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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie Clifford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You harlot!” she whispered to herself.

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

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

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

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

Donald Cooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tomorrow she would start her diet.

Julie Clifford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It would be distasteful but easy and profitable work.

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

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

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

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

Donald Cooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie Clifford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie felt angry, despondent and a little silly.

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

She snatched up the receiver.

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

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

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

“How much?” the man asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He finished lacing his shoes and stood up.

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

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

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

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

Julie said nothing. Her tart card was explicit enough.

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

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

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

But this was now the game she was in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Julie was getting exasperated.

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

She needed it.

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

“Five quid!” Julie blurted out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be continued

A Glimpse Of Nylon Stocking - Chapter 3

Author:

Michele Nylons

Audience Rating:

EXPLICIT CONTENT

Publication:

Final Chapter

Genre:

Transformations

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

Chapter Three – Where’s Julian?

Law Offices of Cooper, Price and Waterman, London, December 1963

Donald Cooper

Donald continued to work hard at the law firm of Cooper, Price and Waterman and after the initial heat and intensity had petered out, Donald Cooper and Vivian Huxtable’s relationship became more of a dalliance than anything else. Friday or Saturday night out for dinner, maybe a show, back to Donald’s for a shag, with Vivian wearing her stockings and sexy lingerie of course, was about all they could be bothered with.

They had soon worked out that while they were compatible between the sheets, they really didn’t get on. Donald was of half a mind that Vivian was reporting back to Deirdre the intimate details of their tryst but he really didn’t care. Both Donald and Deirdre had been guilty of infidelity while they were married so it made no difference now.

Besides, Donald couldn’t keep his penis in his pants. If he saw a woman he fancied he went after her, especially now that he was unencumbered by a spouse. He’d committed the cardinal sin and had a dalliance with one of the young secretaries named Sally Jessup. By careful observation Sally had realised Donald had a fascination with legs encased in stockings and pantyhose. She flirted with him, making sure she showed plenty of leg.

The secretarial pool didn’t have the same stringent dress code as the ‘front of house’ staff who met with clients and other associates and appeared in court but Gillian Snodgrass imposed dress standards on the typing pool: no trousers permitted. Sally was fond of A-line or pencil skirts and angora sweaters or cardigans. She was fresh faced and a little plump and she wore her shoulder-length, honey-blonde hair off her face held in place by a headband. She favoured pastel makeup, fifteen denier semi-opaque tights and strappy, wedge-heeled courts. An eclectic and almost schoolgirl look.

Sally Jessup had become infatuated with Donald and while the other girls at the firm gossiped about his marriage failure, she felt sorry for him and noted his short absence when his marriage dissolved. When he returned to work he seemed to be no longer troubled and broody and had regained his confident, articulate presence in the office and his friendly flirty nature returned. She made goo-goo eyes at him and was openly salacious in his presence whenever they were alone.

Sally came into Donald’s office one evening on some pretext when they were both alone in the building working late. She was wearing a pleated, tartan A-line mini, a pink angora cardigan over her crisp white blouse and black strappy high heels.

“I’ve typed up the Jenkins deposition Mister Cooper,” Sally dropped a slim file on Donald Cooper’s desk.

“There was no rush for that Sally and Mister Cooper is what I called my father, please call me Donald,” Donald gave her a smile and Sally was acutely aware that Donald was appraising her.

She’d fixed her makeup, hiked up her skirt an extra inch or two and smothered herself with flowery perfume before she came to Donald’s office.

Sitting behind his desk dressed in his Saville Row suit, with his rugged good looks and lustrous black hair he was an imposing, manly figure and Sally felt her heart flutter.

“There was no need for you to work so late,” Donald put down his pen and smiled at Sally and she blushed.

“I just wanted to please you, Mister… I mean Donald. I like pleasing you. You are the nicest out of all the men who work here,” she gave him a coquettish grin.

There was no doubt in Sally’s mind that she would never call Donald by his first name in front of the other partners or that harridan Mrs Snodgrass but alone in his office it was intimate. She felt a warmth and affection for the man she knew was currently seeing a divorcee named Mrs Vivian Huxtable whom Sally hated, even though she had only ever seen her when she swung by the office to go out with Donald after work.

Donald was acutely aware that Sally had a crush on him and the girl was barely out of secretarial school and very naïve. Vivian was tending to his needs in the bedroom but this young coquette was intriguing and pretty.

“Why don’t you pour us both a sherry before we leave for the evening,” Donald pointed to the small arrangement of liquor bottles set up on a small bar in the corner of his office.

Sally made a show of bending over to open the glass-fronted cupboard under the bar to get to the sherry glasses knowing full well that during her deportment training she had been taught to kneel in order to be modest. By bending over, her little skirt rode up exposing acres of thigh clad in purple semi-opaque tights and her full waisted white satin kickers worn over the top.

Being a buxom lass, Sally was inclined to wear full-cut knickers over her tights and the expanse of shiny white panty was quite an impressive sight for Donald to behold. He felt himself thickening.

Donald knew that undertaking a dalliance with Sally Jessup would be a stupid thing to do. She was young, innocent, unsophisticated and his subordinate and obviously infatuated with him. But Donald’s lust was his driver and he couldn’t help himself.

“Let me help you,” Donald sidled up to Sally and inhaled the cloying scent of her perfume.

It was flowery and fruity and far from his taste but it suited this pretty chubbette of a girl.

There was no real seduction involved, Donald simply led her away from the bar to the leather sofa where he seated his clients to make them feel relaxed and he relaxed Sally into it. She giggled like a schoolgirl and kept trying to pull down her skirt which had ridden up when Donald lay her down on the polished leather.

He kissed her and she tasted like bubblegum and Tizer and she wriggled under him which he liked. His hands were everywhere and before long her angora cardigan was gone and her blouse was open and the white creamy mounds of her voluptuous breasts were exposed. Her areola were big and her nipples were like red raspberries that hardened to his touch.

Donald was not a ‘tit man’ but when Sally guided his head to her breasts he suckled on them like a new-born baby. He took her breasts into his mouth, alternating between them, as he sucked and nibbled the supple teats. Sally squirmed and moaned and intertwined her fingers into his thick mane and guided him from nipple to nipple. It was obvious that she was no virgin but she was no trollop either and he thought he could smell her sex.

When he finally put his hand between her legs he found her knickers almost saturated with her juices. He squeezed a finger between her fleshy labia, pushing the material of her knickers and tights into her maw and stirred it around and Sally giggled and flapped around underneath him, kissing him with open-mouthed, breathless kisses. Her lips were soft and her tongue was tactile and Donald was hard as a sword inside his trousers.

He guided Sally’s hand down to his trousers but she seemed flummoxed but she kept kissing him and scissoring her legs as Donald rubbed her fanny through her knickers and tights. He gave up and extracted his cock from his pants and put Sally’s hand on it and she held onto it like it was door handle, her inexperience showing through.

Donald was a little frustrated with Sally’s childlike and selfish behaviour but he had no inclination to educate her in the art of lovemaking, he just wanted to shag the pretty little plump secretary. He decided he would gratify himself as she didn’t seem to understand what he wanted her to do so he pressed his cock into her thick thighs. The semi-transparent tights she was wearing were not really the hosiery he preferred on his women but they felt nice and soft and sensual on his rampant penis when he rubbed it against her.

“Oh I like that Donald,” Sally giggled and he pressed his mouth to hers to shut her up.

Her knickers became damper as she released a freshet of vaginal juices in response the feel of Donald’s rampant member rubbing on her inner thighs.

Sally may have only had a few sexual encounters but she knew what she liked and she was able to roll over on top of Donald and straddle him.

“I’ll leave my tights on because I know you like them. I’ve seen you looking,” Sally said innocently but kookily.

“I cut the out the cotton gusset with scissors in the ladies before I came to your office,” Sally blushed, as much with lust as with embarrassment.

Before Donald could reply, Sally eased aside the silky gusset of her knickers and lowered herself onto his rampant phallus and impaled herself on his rigid took and began to rock back and forth.

Her vagina was tight but well-lubricated as another freshet of her essence flowed into her sex. She put Donald’s hands on her waist and he dug his fingers into the sides of her satin knickers and held on as she rode him. He moved them down to her voluptuous thighs so he could feel the silkiness of her tights.

Sally’s cunt was like a fleshy vacuum tube that clung to his manhood as Sally dug her heels into his sides and rode him. She alternated between planting sloppy kisses on his lips and throwing back her head and yelping like a playful puppy. Donald was glad that they were alone in the building because she was making a racket.

He could feel his orgasm approaching and Donald pulled Sally’s face to his and kissed her deeply as his cock juddered inside her tight, wet minge and deposited his semen. Sally moaned into his mouth and her whole body shook like jelly, her tits swaying from side to side and her legs clamping tight along Donald’s flanks as she ground her fleshy mound into his pubis to put pressure on her clitoris. The feel of Donald’s rather prodigious dong pulsing and quivering inside her as he ejaculated was quite delightful.

