“She raped my fist” 4

I’ve never fisted anyone since. If a woman wanted to be fisted – vaginally, I mean – then I know from personal experience that it can be done safely, and how to go about it, so I’d be prepared to oblige. But there’d be nothing in it, particularly, for me, and I’d never initiate it myself.

In a way, all new experiences are good. I remember once hearing three of my bones break, and it had sounded a bit like a kid running a stick along a picket fence. It hurt, of course, but I remember taking time to appreciate that the sound had been wonderfully strange and sinister. I still remember it.

But fisting is more like one more item on some purity test, that I never thought I’d check off. “Have you ever fisted someone? Well, actually yes, now you mention it, I have.”


I know that my “she raped my fist” heading is politically dodgy. Getting my fist inside Sal was something that she wanted and I didn’t, but I could have taken my hand away if I really objected. 

You could argue that using the word “rape” to refer to something that wasn’t at all traumatic is trivialising rape. That’s arguable, but I’ve kept the heading because it’s what I thought the next morning, reading the Chronicle and having a cup of chai by the river in Hermann Park, after we’d gone our separate ways: “wow. She raped my fist. That minx.”

Anyway, people can have very strong feelings about the non-okayness of killing people, and still find themselves saying, “I could murder a curry”, when all they mean is, “I’m hungry.” It’s not trivialisation, it’s hyperbole. I use hyperbole and gross exaggeration at least 144 times a day.

There’s an issue here about how people pick up new sexual interests and skills. But I’ll think about that in a later post. For now, it’s time I got back to the story about Sa’afia and Ana.    

“She raped my fist” 3

Sal held the wrist of the hand that was stroking her cunt. She said, “please”, again. Then “Master.” 

We’d agreed, at dinner, that the word “Master” is meaningless when people say it during play. You can’t be the master of someone you’ve just met. But we’d also agreed that sometimes it sounded sexy anyway. She wanted me happy and flattered, so she could work her way with me. Work her way with my hand, anyway. She tightened her grip on my wrist, and scootched down. A second later, all of my hand was in her except for my thumb. 

The speed and ease with which she’d managed that left me open-mouthed. “Stone me. I wouldn’t have thought that was even possible.”

Sal grunted, but didn’t reply. She wasn’t interested in what I would have thought. 

Her cunt was tight on my hand, but there was no sense of danger. That is, I wasn’t worried about tearing. I knew, intellectually, that cunts are built to handle the skulls of babies. My hand was bigger than that, but I could flex and scrunch the bones to put as little stress on her as possible, which wasn’t something an emerging baby gave much attention to. It helped that Sal was utterly happy and relaxed. 

Some men talk misogynist crap about “loose cunts”, and say vile and nasty things about the women they claim are “slack”. I despise that kind of talk so much that I hate to engage with it even to the extent of saying that it’s ignorant bullshit as well as hateful crap. For the record, Sal’s cunt was like any other, taut, trimmed, petite and pouting. Like all cunts, it had amazing powers of expansion, which is lucky because otherwise we’d be an extinct species. And there I was, with most of my hand in Sal’s. She’d kind of taken my hand.

I was thinking it was extraordinary that I could fit that much of my hand in her, when Sal asked me to tuck my thumb up next to my palm. A couple more pushes from her and a bit of twisting from me, and there I was, with my closed hand in her up to the wrist, fisting Sal. It wasn’t something I’d expected or wanted to do, but it was certainly a new experience. The inside of her cunt was smooth and cool and wet. The muscle felt stretched but, as far as I could tell, not stressed. I could begin to understand why she might like it.

come faceI said, “Fucking hell. On a  unicycle.” Sal nodded and lay back. I used my hand as a piston, moving it backwards and forwards, slowly at first and gradually speeding up. Eventually Sal’s stomach muscles tightened, and she  screamed and writhed. She puffed, eyes wide. She thought she was done.

But I was feeling merciless. I kept going, and we got another, louder orgasm, that finished up in sobs and tears and then silence. 

I took my hand out of her, carefully, and stroked her hair off her face. I curled up behind her and reached over to hold her right breast. She was asleep in about a minute. 

“She raped my fist” 2

I said, “I don’t know.  My hands are too big. It just seems …” I shook my head. “And I definitely don’t do fisting.”

I meant that as a joke, but Sal gave me the smile you might give a child who is stupid though trying to do right. “Shhh, no, this isn’t fisting. And it’s good. Just another finger.” I recognised the tone. It was the same voice I use to reassure and direct a submissive.

