Under Her SpellbyCuthbert©
The phone rang. I rinsed the wine glass one last time and hung it on the rack. By the time I'd found a towel and dried my hands it had rung two more times. "Hello."
"Is that you, Gene?"
"Yes. Who's calling?"
A husky female voice responded, "Oh, Gene! Don't you recognize my voice anymore?"
A jolt shot through me and I instinctively held my breath. I felt my face go pale and began to feel light-headed, so I sat back against the kitchen counter.
"Gene? Are you still there?"
"Yeah . . . yes, I'm here." I said hesitantly, distracted by the dizziness, which was gradually easing.
"Ha, ha! Of course you are, honey!" Her smooth, deep voice resonated so many intense emotions in me – excitement, fear, confusion, desire – all at once. Her calling me 'honey' made it worse.
"So you still remember your Aunt Regina, hnnnnh? It's been awhile, hasn't it Gene?"
"Yes, quite a while." I offered cautiously. My dizziness had abated, but the self assurance that had carried me through the day was all gone now – displaced by imbalance and insecurity.
"How long has it been, honey? I bet you know. Can you tell me how long?"
I knew exactly how long. "Three years . . . and a month." The memories were still vivid.
"That sounds about right. So you do remember, don't you?"
"Yes, what?" She sounded calm, but insistent.
"Yes, Ma'am?" I offered.
"No, no, no – not Ma'am. Try again. Yes, what?" It was her schoolmarm tone.
"Yes, I remember." Damn, she already had me reciting in response. The memories of doing that flooded my thoughts. "I remember everything."
"Good. That's so sweet. Of course you do. You think of me often? Hnnnnnh?" Now in that lilting voice -- encouraging, teasing.
"Every day." It was true. A day hadn't passed in which I didn't think about her and remember what we did.
"What was that you said?" The schoolmarm again, "I didn't hear you." Her voice changes were herding me where she wanted. Even though I recognized what was happening, I felt compelled to follow.
"I think of you every day."
"I think of you every day, Aunty Regina."
"That's better, sweetie. You do remember, don't you? How Aunty Regina likes to hear you say it. All of it. Hnnnnh?"
"Yes, I remember." The desire to please her was overwhelming.
"Have you missed me, honey?"
I didn't know what to say. I'd agonized over her for months after she left. But that was a long time ago and I'd thought I was over her. Now, just hearing her voice had me in a tailspin.
"Yes . . . yes, I missed you . . . very much, Aunty Regina."
"Well, I'm here, Gene. Here in town. I'm staying at the old place. I've leased it for the summer."
I was speechless. Here? What did that mean? My life had become so normal compared to five years ago – with none of that perverse weirdness that had taken it over back then.
"You'll have to come see me," she stated flatly. I didn't hear it as an invitation, or an order for that matter. Just a statement of fact: Yes, compelled by my own desire, I would have to see her. I started to feel pangs of the old urges.
"Um . . . OK."
"No, I meant you'll have to come see me." OK, now it sounded more like an order, but one with which I was only too willing to comply. I wondered if she could sense that. I was afraid that she could but also wanted that.
"I could use your help getting the place in shape. Why don't you come by tomorrow night, say around seven?"
"Um, . . . OK"
"And come prepared to do some chores. I imagine you still have appropriate attire -- am I right?"
"Ha, ha, of course you do. I expected you would, honey. Just what I like -- lovely. See you tomorrow." Click.
It was a Friday and I didn't want to think about it further that night. I opened a new bottle of Pinot Noir, poured myself a glass, and settled in to watch a movie. But anticipation rattled around in my unconscious.
The next day I got up early and went out for breakfast. I came home and took care of a few chores, paid some bills, and basically distracted myself as much as I could. Around 3 pm I couldn't delay any longer and had to start to get ready.
First to the attic, where I keep several suitcases securely stowed away. I found the one I wanted, dragged it over to the attic ladder, and carefully hoisted it down. In the bedroom I removed the combination locks, then laid out the clothes I'd need for inspection. The uniform was unacceptably wrinkled so I did some ironing and packed it back up. Everything had to be perfect.
