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on p 2 / or about 1/2 way through, secretary screws Donald
end p2 Julie does a hj & feels powerful
p3 another

A GLIMPSE OF NYLON STOCKING CH. 02
STORY INFO
TV Julie works as a prostitute to supplement her income.
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MicheleNylons
MicheleNylons
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Chapter Two -- Julie and Julian

Soho, London, October 1963

Donald Cooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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