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From: "redheaded composer" <rhmusic@hotmail.com>
Subject: New Story:  Attacked by Silk Gloves -  1/5  (tg, magic, nc, 
    creative)
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New Story:  Attacked by Silk Gloves -  1/5  (tg, magic, nc, creative)

My second story, I hope you like it.

The set-up takes a few pages, but stick with it, for there is plenty 
of good stuff later.

Normal Disclaimer Information:

Do not read any further if:

1.  You are under the age of 18, or
2.  You are offended by explicit sexual and/or erotic writing, or
3.  You are offended by humiliating sexual situations

This story describes creative situations where a man is magically
transformed into a woman, against his will.

If this sort of story is likely to offend you, then do not continue.

If you have any comments on this story, good or bad, then please tell
me so via E-mail! It will encourage me to write more.

Thank you,
RHMusic

- - - - - - - - - - - - -

Paul was obsessed. He had no friends, no social life, and no spare 
time. All this because his mind was completely hijacked by his 
obsession with magic.

It started when he was in high school with simple magic tricks and 
then increased as he gradually learned more and more complicated 
illusions. He thrilled at seeing the illusion for the first time, the 
awe, the wonder. He loved picking it apart and learning it, revealing 
its secrets. Unfortunately, that's just when he would feel let down, 
for once the illusion was revealed and mastered, it immediately lost 
it's magic. Sure, he had fun showing off in front of friends, at 
parties, etc. (although he was looked upon as a nerd - and his 
delivery wasn't very theatrical). But once it was learned and 
perfected, it became just another trick.

He longed for the real thing. The trick which maintained its allure 
even after he understood it, more than a day or two. Ultimately, he 
was looking for something that he couldn't explain away.

When he got to college, he started the real search, between classes, 
first with the university library. He had already read through most 
of the books on magic, so he skipped on to the "Religion and the 
Occult". This section took about a year to sift through; it was a big 
library. After that, he tried "Alchemy". Then "Myths and Legends". By 
the time he had exhausted all of the library books, he was nearly the 
most knowledgeable expert in the state.

What he discovered was disappointing. This was perhaps due to his 
early training in illusions, but none of the magic that he discovered 
passed his rigorous test: 1) It had to be repeatable, 2) It had to be 
physical, not mental [he had no use for the Psychic Friends Network], 
3) It had to be a conscious act performed by a human being (so, 
haunted houses were out), and 4) It had to be something which he 
could not accomplish with his own magic expertise, which, by this 
time, was considerable. Paul wondered if he would end up like Harry 
Houdini, forever searching in vain for paranormal behavior, and 
forever disappointed.

The magic in the books failed all of these tests. They might say 
"secret ingredients" or require sayings not specified. They might 
depend on statistically invalid tests (especially aphrodisiacs). Or, 
they might be strictly anecdotal or third-hand hearsay. Lots of books 
began with "It has been said that an ancient race of X were able to 
perform magical feats..." - in other words, pure speculation.

By this time, Paul had finished his junior year he had decided on a 
degree in sociology. Of course this degree was not the ticket to 
wealth and fame, but it was related to his area of interest, and it 
gave him opportunities to re-use his Occult research. His professors 
were impressed with how well researched his papers had become.

At the start of summer break, Paul had finished his library research 
and was ready to go into the field. The opportunities were meager. 
Paul had only found five potential cases that matched his criteria. 
Two were the result of his library research, two were found through 
on-line computer research, and one was found through his newspaper 
search. Since all of these were in the United States (he had 
specifically put aside foreign travel as being too impractical), he 
decided it was time for a road trip.

"Let's see if there is anything real out there," he thought, as he 
pulled out of the driveway.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

After three weeks of travelling, he was beginning to get discouraged. 
He had visited 3 locations, with no luck. One was simple magic, over 
enthusiastically described by a local journalist (Paul was able to 
easily impress the amateur with his own magic). One was a fraud, pure 
and simple, and one was a man who had died years earlier ("I think it 
was all made up," his son said, "anyway, he burned all his papers 
before he died, so there's thinking left to look at").

Paul parked his car in the driveway of his fourth case and walked to 
the door. It was in an old, run-down Victorian mansion - the kind 
that are always too close to the highway, because the original owner 
hadn't anticipated so much suburban sprawl. This one was especially 
run down and seedy. Everything needed painting, the yard was strewn 
with litter, and the wood was rotting away. He heard trucks rumble 
by, just through the trees. It was hot.

He 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, 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 whipped open and a cranky old face shot out.

"Oh!" Paul stumbled back. He was overcome by a host of ugly smells: 
cigarette smoke, stale sulfur, cheap perfume, baby powder, mildew. 
"Hi," he coughed, "ummm, my name is Paul."

"State your business."  She was impatient and agitated. Her head had 
a slight uncontrolled quaver to it. She was at least 85 years old.

