A Fist Time For Everything

Faye always stuck to the tame stuff. Then she clicked on a fist video and something in her brain lit up. Now she craves it. Needs the stretch. So she bought the fattest dildo the shop had and stripped the second her roommate left. The toy is already half-buried between her open thighs when the door swings open. Robin stops dead, then slams it shut with a grin like a wolf spotting dinner. No small talk. Robin drops her bag, sheds her jacket, and drops to her knees between Faye’s spread legs. She curls four fingers tight, thumb folded, and pushes. Slow. Wet slide, then sudden pop. Faye’s head snaps back; her throat opens on a raw sound that isn’t pretty. Robin keeps working, flexing knuckles, twisting wrist, until her hand disappears inside, wrist swallowed by slick heat. Breath fogs. The room reeks of sex and ozone. Outside, a car horn. Inside, leather couch creaks in time with the wet pulse of someone learning the difference between fantasy and invasion. Robin’s forearm glistens. Faye moans loud enough to echo down the hall, every boundary snapped and burning hot behind them.