So long as things are working I don’t get bothered about submissives trying to top from the bottom. I don’t let it go on for long, but I’d think it was silly to get angry about it. But I’d adopted a particular persona for our time together. Sal had wanted a super-hard dom, a mean one who didn’t know the meaning of “easy-going”. I’d guessed from her dungeon that most of the time she was a dom, at least professionally. She wanted a complete break from that, and if I let her slip back into old habits a lot of her sexual tension would leak out and dissipate. 

So I said, “careful, girl”, so that she’d know why I squeezed her nipple and tightened until she yelped, and then twisted until she moaned, and held it until there was a trace of fear in her eyes and she was considering whether to beg.

And then, because hardship leads to the stars, or it should, I gave her that third finger she’d asked for. She started to say something, but before she could form anything intelligible she came. I hadn’t insisted she ask for permission first, which was lucky because she couldn’t have stopped. It’s odd how satisfying someone else’s orgasm can be. I was still soft-cocked but her orgasm had happened to me too. 

hand in cuntI’d taken a break to stop my fingers from cramping, but she was still going. So I was back at work, with her body undulating and shuddering under me. If she’d been domming she might have been in that exact position, and she’d have thought she was being served. But she was submitting, so the meaning was that she was under my control, coming for me. 

Sal was building to another release, and she said, “please. Please. Ah.” She looked at me, begging silently. She looked anxious, and she needed something. “Please.” Words were difficult. 

I put my little finger inside her as well, so all my fingers worked her from inside and my thumb pressed against her clit. She gasped and sighed. So I’d guessed right. Not that it had been hard to guess.

She said, “oh.” And, a few seconds later, “Yes.” 

I leaned down and kissed her brow. “That’d be right.”

“She raped my fist” 1

I once went out on a date with a woman called Sally, who worked as a doctor in Houston. She’s the only Texan girl I’ve ever known. It was a specifically bdsm date, arranged after I’d contacted her through Fetlife or Collarme, or one of those places. I was staying in Houston for a few days, and I didn’t know a soul there, apart from Sal.

We went out for dinner, and I performed while Sal set me some tests. She needed to know that I was safe and sane, reasonably amusing, and that she fancied me.

Yeah, the Texas girl look is kind of a cliche. But it works.

Yeah, the Texas girl look is kind of a cliche. But it works.

My test was much simpler, and she’d passed it the second I saw her. She wore tight jeans, which told me things that I liked about her shape, and a white cotton teeshirt with embroidery, that told me she had generous breasts. She had long blonde hair, a lop-sided grin and a great, dirty laugh. She wore a white and gold Stetson, and if I’d intended to start a relationship with her, I’d have ordered her to throw it on a fire once she was used to obeying orders.

But she didn’t want a relationship, and I just wanted to go back to her place and get her naked. 

Sal was much more interested in toolkits than I am, and she’d mentioned that she had a dungeon. I’d expected that to mean she owned a couple of paddles and a whipping frame that could be disguised as a coat-rack. But it turned out that she actually had two rooms full of shiny chrome and leather bdsm equipment. I guessed that she worked as a pro-domme from time to time, for the fun of it and when doctoring wasn’t paying all the bills. It wasn’t my business.

So I lay her face down on her whipping bench and secured her with chains. It was a padded whipping bench, with a hole for the submissive’s face, so they can breathe easily even when they can’t move. You can adjust the height, like a hospital bed. I whipped her with a multi-thonged flogger, but she showed every sign of enjoying harder strokes, so by the end I used a riding crop, not as hard as I could physically but as hard as I could bring myself to. I didn’t draw blood, but she got a good set of welts. She was black and blue in the morning, and we were both very proud.

Then I released her arms, pulled her back to the edge of the bench, lubed her ass, and buggered her. I’d said, when we outlined what we might like to happen, that I’d always wanted to take someone anally, as the first sexual contact. I think it was the fact that it seemed so … impolite that appealed to me. Anyway, she’d liked the idea, and so there she was, over a bench, well whipped, with a stranger’s cock up her ass.

We carried on fucking and hurting her body in places and in ways that she liked, until it was after two in the morning. We lay together talking, with her stroking my cock and me stroking her cunt. Sal told me a story about what her first Master had done to her the first time she’d disobeyed him. It was a very sexy story, and I certainly would have been hard in her hand if I’d had anything left. 

But I was fucked out. I wasn’t going to get another erection until I’d had sleep and some down time. I had two fingers pressing up inside her, stroking slowly. I’d made her squirt a couple of times. So I was still keeping her happy, though that meant that she wasn’t ready to sleep.

She asked me to put another finger, a third finger, inside her.

Tom of Finland stamps, and the mighty Fisto

You’ve probably heard that Finland has celebrated the work of the gay porn artist Tuoko Laaksonen, better known as Tom of Finland, by putting his images on a series of stamps.

