Pierce Me: Satisfied by the Bad Boy

by Simone Sowood

  “Hi sweetie, you’re late. Done anything exciting today?” my mother asks.

  My cheeks flush, and I curse myself for going red so easily.

  “No, just a relaxing day at home.”

  She scrunches her mouth up as she looks at me, no doubt wondering why I turned red.

  My dad enters the room just in time. He walks straight up to me, leans over and kisses my cheek. The soft sleeve of his cashmere sweater brushes over my arm in the motion.

  He and Sophie are both blue-eyed blonds. I was always jealous of Sophie’s hair when I was younger. I hated having such dark hair, especially since I’m as pale as her. Naturally, as my sister, she took advantage of this and always teased me.

  “Dinner will be about forty-five minutes,” my mother says.

  “What are we having today?” I ask.

  “Your favorite, lasagna.”

  “With a Caesar salad?” I ask, my stomach rumbling at the idea.

  “Of course,” my dad says, and winks.

  The three of us sit on the living room couches. My parents had the room done up by an interior decorator three months ago, and everything still new and pristine. The room is perfect, and I’m afraid of damaging anything.

  The conversation between us flows easily, as always. I lose track of the time as we chat.

  “Hey you,” Sophie says, bounding into the room. She’s twenty-four and has too much energy for her own good.

  She flops onto the couch beside me, not sharing my concerns about how to treat the new furniture.

  “You’re just in time to get the lasagna out of the oven,” my mother says to her.

  “I’ll help,” my father says.

  “The table’s already set,” my mother says.

  The four of us sit down to eat at their big, oak dining table. The food is delicious and I concentrate on eating it rather than keeping up with the conversation.

  When we’re finished, I say, “I’ll do the dishes.”

  “I’ll help,” Sophie says, standing.

  Together, we stack the dishes, piling the cutlery on top. Sophie carries them to the kitchen while I get the lasagna pan.

  In the kitchen, I set the remaining lasagna on the island, intending to cover it and put it in the fridge for leftovers. Sophie sets the dirty dishes beside the sink and gets herself a beer from the fridge.

  “Okay, spill,” Sophie says, cracking open her drink.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Give me a break, I’m your sister and best friend. I think I can tell when something’s on your mind. And by the way you were zoned out the whole way through dinner, I’m guessing it’s a big something.”

  “It’s nothing big,” I say, shrugging.

  “If that’s the case then what is it?”

  “I told you, it’s nothing.”

  “You need to tell me what it is, and you need to tell me now.”

  “Or else what?”

  “Or else I’ll tell Mom I’m worried about you because you’re hiding a secret from us all. She’ll be on your case ‘til the end of time.” Sophie smirks, and takes a big swig of her beer.

  “Fine. I accidentally left my panties in a tattoo parlor.”

  Sophie spits out her beer and quickly reaches for some paper towels. In her rush, she knocks the four stacked plates onto the floor, shattering them.

  “Girls?” my mother calls.

  “It’s fine, Mom. We just knocked the plates off the counter,” Sophie says.

  “We?” I quirk an eyebrow at her.

  “You’d better start spilling and fast.”

  “Can’t, I have to get the broom. Butterfingers.”

  “Fine, just don’t expect me to tell you what I do with my panties every night.”

  Her comment halts me in my tracks.

  “What do you do with your panties every night?”

  “You first.”

  “I don’t think I’m ready to talk about it. It’s too soon.”

  “Well, you know where to find me when you’re ready. But you’d better be ready by dinner next week.”

  I stick my tongue out at her and walked to the broom closet. We clean up the mess together as well as all the dishes. Sophie doesn’t bring up the panties comment again. And I love her for it. Too bad I can’t find the courage to confide in her. Yet.

  On the drive home, I wonder if I really can discuss my problem with Sophie. We’re incredibly close, but it’s an incredibly personal issue. Not to mention embarrassing that I let some random guy in a tattoo parlor do that to me.

  Gabe

  “For fuck’s sake, Kaylee, I am not paying you today,” I growl into the phone.

  “But it’s only one day early. Please, I need the money,” Kaylee says, pleading.

  “No way in hell. You’ve already caused me enough problems.”

  “Bullshit, you just wanted me out of the way.”

  I don’t feel the need to respond to her comment.

  “You’ll get your money tomorrow, end of story,” I say.

  “Hope you had fun piercing that chick you were so interested in.”

  I ignore her again.

  “Anything else?” I ask.

  “You know, now that I think about it, the timing of when you fired me sure is interesting.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “What I mean is, would I still have a job if someone named Eloise Hutchinson hadn’t decided she wanted a piercing?”

  “Tomorrow,” I say, and hit end call.

  Kaylee was always a pain in the ass. I only kept her around as long as I did because some people prefer having a female work on them. And she’s a damn good artist. But I’d never tell her that.

  I glance at the time on my phone. Two o’clock, almost time for me to go. Wednesdays and Thursdays are my days off. Ryan is in control of the parlor today.

  Yesterday, Wednesday, I spent the day fucking around doing nothing. I was supposed to see a redhead I met a couple weeks ago, but I canceled. I’ve lost interest in her.

