The Silken Pt. 01

Author's Note: This is a three-part series containing mind control, serial recruitment, pantyhose, incest, male and female bisexuality, and group sex. Some these aspects won't appear until later chapters (for instance, Part 1 only features women). If any of these offends you, please go elsewhere.

*****

"The rain was slapping against her office window when Gina's phone rang.

"Mom?" came the voice on the other end.

"Hey, Laura. What's up?"

"Where are you? I thought you were going to pick me from play practice."

Dammit, what the hell is wrong with me? Gina thought. Looking at her watch, she realized that she was supposed to be at Laura's high school over half an hour ago but had lost track of time. As usual.

Files and legal memoranda extended before her, a desert of paper that reached from her computer to the pictures of her only child on the far side of the desk. Nothing was exactly due tomorrow (this litigation would go on for years) but the work had to be done, and there was so much of it. Sometimes, Gina felt like she was drowning in it.

"Honey, I'm so sorry. I was just backed-up at the office."

"Yeah," Laura said, "you always are. Nice priorities there, Mom."

The words stung because they were true. Gina was an attorney, and a good one, so her instinct was to immediately counterattack. "Your father's gone now. Do you understand that?"

"I know."

"Your princess act doesn't work on me," Gina said, hating herself as she spoke. Laura had always been a princess to her husband, now just a memory. Even the word "princess" was like a stiletto, stabbing through the armor of Laura's teenage indifference.

"I know," Laura said again.

"I'm all alone now. It falls on me to support us. To support you. If I'm not making my billable hours, then I can't pay for your private school or your prom dress, much less your college tuition when you graduate this spring. I'm here late every night because you are my priority, so don't you dare imply, say, or think otherwise!"

"Sure."

They were silent for a moment. Already Gina felt the anger leaving her. It had been more a function of stress than anything Laura had said or done. She wanted to make it up to her daughter who, until the loss of her husband, had truly been her best friend. "Look, honey, I'm sorry, for being late. I can be by the school in fifteen minutes." Just as she said that, lightning streaked across the sky followed by a volley of thunder. "Weather permitting," she added, hoping her daughter would appreciate her small attempt at humor.

Laura didn't. "It's fine. I'll catch a ride home with one of the other girls."

"No, I can be right there. I'm packing up now."

"Don't bother. I'm 18. I can find my own fucking way home." The click of the call terminating was as unforgiving as the fall of a guillotine.

Gina put the phone back in its cradle. The storm outside fit the tumult she felt inside her as she took stock of her life: she was a successful attorney, and mother of a beautiful daughter. And she had been the dutiful wife of a wonderful man named Doug, until she'd been widowed last year.

Home, once a peaceable kingdom as charmed as the rest of her life, wasn't very pleasant anymore. She and Laura, far from relying on one another more as they mourned Doug's loss, had drifted to the point that, despite how similarly lovely mother and daughter may have looked, they were little better than strangers.

Then there had been the loneliness that seemed to eat Gina from the inside out. She missed her man touching her legs, filling her with himself. She missed giving herself to someone she loved, giving her lover pleasure. The absence of that feeling amplified the emptiness that Gina felt every day when she returned to her broken, unhappy home.

She opened her eyes, looked around her big office, then by chance down at her legs. They were shapely, encased in sheer black pantyhose. There was also run in them.

Typical, she thought. Typical of all the things that were ruined in her life, from the large things like her family, to the small like her stockings.

Her concentration spent, there wasn't much point in staying at the office. She looked out the window. The storm seemed to be slackening, at least for the moment. As good a time as any to make a break for her SUV a couple blocks away.

She packed up her bag, and headed out, pausing only a moment at the ladies room's full-length to see precisely how strung-out she looked.

Standing before it, she took stock. Her face thin yet soft, untouched by the weight of years. Time had been similarly merciful to her body, helped by a daily routine in her basement home gym. The only thing keeping the reflection she saw from being beautiful was that she was so unhappy.

Her black coat was medium-weight, perfect for the autumn chill, in stark contrast to her red and black Spanish-print skirt. That skirt, it seemed light enough that the briefest of gusts would lift it up.

She had been showing a lot of leg today, but why not? She still had it, or so the lingering eyes of interns and junior associates told her. It was nice, being desired.

