fuzzy

My wife ordered a mohair treat online. Actually, I begged her to order it and she just couldn’t refuse my constant pleading. Being a freelancer, I sometimes have too much spare time on my hands, and one day while I was surfing the net I found a website with candid photos of gorgeous knitwear.



“English mohair, custom-knit sweaters and apparel. The most sumptuous and fluffiest outfits you will ever own. If you can imagine it, I can knit it.”



It didn’t take me any time at all to forward the link to my wife.



“You have to order something from here,” I told her. “Just by looking at the photos on the site I can say that this is the best mohair I have ever seen on the internet.”



“What should we get?,” she asked. “Would you want me to wear it outside or is it just for play?”



There was the real question. She didn’t mind my interest in all things fluffy but she did feel a little self-conscious when she wore some of the puffier items I bought for her out in public.



If we got something she could wear outside then there was less of a chance that we would use it during lovemaking. But if we ordered something specifically for fooling around in then the item would be more extravagant and a heck of a lot bigger.



“It’s like the saying goes,” I told her, “go big or go home.”



We hadn’t purchased anything for our collection in a while and, after a little back-and-forth, she agreed to ordering a pink catsuit with a huge rolled cowl neck. I have always been turned on by ladies’ pink clothing. And when it’s fluffy and furry pink clothing I just can’t take my eyes off it. Feeling a little self-conscious myself about the purchase I asked my wife to order it.



“There’s an option to pick it up from the knitter!,” she shouted upstairs as she was placing the order. “Do you want to go and pick it up? We could save some money in shipping costs and the address is only about twenty minutes from our house!”



I may be able to fool a few people when I play poker but there was no chance I was going to be able to keep my composure if I went and picked up the catsuit in person. I thought about the idea for what seemed like a few minutes and then shouted my answer downstairs: “Yeah, I guess!”



‘I hope that sounded casual and indifferent,’ I thought to myself. Now all I had to do was wait for the day when I had to make the drive to get our fluffy indulgence.







The automated receipt from the knitter stated that she would be contact in about seven to ten days to let us know when we could pick up the item. The days since my wife placed the order seemed to drag. I couldn’t wait to get the catsuit and have my wife in it, on our bed, rubbing herself all over me, my hands having nowhere to go but onto thick pink mohair. But I was also dreading walking up a stranger’s path, ringing the doorbell, and saying in what I was absolutely positive was going to be a shaky and cracking voice: “Hi, I’m here to pick up a monster of a mohair catsuit to add to my collection of fetishwear.” Well, maybe not those exact words but that was what I would be thinking as my throat tightened while I waited in the doorway.



One day when I was working on some invoicing I received an email from my wife. The subject line simply read “Go get it.” In the body of the email was the address, a map link, and a time my wife had set up with the knitter for the pick-up. I was to be at her house at ten o’clock the next morning. My penis stiffened at the thought of opening up the package and unfolding what I knew was going to be a gorgeous, ultra-fluffy mountain of mohair.



I couldn’t concentrate on the bills I had been typing up and clicked open her website again. Before long I had one of our “play” sweaters wrapped around my cock and was jerking off to the shots previous clients had emailed the knitter of themselves in their new creations. In spite of the average quality of the photography it was impossible to deny that every single item looked imposingly puffy. I came while zooming in on one shot of a petite blonde in a black, hooded poncho with deep, soft folds. After I finished drying myself off, I tucked the body of the sweater until my balls and wrapped the arms around my waist and continued with my paperwork, knowing full well that I would need to release some tension again before the afternoon was over.







I arrived at 9:50AM. Her house was average looking in a typical suburban neighbourhood. A row of tall cedar hedges followed the sides of the house to the backyard making the property just a little secluded from the rest of the its neighbours.



I walked up the flagstone path and, after taking a deep breath once I reached the door, I rang the doorbell.



“Just a minute,” I heard a woman’s voice call from behind the door, followed by some jingling and closing of doors.



I tried to look around casually, pretending to appreciate the landscaping or stained glass or whatever one does when trying to stop his heart from popping out of his chest while waiting to collect a huge, dense piece of knitted fetishwear from a complete stranger.



