower hiss stops abruptly. You flick your wrist, and the Rulebook vanishes back into its pocket dimension just as the bathroom door clicks open.

Annabeth steps out. The bruises from the restraints, the sticky trails of dried cum, the red welts from the electrical pads—all of it is gone. Her golden hair falls in damp, clean waves across her shoulders, and her skin glows with a soft, natural radiance. She looks like a heroine once more, utterly untouched by the brutal conditioning she’d endured twenty minutes prior.

Except she remembers. The haunted, hollow look in her gray eyes gives her away, despite the bright, practiced smile she forces onto her face.

"Come here, Baby Girl," you murmur, patting the mattress beside you.

She hesitates, calculating the path most likely to appease the curse, then crawls across the mattress on hands and knees. The bedsheets dip under her weight. She comes to rest between your spread thighs, settling back on her heels, hands flat on her own knees. She looks up through her lashes—not with the giggly brightness she wore earlier, but with something quieter, more exhausted, more real.

"What do you want, Daddy?" she asks softly.

"I want to see how well the machine worked in molding your pussy to my cock," you tell her, reaching forward to brush a wet strand of hair behind her ear. "Get on top of me and show me how you ride, Baby Girl."

She nods once. Rising onto her knees, she shuffles forward until she straddles your hips, the warm insides of her thighs pressing against yours. Her hand reaches between them, slim fingers wrapping around your shaft—already rock-hard, Aphrodite's blessing keeping you permanently primed. She positions the swollen head against her entrance, biting her lower lip as she braces herself.

Then she sinks.

The first inch parts her open, and you can feel the difference. Where her body previously clenched and fought you, her walls now yield with a slick, welcoming heat that swallows you inch by devastating inch. A long, trembling exhale pours from her open mouth as she drops—two inches, three, four—her hips descending in a slow, controlled glide until her ass meets the tops of your thighs with a soft, wet sound.

"Oh—" The syllable punches out of her involuntarily, fingers splaying against your chest for balance. "That's... it's different. After the machine, it doesn't—it fits."

"See?" You give her ass a sharp slap. "Your daddy is looking out for you, preparing you to excel in your new life."

Her inner walls grip you in a tight, fluttering embrace, pulsing with her heartbeat. You feel every ridge, every slick fold molded snugly around your girth. She exhales again, steadying herself, and begins to move.

Her hips roll forward in a slow, grinding circle before lifting—three inches up, then dropping back with a meaty slap that sends a jolt of raw pleasure shooting up your spine. She establishes a rhythm: deliberate, unhurried, her athletic core doing the heavy lifting as she rises and falls above you. Each downstroke buries you completely, her cervix kissing your tip with a pressure that makes her breath hitch.

Your hands slip up from her ass to her upper back, applying pressure to push her torso forward, collapsing the distance until her heavy breasts press flush against your face. Warm, soft, impossibly smooth skin fills your world. You turn your head, capturing her left nipple between your lips, and suck hard.

"Ah—" Her rhythm stutters, hips jerking. Her fingers curl into your hair, gripping tight. "That's—sensitive—the pads made them so sensitive—"

You drag your tongue in a flat, heavy stripe across the stiffened peak before switching to the right breast. You take the nipple between your teeth and tug, feeling it stretch before snapping back. Her whole body shivers above you, her pussy clenching in a sharp, involuntary squeeze around your shaft.

She keeps bouncing. The wet, rhythmic percussion of skin on skin fills the bedroom, underscored by her increasingly ragged breathing. You lick, suck, and nibble at her breasts with greedy, shameless abandon—biting the soft underside, dragging your tongue through the deep valley of her cleavage.

A thought crystallizes as you molest her heavy tits, the glorious pair bouncing inches from your face with every stroke.

You pull back just enough to speak, your lips still brushing the damp curve of her breast. "Tomorrow morning," you murmur, your voice thick with satisfaction, "I want to wake up with these wrapped around my cock and your mouth worshipping the tip."

Her rhythm falters. She looks down at you, gray eyes glassy and stunned, lips parted on a silent intake of breath. A deep flush burns across her already-reddened chest.

"You mean—" She swallows. "A... a wake-up call?"

"Every night you spend here, I want to wake-up like that," you confirm, squeezing both breasts together around your face and pressing a wet kiss to the compressed flesh. "It's going to be my new alarm clock, Baby Girl."

She drops her forehead against your shoulder, a shuddering sigh rippling through her frame, but she doesn't stop. Her hips instantly resume their downward drag, her core tightening around you with renewed desperation. You know she caught on to your wording, and inferred that the only way to not have to do the wake up calls on subsequent days is to pay off the curse to such an extent that she no longer needs to spend her nights here. Exactly as you had intended: a little bit of extra motivation for your Baby Girl to be the best whore she can be for her Daddy.

The pace accelerates, the wet slap of skin echoing sharply against the headboard as you push her closer and closer to the edge. Her breath comes in ragged, broken gasps against your neck, her body trembling with the building pressure as your hands lock firmly on her waist, driving upward with hard, deliberate thrusts that meet her halfway.

With a final, shattering contraction, she cums—her inner walls milking your shaft in a violent, liquid pulse that triggers your own release.

You match her, burying yourself to the absolute hilt inside her, your hips pinning hers flush against you as a massive, surging wave of cum erupts straight from your core. Hot, thick, and blindingly intense, the flood fills her to the brim, a heavy creampie that overflows her tight pussy and pools against your thighs.

She gasps into your shoulder, her fingers going slack against your chest as the orgasm washes the last of her fight away.

You don't pull out. Leaving your cock buried deep inside her creampied snatch, you roll onto your side, pulling her down with you so she's pressed flush against your front. You wrap your arms securely around her waist, locking her in position and place an almost loving kiss on her forehead.

"Remember how you are supposed to wake me up," you murmur, tired but satisfied.

"Yes, Daddy," she says quietly.

Smiling, you let sleep pull you under, still buried inside her cunt.