A Glimpse of Nylon Stocking

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Chapter One –Strangers on a Train


‘In olden days, a glimpse of stocking was looked on as something shocking but now, God knows, anything goes,”….. song by Cole Porter circa 1934

Bakerloo Line, London, October 1963

Donald Cooper

A glimpse of nylon stocking changed Donald Cooper’s life forever.

He was sitting in a six-car motor carriage on his way to work. He was a lawyer at a mid-size law firm on The Strand near Charing Cross. As usual the carriage was packed with commuters and Donald was sitting on a bench seat reading The Daily Telegraph when a pretty office girl boarded the carriage and Donald surrendered his seat with a nod of his head and a smile, which the girl returned.

Donald was happy to stand in the crowded carriage holding onto the overhead grab handle with one hand whilst holding his folded broadsheet with the other with his briefcase between his feet. Like the rest of the standing passengers he was facing the windows, holding up his folded newspaper in front of his face whilst pretending to read it.

What he was really looking at were the legs of the pretty office girl who was dressed in the livery of most office girls at the time, consisting of a tailored wool suit over a silk a blouse, tan stockings and stiletto heels. The girl had put her purse in her lap and modestly crossed her ankles when she sat down and had taken out her Woman's Weekly in which she became immediately engrossed.

The more she concentrated on her magazine, the less she considered her modesty and after a while she fidgeted with her purse which allowed her skirt to rise up and she unconsciously opened her legs just a little. There was nothing pornographic on display but Donald could see the shadow welt of her stockings which was more than enough to titillate him.

Being a hosiery aficionado, Donald knew that fully fashioned stockings are knitted from sheer nylon yarn and to support the attachment of suspenders, they have a darker section of double fabric at the top, called the welt. This is followed by a lighter transitional section called the shadow welt. Seeing the actual welt and a garter clip was hoping for too much and Donald was more than happy with the leg show that the pretty office girl was unintentionally portraying.

Donald's gaze meandered from the girl’s plump thighs to her shapely calves and finally came to rest on her ankles where her sheer tan nylons formed tiny wrinkles. The overhead lighting in the carriage was quite harsh and the sheen of the woman’s stockings shimmered as the carriage rocked and rolled its way along the tube.

The lights suddenly flickered on and off as they were want to do whenever the train ran over a gap in the current-rail and Donald’s gaze was briefly interrupted. He was about to resume his contemplation of the office girl’s legs but he found himself a little disoriented and distracted and found himself instead looking at the ankles of the man sitting beside her.

Was he seeing things or were the man’s ankles sheathed in nylon stockings? He knew that men often wore sheer socks with their business suits, especially in the summer, but it wasn’t summer and the hosiery appeared quite distinctively to be nylon stockings.

Although he could only see the man’s ankles and the bottom of his calves the hosiery looked exactly like expensive fully-fashioned stockings.

Then he saw that the man was wearing ankle socks that had fallen down almost into the upper of the man’s brogues. Donald was fascinated. Why would a man wear stockings, especially on a crowded train? The man was wearing navy-blue suit trousers and near the top of the man’s thigh Donald was sure that he could see the silhouette of a garter snap delineated in the trouser material.

It was almost is if the man suddenly realised that he had been unconsciously showing off his stockings and he quickly bent down and pulled his patterned nylon dress socks up his calves and pulled down the cuffs of his trousers. The man’s face was crimson with embarrassment and he wildly looked around the train to see if anyone had noticed and Donald was able to avert his eyes just as the man’s gaze fell on him. Convinced that he had not been clocked the man settled back into his seat and carried on reading his newspaper.

Donald was bamboozled and also fascinated. Why would a man in a suit be wearing stockings underneath his trousers?

Donald couldn’t let it go. He had to find out!

The train pulled into Charing Cross which was Donald’s stop but Donald didn’t get off until two stations later at Oxford Circus where the man in the navy blue suit stood up and picked up a rather large valise and pressed through the crowd towards the door and Donald found himself following the man across the gap and onto the platform.

The man joined the throng of commuters heading for the stairs and Donald fell in directly behind and two steps below him. As the man ascended the concrete stairs his dress socks once again fell down revealing the man’s ankles and lower calves and at eyelevel there was no doubt that the man was wearing tan nylon stockings. The Cuban heel and backseam were clearly visible.

Donald followed the man to a bookshop where the man unlocked the doors and scurried inside. Donald watched through the shop window as the man lifted the swinging flap in the counter and put his oversize valise and newspaper under the counter and began to fiddle with the till. The man faffed around a little: putting on the kettle, fiddling with an arrangement of books on a display table and switched on the fluorescent lights above the aisles of shelved books.

Donald took three steps back and looked up at the gilt sign above the door. Clifford’s Books and Sundries it read. Julian Clifford Proprietor it said in smaller writing below the main sign.

The man who Donald presumed was Julian Clifford approached the door and Donald pretended to be peering at the window display. The man switched the sign hanging in the glass door from Closed to Open and Donald was finally able to get a good look at him.

Donald pretended to read the hand-printed advertisements in the window as a ruse to watch Julian. One read Passport Photographs Here – One Shilling Each, another read Xerox Copies – Sixpence Each

The man he assumed to be Julian Clifford was small and slender, standing five foot two inches tall. His hair was amber blonde and worn rather thick and long for a man his age. He was neat and fastidious and seemed to glide across the floor rather than walk. Donald watched the man make himself a cup of tea behind the counter and was brought out of his reverie when a customer entered the shop.

“Jesus!” Donald exclaimed as he shot his cuff and checked his watch.

He must get going otherwise he would be late for work.

Julie Clifford

“What the fuck was I thinking? Goodness gracious!” Julian Clifford wrung his hands in embarrassment and frustration.

“I’m sure that man saw my stockings! What on earth was it that made me do that?” Julian sipped tea and tried to settle his nerves.

Julian knew exactly what made him do that. Clifford’s Books and Sundries was barely surviving. It was as if all of Julian’s beautiful books were hanging precipitously near the edge of a cliff. They would be taken away from him and sold for pennies on the pound when the inevitable happened and Julian declared bankruptcy and his creditors picked over the bones of his business.

The bookshop was barely breaking even and Julian had a mortgage on a two-up-two-down in Lambeth and was struggling to keep up with mortgage payments but now his long-time lodger, Peter Forest, had gone and got himself engaged and was moving out. Julian had tried subletting Peter’s room but no one was interested. More lost income!

Julian had just about resigned himself to bankruptcy when hope came his way through the most extraordinary chain of events.

Julian was, and for most of his life had been, a crossdresser, or a transvestite, he didn’t really care about the vernacular.

Sharing his house with a lodger did have its limitations and one of them was that Julian could not present himself as Julie, his feminine alter-ego, in his own home. Julie was actually the dominant personality and consciousness inside the body she shared with Julian.

Julie regarded Julian as another person entirely but someone who was inextricably linked to her. Julian’s transformation into Julie was fully immersive and always had been. She never saw herself as her male alter ego, even though Julian occupied her body for long periods of time. Julian was a necessity and if she had her way she would live her life full-time as Julie but it was just impossible to do so.

Julian had to keep Julie a secret from his family and from Peter Forest of course, which meant that in Julian Clifford’s bedroom closet was only a meagre supply of lingerie and stockings that Julian slipped into alone in his room at night with the door securely locked. It was all he could do to conjure up Julie who slept in sheer tights and blue rayon babydoll pyjamas, clinging to the vestiges of her femininity.

