A Fistful Of Sense

Their clothes were in the lounge room. Their mobile phones were in the pockets of their clothing. Which would have been okay if they were also in the lounge room.

But they were not .....

They were in a dining room with its many cupboards and shelves and chairs, and a table. In the air was the distinct odour of KY Jelly...

The dining table had been pushed against the refrigerator and a portable massage table stood in it's place. On the table was a naked woman, about twenty, blonde (both attic and basement) and fairly pretty. She had a dog-collar around her neck with a leash that allowed her head only a couple of centimetres of leeway above the table. Her wrists were held fast beneath the table by a set of handcuffs with a chain long enough to reach both hands. Her feet were secured to the outside of the table by rope. A large ball-gag was in her mouth.

Standing beside her was a man of about the same age. The smell of KY Jelly was all over his right hand, and between her legs. She could see the ceiling, and if she looked down her nose she could admire her nipples. Looking to her right, halfway down the table, she could see Harry. Or at least the parts north of his belt, if he had been wearing one.

She could feel the fingers of his right hand as they stroked her pubic hair. The sticky jelly made her hair clump, and his fingers constantly created new hills and valleys as they explored her map of Tasmania.

She felt his middle finger enter, gently turning as it slipped further into her moist cavern. The rest of his fingers held her fast as the interloper bent and straightened in a rhythmic cycle. Then his index finger entered, the two rotating about a central axis, each holding straight, each stretching towards the depths within. She felt his hand pull back ever so slow, ever so gentle. Then his thumb straightened as though it were a splint for its neighbours.

Two fingers and a thumb, now approximating the thickness to which she had become accustomed during similar horizontal activities, a thickness backed with real bones, not just blood vessels fully engorged. She felt a pressure on her opening, an excitement mounting. and an expectation of greater contact once the remaining fingers entered. He, of course, spent all this time in a devastating fear that he might hurt her. His fear was equalled by his embarrassment as he hid the fact that this was his first fisting.

He remembered the books, and the videos. He knew he had to bend his two smaller fingers and rest them against the base of his thumb. So he bent his fingers and used his left hand to compress his right, to stretch those fingers to engulf his thumb.

"Umphhh", said Sharon through her gag, as his right hand tried to enter through the Tasmanian bush, as it thrust without rotation. "Umphhh" again, as he quickly retreated and then apologised. One more "Umphhh" as she swore, hoping he could determine the difference between pain and anger.

A moment or two, and she nodded to him. This was difficult with the collar around her neck, but she also indicated with a slight circular motion of her head that he should BLOODY WELL ROTATE HIS WRIST. Which he eventually did. At the same time he held her right breast with his left hand as he licked the other breast. She relaxed, he rotated, she relaxed some more, he rotated faster. And she screamed! Well actually she Umphhed, but he knew. The knuckles at the base of his hand had twisted and then entered, pushing aside the not-so-soft walls of the cave entrance.

Immediately he moved his attention to an area south of Melbourne. Five of Mrs Palmer's daughters were missing, his wrist lost behind the KY clumps. He looked at her eyes as he slowly stretched his fingers, searching for the far walls and boundaries of his new empire. This was his chance to find the one treasure so often mentioned in folklore, the one destination of all men in his situation. He searched for the clitoris.

Three times he saw her eyes widen, her whites expand. Three times he felt a small shiver through her flesh, a small tsunami wave of fine hairs. And he knew without a doubt that he had hurt her. As he pulled his fingers away from this island of pleasure her eyes hardened. 'Why the fuck did he stop?', she thought.

He straightened up, standing with a new sense of purpose, a new knowledge that he was a man among men, a man LEADING men. He clenched his right fist as an internal salute to his own manhood. He also remembered something about women who needed to feel a 'fullness' there. Something about a greater sexual arousal when dominated by someone who takes possession of the whole landscape. And that is what he had done.

So there they were, Harry standing like a lion above his latest conquest, Sharon laying on the table feeling just a little disappointed, two bodies starting to relax. Harry looked down at his own personal treasure, realising his hand had competition. recognising another member that needed to solve its housing problem. Gently, so very gently, he withdrew his hand towards her opening.

But it was stuck.

===

Sharon was furious. She squirmed, she wriggled, she swore. And all the while he concentrated on his right arm. He did not hear the umphhh's. She rocked from left to right, and back again. She tried to bounce, and finally he looked at her. She moved her head to face her left leg, wriggling the leg for added emphasis.

