Shapeshifter's blog

My boyfriend and I had just finished an after dinner walk along the river when I felt a nudge in my side. Walking this closely together I had to look down to make eye contact and see what he wanted. He directed my gaze forwards with a nod of his head and a quick “Look there”.

I followed his line of sight to see a square, wall mounted metallic sign of black text on a yellow background which read 'Caution - Clamping Used In This Area'.

To the average person it was merely yet another urban warning sign, one of so many that were bolted to walls, barriers and street poles, this one aimed particularly at any would-be parking charge dodgers. But to us, even so early in the relationship, it meant something else entirely. It meant something to which my body responded with a surge of adrenaline, the feeling that is so often described as butterflies. I grinned as my eyes shot back to him then quickly down to his shapely legs that were filling out the smart black trousers he wore.

Standing 5’ 5” and blessed with the body-beautiful genes of what I likened to a small rugby player (but whose own musculature was actually the product of weight training and cross fit and not the game of rugby) this man who’d stolen my heart was shorter than me by a full four inches but felt at a minimum four times as powerful, particularly when we wrestled. He seemed to be always in the mood to match up, it was intrinsic to how we both expressed our sexuality. He was a bedroom wrestler, a dining room wrestler, a kitchen wrestler, a hotel room wrestler and very late one night even a back garden wrestler – seeing the moon glowing fully behind him as he looked down at me from his pinning position was a sight that was burnt happily into my memory.

Wrestling was how we had started talking. Repeated visits to and appreciation of each other’s online profiles leading on to message exchanges and eventually meeting. The chemistry had started online and been confirmed in person. What had started as conversation quickly became a smile when reading his messages, frequent in-real-life laughs at his witty responses and remarks, the rush of excitement as I read and re-read his vivid descriptions of particular moves and techniques. Every electronic ding that heralded the arrival of a new message instantly made me hope it was one from him.

And where did the clamping sign come into this? Clamping, I’d quickly come to learn, was what he liked to call a particular pin of his. He was fond of giving his own names to wrestling holds. Clamping was when that powerhouse of a build got the better of mine and he’d crash me out onto my back, mounting to be sat on my stomach or lower chest where he’d sit and take joy in being able to so easily hold me down a moment before moving up, his crotch coming to rest on my mouth and his beautifully thick thighs closing in tightly either side of my head and holding me in place.

Just as the bright yellow sign, which now passed on our right as we turned and left the mild evening air of the outdoors to enter the cooler air of the busy city centre hotel lobby, threatened to clad the tyre of a wrongfully parked vehicle in a solid metal casing, his own solid thighs – which felt at his will like they became an organic steel - would envelope my head and enter a playful game of squeeze and release as he skilfully engaged and relaxed his developed adductors.

That mental barrage of images of his legs, recollections of their many previous uses and the very fact he’d made a point of drawing my attention to the sign meant my excitement was growing, forcing me to stuff my hands in my pockets as we passed by the long reception desk to mask the visible reaction I was conscious was beginning to show. We crossed the polished floor and stepped into a waiting lift where I quickly pressed the button for floor 7, the indiscernible chatter from the nearby café-bar rapidly diminishing to silence as the doors closed and our suspended box beginning to ascend.

No sooner were we underway he pushed up square against me and brushed his right thigh along the outside of my left, the butterflies took flight again at the contact as he glanced down to check his positioning then looked up into my eyes, worked his left leg between mine and gripped my thigh between both of his. I wanted to slam my hand on the emergency stop and willed no one else to want this lift between now and us getting to our floor. He flexed his quads, his eyes sparkling as I involuntarily bit my bottom lip at the feel of the pressure, before reaching up and cupping a hand on the back of my neck, guiding me down to bring my ear to his mouth where he whispered “Wait until that’s your head”.

No amount of pocket stuffing could hide this now and I hoped no one was waiting outside as the lift slowed to a stop and the doors opened. Forgivingly, the coast was clear. He took the opportunity to keep me in his thigh grip a moment longer then released my leg and took my hand, leading us out and to our room.

The walk along the corridor to room 710 was full of anticipation, a quick swipe of the access card and the door was open. Once across the threshold he moved around and behind me, closing the door and turning the lock. Remaining behind and with his hands now on my waist he guided me to the foot of the bed, turned me around to face him and sat me down. Straddling my legs I edged backwards so he could come to rest on my lap, his folded knees now either side of me and instinctively closing in and applying a light pressure. He feigned moving in for a kiss and instead shifted, lifting up first one side and then the other, extending a leg with each movement to cross them at the ankle behind me. I braced myself for the inevitable and incredible crush he could deliver but instead he laughed, moving forwards and manoeuvring me to be laid on my back. I arched to accommodate his locked feet behind me before he quickly uncrossed them and moved to sit on my chest. Advancing forwards to rest his crotch on my face he reached down, linked his fingers behind my head and pulled up, bringing me forwards to be buried in the warm and soft material before drawing his thighs tightly together.

The Clamp was locked on.

His hands maintained the hold on the back of my head as his thighs worked their own on the sides. I looked up as best I could to glimpse at his face and found he’d tilted his head back a little and closed his eyes, his expression a very visible sign - alongside the very physical one that I could feel pushing against the barrier his clothing formed - that he was enjoying every second of working me in his grip. Releasing my head from his hands but holding me tight with his legs, and with eyes still closed, his fingers worked to unbutton his shirt from top to bottom, untucking it from his waist and sliding it off first one shoulder and then the next, letting it drop off the side of the bed. His impressive chest rose and fell strongly with each breath as the grip-and-ease continued around my skull, never letting go to allow me to rest back on to the bed.

His hands found their way down to his waistband where they first opened the clip of his fly before finding and lowering the zip a couple of centimetres. He paused a moment to look back down at me and without a word laced his hands back behind my head, rolled to his right and took me with him, stretching out those short and powerful legs to secure a headscissor. A light squeeze - a tease of what was to come - gave way to a brief release of pressure, a full pull up and repositioning of my head into both his crotch and the thickest part of his thighs, and then a re-locking of his ankles. He straightened out his legs, closing his eyes once more as he set about this first stage of his wrestling domination, simultaneously crushing and smothering my head.