Morning, Noon and Night blog tour: Kinky Craft Night

 

Jace pulled a length of the orange yarn out of its skein, tugged on it experimentally to gauge its strength. “I have a few ideas.” He smiled slowly and evilly. “Don’t throw this out yet.”

Which led, around 7o’clock that evening, to me standing in the bedroom wearing a chest harness of that awful orange yarn. The yarn also bound my hands together behind my back, wrists to elbows. The remains of the skein formed a crotch binding. Where it rubbed my pussy lips, the yarn felt only slightly softer than Brill-o. Normally, that’s not a quality I like in a yarn, but under the circumstances, the slight discomfort added to the excitement at being tied up and played with, like I was suffering for Jace. Like I was being twisted and kinked like yarn was when it was knitted. The yarn, if it had a résumé, could add damp and smelling of horny girl to its list of dubious qualifications, along with screamingly bright, stiff, and made from long-dead dinosaurs.[ …]

“How does that feel?” Jaces ran two fingers between my legs, dipping into the moistness where the yarn held my lips open. I shivered under his caress, at the way it echoed from my pussy lips to my clit, from my clit to my nipples, and from my nipples up to the place in my brain that was starting to open up so, if all went well I’d soon be getting that floaty endorphin-rush feeling.

I was still clear-headed enough to answer Jace’s question, though based on past experience I wouldn’t be coherent much longer. “Hemp rope had nothing on cheap acrylic yarn for making me aware how tender my tender bits are.”

 

from “7 p.m. Kinky Craft Night” in Morning, Noon and Night: Erotica for Couples

 

A tiny part of my enormous stash of yarn.

If you don’t knit or crochet, these traditional fiber arts may seem the stuff of plump, rosy-cheeked, housecoated Norman Rockwell grandmas. About the farthest cry you can imagine from things erotic. Knitting is soothing and hypnotic and it’s certainly good for creating cozy, useful, but not terribly sexy items like mittens and baby blankets. But it can also be a sensory, sensual delight. One of my happier Thanksgiving holidays was spent making a copper-colored scarf in silk and alpaca yarn. The rich color, the deliciously soft texture of the yarn passing through my fingers as I knitted and the springy ribbed scarf it was growing into, the distinctively textured bamboo needles, cool when I picked them up, but warming in my hand, even the yarn’s faint scent, that hinted of animal and green tea, added up to a memorable experience. Of course it didn’t that I was making the scarf for a lover, and imagining the color against her smooth olive skin, new dimension. My projects don’t always have that extra fillip, but I’m always aware of how the yarn feels as I work with it, always aware of the texture I’m creating, and reveling in the colors, sometimes downright wallowing in them, especially if it’s a self-patterning yarn that creates stripes or jacquard as I knit. And “bad yarn” affects me just as viscerally. For far longer than I care to admit, I was working on a pale yellow baby blanket in a simple, washable acrylic yarn. It took forever to make because, while that particular yarn was a practical choice for the project—baby things need to wash easily and the parents wanted a gender-neutral pastel—it was joyless to work with. I didn’t enjoy the knitting, so I kept putting it off. I wound up finishing in a crabby blitz, after the baby in question was already born.

The next yarn in the queue is a super soft wool blend in red and black, embellished with tiny red sequins. It’s self-patterning, but I’m not sure exactly how it will knit up. I need to make sure I pick just the right pattern to show up this glorious yarn—a fairly simple lace scarf, I think. But it’s hard to take the time to find the perfect pattern because I want to start playing with it now.

Unlike the  remains of the yarn from the baby blanket, which will sit in my stash until I get around to donating it to the local yarn shop’s charity knitting group. I don’t ever want to touch the stuff again.

When I first started knitting, I bought a few trash bags full of yarn at yard sales for insanely low prices. I discovered a few gems in these huge bags, beautiful yarns someone had simply not gotten around to using. Most of it, though, was flawed in some way, cursed with an ugly color or a nasty texture. Some of it I gave to charity, but some of it I simply tossed, figuring, like the heroine of  [title], “Chemo patients, preemie babies, and homeless people had enough problems without hats apparently knit out of old pot scrubbers.”

I wish I could say that my husband got as creative with the rejected yarn as the characters in my story did, but that’s pure fiction. On the other hand, I may or may have been on the receiving end of a large knitting needle used as a cane and I may or may not have enjoyed the experience immensely.

And who knows? I’m a diehard yard saler, like my character. I’m sure that some summer morning, in order to get one or two fabulous skeins at an estate sale, I’ll end up buying the whole dubious lot. And then I’ll make sure my husband rereads this story.

 

Here’s the whole blog tour schedule, so you can catch up on posts you missed.

The Schedule

11/13 Alison Tyler

 

 

PS: If you comment on this, P.S. If you comment on the guest posts for the MNN tour, your name will go in a drawing to win 25 books edited by Alison Tyler! As she puts it, “so many prizes, so few brain cells left.”

 

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