A Glimpse of Nylon Stocking - Chapter 2

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Chapter Two – Julie and Julian

Soho, London, October 1963

Donald Cooper

While Julie Clifford was servicing her first customers, Donald Cooper lay alone in the big bed that up until recently he had shared with his wife Deirdre.

He was staring at the tart cards he had taken from the telephone box and the newsagent’s in Soho. Whoever had taken the photograph of the tart on the card had done a good job. Anyone living in London who had not seen a tart card must have been blind. They were everywhere.

Most were crudely made and hand-drawn. Women dressed in lingerie or fetish clothing: schoolgirls, French maids, secretaries and dominatrixes topped the list. If there was any text it was crude and suggestive; leaving little to the imagination. All tart cards had phone numbers; that was their purpose in being.

He read the text on the cards Julian Clifford had been posting around Soho: TV Julie. Discreet service for select gentlemen. Kisses and cuddles or spanking and discipline. Hand relief only! 723 4141.

Donald turned the card over in his hand whilst considering his hypothesis that Julian Clifford was manufacturing and posting tart cards to supplement whatever meagre income came in from the bookshop. That made sense.

He remembered what Julian had said to him near the photocopier in the bookshop: ‘That’s my problem. Everybody is browsing and nobody is buying.’ Julian was going broke and doing whatever he could to make ends meet.

But why had Julian worn stockings to work two days ago?

Donald had a huge stocking fetish but he’d never thought to wear them himself and damned if he would ever consider doing so in public. Maybe it was something he was missing out on? He looked at the collection of sexy knickers, garter belts and stockings that Deirdre had left behind. She had left them strewn all over the bed as a reminder to him that she didn’t need them and that she had worn them only to appease his fetish.

He looked at the woman on the tart card. She had big blonde hair and heavy makeup. She was wearing typical tart attire: satin and lace corset, cami-knickers, seamed stockings and knee-high, high-heeled boots adorned with cheap costume jewellery. Donald didn’t much like the boots, he preferred his women to wear pumps or sandals to show more leg.

But he did like what he saw. The picture was in black and white of course but his imagination embellished the rest. Her hair was blonde, of that he was sure, and he imagined the gaudy makeup, the black stockings and in his mind the corset was red satin. The woman was very pretty and exuded sexuality. It was hard to assess her age but he thought early to mid-thirties.

He wondered where Julian Clifford had met her or maybe he had dealt with her pimp? Was he manufacturing tart cards for other brasses as well? Maybe Donald should keep watching Julian and find out? He had the tart card. He could call the number for TV Julie. A respectable London barrister engaging with a common street whore… the whole precept was cliché. The sort of story one read in The News of the World and other trash tabloids.

Donald looked at the prostitute again and found himself becoming concupiscent. He imagined himself with the pretty tart; she lying beside on him the big bed, smelling of cheap perfume. The first thing he would do would be to take off those horrid boots. He stared at the picture and imagined her wearing high heeled pumps instead. He’d play with her legs for as long as he liked, tracing the backseam of her stockings with a finger, then with his tongue.

He’d stroke those sexy knickers. Her cunt would stink of cheap soap and sex, a preliminary wash after each punter would not remove the stench from her minge, filled with the fermenting cloying jism of her many customers.

Donald’s hand brushed one of Deirdre's stockings as he rolled over on his back. He clutched at it and once again wondered what it would feel like to wear one. He didn’t understand why he was so embarrassed and scared of getting caught as he rolled up the stockings and pulled them up his legs but it added to the complicity and naughtiness and made him become harder.

The silken hose felt absolutely wonderful as they slid along his skin and he wondered why he had never done this before. Because he’d always had women that wear them for him he supposed. He was grateful that Deirdre had a big arse when he pulled on a pair of her satin and lace full-cut knickers. They skimmed across the nylons that he was wearing, eliciting a delightful sexiness that was almost indescribable. His cock dribbled pre-ejaculate, making a wet patch in the front of his knickers.

The stockings kept falling down but there was no way that he could fit into one of Deirdre’s garter belts; she might have a huge arse but she had slim hips. He did like her voluptuous figure but at the moment he only had eye’s for the slim-hipped, long-legged prostitute on the tart card.

He went back to his fantasy: she was lying on the bed with him. He was stroking her legs, feeling the cool, slippery nylon on his fingertips. He stroked his own legs to mimic his actions in the fantasy. The stockings were sensual and delicate to his touch and he worked his way up the welts which were bagging around his thighs without suspenders to support them. In his reverie, the pretty prostitute’s stockings were clipped to her corset with long lacy suspenders.

He imagined tracing one of those suspenders up to her knickers. As he cupped his scrotum through the gauzy fabric of his wife’s knickers he imagined that he was stroking the pubic mound of the brass in the picture. It would be prominent, her pubic hair clipped but soft as down, her pink inner labia would be protruding through her pudenda. He imagined the reek of stale semen wafting from her cleft as his fingers caressed his cock through the sheer knickers.

He would roll the whore onto her back and she’d open her legs willingly. She wouldn’t even take off her knickers. She’d pull the gusset aside and lift her buttocks off the bed inviting him, no, commanding him, to put his cock in her stinking, clammy minge. He’d slide his cock into her, feeling her velvety wet vagina cling to his rampant member as he plunged it into her sex.

She would wrap her arms around his neck and her stocking-sheathed libs around his torso. She would open those brazen red lips that had sucked a thousand cocks, her breath stale with the yeasty stench of coddling semen. He would kiss her anyway, driving his tongue into her mouth, tasting the sweetness of her under the foul lamina remaining on her breath from all the cocks she had sucked.

Donald wouldn’t care that his cock was buried deep in a fanny that had been recently used as a sperm receptacle by her many customers; he would rejoice in the feel of her warm, wet, tight quim clutching his quivering organ as he fucked her. She’d writhe beneath him and the stockings he was wearing parodied the stockings of the whore he was fucking in his dream, they felt sublimely flimsy and silky on his flesh.

Deirdre’s knickers cupped his scrotum and clung to his rampant manhood as he stroked it through the gossamer fabric; imagining they were the whore’s knickers rubbing against him as he pounded her into the mattress.

