In french, you call a person you love your “pomme de terre” which literally translated means your “hold on the earth,” or the one who keeps you here on earth, the one who keeps you grounded.
Handoff, Part Five
How do you feel?
That’s all right.
Oh yes? Not a big girl right now?
It’s not like being… young, for me. Just small.
Like something I could hold in my hand?
Like I’m doing right now.
Do you feel safe here?
Do you feel all used up? All worn out?
Or do you think you can take a little more?
A little more what?
Oh, so you are coming back to yourself a little.
“Maybe.” Well. Maybe I want to do a little something you won’t bounce back from so fast. Maybe I want you to be thinking about this for a long time.
You think I won’t? Or you think I can’t?
Maybe I want you to beg before I let you leave this room.
I bet you can’t make me.
Guess we’ll have to see how much more you can deal with, then, won’t we?
It wasn’t far from the armchair to the bed; I stood up, took a few steps and dropped her back onto it. She made a little show of squirming to one side. I retrieved her and administered several blows with the flat of my hand. Despite several nervous statements earlier about how she was actually a bit of a pushover in the pain department, Ivy stayed mute and stubborn: the bratty side resurgent.
She’d also made several claims about her own tightness, and how she had to be really wet to take any kind of thick penetration, even her own fingers. The speculum exam had borne that out to some degree, but I decided that the hypothesis needed another test.
My fingers are noticeably larger than hers, but as before, she took the first two just fine.
Ivy’s wrists were still tied together at this point, which made it entertaining when she wriggled up onto her elbows and tried to crawl away. Her reward for that was being dragged face-down across the bed again, and another series of smacks. I hooked my thumb into her vaginal canal and, using the wetness that had transferred to the base of my first two fingers, worked on her swollen clit for a little while. Judging by her vocal reaction, this seemed to produce a complex emotional reaction for her.
“Are you ready to—“
“No, Mister,” she cut me off.
I don’t know if she knew she was taking three fingers, after that, but she did begin to emit muffled sounds of distress.
The series repeats: I’m not sure if it was in the same order, but the basic series of squirming, spanking, stimulation and penetration, making her take a little more with each step. She wasn’t wrong about being a tight fit. She had no trouble producing more than sufficient lubrication, though.
Around the time you get four fingers inside a human being, you start needing to contend with the basic skeletal structure of your recipient. The vaginal canal is a flexible structure composed of elastic muscle, which can be shifted and stretched, but the bone and ligament of the pelvis are fundamentally stronger and more rigid than that of the hand.
“How does that feel?” I asked, testing to see how far I could push the tapered shape of my fingers, whether I could press against her clit from inside. “Too much for you, little girl?”
“No, Mister.” (I’ve omitted the onomatopoeia which would have lengthened this statement considerably.)
“Oh, then you think you can take more than this.”
“I don’t know, Mister,” is what I think she was attempting to say.
“Don’t worry, Ivy,” I said. “I believe in you.”
I don’t know if she quite understood what was happening—being face down and all—but when I pushed all five of my fingers into her cunt, she took it like a champ.