But in Julian’s small office at the rear of the bookshop was a huge French walnut armoire that had been left to him by his late aunt and inside it was everything that Julian needed to become Julie which he did three nights a week. Over the years Julie had perfected her look and was almost unclockable, especially at night. That said, a girl like her was vulnerable and she sought the company of her own kind where they flocked at a pub called the The Elephant and Castle, or as the regulars called it: The Trunk and Brick.

Julie enjoyed the evening tube ride from her shop in Oxford Circus to and from the Trunk and Brick, which was ironically located only a few minutes’ walk from her house in Lambeth. She was often ogled by men but seldom clocked as a transvestite and had been propositioned a number of times but had never been harassed. Julie felt safe.

The Elephant and Castle was a good old British pub where you could enjoy a good old knees-up and a good old sing-along following the bouncing ball above the words to the songs which were projected onto the white plastered wall, the music provided by two elderly but handsome and elegant grey-haired, obviously gay men, who thumped out the tunes on back-to-back upright pianos.

There was good old British pub grub, good old British beer and of course good old British transvestites and their admirers.

The Trunk and Brick was a well-known haunt for gays, drag queens, crossdressers and those attracted to them. On Friday and Saturday nights there was a drag show to which the pianists, Riccardo and Hernando, provided the accompaniment.

Riccardo and Hernando were actually Eric and Herbert Sugden, two antique dealers from Watford but why spoil the mystique? Most of the customers at the Trunk and Brick were there for the fantasy so why not Eric and Herbert?

Julie went to the Trunk and Brick for the company of her own kind, to have a few drinks, a few laughs and of course to be admired. Although she often fantasised about going home with one of the punters, she had yet to do so. Julie’s main concern was being caught in flagrante delicto by one of her colleagues, friends or family. The shame of being caught would ruin her business and she would be shunned.

Riding the tube and spending a night at the Elephant and Castle three times a week was as daring as Julie was prepared to go, given her current situation, although she longed to live full-time as a woman. Then one evening at the Elephant and Castle something happened. Something life changing.

That fateful September evening Julian had taken a long luxurious bath during which he had shaved his legs and the very few hairs that sprouted on his chest. As a teenager in school he had been teased by the other students in the boys change room when he undressed to change into his PT strip. They already bullied him for being small and slender but as the other boys were going through adolescence they began to sprout hair all over their bodies whilst Julian remained smooth-skinned.

As Julian ran the razor down his long legs he now considered it a blessing having a virtual hairless body and legs that only required shaving once a fortnight.

He changed into casual clothing and said good night to Peter Forest who was settling in for the evening, waiting for his fiancé to arrive having purchased a takeaway chicken tikka masala and two bottles of Babycham. Peter thought that Julian was off to one of his boring book clubs which he attended three nights a week.

When Julian arrived at his bookshop he let himself in and locked the door securely behind himself. He went straight to the office at the back of the store, closed the door and turned on the light and opened the armoire.

He surveyed its contents and his heart sang. He removed the large makeup case from its shelf and carefully laid out the cosmetics just as he liked to; each in order that he would use them. He stripped naked and dressed in a satin dressing gown. He would dearly love to slip into stockings and knickers but he denied himself the pleasure. Dressing would wait until he had done his face.

With deft skill he applied foundation, powder, eyeliner, eyeshadow, mascara, rouge and lipstick in that order and finished by sprayed himself liberally with perfume. He had four wigs propped on wigstands on one of the shelves: black, blonde, brunette and redhead. He wore his own honey-blonde hair long, which was becoming the fashion and when he brushed it just right and set it with hairspray it went from being a Beatle mop-top to a feminine layered bob. But tonight he needed something more striking.

Julian selected the blonde Marilyn Monroe wig and carefully brushed and styled the wig and put on a wig cap (a cut down old nylon stocking), then set the wig on his crown and pinned it.

Having selected what he wanted wear Julian got to work dressing. He stepped into a black and red satin and lace suspender belt and sat down on a hard backed wooden chair and began by pulling the nylon stockings up his freshly shaved legs which was always a thrill and tonight was no different. His legs tingled with delight as he smoothed out the wrinkles, snapped the garter clips to the welts and straightened the seams. Pulling the tight red full-cut satin knickers up his legs was a delight unto itself and Julian found himself becoming aroused. He waited for his erection to subside and pushed his testes up into his inguinal canals and tucked his scrotum and penis along his perineum and continued to dress.

He put on the matching bra and filled the cups with balled up nylons to give them some form; stepped into a black satin full-slip, put on a simple navy blue skirt and a red satin blouse, stepped into black high-heeled pumps and accessorised; but not overly. He put the jacket which matched the skirt over the back of the chair.

Julian stood in front of the full-length mirror mounted on the door of the armoire and was pleased with what he saw. Julie had emerged from her cocoon and she looked beautiful, feminine and sexy. She felt herself becoming partly tumescent and she concentrated until the uncomfortableness dissipated. When she presented as Julie she would often find herself becoming concupiscent at inconvenient times and she had developed a mind-control technique to control her urges.

Julie threw keys, cigarettes and cash into a smart leather handbag gilded with faux gold trappings and a shoulder strap. She carried no form of identification. If the worse were to happen she did not want to be identified at Julian Clifford. She put on her jacket and an overcoat, slung her handbag over her shoulder and click-clacked along the street to the tube entrance and twenty minutes later was safely ensconced in the Elephant and Castle.

The pub was crowded, raucous and smoke-filled as usual as Julie made her way to the small table where her friends huddled. Julie had a great night, chatting with her transvestite acquaintances, trying unsuccessfully not to think about her woes. She didn’t consider the trannies friends exactly, because like Julie, they kept their male persona a secret. In the safety of the Elephant and Castle they could be the women they wanted to be but in the real world they would be disgraced if their secret was revealed.

Of course the admirers flocked to the tables where the transvestites clustered and some of the more brazen girls went with them to the pay-by-the-hour sleazy hotels frequented by the brasses who worked the streets of Lambeth and Soho. On this particular night Julie was approached by a very handsome young man who kept buying her drinks and gave her his undivided attention.

The ever-present realisation that she might lose her beloved bookshop and her house caused her to seek solace in alcohol and the attentions of the handsome young man. She drank far more than she was used to and the man offered to walk her to the tube station as she was a little unsteady on her feet.

The man pulled Julie into a dark alley and began to kiss her. Julie had never been kissed like this before. The man’s lips were tender but pressing, his tongue slipped into her mouth and she found it quite exciting. His hand was inside her coat and around her waist, holding her tight, pulling her close to him. He smelled of Vickers gin, Woodbine cigarettes and aftershave.

Julie smelled of Vickers gin, Consulate menthol cigarettes and perfume. The man nuzzled her neck and nibbled her ear and Julie shivered with delight wherever he touched her. She had never felt more womanly and wondered why she had never done this before.

He kissed her again and the man used his tongue in ways that Julie had never experienced but realised that she could come to like. When his other hand slipped inside her coat and journeyed from her waist down to her thigh she made no attempt to stop it and the man thought he had tacit consent to put his hand under her skirt so he did.

Julie baulked and put her hand on his to stop him. They continued to kiss and although the man’s hand did not stray he massaged her thigh with his fingers. She could feel the heat of his hand on her stocking-clad leg which combined with the softness of his lips on hers and the insistence of his tongue in her mouth caused her to become aroused.

Julie had been manhandled and groped in the Elephant and Castle on more than a few occasions. Men had even placed unsolicited sloppy kisses on her mouth. It came with the territory and she had always managed to swipe away the roving hand, slap an insolent face or even kick the shins of men pressing unwanted advances on her but this different. The alcohol and her depressed state of mind had made her more vulnerable. She was seeking solace in this handsome young man’s advances.

