The gentleman’s guide to taking a fist

[noyes019]

A Gentleman’s Guide to the Art of Receiving a Fist (With Grace, Gusto, and Just a Hint of Lavender Oil)

(Or, How to Greet a Well-Lubricated Visitor to One’s Most Private Salon Without Losing One’s Composure, Accent, or Sense of History)

Let it be said at the outset: this is not for the impatient.
Nor for the reckless.
This is not a slam. It is a summons.

To be fisted—yes, we’re saying it aloud now, like adults in opera capes—is to welcome not just a hand, but an experience. A visitation. A velvet-gloved ambassador from the land of Limit and Threshold. And to do it properly, one must observe all the little courtesies of preparation, communication, and controlled dramatic flair.

I. Setting the Stage: The Chamber Must Be Ready

One does not simply plop oneself in a sling like a sack of cabbages awaiting impact. No.

The room must be warmed, the lighting flattering, the playlist somewhere between Gregorian chant and "Wicked" instrumental.

A bowl of water (room temperature), fresh towels, and a tub of lube large enough to swim in should be close at hand. (Pun absolutely intended.)

II. The Greeting: A Warm Welcome at the Rear Vestibule

Your partner approaches with his Hand: not clenched, not clawed, but shaped like a gentleman bringing you a delicate truffle.

You must breathe. You must smile faintly. You must part your cheeks as if opening the drapes to a particularly bold sunrise.

There is no rushing. This is a slow courtship. A prolonged waltz. An entrance that makes Versailles look subtle.

III. The Entry: A Journey in Acts

First the fingertips—delicate, diplomatic. The ring finger knocks softly like a butler announcing tea.

Then, slowly, like nobles joining a box at the opera: one finger, two, three...your sphincter dilates and accommodates his hand perfectly. Your hole does not twitch, it winks, and puckers, and tightens and loosens so that you may enjoy every finger slowly entering deep inside you.

At four, your eyes flutter. You do not panic. You adjust your breathing pattern. Perhaps quote a line from Ovid. You start leaking pre-cum as your prostate is stimulated like never before.

IV. The Passage: When One is Holding Court from Within

Once the full hand has passed the gates and the wrist has curtsied, you do not scream.

You exhale. You clutch the pillow.

You murmur, “Oh my, I believe I can feel the shape of your signet ring.”

You do not thrash—you undulate. Like a baroque jellyfish.

You enjoy the fist deep inside you, and the forearm slowly making its way stretching your hole like never before and giving you a sense of fulfillment you didn’t dream was possible. You do not yell or scream, but moan in ecstasy as your prostrate is milked and your cock drips a steady steam of white pre-cum. 

V. The Sensation: Deep, Profound, Surprisingly Spiritual

You are not being filled. You are being visited.

There’s pressure, yes, but also—dare we say?—a kind of wisdom.

The arm inside you is reading you like a palm. And you are riding it begging for more.

Your body speaks back in clenches, whispers, and the occasional gasp of “Dear heavens, I believe I’ve seen the face of God and He’s checking my lower intestine for scrolls.”*

VI. The Farewell: The Slowest of Departures

When the arm withdraws, it is not a yank. It is a receding tide.

You thank it with a gentle pelvic tilt, a shudder, and a polite murmur:
“Thank you, sir, for your… thorough scholarship.”

The towel is applied. The fan is turned on. You sip water like a Victorian invalid recovering from a fainting spell brought on by a handsome footman.

Conclusion: A Gentleman's Hollow, Lovingly Occupied

You are not a toy.
You are a cathedral—and someone was allowed to ring the bell.

You did not get wrecked.
You hosted a hand.
And the hand wrote sonnets.

And as you walk out of the steam room, spine straighter than ever, cheeks flushed like ripe plums, you may meet the eyes of another gentleman and simply say:

“I’ve been moved…
internally.”

 

Edited Sunday at 06:50 PM by noyes019