The Sixth Day

The next morning, you write another old rule before meeting with Percy and Annabeth.

Old Rule: Marcus Chen's absence from Camp Half-Blood is never noticed or questioned by any camper, staff member, or divine observer. No mortal, demigod, or god will find it strange or worth commenting on, no matter how long he is gone.

Now you can vanish for days, weeks, months—no one will bat an eye. No questions about where you've gone. No suspicion about why Annabeth keeps disappearing with you. The foundation for your new life, your new collection, is being laid one invisible brick at a time.

You meet with Percy and Annabeth at Thalia's pine, the ancient tree drooping over the border between myth and mundane. Percy stands like a condemned man at his own execution, shoulders slumped beneath the weight of a duffel bag that seems to carry more than just clothes. His sea-green eyes are bloodshot, the skin beneath them bruised with exhaustion. Annabeth stands beside him in jeans and a fitted grey t-shirt; a concession to keep Percy's mortal family from asking annoying questions. She hasn't met your gaze since yesterday's lunch spectacle, not once. She keeps her eyes fixed on the horizon where the Long Island Sound meets the sky, as if searching for an escape route.

The train ride is forty minutes of exquisite tension. You sit across the aisle, earbuds in, scrolling through your phone while simultaneously savoring every flicker of misery in their periphery. Percy attempts conversation twice—the weather, some dumb camp anecdote—and both times Annabeth responds with monosyllables that die in the air between them. She presses her forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the blur of suburbs dissolve into urban sprawl, her reflection a ghost superimposed over passing storefronts.

By 11:15, you're standing before a brownstone on the Upper East Side that looks like it's been lifted from a storybook. Terracotta planters overflow with herbs—basil, rosemary, something purple and fragrant. A handmade welcome mat reads The Blofis-Jackson Residence in cheerful blue paint that seems to mock the somber mood.

Percy takes a breath that shudders through his entire frame. Knocks twice.

The door swings open, and Sally Jackson fills the frame.

Your brain short-circuits. Every thought, every plan, every carefully constructed scenario evaporates. When your brain reboots, Your first coherent thought is: Holy MILF.

Her breasts defy gravity. That's your second real thought. She's wearing a simple sundress, pale yellow with thin straps, but the fabric might as well be transparent for all it conceals. Her tits are massive, straining against the cotton, soft and ripe and jiggly. Your eyes travel downward—wide hips flaring from a cinched waist, the kind of body made for bearing children, for being bent over and fucked senseless.

"Percy!" She pulls him into a hug that lifts him onto his toes, the movement causing the hem of her sundress to ride up just enough to flash the thick, tanned curve of her calves. "Oh, sweetheart, you look thin. Are you eating?"

"Mom, I'm fine—" Percy starts, but Sally cuts him off by releasing him and turning her full attention to Annabeth. The way she pulls Annabeth into her arms is nothing like the quick hug she gave Percy. This is different—deeper, more intimate. Her arms wrap around Annabeth's waist, pulling her flush against the soft curves of her body. One hand cups the back of Annabeth's head, fingers tangling in those honey-blonde strands, while the other rests low on her back, thumb stroking in slow, possessive circles.

You watch Annabeth melt in a way you've never witnessed before—not even with Percy. Her shoulders, usually rigid with pride or tension, go completely slack. Her face buries into the curve of Sally's neck, and you can see the exact moment her eyes close, the long, pale sweep of her eyelashes against sun-kissed skin. For a heartbeat, the brilliant architect of Olympus is just a girl seeking comfort in a mother's embrace.

The vision hits you then, so vivid it's like your future-self recorded a video and then beamed it into the past, directly onto your retinas. Sally and Annabeth in a dimly lit room, their bodies pressed together in a way that has nothing to do with comfort. Sally's hands tracing the curves of Annabeth's waist, slipping lower to cup her ass. Annabeth's fingers tangled in Sally's dark hair as their mouths meet in a kiss that's all heat and desperation. Then Annabeth bent over, face buried in Sally's breasts while you take her from behind, the older woman holding her steady, whispering encouragement against her ear. Finally, both of them on their knees, swapping your cum between them, their tongues meeting as they lick every last drop from each other's skin.

"There's my girl," Sally murmurs against Annabeth's hair, her voice vibrating through Annabeth's body. "I missed you so much."

"I missed you too, Sally," Annabeth whispers, and the words catch in her throat, thick with emotion. You watch her throat work, a delicate column of muscle and skin that you suddenly want to mark with your teeth.

Kiss her, you think. Show her how much you missed her. But they don't, because they're not yours to command yet. But they will be.

The realization hits you that Annabeth alone isn't enough anymore. You want them both. You want them locked in your penthouse on Ogygia, their bodies and minds completely yours to shape and use. Mother and daughter-in-law, bound together in service to your pleasure.

You are smiling when Sally's gorgeous blue eyes finally find you. She releases Annabeth slowly, reluctantly, and turns toward you. The movement causes her sundress to shift, and you catch the hint of lace beneath the thin cotton—something black and delicate that promises so much more.

"And you must be Marcus!" Her smile is genuine, disarming. "Percy mentioned you were coming." She extends a hand, and when you take it, her grip is firm but her palm is incredibly soft, the skin warm against yours. You imagine it wrapped around your cock. "I'm Sally. Come in, come in—I just pulled cookies out of the oven."

The apartment envelops you in warmth and scent—brown butter and vanilla, something savory simmering on the stove. You step inside, your eyes cataloging every detail like a hunter memorizing terrain. The cluttered bookshelves, the blue throw pillows that look worn with use, the framed photos of Percy at various ages lining the hallway. A tall, broad-shouldered man with salt-and-pepper hair and wire-rimmed glasses emerges from the kitchen, wiping flour-dusted hands on an apron that reads Kiss the Cook.

He opens his mouth to introduce himself, but a baby's cry cuts through the air—sharp, insistent. "Estelle," Sally says, glancing at the man. "Can you...?"

"Of course," he responds, his voice warm and patient.

As Sally hurries toward the back of the apartment, you follow the sway of her hips with your eyes. The sundress clings to the generous swell of her ass with every step, the fabric shifting and pulling in ways that make your imagination run wild. You can already picture her bent over your kitchen counter, that dress pushed up around her waist as you take her from behind.

The man turns to you, extending a flour-dusted hand. "Paul Blofis. Percy's stepdad. Welcome to our madhouse."

"Marcus Chen," you reply, all charm and teeth. "Thanks for having me. Is the baby yours?"

"Mine and Sally's," he says, a proud smile softening his features.

"Oh, congratulations! How old is she?"

"Four months," Paul says.

Four months. Your mind does the math instantly. Sally is still lactating. You don't have to wait for Annabeth to swell with your kid to enjoy titty milk.

You wonder how you had gotten this lucky. This couldn't be more perfect.

Author's Note: Bit of a shorter chapter than normal, but the next chapter will be much longer to compensate. It is the end Seventh Day/End of Week One and Marcus ends it with a bang.

I wanted to get your thoughts on the Sally Jackson picture. Does this align with how you guys imagined her?