Month of madness 1 — the fisting

I forgot it was my two-year blog anniversary (got caught up contemplating closing this site when some days only nine readers pay a visit, but anyway, that’s an internal philosophical argument and battle of the ego for next month). To celebrate — and because circumstances early in the month allowed — I vowed to say yes to every reasonable* opportunity and see what happens.

I need to eat my words regarding the doubts I had about NZ and his cock. We snuck away from our respective workplaces early one afternoon and spent a few joyous and relaxing hours fucking in a hotel room. He confirmed the date, booked the venue and arrived first to welcome me — appreciated gestures after a harried day at work and to quell the voices of doubt I was experiencing.

NZ has an accent influenced by time spent in several countries, with a slight touch of plum-in-mouth, proper English. Hearing him say, “So, would you like to be fucked now?” in clipped upper-class tones made me laugh but didn’t stop me from saying yes quickly. We started in the missionary position and sprawled over the middle of the bed, wondering what to do with all the available space after two bouts in his car. Pinning me down, parting my legs and entering me was a damn fine start. He thrusted gently until I wrapped my legs around him and encouraged him to go as hard as he wanted. I sometimes don’t know much, but one thing I’m sure of is that I won’t break from penetration.

He was tactile in craving skin-on-skin contact and gripped and pulled me as close as he could as he neared orgasm, and nothing but a layer of sweat separated all our limbs when he came. He collapsed on me and I held him as he recovered.

I nestled into his chest and we laid about on the bed chatting. From nowhere he said, “Would you like me to fist you?” I replied, “Um,” while urging my brain to process his simple yes/no question. One part of my mind said that I needed to prepare mentally for such a stunt, while the other part said to throw caution to the wind. The latter won in the spirit of the month of madness.

I had brought a zip-lock baggie of lubes of the world and tossed him the silicone variety (he doesn’t know me well enough yet to learn about my Crisco research). I began to doubt the sanity of my decision when he removed the entire lid and poured the lube into his hand in preparation for serious activity. I kissed him nervously and laid back with an air of false bravado while my fingers clenched the bed covers.

He fingered and probed and explored and I felt relaxed and open when he was penetrating with pointed fingers. He started massaging my clit with the flat part of the thumb of his other hand and I felt an orgasm building. My reverie was interrupted when he said that I seemed to be enjoying myself. I confirmed his observation and opened my eyes to see his forearm moving between my legs. Fuck!

“Your whole hand is in there!”

“Yes. Didn’t you know?”

“No,” I squeaked.

I wondered if he thought I was a secret rampaging fisting queen playing an innocent act or had a saggy, baggy vagina that could take a human hand with room to spare. He applied more pressure to my clitoral area as he fucked me with his hand and I came while seemingly levitating somewhere near the ceiling. He relaxed the pressure and thrusting to allow me to relax a little and re-applied the treatment until I was an orgasming, giggling wreck again.

“You seemed to enjoy that,” he said as I returned to earth.

“Yeeeeeahhh yeee ha ha ha ha eeeee mmmmm, um, yes!”

Later, as our faculties returned and we had about half an hour left together, he asked if I’d go down on him. I moved into position and rubbed his cock with my hand until he was hard, but the room had gone quiet and he was squirming into the movements with his head back and eyes closed so I continued the gentle pressure and tempo and he came with a dribble of semen down his cock. I was caught by surprise as I can’t remember the last time I got a man off with my hand alone, but whatever I did worked for him.

We showered and returned to civilisation with the intent of getting together again before he goes overseas in a couple of weeks.

*Reasonable is based purely on my definition and mood at the time, but definitely does not include 18-year-olds who call at the last moment, late-night booty callers whose numbers have been previously deleted from my phone, or anyone or anything else that annoys me at the time.


Fucking to forget

Some unexpected and distressing news about an immediate family member was received and in the past few days I’ve struggled from helpless crying into wallowing in denial and crawling towards a listless imitation of life while tests are run and experts make diagnoses and the ground we stand on is shaking uncontrollably.

