Good Girls Get Pierced Ch. 01

In this deliberately absentminded way she made her progress past a dizzy of riches, humming as she went some strands of Pino Donaggio's score for Dressed to Kill, until she found herself, finally, beholding before her the apple-bottomed form of her friend Morgan Concord, ensconced in a pale-lavender room overlooking the sculpture gardens, translucent with lemony afternoon light and hung with late Monets and expatriate American domestic scenes.

Morgan turned to her, radiant and lumpen like a freshly-scrubbed pear. "Hi!" she beamed.

"Hey you," Beth replied, and made a little flapping hand wave, taking a circuitous course through the room, taking in the paintings, one by one, till she had made her clockwork round over to her friend. This was not a school (or an era, for that matter) to which she naturally gravitated-- her aesthetic sensitivities had a very hard time enduring the fall of Napoleon-- but she felt like deferring to her friend's appreciation, and, warming herself in the glow of the works that reflected her friend's openhearted sensitivity, she felt warm and glowing herself by the time she stood beside her at the other end of the room.

"I suppose they'll close soon," Beth noted glumly.

"Yeah. This has been really nice, you know? I thought it would be a lot of bother but I'm really glad we came!"

"I'm glad, too. And glad for you."

Morgan stood before a still-life of peaches in a beige bowl atop a table covered in lace, with a backdrop in the lightest of lavenders that almost made the canvas blend into the wall, but for the grandly simple bronze frame.

"They're so fuzzy-looking," Morgan enthused, "or they seem like it anyway. I almost want to rub my face against them."

Beth laughed, giving the girl's shoulder a brief, comforting squeeze. "Are you hungry yet? I thought we'd walk a few blocks for a restaurant, but if you're peckish we can grab something from the museum café. Take a muffin with us or something?"

"No, I'm good. I can look forward to dinner but I don't need anything now. Anticipation, I guess. Are they waiting for us already?"

"Jessica's down in the front with the royal portraits. I still have to find Erica, assuming she hasn't waded across town to find a Campbell's soup can or something."

"Oh-- was she hungry?"

"No, I mean like-- to compare to a Warhol or something. Or I guess just to find a Warhol." Morgan smiled at her blankly. "Just a stupid attempt at humor," Beth apologized.

"Oh. Do they have a Warhol?" she asked.

Beth shrugged. "I'm under the vague impression there's three of his prints hanging in every doghouse in America. If they have one, I have a theory I'll find Erica bowing before it. Maybe they've hung it in the loo. Hey--" she expostulated, collecting her wits, "-- there's something I want you to see. Let's go join Jess." And, so saying, she took Morgan by the arm and directed her. Back through the corridors they went. Swinging through a Colonial period gallery, she thought she caught sight of a lumbering female form, but whatever it was, she failed to meet its eye, and presently they were safely delivered to Jessica and the congregated dynasties of the exhibition.

Jessica only grinned as Beth steered her other pupil to the Van Dyck.

It was not so much the little flurries of whispered details that Beth showered on such occasions-- a piece of courtly gossip concerning the subject of the painting, or a note about the brushstroke technique, or how the treatment of the hands echoes a Holy Family by Rubens-- that impressed them; rather, these scatterings of information, delivered in a voice tremulous with regard, enveloped her pupils in the mantle of her own heightened perceptions. Beth was careful to single out those works that stirred her deep passions, and when she called out a piece of art for especial attention, it had a way of making you hush your objections and little impatiences in order to wait for it to speak to you in the same wizardly way it had already bequeathed its secrets to her.

****

"Isn't this fetching," the girl asked as she pulled Erica along by the wrist up to the photo she most especially admired. "So sweet" she opined without hesitating for Erica's response, her fingers unabashedly stroking the inside of Erica's wrist.

The composition was simplicity itself. Here, in black and white, was a woman's head, her face perhaps in her mid-thirties, grey eyes flashing mirthfully, with a frizzy head of curly darkish hair and hoop earrings, resting against the bare haunches of a second woman, whose rounded ass filled the other half of the composition.

It was not an especially athletic bottom, but superbly rounded, with the smoothness and glow of health and youth. The hips were flexed, as though affectionately gravitating towards the head that inclined on them, giving a touch of contrapusto. The thighs were parted just enough to reveal to the camera in explicit detail the flesh of the woman's vulva, one of the pouting lips sporting a pair of steel rings.

