"I got my whole fist is in there." Jack said.
"You're such a fuckin' liar, Jack." My speech slurred severely from the something Jack put in my drink. I told him to surprise me. Whatever it was, it gave me a fuzzy feeling of well being, but I also felt surprisingly free of the normal nagging pain I kept at the junction of my neck and right shoulder. Of course, it did help that we smoked some killer weed before we started to play.
"No bullshit, your ass is squeezing my fuckin' wrist, man."
I rose to see that he was telling the truth, but I didn't feel extreme pain, just a far off ache.
"Fuck me with your hand, Jack," I said, "Just go slow."
"I don't know, Andy. Maybe I should just keep my hand still for a while."
"It doesn't hurt that much. Go on move your hand around." I said.
"You hurt?" He asked.
"Nah, it feels fuckin' unbelievable." I half-closed my eyes in drowsy excitation.
"Andy, man," Jack said in a higher octave, "Your ass is moving up my arm!"
It didn't seem like I had pushed down that hard; I only hit the amyl a bit and let out a healthy exhale. Frankly, it felt as normal as squeezing out some shit. Since I wanted to move farther down his arm, I took a bigger hit, pushed out my ass, and saw bright lights dance behind my closed lids.
The pain moved somewhere behind me, and at the same moment a slow wave of sweet aching moved through my rectum. My eyes flutter, I tensed and relaxed, and I began to snort and grunt through the passage of the aching.
"Andy? What's goin' on man." Jack in his high octave added panic...
When I sat on the commode again, I squirted out blood, but couldn't really remember what had caused it. I didn't really worry about it until three days later when I continued to squirt blood. I had to go to the hospital.
"Mr. Davis," my doctor explained, "You have a moderate rectal tear.
What do you think caused it?"
"I don't know," I lied. As much as I couldn't remember that night, I did remember that it started with Jack playing with my ass. The rest remained foggy.
"You sure?" The doctor asked. "Most of the time these tears are caused by putting sharp objects in the rectum or allowing someone with sharp nails to put their fingers in there."
"Well, doc, you know I'm gay, but I don't get into fisting or anything like that," I said.
"Um-hum," the doctor said in a tone that meant I was a lying bastard.
"Will you have to file some report?" I asked.
He looked over his half-moon glasses and asked, "Were you assaulted?"
"No," I said.
"Then I don't see a reason to file a report."
"It's just that I don't want to be a case study in JAMA," I said.
"Mr. Davis," he said in that medical condescension I had come to loathe, "rectal tears aren't such a rare occurrence. You don't have to worry about any study appearing in JAMA."
He scribbled something in my file, scribbled something else on an RX pad, and told me to get dressed. Essentially, he wrote prescriptions for suppositories and some painkillers, then sent me on my way. If he wanted to make sure I glowed with embarrassment, he certainly succeeded. As I walked through the hospital, I thought everyone whispered as I passed.
Time passed, my ass continued to heal, and a few of the memories of the night Jack stuck his hand up my ass surfaced. I couldn't shake the idea. I wanted to know if I could do it again, but under safer conditions with a man who knew the art.
"It's easy to find information about it, Andy. Just google it," Jack said.
Most of the websites showed women getting their cunts, asses, or both fisted. So I modified my search to included "gay," and several websites returned with information. At one site, I read about fisting prevalence, preparation, and safety precautions, along with a few words of wisdom:
"Do not expect to take an entire fist the first time," I read. "It's a technique acquired over time."
Well, I thought, I had traveled light years in one night.
"You shouldn't attempt fisting with an inexperienced top."
Mistake number two, I thought.
"Alcohol and drugs shouldn't be taken when fisting."
Hat trick, I thought, but I felt a little better at reading a caveat.
"Although alcohol and drugs are highly discouraged, some fisters do play with either or both."
It went further.
"Some fisters inhale poppers to take a fist."
But the shot to my stomach came when I read,
"Using gloves during a fisting session is ideal. If, however, bare hands are used, sharp or ragged fingernails could cause rectal tears."
"Bingo," I said to my monitor.
"If you are truly interested in fisting, there are a number of clubs and organizations that provide workshops to demonstrate proper technique.
`Play parties' sponsored by well-established fisting groups are other sources. However, before joining any of these, make sure that you have more than a passing curiosity."
I pushed away from my computer and gave it some thought as I felt the squish of the suppository and the fuzzy kindness of the painkiller: one I took as a precaution since the injury was completely healed; the other I took for recreation.
I moved back to the website and searched again. Searching through the list, I stopped on a particular website that actually made me laugh at its name: "Fully Loaded." I moved through the why's and how-to's of fisting until at the end it read, "We welcome beginning fisters. If interested write to this e-mail address."
I sent an e-mail explaining my interest, but not revealing that my first experience led me to the hospital. And after checking my e-mail for the next two weeks, I gave up receiving a reply. Then at the end of the third week, I received this,
"Got your e-mail. If you are interested, I should like to meet with you. It is my policy to find out exactly what you think fisting involves."
The sender gave only a phone number. With such little information I had to decide whether the sender was legitimate or some predator. Yet, like all things sexual, the fascination occupied my mind until my curiosity caused me to act. The sender had also provided time of availability. I dialed the number with shaky hands.
"Hello," a voice, husky and deep, answered.
I stood with the phone to my ear somewhere between speaking and hanging up.
"Y-Yeah, hi, I'm the guy who sent the e-mail."
"I get a lot of e-mails." The man said in an even tone.
"Well, my name is Andy Davis, I wrote to you about my interest in fisting?"
"Oh, yes. Certainly. I did get your e-mail," he said more warmly.
"Do you think I can...uh...make an appointment?" I asked.
"Of course. I take it you read the information at the website?
"Yeah, but I have a lot of questions."
Excellent, when can you drop by?" He asked.
"How about now?"
"That's a bit TOO soon. "Let's say next Friday, around seven?"
"That's fine," I lied. I didn't think I'd have the courage to go through with it by then, and I was afraid I'd talk myself out it.
