[continued from previous message]

correcting her backhand had become a sneaky little kiss in the hallway
outside the change rooms of the tennis club, which had become a furtive
squeeze of her buttocks through her tennis skirt, which had developed
into a quick grope of her bushy quim through her white nylon tennis
panties until finally they ended up in bed at The Metropole Hotel where
they now met twice a week after tennis.

Deirdre was a realist and knew that the tawdry little fling with the
tennis pro was only a passing fancy but it had awakened a yearning in
her and she contemplated a life without Donald, living comfortably and
possibly taking on a string of younger lovers while she still had her
looks. Then perhaps she could marry again to someone more befitting her
station and with more money of course and without Donald's obsession
with nylon stockings and 'naughty knickers'.

At first she had been flattered when Donald brought her sexy lingerie
and fully-fashioned stockings but she soon realised that it was an
obsession with him; a fetish. After a while it became tedious and
thankfully their love life plateaued and eventually waned as Donald paid
more attention to his work than his wife. On the rare occasions that
Deirdre wanted Donald to 'give her a good seeing to', as her girlfriends
called it, all she had to do was wear a short skirt and nylon stockings
and Donald would pounce on her.

Not that much pouncing was taking place currently for which Deirdre was eternally grateful. She had decided that tonight was the night that she
would announce her separation and she considered how she could effect
the breakup with a modicum of civility as she laid out silverware for
what would be their last dinner together.

Donald burst through the front door full of vigour and eager to fuck.

He surprised Deirdre when he dropped his briefcase on the hardwood floor
and rushed to her and gathered her into his arms and began to kiss her,
his hands going straight to her ample backside, squeezing her buttocks
through her skirt. He kissed her passionately, stifling her protests.
She could feel his rather prodigious erection pushing against her belly.
Donald might not use it on her often but when he did it did the trick.

"I've brought you a present," Donald said when he finally stopped
kissing her.

"Donald. We need to talk," Deirdre said in a serious tone.

"Not until I give you my present and you give me one in return," Donald squeezed one of Deirdre's ample buttocks.

Deirdre had dressed to please him. She wanted the separation to be
amicable so she had prepared a delicious meal and put on her shortest
navy-blue skirt that was a little tight on her now; so tight that the
kick pleat in the back of the skirt stayed open showing off her generous thighs. No longer the fresh-faced girl straight out of university that
she had been when they had married, Deirdre was still a pretty woman and
had long toned legs from playing tennis. Her bottom was rounded and she
had a little pot belly which had developed over the years of living the
good life.

Donald produced the garter belt and two packages of expensive Italian fully-fashioned stockings from his briefcase, a smug grin on his face.

It was no surprise to Deirdre who had at one time been showered with
gifts of stockings, knickers and lingerie which Donald insisted that she
wear in bed for him.

"One for you and one for me," Donald grinned handing her the packages of stockings.

Deirdre's distaste and disdain for her husband returned and she frowned
at him.

"You know what I mean Dee. You get to keep one pair for wearing out but
you wear the other pair for me," Donald's stupid grin widened.

Deirdre hated being called 'Dee' but she swallowed her pride and decided
to give Donald one final treat before she dropped the axe.

She grinned at her husband mischievously and lifted one foot onto a
wooden a dining table chair and ran her hands up and down her leg,
smoothing out the wrinkles in her sheer tights. Donald became erect immediately, his eyes locked on his wife's shapely leg clad in the
shimmering hose.

Deirdre took off her high heel and wriggled her pinkies in the
reinforced toe of her hosiery. She hiked her skirt slowly up her thigh
and then bunched it around her waist and hooked her fingers in the
waistband of her tights. Deirdre had taken to wearing control-top
pantyhose to help flatten her stomach and the panty part of her
pantyhose was a shiny dark coffee colour, contrasting with the sheer,
almost transparent taupe on the legs.

She shimmied out of her tights one leg at a time; Donald watching her excitedly. He had taken off his coat and his suit jacket and was working
on his shoelaces when Deirdre took off her full-cut, translucent white
nylon panties and stepped into the garter belt and jiggled it up her
legs, over her expansive arse and bushy mound and cinched it around her
waist.