He was gripping the tart card tightly, concentrating on the picture of TV Julie, whoever she may be, as he furiously rubbed his cock though his wife’s knickers, imagining they were the whore’s, scissoring his legs in the saggy stockings, imagining that Julie had them wrapped around his body and was grazing his flesh with the silky garments as he frantically rubbed his cock until it released his load into the satin gusset of the knickers.

Donald moaned out loud as his semen flooded Deirdre's knickers, imaging himself to be emptying his scrotum into the whore in the picture. She kissed him with her red-lipsticked lips and raked her nails along his back, whilst on the bed Donald raised his groin up off the mattress and freed his cock from the knickers and sprayed the remainder of his emission over his belly and onto the tart card.

Donald lay on the bed panting. He whipped the stockings off his legs and shucked out of the knickers, almost ashamed of himself for wearing them. The images he had conjured of himself fucking the whore on the tart card were beginning to dissipate, but he felt a pleasant afterglow in his groin. The tart card was spattered with a gobbet of semen that had erupted from his cock when Donald climaxed and he flicked it away onto the floor, along with the stockings and spunk-soaked knickers.

He wiped the steaming mess of coagulating semen off his belly with the sheet and dried his hands. He reached for the second tart card and studied it.

“Why TV Julie?” he whispered to himself, unaware that he was talking aloud.

When he was at school there was boy in his class whose parents had been the first in his form to own a television and he was nicknamed ‘TV John’. There was also a magazine called Top Viewing which listed the weekly television guide and printed features about the shows and actors, which the newsagents abbreviated as ‘TV’. Then it came to him.

There was a chain of bargain shops in London called True Value. The lower classes could often be head saying: ‘I’m heading into Tee Vee to pick up a bargain’. It must be some sort of street slang. TV Julie meant True Value Julie. Julie gave your money’s worth!

There were all sorts of codes and acronyms on the tart cards: ‘BDSM’, ‘watersports’, ‘spanky-panky’, ‘corrections given’; it was a whole other language but Donald believed he had cracked the code. The girl of his dreams was True Value Julie.

How wrong he was!

Julian Clifford

After the second punter left her home with his fish and chips under his arm the red phone didn’t ring again that night and Julie was a little relieved. She needed time to absorb what she had just done. She felt a little disgusted with herself. She had degraded herself for money. But she was also proud of herself. She had survived her first night as a prostitute and although the work was tawdry, the rewards were profitable.

She looked at the money in her hand and the two one pound notes on the sideboard. Julie realised that seven quid was not a lot of money but it was handy and tonight was only Tuesday; she bet work would pick up on the weekend.

Julie considered what had happened with the fish and chip man. Fellating him wasn’t the horror she had thought it might be. She knew that a lot of her friends at The Elephant and Castle would fellate admirers but refused to engage in anything more, shall we say, vigorous? Adventurous? Julie knew what they meant but she refused to think of the unspeakable.

Maybe, no definitely, she should charge extra for that service, should she consider it at all. Probably best not to advertise. Her tart cards read hand relief only! and she would leave them like that. If she thought a particular punter deserved ‘special treatment’ she would offer fellatio on a case by case basis for more money.

As she luxuriated in a hot bath she considered the slippery slope she was contemplating. Julie had been a brass for only one night and had already broken a promise she made to herself: hand relief only! But think of the money? If she could charge more for a bit of a suck, why not? It would only be for selected clients.

She put on perfume, a pair of sheer tights and her blue rayon babydoll pyjamas and went to bed. She kept thinking of the puddle of semen the fat man had left between her thighs and the taste of the fish-and-chip man’s semen and the feel of his quivering rod as he ejaculated in her mouth.

In the end she gave up, turned on the bedlamp, reached under the bed for her stash of soft-core pornography and relieved herself into an old nylon stocking which she kept just for that purpose and then she was finally able to sleep.

Julie luxuriated in the feel of sheer hosiery on her legs and silky knickers on her pubis and buttocks. She would prefer to present as a woman full-time but it was 1963 and her kind were known to be locked up by the Old Bill or thrown into an institution for the insane. Best to just present her femme self in the safety of her house and at the Trunk and Brick.

It felt incongruous and unfair to her that transvestites were tolerated and left in peace by the authorities so long as they remained in the confines of the Elephant and Castle and even when travelling to and from the establishment. The coppers didn’t even bother investigating the tart cards strewn around London. A blind eye was turned. But should Julie turn up to work instead of Julian, as soon as it was established that she was a transvestite impersonating a woman born female at birth, she would face the wrath of society.

Her newfound liberties caused Julie to resent that she could live as Julie full-time at home but not present herself openly in public away from the safety of those areas where her kind were tolerated. So she compromised. The next day she sent Julian to work again wearing nylons and knickers. The first occasion when Julian had worn stockings and knickers under his male clothing he had found it to be been daring, daunting and brazen. He’d scared himself into thinking that one of the passengers had noticed he was wearing nylons, but also he had to admit that the danger of being caught excited him. It excited Julian so much that he couldn’t resist the urge to wear nylons to work again today.

Julian wore sheer tights, pantyhose as they were otherwise known, and full-cut satin knickers under his suit. They still felt very sensual on Julian’s body but were less obtrusive than stockings and garters.

It was a fifteen minute walk from Julian’s house to the Lambeth North Bakerloo Line tube station. Donald Cooper was leaning against a brick pillar outside the station smoking a cigarette pretending to read the Daily Telegraph when he saw Julian Clifford approaching. He ducked behind the brick pillar until Julian walked past and then he took up station behind him using the commuter crowds as camouflage.

Julian boarded the train and Donald boarded the same carriage but not through the same door and he worked his way through the crowded carriage until he had a clear view of Julian Clifford who had managed to snag a seat.

Donald couldn’t understand his fascination with Julian but there was just something about that glimpse of stocking that intrigued him and he couldn’t get the image out of his head. A process of elimination and luck had brought him to Lambeth North. Waterloo station was just too big to keep under surveillance and it was in the heart of the city with little to no domestic housing, Lambeth was the closest suburb where there was a significant amount of public housing.

The first time Donald had seen Julian it was on the eight-fifty-five commuter train servicing the Bakerloo Line so he edged his bets and waited for Julian at Lambeth North tube station and sure enough Julian was taking the same train.