Harry stopped his arm movements, looked at her leg, twisted so his left hand could just reach the rope that bound her. A few minutes playing with the rope, and her leg was free.

The first kick left a mark on his cheek and the side of his nose. His head moved to his left, bringing his shoulder into line for the next. The second kick threw his shoulder back, taking his arm and wrist with it. Unfortunately his hand was still inside, and much of the force acted upon her opening. "UMPHHH". The rope on her other foot was untied with a great deal of hesitation. And by bending his elbow so his face approached her waist, he was able to avoid any further assaults.

He put his left hand on her skin just north of her navel. Heading towards the valley between her twin peaks he knew he could help her relax. He knew they could end the fisting in a timely and safe manner, once she was calm.

She was NOT calm. Her head bounced up and down all through the centimetre or two of free movement allowed by her leash. Her umphhh's were getting louder and more insistent. The look on her face was not one of love, it was not one of friendship. It was a cobra, measuring its mongoose. And he had the distinct feeling that her gag with all its bite-marks would never survive for future use. He was beginning to think the same about himself.

His left hand was at her breasts, reaching to her neck, sliding past her right ear - and stopped. It could reach no further. Stretching as far as he might, his fingertips touched the collar and moved closer to the buckle under her hair. It could touch, it could not hold, it could not move the collar at all. With only a centimetre of leash behind her head there was no room for his fingers. Her head held fast. And her tongue remained behind the gag.

If he could not release her head, or her mouth, perhaps he could reach the handcuffs and allow her to remove the gag herself. So he stretched his hand down her right arm, past her shoulder, caressing down, and stopped at her elbow. He could reach no further. Yet as he reached her elbow he jostled the table and it moved. She replied with another 'Umphhh' as it did so.

Alright, he could not get her loose. But he could phone a friend for help. He put his left hand to his hip, to discover his trousers were still in the lounge room. He looked at the corridor and knew the table would not go around the corner, that he would NOT reach his phone. And he remembered seeing Sharon's phone there too.

In any case, who could he call? Mum or Dad? Yeah right. His mates? He would never live it down. One of HER friends? Sure, tell them all how incompetent he is. Ah, his sister. Yes. Speed dial on his phone. Which is in the lounge room...

The kitchen phone rang, a loud startling sound that made him twist around with a sudden movement. "Umphhh." He lifted his end of the table and dragged it to the phone. The kitchen phone! Thank God!.

"Hello?" He looked to Sharon, who was shaking her head.

"Harry, put Sharon on the phone, its her mother." Head shaking even more.

"Oh, hello. She's in the shower. Can she call back?"

"Don't bother. Just tell her I have a double shift tonight and won't be home till morning. And to keep out of trouble. Good night."

Sharon had a strange look on her face as Harry recounted the conversation to her. For the last few minutes her body had betrayed her. She wanted to show her rage, her anger at his incompetence, at his failure to simply remove his hand. But for the last few minutes she had orgasmed, many times. It was not her fault, she knew. It was the fullness down there, the pressure, the slight movements, it was everything. And she gave in to it, letting the waves wash over her, feeling the tingle of skin hairs as they straightened, as she fought to keep still on the outside, as she climaxed again and again within. He, of course, did not notice this. He was dialling the phone.

Harry thought he was smart, but he could not remember his sister's phone number. He could, however, remember triple-0. He could see the sweat on Sharon's brow, the flushing of her cheeks, the tremble under her chin. He could see she was in agony but he concentrated on the emergency call. Not wanting to call the police, he asked for the fire brigade. They know how to cut chains, he thought.

He found a chair in the kitchen, pulled it to the massage table, sat on it, and waited. He tried to keep still inside her, yet she gave signs of small convulsions now and then. He waited, he worried. To her it was an eternity of orgasm and anger. To him it was an hour of guilt. To the fire officer who knocked on the front door, it was fifteen minutes.

The front door, of course, was locked. The fireman knew there was no fire and no need to break open the door. He moved through the side carport and went to the back door. Harry dragged the table to the door and unlocked it. Immediately the fireman entered, saw the naked woman bound to a table, removed his jacket, and placed it over her.

Harry started to make a comment but the fireman indicated with a finger over his own mouth that Harry should keep quiet. The fireman then looked under the table, nodded a couple of times, and went outside. Returning within a few minutes carrying a toolbox, the fireman crouched under the table and cut the handcuff chain. He then loosened the leash, and stood up. He looked like he was swallowing a donut, wanting to open his mouth but afraid to speak. He motioned to the couple that they should stay still, and left the house. They could hear the explosion of his laughter all the way to his truck, could see the reflection of a flashing red light, could feel the slight chill of evening air as it entered.