Donald quickly dropped trou and ripped off his shirt and tie and sat on
the floor in front of Deirdre dressed only in his underpants, vest and
socks. He loved watching his wife put on her stockings and he wondered
why he had neglected her for so long. Sure she had padded out a little
over the years but she was still a pretty woman with big blue eyes, lush
red lips and flowing auburn locks and she had legs to die for. For a millisecond the image of the calf and ankle swathed in delicate sheer fully-fashioned stockings peeking from the trouser cuff of Julian
Clifford's business suit sprang into his mind and Donald shook his head
to make the image disappear.

Deirdre put on the garter belt and rolled up the stockings, and one at a
time inserted her toes into the reinforced foot and carefully rolled
them up her legs, clipping the dark welts to the silver garter clips
then she stepped into her knickers and slowly pulled them up her legs,
the translucent nylon panties contrasting with the dark nylon stockings.
Donald was hard as a rock, his cock poking out of the fly hole of his
white cotton briefs.

Deirdre saw this and smiled as she stepped back into her high heels.

Donald pounced on Deirdre and shoved her onto the dining room table,
scattering the perfectly laid out cutlery, glasses and flatware. Deirdre
was about to protest but then Donald pulled aside the gusset of her
knickers and plunged his hard rod into her buttery cunt.

Deirdre wrapped her legs around Donald, pushing up his vest so that her stockings rubbed on his tender flesh which she knew he really liked. He
rained sloppy kisses on her mouth while he shagged her like a dog
humping a bitch, thrusting his cock vigorously in and out of her sloppy
minge.

Deirdre wished he would slow down and take his time, he was hitting the
right spot deep in her vagina intermittently and his pubis pressed on
her clitoris every now and then but not enough to ignite the flame. She
bit his earlobe and whispered hoarsely.

"Slow down Donald. Make it last," she sounded exasperated and Donald
realised that she was right.

His wife's cunt was no longer the tight tunnel he longed for when they
were first married. Although they had no children, years of vigorous
fucking and her excess weight had taken their toll on her lady parts but
Donald still liked the feel of her slippery minge clutching at his penis.

Donald was big, which helped and now that he had slowed down and was
fucking Deirdre with rhythm she was enjoying it almost as much as he was
and she waggled her stocking-sheathed legs along his flesh and wriggled
her knickered buttocks in appreciation, knowing that Donald would love
the feel of her silky nylons and sexy knickers on his sensitive skin.

His pendulous scrotum was slapping against her panty-clad buttocks as he
thrust his turgid member in and out of Deirdre's sopping fanny, she was whimpering like a schoolgirl and he smiled because on the rare occasions
that he satisfied her that is exactly how she sounded.

He smothered her mouth with his and she returned his kisses and drove
her tongue into his mouth. Donald could taste her lipstick and smell her perfume; he could feel her silky legs wrapped around his torso and her
satiny knickers on his scrotum as he drove his cock deep inside his wife.

Deirdre was gasping and writhing underneath him, a sure sign that her
orgasm was approaching.

Donald thrust his cock in her as far as it would go and gyrated his
pubis on her vulva to stimulate her clitoris and unloaded a torrent of
spunk deep inside her pulsating vagina. Deirdre clung to him and bucked
and writhed beneath him, grinding her pudenda into his pubis, raking her
nails down his back, slithering her stocking-sheathed legs on his flesh, kissing him fervently as the last orgasm she would ever experience with
her sorry excuse for a husband coursed through her.

Donald moaned and groaned as he felt his wife's saturated knicker gusset
press on his sac and her silken-shrouded legs rub on his flanks as he
released deep in her vagina.

Then the mind-picture of the stocking-clad, shapely ankle peeking out
from the man on the train's trousers formed in Donald's brain and try as
he might he couldn't shake the image. Instead he imagined that his cock
was ejaculating all over the trim silken-shrouded limb and his semen was soaking into the stocking.

end of page 2 of 4
MicheleNylons

A GLIMPSE OF NYLON STOCKING CH. 01
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The image intensified his orgasm and Donald lay on top of his pretty,
plump wife exhausted.

Deirdre patted him on the back like she would a good dog who had fetched
a stick.

"I hope you enjoyed that dear because it's the last time," she said staidly.

Donald looked at her puzzled and after they had both dressed and sat
down to roast beef and Yorkshire pudding Deirdre calmly explained to her husband that she was leaving him.

"I'll pack tomorrow and be gone before you come home from work. No need
to get grumpy about it dear, we both knew it was coming," Deirdre said
as she shovelled a gravy-soaked forkful of Yorkshire pudding into her mouth.

Tomorrow she would start her diet.