Then to the shower. I shaved my face three times. It had to be totally smooth, so there would be no possibility of snagging delicates or chaffing sensitive skin. It had been quite a while since I had shaved anywhere else. After she'd left, I did it every few months out of nostalgic pining. But not for a long time now – maybe nine months. I lathered up and spent the next half-hour meticulously shaving my legs, pubes, and balls. I always found the heightened sensitivity of the skin on my shaved legs to be exquisitely erotic.
I got dressed in my regular street clothes, packed up my case and headed out.
On the way there I reflected on how I had first met Regina, close to five years prior. It was while I was picking up an elective course in the summer between my Junior and Senior year at the university. I worked during the day and attended classes two nights a week. The other three nights I spent at a small research library in a quiet corner of the campus. It was seldom used – only two or three students were there on a given night – and staffed accordingly, by a single library studies grad student.
One evening, several weeks into the quarter, I saw a middle-aged woman sitting at the station where the grad student usually sat. Not thinking that much about it I sat down and got to studying. An hour later I was getting tired and starting to look around when I heard the clicking of footsteps.
The woman had come out from behind the counter and was rolling a cart full of books in my direction. As she approached I took real notice of her for the first time. She was older than the typical graduate student, probably in her early to mid-forties. Her bookish eyeglasses, and chin-length, dark brunette hair were stereotypical librarian. She wore a rather snug conservative grey skirt and white shirt that showed off a curvy pear-shaped figure – petite bust, narrow waist and broad hips. The sound I'd heard had come from three inch high heels, in a deep maroon color that nicely complemented her dark grey hose.
She was old enough to be my mother, but everything about her fascinated me. She seemed over-dressed, and both conservative and sexy at the same time. The snugness of her skirt was provocative. As she passed by I fixed my gaze on the roll of her ripe womanly bottom, then down her shapely calves, which tapered to elegantly thin ankles. The grey hose were too fine for everyday wear, but subtly so, and her heels were a statement – the maroon wasn't garishly aggressive as a brighter red would have been but was assertive in a classy way.
For a while she was out of my sight shelving books and I returned to studying. When next I looked up she was ten feet in front of me directly across the aisle. She was facing away from me shelving the last of the books on the cart, which gave me a perfect view of her. God, she had a fine figure – such a small waist in contrast with her full, ample derriere. Voluptuous. Feminine, but womanly too. Soft on the outside, but solid on the inside. I couldn't take my eyes off her.
As she reached up to put a book on the top shelf her skirt rode up a little and I got a glimpse of stocking tops. Holy shit, she was actually wearing stockings! Who does that anymore? None of the women I'd known even wore pantyhose. Gazing at her was like looking into some exotic cheesecake world – intriguing, sexy, dangerous, and intoxicating. I was so mesmerized that I didn't notice that she had turned around. I flushed with embarrassment when I finally realized that she had caught me staring. She gracefully acted as though nothing had happened but I thought a saw a wry smile on her face as she walked away.
A week passed before I saw her again. When I did, I immediately remembered being caught before and felt embarrassed. She made her rounds again shelving books just like the first time I encounter her. I resolved not to embarrass myself by being caught again ogling her. But when she came around try as I might I couldn't help myself.
This time she was wearing a red sweater, a smart white skirt, and 4" black pumps. The thin fabric of the skirt snuggled tightly to her body, and accentuated her womanly figure. When she bent over to reach the lower shelves the smooth fabric was pulled so tight to her bottom that I could clearly see the outline of darker colored panties beneath and bumps from garter clasps. That's when I noticed the dark seam that ran up the back of her beige stockings. An electric jolt of excitement shot through me. Once again, I was so mesmerized that despite my better intentions I'd fallen into a trancelike stupor.
She turned around and there I was, caught ogling away. This time she looked directly at me, all the while smiling a knowing, bemused, confident smile. Again, I was very embarrassed, only this time I felt much more exposed. She had an intense effect on me and seemed to enjoy knowing it. She also seemed to be amused by my embarrassment. As she walked away she had a distinct wiggle in her walk.
