Trevor Gets

I stand behind Annabeth, pants bunched around my ankles, and press my erect cock against the curve of her ass while she bends over the crate once more. She shifts as she reaches for a rusted Athenian breastplate, her hips swaying in a natural, rhythmic motion that grinds back against me.

The right earring is projecting a field of pure, boring normalcy. To her, I am as unremarkable as the dust motes dancing in the attic light, even as she gives me an unintentional lap dance. Her focus remains on the relics, her mind likely calculating the era of the bronze she’s holding.

Emboldened, I hook my fingers into the waistband of her frayed denim shorts. The fabric slides over her hips in one slow, deliberate motion, pooling at her ankles and revealing black lace panties damp with sweat.

My hands find her bare cheeks.

Drew’s body was all soft curves and yielding plushness; my fingers would sink in without resistance. Annabeth is different. She is made of corded muscle and athletic grace. I test the density with a sharp slap to her right cheek, then two quick ones to the left. The skin pinkens immediately, handprints blooming because there is no extra padding to soften the blow.

“If I’m honest, I never really wanted to date you. I just wanted to fuck you,” I say, my fingers digging into the firm muscle of her ass.

She doesn't recoil. Instead, her fingers close around a battered leather helmet inside the crate. Her voice remains level. “I could tell. It’s why I turned you down. Your approach was statistically likely to be a mask for insecurity or malice. You have the typical Hermes cabin 'tell'—you over-compensate with charm when you're ****.”

She tries to straighten, helmet in hand, but I press my palm against the small of her back, pinning her forward. She registers the obstruction and simply drops the helmet back into the crate, resuming her search through the relics she can reach. The movement forces her to grind against me again, pulling a low, guttural groan from my throat.

“So all that stuff about needing time to find yourself,” I say, moving my hips against hers, chasing more of that wonderful friction, “that was bullshit?”

“No.” Her tone stays conversational, though I can feel her lower back muscles tensing under my palm. “I meant it. After Tartarus, Percy and I were too attached. Co-dependency is a tactical liability. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep if he wasn’t in my line of sight. I hated needing someone that much—it made me ****. So I asked for a break. Just enough space for me to learn how to be functional without him. I always thought we’d get back together in the end, once we both healed and could have a healthy relationship again.”

I smile. By telling me her hopes, she tells me what would hurt her. I don't alert her to her mistake, instead moving to implementation.

I hook my fingers into the sides of her lace panties and ease them down. They catch briefly on the firm swell of her ass before sliding free, pooling at her ankles with her shorts. She’s hobbled now, her legs anchored by denim chains. I spread her open with my thumbs, peering at the pale, tight slit. As I expected, she isn’t aroused. The right earring is doing its job too well; to her, this is just a sequence of movements as mundane as sorting shields.

That doesn’t stop me from working my way into her.

It takes a minute of steady pressure because her body isn't ready for me, but once I’m seated deep inside her, I issue my first command. “It is normal for my cock to feel a hundred times better than Percy’s. It is normal that getting fucked by me will feel better than anything you have ever felt before.”

I thrust into her slowly. The left earring takes precedence, and the shift is instantaneous. Her pussy reaches a boiling point, flooding with sudden, hot arousal as her internal walls yield inch by inch. I can’t see her face, but I see her fingers claw into the wood of the crate, her knuckles turning white as she gets hit by a tidal wave of pleasure.

Each stroke pulls an involuntary shudder from her. Her breath hitches in sharp, jagged bursts. I can feel her trying to fight the climax, keeping her body rigid, muscles locked in quiet endurance, but my command does its work and she’s **** over the edge in under a minute.

I slow but don’t stop, letting her ride the aftershocks while I lean over her back. “Did Percy ever make you cum that fast, Wise Girl?” I murmur against her ear, using his nickname for her just to twist the knife. “That hard?”

Annabeth’s voice is hoarse, but she’s still trying to maintain her composure. “Yes. All the time.”

“Did you forget I’m a son of Hermes? I know a lie when I hear one.”

