March. A Ducati roars to a halt outside my shop window. The biker strides in, leather jacket gleaming under the boutique lights. I tease him: ‘Chilly under that leather? Need a soft wool to warm you?’ His blue eyes scan the racks of pure mohair and angora—simple, elegant knits, no garish 80s shoulder pads. Just divine softness for discerning tastes.
He claims it’s for his girlfriend. ‘She’s fragile, like fine wool.’ I smile, sensing his bulge straining against jeans. Divorced a year, I’m no fool for men, but this one’s cock teases twenty solid centimeters. I show him mohair: goat’s wool, dense, silky, warm yet breathable. Then my gray angora cardigan—rabbit’s fluff, aerial, feather-light.
The Privilege
‘Touch it,’ I say, handing the black mohair pullover. His fingers dive in, kneading the voluptuous fibers. Eyes locked, he circles the screen as I slip it on. No bra beneath. He grabs my waist. ‘Let me test if your lips match your wools.’ Tender kiss deepens. His hard cock presses my belly. Tongues dance. Heat builds.
I lower the shop shutter. Lead him to the back room: mountains of yarn balls, table, divan, kitchenette. Elite sanctuary of tactile luxury. He knows my laines arouse him. I embrace fiercely. He strokes my mohair-clad body. I strip, tits heaving free. He begs the pullover back on.
Nude now, condom sheathed on his thick shaft. I perch on the table, legs spread. He caresses my nipples with mohair sleeves—vaporous tease heightens every touch. Lips suckle greedily. I guide his head, thighs clamp his hips. Cockhead nudges my slick pussy.
He rolls soft yarn balls up my thighs. Kneels. Angora teases my swollen clit, then his tongue invades. I finger my nub, moaning. ‘Lick me, wolf.’ He strokes himself through latex. I gush, ready.
The Excess
He rises, slides in slow. Hotter, tighter than finest wool. Gentle thrusts build. Eyes shut, I rub my mound. Orgasms crash together. He slows, still hard. ‘Put on the angora.’ I slip into the gray cardigan. Sheer delight on bare skin. Hand him fresh condom.
Kneeling, I sheath him with a yarn ball first. Stroke his cum-slick cock through fluffy angora. Balls teased, ass crack tickled. He lifts me, bends me over table. Enters from behind. Cardigan fondles my ass cheeks with each pounding thrust. I finger-fuck my clit, ass wiggling.
Wool whispers over swinging tits. Nipples graze the soft knit. He rails deep, firm. I surrender. Climax rips through. He floods the condom. We collapse onto divan, coupled, spent. Face in my hair, he inhales our musk. Slow final pumps till dawn.
He dresses: boots, leather, gifted pullover wrapped. Moto screams away into pale morning. Will he return? Not daily drudgery, but fiery reunions. Vague longing as I sip coffee home. Midday, roses arrive. Note: ‘Soon, my one-night love.’ Secret sealed in wool’s embrace.
