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Percy
All his life, Percy had been under constant scrutiny. At school, teachers paid him extra-careful attention, owing to his alleged troublemaking. At Camp Half-Blood, he was the son of Poseidon, the hero of the Great Prophecy. And at New Rome University, he was the graceus former Praetor, the legend who’d returned the Eagle Standard to the Twelfth Legion. Long had he longed for a degree of anonymity, to be seen by someone who wasn’t thinking of his reputation. And at Exoletus, New Rome’s premier gay club, he was able to do precisely that.
Backstage, Percy was staring at himself in the mirror, examining all the differences to his usual look. His hair, usually black and messy in a roguishly charming way, had been coloured a shocking pink, and neatly brushed into curtains. Glitter covered his shoulders and chest, and concealer covered a few birthmarks, with some decoys having been drawn on in different spots. Concealer also hid his Legion tattoo entirely, as befitting the role he would be performing. Golden rings hung from his nipples, and matched the gold of the chastity device secured to his shaft. And though he couldn’t see it in the mirror, he could certainly feel the plug currently occupying his hole. His face remained the same, but that wasn’t going to be a problem once he donned the last piece of his “costume”: a golden Ancient Greek-style comedy mask, the nondescript features contorted into a jubilant grin, eyes and mouth both filled in with one-way material that would allow Percy to see through them while obscuring his distinctive sea-green eyes.
“It’s showtime,” Lucy, his manager, told him. The club’s staff were all sworn to secrecy, meaning they were the only beings on the planet who knew Percy’s secret. Them and any gods who elected to spy on him, but he was rather hoping that if anyone did look, they wouldn’t care enough to share. Percy nodded, and grabbed his mask. There was no strap, he simply pressed it to his face and it magically held there, not to be removed until he himself pulled it off. At the dressing table behind him, his hulking costar, a son of Bellona named Cyrus, was fiddling with his armour in the mirror. He’d be on soon enough, once Percy had warmed up the crowd.
“Gentlemen,” the speaker announced as Percy made his way towards the stage, “Please give it up for the Golden Greek!”
Adrenaline surged through Percy’s veins, not unlike the rush he got before battle, as he stepped out of the dark corridor into the sinful lighting of Exoletus’ floor. A raised catwalk led onto a small circular stage, a stripper pole positioned in the centre. While Percy himself would be well-lit, the rest of the club’s occupants were shrouded by darkness, lights flashing so briefly he could hardly catch a glimpse of any features. He knew them as a single unit, like a perverse cohort of the legion. As he strutted down the catwalk, he felt their gazes upon him - about fifty, if he had to guess. Fifty men, composed of demigods and legacies and fauns and- was that a cynocephalus?
Their identities didn’t matter. All that mattered was the thrill of knowing that they were all staring at him, lusting over him. Fifty pairs of eyes glued to the definition of his muscles, the curve of his ass, the glint of his cage. Said cage was becoming uncomfortably tight with his arousal, his cock straining against the gold. Percy considered him decently experienced sexually, so it meant something when he said that nothing riled him up like performing for a crowd. He wasn’t Percy Jackson, he wasn’t a troublemaker, or a prophecy child, or a general, he was just a sexy slut showing off his body.
The pole began to twist within his grip, and Percy moved with it. Poledancing was a newer addition to his routines, and had been daunting at first, but Percy had grown proficient with gymnastics during his time at Camp Half-Blood, so there was plenty he’d been able to apply to it. Mastery was still a ways off for him, but based on the hoots and hollers of the crowd as he twirled and twisted, showing off every inch of skin below the chin for them. They became even more of an indistinct blur, nothing more than a wall of noise encasing him on all sides. Based upon his previous performances, Percy knew that by now, some of the club’s patrons would be gripping their cocks and beginning to tug, transfixed by his figure.
At last, his routine came to an end, finishing with him striking a pose that saw him leaning against the pole, one leg raised onto his tiptoes while the other was bent at the knee, the effect spreading his asscheeks just enough for a golden glint to be visible to those behind him. His eyes scanned what he could see of the crowd, and sure enough, he could see the slow, methodical strokes of men who were winding up for the main event.
All went dark, and Percy quickly peeled his sweat-covered skin from the pole as it began to retract into the stage floor. The same entrance Percy had entered through now silhouetted another figure, one considerably taller, broader and beefier than Percy. Thick hair thatched his entire bronze body, which was coated in oil and “covered” by a perverse imitation of a gladiator’s outfit - a full-coverage helmet above two pauldrons, held in place by two leather straps which crossed over his chest to hook into a belt which held up nothing. The oil made the light reflect off his body - helpful for allowing the crowd to see the shape and hardness of his cock in the dim, sultry lighting.
“Everybody please make some noise for the stud of the hour: Mount Vesuvius!” The speaker announced. The crowd complied, cheering for their favourite big-dicked gladiator to put the graceus actor in his rightful place beneath Rome. Vesuvius, Cyrus’ stage name, had been chosen on account of his looming physique and the immense, eruptive nature of his orgasms. Orgasms which Percy, over the course of his employment at Exoletus, had become very acquainted with.
