Walter Middleton had just released himself into a Pretty Polly stocking and the garment hung pathetically from his still engorged penis. A gobbet of thick creamy semen had burst through the sheer fabric of the stocking when he ejaculated and threatened to spatter on the workshop’s concrete floor.

Walter took the panties away from his face and carefully put them back inside the resealable bag, carefully folding them and treating them with the deference they deserved. The turquoise ring went back into the same bag and he resealed it.

He carefully removed the stocking from his penis, dabbing at his cock with it to wipe off his spend and it went into the bin. He took the bin-liner, nothing more than a disposable plastic shopping bag, out of the bin and tied it off to throw it in the big bin outside the kitchen. These new plastic bags that all of the shops were using now instead of paper bags were supposed to save the planet because the forests were being destroyed to make paper. To him it was all a load of bollocks anyway, every time they thought they’d saved the world some other new-found catastrophe awaited. Apparently a new ice age was around the corner and the world was soon to be a frozen wasteland.

Walter looked down at the green satin knickers and the cheap turquoise ring now safely ensconced in their plastic bag and thought it ironic that the colour of his second victim’s knickers matched the colour of the ring she was wearing. Quite a coincidence. There wasn’t much scent left on the knickers, just a scintilla of her fruity perfume and a hint of vaginal odour embedded in the flaky stain in the crotch.

He remembered she was a big Scottish girl with unruly ginger hair. He’d seen her standing outside the cinema studying a movie poster when she had flamed for him. Once she became one of his Flaming Girls he had to have her and he had followed her for three days before he managed to catch her early one morning taking a shortcut through a park on her way to work. He was prepared for any eventuality and he’d managed to drag her into the toilet block and take his time with her.

He liked that she was wearing a business suit and that she was stout girl with billowy tits and thick legs, her makeup professionally applied ready for work; sheer tights and high heels and that gorgeous ginger hair. She put up a fight but he had managed to come inside her pressed against the rough brick wall with her tights and knickers pulled down and her skirt torn away.

The Scottish girl had flamed, her body a burning torch when he climaxed and slit her throat and then like the others the flames had died. He’d struggled to remove her knickers and in the end had balled them up with her tights around her ankles and ripped them off. The ring was stubborn too but he’d got it.

Not counting his mother the Scottish lass was only his second Flaming Girl back when he was still learning his trade.

He carefully replaced the trophy in its correct place in the drawer of the large toolbox and admired his collection.

The headache that had plagued him all morning had retreated. Relieving himself whilst fondling his trophies brought temporary relief but the headaches would soon become migraines and he would need to find another Flaming Girl to appease the demons in his head.

*****

Charlie Ringwald had fellated the doctor on four consecutive days just so she could keep her private room in the hospital. On the fifth day the doctor had told her that she had recovered enough so that she could bend over and let him take her ‘up the wrong ‘un’, to which she had replied if she was well enough to be fucked she was well enough to work and had promptly discharged herself.

She came home to her bedsit flat located in the dodgy end of Chelmsford, well away from where the more affluent east enders lived. The terrace housing where she lived had once been council flats but greedy slumlords had moved in and converted the two up – two downs into bedsits.

Charlie was lucky that she could afford a room to herself and now that she had her windfall from Ruffe she was able to get ahead with her rent. Unlike most of the prostitutes working the streets Charlie had neither a drug habit, children, nor a lazy husband to support, every penny she made she was able to keep for herself.

She was saving up for breast implant surgery and she thought she might get a few other bits and bobs done at the same time; a tracheal shave perhaps? She knew that more complicated and expensive gender reassignment surgery was probably beyond her means but she had been using female hormones obtained illegally from a sympathetic doctor ever since she had started work.

Charlie’s body had changed subtly as the doctor said it would. She first noticed that even though she had no beard to speak of, she had stopped developing almost any body hair at all and she had gained weight which seemed to redistribute itself on her lithe frame, giving her a slimmer waist, wider hips and plumper buttocks. Her flat chest sprouted two little protuberances with pink sensitive nubbins that could hardly be called boobs but they filled a padded B-cup and gave shape to her décolletage.

Shakespeare had written that ‘misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows’ and Detective Sargent Sparrow, WPC Glenda Savage, Ruffe Ingersoll and Charlie Ringwald were certainly that. They were a Special Crime Investigation team or SCI that was the brainchild of Glenda Savage and reluctantly approved by the Chief Constable but only after Glenda had effectively blackmailed him.