She surrendered and removed her hand from the man’s and it continued its journey up her thigh. When the man’s fingers caressed the welts of her stockings, then the band of pale flesh above them she gasped into his mouth and clung to him even tighter. Then he stroked the front of her satin knickers and she nearly collapsed in his arms with the intensity of the lust surging though her body. The man pushed her against the wall and pressed his advances.

She closed off that part of her mind that told her what she doing was foolish and dangerous. She just wanted to forget her woes and take some comfort where she could.

The man took her hand in his and put it inside his coat and rested it in his groin. Inside his trousers Julie felt the man’s penis uncoil like a snake awakened from a deep sleep. She had been in this situation only once before and she had grabbed the man’s scrotum and squeezed it until he screamed; but not this time.

Her fingers instinctively curled around the girth of the man’s penis through his trousers. His cock felt spongy and serpentine; she could feel it thicken and begin to throb dully. Impulsively she squeezed it and the man gasped. He rubbed his hands on her knickers and stocking-tops harder and faster, alternatively squeezing her knicker-clad buttocks under her skirt.

Julie was uncomfortably erect inside her knickers. Her testes had descended and her cock lay bloated along her perineum. The man’s hand ventured between her legs and inadvertently freed her penis which distended the front of her knickers and she felt the man smile around his kisses.

“You randy bitch!” he whispered but Julie pulled his mouth to hers to shut him up.

She kissed him harder, driving her tongue into his mouth. She didn’t want him to speak and ruin the moment or spoil her fantasy.

She gripped his cock and began to stroke it through his trousers but the man slapped her hand away and impatiently unbuttoned his flies. He took Julie’s hand and guided it back to his phallus which was now fully erect and poking out of his trousers.

Her instinct was to snatch her hand away but the man put it back even though Julie had begun to struggle. He tried to push her hand onto his cock but she refused to grasp it, her fingers and palm kept brushing against it but she wouldn’t take him in hand. Touching his bare flesh was going too far.

That was until the man changed tactics and began to slowly stroke Julie through her satin knickers and waves of pleasure, like butterfly wings caressing her most sensitive places, began to radiate from her groin.

Julie capitulated and allowed the man to press her hand to his bare cock. It felt like an iron bar cloaked in velvet. She could feel the veins enveloping the shaft like vines clinging to a tree trunk. They pulsed and palpitated as the man’s blood surged through them and his penis became fully tumescent. With a manicured fingernail she traced a vein from the base of his penis to the spongy glans on the tip and smiled to herself as she expressed a globule of pre-ejaculate.

She worked the precum into his velvety flesh and the man groaned and his cock quivered. Another dribble of slick pre-ejaculate oozed from his glans and Julie collected it and lubricated the man’s shaft as she slowly stroked the hard pulsing appendage. The man squeezed Julie through her slinky knickers and she felt herself begin to leak precum too. If the man had not been holding her tight her knees would likely have given way because she felt so weak and overcome with lechery.

Julie knew what she was doing was wrong. She was no better than the trannies who went with punters to the cheap hotel rooms in Soho and got themselves buggered or the tarts who got down on their knees amongst the empty beer barrels out back of the Trunk and Brick and fellated strangers.

But she rationalised her thoughts. She wasn’t bent over being buggered by a stranger or sucking on some admirer’s dick, she was seeking solace with a handsome young man and they were simply enjoying some foreplay. Julie knew that she was lying to herself. She had been prim and proper all these years, convincing herself that crossdressing had nothing to do with sex. She had discharged that axiom as soon as she let this handsome stranger take her into the ally.

The man began to stroke Julie’s hard cock through her knickers and all thoughts, other than how wonderful it felt, disappeared and she kissed the man harder and stroked his cock a little faster, listening to his breathing become laboured as his passion built.

Suddenly the man whipped his hands under Julie’s thighs and lifted her off her feet and slammed her back into the brick wall. Julie had no choice but to wrap her legs around the man’s waist and put her arms around his shoulders. He didn’t even break their kiss and she didn’t want him to. He moved his hands under her buttocks and squeezed as his cock came to rest on the front of her knickers pressing the satin fabric onto her phallus.

“You can’t fuck me,” Julie whispered in the dark and she felt the man smile.

“I’m not going to,” The man whispered his reply and began to kiss her again.

He thrust his cock against her, the flimsy knicker fabric the only thing between their flesh.

Julie moaned as she felt the man’s throbbing appendage pressing on her own. Then he began to hump her, driving his cock into her knickers, rubbing his manhood on her tingling flesh. The pleasure intensified and within seconds her knickers were wet as they both leaked pre-ejaculate.

The man thrust harder and drove Julie into the wall so hard that her back hurt, his tongue fluttering in her mouth, his lips pressed hard against hers, his fingers digging into her buttocks as he ejaculated.

“Oh dear! Oh my! Goodness gracious!” Julie was caught by surprise when she felt the man’s penis judder and suddenly her cock was enveloped in warm, viscous, slippery coagulant which she soon realised was the man’s semen.

The musky scent of spunk assailed her nostrils, adding to the all-encompassing sensations she was feeling and she released into her knickers, her semen comingling with the strangers.

She drummed her heels on the man’s back and raked her fingernails along his neck as she writhed with pleasure; an orgasm like she had never imagined washed over her like waves breaking on the rocks. Her kisses were fervid as rings of pleasure radiated from her groin, feeling the man’s hard flesh pressing on hers as he continued to spurt his issue into her saturated knickers.

The two lovers clung to each other until they were both spent and then the man abruptly dropped his hands away from under Julie’s bottom and she fell to the ground, her heels giving way on the cobbles. The man caught her before she suffered the indignity of sitting on her arse on the cold damp cobbled pathway. He hoisted her to her feet then pushed his still bloated phallus inside his trousers and buttoned his flies.

“That were a treat love,” the man rummaged in his pocket and pulled out two one pound notes and pressed it into her hand before he hastily fled.

“No! I’m not…” Julie called after the man but she stopped suddenly when she realised that it was late and she was shouting.

Now she had to deal with the reality of the situation. Her knickers were soaked with two loads of semen and she was stranded in an alley around the corner from the tube station. She felt guilty, humiliated and used but she had no time to be maudlin. She dropped her knickers, trying valiantly to keep them away from her skirt and her stockings. She balled them up and wrapped them in tissues and put them in her purse along with the two pounds that the man had thrust into her hand.

She stepped closer to the road so she had some light and was relieved to see that her skirt had only one silvery sliver of drying ejaculate near the hem which she rubbed with the pad of her finger. She couldn’t resist putting the finger in her mouth and savouring the sweet muskiness of the man’s sperm.

“You harlot!” she whispered to herself.

She had laddered a stocking and her face was a mess but otherwise she showed no outward sign of the indelicate situation she was in. Her penis and scrotum hung between her legs and she realised that she had no choice but to put her knickers back on. She dried them as best she could with tissues and then stepped into the warm, damp, silky delicates.

She made no attempt to tuck; she just pulled her knickers tight so they held everything in place. The damp fabric was uncomfortable and the semen was cooling, making her squidgy knickers feel even more vulgar.

After fixing her makeup she hurried to the station and caught the tube to Oxford Circus, convinced that the few passengers sitting in her carriage were staring at her when of course they were not. Not that she didn't get a favourable glance or two from the man sitting across from her, but he could tell from her body language that she was unapproachable.

