Attacked by Silk Gloves
Chapter 1: Paul Meets Rosemary
Caution: This Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, NonConsensual, Reluctant, Coercion, Magic, TransGender, CrossDressing, BDSM, DomSub, FemaleDom, Masturbation, Transformation,
Desc: Sex Story: Chapter 1: Paul Meets Rosemary - While searching for "real magic", Paul locates a crotchety old woman named Rosemary, who can perform a special "glove trick". This trick involves a long glove that comes to life and leaps over the hand and arm of an unsuspecting spectator. Soon Paul discovers that living gloves are just the beginning...
After six years of searching, Paul was discouraged and depressed.
He had visited hundreds of people, saw thousands of demonstrations, and explored dozens of dead ends.
"There is no such thing as real magic," Paul had to admit. "Now, what am I going to do with my life?"
Paul parked his car in the driveway and looked up. It was an old Victorian mansion, looking especially run down and seedy. What little paint remained was peeling, the yard was strewn with litter, and the wood was rotting away. He heard trucks rumble by, just through the trees.
"Might as well check out this one last lead," he sighed, without much hope.
Paul crossed the porch to the front door. Idly, he wondered if the floorboards would hold his weight. He rang the bell and waited.
Two minutes went by. Paul rang again. He peeked into the side window (cracked), though dirty lace curtains, and peered down a dark and deserted hallway. After a minute, he saw someone cross the hallway.
Paul rang a third time and waited.
Paul rang a fourth time.
"What!?" The door was yanked open and an old, cranky face shot out.
"Oh!" Paul stumbled back. A host of ugly smells washed over him; cigarette smoke, stale sulfur, cheap perfume, baby powder, mildew. "Hi," he coughed, "my name is Paul."
"State your business," she said, impatient and agitated. Her head had a slight uncontrolled quaver to it.
"Right. Mrs. Carter? I saw an article that mentioned you in the Corbet County Times from 1954. A society piece that mentioned a magic trick that you did for a benefit party? Something about a glove that would put itself on your hand, ummm..." She looked at him with complete contempt. "Yeah, well I'm curious how you did it. I'm really good at illusions, and I don't see how that trick could be possible."
"Well, maybe it wasn't a trick. Maybe it was real?"
Paul felt his heart skip a beat. "Real?" he stammered.
"Har har haaarr," she wheezed at him. Paul felt a gentle mist of spittle land on his face. "You kids are so gullible. You'll believe anything. Some magician you are. Well, I'm sorry, but my entertaining days are long over. Goodbye." She pulled back and swung the door shut.
"Wait!" Paul shouted, and lunged forward. "Ahhh, fuck!" he screamed as the door closed solidly on his hand and then bounced back.
The old lady appeared again. "Now what?"
"Oh god." Paul moaned, rocking back and forth, doubled over with his hand in his lap. He looked up at her. "Please. I just need to know for sure. Can you show me the trick?"
She looked at him more closely, her head tilted to one side. Her nostrils flared.
"Well, I was looking for a woman..." she said, quietly, after a long pause.
"Excuse me?" Paul asked, not sure he had heard correctly.
The old lady pushed a finger into her nose and picked at it for a second.
"Alright, come in," she said finally. "You interrupted my lunch."
Paul sat watching Mrs. Carter ("Call me Rosemary," she had said) hunched over her soup, slurping noisily. Both elbows were on the table and she covered the bowl.
"Good thing you're here, place is a pig sty. Can't say I ever cared to keep it up for anyone after my daughter died." Soup dripped down her chin. She wiped it off with her housecoat.
Paul looked around. The table was coated with a greasy film, the chairs were sticky and oozing lint, and dead cockroaches clustered in the corner. To make the soup, she just picked a random pot from a pile of dirty dishes. He was glad that she hadn't offered him any.
"Excuse me?" Paul asked.
"I said, you can start with the kitchen."
"Kitchen?" Paul was befuddled.
