Message-ID: <12807eli$9807071540@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "redheaded composer" Subject: New Story: Attacked by Silk Gloves - 1/5 (tg, magic, nc, creative) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Content-Type: text/plain Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <19980706143128.12444.qmail@hotmail.com> New Story: Attacked by Silk Gloves - 1/5 (tg, magic, nc, creative) My second story, I hope you like it. The set-up takes a few pages, but stick with it, for there is plenty of good stuff later. Normal Disclaimer Information: Do not read any further if: 1. You are under the age of 18, or 2. You are offended by explicit sexual and/or erotic writing, or 3. You are offended by humiliating sexual situations This story describes creative situations where a man is magically transformed into a woman, against his will. If this sort of story is likely to offend you, then do not continue. If you have any comments on this story, good or bad, then please tell me so via E-mail! It will encourage me to write more. Thank you, RHMusic - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul was obsessed. He had no friends, no social life, and no spare time. All this because his mind was completely hijacked by his obsession with magic. It started when he was in high school with simple magic tricks and then increased as he gradually learned more and more complicated illusions. He thrilled at seeing the illusion for the first time, the awe, the wonder. He loved picking it apart and learning it, revealing its secrets. Unfortunately, that's just when he would feel let down, for once the illusion was revealed and mastered, it immediately lost it's magic. Sure, he had fun showing off in front of friends, at parties, etc. (although he was looked upon as a nerd - and his delivery wasn't very theatrical). But once it was learned and perfected, it became just another trick. He longed for the real thing. The trick which maintained its allure even after he understood it, more than a day or two. Ultimately, he was looking for something that he couldn't explain away. When he got to college, he started the real search, between classes, first with the university library. He had already read through most of the books on magic, so he skipped on to the "Religion and the Occult". This section took about a year to sift through; it was a big library. After that, he tried "Alchemy". Then "Myths and Legends". By the time he had exhausted all of the library books, he was nearly the most knowledgeable expert in the state. What he discovered was disappointing. This was perhaps due to his early training in illusions, but none of the magic that he discovered passed his rigorous test: 1) It had to be repeatable, 2) It had to be physical, not mental [he had no use for the Psychic Friends Network], 3) It had to be a conscious act performed by a human being (so, haunted houses were out), and 4) It had to be something which he could not accomplish with his own magic expertise, which, by this time, was considerable. Paul wondered if he would end up like Harry Houdini, forever searching in vain for paranormal behavior, and forever disappointed. The magic in the books failed all of these tests. They might say "secret ingredients" or require sayings not specified. They might depend on statistically invalid tests (especially aphrodisiacs). Or, they might be strictly anecdotal or third-hand hearsay. Lots of books began with "It has been said that an ancient race of X were able to perform magical feats..." - in other words, pure speculation. By this time, Paul had finished his junior year he had decided on a degree in sociology. Of course this degree was not the ticket to wealth and fame, but it was related to his area of interest, and it gave him opportunities to re-use his Occult research. His professors were impressed with how well researched his papers had become. At the start of summer break, Paul had finished his library research and was ready to go into the field. The opportunities were meager. Paul had only found five potential cases that matched his criteria. Two were the result of his library research, two were found through on-line computer research, and one was found through his newspaper search. Since all of these were in the United States (he had specifically put aside foreign travel as being too impractical), he decided it was time for a road trip. "Let's see if there is anything real out there," he thought, as he pulled out of the driveway. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - After three weeks of travelling, he was beginning to get discouraged. He had visited 3 locations, with no luck. One was simple magic, over enthusiastically described by a local journalist (Paul was able to easily impress the amateur with his own magic). One was a fraud, pure and simple, and one was a man who had died years earlier ("I think it was all made up," his son said, "anyway, he burned all his papers before he died, so there's thinking left to look at"). Paul parked his car in the driveway of his fourth case and walked to the door. It was in an old, run-down Victorian mansion - the kind that are always too close to the highway, because the original owner hadn't anticipated so much suburban sprawl. This one was especially run down and seedy. Everything needed painting, the yard was strewn with litter, and the wood was rotting away. He heard trucks rumble by, just through the trees. It was hot. He crossed the porch to the front door. Idly, he wondered if the floorboards would hold his weight. He rang the bell and waited. Two minutes went by. Paul rang again. He peeked into the side window (cracked), though dirty lace curtains, down a dark and deserted hallway. After a minute, he saw someone cross the hallway. Paul rang a third time and waited. Paul rang a fourth time. "What!?" The door was whipped open and a cranky old face shot out. "Oh!" Paul stumbled back. He was overcome by a host of ugly smells: cigarette smoke, stale sulfur, cheap perfume, baby powder, mildew. "Hi," he coughed, "ummm, my name is Paul." "State your business." She was impatient and agitated. Her head had a slight uncontrolled quaver to it. She was at least 85 years old. "Right. My name is Paul. Ah... I said that, didn't I? Right. Mrs. Carter? I saw an article that mentioned you in the Corbet County Times from 1954. Some society piece that mentioned a magic trick that you did for a benefit party? Something about a glove that would put itself on your hand. Ummm..." She looked at him with complete contempt. "Yeah, well I was curious how you did it. I'm really good at illusions, and I couldn't see how that trick could be possible." "Well, maybe it wasn't a trick, maybe it was real?" Paul felt his heart skip a beat. "Real?" He gasped and stammered. "Har har haaarr," she wheezed at him. Paul felt a gentle mist of spittle land on his face. He grimaced. "You kids are so gullible. You'll believe anything. Some magician you are. Well, I'm sorry, but my entertaining days are long over. Goodbye." She pulled back and pushed on the door. "Wait!" Paul shouted, and lunged towards the door. "Ahhh, fuck!" he screamed as the door shut solidly on his hand. Fortunately, it was the meat of his hand, not just the fingers. "Now what?" She opened the door again. "Oh god." Paul moaned, rocking up and down, doubled over with his hand in his lap. He looked up at her. "Please. You don't have to perform the magic for me, just tell me how it's done. I've been looking for something like this for years. I'm desperate." She looked at him more closely, her head tilted to one side, eyes piercing into him, as if trying to look into his skull, rather than at his face. Her nostrils flared for a second. She pushed a finger into her nose and picked at it for a second. "Alright, come in. You interrupted my lunch." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul sat watching Mrs. Carter ("It's Rosemary") hunched over her soup. Her slurping was noisy. Both elbows were on the table and she covered the bowl. "Good thing you're here, place is a pig sty. Can't say I ever cared to keep it up for anyone after my daughter died." Soup dripped down her chin. She wiped it off with her fingers, then on her housecoat. Paul looked around. Indeed, the place was filthy. He was glad that she didn't offer him anything. To make the soup, she just picked a random pot from a pile of dirty dishes strewn around the kitchen, added some brown water from the tap, and then poured in the soup stock from an open can on the counter. The table was covered with a greasy film, the chairs were sticky and oozing lint. He saw at least two cockroaches. "Excuse me?" Paul asked. "I said, you can start with the kitchen." "Kitchen?" Paul was befuddled. "Yes. Clean it!" "What? Why?" "God, you're thicker than a cinder block! Do you think I'm going to share a secret with a snot-nosed, wet-bottom infant like you? You're going to have to work for it." "Now wait a minute. I don't even know if you can do magic at all. I don't even know if you're really Mrs. Carter! If I'm going to be your personal cleaning service, I need some proof or I'm headed right...." Paul stopped mid-stream. She had reached over and pointed to his wrist with an oily, sticky finger. As her finger drew near, his wrist, as if shackled by a magnetic cuff, leapt to her finger, pulling his whole body forward an inch or two. "God, I hate you smart-asses! You don't know shit." She moved her finger effortlessly to the side, and his wrist, as if welded to it, was dragged