I haven’t been fisted since I was married.
This is my cry for help.
My ex wife is tiny and a goth icon.
Her little stick and poke tattooed hands
fit my hole perfect,
and she held flawless porcelain doll expressions,
even while I erupted sounds like dolphins make
and made faces forged by the hand of an angry god.
Prostate cumming.
Chains of anal orgasms
made my bone marrow
feel fuzzy and warm.
She’d wear sheer to waist pantyhose and a high cut bodysuits for me,
and squeeze my balls
till they hurt just enough,
grinding her knuckles into my G spot.
“See, we don’t even need this little dick…”
made me ooze white cum, soft.
(for the record, I have a huge dick,
… for a girl.
I’m just really into SPH.)
I miss her fist.
When she asked me to marry her
in the middle of the Mojave desert,
she had a loaded gun and I didn’t.
I was her loving hostage for the next 3 years.
She’d shake me from the inside out
making me cum with my hole for an hour,
then stroke my cock
slow,
teasing shaft to tip
until I’d blast ropes of cum over my head
splattering the wall 4 feet behind me.
I made us toast and coffee every morning.
She always woke up in a thong and tight tank top.
Sometimes she’d feel up my cock
in our big sunlit Nevada kitchen
and look up at me with her big exotic one quarter Chinese blue eyes
and say,
“Baby, I need you to fuck my ass today with your big thick cock.”
Sometimes she’d smile,
knee me in the balls and giggle
and tell me,
“I’m fisting you tonight. I don’t need your little dick.”
Both have been on my mind a lot lately.
One time,
we were petting cats on our big velvet pink sofa
when Onlyfans banned “Gaping.”
So she emailed them asking to define “Gape”
so she’d know what stuff to delete.
They replied, “Just google it”
which we both thought was rude,
until we searched the word “gape”
and her pictures were the first 4 google images.
That’s a fucking flex.
We had a lovely pandemic together,
fucking each other’s asses
in between working on little home projects
in our underwear.
She’d do taxidermy on a dead rat
in our garage
while I’d tinker with my AK47s
until she’d get hungry,
and I had to start the tedious guessing game
of what she wanted to eat.
We’d frustrate each other
then fuck violently
and then order Taco Bell again.
Everyday she’d wear a thong,
bend at the waste and arch her back
to pet our black cat on his tree by the window,
perfectly lit.
It made me ragefully horny.
I miss that.
I don’t miss the stuff that led to our divorce.
At the most Cronenburg body horror part
of my transition
from a jacked, hairy, Playgirl Spokesmodel
to what you see now,
I cried naked in front of her in our bathroom
asking her to tell me something nice.
She told me I really needed to accept that
I’d become an ugly woman,
or I was gonna kill myself.
She ditched me after one of my trans surgeries
to fuck a guy that looked like I used to.
I couldn’t let that stuff go.
So I moved out as soon as I could walk again.
We don’t talk anymore.
I did my inner work and found peace with the whole thing.
I miss petting cats with her
and watching Lord of the Rings extended,
eating nachos under blankets.
I miss her jokes.
I miss her striking T poses
and Naruto running around the house.
I miss her expansive knowledge about frogs and lizards.
I don’t miss her 8 pet tarantulas
but I miss her fist.
She showed me and world
how powerful a toothy smile can be
while taking quadruple anal.
One night Charlotte was getting fucked in front of a hundred people
in a LA underground sex party.
She started punching her self in the face
leaving marks
so she could laugh at all the wanna be swingers for flinching.
She’s all powerful in sex scenes
and completely vulnerable in grocery stores.
She loved using her ass
and hated using her pussy so much
that she had it sown shut.
She cried in our kitchen because she couldn’t boil pasta
but taught herself how to make strawberry cheesecake
because it’s my favorite.
I miss unwinding in bed with her after we both had long days
bottoming in hard core BDSM scenes.
I’d talk about getting jerked off while being waterboarded.
She’d talk about being hitachi’ed while suspended upside down
with a bowling ball tied to her throat.
I don’t miss finding out in a tabloid
that she was cheating on me with Till Lindemman,
the fucking Rammstein guy,
I du hast him
so
mich.
No wonder she was learning German on Duolingo in bed,
for months.
I’ll find another person with the right sized hands to fist me.
I still have time.
But I miss her fist.
