Fisting for Fun

Mia’s already got you hanging. Locked. Casted. Suspended so every limb feels useless and every inch of you belongs to her. She keeps the key to your cage on a chain around her wrist, watching the metal bite your trapped skin while she plans her next move. Your body’s not marked enough yet. She circles the cane across your ass once, twice, then brings it down hard enough to make the suspension chains rattle. You jerk; she smiles. She wants more color, deeper marks, and she isn’t shy about taking them. When the welts rise hot and angry, she sets the cane aside and slicks her fist with lube. No warning, just the blunt press of knuckles, the slow stretch as she works her hand inside you. She stops, lets you feel the burn, then pushes deeper until her wrist disappears and you’re clenching around her forearm. Every time you twitch, she pulls back just enough to keep you riding the edge, never letting you tip over. Breath steady, she leans in close and whispers what comes next, because today she isn’t stopping at marks—she’s taking the rest of you too.