Emotional Rescue

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Damien is up to his tricks again.
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Sy23
Sy23
9 Followers

An excerpt from the diary of Damian Weekes

THE excuse that I gave for attending the "Wetherall Roofing Supplies" Telemarketer training was that I needed a job. The reality was somewhat different.

When I had first discovered my power, (the nature of which regular readers of these chronicles would be well aware), I had been ecstatic. All women, I had thought, would be at my mercy. A few minutes conversation, a quick suggestion, and not only would their bodies be mine for the asking, but they would have already, by their own actions, rendered me into a state of total and perfect arousal. Not a woman, I thought, could walk abroad without embarrassment. I would be the King of saggy nylons. The prince of wrinkled knees.

Alas, the reality was far less exciting.

I was fast coming to the conclusion that whatever cosmic power controls these things was perpetrating upon me the cruellest of jokes. It had tempted me, allowed my hope to rise, and then ensured that there was no way that I could put the power to use. For in the six months since my last abortive attempt (chronicled elsewhere in these extracts) I had not so much as been alone with a woman.

An easy problem to solve, you might think. Simply take myself off to a bar. A club. A singles joint. A special-interest group. Friends, it isn't so easy. Yes, such places exist, yes I could even meet women there. But my looks (small, skinny, bespectacled), my chronic shyness (except when I was actually exercising my power), the fact that women who attend such places are inevitably in groups, all these situations mitigated against success.

So desperate was I for another chance to exercise my hypnotic abilities I was even casting my eyes over my sister.

And then, lying on my bed, the TV blaring unnoticed, a crumpled copy of Cleo (open at a pantyhose advertisement) open in my hand, I came to a decision. Tomorrow, I would get out of the house. Do something. Anything. Anything rather than lie on my bed, thumbing through my collection of hosiery advertisements, trying to work up the enthusiasm to masturbate.

It might be some measure of the state of my social life that accepting a job as a telemarketer, and arranging to arrange the day's (unpaid) training provided was the only alternative that offered itself. And so, at nine thirty AM, I presented myself at the scheduled place, tax file number and notebook in hand, and a sense of futility in my heart. I looked around without interest at the overweight, bespectacled, acne-prone hopefuls that would, if they and I accepted the position, be my companions, and settled down to await the person who was to present the course.

It was then that the gods finally gave me a break!

******

The person who had answered my initial telephone call had been a man, and when I had expressed an interest in the position I had been told that "Phil" would be presenting the course at nine-thirty sharp. And he had been correct.

But when Phil entered the room, my heart gave a small leap, my loins tightened, and I sat up with interest.

Shortening names is not uncommon of course. And a beautiful woman in her mid-twenties, with short, tightly-curled blonde hair, legs shaped like that of most models and a bosom that rearranged the contours of her tight business-jacket is as entitled to do so as anyone else. Phillippa, after all, is a name that cried out to be shortened.

My eyes travelled along the length of her body. She had high cheekbones, a pair of deep blue eyes, that fell just short of being cornflower, and her neck was set off by a small gold chain, the device borne by which was hidden below the open neck of her white blouse. Her suit was a dark maroon, that fell just short of being pink, made of some shimmery material that flashed and undulated provocatively as she moved. Her skirt was short, but not aggressively so, the hem sitting midway between crotch and knee. She wore two inch clunky heels, in a discreet black.

But it was what was between the hem and the shoes that held my interest.

Even an expert like me cannot tell, simply by looking, the make of a pair of hose. The type of hose (ie be them stockings, pantyhose or thigh-highs) perhaps. There are certain clues not really relevant here (send a request to this web page if you're interested). As to make... even I have to rely on guesswork.

But I could always tell if a pair of nylons are bargain basement specials, or an expensive, dressy evening brand. And these were certainly the latter.

They were black, to match her shoes. A hint to fans of nylonic disarrangement here... "evening brands" by which I mean the sheer, luxurious kind are far more prone to bagging and sliding than everyday ones, for the reason that the price for that luxury is a higher concentration of nylon in the blend. But these were (I cursed to notice it) immaculate.