"Wait, can you come by later tonight; say around eight-thirty?"
"Sure," I said. I'm sure he heard the delight in my voice.
"I understand that you are eager to discuss this. Fisting is still rather at the fringe of sexual acts," he admitted. "You know some people even called it a fetish."
"Isn't it?" I asked myself.
"My interview includes an examination. That is, I want to look at your asshole. Would you be uncomfortable with that?"
The question was offsetting, but I guess necessary. "Uh...no, not at all," I lied.
"Good. Just cleanup like you would for a fuck, but it wouldn't hurt to go deeper."
His frank instructions embarrassed and aroused me.
"Also bring any lube you normally play with, although I strongly recommend Crisco," he added.
"Listen, I don't want to sound like I'm not interested, but I thought this was going to be a discussion."
"Oh, okay. Well, if you want to gather some information, that's fine, too. I guess I should have explained that my discussion with beginners sometimes end with their wanting me to give a demonstration of how fisting is done by an experience top or bottom. I'm both, you see."
"I see," I said feeling as thick as the brick mentioned by Jethro Tull. This wasn't just community service the guy provided; this was a chance to find eager bottoms or tops to play with. I considered the situation: I'm going to the place of man I don't know, discuss fisting with him, and then let him stick his hand up my ass. When I thought about, it did seem both dangerous and crazy, but the more I thought the more I wanted it. Caught in my thoughts, however, I hadn't realized I was keeping the guy waiting.
"Listen, I understand if this isn't for you," he continued. "If after the discussion you don't want to explore anything, then that's fine."
I detected a hint of annoyance.
"Yes, I'm interested. We'll figure out what happens after we talk.
How about that?" I asked.
"Sounds good. So, see you at eight-thirty?" he asked.
"Eight-thirty, then." I said and hung up the phone to allow doubt to seize me.
Through the cleanup and the ride over, I mentally swatted away doubts like mosquitoes. Directions, however, brought me to an un-blighted part of town. I found the address among condos the color of dream sickles.
In fact, the owners were probably going for the Painted Desert look, but missed the mark.
I found the address in a maze of buildings and neatly trimmed hedges.
When I rang the bell, the man who answered looked nothing like the image I had attached to the voice. A man, much taller than I, surely residing somewhere between fifty and sixty, opened the door. Since shutters across the shiny screen door prevented me from seeing below his nipples, I only noticed his shiny bald head, teased white beard that disappeared below the shutters, and half-Moon glasses that sat on the tip of his large angular nose. With clear blue pupils against extremely white backgrounds, he looked over his glasses.
"Yes," he said.
"I'm Andy Davis, I spoke to you on the phone?"
"Ah, yes, certainly. Franklin Banks. Come in, please."
I stepped into a heavily decorated room. Brown leather covered almost everything. The same material hung as drapery with sheer material behind them. Every wall was painted a soft white, with large brown-framed black and white prints hanging at various points. Leafy plants sat on all surfaces, including a battered upright behind the door. On the dining room table, a miniature statue of David, glass pebbles littering its base, sat on a platter-size mirror. And to top off the almost claustrophobic atmosphere of Franklin's sitting room, a very thick carpet displayed a slightly frayed, but enormous, phallus at its center with an unbroken line of men sucking and fucking as its decorative border. And as much as the dcor held my attention, I immediately noticed that my host walked about bare-assed.
"So, Andy is it?" He asked returning with two large tumblers of ice tea.
I slowly nodded.
"Sugar?" He asked holding out a small cup of cubes. "Andy," he began after setting the cup down, "let's get past the awkwardness. First, called me Frank. And yes, I'm probably as old as your father or grandfather; and yes, I probably don't come close to the man you expected to be sticking his hand up your colosum sanctum; but, I have been around a very long time, and I have a lot of experience when it comes to fisting."
I didn't know how to respond. After such a speech, I didn't want to offend him by saying I didn't want to be fisted by my grandfather. Yet, the more I looked at his tan body, surprising muscularity, I started to relax about the idea.
"I do feel a little awkward, Mr. Banks--"
"Frank," he said.
"--but not because of you, per se..."
"Oh, does my nudity bother you, then?" He asked and stood with arms slightly outstretched.
"Well, Frank (I still felt like I was addressing my grandfather), it did surprise me but I'm okay with it. It's just that--by the way--how old are you, anyway?"
"Ah, now we get to the heart of it. Well, how old do you think I am?
Or is a better question: Am I too old to play with a young guy like you?"
"Well, now that you mention it..."
"I'll be fifty-eight in two months. And you?"
"Thirty-four in two years."
"Well, I don't see a problem," he said. "We're both over the age of consent. He laughed with a gusto that became infectious.
"Okay, here's the deal," I began again. "I don't have a problem with your age or your nudity. Like I said, I was just caught off-guard.
In fact, I'm sort of glad it's you. I don't think I could talk about it with someone younger or with a woman."
He smiled. "Good," he said and gave a wink. "Besides, I look a sight better than most men my age. He stood his tall frame of taught muscles before me to strike a pose of power (ala Schwarzenegger). His entire body, his height, coupled with the massiveness of his arms, caused my cock to stiffen, but I remembered that he was at least as old as my father, and my cock deflated a little. When he padded off to the kitchen, I saw the hardness of his tanned ass and my cock stiffened again.
After returning with a dish of cheese and crackers, he settled in the chair, providing a clear sight of his fat cock and equally fat balls bushed in darker hair than that of his beard.
I explained that I have always wanted to be fisted but thought that it was going to end in some really bad injury. He looked at me in a way that was both paternal and grave, and his words came not judiciously but with impact.
"Most people who come to me have HAD a bad experience. I don't get into what the behavior was that made it bad. One, I want to help them see that fisting can be an enjoyable experience; and two, I get the added benefit of having opportunities to play more often." He said with a sly but somewhat handsome grin. His admission did much to relax me further, and from this admission I felt the need to reveal a truth of my own.
