Chapter 1

In 1959 Brian Macklin was in his mid forties and was making just enough money to get along; his dreams of affluence were ruined when his marriage failed. He used to be a sales executive for an affluent London based firm but all of that came to an end when his wife left him; his father-in-law owned the firm where he worked; say no more. To make matters worse his father-in-law was a vengeful bastard and poisoned the well; none of the high profile London firms would touch him with a bargepole. I suppose fucking his sister-in-law in the billiard room at the family's country house wasn't the smartest thing Brian had ever done.

He had fond memories of lifting his plump but pretty sister-in-law up onto the billiard table, hiking up her skirt, pulling aside her knickers and ploughing her like a spring field while her silk stocking encased legs rubbed against him. It would have been the perfect end to a boring family weekend get-together; if his pratt of a mother-in-law hadn't come into the billiard room unexpectedly and started screaming her tits off.

It's not like his sister-in-law was any sort of chastity figure; word around The Club was that she had had more pricks in her than a second hand dart board; but that didn't help Brian at all when it came to his wife's family's family retribution. His sister-in-law had claimed that Brian had forced himself on her, even though she had been trying to seduce Brian for six months: asking him if her seams were straight; if she had any snags or ladders; or if he would clip a loose garter strap onto a stocking welt. She'd figured out Brian's weakness for stockings as soon as she had met him and used his fetish to seduce him; she always got what she wanted. Another story going around The Club was that when she was a young girl; she'd show you her knickers for a bite of your toffee apple.

So, Brian's weakness for stockings had finally bought him undone. He'd been forced to move to the midlands where the best he could do was to land a job as a door to door hosiery salesman. He rented a small bed-sit in Birmingham and made the rounds of local firms offering his sales executive credentials, but nobody wanted him; a salesman job was the best he could do. At first the wages were crap, the hours long and the rewards few. The only reward was that he got to sell his favourite fetish item: stockings. He went door to door lugging his sample case. He sold some socks and those horrible winter tights too; but this was an era before pantyhose, which would not be invented until 1965 when miniskirts became the fashion, and most women wore nylon stockings. He sold nylon stockings, silk stockings, seamed stockings, fully-fashioned stockings, seamless stockings, black stockings, white stockings, flesh-toned stockings, translucent stockings and fishnet stockings. If there was a style of stocking on the market he sold it.

Brian loved stockings; his earliest memory of his fetish was the touch and feel of his mother's stocking encased legs when he was a young boy. There was nothing sexual about it at first; it might just have been an innocent brush against his mother's leg as she hugged him or the feel of her legs when he sat or lay in her lap being cuddled and kissed. He also had memories of watching his mother getting dressed in her lingerie and hosiery when she was getting ready for work or dressing to go out for the evening. The sheen of her stockings fascinated him.

Brian became sexually aroused by nylons when he entered puberty and he had stolen some of his mother's hosiery as an aid to masturbation. This practice ceased abruptly when his mother asked him about some suspicious stains that had mysteriously appeared on a pair of stockings that she had hung up in bathroom to dry overnight. She didn't actually accuse him of masturbating in them but the implication was clear; and after that day he noticed that she never left her hosiery or lingerie in the bathroom at all; not even in the dirty laundry basket. It was an unspoken secret between them that his mother knew of his fetish.

Brian turned to snowdropping, the practice of stealing clothing off the neighbours washing lines. At first he stole only nylon stockings but progressed to stealing knickers and occasionally brassieres if they took his fancy. A few of the neighbours complained to his mother, which bought another lecture from her; again there was no direct accusation, but there was a tacit agreement that he would cease snowdropping. Brian noticed that after this discussion his mother began to openly leave her discarded hosiery in the kitchen tidy, whereas previously he had no idea how she discarded her laddered nylons; he had searched the rubbish for them on numerous occasions but he never found them. The first time he discovered a pair of his mother's discarded stockings, he saw a silken reinforced foot dangling from the kitchen tidy like to attract a lure to a predator. Was this a mother's tacit ruse to prevent her son's fetish getting him into more trouble?

