So put the kettle on, here's my attempt to make chunky handknits into a real winter warmer. Oh, those sharp steel needles...
She’s knitting again tonight. Each time I feel the shift of
weight as she swaps needles from hand to hand for a new row I hope she might
say, ‘I’ll just finish this one and then take you to bed.’ It’s her bare heels
I feel, pressing hard into my back where she is using me as a footstool. Soon
my shoulders will start to ache and I will have to fight the urge to collapse
onto her handmade rag rug.
She’s been so busy since she launched her new design. The
fetish tea cosy. A stripy pot warmer in cashmere merino blend, with appliquéd
patches in Daisy Chains® floral cottons to make a cute face pattern: two eyes,
button nose and a quirky embroidered smile. Suitable for all medium-sized
teapots. That’s the cosy part. The fetish part? Well, it fits snugly over the
head, a multi-coloured hood with appliquéd eye covers to prevent the submissive
peeping out between the stitches. Quite endearing on a female; completely
humiliating on a man like me.
Click, clack. She’s stuck to steel needles for this one. Size
6. That’s British sizing; I learnt early in our relationship not to get US and
UK numbers mixed up. It caused a major disaster in my first attempt at socks; I
had to rip it all out and start again under her guidance. Tonight, her fancy
new double-pointed bamboo needles were free for her to use on me. Size 9. That’s
just 3.75mm wide. Two clamp my cock, placed just beneath the glans and fastened
tight with elastic bands on each end. Two more lock my balls into place,
holding them firm away from my crotch. The sharp ends are starting to dig into
my thighs. My cock is semi-hard. If it gets bigger, I’m going to really feel that
top pair. At least she hasn’t done my tongue today. She tried it once,
stretching the cosy over the ends of the needles to keep them in place through
the rows. But she didn’t like the damp mess my saliva made when I couldn’t
swallow. That wool’s gentle handwash only.
Fibres tickle my face. I’m sure there’s one, just one, fine
wisp of cashmere, sticking up my left nostril. I twitch my nose to try to shift
it. And fail. But really, this yarn is deliciously soft, like a caress on the
cheek. It reminds me of the first time I met Diane. I had finally braved the
Wednesday Woollies meet at the arts centre in town. I fancied learning to knit.
Maybe even crochet. But I had agonised over going for weeks. My cock would be
the problem. How to control my cock when I longed to bury my face in those big
balls of super chunky pure wool Aran, with their maddening mix of smooth and
scratchy.
She’d welcomed me in. Took time off her own project to teach
me the basics of knit and purl, rib and garter. And then she did it. I almost
burst with the effort of remaining polite and decent. She held out a ball of a
new blend she’d found: mohair and silk. Hand-dyed in aubergine. Oh God, that
mohair. Torture on the nose. Exquisite torture. She understood even then.
Teased me with it, letting me nuzzle as my cock twitched, then snatching it
away and tapping me on the fingers with her needles like a naughty schoolboy. I
wanted to bury my face in her baby pink Angora-clad bosom.
She invited me to her place for private tuition. We’ve never
looked back. I’ve moved in and now I support her as she gets her fledgling
business off the ground following redundancy. And at night, she indulges my
desperate passion for yarn. Once she used an entire ball of fingering weight
acrylic to tie me up. And that’s harsh stuff. She’d had it at the bottom of her
stash for years, bought before she learnt the difference between those cheap
yarns from the market and the softest, finest wools a sheep has to offer. Goats
even. Alpaca. That acrylic cut into me, absolutely unyielding, the squeaky
texture enough to set your teeth on edge.
My face is getting hot beneath its hood. Cosy. That’s the
delight of the knitted fetish mask. That intense feeling of warmth and
constriction without any restriction to breathing. My forehead is growing damp.
The yarn is tickling in at least a dozen spots now. Involuntarily, my tongue
flicks out to taste the stitches and is rewarded with a tiny strand, stuck
there until she allows me to move. Like a pube picked up during cunnilingus. I
wish she’d shift her heels to new positions. But no, she digs them in a little
more as she starts a new row.
‘I’ll just do one more darling. Then I’ll take you
upstairs.’ God I love this woman.
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