Julie let herself into the bookshop and went into her office where she immediately took off her knickers and tossed them in the bin. She had sobered up a little during the sexual encounter in the alley but the alcohol was taking affect again and she was dog tired. She pulled out the little fold-down trundle bed, took off her coat and kicked off her heels and fell on it and was asleep within seconds.

Donald Cooper

Donald Cooper found it difficult to settle down at work. He sat in his office putting the final touches to a brief. It was a motion to dismiss and he was comparing the trail transcript to the eloquent prose in the brief that he would present to the judge in two days’ time.

Donald was usually distracted by the pretty office girls as they flitted around the practice in clouds of perfume with their skirts flicking and heels clacking. But today he was distracted by the image of a shapely ankle and calf clad in sheer fully-fashioned stockings that peeked from the cuff of a man’s business suit: the shapely calf of Julian Clifford.

Why was he so obsessed with it? Donald had no leanings towards men. It was incongruous that a man would wear nylon stockings under his suit but he’d definitely seen the outline of a garter snap on Julian's thigh. Was Julian wearing knickers too? Donald shook his head to try to clear the image and to take his mind off his obsession he looked at a short-skirted secretary bending over a desk.

At lunchtime he went to a lingerie shop and purchased two pairs of very expensive Italian, fifteen denier, fully-fashioned nylon stockings and a black satin garter belt with red lace trim. Donald knew how to rid himself of thoughts of Julian Clifford’s stockinged ankle. Deirdre would have to perform her wifely duties, whether she wanted to or not!

Deirdre Cooper was a good looking woman if a little stout from the good life that she lived. She came from money but her father had squandered his inheritance and Deirdre relied on Donald’s income as a barrister to keep her in the manner she believed she was entitled and had become accustomed.

Donald worked long hours, including most weekends and although Deirdre appreciated his income she had started taking him for granted and spent most of her time with her friends: other middle-class housewives who treated chronic boredom with gin and tonics, long lunches, tennis twice a week and shared fantasies of handsome ‘Bondesque’ men who seduced them despite their protests.

Change came radically for Deirdre when her tennis coach began to pay her more attention than he should. Ten years her junior, tanned, fit and handsome he was everything her fantasies envisioned and everything her husband was not. What started out with the young coach holding her a little tighter than was necessary and touching her intimately whilst correcting her backhand had become a sneaky little kiss in the hallway outside the change rooms of the tennis club, which had become a furtive squeeze of her buttocks through her tennis skirt, which had developed into a quick grope of her bushy quim through her white nylon tennis panties until finally they ended up in bed at The Metropole Hotel where they now met twice a week after tennis.

Deirdre was a realist and knew that the tawdry little fling with the tennis pro was only a passing fancy but it had awakened a yearning in her and she contemplated a life without Donald, living comfortably and possibly taking on a string of younger lovers while she still had her looks. Then perhaps she could marry again to someone more befitting her station and with more money of course and without Donald’s obsession with nylon stockings and ‘naughty knickers’.

At first she had been flattered when Donald brought her sexy lingerie and fully-fashioned stockings but she soon realised that it was an obsession with him; a fetish. After a while it became tedious and thankfully their love life plateaued and eventually waned as Donald paid more attention to his work than his wife. On the rare occasions that Deirdre wanted Donald to ‘give her a good seeing to’, as her girlfriends called it, all she had to do was wear a short skirt and nylon stockings and Donald would pounce on her.

Not that much pouncing was taking place currently for which Deirdre was eternally grateful. She had decided that tonight was the night that she would announce her separation and she considered how she could effect the breakup with a modicum of civility as she laid out silverware for what would be their last dinner together.

Donald burst through the front door full of vigour and eager to fuck.

He surprised Deirdre when he dropped his briefcase on the hardwood floor and rushed to her and gathered her into his arms and began to kiss her, his hands going straight to her ample backside, squeezing her buttocks through her skirt. He kissed her passionately, stifling her protests. She could feel his rather prodigious erection pushing against her belly. Donald might not use it on her often but when he did it did the trick.

“I’ve brought you a present,” Donald said when he finally stopped kissing her.

“Donald. We need to talk,” Deirdre said in a serious tone.

“Not until I give you my present and you give me one in return,” Donald squeezed one of Deirdre’s ample buttocks.

Deirdre had dressed to please him. She wanted the separation to be amicable so she had prepared a delicious meal and put on her shortest navy-blue skirt that was a little tight on her now; so tight that the kick pleat in the back of the skirt stayed open showing off her generous thighs. No longer the fresh-faced girl straight out of university that she had been when they had married, Deirdre was still a pretty woman and had long toned legs from playing tennis. Her bottom was rounded and she had a little pot belly which had developed over the years of living the good life.

Donald produced the garter belt and two packages of expensive Italian fully-fashioned stockings from his briefcase, a smug grin on his face.

It was no surprise to Deirdre who had at one time been showered with gifts of stockings, knickers and lingerie which Donald insisted that she wear in bed for him.

“One for you and one for me,” Donald grinned handing her the packages of stockings.

Deirdre’s distaste and disdain for her husband returned and she frowned at him.

“You know what I mean Dee. You get to keep one pair for wearing out but you wear the other pair for me,” Donald’s stupid grin widened.

Deirdre hated being called ‘Dee’ but she swallowed her pride and decided to give Donald one final treat before she dropped the axe.

She grinned at her husband mischievously and lifted one foot onto a wooden a dining table chair and ran her hands up and down her leg, smoothing out the wrinkles in her sheer tights. Donald became erect immediately, his eyes locked on his wife’s shapely leg clad in the shimmering hose.

Deirdre took off her high heel and wriggled her pinkies in the reinforced toe of her hosiery. She hiked her skirt slowly up her thigh and then bunched it around her waist and hooked her fingers in the waistband of her tights. Deirdre had taken to wearing control-top pantyhose to help flatten her stomach and the panty part of her pantyhose was a shiny dark coffee colour, contrasting with the sheer, almost transparent taupe on the legs.

She shimmied out of her tights one leg at a time; Donald watching her excitedly. He had taken off his coat and his suit jacket and was working on his shoelaces when Deirdre took off her full-cut, translucent white nylon panties and stepped into the garter belt and jiggled it up her legs, over her expansive arse and bushy mound and cinched it around her waist.

Donald quickly dropped trou and ripped off his shirt and tie and sat on the floor in front of Deirdre dressed only in his underpants, vest and socks. He loved watching his wife put on her stockings and he wondered why he had neglected her for so long. Sure she had padded out a little over the years but she was still a pretty woman with big blue eyes, lush red lips and flowing auburn locks and she had legs to die for. For a millisecond the image of the calf and ankle swathed in delicate sheer fully-fashioned stockings peeking from the trouser cuff of Julian Clifford’s business suit sprang into his mind and Donald shook his head to make the image disappear.

Deirdre put on the garter belt and rolled up the stockings, and one at a time inserted her toes into the reinforced foot and carefully rolled them up her legs, clipping the dark welts to the silver garter clips then she stepped into her knickers and slowly pulled them up her legs, the translucent nylon panties contrasting with the dark nylon stockings. Donald was hard as a rock, his cock poking out of the fly hole of his white cotton briefs.

Deirdre saw this and smiled as she stepped back into her high heels.

Donald pounced on Deirdre and shoved her onto the dining room table, scattering the perfectly laid out cutlery, glasses and flatware. Deirdre was about to protest but then Donald pulled aside the gusset of her knickers and plunged his hard rod into her buttery cunt.

Deirdre wrapped her legs around Donald, pushing up his vest so that her stockings rubbed on his tender flesh which she knew he really liked. He rained sloppy kisses on her mouth while he shagged her like a dog humping a bitch, thrusting his cock vigorously in and out of her sloppy minge.