The illusion of having control over life is strongest when the passage is smooth. Sure, setting goals and making decisions can influence life’s direction, but bad tidings can arrive without warning and with enough stealthy force to warp every perception before the moment the information was delivered. What was enjoyable yesterday is suddenly frivolous and pointless; the pursuit of pleasure was enlivening and spirit raising but is now tainted with guilt; and what am I doing masquerading as a modern-day libertine when, just over there, someone might be dying? Who the fuck do I think I am?

Literally a few minutes before life became gravely serious I had made a hotel booking to meet Jekyll the following day. After thoughts finished crashing between hiding in denial and screaming internally in defensive Fuck it! I still have to live! I confirmed the booking and gave myself permission to seek some temporary oblivion.

Our needs were mismatched from the start. He wanted as much as we could squeeze into the handful of hours, in as many different ways and with memory banks filled with impressions to last until next time. My ambitions were fewer: to live a different life for a while, to forget and to see if my sense of entitlement could overrule my sapping guilt and fear.

He wanted to discuss, probe, be overtaken by lust when hearing me say what I wanted to do with him. I was surly and didn’t want to talk. He tried to pinch my PMT-sensitive nipples to invoke giddy reactions and I wasn’t in the mood to play the lusty nymph. He wanted the full acrobatic display with all orifices stretched to their limits and I needed a firm, uncomplicated fuck.

I got my legs-in-the-air, head-smacking-into-the-bedboard fucking but a voice crept into my head among the ruckus, saying that the least likely time I’ll find abandon is when I’m seeking it. Oblivion only comes when it’s not coaxed or craved or needed.

What does the fucking voice know? I challenged. I’ll throw more bait and surely it’ll erase the distracted mental jumble. I teased the voice with Jekyll’s hand in my cunt, fucking me with his fist and with a good-sized dildo partially inserted in my anus – further and harder than we’ve gone before. I experienced everything from the objective perspective of an observer and stagnated in the nowhere land between sensory overload and orgasm. I added a vibe to my clit and became only more conscious that I couldn’t clear my mental slate enough to find some desired moments of sweet, sparkling nothingness.

He fucked my lubed and prepared arse with what would normally be an overawing pounding and my body took the lot. There was one moment I warned of looming sensory overload: he upped the tempo and perversely my body relished the harsher treatment and is making me pay for it today.

He came again, we showered and returned to our respective realities. I don’t know how I feel, apart from some general awareness of bruises and muscular aches, which isn’t answering the question I just asked myself. Still empty inside, I suppose, and fucking didn’t fill the void temporarily.

That was a brief intermission

I ache. My mouth protests at pronouncing words containing an ‘O’, although it held that shape faithfully many times. My inner thighs and backside are pock-marked with bruises and the vertical crease between my eyes is longer and deeper from frowning when he ignored my pre-menstrual sensitivity. My lower spine is surprisingly limber considering the corkscrews it formed to hide my buttocks from his gnashing teeth.

My quadriceps muscles feel like the overtired workers of a long run, but I didn’t travel further than his ensuite. Confusing. I fucked him from behind with the strap-on; perhaps maintaining balance and some semblance of control wiped more strength from my legs than I’m crediting them for.

My anus is bouncing back, so to speak, after his playful warm-up tonguing, determined fingerings and a final fucking when I said I couldn’t, really couldn’t, take another battering. My body betrayed my sense of self preservation and took him fully in a few deceptive thrusts that I knew I’d lament later.

He almost screamed from tear-welling sensitivity when he withdrew his cock from my arse the final time. His anus is probably tender as well after my earlier turn with him — fair’s fair, share the pain.

I hope his hand has recovered from a prolonged period of pins and needles. My drained body had lost enough nervous edge to allow his hand inside but my tightness cut off his circulation. He tried to twist once to find a more comfortable position but a nerve-shattering squeal put a stop to that. Actually, I hope his hand is as tender as my cunt as a reminder that he is big and I am not and big things don’t turn in small spaces.