Erica felt herself pout with slickened heat between her own thighs as she drank in the sight. The juxtaposition of face and ass, the adamant intimacy of the pair of women, and the way the mischievous, playful glint of eyes and metal rings seemed to juxtapose and sing in counterpoint, thrilled her. It was like the contradictions of the monstrous ass-invader photograph before, but here buoyant, open, sensual, tender: yet shockingly fetishistic too.

And all the while, Erica knew with terrified anxious pleasure that she was being worked for a pickup. By a girl.

Something that had never happened before. And yet something which, quite consciously, more and more, she had been dreaming of.

This is crazy, she thought. Nothing has to happen anyway, she told herself, while she let the stranger continue to rub against the tender inside of her arm. What could happen anyway? The place seemed totally vacant but for them, but what if someone else was there? But did it matter really? Or if someone was--

Let them watch, she thought.

"Can we go someplace?" the girl asked suddenly. Erica looked into her eyes and saw, for a flickering moment, a wistful, imploring look, sweet and needy. She seemed to find in Erica's gaze the confirmation she sought. "Here, let me show you," she said, nodding her head meaningfully. "Come with me."

The girl walked, tugging Erica off by the wrist like a doll. She watched the girl's bottom swing pertly in the snug skirt, her supple limbs surprisingly graceful in the green tights and platform boots. Her punky deportment had the sporty nonchalance of a catwalk model, someone well-pleased with being looked at. And obeyed. The smells of baked goods wafted temptingly from the basement cafeteria as they passed it, Erica ignoring the nonchalant glances of the fashionable museum goers inside.

"In here," the girl beckoned, loosening her grip as they came upon the door to a women's restroom. "Come on," she insisted, as Erica hesitated.

"Don't worry," she soothed in a stage whisper.

The restroom was paneled in a deep green marbled granite, the wall curving, bearing chrome sinks, with a sweeping mirror spanning vastly into the distance. The girl took Erica by the hand and led her on, past the yawning expanse into the furthest of the stalls.

"Latch the door," she instructed. Laughing quietly, the girl stood in front of the toilet, facing Erica.

"Hi," she said, grinning, as though only really meeting her for the first time.

"Hi," replied Erica, her voice flat and tense.

"I'm Kia," she added, blowing another teensy bubble and popping it.

"Kia, I--" but maybe the girl wasn't joking? "I-- I'm Beth," she decided.

"Beth," Kia echoed, weighing the name on her tongue. "Would you like me to show you something, Beth?"

"Please," she answered, forcing her voice to sound easy.

Erica didn't know at all what she expected, or wanted, from the girl. All the same, she never could have anticipated what Kia would do.

Grinning brightly, Kia planted one of her boots up onto the toilet with a solid thunk. The thick buckles of her boots softly clanked like sinister wind chimes. She raised her other foot and squatted there mischievously, like a gargoyle athwart some cathedral spire. Using her free hand to tug at her skirt from the back, she arched herself and, staring glassily into Erica, she released a hissing stream of piss.

The sound of it hitting the bowl electrified Erica. A familiar sound, the stuff of daily ritual, and it had never before occurred to her that it could have this transgressive charge. But why was Kia doing this? It took her a moment before she thought to look for the stream itself, and she trained her eyes upon the dark glossy gate formed by the squatting girl's punk platforms. Catching her look, Kia stood herself upright, halting her stream only for a brief moment as she worked her skirt up fully, and then she stood there, proudly towering and pissing, her shaved pubes completely bare to Erica's gaze. What moments before had inspired a tingly mirth in Erica suddenly became fearful, authoritative. The little punk pixie transformed from mischievous and insinuating to blatantly commanding, unquestionable. Erica's back sank into the door of the stall, her knees tense and trembling. She held a hand, unthinking, over her own crotch.

Kia finished her piss, shaking her hips in teasing little twists as she squeezed out a few last trinkling drops. Erica grimly noted, for the first time, the little white skulls that peppered the black stripes in the girl's thigh-hugging socks. She was like a pixie Kali. Kia grinned, her mouth twisting, stifling a knowing little laugh. There was a faint hint of apology in her look too. But it was only a hint, as she stood there, still tall and overbearing, and clearly wanting something from her prey.

"Come here," she purred. "Come closer. It won't bite." Erica inched forward. "You want to see, don't you?"

"Yes, yes-- I see," said Erica, transfixed, staring at the bare pink pussy.

"Touch me-- please?" Kia encouraged. "Play with me!"