The following Wednesday, I was back at the library to study again. When I saw that the grad student that was usually at the front desk was back I felt a mixture of relief and disappointment. I settled into my routine and lost track of time.
I heard a noise and looked up to see her shelving books right to the side of me. I hadn't noticed her arrival at the library or heard her approach. She was suddenly just there, which startled me. She wore a white cotton blouse, dark grey wool skirt, seamed black stockings and four inch heels. She was bending over to reach the lowest shelf. Not squatting, but bending over, way over, at the waist. The display of her legs and ass was intensely provocative. My blood pressure shot up and I immediately got hard. I had to stare. I could have looked at her like that forever and never tired of it. I wanted it to never end. My attention was so riveted that my peripheral vision had blurred and it seemed like I was looking through a tunnel at her ass. Out of nowhere, within three seconds, it had become the center of my universe. As if I was hypnotized.
She was still bent over when she turned her head to look at me. I was so far gone I couldn't stop looking. She observed me like that for a while. It might have been thirty seconds, I can't really say as my sense of time was so warped. I do know it was long enough to establish without a doubt that I was helplessly fixated. She slowly stood up and turned to look down at me. With a bemused smile she said, "I can see that you are one of those students that studies much harder than average. Keep that up and you just might make your dreams come true, sonny." Then she winked at me, turned on her heel and was gone.
I was absolutely mortified. She was wildly tantalizing, it scared the hell out of me that I so easily lost control around her. It was especially embarrassing that she knew it. After that incident, I resolved to change where I sat in the library. I didn't see her again for a while, and gradually became more at ease being in the library.
Two weeks later on a Friday I had been studying hard at the library since late afternoon and took a break to grab a quick bite at a coffee shop just off campus. Upon returning to my alcove I dove back into reading. A short time later I heard the sound of heels striking the terrazzo floor echoing off all the hard surfaces in the room. I looked up to see her walking towards me. As she got closer I realized she was coming to talk to me and I felt a little spasm of panic.
She sauntered up to my table, and stood there smiling with her weight on one leg and her hand on her hip.
"So there is someone here. I saw the books and was wondering -- because no one had signed in."
"Oh, I'm so sorry! I came in the afternoon and took a break to go eat. I forgot about signing the log."
"That's the rule, after six pm. Come with me, now." She suddenly turned on her heel and walked away without waiting for a response. I scrambled to my feet and hurried to catch up. On the way I noticed that I was the only student studying in the library that evening.
I followed her to the front desk trailing the wiggling roll of her hips. She was wearing an accordion-pleated navy blue skirt that swished as she walked, complemented with nude seamed hose and black heels. At the front desk she stopped, paused for a moment, and then spun around, spinning her hem out. It sensed that she knew I'd been ogling her on the way to the desk and was giving me plenty of notice so I wouldn't make an ass out of myself again. She tapped the log with a finger, said "Sign."
As I was signing the log she sat in the desk chair, which was well away from the desk such that the view of her was unobscured. I could peripherally see her cross her legs and felt her looking at me. I put the pen down and slowly looked up. Her shapely legs caressed by the shiny stockings were magnificent. The light directly above her reflected off the gloss of the sheer nylon highlighting the length of her legs I didn't want to stare but they were just so exquisite that I had to take them in for a little bit before I looked her in the eye.
When I did she was leaning back in the chair gently bouncing her foot and playing with the hem of her dress. She was looking right into me with a calm expression of determined intent. She so had my number. I was stuck in some kind of limbo – I couldn't look her in the eye but I couldn't look away either. It seemed natural to look at the floor and occasionally glance at her legs.
"What's your name, honey?"
She toyed with her skirt, occasionally stopping to stroke and smooth her stockings, gradually letting the hem ride up until her stocking tops just showed. "You like that, Gene?"
I swallowed hard and squeaked out an "Uh, what?"
"You very well know what I mean, young man. I'd appreciate an honest answer, now."
With a squeaky nervous voice, "Oh, um, OK. Well, yes, I like it. Very much. But I guess you already knew that."
