Pierced

I moaned softly as the dark-haired man ran his tongue over my nipple and then over it again, chills running down my spine at the feel of the hard, round metal stud rubbing on my nipple. I was thinking hard, although having a hard time organizing my thoughts—Steve was his name, I thought.

I had met up with him in the bar downstairs. I don't know what had drawn me here. I'd carried the card for the tattoo parlor with the handwritten address of the bar downstairs around with me for nearly a week before I'd come here. It was just general curiosity nagging at me. Once in the bar, when I saw him again, it was the stud in his tongue that won me over—that had me simply getting up from the bar stool and following him up the stairs at the back of the dark, smoke- and men-filled room. This was something I'd never done before. Still curious, I also felt the danger and arousal of it.

* * * *

It had been a busy Saturday afternoon at the airport when I first saw him—busy enough that he was mostly a blur in my memory other than that nagging curiosity he surfaced at the back of my mind. I was working security, and Fred Stringfellow, Wanda Miller, and I were on the metal-detection wands. If someone set the tunnel machine off, they were handed off to us and we'd run the wand over the passenger and make sure they weren't packing anything we didn't want on a plane.

This young, dark-complexioned guy wearing a sports jacket over a clean, white polo shirt and well-pressed khakis, his head covered with a reversed baseball cap, set the tunnel machine off like the 4th of July fireworks on the Hudson, and Fred and I took him aside.

"Sorry," I said as I waved the wand down his chest to his thighs and heard the counter go off like a swarm of angry locusts. "I'm afraid you'll have to go over to that booth over there, we'll have to check this out more closely."

"No problem," he said to me, with a big smile. "I'd be happy to go into the booth with you and show you what I got," he said.

I let that slide, although I reddened up a bit. I was sure he couldn't tell just like that that I liked men—although he looked like a great specimen of one. The passengers were usually too nervous to wisecrack like that. This was one cool customer.

Fred cut in at that point. I don't think he heard what the guy had said—but another man had set off the tunnel machine and one of us had to see to that. "I'll take this guy," Fred said. "You can get that one."

When Fred and the passenger came out of the booth, the passenger was still smiling a secret smile, but Fred looked a little flustered.

The guy went on to the bin at the end of the bag security belt, and I saw him take out his wallet and a pen and scribble something on a card. And then he was at my elbow, smiling, and he handed me the card.

"If you want to know what the other guy found out, go to this bar," he said. "I've written the address on the back of this card. I would have rather shown you than him. You're hot. I'll be back in town on Tuesday." And then he laughed and walked off.

And we were so busy afterward that I forgot to say anything to Fred about it. But the card burned a hole in my pocket for the rest of the week, and the more I felt it when I put my hand in my pocket, the more curious I became. Fred had gone off on vacation after that work shift, so I couldn't ask him. The address was in a part of town I'd never been to. And I meant to go down there one of these nights anyway. I'd heard it was a good area to cruise in, although I hadn't done a whole lot of that. And it came Friday night and I was bored and didn't have anything better to do.

* * * *

It was the first thing I noticed about him when he moved into the stool next to me at the bar. His self-assurance. He stubbed a cigarette out in an ashtray in front of me before ordering a beer over his shoulder from the barkeep and then turned sideways toward me. One hand went to the back of my barstool, the heel of his hand warm against my tailbone. The forearm of his other arm laid across the rim of the bar between me and my drink, and he was leaning in toward me.

"I see you kept the card. Haven't seen you in here before," he said to me. It was the guy from the airport who had given me the card with the address of this bar on the back. He opened his mouth in a friendly smile. It was a nice smile. He was a leather kind of guy, but he didn't look too rough. He had a full head of dark hair with a tendril of curl hanging down over what appeared, in this light, to be a violet eye. The lustrously dark hair was mostly on one side; the other side was cut short in a buzz cut and when he turned his head I could see that he had two initials, a capital B and D, shaved into the side of his head. I hadn't seen this at the airport, but he'd had it covered with a baseball cap there.

"Haven't been in here before," I said.

"Lookin' for some action?" he asked. I let my gaze float down from his well-tanned face to take in how he filled out the cut-off athletic T he was wearing—which was quite well. He swelled and bulged where he should if he was spending quality time working his body, and he V'd down to a trim waist with armor-plate-like abs. There was a metal ring in the navel I saw peeking out below the hem of the cut-off T.

