Chapter 2: 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.