I have ordered him to strip, to kneel on all fours, forearms flat to the floor, his ass raised in a humiliating position of submission. I hear him breathe, short, panicky, shallow breaths.
I slide a small, turquoise rug beneath his knees.
I suspect we’re going to be here for quite some time.
I remain clothed. The act will be sexual, but has nothing really to do with me. I am an appendage, something and nothing; a facilitator.
I place a mahogany stool next to him. I take the lid off a container of moisturiser; it will soon be apparent to him exactly what I am planning to do.
He pants, quick shallow breaths.
It is the unknown that is scaring him.
I kneel and put my cheek next to his.
“Breath with me,” I say.
I inhale, exhale slowly. It’s a meditation technique to concentrate the mind. You follow another’s breathing and slowly you relax into a state of mind imperative to calming the spirit; and I need him calm.
It’s also a technique I use with a nervous horse. Just be very quiet and still; follow the tempo of the pony’s breathing.
I stroke his buttocks, gently pulling the arse cheeks apart. I blow onto his anus. His warm flesh quivers; he likes the sensation. I lower my right hand to his penis and feel the beginning of an erection. I masturbate him for a while until he is hard. I return my hands to his buttocks and digging my thumbs into his flesh, I pull the arse cheeks apart once again. My face is close to his crack; I moisten my finger with saliva and run it the length of the crack. He lets out a little moan. I return my hand to his erection; he’s harder now, aroused by what I am doing to him. I spit into the top of his crack, the saliva trickles down; I follow it with my tongue. He lets out little animalistic whimpers. I make my tongue pointed and push at his anus.
“Please…” he says.
“Please what?”
“Go inside…” he whispers softly.
I remember when a guy did to me what I am doing to him; the warmth, the tenderness. A primal, carnal feeling of being cherished. Maybe it’s the same for a puppy, when his mother cleans his anus with her tongue. She does it to stimulate defecation. Humans do it purely for pleasure. It even has a name; rimming.
I hold his cheeks apart; his skin ripples with anticipation. I blow on the puckered entry to his bowel again and I lap at his anus, feeding his desire. It tastes acrid; when I think about it afterwards, I tell him it tastes bitter, but then it tastes sweet. We have a walnut tree at the back of the house; the taste of his anus is a little like the flavour of the walnuts if you eat them when they are under ripe. I push at the tip of his anus. I have to keep going, to fall in love with it, relishing the dark power of the forbidden act as my tongue probes his bowel.
Inside I go, my tongue made pointed as I fuck his bowel going ever deeper and deeper, my tongue swirling around the circumference of his tight rectum.
I reach down and masturbate him again and within a second he ejaculates into my hand.
But I’ve not finished yet, I have promised him that I will stretch him, make him wide enough to take the circumference of the stallion’s cock. He’s relaxed from his ejaculation and I need him relaxed for my purpose. I reach for the jar of lubricant and smear a dollop down his crack; I work a further dollop into my fingers, up to my wrist. He is so slippery that three of my fingers slide in easily; his rectum is relaxed and I spend some minutes fucking his hole with my fingers.
I pull out slowly. I scoop out a handful of lubricant, smear it on my hand, then shove a further dollop into his rectum. I recall an image, a hand, with the fingers close together, the thumb tucked beneath, forming a duck bill shape.
If you go online and Google “fisting” the Wikipedia page will come up. That’s where you’ll find the image for the correct position of your hand.
I slide in.
I’m inside him up to my knuckles, the joints halfway up my fingers. He lets out a long, low groan.
He wants this, very badly; I can tell when he pushes back on me, clenching tight around my fingers. There’s crazy sensation as if his muscles gulp and swallow, like a contraction and my whole hand is in, right up to my wrist. His muscles seem to be working of their own volition, sucking me in; with each spasm and contraction I push gently, receding a little, pushing forward a little.
He is breathing quickly. “So full,” he murmurs. We remain in our positions for minutes, long minutes, maybe even hours.
I gaze at him.
Impaled on my hand.
He is panting.
“Breathe with me,” I say again.
And he does.
I retreat again, push in again, sliding ever higher. My fingers are cramping and I move them, as best as I can, within the confines of rippling, quivering muscles. I am in his bowel, past my wrist joint. Slowly, gently, I negotiate the curves of his passage.
He whimpers; little, “oh oh oh oh” sounds.
Then something gives, gives way and I slide, slide in – I am further in than I had imagined possible. My hand and forearm are inside his bowel, almost up to my elbow.
We are both, absolutely, locked in the moment.
I rest my cheek on his lower back.
The image of my arm impaling him, the delicate skin stretched wide will stay with me the rest of my life.
The little whimpering moans come from his throat.
“Oh oh oh oh…”
I reach down to his cock; I masturbate his erection with my free hand.
His bowel muscles contract, crushing my hand as he ejaculates.
The process of removing my hand from his bowel takes a long time. I’m a novice at this, but I sense that it may be dangerous to him for me to rush the procedure. Perhaps I would rip the fragile skin lining his rectum. Maybe, I would damage the muscles; I don’t know. At first, I am unable to move; I am tightly locked in. I tell him he has to push, just little rhythmic pushes, helping the muscles to contract, just as they would if he were pushing shit out of his rectum.
This would not be a good moment for either of us to panic.
I place my free hand on his buttock and use him as leverage to begin my exit. And very slowly his internal muscles relax and an inch at a time, I withdraw.
His anus gapes,an O, an open hole.
I sit in a crouch with my back to the wall. I cradle him in my arms while he trembles and sobs. He nuzzles his head beneath my sweater; he suckles my breast.
This is an extract from a new story -- I'm exploring...
