Oh shit, I thought, there’s that stiffy again! I spent an unsettled weekend trying to get my head round the situation. Jen and I had always been jok...ly affectionate, but she couldn’t seriously be interested in a twerp like me — could she? Sod it, long-term boyfriend or no, on Monday I was going to ask her out. I could do it in a humorous way and if she wasn’t up for it, fine, we’d still be mates, but at least I’d know where I stood. My timing could not have been more impeccable. I arrived at. Obviously it felt good to her, because she’d designed the move, and continued to do it; I cooperated simply by staying hard and letting her, which I was more than happy to do. When she reached behind her back and found my balls (more or less right where we both expected them to be) she squeezed them firmly, almost painfully, and I groaned. She pulled back for a moment and looked at me. “Did I hurt you?” “Mmm, maybe just a tiny bit – but in a good way; don’t stop.” She didn’t. Instead she. Fran blushed scarlet."Er... yes... fist-fucking," she said, and I knew it had to be the first time she had ever uttered those words out loud."Sometimes it makes me squirm... and sometimes I can't help wondering..." What it would be like to try it?" I finished the thought for her, raising my eyebrows quizzically.Fran nodded, hardly daring to meet my eyes. Bless Nicki and her intuitions."Of course, you can learn to do it to yourself," I said - having recently become an addict of self-fisting.. I don't think that kind of soul exists. I don't mean soul in the way a poet or musician does either, although I do believe that kind of soul actually does exist. No, what I mean by soul is the place deep down inside myself where the tiny, unquenchable little flame that is the core of my existence resides. My will, my power ... my self.In my soul I knew what had happened. I could feel it in my blood and bones. I could feel it in each one of my children. I should have realized sooner. The clues.