I am enamoured with the thought of the perfect fist. A fist so scary and so skilled and so perfect that it sets not only the w(hole) of my body at ease, but my stone psyche as well. A fist that deftly probes into my cunt, filling my stomach and mind with that burning hunger to be consumed. I can only imagine the agony of knowing that between the flesh my cunt and her perfect fist is a thick layer of latex, denying me the honor of her meat gracing mine. A fist that will slide in pointedly at first, taking its agonizing time to bring me to the edge before being tightened into a proper fist, punching in and out, stretching me out like a feral dog’s knot until I soak her full arm and myself with my cum and sweat and tears. A fist that will beat my insides until I’m quaking and wailing, having left pleasure far behind the wall of fuzzy black stars overtaking my vision. As she works her way into my greedy hole, I’ll feel the fingertips of that fist make contact with my cervix, softly circling it once admiring the tenderness before forcing their way in, ripping me open in search for more.