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Black Nylons part 1
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Black Nylons
Chapter 1
{This is a consensual, non-violent story with a little bit of
fetishism. It is NOT a submissive-dominant story by any means; no one
in this story is whipped, beaten, called "master" or "mistress", or
forced to do anything their free will dictates dangerous.
The whole premise of this story is a woman wearing black nylons (circa
1952 or so, the Mickey Spillane period?) who is a sort of "super
heroine" who leaves her mark by leaving a single black nylon. If this
sounds a bit far fetched, imagine all the stories I've read about X
fucking Y and it seems that none of them have a single flaw on their
bodies! This is a work of fiction, but the characters at least seem
real.
If you get bored/uncomfortable/angry/exhiliarated with this work, send email to
[email protected] or hit 'n'. Thanks for your understanding, and
comments are always appreciated.
Brian}
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Another taxi dancer killed in the West End section of Beantown. The
Boston Globe and Record American shouted these headlines as far as
they could across the papers. It was June 22, 1952, and so far 6
girls were dead; nearly all of them from seedy origins.
Boston's finest were baffled. They needed someone to inflitrate all
of these "dens of iniquity" and catch this asshole red handed. They
had one secret weapon at Precinct 5 who could pose as one of these
B girls and catch him red handed.
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Her well-defined leg stretched above the twin bed to roll a bunched
up stocking over her ankles, past her claves and over her thighs.
She made sure that the 10 denier, shiny mesh stocking had no runs and her seams
were straight before she attached it to the four garters on either side.
Then she slid her black dress on, quickly making what she had on under
her a mystery.
Roberta "Bobbie" Johnson was a pro at catching men red handed. Her
looks, plain but very appealing when she applied makeup and other
items, spoke 25 but her age was really 36. Bobbie could play the act
without flinching or reservation. She had been part of Vice during
the war, when she foiled the Black Market scheme in Jewish-predominant
Roxbury in 1942. She was familiar with every ambulance service,
hospital, hotel, hooker, pimp, madam and burlesque hall in Boston
proper. Sometimes, though, she did vigilante work when the Boston
Police Department did not wish to get their hands dirty when gangsters
were involved. All she had to do was remove a black stocking from
either her legs or her purse (she carried extras in case of
emergencies) and criminals would know all to well that she had been
there...Bobbie had a 100% capture rate, something the BPD was proud of
and criminals were in deep fear of.
------------
At 9:12, the phone rang, just as Bobbie finished applying some makeup.
"Hello?" she said matter-of-factly.
"Bobbie, this is Detective Ross. How would you like to pose as a taxi dancer?"
"Hey, Joe," Bobbie said in an down-to-earth tone. "Serial killer at
it again?"
"How'd you guess?"
"It ain't time to sell tickets for the Policemen's ball."
Bobbie laughed like Elmer Fudd. "Taxi dancer sounds like fun, but I'd rather
be at Scollay Square doing the bump-and-grind."
"Burlesque is not on the menu tonight. But we do have some nice
dancer du taxi, " said Ross with a hint of wryness.
"Well, I have the right accessories for it, so why not? I'm wearing a
black dress and black nylons...if you can call that my modest dress for
tonight." More laughter, this time from both sides.
"Ever hear of a place called Hurley's Heights in Charlestown? Get on
the Main Elevated to City Square and walk two blocks down Main."
"Doesn't sound like a bad idea. I'm at home on Comm Ave right now. I
can be there in an hour and give you a report by 2pm tomorrow."
"Perfect. Headquarters good for you or should I come down to Saint
E's Hot Dog Stand and Morgue?"
"Now we're getting fancy with our meeting places, are we? HQ's fine."
------------
The Main Elevated car rumbled into City Square station at 10:34. Bobbie
looked at the directions she wrote down and walked towards main
street. Her heels clicked a rhythm as she found Hurley's, and outside
there were three bouncers beating the daylights out of some sailor.
The Naval Police came up and dragged the poor sailor into the car, and
proceeded to beat him there, too.
Bobbie put on a wisecracking floozie accent and queried, "What
happened?"
One of the bouncers smiled and said sarcastically, "Taking out the
garbage, dear." The other two laughed as if someone told the
punchline to the traveling salesman joke. Bobbie smiled and said, "Is
it ladies night in there?", lifting her skirt as she spoke. One of
the bouncers said, "Yes, ma'am. Always ladies night. Only thing is,
ladies don't go home to the same place." More brutish laughter.
Bobbie made a face and muttered "fresh!" as she entered the bar. What
a dump, commented Bobbie as taxi dancers teased sailors and the
bartender poured drinks into cups, steins and...shoes. One taxi
dancer staggered in Bobbie's direction, and proceeded to vomit in
front of her. Everyone laughed heartily, except for Bobbie and the
now-sobbing taxi dancer.
The two went into the ladies room, as Bobbie cleaned the girl up.
"Can't seem to hold those Shirley Temples in, huh?" Bobbie said.
