A journey into crossdressing adventure
I was f******n, like every other testosterone fuelled adolescent, I was continually on the boil. There was no internet back then so my energies were focused on feeding my appetite by searching for anything sexual and deviant. Girlfriends at this age were nice but complex and although relationships were tender and wholesome, I developed a solo mission driven by my urges.
Porn was OK, I had no problem buying magazines from the newsagents in the seaside town where I lived. Collections came with a passion and when the shame and fear of discovery mounted, they were disposed of secretly in rural or derelict brown field locations. As a grown man, I've shared my hilarious escapades and learned these were common among all of my male peers.
Porn hunting on tips and railway embankments was a popular pastime in the days before digital gratification, although to this day, looking back, I must admit my adventures in the wilderness were all consuming and devisive. The thrill of finding a hardcore magazine, in any condition, was a hard to beat, perhaps a twisted echo of the unsatisfied hunter gatherer of a young buck!
Underwear was the thing! Stockings, suspenders, panties, basques, bras, heels gloves, dresses, skirts, blouses... Female clothing was something this young teenager found most enjoyable. Images in pornos were one thing, the discovery of the feel and reality of secret, silky garments took my perversion to an intense new level.
I found a pair of my mums stockings in the wash. They were tan coloured and I tried one on, carefully not to ladder, I recall the first time I unrolled it over my foot and with trembling hands, gently pulled and stretched it up around my long muscular adolescent leg. I remember my breath quickening and heartbeat pushing a heady sexual pleasure as, for the first of countless occasions, I resembled the nameless models I had worshipped in my sordid masterbatory sessions.
The first time buying a pair of stockings was hot, fidgety and unpleasant. But my need to explore this new world was so strong, it was't long before it was second nature. My education in matters of colour, denier, trim on tights, holdups, seams and fishnets was swift, my habit, insatiable.
A strictly solo affair and the age of f******n, my stocking fetish was satisfied at weekends and school holidays with outings devised to enable me to spend the maximum time wearing one or two pairs of stockings at a time and walking some distances with them on under my baggy tracksuit bottoms.
A place to change was found in the public toilets near the beach. Usually deserted, initially it was a quick in, put the stockings on, secure either with found elastic bands discarded by the postman, or cheap suspenders bought from one of the many tacky tourist shops on the front. The feeling just seemed to get better and better. The sight of my own shapely legs in a shimmering mixture of opaque colour or defining fishnet stirred my enthusiasm exquisitely and sustained a very sizeable and prolonged state of arousal in my tiny panties.
As you may have predicted, my chosen place of preparation, on closer inspection, became a fascination in itself. The Victorian public toilets in question comprised three cubicles with white tiled walls from floor to well above head height. Two of the cubicles had heavy doors with good locks and apart from the sand that had carried or blown in, were clean. The third was facing the urinals, this had no lock and there was a large hole about four inches square about halfway up in the centre of the door.
Porn was OK, I had no problem buying magazines from the newsagents in the seaside town where I lived. Collections came with a passion and when the shame and fear of discovery mounted, they were disposed of secretly in rural or derelict brown field locations. As a grown man, I've shared my hilarious escapades and learned these were common among all of my male peers.
Porn hunting on tips and railway embankments was a popular pastime in the days before digital gratification, although to this day, looking back, I must admit my adventures in the wilderness were all consuming and devisive. The thrill of finding a hardcore magazine, in any condition, was a hard to beat, perhaps a twisted echo of the unsatisfied hunter gatherer of a young buck!
Underwear was the thing! Stockings, suspenders, panties, basques, bras, heels gloves, dresses, skirts, blouses... Female clothing was something this young teenager found most enjoyable. Images in pornos were one thing, the discovery of the feel and reality of secret, silky garments took my perversion to an intense new level.
I found a pair of my mums stockings in the wash. They were tan coloured and I tried one on, carefully not to ladder, I recall the first time I unrolled it over my foot and with trembling hands, gently pulled and stretched it up around my long muscular adolescent leg. I remember my breath quickening and heartbeat pushing a heady sexual pleasure as, for the first of countless occasions, I resembled the nameless models I had worshipped in my sordid masterbatory sessions.
The first time buying a pair of stockings was hot, fidgety and unpleasant. But my need to explore this new world was so strong, it was't long before it was second nature. My education in matters of colour, denier, trim on tights, holdups, seams and fishnets was swift, my habit, insatiable.
A strictly solo affair and the age of f******n, my stocking fetish was satisfied at weekends and school holidays with outings devised to enable me to spend the maximum time wearing one or two pairs of stockings at a time and walking some distances with them on under my baggy tracksuit bottoms.
A place to change was found in the public toilets near the beach. Usually deserted, initially it was a quick in, put the stockings on, secure either with found elastic bands discarded by the postman, or cheap suspenders bought from one of the many tacky tourist shops on the front. The feeling just seemed to get better and better. The sight of my own shapely legs in a shimmering mixture of opaque colour or defining fishnet stirred my enthusiasm exquisitely and sustained a very sizeable and prolonged state of arousal in my tiny panties.
As you may have predicted, my chosen place of preparation, on closer inspection, became a fascination in itself. The Victorian public toilets in question comprised three cubicles with white tiled walls from floor to well above head height. Two of the cubicles had heavy doors with good locks and apart from the sand that had carried or blown in, were clean. The third was facing the urinals, this had no lock and there was a large hole about four inches square about halfway up in the centre of the door.
7 years ago
