I never thought I’d admit this out loud, but the moment I shrank beneath her, I stopped being a man and became nothing but her personal, breathing sex toy and future meal. Her name was Valeria, and she was already a goddess in my eyes long before she grew. Tall, raven-haired, with hips that swayed like they owned the fucking planet and lips so full they looked permanently wet and ready to devour. That night she finally did what I’d begged her to do in my dirtiest fantasies — she made me tiny.

The shrinking hit me like a slow, delicious wave of vertigo. One second I was standing in her living room looking up at her perfect body, the next the floor rushed away and her bare feet became two warm, sweaty landscapes stretching out before me. She was barefoot after a long day, and the thick, cheesy scent of her soles washed over me like heavy perfume. I could see every ridge on the ball of her foot, every faint line of dried sweat, tiny specks of lint and dust stuck to the damp skin. My cock was already rock hard before she even moved.

Valeria’s deep, smoky laugh rolled over me like thunder. “Look at you… so fucking small already. I can barely see your pathetic little dick twitching down there.” She lifted one massive foot and slowly lowered it above me. The heat hit first, then the smell — rich, musky, slightly sour from being trapped in heels all day. Her toes spread wide, each one thicker than my entire body, and she gently pinned me between her big toe and the next, rolling me slowly, smearing me in the warm, sticky sweat that had collected there.

I moaned like a whore, licking frantically at the salty skin, tasting the dirt and lotion and pure woman that coated her. My tongue dragged over the soft pad under her toe and I came instantly, shooting useless ropes of cum onto her flesh while she giggled above me.

“That’s right, little bug. Clean my dirty feet like the worthless foot slut you are.”

She played with me like that for what felt like hours, pressing me under her sole, grinding me into the carpet, forcing my face into the deep, sweaty crease between her toes until I was gasping and covered head to toe in her foot grime. Every breath I took was pure Valeria — thick, feminine, slightly vinegary. My cock never went soft. It kept leaking, throbbing against her warm skin while she used me as a living massage tool.

Eventually she scooped me up between two fingers, her long red nails framing my tiny body like prison bars. She brought me right up to her face. Her breath washed over me — hot, humid, carrying the faint taste of the red wine she’d been drinking and something sweeter, like the cherry lip gloss she loved. Her lips parted, glossy and plush, and I stared straight into the wet pink cavern of her mouth. Strands of saliva stretched between her tongue and the roof like sticky bridges. Her tongue slid out slowly, huge and glistening, and she licked me from feet to head in one long, lazy stroke, coating me completely in thick, warm spit.

“Mmm… you taste like fear and precum,” she purred, the vibration of her voice making my balls tighten. “I think it’s time I swallowed my little toy.”

She tilted her head back slightly and dangled me above her open mouth. I could see everything — the slick, undulating surface of her tongue, the dark tunnel at the back of her throat, the strings of saliva dripping down. My heart hammered so hard I thought it would burst, but my cock was dripping steadily, begging for what was coming.

“Beg me,” she whispered.

“Please… swallow me, Valeria. Eat me. Make me yours.”

She smiled, cruel and beautiful, and dropped me onto her tongue.

The world became wet heat and darkness. Her tongue immediately curled around me, pressing me against the ridged roof of her mouth, sucking hard so that thick saliva flooded every inch of my skin. I was rolling, sliding, drowning in her spit while she moaned around me, the sound vibrating through my bones and straight into my aching dick. She played with me like candy, pushing me from cheek to cheek, flattening me under her tongue, then pinning me against her teeth just enough to make me whimper. Every time I tried to move she sucked harder, coating me in more of that warm, sticky saliva that tasted faintly of wine and pure woman.

Then she tilted her head back and swallowed.

The gulp was powerful, deliberate, and utterly final. Her throat muscles seized me in a tight, rippling embrace and dragged me downward in one long, wet slide. The walls squeezed and massaged my entire body, pulsing like a living fleshlight made of hot velvet. I could feel every ridge, every contraction as I slipped deeper, my cock rubbing frantically against the slick esophageal walls until I came again, screaming into the darkness while her throat milked every drop out of me. The journey seemed endless — tight, hot, wet, and so fucking intimate I felt like I was becoming part of her already.

I dropped into her stomach with a splash.

The heat was intense, the air thick with the sharp, acrid scent of gastric juices and the remnants of her dinner. Warm, churning fluids rose around me, tingling against my skin, making everything hypersensitive. The walls folded and unfolded slowly, kneading me like dough, sloshing me around in the thick soup of her stomach. I could hear her heartbeat booming above me, slow and powerful, and every time she laughed or spoke the whole chamber shook, tossing me against the slick folds.

Valeria rubbed her belly from the outside, pressing firmly so the walls squeezed me tighter. “Feel that, little snack? You’re mine now. Digesting inside me like the pathetic piece of meat you are.”

Her voice vibrated through her body and straight into my prison. I was rock hard again despite the burning tingle of her acids. I started humping the soft, pulsing stomach wall, grinding my cock against the slippery flesh while the digestive juices coated me completely. The sensation was filthy and perfect — a constant, warm burn that made my skin tingle without quite destroying me yet. I came for the third time, shooting into the churning mix of her gastric fluids, my cum disappearing into the soup that would eventually break me down.

She kept me in there for a long time, lounging on her couch, occasionally drinking more wine so fresh waves of liquid poured down her throat and splashed over me. Every swallow made the stomach contract harder, massaging me, rolling me, pressing me into the deepest folds where the acids were strongest. I lost count of how many times I came just from the constant motion and the overwhelming knowledge that I was nothing but food inside this goddess.

Eventually the pressure changed. The sphincter below opened and I was squeezed into her intestines — a tighter, darker, even filthier tunnel. The smell grew deeper, earthier, more fecal as I slid through miles of rippling flesh. Her body was claiming me completely now, absorbing what it wanted, turning the rest into waste. I could feel myself getting softer at the edges, my skin tingling as her digestive system worked on me, but the pleasure never stopped. I kept cumming, weak little spurts that mixed with her mucus and bile while her bowels slowly pushed me along.

Hours later she pushed me out.