Aside from the unhappiness she wore on her face, the only other flaw was the run in her hose. It had grown even on the short walk to the bathroom, the white scar of her skin showing in the black nylon's otherwise perfect, synthetic embrace. She was Asian, and her fair skin accentuated the run. Everything darkened by her conversation with Laura, the tear in her hose seemed proof that the universe was aligned against her.

In the years to come, however, she would look back at that moment, and thank goodness for that run in her black nylons. She would think about how it could have gone so differently, if not for that run.

How sad it would have been not to become a slave, not to become an enslaver of others.

On the main street of the small New England suburb of Arclight, Gina realized this had been a bad idea.

For a moment, the storm had seemed to slacken. It had turned out to be trick: no sooner was she thirty feet from the firm's door than the skies opened up again. The wind grew stronger, threatening to lift up both her skirt and her umbrella. Her car was parked at a nearby lot, but her shoes and the stocking-covered feet they enclosed were getting wet, the chill spreading up her legs.

"To hell with it," she said to herself. She was going to get out of the monsoon.

The shops along the street were local affairs catering exclusively to the small, wealthy and liberal enclave of Arclight. Not a chain store among them.

Which was nice when you wanted to spend an afternoon shopping, not so much when you were running for shelter. All the shops were closed. All except one: The Silken.

The Silken was an upscale hosiery shop, and had only been open for a month or two. Gina hadn't been in yet. Guess now would be a good time, she decided.

A bell atop the door chimed as Gina entered. She paused a moment immediately inside, shaking off her umbrella and generally feeling like a wet dog.

The store could have passed for a small club lounge. The walls were painted the color of an expensive Shiraz. Trance music low in the background, the lights slightly dim, almost as if to set the mood more than showcase the store's wares.

The store's selections were on wooden display stands. There were sections for thigh-highs, garter belts and panties, but the bulk of the store was dedicated to pantyhose.

Gina noticed the packaging, realized she hadn't seen these hose in any department or drug stores. These were the store's own brand.

"Hello," said a woman in her early twenties as she came out from a backroom. The girl was Asian as well. Probably Korean-American, Gina guessed. "May I help you?" the girl asked.

"Oh, sorry, I just needed some shelter from the rain," Gina began, suddenly embarrassed that she really wasn't there to shop. She pulled up the edge of her skirt to better reveal the ever-widening run in her own pantyhose. "I thought I could kill some time in here, maybe pick up some new hose."

"Well, you obviously came to the right place," said the shopgirl. "My name's Cheryl, by the way. My mom owns the store."

Gina introduced herself. "So, you work for your mother? You guys must get along pretty well," she said, thinking about her argument with her daughter. "That sounds very nice."

"It is. We're very close."

"Lucky you."

"Gina, is everything all right?"

"Yeah, sorry," she said, forcing herself to smile. "Just had a fight with my 18-year-old."

Cheryl had been guiding them to the pantyhose on display towards the front of the store. But when Gina had begun talking about her daughter, Cheryl had begun steering them to another display near the back. The nylons in that display were in gold packaging—Gina took them for the premium kind.

Right now, Gina didn't mind being guided. Nor did she mind buying a pair of the store's nicer pantyhose. It was a small price to pay for Cheryl taking the time to listen to a stranger's family's problems.

Cheryl nodded. "I used to have fights with my mom when I was that age. We got over it."

"How?" Gina asked, shocked at the desperation and sadness in her own voice.

"It happened quickly," Cheryl said. "You may say it started when my mom got into fashion, designing hosiery."

"How did that help?"

"It eventually gave us something in common, something to bond over."

"You mean running the business?"

"In a sense. We have a mission," Cheryl said. "Weird as it is, we're also trying to help people. Maybe people like you."

Gina laughed. "Help people with pantyhose?"

Cheryl smiled back. "You'd be amazed. Speaking of which, why don't I help you right now with some hose? You've got to be cold in those wet stockings." She took a pair of the gold packaged pantyhose from the display. "Try these. They're the best we have. And black, so they'll go with your outfit. I'll take your coat while you change."

"Okay—here, let me give you my credit card."

"No charge."

"Your mom's business will go broke that way."

