Despite a weekend spent making love to my adoring girlfriend - my otherwise straight flatmate Jenna, who is still
technically
someone else's girlfriend - I'm feeling decidedly antsy. In part it's the guilty knowledge that her desire for me is pure manipulation, that she has been seduced by the magic in my piercings, but mostly it's an itching for someone who isn't mine.
The note in the box says, "Use daily," and I don't think it means simply that the barbell in my tongue and the rings in my clit and ass must be worn every day, because that isn't even a choice. There's no way (that I know) to remove them. And I don't even think it means I need to fuck every day, because I've just spent two days doing nothing else, and my horniness is off the charts. I climaxed twice just on the bus ride into work, nearly biting my lip off in an effort to keep still and silent. (I can still taste blood.)
Fuck.
No. It's the need to use the magic in the piercings. To seduce. To arouse. To command. It is a cruel trick that fate has played on me. One week ago, to have Jenna be mine is all I could have wished for; and now that she is, miraculously, mine, I am driven desperate for more. If I could go back in time to that pizzeria and
not
open that box... would I?
I don't know. I don't think I would give up Jenna for anything. But nor can I resist much longer the magic in the piercings. It's increasingly difficult to concentrate on my work. Most of the staff in the warehouse are men, and I keep drifting off into fantasies of being cornered by them, stripped of my clothes and forced to suck their cocks; or maybe they'll bend me over a crate and take turns fucking my too willing virgin ass; or maybe they'll chain me to the forklift, legs held apart, and drive me through the warehouse, stopping for all and any to use my dripping wet pussy.
That these fantasies should excite me so is deeply uncomfortable. But clearly that is the magic's purpose, to rob me of my own will unless I do the same to others - and I would rather keep some control of my own fate than surrender entirely to a nymphomaniac existence. And I may as well get some real value out of it.
Karen, the boss's secretary, is at her desk. "Can I help you?" she asks, in a tone that suggests no interest in doing so. Her eyes examine me critically, as if my being a woman is just the first of a litany of failures.
I don't like her. I've never liked her. And yet today her lips are alluring, dressed in a freshly applied coat of rose-coloured lipstick, and it's almost a crime that they are not being kissed. A crime that I can solve. "What are you doing?" she demands coldly as I walk round to her side of the desk, and she flinches away in a panic as I bend to kiss her.
But it's hopeless. My lips are quickly on hers, my tongue slipping between, and I know the piercing's seductive magic is doing its work because her struggles cease, her resistance fades, and she yields at last to the kiss, returning it with passion. For me the release of tension is almost orgasmic. I almost yield to the temptation to dominate her completely, to have her eating me out, front and rear. I could order her to be my loyal lapdog, serving my every whim...
But that's not why I'm here. (Maybe tomorrow.) "I want to see Mr Charles."
Karen seems disappointed. Her lipstick is smudged, and I'm guessing it's smeared all over my lips. "Here," she says, handing me her mirror and a pack of facial wipes. "Mr Charles doesn't want to be disturbed."
"But you don't mind if I go in, do you?"
Karen shakes her head. She's looking at me like an adoring puppy. "Hey," I say. "How about you take me shopping sometime?"
She grins and nods her head enthusiastically. "Absolutely! I'd love that!"
I blow her a kiss, and let myself into the boss's office.
*
Mr Charles is old enough to be my dad. His hair is grey, and he wears thick spectacles and a navy blue suit that has seen better days. He frowns at me with clear displeasure. It's a shame I can't just bend over and ask him to lick my ass - or maybe I can, but more likely he'd just kick me out of his office.
"Where's Karen?" he demands.
"I'm really sorry to intrude," I say quickly, "but I urgently need to tell you something." I drop my voice to a dramatic whisper. "Something private." I glance at the door as if worried about eavesdroppers, and work my way closer to him.
Mr Charles glowers at me, clearly uncomfortable with my being here. "It's safe," he says irritably. "No one can hear us."
"Even so, I'd much rather whisper it in your ear." His moment of conflict between being a considerate boss and being a sensible one is all I need. It's not whispered words that grace his ear, but the ball of my tongue piercing.
"Stop!" he cries, pushing away from me, holding his hand to his ear.
"Stop?" I ask, watching him curiously. This is the first time I've tried the magic on a man. Maybe it doesn't work.
"I'm a married man," he says. "A
