Angel in Wool
It was simultaneously the best deal I had ever made, and the worst.
She loved her dominant streak, and all I ever really cared about was my sweater fetish. I would do anything for her when she was enveloped in a thick, fuzzy knit, and she very much enjoyed having her way. In the beginning, "having her way" was a gamble. It could mean bedroom games, or it could just mean going out to her favorite restaurant and seeing a movie she picked.
Two years ago, we codified it. The Accord, we called it. If she bought a new thick, fuzzy sweater—or put on one of the monstrously heavy artisan knits I had bought for her—and wore it all day long, then the evening belonged entirely to her. I had to keep admiring the sweater, and I had to submit to absolutely anything she wanted to do.
In my mind, I always hoped for the dinner dates. I am not a masochist. I do not enjoy being driven to tears. But over the last year, the thick sweater days had migrated. The variety vanished. Now, the moment the heavy wool came out, it was an explicit countdown to heavy discipline.
I loved seeing her in those sweaters more than life itself, but lately, the moment I saw her pulling those massive sleeves over her arms, a powerful wave of dread would settle in my stomach. I complained about it once. She just smiled that knowing, wicked little smile and said, "The deal is the deal."
But she did alter the terms slightly to keep me compliant. She allowed me to take short videos and pictures of her on sweater days, so I would at least have something to enjoy the following day when she was back in normal clothes.
The video I made on this particular day was taken just after breakfast. I had spent the morning playing the perfect, doting servant—bringing her coffee, making her food, anticipating every move—all to ingratiate myself. I was desperately hoping to soften the blow for tonight. Maybe she'd be gentle. Maybe she'd skip the discipline entirely.
Instead, she stood there in the kitchen, deliberately stretching the thick, cozy cuffs over her hands, taunting me with how warm and insulated she was. She looked at me, her eyes gleaming with a devastating, playful malice.
"Would you please go put on the pink collar and the pink wrist and ankle cuffs?" she asked sweetly. "And wear them for the rest of the day?"
My heart skipped. "Our deal doesn't start until six o'clock on sweater days," I reminded her, trying to keep my voice steady.
She just tilted her head, her expression pure, wicked innocence. "I'm just asking nicely. I thought it would be nice."
"It would be nice," I countered, swallowing hard. "Maybe next time. But I have to do yard work today. I really don't want to be outside digging in the front flower bed with a pink collar and padlock clanking around for the neighbors to see."
She didn't argue. She just gave me a look that suggested my refusal had already been filed away for later processing.
The rest of the day carried on with a strange, deceptive normalcy. We went shopping in the afternoon. It was a bit too warm outside for that kind of knitwear, and her face was flush, a beautiful rosy red from being packed into too much sweater. I couldn't take my eyes off her. In the middle of the store, she stepped close, putting a heavy, wool-clad arm around me. She leaned in, nibbling gently on my ear when no one was looking, her breath hot against my skin.
"I am so hot and uncomfortable," she whispered, her voice a purr of pure menace. "You are going to pay for this later."
Right then, I knew. Tonight was going to be severe. But looking at her—framed by the massive, soft collar of the sweater—she looked like an angel in wool. It felt worth it.
Later that night, everything went exactly as expected.
I had been secured to the spanking bench for what felt like an eternity. She had gagged me early on, because my screaming was entirely real and the tears were streaming freely down my face. She had stopped a few minutes ago, leaving the room to get a drink.
In the quiet, I managed to get control of my heavy, ragged sobs. This was usually the part where she returned, unlocked me, pulled me into a warm embrace, kissed me, and told me how much she loved me. I braced myself to be let up.
The door opened. She walked back into the room, but she wasn't holding the keys.
She picked up the big leather paddle. The heavy one. The one I absolutely hated, the one she hadn't even used yet to bring me to tears.
I looked up at her, my eyes wide and swimming with fresh tears.
Instead of approaching the bench, she pulled up a stool and sat down directly in front of me, looking me dead in the eye. The contrast was maddening—she was still wearing that gorgeous, pristine, cozy sweater, looking incredibly soft, while holding an instrument of absolute torment.
"I understand that our official deal starts at six," she said, her voice smooth and entirely calm. "But I think it would be nice if, when I ask you to put on collars, or cuffs, or a particular sweater, or even wear some of my clothes... you just did it."
She traced the edge of the paddle with her thumb.
"I don't think it matters what the deal says. I think when I am wearing this sweater, you should do what I ask out of courtesy. Not because of a contract, but simply because it's what I want."
She stood up, gripping the handle of the paddle, her knowing, evil smile returning in full force.
"So, I want to give you something to think about the next time I ask you to do something just out of the kindness of your heart. I think fifty times with this will help you think about it clearly."
She stepped behind me, raising the heavy leather. Before anything happened, my arms and legs began to thrash pointlessly against the restraints. I was not in control of my own body. The tears gushed from my eyes without a single stroke. She waited for me to breath in...
"I will make them very slow," she whispered. "So you have plenty of time to reflect."
