Love of fisting

Bethany works her fist inside Faith. Slow at first, then deeper, the younger girl’s knuckles stretch the shaved lips until they’re thin and pink. Faith lies back, legs open, toes flexing with every knuckle that slides past her entrance. Bethany watches her face, reads every tiny flinch, and pushes farther when Faith nods. The whole hand disappears to the wrist. Faith exhales hard, eyes half-closed, while Bethany twists her wrist in small circles that make the younger girl’s stomach flutter. When she pulls back, the lips cling to her wrist, then open again on the next slow push. Faith’s blonde hair sticks to her damp forehead; she reaches down, holds her own thigh wider, giving Bethany room to go deeper. Neither girl speaks. The only sounds are soft, wet, and steady, Faith’s breath catching each time Bethany sinks in to the limit.