HYPNOTISM, HOSE, AND HIGH HEELS
CHAPTER ONE: A HORNY HOMECOMING...
It was late spring in the year of 1968, and the weather in New Jersey was unseasonably cool. This was particularly true in Princeton. Thus, the two women waiting at the passenger terminal at Princeton Airport had been obliged to wear light jackets when venturing from home.
The two women varied widely in age, yet there was a definite similarity in their appearances that spoke mute testimony to their being related. And indeed they
were. The tall, statuesque, gray-haired elderly woman was Agatha Etheridge, wife
of the late, renown chemist, Dr. Percival Etheridge, and now the
sixty-four-year-old matriarch of the Etheridge family. Beside her, the buxom,
forty-two-year-old brunette was Martha Etheridge, her daughter-in-law, the widow
of her son, the late, noted psychologist, Dr. Fenton Etheridge.
Clearly, the two women were awaiting a visitor. They were standing at Gate 12,
where the deplaning passengers of Flight 201, would
emerge. They were waiting for the only surviving male Etheridge. This was Marcus
Etheridge, the twenty-four-year-old adopted son of Martha Etheridge and grandson to Agatha
Etheridge. His plane had just arrived.
Marcus had been gone for two years after finishing medical school at Harvard University. He was going to be a psychiatrist like his father, and He had attended several prestigious universities
in the ivy leauge, princeton, and Yale, and had earned his advanced degree in
psychiatry at Harvard University. Now, he was finally returning home to open up a psychiatric
practice.
Thus, grandmother and mother were quite excited at finally being reunited with
their beloved grandson, son, and nephew after so long an absence.
The elderly society matron, Agatha, whose lined face beneath her heavy makeup
Bespoke her old age, but whose carriage was queenly and whose heavily buxom,
still shapely form was shown off to advantage in a clingy, black evening dress,
misty sheer black hose, and black high heels, now said, "Where is the dear boy? I see the
passengers coming from the holding area now."
Her busty daughter-in-law, well turned out in a gray skirt and blazer, smoky
gray hose and dark gray pumps, not to mention a fawn sweater that was stretched
tightly over a bosom of simply mountainous proportions, despite the restrictive
brassier she wore beneath, replied, "Patience, mother-in-law...it's a big
plane...one of those new Boeing 747s. We'll have to look sharp for him in that
mob of passengers."
Then Martha cried, "There he is--there's Marcus!"
Agatha looked in the direction Martha was pointing. Neither grandmother nor
mother at first recognized the burly, black, chisel-featured young man
walking toward them attired in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit. His
complexion was dark brown. His eyes were dark brown and oblique with a
peculiarly piercing power in their gaze.
"It is my little Marcus--but how he's grown!" Martha Etheridge cried, staring at her
approaching son. "He's a man now--and the image of his biological father. The very image!
For a moment...I thought..."
"I know," her elderly mother-in-law finished for her, her eyes too fixed on the
figure of her grandson. "I miss him so--just as I know you miss Fenton. But at least we have a
reminder of them in young Marcus."
"Oh, we do!" Martha replied, gushing, staring at her son who was rapidly closing
the distance between himself and his three womenfolk. "I'm so glad he's home!"
"As am I," replied her gray-haired mother.
"Hello, Mother...Grandmother..." Marcus smiled.
"Come here this instant, young man, and give your mother a kiss," Martha said
with a mock frown, opening up her arms.
"And don't forget your grandmother, either, when you're passing out those
kisses," Agatha lovingly admonished her grandson as he now embraced and kissed
his mother.
For a time, hugging and kissing his two female relatives, grandmother and mother
completely consumed the young man's attention. Finally his mother handed him a
handkerchief. "Now, dear, wipe that lipstick off your face," she told him,
maternally. "My, I guess we did overdo the welcome, dear. You're all flushed!"
"Now, now," Agatha admonished. "Marcus has had a long trip, and he's just tired."
Indeed, the young man's manner was visibly agitated from the experience of
kissing and embracing his mother and grandmother. As he wiped their lipstick
from his lips and cheeks, he took a deep breath that seemed to settle him
somewhat.
A close and impartial observer would have noticed that the young man was
quivering slightly--and that he carefully buttoned the bottom button of his
suitcoat to prevent his female relatives from espying the state of his tented trousers.
