Captive of a hot second-hand sweaters seller at the Paris flea market (M/M)

[Paris_bondage]

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.

[Canuck100]

That’s a story that’s right up my alley! Love it!

[TheMuffler]

Love the story!

[Paris_bondage]

Thank you, merci !
I'll try to maintain the level.

[Paris_bondage]

Part II

It's only been a few minutes since I've been tied up under this mountain of wool. To breathe better, despite the sweater in which my head is locked, I manage to turn over on my back. Apparently, there are no other sweaters over my head, and I can breathe properly as long as I'm not fidgeting.

If I make slight movements, as far as my bonds allow me, I have the impression of floating in an ocean of wool. I am Commander Cousteau of wool! But soon, the heat becomes intense, and the word sweater begins to find its full meaning. The problem is that the smell of wet wool turns me on even more...

A few minutes later, my jailer finally returns. It releases a few sweaters above me, and just lie down beside me to resume his caresses so well placed. Then, whispering:
- It really excites me to have you prisoner in my stock of sweaters. Do you like it too?
I nod, not wanting to talk.
- Someone waiting for you?
I turn my head to say no.
- Do we have the night to ourselves?
I let him know yes.
- I'll tell my partner to go home and let me close the shop. Anyway, there are no more customers. I'm going to untie you so you can go to the bathroom, then I'll tie you up again while I grab something to eat. I'll also give you a dry sweater. Mine, well, yours, is soaked.But it's gonna be my choice the sweater I pick up for you and the way I tie you up.

To be continued.

[Paris_bondage]

Third part posted twice, sorry, I cannot find how to delete this.

[Paris_bondage]

Part III

- We're going to close the shop. My partner will join me here to do the accounts. So I'll to have to hide you under the sweaters again. I understand you like it, but here, you really need to remain unnoticed. OK ?
I nod, and the next moment, after stroking my hair with a certain tenderness, an avalanche of wool buries me. Then, muffled by it, I hear his voice calling his partner, then footsteps, the sound of chairs being moved, and the two guys talking of their day's work.

This situation only increases my arousal. I can only imagine the scene: I visualize where the table and chairs are. One of those faces the pile of clothes under which I am trussed, the other has its back to it. Doubtless out of prudence François will have chosen the one from which he can see me; in fact, to see the mountain under which I am hidden.

Their discussion is quite long. They talk about their turnover, orders that must soon be delivered, kilograms of goods that they must ship to subsidiaries in other cities across the country. And during this time, in addition to the ropes that effectively immobilize me, I am forced into a second immobility: the obligation of not moving in any way whatsoever nor emitting the slightest sound whatsoever. Which makes me feel doubly bound: by my captor's ropes and by my complicity with him. To this is added the sensation of floating on a good meter of warm and fragrant sweaters and of supporting the weight of about as much.

Fresh air is starting to get scarce, and I need to save my breath. That too is an interesting feeling. I feel safe and certain that nothing bad can happen to me, that. At worst, if I really start suffocating, I can always shake my body and thus find the open air. Which would only create a huge embarrassment for François and myself. But who ever died of embarrassment?

A few minutes later, as if François had guessed my need for air, he sends his partner to get something from the shop and he takes the opportunity to lift the sweaters above me, untie the one in which my head is encased, and allow me to take a few deep breaths of fresh air. Then he lets the mountain bury me again, this time without locking my head in one jumper in particular. It's more comfortable for me, and it allows me to explore with my eyes, my skin and my mouth other sensations provided by other textures.

When his partner returns, he catches François still digging in "my" mountain:
- What are you looking for ?
- I don't know, I'd like to grab something warmer than what I'm wearing right now.
- Well, in that case, I'm going to choose something for myself too.

Thus, the next moment, I feel four hands search above me.

I'm probably the only avalanche victim in the world praying that his rescuers don't find him! Especially considering that one of them knows I'm there.

To be continued

[rattybat]

I'm really digging this so far- something about this just feels extra cozy, if you'll pardon the pun.

[Paris_bondage]

The next moment, I feel someone digging above me. Even if I'm buried under not far from one meter of sweaters, the probability of being discovered is high. Fortunately, I quickly understand that it is François who is searching where I am, leaving his partner search elsewhere and quite quickly, finding what suits him. We came close to disaster. What would have happened if I had been discovered?

François walks away, and their conversation resumes. I then understand that they are a couple, that François' partner is called Thomas, and, from the comments they exchange, I also understand that, if they opened this sweater store, it's because they also share this fetishism.

The silence that follows, interrupted by light chuckles, makes me presume that they are kissing, and that they are perhaps about to get laid. Then Thomas asks:
- Where did the ropes go?
The tone of his question reveals what use he intended to make of them.
- I don't know, maybe they're at home.
- No, I saw them here one hour ago. And no one but you entered the reserve. Do you have an explanation? Did you play with it alone?
The voice is less accusatory than mocking and complicit. I would therefore have come across probably the only two boys in the world with whom I share both a taste for bondage and this so rare fetishism.

François does not answer. I imagine he doesn't know what to answer. Thomas again:
- Come on, tell me what you did with those ropes!
- Ok, you want to know, you will know. And you might just like what you find out.

Two seconds later, the mountain of wool under which I am hidden collapses and I am exposed to the view of my captor, or more precisely, now, of my two captors.

To be continued.

[TightropesEU]

What a lovely story and I love the twist to the end, wonder what will happen next

[Paris_bondage]

Thomas bursts out laughing:
- Nice catch! Where did you find this pretty prey?
- I did not have to look far, the animal threw itself into my nets on its own. And he seems to love it!
At first I am red with shame, but their good humor ends up winning me over.
- Can we know your name, pretty prisoner?
- Vincent.
- Pleased, Vincent. Now, François, what are we going to do with Vincent?
- Pretty much what you want, he told me himself that no one was expecting him and that he has the night ahead of him. Can you confirm, Vincent?
- I'm OK with that.
- We're going to release you, the time you can use the toilet and freshen up, and during that time, we're going to decide what's next.

The two lovers begin to untie me, not without caressing me from time to time and from place to place. Before freeing my hands, they exchange a French kiss (after all, we are in France) in front of me before making me taste their tongue and their saliva one after the other.

Finally my hands were untied and I could stretch and use the toilet.

When I return to the storeroom, everything is tidied up, especially the ropes are again well wound up but not on the shelf where François had taken them. They are placed on the ground, against a wooden pillar.

François pushes me gently but firmly until my back is stuck to the pillar, while Thomas grabs my wrists and binds them on either side of the pillar, before wrapping the rope around my torso, my arms and of course the pillar.

The other ropes are used to tie my knees and ankles to the pillar. And soon I look like the cover of the comic book Tintin in America, where the hero is tied to a totem in the middle of his Indian captors.

- How come he's wearing that sweater?

Thomas recognizes the sweater that belongs to François; or to himself or even to both, given that it is both their trade and their fetish.

François answers him by telling him how I had wanted to buy it for him and how I had seemed excited by the fact that he was wearing it next to his skin.

- You see, we have a lot of interests in common with our friend Vincent.

Thomas approaches me, takes off his sweater and, as Francois had done at the very beginning, locks my head in it. Thomas is redheaded, and his sweater is impregnated with this exciting scent that redheads can have.

- So. One of us is going to go shopping, so we can have dinner, and the three of us are going to have a good night here. The other will stay to watch over you. You are unlikely to guess which one stayed and which one left!