I laughed. Very unprofessional of me, I admit, being his EAP counselor
and all but —damn him— ankles? Please.
Toes? I’ve heard of.
Feet? Yes.
Legs, ass and tits? Yes, yes and yes.
But ankles? Sorry.
It seems she somehow gained control of his mind by enslaving him to
her ankles.
Not that she ever said anything overtly. No. This was all unspoken.
Done on the QT. Hush. Hush. Subliminal mind control. That sort of
thing.
Okay. What to do?
My first course of action seemed clear: humor him. Sure, Proctor was a
raving loon but you have to understand I had procedures to follow. I
was part of a bureaucracy. Unless he came in waving a gun, threatening
to shoot someone, I had to look into things. File reports. Make
detailed observations. Even with waving a gun there were forms to
fill out and have him sign before I could call a cop. The whole thing
was ridiculous and totally whacked, but that was my job. Can you see
why I was so stressed out?
And so I watched… and I waited.
Proctor was right about one thing: Inger had beautiful legs. Really
top notch. Long wonderful gams like you see on models. Okay. But what
about her ankles?
And what was thing with ankles anyway? I mean any guy with a set of
eyeballs could see Inger’s legs were grand. So why didn’t I have a ton
of leg lunatics bugging me about her?
Proctor had the answer. MIMIS—Male Infant Mind Imprint Syndrome.
That’s why they call ’em ankle biters. They crawl around down there
with the only significant human in their lives having her ankle right
in your face.
I suppose that was true. I had a flash memory of being under the card
table while mother’s bridge club was in session. All those finely
turned out society women decked out in heels and stockings and I under
there just listening to their talk, gossiping in clipped tones—not
understanding a damn thing— and staring at their ankles.
Such fine bones. Such perfect geometry. The hard roundness of the
white porcelain bone jutting out from under the slim taper of the
lower leg. Some would kick off their heels and let me gnaw, teething,
on a juicy big toe while fixing my eyes on the wonder of that
beautiful bend: the ankle.
So there was a bit of a revelation in what Proctor said. He had a
shred of reason on his side— however meager. I was determined look
further into the situation.
I stalked after Inger.
Well, not stalked, of course. I observed, shall we say.
Inger pulled her beautiful hair back into a Swedish bun. Like white
gold spun into a perfect braid. I looked at it for some time
hypnotized. Was it yellow? No. White? Yes. No. Yellow, yes yellow.
Faintly. No, white —platinum.
She turned and caught me looking.
Her manner was severe. Her expression was empty, cold. No, hot. No….
“Can I help you, sir?” she asked. Such sarcasm! Sir? Totally uncalled
for.
“I’d like to sit in on a meeting or two this morning and observe.” I
told her.
“Spy?” She asked directly.
“Observe.” I insisted.
Her eyes narrowed at my rudeness. Bristling with distrust and
contempt. She stepped closer to me and uttered, “Observe. Very well
then. Observe you shall. But not in the open. I refuse to let my
people see me subjected to… observation as you say. The meeting is
about to begin. Crouch under the podium. Hurry.”
I was happy to comply. This made the whole thing very scientific.
Unobtrusive.
“Smooth the kink of my stockings.” She told me as she stood over me
behind the podium. Right at her ankle her stocking bunched slightly. I
ran my hand over the wonder of her tapering lower leg. She was a
statue come to life. I felt the warm alabaster of her ankle and nearly
peed my pants with bliss.
I had a vision of my childhood, my infancy under the card table. I was
transported back in time with my adult libido intact.
Inger started the meeting. Staying behind the podium at all times
except to make a point. Then she would stick an ankle off to the side.
Showing herself in all her glory. Without changing expression or being
demonstrative in any way she simply changed her tone in concert with a
subtle pantomime of her ankle.
At several times during the meeting there were questions from the
group. If a woman asked Inger would answer. If a man asked she would
say, “I talk, you listen. This isn’t a Q & A session. You are here to
learn from me. I tell you what I want done and you do it. Is that
clear?” all the while exposing an ankle to the fellow. Flexing it.
Holding a certain way. Pulling back on her shoe so that her toe
pointed straight up, ankle closed, in a perfect nonverbal punctuation
of finality.
Proctor was right. She knew exactly what she was doing. The Nordic
wench. This austere Viking Amazon concentrated all her icy emotion in
the lower depths of her leg. Her white hot ankles.
When released properly the passion they held exploded in the loins of
her victims. Completely free of any bodily contact.