Donald noted that Julian was reading a novel, holding the book in front of his face but his free hand was constantly stroking his thighs. To other commuters, even if they bothered to notice, they were likely to think the man was smoothing the wrinkles out of his trousers but Donald knew wiser.

He looked down at Julian Clifford’s trouser cuffs and saw that they had ridden up his calves when he sat down. Donald could clearly see the diaphanous nylon encasing Julian’s legs. This time there was no seam and the hosiery was flesh-toned. If Donald was to guess he would say that Julian was wearing sheer tights, or pantyhose as they were called across the pond, because there was no tell-tale outline of a garter clip on Julian’s thighs as there had been last time.

Donald knew that Julian was stroking his thighs because he enjoyed the feel of the sheer tights on his legs. It might be an unconscious act but that was why. He’d seen Deirdre distractedly smooth the wrinkles out of her tights when she wore dresses or skirts and it turned him on to watch her doing so, especially when they were in public. Alone in the bedroom Deirdre would deliberately tease him, taking her time to straighten her seams of adjust her garters when she wore stockings at his request.

Watching women play with their nylons was almost as much as a turn-on as touching them; especially if they didn’t know he was watching. At the practice Donald would spy on the secretaries in the tea room when they took their break, sitting around the table gaggling like geese and undoubtedly one or two would take the opportunity to smooth out, or pull up their tights. Because they did it without thinking, sometimes one of them would hike up her skirt a little higher to do so and Donald would have to lock his office door and take ‘crusty the stocking’ out of his desk drawer and relive himself.

He was enchanted one day when Mrs Snodgrass, the senior secretary, who had to be at least sixty but was still a looker who carried herself with sophistication, lifted her tight skirt and adjusted a garter on her stocking. He was delighted to know that she was wearing stockings as he’d always suspected that she did. She caught him watching and gave him a scowl and he blushed and then Mrs Snodgrass winked at him and took her time straightening her seams before she pulled down the hem of her skirt.

Donald was becoming tumescent at the memories, all the time looking at the sheer nylon-swathed calves of Julian Clifford and was glad that he was wearing baggy casual khakis rather than his usual tight-fitting suit.

Then Donald noticed Julian suddenly flinch and change position. He crossed one leg over the other which he thought was rather foppish and effeminate. Then Donald realised why.

Julian had become Julie in her mind, even though she was presenting as Julian. He was reading a valuable early printing of the The Story of O and had become ‘O’ and therefore Julie was in charge of Julian’s subconscious. She was unconsciously stroking her thighs through her trousers, delighting in the feel of the nylon on her shaved legs. She reached one of the more descriptive scenes in the novel where O is presented as a sexual slave, nude but for an owl-like mask and a leash attached to her labial piercing, before a large party of guests who treat her solely as an object; although in her mind O is wearing stockings and high heels.

Julie’s hand had unintentionally drifted to her crotch and she was stroking herself through the satin knickers she was wearing over her tights which caused her to become painfully erect. Julie suddenly realised where she was and fled Julian’s consciousness leaving him to deal with the situation.

Julian had crossed his legs to hide his erection. He was blushing and peered around the book to see if anyone on the crowded train had noticed. The crowd was his saviour. Everyone standing was too busy hanging on to the grab rails engrossed in their papers, magazines and books while the train rattled along. Commuter etiquette required one not to look at the other passengers if one could help it.

The man reading the Daily Telegraph had flicked his paper. Was he looking around the paper at Julian? If he was, why was he? Because Julie had made him wear those damned sheer tights and slinky knickers; she wouldn’t even let him wear socks. Now that Julian had crossed his legs the whole expanse of one calf was exposed, swathed in the diaphanous nylon. Julian’s erection had subsided so he uncrossed his legs and pulled down his cuffs and put The Story of O back into his valise and took out something less salacious.

Julian was very aware that he and Julie were the same person but when presenting as male he thought of her as another person: his alter ego if you like. But ever since Julie had been allowed to present herself at home she had become dominant and she took over their body at the most inopportune times.

Julian alighted at Oxford circus and Donald exited behind him keeping a matronly woman between him and Julian. As they climbed the steps to exit the station Donald noticed that woman was wearing fully-fashioned stockings and he gave her a silent ‘Bravo’.

He followed Julian to the bookshop and watched him fuss around. Taking the books he had brought to work out of his valise and straightening out the displays while the kettle boiled.

Julian was in two minds what to do with The Story of O. The first edition had come to him via an estate sale and the owner had no idea of the book’s value. The book was first published in 1954 by French author Anne Desclos under the pen name Pauline Réage and although it had won a literary prize it was banned for many years. He could make a tidy profit selling the book to someone whose tastes ran to the exotic.

But Julie wanted Julian to keep the book. She had become captivated by it when she started reading it and now that Julie was earning money on the side so to speak, their financial difficulties would soon dissipate.

Julian did what any Englishman would do in a crisis. He made a pot of tea. Not using those horrible teabags that the lazy young philistines had made de rigueur, but proper Ceylon tea blended in the colonies, made in a proper china teapot. He sat at the counter drinking his tea absentmindedly stroking his thighs; the feel of the diaphanous hosiery on his legs and genitals was delightfully comforting.

Donald Cooper

Donald retired across the road and sat in a café where he could keep an eye on the bookshop. He drank tea dispensed from a stainless steel tea urn and as expected it tasted insipid. The working class types around him shovelled greasy bacon, sausages, chips and eggs into their mouths; fuelling themselves on the ‘Full English’. The sights, sounds and smells of the café nearly made him gag as he choked down his tea and smoked a cigarette.

He left the café and once again wondered what he was doing with his life. For some reason he was obsessed by a trim little bookshop owner, who had a penchant for wearing hosiery to work and manufactured and distributed tart cards. What the fuck was he doing? Was it because Deirdre had left him?

He walked the streets aimlessly and found himself outside his legal practice on The Strand. He went inside, returning the greetings from the secretaries and junior solicitors, knowing that as soon as he passed them by they would begin to gossip about his marriage breakup.

Donald went to his office and closed the door. His caseload had been distributed to the other partners so there were no files on his desk, no depositions or motions to peruse or edit. There was just some personal mail and old newspapers. Donald scanned the mail and threw most of it in the bin and only opened those letters that required his immediate attention. There was a letter from Deirdre’s lawyer proposing a divorce settlement and he spent some time reading it.

