The Yellow Stockings

- 1 -

It was still early morning.

Carmela sat alone her bed a little dazed. How pleasant they felt in her hands! Carmela had bought them just for this trip. Gently she pulled them up until both her legs were tightly shrouded in a silky glow. Warm, stretchy, and smooth--just the type she always liked!

She stood up and walked about, admiring herself, stopping often in front of the mirror to practice a few delightful poses she had mastered over the years.

Carmela knew she still looked fabulous at her age: slim, bright-eyed, and gracious, the pearl earrings iridescent in her cropped blonde hair. Back then she was certainly not the best-looking girl in town, but all the years since had somehow only added to her glamour, while many others became out of shape and stale. "My Duchess of Birmingham,"--so would her husband Paul often tease her. She knew he was most jealous of her.

One of the reasons for her lingering beauty was, of course, that she never had any children. Not that Carmela didn't want any; they had tried for many years but had yet to succeed. She had done all the medical checks necessary and knew the results, but she refused to associate herself that hideous word--barren! No, she had since decided that was one thing in the whole world she would not be.

From the painted French window the tropical city beckoned: turbaned heads of the natives flocked the markets that were filled with countless exotic trinket and spices. She went back to lying on bed, her stockinged feet dangling in the air and her mind clouded in reverie--

It felt like ages since she and Paul last travelled abroad together. The last time they were abroad, it was in Spain, where they stayed at a gorgeous seaside resort--one that was rumored to be particularly auspicious for conception. For several nights in a row they had oysters and other favorable nourishment, and made love on the spacious bed while the sea air breezed through their room. But in the end it all came to naught.

But tonight it shall be different; somehow she just knew. Come the night, she would surprise Paul with the complete set of lingerie. She had them tucked away in a hidden layer of the luggage; they were in bright yellow, her favorite color.

Perhaps she would pick up some fragrant candles and a long veil at a local market; how fun would it be to pose herself as one of the native women who were so good at hiding their bodies from curious outsiders! She would pull it up slowly, inch by inch revealing her wonderful figure--such a perfect tease!

Then came the squeaky noise of the bathroom door sliding open: Paul's finally done shaving. Soon they were to set out for their first day of adventure! Carmela just couldn't get that silly grin off her face.

- 2 -

That was 12 hours ago, before they were touring the old town and Carmela paused in the crowds to check on some goods and got separated from Paul and as she was wandering in her beautiful dress clicking her heels on the stone pavement through the many small alleys which were soon getting quieter and narrower when she was suddenly seized by many pairs of strong overpowering hands from behind which covered her mouth from screaming and dragged her through one of the ten thousand small iron doors in that Labyrinth of a city and although she kicked and bit and fought with all her might and bravery making desperate muffled cries for help it was in the end to no avail--

The city had devoured her without a hiss.

Now the night had fallen, and the blonde housewife was trapped in somewhere damp and dim, where no rescue--none!--would ever come to her.

It was one of many cells in a private underground dungeon, a special spot to break and tame naughty strays like her. This foreign woman might be a little old for their typical clientele, but once they made a proper whore out of her she could still fetch a nice price at a local brothel. These above-ground establishments--how to put it?--they were too exposed to the light, and valued too much of their, 'reputation'; did't want to do the dirty work themselves, so they outsourced it to the Under-belly of this city.

This magical place, then, shall make a new woman out of her...

- 3 -

Lying upon layers of dirty soft-core tabloids and vivid campaign posters that was her makeshift bed, Carmela quietly dreamt away. At such an indecent angle her legs spread apart, exactly as the last man had left them there. For the last 12 hours they had had fun with this one, and

They did what outlaws always do,

To a pretty wo-man--

Rid her of all excessive clothes

And the wedding band--

But save for those Yellow Stockings, which stayed on

To arouse, to help them wank!--

The st-o-ckings--ohh!--

No longer shine, like they had

In the morning,

But creased and loosened and tanned

With dried patches of liquid

From many a man and

Pulled down to her knees--so they could work

Harder, on this pretty wife-of-an-Englishman!

One of her feet, bare,

The shoe taken as a Souvenir, by

One of her many Defilers

During the day--and her manicured toes--

Twitched a little from time to time, as the fair

Car-me-la

Quietly inhaled, and exhaled--

What would a damsel-in-distress dream--a sweet fair-y-tale

Told in a bleak undertone, or a sweaty Night-Mare,

All feverish and with few linings of silver?

Suddenly, noises, light: she was awoken.

They were here to play with her again.

Tired, sleepy eyes opened to instant horror; she remembered the swarthy faces of her tormenters and realized it wasn't a dream.

--Time to wash your butt, woman. Those Words were said with little affection.

No reply. She kept quiet.

Sound of something heavy bleeding across the concrete ground. A large old wooden trough was brought into her cell--to wash her butt, she guessed. Carmela then realized how dirty her body had gotten from a whole day's use at their hands; they had cummed and peed on her, repeatedly.

At last those sad stockings were removed from her and discarded aside. They held her arms at each side as she tiptoed with a weak balance into the trough. The water's cold; she led out a little cry and was met with the men's wicked jeers.

More pinches of coldness sank in as they splashed water on her shivering pale body.

Carmela led them fondle her with little care. She felt weak and numb, powerless against their sensual assault.

They soaped her well--armpits, crotch, buttocks--until every inch of her skin was covered with white bobbling foam. Carmela's eyes shut tight, water dripping on her nose as they soaked her head with sponge. She felt the coarse hands caressing her smooth inner thighs, pausing often to play between their fingers those soft curly lushness, her fur of shame.