Still, the legs were well worth seeing in their own right, and when she dropped her whiteboard-marker and bent to pick it up, the sight of the black seam of the hose across the white crotchpiece of her panties cheered me no end.

"Phil" turned towards the whiteboard and began to pin up some pre-prepared scripts that the chosen ones were to use when they began work, and as she stretched the skirt rose, revealing more of her thighs. She turned back, tugged down her jacket, and smiled.

This, I thought to myself, is going to be good!

******

Disillusionment set in quickly.

Yes, Phillipa was sexy enough, and yes, she had a smile that could have melted snow. But after the first initial joy at the sight of her, my over-riding emotion was one of frustration. No matter how much she bent, stretched or sat, the nylons remained firmly in place. By the time we went for out lunch break, I was ready to sob in disappointment, and as I sat brooding over my machine-supplied espresso and stale doughnut, there was blackness in my heart.

What's the use, I moaned to myself. What's the use of this fucking shitty power, if I can't use it! How the hell can I hypnotise her. I can hardly do it in front of the whole lot of them.

Not for the first time, I wished I had never discovered my ability.

In fact, I was so busy brooding on my lot, I almost missed the chance.

******

Just as I was about to get up from the lunchroom table, junk the fast-cooling coffee and return to the lecture room, Phillipa herself came in. There were a couple of my colleagues around the table, (I had been talking to them, but don't ask me what I said. I have the ability to hold conversations on auto-pilot... remember I've worked in retail) and, one by one, they got up and left. Phillipa was making notes on a clipboard, and apart from an initial "hello" had said nothing to me. But now, as I saw we were alone, I cleared my throat and spoke her name.

She looked up, and I began to speak. Trivialities about what she had been telling us, a few questions. But all in a particular tone of voice, a particular intonation. Though I had not had a chance to use my power in earnest for many months, I had been practising. Or maybe, since this was not the first time I had done this, it was getting easier. Whatever the reason, it took only a few minutes before her eyes took on that glazed, attentive look that meant she was in my thrall.

A few instructions, the mandatory instruction to forget the conversation had taken place, and a reminder that what I wanted her to do would be done whenever I tapped my pen upon my palm. And I was even back at my place before lunch break had finished.

******

"You must remember that the customer wants to buy our product," she was saying, in that husky voice that, sexy as it was, I had grown to despise, when I decided to test the proficiency of my suggestion. Carefully, casually, I tapped the pen upon my left palm.

There was a few seconds, when I thought that I had failed.

"The customer needs the security and warmth that a Wetherall roof can provide. You must believe in the - "

And then, stopping in mid stream, she looked down at her legs, at her still immaculate pantyhose.

She flushed, and continued looking. The more industrious of the class stopped taking notes, the others ceased their doodling and dreaming. The sudden silence bemused them all. But what Phillipa did next they must have found even stranger.

Phillipa bent down, grabbed a finger-and-thumbful of nylon at the front of each calf, and yanked upwards.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said to the class, in an apologetic voice. "I don't know what's got into my pantyhose today."

There were mystified looks, as well there might have been. Her hose were, after all, perfectly in place.

She smoothed the flats of her hands along the calves, and then tugged at her knees. Once again, they were immaculate, but the way she hitched would have suggested that she had enough wrinkles there to hold a week's rain.

"I must look such a sight," she continued, pretending to laugh. But the flush that was creeping up her face was fast becoming a full on blush. "I think they must be a little large. It really is terribly embarrassing."

There was a slight giggle from one of the girls. No doubt she thought this was some kind of psychological test.

Phillipa smoothed her hands along her thighs, and then, gripping the material at the side of her upper-thighs through the skirt tugged upwards.

"Nothing's worse than creeping hose, is there?" she finished, and then resumed her lecture.

I was thankful for the fact that I was sitting at a desk. Had I been in the open, my appreciation of the sight would have been plain to see.

It was all I could do to contain my impatience, but I had agreed with myself to allow a certain amount of time to elapse before giving her the signal again. And besides, I was enjoying her blush, which did not subside, even though she continued with the lecture for another half hour. It was only just beginning to fade when I gave her the signal again.

Again, there was a few seconds grace, and then again came her reaction. She looked down, the blush flared anew, and again she bent down. This time, however, she turned her back on the class while she tugged at the front of the hose, then turned 180 degrees to fix them at the back.