Deirdre wished he would slow down and take his time, he was hitting the right spot deep in her vagina intermittently and his pubis pressed on her clitoris every now and then but not enough to ignite the flame. She bit his earlobe and whispered hoarsely.

“Slow down Donald. Make it last,” she sounded exasperated and Donald realised that she was right.

His wife's cunt was no longer the tight tunnel he longed for when they were first married. Although they had no children, years of vigorous fucking and her excess weight had taken their toll on her lady parts but Donald still liked the feel of her slippery minge clutching at his penis.

Donald was big, which helped and now that he had slowed down and was fucking Deirdre with rhythm she was enjoying it almost as much as he was and she waggled her stocking-sheathed legs along his flesh and wriggled her knickered buttocks in appreciation, knowing that Donald would love the feel of her silky nylons and sexy knickers on his sensitive skin.

His pendulous scrotum was slapping against her panty-clad buttocks as he thrust his turgid member in and out of Deirdre’s sopping fanny, she was whimpering like a schoolgirl and he smiled because on the rare occasions that he satisfied her that is exactly how she sounded.

He smothered her mouth with his and she returned his kisses and drove her tongue into his mouth. Donald could taste her lipstick and smell her perfume; he could feel her silky legs wrapped around his torso and her satiny knickers on his scrotum as he drove his cock deep inside his wife.

Deirdre was gasping and writhing underneath him, a sure sign that her orgasm was approaching.

Donald thrust his cock in her as far as it would go and gyrated his pubis on her vulva to stimulate her clitoris and unloaded a torrent of spunk deep inside her pulsating vagina. Deirdre clung to him and bucked and writhed beneath him, grinding her pudenda into his pubis, raking her nails down his back, slithering her stocking-sheathed legs on his flesh, kissing him fervently as the last orgasm she would ever experience with her sorry excuse for a husband coursed through her.

Donald moaned and groaned as he felt his wife’s saturated knicker gusset press on his sac and her silken-shrouded legs rub on his flanks as he released deep in her vagina.

Then the mind-picture of the stocking-clad, shapely ankle peeking out from the man on the train’s trousers formed in Donald’s brain and try as he might he couldn’t shake the image. Instead he imagined that his cock was ejaculating all over the trim silken-shrouded limb and his semen was soaking into the stocking.

The image intensified his orgasm and Donald lay on top of his pretty, plump wife exhausted.

Deirdre patted him on the back like she would a good dog who had fetched a stick.

“I hope you enjoyed that dear because it’s the last time,” she said staidly.

Donald looked at her puzzled and after they had both dressed and sat down to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Deirdre calmly explained to her husband that she was leaving him.

“I’ll pack tomorrow and be gone before you come home from work. No need to get grumpy about it dear, we both knew it was coming,” Deirdre said as she shovelled a gravy-soaked forkful of Yorkshire pudding into her mouth.

Tomorrow she would start her diet.

Julie Clifford

Julie now lived alone. Peter Forest had married his fiancé and they were on their honeymoon in Brighton. The first thing Julie had done was to hire removalists to move the armoire out of the bookshop in Oxford Circus and into the house in Lambeth, paying extra to have it removed with the contents still inside. The next thing she had done was installed a second telephone line.

The downside was that bankruptcy loomed. The upside was that Julian could live as Julie in and around her own house and could walk to the Elephant and Castle in twenty minutes instead of having to take the tube to the bookshop, change, take another tube to the Elephant and Castle and then do it all in reverse.

Julie sat her desk in the little study and stared at the little pile of unpaid bills and tapped her manicured red-lacquered fingernails on the oak desktop. She scooped the bills into a drawer and lit a Consulate menthol cigarette and sipped her gin and tonic. She surveyed an array of tart cards that she had arranged on the desk and studied them.

Tart cards are cards advertising the services of prostitutes. The cards are placed in locations such as newsagents' windows and telephone boxes or alternatively they are handed out or dropped in the street in red light districts. Julian had collected the cards from telephone boxes and seedy hotel foyers in Soho. Julie rarely ventured out in the daytime unless she was feeling extremely adventurous and when she did she never frequented such places so it had been left to Julian to collect the cards during his lunch break and after work.

Julie studied the tart cards. Most were crudely made, depicting hand-drawn women dressed in lingerie or schoolgirl or French maid uniforms, often holding a cane or whip. The text was just as crude: ‘hanky spanky’, ‘sexy knickers’, ‘obey Madame’, ‘slow time fun with a fast lady’ and so on. Some had no text at all, the picture explained everything. They all had phone numbers.

Julie set to work designing her own tart card. Hers would be more sophisticated. She intended to use an actual photograph of herself and be a little discreet with the text. She finally settled on: TV Julie. Discreet service for select gentlemen. Kisses and cuddles or spanking and discipline. Hand relief only! 723 4141 The phone number for the new landline she’d had installed was displayed prominently at the bottom. She glanced over at the new handset sitting on the sideboard. Julie had selected a red handset; she’d thought it an appropriate colour for the purpose it would serve.

Adjacent to the text would be a full-body photograph of Julie so the punters would know what they were getting. She would take the picture and print the cards on her Xerox machine tomorrow after she closed the shop. The Xerox machine and the camera, tripod and photo-lab equipment had been purchased as a means of increasing revenue but had not brought in much than they had cost.

The Xerox made a little profit, especially from researchers who paid to use it to copy pages of reference material from the non-fiction section of the bookshop but taking passport pictures and developing them was a time consuming process from which there was scant return. Both appliances would finally be put to a useful purpose.

What happened to Julie in the dark alley near the tube station had played on her mind. It was not so much the salaciousness of the act as it was the fact that the man had shoved two pounds into her hand, mistakenly thinking that Julie was a brass. Two pounds was not to be sneezed at and Julie did the math and worked out that if she was willing to take on three or four punters, five or six nights a week, she would soon clear her debts and would eventually be making a profit which she could put aside.

She would only do it as long as was absolutely necessary of course and she would only be offering hand relief. If she could suffer being felt up and spunked on in a back alley near the Elephant and Castle tube station she could certainly stomach spanking a few pasty English arses, snogging snaggle-toothed Admirers and masturbating them to climax.

It would be distasteful but easy and profitable work.

Julie just wished she had thought of the idea before she brought the armoire home. It would be a right pain having to bring the camera, tripod and all of the developing paraphernalia home to take and develop the pictures she needed for her tart card. It would be far easier to get dressed in the shop, take a few provocative pictures, manufacture a prototype tart card and then run off as many copies as she needed on the Xerox machine.

Julie packed Julian’s valise with the clothes she would wear for her portrait, including her blonde wig, her fetish boots and a small cosmetics case. It all fitted in the large attaché case very nicely.

Julie had drunk four gin and tonics to give her Dutch courage and in a bold fit of whimsy she laid a pair of stockings, a garter belt and a pair of full-cut nylon knickers that she would allow Julian to wear under his suit tomorrow at work. It was impetuous and daring and also very sexually exciting. Travelling on a packed commuter train wearing ladies underwear unbeknownst to those around her was very cheeky indeed and Julie felt cheeky.

And so it came to be that the next day on the eight-fifty-five commuter train servicing the Bakerloo Line that Donald Cooper caught sight of Julian Clifford’s charmingly turned ankles clad in fully fashioned stockings and ever since had been unable to put the image out of his mind.

Donald Cooper

Donald was not really surprised when Deirdre told him that she leaving him. Their marriage had become hollow and they had only remained together to keep up appearances. That last shag on the dining room table had been the most exciting thing they had done together for years.