Glenda wanted to work a high profile case with the hopes of promotion or appointment to the CID. Ruffe had been contacted by the Essex Slasher but stymied in his attempt to publish the letter but he got on well with Charlie and Glenda and he hoped he would get more titbits from them to inform his newspaper stories. Charlie was along because she needed protection as the Slasher had made a veiled threat to finish her off having failed to kill her during his attack. Detective Sargent Sparrow had been titularly put in charge; a penance for receiving bad press when he was quoted in the newspapers as telling Charlie, the sole surviving Slasher victim, that she was better off dead than living transgender.

“No way Glenda! You’ve got your little band of merry men but two of them are civilians and shouldn’t really be working the crimes, so your SCI will not be operating out of any of my police stations. Find somewhere unobtrusive to work from but make sure it’s secure,” Edward replied to Glenda when she came to him for more resources.

So the ragtag little group set up at Glenda Savage’s flat. During the first days after they had formed their SCI, Robin had taken copies of anything useful from the Slasher task force, while Glenda had purloined some essentials such as stationary, copies of related crime files, and police hardware. She had turned the spare bedroom of her flat into a temporary office, put up a crime wall including timelines, survey maps and other useful scraps of evidence and created a filing system. Ruffe had taken copies of all of the Essex Slasher stories written since the first murder and filed them in chronological order. He had written another newspaper article regarding the letter he had received from the Slasher, paraphrasing the content and speculating that the Slasher was far from done.

Charlie meantime was still recovering and other than giving the doctor his daily blowjob, didn’t have anything to do. Glenda, Robin or Ruffe was usually in attendance at the hospital to keep her company and offer her protection. When she discharged herself from hospital, with Ruffe’s assistance avoiding the small crowd of reporters who had been tipped off that she was leaving, she was glad to be home and reluctantly part of the team, although she wondered what role she would play.

The four of them met at Glenda’s flat the afternoon that Charlie was released and Charlie had made tea while Glenda set up seating around an old wooden dining table she had put in the centre of the room as their workspace. Folding tables and chairs had been arranged along two of the walls to hold all of their files, paperwork and other detritus relevant to the crimes. One wall was taken up with the crime wall; coloured woollen yarn and drawing pins linking various documents to the timeline of the murders.

Charlie, Glenda and Ruffe sat at the table sipping tea while Robin Savage paced up and down in front of a large blackboard resting on a wooden easel.

“Ok, let’s get started. It’s no secret that I don’t want to be here, but here I am and at least I’m still working the Slasher case,” he began.

“Credit where it’s due, WPC Savage has done an amazing job putting together our crime office here in her flat. Even Ruffe has contributed, collating every single newspaper story about the Slasher and his murders. Just a reminder Ruffe that anything we uncover must be handed over to CID and the Chief Constable needs to approve anything you want to print.”

Ruffe nodded but his smile was far from genuine.

Robin just smiled back at him and continued.

“We also have err… Miss Ringwald here to assist us. She is the only person who is able to identify the Slasher and of course as the only survivor, has first-hand experience with his modus operandi. We are also to some extent, although neither CID nor the Chief Constable are taking the threat seriously, acting as protection for her just in case the Slasher returns to finish what he started,” Robin nodded at Charlie who self-consciously rubbed at the scar on her neck.

It was obvious to everyone that Robin Savage barely tolerated Charlie Ringwald and begrudgingly called her ‘her, Miss or she’, even though Charlie was undoubtedly feminine and attractive.

“WPC Savage and myself as serving police officers still have our day jobs to do and will be working the SCI part time. Miss Ringwald and Ruffe you are obviously here as volunteers and we appreciate your support and request that you attend our regular meetings,” Robin continued.

Charlie didn’t care. Working this case gave her something to do with her days other than sleep because even though she hadn’t told anyone here, she fully intended on going back to work. She needed the money for her surgery and she wanted to move into a better place than her bedsit. In 1975 there were very few ways for a full-time transvestite to make money other than on her knees or her back. Charlie had dreams of becoming a hairdresser one day; maybe after she had her breast augmentation surgery.

“I’ve been thinking long and hard about what we know about the Slasher and especially the information provided to us by Miss Ringwald,” Robin turned to the backboard.

“He referred to his victims as Flaming Girls in the letter, and he also told Charlie that she was his Flaming Girl. All of the victims have red hair,” he wrote on the blackboard.

“They all have green or blue eyes,” he wrote that.

“My hair is dyed,” Charlie called out.

“I know and one of the other victims dyed her hair too. I think it’s the bright red colour that attracts him, natural or otherwise,” Robin answered.