"Yes. Clean it!"
"God, you're thicker than a cinder block! Do you think I'm going to share a secret with a snot-nosed, wet-bottom infant like you? You're going to have to work for it."
"Now wait a minute. I don't even know if you can do magic at all. I don't even know if you're really Mrs. Carter! If I'm going to be your personal cleaning service, I need some proof or I'm headed right..."
Paul stopped short. Rosemary had reached over and tapped his wrist with an oily, sticky finger and his wrist, as if shackled by a magnetic cuff, had leapt to the finger, shifting his whole body forward.
"God, I hate you smart-asses! You don't know shit." She moved her finger effortlessly to the side, and Paul's wrist, welded to it, was dragged along. "Just a sniveling twerp, a braying jackass." She kept going, causing Paul to stumble out of his chair and onto his knees, his face knocking over an old bowl of sour milk which clattered across the floor.
Rosemary pushed his wrist to the floor. With a twist, she disengaged her finger leaving Paul invisibly locked to the floor.
Paul looked up at Rosemary, frightened, heart pounding, scared shitless. Frantically he pulled at his wrist trying to get free. She reached a finger to his head.
"No!" Paul shouted and jerked back. Too late. His entire skull, as if encased in a tight leather mask, was pulled to her finger. The force was immense, with no apparent effort on her part at all.
"Is this hypnosis?" he wondered. He thought that he had studied hypnosis and was able to defeat it. "Is this a trick? Is this real?"
Paul struggled uselessly as Rosemary slowly, almost gracefully, pushed his head to the floor where it stuck fast to the slimy linoleum alongside the wrist. For extra measure, she tilted it so his nose and lips were pressed to the floor.
"You need to learn to respect your elders, boy."
Paul looked up as best he could, but all he could see were gray spotted feet, split toenails and threadbare sandals.
"Here's the deal. You clean this kitchen, and if you do a good job I'll show you something. Otherwise, get the fuck out of here and if I ever see you again I'm calling the police." Rosemary picked up her foot and ground a sandal into his face. The bottom was gritty. Leaving her soup only half finished, she got up and left.
Paul listened as she slowly ascended the stairs. As soon as her bedroom door slammed shut, his bonds were released.
Wham His body flew up off the floor and his head hit the table. "Fuck!!" Frantically, Paul scrambled out of the kitchen and then ran for the front door, but just as he stepped out onto the porch...
... he stopped.
"Shit," Paul thought, "she is one dangerous old bitch." He turned to leave. Then turned back, his hand still on the door knob ... he turned around again ... forwards, backwards, until finally he just stood still, one foot inside and one outside, trying to calm down and settle his breathing.
Paul thought back to what had happened. How had she done it?? It had to be real. It had to be!
But still he hesitated, frozen to the spot.
Finally, Paul stepped back into the house and closed the door behind him.
It was four hours later before Paul saw Rosemary again. He had spent the entire time in the kitchen, cleaning it as best he could.
He was working on the floor when Rosemary stepped in. He saw her feet first, and then looked up at her scrawny legs.
She stepped back. "Pervert," she muttered.
Rosemary took a long, hard look at Paul, taking so long that he looked away, embarrassed.
"What?" he asked.
She sat down at the table.
By this time, Paul knew the kitchen pretty well, so he boiled some more soup and they ate in silence.
Rosemary sat back in the chair, put an arm on the table, and looked over.
"Alright. Thank you for cleaning up the kitchen. I had forgotten what color it was."
Rosemary grimaced at him, belched, and drummed her fingers. "Alright. I guess I'll have to show you something," Paul's eyes lit up, "but not tonight. I'm too tired. Tomorrow."
"But..." Paul started.
"What?" She looked at him, piercingly.
Paul sputtered, but sat back, resigned. Now that he had made up his mind, he was determined to see this through.
Rosemary got out of her chair. "Get up. You can sleep in my daughter's old room."