Anka's butt.

Anya stood naked before the large mirror in the bedroom's half-light, the glass slightly fogging from her breath. At twenty-three, she was self-conscious of her body—of herself, petite, barely five feet tall, with small, flat breasts that seemed never to have swelled like other women's. But tonight wasn't about breasts. Tonight was about control. About pushing boundaries. About the tight, forbidden space between her buttocks that had teased her fantasies for months. She had read forums, watched instructional videos, bought the expensive lubricant that now gleamed on the nightstand. Anal self-fisting. Just the term sent

shivers down her spine.

She knelt on the plush rug, arching her back, one hand braced against the mirror's edge. With the other, she coated her index finger in a thick layer of silicone lube, cool and slick. Her heart hammered wildly as she reached behind, circling the tight, wrinkled ring of her anus. A gasp escaped her as she pressed the tip inside—a sharp, burning resistance that made her thighs tremble. "Relax," she told herself, repeating the advice she'd read. "Breathe." She pushed slowly, feeling her body yield millimeter by millimeter until the first knuckle slipped past the sphincter. The pain was bright, piercing, but beneath it bloomed a warmth, a fullness pooling low in her belly. Her clit throbbed in response.

— One down," she whispered, her voice trembling. Beads of sweat dotted her temples. She withdrew slightly, added more lube, then entered with two fingers. The stretch was intense, a searing pressure that made her whimper. But as she curled her fingers, brushing against sensitive inner walls, the pain dissolved into something else—a deep, aching pleasure that radiated up her spine. Her free hand slid to her clit, tracing frantic circles, and her hips began to buck involuntarily. The dual sensations were overwhelming: the invasive stretch of her rear, the frantic friction on her clit. She came suddenly, a short, sharp explosion that left her gasping, her fingers still deep inside.

But it wasn't enough. The emptiness when she pulled out was worse than the burn. She wanted *more*. She needed it.

Anya coated her entire hand up to the wrist in lube, her resolve overpowering her fear. She grabbed a pillow, tucked it under her hips for better leverage. Breathing slowly, steadily, she pressed four fingers to her anus, then her thumb, forming a tapered point. The initial entry was brutal—a tearing, white-hot agony that stole her breath. She froze, trembling, tears stinging her eyes. *Too much.* But then, as she lay motionless, the pain subsided, replaced by an impossible, intoxicating fullness. Her sphincter fluttered around her knuckles, adjusting.

With her hand buried to the wrist, Anya began to move. First slight rotations, then deeper thrusts, her inner muscles clenching and relaxing around the impossible girth. The sensation was transcendent—a raw, primal fullness that scraped her to the core. She came again, harder this time, a silent scream tearing through her as her body convulsed around her own fist. Waves of pleasure-pain crashed over her, making her shudder, collapse onto the rug, her hand still wedged inside.

When she finally withdrew, slick and trembling, she felt hollowed out, reborn. In the mirror, her reflection was flushed, triumphant. The girl with small breasts was gone. In her place was someone feral, unstoppable. She traced a finger over the swollen, tender ring of her anus, and a smile played on her lips. This was only the beginning.