What's next?
The First Day (Annabeth)
Chapter 5
by 
Keir Revival
Percy’s shoulders don't just slump; they cave inward as though he were bearing the crushing weight of the sky once more, but he still offers the two of you his cabin. He is well aware that in a community of five hundred hyperactive teenagers, privacy is a rare commodity. Cabin Three, only accessible by children of Poseidon and those who have their permission, is one of the only places where Annabeth can endure this humiliation away from the prying eyes of the harpies or gossiping teens.
Before the door closes, Annabeth stops. She reaches up, framing Percy’s face with both hands, and pulls him down into a fierce, deliberate kiss—branding herself onto his memory like a soldier deploying to a front line she might not return from.
"I love you," she whispers against his mouth, her voice barely a fraction above the burbling fountain inside.
"I know," Percy manages, his sea-green eyes glassy and unfocused.
He doesn’t look at you. He turns on his heel and walks away, his steps heavy.
Inside Cabin Three, the air smells heavily of sea salt and ozone. Annabeth stands rigidly in the center of the room, arms crossed over her chest, chin lifted in a defensive posture you recognize from the major battles of the Titan and Giant Wars.
"So," she says flatly, her eyes locking onto yours. "How does this—"
You don't bother letting her finish. You close the distance in two strides, your hand shooting out to slide around the back of her neck, fingers sinking deep into her golden curls. You slam your mouth onto hers.
For a heartbeat, every muscle in her body locks into a wall of pure resistance. Then, her brilliant, deceived mind overrides her instincts and she reluctantly parts her lips. She tastes spearmint and the sweet lingering remnants of dining pavilion syrup.
Your free hand drops to her waist, sliding aggressively down to grip the firm curve of her ass through her denim shorts. You squeeze hard enough to elicit a sharp gasp against your mouth—a sound of genuine shock—as she jolts her head back reflexively. Her storm-grey eyes are wide, pupils blown wide black, a hot flush already staining her pale skin from her collarbone up to her cheeks.
You swat her ass lightly before squeezing it even harder. "The rougher I am, the more time we buy, remember? Don't fight me."
To your delight, she looks contrite. "Sorry." Her voice catches on the edge of a shiver, but her words are enough to satisfy you.
You crash your lips back down onto hers, your teeth catching her lower lip with enough force to draw a hiss of pain. Your hands roam upward, shoving past the hem of her orange Camp Half-Blood t-shirt. She raises her arms mechanically, letting you strip it off.
The fabric catches briefly in her golden curls before pulling free, and then you are looking at her—really looking at her—for the first time.
She's wearing a simple grey sports bra, functional rather than sexy, but it doesn't matter. The toned expanse of her stomach, the defined lines of her obliques, and the swell of her breasts pressing against the fabric make her breathtaking. Years of sword training and climbing walls have carved her into a masterpiece somewhere between an athlete and a goddess.
Yesterday, her only flaw had been the brutal scars left by a dozen quests, two wars, and a trip to Tartarus, but you had already gotten rid of those blemishes with an Old Rule this morning, and done the same for Piper and Hazel, because you prefer your girls dolled-up over scarred. Now, her skin is an immaculate, unblemished expanse of golden tan, and she is utterly perfect.
"You're staring," she says flatly.
The deadpan observation spurs you into motion. "I'm reading the clock," you defend.
Without warning, your palm finds the center of her chest and you shove—hard—sending her tumbling backward onto Percy's unmade mattress. She bounces once, her golden curls splaying across the blue pillowcase. Something brief and complicated flickers behind her grey eyes, though she swallows it instantly.
"And it's working," you add, looming over her as you let your gaze trace slowly down her body. "Fucking you here—in his bed—will push it back even more, even faster."
Annabeth's jaw tightens until the muscles flex, but she accepts the cruelty of it without a single word of protest, filing it away like data on a tactical map. "Fine."
That's all the permission you need to climb onto the bed, one knee between her thighs, and reach behind her. Your fingers find the clasp of her sports bra. You undo it with a flick and drag the garment off her arms.
Her tits are perfect. Full and firm, a shade paler than her tanned shoulders where her camp shirt usually covers them, capped with small pink nipples that are already stiffening in the cool cabin air.
You lower your mouth to her left breast, and the response is immediate. The stiffened pink bud disappears between your lips. Above you, a sharp, startled intake of breath cuts through the room, like she just brushed against a live wire. Her spine jerks upward, her back arching off the mattress before she violently forces herself flat, wrestling control back into her muscles with trembling effort.
