The fool

That’s one of the many advantages of fisting for people who enjoy being penetrated: unlike a cylindrical phallus, it requires patience and finesse to get the considerably bumpier shape of a hand inside. It’s easier for most penises to slip into most vaginas or rectums, but “easy” doesn’t necessarily translate to “more pleasurable” for anyone involved. Fisting emphasizes what the fistee wants and needs in order to relax and open, which changes the act of penetration from “let’s get this done” to “let’s take our time.” It’s not that it always requires hours of tantric foreplay: I’ve seen people swallow hands in a matter of minutes. But fisting tops and bottoms do need to be attuned to each other more than in any other kind of intercourse.

Adamczak mentions fisting several times in her piece (“a closed hand around a dildo, of lips around a foot, of a vagina stretched over a fist”). To my mind, getting fisted is the ultimate act of circlusion, even if the term itself refers to the penetrating body part. Fisting necessitates communication, patience, finesse, embodied listening, and active breathwork. This may go some way toward explaining why fisters tend to enter a meditative, trance-like state. Fisting requires intentional engagement from the bottom, because in order to take a fist you really have to breathe deeply, to communicate about slowing down or wanting more, to reach for the poppers, to ask for the lube. And these are all things bottoms could be doing all the time, but fisting takes us out of our assumptions that the bottom is there to satisfy the top’s lust, to simply take it. A fistee must be a size queen, someone who loves to be filled up with something massive. Opening to a fist is a trust fall for everyone involved. When your hand is deep inside someone, you can feel their heart beating back against you. Sometimes when I’m up to my wrist in an aroused, engorged bottom, watching and feeling and listening to and smelling a partner so aroused they’re thrashing and bearing down and grasping back and contracting over and over, I think: Why would you fuck a hole that isn’t turned on? Sure, I take pride in turning people on and driving them insane with ecstasy, but fucking an engorged hole is just more fun, like bouncing on a trampoline or being tossed into the air by a taut parachute, with all the verve that inspires.

It’s not just penises that enjoy being circluded either. Clit heads respond to pressing and smashing and mashing, especially once they’ve been teased into arousal. The suction of a mouth or pump toy vacuum sealed around the vulva can create the feeling that your junk is swollen enough to put inside of something or someone. “What matters is not what parts a body possesses, but rather, which parts are put into action,” concludes Adamczak, and this is a queer manifesto bigger than circlusion, bigger even than fisting. When we reinvent and remap our anatomy for the purpose of pleasure, we leave behind inherited anxiety and shame around what our bodies are capable of, opening wide to engulf the future.”]

I was trained my entire life as a disabled child and now a disabled woman to always make myself and my disability smaller. I needed to take up less space, downplay my symptoms, go without the rest I need, and I most definitely learned to never complain or demand attention, never to be too exhausted for too long, or else I’d get on people’s nerves.

Having a service pup has been such a game changer though. So many submissives DESPERATELY WANT to make our lives easier as dominants, to care for us, to be useful in a really tangible way. So… I let my submissive do it. I let him be my service dog.

My service pup reminds me to rest when I need it and offers to get up and get things for me so I don’t use my sore legs. My service pup reminds me to drink water multiple times a day because he knows I get dizzy when I don’t. My service pup reminds me to take up space and demand respect from those around me and threatens to bite those who won’t give it. My service dog is strong and I know he’s being serious when he says he’d carry me in his arms up every set of stairs in every building that doesn’t have an elevator.

access to mobility aids

closed captioning, interpreters, and transcripts for those who need them OR those who prefer them

sensory safe enviroments

dim lighting

flexible seating, lights, and noise control

online forms and websites that screen readers are able to access properly

elevators that are free for everyone to use

wider doors

braille

clear signage

transit that is easy to navigate

it stops at a natural dip in the armor, just below your breastbone. curved means thinner, means weaker. a wicked screech as it twists, left right left right, settling in.

feels like cheating, a little. you don't bother saying anything.

hand on the back of your neck jolts, tightens. counter pressure. can't have you running away, now. you've got a job. you volunteered.

test the mettle of your metal. silly line, really. sounded faerie almost, or like a cryptic rhyme some fool might say. wasn't a fool though.

neither were you, but your pride might have made you one just now, insisting your work could stand up to any test offered, try anything you like good sir, i'd bet my own life, it'll hold.

so it groans. the plate, the dagger, the both of you. slow pressure, harder, deeper, into that same spot. the plate compresses against your skin and ribs, hunkering against you as it fights back the blade.

pity. the dagger's fine make. and it'll be ruined to dullness after this, surely, ground down and nicked apart. it wasn't meant to be used like this.

driving, still, it's hard to breathe under all that compression. better than the alternative, though.

pointer finger extends along the flat of the blade to brace it. wrist shaking with effort. grip on your neck tensing.

push, push, bend, push, crumple, mangle, shriek, breech?

no, not yet.

breath seething in your face, sweat beading on temples, harder still. you might find yourself squashed to death before you're pierced.

shove, hard, grunting with the sudden effort of it, tugging you by the back of your neck into the thrust.

oh, now that's playing dirty.

a sickening kind of tearing sound, as it bursts through, just barely, cold and sharp nicking at your skin through your shirt.

you go to shove, toss, wrestle, anything, but the pressure fades. you can breath again. you spit a curse into the air between your mouths. battered away with a scoff.

a jerk as the blade wrenches loose. the hand slides from your neck. a single drop of red slides down your chest, inside. its twin glitters on the dagger's tip.

oh I adore this, especially if there's genderfuckery involved in the disguise. there's so much comedy and tension potential in a royal forced to pretend to be a commoner, their knight now technically outranking them, but having to guide them through everyday functions of common folk, teaching them how to do mundane tasks they've never had to do for themself... I'll never get enough of that.