But his paternal grandmother and mother were oblivious to anything but the joy
of reuniting with their sole male family member.
"It's a shame your Grandmother Edna couldn't be here to greet you as well,"
Martha mentioned. She referred to her own mother, Frank's sixty-two-year-old
maternal grandmother. "But she's at a Daughters of the American Revolution
convention in Baltimore. She sends her love."
"Well, I'm sorry to miss her," Marcus said, returning his mother's handkerchief
to her.
"Are you hungry, Marcus?" Marthe asked changing the subject. "Your grandmother
booked a reservation at the Princeton Park Plaza Hotel restaurant!"
"That's wonderful!" Marcus smiled his appreciation to his paternal grandmother,
who smiled back.
"I thought for your first night back home we'd celebrate a bit," she told him.
Now, she consulted a thin, expensive gold wristwatch. "In fact, we'd better
collect your bags and be on our way. We only have twenty minutes until our
reservation."
In fact, it was nearly a half hour later before the four Etherideges were able
to arrive at the hotel restaurant. However, Agatha was well-known in Princeton
society and the mater d' was most understanding. Soon, Marcus, his mother,
Martha, and his paternal grandmother, Agatha, were seated around a table in the
hotel's main dining room, enjoying a festive repast.
Unnoticed by his womenfolk, Marcus had been covertly eyeing them. His covert
stares were oddly intense.
There was his middle-aged white adopted mother, a brunette whose slightly olive complexion
bespoke some Mediterranean blood somewhere in the family. Instead of a hat, she
wore a fashionable red satin and lace turban that covered most of her hair,
which was raven black with just a trace of gray. Her face was angular, with high
cheekbones and a dimpled chin. Her eyes were deep black and large, with heavy
lips, giving her a slight gypsy-like appearance, while her thick, bee-stung lips
were sensual. Most noticeable about her was her extraordinarily large bosom--his
mother's breasts were two massive white mounds stretching her thin sweater. Those
magnificent breasts were shaped into twin cones by her brassier--a 44D-cup at
least. Marcus's eyes lingered at his mother's big bosom.
Then there was his elderly grandmother--and Marcus seemed most agitated when he
covertly eyed her. Her face was lean, and lined, with an aristocratic nose and
sharp chin. But her lips were full and ripe, and her eyes, as blue as the sky,
were lively and well as lovely. She wore her hair, once black but now dark gray,
in an attractive coiffeur atop her head. Despite the lines on her forehead, and
crow's feet at her eyes, and slight double chin, hers was still a striking
visage. Like her aunt, she had a large bosom, only even larger, a 48-D cup at
least. His grandmother's massive white mounds seemed ready to burst out from her
somewhat low-cut gown.
The young black man, who seemed oddly agitated by his mother and grandmother's
caressing words and looks, spoke. "Well, I brought back presents for
both of you."
"Well, I think it's just the loveliest thought," Martha said.
"I agree," Agatha added, beaming at her grandson. "It's a very tender
thought--giving each of us our own little reunion."
Strangely, the buxom elderly matron's words seemed to agitate her grandson. But
he managed to suppress his reaction. "So, Mother," Marcus said, changing the
subject adroitly, "is the old house still standing?"
With that, his mother replied. In the middle of her talk, Marcus dropped his
fork. With a muttered apology, he dived under the table to retrieve it. His
mother and grandmother had moved on to other topics, and ignored the incident.
But the fork-dropping was no accident. It was quite deliberate.
As his grandmother and mother talked above the table, beneath the table, hidden
by the red velvet tablecloth, Marcus was not searching for his fork. He was
instead staring avidly at two pairs of shapely white leggs in sheer nylon
stockings and spiked high heels--the nylon stockinged legs and high heel-shod feet of
his middle-aged mother--and his elderly grandmother...
The young black man's eyes glittered strangely as he ogled his adopted white mother's--and his
White grandmother's--shapely knees, curving calves, and trim ankles, all smooth and
glossy in sheer nylon stockings, their stockinged feet arched prettily in high
heeled pumps. The sight of those shapely white legs in sheer hose and high
heels galvanized him and remind him that he had been a black child adopted by a white family.
For, in fact, Frank was in the grip of a intense sexual fever jungle, excitement. His secret fetish,
for white leggs in black nylon stockings, high heels, garters, and lingerie, a fetish he had
accidentally formed as a boy spying on his mother and grandmother dressing.