When Donald came home the next day the house felt empty and when he went upstairs he found Deirdre's closet cleaned out and all of her cosmetics and toiletries gone from the dressing table and bathroom vanity. She’d left behind the collection of sexy knickers, garter belts and stockings that Donald had bought her. She obviously had no need for them where she was going.

Being a barrister Donald knew the procedure for obtaining a decree nisi and had friends in the judiciary who would rush his divorce through the courts for him. In a way it was liberating. He was free to chase some of those short-skirted legal secretaries or perhaps a mature attractive professional lady who projected the sense of style her preferred. Why not do both?

But… Donald was still haunted by the image of the nicely turned ankles clad in nylon stockings on the man that he had seen on the Bakerloo line and he couldn’t get it out of his head. He’d seen something that fascinated and intrigued him and he was determined to get to the bottom of it.

The morning after the events that would change Donald Cooper’s life forever he went to work as usual looking for Julian Clifford on the train to see if he was wearing stockings again under his suit but a thorough search of the eight-fifty-five commuter train had produced nothing. He’d hurried to his law offices and spoke to the senior partner and told him about Deirdre leaving him and his pending divorce and of course the partners had insisted that Donald take some time off until things were settled and he felt better. Donald said they were probably right.

Donald left the office and went straight to Clifford’s Books and Sundries and peered through the window and seeing Julian Clifford engaging with a customer he slipped into the shop and pretended to browse. The shop was cluttered and it was easy to hide amongst the floor to ceiling bookshelves and stacks of books piled on display tables. The place was old and smelled of paper, binding glue and ink but Donald thought he also detected a faint whiff of perfume. Maybe it was air freshener but Donald thought not. It was similar to a scent that Deirdre wore.

Near the rear of the shop was the only modern artefact: a Xerox photocopier that seemed incongruous amongst the other ancient tat. A sign taped to wall above the copier read: Xerox Copies – Sixpence Each – See proprietor before use. The law offices of Cooper, Price and Waterman had a number of similar machines. It was a great place to loiter and watch the short-skirted legal secretaries bend over to make copies or crouch down to refill the drawers. One was guaranteed a glimpse of knicker if one was wait around long enough.

Donald peeked around the corner to see that the proprietor was still engaged with a customer. He looked down at Julian Clifford’s trouser cuffs, one of which had ridden up slightly. He saw a diamond checked woollen argyle sock and was both disappointed and relived. He could put to rest his fascination with Julian Clifford's nicely turned, stocking-clad ankle. It had either been a one-off whimsy or Donald had imagined the whole thing.

Julian turned his way and their eyes met briefly and Donald turned away and began to fiddle with the photocopier. He noticed that the feeder tray on the side of the machine was loaded with pink A4 card which he thought a little odd. He pretended to be interested in the machine and suddenly became aware of a presence beside him.

“Please don’t touch the photocopier,” Julian said.

Donald thought that Julian’s voice was a little effeminate as were his gestures. Small framed, lithe and meticulously dressed in a suit that was far from new but worn with some panache, he could easily be mistaken for an Eaton fag. He studied Julian’s face which was quite handsome with high cheekbones, well-shaped lips and emerald green eyes accented by longish coiffed amber blonde hair. Donald thought he could detect the perfume he had smelled earlier but it could also just be Julian’s aftershave or cologne.

“I’m sorry. We have a similar machine in our offices and it caught my attention,” Donald regretted the stupid lie as soon as he had said it.

Julian studied Donald. He was a handsome man with rugged good looks and was wearing an expensive suit and polished brogues. His hair was black, thick and lustrous and he reminded Julian of the actor Richard Burton. But there was something worryingly familiar about him and Julian couldn’t put his finger on it.

“Then I don’t suppose you need any copies made,” Julian reached around Donald and closed the lid on the copier.

The aroma of the scent increased as he did so and Donald was suddenly certain that Julian was wearing a perfume that his wife Deirdre often wore. The closeness of his small frame was a little disturbing and Donald took a step back.

“So can I help you with anything else?” Julian asked a little snarkily.

“No. I was just browsing,” Donald replied, regretting that he had come to the bookshop at all.

“That’s my problem. Everybody is browsing and nobody is buying,” Julian sniped.

Donald hurried out of the shop and Julian watched him leave, wondering if he had seen the man somewhere before. His thoughts were disturbed when the bell over the door rang and one of his regular customers entered the shop. Julian went to serve the customer and looked at his watch. As soon as the shop closed he had work to do. Very important work.

Donald crossed the street and entered the Black Swan public house and took a pint over to a table near the window where he could watch the bookshop. Over the course of the afternoon he drank three pints and smoked five cigarettes until it got dark and Julian closed the shop for the day. Donald expected that Julian would walk to Oxford Circus tube station but he took off on foot the other way turning onto Argyll Street and then onto Great Marlborough and into Soho; he was carrying a valise and walking purposefully.

Donald had decided to give up his curiosity and inquisitiveness about Julian Clifford and his peculiarity for wearing stockings to work on one singular occasion but something about his demeanour in the bookshop niggled at Donald and he was determined to find out what it was about Julian Clifford that preoccupied him.

Donald followed Julian from a good distance hiding among the crowds that were heading home from work.

Julian stopped at every telephone phone box he passed and he also darted into a couple of newsagents and public houses and quickly ducked back out. Julian was working his way around Soho street by street. Donald risked getting a little closer and watched Julian enter one of London’s famous red phone boxes. He extracted something from his valise, fiddled around a little and left.

Donald entered the phone box as soon as Julian had moved on. He closed the door behind him. A scintilla of the perfume that Donald had smelled in the bookshop was still in the air, obscuring the smell of stale beer and piss. The phone boxes in this part of London were used for many unsavoury purposes and sure enough, Donald spied a used ‘johnnie’ in the corner.

The wall behind the handset was plastered with tart cards, some of them taped over others, the older ones faded and ripped. Most were crudely made but some had a little artistic flair applied to them. He spotted the tart card that Julian had taped above the handset; recognising the same pink card he had seen loaded in the feeder tray of Julian’s photocopier. He snatched it off the wall and was about to read it when a besuited elderly man in a bowler hat hammered on the door with the wooden handle of his umbrella.

“Come on man if you’re not going to use the phone vacate the booth. I need to make a call,” the man growled angrily.

Donald blushed like a schoolboy with his hand caught in the biscuit tin and stuffed the card into the inside pocket of his jacket and vacated the booth, deliberately not making eye contact with the bowler-hatted man.

“Pervert,” the man hissed under his breath and slammed the door closed and lifted the handset which he wiped vigorously with a crisp white handkerchief before putting it to his ear.

Donald moved on quickly, backtracking to the news agency he had seen Julian enter and leave before he got to the phone booth. He saw a similar card pinned to a cork notice board above the stacks of newspapers. He snatched it off the noticeboard, pocketed it, picked up a copy of the News of the World, tossed a tanner in the tin and left the shop and walked to the nearest tube station to catch his train home.

Donald could feel the cards burning a hole in his pocket but despite his impatience he didn’t take them out. A crowded train was no place to peruse a tart card, which Donald was pretty sure they were. He tried to read his newspaper but his mind kept churning over reasons for Julian Clifford’s erratic behaviour.

The more he thought about it, the more it became obvious to him. Clifford’s Books and Sundries must be suffering. The shop had a rundown appearance and the addition of the photocopying and passport photo service had probably been introduced by Julian as a sideline in an attempt to bolster the meagre profit he made selling books. The hypothesis made perfect sense. Julian Clifford was broke and was doing whatever he could to make ends meet.

