The tailor's shop is closed tonight. The only sound is the hum of the old cooling unit and the click-clack of my knitting needles. My husband is asleep upstairs, worn out from a long day. I’m knitting him a sweater. It’s a deep blue, like the sky just before it goes black.

It’s a strange, domestic peace. My hands, which have held a rifle and clutched at silk sheets, are making something soft. My mind, which is always five steps ahead in a political game that no longer has me as a pawn, is quiet. For once, I’m not plotting an escape. I’m just… here.

And yet, the quiet is its own kind of arousal. The memory of this afternoon is a slow, sweet burn. He’d come up behind me while I was sorting spools, his hands sliding under my sweater to palm my tits, his teeth grazing my mating gland. No words, just the press of his hardening cock against my ass through our clothes. We didn’t make it to the bed. He fucked me right there on the floor, my back against the bolts of raw linen, his hand over my mouth to stifle my cries. He came deep inside my cunt, and I came just from the feeling of his teeth on my neck and his hot release filling me up.

Now, with him asleep and the city silent, I’m wet again just thinking about it. About the possessive growl in his throat, the way his knot swelled and locked us together. I’m knitting this sweater, stitch by stitch, and all I can think is how I want to unravel it later, to feel the wool catch on his skin as I push it up his chest, to wrap the loose yarn around his wrists just to see the look in his eyes.

I used to dream of being a cloth merchant in a nameless town. Now I dream of this: a quiet shop, a sleeping alpha who is mine by choice, and the power to knit a trap so soft he’ll never want to leave it. The most exquisite cages are the ones we build for ourselves, thread by voluntary thread.

#DomesticBliss #KnotYourAverageOmega #Aftercare