You don't let her adjust. Your tongue circles the sensitive flesh in slow, deliberate strokes, tracing the perimeter before you pull her deep and drag your teeth across the tip.
You hear her breathless whimpers, but when you glance up, she isn't looking at you. She is staring steadfastly at the ceiling.
"Look at me," you command, slapping the sides of her breast to punish her for hiding her beautiful face from you. The soft flesh jiggles and instantly flushes bright red.
Her grey eyes snap down to yours, flashing with a hot, desperate resistance and frustration. "Why does it make a difference where I'm looking? If this requires you to use," she spits the word, "my body, I'm giving you access. There's no need for—"
You strike her breast again to cut her off. "The clock responds to degradation, Chase. Not clinical data. Do you feel more or less humiliated when you have to look at me?"
She doesn't respond immediately, but you can see the anger in her eyes lessen, replaced by helplessness. Still, you want to hear her say it. Slapping her tits again, you repeat, "More or less?"
"More," she admits quietly, her voice tight.
"That is why looking at me is good. And why this will be even better."
You dive forward, burying your face between her breasts. You motorboat them shamelessly, the wet, rhythmic slapping of your lips echoing off the cabin walls. Your hands latch onto her heavy mounds from the sides, squeezing and shoving them together so they bubble around your head, jiggling them hard to drive the point home. All the while, you are kissing left and right, tasting the salt of her skin.
The only way this could be even better is if her boobs were even bigger, and that is an improvement you have already begun implementing.
Another Old Rule you had written that morning ensures Annabeth is hyper-fertile for you and barren for anyone else. She will be impregnated the moment you cum inside her, and each pregnancy will rewrite her physique with permanent upgrades: fuller, milkier breasts, a sharply cinched waist with less muscle, and a heavier, more voluptuous curve to her hips and ass. In effect, the more you breed her, the less she will look like the proud, intelligent daughter of Athena she had been, and more like the Bimbo Barbie you want her to be.
In time, no matter what she or Percy tries to pretend, it will be obvious to anyone who look at her that she belongs to you; every cell in her remade body will scream it. For now, you settle for a blunter declaration.
Before pulling back from the valley of her breasts, you sink your teeth sharply into the soft inner curve of her right breast, holding the flesh between your jaws while she writhes beneath you, her hips shifting restlessly against your knee. When you finally release her, a dark red-purple bruise blooms vividly against her golden skin.
"Beautiful," you say, the words slipping out before you can stop them.
Annabeth’s grey eyes flare, embarrassment and anger warring across her features. "Don't," she says sharply. Her voice is steady, but her chest rises and falls with a frantic rhythm, the fresh bruise on her right breast already darkening to a deep violet. "Don't make this into something it's not. Just... do what you need to do."
You backhand her cheek—not hard enough to bruise her pretty face, just enough to sting. As her head snaps back, your hand transitions into a vice-like grip, your fingers pressing into her cheeks and forcing her mouth to pucker.
"That is what I needed to say to move the clock back, Baby Girl," you murmur. You press your mouth against her puckered lips, sucking hard on them before pulling back with a wet pop. "Telling you that you look beautiful—like a perfect little cheating whore getting ravished on her boyfriend's bed—makes you feel deeply humiliated." You swat her other cheek lightly. "That makes it the absolute best thing to say."
"And Baby Girl?" she asks, the words muffled around your fingers as you trail your other hand down her sternum, feather-light. Goosebumps erupt across her skin in the wake of your touch. She shivers involuntarily, her abs clenching hard beneath your palm.
"You can be Percy's Wise Girl, but you're going to be my Baby Girl," you chuckle, your hand drifting lower to trace the defined groove of her obliques. Your thumb grazes the waistband of her denim shorts, hooking just beneath the fabric. "I think my nickname suits you better, don't you?"
"Is that part of the curse too?" she asks, her voice dripping with distrust. She keeps trying to make sure you aren't taking advantage; that you are doing the bare minimum necessary to push back the curse.
She really is a Wise Girl. You fix that: "Everything I do is to help you. I don't do anything that isn't necessary to push the curse back. You trust that I wouldn't take advantage of this, and shouldn't question me at all."
