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Black Nylons part 4
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 IV
(Note: As of 10-25-1993, Black Nylons will lose the "Formerly Silk
Stocking Club" header and all of the "Parts" will become "Chapters."
All will be reposted to alt.sex.fetish.feet and alt.sex.stories so
that those who never got the stories or who never read them before can
get the opportunity.)
{This is a story I've written over the past few weeks, and it is not
just a description of body and/or sexual functions/descriptions either.
It's sort of a fetish story, but right now it's leaning to more of a
police story with scenes of fetishism. (For those of you under 18 or
were looking for "Bambi's Studmuffin Beats It Off" or "How Much Can A
Penis Spew?" or "Long Description of A Sex Act Between Two Improbably
Beautiful People Who Will Break Up As Soon As a New Partner Comes Up",
first you will be bored to tears, which will make you beg your parents
to unsub from a.s.s. or a.s.f.f because I write stories with a plot in
them. Second, once your parents/girlfriend finds out you've gotten into this
news server, you'll be either be in deep trouble or thankful that
someone finally had the intelligence to write something more than
"suck dick" or "big tits." or "hairy snatch".) If removing stockings
sexily isn't your game, hit 'n' or equivalent now.
Chapter IV opens in 1967. Bobbie is retiring after 26 years of
service, Hamp and Chi Chi were killed in the line of fire. Cheryl,
Bobbie's sister, is just like her sister, only more sarcastic. And,
like Bobbie, she wears nylons and garters (except in one incident,
where she struggles with a pair of pantyhose...someone requested a
pantyhose story...
Enjoy.
Brian - S14258BC @ UMASSD.EDU}
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Bobbie was collecting all of her belongings from her desk, humming the
first few bars of "Sunshine of your Love." Normally, cops would cry
and weep after a retirement party, but Bobbie kept everything in
perspective.
She was 51 years old now. Her hair was salt-and-pepper gray, she had
varicose veins, and she didn't worry about the visits from Stalin each
month. She was well decorated and she felt that she did a job well
done.
She opened one of the drawers and discovered an old pair of silk
stockings she had as a spare. Bobbie never gave up her nylons, even
though pantyhose was now more prevalent and more convenient. She
brought one up to her cheek and stroked its sheerness. Oh, how silk
brings back memories; but as soon as tears sprang to her eyes she
quickly placed them into the box and placed more stuff into it.
Just then Cheryl arrived. With auburn hair and a wide smile that
counteracted her somewhat large figure, Cheryl was quite a piece of
work. She also swore like a midshipman, which brought the witticisms
of Bobbie into Lenny Bruce territory.
"Hey, Bobbie, are you going to blow the waterworks on this nostalgia
shit or are you still packing?" Cheryl was half Bobbie's age, but
sometimes Bobbie didn't believe it.
"Can you talk any louder," said Bobbie curtly.
"I can scream 'rape' all over HQ and everyone from the National Guard
can run into this police station like that," Cheryl quipped, snapping
her fingers for emphasis.
"I might as well show you what's going on," said Bobbie briskly. She
handed Cheryl a sheaf of papers, thinking that Cheryl would balk at
the fact that vice would now be going after dope pushers and LSD
hawkers.
She was right.
"You fucking bitch!" was all Cheryl could utter. "I transferred from
The Bronx with all those Mafioso gangsters and you're giving me this
dossier on a bunch of granola-mainlining peace freaks? Gimme a fucking break!"
"Listen here, Cheryl," hissed Bobbie. "The BPD is not giving you $250
a week to give the motorcycle crews and ambulance service blow jobs.
I will personally transfer you to a desk job if you can't cut the
grain. In fact, it's IS the Mafia who is supplying all this shit to
these hippies and they are dying. Instead of a 5 microgram dose of
LSD these people take 500 micrograms. And they go to the Shattuck for
a unscheduled PERMANENT vacation. Am I making myself perfectly clear so
far?"
Cheryl was flabbergasted. Anytime the word 'blowjob' came out of her
mouth, Bobbie threw up! "Yeah, yeah," resigned Cheryl.
"I can't hear you, dear."
"Yes, Bobbie." Then Cheryl hung her head a bit and said, "I'm sorry,
Bobbie. I didn't want to ruin your retirement day."
Bobbie placed her hands on Cheryl's shoulders and laughed. She placed
her fingers under Cheryl's chin and raised it to eye level. "You're
still the wild child, sister. But here you have to watch your mouth."
Bobbie looked around the office. Man, I'll miss this place, Bobbie
said to herself as tears welled in her eyes. All she could do was
break down and cry. Cheryl caught her immediately, giving her sister
some comfort...like a sister should.
---------
It was 6:00 when the alarm clock rang. Cheryl did not have to report
to the office until 9 - she lived in Allston, but was stationed in
Brighton - but she got up early anyway because she liked to take
a shower and prepare for the day with a cup of coffee and a newspaper.