When they had finished it was a little awkward as Sally struggled to dismount him and to Donald’s disdain, the contents of her vagina flooded out of her and soaked the front of his trousers which he’d had no time to take off. Sally giggled as she pushed her fat baps back into her brassiere and buttoned her blouse. She eased the sodden gusset of her knickers back into place and pulled down her skirt.

“There. No one would ever know that we’d just shagged on your sofa,” Sally giggled, forgetting that her makeup was smeared across her face, she’d misbuttoned her cardigan and the tops of her tights were wet with vaginal juices and the room reeked of sex.

“Yes, well, best we keep this to ourselves Sally,” Donald said as he guided her to the door.

“That was lovely Donald. I hope we can do it again sometime,” Sally looked up at him with adoration.

Donald patted her buxom arse on the way out and said they would have to see what happens.

Sally took to wearing nylon stockings to work because she knew that Donald liked them and she would drop by his office for a quickie at lunch time and after work. Donald liked to bend her over his big desk and fuck her with his hand over her mouth because she was so loud. He liked the feel of her fat arse pressing into him while he shagged her with her knickers on. But Donald eventually tired of her and she made a terrible scene in the office when Donald told her it was over and Gillian Snodgrass had to intervene and eventually let Sally go with severance pay and an excellent reference.

“I told you to go out and explore the world. Find something exotic to tickle your fancy before you remarry. Not to start shagging the office girls!” Gillian Snodgrass scolded Donald with vexatious candour.

“For god sake Donald don’t turn out to be your father. Find your pleasures elsewhere!” Gillian closed the door quite vigorously behind her when she left his office.

Donald knew that Gillian was right. Shagging any of the girls at work was just stupid and he would probably end up on the wrong side of a law suit where he to continue. But shagging women within his social class was unsatisfying as he’d found out with Vivian Huxtable. The excitement soon diminished and they all reminded him of Deirdre. Not that there was a shortage of women in those circles who wouldn’t jump into bed with him given a bit of effort on his part, but that wasn’t what he was looking for.

It was at this time that Donald was approached by the senior partner, Sir Stanley Price, who asked a favour.

“A friend of mine from Harrow, you know him from the club, the Earl of Mansfield, Dickie Singleton. Well his son Miles is in a bit of a sticky wicket,” Stanley said over pink gins in a quiet corner of the Grosvenor Club.

“Seems the lad was sowing his wild oats so to speak, like we all did when we were younger, and anyway, the brunt of it is he was caught giving one to a prostitute down a back alley near Saint James’s Square,” Stanley guffawed and looked around to ensure they were not being overheard.

“Dickie might have got the charges dropped or at least reduced, him being an Earl and all but the bloody Labour Party backroom boys know about it and they're pushing for a prosecution,” Stanley studied the end of his cigar with concern.

“Well he won’t be the first of the peerage to be tried for getting his leg over a lady of the night. Can’t imagine that he’ll be getting more than a fine and most will think him Jack the Lad,” Donald chuckled.

“Well the sticky wicket old boy is that the lady of the night he was caught sowing his wild oats with was actually a man dressed as woman and they have charged him with gross indecency with a male,” Sir Stanley blushed at having to say the words.

“Oh, I see,” Donald replied, although he didn’t really.

Donald knew about transvestites of course. As a young man at university he had performed in pantomimes where men invariably impersonated women and he knew of one particular chap who liked dressing up as a woman a little more than he probably should and he knew that a couple of his peers had taken advantage of the situation.

“Take the case Donald and get it sorted. It’s before Judge Rheingold who as you know is a cantankerous old bugger who has no time for pederasts; especially the sons of the entitled gentry,” Sir Stanley puffed his cigar and frowned.

Donald met with the future Earl of Mansfield, Miles Singleton and found him to be exactly that: entitled. He claimed to be guilty of procuring a prostitute but had no idea that ‘she’ was a ‘he’.

Donald found the co-accused, a mousy little man named Jimmy Bottle who worked at a grocer’s during the day and dallied as a sex worker at night under the name Wendy Wantsit, which Donald found crude but couldn’t help but chuckle at the entendre. Jimmy’s trial was separate to Miles’ as the charges were slightly different and it was to be Jimmy’s third appearance before a magistrate for soliciting and homosexual indecency.

The British judicial system is nothing like the American system as betrayed on TV. There are no continual interruptions with lawyers yelling ‘objection!’ or theatrical contrivances; councillors do not ‘approach the witness’. Most objections and motions have been dealt with before the case comes before the court. His Honour Judge Walter Rheingold was not one to condone such theatrics in his court. Under the Crown judicial system it is also permissible for counsellors to ‘lead the witness’ in order to establish the facts of the case.

The Crown prosecutor called into court the policeman who had witnessed the alleged crime and he stated that he had found Miles Singleton in an alley near Saint James’s Square, which was a known haunt for street prostitutes. Jimmy Bottle was on his knees before young Miles fellating him. Jimmy Bottle was known to police and had previous convictions for soliciting and committing homosexual acts in public, which at the time was still a criminal offence.

Under cross examination the policeman admitted that Jimmy Bottle was in fact dressed as a woman and that was the only question that Donald asked of him. The public gallery was packed with the usual spectators who found such cases titillating and also with members of the Fleet Street press, mostly from the scandal sheets.

Donald addressed Miles Singleton in the dock and asked him about the evening in question and Miles admitted to drinking heavily in a nearby pub and then going to look for a prostitute to have sex with.

“And you had no idea that the lady that you had solicited for sexual services was in fact a man?” Donald asked his witness.

“I had no idea My Lord, I thought she was a woman,” Miles answered confidently.

“The act itself did not require the woman to remove her undergarments?” Donald asked and was scowled at by the judge but the question was allowed.

“No My Lord; she remained fully clothed,” Miles addressed his answer to the judge as he had been instructed.

The Crown Prosecutor went after Miles and basically called him a liar and inferred that there was no way that Miles could not have known that Wendy Wantsit was in fact a man.

Donald had only one other witness.

“I call Mister James Bottle My Lord,” Donald’s voice boomed across the court.

Jimmy Bottle was not sitting in the court because as a witness providing evidence before the Crown he was not allowed to observe proceedings until he had given his evidence.

Wendy Wantsit entered the court wearing a stylish skirt-suit, her skirt cut just above the knee so that her lovely legs were on display for all to see. She was wearing high heels, full makeup and a blonde beehive do and looked absolutely stunning. There was no one in the court who could with all honesty not admit that she looked anything other than an attractive woman.

The gallery erupted and some of the scandal sheet boys began taking pictures which was totally against court convention. The judge banged his gavel and called for order, the bailiff intercepted Wendy Wantsit before she could get to the witness stand but by then she had paraded herself before the court and it was obvious to all that she was a very convincing female impersonator and if she hadn't been called to the stand under the name ‘James Bottle’ no one would have known that she wasn’t woman.

“Close the court! Crown prosecutor and defence counsel to my chambers NOW!” Judge Walter Rheingold rapped his gavel repeatedly.

In the confines of his chambers His Honour Judge Walter Rheingold dismissed any part of the indictment that referred to homosexuality and under instructions from his client Donald agreed to a plea of guilty on the single charge of soliciting a woman for prostitution and the fine was paid that very day.

Wendy Wantsit became a minor celebrity in the scandal sheets for a brief period which didn’t help Jimmy Bottle at trial and he was sent down for twelve months because it was his third offence. It was rumoured that Jimmy made a tidy sum during his incarceration, bringing out Wendy Wantsit in the evenings after lights out to service the inmates whilst the prison officers turned a blind eye.

Miles Singleton's solicitation conviction created a mild scandal in the papers but to his chums and family he was the victim of an infamous female impersonator who had deceived him whilst he was under the influence of alcohol. The Earl of Mansfield was never mentioned in the press and the law firm of Cooper, Price and Waterman pocketed a tidy sum.

Julie Clifford

The man was handsome enough and was specific with his requests. He sat naked on a wooden chair in Julie’s workroom while she slowly lifted her skirt inches from his face.

“Stop!” the man ordered when her skirt got to mid-thigh.

“Kiss me!” the man hissed.

Julie leaned down, placed her mouth on his and began to kiss him, still holding up her skirt. The man had thick sensuous lips and Julie kissed him softly, intrigued by the little game they were playing. The man didn’t return the kiss but allowed Julie to press her lipsticked lips on his and slide the tip of her tongue along them seductively. The man’s cock was an iron bar dripping a continual flow of pre-ejaculate from the tip.

“Ok, continue,” the man turned his head away to break the kiss and then watched Julie continue to glide her skirt up her thighs which were swathed in black seamed stockings.

When the dark shadow welt came into view the man swallowed hard and then swallowed harder still when the darker welt appeared with the silver snaps of Julie’s garters clipped to them.

“Stop!” the man ordered and Julie did so.

Julie thought that there was something extremely erotic and sensual about the game they were playing.

The man reached out and gently stroked the dark welts on Julie’s stockings. He toyed with her garter snaps flicking them gently against her thighs. He ran his hands up and down her legs relishing the feel of the cool, silky nylon on his fingertips.

