A Fist Time For Everything

Faye was always a vanilla girl when it came to porn. Then one night she stumbled on fisting clips. Heat rushed through her belly. She had to try it. At the sex shop she bought a thick dildo—slick, black, flared at the base—planning to work it in nice and slow on her couch. She kicked off her sweats and sank down, knees wide, sliding lube over the toy and over herself until everything shone. The first push stung, then spread, stretching her inch by inch until her cunt took it all with a slick, greedy sound. She rocked her hips, breath broken, hand gripping the base like she might shove it deeper still. Robin walked in, froze, then shut the door with the flat of her palm. No words, just the clink of her belt buckle. She crossed the room, pulled the dildo free, and coated her fingers with fresh lube. The first two slid right in. Then three. Then the slow press of four, knuckles rubbing at the edge, thumb tucked under. Faye’s breath hitched. Robin kept pressure steady, turning her wrist the smallest bit, and Faye’s body gave—wet heat swallowing fist down to the wrist in one sudden, shocking glide. Robin flexed her hand inside. Faye came with a strangled cry, thighs shaking, the room quiet except for the filthy, rhythmic sound of skin moving slick against skin.