Isabelle Opened Me Up to a Whole New World

My Deepest Fisting Confession: How Isabelle Opened Me Up to a Whole New World

I’ll never forget the night Isabelle changed everything for me. Her name was Isabelle – this stunning French woman I met at a rooftop party in Berlin, with long dark hair, piercing green eyes, and a body that curved in all the right places. She had this quiet confidence, the kind that makes you lean in closer just to hear her speak. We talked for hours about travel, art, music… but as the wine flowed, the conversation turned darker, dirtier. She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear, and whispered, “David, tell me… have you ever fisted someone?” My cock twitched instantly. I admitted I’d fantasized about it, read stories online, jerked off to the idea of a hand buried deep inside a woman, feeling her pulse around my wrist. She smiled wickedly. “Good,” she said. “Because tonight, I want you to fist me. Both holes.”

We barely made it back to my hotel room. The door slammed shut, and clothes were ripped off in a frenzy. Isabelle stood there naked, her full breasts heaving, nipples hard as diamonds, her shaved pussy already glistening. She pushed me onto the bed, straddled my face, and ground her wet sex against my mouth while I licked her eagerly. “Taste how much I want this,” she moaned, her juices coating my tongue. My cock was rock-hard, throbbing against the sheets, but this wasn’t about fucking yet. This was about stretching her, owning her in the most intimate, filthy way possible.

She slid down my body, grabbed the bottle of lube from her bag – she came prepared, the dirty girl – and poured a thick stream over her fingers. “Watch me first,” she commanded, reaching behind and sliding two fingers into her tight asshole. I stroked my cock slowly as she added a third, then a fourth, moaning louder with each stretch. “I love feeling full back there,” she gasped. “But I need more. I need your fist in my anal hole, David. I need you to ruin me.”

We started slow, because fisting isn’t something you rush. It’s an art, a slow burn of trust and lust. I kissed her deeply, our tongues tangled, while my hands roamed her body – pinching her nipples, slapping her ass until it turned pink. She was on all fours now, ass up, face buried in the pillow. I drizzled lube over her puckered hole, watching it clench and wink at me. One finger slid in easy – she was relaxed, hungry. “More,” she begged. Two fingers, scissoring gently, opening her up. Her moans were deep, animalistic. Three fingers now, twisting deeper, feeling the heat of her insides. “Fuck, yes… stretch my ass,” she groaned, pushing back against my hand.

I added a fourth finger, tucking my thumb in, forming that perfect duck shape. More lube – always more lube – dripping down her thighs. I pressed forward, slow but firm, feeling the resistance of her ring. She breathed deep, relaxing, and then – pop – my entire hand slipped inside her anal passage. Holy fuck. The warmth, the impossible tightness gripping my wrist, her body trembling around me. “Oh my God, David… your fist is in my ass,” she cried out, voice breaking with pleasure. “Fist me harder. Fuck my anal hole with your hand.”

I started moving – slow rotations at first, feeling every ridge inside her. She bucked wildly, her pussy dripping onto the sheets below. I reached around with my free hand, rubbing her swollen clit in circles, making her shake. “You’re so full,” I growled in her ear. “Taking my whole fist in your dirty little ass.” The sounds were obscene – wet squelching, her gasps, my grunts as I pumped deeper. She came hard the first time, her anal walls clamping down on my fist like a vice, squirting all over my arm as she screamed my name.

But Isabelle wasn’t done. Not even close. After that orgasm, she flipped onto her back, legs spread wide, eyes locked on mine with pure filth. “Now my pussy,” she demanded. “I want double fisting, David. Both holes at once. Destroy me.”

My arms were already aching from the first round, but my cock was leaking pre-cum at the thought. I lubed my other hand generously, starting with her pussy – already soaked from her cum. One finger, two, three – easy. Four, then thumb tucked. Her pussy swallowed my second fist with less resistance than her ass, but the sensation was different: hotter, wetter, more pulsing. Soon both my hands were buried inside her – one deep in her anal cavity, the other stretching her pussy wide. I could feel them pressing against each other through that thin wall, the most intimate connection imaginable.

