Binding Off

The train screeches as it goes around a curve. She doesn’t notice though. She’s too absorbed in her knitting. She doesn’t even look up. She knows there’s nothing to see on the crowded train car except other people’s asses. She’s lucky that her office is close to the beginning of the train line, it means she can get usually get a seat before the train loads up with other passengers. At least on the trip home, like right now.

She peers through her thick-framed glasses at the project she is working on. The yarn slips over her finger and back around the needle. The needles click quietly as she moves them. She loops the yarn over and then tilts the points around to get through the next stitch. Oddly, she can hear the clicks of the needles even with the train screeching. Or maybe she just feels the clicks through the bones of her fingers and her mind interprets the sensation as sound.

A chart rests in her lap, filled from one corner to the other with the strange hieroglyphs of her craft. She stops occasionally to run her finger along a line in the chart, and moves a glowing yellow sticky note down a line to mark which row she’s on before resuming her needle clicks.

She might be knitting a sock. It’s a warm yellow color, with a pattern of dark ink-blue stripes waving across it. But an experienced knitter would recognize the tube extending down from her needles is too narrow for an adult sock and too long for a baby sock. An experienced knitter would also realize that while she knits with a speed indicating a certain level of expertise, there’s only one tube on the needles — if it were socks, there would be two. An experienced knitter would probably be a little puzzled what exactly it is that she’s knitting. But there are no experienced knitters on this train car today.

The train screeches around another curve, and this one she instinctively knows is the one before her stop. As it pulls into the station, she leans along with the rest of the other passengers when the forward momentum comes off the train before it comes off the people and they are all set back upright. She hops to her feet and squeezes among the others getting off the crowded car at her stop. Up the stairs, into the little station, and a cute boy with dark hair holds the door for her as she comes out of the station. She smiles her smile that cracks on one side of her mouth before the other, but she looks down quickly, her soft brown curls falling around her face. She walks quickly past him, with a quiet thanks, and proceeds down the sidewalk towards her home.

She knits as she walks, her eyes down, watching her stitches pass in front of the steps of her feet. She knows the chart well enough for this simple project that she doesn’t need it for the moment. It is almost done, and she thinks she might be binding off before she gets in her door. Knitting and walking at the same time slows down her pace, but it’s such a lovely spring day she doesn’t mind walking slow.

Her home is the ground floor apartment of a small two story house. It might be small, but it’s cute. Her upstairs neighbors have planted tulips in the little patch of front yard and they are coming up. If they had asked her, she would have chosen a more plain native groundcover plant for the front yard, like a sedge, but the tulips are colorful and pleasant as they always, inevitably are.

She unlocks her door and grabs her mail sticking in the mail slot, holding her knitting in one hand. She plops down on the wood-framed couch and throws the mail on the glass coffee table.

Her cat with his one odd blue eye jumps on the couch next to her. She slips the tips of her fingers over his head behind his ears and he leans into her touch. She pets him for a minute, before picking up her knitting again, and finishing the bind-off of her strange little project. She tosses it over on top of the mail and stands, taking off her jacket and hanging it on the wood-ball coat hooks she has installed on the wall. She unbuttons her her blouse with it’s tight houndstooth pattern and pulls it off her shoulders and tosses it on the back of the couch. She’s wearing a simple black bra, that hugs her small pert breasts against her in a cozy way.

Picking up her knit tube again she goes into her bedroom and flops back on the bed. Her cat is again under her hand, and she absentmindedly stares at the ceiling as she scratches his head. He purrs his love for her. Her other hand rests on her stomach, her finger taps against the button of her jeans as she thinks whispy thoughts to herself.

After a few minutes of quiet mindlessness, she stretches her non-cat hand up and opens the drawer of her bedside stand and pulls out her vibrator. She holds it out in front of her, and squeezes the on button. Its little LED light comes on and it moves in her hand like some angry insect. It’s an unnatural shade of cool blue, made of silicone — that smooth-sticky texture that is supposed to be both antiseptic and warm. At least that’s what the sex-toy marketers seem to have convinced their customers.

