America slammed the bathroom door shut behind him and locked it, ragged breath amplified by the silence of the room. His knees were beginning to fail him. He tried to prop himself up against the door, but soon found himself sliding to the ground and onto his bottom. It didn't matter. He didn't need his legs.

Cheeks flushed and hands sweaty, the plain white T-shirt was quickly pulled off. His old bomber jacket had long ago been discarded, lying forgotten in some room America couldn't remember. The belt was quickly undone and his jeans found themselves suddenly unzipped. He wriggled; when did his pants become so tight and restrictive? They too were tossed aside with relish. Underneath, there was nothing but a pair of plain black boxers. A pair of boxers that had been stretched into a tent by aching arousal.

A hand snaked its way down his chest and past the waistband of his underwear, wrapping around his length and squeezing hard. America stuffed a fist into his mouth to stop himself from crying out. It wouldn't do to make too much noise. England was in America's bathroom upstairs and would come running if America wasn't careful about keeping his voice down.

He stopped, still panting and trembling at nothing. His eye fell on a single metal pipe lying directly across him. The place was a mess. Three days ago the sink to the guest bathroom had sprung a leak, and the floor had been flooded in a matter of hours. He'd been forced to shut off water to that part of the house. After nearly an hour of mopping and draining, he'd tried to see what the problem was, but couldn't for the life of him figure out how to fix things. Three days and he still hadn't called the damn plumber. Now England and he were forced to share a bathroom, at least until their latest World Conference was over and the other man could go home.

It wasn't important, though. He had no idea what had gotten him like this. He'd been perfectly fine all day, but then there had been a sudden heat spell that left England sticky and America panting like a dog. While England easily fixed his problem by taking a shower, no amount of cold beers could stop America's fire. It felt like he was being drowned in a sea of heat. The burn made its way not only outside, but inside America's body as well. He'd felt himself getting hotter and hotter, uncomfortable and horny and desperate and he'd very soon found himself running off to find privacy.

His length seemed to be communicating with his hands without prior notice to his brain. His right hand moved on its own accord, stroking up and down softly, as though America was afraid of the pleasure he could bring himself. In a way, he was. He was a young nation despite his appearance after all, and although this had not been his first time giving pleasure to himself, the very act still came with a giddy thrill at the wrongness of what he was doing.

His grip tightened as his cock began to harden some more. The tightness of his underwear was beginning to lose is pleasantness. Taking a deep breath, he freed himself of his cotton prison and shuddered. In the cold it seemed like the heat in his groin was intensified.

A keening whine escaped him as he dragged his fingers along the length of his cock, tracing sensitive veins and nails digging into the skin. Sweat running down his temple, he ran his other hand along his torso without much thought, fingers trailing around a pert pink nipple. He squeezed the nub harshly, mewling when it twisted and stirred something in his vital regions.

He dragged the foreskin back, choking slightly on his own saliva as he forced his head to show itself. It was flushed a deep, dark red; so red it was almost brown. His cock was thick, he noted, and that made it a bit difficult to stroke. It was easy to squeeze, though, and America did just that. He'd feel perfect in a nice tight hole.

Pre-cum was beginning to appear, to his fascination. He was still a novice at matters such as these, and he was still in the process of studying himself fully. It was shameful, really, for one as old as he. It wasn't as though he was a human teenager or something. Still, he had never really given it much thought beyond the occasional jack-off during a shower. It was only recently that he'd begun to experiment, following a well timed but casual remark from France.

He was almost completely hard now. For a moment, he released his throbbing penis to palm his balls, rolling and squeezing and massaging and caressing. Once or twice he'd squeeze hard enough for it to be almost painful, but that only made it feel all the better.

His other hand wormed under his ass. He'd only discovered this the other week, but being fingered added an extra edge to masturbation. A finger pressed against his entrance. He didn't need lube, not for just his fingers, anyway. He was America, the hero. It only really started to hurt when there were more fingers than three. That's when he'd need to break out the Vaseline.

