From Fingers to Fisting - A Fetish Story

November 19, 2019

After a rather lengthy period of inactivity and squatting on some familiar dicks, I got bored. I like variety. Variety in sex, in interactions, in interests and fetishes and largely, in dicks. Not to sound like the ultimate slut, but just like dudes say all pussy feels different, so does all peen. I liked my regulars, don’t get me wrong but people get comfortable and shit gets less sexy or god forbid, fucked up. You begin holding them to a higher standard of being than they committed to and how could you not? Years of fucking and talking, learning each others history and personality. Shit gets messy and with my 28th birthday impending, I just didn’t have the time anymore.

 

In a moment of desperation, I reactivated my Tinder. Something I do semi frequently but due to my short attention span and utter disinterest in all those who interact with me, I often delete it again almost immediately. This time didn’t seem like it’d be different. I had some small talk here and there but in my normal fashion, I quickly forgot about the app. It wasn’t that I didn’t want, and desperately need, new dick but my head just wasn’t in it. Projects were stacking up, not to mention the stress of my day job, who had time to entertain a new FB?

 

That being said, it was the end of summer and although fall was a month off, I could already imagine the chill of autumn beginning to creep into the air. It wasn’t cuffing season just yet, so it seemed like the right time to nail down a solid fuck friend. “Oh yeah!” I thought, suddenly remembering I had gotten back on Tinder and matched with quite a few potential bangs including, but not limited to, a very handsome tattooed man whom happened to own his own business. 

 

He was the type of dude that called every girl mama, babe, sugar, sweet pea… Okay, maybe not the last two, but definitely mama and babe. It was cute though, unlike the condescending fashion which most men say it, it was endearing. I could tell up front he had a good heart, despite if his only real intent was to fuck me because unshockingly to all of you, I just wanted to fuck him too. He made it clear up front that he was in an open relationship. A real one. Not the kind that dudes loosely drop as a blatant lie that they’ve somehow convinced themselves is truth to justify their habits of infidelity. And, to be totally frank, I couldn’t have been more turned on. 

 

It wasn’t the thought of sleeping with someone's man, as I'm sure many of you think, but the thought that he was so open and honest with his partner. To where not only he, but she also, could ensure their needs were both being met not only emotionally but physically. I had so many questions and a dumb strong desire to feel his dick. Which, unfortunately, was taking much longer to “meet” than one would hope. Unlike the normal men I fuck with, he was busy. Like, REAL busy. Which obviously presented some scheduling conflicted but, despite the hassle, we eventually made a date. 

 

He lived towards the fan but not on Main like all the hipster kids, although he definitely had hipster undertones. An apartment in a family style home that was now broken up into what I could tell was 3 units. It was dark but from what I could see, the place was fairly clean, an obvious deal breaker in the chronicles that’re “earning this pussy”. His walls were largely covered in posters and various other framed items and memorabilia that he had collected throughout his life. Some things from local artists here in RIchmond, some not. He had maps, flags and signs that I could only assume were stolen. From where, I don’t know. 

 

It didn’t take long for us to get comfy and a good conversational flow going. Something that any actively dating person knows can be hit or miss, especially when moving from heavy texting to in person convo. He didn’t smoke but let me roll up and light up in his place anyways, an appreciation any smoker out there can understand. Dracula played at a medium volume in the back and as I listened to the soft banter of the transylvanian native I couldn’t help but think, “Wow, Tinder did it again.” Clearly the satisfaction read on my face, or maybe he could just feel the energy in the air, but right at that moment, he asked, “is it okay if I kiss you?” 

 

I couldn’t help but chuckle a little. Maybe I’m wrong but to me, it seemed like an obvious answer. I was here wasn’t I? Not an automatic implication I want to fuck, OBVIOUSLY, however I had prefaced the hang with, “I want to suck your dick.” Nonetheless, I appreciated the request for verbal consent. He was a good kisser, with a beard and long hair to match. I wasn’t big into kissing or cuddling but the vibe was comfortable enough and to be honest, he seemed like he needed it. After a bit of time, he began working his hands into my pants. Then, quite shortly after, began working my pants off entirely. Stating, as he did so, that he “didn’t like to fuck on first hangs”. I didn’t care, I mean, what is a dude if he can’t make you cum without using his dick? Sex is so obvious. 

 

And even more obviously, this sounded like a solid promise for some memorable ass head. “Table for one, please! Oh no sir, I’m not ordering food, I am the meal. Now bring me some pineapple to drip on my pussy. You’re a doll! *insert soft chuckles*” As pretend scenarios of role play unraveled in my head, I remembered him asking a few days prior what my “limits” were. Not in the heavy BDSM fashion that so many of you assume post 50 Shades of Grey (a rather bland and sudo abusive telling of a rich white man stalking a not rich, white woman) but more so, what my fetish limits were. I hadn’t given it much thought as I’m always down to try something once but it seemed obvious his implied interest was in something not as standard as I was thinking.

 

Slowly he began working his fingers inside of me. His hands weren’t exactly large but they were definitely chubby, with rather big fingers to match. By the time his second finger was in me, it had to have been near the circumference of a dick (at least a “regular” sized one), then a minute later he slid in a third. My pussy was filling up fast but as he played with my clit using his other hand and tongue I couldn’t think of any reason he needed to stop. I was cumming hard and wanted to see where this was going. What exactly was this “limit” he was foreshadowing? Would I hit it and tap out? Doubt it. 

 

Before I knew what was happening, there was a fourth finger. I could feel my pussy wrapped tightly around his hand, like the friendly embrace of two neighbors. It had been a long time since I had played what fits in my hole but it seemed now was as good a time as any to find out. He never did get his thumb in, though he was close and I couldn’t help but think what the outcome would have been had he had a smaller hand. Or a woman here.. 

 

It was stranger, for real. I had never been so full of anything aside from dick. In the past, I’d have never considered this. Never considered trying it and definitely hadn't given thought to the idea of me actually enjoying it but here I was, almost a full fist in my pussy and I was thrilled. It definitely wasn't an everyday thing, or even once a month, maybe quarterly? I didn't know the rules and restrictions and I could say without any doubt I didn't want to repeat it frequently but there was a weird power in knowing my true limits, or lack there of. (at least in this direction) 

 

Once he was done with me, I sucked his dick. The least I could do after the eye opening sexual experiences he had just provided me. Both exhausted and drained of cum we said our goodbyes and I went my separate way. 

 

We still talk occasionally but as a whole, my interest for him fizzled. After all, there’s only so many scheduling conflicts one can take but I’ll never forget the guy who taught me not to be afraid when exploring fisting vs fingering. 

 

The End. *squirt squirt*

(Get it? Like *skrt skrt*)

Whatever.

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