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.
One Sunday, years after my first voyage into the world of secret crossdressing, I found myself once again, in the cubicle with the hole in the door. Accumulated on the walls were dozens of notes and numbers and requests for sex. Written by unknown men , the graphic descriptions of sexual acts were sometimes accompanied by lewd an explicit drawings of cocks and men wearing stockings with their asses dripping fluid. Some of the stories were lengthy and I was turned on by reading them. I would often sit there slowly masterbating in my fishnet stockings while imagining what it would be like to do the things scrawled on the walls around me.
Sometimes a man would visit the urinals and stay for longer than it should take to piss. I would freeze and hide what I was doing until they left. One day when I was s*******n I watched two men touching and wanking each other through the hole. Nervously I looked on as they took turns to bend down and suck each other. I’m sure they knew I was spying on them as they positioned themselves so I could plainly see. One of the men dropped his trousers, and to my amazement, he had on black seamed stockings. I was transfixed, and aroused more than ever before. He stepped away from the urinals and shuffled towards my door then turned as he lifted up his shirt revealing a black basque and white knickers. His companion went to him from behind and started rubbing his arse.
They were both mumbling and groaning as I peered intensely. They came closer and the guy in stockings peeled down his white panties and was stroking his cock, by now inches from my door. My face was pressed up against the large hole, they could both see me there. He said something and put his wet prick through the hole and although I was quite nervous, I took the end into my mouth.
It tasted like cum, and, as I took it deeper into my warm young mouth, he moaned and pushed himself against the door. He was elderly with grey pubic hair and his trembling legs were skinny. The other man i could just make out behind him, he had one hand in the back of the guys panties rubbing furiously while he squeezed and pulled on his own cock. It was very hard and big, he kept spitting on his hand and continued to play with himself.
Then the cock in my mouth grew very stiff and the door began to shake. Without warning, my mouth received several spirts of hot semen. He came loads and I swallowed all of it without time to think. I was shocked but very turned on and as I composed myself watched as the other guy jerked and flicked streams of his sperm on the tiled floor.
Not sure what to do, I prepared to leave. By the time I have cleaned my face and adjusted my closet they had both left. I didn’t see either of their faces and was slightly shaken by the experience. Was I gay now?
As I walked along the beach I couldn’t stop thinking about what just happened, the urge to wank myself off was just too much.
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