She’s never really been convinced. She doesn’t dislike this vibrator; it works as well as any she’s ever used, and she’s certainly gotten plenty of use out of it. But silicone always seemed cold and machine-like to her. And the blue shade reminds her of something one might find in a hospital drawer. The knitter’s sense in her felt it needed to be more comfortable. That’s why she knitted the cozy for it, which she slips over it now, watching the yellow tube of stitching expand around the bulk of her frigid blue vibrator.

Ensconced in its fuzzy yellow sleeve, the vibrator hums more softly. Instead of an angry insect, now it reminds her of someone who hums quietly while they concentrate on their work. She likes the way the yarn engulfs the bulb of her little vibrator. She slides the cozy along the length of it, scrunching it up, and the head peeps out one end looking for all the world like the vibrator has a miniature turtle-neck on. She smiles to herself, pleased with her work, not least for the silliness of it. She clicks off the vibrator and drops it on the bed next to her, scaring the cat, who launches off to the safety of the floor.

She stands, leans over, and closes the shades to her windows. In the dimness of the room she undoes the button of her jeans, and unzips them. She loops her thumbs over the waist, taking the edge of her panties with them, and falls back on the bed, slipping her pants under her ass, and down the length of her long legs. She kicks the bundle off her ankles, and it falls to the floor, scaring the cat again.

Her legs slowly spread wide as her knees come up and she puts her feet flat on the bed. She still wears her black bra snuggling her breasts.

She holds the encozied vibrator in her left hand, and presses the recessed button with her thumb to turn it back on. It buzzes in her grip, the knitted cozy soft and fuzzy against the palm of her hand and the inside of her fingers, like a warm and affectionate pet. But it quakes with such energy, it’s more like an affection pet who can’t wait for its person to come home and play with it.

Her right hand rests lightly on her naked thigh. She slips her finger down so the tips are passing along the inside of that sensitive soft skin between her legs. She brings her fingers slowly up until the tips of her middle and forefingers are brushing against the lips of her pussy. The cute dark-haired boy in the train station flops lazily into her mind like someone dropping into a cushy armchair, and she feels her pussy dampen immediately against her finger.

It never took very much for her. The tiniest gesture by some attractive boy (and occasionally an adorable lady) would spin and spin in her head, like a top of lust had been set going inside her. On any day such a gesture occurred, it was like the string of the top had been yanked with as much force as possible, the way a small boy would. And it would slowly wind down over the course of a few days. Eventually another top would be spun, usually by someone else. She always seemed to be too shy to pursue the same person yanking her top-string twice.

That dark-haired boy had been extra cute, from what quick glance she actually caught of him. She imagines him now, standing over her, his hand touching her pussy instead of her own. She lets out a long slow breath, and presses the tips of her fingers into her wet pussy and slides them up and over her clit. Warm lust spreads up her back and through her shoulders.

She passes the vibrator in its cozy to her right hand, and makes sure the tip is still sticking out from its little turtle-neck collar. She smiles again, touches the shaking tip to her belly, and slowly inches it down, through her light brown patch and over her clit. She holds the vibrator vertically in her hand, her pinky extending down, three fingers gripping it around the cozy-covered part of the shaft, opposing her thumb on the other side. The exposed tip dips down and rocks gently against her clit. She breathes faster now, letting out long gasps. She closes her eyes and arches her long neck back. An orgasm approaches quickly. She feels it foreshortened, fast, and powerful as it comes, like the Doppler affect on the whistle of a train.

It arrives with the kind of sudden rush of a train passing too. She’s used to that, her orgasms have always been intense. Her pussy rises on a tide of wetness with her orgasm, and she can hear the tip of the vibrator wetly buzzing against herself.

It is at this moment, when her orgasm is flowing past her, when she is wettest, when her legs shake with the pleasure of being touched by the vision of the dark-haired boy in her head, that she has the sensation of the cozy twisting in her hand, the loops of yarn slipping quickly between her fingers.

Not twisting like she let it get out of her control, but twisting as if the vibrator was trying to express some kind of will of its own in response to her orgasm. As if it wanted to fuck her.

