I can hardly remember the drive home. I must have been operating on some kind of autopilot. My mind was in a daze, barely comprehending what had just happened. I showered and went to bed.
In the morning everything seemed normal. Apart from the ache in my left nipple and nether regions. I could barely bring myself to look at my piercings in the mirror as I changed to get ready for work. I felt like taking a day off, I just wanted to curl up in bed with the curtains draw and retreat from life for a day, retreat almost from myself, but there was too much going on in the office.
Actually I was thankful for the fact that we were busy, but even then, at any idle moment during the day my mind drifted towards the awful events of last night. What on earth had I been thinking? What possessed me? To allow that old biker dude to pierce my nipple, when I'd gone there for no such thing? All because I didn't have the guts to look him in the eye and say the word 'clitoris'! I had sat there like a helpless child while he pierced my nipple! And, oh God, that was just the tip of the iceberg!
He fucked me! And I let him! But what could I do? I was strapped to the table. Oh no, it wasn't like that. He said, 'do you want me to fuck you', and I said 'yes'! And he did it! Well, why wouldn't he? What's more, he could see I was wet. He knew it, and he knew that I knew. Lying there, legs open, exposed, wet, ready to be fucked. That was how it was. What was I thinking? And even when he did it, when he rammed that big cock inside me, I just lay there accepting it. I didn't protest, didn't do anything. But I had said 'yes'. And I didn't even know his name – I still don't! The pungent smell of his body, the stench of beer and cigarettes, all of that came flooding back as I agonized over my shameful actions. How unbelievably horrible to be taken like that by a stinking old tattoo artist! He had tricked me. But that didn't mean I had to say yes. I said yes and, what's more, I meant it. As painful as it was to admit, I wanted it. I wanted him to fuck me. And even worse, it wasn't horrible. He didn't make me cum; mainly, I realized, because I was too worried that he would cum inside me and get me pregnant – oh God, pregnant carrying a fat old tattooist's baby! He didn't bring me to orgasm, but he had fucked me and fucked me hard. He had taken me like a slut, as if I was his plaything, and fucked me like an animal, a bitch in heat. It's not as though I hadn't been with my share of men, but I'd never experienced anything so hedonistic – the way he grunted like a beast, fucking me hard and then, after he had sprayed his seed all over my face, and even in my mouth, just climbed off me and walked away. After he had speared my most private regions not just with his cock, but also his handiwork, with the grotesque ring and pin in my clit and nipple that now nestled under my silky underwear, hidden from view but which were a constant reminder to me of what had happened. Kelly was right, it did hurt, but it was a dull ache, bearable, though always there.
Oh, but even that wasn't the end of it. I had licked the cum off his finger! I was paying the man for the piercings, and he wiped a glob of cum off my blouse and made me lick it off! How disgusting! But did he really force me? He was pushing his finger into my mouth! I remember feeling his sticky cum coating onto my lips, the pressure of his finger, almost forcing my lips apart, the cold, steely look in his eye as he waited to see what I was going to do. But that look in his eye wasn't one of waiting for me to make up my mind; it was like an implicit instruction to do it. And I did it, I opened my mouth and sucked in his cum. And then he said, 'there's a good girl'... No, he hadn't forced me, had he? I could have just stepped back – for God's sake, he was standing on the other side of the counter; all I needed to do was step back. But no, I let my lips open and took his finger into my mouth... No, he didn't force me. He didn't force me to do anything. Everything that happened to me, I either asked for, or I wanted it. Yes, I wanted him to fuck me. And yes, it was good. It was more than good.
Paradoxically, I suddenly realized, it was my very act of submission that made it what it was, allowed me to let go, to let him take me, possess me. For that's what it was – he owned me. I was his slut plaything. He was like a troll in a fairytale, and I was like a princess, captured by him like a glittering prize and dragged into his stinking cave to be consumed.
No one, I had to admit, had taken me like that before. My body even tingled at the thought of how good is big cock felt; the physical memory of him fucking me remained in my body, real and powerful. But then, how long had it been since I had had sex at all? Well, there had been Kelly, but that was sex with a girl. It had been months and months since I had had been with a man. That had been my previous boyfriend. But sex with him I could almost hardly remember. Our sexual compatibility, or lack thereof, had always bothered me, although we had gone our separate ways for reasons other than that. A steady boyfriend was what I needed, I thought to myself. Or maybe just a casual fling. No wonder I had enjoyed being taken by the old guy – I'm a woman in her prime and it had been too long!
That thought lifted me out of my despair. A boyfriend. That's what I need in my life. It was high time I started dating again. I decided to run a search of internet dating websites. I nice lawyer or executive, perhaps? I knew I was a 'good catch', as they say. It wasn't an arrogant conceit to know that I was attractive. And I'm well off and have a job with an income few women my age could dream of. And I've got a pierced clit, I joked to myself, almost laughing inside at the absurdity of it. That made me feel better. Life needn't be so serious all the time. You had sex with the tattoo guy – so what? It'll be something to, well, maybe not something to tell your grandchildren, but something to remember when you're old and past your time – a life well lived. I was feeling better already.
I spent a few hours at home that night on the internet. Among the hundreds of guys on the dating site, there seemed quite a few prospects. One guy, Julian, looked particularly good. Nice tall blond, just like I like them, 30 years old, a junior partner at a legal firm in town. Interests include cycling, jogging, meeting new people, reading, candle lit dinners etc.... Mmm, like the sound of that one. I forwarded him my profile. He must have been on line, because he responded within 10 minutes. Seeing the little message icon flash to show I had mail gave me a little thrill. Gee, I was enjoying this!
We messaged each other a few times with some mindless flirty banter, and soon enough he offered me his phone number. I rang him.
"Is that Julian?"
"Yes, you must be Anne."
"Yes, it is. Hi. I feel a little funny doing this; it's my first time with this internet thing."
"Yeah, it can take a while to get used to it, but everyone's doing it now."
We chatted for a short while. He seemed nice enough, and I liked the sound of his voice. Yes, I thought to myself, he does seem nice. We agreed to meet for a drink that Thursday night. I hung up, feeling much better about things. This was it – get backing into the dating scene. This was what had been missing from my life.
I skipped through the next few work days with renewed vigor. The episode with the tattoo man, though less than a week ago, seemed thankfully to be receding rapidly into the past as I looked forward to a pleasant evening in the company of Julian.
In a sense this was a blind date, which was something I had never done before. As a precautionary measure I decided to let Kelly know what was going on. After all, I didn't know this man. What if he turned out to be an axe murderer or rapist? And I had to admit, recalling the experience with Jem, my antennae when it comes to men doesn't seem to be all that well attuned. I would give Kelly all the details that I had of him, and where we were meeting, in the unlikely event that something untoward was to happen.