"Sorry," she exhales through her nose—a controlled, deliberate breath, like she's preparing to dive into freezing water. Her hands fist into the blue sheets on either side of her hips, her knuckles stark white. "Sorry. That's... fine. If you need to call me—"
Her words dissolve into a strangled gasp as you drop your head, pressing your mouth directly into the hollow of her throat. Her pulse hammers frantically against your lips—rapid, traitorous. You kiss a slow, deliberate path down the column of her neck, tasting the faint salt and clean citrus of her skin, until you reach the junction where her neck meets her shoulder.
You bite down. Hard.
Her whole body jerks beneath you, a sharp, choked sound escaping her throat. She instantly clamps her lips together, pressing them into a thin, bloodless line to silence herself.
"Don't hold back the sounds," you murmur against her skin, your breath hot and damp over the fresh, weeping mark. "Holding back works against the clock."
"You're kidding me," she hisses, but there's no real fight left in her voice—just a hollow, resigned frustration.
"I'm just reading the instrument, Baby Girl."
Her jaw works frantically for a moment, her mind running a mile a minute before she gives in. "Okay."
You reward her compliance by dragging your tongue soothingly across the bite mark. Her next exhale comes out shaky and entirely audible—a soft, reluctant moan that she clearly despises herself for making. Her eyes squeeze shut, then snap open wide when she remembers your earlier command.
Those storm-grey irises lock onto yours from below, glittering with a potent mix of humiliation and helpless acceptance. It is intoxicating. You hold her burning gaze as your hand finally pops the button on her shorts.
You hook your fingers into the denim waistband and pull.
She lifts her hips—just barely, just enough, cooperating without being asked—and the shorts peel down her toned thighs. Beneath them, she is wearing simple grey cotton underwear: practical, unadorned, the kind a girl wears when she doesn't expect to star in someone else's fantasy. You strip them off in one fluid motion alongside the shorts, and her legs instinctively press together, trying to salvage the last shred of her modesty.
You plant your hands on her knees and push them apart.
She resists for exactly one heartbeat—her muscles tensing into a wall of pure tension—before her thighs yield, falling wide open.
For the first time, you get an unobstructed look at Annabeth Chase completely naked.
She is stunning. Her pussy is smooth and completely bare, shaved clean. Her outer lips are soft and slightly parted, revealing the glistening pink folds beneath. She is wet. Not a flood, but undeniably aroused despite herself. Her pussy is ready for you.
You step back from the bed and strip.
Your shirt comes off first, tossed carelessly onto the floorboards. Your jeans follow, kicked away into the corner. Your boxers drop a second later, and your cock springs free—already achingly hard, the heavy tip slick with pre-cum. Seven inches of raw anticipation.
You watch her eyes drop to it involuntarily. You watch the way her parted lips catch on her breath. You watch the white-knuckled way her fingers curl into the fabric of Percy’s blue sheets.
"Like what you see?" you ask. She doesn't answer, so you continue talking while moving back on to the bed. "Because I like what I see. You have a body hot enough to make millions in porn, Baby Girl."
She hesitates in a way she wouldn't have even a few minutes ago. She hears the hunger in you tone, and the crudeness of your words, but thanks to the lie you had told her, she couldn't bring herself to believe you were taking advantage of her. That you were doing or saying more than was necessary to push back the clock.
So instead of retorting, Annabeth looks away with a demure, uncharacteristic blush. Her thighs twitch inward reflexively—a last-ditch muscle memory of modesty—before she catches herself, freezes, and forces them wide open again. Then she remembers that the clock liked when she looked at you, and her shame-filled grey eyes snap back to you.
You laugh softly, a sound rich with triumph, as you settle between her spread thighs.
You hook your hands beneath her knees, folding her legs back toward her chest. Years of brutal camp conditioning and athletic training made her impossibly flexible; her knees fold all the way to her shoulders without resistance. You pin them there with your weight, pressing your chest against the backs of her thighs while your face hovers inches above hers.
"Percy ever fold you up like this?" you ask, pressing just a little harder than the mating pressed needed to press a chaste kiss to her lips.
"Don't," she whispers, but there's no weight behind it. Her breath catches, hitching violently as you drag the length of your heavy shaft slowly through her slick folds, coating yourself in her arousal without yet sliding inside. The friction against her sensitive clit makes her entire body jolt beneath you.
You line yourself up. The tip nudges between her lips, finding her entrance, and you push forward in one long, unrelenting stroke.
