Handball As A Contact Sport

I was lying on my right side with my left leg in the air. The dozens of clothespins on my breasts and labia hurt, but I barely noticed them because every iota of my attention was focused on my asshole. That was where the Boyfriend was directing his attentions--his right hand slathered with Crisco, shoving more and more of it inside me, slowly working his fingers in past the inner sphincter. I wanted to rub my clit, but I couldn't get to it around all the clothespins, and anyway, my left hand was busy holding my leg up and my right hand was trapped underneath me. My eyes were closed and I wasn't seeing anything but swirling colors, my own private light show broadcast on the backs of my eyelids.

Every time I thought I couldn't take another moment of it, he'd back out just a little and then I'd be begging him to come back. I was moaning and and writhing under his hand, my breath coming in jagged little gasps, wanting this to be the time that his fist finally slid into my ass. Periodically he'd rotate his hand so that he could wiggle his fingers against a different bit of internal geography and I'd scream.

I don't know how long we were at it; we'd already been playing for an hour or more and I was so wet, I could feel my inner labia sliding together, all slick with my juices. Suddenly I felt his hand slide in just a tiny little fraction more, and just then, I was sure it was the moment of truth and that he was going to slip past that thumb knuckle and I'd feel his fist pressed up against the wrong side of my backbone--and I was terrified.

"I'm scared! I'm scared!" I opened my eyes and sought desperately to connect with his for reassurance. He slid his fingers back out and immediately I missed them and wanted them back, even with the tears sliding down my cheeks.

He fucked my ass a while longer, eventually bringing out the big black cock that always takes so much warmup: it slid right in without the tiniest bit of resistance. He told me afterward that he hadn't been anywhere near close to slipping the last knuckle in when I'd gotten scared, but it doesn't matter. I'd sure thought he was right on the brink.

Someday, maybe.