The finger pushed all the way in, followed impatiently by a second and a third. It really didn't hurt much. It felt pretty good, though, and he began to thrust inexpertly into himself. It would be nice if somebody else could do it for him. He made do, though, and at the same time his right hand began to stroke his cock in rhythm with his finger-fucking.

He kept at it, but for some strange reason and to his growing frustration, it didn't seem to be getting anywhere. It must have been that sudden bout of heat from earlier that made him suddenly crave more, crave something that would probably haunt his dreams for months.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. The heat in his belly was eating him alive and threatening to scorch him into oblivion. He was melting into a pool of desire and just touching himself like this would not bring his release. What could he do? What could help him now?

Panting harshly, he cast about the room for something that could pleasure him somehow. His gaze once again fell upon the old metal pipe. He regarded it, hands still pumping, although slightly slower now. Perhaps he could do something.

The hand that was not in his ass reached out blindly, wrapping around the cool metal and dragging it toward him with a horrible scraping sound. He lifted it to his face to inspect it properly. His glasses were foggy and didn't help much, but he could tell that the pipe was sort of big. Two, maybe three inches in circumference and about a foot in length.

He shivered involuntarily, wondering if this was wrong even by European standards. France, he knew, could think of much kinkier things than this. Still, the evil glint the bar of metal was giving off made America want to use it.

He brought it close to his lips, but paused suddenly. A thought occurring to him, he reached out first to wipe the pipe haphazardly against the shirt on the ground. The pipe had, after all, been lying there for a while. A little voice that sounded like England told him that that wasn't nearly enough, that he should sterilize the thing first with anti-bacterial soap and penicillin, but America had no time for that and decided that this would have to be enough. He was a nation after all, and had survived much worse.

The pipe once again found its way to his lips, and with a soft intake of breath, a warm pink tongue darted out to taste. It was cold and didn't taste of anything; America had, though, been expecting that and decided not to pay it mind.

Slowly, he ran his tongue along the metal, eyes slipping shut and salivary glands kicking into overdrive. His imagination did not provide him with any wild fantasies. The thought of stainless steel was enough for him, and the end of the pipe was soon engulfed into a waiting mouth.

What he wanted the most was to be able to swallow it whole; swallow it like he'd seen the sword-eaters do that time England took him to a carnival. Back then, of course, he never would have imagined he'd want the skill for this of all things, but at the moment nothing seemed better. One attempt, however, had America gagging and fighting the urge to cough. With a disappointed groan, he pulled the pipe from his lips. Looked like he still wasn't ready for that quite yet.

Licking it was going to take too long. There was no water in this bathroom and all the lotions and soaps and shampoos had been moved out when the plumbing problems started. He glanced down at his weeping cock and frowned. He wanted it now, but how would he manage to pull it off without making things more painful than they had to be?

Pre-cum was practically dripping from his cock and onto the floor. That was unusual. A thought crossed America's mind. Would this do? He reached out a finger to draw through the drops on the floor. It seemed viscous enough; perhaps he'd be able to do it after all. Absently, the finger made its way to his mouth. He licked it thoughtfully. Yes. It could work.

He wrapped his hand around his cock once again, pumping up and down harshly a few times to get the flow going even stronger. He gathered a bit in his fingers and slathered it across whatever parts of the pipe he could. Once, he tried to drag it against the head of his cock directly, but the freezing, hard metal opening up the slit in his cock was far too intense and made him nearly come right there. Fingers were the only way to go, then. It was tedious, but the job got done soon enough.

With another shuddering breath, America brought the pipe to his ass, getting onto his hands and knees to get at a better angle. He had already begun to tighten a little bit, but he pressed on nonetheless. The end of the pipe bumped up against his entrance. He nearly lost his nerve, but he'd gone too far to turn back. He would explode if he didn't get his fix now. Steeling his resolve, he took a deep breath and pushed the pipe in.

Almost immediately, his body began to work to reject it. Although his mouth had warmed the pipe up a little, it still felt like a solid bar of ice compared to the heat at his core. He bit back a whimper as his muscles contracted, and grit his teeth to push the pipe in further.