"We're not really in this for the money. Besides, if you like them, we'll make up the difference on friends and family you send out way."

Gina thanked Cheryl as she handed the store girl her coat. Cheryl directed Gina to a fitting room in the back. It struck Gina as somewhat strange that there'd be fitting rooms in a place that sold mostly pantyhose. But whatever—having a place to change came in handy now.

Gina stripped off her ruined hose. She was thankful to have them off, but she felt exposed without any nylons on. Bad enough that her bare legs were open to the air, but Gina was also in the habit of wearing pantyhose without any panties.

She'd found it more comfortable that way while attending a Catholic high school, years ago. The fact that it made her easier for the boys to get at her, to push through the material of her blue tights and then, with a tear and a sharp thrust, be inside of her, had been an added bonus.

Gina shook that thought from her head. Strange she would be thinking of that. Must have been how exposed she felt, her naked slit uncovered beneath her skirt.

Easy enough to fix. She opened the package of black hose that Cheryl had given her. She held them a moment as though testing the material.

They felt good. She liked the softness of hose generally, but these felt different. Softer. Comforting, almost. She'd have to ask Cheryl how they made these. Had to be something more to them than just nylon and spandex.

She sat down in the dressing room, extended her right leg into the hose, drew the material up her calf, and then over her thigh. Gina felt immediately better, seeing her pale skin again sheathed in blackness. She did the same thing with her left leg, and then stood, gathering the nylon so it would be taut on her legs before pulling it up to her waist.

Her skirt was rucked up as she pulled on her the hose, and she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The hose, they didn't have a cotton gusset as most did. Instead, a seam slithered down from her navel to her pussy. The seam was black nylon with a gold thread shot through it. The gold thread, it seemed to guide her eyes down to her pussy.

She ran her hand along the seam. The seam, in turn, was pressed pleasantly against her clit. Again, she thought about her days as a young Catholic schoolgirl, when a football player named Doug tore along the seam of her tights, making a hole. And then, how he had entered her.

She remembered how good it felt when the football player's dick had pushed in her, how he grabbed her ass through her tights, how he ignored her when she said, "No." How good it felt when all her future husband's seed pumped into her pussy, filling her with what, nine months later, would become her daughter Laura.

The more she thought about it, though, the memory changed slightly. She hadn't been wearing blue tights that would have matched her school cardigan, but sheer-to-waist black pantyhose, just like the ones she was wearing now. Hadn't that been her uniform, actually? Hadn't all the other girls worn something similar? Hadn't she seen them changing in gym class, pulling on their black nylons, no panties underneath?

Yes, now she could remember it. All those girls, all of 18 just like her, clad in sheer pantyhose. So slutty they all were, never wearing any panties under their hose, waiting to get their tight schoolgirl pussies fucked, just like Doug had fucked hers.

Gina shook the thought from her head.

Where had that come from? Gina noticed she had been stroking herself through the nylons. She drew back her hand, her fingers slick.

She slipped her heals back on, straightened her skirt as she left the dressing room. Just get home, Gina thought. You're burnt out from work and the storm and Laura, and if Cheryl sees you masturbating in her store, she's going to call the cops.

"Cheryl, thank you for staying open for me," Gina said, almost racing from the dressing room, "but I've got to get back. Are you sure I can't pay for—?"

Gina fell silent. The store was dark.

Had Cheryl closed the store while Gina was changing? That didn't make sense. Maybe a fuse had blown because of the storm, and Gina had gone back to the stockroom to change it?

Gina turned her gaze away from the exit, and towards a hall down from the dressing rooms. She saw a door ajar, light peaking from the opening.

Her heart was pounding. She felt so warm she. Her legs tingled as though being massaged. Her pussy was still wet, and she wanted to finish herself right there in the hall.

She looked towards the front exit again, knew she could probably just unlock the door and leave.

But it was as though her legs weren't her own anymore. They moved almost of their own volition towards the gentle glow emanating from the backroom. With each step she took, the golden seam of her pantyhose rubbed against her pussy. It made her wetter. It made it a pleasure to walk towards the door, to see what was there, waiting for her.

"Cheryl?" Gina whispered as she fully opened the backroom's door.

Had she been thinking clearly, Gina would have expected to find a messy stockroom, full of packaged pantyhose waiting to be put out on the sales floor.

