People think that the lives of Doms and subs are an unending narrative of leather and the lash and orgasms beyond number. You get this idea from reading stylized and fantastical tales of chateaus with hidden rooms paneled in wood and lit by candlelight, populated by mysterious men with indecipherable European accents (though their English is flawless) surrounding beautiful captive women whose thoughts and lusts are all centered on pleasuring their Masters. It is a nice fantasy, but the truth is a little less glamorous.

     Sally, my sub (and how strange it is to call her that, even after all this time), does not live in a vacuum defined by my absence or presence. She illustrates children's books. If you have children, or have bought books for your nieces or nephews, you've probably seen her work (for the record, she has a professional name which, for obvious reasons, I'll keep to myself, though I do like to tease her about blackmail from time to time, at which she just smiles and shrugs and says, "Go ahead. And I tell the world that you used to have a subscription to Celebrity Skin magazine." Checkmate.). Her painting and photography are her primary and enduring passions, and days go by when we don't see each other, but pass messages back and forth. If she obeys me, it's only because she chooses to do so, and then only sexually. Don't think for a second that she washes the dishes or picks up my dry-cleaning...though she has taken on the task of supplying the lube we use; she's very particular about such things, and likes the faint lavender scent of her favorite brand.

     As for myself, I'm not the commanding presence you see in the books, either, with unspoken wealth and connections to a whole cabal of like-minded fellows who don't think twice about binding and fucking their subs in front of each other, and then passing them around like wine at a tasting. To tell the truth, I'm a little insecure about the whole thing, especially because I'm not Sally's first Dom. And even though she's told me something about the others, in my imagination they still all have trim Van Dyke beards and impeccable smoking jackets, using the crop only when the force of their strong wills isn't quite enough. Or just because the mood takes them. As much as I'd like to join their ranks, I'm not suited to the role (for one thing, I speak only one foreign language, and that one none too well).    

     So I wasn't quite sure what to say when Sally first broached the subject of fisting.  My first instinct was that I really wanted to try it.  Naturally I didn't say so; even with the life Sally and I were leading, with plenty of extreme sex, including but not limited to bondage, spanking, and sodomy, fisting seemed beyond the pale.  You could make the argument that any organ that can expand to produce the head of a baby should well be able to make room for a hand, even one belonging to a longshoreman, let alone that of a fellow who spends most of the day at his keyboard.  But it's not that simple, and Sally didn't have to tell me why for me to understand the difference.

     So we talked about it for a little while, and then moved on to other topics, and then started kissing and touching each other (even Doms and subs neck like teenagers; it's not all cuffs and crops).  But I couldn't forget the conversation, and Sally knew that, and pulled away and gave me her crooked smile and said, "Is there something