by Violet Blue
She had been so ready for him, for what seemed like so many days. When he finally took what she was offering, it only took half a dozen thrusts to detonate the bomb inside her. As if he’d done this many times before, he knew, and shushed her as she came on his cock. And so what should have been a cacophony of pleasure came out as a stream of choked off whimpers.
“Good lass,” he panted. “Give me another.” The hand that had steadied her pubic bone moved, fingers searched out and found her swollen clit. He coaxed it with each inward thrust, so that each felt like a stubborn door being battered open. And it was impossible to refuse him what he asked for. He fucked her methodically, meticulously. Rebecca could feel the ridge of his cock head as he withdrew almost completely before plunging home again. If he was worried about being caught fucking his assistant, he didn’t fuck like he gave a damn. He fucked like he did everything else: quietly, carefully, thoroughly, until she broke again in shudders and sobs locked up in her chest. Only then did he come, as if he’d been waiting to see that she’d done the job properly before moving on to the next step. It wasn’t quick or furtive. He just stopped thrusting and erupted into her cunt, letting her feel each hot spurt flood her passage. Then he withdrew, pulled her panties up roughly and put his trousers back on.
“Stand up, turn around.” With the lassitude that comes from orgasm, Rebecca straightened herself and watched, mutely, while he repositioned her bra, and buttoned up her blouse. “Lots of work waiting. Better get to it, now.”
In the days that followed, Rebecca learned a lot. Mr. Pierce taught her how to clean off broken pieces of silver, coat the sheared edges in flux and solder them back into place.
He also taught her how to please him. His huge hand wrapped around hers as she stroked his cock, using her saliva and his precome to make it slick. He showed her when he was ready for her, on her knees, looking up at him, to cover the head with her mouth and staunch the flood that resulted.
“Don’t make a mess, lass,” he said. He showed her how to ride him as he sat on one of the two schoolroom chairs. How to let him use her body the way he wanted, to relax as he guided her hips up and down. How to stifle her cries against the side of his neck when she came so hard from his use. Bent over the worktable, she was taught to lie still and silent and let him plunder her cunt and her ass with his fingers, his cock and his mouth. He never kissed her. Never said words of love to her. Never asked her out or did any of the things that lovers do. All he ever offered her was the pleasure of being possessed by him in that drab room above the shop. She never learned his first name.
When she left, a year later, to have another go at a university degree, she left knowing exactly what her body could do and with an unnatural reaction to the scent of silver polish.
THE NYLON CURTAIN
Elizabeth Coldwell
All he wanted was for me to wear stockings. When you consider all the proposals he could have made, this seemed mild. Innocent, even.
I’d answered his advert because it seemed so much less blatant than most of the others on the website. I wasn’t looking for—or offering—no-strings sex. I wanted something quirky, something memorable; the ideal basis for a chapter or two in the book I planned to write. That’s how you make your name these days: you spend a year dating only men you meet online or working as a high-class escort, rush out a book of your experiences and the next thing you know, you have a late-night TV documentary series. I was ambitious enough to see that as a path worth taking, but I needed the right angle.
The advert had requested a woman with “perfect pins.” I wasn’t sure I’d class my legs as perfect, but they were certainly good. I received enough admiring glances whenever I wore a short skirt to make that obvious. My figure wasn’t bad, either. I sent the advertiser a photo of myself in a bikini on the beach at Brighton to prove it. No money would change hands, so neither of us was being exploited—unless getting someone to share all the intimate details of his special peccadillo with you, then writing about it for your own benefit was exploitation. I tried not to think of that as I squeezed myself onto a Northern Line train in the early evening rush hour, gussied up like a respectable Forties-era housewife, on my way to meet a man with an overwhelming appreciation for fully fashioned stockings.
