People think that the lives of Doms and subs are an unending narrative of leather and the lash and orgasms beyond number. You get this idea from reading stylized and fantastical tales of chateaus with hidden rooms paneled in wood and lit by candlelight, populated by mysterious men with indecipherable European accents (though their English is flawless) surrounding beautiful captive women whose thoughts and lusts are all centered on pleasuring their Masters. It is a nice fantasy, but the truth is a little less glamorous.
As for myself, I'm not the commanding presence you see in the books, either, with unspoken wealth and connections to a whole cabal of like-minded fellows who don't think twice about binding and fucking their subs in front of each other, and then passing them around like wine at a tasting. To tell the truth, I'm a little insecure about the whole thing, especially because I'm not Sally's first Dom. And even though she's told me something about the others, in my imagination they still all have trim Van Dyke beards and impeccable smoking jackets, using the crop only when the force of their strong wills isn't quite enough. Or just because the mood takes them. As much as I'd like to join their ranks, I'm not suited to the role (for one thing, I speak only one foreign language, and that one none too well).
So I wasn't quite sure what to say when Sally first broached the subject of fisting. My first instinct was that I really wanted to try it. Naturally I didn't say so; even with the life Sally and I were leading, with plenty of extreme sex, including but not limited to bondage, spanking, and sodomy, fisting seemed beyond the pale. You could make the argument that any organ that can expand to produce the head of a baby should well be able to make room for a hand, even one belonging to a longshoreman, let alone that of a fellow who spends most of the day at his keyboard. But it's not that simple, and Sally didn't have to tell me why for me to understand the difference.
So we talked about it for a little while, and then moved on to other topics, and then started kissing and touching each other (even Doms and subs neck like teenagers; it's not all cuffs and crops). But I couldn't forget the conversation, and Sally knew that, and pulled away and gave me her crooked smile and said, "Is there something on your mind, Master?" By now I knew her well enough to know that she was waiting for me to take the initiative, so I nodded and breathed deeply and said, "I want to fist you."
"I know," she said. "Give me a few minutes." She rose from the couch and padded away, and in a moment I heard her peeing and then water running in the sink, and I picked up a magazine she apparently had lifted from the dentist's office. I was halfway through an article on the great estates of North Dakota when she called my name.
I found her on the bed, nude but for a cropped tank top that gnomically read 'Everything' across her breasts. I paused to look at her, her pale skin, the thick tangle of soft black hair on her pussy (Sally shaves only when she feels like it). The sight of her never fails to excite me, up to and including the birthmark on her hip, which is the color of raspberry wine.
We smiled at each other for a moment, and then I knelt on the bed between her legs and pushed them apart. I dipped down my head to taste her. I like to eat pussy. No, I love it. The taste, texture, smell...all of it. I like wresting moans from my girl, so much so that I tend to dive in rather than take my time. This suits Sally, who gets impatient with gentle trailing kisses; she wants her cunt eaten and hard (and, in all modesty, I do this rather well!). I settled in between Sally's legs and began to feed, greedily chewing and sucking, and Sally's hips rolled beneath me. She let out a long, soft groan and her belly began to ripple. I reached up and took a breast and rolled it under my hand, kneading it, and Sally put her arms over her and wrapped her fingers around the spindles of the headboard.
The only problem with eating pussy is that the human neck isn't really designed to hold that strange angle for too long. I let Sally cum once (she does this loudly and with gusto--it took me a while, early on, to realize that she wasn't faking it but letting herself go {someday I'll write a story about how she looks when she cums, her eyes narrowed, her mouth open, red-faced and already looking forward to next orgasm while riding out the current one}) and then raised myself over her. I locked my mouth on hers hard and slid two fingers into her cunt, slowly fucking her. She pulled her mouth from mine and licked my face like a cat, her wet saliva smearing across my cheeks and lips. Our mouths came together again and now our kiss was slower and deeper while my fingers probed, her pussy clenching rhythmically around them, drawing them deeper.
I was reluctant to break away, kissing Sally being one of the chief pleasures in life, but I needed a better position (with Sally I had learned that sex--good sex--is all about angles). I slipped my hand from her and set myself between her legs. I reached for the lube, which she had thoughtfully set on the bedside table, and covered my hand thoroughly, and then slowly slid three fingers back into her, with tip of my thumb making slow circles on her clit. Sally sighed and settled back on the pillows, one leg crooked up and resting against my torso, her other foot propped on my knee. For a moment I was tempted to tickle her--we'd had a couple of evenings of 'Tickle Torture' and I liked hearing Sally curse and make dire threats upon my person, my family, and my dog--but tonight I needed her to relax rather than otherwise.