“We know he takes trophies, the victim’s knickers and a piece of jewellery. These are likely fetishes he uses to re-enact the crimes, to relive the thrill and excitement he gets during the rape and murder,” Robin wrote the word ‘trophies’ on the board.

“Were all the women raped? For all intents and purposes I wasn’t. He paid me and I gave him what he paid for,” Charlie blushed.

“Good point Charlie. Two of the victims were prostitutes and there was no sign of a struggle so he likely paid them too. Two of the other women were found in their own homes with their throats cut and disembowelled but no signs of forced entry or a struggle so he may have charmed his way into their beds,” Robin nodded sagely.

“Two were definitely raped before he killed them; there is evidence that they tried to fight him off.”

“We think he uses the same knife because it has never been found at the scene and the wounds are identical, but that’s not certain. The knife itself might be a fetish.”

“What about the locations? Is there any connection to rail schedules, bus routes or traffic patterns?” Ruffe asked

Robin was impressed. His little cadre were actually contributing useful information and asking pertinent questions.

They all looked at the map on the crime wall. The locations of the attacks were localised around Chelmsford with two occurring in the city itself including Charlie’s and the others at random locations not necessarily on the bus or rail routes.

Ruffe got up and pointed to the railway underpass.

“When I spoke to Deirdre Edwards she said that she thought the man walked down Duke Street and turned into Victoria Road.”

“She told the same story to CID. She said he was wearing a duffle coat and seemed in no rush. That ties in with your description right?” Robin looked at Charlie.

“That’s right a duffle coat and coveralls but he didn’t talk with a working class accent, sounded posh to me,” Charlie shivered as she recalled the mental image of the man approaching her.

“So if he didn’t take the train he might have parked on Victoria Road or here in the railway car park,” Ruffe pointed at the map.

“All of the other murder sites are accessible by car but not all are accessible by bus or train, so let’s assume our man drives,” Robin wrote this up on the blackboard.

“Not many working class men around here would own motors. Charlie said he sounded posh, so he could be middle class,” Ruffe said and Robin chalked that on the blackboard too.

“The coveralls and duffle coat are nondescript and perfect clothing for what he does. He must get a lot of blood on himself. The clothes would work both as a disguise and provide protection from blood spatter. My guess is he ditches them after each crime; it would be too risky to wash the coveralls or dry-clean the duffle coat,” Glenda chipped in.

“Especially if he’s married or living with someone else,” she added.

Robin nodded sagely.

“Let’s get back to the theory that he might be middle-class, passing himself off as working class. That would fit in with the murders of the women he killed in public places and the prostitutes he attacked,” he nodded deferentially to Charlie.

“Elspeth Morrison and Winnie Fletcher were both murdered in their homes and were last seen at work, one was a secretary and the other a nurse. They were respectable women,” Robin pointed to the grainy black and white pictures of the victims on the crime wall.

“Tall, dark haired, handsome and well-built was how you described him Charlie?” Robin looked at her.

Today she was wearing jeans and a tight sweater with platform heels. Her makeup was a little heavier than what she had worn in the hospital and her red hair framed her pretty face. It was the first time Robin had seen her fully-clothed and up and walking around. He had to admit that if he didn’t know otherwise he would swear she was a woman... a pretty woman.

“So victims are picked at random not by where they live or their demographic,” Robin tapped his teeth with the chalk.

“He told us in the letter he wrote to me. Red hair and green eyes. All of the women had red hair and blue or green eyes, the same colours found in a flame, hence the Flaming Girls? So he sees them and becomes smitten and if the opportunity presents, he takes them like he did Charlie. If not he follows them until he can get them alone or he somehow gets into their houses and does the job in private so to speak,” Ruffe surmised.

“So… two brasses, a nurse and secretary in their own home, an accountant he overpowered and dragged into a toilet block in Admirals Park, a shopgirl found on the grounds of the Cathedral. What if there are more? What if these aren’t his only victims?” Glenda speculated.

There was no criminal profiling per se in the UK at this time but police still collated information and consulted psychologists and medical experts to help them with high profile cases.

“The psychologist that CID is using noted that the Slasher’s crimes are becoming more violent, he didn’t disembowel his first two victims and the period between crimes is getting less. He also speculated that the Slasher likely started off committing sexual assaults and then progressed to murder,” Robin added.

“Do we have anything that CID doesn’t have? Is there something we need to handover to them?” Glenda asked.