I emerged between her massive ass cheeks as part of a warm, sticky load, reformed by whatever magic these fantasies always allow, tiny and exhausted and covered in the evidence of her digestion. She reached back, spread her cheeks wide, and laughed softly at the sight of me stuck to her asshole, brown and glistening.

“Look at you… shat out like the worthless little turd you are. But we’re not done, baby. Not even close.”

She carried me to the shower, cleaned me off under the warm spray, then pressed my tiny body against her freshly washed pussy. The heat radiating from her cunt was insane — thick, musky, already dripping with arousal from having me inside her all evening. Her outer lips were swollen and plush, the inner folds glistening with creamy wetness. She rubbed me slowly up and down her slit, letting my face drag through the slick folds, forcing me to lick and kiss her clit that was bigger than my head.

“Taste how wet digesting you made me,” she growled.

I licked frantically, swallowing her thick cream, drowning in the salty-sweet flavor of her excitement while she moaned and ground me harder against her. Then she slid me inside.

Her pussy swallowed me even more greedily than her throat had. The walls were hotter, wetter, constantly rippling and squeezing in rhythmic waves as she fingered herself with me deep inside. I was tumbling in darkness and liquid heat, battered gently against her g-spot, coated head to toe in her cum. Every time she thrust her fingers in, the pressure pushed me deeper until my entire body was pressed against her cervix. The musky scent was overwhelming, the taste constant, and the sounds — wet squelching, her heavy breathing, the wet slap of her fingers — filled my world completely.

She came hard.

Her orgasm hit like an earthquake. The walls clenched violently around me, squeezing and pulsing, flooding me with thick, hot girl-cum that nearly drowned me. I came with her, my tiny cock spurting uselessly into the torrent while she screamed above me, thighs shaking.

But Valeria wasn’t satisfied with just one.

She pulled me out, dripping and gasping, only to press my cum-soaked body against her asshole. The ring was still slightly slick from earlier, warm and puckered, twitching as she relaxed it. She pushed me in head first.

Her ass was tighter, darker, and filthier than her pussy. The walls gripped me like a vice, hot and velvety, slowly pulling me deeper with every clench. The smell was rich and musky, a deep earthy scent mixed with the faint remnants of what she had digested earlier. I licked at the slick walls as I slid inside, tasting her most private flavor while she moaned and fingered her clit above me. She used me like a living anal plug, pushing me in and out, clenching hard around my body until I was gasping for air between her powerful squeezes.

When she came the second time her asshole spasmed so strongly I thought it would crush me. Hot fluid leaked down from her pussy, mixing with the mucus in her ass as she rode out the orgasm with me buried deep inside her bowels.

Only then did she finally pull me out, exhausted and trembling, and bring me up to her lips again.

“Ready for round two, my little digestive toy?”

Her mouth opened wide once more, tongue sliding out to greet me, and I didn’t even hesitate. I wanted it. I needed it. I needed to be swallowed, churned, used, fucked, shat out and swallowed all over again.

She dropped me onto her tongue for the second time that night.

And as her throat claimed me once more, dragging me down into that hot, wet, living hell of pleasure and digestion, I knew this was exactly where I belonged — inside my giantess, lost in her body, nothing but her filthy, willing, endlessly horny little meal and sex toy.

She could keep me forever.

And I would beg her to never let me out.

The post Giantess Stories My Life as Valeria’s Toy first appeared on Fetish Stories.

Listen, I don’t know you from Adam, but if you’re reading this, it’s because something deep inside you stirred when you saw those words: “Fisting Story.” Yeah, I get it. That raw, forbidden pull—the kind that hits you in the gut and makes your pulse race in ways you can’t explain to polite company. I’m writing this letter just for you, one on one, like we’re sitting across from each other in a dimly lit bar, sharing secrets that could ruin reputations. My name’s Jack, and I’m not some polished writer spinning fairy tales. I’m a guy who’s lived it, felt it, bled for it emotionally. And today, I’m laying it all bare—brutally honest, no sugarcoating—because I know you’re craving the truth about fisting. Not the glossy porn version, but the real, messy, soul-shaking reality that changes you forever.

You see, I’ve been where you are. That nagging curiosity, that fantasy that creeps in late at night when the world’s asleep. You’ve wondered: What does it really feel like? The stretch, the fullness, the trust? Is it pain or paradise? Let me tell you, my friend—it’s both, and neither. It’s a fire that burns away everything superficial about sex and leaves you raw, exposed, and addicted. And if you’re honest with yourself, that’s why you’re here. You want me to pull back the curtain on my own story, the one that started with a woman named Maria and ended with me questioning every “normal” fuck I’d ever had.

It all began three years ago, in a crappy little apartment in Chicago. I was 32, stuck in a dead-end job, and my sex life? Forgettable. Quick romps with dates who thought missionary was adventurous. But Maria… God, Maria was different. She walked into my life at a friend’s party—tall, with curves that screamed confidence, dark hair cascading like a waterfall, and eyes that locked onto you like they could read your dirtiest thoughts. We talked for hours, flirting hard, until she leaned in close, her breath hot on my ear: “Jack, tell me your deepest fantasy. No lies.”

I froze. But something in her gaze made me spill it. “Fisting,” I whispered, my face burning. I’d jerked off to videos of it—women taking whole hands, moaning like animals—but never said it out loud. She didn’t laugh. Instead, she smiled that wicked smile and said, “Mine too. But not just any fisting. I want it deep, raw, in both holes. Think you can handle that?”

My cock hardened right there. We left the party, hailed a cab, and by the time we hit my place, the air was thick with anticipation. No small talk. She pushed me against the wall, kissing me fierce, her tongue invading my mouth like a promise of what was to come. “Strip me,” she commanded, her voice low and demanding. I did—peeling off her dress, revealing lace panties soaked through, her nipples peaking under my touch. She was flawless, but it was her hunger that hooked me. “Now you,” she said, yanking my shirt over my head, her nails raking my chest.

We tumbled to the bed, and that’s when the real education began. “Fisting isn’t fucking,” she explained, her hand on my throbbing dick, stroking slow. “It’s surrender. Trust. You have to build it, or it breaks you.” She grabbed lube from her purse—always prepared, that girl—and poured it over my fingers. “Start with my pussy. Make me beg.”