In 1959 Mike was in his late forties; a widower who had never remarried after his wife died almost ten years earlier leaving him childless. He made a modest living as an accountant working from his two bedroom semidetached house in Moseley, just outside of Birmingham. As he ran his business from home he could vary the hours he worked to suit himself. Once a week he collected the accounts from several small businesses in the area and then returned them to the firms when he had completed working on them.

This was a very satisfactory arrangement for Mike who lived alone, had few friends and had deliberately declined to engage socially with his neighbours. They thought he was stuck-up and were happy to avoid the snotty recluse who lived at the bottom of the cul-de-sac at 162 Sovereign Way. Mike's only sister lived all the way down in Plymouth and she seldom visited him. Mike kept to himself and valued his privacy.

Mike did have one interest outside of the house though; he volunteered as a clothing sorter at the local Oxfam twice a week. People donated their used clothing to Oxfam and sometimes businesses would donate excess or out of date clothing stock or factory seconds and it was Mike's job was to sort through it and separate the clothing into various categories. Firstly men's and ladies clothing were separated and then the clothing was further sorted by type, such as: shoes, trousers, shirts, hats, underwear and so forth. But Mike didn't like to sort men's clothing; he made it a point to work on the tables where the ladies' clothing was sorted.

Mike was a secret transvestite and he acquired all of his women's clothing, shoes, cosmetics and wigs from Oxfam. Everyone that worked there knocked off some of the good stuff from the sorting tables; it was an unacknowledged perk of the job, the supervisors even knew about it. There was really nothing they could do about it anyway, because it was hard to get volunteers to work there during the week, so they turned a blind eye. Mike liked to work there on Mondays and Fridays when very few volunteers turned up and he could often work alone picking over the piles of clothing and other donations that the donors dropped off. He once managed to get a complete cosmetics kit that had hardly been touched; he was also quite surprised how many women threw out their old wigs.

Mike soon had quite an extensive wardrobe at home full of women's clothing as well as a large collection of shoes, lingerie, wigs and cosmetics; all provided courtesy of Oxfam. He would gladly have paid for all of it, but in 1959 middle-aged men didn't go shopping for women's clothing; it was almost unheard of. The most difficult item of feminine apparel for Mike to source was good quality stockings. The rule at Oxfam was that donated second-hand underwear was to be disposed of for sanitary reasons, or it was to be thrown in the rag bag; but Mike had stolen some lovely second-hand lingerie from the sorting tables.

The problem was that women never threw out their stockings until they were laddered or holed beyond wearing. On the very rare occasions that hosiery made it onto the sorting tables at Oxfam they were usually inferior high denier 'old lady' stockings or those horrible ribbed tights that women wore during winter. No! Mike's biggest challenge was getting his hands on good quality hosiery.

Mike had had a fetish for wearing women's clothes for as long as he could remember. As a teenager he had tried on various items of his sister's and mother's clothing on the rare occasions that he was left at home on his own. He loved the feel of their lingerie against his body and the smell and taste of their cosmetics. After nearly getting caught dressed in his sister's suspender belt, stockings, knickers, full-slip and heels; his face garishly painted with makeup, he decided he would stop giving into his obsession. He ran and locked himself in the bathroom; scrubbing the makeup from his face and changing out of his sister's clothes and into his own, whilst she knocked incessantly on the door complaining that she had to use the toilet. He realised how close he had come to having his secret discovered just because his sister had returned home early from her friend's house in Acock's Green.

He had to hide the clothing that he had stolen from his sister and then hurriedly sneak it back into her room whilst she was downstairs having dinner that night. Later that night Mike's sister complained to their mother that her best sheers had a ladder in them and accused her mother of borrowing them without asking permission; which their mother of course denied. Mike's sister looked at him quizzically for a few days after this incident but she never said anything to him; however the whole episode scared Mike from ever crossdressing again; besides only homos and noncers would want to wear women's clothing, he rationalised.