Cyrus, normally rather reserved, became a whole different beast when the helmet went on. Like Percy, the crowd was oblivious to his identity - one bar of his Legion tattoo covered, and instead of the crossed torch and sword of Bellona, he bore the symbol of Bacchus, Exoletus’ official patron. As he strode down the catwalk, he flexed his oily arms, allowing everyone to see his mouthwatering, skull-crushing biceps. Between Cyrus’ larger size, thick body hair, and the oil making his muscles even more defined, Percy looked downright twinkish by comparison. The crowd’s excitement was palpable, and over the thrumming base of the club’s beat, Percy was beginning to hear the sound of fist-fucking more clearly.
Their routine was second nature to Percy by now. Rather than the fearless son of Poseidon, commander of armies and slayer of giants, he was the Golden Greek, a slutty, defenceless tease caught off-guard by the unrelenting sexuality of the Roman before him. He backed off, body language skittish, until he reached the edge of the platform. Cyrus’ swagger spoke to a man who knew his prey was trapped, approaching Percy at a leisurely pace. Once he was in the centre of the stage, Percy bolted right, attempting to slip past the Roman, only for Cyrus to track his movements. Appearing to trip was second-nature to Percy by now, arms flailing as he lost his balance and seemed ready to tumble into the crowd, until Cyrus grabbed him by the forearm, leaving Percy dangling so close to the audience he could almost- was that Percy’s old roommate?
There was no time to tell. Cyrus hauled him up and Percy spun into him, appearing to have been wound in until his back was flush to Cyrus’ chest, and Cyrus’ cock was brushing up against his spine. Two thick arms wrapped around Percy’s waist, holding him close. Being ogled by a crowd was one thing, but this? An entire crowd seeing the Percy Jackson (even if they didn’t know it) beaten so easily? About to be claimed by a man far more manly than himself? Percy felt as if he were about to pop an erection so hard his cage would pop straight off of him.
Huh, that was a good idea for a scene. Maybe he ought to mention it to Lucy after-
“Bend over, graceus,” Cyrus sneered, his voice heavily obscured, and amplified enough for everyone to hear him. One of his hands gripped Percy by the pink hair, pushing him to bend over, while the other reached back to his ass, pulling at the plug.
“G-go easy on me?” Percy whimpered, his voice similarly anonymised.
“Don’t worry, slut,” Cyrus pulled the plug out, drawing an only-slightly-embellished moan from Percy, “I won’t go any harder on you than you deserve.”
Manhandling Percy as they’d practiced, Cyrus forced Percy down until he was resting on his shoulders, hips in the air and legs spread wide, being gripped by Cyrus like handlebars. When Percy had suggested the piledriver position, he’d claimed it was so that everyone surrounding the stage would have something to look at. In reality, it was the most humiliating, emasculating position he could think of, that it humiliated him in a way that was visible to the most people was just a bonus.
When Cyrus slid his thick bitch-breaker into Percy’s hole, he didn’t need to embellish his moans. Even during private rehearsals, Cyrus had an ability to make Percy downright sing with pleasure. In front of a live audience, stroking themselves and shouting at Cyrus to tame that Greek bitch, he inevitably, invariably fell apart.
“Oh my gods!” Percy wailed, his prostate getting utterly flattened in front of fifty Roman perverts.
On his shoulders, eyes blurry with pleasure, Percy couldn’t see much of the action. But he’d seen recordings taken during rehearsal, so he knew how they looked. Knew how his tummy would bulge with every downward plunge, how his cage would bounce impotently. And he knew how every muscle on Cyrus’ body would jiggle and shake, how powerful and dominant he looked next to a helpless little thing like Percy. He wasn’t too proud to admit he’d jerked himself silly to the recordings more than once - a shame club policy wouldn’t let him capture what it was like with the crowd. The air was even thicker with sweat than usual, and if Percy would stop moaning for as much as a second, he’d hear between each slap of Cyrus’ hips on his that every man watching him was stroking their cock to the sight.
Orgasms were the only time Percy lamented wearing a full-face mask during his performances, because it meant he didn’t get to feel his own shameful load splattering his face. However, the full-body shivers he got while Cyrus kept pounding him straight through them more than made up for it. As did the fact that every performance, he invariably got two orgasms for Cyrus’ one.
Speaking of which, Cyrus lived up to his namesake, bellowing with pleasure as he pulled out and jerked himself to completion, glazing Percy’s entire body with an impossible-if-you-weren’t-taking-certain-magical-drugs load in a one-man bukkake. All around them, the crowd cheered, many of them reaching similar climaxes that would leave various hands and backs in need of a towel.
Kneeling down, Cyrus scooped Percy up in his big arms, bowing to the crowd for both of them while Percy recovered.
“Let’s hear it one more time for the Golden Greek and Mount Vesuvius!”
As the crowd roared their approval, Percy allowed him to wonder what it would be like if it was his name the speaker was announcing.