I did. Slid one finger into her wet heat, feeling her walls hug me tight. She moaned, arching. “More.” Two fingers, pumping gentle. Her breaths quickened, hips grinding. “Three… stretch me, Jack.” I added the third, twisting, feeling her open up. God, the sound—the wet slap, her gasps—it was intoxicating. “Four,” she demanded, her eyes locked on mine, full of that brutal honesty: pain mixed with pleasure. I tucked my thumb, lubed heavy, and pressed. Resistance at first, her ring clenching, but she breathed deep: “Push. I want your fist in my sex hole.”

Pop. My hand slid inside, wrist-deep in her pussy. Holy fuck—the warmth, the pulse, like being swallowed alive. “Yes! Fist me,” she cried, bucking wild. I rotated slow, feeling every inch, her juices coating my arm. “Harder, fuck my pussy with your fist!” I pumped, her clit swelling under my free hand’s rub. The emotional hit? Seeing her vulnerable yet powerful—trusting me with this. She came hard, walls clamping my fist like a vice, squirting over me as she screamed.

But Maria wasn’t satisfied. “Now my ass,” she panted, flipping to all fours, cheeks spread. “Anal fisting. Ruin me back there.” My heart pounded—taboo territory. More lube, dripping down her crack. One finger circled her asshole, teasing the rim. “In,” she begged. It slipped easy; she was relaxed, eager. Two, scissoring. Her moans deepened, guttural. Three, deeper, feeling the tightness yield. “Four… tuck it.” Thumb in, push slow. The pop was louder, her anal hole gripping fiercer. “Oh God, your fist in my ass… stretch my anal slut hole!”

I moved careful at first, rotating, thrusting shallow. She pushed back, demanding more. “Pound it, fist fuck my anal!” The dirtiness overwhelmed me—my hand buried in her most forbidden place, her body shaking. I rubbed her clit again, and climax hit—her ass contracting, a deeper, more intense squirt. We collapsed, sweaty, her curling into me. “That was real,” she whispered. “Emotional. You felt it, didn’t you?”

Damn right I did. That night cracked me open. Fisting wasn’t just physical; it was emotional warfare—stripping away pretenses, forcing honesty. And Maria? She became my obsession. Over the next months, we dove deeper. One weekend, she tied my hands (ironically) and self-fisted her pussy in front of me, hand plunging deep, moaning my name until she gushed. “Watch what you do to me,” she said. Then untied me for anal fisting on the kitchen table, her legs wide, begging: “Destroy my ass with your fist.”

We got riskier. A park at midnight—she bent over a bench, skirt hiked, no panties. “Fist my pussy here,” she whispered, the thrill of exposure amping everything. Fingers first, then hand in, her stifling moans as joggers passed distant. Climax under stars, her squirting on the grass.

Role-play nights: She as boss, me employee. “Punish me with fisting,” she’d command, bent over desk. Pussy first, then anal—double if she “misbehaved.” Toys joined: plugs stretching her before my fist replaced them. “Feel how gaped I am,” she’d say, post-fist, her holes winking.

The dirtiest? Shower anal fisting—water slick, her against tiles, my fist sliding deep in her soapy ass. “Pound harder,” she demanded, steam blurring lines between pain and ecstasy.

Through it, the emotions raw: trust building, vulnerabilities shared. Fisting bonded us like nothing else. But brutally honest? It ended when she moved for work. Left me craving, searching.

Now, friend, that’s my story. But it’s yours too. Feel that pull? Dive in. Find your Maria. Start slow, lube heavy, communicate. The payoff? Life-altering.

Yours truly,

Jack

Yeah, you. The one sitting there, scrolling through the shadows of the internet, heart pounding just a little faster because you clicked on this. I know why. That word—”fisting”—it’s like a magnet, isn’t it? Pulls at something deep inside you, something raw and unspoken. Something that makes vanilla sex feel like a joke, like child’s play. I’m writing this letter straight to you, no bullshit, no fancy words. Just me, Jack, a guy who’s been down that road, felt the fire, and come out the other side changed. Brutally honest? Hell yes. Because if you’re here, you’re craving the truth about fisting—not the polished porn crap, but the real deal. The emotional gut-punch, the intimacy that strips you bare, the pleasure that borders on madness. And I’m going to give it to you, word for word, like we’re face to face, sharing a whiskey in a dive bar where no one judges.

Let me start by confessing: I was just like you. Thirty-two years old, living in a shitty Chicago apartment, punching the clock at a job that sucked the life out of me. Sex? It was okay—quick hooks-ups from apps, the kind where you thrust a few times, cum, and forget. But deep down, there was this itch. This fantasy that crept in during those solo nights when I’d fire up the laptop and search for “fisting videos.” Watching a hand disappear into a woman’s pussy or ass, hearing her moans turn from pain to pure ecstasy—it hit me hard. Emotional? Damn right. It wasn’t just the physical stretch; it was the trust, the surrender, the way it pushed boundaries until you felt alive. I’d jerk off furiously, imagining it was me, but afterward? Emptiness. Shame, even. “Am I fucked up for wanting this?” I’d think. Sound familiar?

Then Maria walked into my life and blew it all to hell. I met her at a buddy’s birthday bash—nothing special, just beer and bad music. But she… God, she was a force. Tall, with curves that could stop traffic, dark hair falling like silk, and eyes—those piercing blue eyes—that locked onto you and didn’t let go. We talked for hours, laughing about stupid stuff, but there was this undercurrent, this spark. As the night wore on, she leaned in close, her perfume wrapping around me like a promise. “Jack,” she said, her voice low and bold, “what’s your dirtiest secret? The one you haven’t told anyone.”

I hesitated. Whiskey courage kicked in. “Fisting,” I blurted. “I’ve always fantasized about fisting a woman—deep, in her pussy, her ass. Feeling her open up completely.” My face burned, expecting her to bolt. Instead, she smiled—that slow, wicked smile—and whispered, “Mine too. But I don’t just fantasize. I crave it. The fullness, the stretch, the way it makes sex feel primal. Want to make it real tonight?”

