Pierced!—A Gothic Romance
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"That's tender shit," she said.

"What's tender shit?" I asked.

"Your big dick," she said.

I have tried to get Zana to say "prick," rather than "dick." Dicks are dirty, often dishonest; whereas pricks are powerful, can pierce love's armor, and do not lie. The upright prick conceals no trick! But she persists in saying "dick." Nevertheless, she is pure sweetness, and I love her big breasts and pierced nipples. To be perfectly honest, however, the tattoo of her previous boyfriend's name on her butt does bother me at times.

We began kissing but the spikes through her lips hooked on the rings through mine. It was dubious battle for awhile. But I got in a few good kisses and bit her lip so hard she screamed.

Then I went for honey, fumbling around between her thighs for the furry entry point to Heaven or Hell, whatever. Tonight I wanted to see stars. 

"AH!" she moaned. "I love your thing inside of me. Snakes and rakes, worms and sperm!"

I had at last succeeded at inserting my newly pierced organ into her already pierced one.

She looked in Heaven or the other place, but I hoped she was not in pain—or even bleeding—from the ten #3 fishhooks I had had pierced into my penis earlier in the day. The barbells through the lips of her vagina were only gouging me slightly—no blood yet.

By the way, the piercing procedure had proven a bit embarrassing, as it was performed by a young female piercer covered, naturally, from head to foot in metal. She had cradled my organ, childlike, throughout the procedure as though it were a pet hamster, even at one point talking to it—"Oh, aren't you a pretty little fellow"—and petting it. The result, of course, was that it expanded hugely in size causing her to giggle. How unprofessional can you get! Moreover, I had little control, staring at the enticing brown mole on her upper lip, pierced of course, and wanting to kiss it, and the protruding nipples, presumably pierced too, under her T-shirt with the FCUK Connection fashion logo. Oh, how I wanted to tweak those nipples but when I tried she batted my hand away saying, "Silly boy, not here in the office!" Well, it was nice to see that she had at least a modicum of moral sensibility. So few young people do these days, you know! But back to the current situation.

After succeeding at inserting my organ into my true love's, I yelled "BATS & RATS," which usually gets her excited, then "LET'S GO FOR IT!" which makes her both compulsive and competitive. Whenever I shout the latter she tries to be the first to cum.

But to be honest, I wasn't quite ready to "go for it" just yet. The spikes through  her nipples hooked on the rings through mine. I had to back off above without pulling out below. It was a bit like a tricky maneuver in a crowed parking lot.

There were also the dead bugs in her hair—I don't know what charms her about them!—and the thugs in the drugs we had taken earlier.

"Miss Molly wants your money or she'll drive a stake through your heart," they seemed to be saying. Well, a little downer called the Red Doll drove the ecstatic Miss Molly away, at least for the moment.

But then I saw a look on her face I had seen before.

"I dread the dead," she whispered darkly, then screamed. "DON'T DIE ON ME, BIG BOY, DON'T DIE!"

I didn't know whether she meant me, the person, or my organ, the "other me," if you will. But at this point I guess that is a bit of superfluous philosophical speculation.

She is only a little bipolar, and I knew the mood would pass if I could make her cum and cum soon.


 "DON'T DIE ON ME, LOVE. I'M SOOOO AFRAID!" she shouted back as though across a great divide, a dark valley.

Did she say "love"? I guess she did mean the real me after all and not just my big dick, or prick if I could only get her to say that. It was heartening to know, as I am the jealous type, and the tattoo of Thor's name on her butt does get to me now and then.

I aimed to tame her fear with love, and I was not lame in doing so.

With longing and lust and thrust after thrust, I regained her trust and became her shining knight in arms. Through the bedroom window the stars gleamed like golden daggers.

From polished metal to rust and dust, I beat the beast in the dark tower till the floodgate burst open and all was warm and wet and wonderful.

"AAAAAH!" she howled as though I were driving a stake through her heart and nailing her to a cross—the ultimate piercing experience. Molly and the fishhooks were doing their jobs. The Red Doll must have decided to take a nap. My true love's eyes flamed like two mad torches. Frankly I was afraid someone would call the police as they once had when I used the whip on Zana and her daughter. But please forget I mentioned little Zan Zan, who is only 13-years old; that could pose prickly legal problems from a bunch of people who don't know how to have a good time!

But slowly she calmed down.

"Tender shit, tender fuckin' shit," she sobbed as she drifted off to sleep. She looked positively comatose as the snoring began. How lovely!

I went to the bathroom to wash the dung off my tongue and to staunch the flow of blood. One #3 fishhook seemed to be missing from my penis but I guess I knew where I could find it.

"Tender shit, indeed!" I said to myself later as I, too, drifted off to sleep, wondering how others did the dark deed without pain and blood. Did they know what they were missing?
by Louis Martin