No wait — that wasn’t it either. It was as if the cozy had twisted the vibrator against her. As if the cozy was using the vibrator on her, not her using the vibrator on herself.

This sensation shocks her, and her eyes pop open.

“What an odd thing!” she thinks to herself.

Perhaps she was so taken by her orgasm that she had hallucinated slightly. She closes her legs around the still-humming vibrator and rolls to her side, and breathes slowly and deeply.

She doesn’t want to let the pleasure of her orgasm go. At the same time, that twisting movement was such a strange, creepy sensation. The cozy shakes softly between her thighs. The tip is still lightly touching her clit. She knows another orgasm will not be too hard to find. She rolls onto her back again, and lets her knees drift apart.

“Well,” she thinks out loud, “if its so good that I’m hallucinating, maybe that’s not something I should avoid. I will boldly adventure into new territories!”

She resigns herself to be open to whatever strange pleasures she might be able to derive from the world. Especially if those new experiences don’t require her to interact with other people.

She pushes the little exposed head of her vibrator up against her clit again. She lets out another long breath and almost immediately feels another orgasm approaching. The machine hums, smacking wetly against her pussy. Her legs start shaking, almost in sync with the oscillations of the vibrator.

And this time she is sure she feels the twist. The cozy wrings itself in her hand, pushes and pulls against her fingers. The vibrator spins three quarters of the way around and turns at an angle, and plunges into her pussy with a long piercing stroke.

A small scream that melds terror with pleasure escapes from her. She wraps her fingers tightly around the cozy, and grips it with all her strength. The small muscles of her forearm tighten as she tries to pull the vibrator and cozy from between her legs. Under her fingers she can feel all the stitches of the cozy pulling themselves taught, with a will of their own. The cozy bunches in her hand — and against her effort to pull it away from her pussy — the cozy squirms and pushes the vibrator deeper into her.

Her free hand moves to her head and covers her eyes. She’s breathing heavily.

“Oh my god.”

She says out loud.

“This is so weird! Did someone drug me?”

In her regular masturbation sessions, she would almost never actually insert her vibrator. She was a clitoral-stimulation woman. The buzz on her clit was all she needed or wanted to reach orgasm. The vibrator fucking her of apparently it’s own free will right now was so distracting, and so very much not stimulating her clit that her fast-approaching orgasm is now slipping away.

“Goddamn it. I’m hallucinating and *not* cumming.”

As if in response, she feels the scrunched folds of the cozy inch up her vibrator, until there is a bulk of folds of yarn pressed against her pussy. The yarn shifts and squeezes under her hand, and a small part of it rubs its fuzzy warmness against her clit.

She gives in to this strange psychedelic experience and loosens her grip, but continues to hold the cozied vibrator lightly, fearing that if she let go reality would reassert itself and she would lose this distinct feeling of being fucked by someone, or something.

Because she enjoys this being fucked. Loves it, in fact, now that she is determined not to be freaked out by it — and now that she is getting her clit rubbed. The cozy pulses and squirms in her hand like some kind of small burrowing mammal. And burrow it does, driving the vibe into her pussy, over and over again in slow strokes. She can feel the warm fur against her pussy, and the cold machine head piercing and shaking inside her. And the loving finger of yarn stitches, piled onto each other, and pressing and rubbing gently against her clit, creating a rhythm with the shaking machine inside her.

Her eyes close. While she had been thinking about the dark-haired boy at the train station before, now he is pushed out, as her mind fills with some dark heavy cloud. It presses down on her, crushing her under its atmospheric weight. But it is not a bad weight, it is like the weight of a heavy comforter, keeping her warm in her bed on one of those days of gray and cold pelting rain outside. The weight holds her, and comforts her, and as it does, it fucks her, squeezing its soft yarn-body against her, driving its appropriated tool into her.

Her mind wraps around the cloud, and her knees come together, squeezing everything to her, and she cums with a wave of passion and gratitude for this thing. It is an emotional orgasm, unlike any she had ever known before.

As her orgasm flows past her and moves on, the movement between her legs starts to slow, and the whole experience dissolves. When her eyes open, she is holding her softly buzzing-fuzzy vibrator lightly against the inside of her thigh, everything wet from her orgasm. From her eye a small tear escapes and slips down the side of her temple.