"Yeah, maybe," I answered. "But maybe just curious. I'd wanted to check out this part of town. This looked like a good bar."

"It's a good place. A good place to get your itch scratched."

As he talked, I could see that something was going on with his mouth. A flash of a reflection off something. And then when he brought his beer around to take a swig, I saw that it was a gold bead he had pierced in his tongue. I noticed then that he had small rings pierced elsewhere on his face too—an eyebrow ring and then two in one earlobe—in all three cases, it was on the side where he had the buzz cut. It almost seemed like he was two people. A punker on one side and the captain of the college football team on the other.

"You've got a pierced tongue," I said, almost involuntarily, an observation I half thought I'd made in silence to myself, but he laughed and followed up on that, so I must have said it out loud.

"Yep. That defines me. It's what I do. It's sexy. I believe it's what every man secretly wants—what every man should have."

"I didn't notice those . . . the tongue and the ears . . . at the airport."

"Ah, so you do remember me," he said with a little laugh. His smile conveyed that he'd scored a point. It really was his invitation that had brought me here. "I take them out when I fly. Having hardware like that is a sure invitation to security scrutiny. As it was I didn't strip down enough."

I was going to say something to that, but wasn't quick enough in deciding what to say, and he went on. "Your mug is dry. Can I buy you a beer?"

"Yes, I guess so," I said.

That must have been some sort of code, some sort of signal in this bar, because he smiled, and when the barkeep delivered the beer, the guy moved his hand up under the hem of my T-shirt and palmed my lower back. His hand was warm to the touch, and I felt myself getting into the mood.

"Those must hurt, though. I can't imagine eating with a stud like that."

"What, can't imagine being eaten with a stud like that?" he asked in mock horror. And when I reddened up, he said, "That can be easily fixed. And no one has ever said it hurt. Everyone's liked it . . . a lot."

I covered the embarrassment of the moment by taking a deep drink of beer.

"My name is Steve," he said.

"Oh, I thought it was something like Billy or Butch," I said, coming up for air from my beer.

He turned the punk side of his head toward me and said, "Oh this? These ain't my initials. These define me too. Know what they stand for?"

"No," I said, with a smile. "Tell me."

"Well I'll give you a hint. The

B

is for big. I could show you what the

D

stood for."

I laughed but changed the subject. "You said the piercings defined you. What does that mean? And how many do you have."

I took another big swig of my beer as he sat there and smiled at me with some sort of secret smile like maybe I'd bitten on exactly what he wanted me to ask. He ran the tip of his tongue out of his mouth and moved it around on his lips. I couldn't help but watch it move, and he knew that was what I was watching.

"Thirteen. Lucky thirteen. That's how many piercings I got now. And it's what I do. Mainly I do tattoos at the parlor just down the street. You probably passed it on your way in. But I do piercings there too. In the back room."

"Thirteen. I can't imagine where you'd put thirteen—and no tattoos."

"A tat or two, yes, but not where most would notice. Just some close friends. You could be a close friend, though."

He stood up from his stool then and came in close beside me. The hand that had been on the small of my back moved slowly but quite noticeably around my side, under my shirt until he was completely embracing me with his arm and his palm was on my lower belly. The tips of his three longest fingers were pushing into the upper reaches of my bush.

"Here's another one," he said as he ran his free hand down to his navel. The thumb of his other hand was thrumming my own navel gently—and my dick was definitely starting to take more notice.

"That other security guy at the airport didn't tell you about the other ones?" he asked in a low voice. "Didn't tell you whatall hardware was setting your machines off?"

"No. I didn't talk to Fred about it after that," I said. "We're trained not to talk about the passengers that way."

"And yet you came anyway? I feel honored. Hey, it looks like you could use another beer. OK?"

"OK," I answered. I was breathing a little heavy, though, because of the hand on my belly, which was pushing a little lower. I moved my own hand down to cover it—I thought to let him know that this was far enough. But he took it as recognition that he had his hand there. And that it was OK with me. He moved a finger on each side of the root of my cock, and he'd somehow moved a thick ring he had on one of the fingers down near the tip and jammed it on top of my cock where it rooted, rubbing it on the vein there, which was hardening me right up. I started to tremble, which wasn't lost on Steve.