“They have everything we have pretty much; but believe it or not we have a better hypothesis. And with deference to you Glenda I think it’s because of our diverse approach to the crimes. CID have a bunch of old suits rehashing the same evidence but don’t really have the coordinated approach we are using,” Robin admitted.

“Fuck em. Let’s keep the ideas we have to ourselves,” Robin grinned.

“Over there are the case files and press cuttings from similar rapes and murders throughout Britain; we don’t know for sure that the Slasher has always lived near Chelmsford,” Robin pointed to a stack of files on the table.

“Well this is where I bow out fellow team members. I need to write a story for tomorrow’s Daily Sun. Can I print that all the victims have red hair and green or blue eyes?” Ruffe asked Robin.

Robin and Glenda looked at each other quizzically.

“It would be common knowledge if anyone was to look at colour pictures of the victims so I don’t see why not?” Robin looked at Glenda for confirmation; she was going to have to tell the Chief Constable.

“We’re doing a community service I think and we should make the information public so that red-haired women fitting the demographic can take precautions; he said in his letter that he was going to keep killing,” Glenda agreed with Robin.

“Ok; I’m off to the Sun,” Ruffe reached for his coat.

“And I’m going home. I’m no copper so I have no idea what to look for in those files,” Charlie pulled on the new faux fur coat she had bought with Ruffe’s money.

“Can you walk Charlie home?” Glenda asked Ruffe.

“Sorry, wrong direction luv and I have a deadline,” Ruffe grinned.

“I can walk myself home,” Charlie complained.

“Bollocks to that! I’ll do it and when you get home lock the door and don’t answer it,” Robin surprised them all by volunteering.

“I’ll bring back an Indian and a couple of bottles of lager from the off licence. We can work the files until you tell me to piss off home,” Robin said to Glenda.

“Works for me,” Glenda’s stomach rumbled at the thought of a curry.

“I don’t need to be walked home,” Charlie said petulantly.

“Well you’re getting an escort whether you like one or not,” Robin reached for his thick woollen trench coat.

Ruffe had bolted while Robin and Charlie were preparing to leave.

“Get some poppadoms and naan bread,” Glenda called after them as they left.

“That woman likes to eat,” Robin said to Charlie as they made their way downstairs.

Charlie stopped at the bottom of staircase and turned to Robin.

“Don’t talk to me like I’m your friend. You told me I’d be better off dead,” Charlie self-consciously tightened the scarf around her neck.

“I’m a pratt,” Robin said and reached around Charlie to unlock the front door of the terrace house.

Charlie flinched involuntarily and Robin smiled wanly. Her perfume was exotic; this was the closest he’d been to her since the hospital.

“Sorry,” he whispered and stepped past her so he could check outside.

They walked in an uncomfortable silence on the cold cobbled streets. It was getting on for dusk and there were few pedestrians.

Charlie’s faux fur coat was all style and no substance and before long she started to shiver. Robin took off his trench coat and put it around Charlie's shoulders. At first she resisted but when the warmth of the garment enveloped her she conceded. Robin had her stop and adjusted the coat around Charlie, pulling it closed around her; it was too big to button.

Just then it began to drizzle and tiny raindrops sparkled in Charlie's hair under the lamplight like small jewels. Robin was standing close to her, pulling up the collar of the big coat to protect her face from the cold. Her green eyes shimmered and he could feel her sweet soft breath on his face.

Charlie looked up at Robin. His rumpled face matched his rumpled suit and his brown hair was mussed and damp. He had deep set sad brown eyes, a prominent nose and five o’clock shadow graced his olive skin. But he was handsome in a dishevelled way, like a puppy you wanted to snuggle.

“Robin Sparrow… really?” Charlie teased him.

“Shut up,” Robin smiled and his features came together.

He was no longer the lost puppy; he was very handsome.

“Take me home detective,” Charlie thrust her hands into the deep pockets of the coat.

They walked home side by side saying little but content that a fragile truce existed between them. When they arrived at the entrance to Charlie's bedsit it got a little awkward. Robin helped Charlie take off his trench coat, once again getting uncomfortably close.

“Don’t forget to lock your door and do not let in anyone unless you are absolutely sure who they are,” Robin reiterated.

Charlie nodded.

There was an uncomfortable silence broken by Charlie who stood on tiptoes and leaned in and quickly brushed her lips on his cheek.

“Thanks,” she said meekly.

Robin blushed and shuffled his feet.

Charlie ducked inside quickly, glad to be out of the cold. Robin was grateful to have his coat back and he put it on. It was still warm from her body and smelled of her perfume. He felt confused. How could he go from despising someone to respecting them in such a short period?

