Good Vibrations Magazine

My five fingers, my five cocks, my five dildos, touch and probe and move, knocking to be let in — all the way in. “Fisting.” Such a harsh word for such intimacy. Maybe “reaching”? Maybe “handling” but not fisting. Too rough, too violent.

The mechanics of it are here, on a table next to the sling or someplace near the bed: Wherever the place, they are there. Roll call: gloves (comfortable, surgical if you fancy that), lube (lots and lots and lots and lots — if you think you have enough you don’t have enough), and the other things that she might need (vibrator, dildo, whatever else). These are the keys, necessary but artificial — the facts of life. The rest, though, is not artificial — way, way beyond artificial.

My gloved hand knocks, wanting in.

Carefully, I dance with her lips, waltz with her minora, majora. She leads, naturally. She takes my hand with her cunt and shows me herself. She opens w – i – d – e, says hello, invites me in.

I bow, caress, and take a first step. I insert one finger, with a come-hither action. Not a lot. Not a lot at all — just a first step, one finger through the threshold. I hand one finger in her pussy, her cunt, her vagina. One finger inside her, feeling the heat of her, taking her temperature from inside — a special, intimate, inside.

She nods, I nod, and we take another step; both listening to the music she makes.

Two is small. Just two. Two is a little number — just one and one. I move them inside her, feeling around, getting to know this special place, feeling her interior architecture. I feel a rough spot (G), the narrowing, slick walls (to cervix), the hard jab of bone under, the tight muscles over, the way her lips move, the way they won’t.

Lube and more lube. She shines, glimmers with it, looking red-mirrored with the slickness, and her own slickness as well. I note the smile she gives me, with the rise and salute of her clit. Some women like it touched, during this, some don’t. I ask, and she nods, so I do: bathing her bead with a careful rotations of my thumb.

Then — three.

Still a small number, a little number. Three isn’t a lot, but the tightness has started. The play of one and one and one isn’t as flexible as just one, just two. It’s harder to move now, but I have a feel for the land, for the flow of her lips and walls. I slowly turn my hand, rotating it slowly, pushing gently, massaging but not forcing her muscles, cooing with a special kind of sign language to her cunt, pussy, vagina: No one here who doesn’t love you, no one here who means you any harm. Let me in and we’ll dance.

Three fingers, bent together: turning slowly, pushing oh-so-gently at the strength of her cunt. Not forcing. Easing, yes; massaging, yes; enticing — oh, yes! She opens wider, slowly allowing me passage in. Her door yields to my three long, reaching fingers. Inside, within, I tap her G-spot, feeling its corrugated pleasure.

Within, I explore the architecture of her interior.

More lube, some conversation. I ask and she answers: all is well. I stroke and ring her clit, making her smile wide and magical. Four. When all you have is five, four is a big number. Actually all you do have is four — five is the thumb. Four now inside. Four fingers in a squeezed duckbill, forced so my fingertips touch. Four inside, pushing gently but still firmly, firm but still gentle: Inside her. Fingers are long and thin, pointed and supple (aside from the small nuts of their joints) — I perform an origami of my own hand: collapsing it, curling my fingers, cupping her from inside, sliding and dancing within her. The hard, literal, part is next, knocking on the door, wanting to be let in.

The hard part is next. I tell her as much.

She breathes, controlling the pain and pleasure that has painted her in reflections of sweat, preparing herself for the reverse birth — taking someone in rather than pushing someone out.

The hard part is the thumb and bones of my hand, the knuckles. I watch her face, hypnotized by her beauty and bravery, amazed by the dance of delight that flickers and swells over her eyes (closed in concentration, open in amazement and near shock), lips (blowing kisses, hissing past the pain), and nose (scrunching up with the rest of her face). Bathing her clit with my lube-shiny thumb, I ask, polite and civil, if she would be so kind as at allow me into her most inner of sanctums.

Her yes is silent but obvious: with a few gentle turns of the hand, she relaxes and allows me the space and time and delight to push those last few inches in. The hard part is over, the knuckles are through. Welcome.

This is it: I am inside and filling. This is it, one hand within.

The rest is icing on the cake: I have to do is close my long, long (sometimes too long) fingers around my thumb. I am inside, within — that says it all.

I watch the pleasure and the pain (more former than latter) dance on her face as I slowly, slowly, slowly turn my hand with a gentle twist, rubbing my knuckles across her G-spot.

Yes, it’s my hand, my fingers, my gentle pressure behind it all — but she is in control: she can say “yes,” “no,” “stop,” “slow,” “out.” I would, of course, because even though it is my hand it is her temple I am entering: a supplicant, a respective worshiper: Whatever you say, Goddess.

Then she does say it — after quakes of pounding comes paint her even more with reflective sweat she clenches down on my hand, arches her spine. She says, “out” and I go, telling her to push against my hand, to squeeze me out as I gently withdraw.

Then I’m out.

I clean up, kissing her hot tummy. I rub her from breasts to legs, from arms to cheeks, from the top of her head to the dimple of her navel. I put a warm blanket over her and hold her while she drifts towards sleep, falls towards exhausted slumber.

I follow close behind, having come much deeper from my hand — from being within — than I’ve ever come from my cock.

M. Christian is the editor of Eros Ex Machina and Midsummer Night’s Dreams, coeditor of Rough Stuff, and author of the forthcoming Dirty Words.