The sound she makes is extraordinary—a guttural, ragged gasp torn straight from her chest.
Her inner walls grip you like a vise: impossibly tight, scorching hot, the wet silk of her core clenching and fluttering frantically around your shaft as you bottom out. Your hips press flush against hers, your full length buried deep inside the smartest girl in the world.
"Fuck," you groan. She feels incredible—tight and feverish despite the reluctance etched on her face. "You're so fucking tight, Baby Girl. This pretty little pussy was made for my cock."
Her eyes squeeze shut—then snap open wide, remembering the rule. She's trembling, her chest heaving. You pull back slowly, dragging every inch of your shaft along her inner walls, feeling every ridge and fold clutch at you like it wants to trap you inside.
Then you slam forward.
Bang.
The wooden bed frame crashes hard against the Poseidon cabin wall.
Annabeth cries out—sharp, helpless, undeniable. Her hands fly up, gripping your forearms where they pin her knees back, her short nails biting deep crescents of pain into your skin.
You set a brutal, punishing rhythm. Each thrust drives you to the hilt, your hips colliding with hers with a wet, obscene slap that echoes off the stone walls. The angle is devastating—hitting her deepest point with every driving stroke. From the way her eyes keep rolling back in a haze before she violently forces them back down to meet yours, she feels every inch of it.
"Tell me how it feels," you command between thrusts, your voice rough. "Tell me how my cock feels inside you."
"It—" Her voice breaks on a high, desperate moan as you grind your hips in a slow, circular roll, pressing hard against her cervix. "It's—big. It's—"
Another heavy thrust cuts her off. Her back arches hard off the mattress, her heavy breasts bouncing violently with the force of it, the fresh purple bruise on her right side flashing like a badge of ownership.
"Louder," you demand.
"It feels good," she gasps out, the admission clawing its way past her teeth. "It feels... oh gods—"
You don't slow down. If anything, you drive harder, pistoning with a savage cadence that keeps the bed frame shuddering in a staccato rhythm against the wall. The wet, rhythmic sounds of your bodies colliding fill the small room. Her pussy clenches around you in involuntary spasms, milking your shaft with every withdrawal.
You can feel the pressure building at the base of your spine—molten, heavy, ready to break.
"I'm going to cum inside you," you tell her, your mouth pressed against the damp skin of her neck.
"That's—that's fine—" She swallows hard, her fingers digging deeper into your skin. "I'm on the pill. If that's what the clock needs, just... just do it."
The knowledge that her pill is useless—that you are about to knock her up, and begin her permanent, body-altering transformation into your Blonde Bimbo Bitch—sends a white-hot spike of pure euphoria through your veins.
You bury yourself to the hilt and grind in a slow, devastating circle. She whimpers—a small, broken sound—her inner walls fluttering wildly around you.
"Then say it," you growl, pulling back only to thrust deep again. "Tell me to cum inside you."
"Cum inside me," she manages between ragged breaths.
"Louder. Like you mean it."
"Cum inside me!" she repeats, louder this time, her voice cracking on the syllable as you drive particularly deep. Her thighs tremble violently where they're pinned against her chest. "Please—just finish!"
That single word—please—shatters your control entirely.
Your rhythm turns feral: three, four, five brutal, pounding strokes that pull high, frantic cries from her throat. Then you bury yourself as deep as humanly possible, locking your hips flush against hers, and you let go.
The orgasm hits like a lightning strike. Your vision whites out at the edges as thick, hot ropes of cum pump directly into her womb—pulse after pulse after pulse, flooding her completely.
Beneath you, Annabeth makes a sound you know you will never, ever forget. A choked, shuddering gasp as she feels the heavy warmth filling her deepest parts. Her eyes squeeze shut, her lower teeth biting hard into her lower lip, her entire body trembling with the overwhelming, humiliating reality of being used as a cum-dump by someone other than her boyfriend.
You stay buried inside her for a long, quiet moment, your forehead pressed against hers, your breath coming in hot, ragged pants.
When you finally pull out, a thick, heavy trail of white spills from her swollen pussy, slipping down to ruin Percy's blue sheets. You collapse onto the mattress besides her, your chest heaving, skin slicked with a sheen of warm sweat.
Your cock rests heavy and spent against your thigh, still glistening with the mingled evidence of what just happened. Every nerve in your body hums with a bone-deep satisfaction no mortal high could ever replicate.