"Hey, it happens. We get full of something, discretion goes out the window, and we're left with the damage. Lucky for you, though, the damage wasn't permanent."
He scratched his long, white beard that didn't match the heavy brown fur on his torso, saved for the small white in the valley of his pecs. And as he weighed his next remark, I noticed thick fur hid the thickness of his pecs, but I could see that one pec held a tattoo of a fat heart with thorns scratching blood from it.
"Yeah, I'd say you were very lucky. Some people have taken heavy drugs, or drank too much, then let some drugged fool fist them.
Afterwards, they had to have surgery that left them toting a colostomy bag."
I squirmed more from the truth of what he said rather than the image he painted.
"That is the core reason," he continued, "I put my information on the website. I can prevent that type of shit if I can at least talk to beginners before they get their insides ripped out."
"I guess I'm not saying much to talk you into getting fisted, but I do want you to know the extreme outcomes caused by misinformation."
"Well, I appreciate you meeting with me," I said.
"More tea?" He asked.
"No, but I am getting a little warm. Do you mind?" I asked.
"Oh, feel free," he said with a wink.
I didn't completely undress but I did take off my shirt, shoes and socks.
"I believe the body is beautiful enough to go without clothes. And since I could get arrested out there," he said pointing to a window, "I keep it off in here. Beside, I'm the biggest goddamn exhibitionist you'll ever meet," he added and winked again.
Surprisingly he didn't have the face of man who had been in the sun too long, he didn't have sea-burned skin with the curse of liver spots, nor did he have an artificial smile from wearing dentures. His bright smile, under his bushy white beard complemented his full, ruby lips. And I suspected had he shaved the beard, he would have shaved about twenty years off his actual age.
"Now, tell me what you already know about fisting," he said and rose with the grace of gymnast to unfold his leg and let his curved hardness flop against his stomach. His cock was kept darker than the rest of his body by a metal ring behind his cock and balls. Three more rings strangled his balls to create a large purple sac.
"Only what I learned from the internet," I said. "Mostly I know that fisting seems to be an ongoing process of stretching the rectum, but the stretching doesn't happen overnight."
"Well that's a start," he said, pulling strands of his beard, "a lot of beginners think that their holes are going to magically relax enough to take a fist. Most bottoms and tops gained their abilities over time;
for some, it takes years. They paid attention to their bodies and stopped when things didn't feel right. The best bottom knows his body, and the best top knows his bottom--because the top is mostly likely versatile."
His expression softened as he spoke, as if the words held some sacred meaning.
"Fisting can be very exciting, and some say even spiritual."
"What do YOU get out of it?" I asked.
"Ah, the man wants to know my secrets."
"No, I-I just..."
"It's very simple," he began. "Fisting an ass to me is like getting as close to man as I can possible get. The trust involve is so powerfully erotic, since the man is submitting to me and trusting that I will not abuse his submission."
During his explanation, I noticed that precome began streaming from his cock, and as though he were flicking ashes in tray, he took a washcloth from the crease of the chair and wiped the precome from the head of his cock. Such nonchalance made me even harder as I squirmed to adjust my aching cock, leaking its on precome.
"Have you relaxed enough to remove the rest of your clothes?"
"Would a toke of this help?" He asked reaching for a small, porcelain vase with the scene of an ornate dragon breathing fire and clawing at invisible enemies. He removed two particularly fat joints, lit one up, took a healthy toke, and passed it to me.
"Yeah, sure," I said and took the joint with visibly shaking fingers. Somehow, the ease in which he offered the pot got me even harder. Perhaps a house needed to fall on me, because I was acting nervous, yet giddy in the presence of a naked man (who could be my grandfather, even) speak of fisting as naturally as a chef spoke of cooking.
He sat back in the overstuff chair to stroke his cock and savor the growing high of the joint, and despite smoking the very potent grass, his blue eyes remained alert and vividly clear. His sly glances spoke much to me in what he anticipated, in what he knew that I hadn't yet admitted. He knew that I didn't come to just TALK about fisting and he knew that before night's end, he would get as close to me as no man had. These were my thoughts as we sat at opposites, and I wondered what hid behind those sparkling blue eyes of the man whose gaze seemed almost painful at times.
Extinguishing the roach with his fingers, and unmoved from the pain, he searched my lackluster brown eyes for something. His gaze questioned but I gave no answers, at least I didn't think I did. And as the pot stroked me into a luxurious high, the kind of high that made even the subtlest odor or movement demonstrative and wondrous, I gave up the answers not only with my eyes but also with my slowly expanding ass.
"I know why you came," he said straddling the ottoman in front of me. "I know why they all come."
My puzzled look caused him to continue.
"When the journey is uncertain, the traveler requires a guide,"
he said, smiling and stroking my thighs. I closed my eyes to the warmth of his heavily padded palms that seemed heated in lust.
And his voice, hypnotic and calming, encouraged me to close my eyes and swim in it. He touched a hand to my cheek and locked us into a deep glance before asking, "Do you want to take this journey, Andy?"
I nodded, yes.
"No, you must say the words," he said softly and pressed my middle with his other hand. "Words have power, and speaking them creates the truth of what is in here." And he rubbed the space just below my navel and above the waist of my jeans. "Say the words, Andy;
it's important that we both hear them."
He waited, almost knowing that I would say the words, as they floated around my mind, and I could see each letter of each word, floating against a black void. Each painted in, silvery, slippery moon glow.
Finally, I spoke but not the lusty words that floated in my mind. A whimper of sorts escaped my tightly pressed lips, as if opening them would flood him with the wave of lust that began to rise from the spot where his hand had rested.
"Let's have another toke, okay?" he asked. The reassuring tone communicated more than a reprieve; it, along with his gaze, communicated that how and when I said the words weren't immediately important. Somehow, I DID feel I had been given a reprieve; somehow, knowing that I didn't disappoint him seemed important; but somehow, he knew that my submission would come as sure as the sun would rise after this night.