* * * * *

The next day, she is knitting on the train home from work again. This time there are two long tubes hanging down from her needles. Both tubes dangle from the same set of needles, and she adds stitches to both of them evenly, working across, so they grow symmetrically. A keen observer would have seen her add a few inches worth of stitches just in the last twenty minutes on the train. But there are no keen observers on this train car today.

She’s using the same warm yellow and blue yarn as the day before. She has a lot of it, and she liked the way the cozy had looked. And, she thought, perhaps there was something special about this yarn. Her tubes are wider than the cozy tube was, even an experienced knitter might have guessed they were socks this time. At first. But they are growing pretty long, and socks are becoming increasingly less likely.

She knits with intense concentration. She wants to finish this project before she gets home. Her needles clack away, and the train clacks on. It screeches around her curve, jolts to its usual stop. She hops up, and steps on the platform. She sees the dark-haired boy again, but he is some way ahead of her today, already moving up the stairs off the platform. He’s out of the station before she even gets to the top of the stairs.

She passes through the station and is out on the sidewalk on another lovely cool spring day. She knits furiously as she walks. Perhaps paying a little too close attention to her work; she stumbles over uneven bits of sidewalk a couple of times before she gets home.

Inside she plops on the couch. Her cat leaps up and presses against her, but she peers closely at her knitting through her glasses without looking at him.

Finally she leans back and holds up the tube full-length, appraising it. She decides it done enough, and pulling it close again goes to work binding off. Clack clack clack-clack, and it’s done. She leans back and pets the cat, rubbing his head, and under his belly. He glowers angrily at her knitting.

“Oh, don’t be jealous. You’ll always be my favorite fuzzy friend.”

The cat seems unimpressed.

Back to her feet, she takes her new pieces and heads towards her room. She had been thinking about this precise moment all day. Replaying the experience with the cozy and the vibrator from the evening before, and trying to keep some of the feeling of that intense orgasm within her. She is pretty sure by now, that it must simply have been some kind of strange manifestation of her mind — something she ate, or a symptom of working too hard, or lack of sleep, or… something.

Her fingers find the bottom of her simple white shirt, and she pulls it up and over her head. She drops it on one side of her bed, and slips her arms behind her back to undo the clasp of her bra. Her arms slip out of the straps and she drops it on top of her shirt on the floor.

She lays on her stomach on her bed, her blue paisley skirt draping around her legs. She reaches into her bedside drawer, and pulls the vibrator out, fully sheathed in its warm yellow cozy.

Her fingers find the button through the wool, and it springs to life her in hand, buzzing like a tiny engine that could. She holds it for a short while, then touches it lightly to her cheek, feeling it warming with its movement, insulated by its fuzzy wool coat. It shows no signs of behaving strangely right now.

She pops the switch off and tosses it to the side for a moment. She rolls onto her back and picks up the two tubes of her new project. Holding one end of the tube open, the fingers of her free hand point together, and find their way into the tube. She slides it slowly up her arm, checking the evenness of the stitching as the flow past her eye. She pulls it until it is half-way up her upper arm, and her hand pops out the other end. She waves her fingers, admiring her adorable new arm warmer.

She does the mirror version of the process, pulling the other arm warmer up her other arm. The loose ends of threads dangle around her fingers. She has not had time to weave them into the ends yet.

Still admiring her work, she crosses her arms across her chest. She likes the way the warm yellow and blue colors stand out against her pale skin. Her shoulders lift instinctively against the coolness of her room making her little teacup breasts come together. Her nipples stand up pink and proud in the cool air.

She slides the soft stitches of yarn against her body, enjoying the feel of the warm wool on her bare skin. She looks at the vibrator, and reaches over and picks it up. She whispers to the vibrator.

“Want to know a secret my little cozy friend? I didn’t wear panties to work today. And I was thinking about you all day. About what you did to me last night.”

She slips the cozy down, exposing the tip of the vibrator. She touches it to her tongue. And then pulls it back and looks at it tenderly.