What met her when she entered the room was a Victorian bedroom. Candles burned on stout bedside tables of black wood. A canopy of gauzy fabric, which even in her confusion Gina realized was sheer, black nylon, covered the bed.

There were black-and-white photos on the wall. Gina could tell that some of them had been taken in this room. They were mostly of women in nylons, some of them in dark hose, some of them in lighter tones. Some of the photos were of men in hose, too.

Regardless of sex, they were all not just wearing nylons on their legs, but over their faces too. Pantyhose masks that obscured the features of the wearer, objectifying them, reducing them—or was it elevating them?—to tools of pleasure.

The people in the photos, they were fucking. Women's masked faces buried in one another's pussies. A male pinning his female lover from behind, a slight shimmer reflecting from the matching hose on their faces and legs as he pumped himself into her. In another photo, an Asian woman—was that Cheryl?—was bringing a man to orgasm, sucking his dick through the pantyhose he was wearing, his cum straining through his nylons to where it poured onto her mask.

Gina dropped her purse. She felt weak, the simply act of walking almost bringing her to orgasm.

"It's time," Gina heard a voice say from behind her.

Gina turned.

Cheryl was wearing sheer-to-waist black pantyhose, just like the one's Gina had on, except these lacked the gold thread at the seam. Cheryl's breasts, small and athletic, nipples like bullets aimed Gina, were exposed, the candlelight playing magnificently across them.

Cheryl's head was covered in a nylon mask, the pantyhose stretched over the young girl's face dimming her features as though they were clad in shadow. Another pair of black pantyhose was in Cheryl's hands.

Gina's words sounded almost drunk. "What is this place?"

"A special room we bring back people that need help. People that are hurting like you are, Gina."

"What for?" Gina's voice was hysterical as she tried to back away from the younger woman. Her nylon-clad legs, however, refused to let Gina go.

"To make you one of us." The pantyhose mask was tight on Cheryl's face. Through the material, Gina could make out the young girl's dark eyes, her mouth with its large, soft lips, now turning into a smile. "Or rather, to let the hose do it."

"I don't understand," Gina gasped.

"Oh, come on—you're a smart woman, Gina, I can tell. Surely by now you've figured out that there's something special about the hose I gave you, the ones with the gold thread?"

A shudder went through her body. They were doing something to her, something that felt...so good. "What are they doing?"

"The same thing that they did when my mother used them on me," Cheryl said. "The same thing they did when Mom and I use them on other woman...and men. They're enslaving you, making you obedient to us. You'll find, however, that obedience is liberating. You'll know pleasure. You'll be happy."

Yessss, some part of Gina said in her mind. Aloud, she whispered, "No."

Cheryl stepped closer. She reached out with one of her hands, cupped Gina's pussy through its thin, black, nylon covering. "They're working on you already. You're thinking about sex, aren't you?"

The memory of Doug fucking her, raping her through her uniform tights—no, her pantyhose—when she was in high school was there again, flashing across Gina's brain uncontrollably. "Yes," Gina admitted.

"You're wearing pantyhose in your memories, aren't you?"

"Yes," Gina said. Cheryl kept massaging Gina's pussy, the young woman's fingers probing into the fabric, pushing it deeper her Gina's slit. Waves of pleasure radiated through Gina like the shock from an underwater detonation.

"Who else is wearing pantyhose, Gina?" Cheryl asked, her pantyhose-covered face close to Gina's neck now. Gina could feel the hot breath through the nylon mask. She could feel the girl reaching around her with the hand that still held another pair of black pantyhose, and gripping Gina's own hose-covered ass.

Gina groaned with pleasure.

"Tell me," Cheryl breathed.

At Cheryl's command, Gina refocused on the memory.

"Doug," Gina began, "the man that I eventually marry. We're in high school, both seniors. He's forcing himself on me. He's pulling out his cock from his school uniform khaki's. It's so fucking hard as he pushed me down on a table in an empty classroom. I look behind me as lifts up my skirt, and I see he's wearing sheer, navy pantyhose. His dick, I can see it through the nylon, precum is already staining them, he's so hungry to enter me. His dick is so hard against the nylon." Gina's voice trailed-off, confused.