Before the mayhem, I was lounging at home with my head in a book and eyed the beeping phone that interrupted my indolence. Home alone, you say? Tonight? A few hours later I snuck into his house and found him lying on the bed, his dick released through the open zip of his jeans. You like? Oh yes, I like. I sidled up to him with lingering touches and kisses tinged with hibernative warmth and somehow the rest just happened.

It’s best we don’t have a lot of time together because our bodies would collapse, and so much exchanging and giving and accepting and shape-shifting takes place that I can’t remember the exact order it all happens in. The flashbacks and aches are my only reminders.

Rest after fisting

I have been editing this chapter for three days and am no closer to being pleased so I’m going to hit ‘publish’ and move on. The synopsis is that Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend, I was fisted and came like I have never before, and Jekyll is a hyperactive sex fiend. The feature-length version follows.

Jekyll is the only man I’ve known who can be in the throes of starting a new round less than 10 seconds after orgasm (I know I have no right to complain but often I prefer not to live my life as if every moment’s my last). Being fuelled with nuclear power is a delightful quality for shorter, frenetic sessions but with our half-day together I was wishing he’d listen to my request to slow down and savour rather than gorge.

After two uninterrupted hours of pinching, biting, smacking and being fucked with my legs in the air until my hamstrings felt they might snap like new season asparagus spears, I thought my wish for some unhurried sex was granted. He gestured for me to rest my head on a pile of pillows and I seized the opportunity to uncoil my cramped legs.

After a few minutes of exploring my female place with his tongue, Jekyll came up for air and spread the embarrassment of juices from his cheeks and chin to mine, and we kissed like sloppy-tongued teenagers until he put some extra artillery to use.

He pushed the very new, very basic, very black, very fucking buzzy vibrator (or battery-powered drill, I’m really not sure, but I know we will be very happy together) between my legs for a test drive as he went about the business of preparing whatever he was planning. It’s amazing how a sky-high level of excitement blasted away my shyness at being observed and I played with the control as if I had unwrapped a new musical instrument on Christmas Day.

I heard the snap-top release on my travel container of Crisco but by then didn’t give a toss what he was going to do with industrial lube and the leaking, molten lump of flesh I had become.

“Well, it didn’t take you long to take four fingers, missy,” he said.

A gurgle was my best reply, and rather articulate considering my Physical Laws of Fingery state that four fingers automatically cancel the power of lucid speech.

I descended into a new sexual place and the only way I can describe it is feeling like I existed solely inside my torso and abdomen. My vaginal contractions felt like the slow and strong heartbeats of a marathon runner and I was inside my body, trying to understand how I was both the recipient and silent observer.

Unlike our first successful foray into fisting while in his car, he didn’t need to apply pressure with his hand or talk down my nerves. As each contraction subsided, a gelatinous vacuum drew his hand further inside my body. After half a dozen cycles, I sensed on a deep cerebral level that his hand was up to the wrist inside me but I didn’t want to open my eyes and allow the light to ruin my dreamstate.

I moved the vibrator around the stretched landscape and discovered a bed of nerve cells that responded instantly to my oval-shaped movements. A message wrapped in smiles reached my brain and said I could actually come from this.

Empty air around me was interrupted by the echo of someone saying, “Oh my god, fuck,” as an orgasm started in lines along my labia, spread through my limbs like a lightning strike and seared back to my clitoris as if the energy needed to return to its origin. My orgasms are one-way through my feet and hands and I’ve never experienced a reverse sensation of this kind.

I thought I was fucked after the previous hours with Jekyll, but this time I truly was fucked. My skeleton had vaporised and I felt like an outer skin filled with warm lemonade in the hollows where my bones used to sit.

I begged Jekyll for a few minutes’ respite to find my faculties and he started withdrawing his hand. The power and wonder of the orgasm could almost make the nausea of expulsion worthwhile.

I’d have given a kingdom to drift like a jellyfish floating in a warm sea but Jekyll started poking about to see how sensitive my body had become. I yelped, my clit screamed and my nipples possibly snarled at him. I adore the man, but I wish he’d slow the fuck down and join the slow-the-fuck-down sex movement.


