Date: Tue, 11 Sep 2012 04:13:04 +0100
From: Rob Armstrong <robarmstrong26@hotmail.co.uk>
Subject: Spike's Piercing Parlour: Part 1: New Customer

	     SPIKE'S PIERCING PARLOUR - PART ONE: NEW CUSTOMER

      THIS STORY CONTAINS THEMES OF INCEST BETWEEN A FATHER AND HIS 18 YR
OLD SON, AND WATERSPORTS.  THESE CHARACTERS EXIST IN AN AIDS FREE,
CONSEQUENCE FREE, FANTASY PARALLEL UNIVERSE AND ARE NOT TO BE EMULATED.


      Spike's Basement Tattoo Parlour on the lower East Side was well known
to the more underground elements of New York.  From outside it looked like
a regular dive business - wrought iron railings and steps down from street
level, complete with old-fashioned bell on the door.  Spike liked to keep
it old school.  Even out in the waiting room the joint didn't look any
different from others of its kind.  The work room itself was shabby but
clean, with a big old red leather barbershop chair dominating the space,
tattoo guns neatly stored and piercing tools in the sterilizer.

      But unknown to all but Spike's `special' customers was the fact that,
behind a curtain off of the work room, the place went back and back and
back.  Spike's sex dungeons were back there, and that was where various
theme nights were held throughout the month.

      Such nights were well subscribed to, and that was where Spike really
made his money - unsurprisingly, given Spike's own panting, eager
following.  The guy was an ex-marine, standing 6' 4", a bald-headed Italian
muscle bull with a deep Broncs growl who took no shit from no-one.  He
always kept a baseball bat under the desk -- if any wiseass hoodlum tried
to rob him he'd get that bat good, first over the skull and then up his
worthless, cherry cunt.

      He was kinda looking forward to it.

      The bell rang and Spike's last customers of the day arrived.  Spike
took in the pair and smiled inwardly.  He sent his token female
receptionist home for the day.  This was what he'd been waiting for all
week...

      The father and son were of blond, Scandinavian farming stock
although, Spike happened to know, NYC born and raised.

      Thorsten Larsen was an old buddy of his from the unit.  Beautifully
sculpted body, though not as massive as Spike himself, standing a couple
inches shorter and a hairy sonofabitch to boot.  The guy's chest was huge,
shown off by the tightest of black Tees, similar to what the tattooist
himself was wearing.  His body tapered to a trim waist, the Tee revealing
just a hint of flat, furry gut.  Powerful legs were clad in tight black
leather jeans.

      He was the picture of a hot leather daddy, head shaved to a spiky
blond Mohawk, porn star moustache, earring and leather wrist straps.

      His son, on the other hand, was a clean cut and utterly
clueless-looking high school jock.  Spike's mouth watered.  Square-jawed
and handsome like his dad, but with his hot, eighteen-year-old body
shamefully concealed beneath baggy skaterboy attire.  The kid sported a
nice pair of sideburns, always hot, but that blond shaggy mop would have to
go.  It was clear, even under those ridiculous clothes, that the boy was
built near as big as his dad - a real linebacker.

      The kid glanced round the waiting room wide-eyed, obviously
uncomfortable at his new surroundings, but he attempted to cover it with
the jock arrogance typical of any high school football star.  After all,
this was a straight boy who regularly got to fuck any girl he wanted.

      He eyeballed Spike insolently and tossed his head.

      `S'up?'

      Cocky little shit, he'd soon find out what was up.  Spike had to
suppress a grin.  Behind him the boy's dad gave Spike a lewd wink.  Spike's
tool boned up and started leaking into his sweats.

      They'd been planning this for months, the boy's dad and him, ever
since the kid turned eighteen and Thor Larsen had declared his son to be
now fair game.

      Spike ignored the kid and greeted his father instead.

      `S'up, Thor?'

      `Hey, Spike.  This here's my boy Clay.'

      Clay snorted.  `You two dudes, like, know each other?'

      `Sure, son, this is where I got my piercings done.'

