Fisting is a painful act. Which is precisely why I’m attracted to it. Go figure, huh?
It’s really not a painless insertion. It’s like giving birth… backwards.
I’m most often back-pedalling on the bed, the sheet sliding and bunching up under my bare heels, trying to scoot away from the relentless, excruciating pressure of S’s hand boring it’s way into my insides.
I moan, in much the same manner that I moaned in childbirth, low and guttural. Becoming feral in my acceptance that the only way through it is to suffer, grit my teeth, and hold out for the end.
There’s a point when the widest portion of S’s hand begins it’s slow but forceful entrance where I think I can feel tissue tearing, a sharp blooming pain. I can see it in my mind’s eye, the skin stretch so tightly, so thin, that it’s almost transparent around His fist. Though I don’t know if I have ever ripped, or if it simply feels as if I should have.
It’s at that point that I want desperately to quit, to snap my legs together with my hands cupped around my poor battered pussy and breathe the pain away. But I don’t. Not only because I can’t, but because I know what pleasures lay over this agonizing hump.
Once my skin reluctantly grants His hand passage, there is a transfer of pain. What was once highly concentrated on the ‘ring of entrance’, now rolls and fills the whole of my vagina. A deep pressure, a pressure that shifts along with the movement of His hand and fingers, sometimes sharp if He pokes a spot, sometimes dull when He rubs. But constant, always.
He likes to poke and prod, to press up as far as He can get, until my eyes pop open in stunned panic, half-believing that He’s attempting to tickle my throat. He likes to pump, a genuine fist-fucking, so hard and so fast that I no longer control my own breathing. I’m forced to exhale when He pushes in and up… and I gasp in air when He pulls back and out.
The pressure and the pain slide and mix together to create the delicious blend that is pleasure. I can’t think beyond my cunt. I’m nothing more than one giant pulsating vagina, with no thoughts outside of His hand and the throbbing need to cum.
I much prefer to be allowed to stimulate my clit when He’s fisting me. Otherwise, the intense sensations are too overwhelming. It’s system overload to the max. But give me a clit to manipulate, to direct the course and timing of the orgasms and I’m one incredibly happy girl.
Orgasms while being fisted are sensational. They’re the strongest, deepest, whole body consuming orgasms that I ever have. I don’t know if it’s because He’s in there touching and rubbing and slamming on spots otherwise left unstimulated, or if it’s because my cunt is so full, so stretched by His hand and wrist that there is no room left in there for my cunt to spasm so it shoots it out, sending it zinging across the whole rest of my body. It brings cerebral orgasm to a new meaning.
Orgasm recovery time is lengthy. My eyes do not want to uncross, my mouth doesn’t want to close. My toes stay curled, fingers clenched. Milk that orgasm for all it’s worth, twitching still against His arm.
Until He goes to pull out, chuckling at my blatantly whorish behavior. He finds me amusing. I’m too busy thinking about my pussy to care.
The extraction itself is unpleasant. It’s uncomfortable, as what hurt going in still hurts coming out, but what’s most disturbing about it is how very very empty I feel. As if the sudden physical emptiness leaves a matching emotional hole. Where a second before I’d been literally connected to Him, I’m now alone. It takes awhile for that feeling to go away.
He doesn’t fist me very often. I’m not sure I could stand it any more often than it happens. Part of what keeps it such a wondrous activity is the infrequency of it. I don’t want it to lose the edge that it carries.