"I really am terribly sorry about this." she mumbled, pleadingly. "I really am having a bad pantyhose day!"

She gave another apologetic grin. "Every girl's dread. Hose creep."

She pivoted her body and looked down at the back of her legs, frowning. And then again turned her back to the class. "Do they look OK?" She asked.

One or two of the female members hastened to assure her that they were fine, I was tempted to tell her that they were still sagging, but since such a statement was patently untrue it could only have drawn attention to myself by doing so. And besides, I was too busy squirming in delight.

Phillipa wriggled and gyrated as she smoothed down her skirt, and again tugged at her jacket. She returned to her presentation, but everyone watching could tell her mind was not on the job. She stumbled and stuttered, forgot her lines and muffed her questions. The previously confident persona was fast giving way to a shambling wreck.

As for me, I was drunk with my own power. I wished, belatedly, that I had suggested that she ask me (appearing to do so at random, of course) to smooth them up for her. After all, being asked to do so I could hardly refuse, however eccentric the request! Or that I had told her to yank them at the waist as well, even diving her hands up under her skirt to do so.

And, as so often happens, in these circumstances, the fates took the hint and other things began to go wrong. She slipped, and sent the whiteboard flying. She dropped a marker, putting a line of indelible ink on her jacket. Her mobile phone rang in the middle of a demonstration. Her face fell when she answered, so obviously it was not a call she enjoyed. And, most of all, her expression became more and more exasperated, less and less serene.

Eventually, after an hour or so, I decided to put her through the hoops again. Casually, I tapped my pen on my palm, and settled back to watch what I had arranged for the finale.

Once again, she stopped in mid-stream, and once again she looked down at her legs. Her pantyhose were, of course, immaculate. Even if they had not been at the start of the day, all the hitching and yanking she had been doing since would have ensured a skin-tight fit. Once again, she blushed, this time a deep scarlet.

She looked up at the class.

"Er, I'm really sorry about this," she said, in a small voice. "But as you can see, the inevitable seems to have happened again. I really have to take care of things in the hosiery department. If you could all just indulge me, with five minutes, to, er, adjust myself."

Her face threatening to combust, she marched from the room with as much dignity as she could muster. A hubbub of puzzled chatter broke out. I looked at my watch, as if I had another appointment, made a brief farewell to my fellow-sufferers and left the room.

I had expected, of course, that Phillipa would repair to a bathroom to perform her sartorial adjustments. Even then, the sight of her emerging would have made my day. My week. My year. What I did not expect was, as I left the room, to see her disappearing into a small passage that led to at the back of the complex. I hung back, checked that no-one was looking (the regular employees were all involved in making on-air deals in the next room) and followed her along the corridor.

It was a short passage, and it was not hard to see where she had gone. Not, as I had expected, to a bathroom - they were at the other side of the complex - but into a small room with no door, presumably set aside for senior staff. I waited, listening for the familiar swishing sound that meant that tugging was taking place, but to my surprise I didn't hear it.

And what I did hear gave me even greater surprise.

She had been in the room for only a few seconds when the sound of muffled sobbing came from within. Curious, I walked towards the door and poked my head around it.

Phillipa was sitting at a table, her head down, sobbing bitterly.

I paused. Had there been anyone to see me, the puzzled expression on my face would have been plain. For her pantyhose to sag in front of the class (as she thought), while mildly embarrassing, could hardly have been enough to result in this outburst. Was she overtly sensitive about her appearance?

She continued sobbing as I approached, feeling like a total bastard. She looked up, streaks of mascara and shadow running down her face.

"Oh... oh Damian. I'm so sorry..." she coughed, wiping at her eyes.

"Hey, it's fine," I replied, reassuringly. "You just had a little trouble with your pantyhose." And even in my guilt, a thrill of sexual joy went through me. "I'm sure it could happen to anyone."

And then, in case she wondered at my presence. "I just came to see you were OK."

"Oh I feel such a fool," she moaned. "Breaking down like this. The faithless bastard just isn't worth it!"

She blew her nose.

The look of mystification on my face increased. She noticed.