      Thor and Spike had agreed not to let the boy know just how far back
they really went.  Back in the unit they had grown experienced together at
turning young recruits onto mansex and both knew that a straight boy, like
any young thoroughbred, could be high-strung and skittish.
Straight-whispering was a tricky art, especially when it was two older
studs getting all cosy with a younger guy.  Play it wrong, the guy would
smell a conspiracy a mile off and bolt before he could get saddled and
broken.

      Clay cracked a grin at the reference to his father's recent
jewellery.  He looked good with a smile, Spike decided, it made the kid
more likeable.

      Poor unsuspecting chump.

      `Yeah,' crowed Clay good-naturedly, `Dad's mid-life piercings...'



      When Clay's dad had quit the service and started spending more time
at home, the parents' marriage had gone south pretty fast.  Clay's mom had
departed for the other side of the country six months ago and neither he
nor his father missed her much.

      Almost as soon as she had split, Dad began totally restyling himself.
Having used his army skills to set up, self-employed, as an electrician, he
no longer needed to conform to either the army's idea of a dress code or a
wife's preferences, so he was pretty much free to express himself at last.

      Out went the standard work clothes - plaid shirts and loose dungarees
-- in came the skin tight flight suits that showed off his dad's
impressive body, zipper worn low, to show off the hairy mounds and ridges
of his torso... his still firm round ass and ample package clearly outlined
-- had Dad started going commando?  Off duty, he sported a series of ass
hugging jeans and muscle shirts.

      His army-regulation moustache soon grew out into a thick, luxuriant
brush.  His regular, soccer-dad haircut was shaved back into a punkdaddy
Mohawk that Clay hated, until one of the tattooed Goth skanks in Clay's
math class spotted him on his Harley and said that he was hot.

      The bitch was still a skank but she was right about Dad.  He did look
good - his makeover really suited him.
      Clay found himself looking at his dad with new eyes after that.  He
was proud of having a dad that girls his age thought hot.  A new warmth
blossomed between father and son, an easy camaraderie that had been absent
during the troubled marriage years.

      So much so, that Dad had become more relaxed about what he wore
around the house - after all, it was `guys only' in the apartment now.

      Time was that Dad would have gone directly from the shower to his
room, all wrapped up in his bathrobe, to dress straight away.  These days
he would just sling on a thin towel - set low around his hips, knotted
loosely - and lean in close over Clay while he sat struggling with homework
assignments at the kitchen table.  He was really helpful with trig -- who
knew that Dad was so smart?

      He would hover there, steam still evaporating from his hairy body,
idly rubbing his son's shoulder - or, fingers meshed in Clay's long hair,
gently massaging his scalp, tugging at the roots a little as he pointed out
solutions to his boy.

      Dad was cool as.  A fucking star.

      Clay couldn't figure where those thin, raggedy towels had come from,
though, the ones his dad wore out of the shower -- his mom would never
have let them in the house.  Some were so threadbare that he frequently got
glimpses of Dad's ass through the holes.  Then it occurred to him they may
be left over from Dad's service days and he felt some kinda sentimental
attachment to them - to a bunch of old towels!  Parents, go figure!

      Fridays, Dad would wish his son a good evening and head out to his
poker game.  For some reason on those occasions he always wore long black
leather riding boots and his black, shiny latex pants, so tight they looked
painted on.  They were low slung too.  Many was the time Clay would have to
warn his dad that he could see a good portion of his ass crack.
(Definitely commando.)  Dad would look round, smile mysteriously, thank
him... and draw them up... slowly... slowly... over his firm round ass.

      He really did have a fine ass, that couldn't be denied.  On colder
evenings he'd taken to wearing a short robe after his shower.  Clay would
often come home, just in time to find Dad... in that robe... bent over in
the living room, trying to fish something out from under the couch..

      ...his taut buns exposed beneath the terrylene hem...

      ... the dark crevice between them spread wide, for anyone to see...

      Stuff was always finding its way under that couch lately, it
seemed...

      Or on a ladder, reaching up to change a light bulb in the hallway,
his robe lifting at the front to reveal the tip of Dad's impressive junk.
He would ask Clay to come help steady the ladder.  It must have been a
bitch, because it always took him forever to screw those suckers in
right... those low hangers and that moist, cut head dangling inches from
Clay's face all the while...

