tracing wheel[hr]

The little tool lay in my sewing basket, you noticed it when you brought me a drink while I worked.    You picked it up as we talked, turning it in your hands and testing the sharpness of the teeth on your thumb.  I tried not to look, I tried to concentrate on the fabric in my hand, but suddenly everything was sensation.

I could feel the glaze of sugar on my teeth from the biscuit I’d eaten, the bitter tang of coffee in my throat and in my hands the texture of the scraps of fabric I was trying to shape into a quilt; warp and weft, under and over, interlocking threads.

You took my hand, turning my arm tender side up and ran the wheel up from wrist to the shallow of my elbow.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a tracing wheel.”

“What’s it for?”

“Tracing patterns onto fabric.”

“I’ve never seen you use it.”

“I don’t, I’ve never found it very useful.”


“It damages the pattern and I could never see the marks well enough.”

You nodded taking in my breathless explanation and as I shifted on my chair your eyes moved down to my knees, bare below my skirt.



You knelt before me and rolled back the hem of my skirt leaving my winter pale skin exposed to your breath, the tickle of your finger tracing a pattern slowly up and around the sensitive spread of me.  The wheel followed your finger delivering tiny specks of pain as it moved.



You nodded to the floor and down I slid.  You undressed me and traced the wheel over and over, mapping out my flesh in prickling ley lines of desire, when I moaned you shushed me and when you eventually returned to the tender white flesh of my inner thigh you gently spread your hand over my throat and as you wheeled up and over the slick lips of my cunt you pressed down.  I closed my eyes and let you in as you stifled the sigh of my orgasm.


I created this post for Molly’s Sinful Sunday project, to find out who else has been being sinful, click the image below:

Sinful Sunday

Thanks for reading,

Ruby x

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