Removing the gag, Sharon looked to Harry and said, "You could not find a tea-towel to cover me while waiting?" That was perhaps the only time she spoke to him that night without swearing. He looked at her with a puppy expression on his face.

The fireman returned with a fire brigade blanket which he placed over her body before removing his jacket. He went to a bedroom and came back with a pillow to place under her head. He also retrieved a pair of pants from the lounge room, and helped Harry put them on. And then, while waiting, he used the kitchen to make himself a cup of tea. It was the only way to contain his desperate need to guffaw. He made tea for the others as well, and found another chair.

Another fifteen minutes and they heard the siren and then saw the flashing lights reflected through the carport. An ambulance pulled up, two officers came through the back door with a stretcher, and immediately laughed. Sharon was writhing on the table, unable to get off because she was, well, getting off! Harry was sitting next to the table, his arm stretched over her right leg, his wrist hidden under a blanket, and the fireman was on his second cup of tea.

A quick inspection, and the ambulance officers decided they wanted no part of this. If truth be told, they had no idea what to do. One officer and one fireman lifted her gently as the other ambulance officer slid the stretcher under her. The fireman held the back door open, the ambo's carried her out, and Harry, just, tried to keep up.

There was a police car out the front. There were neighbours standing around. There was a police officer keeping them away, and another approaching the stretcher group. The firey spoke to the cop, the ambo's lifted her into their vehicle with Harry beside her. As they drove off Sharon could see the cop heading into the house to lock it up, and she could see the neighbours surround the fireman. Oh God, she thought.

The ambulance pulled into the emergency carpark at the local hospital. "Not here!" she said. Actually she shouted, but her voice was tired from all the silent shouting when she was gagged. But they understood her perfectly.

"This is the closest and best hospital in the area", said the ambo.

She was frantic. "No. No. Male doctor ONLY." This became her mantra, all she would say. They wheeled her into the emergency section then took a corridor to the ward.

What they did not expect was the media. Cameras were jostling, flashes were flashing, reporters were... doing what reporters do. And of course Sharon thought it was all for her. What she did not know till later was that a local footballer had been injured.

The corridor was cramped, Harry was clumsy, and the stretcher was pushed too close to a wall, hooking an edge of the blanket against some equipment. The blanket went to the floor. Photographers went for their cameras. Some of those shots still exist on the internet, if you know where to look.

Doctor Summerville, Susan to her friends, was working a double shift. She was not happy. Some dumb footballer was causing a media scrum in the hospital and demanding all sorts of pain medication. He was a pussy, she thought. Deal with it. After dismissing the player from her thoughts, she looked up from her desk at the nurse who just entered.

"I know you are busy doctor". she said. "But there is a female patient who came in with her boyfriend. She keeps shouting 'no male doctors' so we were hoping you could have a look?"

"What's wrong with her?"

"Um, you better see for yourself."

Doctor Summerville was not impressed. But she had learnt that it was often quicker to just go see and then refer the patient to someone else. It was one of the perks of being the boss. She went to the row of cubicles, pulled aside the plastic curtain, and entered.

There was a young man standing next to the bed, with no shirt on, no shoes or socks, and an arm going under the blanket in the vicinity of the patient's private parts. "Hello Mummy", said the patient.

Every doctor has a few cases that remain in memory for life. Often the memory involves the doctor hiding an automatic reaction to the case, trying to maintain a dignified bedside manner. This doctor failed. She stood there, speechless, immobile, staring at the scene of her daughter being fisted by someone with the mental acuity of a turnip. She didn't need to say anything. Her daughter gave a complete account of what happened, with the exception of her multiple orgasms, and her current hormonal state. She knew the conversation would continue over many days to come. Her mother thought of her own toy box in her bedroom, deciding it was perhaps time to share more intimate secrets.

Finally, it was the turn of the young man to talk. He was afraid of the doctor, but more afraid of the mother. And he was not sure which of the two was actually listening to him. In the end he could at least take some credit for protecting her daughter's safety. "All night I have kept my nails away from her walls, keeping her safe from injury. I have kept everything centred, I have protected her."

Susan Summerville was a good doctor, Even more, she understood the younger mind. Her next words were spoken softly, calmly, and with every bit of temperance she could muster...

"Harry, please, carefully, gently, UN-CLENCH YOUR FIST!"