“You made me so wet. I couldn’t wait to get home and hold you in my hand again.”

She turns on the vibrator, and feels it again start to warm inside its outerwear. Taking some of the material of her skirt in her hand, she lifts it up, exposing some of her leg as it slips upwards. She gets it just high enough to pass her cozied vibrator under. She imagines her vibrator is someone special, the only someone she lets have access under her skirts while everyone else has to just imagine what pleasures might exist under there. She presses the tip of the vibrator to her clit, and lets out a satisfied moan.

She starts as usual, with the vibrator humming sweetly against her clit, and as usual can feel building seas of pleasure warming her spine. But she remembers the thing fucking her last night — she *wants* it to fuck her again. So after a few minutes, she slips her vibrator down, and pushes the tip between her wet pussy lips, which part and slip around the end hungrily.

For a brief moment, she is gently fucking herself with her vibe. And then she feels it twist in her hand again, the stitches of the cozy contracting and shifting under her fingers. It squeezes, twists, and jerks, and thrusts the length of the cold vibrating machine up inside her. The cozy contracts and pulls, rubs fuzzily in her hand and between her legs. It fucks her. With energy and force, like it has been desperately waiting for this chance to push itself into her.

Her eyes close and her neck arches back. She reaches her free hand up above her head, and grabs the headboard to steady herself and to ground herself in reality. She feels the cozy in her hand back off a little, and slow. It twists the vibrator inside her, and bunches together around and between her fingers. It presses up against her clit and rubs her slowly and with care.

She breathes carefully. She opens her eyes and looks down, her yellow-warmered arm defining a bent line down around her pale breasts to the pile of blue skirt. Her other arm, kinked at the elbow and above her head, holding the headboard.

She relaxes, and spreads her legs, letting the thing fuck her. Her arm above her head is not quite in the position it needs to be in. She intends to bring it down to help move the skirts aside when she realizes she cannot. She looks up at her hand, and the dangling threads of her knitting have tied themselves around the posts of the headboard in adorable little knots.

Without thinking too much about it, her free hand comes up from between her legs, leaving the vibrator inside her, still fucking her slowly. She picks at the knots with the fingers of her free hand, but as she does so, she sees the dangling threads of that arm warmer wrap repeatedly around the post of the headboard, and tie themselves tightly in equivalently adorable knots.

Her instinct is to pull her arms away, but when she puts some effort into that move, all the thousands of stitches of the arm warmers pull tight. She feels a recursive electric current of fuzzy yarn loop around and up her arms as her stitches tighten their grip on her. She brings her elbows together, and pulls against the loops and knots with as much strength as she can bring to it, pulling herself up the bed. As she does this, she feels the stitches tighten more, and the vibrator and cozy between her legs move faster, fucking her harder, as if the vibrator were driving her up the bed with it’s strokes.

Her knees squeeze together, as she rolls onto her side. The cozy between her legs squirms and binds. It uses the inside of her thighs for purchase, and from there, thrusts it’s silicone appendage into her. Her eyes close, and she pulls her arms against their ever-tightening binds. And now the more she struggles, the harder the thing fucks her.

She wants to be fucked hard.

She lets out a scream. She twists and pulls against the blonde wood of the headboard. The whole bed shakes and slips with the force with which she is being fucked. Her back arches, her legs straighten. She resists. And against every move she makes, the stitches respond, squeezing her arms, grinding against her clit, pushing deeper inside her.

She resists again, and she is fucked harder. She resists more, and it penetrates her with such force and vehemence that her eyes tear up. But with the tears come the intensity of orgasm. This one comes on so very quickly, she isn’t really prepared for it. Her whole body squeezes up like a dying bee, and she quivers helplessly as the orgasm passes through her.

She’s on her stomach now, her wrists cross at the headboard, and her head droops down between her arms, her brown curls fall gently over her shoulders. She feels the soft touch of her arm warmers on her cheeks. Her eyes close, and her hips lift, her legs still clamp tightly around the cozy between them. She struggles less now, and it fucks her more slowly, as if with more care. The rows of stitches in the arm warmers continually adjust, tightening and slackening. At one moment feeling like firm hands pinning her down, and in the next comforting and loving caresses that slide up her arms and over the points of her elbows.