There was a gentle tap on the door and it opened and Mrs Snodgrass entered the office preceded by a waft of her rather intriguing perfume.

Gillian Snodgrass had been with Cooper, Price and Waterman ever since Donald’s father had started the practice. Donald knew that his now deceased father had been a womaniser and a rogue, although his mother tolerated him. He’d once overheard his mother talking to her friends confidentially over sherry after the men had retired to the parlour for port and cigars.

“Oh I know all about his philandering and I don’t mind at all. If those pretty young secretaries at Cooper, Price and Waterman are happy to let him mount them; then good luck to him. I’ve got myself a handsome young man who works at the horse stables where I ride twice a week who takes care of my needs,” Cicely Cooper told the small group of matrons who all laughed at her audacity.

Donald, at this time still at university, nearly dropped his port when he heard his mother talking like that. Who would have thought the old dear had it in her? When Donald joined the law practice he had often wondered if Gillian Snodgrass had been one of those ‘pretty young secretaries’ back in the day.

“How are you Donald?” Gillian closed the door as she stepped into the office.

Gillian’s age, the length of her incumbency and her position as senior legal secretary allowed her the privilege of calling the senior partners by their first names. He’d known Gillian since he was a boy and had fancied her back when he was a randy teenager and she was a forty-something spinster.

“I’m not sure. This thing with Deirdre has got me all out of sorts. I’m just not myself,” Donald sighed, expecting sympathy from Gillian who had known Deirdre as long as he had.

Gillian was wearing her usual attire of a navy-blue fitted skirt-suit with black high heels and fleshtoned nylons with a discreet backseam. Her red hair, recently coiffed and coloured was worn in a bouffant reminiscent of the fifties. Her makeup was also quite dated: bright red lipstick, black eyeliner and mascara, green eyeshadow. Think Sybil Fawlty from Fawlty Towers.

She approached Donald and looked down at him.

“What are you reading?” she asked.

Donald stood and came around front of his desk and handed her the letter.

“Deirdre’s taking no time arranging settlement. She’s obviously keen to move on with her life,” Gillian handed the letter back to Donald.

If he had expected sympathy from Gillian he wasn’t getting any.

“As I said; I’m at a loss as to what to do. I didn’t think her leaving me like this would affect me this way,” Donald admitted, sounding like a petulant child.

“Nonsense Donald! Get a grip on yourself. Your father would have never blubbered like a spoiled schoolboy. He’d have given me a good rogering and gone home to Cicely and put her in her place,” Gillian slapped Donald across the face to bring him out of his reverie.

Donald was not sure what had shocked him most: Gillian slapping him or her admitting that his father used to ‘roger’ her.

Gillian strode to the door and Donald was certain that she was leaving but she turned the lock and strode back to him.

“Now just this once I’ll let you have a go but don’t think you can take liberties whenever you fancy, young Donald. This is what the silly young girls in the typing pool call a sympathy fuck I think,” Gillian removed her jacket and began to hitch up her tight skirt as if it was the most the most natural thing in the world to do.

Under her skirt Gillian was wearing a black rayon slip, matching camiknickers and a suspender belt clipped to the welts of her sheer, fleshtoned nylon stockings. Donald was stunned and awestruck. He couldn’t take his eyes off her long legs and her sexy underwear.

“Come on Donald we don’t have all day,” Gillian stepped into him and put his hand on her thigh and stood on her tippytoes and kissed him.

She slipped her tongue into his mouth and she tasted of menthol cigarettes, Twining’s Earl Grey tea and lipstick; she smelled of perfume, powder and slightly of the toner the firm used in the photocopier.

Donald stroked Gillian’s thigh through the silky fabric of her hose, the hem of her slip caressing the backs of his fingers, and then he caressed the smooth pale flesh above the welt of her stocking. Gillian was squeezing his cock through his trousers and Donald was afraid that he was going to climax too soon.

He had dreamed of shagging Gillian Snodgrass but never thought the day would ever come when he would and his head was spinning as he kissed her, feeling her tongue explore his mouth as his hand strayed to her knickers. He slipped his fingers inside Gillian’s camiknickers, the slippery material ticking his fingers, and found Gillian’s cleft wet and warm, nestled in a mat of trimmed pubic hair.

“Hurry along now; there’s a good lad. Can’t dally too long otherwise people will become suspicious. Your father was able to get his leg over me during court recesses and no one was the wiser,” Gillian said, breaking the kiss.

She turned around and bent over the desk.

Gillian was magnificent sight. She was bent over the desk with her skirt rucked up around her waist, her long legs slightly parted, clad in shimmering stockings, her high heels about a foot apart, her plump derriere clad in black satin camiknickers.

Donald dropped trou and approached, his big thick cock protruding from his underpants. He lifted Gillian’s slip out of the way and rubbed his glans on her knickers and delighted in the feel of the soft silky fabric as he pressed his cock against her buttocks.

“No time for dilly-dallying,” Gillian tutted and reached behind her.

She took Donald’s throbbing member in her hand and guided it inside the leg of her knickers and nestled it into the lips her warm, wet minge. She pushed back as Donald gripped her hips and thrust forward and Donald’s cock slipped into Gillian’s surprisingly tight vagina.

Gillian emitted a low growl and began to swivel her backside and push back as Donald fucked her, driving his cock all the way inside her so that her delicate glossy knickers tickled his scrotum and his thighs as he thrush himself in and out of her moist vagina.

Gillian boldly took one of Donald’s hands from her hip and pushed it between her legs and he took the hint and found that her clitoris had emerged from the clitoral hood and was engorged. He stroked it in a circular fashion as he continued to thrust his cock in and out of Gillian's plump soft buttocks. She sighed and continued to squirm and press back against him and then the absurd rampant sexuality of the situation overwhelmed Donald and he gripped Gillian tight and pushed his cock deep inside her and ejaculated, Gilliam emitted a low growl and her whole body shuddered as she climaxed along with him.

Donald thrummed her clitoris and pulled her plump, knicker-clad buttocks into his pelvis and held her still while his cock juddered and pulsed inside her, filling her cleft with his steaming spunk. Donald bit his lip to supress a roar as his orgasm intensified and then began to subside.