For exactly four heartbeats, you let yourself float in it.
Then Annabeth’s voice cuts through the silence like a razor.
"Is it done?"
She hasn't moved an inch. She lies flat on her back, legs still splayed open where you left them, her golden curls fanned out across Percy’s blue pillowcase like a halo of surrendered pride. Her chest rises and falls in sharp, measured rhythms—the controlled cadence of someone forcing a panicked nervous system back to baseline through sheer tactical willpower.
A heavy, pearlescent trail of your cum slips slowly down the inside of her thigh, soaking into the cotton mattress. She is acutely, miserably aware of it, yet she doesn't close her legs. She doesn't reach for a sheet.
"For now," you murmur, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at her.
The bite mark on her throat has already bruised into a vivid purple crescent. The hickey on her breast blooms like a dark, bruised flower against her tanned skin. She looks utterly wrecked—thoroughly, undeniably used—and a possessive, feral heat curls low in your gut at the sight.
Her storm-grey eyes fix on the carved ceiling, then slide reluctantly down to meet yours. "How much time did we buy?"
You make a deliberate show of concentrating, furrowing your brow as if scanning some invisible, shifting gauge only you can perceive. In reality, you are simply savoring the way she waits—tense, expectant, entirely dependent on your verdict.
"Far enough," you say, letting the silence stretch before delivering the blow. "We're good until dawn tomorrow."
Her head snaps toward you on the pillow, a single grey eye flashing through the curtain of disheveled blonde hair. Smudged mascara darkens the corner of her eye. "That's barely twelve hours."
"I told you, Baby Girl. Rough sex buys more time, but the clock still ticks fast." You sit up fully, running a hand through your sweat-damp hair, affecting the posture of a commander delivering grim logistical news. "There is a way to push it to tomorrow night, though. Buy yourself a full day instead of a half."
Her eye narrows. Even post-orgasm, even leaking and humiliated on her boyfriend's mattress, that brilliant, analytical mind is already hunting for optimization. "What way?"
"The curse feeds on public humiliation," you say, keeping your voice smooth, authoritative, clinical. "Gaea wanted the heroes who beat her to suffer where everyone could see. If you change into your skimpiest bikini—one that leaves all my marks on full display—and wear it around camp all day tomorrow, the clock pushes back to nightfall."
She goes entirely still. You watch the frantic working of the muscles in her jaw.
"Everyone will see," she whispers.
"Everyone will assume Percy did it," you correct smoothly. "You two walk into the dining pavilion tomorrow morning, him with his arm around your waist, you covered in my hickeys and handprints? The whole camp will draw their own conclusions. Only the three of us will know the truth. Your public humiliation—and the subtle, crushing blow to Percy's pride; Gaea really hated him and wants him punished—will satisfy the curse, while letting the two of you keep our arrangement a secret."
She pushes herself upright, sitting cross-legged right there on the ruined sheets, making no attempt to cover her naked breasts or her flushed, marked skin. She stares at the far wall as she makes mental caluclations.
"And if I refuse? If I just come back at dawn instead?"
"Then we do this again at dawn. Your choice, Annabeth."
Her fingers trace absently, almost defensively, along the purple bruise on her collarbone. Then she exhales—the long, shuddering breath of a soldier accepting a suicide mission because there are no better options left on the board.
"I don't have a bikini here," she says flatly.
You offer a slow, wolfish smile, hiding how utterly thrilled her submission makes you. "Then you'd better hurry back to your cabin. The faster you put one on, the longer you buy before tomorrow's session."
She nods once, sharply. She stands, walking over to where her clothes are scattered. She doesn't put them back on; she merely gathers her jean shorts, holding her crumpled t-shirt and bra against her bare chest like a makeshift shield.
At the cabin door, she pauses, her back to you, the dark bruises on her shoulders standing out starkly against her golden skin.
"Tomorrow night," she says, her voice devoid of inflection. "Not a minute sooner than necessary."
Then she slips out into the cool night air—topless, bruised, and carrying your child in her womb without the slightest idea.
Author's Note: In hindsight, it strikes me as a bad idea to have created the poll without showing you pictures of what you are voting for. I have, therefore, created a new chapter with images of what photo, semi-realistic pictures look like, here: https://chyoa.com/chapter/Image-Gallery-and-Poll.1893575.
I have also closed this poll early, and started a new one there. I'll add the votes together to come to a final tally once polls close.
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