Enterprising prostitutes placed their tart cards in news agents and especially phone boxes; after all, each card sported a telephone number, and it made sense to advertise where potential clients could use it immediately. Sometimes the women place their own cards, but they more often subcontracted this work to ‘carders’ who were often students or unemployed. There was good money to be made.

It was obvious to Donald that Julian was manufacturing tart cards on his photocopier and distributing them around London. But how was he getting paid? Some of the girls had pimps so maybe one had approached Julian with a business offer but most of the girls worked alone. So how had Julian come to be in the tart card manufacturing and distribution business?

Donald could hardly wait until he got home and he could read the two cards he had in his pocket. Maybe he would even call the number and ask the girl how her cards were distributed. But then again maybe not.

Julie Clifford

After carding every phone box and news agency in Soho and the surrounding district, as well as a few pubs, Julian had taken the tube home and gone straight upstairs and transformed into Julie.

She wore the big blonde wig, heavy makeup, a black satin corset with red lace trim, matching cami-knickers, black seamed stockings and black, knee-high, high-heeled boots. Her cheap costume jewellery was faux silver with gaudy imitation emeralds to match her eyes.

Julie entered Peter Forest’s old room. She had converted it into her ‘workroom’ and the bed was fitted with cheap satin sheets and an array of paddles, a riding crop and a bamboo cane were laid out on the coverlet; a tube of KY Jelly and a box of tissues sat on the bedside table. Anyone entering the room would know its purpose. The heavy drapes were closed tightly.

Julie didn’t like the clothes she was wearing but they were a necessity for the trade she was about to practice. She had worn them the previous evening when she had mounted the camera on the tripod and set it to take a series of timed exposures while she arranged herself on the couch in her little office in the bookstore.

At first she had felt silly posing provocatively for the camera but she had gotten into the spirit of things and when she had developed the pictures she was quite taken the results.

She selected a picture which she thought best displayed the services she was offering. She was reclined on the sofa, one foot up on it the other leg extended, her arms draped along the back of the couch, one hand holding a riding crop, her head thrown back a little and her lips opened sensuously. Her knickers were openly on display as were her stocking-tops. Even in black and white she looked beautiful and sexy.

She reduced the picture down but kept the resolution so that it fitted on the tart card above the text. She fiddled with the copier settings until she got the results she wanted and then ran off twenty copies. She sat at her desk and painstakingly cut the tart cards into squares manufacturing six tart cards from each A4 page.

Julie still regretted wearing the stockings, suspenders and knickers to work that morning under her suit but she had to admit it was titillating wearing the clothing clandestinely around the shop whilst serving customers. She played with the idea of wearing lingerie under her man-clothes all the time but decided it was too risky.

Julie had waited until today to plaster her tart cards all over the red light district, giving herself a day to cool off. Twenty-four hours later she was still of a mindset that it was the only way she was going to make quick money and there was no going back.

She lit a Consulate, poured herself a gin and tonic and sat staring at the red telephone anxiously.

Julie jumped and nearly spilled her drink when the phone eventually rang, the bell shattering the silence. She got to her feet and walked to the sideboard and lifted the handpiece.

“TV Julie,” she whispered into the receiver; her voice thick with trepidation.

She could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line but the caller remained silent.

“TV Julie,” she repeated herself, this time a little more confidently.

The breathing became heavier and suddenly stopped and the line clicked and the connection was broken.

Julie felt angry, despondent and a little silly.

“This is a stupid idea!” she hissed to herself and suddenly the phone rang again.

She snatched up the receiver.

“TV Julie, how can I help you?” she said in what she hoped was her sultriest voice.

“You the tart offering spanking and hand relief?” the man had a rough sounding London accent.

“Yes,” Julie said as confidently as she could.

“How much?” the man asked.

“You get everything advertised for two pounds,” Julie said curtly.

“Sounds good luv. Where am I going to?” the man sounded enthusiastic.

It was time to shit or get off the pot. Crunch time. Julie knew that she was making a life-changing decision and also possibly exposing herself to danger.

“Twelve, Black Prince Road, Lambeth,” Julie whispered into the phone.

“Perfect. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes luv,” the man said and the line went dead.

Julie began to tremble and then she pulled herself together. She had crossed the Rubicon; there was no going back, best to make the most of it and just think about the money.

The man was true to his word and arrived fifteen minutes later giving Julie time to drink another G&T and smoke another menthol cigarette. When the doorbell rang she got up on shaky knees and went down the hall and looked through the peephole. She saw a red-faced man with a fat face wearing a flatcap looking anxiously up and down the street. He looked old, plain and obese but who did she expect would be using her services: Tom Jones?

She opened the door and the man barged in, brushing past her.

“Don’t leave your punters standing on the doorstep where everyone can see them luv. You new to this?” the man rubbed his hands together and his eyes roamed all over Julie’s body, barely looking her in the eye.

“I take we’re up here,” the man began to proceed up the staircase without waiting for Julie to answer either question and she realised that he wasn’t expecting one.

“Let me lead the way,” Julie stepped in front of the man and led him up to the first floor landing where her workroom, formally Peter Forest’s bedroom, was located.

The man put his hands all over her buttocks and legs during the ascent and she was about to bat his hands away when she realised this is precisely what the man had paid for so she endured the indignity. She steered him into the workroom and without any preamble he sat his fat arse down on a chair and began taking off his work boots.

“I want a bit of a snog and some slap and tickle before you spank me. Use that paddle not the cane or the whip because as much as I would like you to, my missus will see the welts and hit the roof,” the man said almost distractedly as he took off his trousers and laid them over the back of the chair.

“I can always wipe off the lipstick and makeup but if she sees I’ve been paying to have my arse spanked she’ll go through the roof. She doesn’t care that I like being spanked you see but she’d rather someone else do it besides her but I’m not supposed to pay for it,” the man informed her as if he was explaining what was wrong with his car to a mechanic.

“Well come on then luv, I haven’t got all night,” he had taken off his shirt, tie, jacket and cap and carefully folded them and put them on the same chair as his trousers.

The man was standing there impatiently waiting, dressed in grey baggy underpants and threadbare vest which had once been white. He was still wearing his socks. How very lower class, Julie couldn’t help but think. She didn’t know where to start and the man was looking at her ardently with his piggy eyes.

“Oh! How daft of me. Sorry luv,” the man turned around and rummaged in his trouser pocket and produced two rumpled one pound notes and put them on the bedside table and without further ado he grabbed Julie and began to kiss her.

There was nothing romantic about it. The man pulled her close and rubbed his groin on her while he rained sloppy kisses on her. He pushed his tongue into her mouth and squeezed her.

The man tasted like Woodbines and Watney's extra milk stout and had obviously just come from the pub. Julie realised that two pounds was a lot of money to this man so she better start giving him what he paid for.

She returned his kisses and slipped her tongue into his mouth and put her arms around his shoulders affectionately. She could feel the man becoming tumescent in his underpants, his thick stubby todger poking her in the belly like a clothes peg.

Julie reached under his overhanging belly into the man’s underpants and squeezed his cock.

“Not yet luv, that thing will go off like a banger on Guy Fawkes night if you keep that up,” the man took her hand away and went back to kissing her.

Julie was not particularly aroused but also she didn’t feel repugnant. Once she realised that the punter was just an ordinary man looking for something that appealed to him that his wife wouldn’t give him, she relaxed. She put a little more effort into kissing the man whose hands were roaming around her backside, squeezing her buttocks through her knickers and alternately rubbing the tops of her stockings. She noticed that his hands went nowhere near her cock which was taped between her buttocks.