After she dried her hair, Cheryl decided to put her hair into a braid.
Cheryl reached in the drawer for a pair of pantyhose she bought for
$1.25 at Woolworth's. After she opened the package, she put a little
moisturiser on her legs and began to bunch up the hose in her hands.
After putting her feet into the hose she began to pull each nylon up
her leg, but these pantyhose felt a little too constrictive. They
were nice and sheer, but like Bobbie she preferred a little air
conditioning and sexiness that the nylons offered. As soon as she
pulled them towards her thighs, they felt even more constrictive, and
she felt her legs beginning to embolize.
She tried yanking them more up her thighs, jumping up and down to get
them up to the panties. But alas, the pantyhose wouldn't give, and
Cheryl sat back on the bed disgustedly and yanked the pantyhose off.
But Cheryl knew how to remedy the frustration. After she folded the
hose and put them in the drawer, she went over to the right-hand side
of it where her nylons were. Like Bobbie, she had good taste in
stockings, especially the black ones. She selected a pair of off-tan
Fields Hosiery size nines and placed them on the bed. She went to the
next drawer and selected a white garter belt, not utilitarian as
usual, but very lacy.
She drew the luscious 15 denier nylons on her legs, attaching each one
to two garters. She purred as the mesh clung to her thighs, like
liquid copper to white snow. I would never give these nylons up for
the world, she sang as she danced around the room, loving the swishing
sounds that the hose gave as she rubbed one leg against the other.
It was nearly 6:30 when she finished dressing, and after she put a
nice coat of red lipstick on, she left her apartment.
--------
In 1967, flower power and drugs were rampant. Boston was certainly no
exception; even though Cheryl had arrested hippies and guided OD
victims to the black hearses at the scene, she didn't fully realize
how bad the problem was.
She got a tip from one Sarah in Brookline, who owned the Babcock Women's
Book Nook in Coolidge Corner. It was a funny contrast between
Cheryl's professional business-policewoman look and Sarah's
granola-crunchy hippiness; Cheryl's made up face to Sarah's bare face,
etc.
"I know of two people who have been passing around super-acid, and not
just in Brookline," said Sarah matter of factly. "I take 2 micrograms
of acid and that's even too much for me."
Cheryl thought for a moment. Should she arrest Sarah for the mere
mention of taking acid, or just leave her alone? "Do you know who
supplies 500 microgram killers?" Cheryl queried.
"Not really. I know my friend Yowsley does, but his max is at 5
micrograms. You know what I think?" Sarah sighed, leaning her chin on
her arm, "I think the Establishment is trying to kill us off."
Just then Sarah reached over to the bun on Cheryl's hair and untied
it. Loose waves spilled over her shoulders, and Sarah began to laugh.
"What the fuck did you do that for?" Cheryl said with appropriate
shock.
"You're a pretty girl. Have you ever made love to another woman?"
Sarah mused as she brushed Cheryl's hair over her eyes.
"Not in this life!" Cheryl snapped back her hands. This woman is a lesbian,
Cheryl thought alarmingly.
"So far you've been cooperative, but do something like that again, and
I'll cream you AND put you in the can, you fucking dyke!"
"I knew you would react this way," said Sarah crisply. "I'm actually married,
and you're uptight and anal retentive. You're nothing like your
sister Roberta. She accepted things a lot better than you do."
Cheryl's mouth dropped a foot. "Y-you know my sister?"
"Sure. I used to work for in Precinct 5 myself. Me and my husband
Joel live on Corey Street in West Roxbury, and I left the force to
have kids and a wonderful family. I worked in Homicide as a lab
specialist. What are you now?"
"Lieutenant of Vice."
"I went as far as major until I married Joel." Cheryl rolled her eyes
not because she was tired of hearing this bovine effluvia (bullshit),
but because she had a lot of things on her desk at HQ and she needed
to get to them.
"Tell you what," said Cheryl briskly. "If you come down to HQ after work, can
you positively ID the guy so we can get an all points bulletin out?"
"Can do." Sarah extended her hand out and the two women exchanged
handshakes. "Who should I see?"
"Lester Gray is the person to see. He's my superior in vice, and he's
also a soul brother on loan from New York. 6 pm good for you?"
"Excellent."
Cheryl looked from side to side and whispered in Sarah's ear, "Now
about Joel...is he..."
"Yes, he is." Sarah chuckled, winking to Cheryl spuriously. "He's a busy
bear when it comes to look for honey."
---------
"I dig the fact that we're going after acid heads, but I suggest a
little more, ah, in-to-itness than dressing for the scene like a
widow." Lester Gray looked at Cheryl's disguise of a small black
dress with soft black nylons and black sling heels. Cheryl's hair was
done up in a ponytail and her perfume was subtle.