"Right. My name is Paul. Ah... I said that, didn't I? Right. Mrs. 
Carter? I saw an article that mentioned you in the Corbet County 
Times from 1954. Some 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 was curious how you did it. I'm really good 
at illusions, and I couldn'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 gasped and stammered.

"Har har haaarr," she wheezed at him. Paul felt a gentle mist of 
spittle land on his face. He grimaced. "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 
pushed on the door.

"Wait!" Paul shouted, and lunged towards the door. "Ahhh, fuck!" he 
screamed as the door shut solidly on his hand. Fortunately, it was 
the meat of his hand, not just the fingers.

"Now what?" She opened the door again.

"Oh god." Paul moaned, rocking up and down, doubled over with his 
hand in his lap. He looked up at her. "Please. You don't have to 
perform the magic for me, just tell me how it's done. I've been 
looking for something like this for years. I'm desperate."

She looked at him more closely, her head tilted to one side, eyes 
piercing into him, as if trying to look into his skull, rather than 
at his face. Her nostrils flared for a second. She pushed a finger 
into her nose and picked at it for a second. "Alright, come in. You 
interrupted my lunch."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Paul sat watching Mrs. Carter ("It's Rosemary") hunched over her 
soup. Her slurping was noisy. 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 fingers, then on her housecoat.

Paul looked around. Indeed, the place was filthy. He was glad that 
she didn't offer him anything. To make the soup, she just picked a 
random pot from a pile of dirty dishes strewn around the kitchen, 
added some brown water from the tap, and then poured in the soup 
stock from an open can on the counter. The table was covered with a 
greasy film, the chairs were sticky and oozing lint. He saw at least 
two cockroaches.

"Excuse me?" Paul asked.

"I said, you can start with the kitchen."

"Kitchen?" Paul was befuddled.

"Yes. Clean it!"

"What? Why?" 

"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 mid-stream. She had reached over and pointed to his 
wrist with an oily, sticky finger. As her finger drew near, his 
wrist, as if shackled by a magnetic cuff, leapt to her finger, 
pulling his whole body forward an inch or two.

"God, I hate you smart-asses! You don't know shit." She moved her 
finger effortlessly to the side, and his wrist, as if welded to it, 
was dragged along. "Just a sniveling twerp, a braying jackass, an ass 
who don't know jack." Her finger dragged his wrist over the table. 
Paul stumbled out of his chair and onto his knees, his face knocking 
over an old bowl of sour milk and corn flakes, which clattered across 
the floor.

Her hand continued to the floor, and Paul's wrist with it. Paul was 
forced to bend over, still on his knees. She pushed his wrist to the 
floor and pressed it firmly down. The floor was disgusting. She 
twisted her finger and pulled it back, leaving his hand invisibly 
locked to the floor. He jerked his hand, his arm, in fact, his whole 
body, but he couldn't budge his wrist. He put his knees underneath 
him and pulled with his entire weight, but it was impossible to move.

Paul looked up at Rosemary, frightened, heart pounding, scared 
shitless. She was giving him that strange look again: intense study 
mixed with irritation. She reached with her finger to his head.

"No!" Paul shouted and jerked back. Of course, his shackled wrist 
prevented any serious movement away and she was easily able to reach 
his forehead. What he felt was quite remarkable, his entire skull, as 
if encased in a tight leather mask, was pulled magnetically 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?" 
his mind was swirling.

Her finger, with his head attached, now moved towards the floor as 
well. As she slowly, almost gracefully approached the floor, Paul 
struggled further, until he felt his head joining his wrist, welded 
to the slimy linoleum. For extra measure, she tilted his head so his 
nose and lips were pressed to the floor.

"You need to learn to respect, boy." She looked down at him, while 
all he could look at was her sandals. Her feet were gray and spotted, 
with split toenails.

"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. She 
got up and left the room.

Paul listened as she slowly ascended the stairs to the second story. 
As soon as her bedroom door was closed, his bonds were suddenly 
released. His body flew up off the floor, his head hit the table with 
a bang, and he fell back hard. After crawling a few steps he raced 
for the front door, opened it, stepped out, and then....

Hesitated.

"Shit," he thought, "she is one dangerous old bitch." He headed out. 
Then stopped, turned back, his hand still on the door knob, turned 
around again, forwards, backwards, and then he finally stopped, one 
foot inside, and one outside the house.

Paul got his breathing gradually under control as he looked nervously 
back into the house. He had no idea how she had accomplished what she 
had just done. This was definitely the opportunity he had been 
looking for.

Gradually, he walked back into the house, nervously glancing up the 
stairs, and then quietly went back to the kitchen.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

It was four hours later before Paul saw Rosemary again. He spent the 
entire time in the kitchen, cleaning it as best he could. He was 
tempted several times to go out and get additional cleaning 
materials, but was worried that his leaving the house would be 
interpreted as leaving forever.