"I'm sorry, really," said the girl. She was no more than 20 years
old, despite the fact that she was 5'9".
"What's your name, honey?"
"Kathryn, but everybody calls me Katie."
"Katie, I'm Bobbie. Can you keep a secret?"
"Sure."
"I'm an undercover Boston Police officer..." Katie nearly screamed,
but Bobbie caught her mouth and clamped her hand over it just in time.
"I'm not here to arrest anyone yet, but I am here to catch a serial killer.
He's going after girls like you." Bobbie released her grip and Katie
suddenly looked quite relieved.
"There's this square looking guy who comes here every Thursday and he
always leaves with women wearing black nylons or black silk stockings.
I've known of four girls who've dated him and they always appear in
the newspapers..." Katie choked back a sob, as Bobbie reached into
her bag for a handkerchief. "Katie, would you mind coming down to
Headquarters tomorrow afternoon and give our own Sgt Lucy Kenner a
description? I'll come here this Thursday to check out the scene, and
I'll ask the department to give you immunity and maybe a place to
stay. If we catch this man, there's even a $5000 reward...enough for
one year's salary {In 1952, $5000 was roughly the same as $25,000
today. Brian}. Will you do it?"
Katie said with a gleam in her eye, "Sure." "Come down to Police
Headquarters at 3pm, but before then, call FA7-8010 and ask for Sgt
Kenner."
Bobbie turned Katie around and said, "Katie, your seams are crooked."
Bobbie placed her hands on either side of her stocking and twisted it
so the seam lay flush with the back of her thigh. "This is the
first time I wore silk stockings before," said Katie shyly. All
Bobbie did was smile.
------------
"Our perp seems to have a fix for nylons," said Bobbie to Captain Thomas
Hanford. "One of the taxi girls identified him as a bookworm who goes to
MIT. You'd think he'd stick to the books instead of the broads."
"Good work, Johnson, but is our taxi girl due today?"
"3 pm sharp...Lucy Kenner is going to become Picasso during that
time."
"Good." Hanford came from Southie, but he was once a sergeant for The
Royal Air Force in Northampton, England. To everyone, he was "Cap'n
Tom" because he treated everyone fairly and never raised his voice
when reprimanding. "Now in your report, this suspect comes every
Thursday and leaves with girls in black hosiery."
"Definite fetish. With our luck, he probably likes toe sucking and
placing his big toe in vaginal cavity." Johnson shuddered at what she
just said.
"Meaning that you're going down Thursday to find him? All I advise is
that you be careful...Lucifer and himself know what he'll do to you,
and I can't lose an undercover police woman as valuable as you are."
"Flattery gets you nowhere, but in this instance I'll make an
exception. What about handcuffs, firearms, and the like?"
"Good enough. Maybe $5 in case he wants a hotel room."
"I think I'll put on my best pair of silk stockings that night,"
Bobbie thought devilishly as she bit her lip. "A glimpse of stocking
may arrest the visual senses and soon arrest criminals. What a novel
concept."
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Thursday came, and Bobbie arrived at Hurley's at 9:30. The same scene
with the bouncers and the sailors occured, but this time other police
officers from the Charlestown precinct were arresting the bouncers,
while the ambulance drivers were setting the sailor up on the
stretcher so he could be taken to Mass General. The Charlestown cops
knew Bobbie was undercover (Brighton precinct phoned them ahead of
time to tell them she would be there), so they left her alone. When
she entered the bar, she heard the ambulance scream away.
She walked up to the bar and ordered a Suffering Bastard. "Get a load
of this broad, Gerry. She had the moxie to order a heavy drink!"
Bobbie countered, "And I also have the moxie to arrest you and pull
your liquor license if you blow my cover!" she hissed as she showed
her badge in her bag. "One Suffering Bastard it is," said the burly
bartender.
One hour passed. Still, no sign of the suspect. Bobbie was still on
her SB and she looked at the people dancing. Sailors hand the
tendency to swing the girls low, exposing their stocking tops. Ah,
the joys of swing, thought Bobbie ruefully, wishing they would play
some tunes by Thelonius Monk (too bop), Miles Davis (too angular), or
Sonny Rollins (just right). Another sip and she was done with her
Suffering Bastard.
Just then someone tapped her shoulder. "Excuse me, would you like to
dance?" Bobbie then remembered to strike a taxi dancer atitude when
she turned around. But she was never more surprised to see a
well-dressed, handsome man. Bobbie nearly fell out of her chair when he
offered his hand.
Bobbie found out that this guy's name was Bert. He was a MIT
professor of biology, and even though he hated the sleaziness of the
scene, he thought it well to dance and have a good time. Bobbie liked
his honesty, and they continued to dance on until 2:30. Then they
were asked to leave.
As people streamed out to Main Street, Bert asked Bobbie, "Say, my car
is just down the street. I know it's late and it's kind of abrupt,
but would you like to stay at my place for the night? I don't think
you'd like to sleep in a roach motel." Bobbie agreed, but she
remembered to be careful.