While he removed two more joint from the oriental vase, I stood to unbuckle my belt. The familiar sound caused him to turn his sunny smile to me.
"I guess power can be revealed in other ways, Andy," he said and returned to the vase to secure its lid.
I heard the strong suction of his hit before he brought the other joint to me. And sitting on the ottoman, he watched as I shucked my jeans.
"Slowly," he said and placed the joint between my lips. "This is a bit more powerful than the other," he said before sitting back on the ottoman.
Actually, I thought he wanted me to shuck more slowly, and embarrassment heated my cheeks.
"Now, let me," he said and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of my boxers I had yet to shuck.
Sliding them slowly over my ass, he lingered to see the slow appearance of my asscheeks and cock. He purred approval while moving my boxers to my ankles, where he waited for me to step out of them, but I wobbled a bit on lifting my leg.
"Put your hand on my head," he said without looking up.
The touch of his baldhead, slick and warm, caused my cock to pulse upward, and I flushed with more embarrassment. Then as soon as I stepped out of my boxers, he rose to sitting and came face-to-cock. He looked up at me, a smile spreading his face, and I heard, "Say the words, Andy."
But the words came from inside my head, from a voice much different from my own. And as I stood looking down at him, he encircled my dripping cock with one hand, caressed my balls with the other, and began to suckle. Goosebumps rose in relief on every part of me, as I began to breath in shallows.
"No, Andy, breath more deeply," he said turning a more serious gaze to me. "Deep breathing starts the journey," he said and resumed his concentration of suckling to the head of my cock.
The hand that had held my cock moved around to my ass where he kneaded the flesh, squeezed it, and traced a finger along my crack. The goose bumps burned away with flames of desire that flash from my crack and raced down my legs and up my torso. I craned my head and searched for what--I didn't know. I could only react jerkily to the movement of his suckling--he the puppet master; I moved to his will. The more I craned, the more intense the flames licked at my crack; the more puppet-like I became.
He moved his hand between my legs, guiding me to stand with my legs farther apart, and then he traced his tongue behind my balls, to that precious space between them and my crack. And as much as I wanted him to trace his tongue into my crack, he only eased to its precipice, each time coming closer but never falling over its edge.
Unintelligible sounds, describing his delicious feasting, describing the tremendous pleasure, and describing the enjoyment of his oral exploration, came from my lips. Words I'd never spoken to any man, words that brought to question my masculinity, words that inadequately described his oral talents increased in number and volume. Yet, he continued, speed unchanged, no new territory explored, lingering in the space behind my balls, just at the edge of my hungry crack.
Then after a while, he retreated to the crinkles of my sac, generously lathering each ball and the seam between, tracing that seam along the underside of my cock with hands rubbing the length of my trembling legs.
Reaching the convergence of flesh at the underside of my cockhead, he flattened his tongue to tease the sensitive area before again taking in the length of my shaft. Out of shear desire, I took his head in both hands to guide it along my shaft and watched my glistening cock appear and disappear. Again, goose bumps ridged my surface while whirlpools of tingling emerged at my cock and nipples. Both stood out rigidly, demonstratively, achingly pleasurably.
And finally, I said the words slowly, huskily, "Give me your hand, Frank."
He slowly rose, swept me into his hairy arms, into a beautifully moist kiss of soft lips, and into a taste of me. The heady odor and luscious tang made me swoon and made the world disappear for a moment. And in that moment, I closed my eyes to see myself under a blue sky and in the presence of rock formations and cacti that resembled cocks and deeply relaxed ass cracks. Overhead desert fowl cawed and swooped, while below the surface undulated in shimmering heat, the heat of my desires.
Frank ended the kiss and turned his desert gaze of sky-blue eyes on me.
I saw my reflection there, saw his intentions, and nodded to his wordless inquiry of leading me through a door at the back of the apartment.
Just outside he stopped, his hand moving through the fur on my chest, and looked at me with an intense expression.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.
The question didn't register, initially, and I only nodded.
"Andy, give yourself a moment to think deeply. Consider what you are about to do and consider where this journey will take you. You must give me your trust." His expression turned grave before he added,
"Sometimes that which we want most intensely, may not occur. Your body and mind must be in synch or you will struggle and possibly cause harm in trying to achieve it."
I looked in his eyes, where he seemed to display truth, a truth that I couldn't endure when I first saw it at our meeting, but this time I saw the truth in his eyes and embraced it.
"Frank, I haven't been more sure of anything in my life. The truth shines in your eyes, in a strange but hypnotic way, and although I don't fully understand why it has such a powerful affect on me, I'm sure after my experience with you, I'll come to understand it."
I spoke those words but I didn't know their origin, and as much as I wanted to believe that I consciously chose each syllable, each enchanting phrase, I can't really be sure. Those words came from the very depth of my soul, and for once in my mediocre life, I was fully certain about something.
He returned that wonderfully bearded smile and moved us into a room that wasn't a typical playroom: It contained no racks of attitude modifications, no closet of leather gear, and no sinister depictions of ministration. Anything remotely hinting to the room's activity appeared as an examination table one might find a doctor's office, its shiny leather glossed in the glow of a single red light at the ceiling's center. A moderate folding table held a few cans of Crisco, rolls of paper towels, two spray bottles of water, a single box of surgical gloves, and few label-less bottles of poppers (often referred to as head cleaner by wary vendors). Under the table were two fairly large wastebaskets.
Everything glowed in dim redness and brought to mind ROXANNE, a popular tune by the Police, and until Frank turned on a nearby audio system, the tune looped an apropos segment: "...you don't have to put on the red light..." Oh, but without the red light, the experience wouldn't seem complete. Whoever associated red with fisting, I'm sure had their reasons for the obvious, but seeing the ominous glow didn't foster well-being in me, as I damped down apprehension and smoothed away gooseflesh.