"Lester, buddy, the perps who are selling this super acid are actually
these rich old people who want nothing to do with these hippies.
Besides, it gave me an excuse to wear my black nylons." Cheryl raised
her leg and placed it on the stool, straightening her seams quickly
and setting the leg down to the floor.
"I was expecting granny dresses and flowers in your hair, " countered
Lester.
Cheryl pursed her lips in mock thought. "Sorry, Les. This is a gala
affair."
"Well, all I want you to do is to be careful. Many fucking lunatics
out there than usual, ready to kick ass whenever and wherever."
"No kidding." Cheryl applied fresh pale pink lipstick to her lips,
then ground them together to distribute it evenly. "Do I look
mysterious?"
"Man, I dig the threads and I gotta retread my head," shouted Lester.
"Yow" was the last thing Lester said before Cheryl left; just then
Wanda Sherry, desk sergeant, walked over to his desk and shook her head.
"Crazy Vice Department" was all she could mutter.
---------
Cheryl was outside smoking a Chesterfield - it ran in the family -
when a swarthy man stepped beside her. He wasn't black, maybe
Meditereanean.
He spoke no words as he extracted a postage stamp from his wallet.
Supposedly, it was a catalyst for about 5 mcg of acid. He
licked it once and waited for the effect of the acid to take place;
but nothing happened. Quickly he stuck out his tongue and made a
grimace.
"Fair trade...bah!" he managed to spit out. "This is bloody tabasco
sauce on a postage stamp." The man swore in Italian. "Lucas Yowsley
gave me a 5 cent stamp with Lea and Perrins tabasco sauce!" He then
turned to Cheryl and smiled sweetly. "See that guy who looks like
Santa Claus but should really be called the devil?"
"Which guy?" Cheryl inquired.
The man pointed out to a white haired man with a beard. He looked
more like an avatar than a dope pusher, and he looked like Santa
Claus. Why would a friendly man do such a mean thing?
"That is the legendary Lucas Yowsley. Guy should have his balls taken
out."
Cheryl thought of a plan. Maybe I'll seduce him and arrest him at the scene.
Not a bad idea, as she made a sexy walk towards the man, who was
talking to two nymphet jailbaits who immediately turned thier noses up
when they saw Cheryl.
The old man lit up when he saw Cheryl, but the blonde wasn't so
thrilled at Cheryl invading their space. "What a cunt," she snarled.
"Can I say something to the both of you?" The two girls advanced, but
Cheryl gave them a hard right cross. The catfight was
underway, and the guards who were at the door intended to watch as
Cheryl tore off dress and made a nice scrape at the white nylons of the
blonde, while the red-haired girl's breasts spilled out when Cheryl
pulled the bodice of the gown cleanly from top to bottom.
Yowsley had seen enough. Quickly he took the scruffs of the red-haired and
blonde haired girl's necks and banged their heads togther. Cheryl was
recovering on the floor, with most of her clothes torn while the
guards threw the now-naked girls out the door.
"Dear, are you all right?" The deep-voiced, white-haired Yowsley checked
Cheryl for bruises and scrapes. Gently the man lifted her up and
dusted her off.
"You have more moxie than my ex-wife did. Can I escort you upstairs
to see if you are all right?"
"Thanks loads," said Cheryl non-chalantly. Maybe Santa Claus is real,
she thought to herself as her head pounded.
---------
"Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lucas Yowsley, drug connisseur
and gentleman of society," he said as he walked up the stairs to his
private room. "What say you to my lovely mansion?" Lucas presented it as
if it were a prize.
"Lovely," Cheryl muttered, her jaw beginning to swell slightly. "I
suppose you always help women in distress."
opened the door with a old-fashioned key. Inside was a romantic four-poster
bed. "My humble abode, my friend."
Cheryl was amazed at how the thick, plush carpet filled the soles
of her feet. Cheryl sat on the bed and nearly toppled over - it was
so soft and it moved so quickly!
"Not so fast, my dear. You shall break the waterbed!" Lucas laughed.
"I shall be back in a second so I can get some ice for your chin."
Cheryl reclined on the bed. Bliss! she thought as she fell asleep for
a bit.
After an hour, Yowsley returned with the ice. Gently he shook
Cheryl's shoulder, and he pulled up a giant throne chair.
"HJYowsley placed a sheathed foot in his lap, inspecting it, rolling it in his hands and
caressing it carefully. Lucas moved her pinky toe up and down,
tracing it lightly.
"Here's the ice, dear." He handed her a bag full of ice chippings and
he gently placed it on her cheek. He noticed that her nylons had runs
in them, and her feet were starting to swell up.
"You have the most stunning legs to match your quaint eyes."
Cheryl blushed. "Thank you so much," she said sincerely.