My cock twitched hard. We left without a word to anyone, cab ride a blur of heated kisses and wandering hands. Back at my place, the door barely shut before she pushed me against it, her body pressing mine. “No games,” she said, her tone intimate yet commanding. “Fisting is emotional warfare. It’s about trust, vulnerability. You ready for that?” I nodded, heart racing. She stripped me first—shirt off, pants down, my dick springing free, already leaking pre-cum. Then her—dress unzipped, revealing no bra, perky tits with nipples like bullets, panties soaked. “Touch me,” she commanded, guiding my hand to her pussy.

We started on the bed, her legs spread wide, eyes locked on mine. “Build it slow,” she instructed. “Fisting isn’t rushed; it’s a journey.” I poured lube—cold at first, warming on her skin—and slipped one finger into her wet sex hole. She moaned soft, arching slightly. “Good… more.” Two fingers, pumping gentle, feeling her walls hug me. The intimacy hit me—the way she trusted me to explore. “Three,” she gasped, her breaths quickening. I added it, twisting, stretching her gently. Her hips ground against my hand, juices flowing. “Four… tuck your thumb.” More lube, dripping everywhere. I formed the duck shape, pressed forward. Resistance—her pussy clenching—then she breathed deep: “Push, Jack. Fist my pussy.”

The pop was surreal. My hand slid inside, wrist enveloped in hot, pulsing warmth. “Fuck yes! Your fist is in me,” she cried, bucking wild. The feeling? Overwhelming—every movement amplified, her insides massaging my fist. “Rotate it… feel me.” I did, slow circles, then thrusts. Emotional? Brutally so. Seeing her face—eyes half-closed, mouth open in ecstasy—knowing I was filling her in ways no cock could. “Harder, fist fuck my sex hole!” she demanded. I reached for her clit, rubbing circles, and climax exploded—her walls clamping like a vice, squirting all over my arm as she screamed my name, body shaking.

We panted in afterglow, my hand easing out with a wet pop. She curled into me, vulnerable. “That was intense,” she whispered. “You felt the connection, right? Fisting bares the soul.” I did—raw emotion, trust like I’d never known. But she wasn’t done. “Now my ass,” she said, flipping to all fours, cheeks spread. “Anal fisting. Make it dirty.”

My pulse raced—taboo level maxed. More lube, pouring over her asshole, watching it glisten. One finger teased the rim, then in—tight, hot. “Yes,” she moaned. Two, scissoring open. Her sounds deeper, more animal. Three, twisting deep. “Four… push.” Thumb tucked, press slow. The ring resisted harder, but she relaxed: “Fist my anal hole, Jack. Stretch me wide.”

Pop. Inside her ass—tighter, warmer, gripping fierce. “Oh God, your fist in my ass… it’s ruining me!” she cried. I rotated careful, feeling ridges, her body trembling. “Pound it, fist fuck my anal!” I thrust, her pushing back, dirtiness overwhelming. Free hand on her pussy, fingers in while fisting her ass. Climax hit harder—her anal contracting, a gush from her pussy as she collapsed, sobbing in pleasure.

After, we held each other, sweat-soaked. “That’s fisting,” she said. “Raw, emotional. Addictive.” She was right. That night hooked me.

But friend, that was just the start. Maria and I became inseparable, our sex life a fisting odyssey. Next weekend, her place—she tied me to a chair. “Watch,” she said, stripping, lubing her hand. Legs spread on the floor, she fingered her pussy, then fisted herself—hand plunging deep, moaning “Jack, this is for you.” The sight—her stretching, twisting, cumming hard, squirting across the room—brutal honesty in her vulnerability. “Now you,” she untied me. Kitchen counter—bent over, ass up. “Fist my anal hard.” I did, pounding while she gripped marble, tits pressed cold. “Deeper, destroy my ass hole!” Climax left her gaping, satisfied.

We got bolder. Late-night drive to a park. “Public fisting,” she dared. Backseat, skirt hiked, no panties. “Pussy first.” Fingers to fist, her riding my hand as I drove slow. “Feel the risk,” she moaned, cumming twice. Parked, hood of car—legs over shoulders, anal fisting under stars. “Fist my anal slut hole out here!” Wind whispering, her screams echoing—emotional high from danger.

Role-play fueled us. Naughty nurse: “Examine me, Doctor.” Bent over bed, short uniform. Fingers “probing,” then pussy fist. “Stretch my sex hole wider!” Switched—her sucking my cock while I fisted her anal from behind. Double fisting on “examination table”—both hands in, her stockings torn, screaming “Full… so full!”

Toys amped it. Plugs stretching her holes first. “Replace it with your fist,” she’d beg. Vibrator on clit while anal fisting—intense. One night, fist in pussy, dildo in ass—double penetration twist. “Stuffed like a whore,” she cried, cumming endless.

Dirtiest? Shower—water cascading, her against tiles. Soapy lube, fist sliding easy into her ass. “Pound harder, fist my anal under the flow!” Steam, slipperiness—climax squirting down my leg.

Emotionally? Fisting stripped us. We shared fears, past hurts during afterglows. “It makes me feel owned, but free,” she’d say. Brutal honesty: addiction scared me, but thrilled too.

It ended when she moved for a job. Heartbroken, but grateful. She taught me fisting’s power—raw, intimate, life-changing.

Now, you. Feel that craving? Don’t ignore it. Find your Maria. Start slow, trust deep. The payoff? Ecstasy beyond words.

Write back if you dare.

Your confidant,

Jack

Listen, I don’t know your name, your face, or your story—yet. But if you’re reading this, it’s because that little voice inside you, the one that whispers in the dead of night, led you here. You saw “Fisting Story” and felt that jolt—the kind that hits you low in the gut, makes your skin tingle, and your mind race with images you can’t shake. I’m talking about that raw, primal craving for something more than the everyday fuck. Something intimate, bold, and brutally honest. Something that strips away all the bullshit and leaves you exposed, vulnerable, and alive in ways you didn’t know possible. My name’s Jack, and I’m writing this letter directly to you, like we’re the only two people in the world. No sales pitch, no fluff—just me pouring out the truth about fisting, the way it grabbed hold of my soul and never let go. Because if you’re like me, you’ve been searching for this. And brother (or sister—fisting knows no bounds), I’m going to give it to you straight, no holds barred.