Surely World Fisting Week is over

That ArmyDude is a right treasure chest of surprises.

Before his hand almost went where I’m still not convinced nature intends, he asked me to don the strap-on and penetrate him.

I fret about lack of control over the harness and dildo with even the gentlest use; I can’t feel anything except the dildo’s base pressing into my pelvis. The last thing I want to do is jab when I intend to glide –I imagine being ripped a new arsehole would turn someone off fake dick-wielding women for a long time.

I like to experiment though – and I’m most amiable after oral sex — so I left the harness in its box and lubed the narrower of its two dildos, working the first couple of inches into his anus with my easier-to-control hand.

He was resistingly tight, tight tight, a little tight, whoa, he was open and relaxed and with his own hand was pushing the remaining length in. I leaned into him, grabbed one of his shoulders as ballast and did the best job I could of fucking him with the lurid pink implement.

Afterwards he asked how much he had taken. Um, all of it young man, and you pushed it in there all by yourself. He didn’t believe me until he saw the sheen of lubricant running the dildo’s length.

“Now it’s my turn to play,” he said, as soon as his endorphin haze wore off.

“What?”

“You heard. On your back.”

I reclined reluctantly — expecting payback — but my wariness evaporated as I watched him masturbate and ejaculate on my labia and inner thighs.

I didn’t expect his encore performance of kneeling, lowering his head and lapping up every drop.

Holy crap, that was leagues hotter than the bi-man porn scenes I concoct in my head. I got a bit excited and grabbed his arms and said, “Get up here and kiss me, you greedy, come-stealing man-beast.” (It’s amazing how sex talk is clever and sizzling when genitals are pulsing, but nothing short of cringe-worthy in the light of recollection.)

I was given the kiss I wanted and soon received three-quarters of a fisting I didn’t know I wanted.

“Did you feel me forming a fist inside you?”

“No. All I could feel was your thumb knuckle meeting my point of resistance.”

“You must’ve felt me wriggling my fingers like this [like each finger was riding a bicycle out of synch with its neighbours].”

“You did not do that.”

“I did.”

His entire face creases and beams when he smiles like a naughty child.

“Can’t say I felt that. I was too busy trying to centre the pain at my battered little vaginal entrance.”

I held up his hand and reflected how bloody large and broad it is, like a late afternoon shadow casting behind mine. He plays basketball and can hold the ball under his fingertips; I can’t grip a discus without it crashing to the ground.

“I told you to relax and the widest part would have gone in,” he said

“And next time I’ll be using the larger dildo on you and telling you to relax.”

I also have a cheeky kid smile.

Fists and ass

I returned for another bout in Jekyll’s car, determined to either ditch him or drown him in my juices (over-reactive fight or flight actions are my conduct of choice when frustrated).

In the brief slip of time between arriving home from work and leaving to meet Jekyll, I tossed into my gym bag a vibrator, condoms and the unopened tub of Crisco on the chance we’d test its reputation as the fisting and handballing underground lubricant of choice.

During our warm-up chat comparing who had the most unproductive work day, Jekyll’s eyes widened and he demanded I remove my pants. I glared in response and said mine would hit the deck as soon as his were off.

He asked if I wanted my clit licked.

My shoes, jeans and underwear were in a pile before I could get my tongue into gear to respond verbally.

I pulled a towel from my bag to place under my backside in anticipation of flooding his face and caring about his car’s upholstery. Jekyll asked what else was rattling about in the bag and I said the Crisco hadn’t been opened.

It was like a pervert family Christmas morning when we removed the plastic lid and peeled the tub’s protective silver foil. We looked, poked our noses in and dipped our fingers as if the vegetable shortening might come to life and bite us. We rubbed the white grease between our thumbs and fingers until it turned clear and our digits slippery. It tasted bland but acceptable enough if dollops reached our mouths during hands-on testing. We pondered if people really used a cake-making ingredient to insert human body parts into other human body parts or if we’d been taken for a ride. We wiped our hands on the towel and placed the open container on the dashboard for later. The electric blue tub and its pound of contents stared at us mockingly as if we were too scared to play.