Erica reached out and touched the girls hips with the tips of her fingers. The pale flesh was warm, so warm to the touch, like a mug just out of the microwave. Cautiously she smoothed her palms over the hips. The curving girl-form held her spellbound. Without moving, without even looking, she felt that she could stand here for hours just touching this solid supple flesh, so warm, musky, alive.

Kia sighed, the waft of warm breath stirring on Erica's brow as she drew her nearer. "Here," she whispered, her voice ringing like a tiny bell, "kiss it." Erica looked up, anxious and grateful. "On my lips," Kia encouraged her. "These," she added, her hands fanning across her pelvis between Erica's clasping fingers. She sank her forefingers around the edges of her vulva and spread the inviting petals.

"Oh, I've never, you know--"

Kia smiled proudly. "I know, yes baby I know. Now bend down and kiss me."

Erica struggled to swallow, a futile spasm in her mouth, and she bowed and let her head lean in upon the lurid girl-flesh displayed for her. She smelt the warm musk of arousal, the tingling after-scent of Kia's piss, and her rational mind struggled with to understand how she wanted all this, even after all the wondering, the doubts and the curiosities and the final acquiescent hard-fought wisdom that, yes, she wanted other girls and yes, she didn't like boys and that eventually, finally, she would be queer, out and proud and her body would know the bodies of other girls, perhaps many of them, though one body and soul preoccupied and possessed her far above all the others; and through the four or five seconds it took her to bend her reverent way into the stranger's pussy, these voices stilled into silence as she realized, finally, she was going to have her first sexual contact with another woman; then her lips brushed the pearly-pink folds and parted them, slick mouth upon slick mouth, and her tongue snaked out and lapped at Kia's dewy core. The sexy punk swayed above her. Erica held on, fingers gripping the flexing hips, her mouth lapping away at the tangy drops of pee and arousal, the wet flesh expanding on her lips like a fleshy flower. Proudly her ears began to drink in the irrepressible building little moans and gasps of the girl she serviced.

It was not supposed to be like this; not here, in public, in a toilet stall, careless, vulgar, wanton. With a total stranger, probably both of them with assumed names. She wasn't even paying attention any longer for the sound of others. Her friends even could come in and catch her-- and what then? What could she say for herself, here, in a strange city, eating the bare cunt of a mean-looking goth sprite with a pierced nostril?

But her mouth was swallowed up in delicious pussy. For the first time. And now, she knew, this was forever, this taste, this love. Her hands wandered to the girl's taut little bottom, stroking, savoring, making memories. Kia dug a hand into Erica's head, helping balance Erica's mind. Her first, who probably she would never see again. A goddess on the prowl, stepped out perhaps from one of the wicked little photographs. Erica's tongue lapped warmly, her fingers stroking the taut ass cheeks, her mind swirling with thoughts of the dazzling photographs. How had this girl materialized before her, she wondered. Every moment now was precious. Conscience could rear its ugly head later, bitter and reproving. For now, Erica was a pagan devotee lost before her idol.

As her tongue began to lap the plump clitoral bud like all her secret research books had told her to, she imagined herself and this girl immortalized in another one of the stark, lascivious photographs on the museum wall. Erica, Piss Slave, No. 23. Then the two of them together, featured artists, receiving a crowd of admiring visitors. Each with a pierced and bared slave, on a leash. Girls in gleaming fetishwear. At her heel, her slave's burning face, tearful, shyly turning up, defeated before the revealing flash of the paparazzi. The face of--

****

"Where can she be?" Beth fretted wearily.

"She's not answering my text," said Jessica.

"Well she must still be here."

"Is there some sort of telecom?" asked Morgan. "Maybe they can page her for us."

"This isn't K-Mart," chided Jessica. This was a reference to an ancient gambit, from their junior year in high school, when Erica commandeered the service desk to flush Beth out of the Martha Stewart aisle.

"Well, maybe for an emergency there is," Beth pondered, "but surely this isn't one." She tapped the toe of her shoe. "I just hope she doesn't embarrass us. I mean, I don't want to have security drag her out of the bathroom with a melted Hershey's bar all over her face. I'd feel like a bad parent," she joked.

Morgan chortled, blushing. This was another piece of-- very ancient-- shared history.

"Well, it's not literally closing-time yet," Jessica pointed out.

"Actually I'm gonna stick my nose in the Cranach gallery just one more second--"

"But Beth," Jessica complained, "that's splitting up again."