Robin looked across the road and saw the gaudy lights of the Taj Mahal Indian Restaurant and Takeaway. He crossed the street to order dinner for himself and Glenda. He would get the beer at the off licence next door to the restaurant.

Charlie pulled back the curtain of the grimy window three floors above street level and watched Robin Sparrow cross the street. She was used to people being uncomfortable around her but Robin Sparrow was an enigma. A few days ago he wore his acrimony and prejudice for her on his sleeve; he now seemed to have begrudging respect for her… and was there something else?

“Strange man,” she whispered to herself and began to undress.

The bedsit was little more than a slum but at least the central heating worked, even if it caused the radiators to groan and complain as the hot water gurgled through the rusty pipes.

Charlie changed her jeans, sweater and platform shoes for a black vinyl miniskirt, red satin blouse, black leather bolero jacket, fishnet stockings and red high heels having first seen to the practicalities of preparing for anal sex. Under her blouse she was wearing a black lace bustier to hide the scars on her belly. She spiked up her hair and doused it with hairspray to hold it in place and stood in front of the mirror and applied heavy makeup and bright-red lipstick. She put a red chiffon scarf around her neck to disguise the scar.

She pulled her cheap vinyl ‘working girl’ shoulder bag down from the wardrobe and rummaged around inside it. Consulate menthol cigarettes, lighter, K-Y jelly, prophylactics, compact and lipstick, hairbrush, chewing gum, cheap perfume, spare pair of knickers, and spare pair of tights; she was good to go.

She pulled on her overcoat and gloves and peeked out the window again but Robin Sparrow was long gone. She locked the door behind her and click-clacked down the stairs putting on her gloves. Charlie walked down to the railway underpass, her heels clattered on the damp cobblestones and Charlie hurried between the pools of lights radiating from the streetlamps. She was not really concerned that the Slasher would come for her again; he’d pretty much said she no longer flamed for him but it never hurt to take precautions. It was not only the Slasher who preyed on working girls like her; they were fair game for all sorts of dangerous and unsavoury men.

“Didn’t think I’d see you back here,” Deirdre Edwards sucked on her cigarette leaning back into one of the recesses to keep out of the worst of the cold.

The dull glow of cigarettes came from two of the other recesses and muffled grunting came from another; one of the girls was busy with a punter.

“A girl’s gotta make a living Deirdre,” Charlie quipped as she walked past Deirdre and took up her station in the recess she considered to be her own.

She reluctantly took off her overcoat and gloves and shoved them into her handbag, the women needed to show off their wares. She took out her fags and lit up, waiting for her first customer of the night.

Charlie didn’t have to wait long. A car turned into the underpass and the girls came out of their recesses like butterflies emerging from chrysalises putting on a display for the potential customer. Charlie dropped her cigarette to the ground and crushed it out with her heel and walked along the pavement strutting her stuff.

She recognised the car. The baby-shit brown Morris 1300 was driven by one of her regulars, or she should say irregulars; she only saw him sporadically about once a month. He was an older gent who used the name ‘Benny’ who had a soft belly, hairy body and a comb-over. He liked to take Charlie back to his bungalow in Moulsham and take his time with her, treating her like she was his girlfriend. He was just the sort of punter that she needed to ease herself back into the game.

The car pulled up alongside Charlie and the other girls disappeared back into their hidey-holes to keep warm while Charlie leaned in the driver’s window. Sure enough, Benny grinned at her with his tobacco stained teeth. He was wearing an old wool cardigan over a white shirt and nondescript grey trousers. She could feel the warmth from the car’s heater through the window.

“Hello Charlie, are you available to keep an old man company for a couple of hours; I’ll drive you home after,” he smiled.

Charlie looked down into Benny’s lap and saw the bulge then to his face with his friendly eager grin.

“I’ve been saving me pennies for weeks now and I’ve got five quid if you want it,” his smile widened.

“Ok Benny. It will be nice to get out of the cold and be in the company of a real gentleman for a change,” Charlie leaned in and gave him a quick peck on the lips.

She scrambled to get into the small car, all heels and knickers as she squeezed into the tight seat. Benny seemed delighted at the view and when Charlie was finally settled in the passenger seat and had pulled down the hem of her skirt to provide a modicum of decorum, he patted her knee and put the car in gear.

“Did I ever tell you about my time in the merchant navy?” Benny began, driving with one eye on the road and the other on Charlie’s legs.