Let me take you back to where it all started for me. Three years ago, I was a mess. Thirty-two, stuck in a soul-sucking office job in Chicago, living in a cramped apartment that smelled like takeout and regret. My sex life? Laughable. A string of one-night stands and half-hearted relationships where the highlight was a quick blowjob or a lazy doggy style. It was safe, predictable, and empty as hell. But deep down, there was this fire burning—a fantasy I’d buried so deep I barely admitted it to myself. Fisting. Yeah, that word. I’d stumble across videos online, late at night when the loneliness hit hard. Watching a hand slide into a woman’s pussy or ass, inch by inch, her moans turning from whimpers to screams of ecstasy—it got me rock-hard every time. But it wasn’t just the physical act. It was the emotion behind it. The trust. The surrender. The way it pushed boundaries until you felt like you were touching something divine, something forbidden. I’d stroke myself furiously, imagining the warmth, the stretch, the fullness. But afterward? Shame washed over me. “Am I sick for wanting this?” I’d think, deleting my browser history like a guilty kid.

Then Maria crashed into my world and turned everything upside down. I met her at a friend’s house party—nothing fancy, just beer, loud music, and too many people. She stood out like a flame in the dark: tall, with curves that begged to be touched, dark wavy hair framing a face that was all confidence and mystery. Her eyes—deep brown, piercing—locked onto mine across the room, and I felt seen. We talked for hours, starting with small stuff like movies and travel, but she had this way of digging deeper. “Jack,” she said, her voice intimate even over the noise, “what’s the one thing you’ve always wanted in bed but never asked for?” The whiskey in my veins made me bold. “Fisting,” I confessed, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve dreamed about sliding my hand into a woman, feeling her open up completely—pussy, ass, all of it. The rawness, the connection.”

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t laugh. Instead, her eyes lit up, and she leaned in closer, her breath hot on my ear. “Me too,” she whispered. “But I don’t dream. I do. The stretch, the fullness—it’s addictive. Emotional. Makes regular sex feel like nothing. Want to try it with me? Tonight?” My cock hardened instantly, straining against my jeans. We ditched the party, cab ride a blur of heated kisses, her hand teasing my thigh, promising everything.

Back at my place, the air was electric. No awkward chit-chat. She pushed me against the wall, her lips on mine—fierce, demanding. “Fisting is more than sex,” she said, pulling back to look me in the eyes. “It’s trust. Vulnerability. Brutally honest surrender. You have to feel it, not just do it.” She stripped me slow—shirt over my head, pants down, my dick springing free, throbbing with need. Then her turn: dress unzipped, falling to the floor, revealing lace bra and panties that hugged her curves perfectly. Her tits were full, nipples hard as rocks through the fabric. She unclipped the bra, letting them bounce free, and stepped out of her panties—shaved pussy glistening already. “Touch me,” she commanded, guiding my hand between her legs.

We moved to the bed, her on her back, legs spread wide. “Start with my pussy,” she said. “Build the anticipation. Make me crave your fist.” I grabbed the lube she’d brought—thick, slick—and poured it over my fingers. One slipped into her wet heat easily, her walls hugging tight. “Mmm, good,” she moaned, eyes half-closed. “Add another.” Two fingers, pumping slow, feeling her relax. The intimacy was overwhelming—her trusting me to explore, to stretch. “Three… twist them,” she gasped, hips lifting to meet me. I did, rotating, opening her up. Her breaths came faster, juices flowing. “Four, Jack. Tuck your thumb. I want your fist in my sex hole.”

More lube, dripping down her thighs, making everything slippery. I formed the shape, pressed forward. Resistance at first—her pussy clenching like it was fighting back. “Breathe with me,” she whispered. “Push slow but firm.” She relaxed, and—pop—my hand slid inside, wrist enveloped in pulsing warmth. Holy shit. The sensation was indescribable: tight, hot, alive. “Fuck, yes! Your fist is buried in my pussy,” she cried, bucking against me. “Rotate it… feel every inch.” I did, slow circles at first, then gentle thrusts. The emotional rush hit hard—seeing her face contort in pleasure-pain, knowing I was filling her in ways that demanded total trust. “Harder,” she begged. “Fist fuck my sex hole like you own it!” I pumped deeper, my free hand rubbing her swollen clit in circles. The sounds—wet squelching, her guttural moans—drove me wild. Climax built like a storm; her walls clamped my fist like a vice, squirting all over my arm as she screamed, body convulsing in waves of release.

We lay there, panting, my hand easing out with a wet pop. She curled into me, trembling, her voice soft but honest. “That was raw, Jack. You felt the emotion, right? The vulnerability—it bonds you.” I did. It was more than sex; it was a confession of souls. But Maria wasn’t one to stop at one round. “Now my ass,” she said, flipping onto her stomach, ass up, cheeks spread wide. “Anal fisting. Make it dirtier, bolder.”

My heart pounded—the taboo of it all amping the intensity. More lube, pouring over her puckered hole, watching it glisten and wink. One finger circled the rim, teasing. “In,” she demanded. It slid easy; she was relaxed from the first orgasm. “Two… scissor them open.” I did, feeling the tightness yield, her moans deeper, more primal. “Three, deeper. Stretch my anal.” Twisting, pushing, her body pushing back eager. “Four… tuck it. Fist my anal hole, Jack. Ruin me back there.”

The resistance was fiercer—her ring gripping like it didn’t want to let go. “Relax,” I whispered, mirroring her earlier words. She breathed, and pop—my hand inside her ass, the heat even tighter, more intense. “Oh God, your fist in my ass… it’s so full, so dirty!” she screamed, rocking against me. I rotated slow, feeling ridges, the forbidden depth. “Pound it,” she begged. “Fist fuck my anal slut hole!” I thrust, shallow then deep, her cries echoing. Free hand dipped to her pussy, fingers in while fisting her ass—double stimulation. The brutality? Seeing her surrender completely, trusting me with this vulnerability. Climax hit like thunder—her anal contracting rhythmically, a deeper squirt from her pussy as she collapsed, sobbing in pleasure-pain ecstasy.

In the afterglow, we held each other, sweat-slicked, the room reeking of lube and sex. “Fisting changes you,” she murmured. “It’s emotional warfare—strips away the masks.” She was right. That night, I felt seen, connected in a way no vanilla fuck ever could.