"You feet are beginning to swell. I hope you aren't offended."
"They kinda hurt." Cheryl bent over and began to rub her feet, but
Yowsley took her hands away."
"I think a foot massage is in order. Would you like one?"
Cheryl moaned, giving Lucas an indirect yes. Lucas said to her
silently, "If I put a run in your lovely stockings, I shall buy you a
new pair." He pushed Cheryl's dress up, and once he saw the
garters and stockings, he said to himself, "What a lovely sylph!"
While caressing her thighs Lucas tenderly unhooked the garters and
dropped them slowly to the ground. Inch by inch he gently brought the
black nylons down, kissing her legs languidly as the nylons reached
her ankles and placed a tiny kiss on each toe. Then Yowsley began the
massage, rotating Cheryl's toes and soles until Cheryl gasped in
ecstasy. Quickly she raised her skirt and took down her panties,
exposing her Delta of Venus that was slick with juice.
Recognizing his own modesty, he began to quickly turned away. "Other
times I would allow you to do this, but I beg you, don't have an
orgasm on the bed!" he pleaded as Cheryl placed a finger on top of her
clitoris and rubbed it frantically. But soon Lucas saw Cheryl's hips quiver
madly as her vagina spewed out womanly juices onto the sheets.
"Halleujah!" Yowsley said, chuckling slightly. "I've never seen a
woman...spend so much. My wife would just trickle out, but you..."
Yowsley kissed his two fingers, also taking in the musky scent of her
sex.
"I think I wanna trip now," said Cheryl languidly. "Got anything
stronger than 5 micros?"
"Well, I never supply more than 10 mcg's. But..." Lucas extracted a
sugar cube from his pocket. "500 mcg's. It is perhaps the most
potent hit of acid I can supply."
Cheryl moaned a bit as she rose from the sheets. She straightened
her dress out but decided to walk around barefoot on the lovely
carpet. Oh, I hate to arrest the guy, she thought winsomely,
but I have to sooner or later...but not until I stay the night.
---------
Cheryl arose in the morning, entirely nude with her nipples erect.
Her hands traveled to her sex and as soon as she rubbed the thick
nubbin of her slick clitoris she fired right off into orgasm.
She noticed a robe on the chair, with a set of jean shorts and a white
T-shirt next to them. Quickly she pulled these things on, and
progressed downstairs.
There she found Yowsley with a non-Santa like expression on his face.
It was more resignation than anger, and he arose from the seat and
quickly extended his hands.
"Lieutenant Johnson, I realize you have investigated my doings in
injuring others," he said somberly. "There were some people who
didn't need the drugs, so I thought I would teach them a powerful
lesson. I'm quite sorry, miss."
Cheryl looked at Yowsley, and she noticed tears coming out of his
eyes. But she put those feelings aside and reached for the telephone.
"Sorry I haven't called Les. Yes, I stayed the night. Nice castle,
of course. Yeah, send a squad car to 166 Lee Street in Brookline.
What do you mean, that isn't our jurisdiction? Oh, okay. I think
he's going to confess. Brookline will take care of him then. Great.
You should check out the nice threads Yowsley gave me. Wanna know
what I did? Yep. Full report by tomorrow morning."
"Well," Cheryl said regretfully, "Brookline police are on their way.
I don't have the power to arrest you, but I'll wait and give them my
affadavit."
"Dear, I think you and your sister exemplify the best in Boston police
technology," said Yowsley slowly. "I shall be in jail for many years,
but I want to thank you for not being a typical anti-establishment
cop."
All Cheryl did was smile.
---------
"Lucas Yowsley was sentenced to 35 years at Charles Street Jail,"
said Lester to Cheryl with a bored sigh. "It don't make me happy that a
guy who's seemingly good would go out and push acid. But hopefully he'll
remain the gentleman he is and get out in 10 years for good behavior."
Cheryl decided that day to wear the hippy look. Her hair was brushed
out so long and flowing that it reflected the light. A blue-green
granny dress flowed upon her calves, naked except for a pair of white
wool socks.
"Girl, I hope you realize that this is a business and not a costume
party," Les witted. "What happened to the tight-ass police bitch
that gave assholes a reason to think twice?"
"Like, it's not groovy to give these cats the anti-Establishment rap."
Cheryl cackled until tears ran down her face.
"Hey, I met up with Sarah this afternoon, and we got into this deep
discussion about the new feminist movement." Leaning towards Les with
a wicked grin, Cheryl whispered, "Don't expect to see a bra on me
because it's a sign of male oppression and breast worship."
Cheryl peeled off her white wool socks and walked over to the coffee
machine to pour a cup of coffee. "Damn, my feet are cold..." she
gasped.
Les chuckled to himself. "Serves you right for going barefoot in the
office," he mumbled to himself, well out of Cheryl's earshot.
_________
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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