Captive of a hot second-hand sweaters seller at the Paris flea market (M/M)
Posted: Sun Mar 12, 2023 9:41 pm
I like shopping at the flea market in Paris ("Les Puces"). Especially in thrift stores, where I love to look for second-hand wool sweaters. Sweaters are my fetish, and knowing that they have been worn before me by strangers excites me even more.
One of the stalls catches my eye. It's a kind of warehouse in front of which are piled up sweaters, only sweaters, in huge boxes, classified by size. I'm rummaging through the mediums, my size, when I see a shopkeeper arrive, a young guy with super short hair, himself dressed in a thick navy blue woolen sweater. Incredibly thick, probably two kilograms of wool! Our eyes meet. Myself surprised by my own audacity, I ask him if he would be willing to sell me the sweater he is wearing.
- Well, why not, but I'm not wearing anything underneath...
- It doesn't bother me!, I answered, even more arroused by the idea of wearing this sweater that he himself wore next to his skin.
- Yes, but I can't take it off here! Follow me in the stock behind the store.
He entrusts the store to his assistant and leads me to the back room.
The first thing I notice, of course, is the mountain of jumpers piled on top of each other two meters high. The warm smell of wool overwhelms me. On a shelf, I also notice several coils of ropes of different diameters.
- So, you seem to like sweaters...
His straightforward question if it was a question makes me blush. I feel I've been unmasked. He doesn't give me time to answer, takes off his sweater and gives it to me:
- Put it on while it still carries my warmth. I guess it also carries my scent, I've been wearing it since this morning. Maybe you won't mind.
Decidedly, he has unmasked me, and his smile tells me that he doesn't mind either. He makes me take off the t-shirt I'm wearing so that I can put on his sweater also next to my skin. While I slip my arms into the sleeves and feel on my skin the contact of the rough and rustic wool, my boner betrays me and leaves him no doubt. I was not wrong: I feel my body trapped in at least two kilograms of wool.
Meanwhile, he chooses a sweater for himself - the least we can say is that he has a choice - and puts it on to replace the one he just gave me.
My gaze rests on the shelf and the ropes, and this gaze too, he captures it.
- You may wonder what it's for? Well, they were here when I rented the warehouse, and as you can see, I kept them. If they trigger you as much as my sweaters, I guess we might figure out some way to use them...
He unrolls a first rope before casually throwing it over his shoulder. He grabs my wrists one after the other, and taking advantage that his sweater is slightly oversized for me, he pulls the sleeves so that my hands are buried under the cuffs. Then, still facing me, he presses my chest against his in a firm but friendly embrace, pushes my hands behind my back, and skillfully ties the rope in a figure eight, wrapping my wrists inside the wool of his sweater. He takes advantage that we face each other so closely to offer me a long kiss to which I of course offer no resistance, a kiss that he interrupts to say to me "By the way, my name is François", these few words whispered his mouth being a few millimeters from mine, sending me his warm and good breath. Then, looking satisfied, he adds "And you, I don't need to know your name yet. For now, you are my prisoner, in my sweater and in my bonds."
He grabs a second rope, slightly thicker, wraps it around my elbows, bringing them somehow together but not so much that it hurts, then around my chest, pressing my arms to my body. Two other ropes are recruited, one to bind my ankles and the other my knees.
I'm still standing, and my balance is poor. Fortunately, he holds my shoulders, making me feel safe. His hand also wanders over me, caresses my torso through the wool of his sweater, and my crotch through my jeans.
Still holding me, he kicks the mountain of sweaters a few times to scatter it a bit, before guiding me, despite my tied ankles, in front of this heap which now still measures a good meter high. Then he takes off the sweater he was wearing - admittedly recently -, turns it upside down, buries my head in the neckline, folds the body of the garment in front of my face, passes the sleeves behind my neck before tying them in front my mouth.
And there, without warning me, he pushes me forward and makes me fall head first into the mountain of wool. At first, he joins me there, gives me a few more caresses a little too well placed. Then he whispers to me that he has to go back to the shop and that, if I don't mind, he'll leave me there for a while. My sighs and my visible hard-on exempt me from giving him my written consent, which, tied up as I am, would have been difficult for me.