Julie Clifford

Julie now lived alone. Peter Forest had married his fiancé and they were
on their honeymoon in Brighton. The first thing Julie had done was to
hire removalists to move the armoire out of the bookshop in Oxford
Circus and into the house in Lambeth, paying extra to have it removed
with the contents still inside. The next thing she had done was
installed a second telephone line.

The downside was that bankruptcy loomed. The upside was that Julian
could live as Julie in and around her own house and could walk to the
Elephant and Castle in twenty minutes instead of having to take the tube
to the bookshop, change, take another tube to the Elephant and Castle
and then do it all in reverse.

Julie sat her desk in the little study and stared at the little pile of
unpaid bills and tapped her manicured red-lacquered fingernails on the
oak desktop. She scooped the bills into a drawer and lit a Consulate
menthol cigarette and sipped her gin and tonic. She surveyed an array of
tart cards that she had arranged on the desk and studied them.

Tart cards are cards advertising the services of prostitutes. The cards
are placed in locations such as newsagents' windows and telephone boxes
or alternatively they are handed out or dropped in the street in red
light districts. Julian had collected the cards from telephone boxes and
seedy hotel foyers in Soho. Julie rarely ventured out in the daytime
unless she was feeling extremely adventurous and when she did she never frequented such places so it had been left to Julian to collect the
cards during his lunch break and after work.

Julie studied the tart cards. Most were crudely made, depicting
hand-drawn women dressed in lingerie or schoolgirl or French maid
uniforms, often holding a cane or whip. The text was just as crude:
'hanky spanky', 'sexy knickers', 'obey Madame', 'slow time fun with a
fast lady' and so on. Some had no text at all, the picture explained everything. They all had phone numbers.

Julie set to work designing her own tart card. Hers would be more sophisticated. She intended to use an actual photograph of herself and
be a little discreet with the text. She finally settled on: TV Julie.
Discreet service for select gentlemen. Kisses and cuddles or spanking
and discipline. Hand relief only! 723 4141 The phone number for the new landline she'd had installed was displayed prominently at the bottom.
She glanced over at the new handset sitting on the sideboard. Julie had selected a red handset; she'd thought it an appropriate colour for the
purpose it would serve.

Adjacent to the text would be a full-body photograph of Julie so the
punters would know what they were getting. She would take the picture
and print the cards on her Xerox machine tomorrow after she closed the
shop. The Xerox machine and the camera, tripod and photo-lab equipment
had been purchased as a means of increasing revenue but had not brought
in much than they had cost.

The Xerox made a little profit, especially from researchers who paid to
use it to copy pages of reference material from the non-fiction section
of the bookshop but taking passport pictures and developing them was a
time consuming process from which there was scant return. Both
appliances would finally be put to a useful purpose.

What happened to Julie in the dark alley near the tube station had
played on her mind. It was not so much the salaciousness of the act as
it was the fact that the man had shoved two pounds into her hand,
mistakenly thinking that Julie was a brass. Two pounds was not to be
sneezed at and Julie did the math and worked out that if she was willing
to take on three or four punters, five or six nights a week, she would
soon clear her debts and would eventually be making a profit which she
could put aside.

She would only do it as long as was absolutely necessary of course and
she would only be offering hand relief. If she could suffer being felt
up and spunked on in a back alley near the Elephant and Castle tube
station she could certainly stomach spanking a few pasty English arses, snogging snaggle-toothed Admirers and masturbating them to climax.

It would be distasteful but easy and profitable work.

Julie just wished she had thought of the idea before she brought the
armoire home. It would be a right pain having to bring the camera,
tripod and all of the developing paraphernalia home to take and develop
the pictures she needed for her tart card. It would be far easier to get dressed in the shop, take a few provocative pictures, manufacture a
prototype tart card and then run off as many copies as she needed on the
Xerox machine.

Julie packed Julian's valise with the clothes she would wear for her
portrait, including her blonde wig, her fetish boots and a small
cosmetics case. It all fitted in the large attaché case very nicely.

Julie had drunk four gin and tonics to give her Dutch courage and in a
bold fit of whimsy she laid a pair of stockings, a garter belt and a
pair of full-cut nylon knickers that she would allow Julian to wear
under his suit tomorrow at work. It was impetuous and daring and also
very sexually exciting. Travelling on a packed commuter train wearing
ladies underwear unbeknownst to those around her was very cheeky indeed
and Julie felt cheeky.