"I'll be be right here within ear shot. I'll only be a sec--" she soothed, as she scattered off to bask in one more stolen moment of painterly rapture.

Almost as soon as she was gone from sight, Erica emerged from the stairwell at the opposite side of the atrium.

"Oh, Beth!" cried Morgan, only to have her sleeve jerked by Jessica, shushing her. "Sorry!" she whimpered.

"Oh god, where is she," groaned Erica, closing the distance with a slouchy gait. "Can't we go already?"

"She'll be right back, she's looking at something," explained Morgan.

"We'd been waiting for you. We were almost ready to send for the scouts," Jessica said.

"Yeah, where've you been? You look all wet," Morgan noted.

"Wet?" Erica blanched.

"Yeah, did you fall in the toilet or something?" teased Morgan. "You must've fallen in, that's what took you so long." She started to dance her version of the washing-machine. "Flushin' down the toilet, uhm . . . Uhm," she chanted, popping her elbows demurely'.

Erica rolled her eyes, then tossed her arms skyward for emphasis. "Quit dorking around. I washed my face, I was flushed is all."

"Oo-oo, why were you flushed? 'Cause you were gettin' all . . . mmhm, flushed down the toilet, yeah!" Morgan sang again, gyrating sedately.

"No, it's just--" Erica searched for an excuse. "You know, staring at all these nudey bits all day, it gets to you."

"Oh, I know what you mean," said Morgan sagely. "Yeah, there was this thing from the Renaissance upstairs with this naked guy and I was thinking, he's pretty fine you know, I mean like for a naked guy, not that I should be looking, just for art's sake and all, but he looks pretty buff, even though he's wearing this funny yellow hat and standing around with all these other guys dressed like monks and wearing little funny golden hats too, and then I was like, 'Duh, that naked guy's Jesus, that's a halo he's wearing' and then I realized how-- "

"Can we eat," Erica broke in. "I'm famished. Can you guys go for Chinese? Beth probably wants Thai but I can't stand the thought."

"You can have Chinese any day," said Morgan. "There's some really good Thai here, I hear." She giggled.

"If you're really starving, Thai would fill you better," Jessica added prudently.

"Not if I can't stand to eat it, it won't. I've had enough spice for one day," she said.

"Oh come on, can't you order mild--oh, here she comes!" Morgan sprang up on the balls of her feet and waved an arm. "All together!" she squealed in a loud whisper. Turning to Erica, she added, "It's not like you can call blueberry pancakes and maple syrup spicy, not really."

"Hey," Beth greeted them from afar. She picked up her step. "All ready, art-lovers? Let's get dinner. Anybody up for Chinese?"

"Oh yeah, that sounds good actually," enthused Morgan.

"I could go for that," added Jessica. Erica groaned reprovingly.

"What?" Jessica pouted. "The idea had a chance to grow on me."

As they treaded their way down the sun-bleached steps beneath the museum's main colonnade, Beth noted a diminutive girl ambling on the pavement at the bottom, looking up in their direction appraisingly like a cautious, green-coated raven. She saw that Erica fixed on her bemusedly. The girl had a sharp little grin, impudent and knowing, as though she had something to do with them. Eventually Beth caught the girl's look and furrowed her brow contemptuously. Shesaw how Erica was gazing at the girl. The stranger whisked out a sleek little camera and aimed it their way. Shot with a sudden bolt of irritation, Beth darted her eyes off to the side, as though it were not too late to avoid being captured. Glancing back, she caught Erica smiling. Her other friends seemed oblivious. As the four were almost at the bottom of the steps, the girl bobbed off, on her ridiculous boots, her camera sliding away into the purse.

As they strode up the sidewalk in the opposite direction, Erica turned and looked behind her at the retreating stranger. Beth noticed and was puzzled.

"What's the matter? You've never seen a fashion victim before?"

"Huh?" said Erica "Oh," said said thoughtfully, "I don't know, from the way she looked at us maybe she thought we were the fashion victims."

"That little hussy took our picture too!"

Erica snorted. "Call security then. You should be flattered, maybe she thought we were a fetching band of young tarts."

Beth laughed and tapped Erica's elbow. "Maybe I should be worried. You're attracting unwanted attention. The rest of us are classy ladies."

Morgan caught this last part and turned her head. "I try to be a lady, I really do. I hope someday I'll be a real lady."

Beth smiled. "Not you, silly head! This one," she said, whisking Erica's arm with the back of her fingers.