"You're probably wondering what this is all about," she said. "It's my... my boyfriend. The slime!"

I sat down next to her, pulling out my own handkerchief, and offered it to her.

"Thank you," she said, through her tears. "You're... you're so kind. I know I'm behaving totally stupidly!"

"Of course not. You're just upset."

"I'll say I'm bloody upset," she shrieked. "What do you think of a guy that lives with a girl for three years, then last night calmly announces that he's leaving. No preliminaries, no warning?" The tears began flowing again. "And he had the gall.. the unmitigated gall... to describe her. The bitch he's moving in with. Eighteen years old. Redhead. 38C tits... the germ!!"

"What a cunt." I echoed. Meaning myself. But she didn't know that.

"Oh... you understand. Oh thank you."

She wiped her eyes again. "I could see that you were a sensitive kind of guy. I'm so sorry... I rang him this morning, and he refused to change his mind. When I got that phone call, back then, I thought it would be him. It wasn't... it was some damn telemarketer!" She half-smiled at the irony of it. "And then, on top of everything else, my damn pantyhose have to start sliding down in the middle of the course, in front of everybody, making me look like a total idiot!!"

I reached out and stroked her hair. She smiled up at me.

"I must look a sight!" she said.

"You look gorgeous," I replied. Even through her tears she flushed. "And I think wrinkled pantyhose are cute."

Again, a lie-detector wouldn't have picked up so much as a ripple.

"Oh, you're so sweet," she whispered. And then, as if coming to an instant decision, she pushed back her chair. "Well, I suppose we'd better get back. The rest of the hopefuls are waiting."

"Erm, Phillippa," I said. "You might want to check your make up first."

She blushed even more deeply.

"Damn, see what a mess I'm in?"

She got up and moved over to a mirror, attached to the wall. "As if I hadn't made enough of an idiot of myself already!"

"I know how that is!" I said, with feeling.

She stood in front of the mirror, applying lipstick, eye make up and fiddling with her hair.

"Do I look presentable?" she asked.

"Beautiful." I said, and she smiled. "Except..."

She looked at me.

"Er Phillipa, I hate to mention it at this time," I smiled, "but maybe your pantyhose do still need a little attention."

"Oh damn!" she wailed. "Are they still sagging?" She looked down. "Oh no... what a mess. Thanks for that. Elephant knees again!"

Well, maybe I shouldn't have done it. The poor thing was suffering enough already, and I had done little to improve things. But there are some things you just can't resist! And having already planted the post-hypnotic suggestion for just such a chance as this it would have been a shame not to take advantage of it.

"Phillipa. I hope you don't mind me suggesting this... " I began, She looked at me, in the middle of smoothing the hose.

"Er, you do seem to be having trouble seeing round the back. Maybe if I... just gave them a quick smooth. It might be easier, since I can see better."

She thought for a moment.

"Actually, I feel really embarrassed asking... but it would be a great help."

I bent down and began applying myself to pretending to tug up the hose. I could not, of course, actually pull them up. They were already fitting her like a second skin. I contented myself with smoothing my hands along them, right up under her dress until I was staring at her buttocks, naked except for the thin layers of hose and panties, the latter, I now saw, being the small, lacy, g-string type that did not go with the businesslike outer attire.

She reached into the waist of her skirt and yanked up the waist, wriggling. Her buttocks wiggled provocatively.

The act of pulling up the waist pulled her shirt out of her skirt's waistband, and she was forced to swivel the skirt on her body, undo the zip and stuff the folds of nylon back into it. Then she refastened the skirt, and twisted it back in position.

"What I have to do next is one of those secret women's things." She said, looking embarrassed, but smiling. She dived up under the skirt and gripped the hem of the blouse, pulling it down smooth. Finally, she patted her stomach to check that there were no folds.

"Am I OK now?" She asked.

"Beautiful." I said. "That guy of yours must have been crazy!"

"He didn't think so! That I was beautiful!"

And then her face melted. "Damian. Do you really think I'm attractive. Really?"

"Like a goddess." I replied. And then I reached out a finger to her lips. "Except for the smudge of lipstick on your teeth."

Sy23
Sy23
9 Followers
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