Teaching Cecilia Vega

We spent the first week of our summer on the Metallica tour. After the last chords died, she appeared. Cecilia Vega. A French pornstar who'd flown in for shoots. We were at a bar near the venue when she dropped it casually: "I need to visit the fisting teachers too." She came straight from her hotel, pink fishnets already damp at the crotch, and climbed onto our black table without asking. We began slow, just working the edges. One hand pressed flush against her cunt, fingers sliding in two at a time, the heat of her greedy hole spreading open around our knuckles. She took three fingers like she'd been waiting, then four, breathing through her nose while her slick ran down over our wrists. The metal concert crowd outside still rattled the windows as we pushed past the last knuckle and formed a proper fist. Cecilia bore down, cunt swallowing everything to the wrist, soft sounds leaving her throat like she was forgetting French altogether. We twisted, opened, stretched her the way she'd asked, and she kept asking for more—kept rolling her hips to take the thrust, lips parting, eyes unfocused. Her orgasm came sudden and shuddering, the contractions locking around our fist, milking every ridge of bone until we pulled free with a wet sound that made her laugh.