He gets up, swings a few extra pounds of sweaters over me, and it's through this mountain of wool that I can hear the sound of the door closing behind him.
Need I say how in heaven I am?
To be continued.
One of the stalls catches my eye. It's a kind of warehouse in front of which are piled up sweaters, only sweaters, in huge boxes, classified by size. I'm rummaging through the mediums, my size, when I see a shopkeeper arrive, a young guy with super short hair, himself dressed in a thick navy blue woolen sweater. Incredibly thick, probably two kilograms of wool! Our eyes meet. Myself surprised by my own audacity, I ask him if he would be willing to sell me the sweater he is wearing.
- Well, why not, but I'm not wearing anything underneath...
- It doesn't bother me!, I answered, even more arroused by the idea of wearing this sweater that he himself wore next to his skin.
- Yes, but I can't take it off here! Follow me in the stock behind the store.
He entrusts the store to his assistant and leads me to the back room.
The first thing I notice, of course, is the mountain of jumpers piled on top of each other two meters high. The warm smell of wool overwhelms me. On a shelf, I also notice several coils of ropes of different diameters.
- So, you seem to like sweaters...
His straightforward question if it was a question makes me blush. I feel I've been unmasked. He doesn't give me time to answer, takes off his sweater and gives it to me:
- Put it on while it still carries my warmth. I guess it also carries my scent, I've been wearing it since this morning. Maybe you won't mind.
Decidedly, he has unmasked me, and his smile tells me that he doesn't mind either. He makes me take off the t-shirt I'm wearing so that I can put on his sweater also next to my skin. While I slip my arms into the sleeves and feel on my skin the contact of the rough and rustic wool, my boner betrays me and leaves him no doubt. I was not wrong: I feel my body trapped in at least two kilograms of wool.
Meanwhile, he chooses a sweater for himself - the least we can say is that he has a choice - and puts it on to replace the one he just gave me.
My gaze rests on the shelf and the ropes, and this gaze too, he captures it.
- You may wonder what it's for? Well, they were here when I rented the warehouse, and as you can see, I kept them. If they trigger you as much as my sweaters, I guess we might figure out some way to use them...
He unrolls a first rope before casually throwing it over his shoulder. He grabs my wrists one after the other, and taking advantage that his sweater is slightly oversized for me, he pulls the sleeves so that my hands are buried under the cuffs. Then, still facing me, he presses my chest against his in a firm but friendly embrace, pushes my hands behind my back, and skillfully ties the rope in a figure eight, wrapping my wrists inside the wool of his sweater. He takes advantage that we face each other so closely to offer me a long kiss to which I of course offer no resistance, a kiss that he interrupts to say to me "By the way, my name is François", these few words whispered his mouth being a few millimeters from mine, sending me his warm and good breath. Then, looking satisfied, he adds "And you, I don't need to know your name yet. For now, you are my prisoner, in my sweater and in my bonds."
He grabs a second rope, slightly thicker, wraps it around my elbows, bringing them somehow together but not so much that it hurts, then around my chest, pressing my arms to my body. Two other ropes are recruited, one to bind my ankles and the other my knees.
I'm still standing, and my balance is poor. Fortunately, he holds my shoulders, making me feel safe. His hand also wanders over me, caresses my torso through the wool of his sweater, and my crotch through my jeans.
Still holding me, he kicks the mountain of sweaters a few times to scatter it a bit, before guiding me, despite my tied ankles, in front of this heap which now still measures a good meter high. Then he takes off the sweater he was wearing - admittedly recently -, turns it upside down, buries my head in the neckline, folds the body of the garment in front of my face, passes the sleeves behind my neck before tying them in front my mouth.
And there, without warning me, he pushes me forward and makes me fall head first into the mountain of wool. At first, he joins me there, gives me a few more caresses a little too well placed. Then he whispers to me that he has to go back to the shop and that, if I don't mind, he'll leave me there for a while. My sighs and my visible hard-on exempt me from giving him my written consent, which, tied up as I am, would have been difficult for me.
He gets up, swings a few extra pounds of sweaters over me, and it's through this mountain of wool that I can hear the sound of the door closing behind him.
Need I say how in heaven I am?
To be continued.