Gillian remained dutifully pressed into the desk, her vagina palpitating, milking every drop of semen from Donald, her body tingling with pleasure at the feel of Donald’s big thick cock. She remained that way until she felt Donald let go of her hip and remove his fingers from her intimates.

Donald took a step back and Gillian turned around and took a handful of tissues from the dispenser on his desk and handed them to Donald who wiped the last dribble of spunk and Gillian’s vaginal mucus from his cock and put it away and zipped up. Gillian took the tissues from him and took out a few more leaves which she dabbed on her intimate parts. She adjusted her knickers and pulled down her skirt.

“Well that was rather unexpected but quite satisfactory. You’re better equipped than your father was. It’s a shame we can’t make it a regular thing,” Gillian said as she smoothed and straightened her skirt.

“Why not?” Donald felt a little embarrassed now that it was all over.

“Oh you silly boy. Deirdre has gone and you’re looking for a replacement but you should sew your oats while you have the chance. Besides I’m too old for you. Go out and explore the world. Find something exotic to tickle your fancy before you remarry,” Gillian fixed her lipstick, holding up a compact mirror in front of her face as she did so.

“I’ve got a rather virile West Indian chap who does for me when I need a bit of spice in my life. Go and find something equally extravagant for yourself,” Gillian tucked away her compact and put on her jacket.

“Now be a good boy and flush these down the loo will you. Can’t put them in the bin can we?” Gillian reached up and kissed his cheek then rubbed away her lipstick.

She unlocked and opened the door and stepped confidently outside as if they had just finished some important business.

Donald looked down and saw that she had pressed the tissues that they had used to clean up in his hand. He suppressed a laugh and made his way to the gentleman’s lavatory, took one last sniff of Gillian Snodgrass’ pungent fanny, and flushed the tissues away.

Julie Clifford

Julian brought The Story of O home with him and had read more of the tome on the train. He had enjoyed wearing the sheer pantyhose and the full-cut satin knickers under his suit during the day. Once he’d got over his trepidation he was able to enjoy the feel of the garments on his tingling flesh. Julie had flitted in and out of Julian’s consciousness throughout the day, especially during the lunch break when he read more of The Story of O and Julie had imagined it was her who surrendered herself to the man she loved.

Once home Julian surrendered the consciousness of his body to Julie who took a quick bath, plucked a few stray hairs from her chin and put on her makeup: it was bold and brazen and whoreish, which is what she was about to become. She’d glanced at the red telephone on her way upstairs and part of her was begging for it ring and another part of her was praying for it not to.

She finished her transformation into a whore: tight black vinyl micro miniskirt, white satin blouse, black seamed nylon stockings, bright red satin knickers with black lace trim, four-inch patent leather black high heels and bouffant wig. Her bra was stuffed with breastforms to enhance her figure. She accessorised with gaudy junk jewellery and studied her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a cheap whore which was exactly the effect she was looking for. She sprayed perfume all over herself and made her way downstairs.

She had no sooner lit a cigarette and poured herself a drink when the phone rang.

“You the tranny who does hand relief?” the cockney accented voice asked.

“Two quid. A bit of slap and tickle, finishing with hand relief. Spanking and corporal punishment if you want it,” Julie replied almost mechanically.

“Two quid’s a bit much for a wank luv,” the man countered.

“I’m a good looking sort in my thirties with a nice house and a lot better than those slags working the streets. Take it or leave it,” Julie tried to sound nonplussed.

“Aright, two quid. Where am I goin’?” the man sounded defeated but also eager.

“Twelve, Black Prince Road, Lambeth,” Julie quipped and hung up.

She swallowed her drink and poured another.

The phone rang again and she requested the man call back in half an hour. He was reluctant but Julie told him to look at her picture on the tart card and promised him that was exactly what he would he get. She also promised him there might be something extra if he was presentable and amenable to negotiation. This intrigued the punter and he promised to call back.

The doorbell rang and Julie peeped out to see a man in a boiler suit under a fur-lined work jacket looking anxiously up and down the street.

She let the man inside and her nose was immediately assaulted by the smell of machine oil, grease and smoke.

The man tried to paw her but Julie pushed him away.

“You’re not touching me until you’ve had a wash and brush up!” Julie said curtly and the man bowed his head compliantly and followed her up the stairs.

“Yes mistress,” he mumbled and Julie instantly ascertained what this gentleman would need.

“Go in there. Strip. Clean yourself up and present yourself to me when you are presentable,” she pointed to the door to her workroom.

She had put a good quality lock on her own bedroom door and kept the spare key hidden under a vase on a side table near her bedroom door where she could get to it easily. She didn’t want any of the punters inadvertently entering her bedroom and it was also a sanctuary should anything untoward happen.

Julie heard the water running in the bathroom followed by the sound of bare feet on the hallway runner and the man entered the workroom fully naked carrying his clothes which he dropped on a chair.

The man wasn’t handsome but nor was he ugly, he was a little shabby with unkempt brown hair, pale skin and a missing incisor. He was muscled from manual labour and his skin smelled of the cheap soap she’d put out in the spare bathroom for just such an eventuality. The man was erect and appeared eager to begin which suited Julie because she was aware that she had told the other punter to call back and she was beginning to realise that in the prostitution game, time is money. The more punters serviced; the more money she made.

“Have you forgotten something?” Julie picked up the cane off the bed and flicked it.

“Oh shit! The money!” the man ruffled through his jacket and produced two one pound notes from his wallet which he dutifully placed on the bedside table.

He turned to Julie, his long thin cock poking out ahead of him and he stepped into her.

She let him kiss her which he seemed to appreciate judging by the feel of his hard cock on her sheers. He’d managed to slip his cock between her legs and Julie closed then tight so the man could fuck her thighs while she kissed him. Kissing the man was mechanical: she appreciated that the man wanted her and found her attractive and sexy but she had no feelings for the man, it was a business transaction.

“You smell nice,” the man broke the kiss and grinned at her.

His cock had come free from between her legs and Julie dutifully took it in hand and began to stroke it. It was warm and pulsing, the skin almost velvet-like. It was not unpleasant and Julie would be lying if she said she didn’t like touching it,

“Not too much luv or I’ll come,” the man hissed, removing Julie’s hand from his swollen member.

