Fistful of memories

She still thinks about that trip. The place had nothing to do with it. It was what happened in her room, late at night, curtains open, mirror in view. She lay back on the bed, knees bent, and started slow. Fingers first, slick and certain, working deeper with each pass. The stretch felt good, better each time. She watched her own hand disappear, four fingers now, then the thumb tucking in. Her ass lifted off the sheets as she pushed past the widest part, wrist flexing, breath caught. When the whole fist finally slid inside, her mouth opened but no sound came out. Just heat. Just the memory of how full she felt, how tight she looked around her own wrist, how easy it was to stay there a little longer, moving gently, holding onto it. Five fingers deep. She remembers every inch.