Julie sighed and shuddered. The man’s gentle manipulation of her legs was very arousing; the feel of his warm fingers on her flesh glazed in her satiny black stockings was like butterflies ticking her. She looked down and saw that the man had leaked more precum and it was running in little runnels down his shaft; the blue veins pulsing as the man’s heart pumped blood to where he needed it most at this time.

The man had insisted that Julie not tuck or tape and her cock uncoiled as it began to stiffen, pressing against the transparent black knickers that the man had brought for her to wear.

“Kiss me!” the man ordered again and Julie leaned in to acquiesce to his demand.

This time the man parted his lips a little and Julie was able to put the tip her tongue just inside his mouth but no further. It was a tease because she actually wanted to kiss the man properly. She wanted to rub her body against him, she wanted to take his engorged manhood in her hand and she wanted to put him in her mouth so that she could feel the power of his weapon as she suckled it, swallowing the sweet pre-seminal fluid as it trickled from the eye of his cock.

Julie seldom became invested in her punters. She was now a seasoned prostitute with a string of regulars and a clutch of drop-ins who had found her tart cards and called her for appointments. The sex was simply work and she hardly ever became aroused during the acts. Kiss, cuddle, cane, paddle, spank, wank and if the punter was right and had the money then suck – that was her stock in trade

Her skirt began to tent as Julie reached full tumescence. The man ignored this and continued to kiss her and play with her thighs. When his wrist brushed against her erect penis the man yanked his hand away as if he’d been burned. Julie was disappointed but not surprised; there were plenty of her customers that did not want to see her penis, however the man’s kisses became more passionate.

Finally the man stood, rising out of his chair. He picked up Julie, who was probably half his weight, and carried her to the bed where he lay her down and pulled down her skirt and had her lie chastely. Then the whole ritual started again with the soft, almost emotionless kisses as Julie slowly raised her skirt, until her thighs were fully exposed and the man was straddling her, kissing her with fervour and once again Julie was bulging her knickers and tenting her skirt.

The man lay down on top of her and hugged her; his bloated phallus pressing against her knickers. She could feel the trickle of precum soak into her panties as the man writhed around on top of her.

His mouth found hers and this time he opened wide and thrust his tongue into hers. The man was big and muscled and smelled of soap and cologne and he completely enveloped the little transvestite lying beneath him. He kissed her mouth and her cheeks and neck, almost tenderly at first and then he returned to her mouth and his kisses became passionate and he began to rut against her.

Julie could feel the man’s cock pressing on hers through her knickers and it felt so wonderful. The man had obviously got over his aversion to her cock. She reached up to put her hands around his neck and tried her best to lock her legs around his torso and rub her stocking-sheathed limbs on his bare tender skin.

The man sighed and pressed himself harder against Julie, kissing her frenetically as he ground himself against her body. Julie was delighted by the feel of the man’s cock rubbing on hers, her knickers wet with precum. She enjoyed the man’s sensuous kisses but she was a little breathless and felt imprisoned by the weight of his muscled body.

The man made no effort to take his weight off her. He’d told her what he wanted: the chair tease and that he wanted to lie on top of her and dry hump her while he kissed her, which she’d agreed to. Compared to some of the requests she received it was rather benign. Julie had miscalculated the size of the man but he wasn't really hurting her and it did feel nice and he was good looking and polite.

The man’s cock slipped inside her knickers and their penises where rubbing flesh to flesh. Julie didn’t mind, although she expected that the man would pull away given the reaction he’d had when his wrist brushed her cock earlier but the man seemed to be enjoying himself, certainly there was no reduction in the flow of pre-ejaculate that drooled from his cock.

Julie was quite enjoying the experience of having a man on top of her, kissing her and frotting her. Her cock was also leaking pre-seminal fluid and was tingling with delight. The man was squeezing her buttocks through her knickers while he ferociously rubbed his cock on hers.

The man jabbed at her and missed and his cock slipped between her legs and the man raised her bottom off the bed so his cock could slide between her buttocks. Julie began to panic. She made it quite clear to all her punters that she did not offer anal sex.

The man’s prodigious cock slid along the crease of her perineum, the soft white pillows of her buttocks cushioning his hard cock. He pressed her buttocks together and humped the soft, slippery, warm channel between her cheeks. Julie batted at his back with her fists and scissored her legs against him in frustration but the man humped away at her, his cock dangerously close to her sphincter.

Did it feel wonderful lying underneath this man while he held her tight and pressed his penis between her pillowy arse cheeks eliciting little tingles of delight every time his glans pressed on her sphincter? Of course it did; it felt wonderful!

Was Julie terrified that the man was going to pierce her anus either intentionally or unintentionally? You bet your best knickers she was but it just felt so wonderful to be smothered by this big handsome man who was kissing her, squeezing her buttocks as he humped them, with her knicker-clad cock rubbing on his hard belly while he did it.

The man began to whimper and Julie felt his cock shudder and suddenly her bottom was soaked with warm syrupy jism and Julie held him tight and scissored her nylon-clad legs against him, raking his flanks with her heels as she released against his hard, flat belly. The room suddenly reeked of spunk.

Julie clung to the man, returning his desperate kisses as he pinned her to the bed and fucked her buttocks. At least once the tip of his glans pierced her sphincter but only enough to open it a little and when he did Julie screamed but it was a scream of trepidation and delight rather than abject terror. She had to admit that it felt nice as she flooded her knickers with her seed and the man continued to spurt his issue between her legs.

When he was finished the man lay on top of Julie and stroked and coddled her, whispering endearments, telling her how beautiful she was. He left her sated and exhausted on the bed, soaking in his semen and her own juices. Julie was too tired to see him to the door but found later that he had left a decent tip.

Later that night in bed she recalled the handsome young man who had stroked her knicker-covered penis while his finger was buried in her bum and compared it to the feel of the big man’s cock thrusting between her buttocks and at least twice accidently slipping inside her sphincter just a little. She also recalled what Bella had told her: “You earn real money on your back.”

Food for thought but Julie was still adamant that's she wouldn’t be doing that any time soon.

However the next day her curiosity got the better of her and Julie overcame her fear and had Julian purchase a dildo from a Soho adult shop for Julie to use. She experimented with it over the next few days and discovered a few things. First she must douche before using it, second she must use plenty of lubricant, third, it needed to be inserted slowly, and finally, if she positioned it just right she could ejaculate hands free.

The dildo was a wonderful toy but Julie still had no intention of letting a man mount her. The very thought of it sent waves of trepidation through her. There was big difference between Julie slowly pushing a small lubricated dildo inside her clean anus and manipulating it to please herself, than some brutish man pounding away at her tight puckered bud!

Donald Cooper

When Donald Cooper had met with Jimmy Bottle and told him of his plan to present Wendy Wantsit in court Jimmy’s first response had been to ask what was in it for him.

“One hundred guineas paid in full by the Earl of Mansfield but through our law firm’s account,” Donald had replied.

“Of course you only get the money if the ruse works,” Donald sniffed.

“What does that mean?” Jimmy had asked in his high whiney effeminate voice.

“It means I’m going to have to see you dressed as Wendy and determine for myself if it is believable that you can actually pass as a woman,” Donald countered.

“You mean would I be clocked as a man? Not a chance. Especially at night. But I can’t exactly turn up at your law firm in drag can I?” Jimmy whined.

“No, of course not and the prosecutor or the judge might get wind of what I’m planning if someone was to be indiscreet. I’ll need to see you in the same situation that Miles Mansfield would have seen you,” Donald stated.

“Be at The Elephant and Castle in Lambeth tonight at eight o’clock guvnor and you’ll see Wendy how Miles saw her,” Jimmy chuckled.

Donald had shown up at The Elephant and Castle at the appointed time. The place was a down to earth public house where a large crowd was drinking and singing along with two flamboyant men playing back-to-back pianos. It smelled of beer, cigarette smoke with a cloying undercurrent of perfume. There appeared to quite a few tarted up women in attendance.

Donald bought a gin and Britvic bitter lemon and wondered through the crowded pub looking for Jimmy Bottle or more correctly he was looking for Wendy Wantsit. It was then that it struck Donald that most of the women weren't in fact women; they were female impersonators: transvestites.

Most of them were absolutely stunning and unclockable but some were not quite as distinguishable, looking more like a man in a frock wearing makeup. Donald surveyed the lounge bar and realised that he was mesmerised by some of the more attractive and effeminate types.

Although it was not illegal to 'crossdress in public', crossdressers could and probably would be arrested for disturbing the peace, importuning or worse. Most people thought transvestites were the same as drag queens and only dressed that way as a means of entertainment. Whether that was the case here or not it appeared that The Elephant and Castle was a safe place for them and other deviants.

There were men holding hands and some of them were openly kissing. Most of the transvestites were surrounded by flocks of admirers who appeared to be enchanted by them to the extent that some of the transvestites were sitting in men’s laps, some were kissing and some were outright fondling each other.

