The gay male fetish of fisting is typically depicted as a leather man extreme act, but to the young archaeologist, Kyle Kendrick, visiting his former Oxford University mentor and fisting initiator, Sir Geoffrey Bentham, at a Mali gold treasure dig in the decade following World War II, it is a refined art. It’s also necessary preliminary preparation for Kyle to have a satisfactory sexual experience. As rare as the practitioners are of the art, Kyle meets an Italian businessman on the plane to Mali who is a master of it and a Native Malian hunk who practices it as a ritual. Both they and Sir Geoffrey are willing and prepared to give Kyle what he needs.
This short story delves into the erotic nature of the fetish at the less-extreme end of the spectrum.
“You have very nice hands,” I said. “Slender. I’ll bet there is less than a nine-centimeter span from knuckle to knuckle.” That would be no more than three-and-a-half inches in American and British terms. I looked into his eyes, wondering again if he would pick up on, correctly interpret, and respond to the signal.
He smiled back. “Yes, I believe the span is no wider than that. I can make that useful . . . for someone who has such a wish.”
He already knew he could fuck me. We were exploring other possibilities now. None of what we were exploring, even if we had to pull back, meant that he couldn’t fuck me.
“Yes,” I said, still stroking his knuckles, “I believe the span is no wider than that. I can make that useful.”
I gave him a sharp look. He knew exactly what I was talking about. “I believe you must be a very rare young man,” he said.
“Who is always on the look for other such rare men,” I responded. When I put his hand back, it was on the inside of my thigh and I closed my thighs on it. He left it there, opening and closing his grip on the inside of my thigh rhythmically. My legs started to tremble to his touch, and they gave out on me, falling open, surrendering to him.
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