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by Des de Moor I got fisted by my bottom last night. Well, I say 'my bottom' but things are shifting and melting a little on that front. We're becoming more joint explorers really; he's been feeling a bit iffy recently and hasn't been in that big deep sub space and there are things he does with others that have so far been beyond my ken so there was scope for teaching both ways. And since he's got deeply into the possibilities of fists worked into small, stretchable and sensitive places, and since that little sphincter ring between my buttocks guards the entrance to largely unexplored territory, and since he has the most beautiful small hands, and since we care for each other very much, the conclusion was obvious. And, well, I say 'fisted' but we never actually achieved it this time. I'm astonished he got as far as he did, just on the edge of the knuckles and on the point of managing the whole hand, a point we reached a couple of times but which I could not on this occasion pass -- and by this time I was too sore to try again. I'd forgotten what it was like to get your hole sore. In Britain we have an expression to describe a miser, 'Tight as a nun's ass' (the nun in question presumably is not a member of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence); 'Tight as Des's ass', then, would surely describe someone who made those compared to the orifices of mere nuns seem positively extravagant. And for those Freudians amongst you, yes, I do keep catalogues of my video collection, and take an unhealthy interest in railway timetables. Breaching my rear entrance in such an extreme fashion was no mean feat. And, yes, according to some of you, fisting does not make the big bad book of SM. Even he said that. 'Now, this isn't SM,' he said, in his best ex-schoolteacher voice, kneeling over me on the bed with his vegetable-fat-slicked hands. 'It might be a bit painful going in but the point isn't to make it hurt.' But he bloody knew. He had me face down relaxing on the bed with the scented candles burning -- not tied but with his quiet authority keeping me still. And he worked slowly and dedicatedly, first with a few fingers, then opening me up with a speculum, and poking gently round deep inside with an unlit candle, by which time I had been strained, and had got through some kind of barrier, and the endorphins and poppers had already sent me floating off into passivity. This was giving up your body to somebody in a most profound way, and enjoying them enjoying that power over you. And he enjoyed it, and he enjoyed the fact that I was fighting my body, fighting the reflexes that tried to heave the intruder out, and, yes, fighting that pain that inevitably came when the tissue of the sphincter, like some strange new polymer, flexed at first then seemed to snap solid at a certain point of stretching, screaming at me for release. And how I had to fight that in my head, me feeling like a sacrifice to some demon with a flaming tree-trunk cock. And he enjoyed it when, having reached that gut straining point when we got so far and I begged, begged, begged that I could go no further, and at the shuddering moment when the last of his hand slowly slipped from my ravaged hole, I burst into tearful and uncontrollable sobs. Now, if that ain't SM, I'd like to know what is. Originally circulated on an Internet mailing list December 1996. © Copyright Des de Moor 1996. All rights reserved. |