Mike was still attracted to women who dressed attractively though; and paid particular attention to girls who wore nylons, high heels and makeup as part of their daily dress convention. He had had a particularly satisfying sex life with his late wife who had shared his penchant for lingerie, quality hosiery and high heels. She would let him play with her legs for hours whilst they cuddled on the lounge as a precursor to sex and she was quite prepared to leave on her makeup and lingerie during sex provided that Mike was willing to keep replacing her stockings when they laddered. Mike had fond memories of wearing lingerie when he was younger; but he never got up the nerve to ask his wife if she would mind if he wore some of her intimate apparel. He thought that she would either laugh at him or leave him, or probably both.

After his wife died things changed for Mike. He moved to the small detached house in Sovereign Way and became more and more reclusive. Reliant on masturbation for sexual gratification it didn't take him long to start fantasising about wearing women's clothing; especially now that he had an opportunity to do so with little chance of being caught. He completely shaved off his body hair and started wearing some of the clothing that his widow had left behind, but most of it was too small. His wife had been petite and Mike was an average built male of about five nine and one sixty-five pounds. The only things that his wife had left him that he could really use was her jewellery (in the nineteen fifties clip-on earrings were still quite popular) her perfumes and her cosmetics. He dieted until he was as thin as he could get at one fifty-five pounds but he soon realised that he would need to get his own collection of women's clothing if he wanted to crossdress properly.

He solved this problem by getting the volunteer job at Oxfam. After a year of crossdressing he was quite adept at adopting a female persona; he mastered the intricacies of makeup and had even developed a husky feminine voice and a sexy walk. When he was dressed he called himself Michele and spent many a long afternoon and evening dressed as Michele, slowly arousing himself until he couldn't take any more simulation and the need to relieve himself became overwhelming. The one thing that eluded him was how to acquire good quality stockings. He'd bought some from a local lingerie shop; but he had nearly died of embarrassment when one of his neighbours walked in and asked him who he was buying them for. He spluttered something unconvincing; like they were a present for his sister, or some such rubbish. In 1959 men rarely bought lingerie for their wives; so why would he be buying stockings for his sister?

Mike tried using mail-order after getting his hands on a hosiery catalogue, but the Royal Mail derailed his plans; packages from retailers required a return address and the contents of the package had to be listed on the collection slip. Mike spent the most uncomfortable fifteen minutes of his life with an over-inquisitive female mailroom clerk discussing why he was ordering nylon stockings through the mail.

Mike's crossdressing fantasies were also becoming increasingly vivid. He imagined himself as Michele, held in the arms of a faceless but undoubtedly handsome stranger who romanced, kissed and caressed her. He didn't allow the fantasy to progress any further than that but he was developing an uncontrollable urge to be in the company of a man whilst he was dressed as Michele. He doubted that he would ever be able to do so because there was no safe and discrete way of doing so.

He was aware that there were some clubs in London where transvestites solicited male partners but there was no way he could do that. The logistics of it alone made it impossible; he would have to find a hotel in Soho where could transform into Michele and then he would have to brave walking the streets dressed as a woman just to get to the club. My god; if he got caught dressed as a woman or even worse, charged with soliciting, his life would not be worth living; no, that idea was far too dangerous. He'd also seen discreet advertisements placed by transvestites in some of the local newspapers and their calling cards posted in telephone call boxes; but there was no way he was going to publicly publish his telephone number. Mike resigned himself to the fact that he would just have to live with his fantasies and leave it at that.

Brian's first sexual encounter involved his Aunty Betty. Brian used to go around to see his Aunty Betty on the weekends and help her around the house and yard. She gave him a shilling pocket money for his efforts and if he worked late into the afternoon he would stay the night rather than take the long bus ride home after dark. Brian loved his Aunty Betty; she was a widow in her forties, a little plump; but attractive and gregarious. She always wore full makeup, her hair was always styled and she wore nice clothes; twin-sets, suits or tight skirts and blouses. But what Brian liked most of all about his Aunty Betty was that she always wore stockings and high heels. He'd overheard his mother talking to one of her friends saying that Betty dressed like a trollop; but Brian put it down to jealousy.

When Brian stayed over, Betty usually went out for the night and he had often heard stifled giggling and hushed conversations coming from her bedroom in the early hours of the morning when she snuck a boyfriend home for the night. The boyfriend was always gone by the next morning, but Aunty Betty had spoken to Brian about keeping it their little secret and she would give him an extra tanner to keep him quiet.