Donald hadn't thought about it for quite some time now but suddenly images of the nylon sheathed calf of Julian Clifford crept back into his mind, except the well-turned leg was not attached to Julian Clifford’s body, it belonged to some seductive coquette who was as yet faceless.

Donald recalled Gillian Snodgrass scolding him and telling him to ‘go out and explore the world and find something exotic to tickle your fancy before you remarry’. There was no doubt that some of the more attractive and feminine types were indeed exotic.

“See anything you fancy? You walked right past me and didn’t recognise me,” Jimmy Bottle or more correctly Wendy Wantsit tapped him on the shoulder and grinned at him when he turned to face her.

At first Donald had no idea who was talking to him but the woman was stunning; dressed in a leather micro-miniskirt, white diaphanous blouse with a black and silver bolero jacket, high heels, shoulder-length blonde hair and heavy makeup. She was attractive and sexy and Donald would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that his first instinct was to fuck her.

The voice was the giveaway; he recognised Jimmy Bottle’s high whiney effeminate voice.

“Ok; I think we can sell this in court but you can’t wear that,” Donald waved at Wendy’s streetwalker clothes.

“Oh, don’t worry darling; I have a nice suit that will impress the judge and the gallery,” Wendy smirked and before Donald could do anything about it she leaned in and kissed the side of his mouth leaving him in a cloud of perfume and lipstick on his lips.

“I’ll send you the court date,” Donald yelled at Wendy as she disappeared into the crowd and although he knew better he couldn’t take his eyes off her pert arse and long legs sheathed in sheer black fully-fashioned stockings.

“Well that’s that taken care of,” Donald said to himself.

As much as he found some of the transvestites fascinating and alluring Donald decided to be on his way. The Elephant and Castle was not the type of establishment that a preeminent barrister like himself should be frequenting. He decided to stop for a quick piss on the way out and made his way the men’s lavatory and was a little relieved to find that there were no transvestites in there. They were free to use the women’s conveniences at the Trunk and Brick.

Donald stood at the trough and let his water flow, reading the graffiti on the wall as he pissed. A cork board was mounted centre-trough and was covered with tart cards pinned to it with drawing pins. One of them caught his attention, it read: TV Julie. Discreet service for select gentlemen. Kisses and cuddles or spanking and discipline. Hand relief only!

A picture of TV Julie reclining on the sofa, one foot up on it the other leg extended, her arms draped along the back of the couch, one hand holding a riding crop, her head thrown back a little and her lips opened sensuously, accompanied the text. Her knickers were openly on display as were her stocking-tops. Even in black and white she looked beautiful and sexy.

Donald realised what a fool he’d been.

Julie was not ‘True Value Julie’; she was ‘Transvestite Julie’! Oh my god! Was Julian Clifford not just a manufacturer and distributor of tart cards? Was Julian also the ‘tart’ being advertised?

It made sense didn’t it? What would make a man wear stockings under his suit? Because he was a crossdresser and it was compulsive! Julian Clifford was also Julie Clifford; it all made sense!

Now what was Donald going to do with that nugget of information?

Donald took Friday off from the practice and waited patiently for Julian Clifford at Lambeth North tube station and got on the same Bakerloo Line train, alighting at Oxford Circus. Donald had been careful not to arouse Julian’s suspicions but had got close enough to see that Julian was wearing stockings or tights under his suit.

He took a perch in the Black Swan public house across from the bookshop and worked his way through two pints of bitter before Julian closed the shop for lunch. Julian took a circuitous route around Soho, similar to the route he had taken when Donald had followed him before.

Donald followed him watching Julian stop at every telephone phone box he passed and he also darted into a couple of newsagents and public houses and quickly ducked back out. Julian was working his way around Soho street by street, distributing tart cards from the valise he was carrying. Donald went into one of phone boxes and found TV Julie’s tart card.

It was identical to the previous card but the text had been altered slightly: the Hand relief only! stipulation was missing. Donald smiled at the implication and read the card closely. What had been added was a line of text that read: Sat through Thu 6pm to late.

Donald continued to follow Julian from a discreet distance and watched him drop into a lingerie shop and leave almost immediately, stuffing a package into his valise.

Donald entered the lingerie shop and spoke to the pretty shopgirl. Using his charm, good looks and a one pound note he discovered that Julian had picked up a package of twelve pairs of fully-fashioned nylon stockings; six black, six fleshtoned.

“He picks them every Friday so I have them pre-packaged for him. Sometimes he buys knickers and other lingerie. Tells me it’s for his wife but we get plenty of his type in here. No skin off our nose, is it? A sale is a sale and he’s a good customer,” the girl said, smacking her gum and studying the pound note that Donald had given her.

Donald smiled and left the shop. He went home and had an early supper and at 6pm precisely he dialled 723 4141 and nervously waited for an answer. There was none. Julie’s new cards specifically said: Sat through Thu 6pm to late so being Friday he wasn’t really expecting one.

Donald waited until around 9pm and then took a taxi to the Elephant and Castle. He’d dressed down and was wearing a cheap suit with scuffed brogues, without a tie. The Trunk and Brick was in full swing; Riccardo and Hernando were banging out ‘Roll Out The Barrel’ on their back-to-back pianos and the crowd was singing along, following the bouncing ball projected on the wall.

The drag show had not long finished and the ‘girls’ were lined up at the bar, eager to convert their tips into drinks. Donald sidled up beside them and observed them without gawking. Their makeup was very exaggerated compared to the makeup worn by other crossdressers in the pub: stacks of false eyelashes, glued down eyebrows with false ones created above them, harsh contours and heavy applications of bold colour.

The four drag queens sat at a table together chatting with their fans as they dropped by to congratulate them on the show. One by one the drag queens went out back to change. Two returned still dressed as women but with their makeup turned down and their hip and thigh pads gone and two came out dressed as their male selves.

Donald found this interesting but it was not what he was here for.

He found Julie Clifford sitting with a large-breasted, attractive older woman and another woman of similar age to her. Donald was surprised to find that he was mentally referring to the transvestites as women; at least those that were passable. He wasn’t sure it was Julie at first; the only picture he had of Julie was her tart card which he turned over and over in his hand as he studied her. Donald was able to get a stool near the bar right next to their little crowded table situated right at the back of the pub where the tree transvestites and three men sat talking above the raucous din of pub.

They had to raise their voices to talk over the sing-along and Donald was able to snatch snippets of conversation. He quickly ascertained that the women were called Julie, Bella and Sandra. The woman who he suspected was Julie was in fact her.

He was sure that a closer examination of Bella would reveal that those big tits were false; but they served their purpose and as she was a big girl they were proportionate to her frame. Sandra was pretty but a little skinny. There was no doubt that Julie was the most attractive and feminine of the three.

She was wearing a carefully brushed and styled blonde Marilyn Monroe wig and her makeup was heavy but perfect: black eyeliner and mascara to frame her beautiful green eyes, contrasted with pinkish hued eyeshadow. Her high cheekbones were rouged, her pretty nose powdered and those sensuous lips coated with plum-red lipstick.

She was wearing a simple blue skirt-suit, the jacket hanging over the back of her chair, a red satin blouse and black high-heeled pumps. Her short skirt had ridden up a little; enough to show off the welts of her fully-fashioned nylon stockings. Her costume jewellery glittered under the subdued pub lighting.

Donald was not the only man to notice Julie. The man sitting beside her was obviously infatuated with her, although Julie showed little interest in him. Several other men in the pub were gawking at her too.

What surprised Donald was that he saw nothing of Julian in Julie. That actually wasn’t true: it was as if Julian had been appropriated and subsumed by Julie. Try as he might, he could see nothing masculine in Julie. He studied her sitting down at the table engaging with her friends, standing up to go to the loo and sometimes to dance and he was intrigued by her delicate femininity and poise. Every gesture she made, every footstep she took, and every word she spoke; her very countenance was womanly.

Unless they knew otherwise nobody would ever know that Julian shared the same body. Conversely they might think that Julie and Julian were twin brother and sister.

Donald felt vindicated. He’d been fascinated and obsessed with Julian ever since that glimpse of nylon stocking on the eight-fifty-five commuter train servicing the Bakerloo Line. His detective work had paid dividends. Donald knew Julian’s secret.

The irony was that once Donald spied Julie Clifford he immediately lost all interest in Julian. Julie had totally replaced any thoughts of Julian. She was a totally different person and he was infatuated with her; smitten was probably a better word.

But what he was thinking was repugnant surely? It was anathema to him. It was totally against his nature.

Gillian Snodgrass’ advice: ‘go out and explore the world and find something exotic to tickle your fancy’ kept circling his thoughts and he shook his head and looked at his watch. It was close to closing time.

Donald had solved the mystery of the man on the train who wore nylon stockings to work under his suit. That was enough. There was no need to pursue Julian Clifford any longer.

But that night Donald didn’t dream about Julian Clifford; he dreamt about Julie!

All the next day he kept thinking of Julie; he just couldn’t put her out of his mind.