Jekyll folded his legs into car’s floor cabin and licked, fingered and slurped until all I could hear was my breathing. I went to a glorious place where my body turned on and my brain turned off and nothing mattered but the tiny mass in my centre where our surfaces connected.

My hamstrings strained to secure my body higher up the backrest and allow Jekyll’s fingers more room to move. I wriggled into his first two, burbled something unintelligible when the third entered and lost the power of speech when the last finger slid against the upper lining of my vagina.

So close to making the car rattle on its axles and forgiving Jekyll for any sin of the past, present and the entire fucking future. Please, body, I will crawl along a highway of broken glass to pass the stubborn gatekeeper between tension and release.

I asked Jekyll to rest his tongue when the cruel remnants of medication dangled relief an unreachable grasp away. He noticed my stagnation and enclosed his thumb in his hand, toying with my already-stretched cunt. We played with pushing and holding, retreating and re-trying, stretching and contracting.

“Feel that,” he said.

My right hand groped a digit-less forearm and I yelped.

“Where are your fingers?” my last functioning braincells asked.

“Inside you, silly.”

He guided my hand to the bottom knuckle of his thumb, the last undulation my vaginal entrance was reluctant to accommodate.

“Want to try the Crisco?” asked Jekyll.

“Why the hell not?”

He allowed his vaginally-lubricated hand to slide out and mixed my secretions with the greasier substance. I stretched and relaxed to settle myself for the battle of the last knuckle.

Jekyll’s hand slithered to its previous progress mark within seconds, and I heard him whisper, “Ninety-nine per cent, want to try for the last bit?”

“Please,” I said.

I didn’t have time to finish my sentence because he was in. Almost an anti-climax.

My brain exploded.

Jekyll tried to articulate the moment but my mouth uttered a jumbled, “Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, overload.”

He asked what was wrong.

“Shut up! And don’t move.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, brainy full. Shuddup.”

He closed his mouth but twisted his hand a few degrees at a time to test the effect. I reacted with yeses and nos as his subtle movements translated into buzzes of pleasure and pangs of discomfort. He said I felt full inside, which I agreed with but also found hard to believe considering his hands are of average size.

The oh fuck, there’s a whole human hand in me concept loosened its hold and I marvelled at the everyday miracle of women popping miniature humans out of their bodies.

I felt his tensed forearm again and marvelled at the I-don’t-know-what of the last few minutes. Like the night I was close to handballing Hyde, there were no sexual connotations at this stage; we were awestruck by the mechanics rather than the sensations.

Jekyll asked if I wanted a photo.

“Um, yes, no, oh, I don’t know, I don’t think I could look at it. Oh, maybe, I don’t know. Can you reach your phone like that?”

His spare hand was within reach of his mobile phone resting in the centre console. As he fiddled with the settings, I spread my thighs to minimise the effect of eating too much comfort food over winter in a surge of camera shyness and silly vanity (in case I did want to peek at the photo one day).

I caught sight of the stump of Jekyll’s arm between my legs when the flashlight illuminated the cabin. I reached mental overload again and it was time for his hand to be removed.

The extraction of his hand was like giving birth to the head of a giant octopus and his fingers were its tentacles. They kept coming out and coming out and I nearly yelled at the never-ending slippery intruders to get the fuck out of my body. A lifetime later my vagina was my own and thankfully Jekyll’s octopus child turned into a hand again.

We wondered and analysed and kissed and decided we were rampantly in need of a good old-fashioned fuck. The night so far had been surreal so Jekyll continued the theme and lubed my anus with his greasy hand. He ordered me on all fours as he wiped his hands and applied a condom.

We muddled about in the confined space and found a happy medium with my face wedged between the seat and headrest and my legs splayed wherever they fitted. Jekyll covered my back from behind and did a rollicking good job of pounding my arse.