  But I did finally get around to doing something I’ve needed done for ages. Make an appointment to get my stiff shoulder looked at.

  My right shoulder tenses when I’m working on a tattoo, and now it’s always stiff and sore.

  From the pile in my bedroom, I grab a pair of black jeans and pull them on, followed by a white T-shirt from the light colored pile of clothes.

  It’s a beautiful day, and I take my Harley.

  The medical center is the same as I remember it, and my gut wrenches.

  I snarl as I enter the building but push my feelings aside with the memory of Eloise’s pussy. She was crazy responsive to my fingers, and I want more. I want to give her more, and see just how incredible I can make her feel.

  The inside is different. It looks brand new. The floors are oak and the walls are hung with what looks like original artwork. I stop in front of a few of the pictures, the ones that catch my eye.

  One is of a street scene, in what looks like New York City. I like the way there are trees in an otherwise urban setting. Another painting that catches my eye is of a woman. She’s at a lake, and sitting with her feet dangling off a dock. It’s the look on her face that’s most intriguing. She looks haunted despite being in a beautiful place, and I wonder what’s on her mind.

  I arrive at the imposing oak reception desk. A woman sits behind it, working on a computer. She’s wearing a name tag. Marcy. She doesn’t look like a Marcy. I don’t expect a Marcy to wear glasses and have curly hair.

  I don’t say anything, instead I look around at the waiting room, trying to suppress my memories.

  “Oh!” Marcy exclaims, putting her hand to her chest. “I didn’t realize you were standing there.”

  “I have an appointment at three o’clock for physiotherapy.”

  Marcy doesn’t reply. Her eyes are stuck on my arms. Her hand is still on her chest, and it’s visibly moving up and down with her heavy breath.


  I’m used to this reaction and wait patiently for her to say something.

  She squeezes her eyes shut and opens them again, shaking her head.

  “And your name is?”

  “Gabe Irwin.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.”

  “Sure. Do me a favor, don’t tell her my name.” I smile and wink.

  Marcy’s hand stops moving altogether. At some point she’ll remember to breathe. I turn away from her, and find a seat.

  I glance over the magazines on the table. One catches my eye. It’s half hidden under three other magazines but it’s impossible to miss the word orgasm.

  Moving the other magazines off it, I pick it up, revealing the full sentence.

  Trouble having orgasms? You need to read this!

  A smirk plastered on my face, I flip open the magazine to find the article. But I already know what it’s going to say. Now I know where good, sweet Eloise learned about genital piercings.

  “I’m ready...” Eloise’s voice trails off.

  I look up from the magazine. She looks even better than the way I’ve been picturing her all week with my cock in my hand. She’s in black pants that are tight and a black blouse that shows off the swell of her tits. My dick twitches at the sight of her.

  Standing, I toss the magazine on the table, and walk over to her.

  “Ready for me?”

  “What are you doing here?” Her eyes are wide. She looks at Marcy, who is staring at us, and quickly says, “Come with me.”

  In a flash, Eloise turns on her heels and rushes off. I follow her, thinking how much I would like to come with her.

  We enter a small room with the massage table in the center of it. Eloise closes the door behind us.

  “Why are you here?” she asks, her eyes wild.

  “My shoulder’s fucked up. Plus I had to bring you back your panties.” I pull her panties out of my pocket and dangle them from my index finger.

  Eloise lunges and snatches them from my hand. She turns beet red, just like I knew she would.

  “You should’ve thrown them away,” she says as she crams them in the nearby drawer. “Why did you come here?”

  “I told you, my shoulder’s fucked up.”

  “I can’t believe you came to my work. Saturday was something I want to forget ever happened.” Eloise squares her body in front of me, her eyes fierce.

  Resisting the urge to lift my hand and brush my fingers down her cheek, I say, “You’re the only one talking about Saturday.”

  “You’re here for physiotherapy? You can’t be serious.”

  “I keep telling you, my shoulder’s fucked up. I don’t know how many more times I can say it.”

  She screws up her mouth, her eyes searching mine. Without blinking, I hold her gaze, daring her. She’s going to treat my shoulder, run her hands over my muscles, massaging me. I can’t fucking wait.

  “Lift your arms over your head,” she commands. I follow her order. “Now hold them out at your side. And to the front. Now circle them.”

  Eloise watches intently as I do everything she says. She falls silent, and I cross my arms in front of me.

  “Well?” I ask.

  “You definitely have less range on your right side. Is there pain?”

  “It gets sore, yeah.”

  “What is that on a scale of one to ten?”

  “I don’t fucking know.”

  She rolls her eyes and says, “Like, does it hurt a little bit? A lot? When you use it? In bed at night?”

  “I know one way to make the pain stop at night.”

  “Are you here for treatment, or to pick me up?”

  “Maybe a little of both.”

  “If you really want treatment, you’re going to have to behave.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Take your shirt off.”

  My dick twitches from her order. I clear my throat and tug my shirt off over my head. Even while my shirt is still covering my face, I can feel the heat of her eyes burning into me.

  She closes the distance between us, and asks, “Is it okay if I touch you?”

