To say that I was addicted to fisting would be to use the wrong word. It wasn't a physical need exactly. I didn't need to be fisted, but I definitely ...anted it. Not every night, but often. The intense stretching that wasn't quite pleasure nor pain, the overwhelming feeling of fullness, the complete surrender of having Cindy's hand and part of her forearm pounding relentlessly inside of me. It all felt so amazingly good.But the most wondrous part of it all was the intimacy. The literal and. Helooked through the keyhole and sighed. It was his best friend Allen.Allen looked absolutely terrible. He was only 21 but he looked ten totwenty years older than that. His eyes were blood-shot and there were eyebags hanging underneath. His skin was blotchy and covered in sores andhis face was ravaged by acne. He had grown out an uncontrollable beardand it was clear that he had not shaved in weeks. He smelled of aterrible body odor that assaulted Michael's nose like a scavenging hyena.On his. More

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