But friend, that was just the ignition. Maria and I became addicted, our lives a whirlwind of fisting adventures. The next weekend, at her apartment—a cozy loft with big windows—she upped the ante. “Tie me up,” she said, handing me silk scarves. “Blindfold me. Make the fisting sensory overload.” I did, securing her wrists to the bedposts, eyes covered. “Start with toys,” she instructed. I grabbed a plug, lubed it, eased it into her ass—watching her squirm. “Now replace it with your fist.” Plug out, fingers in, building to full hand in her anal. “Yes, fist my tied ass!” she cried, body arching blind. The emotion? Her total surrender, trusting me in darkness. I fisted slow, then hard, her cumming with a gush.

Untied, she returned the favor—tied me to a chair. “Watch me self-fist,” she said, legs spread on the floor. Lube heavy, fingers in her pussy, then hand plunging deep. “This is what you do to me, Jack,” she moaned, twisting, cumming hard, squirting across the room. The sight—brutal, honest vulnerability—left me aching. “Your turn,” she untied me. Kitchen counter—bent over, ass presented. “Anal fisting, hard.” I pounded, her gripping the edge, tits on cold marble. “Deeper, destroy my anal hole!” Climax left her gaping, red, satisfied.

We craved risk. A beach vacation in Miami—private cove, waves crashing. “Fist me in the sand,” she dared. Under stars, her on a towel, legs wide. Pussy first—hand in, sand gritting our skin, adding rawness. “Fist my sex hole with the ocean watching!” she moaned. Then anal—ass up, waves lapping. “Stretch my anal wide!” Risk of discovery amped the emotion—her screams drowned by surf, cumming in waves like the sea.

BDSM nights: Whips teasing her skin before fisting. “Punish my holes,” she’d beg, cuffed. Pussy fist while whipping lightly, then anal. “Fist fuck my bound ass!” The power exchange—brutal honesty in dominance and submission.

Role-play fueled fire. Teacher-student: “Grade me with your fist,” she’d say, in plaid skirt. Desk bend, pussy fisted. “Stretch my naughty sex hole!” Doctor-patient: “Examine my anal,” uniform on. Fingers “probing,” then full fist. “Doctor, fist my sick ass wider!”

Toys elevated. Vibrating plugs stretching before my hand. “Feel the buzz while fisting,” she’d moan. Dildo in one hole, fist in other—double fullness. “I’m stuffed like a slut!” cumming endless.

Dirtiest memory? Public bathroom at a club—music thumping. Stall locked, her bent over sink. “Quick anal fisting,” she whispered. Lube quick, hand in her ass. “Pound it, risk it all!” Climax muffled by my hand over mouth.

Shower sessions: Water hot, her against wall. Soapy lube, fist sliding easy into pussy, then ass. “Fist my wet anal harder!” Steam, slip—emotional high from closeness.

Through it, the emotions raw: Fisting forced honesty. We shared past traumas in afterglows, vulnerabilities exposed like her holes. “It makes me feel owned, but empowered,” she’d say. Brutally, it scared me—addiction real, fearing loss of control. But the bond? Unbreakable.

It ended when she got a job offer in New York. Tearful goodbye, but grateful. “You awakened me,” she said. Left me craving, but wiser.

Now, you. That pull? It’s real. Don’t ignore it. Find your Maria—or be one. Start slow, communicate, lube heavy. The emotional payoff? Life-changing. Fisting isn’t just sex; it’s revelation.

Write if you need more truth.

Your brother in boldness,

Jack

The post Dear You: Jack Fisting Story first appeared on Fetish Stories.

But what if I told you that right now, in these words, we’re going to dive deeper than you’ve ever gone? Not just skim the surface like those half-hearted tales that tease but never deliver. No, this is your awakening to the fisting fetish in its purest, most intoxicating form. If you’re new to this curiosity, we’ll start slow, building your awareness like a gentle touch that escalates into an unstoppable force. If you’re already hooked, craving more, we’ll amplify every fantasy until your body hums with anticipation. Picture it: a story crafted to mirror your deepest desires, structured to pull you in, heighten the tension, and deliver a climax that reshapes how you see pleasure forever. By the end, you’ll feel it—not just read it. You’ll crave it. And that’s the promise: total immersion into the world of fisting, where every stretch, every gasp, every release becomes yours.

Let me take you there, step by step. Imagine you’re like Dennis, an ordinary guy in his thirties, successful on the outside but restless inside. You’ve had your share of vanilla encounters—quick fucks, predictable positions—but lately, something’s missing. That spark. That edge. One night, scrolling through obscure forums, you find threads about fisting. At first, it’s curiosity: “How does it even work? Does it hurt? Why do people love it so much?” You read about the preparation—the lube, the patience, the communication—and feel a stir. Not just physical, but emotional. The idea of trusting someone enough to let them inside you in ways no cock ever could. The power dynamic: giver and receiver, dominant and submissive, all blurred into one explosive union. Your fantasies flicker—maybe you’re the one fisting, feeling the warmth envelop your hand; or perhaps you’re receiving, surrendering to the fullness that promises to fill every empty space in your soul.

Dennis felt it too. He met her—Ena—at a dimly lit bar, the kind where secrets hang in the air like smoke. She was confident, curvaceous, with eyes that promised adventures beyond the ordinary. Their conversation started innocent, but Ena had a way of probing deeper. “What turns you on, Dennis? Really turns you on?” she asked, her finger tracing the rim of her glass. He hesitated, but the wine loosened his tongue. “I’ve… thought about fisting,” he admitted, voice low. Her smile was electric. “Thought about it? Or craved it?” She leaned in. “I can show you. But only if you’re ready to feel everything.”

That night, in her apartment, the build-up began. No rush—this is key for anyone dipping their toes into the fisting world. Ena dimmed the lights, poured more wine, and they talked. “It’s about trust,” she said, her hand on his thigh. “You have to relax, communicate. Start small.” They kissed, slow and deep, her body pressing against his. Clothes came off gradually—her shirt revealing full breasts, nipples hardening under his touch; his pants dropping, his cock already straining. She guided him to the bed, lying back with legs parted slightly. “Touch me first,” she whispered. “Feel how wet I get thinking about your hand inside me.”