along. "Just a sniveling twerp, a braying jackass, an ass who don't know jack." Her finger dragged his wrist over the table. Paul stumbled out of his chair and onto his knees, his face knocking over an old bowl of sour milk and corn flakes, which clattered across the floor. Her hand continued to the floor, and Paul's wrist with it. Paul was forced to bend over, still on his knees. She pushed his wrist to the floor and pressed it firmly down. The floor was disgusting. She twisted her finger and pulled it back, leaving his hand invisibly locked to the floor. He jerked his hand, his arm, in fact, his whole body, but he couldn't budge his wrist. He put his knees underneath him and pulled with his entire weight, but it was impossible to move. Paul looked up at Rosemary, frightened, heart pounding, scared shitless. She was giving him that strange look again: intense study mixed with irritation. She reached with her finger to his head. "No!" Paul shouted and jerked back. Of course, his shackled wrist prevented any serious movement away and she was easily able to reach his forehead. What he felt was quite remarkable, his entire skull, as if encased in a tight leather mask, was pulled magnetically to her finger. The force was immense, with no apparent effort on her part at all. "Is this hypnosis?" he wondered. He thought that he had studied hypnosis and was able to defeat it. "Is this a trick? Is this real?" his mind was swirling. Her finger, with his head attached, now moved towards the floor as well. As she slowly, almost gracefully approached the floor, Paul struggled further, until he felt his head joining his wrist, welded to the slimy linoleum. For extra measure, she tilted his head so his nose and lips were pressed to the floor. "You need to learn to respect, boy." She looked down at him, while all he could look at was her sandals. Her feet were gray and spotted, with split toenails. "Here's the deal. You clean this kitchen, and if you do a good job I'll show you something. Otherwise, get the fuck out of here and if I ever see you again I'm calling the police." Rosemary picked up her foot and ground a sandal into his face. The bottom was gritty. She got up and left the room. Paul listened as she slowly ascended the stairs to the second story. As soon as her bedroom door was closed, his bonds were suddenly released. His body flew up off the floor, his head hit the table with a bang, and he fell back hard. After crawling a few steps he raced for the front door, opened it, stepped out, and then.... Hesitated. "Shit," he thought, "she is one dangerous old bitch." He headed out. Then stopped, turned back, his hand still on the door knob, turned around again, forwards, backwards, and then he finally stopped, one foot inside, and one outside the house. Paul got his breathing gradually under control as he looked nervously back into the house. He had no idea how she had accomplished what she had just done. This was definitely the opportunity he had been looking for. Gradually, he walked back into the house, nervously glancing up the stairs, and then quietly went back to the kitchen. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - It was four hours later before Paul saw Rosemary again. He spent the entire time in the kitchen, cleaning it as best he could. He was tempted several times to go out and get additional cleaning materials, but was worried that his leaving the house would be interpreted as leaving forever. As it was, he was able to do pretty well. There were two unused bars of soap and some other cleaning supplies in one of the cabinets, apparently left there by some social worker. He used dirt and gravel from the back yard for the worst pots, and after washing the dishes thoroughly he used his shirt to dry them. This took about an hour and a half and just about a whole bar of soap. Another hour and another bar of soap and the countertops, tabletop, and cabinets were no longer greasy. He was working on the floor when Rosemary stepped in. He saw her feet first, then looked up her scrawny legs. She stepped back. "Pervert," she muttered. She looked around. Paul stood up and looked at her, hopefully. She took another long, hard look at Paul, this time so long that he stepped back and looked embarrassed. "What is she looking for?" he wondered. She went to the table and sat down. "Dinner?" - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - By this time, Paul knew the kitchen pretty well, so he boiled some more soup and they ate in silence. She sat back in the chair, put an arm on the table, and looked at Paul for a while. Paul was determined not to say anything until she was ready. "Alright. Thank you for cleaning up the kitchen. I had nearly forgotten what color it was." Rosemary grimaced at him, belched, and drummed her fingers. "Alright. I guess I'll have to show you something," Paul's eyes went up, "but not tonight. I'm too tired. Tomorrow." "But..." Paul started. "What?" She looked at him, piercingly. Paul sputtered, but sat back, resigned. Now that he had made up his mind, he was determined to see this through. Rosemary got out of her chair. "Get up. You can sleep in my daughter's old room." - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Paul woke up, panicked. "I must be having a heart attack," he thought, his heart banging. After a second, he calmed his breathing, his heart slowed, and he relaxed. He checked his watch on the dresser. 