Later that evening, at exactly five thirty, having imbibed two gin and tonics to fortify him, Donald lifted the receiver in a telephone box near Lambeth tube station and dialled 723 4141, turning the tart card over and over in his hand. He had never felt so nervous.

Julie Clifford and Donald Cooper

Saturday morning Julian opened the bookshop a little later than usual. Julie had imbibed a little more alcohol than she usually did on Friday night and Julian's stomach was queasy. He had a frightful day and didn’t sell much but now that Julie was making good money from prostitution it wasn’t that important. What was important was that Julian’s beloved bookstore was safe from the debt collectors at Barclay’s Bank.

Julian locked up early and went home and Julie took over. She took a long luxurious bath and examined her slim body for any stray hairs which were immediately plucked. Julian was not hirsute and had very little facial or body hair. Julia’s body was svelte but not skinny; she was hippy and what little fat she had was stored on her pert buttocks. Her amber-blonde hair was growing out nicely and had recently been cut so that Julian could wear it centre-parted and look like some bookish intelligentsia and Julie could wear it styled in a feminine bob.

Julie never wore her own hair at the Trunk and Brick or with her punters. It was something personal to her and she loved to sit in front of the mirror and brush and style it and was a little dismayed when she had to put a wig cap over it and pull on one of her hairpieces but it gave her the anonymity she needed to perform her duties as a whore.

The only part of her body she was not satisfied with was her breasts. She had silicon prosthetics of course, breastforms they were called and they filled the cups of her brassiere nicely and gave shape to her upper body but she would really like some real tits. Nothing over exaggerated; that would be outrageous; maybe a B or C size proportionate to her body. But even if her wish came true and Julie did sprout breasts, what would Julian do with them? Bind them? That seemed a little unkind. She was already making him wear nylons and knickers under his man-clothes.

What if there was a way to do away with Julian? She’d often had this thought but it was impossible. Everything was in his name and how would she explain his disappearance and her sudden manifestation? She put away such thoughts.

She dried herself and poured herself a drink and began the ritual of applying her makeup. A glance at the clock revealed it to be five o'clock. The phone would begin ringing soon. Saturday evenings were always busy.

Julie finished her makeup and slipped into her lingerie, a white satin full-slip, matching full-cut knickers and brassiere, a black lace suspender belt and flesh-toned seamed stockings. As often happened, slipping into her dainties had produced an erection. She was too drunk and exhausted yesterday when she got home from the pub to allow herself self-pleasure and she was concupiscent. She glanced over guiltily at her little dildo and the tube KY Jelly beside it.

Julie had douched as part of her toilette and she smiled wickedly. A little stimulation before she went to work wouldn’t hurt. She took off her knickers and lay on the bed and lubed up the dildo and put the tip near the entrance to her anus. She improved her erection to full tumescence and slowly inserted the dildo. It still hurt when it pierced her sphincter but she took her time and soon the tip was pressing on her prostate whilst the girth of it illicited little sparklets of pleasure from her puckered bud.

She took her cock in her hand and worked the dildo slowly in and out of her anus, allowing herself fifteen minutes of sustained pleasure, backing off each time she approached extremis. She would wait until she had serviced all of her punters before she allowed herself to orgasm unless one of them bought her off during a session which sometimes happened if the man was handsome and the sex was good.

She wiped the dildo clean and set it aside and then she wiped the excess lubricant from her sphincter and put her knickers back on. Julie was still tingling with sexual excitement and that wasn’t a bad thing. It made dealing with the pasty, fat, working class, middle-aged married men who made up the bulk of clientele tolerable.

Julie had just put on her high heels when the phone rang. It was early; still only five thirty. Normally she would have ignored it but she was in a good mood brought on by post-masturbatory bliss and she click-clacked down the stairs to answer the red phone, dressed only in her lingerie.

“TV Julie,” she whispered into the receiver in the sultry tone she used for customers.

“What are you wearing?” Donald whispered; he was so nervous he could barely speak and realised that he sounded stupid as soon as the words left his lips.

“Piss off, tosser!” Julie hung up the phone and reached for her Consulates.

The phone rang again and Julie snatched it up ready to give a mouthful of expletives to the idiot on the other end of the line.

“Don’t hang up. I’m sorry; I know I sounded like a tosser,” Donald said, his tone genuinely conciliatory.

There was something in the man’s tone and his educated accent that appealed to Julie. It was hard to make an assumption based on a telephone conversation but the man sounded genuinely sorry, a little nervous, but also sanguine.

Julie lit the cigarette dangling from her red lipsticked lips.

“Mostly white. A satin full-slip, full-cut knickers and a brassiere that I've yet to stuff with my false tits,” Julie decided to have a little fun with him.

“Hosiery?” the man whispered hopefully.

“Tan, or more correctly, flesh-toned, fully fashioned nylon stockings. Black high-heeled courts,” Julie let out a stream of smoke.

“Not those horrible thigh-high boots in your picture?” the man sounded hopeful.

“Hey! Those boots cost me a pretty penny and a lot of my customers like them,” Julie said indignantly but she had to admit that she was enjoying the banter.

“Your legs are too beautiful to be covered by boots,” Donald whispered and immediately realised his mistake.

“How would you know? Have you been here before?” Julie sounded pensive.

“No. But the shape of your legs in those boots leads me to believe they will be even more magnificent just clad in stockings with your feet shod in high heels,” Donald thought he had recovered well.

“Well the clock’s ticking ducky and I’ve got money to make. What can I do for you?” Julie got down to business.

“I have a proposal,” Donald took deep breath.

“I bet you do. Look you’ve read my card. The only thing I’ve got to add is that it’s two quid for hand relief and a fiver for fellatio… that’s if I offer it to you,” Julie wanted to ensure this man knew that she was in charge.

She tapped ash into a cut glass ashtray beside the phone and listened to the man’s heavy breathing. He seemed to making some sort of decision.

“My proposal is as follows. You take on no other customers tonight other than me. I have you to myself for the whole evening and I’ll pay you seventy pounds Stirling,” Donald couldn’t believe that he had actually said it.

Julie was shocked. She’d had all sorts of proposals put her way; most of which were downright disgusting and mostly illegal but this was the first time anyone had asked for her company exclusively other than drunken proposals of ardour from admirers at The Trunk and Brick.

“It’s a tempting offer but I'm not going to say yes. Turn up to my gaff and I’ll take a look at you and if you're clean, healthy and decent looking I’ll consider it. I’m not going to do anything dodgy. The only thing on offer is what’s on the card,” Julie said, half-regretting that she had.

Julie used a lower class cockney type inflection when she was working. It was something that developed naturally. Inside herself she believed that work she was doing was beneath her and if she was to be a whore she might as well sound like one.

Her intuition was to tell this man to throw his hat in the air and take a flying fuck at it but there was something about his manner that tempted her. Besides if he really was some toff with a pocket full of pounds, wouldn’t it be nice to just have one customer to deal with? Someone who sounded like they had a bit of class.

Like most of those posh poseurs, he probably wanted his bottom spanked and to be told he was a naughty boy. If he asked to wear her knickers he was out the door short shrift that was for sure.

“Ok done. If you don’t like the look of me I’ll be on my way. Don’t worry I’m not going to ask you to do anything, what did you call it? Dodgy? I really just want to spend time in your company and of course a kiss and cuddle and whatever else is on offer,” Donald said, hardly believing that he was saying those words.

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

“I won’t be long; wear something nice,” Donald said and hung up the phone with trembling fingers.

Donald leaned on the telephone apparatus for support. His whole body was shaking and his legs felt like they might give way. How could he have done such a thing? Donald knew that Julie was really just Julian dressed as woman. But she wasn’t! He’d seen her, heard her voice; he’d seen her walk and talk. She was a beautiful woman. An alluring sexy woman and the fact that she was anatomically different didn’t repel him; it made him desire her more.

This was madness! He needed to stop this now. Go home! Go down the club and get drunk! Go to a nightclub and pick up a woman more his type! Maybe even pick up a brass who was a real woman! Dare he say it: maybe even call Vivian Huxtable!

All these things recurred to him over and over as Donald Cooper walked the fifteen minutes from Lambeth tube station to twelve, Black Prince Road.

“Wear something nice! Who the fuck did this toff think he was?” Julie fumed.

But secretly she was glad that he had said it. She’d half expected him to ask her to put on dominatrix leathers or a latex catsuit. These were the favourites of those in her flock who were into bondage and discipline. Others liked her dressed as the obligatory French maid, perhaps a secretary or school teacher (she used the same outfit for both). One punter had the audacity to ask if she a nun’s habit!

It would be nice to wear something less costume but still seductive. She settled on a dark suit. The skirt was tight and had a kick-pleat in the back otherwise it would be difficult to walk in. It wasn’t really a mini. It was a pencil skirt that came to just above her knees. That jacket was also tight and fitted over a brilliant white satin blouse. She’d had to lose the full slip she had been wearing earlier and settled on a black rayon half-slip to go under the skirt, otherwise the foundation garments and shoes she was already wearing went perfectly with the outfit.