Charlie had dumped her overcoat on the back seat and put her shoulder bag between her feet. She foraged in her bag for cigarettes and resigned herself to listen to Benny’s merchant navy story for the umpteenth time.

Benny didn’t wait for Charlie to answer but began his tale.

“I was a Purser on the Blue Star Line serving in cargo ships. It was a lonely life for a young man, with long sea voyages and short port visits to unload cargo with little time for shore leave.”

Charlie lit two cigarettes and handed one to Benny who took it unconsciously and continued his story.

“But then I was introduced to a special kind of life that went on in the ships that was kept secret from most people outside of the Andrew. The ships, depending on their size, carried between two to four stewards. One of those was the Captain’s valet and the others served the officers in their mess and assisted the cooks in the galley. Do you see?”

Charlie nodded and opened the window a crack to let some of the smoke escape.

“Stewards were called ‘day hands’; that is they didn’t keep watches like the seamen and the engineers, they had pretty much knocked off for the day after they had cleaned up after supper. Just like the airline stewards today, in those days most of the stewards were gay, but a special kind of gay.”

“I’d completed my training and been given my first ship, the Adelaide Star; I was on there about three months I suppose when one night after dinner I was invited into the Chief Purser’s cabin, which was as big if not better than the Captain’s. Pursers are the officers responsible for all administration, including the ship's cargo and manifests and the cooks and stewards answer to us too.”

“Too my amazement there was three gorgeous looking young women in the cabin, dressed to the nines, makeup, hair, heels, nylons, perfume, the whole lot. It didn’t take me long to realise they were three of the stewards dressed in drag. The Second Engineer was also present and we had right party.”

“After a few rums my inhibitions left me and I rolled around with Daisy, who was actually Danny, the Captain’s valet. Long story short I took her back to my cabin and she took my virginity so to speak.”

“I’ve been infatuated with your kind ever since. Every ship I served in I had my favourite girl as it were, but time moves on and I swallowed the anchor and I live in my little bungalow here in Moulsham and make do with my pension.”

“When I found you working the wall I was delighted. There are a few others of your type, they leave their cards in telephone boxes, but I don’t really like visiting them for a quickie. I like that you visit me at home,” Benny patted her knee again, this time his hand drifted up her thigh.

Charlie didn’t mind; he was only playing with what he’d paid for.

“You’re wearing fishnets,” Benny’s mouth turned down in disappointment.

“They look good but they feel like shit, too rough,” Benny continued.

“Don’t worry Benny; I’ve got a pair of sheers in my bag,” Charlie patted the bag between her legs.

“I bet they’re those awful tights aren’t they?” Benny squeezed her thigh.

“Don’t worry. I’ve bought you a present… well I’ve bought us both a present I suppose,” Benny grinned at her.

Charlie guessed that Benny was in his mid-sixties and although he appeared to live comfortably, he didn’t have a lot of money. He was a widower and lived by himself and had a fetish for transvestite girls after being seduced by them in the merchant navy. Benny was quite the gentleman and when he’d saved up enough money or had a windfall on the horses he would pay for Charlie’s company.

Charlie thought that he was reliving his days at sea. Drinking and canoodling with a pretty transvestite in the privacy of his lounge room. For a man of his age, he could drink with the best of them and it did not seem to affect his libido; he certainly got his money’s worth. Charlie could hear the clink of a bottle on the back seat and it seemed that tonight would be no different.

She liked Benny and she liked that it was safe, warm and comfortable in his house; a lot better than getting shagged up against the wall by some navvy reeking of beer and pork pies.

She opened her legs to let Benny have unfettered access to her and enjoyed the rest of short drive in silence. Benny turned into the driveway and parked next to his small house and let Charlie go in first, reaching around her to open the door. He had a bottle of wine in one hand and Charlie’s bottom in the other.

Benny’s little bungalow was warm and cosy and Charlie could smell the fish and chips he had for dinner. Charlie sat at the kitchen table while Benny took wine glasses out of a cupboard.

“That’s for you,” Benny nodded at a brown paper bag on the table.

Charlie peeked inside and then shook the contents out onto the wooden table top. It was a suspender belt and a packet of Pretty Polly fully fashioned stockings, flesh toned with dark welts and seams.

“I know the practicalities of girls wearing tights, or pantyhose as our American friends call them, and don’t get me wrong they look lovely under a short skirt, all sheer and shiny, but I am a man of my generation and I like my women to wear real stockings,” Benny poured wine into the two glasses.