“What then?” Julie asked impatiently.

The man nodded at the cane and Julie picked it up. The man had positioned himself so that he was bent over, hanging onto the back of the chair, pushing out his bottom.

Without any ceremony Julie brought the cane down on the man’s buttocks and watched a red welt form across his pale skin.

“That’s perfect luv; no harder and no softer please,” the man sighed and Julie cut him six of the best, the man groaning at each stroke.

“Now if you could…” the man pointed at his dripping cock and at first Julie was confused but then she realised what the man wanted her to do.

She stepped into him and grabbed his cock and began to stroke it, using his pre-ejaculate to lubricate the shaft. She kissed the man driving her tongue into his mouth and he put his hands around her waist and pulled her close and then slipped a hand under her skirt and pawed at her knickers.

The man’s cock was throbbing and leaking copious amounts of precum which Julie gathered in her fingertips and worked into his veiny hard flesh, lubricating the shaft and glans which felt like a spongy mushroom in her fingers. The man was a good kisser and used his tongue well and Julie couldn’t help but respond and she felt her own cock thickening in her knickers.

The man’s fingers stroked the lace trim on her panties and then the expanse of her bottom, stroking her buttocks through the lustrous fabric and gently squeezing them. Her cock became a little harder and she felt a bubble of pre-ejaculate leak from the eye. Although it was pleasant being kissed, cuddled and stroked by this man, it was not what she was here to do.

Her job was to fetch him off, preferably as soon as possible and move onto the next punter. More punters equal more money, she kept telling herself.

When he tried to put his hand inside her knickers she batted it away and squeezed his testicles as punishment. It was like pressing the start button on a hydraulic sprayer as the man squealed and ejaculated.

Julie felt the man’s cock swell to full tumescence and begin to pulse and judder in her hand, then she felt a warm, wet rope of semen splash on her stocking but she continued to wank him furiously, his semen webbing in her fingers, dripping from her wrist and splashing on her skirt and thighs. The musky scent of spunk filled the air and the man held her close, kissing her passionately, fondling her buttocks until he was spent. Julie was fully erect in her knickers.

She clung to the man returning the kiss, squeezing the remaining issue from his pulsing member. The feel of his spend in her hand, on her arm and her legs should have repulsed her but she found it exciting. She had caused this! Her beauty, her seductiveness, her desirability and her presence had caused this man to climax and surrender a good part of his pay to do so. Julie suddenly felt powerful as well as concupiscent.

The aftermath was awkward as they disentangled from each other’s embrace and the man apologised and she told him it was ok, it was what he paid for. Fortunately it was over quickly and the man began to dress and Julie went into the bathroom and wiped his semen from her skin and her vinyl skirt and dabbed at her damp stockings. She saw a gobbet of his spend on the toe of her shoe and she wiped that off too.

Julie’s erection had subsided and she felt a little guilty about it but decided that now was not the time examine that part of her psyche. She had made a conscious and willing decision to prostitute herself and she would have to live with the consequences as well as the rewards.

“I’d like to see you again luv. Same time next week?” the man smiled at her.

“You have my number,” Julie returned his smile; her red lips were freshly lipsticked.

The man leaned in to kiss Julie at the front door and she instinctively bobbed her head out the way.

The man looked disappointed and hurt and she squeezed his arm and smiled at him.

“Fresh lipstick luv; don’t want to ruin it,” she gave him her best smile and rubbed his arm affectionately and he smiled back at her before he slipped outside and walked quickly away.

Julie was a quick learner. A repeat customer kindled the possibility of building a regular clientele, which was appealing. She would know what each individual wanted and she could vet them to make sure that they were trustworthy, clean and discreet.

The red phone rang as soon as she had closed the door.

The man sounded impatient.

“You're the tranny brass promising kisses, cuddles and hand relief? Is that picture really you? You said there may be something extra if I was amenable to negotiation; what exactly is that?” the man might be eager and anxious but he had a clipped upper-class accent and Julie felt like it would be nice to be with someone with a little class for a change.

“You'll have to find out what the something extra is when you get here but only if you’re more presentable than my usual clientele,” Julie used her best coquettish voice.

“You're a cheeky little brass aren’t you? Not many prossies vet their customers by how presentable they are?” the man sounded cocky.

“There aren’t that many tranny prostitutes look as good as me,” Julie said brazenly; realising that she had just called herself a prostitute for the first time.

Flirting with the john was turning her on a little.

“Twelve, Black Prince Road, Lambeth,” Julie whispered seductively and hung up.

She had become a little flustered and aroused bantering with the man with the dreamy voice. She debated whether or not to change her stockings and decided, what was the point? It was consequential to the services she was offering that she was going to get spunked on.

She poured herself another drink and lit a cigarette and the doorbell chimed.

“Blimey; he must have been around the corner,” Julie muttered to herself as she hurried to the door.

She peeped through the keyhole but the man had his back to the door, studying the street. He was wearing what appeared to be a cashmere overcoat and his dark-brown hair was collar-length and expensively coiffed.

Julie opened the door and the man turned her way and Julie gasped but tried her best to hide her excitement caused by the man’s extreme good looks.

The man smiled at Julie and she felt herself melt a little. In all of her years as a transvestite she hadn't really been that interested in men. Plenty had come onto her but few had succeeded but this man was a dish and when he brazenly pulled her into his arms and began to kiss her she surrendered. He took off his overcoat and hung it on the back of the door and took Julie in his arms.

“You’re more gorgeous in real life than you are in that picture,” the man smiled at her and lowered his face.

He was an expert kisser. At first he kissed her closed mouth, his lips just brushing hers. He held her lightly, their bodies not quite touching. He would break the kiss intermittently and gaze into her emerald eyes and tell her how beautiful she was and then start kissing her all over again.

He pressed his lips a little harder and when Julie pressed back he pulled her tighter into his embrace, their bodies just touching. He kissed her for an age and then he opened his lips slightly and Julie opened hers. His breath was sweet, his aftershave very masculine and she could feel the strength in his arms. It was Julie who brought tongue into play, at first just slipping the tip of her tongue into the man’s mouth.