But sometime she would stay at home and they would watch the telly. TV was pretty boring in those days with only the two BBC channels and one commercial channel broadcasting in black and white. Aunty Betty would pour them both a glass of beer and they would sit in the darkened lounge and watch the telly or she would sit and read the newspaper, but Betty often fell asleep on the couch. Brian liked it when Betty stayed at home with him because she always dressed attractively and she would often give him a very nice leg show, especially if she lay down on the couch after falling asleep.

Brian would pretend to watch TV but he spent most of the time surreptitiously staring at his auntie's legs. Brian's Aunty Betty was a shoe dangler; when she sat on the couch and read the newspaper she kept one foot on the floor and would cross her right leg over her left and rock her foot slowly dislodging her shoe from her heel. As she rocked her foot she let her shoe slowly slide down her instep and swing from her toes. Brian would watch intently as she did this. He admired the sheen of her stockings, and those gorgeous little 'creases' that occurred at the bend of her knee and ankle.

One evening Brian became very bold and decided to try to do a little more that just look at his auntie's legs; he wanted to touch them. Thinking she was engrossed in the newspaper, Brian stretched his legs out in front of him, and interlocked his fingers and placed his hands together over his hardening penis, he tried to rub it surreptitiously so as not to attract his auntie's attention or to appear too blatant. Aunty Betty's dangling shoe had fallen off when she uncrossed her legs and she rubbed her stocking foot up and down her other leg and then she slipped off her other shoe and rubbed her stocking feet together. Brian decided to make his move.

"Would you like me to that?" he asked.

"What's that hun?" Betty replied.

"Rub your feet Auntie; would you like a foot massage?"

"Ok Brian but be careful not to ladder my stockings," she smiled.

Brian shifted over to the couch and put his auntie's feet in his lap. He rubbed the soles of her feet and massaged her cute painted toes through the reinforced toes of her nylons. Auntie Betty relaxed and eventually fell asleep. Brian got bolder now that his auntie was sleeping and lowered his head down and pressed his face into the bottoms of her gossamer encased feet her feet and slid his face up and down them. He was enamoured by the feel of her diaphanous nylons and faint smell of her sweaty feet.

He surreptitiously reached down and opened the buttons of his fly and freed his growing erection. Brian took both her nylon-covered feet in his hands and raised both her feet to his face and inhaled her scent. He sighed with pleasure as he kissed the soles of her feet, one after the other then, throwing caution to the wind, he opened his mouth took his auntie's stockinged foot into it. After sucking on her nyloned toes for a minute or two he could contain himself no more and brought her feet down to his groin.

Brian firmly gripped her smooth ankles and pressed both her feet around his cock. He slowly slipped back and forth between them, enjoying the most exquisite sensations that he had ever felt in his life. He let go of one of his auntie's ankles and ran his hand up and down her stockinged legs, tracing the seams with his fingers and caressing the dark material of the welt, the dark band at the top of her stockings. He could contain himself no longer and climaxed; his semen gushed all over his auntie's moist nylons, soaking the material, causing it to appear much darker than it really was. He clasped the tip of his penis to her toes, watching as his semen dampened the reinforced nylon.

Aunty Betty woke with a start and yanked her feet out of Brian's lap and he realised that he had gone too far.

"Brian! What on earth do you think you're doing!" she scolded.

"Oh I'm so sorry aunty; please don't tell mom. I'm so sorry!" Brian pleaded and ran from the room.

He bolted upstairs to the guest bedroom where he stayed when he slept over and slammed the door closed. Throwing his clothes in heap on the floor he jumped into bed and pulled the covers over his head shaking and crying with humiliation. He was absolutely appalled that he had allowed his stocking fetish to get him in this untenable situation. He didn't know how he was ever going to look his Aunty Betty in the face ever again and he was sure that his mother would disown him.

Brian heard the bedroom door open and the click his Aunty Betty's high heels as she approached the bed. Then he felt the bed sag when she sat down on the edge of bed and the whisper of her nylons as Aunty Betty crossed her legs.