Dennis fingers explored her pussy—slick, warm, inviting. One finger slipped in easily, then two, as she moaned softly. “That’s it… add another.” Three now, twisting gently, stretching her walls. Her breaths quickened, hips lifting to meet him. The curiosity level here is low-key, educational almost—building your awareness without overwhelming. But the desire amps up: you feel the heat, the slickness, the way her body responds. “More lube,” she instructed, handing him the bottle. He poured it generously, watching it glisten on her skin. Four fingers now, thumb tucked in. “Breathe with me,” she said. “Push slow.”

The tension mounted as he pressed forward. Her pussy resisted at first, then yielded with a soft pop—his entire hand inside her, wrist-deep. Holy shit. The sensation was unreal: tight, pulsing heat enveloping him, her inner walls massaging his fist like a living thing. “Oh fuck, Dennis… you’re fisting me,” she gasped, eyes locked on his. “Rotate it… feel me clench.” He did, slowly at first, the psychological payoff hitting hard—the power of filling her completely, the vulnerability in her surrender. Her cravings mirrored yours: that fullness, the stretch that borders pain but explodes into pleasure. She bucked against him, one hand on her clit, rubbing furiously. “Deeper… fist my pussy harder!”

Anticipation built like a storm. Dennis’ arm ached, but the dirtiness drove him—juices coating his skin, her moans turning primal. “I’m your fisting slut,” she cried, amplifying every fantasy you’ve harbored. The climax approached: her body tensed, walls contracting in waves around his fist, a gush of squirt soaking the sheets as she screamed in release. Wave after wave, until she collapsed, trembling. The afterglow? Pure connection—they held each other, her whispering, “You just unlocked something in me… in us.”

But that’s just the entry point. If your curiosity is piqued, let’s intensify. Dennis couldn’t stop thinking about it. Days later, Ena texted: “Ready for more? Anal this time.” The emotional trigger here is the forbidden—the ass, tighter, more taboo. Fantasies of ultimate surrender flood in: the prep, the slow opening, the mind-blowing fullness. They met again, this time with toys to build awareness. “Anal fisting needs patience,” she explained, handing him a small plug. They started with rimming—his tongue circling her asshole, making her squirm. “Lick it good,” she moaned. Then the plug, easing in, stretching her ring.

Desire amplified as they progressed. Fingers next—one, lubed and slow. “Feel how tight I am?” she teased. Two, scissoring. Three, deeper. The tension was palpable—your heart races imagining the resistance, the yield. “Fist my anal hole, Dennis,” she begged, on all fours, ass presented like an offering. More lube, thumb in, push… pop. Inside—hotter, tighter than pussy, her sphincter gripping his wrist. “Fuck yes… pump it!” He thrust gently, then harder, her cries echoing. Psychological payoff: the dominance, the way she owned her cravings, turning vulnerability into strength. “Stretch my ass wide… make me gape!”

The anticipation peaked as she fingered her pussy simultaneously. “I’m so full… it’s destroying me in the best way.” Climax hit like thunder—her body convulsing, anal walls milking his fist, another squirt as orgasms chained. After, they lay spent, her ass red and satisfied. “You feel it now, don’t you? The addiction.”

Now, for those whose cravings run deeper, let’s escalate to double fisting—the ultimate intensification. Dennis and Ena’s bond grew; trust was ironclad. One stormy night, she challenged: “Both holes at once. Fill me completely.” Emotional triggers ignite: total possession, the psychological high of being utterly claimed. They prepped meticulously—toys in both, stretching her limits. “I crave it,” she confessed. “That moment when I’m stretched beyond belief.”

Build-up was erotic torture: oral first, her sucking his cock while he fingered both holes. Then, pussy fist first—easy now, her body remembering. “Now the ass,” she panted. Second hand lubed, pushing in. Both inside—feeling them through the thin wall, amplifying every sensation. Tension soared: arms burning, her skin flushed, breaths ragged. “Fist fuck me, David—ruin my holes!” (Wait, Dennis—slip, but the immersion pulls you in.) Alternating pumps, her thrashing, juices everywhere. “I’m your dirty fisting whore!”

Anticipation crested: orgasms building like a tidal wave. Psychological payoff—the surrender, the power exchange, fantasies fulfilled in raw ecstasy. Climax exploded: her screaming, holes clamping, a flood of cum as she shattered, blacking out briefly from intensity.

In the afterglow, they cuddled, transformed. You’ve felt it build, haven’t you? From curiosity to craving, tension to release. This fisting fetish isn’t just sex—it’s a journey that intensifies every desire, triggers every emotion, until you’re hooked forever. Crave more? The story’s yours now—live it.

The post Fisting Passion: Me and Ena first appeared on Fetish Stories.

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.

The post Isabelle Opened Me Up to a Whole New World first appeared on Fetish Stories.

It wasn’t planned, not really. It just happened the way a storm happens — sudden, violent, unstoppable. Her name was Lana, twenty-four, long black hair, pale skin that bruised so beautifully, and those wide green eyes that always looked like they were begging even when her mouth was saying no. She’d been flirting with the idea of submission for months on those dark little forums, dropping hints in my DMs, sending pictures of her wrists in rope, her ass marked with faint red lines from a belt she’d used on herself. She wanted the real thing. She wanted me.

I invited her over on a Friday when the city was raining hard enough to drown out screams. She showed up in a thin black dress, no bra, nipples already hard from the cold, soaked through so the fabric clung to every curve. I didn’t speak when I opened the door. I just grabbed a fistful of that wet hair and yanked her inside. She gasped, stumbled, but didn’t fight. Her purse hit the floor with a wet thud. I slammed her back against the wall, my hand already around her throat, not squeezing yet, just owning the space where her pulse was racing.

“You sure about this, little girl?” I growled low against her ear.

She nodded, trembling. “Yes, Sir.”

That word. Fuck. It went straight to my cock.

I kissed her then, brutal, teeth clashing, biting her bottom lip until I tasted copper. She moaned into my mouth like a whore in heat. My free hand slid under that soaked dress and found her bare underneath, no panties, just slick, dripping cunt. I laughed darkly against her lips.

“Already fucking soaked. You really are a desperate little slut, aren’t you?”