"Unh hunh." She let the moment hang on that remark and pinned me with her stare. She didn't have to say anything to make her point. Saying nothing said everything -- the longer the silence went on, the more apparent the power dynamic became – it was obvious that I was smitten with her and she could do whatever she wanted with that. Two minutes is a long time to sink into the realization that this woman could own me. And I didn't even know her name.
"I know you've been staring at me, Gene."
"Um, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you or anything."
"Oh, honey, that's not a problem for me. Quite the contrary, I enjoy being admired. It just feels so good and so right – just lovely."
"Well, uh, I think you're. . . very attractive and I . . ."
She cut me off short, "How you feel is quite clear to me, honey. The real question is what we are going to do with it . . ." She toyed with her hem some more, gradually pulling it up to reveal a garter clip that had loosened. Standing, she grasped the stocking top with her fingers she pulled up on it while stretching out her leg and pointing her toe. After resetting the clip she swung her gaze up to see that I was completely mesmerized watching her, ". . . or perhaps I should say what you would be willing to do -- for the privilege of admiring me, hmmmh?"
She stared hard at me. It was all I could do to return the eye contact. She had reached right into my core and touched something of great importance to me. I desperately wanted to be intimate with this woman.
"You are interested in admiring me, aren't you Gene?"
I didn't hesitate for a moment, "Yes." I found everything about her to be wildly exciting – her figure, how she dressed, and especially how she spoke to me. She was exciting, and dangerously unpredictable.
"I like to look good, Gene. And I like that to be appreciated -- truly appreciated. But you should understand, Gene, that I do not accept indiscriminant admiration from just anyone. Admiration means so much more when it has a price – when it's a privilege that has to be earned -- wouldn't you agree?"
"Sure." Each time she said any variation of the word 'admire' I thought of another specific way that it might be expressed – touching her stockings, kissing her feet, inhaling her scent . . .
She made a show of uncrossing and re-crossing her legs the other way around. The distinct sound of the nylon stockings rubbing against each other sent a jolt through me. She bounced her leg some more. "What do you think, Gene? Would you consider it a privilege -- to admire me?"
"Oh, yes . . . no question . . . absolutely." . . . rubbing my hands across the taught fabric covering her ass . . . going down on her . . .
"Do you think you're ready to discuss what you'd be willing to do for that privilege, Gene?"
I nodded emphatically, "Oh, yes."
"Good." She stood up abruptly and said, "Stay put." She walked over to the entry doors, threw the deadbolt, and switched off the front light. She returned and bluntly directed, "Follow me."
She led me to an office in the back. It had a few desks against walls and 10' square area rug in the middle. She found a hard back chair, set it on one side of the rug, and said, "Sit," which I did.
She rolled an executive desk chair to the other side of the rug. She sat back comfortably in it, crossed her legs, and studied me. I was excited and nervous but I knew she had the lead and my place was to wait.
"Ok, Gene, let's talk. Do you know who I am?"
"My name is Regina Wakefield. You can call me Regina, at least for now. I was the head of Library Sciences here up until about six years ago, when I went overseas to study Psychology. This room was my office when I ran this little library very early in my career. I'm back for a while filling in for an old friend as a favor. So, Gene, what are you studying?"
"Mmm. The study of tongues. That could prove useful. You'll be a Senior next year?"
"Mmm hmh. I've seen you here at the library on several occasions. You study hard, don't you Gene?" A slight smirk on her face made me realize she wasn't just referring to my books and I blushed. "I think I already know your favorite subject."
She was bobbing her leg, which made that swishing sound of nylon on nylon, and was playing with the hem of her pleated skirt again. She allowed the hem to ride up until the tops of her stockings were in full view. She occasionally reached down to smooth a stocking up her leg. "You like my stockings, don't you Gene?"
"Tell me more. It's OK, go ahead."
"Wha . . . what?"
"Tell me what you like. I want to hear you say it."
"Say what? What do you mean?"
"Oh, Gene. So much to learn. If you want to admire me, you've got to do what it takes to earn that privilege, remember? I'm a librarian, Gene. If you want to admire me, you'll have to use complete sentences. I like to here it -- all of it. Do you think you can do that?"