"Brian?" she whispered tentatively.

"Go away!" he cried from under the blankets.

"Brian; I'm sorry sweetie," his Aunty Betty cooed.

"Why are you sorry? You didn't do anything wrong; I did!" he sniffled.

"Well honey I've been watching you watching me and I knew that you had a thing for stockings because your mother told me; so I shouldn't have teased and tempted you," Aunty Betty said.

"You knew?" Brian moaned, "Now I'm even more embarrassed."

"Never mind honey; let me make it up to you just this once and then we'll never talk about it again ok?" she said.

"What do you mean; make it up to me?" Brian asked inquisitively lifting his head outside of the blankets.

"Best I just show you sweetie; I used to do this for you uncle sometimes," his aunt smiled mischievously.

To Brian's amazement his Aunty Betty pulled down the blankets down to his groin and exposed his naked body. She looked at his engorged penis and smiled.

"Lovely," she said; almost to herself.

Then she did something that Brian would never forget for the rest of his life. She took a silk stocking out of her pocket and placed the warm diaphanous garment over Brian's now rampant penis.

"Oh Auntie!" he groaned.

She tentatively took hold of Brian's cock and he closed his eyes in pleasure and tilted his head back.

"Look at it Brian," Aunty Betty whispered.

Then he opened his eyes and watched as her red nailpolished fingers slid along Brian's silken encased member and slowly stroked his cock. She gripped him tighter, pulling his foreskin up over the purple glans, then back down to expose it in the dim light of the reading lamp. Then she moved her hand ever so slightly faster, sliding up and down the skin of Brian's cock. She twirled her hand back and forth over the taught stocking, slightly at first and then in greater degrees, as she slowly masturbated her nephew. Brian's hips moved to an involuntarily in tempo with his auntie's ministrations as Betty tightly stroked his penis.

"Oh Auntie; this so naughty, but it's so lovely," Brian moaned.

"Shhh honey, just enjoy it; it's only ever happening this once," she said.

Brian could feel his orgasm approaching quickly and he become bolder and took his enjoyment one step further. He reached out and grabbed his auntie's nyloned thigh and slid his hands up and down her ultra sheer stockings. Her nylons were smooth and slick above her knees and thighs because of the garters pulling the stocking tops so taunt. He got to her stocking tops, and stroked the dark shiny bands of the welts and then felt across the garter tabs hooked to the nylon and up the length of one of the garter straps. His hand slid off the garter strap and stroked her smooth, soft, bare skin just under her knickers. Then his hand brushed against his auntie's nylon knickers.

Aunty Betty gently eased Brian's hand away from her knickers and placed it back on her stockinged thigh.

"No higher up my leg than there Brian, you naughty boy," she instructed him.

Betty's hand was sliding up and down her nephew's silk stocking encased penis. Brian was in heaven just to be holding and feeling her beautiful stocking legs. He moaned and gasped at the feel of his sensitive glans being caressed by her silk stocking as his auntie rubbed his cock slowly up and down and he stroked her nylon encased legs.

Brian looked down at his stocking sheathed penis and saw that the silk around his glans was soaked with pre-seminal fluid. He felt his orgasm erupt through his body; the most intense orgasm he had ever felt. His whole body shuddered and his penis quivered as Aunty Betty, sensing her nephew's climax, gripped his manhood and rapidly pumped it. A glob of milky white semen extruded through the silk stocking; this quickly became a flood as Brian spurted jet after jet of hot seed, it ran down his silken encased shaft and onto his auntie's fingers. She continued to vigorously stroke his shaft, squeezing and milking him until his orgasm subsided.

Brian lay there gasping, his erection slowly subsiding, the stocking flooded with semen wrinkled around his cock. His Aunty Betty removed the semen splattered stocking from his cock and wiped him clean and then pulled up the covers.

"Ok Brian; you've had your reward for apologising for what you did earlier; but this is the last time this is ever going to happen," Betty said quite sternly.

"We will never talk about this ever again and I think I will no longer need you to stay over on the weekends ok?" she said.