He is a confident lover but purrs with the best when he receives compliments, especially my dead-honest feedback between moans and gasps that it’s been the best-feeling anal sex I could remember.

“In how long? Weeks, months, years?” he asked during thrusts.

“I don’t know.” Oooh. “Probably forever. Don’t know if it’s you or, hmmm, the heavier lube or both but, ahhhh, I don’t remember backing into a cock like this to get more.”

He’s sweet (and backhandedly asking for more) when he says if I keep talking like that he’s going to come.

I provoked him with the most vulgar dialogue I could channel and was drowned out when throaty groans and wails signalled his orgasm. He collapsed on my back as I fell down the seat in a helpless lump.

We cleaned ourselves and congratulated each other’s talent for causing so much mayhem in barely an hour. As I searched for my belongings, Jekyll offered to send the photo to my phone.

My skittishness returned.

“Okay, but not Bluetooth because it’ll open on the screen and I can’t look at it yet. Send a text and do not dare text me for the rest of the night, because I’ll forget and open it accidentally.”

I ignored the discreet buzz as the image hit my inbox and skipped to my car, forgetting how to drive and where I lived and how I managed complex tasks like remembering which traffic light meant stop and which said go.

My leg and glute muscles are strained from maintaining anatomically unusual positions but the important bits have bounced back to normal. I’m curious to try his hand again now the ignorance and apprehension have been dealt with and I can focus on how it feels.

The Second Threesome Act II: The thumb goes on the inside

Sometimes things just happen, like having my hand up to the knuckles inside Hyde’s anus. Before withdrawing, I gave my fingers a disbelieving wiggle and, yes, they were missing up his arse. The most intelligent sentiment I could express was, “Wow,” and days later that’s still the closest I can describe the experience.

He was lying on the bed with me on all fours between his knees, trying to suck his roller-coaster erection to firmness. His anus accepted my index finger like an old friend and I squirted more lube and added my middle finger. He swallowed them without effort and soon took my tee-pee of index, middle and ring fingers.

Jekyll was performing miracles on my bottom with his tongue and thankfully stopped the distraction when he became aware of the sudden quietness. We three are shamelessly visual and I almost heard Jekyll’s jaw hit the mattress when he saw how much of my hand belonged to Hyde.

Hyde grabbed my wrist and, without speaking, pulled it into his body. My supporting left hand squirted more lube down his cleft as my mind tried to catch up and thought fuck, I wasn’t expecting this. I nestled my little finger with the other three and held the now-larger cylinder of my hand against his anus. I didn’t have to wait for him to push into it because he pulled again with his hand, as if having it disappear up his arse was the urgent priority for the night. We were both heading into new territory and I was petrified on the inside but fascinated by how far we might go.

He pulled with enough force over time that my forearm muscles started shaking. I felt like I was in an action film sequence and my rapidly-fatiguing arm was the only thing stopping him from careening over the side of a cliff. Jekyll noticed my instability and I nodded in his direction that I was still in control – just. Hyde kept pulling and I wedged my elbow into my inner thigh to provide greater leverage and stability. And remembered to tuck my thumb into the protective cone of my fingers. And hoped like hell that his arse didn’t suddenly swallow my knuckles because I imagined my hand would shoot at a hundred miles an hour out of his stomach.

I enquired into Hyde’s comfort level. He said he felt fine but full and hadn’t a clue how many fingers were inside him. Jekyll replied chirpily that it was all of them and it looked amazing. A mental barrier went up inside Hyde’s head and he said he was starting to feel discomfort. I allowed his body to slide my hand out slowly as Jekyll and I watched the reverse motion in abstract wonder.

When my hand became mine again, I showed Hyde how much he had absorbed. I managed to form a lucid thought beyond ‘wow’ and said that – because of my lack of a penis – I’ve never had that much of my body inside someone else’s. We agreed the awe wasn’t sexual but surprise and newness and anticipation of more to discover next time. I have already scoured the web for a heavier-duty lubricant.