And so it came to be that the next day on the eight-fifty-five commuter
train servicing the Bakerloo Line that Donald Cooper caught sight of
Julian Clifford's charmingly turned ankles clad in fully fashioned
stockings and ever since had been unable to put the image out of his mind.

Donald Cooper

Donald was not really surprised when Deirdre told him that she leaving
him. Their marriage had become hollow and they had only remained
together to keep up appearances. That last shag on the dining room table
had been the most exciting thing they had done together for years.

When Donald came home the next day the house felt empty and when he went upstairs he found Deirdre's closet cleaned out and all of her cosmetics
and toiletries gone from the dressing table and bathroom vanity. She'd
left behind the collection of sexy knickers, garter belts and stockings
that Donald had bought her. She obviously had no need for them where she
was going.

Being a barrister Donald knew the procedure for obtaining a decree nisi
and had friends in the judiciary who would rush his divorce through the
courts for him. In a way it was liberating. He was free to chase some of
those short-skirted legal secretaries or perhaps a mature attractive professional lady who projected the sense of style her preferred. Why
not do both?

But... Donald was still haunted by the image of the nicely turned ankles
clad in nylon stockings on the man that he had seen on the Bakerloo line
and he couldn't get it out of his head. He'd seen something that
fascinated and intrigued him and he was determined to get to the bottom
of it.

The morning after the events that would change Donald Cooper's life
forever he went to work as usual looking for Julian Clifford on the
train to see if he was wearing stockings again under his suit but a
thorough search of the eight-fifty-five commuter train had produced
nothing. He'd hurried to his law offices and spoke to the senior partner
and told him about Deirdre leaving him and his pending divorce and of
course the partners had insisted that Donald take some time off until
things were settled and he felt better. Donald said they were probably
right.

Donald left the office and went straight to Clifford's Books and
Sundries and peered through the window and seeing Julian Clifford
engaging with a customer he slipped into the shop and pretended to
browse. The shop was cluttered and it was easy to hide amongst the floor
to ceiling bookshelves and stacks of books piled on display tables. The
place was old and smelled of paper, binding glue and ink but Donald
thought he also detected a faint whiff of perfume. Maybe it was air
freshener but Donald thought not. It was similar to a scent that Deirdre
wore.

Near the rear of the shop was the only modern artefact: a Xerox
photocopier that seemed incongruous amongst the other ancient tat. A
sign taped to wall above the copier read: Xerox Copies -- Sixpence Each
-- See proprietor before use. The law offices of Cooper, Price and
Waterman had a number of similar machines. It was a great place to
loiter and watch the short-skirted legal secretaries bend over to make
copies or crouch down to refill the drawers. One was guaranteed a
glimpse of knicker if one was wait around long enough.

Donald peeked around the corner to see that the proprietor was still
engaged with a customer. He looked down at Julian Clifford's trouser
cuffs, one of which had ridden up slightly. He saw a diamond checked
woollen argyle sock and was both disappointed and relived. He could put
to rest his fascination with Julian Clifford's nicely turned,
stocking-clad ankle. It had either been a one-off whimsy or Donald had
imagined the whole thing.

Julian turned his way and their eyes met briefly and Donald turned away
and began to fiddle with the photocopier. He noticed that the feeder
tray on the side of the machine was loaded with pink A4 card which he
thought a little odd. He pretended to be interested in the machine and
suddenly became aware of a presence beside him.

"Please don't touch the photocopier," Julian said.

Donald thought that Julian's voice was a little effeminate as were his gestures. Small framed, lithe and meticulously dressed in a suit that
was far from new but worn with some panache, he could easily be mistaken
for an Eaton fag. He studied Julian's face which was quite handsome with
high cheekbones, well-shaped lips and emerald green eyes accented by
longish coiffed amber blonde hair. Donald thought he could detect the
perfume he had smelled earlier but it could also just be Julian's
aftershave or cologne.

"I'm sorry. We have a similar machine in our offices and it caught my attention," Donald regretted the stupid lie as soon as he had said it.

Julian studied Donald. He was a handsome man with rugged good looks and
was wearing an expensive suit and polished brogues. His hair was black,
thick and lustrous and he reminded Julian of the actor Richard Burton.
But there was something worryingly familiar about him and Julian
couldn't put his finger on it.

"Then I don't suppose you need any copies made," Julian reached around
Donald and closed the lid on the copier.

The aroma of the scent increased as he did so and Donald was suddenly
certain that Julian was wearing a perfume that his wife Deirdre often
wore. The closeness of his small frame was a little disturbing and
Donald took a step back.