They kissed softly like that and slowly they eased their tongues deeper into each other’s mouths and the man pulled her tightly against him and rested one hand on her buttocks. Julie gasped; she could feel the heft of the man’s growing erection against her belly but the man wasn’t being assertive or aggressive; he still held her lightly. She was feeling heady and it wasn’t the gin. This man wasn’t just using her for his pleasure, although undoubtedly he would, that was what he was here for ultimately, but at the moment he was seducing her, and she liked it.

It was Julie who pressed her ardour. She wrapped herself around his body like a cat; she interlaced her fingers behind his neck and hooked a leg around his and pressed her body against him and rubbed a little. The smell and feel of him made Julie feel so feminine and also aroused her. The presence of the hard bar of his cock against her body caused her to feel both meek and powerful; after all it was she who had produced the prodigious lump in his trousers.

The man responded and held her tight, his hand squeezed her buttocks and he drove his tongue into her mouth. They kissed and ground against each other as the man eased Julie towards the couch. When she felt the edge of the couch on the back of her knees the man eased her down onto it.

“Let’s go up to my workroom,” Julie gasped.

“We’ll lose the moment,” the man whispered, whipping off his jacket.

He fell on her and smothered Julie with his kisses. She felt a little trepidatious lying under him like this, feeling his pulsing manhood pressing into her while he kissed her fervently. She wanted him to stop but she didn’t want him to stop.

The man was handsome, young and well-to-do; a far cry from her other punters. His hand was under her skirt doing things to her legs that felt like a thousand butterflies had escaped and were fluttering their wings on her silken-hosed thighs. When he guided her hand to his crotch she didn’t resist, in fact she fumbled with his flies and eventually freed his prodigious erection. The smooth girth of it exuded power and fertility. I was steely hard but velvety to touch and globules of precum dripped from the eye.

When the man began to stroke Julie’s cock through her knickers at first she struggled but the man was on top of her, kissing her, telling her how beautifully feminine she was and she had his penis in her hand and she loved the feel of it and she couldn’t stop manipulating it and she wanted him to manipulate hers and he did.

He grasped the shaft of her penis through her knickers and began to slowly stroke it and Julie mewled and shuddered under him. Their kisses became more passionate and insistent. The man’s fingers found her buttocks and his middle finger circled her sphincter and Julie became a little scared.

The man circled her sphincter, gently massaging her puckered bud and Julie wriggled under him. He held her by her cock and pressed his face to hers, kissing her deeply as he slowly pushed his finger inside her anus.

“Stop! Stop! Stop!” Julie squealed.

“You promised me something extra if I was presentable and amenable to negotiation. I believe I’m both,” the man smiled down at her.

He still held Julie by her knicker-covered penis with his finger was still buried in her bum. To be fair, she hadn't let go of his cock either and she lazily flicked her thumb over the eye and rubbed a bubble of precum into his fraenulum.

“Well not that! I don’t so that!” Julie said insistently.

“What then?” the man smiled.

He was teasing her and with his boyish good looks he knew he could get away with it.

“This,” Julie put her mouth on his and sucked on his lips and waggled her tongue in his mouth and then broke the kiss.

“Only down there,” Julie nodded to his nether regions.

“Down there?” the man grinned salaciously.

Julie nodded and smiled.

With sudden agility the man extracted his finger from Julie’s bum, let go of her cock and flipped himself around so that his cock was level with her face. He began to kiss her thighs and Julie sighed and looked up at the cock dangling inches from face like the sword of Damocles. When the man licked her cock through her satin panties Julie shivered with delight and took the man’s cock into her mouth and began to suckle it.

She locked her lips around the base of the shaft and traced the veins with her tongue, flicking it over his frenulum and across his bloated glans. The sweet-salty taste of pre-ejaculate permeated her mouth and she groaned around the girth of his cock as the man freed her penis from her knickers and reciprocated.

He sucked Julie’s cock and worked his tongue on the sensitive glans. Julie had never felt anything like it before and she instinctively reciprocated and began to slaver at the man’s engorged penis. She held the base between her fingers and sucked and licked the proud member, her other hand found his scrotum and gently squeezed and stroked his testicles. She felt his cock judder and a continuous stream of precum dribbled from his cock which Julie dutifully tasted and swallowed.

She could sense the man’s urgency. He was sucking on her cock and stroking her thighs and she had never felt anything so downright lewd and delightful. She drummed her heels on the cushions indicating that she was close to extremis but the man didn’t stop.

He engulfed her whole phallus and worked his tongue on the head whilst his lips slipped up and down the shaft. Julie took as much of the man’s cock into her mouth as she could and suckled on it as her fingers softly stroked and gently squeezed his scrotum and she was rewarded.

Her mouth was suddenly flooded with his musky milt. She could feel his cock pulsing as it evacuated the contents of his scrotum into her mouth. She greedily swallowed the sweet, briny mucous and squeezed his scrotum to encourage him to give her more. All of this was intensifying the enormous orgasm that was raging through her body. The man was slavering on her cock and she was ejaculating into his mouth while his fingers caressed her stocking-sheathed thighs and her satiny knickered scrotum.

The man mauled Julie through her diaphanous garments, the sensation, combined with his mouth caressing her cock and his tongue licking her glans, was overpowering. Julie bucked and writhed under the man and he thrust his cock in and out of Julie’s mouth.

They sucked and slavered on each other’s organs until they were both spent when the man surprised Julie by leaping off her and then leaping on top of her. He kissed her and she could taste her sperm on his mouth and knew that he tasted his on hers. His semi-erect cock was pressing on her left thigh and felt nice and comforting. He stroked her cheek tenderly and mewed as he kissed her softly but eagerly.

She wrapped her arms around him, comforted by his embrace in the afterglow of their orgasms.

“Well that was surprising,” Julie finally said.

The man put a finger on her lips to silence her.

They cuddled like that and Julie eventually fell asleep in the safety of his arms.

Julie was awoken by the shrill ringing of the red telephone and she immediately realised that the man was gone and Julie began to panic but she kept herself under control. She got shakily to her feet and tottered over the phone.

“Hello? Is this TV Julie? I know it’s late but I just want a kiss and cuddle and a wank. I won’t be any longer than thirty minutes I promise,” the man sounded keen and anxious.