She whimpered, nodding again.

I dragged her by the hair down the hallway to my bedroom. The lights were low, just one lamp in the corner casting long shadows. I’d prepared everything earlier: cuffs on the bedposts, rope coiled on the nightstand, a thick black collar with a silver ring, plugs and clamps and toys laid out like instruments. Her eyes went wide when she saw it all, but her thighs pressed together like she was trying to ease the ache between them.

“Strip,” I ordered.

Her hands shook as she peeled the wet dress off. Gorgeous body, full tits with pale pink nipples begging to be abused, narrow waist, hips made for bruising grip, and that perfect shaved pussy already glistening. I let her stand there naked and shivering while I circled her slowly, predator and prey.

“On your knees.”

She dropped instantly. Good girl.

I unbuckled my belt slow, let the leather slide through the loops with that threatening hiss. Her breath hitched. I wrapped the belt around her throat like a leash, buckled it just tight enough that she’d feel it every time she swallowed. Then I unzipped, pulled my cock out already hard and heavy, and fed it to her without warning. She gagged immediately, eyes watering, but I didn’t let her pull back. I fucked her throat slow and deep, watching mascara run down her cheeks in black rivers.

“That’s it. Choke on it. This is what you came here for, isn’t it? To be used like a filthy fucktoy.”

She moaned around my shaft, nodding as best she could with her throat full.

I used her mouth for a long time, until her jaw ached and drool was dripping off her chin onto her tits. Then I pulled out, slapped her face with my wet cock a few times just to watch her flinch and blush darker.

“Beg me.”

“Please, Sir… please fuck me. I need it so bad.”

“Need what?”

“Your cock. Please. I’m your slut. Use me however you want.”

I hauled her up by the belt-collar and threw her face-down on the bed. She landed with a muffled cry. I bound her wrists to the headboard with the cuffs, quick and tight, then spread her legs and locked her ankles to the corners. Ass up, face buried in the sheets, completely exposed. I stood behind her just admiring the view: pink pussy lips swollen and dripping, little pink asshole twitching like it knew what was coming.

I started with my hand. Hard, bare-handed spanking until her ass was bright red and she was sobbing into the pillow. Every slap made her cunt clench and leak more. I’d stop just long enough to slide three fingers into her sopping hole, curl them, make her scream, then pull out and spank her again for being such a greedy whore.

“You’re dripping down your thighs, baby. You love this. You love being my pain slut.”

“Yes, Sir! Fuck, yes!”

When her ass was glowing and hot to the touch, I grabbed the lube and the medium plug, thick black silicone with a jeweled base. I pressed it against her tight little hole without warning. She tensed, whimpered.

“Relax or it’s going in dry.”

She forced herself to breathe, to push back, and I worked it in slow, watching her asshole stretch around it until it popped in and she screamed into the mattress. Her whole body shook. I gave her ten seconds to adjust, then flipped her over onto her back (wrists still cuffed above her head) and shoved my cock into her cunt in one brutal thrust.

Jesus fucking Christ she was tight. Hot and wet and clenching like she was trying to milk me dry. The plug made her even tighter. I fucked her like I hated her, hips slamming, balls slapping against the base of the plug. Her tits bounced with every thrust, nipples hard as diamonds. I leaned down and bit one, hard enough to leave teeth marks, then sucked it brutally while I pounded her into the mattress.

“Look at me,” I snarled.

Her tear-stained eyes locked on mine, mouth open in a constant stream of broken moans and curses and pleas.

“Who owns this cunt?”

“You do, Sir! Fuck, you own me!”

I reached down and rubbed her clit roughly while I drilled her. She came almost instantly, back arching off the bed, pussy spasming so hard around my cock I nearly lost it. But I didn’t. I pulled out right as she was still shaking and shoved my slick cock straight into her mouth again, making her taste herself.

“Clean it, slut.”

She sucked greedily, tongue swirling, gagging but never stopping.

When I was close I pulled out, flipped her again, and yanked the plug out with a wet pop. Her hole gaped for a second, pink and open and begging. I didn’t give her time to think. I lined up and pushed my cock into her ass in one long, relentless thrust.

She screamed. Full-throated, raw, animal. I didn’t stop until my balls were pressed against her dripping pussy. Then I started fucking her ass like I was trying to ruin it. Hard, punishing strokes, one hand fisted in her hair yanking her head back, the other reaching around to pinch and twist her clit.

“Take it. Take every fucking inch in your dirty little asshole.”

She was beyond words now, just sobbing and moaning and pushing back against me like the greedy anal whore she was born to be. I felt her cum again, pussy clenching on nothing, ass gripping me so tight I saw stars. That pushed me over. I buried myself deep and unloaded, pumping rope after rope of hot cum into her bowels until it was leaking out around my cock.

I stayed inside her a long moment, both of us panting, then pulled out slow and watched my cum drip from her gaping, ruined hole. Beautiful.

But I wasn’t done.

I uncuffed her wrists, dragged her limp body to the floor, and made her clean my cock with her mouth again, ass to mouth, no hesitation. She did it like it was the most natural thing in the world. My perfect little broken toy.

After that night she moved in two weeks later. Collared 24/7. Sleeping at the foot of my bed in a cage when she misbehaved. Waking me with her mouth every morning. Wearing plugs to work under her office clothes because I told her to. Sending me pictures from bathroom stalls of her fingers in her cunt when I texted “now.”

Some nights I tie her spread-eagle and edge her for hours, vibrators and feathers and ice cubes until she’s crying and begging and offering me anything, anything, if I’ll just let her cum. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I fuck her throat while she’s still shaking from denial and cum down it just to watch her swallow gratefully.

She’s mine now. Completely. Body, mind, soul. Every hole, every tear, every scream and squirt and shudder. And she’s never been happier.

That’s the thing about real submission. It’s not a game. It’s not roleplay on weekends. It’s surrender. Total. Permanent. And once a woman tastes that, once she’s been truly owned, truly broken and rebuilt around a man’s cock and will… she never wants to go back.

I ruined her for anyone else.

And she thanks me for it every single day. On her knees. Mouth open. Eyes shining.

Just the way I like her.

The post The Night I Truly Broke Her first appeared on Fetish Stories.