She poured another drink, lit a cigarette and waited anxiously for her gentleman caller to arrive. She’d seen hundreds of punters since she had started ‘being on the game’ but she had never felt so anxious about a single one. She weeded out most of the loonies over the phone and those that got through her rudimentary screening process were easily dealt with, usually with a whip, a crop, or cane.

But this man seemed different; a rich toff who wanted her all to himself. If he was handsome he might be the man of her dreams she joked to herself and stopped laughing when the doorbell rang.

Donald took a deep breath and pressed the doorbell. He knew that if he hesitated he would never do it and walk away, likely forever. He would probably be thankful that he did but he also knew that he would regret it for the rest of his life. He would spend the evening with this TV Julie person who had somehow enraptured him, captivating his thoughts, ruining his life. He would let her do the things women of her kind were paid to do and he would satisfy both his lust and his curiosity and he would never see her again.

One thing was for sure! He would be going nowhere near what she kept in her knickers under any circumstances!

Donald heard the click-clack of her high heels in the hallway and took a deep breath and forced himself to smile.

Julie opened the door.

Smiling at her was a handsome man with rugged good looks, wearing an expensive suit and polished brogues. His hair was black, thick and lustrous and he reminded Julie of the actor Richard Burton. There was something worryingly familiar about him and Julie couldn’t put his finger on it. He was certainly not one of her regular punters but she was sure she had seen him before.

Julie began to close the door, her senses tingling; sensing danger.

Donald’s heart was filled with dismay.

“The Elephant and Castle!” he blurted out.

Julie stopped with the door half-closed and looked at him quizzically.

“The Trunk and Brick! You asked me how I knew that your legs were beautiful and if I’d been here before. I saw you at The Elephant and Castle. I was amazed at how beautiful you were and then I found your tart card in the bogs,” Donald held out Julie’s tart card, which had crumpled in his hand, as if offering a tribute to a goddess.

It was not really a lie but it wasn’t the full truth.

“Look it’s my first time doing anything like this and I’m a little unsure of myself. You know, being with a err, a… well you know. You’re not going to make this easy for me are you?” Donald sighed.

Julie opened the door and studied the man. She knew that she had seen him before and although his story about seeing her at the Trunk and Brick was believable and likely she was certain that she had seen him somewhere else.

The curtain in the house across the road moved and Julie knew that Mrs Granger, the local gossipmonger, was watching them, gathering more gossip and rumours to spread.

Julie made a split-second decision.

“Come inside,” she looped her hand through the crook of Donald’s arm and pulled him through the door.

Her touch was electrifying. Donald could feel her long delicate fingers through the sleeves of his jacket. Her long red fingernails seemed to dig into his flesh. He knew that he was embellishing and imagining it but the miasma of her sensuous musk was not an illusion and he breathed in deep as he stepped past her.

Julie felt the man’s bicep through the sleeve of his coat and was impressed. His aftershave was something spicy and alluring and she liked it.

Julie closed the door and put her back to it and studied the man closely under the hallway light which was the only light in the house burning brightly. Julie kept it that way so she could examine the punters as they entered. The man was even more handsome under the light with his leonine head, Roman nose and full lips and shock of coiffed black hair. He had an athletic physique despite his age and his suit was cut accordingly.

“Donald Cooper; enchanted to meet you,” a smile lit his face as he leaned in and kissed Julie on the cheek.

Julie had never been kissed on the cheek by any of her punters before. Nor had many of them introduced themselves; they demanded anonymity and they were simply ‘men’. They usually grabbed her by the arse and forced their mouths on hers or they were the opposite: shy and bashful and Julie had to take them by the hand and lead them upstairs.

Julie felt herself taken with this man immediately. She felt stupidly girl-like and overwhelmed by his good looks and his manners but it wasn’t just that. Donald seemed to have a genuine affection for her. How she knew that having just met the man was beyond her. She couldn’t assume anything of the sort and realised that she was being silly.

“Ok you can stay. Seventy quid you said?” Julie was being deliberately cold and aloof to hide her true feelings.

“Seventy it is Julie,” Donald reached for his wallet and Julie realised that she had failed to introduce herself.

But she had no need to, did she? He had her tart card with her name was on it. He was just another punter; albeit a rich one.

Julie eyed the crystal bowl that sat beside the telephone where she kept her keys and loose change and nodded. It was as if for some reason she didn’t want to touch Donald’s money. That doing so would somehow degrade her in his eyes. She knew that she was being stupid but she gave a sigh of relief when Donald laid the crisp fifty pound note along with two tens in the bowl.

“Now the preliminaries are concluded, might I suggest that we move elsewhere, it’s rather crowded here in the hallway,” Donald quipped.

He couldn’t help but drop his eyes to her ankles and calves. There were the culprits! The limbs he had seen peeking out from a pair of trousers. Swathed in nylon stockings, they had beguiled him. But the woman to whom the limbs belonged bore little resemblance to the man on the eight-fifty-five commuter train. This woman was the girl of his dreams.

Julie saw Donald’s gaze descend to her legs. This was not an uncommon scenario; men often lusted after her legs… and her bottom, but in this case she sensed that Donald was appraising her rather than just lusting over her. It was a strange experience and she wondered if she had made the right decision allowing him into her house.

She eyed the seventy pounds in the crystal bowl and decided that if nothing else; the money would come in handy. She took the handset off the red telephone and laid it on the table top so that they would not be disturbed and led Donald into the sitting room.

She’d done this absentmindedly. With one single exception she had always taken her punters upstairs to the workroom.

“May I pour us both a drink?” Donald pointed to her little bar and Julie nodded.

He poured two gin and tonics and brought one over to Julie where she stood in the middle of the room lit only by two dimmed standard lamps.

“You really are beautiful,” he offered Julie her drink and she took it.

Her fingertips lingered briefly on his hand and Donald smiled and sighed. She smiled demurely at him and took a sip.

“I bet you hear that all the time?” Donald said; knowing it was true.

There was no evidence of Julian’s existence in the house. The woman standing before him could have been Julian’s twin sister but there wasn’t a skerrick of manliness about her. She was petite, utterly feminine and ladylike and ridiculously beautiful and desirable. Donald wanted to kiss her like he had never wanted to kiss another a woman in his life but now he was in her presence he was scared. He thought that if he started he would never want to stop.

“As a matter of fact…” Julie was about to reply when Donald stepped into her and kissed her.

It wasn’t lewd or coarse. He held her gently by her elbows and placed his lips on hers and Julie felt herself melt. There was something affectionate and tender about the kiss. Donald’s full lips were gently pressed on hers. She could smell his aftershave and feel the warmth and tender-heartedness in the gesture. His lips were soft and gentle, barley brushing her own. She felt his breath on her cheek as he lingered just long enough not to be lascivious.

Julie felt her cheeks burning as she blushed. Why was she behaving like this? Men came to her house to kiss and fondle her, to grope and manhandle her. She whipped them and spanked them and pulled on their willies until they spurted their essence and left, having paid for the satisfaction they received doing these things to her. She willingly got down on her knees for some of them and suckled their phalluses until they ejaculated in her mouth.

So why was she feeling like an adolescent schoolgirl in the presence of this handsome stranger? He may be behaving like a gentleman for now but soon he would behave just like all the others. He would make her do the things that fed his carnal desires. ‘Make no mistake Julie – he’s just like the others’ she thought to herself.

Julie’s lips were plush and delicate; unlike any other woman he had ever kissed and there had been many. She exuded a magnetism that beguiled him, he could taste her lipstick, smell the cosmetics on her face and the scent of her perfume. Her hair brushed his cheek and he was swept away by the deliciousness of the simple act of kissing her. He wanted their first kiss to go on forever but he broke the kiss and stepped back.

He reached out to stroke her cheek and Julie stepped back alarmed. She wasn’t used to such affectionate gestures and she thought that Donald might be about to slap her. Some punters had done so before.

But Donald reached for her and pressed the back of his hand to cheek and gently stroked it.

“You are such a beautiful creature,” he sighed.

Julie demurred and put down her drink and turned her head slightly so that Donald could stroke her cheek. She stepped into him and pressed herself against him and he enveloped her into his arms.

This kiss was also tender and gentle at first but soon their passions ignited and Julie clung to him as he kissed her with raw passion and desire. She felt safe and secure in his embrace; his toned body pressed against her delicate frame. The root of his manhood thickening against her as the kiss became fervent; mouths opening, tongues intertwining, breathing haggard with desire. Julie was becoming uncomfortably tumescent, her penis swelling, trapped between her buttocks.

“You are a beautiful little minx,” Donald gasped when they finally broke the kiss.

“Do you want to go upstairs,” Julie sighed demurely, catching her breath.

Donald knew what that meant and yes he wanted desperately to take this woman upstairs.

He followed behind her his eyes glued to her buttocks swathed in that impossibly tight skirt. The kick-pleat opened and closed as she ascended, providing him with glimpses of her stocking-sheathed thighs. He had developed a wet patch in the front of his trousers and he’d had to adjust them to cater for the erection growing in his underpants.