The thing about fisting is that it is a very slow process. Perhaps there are some contortionist women with perfect muscle control out in the world, ladies who can expand and contract the muscles of their cunts with the freedom of a child playing with rubber bands, but I have never met them. I kept a slow and steady pressure with my fingers and used my free hand to rub Sally's belly, which rose and fell with her long, soft groans as my fingers burrowed deeper. From time to time I looked at Sally's face. Her eyes were hooded as she watched my hand, correlating its movements with what she felt between her legs. Once she raised her eyes to mine and we simply looked at each other, our gaze broken only when my fingers opened her a little more (or her pussy opened to me) and her eyes fell shut as her body spasmed around me.
Three fingers, and then four...and I folded my thumb into the spear-point of my fingers, and the pattern continued, Sally opening and contracting, opening and contracting...with my other hand I stroked her clit and Sally purred and pulled her legs up toward her, splaying them so they were arranged like a butterfly's wings...and the knuckles of my hand were lodged against the inner labia of her pussy, which were thick and purple and glistening with the lube and her wet...now I pushed harder, and Sally pushed against me, her moans turning to cries, and as I thought that maybe we couldn't do it, it was too much, my hand suddenly slid into her...
...and we stayed frozen for a moment. I watched Sally's face, which was still, the mouth slack, the corner shining a little with saliva. Her eyes opened slowly and she looked at me and then down between her legs and breathed, "Well."
I carefully closed my hand, feeling her cunt contract around me. I kept it still so that Sally could get used to having it inside her, and leaned forward to take her clit in my mouth, gently sucking it, and Sally sighed and shifted a bit and murmured something I didn't understand. I reached up with my free hand to stroke her cheek and she closed her eyes and nuzzled against it, and I marvelled at her endless appetites and mysteries and wondered (for the thousandth time) how I'd been so lucky to end up with her.
Between her third and fourth orgasms, Sally grinned and reached for the camera she kept on the bedside table. It's rather a good picture, with her bare foot still propped on my knee, my wrist disappearing into the thick patch of her pubic hair, the gentle rise of her belly, and the slogan on her top, 'Everything,' printed upside down.
As for myself, I'm not the commanding presence you see in the books, either, with unspoken wealth and connections to a whole cabal of like-minded fellows who don't think twice about binding and fucking their subs in front of each other, and then passing them around like wine at a tasting. To tell the truth, I'm a little insecure about the whole thing, especially because I'm not Sally's first Dom. And even though she's told me something about the others, in my imagination they still all have trim Van Dyke beards and impeccable smoking jackets, using the crop only when the force of their strong wills isn't quite enough. Or just because the mood takes them. As much as I'd like to join their ranks, I'm not suited to the role (for one thing, I speak only one foreign language, and that one none too well).
So I wasn't quite sure what to say when Sally first broached the subject of fisting. My first instinct was that I really wanted to try it. Naturally I didn't say so; even with the life Sally and I were leading, with plenty of extreme sex, including but not limited to bondage, spanking, and sodomy, fisting seemed beyond the pale. You could make the argument that any organ that can expand to produce the head of a baby should well be able to make room for a hand, even one belonging to a longshoreman, let alone that of a fellow who spends most of the day at his keyboard. But it's not that simple, and Sally didn't have to tell me why for me to understand the difference.
So we talked about it for a little while, and then moved on to other topics, and then started kissing and touching each other (even Doms and subs neck like teenagers; it's not all cuffs and crops). But I couldn't forget the conversation, and Sally knew that, and pulled away and gave me her crooked smile and said, "Is there something on your mind, Master?" By now I knew her well enough to know that she was waiting for me to take the initiative, so I nodded and breathed deeply and said, "I want to fist you."
"I know," she said. "Give me a few minutes." She rose from the couch and padded away, and in a moment I heard her peeing and then water running in the sink, and I picked up a magazine she apparently had lifted from the dentist's office. I was halfway through an article on the great estates of North Dakota when she called my name.