Mr. Torrance, as I knew him, had been very insistent on the way I was to dress. I found a suitable jacket and skirt in a local charity shop, teaming it with a short-sleeved white blouse. Underneath that, he requested plain, functional white knickers, a suspender belt and stockings. Not owning a suspender belt, preferring instead the ease of slipping into tights, I borrowed one from my flatmate’s underwear drawer. There were so many frilly, frothy pieces of nothing crammed in there I reckoned she wouldn’t even notice it had gone. I felt rather self-conscious as I trotted down to the station on my highest heels, but this was London, after all, where it can be so much harder than you would think to draw attention to yourself.
The address I’d been given was on a quiet Islington street, not far from the Regent’s Canal. Though the house was modest in size, tucked in the middle of a Georgian terrace, I suspected it was worth an eye-watering amount of money. I knew very little about Mr. Torrance, and how he was able to afford such a desirable home; we hadn’t disclosed much in the way of personal information in the correspondence we’d shared up to this point. Nothing he’d told me, however, had given the impression he was in any way odd or dangerous: naturally, he was a little obsessive when it came to the subject of stockings, but men could be exactly the same about their football team or their favorite rock band. It didn’t necessarily make them individuals to be avoided.
I patted my hair, which I’d pinned up in what I hoped was a suitably authentic style, and hesitated with my finger on his doorbell. I still had the option of turning and leaving, but I’d put too much effort into my preparation not to at least see the effect it had on my online admirer.
I rang the bell and waited. Eventually, the door swung open. “Charlotte? I’m glad to see you’re punctual. Do come in.”
I stepped into the hall and took my first real look at Mr. Torrance. He must have been around fifty, twice my age, with closely cropped gray hair and striking, ice-blue eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a dark, well-cut suit: if I thought it was a little strange that he hadn’t even removed his jacket in his own house, I didn’t say anything.
At his instruction, I followed him into the lounge. He told me to make myself comfortable while he fixed me a drink. “How would a gin sling suit you?”
“That sounds fine,” I said, not wanting to admit I didn’t know what a gin sling was, but suspecting it had been fashionable in the period around which Mr. Torrance’s fantasies clearly revolved.
While he busied himself with the contents of his drinks cabinet, I looked round the room, trying to imprint as many details as I could on my memory. It wasn’t a particularly memorable room, but its very ordinariness would provide the perfect contrast to the events I was intending to write about once I got home.
Mr. Torrance handed me a frosted martini glass and I took a sip of my drink: gin, mixed with sugar, soda water and a twist of lemon, as far as I could tell. Quite pleasant. A couple of these could lead a girl to all manner of indiscretions.
“Now, Charlotte, I’m sure you know why I asked you here, and I’m so pleased to see you dressed as I requested.”
Mr. Torrance settled himself in an armchair opposite me. He had a glass of what looked like scotch on the rocks, and he took a drink before continuing. Despite his self-assured exterior, it almost seemed he was steadying his nerves. “Before we go any further, I’d like you to take off the stockings you’re wearing now and put these on.”
He handed me a slender packet. The old-fashioned typeface and cellophane that crackled at my touch told me this was the genuine article. Wolsey Skin-Tone Nylons in a shade described as Ranch Mink. Unworn stockings from sixty years ago, in their original packaging. I was almost afraid to unwrap them.
“S
hould I go into the bathroom and change, or—?”
“No, I’d like you to do it here. I want to watch you.” So that was his thing. He was a voyeur. In that case, I would give him a show, despite the embarrassment I felt at hiking up my skirt in front of a virtual stranger till my stocking tops were on view.
He was shaking his head, and I wondered what I’d done wrong. “No, no, no,” he sighed. “That suspender belt really isn’t the thing at all. It needs to have proper metal clips, not those flimsy plastic things. But I suppose it will have to do for now.”
He didn’t say another word as I unclipped the ten-denier Lycra stockings I’d been wearing, rolled them down and off and carefully extracted the Wolseys from their packaging. Before I could go any further, he asked, “You did bring gloves like I asked you to?”