The heavy cloud returns to her. But this time it isn’t pressing down on her, it passes over her and surrounds her. It’s behind and above her. She wants it inside her. She lifts her hips, and rises to her knees. She gives it her body. She gives it her dripping pussy.

And it takes what is offered to it. She feels the vibrator grind into her, shaking with some kind of renewed passion and force. The cozy no longer has anything to press against, yet somehow with that freedom it is able to fuck her even harder. It feels like some huge hirsute being, made entirely of yarn with a silicone machine for a dick was behind her, crushing its body against her, driving its warm furriness against her clit and ass, and penetrating her with its robot cock.

Enormous hands grip her arms through the stitches of her arm warmers, with fingers so big that they curl around both her upper arm and forearms, sometimes clenching and painfully forcing her to straighten her arms. Sometimes delicately caressing her, like she was a small and deeply adored pet.

This time her orgasm approaches slowly and with caution, like its afraid of what it might find if it arrives with this beast that grips her. But the beastly thing seems to know exactly where her orgasm is, exactly where it hides, and precisely which direction it approaches from. It calls her orgasm out, and forces it to come to her.

She is being fucked now with long slow deliberate strokes. The body of yarn presses against her clit with timing that takes her up a single step towards some far off plateau with an altar of pleasure on it. Slowly but surely rising. Her upper body is suspended from her bindings to the headboard. Her ass rises and falls with each stroke. She grinds her hips and her clit against her beast, wanting it to bring her orgasm to her.

With time, she reaches the plateau. And there she stays, prostrate on the peak, while her orgasm floods her body. Her breath is knocked from her, her mouth open in a silent scream. She floats along this plateau of pleasure, lost but never wanting to be found. Until finally it starts to pass, letting the tension slip from her body.

She falls to the bed, warm air slowing finding its way back into her lungs. She drifts slowly off to sleep, still wrapped in the tight stitches of her arm warmers, still feeling that loving cozy between her legs.

* * * * *

A week later she is once again knitting while riding the train home. This time it is a dense swatch of yarn, about the length and width of her hand. She has knitted it in three layers of a soft gray merino wool that had been delivered to her house a couple of days ago. Extending out from each end of the swatch are two long braided lines. She finishes and binds off before the train even arrives at her station.

She walks quickly home, with a look of eager excitement on her face. Though around her eyes are thin lines of exhaustion. At her door waits three plain brown boxes. She picks them up. They are very light, so she balances them on one arm while she fumbles her apartment door open.

The cat leaps over a skein of yarn and comes up to her, brushing his scent on her legs. She leans down and pets his head while dropping the boxes next to her couch.

The couch has more boxes on it, most of which are opened, and from them spills yarn in arrays of colors. Some with the subtle rich quality of hand-dyed yarn, and some with the vibrant unnatural quality of industrial nylon, and everything in between. Yarn is draped in loose loopy piles over the back of the couch. And pyramidal piles of balls of yarn dot the floor. Long thin lines of yarn stretch from one of the boxes on the floor up to the yarn swift standing upright from her coffee table. And other lines run to her ball winder on the other end of the coffee table. Skeins of yarn are stacked on the table, the couch, on the boxes, on the floor; in every open space available to her.

Knitted projects in various states of completion are scattered about, with trailer lines running off to the balls she was knitting from. There’s long scarf-like things, small fingerless gloves, socks without toes, ropes of various widths created by knitting and braiding, and intricately weaved and knitted but unidentifiable projects. Most of the projects are still on the needles. There are many needles stuck into balls and skeins and half-finished projects giving the warm fuzzy look of all that yarn a distinctly prickly appearance.

As she moves around her living room she kicks balls out of the way and the cat, when he can be bothered, bounds after them. She takes her new project with her as she heads towards her bedroom. She stops before the closed door, and carefully undoes her bra and pulls it from under her blouse and drops it on the floor. She slips her blouse over her head, and slips her skirt and panties down to her ankles, and steps from her shoes and clothes. She takes off a thin silver bracelet and drops it on the piles of clothes. Now completely naked, she enters.