Surprisingly, Frank's small audio system carried more power and volume than I expected, and I jumped at the sudden thump of bass that lumbered along in a slow and steady cadence. Images of African elephants, traversing scorched earth appeared in my mind, and while I stood on the scorched earth of my mind, Frank busied with preparations: placing butchers paper on the examination table, adjusting the table's stirrups, and searching for items in the table's drawers.
"Everything seems to be in order," Frank said walking from the table and rubbing a warm palm at the small of my back. "So, how are you doing? Do you like the music?"
"Yes, I get an image of elephants; you know, tail-to-trunk?" I asked.
At that moment, I realized I had not brought my supplies, but looking into the room, I figured I wouldn't need them.
"I get the same image, too," Frank said and allowed silence to fall between us. Then slowly, he kissed away the slight trembling from my body and the cozy feeling of trust returned along with my winking ass.
Even if I wasn't ready, my asshole was.
"Hop up and put your feet in the stirrups," Frank said and pulled a small stool between my legs as I lay slightly propped in a sitting position. I moved around until I found a comfortable spot, and as much as I tried to push away the thought, I suddenly smiled at the idea that I knew how women felt when they were put on the blocks for a look at the old chasses.
"I have cockrings and ball stretchers," Frank offered as he put on gloves. "Some guys find it adds to the intensity."
"Both," I said and reached for them.
"Let me," Frank said and molded my balls into a snug stretcher. Each snap caused my cock to slowly awaken. Next, he placed a heavily studded leather cockring, behind my balls and snapped it into place. Instantly, my shaft gorged with blood, its shaved surface quickly changed from cherry to plum. Then he stood between my legs and moved his gaze over me like a kid deciding which desert to eat first.
He settled for licking my ball sac like a large lollypop. I closed my eyes and sunk into the warm wetness. And for an added treat, he took the entire pop into his mouth and applied pressure with an eye on me for instruction.
Between sighs of luxurious pleasure, I uttered a single word, "More."
He smiled and obliged.
And for what lasted a luxurious moment (I found no need to mark actual time), he moved to my cock and serviced it as he had in the sitting room.
With eyes closed, I heard movement: the uncapping of a can, slide of a bottle, but still Frank kept servicing me without interruption. I marveled at his multitasking until I felt the coolness of a bottle and slight coarseness of cloth placed on my stomach.
"You want these?" He asked.
My face formed a question.
"I recommend it," he said with a smile, and then stood to explain what he was going to do. "I'm going to play with you hole for a while to see how you respond, then slowly I'm going to stretch you, okay?"
"No, tell me you understand," he said.
"Yeah, I understand," I said.
"You must tell me what you're feeling, tell me slow down, tell me to stop," he explained. "It's important in fisting, although some tops find instructions from bottoms to be a little pushy. I find them to be safety precautions."
"Okay, Frank," I said, but what I communicated, and what he understood, is that I trusted him.
"Now, I want you to breath deeply and I want you say a word for me. It may sound silly at first, but it will help. Draw in a breath and say,
I questioned the instruction with my expression.
"Come on, say it. You don't have to feel silly about it, Andy. You are with me, and I'm grateful for that, okay?"
"Oopah," I said more tentatively than not.
"Go deeper for it. Once more."
"Oopah!" I said in acknowledging his gratitude, as I was grateful, too.
"Yeah, good boy," Frank said and patted my chest before returning to the stool.
"I'll tell you when to say it, but for now just breathe deeply and empty your mind."
Again, he returned to my cock, suckling slowly, lovingly, as if he had discovered some unusual fruit that issued splendid nectar. Holding my cock in gloved hands, he worshiped it like an ancient dweller who found a mystical artifact and who prayed to his gods for explanation. The delight in his sparkling eyes, the smile on his bearded face, caused me to lie back in reverence.
He gave my now purple bulb of a ball sac the same attention as before, and again, trailed the seam to the space behind my balls, and as he arrived I remembered reading (or perhaps hearing) somewhere that some guys referred to the place behind the balls but before the crack, that sensitive basement of a man, as a "taint"--it `taint' your asshole and it `taint' your balls; it just taint! I wondered how an errant thought could pass through my mind at such an intimate moment, but the thought and the pleasure combined to empty my mind as Frank instructed.
Perhaps, at such moments, thoughts pushed back in corners, to flow out again when the intensity is over.
That thought passed, too, and Frank continued to lash my taint, and I traveled back to the desert to watch the elephants. But there was a new and delightful sensation. As I watched the elephants arrived at an inviting watering hole, its surface occasionally disturbed by a slight breeze, I watched the elephants glide into the cooling water, I watched them spray water to their burning surfaces, and I heard them trumpet relief.
Also, at this wondrous moment, I felt Frank's tongue glide over the precipice of my quivering asshole, cooling its edges and moving deeper around its walls. Just like the elephants, I trumpeted relief in the form of low moans and moderate ooh's and aah's.
Such a talented tongue, Frank's was. He flicked, stabbed, and slathered lovingly in and around my asshole, stopping only to watch the magic of expansion, to watch the slow but erotic dilation of my pink and plum muscle, to watch the varying textures of rarely exposed flesh mawed at him, delighted him, and encouraged him to explore farther.
I pressed heels into the stirrups and squirmed over Frank's deliciously warm wetness, but in the desert in my mind, the sensation translated to cooling waters, aerated geysers, and trumpets of relief. In my mind, on the hottest day in the desert, I no longer watched the elephants; I became one of them.
Truly, I was unmindful of time, even unmindful of space. My senses had merged to evoke one purpose--pleasure. Smell merged with touch, sight married sound, and for the moment taste served Frank more than it served me. Each team served its purpose to impress on me the beauty of sensual mansex, the tremendous pleasure found in patience, in mutual gratification, and certainly in mutual reverence.
A series of questions flashed into my mind: If this was a precursor to a higher level of pleasure that Frank pursued, could I sustain it? Could I endure it? I prayed to a faceless god that I could.
As if monitoring my thoughts, Frank rose to check on me.
"Look at me," he said in the softest and most seductive tone.
"Yes, look at you," I said in slurred excitation. "Look at how wonderful you make me feel."