"So can I help you with anything else?" Julian asked a little snarkily.

"No. I was just browsing," Donald replied, regretting that he had come
to the bookshop at all.

"That's my problem. Everybody is browsing and nobody is buying," Julian
sniped.

Donald hurried out of the shop and Julian watched him leave, wondering
if he had seen the man somewhere before. His thoughts were disturbed
when the bell over the door rang and one of his regular customers
entered the shop. Julian went to serve the customer and looked at his
watch. As soon as the shop closed he had work to do. Very important work.

Donald crossed the street and entered the Black Swan public house and
took a pint over to a table near the window where he could watch the
bookshop. Over the course of the afternoon he drank three pints and
smoked five cigarettes until it got dark and Julian closed the shop for
the day. Donald expected that Julian would walk to Oxford Circus tube
station but he took off on foot the other way turning onto Argyll Street
and then onto Great Marlborough and into Soho; he was carrying a valise
and walking purposefully.

Donald had decided to give up his curiosity and inquisitiveness about
Julian Clifford and his peculiarity for wearing stockings to work on one singular occasion but something about his demeanour in the bookshop
niggled at Donald and he was determined to find out what it was about
Julian Clifford that preoccupied him.

Donald followed Julian from a good distance hiding among the crowds that
were heading home from work.

Julian stopped at every telephone phone box he passed and he also darted
into a couple of newsagents and public houses and quickly ducked back
out. Julian was working his way around Soho street by street. Donald
risked getting a little closer and watched Julian enter one of London's
famous red phone boxes. He extracted something from his valise, fiddled
around a little and left.

Donald entered the phone box as soon as Julian had moved on. He closed
the door behind him. A scintilla of the perfume that Donald had smelled
in the bookshop was still in the air, obscuring the smell of stale beer
and piss. The phone boxes in this part of London were used for many
unsavoury purposes and sure enough, Donald spied a used 'johnnie' in the corner.

The wall behind the handset was plastered with tart cards, some of them
taped over others, the older ones faded and ripped. Most were crudely
made but some had a little artistic flair applied to them. He spotted
the tart card that Julian had taped above the handset; recognising the
same pink card he had seen loaded in the feeder tray of Julian's
photocopier. He snatched it off the wall and was about to read it when a besuited elderly man in a bowler hat hammered on the door with the
wooden handle of his umbrella.

"Come on man if you're not going to use the phone vacate the booth. I
need to make a call," the man growled angrily.

Donald blushed like a schoolboy with his hand caught in the biscuit tin
and stuffed the card into the inside pocket of his jacket and vacated
the booth, deliberately not making eye contact with the bowler-hatted man.

"Pervert," the man hissed under his breath and slammed the door closed
and lifted the handset which he wiped vigorously with a crisp white handkerchief before putting it to his ear.

Donald moved on quickly, backtracking to the news agency he had seen
Julian enter and leave before he got to the phone booth. He saw a
similar card pinned to a cork notice board above the stacks of
newspapers. He snatched it off the noticeboard, pocketed it, picked up a
copy of the News of the World, tossed a tanner in the tin and left the
shop and walked to the nearest tube station to catch his train home.

Donald could feel the cards burning a hole in his pocket but despite his impatience he didn't take them out. A crowded train was no place to
peruse a tart card, which Donald was pretty sure they were. He tried to
read his newspaper but his mind kept churning over reasons for Julian Clifford's erratic behaviour.

The more he thought about it, the more it became obvious to him.
Clifford's Books and Sundries must be suffering. The shop had a rundown appearance and the addition of the photocopying and passport photo
service had probably been introduced by Julian as a sideline in an
attempt to bolster the meagre profit he made selling books. The
hypothesis made perfect sense. Julian Clifford was broke and was doing
whatever he could to make ends meet.

Enterprising prostitutes placed their tart cards in news agents and
especially phone boxes; after all, each card sported a telephone number,
and it made sense to advertise where potential clients could use it immediately. Sometimes the women place their own cards, but they more
often subcontracted this work to 'carders' who were often students or unemployed. There was good money to be made.

It was obvious to Donald that Julian was manufacturing tart cards on his photocopier and distributing them around London. But how was he getting
paid? Some of the girls had pimps so maybe one had approached Julian
with a business offer but most of the girls worked alone. So how had
Julian come to be in the tart card manufacturing and distribution business?