Tom of Finland drawing. Indian chief, cop, cowboy and sailor not shown.

Tom of Finland drawing. Indian chief, cop, cowboy and sailor not shown.

As Tom of Finland he drew pictures of improbably fit men wearing clothes that were just a bit tighter than their skin. The look was modelled on Marlon Brando in The Wild One, if that had been a porn film. So the guys in his pictures had erections as big as police truncheons, and as hard, inside their denim jeans, and they had arses that were, well, the sort of thing you’d really like if you liked male arses. 

It’s nice that Finland is cool enough to give him his own series of commemorative stamps. And there’s a joke available about licking the rear of a Tom of Finland character that I’m not going to touch.

They get sticky when wet, too. 

Anyway, this reminded me that years ago there was a cartoon series on the tellie, He-Man. Like He-Man’s powers, the show was terrible beyond belief.

But it was interesting that while nearly all cartoon superheroes have a slightly obsessive urge to name themselves after their gender – Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, Catwoman, and so on – He-Man took it to the extreme. Both components of He-Man’s name insist that he’s male, and they don’t say anything else. 

Fisto. Apparently there was another character in He-Man cartoons who was called Ram-Man. Maybe he was an Aries.

Fisto. Apparently there was another character in He-Man cartoons who was called Ram-Man. Maybe he was an Aries.

The other interesting thing about the He-Man universe is the most obvious and extreme of its homoerotic figures, someone whose special super-characteristic, and preferred practice, is way more perverse than anything Tom of Finland came up with. 

I refer, of course, to Fisto.

That’s one amazing brachio-proctic fist of luurve he’s got there. And, arguably, fist of justice, so long as he only uses its special powers for good. With great fist comes great responsibility. 

Oh, “brachio-proctic”? “Brachio” means the arm, and “proctic” means the general area up the bum. The term “brachio-proctic eroticism” was invented as a way of talking about fisting without bringing a blush to the cheeks of the innocent and naive. It was coined by Professor Basil Donovan, at the University of New South Wales. He was actually joking, but it seems to have taken on a straight-faced life of its own.

Probation Officer #207: Endgames 16

Ana wasn’t the only girl in the bar, but she was getting all of the bartender’s attention. He said the things he says to pretty girls, and he looked down her blouse when she laughed. She stood at the bar with one foot on the rail and her hip cocked, so that her ass got the rest of the male attention in the room. It’s not a woman’s bar, really. I don’t think even sex workers go there much. 

It’s not a parole officers’ bar either. I wouldn’t meet any of my colleagues, which was the main thing. Ana saw me in the mirror, squealed, and came up to give me a smudge of lipstick across my mouth and left cheek. And a rub of nipples across my shirt. I disengaged her, and because she looked so cartoonishly sad at that, I smacked her bottom before pointing to a booth where we could talk privately, and told her to go there.

“But my drink.”

“I’ll bring your drink. Go! Sit!”

I picked up the rest of Ana’s drink from the bar, and ordered a beer for me and another tequila sunrise. The bar guy was friendly enough, but I got barely enough change to insult a busker. For me, happy hour was over.

I carried the drinks to the booth – three drinks! two hands! – and sat facing Ana. I was expecting to talk about her father, and press her on her other news. But she said, “You smacked me.” 

I couldn’t work out if her voice was accusing or triumphant. She was right. I’d done something I had no right to do, one of the things that I’d told myself I wouldn’t do. It was a watershed moment, and I should have noticed it at the time. 

“Ahh hell. I did, too.” Then, suddenly, other feelings took hold. “Because it was about time. And I’ll do it again, girl.”

Probation Officer #206: Endgames 15

Unfortunately, it was quite possible that Jock really was an alcoholic, while I doubted that Maynard really did anything illegal with ruminants. 

There’s a story (Byron tells it in a footnote to Don Juan) that a minor Elizabethan poet called John Sylvester once challenged Ben Jonson to a battle of rhymes. He kicked off with, “I, John Sylvester, lay with your sister.”

Jonson replied, “I, Ben Jonson, lay with your wife.”

“But that isn’t rhyme,” Sylvester protested.

“No,” said Jonson, “but it is true.”  

So Seth won, on truth grounds. It didn’t matter. It meant he was cheerful enough to hear from me at the end of the day, and to tell me that Curnow was still missing.

Before we hung up Seth said, “Hey! Ok, you’ve got your sources. So have you heard any rumour that someone might have splatted Curnow?”

“Well, I know Ana’s dad doesn’t like him. But Curnow knows that too, and he was moving fast the last time I saw him. He could be a long way away by now. I haven’t heard anything and I just don’t know.”

“And yet – How’d you know that Maynard fucks goats?”