"I'm glad that I can give you great pleasure."
"Ahhh, Frank, I never knew..."
"Quiet your mind. Breath deeply. It is time to start the journey," he said in the most peculiar voice, one heralding the arrival of a great pontiff, a voice necessary to protocol when addressing unseen reverence.
I let the thoughts pass before manufacturing concern. I only wanted to be concerned with the continued pleasure Frank was providing.
"Remember what I told you to say, Andy?"
"Oopah!" I said with satisfaction and delight.
"Good boy," Frank said but with a tone that meant more than praise for a satisfactory accomplishment. For the slightest of instances, I really felt like I was Frank's boy, a fisting boy, a fisting boy to be presented to the unseen reverence. Equally, this thought smacked of manufactured concern, and as I've done before, concerning myself with such triviality could cause me to shut down--and I surely didn't want that.
Soon I felt Frank's fingers teasing the folds of my asshole. He delicately fingered here and there as my hole expanded farther. The expanding resembled a slow bulge of water pressured through a channel from the bowels of the earth to the surface when it gently and smoothly spilled over its edges.
Semblance of a bulging, gaping hole--that's how I felt at Frank's advances, and the distant aching accompanying the pressure of expansion caused me to reach for my cock, but my hand was gently pushed away. I opened my eyes to see Frank looking at me in mild amusement.
"Later, you'll thank me for that," he said and went about his work.
I felt insertion and without pushing my hole responded with more dilation.
"How many fingers, Frank?" I asked.
"Close your eyes and find the elephants," he said and went back to his work.
More tickles, more massages of my folds, and a momentary but much more intense advance from Frank, brought me from the desert back to the examination table. I looked at Frank, who advised that,
"Now would be time to hit the poppers, boy," he said. His tone concerned me enough to take the advice, but the hit didn't warp time or give me a sudden rush of warmth. Instead, my vision dimmed briefly, sound fled, and an overwhelming sensation of falling sent me into brief panic.
"Breathe, boy!" Frank shouted, but I only deduced this by reading his lips. My glimpse of him spiraled away from me as I continued to fall into a black void. Then with rapid breaths, my vision began to clear, light rushed back to my eyes, and the world righted itself.
"Breathe, damn it!" Frank shouted again, and slapped a greasy hand to my middle. That did the trick as a powerful rush air escaped me before the world tilted and my asshole fluted into what felt to me like the bell of a French horn.
"That's it, give me another deep breath, slowly, now. Slowly. Good.
Frank kept up the encouragement and lowered to the stool. And when things reached as close to calm as I could get, I suddenly felt enormous fullness in my ass. I fought through a series of spasms with grunts and growls; sounds, unpleasant and primitive spilled from my twisted mouth as I instinctively began pushing out his hand; and the calm image of the desert sped to the safety of some far off location in my mind.
"Oopah! Andy," Frank instructed. "Say it!"
"Oh...ooh...oh my God!"
"Come on, Andy, say it!"
From the depths of my wracked body, and with great effort, I obeyed,
"OOPAH!" I shouted, and his fiery hand moved farther into me, but the movement didn't ease the fire raging in my asshole. An interlude of inactivity replaced the searing rage of Frank's passage. Its sudden arrival held me in welcomed stasis, and I lay panting, an O of wonder and relief still held my face.
"Oopah, boy. Give it to me," Frank said and leaned between my legs to insist. "Give it to me, Andy...Oopah!"
"Oopah!" I said with less effort than before and Frank slipped into another chamber. And with much appreciation, I noticed the intensity of the fire had all but diminished. Frank's hand became the line between pleasure and pain, and slowly--too slowly, it seemed--I searched for a space on the line that I could occupy. My body wanted relief from the pain and my mind sought the pleasure so often spoken of with awe and rapturous descriptors.
With the next Oopah, the rapture spoken of by other travelers to ecstasy washed over me with startling speed and intensity, and I floated in a primal ooze of excitation, light, and sound. The primal pool of sensations moved me beyond Frank, my facilitator, my astral guide, to a plane that no sophisticated phrasing could describe, no other trip could replace, no articulation could express--Simply it WAS heaven--my personal heaven, created in my image, created with my godly powers imbued by moving from the smegma of a lower reality. It was created with the help of Frank, my savior, my personal jesus.
This location--nameless, indescribable, but humbling in its beautiful provocation--sent me to a moment of indecision: stay or go, perceive or ignore, learn or reject, remember or forget. Indecision born of mortal weakness, born of arrogance, and born of imperfection, prevented me from facing the stark TRUTH.
But here I was, a traveler from the mundane, faced with answers to questions that puzzled the ancient and neo mystics; however, I didn't have the depth of spiritual intellect to handle such a precious gift.
Besides, I had not journeyed to this Xanadu for enlightenment; I had simply wanted to get fisted by someone who knew what to do; and even on this journey, I didn't understand what was being presented to me.
Perhaps, as my body sagged, and life dealt blows to my ego, I would come to understand such a missed opportunity. Now, I lingered in its beauty, its power, and its--
"PAIN!" I screamed and watched as the ooze spiraled to its center, becoming a vortex of light and texture. Lightning flashed from its center, elephants spiral from its edges, thrown within inches of me. The desert became a liquid chaos. Terrified beast, fish, and foul were flung from the vortex's center in all directions.
The vortex seemed to head for me, and as it neared, I saw in horror that I was the vortex. Lightning flashed from my eyes, thundered roared from my ass, my gaping ass that expanded upward and outward, moving down to the surface of the desert where the vortex entered and disappeared.
Suddenly, I was snatched back into the black and red swirls of color behind my lids. Faintly, as if calling from the far side of a great abyss, I heard Frank,
"Andy, open your eyes! Andy! Andy, can you hear me? Andy! Andy!"
My eyes fluttered open, I saw the smiling, but sweaty, face of Frank, and as I brought him into focus, I saw fleeting traces of concern in his eyes. I smiled weakly at him, and then suddenly folded my body at the waist, pushed chest to knees, and felt the involuntary push of my ass muscles.