I looked around the room in panic, thinking we were on exhibition. But all the other guys there were pretty well paired off—and some of them were in more intimate poses than we were.

"Another beer here, Tony," Steve was calling out in a horse voice. "A special, please."

The barkeep came over and set another mug of beer down. And as he winked at me, he also flipped out two condom packets on the bar top. So much for wondering what a special was.

Steve leaned into me and moved his mouth to the side of my neck, and I felt the golden tongue bead move along the jugular vein there.

I moaned quietly and shuddered.

His lips went to my ear. "I have a room upstairs. I want you to count all thirteen piercings. And then I want to fuck you."

"Uh, no, I don't . . ."

"It's what you came for."

* * * *

He had me arched over the double bed, his arms encasing my waist, the stud in his tongue rubbing over my nipples, first one and then the other as I moaned softly, my fingers laced in the hair at the back of his head. He ran his tongue up onto my neck and took my mouth in his, rubbing his tongue stud across my tongue. One piercing.

He released my lips and I moved mine up his face and kissed his eyebrow. Piercing Two.

He held me in place with one hand while he unzipped first my jeans and then his with the other and pushed our jeans and briefs to the floor. Meanwhile my lips went to his ear and played with the two small rings there. Piercings Three and four.

I moved my hands between our chests. One hand went to one of his nipples. Piercing five. And the other to the other nipple—piercing six—before descending to his navel. Piercing seven.

Steve leaned down more into me, arching me back onto the surface of the bed, until my shoulder blades rested on the surface and then he raised his chest from me. He was smiling down at me, his hands going to encase my cock and gently working it, making it engorge as I moaned and sighed under him.

I watched the muscles of his chest move with the motion of his arms as his hands worked me. I saw then that he did have tattoos. There was a small green lizard poking its head and the front of its body out from underneath his arm pit, the lizard curved up under the bulge of his breast. Another, smaller lizard was curved up toward that one from the other side of his body, coming up from the hollow above his groin and beside his lower belly.

I played with those with my fingers and watched his violet eyes with my needy, imploring ones while he smiled down at me and slowly masturbated my cock with his hands. Increasingly I wanted him. I wanted to know about the other six piercings, but I was heating up fast. He no longer was moving his hands as they encased my cock. He was just holding them, and I was moving my hips, sliding my cock in and out of his hands.

He moved his mouth and that golden tongue stud down to my nipples again and then slowly slid it down my sternum, stopping briefly at my navel, on its way into my bush, as I started to writhe under him more insistently, fucking his hands. He still wore the ring, and it was rubbing up and down, up and down, on the vein at the root on the top of my cock.

The tongue stud went onto my cock and began to play with it as his hands, the fingers slick with lube, went to cupping my buttocks, pulling them apart, and his lubed fingers working closer to the rim of my ass, until they were there—and then beyond there, invading me, teasing my hole open. And then more open, the fingers sinking deeper and beginning a slow, counter rhythm inside my hole.

The tongue stud was driving my cock crazy. It moved from root to glans and the stud was working my piss slit, working its way inside me there, slowly, gently fucking my piss slit.

I writhed and cried out and groaned and grunted and warned him I was coming—at which he just raised his head and smiled up at me and said "I know you are," and then went back to work—until I did.

Panting and moaning, in exhaustion, I lay on the bed, trying to regain my breath—never having come like that before. I looked down, and he was standing over me, grinning and holding a huge, hard cock in his hand. I gasped, not so much as the length and girth of it as at the thick metal ring piercing its cut head. Piercing eight.

I was going to be fucked with a thick metal ring. I shuddered and began to tremble.

"This is what the BD was about," Steve said in a proud voice. I just moaned in acquiescence. He didn't require confirmation.

"Have you have been fucked with a cock ring before?" he asked.

"No," I replied in a low, gaspy voice.

"And that's not all. Here, feel this." He took my hand and brought it down to the underside of the cock that was standing straight out from his belly. Piercings nine, ten, eleven, and twelve. A line of thick metal beads ran down the length of his cock with the largest one right at his root.