Julie looked down at the crystal bowl that sat beside the telephone where she kept her keys and loose change. There was a five pound note in there.

She smiled to herself. The man had indeed been presentable and amenable to negotiation.

“Yes luv; I can give you a quick handjob,” Julie said into the receiver, getting back to the matter in hand.

Business was business after all.

Donald Cooper

After his tryst with Gillian Snodgrass, Donald took heed of what she had said to him. He needed to move on and stop wondering aimlessly through his life. His fascination with Julian Clifford’s stocking-sheathed calf needed to cease as did his obsession with tart cards and whoever this TV Julie woman was. These tawdry lower-class types had no place in the life of a well-to-do barrister at one of the country’s most prestigious law firms.

Donald went home and gathered up the lingerie and hosiery that Deirdre had left behind and put them in drawer in what had been her side of the walk-in robe. He found the tart card and tore it into pieces and then he called Sir Stanley Price and told him that he would be reporting for work tomorrow as usual and then he called his secretary and the associate and told them to have his case files ready first thing.

Donald was ready to put the failure of his marriage and the foolishness infatuation with bookshop owners and street tarts aside and get his life in order.

Donald went back to work but he no longer took the Bakerloo Line eight-fifty -five commuter train; he took an earlier train. He concentrated on his caseload and dallied with a few of the secretaries but didn’t actually shag them. They were below his station with the single exception of Ms Gillian Snodgrass who remained icily aloof as far as any physicality might be concerned but she told him a number of times that it was good to see him back at work and getting his house in order.

He started seeing a divorcee, one Vivian Huxtable who, like Deirdre, was a very attractive woman with great legs and big breasts and a rather wide undercarriage. She liked to wear skirt-suits, heels and makeup and the only time he ever saw her sans hosiery was when she was dressed for tennis.

The first time they slept together Vivian had worn stockings and sexy black see-through panties and had kept on her high heels during the sex. Vivian had once been a gal-pal of Deirdre’s and Donald wondered if Deirdre had told Vivian about his weakness for nylons, heels and lingerie.

Julie Clifford

Julie Clifford was very much in command of Julian’s psyche and Julian was only ever visible travelling to and from work and at the bookshop and even then he was wearing sheer tights and knickers under his suit. At all other times Julian presented as Julie, having become more confident passing as a woman.

When Julian’s neighbour Mrs Granger had made a passing comment to Julian as he walked to North Lambeth tube station about the woman who had similar features to him seen entering and leaving the house, Julian had replied that his twin sister was staying with him. When the nosy neighbour had pressed on and asked about the ebb and flow of men visiting Julian’s house in the evenings Julian had curtly told the neighbour to tend to her own business.

Business was booming with Julie sometimes seeing as many as five clients in a single night. In 1963 the average wage in the United Kingdom was around £20 per week for the working classes and Julie was making between £10 and £15 per night, except for Friday which was her night off to go to the Elephant and Castle. According to her calculations the bookshop should be back in the black in few months and she would be more than comfortable. She reminded herself that she was only prostituting herself in order to rid herself of debt and that she would stop as soon as she was debt free.

Wouldn’t she?

Julie was able to get a transvestite friend of hers named Bella alone in the snug of the ‘Trunk and Brick’ for a confidential tête-à-tête. She knew that Bella was a ‘working girl’. Without telling Bella anything about the bookshop she explained that she was working as a prostitute out of her own home during the evenings and making a decent income at it.

“You’ve got it made luv. Most of the trannies who sell their arses have to do so on the street and they're shagging in back alleys for ten bob a go, sometimes less. Some of the girls have private rooms but they have to pay pimps or landlords which eats up the profit. There aren’t many girls like us can work from home,” Bella explained when Julie had bought a second round of gin and tonics.

Julie handed Bella one of her tart cards and Bella studied it.

“Whoever made this did a good job but are you really restricting yourself to hand relief?” Bella asked.

“If I like them and they're clean I might offer them fellatio for a bit more,” Julie blushed when she said it.

“You’re missing out on the big money luv,” Bella gulped down her drink and nodded to the publican for a refill.

“You earn real money on your back,” Bella grinned.

“I’m not doing that!” Julie balked.

“Look around the pub. A good number of the men in here tonight are tranny chasers. Most of them are going to be disappointed. A lot of the girls are like you used to be; platonic,” Bella's drink arrived and she took a sip.

“Some of them like Sandra over there will drop their drawers in the back alley for nothing and go home and change into their men’s clothing in the garden shed and snuggled up to their wives,” Bella took one of Julie’s Consulate’s and lit it.

“Then there’s the likes of me and Vera, and now you, who realise the potential of what we are. Unaccepted by society but lusted after by a certain type of men who are willing to pay for our company but would be mortified if anyone found out,” Bella tapped ash into the ashtray with a long, manicured, red-painted fingernail.

“If the Old Bill caught a punter copulating with a woman brass in a public place or brothel, the punter would be embarrassed but he would pay the fine and move on with his life. If he was caught shagging a tranny he would be mortified and if his friends and family found out there would be hell to pay. You…” Bella pointed her red dagger-like fingernail at Julie… “have the perfect business model.”

“So start shagging your punters and charge them a fiver for it. You’re worth it,” Bella finished her drink and lifted herself off the barstool and went over to join Sandra and Vera.

There was no way that Julie was going to start ‘shagging her punters’! The very thought of it repulsed her.

Then she recalled the handsome young man who had stroked her knicker-covered penis whilst his finger was buried in her bum. She’d liked it but she would never tell anyone that. It was a one-off event over which she’d had little control.

No! There was no way that Julie Clifford was going to start letting punters ‘boff her up the chuff’ as some of her transvestite acquaintances crudely called it.

To be continued

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So, just found this

And I am interested to see how they get together. Will she be the heart-of-gold hooker? Or will they meet if/when she needs a barrister? So many directions this could go. More please?

Julie And Donald

joannebarbarella's picture

I don't know if this is a relationship made in hell or not. Julie is slipping down the slippery slope as her combination of financial need and her emotional needs collide. Julian is disappearing as she takes over.

Donald is a sleazebag with a fetish that could easily become dangerous.

You always write a credible story, Ms. Nylons.