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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 mobil porno 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 alman porno 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 alexis texas porno 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.

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