It was about halfway in. He stopped, panting harshly and gasping for breath. Still he constricted and pulsed around it. It felt so strange. So, so strange. But America loved it in some twisted way, and his cock had gotten swollen and wept harder as though he did not have a foot-long pipe stuck up his ass. His grip tightened around the metal. Hand holding it steady, he began to rock gently back and forth.

It was possibly the best he'd ever felt. Cold, cruel metal slid into him and back out, deeper and deeper each time. More than once America felt the pipe approaching his prostate, although it never quite reached it. Perhaps he needed it in deeper. He bent the arm he was supporting himself with, lowering his torso until his cheek rested on the floor. Sprawled haphazardly with his ass in the air, the pipe went in until what felt like all the way to his throat. It was heated up now to match his body temperature, although it felt even warmer. Scorching, and impossibly hard.

He rocked back again, this time more violently. At the same time, his hand jerked forward, making his toy brush against his prostate properly. America saw stars. Stars, and stripes. It was fantastic.

The pipe drew out almost all the way and back in with a vengeance, hitting his prostate dead-on and making him scream into the tiles. There would be no stopping now; heaven had shown itself to him and he would milk it for all it was worth. Figuratively speaking.

He was beginning to build up a steady rhythm now. America wondered what it would be like to do this for real, with another man. Would it be this good? Would it be even better? The second sounded more likely, although hazy thoughts reminded him that he wouldn't have liked to give up his pipe either. Not every phallus was the same, after all, and America mentally came to a compromise. Perhaps he'd set aside his inhibitions and give real men a try, as long as they knew how to handle his toys. A man who knew his way around an icy metal pipe, perhaps.

His breathing was almost as loud as his moans. His hand moved erratically, thrusting harder and harder each time. His aim was beginning to falter, although it hardly mattered anymore. He was close.

A lucky hit managed to slam into his prostate again, and this time America really did scream. He screamed his throat raw, in fact, as an orgasm presented itself without warning. Back arching until it felt like breaking, America felt his eyes roll back and fingers scrape against the tiles in rapture. Cum splattered against the floor with rather explosive force, splashing back against his skin and onto his chin. His knees gave way. He hadn't even had to touch himself.

He slumped onto the ground and into his own juices, pipe still sticking out of him. Wearily, he removed it and tossed it aside with a clatter. He felt like sleeping. That wouldn't be a good idea, though, he imagined. If he fell asleep in a pool of semen he might wake up stuck to the floor.

There was a knock on the door and America groaned. It was a good thing he'd locked it, if only to stop England from coming in to see what all the yelling had been about. That would make for an interesting series of events. What would the old man think about finding America like this? If he was unlucky, he'd be referred to a therapist. If he wasn't, he might end up learning a few things.

Now wasn't the time, though. America called out, voice cracking slightly as he told England that he'd just been startled because of a ghost and he was fine, and could England maybe head out for some take-out while he was up? At least that way America would be able to dart back to his own room to clean up, and maybe hide the evidence with England none the wiser.

To his relief, there was a grumble and the voice faded away. He listened for a bit more, pricking his ears for footsteps until a door finally slammed shut in the distance. He sighed, dragging himself to his feet and collecting his clothing.

This had certainly been interesting. Much better than plain old fingers, at any rate. Perhaps he should take a bit of time off the video games to explore a different kind of play. Maybe he could pick up something useful from a country older than himself. Germany had a leather fetish, didn't he? India had a famous sex book or something, and Japan was an irredeemable pervert. It would not be difficult to study a bit.

He opened the door cautiously, peeking out to make sure England wasn't around. His abused entrance was already beginning to heal. He'd probably be back to normal by the time his guest got back with dinner.

He paused, turning to eye the pipe he'd raped himself with just a few moments ago. Crossing the room in a few short strides, he bent over to pick it up, wincing a bit as he straightened. This pipe was definitely something worth exploring further. With time, it could even become his new best friend. He'd keep this. Carry it around with him, maybe. Hide it under his jacket.

He jogged out of the bathroom and up the stairs to get to his closet. A grin split his face in two. America had learned something new, and it wouldn't take long before he managed to become a superpower in this field as well. Him, and a used metal pipe.

Perhaps Russia had the right idea after all.