I don’t recall which of us first expressed our shared desire but Proctor liked the idea as much as me. He said he had always wanted a Prince Albert and once that was clear he couldn’t submit soon enough.
I confess I was slightly taken aback, especially once I realised who was going to pay for it.
A further shock was discovering just how much it would cost. Proctor thought all this rather academic. He assured me it was only fitting I paid since he was enduring the pain and some sort of double-edged humiliation.
Before I knew it my fantasy was fast heading towards reality. I was virtually dragged down to Granville by a Caribbean boy on a mission and obviously keen to accomplish it before ‘Daddy’ reconsidered.
I know now I wasn’t properly fulfilling the role I had unwittingly accepted. Proctor liked calling me Daddy. Unwisely I hadn’t objected, but I was meant to be a rather more authoritarian father figure than came naturally to me.
In fact, I have not the slightest inclination towards fatherly roles and should have seen the warning signs.
Proctor’s dream daddy would not have caved in to his pressing demands. He would have rebuked this up-start boy; punished him with conditional promises of imposing the piercing at his leisure.
Standing before the dark entrance of a tattoo and piercing parlour we were on the threshold of new dynamics in our young relationship. It would cost me dearly in the weeks to come.
Ask me the name of the parlour and I will admit, like most things associated with Proctor, I have erased it from memory. Perhaps I should be alarmed, perhaps a little ashamed at the selective recollections I do retain. I recall the place was very popular, particularly with trendy teenage girls either holding their best friend’s hand or trailing along compliant boyfriends.
I wondered what they might have thought of us, holding hands like them and staring through the breath-smeared glass of cock ring cabinets.
It didn’t take long for Proctor to select the biggest, thickest and, need I say, most expensive Prince Albert. He eagerly signed the waiver form as I, with less enthusiasm, signed the Visa slip.
We settled down to watch the girls go by, intrigued as to their various choice of ring sites, pre-marked in ink, and wondering how long before they re-emerged from one of the back rooms.
Suddenly a burly black woman, who clearly knew her stuff, snatched Proctor away from me. I relaxed back in to my bench confident there was sufficient rap music, or failing that the excited chatter of young women, to mask any unsettling sounds from out back.
This temporary relief was another oversight, a further indication of my muddled understanding of Daddy’s role. No sooner had Proctor disappeared than he returned, proudly declaring there were no objections from the big lady to my presence during her service.
I was a little surprised to realise I rather relished the idea of being witness to this unusual surgery. I was also intrigued to know exactly how it was performed. I didn’t have to wait long to learn it is without anaesthetic and requires considerable physical force involving the insertion of a sharp, very sharp, surgical tool in a pre-marked spot.
Proctor was a very good boy. He followed the big lady’s instructions submissively as to breath control and muffling his cries as she plunged cold steel through his dick with remarkable speed and, I have to say on the basis of later examination, total accuracy.
I felt no inclination to hold his hand through his ordeal and have never figured out whether that went in my favour at the time or was an early indication of inevitable failure to come. To use Proctor’s words, it’s all rather academic now.
There was very little blood and a nice big shiny addition to Proctor’s already ample cock.
I didn’t feel much, beyond a burgeoning excitement at the prospect of new dimensions to love making. Proctor began to wince a bit and I suggested he might like a beer before we went home. I know now, had I been half the man he wanted, I should have marched him straight there and poured beer over his member instead of letting him sip it on the sunlit patio of The Fountainhead.
Making love was never quite the same. In truth I think it more accurate to acknowledge that lust had always played centre stage in the consummation of our relationship.
Heavy metal hanging from one’s manhood gives hardcore extra zest, or that at least was our experience. There are of course a few added risks depending on just how many accoutrements one takes to bed. At times I worried we might become inextricably chain linked, requiring the embarrassing services of a surgeon or Vancouver’s Fire Department.
But all in all it was a fascinatingly new experience and greatly increased my hands-on knowledge as to the strength and durability of human tissue.
Whatever benefits temporarily enhanced our sex life failed to do the same for the relationship. My new handle on Proctor was only flesh deep. I wasn’t getting to grips with the tortuous convolutions of his submissive mind.
Although initially my body weight could subdue physical rebellion I lacked any proper sadistic credentials to feed his fantasies. I soon learned the bitter lesson of a failed father.
Once daddy doesn’t deliver he starts becoming an object of contempt. Desperately Proctor tried to provoke and the more he failed the harder and more violently he tried.
As his respect diminished I started to learn the harsh lesson of role reversal. Finally, the night Proctor had me by the throat I knew the play was over. There is something weird about staring into the contorted face of a man blocking your windpipe.
Slipping into a faint, deliriously I recalled a dark door on Granville. A big woman moved towards me, then everything went black.