I didn't title it "Fisting: A Love Story" but I could have

From my story "Espionage" in Best Women's Erotica 2011 by Violet Blue. I used all sorts of devices I don't normally - second person, a tense I'm not even sure what it's called ("In a few minutes, you will emerge..."). It's dark yet it's a love story, for sure. When I'm feeling down about how my writing isn't going as planned, sometimes I pick up this story and reread it. I'm making my way through the whole book, too. It's a keeper, and a great holiday gift for that special someone. Kindof funny because the one I wrote for Obsessed (my 2011 erotic romance anthology) is not this intense at all. It's more lighthearted, fun, but the love is there too. It takes all kinds, I guess, to quote an Aimee Mann song.

You are ready, so, so ready, and you take them in greedily, followed by four. His other hand finds places to pinch you—inner thigh, belly—as you open for him, spreading your legs as far as you can, willing yourself to relax. You—the part of you that makes these decisions—want this, want this final time, this heat, this heaviness, but your body is more cautious, closing around his fingers as the thumb attempts entry. Your body, your cunt, knows he is almost too large to fit inside but you have overruled your body before, turning pain into the most dazzling of erotic highs. This is not like the times he’s held you down and shoved his cock inside you, shocked you with the bluntness of it, making you play catchup. He can’t hurry this along. Instead he rotates his fingers and adds more lube and you grunt and bite your lip and feel him get a little further inside.

He goes in, and in, and in, thumb curled up and then there it is, the ball of his hand, this giant inside you. You’ve heard that the human heart is actually the size of a hand, and wonder if, right now, he is giving you a part of his heart, a part that is only for you, a part you can treasure as you feel its outline pressing the tender, thin walls of your pussy wider and wider. The tears come—of fear, relief, pleasure, love—all at once, and you are grateful for the dark. He can hear them, that’s fine, but seeing them is another story. Seeing them is a little too close for comfort. You lie there on the floor of the closet, stealing more than your seven minutes in a kinky kind of heaven, as his massive heart of a hand reels you in and lets you go. His other hand finds your clit, so hard and aching it could be a cock, and you think you’ll hurt him when you come like that, squeezing so tight, the energy rushing all around, making your fingers tingle and your head so light it could float away. You see stars behind your eyes and have to drop your legs to the ground. His hand makes love to you, makes love appear inside of you even as you know this has to be the end. You want all of him, all the potential he has to love someone, and this is just a teaser.

“I’m going to pull out,” he says after what could be three minutes, or thirty. You want to protest, because once he’s gone, the emptiness will be so huge you know that sex will never be enough to fill it. You reach for his wrist and he lets you take it, lets you half sit up and keep him there. There’s a stillness to this all, a calm, Zenlike focus combined with the way it makes your pussy take over everything. You can feel him shaking, are sure he is sweating, and you take your fill of him, then lie back and let him leave. The silence is not deafening, but awe-inspiring. You break it by leaning against his chest, listening to his heart beat. You manage to block out all the noise outside the closet.