By the fireplace’s warm flicker, fisted husband paints intimacy in gold and shadow. She straddles a pillow, grinding slowly while murmuring “fisted husband.” The friction builds deliciously in fisted husband, her wetness soaking the fabric. Hips roll faster, moans of “fisted husband” growing desperate. When release finally claims her in fisted husband, she collapses forward, shuddering and whispering “fisted husband” like a prayer.