Julie led Donald into the workroom and they began to take up where they had left off downstairs; kissing each other, at first tenderly and then as their passions built, more eagerly and lecherously.

Julie felt tiny in his embrace and Donald was scared that he might hurt her but he wanted to hold her close. Julie nestled into him, fitting into him like a jigsaw piece, perfectly aligned to his frame. He had to lean down to kiss her and her head was tilted upward to meet his. She felt like a damsel in a movie, being held by her paladin. Julie imagined that she was the damsel in distress in one of the many books she had read and Donald was her white knight.

She knew that it was a foolish thought. He was merely a man who had paid seventy pounds so that he could have sex with her but her imagination was rife and if the illusion made it more palatable then let it be so.

Donald had rid himself of all thoughts of Julian; there was only Julie ever since he walked through the door and seen her and he couldn’t believe how captivated he was by her. She fitted against his body perfectly, one arm around his neck, the other around his back, holding him close, one long leg hooked around his so that she was moulded to him, her lips pressed to his. He smelled, he tasted her, he heard her shallow breathing, but most of all he felt her and she felt wonderful.

He caressed her buttocks through her tight skirt, the fabric hissing against her satin knickers, the contours of which he could feel with his fingertips. He desperately wanted to touch those knickers. Somewhere deep inside his subconscious he knew that Julie would be different down there; there were things in her knickers that weren't exactly womanly but he wasn’t repulsed. In fact he was inquisitive and excited.

Julie felt him squeezing her buttocks and she liked it. That’s not right… she loved it. Most of her punters played with her arse of course and sometimes she liked it and sometimes she didn’t but she was delighted with Donald doing so. He had a way of squeezing and caressing her buttocks that was both forceful and affectionate. She slipped her tongue a little deeper into his mouth and showed her appreciation by wriggling against him.

She could feel the heft of his manhood pressing into her; his phallus hard long and proud, generating its own heat; its own life force. Julie wanted to touch it, to squeezed it, to stroke it, to put in her mouth and suckle it and dare she say it… she wanted to feel it pressing on her puckered bud. She’d be too scared to take it inside her; it was too big and would tear her apart but the very idea of having that mighty prong pressing dangerously on the entrance between her legs was what excited her the most.

Knowing full well that she would never let him enter her made her feel safe while she relished the fantasy of it.

Donald had moved his hand under her skirt and was exploring the welts of her stockings and the delicate fair skin above them. This was Donald’s territory and he caressed, tickled, stroked and manipulated Julie’s thighs in ways she had never thought imaginable. Her cock was rock hard and trapped uncomfortably between her legs. It ached for release.

Donald had enjoyed immensely caressing Julie’s lovely buttocks and of course he had relished stroking her stocking-sheathed thighs. He adored the feel of her silky hose on his fingertips. He’d traced the backseams of her stocking with his forefinger; he’d stroked the dark bands of the welts at the top of her stockings and had savoured the soft cool flesh above the welts after spending time tinkering with the silver clasps of her garters.

Now his fingers had found the lace trim on the legs of her knickers and were about to explore further. This is where Donald thought he might have a problem and Julie sensed his hesitation.

She had never ever wanted a man to put his hands on her knickers as much as she wanted Donald to do it right now. To stroke them. To caresses them. To slip his fingers inside them and find her penis hard and bloated and pressed to her perineum.

Julie melted in his arms when he did exactly that.

Donald slipped his fingers inside the laced gusset of her full-cut satin knickers and found a perfect V in the front of them but of course there was no mons or labia. Instead his fingers forged on and found her fleshy appendage hard and throbbing, trapped between her legs. He freed it and the organ sprang forward and filled her knickers. Donald wrapped it in the silky satin of her panties and stroked it.

Far from being repulsed, his cock began to throb. It excited him so hear Julie gasp into his mouth, and writhe and wriggle as he pleasured her. His own cock was demanding attention too.

A single tear ran down Julie’s cheek when Donald freed her penis and began to stroke it through her knickers. She was terrified that he would be repulsed by what he found in her panties. She knew that it was his first time with a transvestite and while some men were raptured by the idea of being with a ‘special girl’, some of them were horrified by the reality of it when they actually touched her genitalia.

But Donald hadn't done that. He was caressing her tender root, he was kissing her harder, he was holding her tighter and she could feel his cock throbbing against her. He was enraptured with her and she with him.

She sensed his urgency and she snaked a hand between their bodies and freed his cock from the confines of his trousers. Her small hand could just contain it. She felt the velvety softness of the thin dermis covering the hard erectile tissue; she traced the veins with a fingernail, sensing the blood coursing through them, filling Donald’s cock to make it into the hard, phallic weapon that it had become.

The pad of her fingertip circled his fraenulum while her other fingers lightly caressed his glans. Julie heard Donald gasp and felt him shiver with delight. Then Donald slipped his hand inside her knickers and caressed Julie’s penis in an almost identical manner and she began to shake with the delirium of pleasure he was wrenching from her sensitive organ.

She fell backwards onto the bed and Donald went with her, lying on top of her, covering her with kisses. He pulled her hand out of the way and hiked up her skirt and pressed his penis against hers. Both cocks began to release pre-ejaculate. The feeling of their most sensitive organs pressing and rubbing against each other ignited a flame inside them both.

Donald kicked off his shoes and managed to rip off his trousers and his shirt with Julie’s assistance. They achieved this somehow hardly breaking their kiss. They clung to each other, grinding against each other. Julie lay underneath his hard muscled body, feeling the raw power in him, feeling his manhood pressing against her pulsing penis while he kissed her, his hands alternated between squeezing her buttocks and stroking her thighs.

She was still fully dressed with just her skirt hiked up and her knickers pulled aside to expose her cock which was being massaged by Donald’s bigger, more powerful organ. They kissed and Julie wrapped her stocking-sheathed legs around Donald’s torso and crossed her ankles behind him and locked her hands behind his neck.

She rose up off the bed to meet his thrusts as they ground against each, rubbing cocks, kissing, caressing and experiencing a blissful sensory overload. Donald mistimed a thrust and his cock lunged between Julie’s legs, it pressed on her perineum, the underside of his penis caressed by the sleek satin of her knickers. It felt delightful for them both.

Julie was a little frightened when Donald’s big cock began to press on the soft smooth flesh between her legs, his glans dangerously close to her sphincter. The harder Donald thrust, the closer his cock came to the entrance of her anus.

“You can’t fuck me,” Julie was able to whisper quickly before she returned her mouth to his and kissed him deeply.

She had to admit that it felt glorious to be lying on her back with her arms and legs wrapped around this strong, handsome, powerful man whilst his turgid phallus grazed the sensitive space between her buttocks, his penis sometimes pressing on her sphincter. Rings of pleasure radiated from her groin, her mouth and her body.

Donald felt Julie’s stockings rubbing on his flanks and it delighted him, as did the feel of her heels grazing his back as they rocked together on the bed. Her fingernails were scratching him but they were lightly sensuous and produced a buzzing pleasant sensation that ran down his back and linked with the gratification he was feeling as his cock rubbed on Julie’s tender flesh.

His penis was at full girth, ready to explode. His glans kept hitting Julie’s tight sphincter and he wanted to enter her even though she had told him no.

He’d spied the tube of KY Jelly that Julie had left on the nightstand; the same lubricant that Julie had used on the little dildo she had inserted inside her back passage earlier in the evening. Donald’s cock was many times bigger than the dildo but Donald didn’t know that.

He reached for the lubricant with every intention of greasing up his manhood and piercing her and then he realised how selfish and cruel that would be. It would be an act of betrayal and she would likely refuse to see him again and he wanted to see more of this special woman… lots more.

Julie felt Donald’s thrusts becoming more urgent; his glans pressed on her sphincter and on one or two occasions it opened her just a little. She would be lying if she said it didn’t hurt when he did that, but even her little dildo hurt at first when she used it. She wondered what it would be like to be taken like a woman. What it would be like to feel Donald’s penis deflower her. She recalled the passages in The Story of O where O finally surrendered her anal virginity to her master. She shivered at the very thought of it.

Donald knew that he was being selfish by betraying Julie’s trust so he stopped trying to force his penis into her sphincter and instead relished the feeling of his cock rubbing between her buttocks. He could feel Julie’s cock against his hard belly, leaking an almost continual dribble of pre-ejaculate and he sensed that like he, she was close to extremis.

Donald sighed and reached out to put the KY Jelly back on the nightstand and just as he was about to release it Julie's hand clasped over his. He released the tube and Julie took it from him.

She looked up into his eyes, her own beautiful green eyes filled with uncertainty, devotion and also he thought, perhaps love.

“Be gentle,” Julie whispered and squeezed a good dollop of the slippery clear lubricant on her fingers and found Donald's erection and slavered it with the salve.

She adjusted herself a little, raising her buttocks higher off the bed until Donald’s glans was nestled in her puckered bud. She locked her hands behind his neck and scissored her legs on his torso and looked at him one last time with devotion and trust in her eyes and then she closed her eyes and kissed him hard and pushed upward and Donald’s cock slipped into her tight back passage.