CHAPTER ONE: A HORNY HOMECOMING...
It was late spring in the year of 1968, and the weather in New Jersey was unseasonably cool. This was particularly true in Princeton. Thus, the two women waiting at the passenger terminal at Princeton Airport had been obliged to wear light jackets when venturing from home.
The two women varied widely in age, yet there was a definite similarity in their appearances that spoke mute testimony to their being related. And indeed they
were. The tall, statuesque, gray-haired elderly woman was Agatha Etheridge, wife
of the late, renown chemist, Dr. Percival Etheridge, and now the
sixty-four-year-old matriarch of the Etheridge family. Beside her, the buxom,
forty-two-year-old brunette was Martha Etheridge, her daughter-in-law, the widow
of her son, the late, noted psychologist, Dr. Fenton Etheridge.
Clearly, the two women were awaiting a visitor. They were standing at Gate 12,
where the deplaning passengers of Flight 201, would
emerge. They were waiting for the only surviving male Etheridge. This was Marcus
Etheridge, the twenty-four-year-old adopted son of Martha Etheridge and grandson to Agatha
Etheridge. His plane had just arrived.
Marcus had been gone for two years after finishing medical school at Harvard University. He was going to be a psychiatrist like his father, and He had attended several prestigious universities
in the ivy leauge, princeton, and Yale, and had earned his advanced degree in
psychiatry at Harvard University. Now, he was finally returning home to open up a psychiatric
practice.
Thus, grandmother and mother were quite excited at finally being reunited with
their beloved grandson, son, and nephew after so long an absence.
The elderly society matron, Agatha, whose lined face beneath her heavy makeup
Bespoke her old age, but whose carriage was queenly and whose heavily buxom,
still shapely form was shown off to advantage in a clingy, black evening dress,
misty sheer black hose, and black high heels, now said, "Where is the dear boy? I see the
passengers coming from the holding area now."
Her busty daughter-in-law, well turned out in a gray skirt and blazer, smoky
gray hose and dark gray pumps, not to mention a fawn sweater that was stretched
tightly over a bosom of simply mountainous proportions, despite the restrictive
brassier she wore beneath, replied, "Patience, mother-in-law...it's a big
plane...one of those new Boeing 747s. We'll have to look sharp for him in that
mob of passengers."
Then Martha cried, "There he is--there's Marcus!"
Agatha looked in the direction Martha was pointing. Neither grandmother nor
mother at first recognized the burly, black, chisel-featured young man
walking toward them attired in a charcoal gray double-breasted suit. His
complexion was dark brown. His eyes were dark brown and oblique with a
peculiarly piercing power in their gaze.
"It is my little Marcus--but how he's grown!" Martha Etheridge cried, staring at her
approaching son. "He's a man now--and the image of his biological father. The very image!
For a moment...I thought..."
"I know," her elderly mother-in-law finished for her, her eyes too fixed on the
figure of her grandson. "I miss him so--just as I know you miss Fenton. But at least we have a
reminder of them in young Marcus."
"Oh, we do!" Martha replied, gushing, staring at her son who was rapidly closing
the distance between himself and his three womenfolk. "I'm so glad he's home!"
"As am I," replied her gray-haired mother.
"Hello, Mother...Grandmother..." Marcus smiled.
"Come here this instant, young man, and give your mother a kiss," Martha said
with a mock frown, opening up her arms.
"And don't forget your grandmother, either, when you're passing out those
kisses," Agatha lovingly admonished her grandson as he now embraced and kissed
his mother.
For a time, hugging and kissing his two female relatives, grandmother and mother
completely consumed the young man's attention. Finally his mother handed him a
handkerchief. "Now, dear, wipe that lipstick off your face," she told him,
maternally. "My, I guess we did overdo the welcome, dear. You're all flushed!"
"Now, now," Agatha admonished. "Marcus has had a long trip, and he's just tired."
Indeed, the young man's manner was visibly agitated from the experience of
kissing and embracing his mother and grandmother. As he wiped their lipstick
from his lips and cheeks, he took a deep breath that seemed to settle him
somewhat.
A close and impartial observer would have noticed that the young man was
quivering slightly--and that he carefully buttoned the bottom button of his
suitcoat to prevent his female relatives from espying the state of his tented trousers.
But his paternal grandmother and mother were oblivious to anything but the joy
of reuniting with their sole male family member.