The men were talking in excitement. She knew what they were on about--

Even This Bitch's Cunt Hair Is Golden

(Carmela to herself)

Shed no tears, no more--tonight. You're a grown woman. Remember that fact.

Imagine, somewhere cold, a frozen plain, where you are alone, far from this darkness, away from the pain...

- 4 -

After the shower she was fixed to a chair and to be shaved clean.

One of the younger men was tasked with this amorous labor. He had reached the age to learn a woman's anatomy, and this was always best done by close-studies of this sort.

A little later it was done. An almost clean job, other than for a few stray hair still left around her anus. Those folds there were delicate and the boy was right to tread carefully with his blade. Now all her feminine mystique was revealed to him in full details; with meticulous curiosity he probed and squeezed at her, while she languidly laid back and led his slippery fingers dig deep inside her.

The boy was a natural; slowly her pelvic floor began to swell. The scratching of the cold blade around her tenderest skin must have aroused Carmela, for soon she had become unimaginably wet--running a little silky stream down her perineum and made a mess on the chair.

"Aww..." She heard her own soft moans.

All knee-jerk reflex, it must be; blame it on her in-suppressible middle-age basic instinct. Where could Paul be right now? Describing her likeness to the local police while trying to fight back the dread that he would never see her again? It pained her to think he was in such a pickle, rummaging the crowded streets for the sight of her--never was he a people-person! How could he ever imagine where she was now, in a little sex dungeon, her hands bound, her bald fanny being examined by a youngster half her age? What an agony to lose her freedom to those monsters! Yet she helplessly felt herself slowly sinking ever deeper into another pre-orgasmic blur.

YOU'RE ALL GONNA DIE YOU FUCKING PIGS--

With the last of her dignity left, Carmela cursed at the men, in a voice so low that could easily be mistaken for plea.

But she had no idea how her little outburst of rebellion made her more delectable than ever in the eyes of her captors. Their hard-ons slowly returning, they decided that the night was still young for this foreign woman. Weren't planning to start her formal training until tomorrow, but such eagerness from the pupil was simply overwhelming. The lessons must start right away!

So they picked up the dirty stockings from the ground and gagged her mouth full with them.

Such filthy mouth! Unfit for sucking the dirtiest cocks in this country. No--the fallen queen shall serve with her other holes, down her regal spine, which spoke no language but that of want and gratitude. With time, she shall learn how to whisper and sing with them...

Carmela's heart sunk watching the men loosing their belts; now she knew what this all meant. How naive to think they might let her go after they were done with her!

But now she began to understand the full scope of her predicament, that this place was to become her Home for some time, and these men her sole Family; to survive she would need to learn to do many, many things, things her old self would consider impossible for a proper married woman...

Hungry. Hadn't eaten for a long time. Perhaps they would remember to feed her something after they had their fun. With food in mind Carmela began to look forward to her training with an animalistic eagerness.

- 5 -

It had been three years since Carmela went missing.

Paul never found his wife. The cops were useless. No help from the embassy either: thousands of women went missing in this country each year, and it would take a miracle for one to be seen again, even if in this case it was a rather conspicuous blonde white woman. They told him that at least the women likely stayed alive, unlike the missing men, who mostly ended up becoming no more than a pile of yellow bones in the damp earth. But Paul found little consolation in this. Carmela's disappearance left a gaping wound in his heart, growing larger by every other day without her. He returned home a broken man and soon succumbed to depression and excessive drinking.

As for Carmela, she still wore that same pair of stockings; they were all she had kept from her old life. It was a truly great purchase, for after countless rinses and washes they remained glossy and smooth on her legs. For that the other girls were quite a bit envious of her.

Sometimes she would let others wear them for serving the more expensive guests. It was a common practice among the fallen women in a country marked by strained material supplies. They could not afford the luxury of individuality that was the hallmark of the western society; here, everything, including one's body and soul, always was communal in some way or another.

Carmela had to learn it the hard way in that little underground dungeon. But now that she was comfortable with this new way of life she began to appreciate her situation. The beginning of a new life was always hard, but as time passed she felt more at home with the place, its rich-flavored food and the bright, soothing sun after a sudden summer tempest.

Her formerly frail body, too, responded to the favorable climate by becoming plumper, growing more breasts and hips. And she was surprised to find herself making friends with other women. They had taught her many useful skills, both to protect herself and to please her patrons.

Night after night Carmela would discover something new about her body, about the limit she could push and the magical feeling of free-falling into the abyss of pain and pleasure when she finally lost control. Her owner was very pleased about the amount of business brought in by this hungry white whore.

Every Friday, when all work was meant to cease, she would go shopping with them outside. Together they emerged from the House of Fun and toured the city in their black veils. The main streets and the town square were still populated with all sorts of vendors and attention-seekers, catering to the busloads of foreign tourists. Carmela walked through the crowds, feeling utterly secure in her dark defense. They would never know that underneath this veil hid a genuine white woman. When they were in the clear, her friends would indulge her with all those local sweets they bought and watch her try different flavors like a curious kid:

Here, have one more, Habibi--

For a few times she thought she was going to be blessed with a child but it seemed like she was not ready yet. In the meantime her fertile years were fast slipping away. She knew there was not much time left for her.

So Carmela would revisit her old school from time to time, when she felt particularly in the mood, retracing her memory through the snaking path, into those narrow alleys, until she arrived at the heart of the old town. There, everything around her had gone quiet and solemn. Knock. Knock. Faint sounds of screaming and moaning inside. Maybe they were busy making new whores out of some other wives and daughters, but a returning student like her was always welcome here.

Clinging her back on the cold iron door against a sheltering sky, Carmela led out a deep groan. Under that thick veil she wore nothing but that pair of yellow stockings.

Just imagining what they had in store for her made her all wet down there...