“Move them,” she begged, her skin flushed crimson, sweat beading on her forehead, breaths coming in ragged gasps. “Pump me, fist fuck both my holes.” I alternated – pulling one out slightly while pushing the other deeper, then switching. Her body thrashed on the bed, tits bouncing, head thrown back in ecstasy. Juices coated both my arms up to the elbows, dripping everywhere. “I’m your fisting slut,” she screamed. “Ruin my pussy and ass!”

The build-up was intense – her orgasms chaining one after another, each stronger than the last. I twisted my fists gently, rotated, thrust shallow then deep. Her clit throbbed under my occasional touch. Finally, the big one hit – her entire body convulsed, both holes clamping down hard, a massive squirt soaking the bed as she blacked out for a second from the overwhelming pleasure. The final release was like a wave crashing over us both – her cries echoing, my arms burning from the effort, her cum running down my skin.

We collapsed in the afterglow, my fists slowly easing out with wet pops. She curled into me, trembling, kissing my neck softly. “That was the most intense sex I’ve ever had,” she whispered. “You owned me completely.” I held her close, our sweaty bodies tangled, the room reeking of lube and sex. We dozed off like that, connected in the deepest way.

But that night was just the beginning with Isabelle. Over the next weeks, we explored fisting in every filthy way possible. One evening in her apartment, she tied me to a chair and made me watch as she self-fisted her pussy on the floor in front of me – legs spread wide, hand plunging in and out, moaning my name until she squirted across the room. “This is what you do to me, David,” she panted. Then she untied me and begged for anal fisting on the kitchen counter, bent over while I pounded her ass with my fist from behind, her tits pressed against the cold marble.

Another time, we took it public – well, semi-public. A late-night drive to a secluded park. She stripped in the backseat, climbed into my lap facing away, and guided my lubed hand straight into her asshole while I drove slowly. “Fist my anal while you drive,” she moaned, riding my arm as streetlights flashed by. The risk made it dirtier – every bump in the road pushing my fist deeper. She came twice before we parked, then demanded pussy fisting under the stars, lying on the hood of the car, legs over my shoulders.

Isabelle loved role-play too. One weekend, she dressed as a naughty nurse. “Patient needs a deep examination,” she purred, bending over the bed in her short uniform. I “examined” her with fingers first, then fisted her pussy while she begged, “Doctor David, stretch my sex hole wider.” We switched – her “treating” my cock with her mouth while I fisted her anal from behind. The climax came when I double-fisted her again on the examination table we improvised, her white stockings torn, screaming about how full she felt.

We even tried toys to enhance the fisting. Massive plugs to stretch her first, then my hand replacing them. Vibrators on her clit while my fist pumped her ass. One unforgettable night, she took my fist in her pussy while a thick dildo filled her ass – the closest we got to true double penetration with fisting elements. “I’m so stuffed,” she cried, cumming endlessly.

The dirtiest moment? Shower sex with anal fisting. Water cascading over us, her pressed against the tile wall, my fist sliding in and out of her soapy ass with ease. “Pound my anal harder,” she demanded, the steam making everything hotter, slipperier. She squirted down my leg as I rotated deep inside her.

Through it all, the trust was incredible. Fisting isn’t just physical – it’s vulnerability, surrender. Isabelle gave herself to me completely, and I worshipped her body in return. We’d lie in afterglow for hours, tracing fingers over stretch marks from our sessions, laughing about how gaping she felt afterward, planning the next filthy adventure.

Looking back, Isabelle opened me – literally and figuratively – to the raw power of fisting. The stretch, the fullness, the obscene intimacy of a hand buried deep in pussy or anal. It’s addictive, primal, the ultimate dirty sex. If you’ve never tried it, find someone you trust, start slow with lube and patience, and dive in. Once you feel that pop, that warmth enveloping your wrist, that partner screaming in ecstasy… there’s no going back.

This is my confession, my erotic journey with Isabelle – the woman who turned fisting fantasies into the filthiest reality. And damn, I’d do it all again tomorrow.