As it was, he was able to do pretty well. There were two unused bars 
of soap and some other cleaning supplies in one of the cabinets, 
apparently left there by some social worker. He used dirt and gravel 
from the back yard for the worst pots, and after washing the dishes 
thoroughly he used his shirt to dry them. This took about an hour and 
a half and just about a whole bar of soap. Another hour and another 
bar of soap and the countertops, tabletop, and cabinets were no 
longer greasy.

He was working on the floor when Rosemary stepped in. He saw her feet 
first, then looked up her scrawny legs.

She stepped back. "Pervert," she muttered. She looked around. Paul 
stood up and looked at her, hopefully. She took another long, hard 
look at Paul, this time so long that he stepped back and looked 
embarrassed. "What is she looking for?" he wondered.

She went to the table and sat down. "Dinner?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

By this time, Paul knew the kitchen pretty well, so he boiled some 
more soup and they ate in silence.

She sat back in the chair, put an arm on the table, and looked at 
Paul for a while. Paul was determined not to say anything until she 
was ready.

"Alright. Thank you for cleaning up the kitchen.  I had nearly 
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 went 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."

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Paul woke up, panicked. "I must be having a heart attack," he 
thought, his heart banging. After a second, he calmed his breathing, 
his heart slowed, and he relaxed. He checked his watch on the 
dresser. 11 PM, so he had only been asleep for an hour and a half. 
"Gonna be a long night," he sighed.

Ancient but unmistakably feminine smells surrounded him. He looked 
around the room, scanning its contents. Apparently, nothing had been 
touched after Rosemary's daughter had died. Old clothing was left on 
chairs and dressers, make-up lids were still open, the bed had been 
left unmade. It felt weird sleeping in a bed with used sheets, last 
used by a young woman who had died 25 years ago. He felt like an 
archeologist invading a lost tomb.

Paul looked down. The covers had trapped his penis and he realized 
now that it was rock hard. "God, why you?" He stroked it through the 
sheets, idly, enjoying the sensation. Paul was naked under the 
covers, just because that's the way he always slept. The bed was a 
wonderful four-poster canopy bed, but with the canopy faded and 
yellowed. The daughter (Paul had never heard her name) must have been 
treasured and spoiled by doting parents to have been able to sleep in 
such a well appointed bedroom.

After a second he got up. A crooked light from the highway next door 
shined faintly through the window. He parted the curtains and watched 
some trucks drive by. After a second he walked over to the dresser to 
poke around a bit.

The dresser was strewn with makeup, school pins, rings, and old 
concert tickets. Leafing through an old notebook, Paul discovered 
that the daughter's name was Janice. Apparently she was pretty 
popular. Her prom date had been some guy called "Jacob", apparently a 
real hunk, if the notes from her friends were any indication.

At the end of the dresser, Paul spied a pair of silk gloves. "Are 
these the gloves from the trick?" Paul wondered. He picked one up and 
looked at it carefully. It was made of silk, and was long, apparently 
intended to be worn over the elbow at a fancy affair. "The Prom?" He 
held it up to his hands; it would be a tight fit.

Paul put the glove down. "Alacazam!" Paul waved his hand over the 
glove, being stupid, pretending to weave a spell.

"Shit!" Paul jerked his hand back.

The glove had moved. After a second, he moved his hand closer again, 
and as he came within a few inches, the gloved moved again, this time 
shifting towards his hand a little.

"Jesus!" he said, pulling back again, a bit scared.  "This is it!" He 
idly wondered if he was still asleep.

Paul steadied his breathing and reached forward one more time. As 
soon as his hand got within an inch, the glove jumped up, and 
engulfed his hand!

"Ack!" He jerked back and tried to shake off the glove. It was like 
his hand was being engulfed by a silk snake, swallowing more and more 
of his arm. Paul pulled frantically at it, but was unable to get a 
good grip on the silk. The silk caressed his entire arm as it 
gradually worked its way higher and higher. Paul was frantically 
trying to grip the fingers, to get a hold on the opening, but it was 
just too slippery.

"Damn it!" Paul was frantic. The glove had reached his elbow, and now 
the fingers came to life. Each one wriggled away trying to work 
themselves onto his fingers. "Damn, No!" he quickly clenched his 
fist.

As Paul tried desperately to stop it, the thumb of the glove, like 
some kind of live animal, gradually worked it's way to the tip of 
Paul's thumb, and no matter how hard he pressed, the silk was able to 
grasp hold of the tip. Once the tip was surrounded, it gradually ate 
up the rest of his thumb, until it was isolated from the rest of his 
hand.