“K. Well, if you hear anything, tell me, okay.”

“For sure.”

The phone rang again as soon as I hung up. It was Ana. 

I said, “Hey.” 

“Have you heard of tequila sunrises?” 

“Well -“

“The bartender is selling them half price. He says it’s happy hour. It isn’t, you know.” 

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” 

Ana’s voice was like the grenadine layer, sweet and cherry-colored. “They’re really nice. You should have one.” 

Right there, girl.” The phone giggled at me, faintly, before I cut it off. I thought, as Ana had probably intended, about how much she needed spanking, and, for that matter, fucking. She was not a girl to leave alone with a cheap supply of tequila sunrises. I grabbed my coat. 

Probation Officer #205: Endgames 14

Nothing important happened at work. 

In the morning I called Seth McGuinness, my new cop friend, and told him about the visit I’d had from Curnow last night. And I told him there was a rumour that Ana’s dad was in town. He asked me how I knew, and I said I couldn’t tell him.

There was a silence. He thought about reminding me that I wasn’t allowed to withhold information relevant to an investigation. I thought that I couldn’t deflect him by mentioning client confidentiality, because if I cited a client I’d have answered his question. But I could point out that if he wanted me to give him information then he shouldn’t give me a hard time for it.

So we thought these things and he said nothing and I said nothing. Seth made a remark about Jock being a high-functioning alcoholic, and I made one about Maynard lipsticking the gums of goats. And we hung up. 

Probation Officer #204: Endgames 13

“Are you sure?” I thought Ana’s father was in Samoa, staying out of the US if not out of trouble. “Have you seen him?”

Ana had expected more sensation and less skepticism. “No, not seen him. He called me yesterday.” 

“So where did he say he was?”

“He didn’t. But calls from Samoa, they’ve got a sound to them. Like you’re talking through an old-fashioned telephone. Like echoes inside a box. You know what I mean.” 

“All right.” I wasn’t convinced. They could have just got a good line. It happens. “What did he say?”

“He said I’d be all right. He said you’d be all right too.”

“Me? How come he’s even heard of me?”

“I don’t know. It’s the first time I’ve talked to him in ages. I’ve never mentioned you. But he knew quite a lot of what I’d been up to. And he knew you’ve been looking out for me.” 

“Um. Um. All right.” I suppose I was relieved. Being noticed by organised crime is alarming. But it’s nice when they don’t want to kill you. I’d rather be in my shoes, just then, than Curnow’s. 

While I was thinking about that Ana said, “I’ll see you at the Longshoreman. I’ve got lots more news, but I’ve got to get to work now.” 



“You’ve got client confidentiality. I can keep most things you tell me to myself. But …” I thought about what I could tell her about Curnow. There was nothing. “But if something you tell me is likely to be relevant to an investigation, I’m not allowed to keep that from the cops. There’s a limit. I’ll push that limit as far as I can in your favour, but remember there is a limit.” 

Ana held her wrists out. “I have the right to remain silent, but anything I say may be taken down and held in evidence.” 

I looked at her, head tilted. “Knickers.” It was traditional.

Ana said, “‘And, true to his word, he knelt and removed the flimsy evidence.'” 

I gave her eyebrow activity. “Just so.” I didn’t recognise her quote. At the time I thought that it was odd: I didn’t remember there being a policeman in Are You Being Served. “I won’t say that I heard anything about your tama from you. But I’m going to have to mention it, even if I just say it’s just some rumour. I’m sorry.”

“No, it doesn’t matter. I don’t know where he is. And they’ve never found him if he didn’t want to be found.”

 “Mmmmf. Now, vamoose. I’ve got a client. See you this evening.”

“Knickers. You pervert.” And she was gone.

Probation Officer #203: Endgames 12

“Ana. Ana girl. I’m not avoiding you.” She looked at me. I said, “All right. The truth is that I’m hurting a little. Maybe more than a little. I miss Sa’afia, what do you expect? And you’re caught up in that, a little. Which is my fault, not yours.” I wasn’t sure if that last bit was true. Ana might have a lot to do with Sa’afia leaving. Or she might not. Neither of them were talking.

“Are you doing anything tonight?”

“Going to bed. Um, alone.”

Ana sniffed. “After work?”

“Okay. I’ll see you at The Longshoreman. Six o’clock good for you?”

Ana nodded. “I’ll see you there.” She seemed less happy about it than I’d expected. Nor did she leave. “Jaime.”


“Sa’afia told you about my Dad, didn’t she?”

“Yes. It wasn’t her fault. I made her.”

“I’ll bet.” She grinned. “You beat it out of her.”

“Something like that.”

“He’s in town.”