“Most men prefer women to wear stockings Benny and I usually do but it’s been so fucking cold lately. It’s right polar under that underpass; cold enough to freeze the knickers off the vicar’s wife,” Charlie joked.

“Anyway they’re a gift for us both to enjoy. Why don’t you go put them on while I take our drinks into the living room where it’s warm,” Benny picked up the wine glasses and started towards the door.

Charlie knew her way around the little bungalow and she picked up the package and made her way to Benny’s bedroom. She went inside and dumped her shoulder bag and her overcoat on the unmade bed. The room smelled vaguely of cheap aftershave and old man farts. She wrinkled her nose and got down to business, taking off her bolero jacket, her skirt and then her blouse. She shucked out of her tights and knickers and stepped into the suspender belt, adjusting it carefully around her waist under the bustier and over the bandage on her belly.

She sat on the bed and smoothed the delicate stockings up her legs and clipped the welts to the garter snaps and then stood and straightened the seams and smoothed out any wrinkles. Next she pulled on her full-cut satin panties. She stepped into her black high heels, took the compact, lipstick and hairbrush out of her bag and freshened her makeup and brushed her hair, looking in the dressing table mirror with its flaking sliver backing and then she sprayed herself liberally with perfume. Charlie put the leather miniskirt back on; it looked good with the black lace bustier and red satin panties and the translucent red scarf.

Charlie came out of the bedroom to find Benny sitting in an overstuffed chair wearing a dressing gown. He’d been to the bathroom and his hair glistened from whatever product he used to keep his comb-over in place and she could smell Brut aftershave. The room was warmed by an open coal fire.

“Come here Charlie,” Benny opened his arms to her.

Charlie obligingly sat in his lap and Benny wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. He nuzzled her neck, inhaling her perfume, there was soft romantic music from a time gone by playing in the background. Benny lazily stoked Charlie thigh on the welt of her stocking and he turned her face to his so he could kiss her. She let him and he was quite good, very romantic, at first just tentative closed-mouth lip-caresses, slow and soft and comforting. His hand rested below her ear, his thumb caressing her cheek as their breaths mingled.

The kisses became heated and Charlie opened her mouth to accept Benny’s tongue. Benny slid his tongue into her mouth and his hand grazed the front of her panties, purposely causing her cock to engorge but teasingly moving back to her thigh. Charlie squirmed in his lap and gasped in his mouth and was rewarded when the lump under her buttocks beginning to swell and palpitate.

Charlie opened the stained woollen dressing gown and ran her fingers across Benny’s pale flabby chest, her red lacquered nails caught in the stiff curly grey hair. Benny’s hand moved from her face, lightly caressing her neck through the chiffon, and ventured inside her bustier where he caressed her meagre breasts, causing her nipples to harden like ripe berries.

Where others were disappointed with her small décolletage, Benny enjoyed teasing her nipples and caressing her paltry bosom; the girls on the Blue Star Line didn’t use breastforms either and Charlie’s flat chest reminded him of the pretty ship’s stewards who were so feminine without the Mae West breasts that were so desired at the time.

Charlie slid her hand down across Benny’s generous belly and found him erect inside his saggy grey Y-fronts. He might be a balding, flabby, sexagenarian who smoked and drank too much but his virility was beyond question. He had a full seven inches of iron-hard cock inside his old-geezer drawers.

She had generously lubricated herself with K-Y jelly when she changed in Benny’s bedroom and when he lifted Charlie off his lap and lowered her onto his rock-hard shaft, it slid in easy.

Charlie gasped and Benny helped take her weight, cupping her buttocks in his hands so she could get used to being impaled on his engorged penis. He held the leg-hole of her knickers aside so his cock had unfettered access to her sphincter; he greased the portion of his shaft that was not inside her with the excess splodge of KY that ringed her anus when he had entered her.

“Are you ok luv?” Benny asked as he always did.

“It’s lovely Benny,” she lowered herself into his lap so that he was fully inside her.

She lovingly mussed his hair and lowered her face to his and kissed him deeply. Taking her weight on her knees, she put her hands around Benny’s neck to steady herself and began to slowly rise up and down, riding his cock. She buried him deep in her anus and then rose so that just his glans was inside her tight sphincter and then slowly lowered herself until her buttocks rested in his lap.

She kissed him deeply and used her tongue the way she knew he liked it, fluttering it just inside his lips and then driving it deep into his mouth.

Benny encouraged her; his hands on her hips easing her up and then driving her down on him, his cock was perfectly positioned to press against her prostate and she was leaking into her panties. She would definitely be wearing the spare pair of knickers home.