Next, each finger was attacked individually. The glove was alive and 
possessed. It was stroking, rubbing, squeezing, his entire arm as it 
inexorably invaded each finger, surrounded it, enclosed it, isolated 
it, until, at last, his hand, his entire arm, and each of his fingers 
was fully enclosed.

Paul breathed for a second, realizing that he had lost the battle. He 
held up his arm in the glove, and looked at it a second, rotating it. 
His hand was smaller now, apparently squeezed by the glove, but still 
felt comfortable. He could still tell that it was alive, however, for 
it squirmed, a living wriggling glove that had covered his entire 
arm.

There was a slight 'click' and Paul felt a slight tightening around 
the armhole of the glove. With a sinking feeling, he realized that 
the glove had locked itself onto his arm. It would be impossible to 
get it off now without destroying it.

By this time, Paul had backed up to the bed, and was leaning against 
it, still breathing heavily, sweating due to his exertions. He looked 
up as he heard something clatter on the dresser, and the watched in 
horror as the other glove knocked over an empty perfume bottle, 
dropped to the floor, and began slithering across the floor like a 
snake, the arm-hole first, open and obviously ready to attack his 
free hand.

"Oh no you don't!" This time Paul was ready. He leapt into the bed, 
interlaced his fingers, and then sat on them. "There! See if you can 
beat that!". The glove climbed the bedpost, got onto the bed, and 
snaked across the bed. It immediately started to wedge itself 
underneath Paul's bottom, trying to get to his gloveless left hand.

Unfortunately, Paul hadn't counted on the glove on his right hand 
helping out. The fingers started moving, trying to disentangle 
themselves, and try as he could to control the gloved hand, they were 
too strong. After a second, his right hand was completely free of his 
left, and had pushed it away. All the while, Paul was sitting on both 
hands, and squirming as the energetic glove burrowed deeper 
underneath.

"Damn!"  Paul decided to give up on defense and go for offense 
instead. He jumped up and tried to brush the second glove off the 
bed. But the glove had been too fast, and as he jumped up, it firmly 
grasped the fingers on his left hand, and no amount of flailing his 
hands could shake it off. This second contest was quickly lost, as 
the glove now devoured his entire arm, eating it up inch by inch. 
Paul still fought it, but knew in his heart that the outcome was 
certain.

And, after his arm had been fully encased, after each finger was 
individually isolated and tightly encased, he heard the inevitable 
'click' as the arm hole tightened and the second glove was now 
securely locked onto his arm.

"Damn." He thought. He wondered how Rosemary would react to this. 
Probably it wouldn't have happened if he hadn't been so nosy and 
hadn't poked around the dresser. Oh well, certainly her magic would 
be powerful enough to undo this spell. "Unless she doesn't want to," 
the thought caused his stomach to knot up. He did not like the idea 
of being trapped in these silk gloves forever. He sat back and tried 
to relax.

"It's over," he sighed, resigned to the fact that he was going to be 
wearing the gloves for a while. "But on the positive side, I've seen 
the glove trick!  And not just once but twice!" And in a way that 
made the magic infinitely more powerful and curious than he could 
have thought possible. But now he was glad that it was over, after 
all, both of his hands had been covered and there was nothing more to 
lose.

They were gorgeous silk gloves. He marveled at how dainty they made 
his hands look. If he hadn't known better, he would have said that 
his hands did, in fact, look more delicate and feminine. He held a 
hand to his face and gently stroked the smooth silk over his cheek. 
Almost immediately, his penis reacted.

Then, as he stroked his cheek, he noticed that he wasn't doing all of 
the stroking. The glove itself was controlling his fingers and doing 
some of the caressing on its own. "Now, *this* is weird," he thought. 
It was still his hand for he could feel it and (mostly) control it, 
but it seemed to be smaller and more feminine, and had a mind of it's 
own.

Meanwhile, without Paul fully realizing it, the other glove moved 
down and began playing with his nipples. This was something that Paul 
never did by himself, but the sensation of the silk on his nipples 
was delicious and he felt his cock become fully erect. Paul had been 
hard most of the night due to the stimulating surroundings, and so it 
was only a few seconds before he was now fully hard.

All that was needed was a little more direct stimulation, and his 
right hand provided that as it went from his cheek to stroke his 
cock. The fingers closed around his penis, making a silken tunnel, 
which felt fantastic as his hand stroked up and down. It was just a 
few of these slow strokes before he erupted, squirting sperm up his 
belly and over his chest.

After a few more strokes to squeeze the last drops out, the gloves 
scooped up the sperm and brought it close to his face. For some 
reason Paul didn't even think twice, he just inhaled the moist aroma, 
then opened his mouth and sucked all of the sperm off of the gloves. 
This continued until he was all cleaned up.

Then the gloves went back to stroke him some more as Paul drifted off 
into a light sleep.

[End of Part 1]




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