It was as well that Julie was kissing Donald because it stifled her scream as his huge penis split apart her tight puckered bud. Donald felt Julie shudder with the pain of it and her smothered screams reverberated around his mouth, her heels thrummed on his back and her body convulsed.

“I’m so sorry darling,” Donald whispered.

He only had the tip of his penis inside her tight passage but he could tell that the pain was excruciating. He attempted to remove the offending appendage.

“No don’t! I want it Donald. I want it so much. I want you,” Julie sighed.

Donald’s penis felt like a red hot poker had been pushed inside her tight anus but the pain was tolerable after the initial sting and tearing sensation and it slowly became a dull throbbing ache.

But there was something else.

Her stretched sphincter was radiating little sparklets of intense pleasure. It was like when she used the dildo on herself but a hundred times more intense. The feel of Donald’s fleshy rod piercing her tight virgin anus was indescribably pleasurable despite the accompanying pain.

“Let me, please,” Julie whispered as she clung to Donald and leaned up and kissed him softly.

He gazed into her emerald green eyes and saw the pain and watched her wince and grimace, he felt her body recoil and shudder as Julie slowly skewered herself on Donald’s steely member. The feeling was indescribably wonderful as her tight, greased hole opened up to envelope and clench his turgid phallus. It was like his cock was being gripped tightly by a velvet glove.

The feel of Julie’s tiny body under him, her silken limbs grazing his tender flesh, her slippery satin knickers tickling his scrotum, her soft lips kissing him, the smell of her, the feel of her was overloading his senses. His heart soared with something he had never felt before. The sacrifice she was making in order to deliver to him the most intense pleasure he had ever experienced was unimaginable.

Julie had never felt so affectionate and cherished as she did lying under Donald Cooper. She sensed his distress for the pain that he was causing her but she needed to make him understand how wonderfully content she felt as she slowly speared herself on his long thick penis. Every inch that entered her caused her immeasurable pain but at the same time infinite and unbounded pleasure.

Julie sighed with contentment when she finally had all of Donald inside her. Her sphincter had finally relaxed and the intense burning sensation was replaced by ringlets of decadence and contentment; her anus felt stretched to full capacity but it radiated a deep throbbing resonance that was almost indefinable. The glans of Donald’s penis was pressing on her prostate which emitted pulses of rapture that coursed through her body, lighting up her pleasure centres.

Julie’s cock was pressed against Donald’s tight belly and every little movement he made amplified the satisfaction she was feeling. Runnels of pre-ejaculate oozed from the eye of it and Donald felt it pulsing on his flesh and it delighted him.

He leaned down and opened his mouth and kissed Julie with a deep languid kiss, his tongue slipping inside her mouth, exploring it as she clung to him, her nails raking his shoulders, her stocking-clad legs clutching at him, her heels digging into the small of his back, girding him on, encouraging him to fuck her.

Donald began to slowly thrust himself in and out of Julie’s tight passage and she whimpered under him, shuddering with the ecstasy of it, encouraging him, rising up to meet his thrusts as he grasped her knickered buttocks in his hands and drove his steely cock in and out of Julie’s tight, greasy anus.

They climaxed as one. Julie felt Donald’s cock swell inside her and then then erupt, depositing his issue deep inside her as she simultaneously ejaculated against his belly. Waves of pleasure enveloped them both as they clung to each other like shipwreck survivors on a tumultuous sea. They kissed and moaned and held each other tight as Donald drove his cock deep into Julie’s bowel and gave her his seed. He felt her scalding semen on his belly as she orgasmed right along with him, her heels drumming on his back; he stifled her screams of pleasure with his mouth.

They lay sated and still, neither of them fully comprehending the magic they had illicited from each other. Donald had never felt such a rush of indescribable satisfaction. His cock was still deep inside Julie’s anus and was still fully erect and he could feel Julie’s penis pulsing gently against his belly as the last dribbles of her spunk leaked from it. Far from feeling repulsed, he felt satiated and delighted.

Julie was incapable of speech. She felt like she had climbed the highest peak of a jagged and dangerous mountain range and overcome pain and suffering to experience the most exhilarating pleasure. She could feel Donald’s cock still buried deep inside her anus but she was no longer experiencing pain, only a deep pleasurable pulsing. She tightened her sphincter around his shaft and Donald smiled down at her.

“Was that deliberate?” he asked.

Julie nodded.

“I didn’t know I could do that,” she smiled up him salaciously.

“Do it again,” Donald whispered.

She grinned at him and did it again and pulled his face to hers so she could kiss him while she used her legs and heels to encourage him to fuck her a second time.

Later they lay in bed smoking, Julie stripped down to her lingerie and stockings and Donald naked, unable to stop touching each other tenderly and softly kissing as they talked deep into the night. Donald told Julie everything about him. Julie listened, taking sips of her gin and tonic as Donald told his tale. When he had finished she said nothing.

“Where’s Julian?” Donald asked.

Julie froze.

At that moment she both loved and hated Donald. She hated him because he had brought up Julian and he was the furthest thing from her mind. She loved him because he spoke about Julian as if he was another person; which to Julie he was.

Julie explained her complicated life to Donald, talking about Julian in the third person as if he was another entity and the only thing they had in common was the bookshop and a shared body. Julie told Donald that if there was any way possible that she could live her life as Julie and sacrifice Julian’s existence she would.

Donald ruminated on Julie’s story and got out of bed to freshen their drinks and bring more cigarettes. He climbed back into bed and Julie snuggled up to him and playfully jiggled his limp penis and Donald unashamedly jiggled hers as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I think I wore him out,” Julie giggled and kissed Donald on the cheek.

“I think so. You too,” he let go of her flaccid ember and kissed her on the lips and then lay back and stared at the ceiling contemplating what he was about to say to her.

“So I told you that I’m a lawyer. Without bragging I’m a pretty good one and pretty high up on the judicial ladder. I know a bunch of judges, magistrates and government officials who owe me many favours. I also have contacts in a few of the more notorious underworld firms who can do things for me that can’t be done legitimately,” Donald began.

“So?” Julie was puzzled.

“What if I told you that I could make Julian disappear and make you a legitimate person; a real woman legally if not anatomically, although there are some improvements I can organise for you if you would like them,” he continued.

Julie snuggled up to him.

“Go on,” she whispered in his ear.

Donald and Julie - London, December 1964

Donald packed his briefcase and on the way out of his office he stopped to kiss Gillian Snodgrass on the cheek and wish her a merry Christmas.

“Merry Christmas to you too and give my love to Julie,” Gillian smiled at him affectionately.

“I most certainly will,” Donald returned Gillian’s smile.

Gillian was one of a very small group of people who knew about Julie’s past.

Donald left the law office of Donald Cooper, Esq - Attorney At Law. He had not regretted leaving Cooper, Stanley, Price and Waterman and striking out on his own, taking Gillian Snodgrass with him as his personal law clerk. His practice was thriving and things could not be better.

His divorce with Deirdre was settled amicably and she had left England to live in France with some French aristocrat who treated her like a queen and he was happy for her.

He whistled as he walked down Piccadilly Circus and stopped outside a familiar establishment and looked up at the gilt sign above the door. Clifford’s Books and Sundries it read. Julie Clifford Proprietor it said in smaller writing below the main sign.

Donald looked through the window and saw the love of his life tending to the last customer of the day. The customer left the shop carrying a gift wrapped book and Donald nodded to him and slipped through the door, switching the sign from OPEN to CLOSED.

Gone were the wigs and costume jewellery. She was wearing a stylish and expensive skirt-suit, her hair perfectly coiffed, the diamonds glittering on her neck and dangling from her ears were real. The identity documents in her purse were real; well real to the extent that her existence could be verified in the government offices of her Britannic Majesty.

Julie broke into a smile and ran to meet him, folding herself into his arms like she was always meant to be there. Donald, as always, relished the touch of his common-law wife. Julie had not long returned from America where she had undertaken mammoplasty surgery and was proud of her new breasts which she pressed against Donald as she smiled up him.

“Thought I’d let you cop a feel of the Christmas present you gave me,” she winked at him salaciously.

“Don’t talk so crudely Miss or I might have to spank you,” Donald chuckled.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” Julie bolted from his arms and ran into the stacks of bookshelves.

Donald caught a glimpse of nylon-stocking-sheathed calf as she ducked around the corner and was immediately aroused.

He locked the door and chased after her.

The End

Author’s Note: Thank you all so much for enjoying my story and leaving your comments. An intellectual once wrote: "Writing should almost always be a communication between writer and reader, and therefore feedback is the best way to sample how that communication is developing." Kisses and hugs to you all and I wish you all the best for new year.

A Glimpse of Nylon Stocking - Chapter 2

Author:

Michele Nylons

Audience Rating:

EXPLICIT CONTENT

Publication:

Serial Chapter

Genre:

Crossdressing

Character Age:

Mature / Thirty+

TG Themes:

TG Elements:

Permission:

Posted by author(s)

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