Halftime show

 When I was asked to write about a sweater fetish, I have to say that I was surprised. Not disgusted. Not offended. Just surprised. Never thought of that one before. I don't know why; clothing fetishes abound. I mean, I've got a boot fetish, so why not a sweater fetish? But I'd never thought about it.

But a bit of thinking later, I had something I could write. So I present it to you here. Past the cut is a picture of a posture collar, in case you've never seen one. It's important to the story, I promise.

Halftime Show

With the posture collar on, she couldn't look down, not even to admire the sweater he'd given her. She couldn't see the knitting, couldn't tell how many stripes there were. All she could do was feel the sweater, long in the arms. If she put her hands at her sides, the sleeves would fall all the way around her knuckles. It was long at the waist, too, which was good. She wasn't wearing pants, just socks that came up over her knees. Dark gray socks, the last five inches a band of white. It left about half a foot of bare skin between the top of her socks and the end of the sweater.

Hard to deny that it felt sexy. It was like wearing a dress, only not as form fitting. You couldn't see the curves, not exactly, but if she moved the right way, she knew they would be suggested. The knit would pull and stretch here, fall softly there, and give her all the lines she needed with the pattern on the sweater itself.

She took a few steps and twirled around, moving carefully in her six inch heeled ankle booties. There was a bit of a swirl, almost like a skirt, but not quite as free. It was like being gently bound in wool.

The sweater was too long to be a shirt, too short to be a dress. If she bent over just right, it would show everyone in the room what kind of panties she was wearing. But if she just kept up straight, walking and doing as she was told, she'd be totally covered. Completely modest. No one would need to know about the nipple clamps. No one would need to know about the word “whore” written with red marker on her stomach. The sweater covered all of it.

So she walked down the stairs, snagging briefly on a nail, and walked out to where the boys were watching football.

There were some double takes at the posture collar, but no one said anything. It was just another of their games. Another of their little things they did. Their friends didn't ask about it.

“Can I get anyone a beer?” she asked. She counted raised hands and walked into the kitchen.

You don't realize how much you use your neck until you can't move it anymore. Bending over to get the beer, she knew she her panties were visible to anyone looking in.

She balanced the beers on her tray and walked back into the main room, smiling when the boys made a cheer. Maybe their team was winning. She didn't care; football wasn't her sport. She preferred hockey. Fewer pads. More fighting.

On her way out of the kitchen, she felt another thread snag. She really needed to do something about all those nails. But her hands were full, and she couldn't afford to wriggle too much with the five open beers on her tray. So she just walked on. And the movement of the sweater against her bare leg might have felt a little odd. If she had been able to look down, she would have seen the thread splaying out behind her, seen how the sweater was getting shorter with every step. She might have seen that she hadn't gotten rid of the snag, that the sweater was just unraveling.

But she couldn't look down. Not with the collar. Maybe that was the idea.

She passed out the beers, and didn't pay attention to how much they were all staring at her. She didn't notice as one of them snipped the yarn, so she wasn't pulling the long trail behind her. And she didn't notice him tie the now loose thread to the leg of his chair. She just kept walking around the room, bending at the knees to give each of the men his beer. She moved as if the sweater was still covering her, having no idea that by the time she had given out all the beer, they all knew what her panties looked like. All she knew was that she didn't feel him push the sweater aside to put his hand on her ass. But she didn't think anything of it. She just smiled and reached down. Normally, she'd look down. But she couldn't.

“Why don't you join us?” he asked.

She knew what that meant, and she carefully got down on her knees, making sure not to kneel on the sweater. She didn't want to stretch it out. She liked her sweater. So she made sure not to kneel on it.

The game went on. Someone scored. Everyone got excited. She smiled.

He put his hand on her head and rubbed it with all the love and affection he always showed her. She turned her whole body towards him so he could see her smile, and so she could see him smile back at her. She didn't notice one of the other guys getting up to go to the bathroom. She didn't notice him picking up the thread as he walked by, and didn't feel the sweater unravel further and further.

She just knelt there, waiting for further orders. Waiting to be sent off for more beer.

It was during a commercial that one of the other boys, Larry, really took the time to look at her, then over to her husband. “Gotta say, Rick.” His eyes ran down her body, read the word on her stomach. “You are the luckiest son of bitch I've ever met. Great house, great job, and your own personal whore.” He smiled at her as he said the last part.

She didn't think anything of it until he winked at her and glanced back down at her stomach. Only then, when she tried to adjust the sweater in case he could see through it, did she discover that her skin was bare. That the sweater only just barely covered her nipples, and nothing beneath them. She realized that they could all see her panties, and could all tell she didn't have a bra on. She realized they could see the word Rick had written on her before giving her the sweater. And she realized they could all tell she was wearing nipple clamps.

She turned immediately red and went to cover herself up, but Rick's hand in her hair gave a gently squeeze, a slight pull of her hair. “Just stay where you are,” he said. “Sit back and put your hands on her heels. You can move at half time.”

She started to turn to him, ready to protest. But the second tug on her hair was enough to tell her that he wouldn't budge on this. So she settled down and put her hands on her heels, trying not to think about all that time between now and halftime, sitting there with her body exposed to all of his friends, knowing they could look back at her any time, and would see the word “whore” on her stomach.

He patted her on the head to tell her that he approved. She took a deep breath, which Larry watched very carefully, and tried to think about something else. Anything else.

Her husband's voice was quietly commanding. “Watch the game, Larry,” he said. “She'll still be here at halftime.”

She swallowed hard and turned red again.

What happens at halftime?