"This one," he said, holding my finger to the one at the root, "is going to make love to the rim of your asshole."

I moaned, as he ran my fingers up and down the beads. "I'm told that each one can be felt separately as it slides inside you," he murmured. "Doesn't that sound tasty?"

I moaned, already imagining the sensation. Afraid of it. Wanting it. Wanting it so badly.

But he wasn't finished. He moved my hand lower, to his perineum, under the scrotum sack, where there was yet another ring piercing. Lucky piercing thirteen.

I trembled and entreated him to hurry as he stood over me and opened a condom packet and crowned his cock. And then I was pulling him to me and inside and thrusting with each of his thrusts, as he hunched over me and drove into me, thrusting deeper and deeper, and I cried out and writhed and felt each and every metal bead that followed along behind the gloriously rubbing thick cock ring. "Oh god, OH GOD, O-H GAWWWD!"

Before he came, but not until after I had done so again, he turned me on my belly and let the other side of my channel feel the full benefit of the beads, as my fists bunched the bedspread and my teeth bit into the sheets attempting—but not successfully—to stifle my screams of ecstasy. Never, ever, had I ever . . .

Later, his cock still deep inside me, he leaned over and opened a drawer in the nightstand and took out a pad of paper and a pen. "Here. Write down your cell phone number and address."

"I don't think . . . it was a great fuck," I said, ". . . but I don't think . . . again. I don't . . ."

"Write them down."

I was scared, frightened of the effect of this taking of me. Never had I been so fully fucked before. The studs and beads were a nice novelty. But this wasn't me. This wasn't my world. I didn't want to . . .

But I wrote my phone number and address down and then he was gone, leaving me, in emotional and physical tatters. Dominated and scared. And more fully fucked than I'd ever been before. Ashamed. Remembering how I had begged for it—how I had taken his cock and guided—no, literally stuffed—it inside myself. How under the feel of the cock stud and the beads, my hips had gone into a frenzy. This was just too much—too exotic, too far into fetish. I couldn't . . .

* * * *

In a meeting, sitting at the back of the room, bored at the droning on about that week's changes in security check procedures, I heard the quiet buzz. I'd forgotten to turn the cell phone off. I'd do so, but I might as well check the text message first.

The stud revolving around your nipple, rubbing the tender flesh, sending signals to the very quick of you.

I stifled a moan, reddened up and switched the phone off.

In the cafeteria, instinctively clicking on the phone when it buzzed. Another text message.

Sliding the tongue stud down to your navel. Exploring. My hand going lower, possessing.

I clicked it off and acted like nothing was happening. But I had to hold my glass with both hands, I was trembling so hard.

At home, in the evening, trying to read, the cell phone sitting next to me on the table. Trying not to look at the phone. Not wanting it to buzz. Knowing it would. Wondering why it hadn't. Then it did. His voice this time.

"Are you home?"

"Yes." A faltering reply.

"Alone?"

"Yes."

"Are you wearing a ring?"

"Yes."

"Unzip your pants. Take your cock out. Run the underside of the ring on your finger up and down the top of it, along the vein."

At each instruction, there was a pause. And without thinking or resisting, I responded to the command in his voice.

"I hear you breathing harder. You have done it, yes?"

"Yes." Almost a whimper.

"Go to the door. You'll find a package outside. Bring it in. Go to your bedroom, strip, and lay on the bed and open the package."

"Steve . . ."

"Are you going to the door?"

A pause. And then, in a low, tortured voice. "Yes."

"Are you there, on the bed, now, naked?"

"Yes."

"Open the package and do it. Do not hang up. I want to hear you come."

The package contained a thick dildo with knobs on it and a small bottle of lube.

"There, that was nice," he said when I was finished. "Now, come to me. We begin."

"Steve . . . I can't . . . I . . ."

Using all of the strength inside me I switched the phone off.

It was raining, and dark, and I hadn't ever driven in that section of town at night. I didn't even know if I'd be able to find the tattoo shop that was advertised on the card he'd given me that first Saturday at the airport. My hands were trembling and were slick on the wheel of the car. I wanted to turn around and go home—to get rid of the cell phone. To get a new one. To move, even, because he knew where I lived.