The first three days were pure torment.
Every shirt felt like sandpaper. Every accidental brush of fabric against the new metal sent a sharp, electric jolt straight to my c**t. I had followed the aftercare instructions obsessively—saline sprays, clean hands, no touching—but my body still treated the piercings like live wires. At night I lay on my back, shirt pushed up, staring at the silver bars through swollen, flushed n*****s, and tried not to think about gray eyes and black gloves.
Tyler came over on the fourth night.
I had planned it carefully. Dim lights. His favorite beer. I stripped slowly, watching his face as I revealed the jewelry for the first time.
He stared for three full seconds.
Then he laughed.
“Holy s**t, you actually did it.” He reached out and flicked one of the ba