      Clay was a little grossed out in the beginning.  He was too
embarrassed to mention it and always tried not to look.  But as things got
easier between them he figured, what the hell, it was nothing he wasn't
surrounded by in the locker room after practice every day.

      By now he was happy to admire his Dad's dick and ass, reassured that
the Larsen genes wouldn't give out on him when he was Dad's age.  It was
funny, but he started to enjoy the boldness of openly checking out his
dad...  so much that he would get an unfamiliar tingle deep in his
gut... and his dick would start to chub a little..

      Huh.  That was new...

      Even so he was still pretty startled when one morning he walked -
naked - into the narrow bathroom they both shared to relieve a massive
piss-hardon -- only to find his Dad shaving at the sink, wearing a
clinging brown Tee... but stark naked from the waist down.

      Clay was transfixed in the open doorway, unable to move.  It was an
incredible sight, even for a straight dude like Clay -- his father's
broad, strong back, tapering down through the V of his lat muscles to that
tight waist, only to flare outward again into a pair of bare, round
asscheeks, smooth skinned, dimpled by powerful glutes.  The T-shirt on his
upper body only served to make his bare butt look all the more
exposed... more naked...

      Clay remembered he himself was naked too... His dick... twitched...

      Dad paused in his shaving.  `Oh hi, Son,' he said, as easy as if
they'd both been kitted out for the Arctic, `Need to use the john?  Go
right ahead, don't mind me.'

      Clay muttered something incoherent, which he didn't understand
himself, and had to push past his father in the confined space to get to
the crapper.  It was unfortunate that, just as he was squeezing by, his
father happened to bend down to rinse his razor in the sink, thrusting out
his ass.

      Clay was kinda pinned against the wall as he edged by, his
piss-hardon dragged... slowly... right across the rock hard flesh of one of
his father's ass cheeks... into the hot, steaming cleft of his hairy
crack... and then up over the other cheek.  Clay gasped as his tool swung
free.  His piss-slit had ejected a little spurt of precum.  The fluid had
left a slick snail trail across his father's ass, running a little down the
rounded contours...

      Dad just carried on shaving.. little more hunched over... his ass
thrust out, pointed towards Clay and gyrating a little as he leaned in to
focus on those tricky-to-reach areas under the chin...

      He hadn't noticed!

      When Clay turned to the toilet bowl he found he couldn't piss.  His
dick was too hard!  Shit!  He stood there in excruciating silence while his
father shaved on behind him.

      `Can't go, huh?' his father commented breezily as he let the water
out of the basin, `Better jerk off first, piss hardons can be a doozy.'

      Clay looked round at him, stunned.  As casual as that?

      `I feel your pain, buddy,' Dad went on, checking his shave in the
mirror, `Matter of fact I could do with going myself.'

      Next thing his father shocked him even more by hauling his long, fat
cock into the empty basin and letting go a torrent of strong yellow piss.
He put his head back, sighing contentedly, enjoying the release and giving
a long wide yawn as the flood of piss ran on and on... Then he shook his
dickhead a couple of times, ran a finger over his slit to scoop up the last
drops and popped them in his mouth.

      `Hmmm,' he murmured appreciatively, and without another word turned
and left the bathroom, his firm ass wiggling as he disappeared out the
door.

      Clay just stood there, open-mouthed at what he'd just witnessed.

      When he turned back to the toilet bowl, he saw that his dick was soft
and dripping cum.  He'd splattered all over the seat and down his legs.

      He'd blown his load without touching himself...

      ... watching his dad piss...




      Spike and Thor grinned at each other across the parlour waiting room.
Behind Clay's back his father held eye contact with Spike and thrust out a
long, wet tongue, which he mimed drawing slowly up his own son's neck in a
lewd stroke that barely stopped short of touching him.

      The smirking young jock was completely oblivious.

      Spike had to clear his throat.  `So... what's it to be, fellas?  A
tattoo fuh the young quarterback?'

      `Yeahhhh...' replied Thor thoughtfully, as he fingered a nipple
piercing under his T-shirt for Spike's benefit, `Something like that...'

      Spike couldn't suppress a deep growl...

      This was gonna be good...


      END OF PART ONE