Their gasps and wheezes became frantic as their climaxes approached.

Benny pushed Charlie down into his lap with all his might and lifted himself off the chair a few inches as he thrust his cock deep inside her as far as it would go, his body convulsed and he growled like a wounded lion as he spent himself inside her. Charlie felt his cock pulsing and quivering deep in her anus and she ejaculated into her panties. They kissed and clung to each other as they sated their lust, letting the intense pleasure course through their bodies until they were spent and Charlie hung onto Benny, depleted and drained.

Benny’s breathing was ragged. The first time he had bought her home and shagged her she thought he was having a heart attack but it was just Benny recovering from the intensity of his orgasm.

Charlie’s ankles were aching and she shifted in Benny’s lap to take the weight off them. Benny was still kissing her softly and stroking her hair. He took a small break and reached for the wine glasses passing Charlie’s to her and sipping his own cautiously so as not to spill any on her.

He put down the glass and softly stroked the chiffon scarf around her neck.

“I read about what happened to you in The Daily Sun,” Benny broke their contented silence.

Charlie felt a little awkward with Benny’s spongy phallus still inside her and her knickers soaked in semen but she didn’t complain. There was something comforting about being nestled in Benny’s lap, it was soothing after the all the drama of the last couple of weeks.

Charlie just nodded.

“You are a very brave girl; I was surprised to see you out working tonight so soon after what happened to you,” he stroked her arm.

Being called brave by a man who had crossed the icy Atlantic numerous times in convoys ravaged by German wolf pack submarines made her feel a little ignominious. She put up with Benny’s shitty little car, his repetitious retelling of stories about the girls on the Blue Star Line, his shabby dressing gown, his saggy old underpants and his white flabby body because despite of all that he was a beautiful man. He genuinely cared for her and was grateful for her attention. He had given his all for Queen and country and been rewarded with so little that any comfort that Charlie could give him she felt was well deserved.

Benny’s fingers lightly touched her belly through the lacy bustier.

“I didn’t hurt you did I Charlie? You know I’d never hurt you?” the concern in Benny’s voice was genuine.

Charlie stroked his stubbly cheek and smiled at him. She kissed him softly on the side of the face.

“Of course not Benny, I always feel safe with you,” She snuggled down deeper in his lap.

“You can stay the night if you want to; you know that luv,” Benny hugged her.

Charlie winced a little. She’d lied about the pain, her belly was throbbing with a deep blunt pain but it was quite manageable. But there was no way Charlie was spending the night in that rumpled musty mess of sheets and duvets, breathing stale old man farts all night; her devotion to Benny only went so far. She would stay as long as he wanted her to but Charlie always went home, even when the rare punter splurged on a nice hotel room. She’d made it a rule to always wake up in her own bed.

Unbeknown to them both, from the comfort of his Bentley parked down the street from the underpass Walter Middleton had watched Charlie lean into Benny’s baby-shit yellow Morris 1300 and then get into the passenger seat. He’d come back to the underpass out of curiosity. But Charlie no longer burned for him; he had extinguished her flame and she no longer held his interest.

He rubbed at his forehead as he drove away, his headaches were getting stronger.

Back at Glenda’s flat she and Robin had finished for the night. Remnants of the Taj Mahal’s finest chicken korma, saffron rice and garlic naan were scattered over Glenda’s small kitchen table and four empty beer bottles graced her draining board.

“A good day’s work,” Robin stood up and pushed back his chair.

“And a productive evening, whoops, excuse me,” she stifled a burp.

“My breath is going to stink of garlic and curry for days,” she put the back of her hand to her mouth to stifle another.

“Mine too,” Robin smiled.

“Just as well I’ve no one to care about it,” he grinned sadly.

“No special girl in your life then Sargent?” Glenda asked.

“It’s Robin and no,” he shook his head.

“Did Charlie get home alright then; I forgot to ask,” Glenda smirked.

“Yes. The tranny brass got home just fine,” Robin said gruffly.

“All well and good then,” Glenda reached out and rubbed a paper napkin on Robin’s cheek.

She held up the napkin, stained with Charlie’s lipstick, to Robin’s face.

He blushed.

“Charlie got home fine,” he smiled at Glenda, caught in the lie.

“She’s… I don’t know… she’s not who I thought she was,” he mused, pulling on his coat.

“Be careful with her Robin, she’s got a way of making you like her even though you know you shouldn’t,” Glenda said showing him to the door.

To be continued