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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
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Chapter Two -- Julie and Julian

Soho, London, October 1963

Donald Cooper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How wrong he was!

Julian Clifford

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

end page 1, start page 2

A GLIMPSE OF NYLON STOCKING CH. 02
PUBLIC BETA

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.

--------------- start

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.

end p 2, start p 3

A GLIMPSE OF NYLON STOCKING CH. 02
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MicheleNylons
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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...