Her bedroom is very dim. She doesn’t open the shades any more. Like her living room there is yarn and knitted projects everywhere. But while her living room has managed appearance of a project worked on with intensity, her bedroom has the chaotic appearance of some disastrous explosion of yarn.

Thick lines of yarn droop in big loops across the space of the room, hanging from hooks installed in the walls and ceiling. Delicate webs of knitted and tied yarn stretch across and above the bed. The arm warmers she knitted a week ago hang suspended in the middle of the room, twisting in the slight breeze from her opening of the door. Other more mysterious knitted projects have joined them. In some places there appear to be scarves many feet longer than they should be, wrapped around each other, and then unwinding up into dark corners of the room.

The yarns are spliced, twisted, stitched, and knotted with every shade of color; without regard for rhyme or reason or color theory. Bright pinks are wrapped with vile clashing yellows. Browns with blues. And so very many shades of red, all just one disturbingly close but not-quite-matching shade from the next nearest red. In many places she continued a project mid-row with whatever yarn happened to be closest at hand.

She moves carefully into the room, bowing under and stepping over loops that cross her path, until she reaches her arm warmers in nearly the center of the room. She drops her newest project silently on the floor, and takes up a wide knitted tube that hangs with the arm warmers. She slips her fingers into the bottom, and lifts it over her head and pulls it down, feeling the yarn brush over her face, over her breasts and her erect nipples. She pulls it down over her torso. It covers her stomach, from her hip bones to just under her breasts.

This torso tube is knitted with tight, dense stitching and is mostly made of a baby blue colored cotton yarn, except for a couple of inches where she ran short on the bottom and used a navy yarn. Long thick lines run from it, to the dark corners of her room extending like insect legs from her sides. She slips into her arm warmers, and then leans over to pull on similar leg warmers that she slides up to her knees until her feet pop out of the far ends. Attached to the arm warmers and the leg warmers is a whole web of different color yarns that run off in different directions in the room, and as she moves the lines pull and react in complicated ways, so that a movement of her arm triggers movements of different lines and cables of yarn suspended from many different places in the room.

She leans over again, and this time lifts her new project, and places it over her eyes, and ties the strings that extend from it behind her head.

“Ok, my friend. I’m ready.”

She says this out loud to the room, her voice oddly muffled by all the soft surface area of the yarn that absorbs it. She leans backwards, as if she intends to flop onto her bed.

But as her body moves, all the yarn in the room suddenly gains tension. There’s a swift swishing sound as the lines pull taut. She feels everything in the room move at once, from the big ropey lines supporting her weight, down to the tiny interlocking stitches pressed against her skin.

She rests in mid-air, suspended above her bed by the network of yarn slicing around the room. It holds her, and at the same time it caresses her. She feels its touch through the stitches on her arms, her legs, her stomach. It feels as if her weight is held in its giant hand, and it contemplates her like Yorick’s skull. Hundreds of strings and lines of yarn, ranging from individual strands up to thick knitted cables now move on her. She is wrapped by long meaty loops that move around her legs, and her arms, and her neck; and thin little strings that slip between her fingers. A loop circles her hair and pulls it gently into a pony tail, and it lifts to supports her head.

She hangs quietly and meditatively for a while, feeling the caress of the yarn, gently tightening and loosening, and sliding over her body. It feels along her body. And as it feels her, she feels it. She can feel its affection through the way the yarn touches her. The caresses slide up and down her arms, her legs, between her fingers, and around her neck.

She can feel all the different textures of the different yarns. The scratchy itch of cheap wool, and the smooth toughness of nylon and polyester strings. In places there’s even some slick and soft rayon and silk. And she’s sure she can tell just by the touch of it, that her foot has been wrapped in a small scarf she made of an extremely fine cashmere.

But the thing doesn’t just want to hold her.

A rope of yarn as thick as her thumb slowly circles her upper thigh. She feels each coil laying down and rising up her leg in a spiral. As each coil comes down, it tightens. As it moves up her thigh, the strings and lines of the room contract, her leg warmers are pulled towards the walls, and her legs are forced apart.