“I’m not—” Her protest is cut off as my rhythm becomes punishing. The attic fills with the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin. I watch the pink handprints on her ass darken to a deep crimson with every thrust. My command ensures every drag of my cock feels like Elysium.

The second climax coils tight in her spine. I feel her walls flutter desperately, her hips driving back into me with a hunger she can't control. She might not be willing to admit the truth, but her tells me everything I need to know. When her orgasm hits, she bites down on her own forearm to muffle the scream. The sound still leaks out—raw, broken—and her knees buckle. Only my grip on her hips keeps her upright.

I pull out abruptly, spin her around, and hoist her onto the nearest table. Relics scatter; a cracked shield thuds to the floor, and a bundle of arrows spills like pickup sticks. Annabeth lands on her back, legs dangling, her shorts and panties still tangled at her ankles. Her gray eyes are glassy, her pupils blown wide.

“I wish I had a camera,” I tell her. “So I could show you how slutty you look right now. Has Percy ever seen you looking this ****?”

“Yes,” Annabeth hisses, her chest heaving.

“Really?” I step between her thighs and drive back inside in one smooth, deep thrust. The new angle drags a long whimper from her. I pin her wrists above her head, stretching her orange shirt tight. Her nipples are hard, dark points straining against the damp cotton. “What if I shoot a movie of us and send it to him? Do you think he’d agree?”

Panic flashes in her eyes. “Please,” she says. “Don’t.”

I laugh and lean down to kiss her, tasting the salt of her sweat. “I won’t,” I murmur, “as long as you’re a good girl. And good girls tell the truth. Who fucks you better? Me or the Seaweed Brain?”

Annabeth’s lips part, but the words die in her throat. I can practically see the gears turning behind those storm-gray eyes—she’s calculating, looking for a tactical retreat or a logical loophole, now that she remembers she’s facing a son of the God of Lies. She knows she can't deceive me, so she clamps her jaw shut and glares at the rafters with a defiant, quiet fury.

“You aren’t going to win this, Annabeth,” I say, my voice dropping to a low drawl. “If fucking you a hundred times better than Percy won’t break that stubborn pride, let’s see how you handle a thousand. It is normal for my hands, mouth, and cock to all feel a thousand times better than his.”

Her eyes fly wide, the gray irises darkening until they’re almost black as the left earring rewrites how my cock feels inside her. A violent shudder rolls through her, starting at her shoulders and snapping her hips upward in a ****, involuntary chase for the sudden spike of sensation. A low, broken sound escapes her—half-surprise, half-protest—but it melts into something much rawer when I draw back and drive in again. Her restraint doesn’t just snap; it shatters like thin ice under a war hammer.

“Trevor—” It’s a warning, a plea, and a surrender all at once. Whatever she intended to say next dissolves into a moan that drags on, ragged and helpless.

Her hips roll with a frantic, uncoordinated hunger as I grab the hem of her damp orange camp shirt. The cotton is soaked through, clinging to the athletic curves of her ribs like a second skin. I drag it upward in one rough motion, bunching it above her breasts. The black lace bra beneath is sexy enough that I almost regret having to ruin it, but it’s in my way. I grip the center gore and yank.

The lace tears with a sharp, staccato rip. Her breasts spill free, pale and flushed pink from the heat. They aren't as soft or large as Drew’s; but they’re perkier, the tits of an athlete, and they bounce as the table jolts beneath another punishing thrust. When I bottom out, she arches so hard her spine bows off the wood, offering them to me like tribute. I lean down and close my mouth over one, sucking hard while my teeth graze the sensitive peak.

The taste of salt and summer sweat floods my tongue, and the sensation pushes her over the edge again. Her whole body jerks, her thighs clamping around my waist with enough strength to bruise. A raw, unchecked cry tears out of her, rattling the cobwebs in the rafters. She isn't biting her arm anymore. The sound pours out of her—broken, breathless, and utterly defeated—while her walls clamp down so hard I have to grit my teeth to keep moving.