Brian nodded and watched as his auntie stood up, adjusted her skirt, and then clattered out of the room on her high heels.

And they never did. Brian never bought up what had happened that evening and neither did his auntie. They sometimes exchanged knowing glances, especially if Aunty Betty caught Brain looking at a woman's legs, and his mother gave him one of her knowingly quizzical looks when he told her he wouldn't be staying at his auntie's on the weekends any longer; but the incident was never spoken of.

Of course Brian replayed the incident over and over in his head and it was his favourite masturbation fantasy. The incident reinforced his nylons fetish and eventually led him to marrying his wife who wore hosiery every day and dressed very similar to his auntie. His auntie had even given him a knowing smirk as stood at the altar on his wedding day.

But that was all ancient history; he was now a lowly door to door hosiery salesman doing the rounds of the suburbs of Birmingham.

Mike planned to have Tuesday afternoon free from the drudgery of books and accounting and to dress as Michele and have some girly fun. He washed himself and shaved very closely. Then he began to make preparations for the transformation. He took two old laddered and unwearable stockings and filled them with rice doubling and tripling the stockings over on themselves and then tied and cut them off to make himself a pair of false breasts.

He sat down at his dresser and applied lashings of foundation and finishing powder to his pale face and then black eyeliner and mascara and finally blue eyeshadow. He rouged his cheeks and applied another coat of finishing powder. He then carefully painted his lips with bright red lipstick, extending the lip-line to make his lips appear fuller. He smacked his lips together, pursed them, and then bit down on a tissue with his lips to set the lipstick and remove the excess.

Mike lit a Woodbine, poured himself a glass of sherry and then sat down to paint his toe and fingernails with plum red nailpolish; it was then that he made the mental transformation from Mike to Michele. Michele looked at the small collection of wigs that she had knocked off from Oxfam and selected a shoulder-length brunette bob and pulled it on, fussing with it until she had it positioned just right with the fringe level with her eyebrows.

She looked quite attractive for her age she thought as she rummaged through her lingerie and selected a white Jacquard knit, two-way stretch, body-shaping bustiere with lace floral motif; it was high waist fronted, with flat sewn seams with attached suspender straps. She loved the way this garment shaped her body. She decided to wear white satin full-cut knickers with the bustiere. She went to her wardrobe and selected a navy blue double-breasted suit; the pencil skirt had a kick pleat and the jacket was very tight at the waist. Finally she picked out a white silk blouse and black high-heeled courts.

Now for the depressing part as she opened her hosiery drawer. There were only a few laddered and holed pairs of stockings in drawer and one unopened packet of smoke-grey, fifteen denier, fully-fashioned stockings. She lamented her dearth of hosiery; she had all the clothes, cosmetics, lingerie, shoes and wigs that she wanted, but she just couldn't get quality hosiery. She pulled on a pair of fine cotton gloves and opened up her last packet of stockings and laid them out carefully on the bed.

Michele removed the gloves and stepped into the bustiere and struggled to get it over her hips and then her chest. It firmed and flattened her stomach and cinched her waist; the inbuilt brassiere cups pointed straight out from her chest like limp cones until she stuffed her homemade breastforms into them. She pulled on the full-cut satin knickers and a little shiver of pleasure ran through her body as the satin whispered against her skin, snug tight around her buttocks and penis. She looked down at the smoke-grey stockings lying on the bed waiting to be carefully donned and reached for the hosiery gloves and then suddenly changed her mind. They were her last pair of pristine stockings and she wanted to save them. She put on the cotton gloves and carefully put them back in the packaging and put them away.

She rummaged through her hosiery drawer and found her next best pair of stockings; black fully-fashioned with a Cuban heel. One stocking had a fine ladder running from the welt to the ankle and the other had a hole the size of a threepenny bit at the knee; the hole had been prevented from spreading by the judicious application of clear nail varnish. Michele sighed and pulled on the dilapidated stockings carefully fitting them to the garter clips. She pulled off the gloves and smoothed the wrinkles out of her stockings and straightened her seams. Another sliver of delight ran through her as the sensual stockings rubbed against her shaven legs.