A Glimpse of Nylon Stocking Ch. 01

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.