"Don't push, don't push, don't--" Frank shouted.
But it was too late.
I only felt faint fire, combined with high-end aching, as Frank retreated from a tricky channel. My body drew arrow straight, my abdominals tightened to a washboard, and every major chord in my body stretched and twanged.
"Breath, Andy, and let it come out slowly...breathe...breathe..."
Frank coached, and I tried my best to follow his rhythm by resisting the urge to push. And as soon as the ache reached my inner sphincter, lightning flashed behind my eyes, images of the desert flickered dimly before fading to black, and the ache changed to an unbearable arc of pleasurable-pain.
"Easy...easy...let it out easy...there...it's coming..."
"Uhh....Uhhhh....Ugggghhhaaahhh!" As unintelligible as my primal roar was, and as animalistic as I felt, like some great beast roaring out my rage, the sudden emptiness left in the wake of Frank's hand caused me to cry and caused me to reach for Frank, who came to my side and wrapped his big arms around me.
"Shhhhh," he said stroking my back.
"Oh, Frank, I'm so...I'm so..."
"Easy, easy now...ride it out..." He said in a soothing voice.
"Mmmm, Frank...Oh, oh...where are you?" I asked.
"That's right, hold on to me...I'm here...there now...shhhhh."
A blitzkrieg of sensations stormed my surface. My body wracked this way and that, but I reveled in the attacks, because somewhere in my sweet agony, in the pleasurable pain, clarity came to me, clarity in the realization that my life had forever changed.
I would no longer be a man after fleeting pleasure from drug-induced fisting; I would no longer encourage other drug-affected, inexperienced fools to push their hands into me without concern, without experience;
and I would no longer find satisfaction in mainstream sex--but I wouldn't want to--thus the meaning of TRUTH through fisting; TRUTH from a higher source.
I would be a man seeking a spiritual education, maturation of sorts, with fisting as the vehicle. I realized, with Frank's help, that fisting is more than sexual, more than hand-in-ass. The experience brought sense to my chaotic world and brought a man of incredible patience and experience into my life. I remembered my mother saying that when the student is ready the teacher will come.
Frank held his massive body over me in a greasy but warm embrace.
Stroking the back of my sweaty head, and holding it close to his hairy chest, he calmed the attacks to intermittent fire, and slowly quiet spread through me until I could hear the counterpoint of Frank's heartbeat to mine.
"Will it always be this way?" I finally asked in a husky voice.
"Well, that depends on you," Frank said looking nowhere in particular.
Silence hosted our slowed breathing, and I realized Frank held me as a lover might. Or maybe because of what I had just experienced, I wanted him to hold me that way. In either case, I felt as if no harm could come to me as long as I stayed in his arms. Yet, in such wishful thinking, born of stretched emotions, another thought occurred to me: What if he was just helping out a beginner? And what if he really had no immediate feelings for me? And what if I won't see him after this? And what if...
"How are you feeling, Andy?" Frank asked in a tone filled with no outward signs that I could read.
Frank pulled at a few strands of his beard and absently brought me tighter in his embraced. And after a deep sigh, he asked,
"What happens now, Andy?"
"I dunno, Frank. What should happen?"
Frank didn't answer the question, and my apprehension grew. Maybe he decided to go easy here; maybe he heard something in the question that I didn't consider; or maybe he didn't want me to think that he was a desperate and lonely old man. Did that thought make him finger his beard and stare at the far wall? Posting his number on the website would appear to be the act of a lonely man, but what if he WAS only providing a public service to beginners? What if...
I wondered if anyone dared to lift the skirt of Frank's intentions, would they have seen his true motives? Would they have seen the act of a lonely man suddenly aware of his mortality? And would they have seen a man not so suddenly aware that he desperately wanted companionship?
Yet, something happened to Frank when I stepped through the door; I saw it in his eyes; I felt it in the basement of my soul. That unmistakable glance of connection, of feeling the electricity that danced between people suddenly attracted to each, like magnets, perhaps. Something certainly punched me in breadbasket and something whispered infatuation in my ear. The moment I climbed into the stirrups, I had changed my mind that this was just an old guy getting his rocks off with a younger guy, just another guy taking the opportunity to indulge in a healthy dose of lust. "Now who's the old fool," I thought.
But the feeling hadn't diminished, and after seeing my trip to the wherever-in-the-hell I went, my need to be with Frank increased with urgency. The old fool in me had to see if I had at least a small chance with him. My greatest fear wasn't Frank's possible rejection; it was appearing desperate. Had he forgotten my question? Hadn't he heard the door of opportunity open? I wanted to reframe my perspective, and thought that based on what I had just experienced, the possibility was within my grasp.
"Andy?" Frank asked finally breaking the silence.
I pushed away the questions and opened my eyes. Feeling Frank's powerful arms around me brought a feeling of warmth, a feeling of completion, as if taking the last step of a long journey.
"Yeah, Frank?" I said looking into his brooding eyes, looking at his furrowed brow, just looking at how damn handsome he was.
"Have you come around, yet? I mean you want a drink or something?
Maybe take a shower?" He asked the questions as if they weren't the questions he really wanted to ask, in a manner that signaled he had something on his mind but didn't know how to say it. Or, perhaps, he wanted to say something that he thought I wouldn't amiably receive. I decided to help him.
"Is there something on your mine, Frank? Do you want me to go?" The questions came out a little more forceful than I had liked, probably because I was hiding something, too--mild anger. Like all fools, I had presupposed that he got what he wanted--a grab at youth--and was ready to send me on my way. He just wanted to get--
"Oh, I'm sorry, I just drifted there for second," I lied. He turned those beautiful blue eyes on me, and again, I couldn't return the glance. What was he doing to me?
He lifted my face into those blue eyes and explained, "There is something on my mind, but I want you to go get clean up before we talk about it, okay?"
"Okay, Frank," I said my own worry knotting my brow.