11 PM, so he had only been asleep for an hour and a half. "Gonna be a long night," he sighed. Ancient but unmistakably feminine smells surrounded him. He looked around the room, scanning its contents. Apparently, nothing had been touched after Rosemary's daughter had died. Old clothing was left on chairs and dressers, make-up lids were still open, the bed had been left unmade. It felt weird sleeping in a bed with used sheets, last used by a young woman who had died 25 years ago. He felt like an archeologist invading a lost tomb. Paul looked down. The covers had trapped his penis and he realized now that it was rock hard. "God, why you?" He stroked it through the sheets, idly, enjoying the sensation. Paul was naked under the covers, just because that's the way he always slept. The bed was a wonderful four-poster canopy bed, but with the canopy faded and yellowed. The daughter (Paul had never heard her name) must have been treasured and spoiled by doting parents to have been able to sleep in such a well appointed bedroom. After a second he got up. A crooked light from the highway next door shined faintly through the window. He parted the curtains and watched some trucks drive by. After a second he walked over to the dresser to poke around a bit. The dresser was strewn with makeup, school pins, rings, and old concert tickets. Leafing through an old notebook, Paul discovered that the daughter's name was Janice. Apparently she was pretty popular. Her prom date had been some guy called "Jacob", apparently a real hunk, if the notes from her friends were any indication. At the end of the dresser, Paul spied a pair of silk gloves. "Are these the gloves from the trick?" Paul wondered. He picked one up and looked at it carefully. It was made of silk, and was long, apparently intended to be worn over the elbow at a fancy affair. "The Prom?" He held it up to his hands; it would be a tight fit. Paul put the glove down. "Alacazam!" Paul waved his hand over the glove, being stupid, pretending to weave a spell. "Shit!" Paul jerked his hand back. The glove had moved. After a second, he moved his hand closer again, and as he came within a few inches, the gloved moved again, this time shifting towards his hand a little. "Jesus!" he said, pulling back again, a bit scared. "This is it!" He idly wondered if he was still asleep. Paul steadied his breathing and reached forward one more time. As soon as his hand got within an inch, the glove jumped up, and engulfed his hand! "Ack!" He jerked back and tried to shake off the glove. It was like his hand was being engulfed by a silk snake, swallowing more and more of his arm. Paul pulled frantically at it, but was unable to get a good grip on the silk. The silk caressed his entire arm as it gradually worked its way higher and higher. Paul was frantically trying to grip the fingers, to get a hold on the opening, but it was just too slippery. "Damn it!" Paul was frantic. The glove had reached his elbow, and now the fingers came to life. Each one wriggled away trying to work themselves onto his fingers. "Damn, No!" he quickly clenched his fist. As Paul tried desperately to stop it, the thumb of the glove, like some kind of live animal, gradually worked it's way to the tip of Paul's thumb, and no matter how hard he pressed, the silk was able to grasp hold of the tip. Once the tip was surrounded, it gradually ate up the rest of his thumb, until it was isolated from the rest of his hand. Next, each finger was attacked individually. The glove was alive and possessed. It was stroking, rubbing, squeezing, his entire arm as it inexorably invaded each finger, surrounded it, enclosed it, isolated it, until, at last, his hand, his entire arm, and each of his fingers was fully enclosed. Paul breathed for a second, realizing that he had lost the battle. He held up his arm in the glove, and looked at it a second, rotating it. His hand was smaller now, apparently squeezed by the glove, but still felt comfortable. He could still tell that it was alive, however, for it squirmed, a living wriggling glove that had covered his entire arm. There was a slight 'click' and Paul