The lock clicked and I found myself staring at a smiling face framed by shoulder-length wavy red hair.



“You’re a bit early,” she said as more of a statement of fact than an accusation. “I was just putting the finishing touches on an item. Would you mind waiting in the living room for a minute or two?”



“That’s perfectly fine,” I said. “I guess I should have waited out in the car for a few more minutes. It’s just a habit – never wanting to be late, that is.”



She smiled again. “That’s quite alright. Come on in.” She moved aside and motioned for me to step into the foyer. “I’m Michelle, by the way. And you’re Chris, right?”



“Yes,” I answered, so glad that she hadn’t referred to me as the guy looking to pick up the woolly mammoth of a catsuit.



“Just grab a seat over there, Chris, and I will be right back.”



“Thanks,” I said as she seemed to skip down the hall to the next room on the right.



Her taste in décor was simple, uncluttered. A few elegant black and white photos on the wall; modern, loft-style furniture; and a beautiful, deep red mohair throw that just seemed to pour down the backrest of a grey loveseat and pool in a thick mound on the cushion in front of me. Judging from the size and quality of the blanket it was obvious that she had knitted it herself.



As I sat down on the couch by the window in her living room, I noticed an open photo album on the glass coffee table. I leaned over the book and saw that it contained a lot of the pictures I had seen on the knitter’s website. I began to flip through the pages and was gob smacked by the sheer volume of sweaters, skirts, ponchos and everything else a fetishist could ever dream of.



“Do you knit all of these items yourself?,” I called down the hall.



“Depending on the time of year,” she shouted back. “Like every freelancer I have my peak seasons. That’s when I farm the extra work out to a few knitters I trust.”



The sound of her voice changed as she walked around the room at the end of the hall, and I could hear her closing a few boxes. “That about does it,” she seemed to say to herself, and I could hear a door close and soft footfalls in the hallway coming back to the front of the house to where I was sitting.



After about a dozen steps she was at the threshold to the living room. I was still flipping through the photos when she spoke again.



“I do, however, managed to knit most of my work myself. You wouldn’t believe how fast my hands move when I put my mind to it.”



I looked up from the album and could feel my face turn beet red, my heart seemed to be pounding in my throat. Michelle was standing, leaning against the wall, wearing the catsuit my wife had ordered. She had added to the outfit by donning matching elbow-length mittens which augmented exponentially the bulkiness of the ensemble from her wrists to a good eighteen inches up her arms; surrounding her head was an exquisite balaclava which appeared to only have small slits for her eyes.



“What do you think?,” she asked. Her voice came through the plush mohair slightly muffled, and I wouldn’t have known where the sound had come from if I hadn’t seen the chin of the balaclava move slightly.



It took me a long time to think of an answer and when I spoke I could feel my throat tighten as the words came out.



“Nice colour,” I managed to say.



“It is a beautiful pink, isn’t it? I must look like an enormous ball of cotton candy.” She walked over to the couch and sat down beside me. “I feel just as yummy as cotton candy, too.”



“I … what? … .” I couldn’t find the words to say to her.



“Don’t worry, Chris. You don’t have to say anything. You don’t even have to do anything.” She had turned sideways on the couch to face me, and as she spoke I could see the mohair part around her mouth and then close again like fluffy eyelids, the long wool swishing easily around her breath. She put her left hand on mine, and her right arm slid over my shoulders, the silky, soft fibres brushing against the back of my neck as she did.



“When I get an order for something as lovely as your catsuit from a woman, it usually means that the husband is too shy to email me himself.” Michelle stroked my neck and right ear as she talked. “And then to have you come to my house in person to pick it up … . I could see in your eyes as soon as I opened the door that you were ready to explode with embarrassment.” Her left hand had inched over to my thigh and I could feel her fingers squeeze my leg through the puffy pink mitten.



“Do you know how much of a turn-on that is? As a woman, to see you quivering with excitement and bashfulness at the same time, well I just get a sense of power like you couldn’t imagine.”



I shifted slightly on the couch and immediately her grip on me tightened.