The coils reach the top of her thigh and a loop passes between her legs and lays down across her pussy, and then loops up and over her hip, and comes down tightening over her ass. Another loop lays down on her pussy, and another circling over her other hip.

She is almost completely cocooned in yarn. The lines between her legs, tighten, squeezing her whole hip, ass, and pelvis in its grip. The yarn presses against her clit moves on its own, twisting and slipping over her, pressing and grinding its fingers of yarn against her with a rhythm that seems to know it will make her cum.

She lets a long soft moan escape, and as she does the torso tube constricts. Her breaths become short and shallow. The loop of yarn around her hair pulls downwards, and her head falls back, her neck exposed, like the white underbelly of a creature from the pelagic. Her neck too is then wrapped in loop after loop of colors. Her whole body is squeezed in its giant warm grip, and the grip of its fingers squeeze against her clit.

She is crushed by its force. If before it was a giant standing behind her, now it grown so huge that she fits entirely in its massive fist. And it squeezes her in its fist like the control mechanism of some monstrous machine.

It squeezes the air out of her. It squeezes the moisture out of her. It squeezes her orgasm out of her. She cums powerfully, thrusting her hips against the squeeze, short bursts of loud pleasure pushed from her lips.

But the thing is not done with her.

Her knees are bent upwards forcing her to a fetal position. Her arms are pulled behind her, and crossed, and bound by yet more loops of knitted yarn (scarves she’s knitted, she is fairly sure). An afghan she knitted years ago now circles around her entirely, curling her up and encasing her in a womb of yarn.

Down the back of her thigh, through the layers of yarn, she feels something moving. It shakes with a frequency she knows well. The thing has found her vibrator, and within the grip of the thing, is slowly running it along her leg, touching her ass with it, touching her wherever it likes with it, as if to communicate that she is completely powerless in its grip.

She feels the loops around her pussy, ass, and hips loosen very slightly. The tip of it presses gently between the coils of yarn over her pussy, and touches her clit gently. Her wrappings clamp down around her. She can feel yarn moving and tightening over every inch of her skin. Her pussy soaks in anticipation of being fucked. Because that’s all she wants now that she is so firmly encased. She wants to be fucked by her lover.

The vibrator slips wetly into her pussy. The thing has become a massive arachnid, with its prey wrapped for a meal. It penetrates her with its quivering poisonous tooth. She feels the tips of its many legs poking her and prodding her repeatedly and quickly all over her body. And that hard quaking tooth pierces and bites its way inside her.

The poison floods her, and a warm pleasure fills her. Her whole body writhes and contracts, but once again her struggles result in being fucked harder. Another orgasm comes to her, but this time without the touching of her clit. This orgasm comes from pure penetration. She feels like that’s all she is, balled up in this wrap of yarn — she is just a thing to be penetrated by this enormous many-legged beast that toys with her. The vibrator shakes and pumps in and out of her sopping pussy.

She is warm and can barely breathe. Her muscles scream to stretch out. But she knows she is the prey now, and this thing wants to feed on her. And it feeds for hours. It pumps its tooth in and out of her while she sit barely on the edge of consciousness, and on the edge of orgasm.

Her orgasm eventually slides into her, passing in a wave from her pussy up her back and over her shoulders and neck. She shakes uncontrollably, telegraphing a message of pleasure through the entire web of the room.

And the thing finally relents. It relaxes, and unwinds the loops of yarn, unspooling around her legs, and slips her gently down to the bed.

She falls asleep cooling slowly in the wraps of her lover.

* * * * *

Now her whole life becomes knitting. She has called in absent to work and used up most of her amassed vacation days. She sees few people, except the package delivery guy, who drops off boxes of yarn nearly every day on her porch.

She knits for hours each day, and then spends her evenings wrapped in her work, as it works on her. She knits nearly a project a day. She looks for patterns that she can use. Things that might contribute to what the thing her room can and will do with her. She has knit mittens and socks, shawls and blankets, headbands and garters. And every item is given to the thing in her room.