Donald could hardly wait until he got home and he could read the two
cards he had in his pocket. Maybe he would even call the number and ask
the girl how her cards were distributed. But then again maybe not.

Julie Clifford

After carding every phone box and news agency in Soho and the
surrounding district, as well as a few pubs, Julian had taken the tube
home and gone straight upstairs and transformed into Julie.

She wore the big blonde wig, heavy makeup, a black satin corset with red
lace trim, matching cami-knickers, black seamed stockings and black,
knee-high, high-heeled boots. Her cheap costume jewellery was faux
silver with gaudy imitation emeralds to match her eyes.

Julie entered Peter Forest's old room. She had converted it into her
'workroom' and the bed was fitted with cheap satin sheets and an array
of paddles, a riding crop and a bamboo cane were laid out on the
coverlet; a tube of KY Jelly and a box of tissues sat on the bedside
table. Anyone entering the room would know its purpose. The heavy drapes
were closed tightly.

Julie didn't like the clothes she was wearing but they were a necessity
for the trade she was about to practice. She had worn them the previous
evening when she had mounted the camera on the tripod and set it to take
a series of timed exposures while she arranged herself on the couch in
her little office in the bookstore.

At first she had felt silly posing provocatively for the camera but she
had gotten into the spirit of things and when she had developed the
pictures she was quite taken the results.

She selected a picture which she thought best displayed the services she
was offering. She was reclined on the sofa, one foot up on it the other
leg extended, her arms draped along the back of the couch, one hand
holding a riding crop, her head thrown back a little and her lips opened sensuously. Her knickers were openly on display as were her
stocking-tops. Even in black and white she looked beautiful and sexy.

She reduced the picture down but kept the resolution so that it fitted
on the tart card above the text. She fiddled with the copier settings
until she got the results she wanted and then ran off twenty copies. She
sat at her desk and painstakingly cut the tart cards into squares
manufacturing six tart cards from each A4 page.

Julie still regretted wearing the stockings, suspenders and knickers to
work that morning under her suit but she had to admit it was titillating wearing the clothing clandestinely around the shop whilst serving
customers. She played with the idea of wearing lingerie under her
man-clothes all the time but decided it was too risky.

Julie had waited until today to plaster her tart cards all over the red
light district, giving herself a day to cool off. Twenty-four hours
later she was still of a mindset that it was the only way she was going
to make quick money and there was no going back.

She lit a Consulate, poured herself a gin and tonic and sat staring at
the red telephone anxiously.

Julie jumped and nearly spilled her drink when the phone eventually
rang, the bell shattering the silence. She got to her feet and walked to
the sideboard and lifted the handpiece.

end of page 3 of 4

A GLIMPSE OF NYLON STOCKING CH. 01
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"TV Julie," she whispered into the receiver; her voice thick with
trepidation.

She could hear heavy breathing on the other end of the line but the
caller remained silent.

"TV Julie," she repeated herself, this time a little more confidently.

The breathing became heavier and suddenly stopped and the line clicked
and the connection was broken.

Julie felt angry, despondent and a little silly.

"This is a stupid idea!" she hissed to herself and suddenly the phone
rang again.

She snatched up the receiver.

"TV Julie, how can I help you?" she said in what she hoped was her
sultriest voice.

"You the tart offering spanking and hand relief?" the man had a rough
sounding London accent.

"Yes," Julie said as confidently as she could.

"How much?" the man asked.

"You get everything advertised for two pounds," Julie said curtly.

"Sounds good luv. Where am I going to?" the man sounded enthusiastic.

It was time to shit or get off the pot. Crunch time. Julie knew that she
was making a life-changing decision and also possibly exposing herself
to danger.

"Twelve, Black Prince Road, Lambeth," Julie whispered into the phone.

"Perfect. I'll be there in fifteen minutes luv," the man said and the
line went dead.

Julie began to tremble and then she pulled herself together. She had
crossed the Rubicon; there was no going back, best to make the most of
it and just think about the money.

The man was true to his word and arrived fifteen minutes later giving
Julie time to drink another G&T and smoke another menthol cigarette.
When the doorbell rang she got up on shaky knees and went down the hall
and looked through the peephole. She saw a red-faced man with a fat face wearing a flatcap looking anxiously up and down the street. He looked
old, plain and obese but who did she expect would be using her services:
Tom Jones?

She opened the door and the man barged in, brushing past her.

"Don't leave your punters standing on the doorstep where everyone can
see them luv. You new to this?" the man rubbed his hands together and

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