But I don’t stop, even as my own climax begins to coil in my gut. I take a deep breath, lifting my head from her breasts to lock onto her eyes. They’ve rolled back in her skull, her face a mask of pure, unthinking bliss. She’s panting, her tongue peeking past her lips, a thin trail of drool oozing from the corner of her mouth.

The sight of the smartest girl at camp reduced to this nearly sends me over. I lean in, my voice a husky growl. “Who fucks you better, Annabeth? Me or Percy?”

She doesn't have the presence of mind left to lie. “You,” she gasps, her voice a shattered wreck. “You fuck me better—gods, Trevor, you fuck me better—”

That’s all I need to hear. I bury myself to the hilt and cum hard, pulsing inside her with a groan that scrapes my throat raw. I fill the daughter of Athena with a thick creampie, marking her in a way she’ll never be able to scrub off.

The sensation of me bottoming out triggers Annabeth’s fourth climax. Her back bows off the table and a cry rips out of her as her own orgasm crashes through her, harder than the others, her walls fluttering wildly around me to milk every last drop. Her fingers scrabble at the warped wood, nails scraping for purchase as she shakes under the **** of it. For a long moment, we stay locked together, trembling, while dust motes drift lazily through the slanted sunlight.

Then, the haze clears. I watch the light return to her eyes—the gray sharpening, the pupils shrinking as the pleasure ebbs and the cold reality of what she just said floods back in. Her chest hitches as she remembers how to breathe. The flush drains from her cheeks, replaced by a pale, icy stillness. She stares at the rafters, and I can see her replaying her own confession in her head.

I ease out of her slowly and stand. I pull up my pants, taking my time as I admire the handiwork. With her shorts and ruined panties tangled at her ankles, her torn bra hanging open like shed armor, and the discharge of four orgasms mixed with my seed trailing down her thighs, she looks wrecked in the most satisfying way possible.

“I'm sorry, I didn't get that. Who fucked you better? Me or Percy?”

I’m curious if she’ll try to retract it. To her credit, she doesn’t bother with trying the obvious lie. “You,” she says, her voice regaining its sharp edge. “But it doesn’t matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not going to date you, Trevor. No matter how the sex feels.” She sits up, a move that causes more of our combined juices to gush down her legs. “I still love Percy. I need space to find my own center, but when I’m ready to be part of a pair again, it’s going to be with him. You’re just a distraction.”

I laugh, a sharp, cold sound. “You think I want to be your boyfriend? I told you earlier, Annabeth. I never wanted to date you. I just wanted to fuck this.” I gesture vaguely at her wrecked body. “I figured a girl like you would need the whole ‘romance’ package to spread her legs, but look at you. You're a slut, Annabeth. I don't need to date you to get you to put out."

“You’re wrong,” she says, shaking her head, though her hands are still trembling. “This was a one-time anomaly. We are not having sex again.”

"You can try to fight your nature," I shrug like I don't care, "but I bet you won't last long. It's normal for you to crave having sex with me, after all. It's also normal for that craving to get worse everyday you go without having sex with me. It'll be an annoying itch at first you can ignore at first, but by the time three days pass, you'll find it debilitating. It'll start affecting your ability to do day-to-day tasks like training, reading, or even eating. By the time a week has passed, the craving will have grown to be unbearable. By that point, you'll be so **** to have me fuck you that you'll be willing to do anything I ask, no matter how depraved.

"You are free to fight your nature. And who knows, maybe you'll win and this will be a 'one-time anomaly,'" I repeat her phrase mockingly. "Or you can accept you're meant to be my slut and come crawling back to me. I know it'll be the latter. Sluts like you can't help yourselves."

I've wounded her ego. I know I have. I can see it etched into the lines of her face. The desire to prove me wrong is going to drive her to resist for days, maybe even the full week. Giving in at that point will be an admittance she can't resist her base nature; can't resist my cock. It will shatter her pride, leaving her wide-open for phase two of my plan.

For now, the only thing left for me to do with Annabeth is wait for her to break, and thankfully, I have some ideas on how to pass the time while I wait.