He’d been very firm on that point: I was to fetch a pair of white cotton gloves with me. When I nodded, he said, “I’d like you to put them on now, please. I’d hate you to snag those beautiful things.”
Putting on stockings while you’re wearing gloves isn’t the easiest task in the world, but I managed it, doing my very best to ensure the seams at the back were straight and the fashioned heel hugged my foot correctly. The nylon felt cool against the smooth skin of my legs, and I noticed it didn’t cling in the same way as its Lycra-rich modern counterpart as I pointed my toes, admiring the way the stockings looked.
“Very nice.” Mr. Torrance’s voice was noticeably strained. “Now I’d like you to slip your shoes back on and walk up and down for me.”
Taking another fortifying mouthful of my gin sling, I did as he asked. It was the strangest sexual experience I’d ever had—and it was sexual; the constant pulsing in my pussy and the way my sensible knickers were clinging wetly to my lips proved that, as did the bulge in Mr. Torrance’s suit trousers. But not a word was said as I slowly paraded back and forth in front of him, elegant as any catwalk model. Whatever was happening in his imagination, he wasn’t sharing it with me.
He didn’t even ask me for another glimpse of my stocking tops; not on that occasion, anyway. Perhaps he really did find my suspender straps too offensive. I remedied that before my next visit, finding a shop in Soho that sold vintage-style lingerie. I left having purchased an appropriate suspender belt—white, to match my sensible knickers. It was three times as wide as the flimsy thing I’d borrowed from my flatmate, with six thick straps and all with the requisite metal fastenings.
The belt did the trick. This time, I was required to lie back on the sofa and raise my legs in the air, one straight, one bent at the knee. In that pose, Mr. Torrance couldn’t fail to get a good look at what was beneath my skirt. I assumed he liked what he saw, because he began to talk.
Gradually, he filled me in on the little details of his fetish. Only the genuine article turned him on. Although any number of shops, like the one I’d visited, stocked fully-fashioned nylons, they were reproductions. Some of them were almost as good as the real thing, produced on machines from the Forties and Fifties to the exact specifications of those I wore, but they just weren’t the same. There were many men, he told me, whose craving for stockings would stop being satisfied for good the day the last original pair was laddered to the point where it was no longer wearable.
He spent much of his free time searching for stockings, trawling Internet auction sites and vintage clothing shops and snapping up as many pairs as he could. As he talked, I learned about the great fetish models of the past, like Bettie Page, who according to Mr. Torrance had no equal, and the photographers who’d captured glorious leg shots with obsessive detail—Elmer Batters, Irving Klaw and the rest. All of it was valuable material for the pages of text building up on my netbook, describing my visits to the house in Islington.
A couple of times as he talked he stroked my stocking-clad legs, as though to emphasize a point, but that was all the contact we had. Despite that, the sexual tension in the room was almost stifling. I wondered whether Mr. Torrance masturbated once I left after one of these sessions. I certainly did. Once I was back home, I’d rush to my room, lock the door and undress till I was wearing nothing but the vintage suspender belt and my cheap supermarket stockings. Then I would stand in front of the mirrored wardrobe door, slip a finger between my legs and rub my clit till I came, knees buckling, body wracked with sobs.
I’d never had orgasms as intense as the ones I experienced after a visit to Mr. Torrance. As I caressed myself, I pictured him stripped of the sober suit I’d never actually seen him remove, gripping his hard cock in his hand and wanking himself with short, frantic movements of his fist, till come sprayed out over his fingers.
Gradually, I began to make little breakthroughs in my relationship with him. The first came when he asked me to remove my skirt at the start of one of our sessions. From the waist up, I was still utterly respectable, but now I sat in my stockings and underwear, pretending not to be aware of the way his eyes burned into the pale band of flesh above the thick welts of the latest pair of stockings he’d acquired for me to wear.