  There’s no way of answering that without pissing her off, so I just nod.

  Eloise

  My panties are on fire. It’s a good thing Gabe brought my other panties back because I’m going to have to change into them when he leaves.

  Gabe had his shirt off when I first saw him at the tattoo parlor, but I wasn’t standing this close to him. Intricate tattoos coat his body, and I could stand here for ages looking at them.

  Except it’s difficult to know where to look, at the tattoos or the chiseled body they coat. I try my hardest not to stare at the piercings in his nipples.

  Somehow, without him even touching me, my body buzzes the way he made it feel on Saturday. I am overcome with the urge to nestle against him.

  Blinking, I gather some self-control and step back.

  “Lay face down on the bed,” I say, pointing.

  Without saying anything, Gabe lies on the bed and I break apart the thin paper over the face hole so he can rest comfortably.

  I shift my eyes from his head, down his body. Tattoos cover his back. I’ve had patients with lots of tattoos before, but never anyone with near as many as this. His back is thick with muscles. At least there are no piercings.

  Trying to ignore my sopping wet panties, I focus on his shoulder.

  I ball my hands into fists a few times to get them to stop trembling so much.

  Positioning my body near his right shoulder, I hover my fingers over him. I swallow hard, and drop my hands on to Gabe. A zap of electricity hits me, and I pull my hands away.

  Gabe flinched too, I think.

  “Everything okay?” he asks, his gravelly voice doing nothing to help my situation.

  “Fine, yes. Just assessing you.”

  “I hope you like what see.”

  “You know, I don’t remember you having nearly as much confidence when we were in school.”

  “I was a kid.”

  “And now?”

  “Now I’m a man.”

  “All man,” I say before my brain can stop me.

  Gabe chuckles, his muscles rippling as he laughs. I have to control myself. Why does he make me lose my mind?

  “You like it, do you?”

  “We’re being professional now, remember?”

  “Right, I forgot. Because you’re the one not being professional.”

  “Enough,” I say, planting my hands on his back without thinking.

  His warmth radiates from my hands and throughout my body. Even my toes heat from the feel of him under my fingers.

  Focus. This man is here for a stiff shoulder.

  I massage my hand along the line of his shoulder blade. The muscle fibers are very tight.

  “You’re really stiff,” I say.

  “You have no idea,” Gabe says, and adjusts his hips.

  “I meant your shoulder.”

  “Of course you did.”

  “I did,” I protest.

  “Remember Mrs. Singleton’s sayings?”

  I smile. “She used to have a saying for everything.”

  “Right now she’d tell you your focus needs more focus.”

  “Isn’t that what she always said to you?”

  “I’m surprised you remember. You were always too busy looking at the blackboard to notice me.”

  When we were kids, Gabe always tried to distract me from my work. He almost always sat behind me, because most of our teachers arrange the students alphabetically by last name.

  “I remember you pulling my hair.”

  His shoulder really needs loosening up, and I squirt some oil onto my hands. I resume working on his shoulder, fighting the urge to run my hands over the rest of his hard body.

  “It was fun making you scream.”

  “It was annoying is what it was.”

  “Not for me it wasn’t.”

  We fall into a silence while I kne
ad my thumbs into his muscles. I try my hardest not to think of his offer of dinner, knowing how hard it would be to resist him if he asked again.

  I’ve never had a one-night stand. I’ve never hooked up with a guy on a sex-only basis. I’ve never even had a friend with benefits.

  Gabe is the furthest thing from boyfriend material I can imagine, but I can’t see myself having meaningless sex.

  Even if he has already had his fingers down there. And made me feel better than any boyfriend I’ve had.

  Why is he here, anyway? Sure, his shoulder is genuinely tight. But me? Now? He must expect more.

  This seriously can’t happen. I need to put that at the front of my mind.

  “Sit up,” I say.

  Gabe sits, his legs hanging over the side of the bed. His jeans are tight and ripped, and show off his leg muscles. I make a point not to look.

  I also make a resolution to wipe Saturday from my mind, even when I’m in bed at night with my vibrator.

  “Hold your arm out, I’m going to loosen it more.”

  He lifts his right arm, and I wrap it around my back. Moving my entire body, I rock back and forth to get into his tight muscles.

  It’s definitely getting looser.

  Just like my earlier resolution that is all of sixty seconds old.

  Our bodies are close, and each inward rock brings our torsos an inch apart before the cruel outward rock separates us again.

  Heat from his eyes burn into my cheeks, and I fix my eyes on the floor.

  At least I try to.

  It’s impossible not to notice the bulge in his jeans, and I struggle to keep my eyes from it.

  “Is this a real physio thing?”

  “What?”

  “This, having my arm around you while you jiggle around.”

  “Of course it is.”

  “It seems very,” he pauses, “intimate.”

  “I’m loosening your shoulder. It’s kind of hard to do that from across the room.”

  “Now that I think about it, my hip’s been pretty stiff as well.”

  Exhaling strongly, I let go of his arm and step away from him.

  “Okay, I think that’s good for now. Let me give you some stretches to do at home.”

  “I prefer massages to stretches.”

  “You want your shoulder to get better?”