He smiled and brushed my lips with his. "It's no big worry, Andy. Go on now." He said.
I didn't want him to release me, to break the spell, to resume time, because for me all those events summed up to facing the world again, facing myself again. How would I convince him that in a matter of hours, I had fallen for him like a landslide, like an avalanche, like a--
"insert clich here," my mind said.
The hot shower brought some clarity to my sophomoric thinking. It really was infatuation I felt. We don't live in a world where everyday is a Doris Day-Rock Hudson romance or a Julie Andrews musical. Besides, I had grown cynical about instant love, to which I applied the probability of its occurrence to the same probability of spontaneous combustion.
"But can you doubt your feelings?" My mind asked. I didn't answer it; answering the question scared me. Nor did I want to sit down with Frank after the shower. I just wanted to gather my things and rush home. I guess ignorance was bliss--but I still didn't get the bliss part. Not knowing if Frank felt the same way about me as I felt about him wasn't my idea of bliss. Equally, knowing that he didn't care at all about me had no blissful elements in it, either. And as much as I tried to slow the constant possibilities, the voice in my head never relented in presenting new ones. It continued until I forcefully willed it away and sat opposite Frank like a twelve-year-old before a school principal.
With his hands platted, his brow still knotted in concern, he looked into my eyes, but I didn't turn away from their piercing blueness. Looking into them was like looking at winter sky: hard blue, cold blue, cloudless blue.
"Tell me how you feel right now," he said.
"I'm a little so--"
"No, how do you feel emotionally?"
"Okay, I guess," I lied.
"You don't have to lie, Andy. I just had my hand up your ass up to here," he said pointing to a spot just above his forearm. "It takes a while for some guys to get that far, but you just did. There's something emotional going on when such a thing happens. Tell me what you feel--not think--what you feel."
"Really, I don't know how I feel. There's all these thoughts com--"
"Exactly, thoughts," he said as his eyes flashed interest, anticipation.
"I went somewhere, but I can't remember. I felt an aching, but not a painful ache. It was a combination of--"
"Pleasure-pain," Frank quickly offered, his eyes sparkling in the dim light. He lit a joint and passed it to me. "Pleasure-pain, the sweet aching of indecision: wanting to go to it but fearing it," he said choking back the large toke.
"I wanted to go farther into it," I said, "but couldn't decided, couldn't get past the fear of it."
"Yes, that's happens in the begi--"
My expression halted him. Did he see the disappointment on my face? Did he sense that I expected him to talk about something other than my emotional state from the fisting?
"Do I sound too excited, Andy?"
"You see, I like to discuss the session with my clients..."
"CLIENT!" My mind screamed, and I didn't hear anything after that, because my mind screamed, "I was a CLIENT to him--a fuckin' CLIENT! "
"...are feeling because each experience is different. Each person feels something and sees something in a different way."
"Are you collecting data for research?" I asked with jagged sarcasm.
"No, I guess I just have a certain fasci--What's wrong, Andy?" He suddenly asked.
"Nothing," I said looking at my hands.
"Oh, the face doesn't lie, boy," he said in such a paternal way that a chord deep inside my chest plucked and shook me visibly.
"No, I'm just tired I guess," I said tracing the lifeline of my left palm.
"He came and knelt beside my chair, and search my eyes. "Even when the mouth speaks a lie," he said, "the eyes tell the truth."
"You'll just think I'm a fool," I said, feeling my neck and cheeks warm with embarrassment.
"Young foolishness is endearing; old foolishness isn't," he said.
"Now tell me what's on your mind."
I couldn't turn from his eyes, nor could I lie to them. And from a far off place I confessed.
"Something happened to me, Frank. I can't explain it, but I feel something deeply for you. And I guess when you asked to talk with me, I thought you were going to tell me you felt it, too."
Frank took my hand and put it to his chest.
"Do you feel that?"
"Your heart's racing," I said.
"Yeah, but do you know why?"
I shook my head, no, in a slow kind of way, in a way that small children do when they truly didn't understand an adult concept.
"My heart is beating because I'm afraid, Andy."
I couldn't understand how a man, so masculine, so centered, so mature could be afraid. He couldn't be afraid of ME; he had been in my most vulnerable place. He had my mind, body, and even my soul exposed.
"I don't understand, Frank. Are you saying you are afraid of me?"
A sad express took his face, and I thought I saw his sparkling eyes glisten.
"In a certain way, I am afraid of you," he said still looking into my eyes.
And I began to grip the chair's arm in an effort to hold back the wave of sorrow that swept up in my chest and tightened my throat. "How can you be afraid of me?" I asked.
"I'm afraid that I'll never see you again," he said and rose to turn his back.
Hearing his sobs and seeing his shoulders stutter forward, I let the dam of emotion spill from me, too, and he turned to see my face wet with tears, as his were, and looked with surprise.
"I love you, Frank," I said and quickly leapt into his arms.
We kissed and hugged, and tried to get as close as we could to each other, as our tears continued to flow.
"Oh, Andy, I fell in love with you the moment I opened the door,' he confessed.
"It took me a little longer," I said through kisses and tears, "it hit me when you went for tea."
We laughed and kissed and hugged and...
"...and that's our method of introducing you to fisting," I said to a particularly handsome redhead and his hunky boyfriend. "So, who's the fister in the family?" I asked, and the brunette pointed to the redhead, who said the brunette could take the Holland tunnel up his ass with very little grease. The couple just wanted to learn proper technique and safety measure. They had read our website; in fact, business has been booming of late.
We had the old website redesigned when I convinced Frank to turn his counseling--sans "personal services"--into an enterprise. For a nominal fee, we provide a directory of...well...surrogate fisters to make house calls, but, first, every client has to attend Frank's three-day class about anatomy, preparation, and precautions. Next, I take over and match the clients with a fisting trainer.
Oh, yes, Frank hung up his gloves long ago. However, he still gets a hand in (pun intended)--to me, that is; and together, we decided who else gets his "special" fisting education.