Silent Duck

*A poem about fisting dedicated to all the holes I’ve ever been in

*The Anal Fisting hand position is called the Silent Duck

Fist fucking

Handballing

Orifice stretching

You came to see me for a sensual fisting, to lie back and rest your head, close your eyes, have your nipples softly rubbed. Be swallowed by the openness, ride deep breath work. We go slow.


Soft and slow fisting

Sensual fisting

Gentle fisting

You cruise through porn sites, addicted to buying newer, bigger toys. You work your hole at home, alone. You come to see me to get stretched out, my hands all experience and magic. You come for the Mr Hanky’s, the Square Pegs, and the Tantus. For the colon snakes and the gapers. You have goals.

Depth fisting

Past the elbow fisting

Colon fisting

The hole is it’s own erotic interface; it’s entrance a field as well as an opening. The ridged sphincter produces fuck pleasure as I slide both hands in, first in a prayer to the perversity gods and next in a whooping fist pump to the skies. Width hits different than depth.

Double fisting

Prayer hands fisting

Power fisting

Fisting ecstasy is hard won. It’s dark where we play, a cellar space to contain your groans and collect our pheromones, spitting out the guttural surges as the non-self emerges. I don’t fucking care. Your hole is my hole, our chthonic oneness is a hungry demon space.

Sadistic fisting

Punishment fisting

Hole punch fisting

Hips, bones, joints, all achy. Pain most mornings, a subjective slump determining your horniness. Nevertheless, you limp into my seat and we stay, just there. Opening you slowly, drawing back the line of pain in your body, until the sweet spot of a fist sitting, calmly in your rectum, whispers that you’re still ok. At least for today.

Post-surgery fisting

Pain management fisting

Self-care fisting