From him, I learned more than I’d ever known—or thought I’d want to know—about the art of manufacturing stockings. The seam was an integral part of the fully fashioned nylon, designed to hold the stocking together. Only over time had it acquired the unutterably sensual connotations so many men saw in that line running straight and true up the back of a woman’s leg.
He began to talk in ever more personal terms, too. He revealed that he’d never been married, though he’d had any number of girlfriends over the years. Most of them, however, had been unable to comprehend his fascination for stockings, or his insistence that they wear them in and out of the bedroom. Only one woman had seemed able to cope with his fetish, seeming not to mind that sex would never be truly satisfying for him unless nylons were involved. He would have married her, but for one thing—she had what he described as stumpy legs and thick ankles. “Call me shallow,” he said, “but I really wouldn’t have minded if she had an ugly face. I could have lived with that. In the end, it all came down to the fact I just couldn’t stand her ugly legs.”
Finally, he’d decided the only way to satisfy his craving was to use escorts. Whenever he managed to acquire a pair of genuine vintage nylons, he called a certain agency and booked a girl for the evening—specifying, naturally, that she must have perfect legs. For the last couple of years he’d seen the same woman every time, a Russian named Natalia, who’d trained with the Bolshoi ballet but failed to make it as a dancer. “Her legs,” he sighed. “So supple, so slender, so exquisite.” Unfortunately, she tired of the escort business, having earned enough money to go back to Moscow and live in comfort. Since then, there had been no one—until me.
I wanted to ask why he’d placed the advert; if he’d been happy to reduce his sex life to a series of commercial transactions, why this new arrangement? No cash changing hands, but no sex, either. I sensed there might be more he wanted to tell me, but I knew I’d have to wait until he felt comfortable.
Then came the night when I was lying on his cream leather sofa, carelessly trailing a finger toward my stocking top and I glanced over to see that Mr. Torrance—or Jonathan, as he’d recently started allowing me to call him—had unzipped his fly and extracted his cock.
I was wearing a new combination of lingerie for the first time, one to which he’d treated me.
He’d given a gift-wrapped package to me the last time I visited him, pressing it into my hands as I stood on the doorstep saying my good-byes and telling me not to open it till I got home. When I did, I discovered it contained a suspender belt almost identical to the one I usually wore, only in black, and a pair of black knickers with sheer organza panels front and back. When I tried them on, I discovered these panels gave saucy glimpses of the cleft between my bumcheeks and my thick pubic bush. As Jonathan had impressed on me that the stockings came from a time before the salon wax and the battery-powered epilator, I’d been cultivating a more natural look. I even treated my newly luxu
riant muff to the odd squirt of conditioner in the bath.
By this time, I suspected I was developing my own little obsession for nylons. Nothing on the scale of Jonathan’s, naturally, but when the autumn fashions started appearing in the shops and the pencil skirt came back in vogue, I relished the opportunity it gave me to dress in stockings and heels on a regular basis. I was changing, I knew that. I no longer worried that when I walked down the street in my Forties regalia I would be mocked as the missing member of the Andrews Sisters. It didn’t matter what anyone else thought: I felt confident, sexy, in control.
So it came as no surprise to see my latest display had caused Jonathan to finally give up some of his own rigid self-control and start playing with himself. I pretended not to have noticed, though, as his hand continued to stroke the length of his erection. He had a nice-looking cock, from the glimpse I’d had, and I wished it was my hand straining to meet around its thickness. Instead, I let my fingers stray carelessly over the crotch of my knickers, wanting to touch myself but needing a direct instruction from the man who watched me so intently before I felt sure I could proceed. I kept thinking of one of his earliest emails to me: “All I want you to do is wear stockings.” As far as I knew, that was still all he wanted me to do. So I continued to tease him—and myself—as his breathing became harsher, more audible, and the room resounded to the soft slapping noises of his hand on his cock. I didn’t even look around when he groaned out loud and came. By the time I finally pulled myself back into a sitting position, he was zipped up and respectable once more, the crumpled tissue on the table beside him the only indication of what had just happened.