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Bert lived on Harvard Street, just over the Brookline line, in a
well-furnished apartment. "Would you like a drink?" Bert offered, to
which Bobbie politely refused.
"So tell me, Bobbie, you're a secretary for Bollack and Hennesey?"
"Yep. Stenographer, that is."
"Beacon Hill?"
"Yeah. I hate climbing up that hill during the winter, where it's so
icy."
"I have an idea," Bert offered. "Place your feet on this stool."
Bobbie felt a bit uneasy, but she complied.
"Would you mind taking off your shoes? The ottomans are on 10-day
trial offer."
Bobbie stood up and using the chair for support, removed her shoes one
by one and placed them beside the chair. Then she placed her feet on
the stool, smiling with a little more confidence.
"That's great." Bert looked at her feet for a bit, then mm-hmmed for
a bit. "Are you wearing silk stockings? You don't have to answer if
it's too personal."
Yes, that is too personal, Bobbie thought vehemently, and her fears
began to quickly jell. But she replied, "Yes. I bought them at
Field's Hosiery for $1.50 a pair."
Bert then smiled. "I don't mean to put you on the spot. I did
research on the silkworm and their reprodcutive properties. The more
reproductive they were, the stronger the silk they produced."
Bert placed a hand on Bobbie's ankle, and suddenly a chill shot
through her spine. "Why do you look so afraid," Bert asked calmly. Bobbie
spat out, "I didn't come here for a quick trick, bub. You said you
wouldn't do anything sleazy."
------------
"That's what all my victims thought, dear." Bert changed from a
professor to a cold monster. "They thought I would take care of them.
And they always fall for that silkworm bit. Just like you."
"What do you want, exactly?" Bobbie asked carefully.
"Take off your silk stockings, so I can add them to my collection of
other dames who I killed." He withdrew a Smith and Wesson from his
pocket, which was incentive enough.
Bobbie rose from the chair and placed her leg on the ottoman. "Lift
your dress up so I can see your thighs," Bert demanded. Bobbie
complied, raising it enough so he could see her silk stockings being
tethered by her garters.
"You will roll the stockings down your legs, slowly." Bobbie placed a
foot on the ottoman, her skirt still bunched upon her waist as she
moved the buttons back to release the tab. She began to roll it down
when Bert said blankly, "No. Release the other garters first." She
did so. "Left stocking first, then right." Carefully she rolled the
nylon down her legs, then towards her ankles and off her toes.
"Lovely. Ever thought of working in Scollay Square?" Bobbie bit her
tongue for fear of getting shot - no need to spit out a wiseacre
remark if Smith and Wesson's governing the conversation.
She began to remove her right stocking when there was a knock on the
door. "Stay in that position until I return." He left, and Bobbie
withdrew a small ampoule of Ponzhak gas (strong Mace derivative used
in the Soviet Union) she kept in case of dire emergencies. She placed
it in between finger and the stocking, and her plan was to throw the
gas onto the floor. The gas was an opiate, and Bert would fall to the
floor.
------------
Bert returned, still holding the gun. "Continue on. I want to see
that stocking off your leg." Bobbie continued, and by the time it
reached her ankle, she looked up at the smirking face of Bert and
threw the ampoule right onto the floor. Quickly she dove to the
floor, as Bert choked and wheezed, landing to the floor.
Bobbie called the Comm Ave station, and soon nine police cars
converged on the Harvard Ave building. Brookline police assisted
too, and an ambulance was called on the scene.
Ross and Hanford rushed in. "You OK, Bobbie?" asked Ross urgently.
"See? You can get a man in more than one way with a pair of black silk
stockings," laughed Bobbie as she pulled her nylons on.
------------
Bert was actually a psychiatric patient who left the Shattuck not more
than one year ago, Bobbie found out. Even though Katie (the taxi
dancer she met before) gave her erroneous information before,
eventually she gave Sgt Lucy Kenner the correct information that
Bobbie was given the day before.
Katie smiled as she left the precinct. "Now I can afford a pair of
silk stockings...as well as rent and food for the next few years!"
she beamed to Bobbie. Bobbie raised her hand and led Katie to her
desk. From one of her drawers she withdrew a box full of silk hose
and nylons. "My personal thank-you for giving us a big lead on Bert.
These silk stockings are not strong, and they do run, but they sure
feel good on those days you feel down." Katie quickly removed her
old stockings and tried on the black silk ones. "Mmmmm....now I know
what you mean! Thanks so much." Bobbie smiled and relaxed in her
chair, satisfied that a perpetrator was brought to justice by a simple
seductive item.
Brian Colby Copyright 1993. This story may be posted on other
archives or extracted for personal reading pleasure. All requests for
this story can be made by sending electronic mail to
[email protected]. Requests are usually filled within the day.
Brian Colby/UMass Dartmouth/1993
[email protected]
[email protected]
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