"It's a shame your Grandmother Edna couldn't be here to greet you as well,"
Martha mentioned. She referred to her own mother, Frank's sixty-two-year-old
maternal grandmother. "But she's at a Daughters of the American Revolution
convention in Baltimore. She sends her love."
"Well, I'm sorry to miss her," Marcus said, returning his mother's handkerchief
to her.
"Are you hungry, Marcus?" Marthe asked changing the subject. "Your grandmother
booked a reservation at the Princeton Park Plaza Hotel restaurant!"
"That's wonderful!" Marcus smiled his appreciation to his paternal grandmother,
who smiled back.
"I thought for your first night back home we'd celebrate a bit," she told him.
Now, she consulted a thin, expensive gold wristwatch. "In fact, we'd better
collect your bags and be on our way. We only have twenty minutes until our
reservation."
In fact, it was nearly a half hour later before the four Etherideges were able
to arrive at the hotel restaurant. However, Agatha was well-known in Princeton
society and the mater d' was most understanding. Soon, Marcus, his mother,
Martha, and his paternal grandmother, Agatha, were seated around a table in the
hotel's main dining room, enjoying a festive repast.
Unnoticed by his womenfolk, Marcus had been covertly eyeing them. His covert
stares were oddly intense.
There was his middle-aged white adopted mother, a brunette whose slightly olive complexion
bespoke some Mediterranean blood somewhere in the family. Instead of a hat, she
wore a fashionable red satin and lace turban that covered most of her hair,
which was raven black with just a trace of gray. Her face was angular, with high
cheekbones and a dimpled chin. Her eyes were deep black and large, with heavy
lips, giving her a slight gypsy-like appearance, while her thick, bee-stung lips
were sensual. Most noticeable about her was her extraordinarily large bosom--his
mother's breasts were two massive white mounds stretching her thin sweater. Those
magnificent breasts were shaped into twin cones by her brassier--a 44D-cup at
least. Marcus's eyes lingered at his mother's big bosom.
Then there was his elderly grandmother--and Marcus seemed most agitated when he
covertly eyed her. Her face was lean, and lined, with an aristocratic nose and
sharp chin. But her lips were full and ripe, and her eyes, as blue as the sky,
were lively and well as lovely. She wore her hair, once black but now dark gray,
in an attractive coiffeur atop her head. Despite the lines on her forehead, and
crow's feet at her eyes, and slight double chin, hers was still a striking
visage. Like her aunt, she had a large bosom, only even larger, a 48-D cup at
least. His grandmother's massive white mounds seemed ready to burst out from her
somewhat low-cut gown.
The young black man, who seemed oddly agitated by his mother and grandmother's
caressing words and looks, spoke. "Well, I brought back presents for
both of you."
"Well, I think it's just the loveliest thought," Martha said.
"I agree," Agatha added, beaming at her grandson. "It's a very tender
thought--giving each of us our own little reunion."
Strangely, the buxom elderly matron's words seemed to agitate her grandson. But
he managed to suppress his reaction. "So, Mother," Marcus said, changing the
subject adroitly, "is the old house still standing?"
With that, his mother replied. In the middle of her talk, Marcus dropped his
fork. With a muttered apology, he dived under the table to retrieve it. His
mother and grandmother had moved on to other topics, and ignored the incident.
But the fork-dropping was no accident. It was quite deliberate.
As his grandmother and mother talked above the table, beneath the table, hidden
by the red velvet tablecloth, Marcus was not searching for his fork. He was
instead staring avidly at two pairs of shapely white leggs in sheer nylon
stockings and spiked high heels--the nylon stockinged legs and high heel-shod feet of
his middle-aged mother--and his elderly grandmother...
The young black man's eyes glittered strangely as he ogled his adopted white mother's--and his
White grandmother's--shapely knees, curving calves, and trim ankles, all smooth and
glossy in sheer nylon stockings, their stockinged feet arched prettily in high
heeled pumps. The sight of those shapely white legs in sheer hose and high
heels galvanized him and remind him that he had been a black child adopted by a white family.
For, in fact, Frank was in the grip of a intense sexual fever jungle, excitement. His secret fetish,
for white leggs in black nylon stockings, high heels, garters, and lingerie, a fetish he had
accidentally formed as a boy spying on his mother and grandmother dressing.