I found her on the bed, nude but for a cropped tank top that gnomically read 'Everything' across her breasts. I paused to look at her, her pale skin, the thick tangle of soft black hair on her pussy (Sally shaves only when she feels like it). The sight of her never fails to excite me, up to and including the birthmark on her hip, which is the color of raspberry wine.
We smiled at each other for a moment, and then I knelt on the bed between her legs and pushed them apart. I dipped down my head to taste her. I like to eat pussy. No, I love it. The taste, texture, smell...all of it. I like wresting moans from my girl, so much so that I tend to dive in rather than take my time. This suits Sally, who gets impatient with gentle trailing kisses; she wants her cunt eaten and hard (and, in all modesty, I do this rather well!). I settled in between Sally's legs and began to feed, greedily chewing and sucking, and Sally's hips rolled beneath me. She let out a long, soft groan and her belly began to ripple. I reached up and took a breast and rolled it under my hand, kneading it, and Sally put her arms over her and wrapped her fingers around the spindles of the headboard.
The only problem with eating pussy is that the human neck isn't really designed to hold that strange angle for too long. I let Sally cum once (she does this loudly and with gusto--it took me a while, early on, to realize that she wasn't faking it but letting herself go {someday I'll write a story about how she looks when she cums, her eyes narrowed, her mouth open, red-faced and already looking forward to next orgasm while riding out the current one}) and then raised myself over her. I locked my mouth on hers hard and slid two fingers into her cunt, slowly fucking her. She pulled her mouth from mine and licked my face like a cat, her wet saliva smearing across my cheeks and lips. Our mouths came together again and now our kiss was slower and deeper while my fingers probed, her pussy clenching rhythmically around them, drawing them deeper.
I was reluctant to break away, kissing Sally being one of the chief pleasures in life, but I needed a better position (with Sally I had learned that sex--good sex--is all about angles). I slipped my hand from her and set myself between her legs. I reached for the lube, which she had thoughtfully set on the bedside table, and covered my hand thoroughly, and then slowly slid three fingers back into her, with tip of my thumb making slow circles on her clit. Sally sighed and settled back on the pillows, one leg crooked up and resting against my torso, her other foot propped on my knee. For a moment I was tempted to tickle her--we'd had a couple of evenings of 'Tickle Torture' and I liked hearing Sally curse and make dire threats upon my person, my family, and my dog--but tonight I needed her to relax rather than otherwise.
The thing about fisting is that it is a very slow process. Perhaps there are some contortionist women with perfect muscle control out in the world, ladies who can expand and contract the muscles of their cunts with the freedom of a child playing with rubber bands, but I have never met them. I kept a slow and steady pressure with my fingers and used my free hand to rub Sally's belly, which rose and fell with her long, soft groans as my fingers burrowed deeper. From time to time I looked at Sally's face. Her eyes were hooded as she watched my hand, correlating its movements with what she felt between her legs. Once she raised her eyes to mine and we simply looked at each other, our gaze broken only when my fingers opened her a little more (or her pussy opened to me) and her eyes fell shut as her body spasmed around me.
Three fingers, and then four...and I folded my thumb into the spear-point of my fingers, and the pattern continued, Sally opening and contracting, opening and contracting...with my other hand I stroked her clit and Sally purred and pulled her legs up toward her, splaying them so they were arranged like a butterfly's wings...and the knuckles of my hand were lodged against the inner labia of her pussy, which were thick and purple and glistening with the lube and her wet...now I pushed harder, and Sally pushed against me, her moans turning to cries, and as I thought that maybe we couldn't do it, it was too much, my hand suddenly slid into her...
...and we stayed frozen for a moment. I watched Sally's face, which was still, the mouth slack, the corner shining a little with saliva. Her eyes opened slowly and she looked at me and then down between her legs and breathed, "Well."
I carefully closed my hand, feeling her cunt contract around me. I kept it still so that Sally could get used to having it inside her, and leaned forward to take her clit in my mouth, gently sucking it, and Sally sighed and shifted a bit and murmured something I didn't understand. I reached up with my free hand to stroke her cheek and she closed her eyes and nuzzled against it, and I marvelled at her endless appetites and mysteries and wondered (for the thousandth time) how I'd been so lucky to end up with her.
Between her third and fourth orgasms, Sally grinned and reached for the camera she kept on the bedside table. It's rather a good picture, with her bare foot still propped on my knee, my wrist disappearing into the thick patch of her pubic hair, the gentle rise of her belly, and the slogan on her top, 'Everything,' printed upside down.