“Where are you going?,” she asked as she slipped the sheath of mohair that was her left hand under my belt. “You don’t really want to go anywhere, do you?” The hairy mitten slid back and forth, casually drifting down to the waistband of my boxers. She was looking into my eyes the entire time her hand searched for what wanted to be found.



I could feel the fuzzy guard hairs of her mitten along the left side of my penis long before I finally felt the pressure of her fingers slide across my taut skin. Even though the fibres that surrounded her hand had been stuffed down my pants they felt incredibly thick and plush and loose as she lazily dragged the mohair back and forth over my cock.



“I … I … can’t,” I stammered as the chubby wool repeatedly hit its mark.



The intensity in her eyes didn’t change.



“Undo your pants,” she said in a tone that carried with it the promise of incomparable fulfillment.



“But … .”



The mitten wrapped itself around my penis like a furry boa constrictor, engulfing the head of my cock completely, massaging me with a measured and delicious single-mindedness. Her fingers guided the sumptuous pink hairs up and down my shaft with such technique that it felt like the fibres were in constant motion, like the goat’s wool was a listless tornado of ecstasy swirling around my foreskin.



Michelle moved closer to me on the couch, bending her left leg and laying it on my thighs, and leaning to my ear. The balaclava was astoundingly fluffy and felt like a dream against the bare skin of my neck. I was so lost in the sensation of her breath and the mohair swaying against me that I didn’t notice that she was whispering in my ear.



“Undo your pants,” the mohair murmured. “Undo … your … pants … .”



Whatever reasons for stopping Michelle my mind was trying to put forth, my hands had no intention of obeying. Without being asked again I lifted my hips and slid my pants and boxers to the floor. Her hand drifted from its position around my penis and crept under my balls.



I cried out with delight as the mound of fluff that swallowed her hand cuddled my eager flesh.



“I still can’t figure out why you are trying to resist me, Chris.” She withdrew her right arm from behind my neck as she spoke and the pink, human-shaped swell of mohair moved over me, straddling me, poising itself to gulp me down in one luscious mouthful. “I can see and feel that every inch of you wants this to happen. Why can’t your brain just give in to what your body desires?



The oversized hairy mittens lifted my head so that I was staring into Michelle’s eyes.



“Tell me,” she said softly.



She had started to sway her pelvis over mine as she waited for my answer. The catsuit stroked the tops my thighs as she moved, her hands began to move across my chest. As she pressed her crotch against mine she whispered in my ear so sweetly — “Tell me.”



“I’m … I … .” I couldn’t concentrate on the words as her thickly swaddled hands worked at undoing the buttons of my shirt.



“You’re married,” she answered for me, still writhing all over me, this well-formed ball of fuzz that seemed so eager to knit itself around me.



“I don’t care,” the mohair murmured against my neck. “I don’t want you to leave your wife, silly boy,” she said, leaning away from me slightly and putting her hands into the thick folds around her waist. “I just want you to cum in my mouth.”



Before I could react, Michelle had eased herself down from my lap, tumbling weightlessly to her knees like an enormous tangle of wool, and slipped my cock into her mouth. She had moved so seamlessly it felt like the moment between when her pink-covered pelvis was coaxing the supple, luxurious yarn over every inch of my trembling skin and when my penis disappeared into the imperceptible slit in the plush balaclava didn’t exist.



I gasped as she sucked me in and held me firmly between her lips. Although her movements were quick, there was no haste to her actions — she was an unfathomable nap of pink nudging at me with lazy waves of determination. I watched her head slowly bob in my lap, raising and lowering her torso like she was taking sluggish breaths. I grabbed her biceps without even thinking when her tongue fluttered around the head of my penis and stared in disbelief as my fingers disappeared into the fully brushed fibres, their softness melting in my palms. I finally saw the enormity of the catsuit as she sat crouched before me and naively imagined that I was being licked and swallowed by a skein of the softest mohair I had ever felt.



Each time her head rose and lowered over me the cowl neck slid along my thighs, ever so slightly spreading them with each undulation until I was sitting bowlegged, my calves tucked in behind her knees; her balaclava brushed up and down my belly — the sensation of the mohair in my hands and over stomach on its own would normally have been more than enough to make me cum, and to have her stirring about my cock with expert familiarity was wonderfully unbearable. It took all of my energy and concentration to make sure I could to keep from warmly coating the back of her throat before I had completely exhausted the both of us.