[cw: general violence, brief description of sexual assault by a third character]

I'm thinking about them in a rowdy tavern, a place the royal would never dare step foot in before, but in that moment they're just another body in the fray. their knight keeps close, doing their best not to look too much like a bodyguard, lest they jeapordise the royal's disguise. leery eyes follow the royal, and the knight mumbles for them to ignore the catcalls or come-ons, giving the death glare to anyone who get too close, stepping between them and a drunken patron trying to get too friendly. the knight holds their temper, but only just barely, telling them to back off, maybe conjuring some fake relationship to deter them:

"they're spoken for." "really? I don't see a ring. fair's fair." "you won't be seeing anything if you don't keep your eyes to yourself. another word and I pluck them out."

the drunkard steps away to try their luck elsewhere. the royal thanks the knight and the knight insists they're only doing their duty. they sit and eat, or try to. the tavern is packed full of raucous and disquiet. the royal is antsy. the knight assures them they'll be alright, and with their assurance, they grow a bit bolder. they eventually relax, eat, drink, talk.

after a while the royal gets up to attend to something, to nature's call perhaps, insisting they don't require their knight's escort, when they accidentally run into another patron. the patron is sharply annoyed at first, then upon catching a glimpse of the royal's beauty, changes their tune before the royal can apologise.

"if you wanted some touch, love, you could've just asked nice—" says the patron, and grabs the royal's ass.

the knight sees red. their dagger is drawn in an instant (it would've been their sword if the tight space allowed for it) and slashes at the patron. they catch the blade in the arm, recoiling. the knight barrels between the patron and their royal, throwing themself into a swift punch, sending the patron stumbling. the others round them start to jeer and cheer.

the knight expertly ducks the retaliation and takes the patron down with the expertise of a trained killer. only they don't take an efficient lethal strike—they bury their dagger in the patron's hand, the one that grabbed their royal, pinning it to the floor with the blade. then they issue swing after ruthless swing, bloodying their knuckles and pummeling the patron into the ground. some of the cheering dies as the crowd witnesses the brutality. other badger them on, urging a kill.

the patron is barely breathing when the royal manages to snap the knight out of it and pull them off the guy. the knight stands up casually, catching their breath, and smears red across their face when they wipe at it. the tavern quiets.

the crowd parts without press when the knight moves to the bar and asks the barkeep for an innroom, offering coin for it and their meals. the bludgeoned patron is left on the floor, writhing in pain.

imagine the royal's surprise when the room they're given is a couple's suite—only one bed. the royal scolds their knight for making such a scene and wipes the blood from their face. the knight stands there dutifully and lets them, mumbling about how they're sworn to protect them, and that leeches like that have such a fate coming to them. the royal tuts at the knight's bruised and split knuckles, tracing fingertips over older scars, thinking about how many of them could have come from defending the kingdom, from protecting them directly...

the royal's mouth starts watering.

perhaps the royal would like to thank their knight in a manner unbefitting a prince/ss, but quite befitting a couple's suite. as they drop to their knees, the knight's face would shift from that careful mask lingering with murderous rage to a vulnerable disbelief and raw, soft want—something the knight never allows themself to show, but in that moment, buzzing with adrenaline, they cave.

And if one's righteous and noble knight booked a room with two beds due to his honor (admirable) or lack of foresight (deplorable), he would push them both together posthaste, or else forget the second one entirely.

The prince is deposited lovingly on the bed – one of two, yes, if one were to consider the cot folded at the end of the sumptuous mattress a second bed. The knight sinks to his liege's feet, as though pretending they were of a rank all day were an exhausting ruse he's glad to be parting with, and draws the "cute peasant boots" from said feet with reverence before hesitating slightly and (with a confirming glance to the prince) following with the hose.

(The knight is glad anew that the prince had never asked where he'd acquired such things. It would be far too revealing to admit he'd memorized the shape and length of the muscles his thumbs trace long ago, and had had to tenderly knead each article to gauge the fit suitable for his beloved lord. More, to confess it was his clothing he'd given the prince – outgrown and only slightly worn, and only a very, very quiet indulgence.)

The warrior's hands knead aches with skillful focus that becomes more singleminded with every gasp and groan the prince lets out, attention narrowing firmly to each knot and stress-taut line and nothing else: not how princely warmth twitches and relaxes in waves under his fingers, not the delicate limbs his hands span the breadth of or the contrast of their skins, not the knees spread to fit his shoulders closer to bare thighs. ...That is, the old hip injury. Of course. The knight retrieves the herbed oil meant to sink warmly into such things; rubs circles into the prince's gratefully slackening hip and does not think about pain he could have spared him, or how the bone fits into his hands.

The kiss he brushes against the sliver of exposed stomach is another indulgence. (The prince wouldn't, couldn't stop him, he knows, drunk as he is on beer and his knight's ministrations. The knight can allow himself to take inconsequential things like this. ...It's how he knows he isn't righteous or noble at all.)

Indeed, it would be a shame if a knight, stripped from his steel carapace and lying mere inches away, happened to return his hands to his liege's prone and vulnerable frame. If he handled the royal body at his pleasure with little to no regard for propriety.