felt a slight tightening around the armhole of the glove. With a sinking feeling, he realized that the glove had locked itself onto his arm. It would be impossible to get it off now without destroying it. By this time, Paul had backed up to the bed, and was leaning against it, still breathing heavily, sweating due to his exertions. He looked up as he heard something clatter on the dresser, and the watched in horror as the other glove knocked over an empty perfume bottle, dropped to the floor, and began slithering across the floor like a snake, the arm-hole first, open and obviously ready to attack his free hand. "Oh no you don't!" This time Paul was ready. He leapt into the bed, interlaced his fingers, and then sat on them. "There! See if you can beat that!". The glove climbed the bedpost, got onto the bed, and snaked across the bed. It immediately started to wedge itself underneath Paul's bottom, trying to get to his gloveless left hand. Unfortunately, Paul hadn't counted on the glove on his right hand helping out. The fingers started moving, trying to disentangle themselves, and try as he could to control the gloved hand, they were too strong. After a second, his right hand was completely free of his left, and had pushed it away. All the while, Paul was sitting on both hands, and squirming as the energetic glove burrowed deeper underneath. "Damn!" Paul decided to give up on defense and go for offense instead. He jumped up and tried to brush the second glove off the bed. But the glove had been too fast, and as he jumped up, it firmly grasped the fingers on his left hand, and no amount of flailing his hands could shake it off. This second contest was quickly lost, as the glove now devoured his entire arm, eating it up inch by inch. Paul still fought it, but knew in his heart that the outcome was certain. And, after his arm had been fully encased, after each finger was individually isolated and tightly encased, he heard the inevitable 'click' as the arm hole tightened and the second glove was now securely locked onto his arm. "Damn." He thought. He wondered how Rosemary would react to this. Probably it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been so nosy and hadn't poked around the dresser. Oh well, certainly her magic would be powerful enough to undo this spell. "Unless she doesn't want to," the thought caused his stomach to knot up. He did not like the idea of being trapped in these silk gloves forever. He sat back and tried to relax. "It's over," he sighed, resigned to the fact that he was going to be wearing the gloves for a while. "But on the positive side, I've seen the glove trick! And not just once but twice!" And in a way that made the magic infinitely more powerful and curious than he could have thought possible. But now he was glad that it was over, after all, both of his hands had been covered and there was nothing more to lose. They were gorgeous silk gloves. He marveled at how dainty they made his hands look. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that his hands did, in fact, look more delicate and feminine. He held a hand to his face and gently stroked the smooth silk over his cheek. Almost immediately, his penis reacted. Then, as he stroked his cheek, he noticed that he wasn't doing all of the stroking. The glove itself was controlling his fingers and doing some of the caressing on its own. "Now, *this* is weird," he thought. It was still his hand for he could feel it and (mostly) control it, but it seemed to be smaller and more feminine, and had a mind of it's own. Meanwhile, without Paul fully realizing it, the other glove moved down and began playing with his nipples. This was something that Paul never did by himself, but the sensation of the silk on his nipples was delicious and he felt his cock become fully erect. Paul had been hard most of the night due to the stimulating surroundings, and so it was only a few seconds before he was now fully hard. All that was needed was a little more direct stimulation, and his right hand provided that as it went from his cheek to stroke his cock. The fingers closed around his penis, making a silken tunnel, which felt fantastic as his hand stroked up and down. It was just a few of these slow strokes before he erupted, squirting sperm up his belly and over his chest. After a few more strokes to squeeze the last drops out, the gloves scooped up the sperm and brought it close to his face. For some reason Paul didn't even think twice, he just inhaled the moist aroma, then opened his mouth and sucked all of the sperm off of the gloves. This continued until he was all cleaned up. Then the gloves went back to stroke him some more as Paul drifted off into a light sleep. [End of Part 1] -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----