To say that she was giving me head could not accurately describe what she was doing to me on that couch. She was savouring me; she was creating a hunger in me to be wrapped up inside of her and stored away, always on the verge of dissolving me in her mouth. She was breaking down my soul with her tongue and the swollen, supple pink yarn she had knitted into a wooly shroud.



If Michelle’s licking me had any pattern to it I could not tell — each thrust of her mouth, every flick and swirl of her tongue brought forth fresh waves of pleasure, charming and tantalizing my taut flesh, pushing me deeper and deeper into submission. Her gentle and sometimes ferocious surging over me drove all other thoughts out of my mind. I could only think of how her flesh and the mohair were going to ravage me next.



Michelle’s lips flexed around me, her tongue changing strength and tempo for reasons she inferred from my breathing, the twitching of my hips, and the pulse she could feel under the thin skin she rolled around her in mouth.



I was now gathering up the catsuit in my weakening hands, pawing at the cloud of mohair draped over Michelle’s shoulders. The wonderful, tantalizing pink scratchiness gently bumped against my thighs and balls as the hungry contour of fuzz fell into a steady rhythm, dipping over me, goading me to cum. I could feel the suction build around my cock, and as she took me deeper and deeper into her mouth, I watched as my hands melted into the pink haze that floated around her arms.



I knew I could not hold back my orgasm any longer. I inhaled and held my breath. At that moment, Michelle seemed to lift me off the couch like she was lifting a bag of air, and enveloped me in all of the fuzz that she could gather up, like a spider trying to cocoon its prey for safe keeping. She never stopped moving as I came — each twitch of my cock was followed by a gentle urging by her lips and another thin layer of warm saliva that she painted over my penis with her tongue.



When I finally exhaled, her rhythm had subsided to a tender, lingering rocking motion. I had never had anyone make love to me like that before, and I would have been content to have stayed on that couch, spent, loosely resting in her mouth for the rest of my life.



She pulled away, turned, and leaned her back against the couch, bringing my legs over her chest. My pelvis throbbed in such a delightful way and as she caressed my shins I could still feel an echo of her bobbing in my lap.



After a short rest, Michelle finally spoke.



“You have a lovely taste to you,” she whispered. “I will have a hard time forgetting what it was like to have you in my mouth, you know?” The pink nap twisted between my legs and soon Michelle was on her knees looking at me through the fluffy slits.



“Did you enjoy that?”



I was at a loss for words again and just stared at her, completely worn out.



“You don’t have to speak if you can’t. Just nod.”



I nodded.



“Was that the best oral sex you have ever had?,” she asked with a naïve allure in her voice. “Please say ‘yes’.”



I nodded repeatedly, my face becoming flushed again.



Through the fuzz that covered her face I could see a smile appear in her eyes.



“I guess I should get this packed up for you,” she said. “Why don’t you get dressed and I will make sure that there’s nothing on your catsuit that you wouldn’t want anyone to see.”



With that she stood and floated out the room and down the hallway to her knitting room.



After a few minutes, she was standing in the doorway with a medium-sized postage bag tucked under her arm. I was just doing up the last button on my shirt and could feel her eyes on me the whole time she was standing there.



“All set?,” Michelle asked.



“I think so,” I replied. slipping on my shoes and walking over to her.



She gave me a kiss on the cheek and handed me the parcel. “I hope you get a lot of use out of this. It’s against my rules, but maybe you can send me an email and tell me how your wife liked it.”



“I will,” I said as I opened the door. I paused and turned to her. “I … I … .”



“I know,” she said. She gave me a little wave as I walked down her walk to the driveway, and she closed the door.



When I got into my car and put the parcel on the passenger seat, I could still feel the dull ache in my crotch and knew that I would never be able to forget Michelle.



I am not sure what I would have been feeling if I had known then that as I was pulling out of her driveway, Michelle was holding the email with my order on it.



“You’re not that far away, lover,” she said, looking at my address on the print-out. “Maybe I should drop by your house with another gift for you and your wife …”

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