She was actually beginning to like the feel of the man’s coarse hands on her body. It made her feel a little cheap and a little dirty and unexpectedly she realised that she liked that. In the safety of her own home with a man she would likely never meet again or conversely might become a regular; it was intriguing and exiting.

“Alright love, let’s get down to it. I’ve been a naughty boy and I need to be spanked,” the man said chuckling at the absurdity of it.

Julie was a little lost but she picked up the paddle. She had acquired the corset, the boots, the paddles, the cane and the riding crop at an adult shop in Soho. They weren't cheap but the two quid on the dresser would more than cover her purchases. After that every penny she earned was profit.

She stupidly waited for the man to lie on the bed and he grunted at her impatiently.

“Your cue to sit on the bed so I can lie across your lap darlin’” the man smiled at her and she complied.

The man laid his considerable weight across Julie’s lap and sighed. She never did understand why some men liked to be spanked but she didn’t judge him.

She lifted the paddle a little trepidatiously and brought it down on the man’s plump buttocks, trying to avoid the noxious odour coming from his tatty underpants.

“Come on luv; give me good spanking, I’ve been a bad boy,” the man wriggled in her lap and Julie realised that his stubby cock was hard again and pressing on her leg.

She gave him three hard slaps with the paddle and the man gave a sigh of appreciation.

“Pull down me kegs luv and lay into me; I’m getting close,” the man said excitedly.

Julie pulled the man’s underpants down, trying not to look at the stains. His fat bottom was chalky white and dimpled, a rosy glow marked the place she had paddled him. She could feel the man’s cock throbbing between her legs and a dribble of pre-ejaculate dripped onto her thigh which she found a little offensive.

She brought the paddle down hard on the man’s buttocks and the man began to writhe appreciatively on her lap.

“That’s it luv, go for it,” the man gasped, bucking and wriggling in her lap as she brought the paddle down repeatedly on his chubby, pasty white backside.

The man was groaning and sighing and Julie wasn’t sure if was from the pleasure or pain but she didn’t care. The more the man rubbed his cock on her stocking-sheathed legs the harder and faster she paddled him.

She lay into the man who was writhing like a stuck pig. She could feel the heat from his stubby cock on her leg and the warm ooze of his precum on her flesh. She spanked him even harder and the man moaned appreciatively. She was so taken with her work that it wasn’t for some time that she realised that the man had forced his cock between her legs and had ejaculated.

The tops of Julie’s thighs were suddenly warm and wet and the musky smell of semen assailed her nose. The viscous spend was soaking into her stockings, which for some reason enraged her and she continued to spank the fat old man.

“Ok darlin’ that’s enough thanks,” the man rolled off her and Julie looked down to see a creamy puddle of spunk between her legs where the man had been lying.

“You may be new to this luv, but you certainly give value for money. I’ll probably come back next payday,” the man was pulling up his stained underpants and reaching for his trousers.

Now that the transaction was complete Julie felt awkward and uncomfortable. She snatched a handful of tissues off the bedside table and dabbed at the puddle of semen cooling between her legs.

“Sorry if I hit you too hard,” Julie said apologetically.

“Don’t worry luv, it was perfect,” the man was buttoning his shirt, not looking at her.

“But your bottom is so red,” Julie said sheepishly.

“Nah. Don’t worry about it luv. I’m used to it. It’ll all be gone before I go to bed and if the missus want’s a shag she’ll think I’m a legend because I’ll last a while longer than my usual couple of minutes,” the man laughed at his own joke, wiping her lipstick off his lips with a wad of tissues.

He finished lacing his shoes and stood up.

“That were a nice little session sweetheart and you are gorgeous. See you next time; I’ll see myself out,” the man said, sounding very pleased with the services provided.

The man bounded down the stairs and Julie followed behind him but before she got to the door the red telephone began to ring. She picked up the handset, watching the fat man let himself out.

“TV Julie,” she said in her sing-song voice.

“TV… I take it that means you're a tranny right?” the man on the other end of the line said.

Julie said nothing. Her tart card was explicit enough.

“And you only do hand relief?” the man’s voice went up a notch.

“Hand relief is a two pounds, just like the card says,” Julie was getting annoyed with the punter already.

“I don’t want anything else; I’m in a hurry. I won’t even take me clothes off. Just pull out me todger and whip it off and them I’m gone,” the man explained and Julie shuddered at the thought.

But this was now the game she was in.

“Twelve, Black Prince Road, Lambeth,” Julie quipped.

“Perfect. It’s on the way home,” the man hung up.

Julie debated whether or not to change her stockings but by the time she had drank another gin a tonic whilst thinking about it there was knock on the door.

This time she didn’t hesitate. A quick glance through the peephole to make sure it wasn’t a neighbour then she opened the door and a tall skinny man carrying a newspaper wrapped parcel under his arm stopped inside.

The unmistakeable smell of fish and chips and vinegar assailed her olfactory senses.

“You’re a looker aren’t you? Wish I wasn’t in a rush I’d love to shag you but dinner is getting cold and the missus and kids are starving. I just ducked out to go the chippy and I saw your card,” the man said all this whilst unbuttoning his flies and extracting a rather prodigious erection.

“Not here. Upstairs in the workroom,” Julie growled angrily at the audacity of the man.

“Two quid’s a bit steep for a wank. I can’t even kiss you because the missus will see the lipstick and smell your perfume,” the man whined as he followed Julie upstairs having left his parcel of fish and chips on her hallway sideboard.

“You saw the card. It’s two quid for hand relief,” Julie said.

“Yeah but I ain’t getting any kisses or cuddles am I?” the man whined.

They got to the workroom and the man pulled out a one pound note.

“It’s two quid!” Julie knew she had to stand her ground otherwise word would get around that she could be played.

“What about a suck?” the man grinned and slapped another pound on top of the one in his hand.

Julie was getting exasperated.

“Come on luv, me dinner’s getting cold,” the man waved the one pound notes at her and Julie eyed the money.

She needed it.

She never knew exactly why, maybe impatience to get rid of the man or more likely she just wanted money.

“Five quid!” Julie blurted out.

The man whined but he added three pounds to the notes in his hand.

Julie snatched up the notes, dropped to her knees and took the man’s penis into her mouth.

She had never done anything like this before and had no idea how to perform fellatio but it didn’t matter. The man grabbed her head as soon as Julie’s lips enveloped his cock and he held her still while he unloaded his jism into her mouth.

Julie had no choice but swallow. The ejaculate, surprisingly, was not repugnant. It was creamy, salty and musky with a bitter piquancy.

The man pulled his cock from Julie’s mouth and zipped up.

“That were a real treat luv, I’ll come around again when I’ve got more time. There are things I’d really like to do to you,” the man said over his shoulder as he hurried through the door and down the stairs.

Julie stood on the landing watching the man pick up his newspaper wrapped dinner and he was gone out the door in a flash; the only evidence that he been there was the lingering odour of fish and chips in the air and the bitter taste of his semen in her mouth. The whole incident had taken no longer than five minutes.

She looked at the crumpled one pound notes she was clutching in her hand and began to laugh.

To be continued

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Welcome Back Michele

joannebarbarella's picture

This promises to be one of your trademark sex romps, but Julie is such an innocent that I hope she doesn't get herself in over her head, so to speak.

Nice to have you back

You are most certainly among the top 5 writers on this website, or at least in my personal taste. We have to wait a lot of time for the next story, but quality requires time. I also like that your stories are British based.