Suspenders
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Suspender Stockings free porn video
SUSPENDER STOCKINGS
Transfemme, 2000/2002
PART ONE: THE HOLY GRAIL
Angie stepped in the changing booth, placing her
purchase over the chair, her expression flushed with
excited pleasure. Shutting out the busy hum of the
showroom, she glanced at her image in the mirror and
reached back to unzip her bright red sun-frock. A trim
young girl with wavy blond hair trailing down past her
shoulders, she smiled with the vaguely guilty
expression of a child caught with her hand in the
candy jar.
Dropping the dress down to her tiny waist, she began
to shimmy it over the gentle curves of her hips. A
faint smile touched her lips; the Fever had been
raging through her system for more than three weeks
now. It was like one of those tunes that spiralled
endlessly around at the front of your mind, despite
your firmest efforts to push it away. Well, the fire
would be quenched today, her yearnings finally
satisfied. She looked back into the mirror, admiring
the lithe flow of her petite figure.
Like most girls her age, Angie loved wearing pretty
underthings beneath her day clothes - it was like
having a delicious secret she could hide from the rest
of the world. Her brassier was a pastel-pink
wonderbra, firm and tight, thrusting her full, pert
breasts up form to a deep, perfectly divided cleavage.
One of the straps looped off her left shoulder; it was
covered with a delicate white trim. Her flesh was as
smooth as alabaster, having only the barest touch of a
suntan.
Long hair hanging over her face in blond arabesques,
she wriggled her bottom out of the dress's slim
waistline, gradually exposing her scanty, high-cut
briefs. They were a pair of pink satin bikini panties,
decorated with tiny bows and white lace fringes.
Gleaming like molten silver against her creamy skin,
they looked as if they? been airbrushed onto her body.
She stepped gingerly out of the hem, careful not to
catch her stilettos on the red fabric. She'd ruined
one too many expensive outfits with a careless turn of
the heel. Hanging the frock over the door hook, she
swept her hair back from her face, feeling a warm,
moist blush rising through her tummy. Angie had good
reason to feel excited. She'd found what she'd been
looking for.
Finally.
Stepping across the booth in her undies and high
heels, she leaned forward to inspect her purchase.
She'd spent close on a month browsing her way through
Chamberlain's Westside, visiting every boutique and
lingerie store in the Fashion Quarter, cruising her
way around the plazas and the malls. Searching for
just three shreds of intimate fantasy, three remnants
of a forgotten decadence.
Grinning an enormous, radiant smile, Angie picked up
the dainty lace garter belt, marvelling at its fragile
and complicated beauty. A magical wisp of lace,
Lycra and shimmering liquid satin, it was as complex
and as insubstantial as a dream. The suspenders
trailed in long, ornate streamers of floral elastic.
Stretching the straps between her lacquered
fingertips, Angie felt a thrill of pure feminine
allure strafe through her entire body.
She laid the garter belt back on the chair, imagining
how it would look clipped around her waist, then
picked up one of the stockings, smoothing it out with
her left hand. The flesh-coloured denier whispered
enticingly between her fingers. Sheer and gauzy and
almost completely transparent, it was a genuine silk
stocking, the kind with a reinforced toe and a seam
down the back.
Angie squandered a few moments admiring its gossamer
perfection. The barest touch raised gooseflesh along
her arms and shoulders. It felt unspeakably feminine,
a thing of dreams and unspoken desires. A long,
delicious shiver raced the down length of her spine;
the very thought of drawing that nebulous material
along her thighs made her ache with anticipation.
Kicking off her high heels, Angie bent down to slide
the stocking over her right foot. The naughty-little
girl smile stole across her features again.
PART 2: POLITICALLY CORRECT
Garter belts and suspender stockings were rather
difficult to come by these days.
You could still find exotic, sensual underwear around
the Bohemian neighbourhoods and the recycling centres,
but the larger retailing chains seemed to stock only
the most utilitarian garments. Pedestrian, plain,
unimaginative. Some women referred to them as
'Passion Killers', recalling the silk-ration shortages
of the war years of the previous century. Dull,
colourless and boring.
Life had been depressingly monotone since America
First had gotten into power.
The end of the twentieth century had unleashed a
virtual torrent of conservative values, a return to
the political Right surpassing even the lethargy of
the Regan years. Picket Fence lifestyles had sprouted
across the continent like a furious, virulent weed;
traditional principals had steamrollered their way
through urban society, erasing the bright, shining
multi-cultures of the nineties.
It had been a bloodless revolution, one in which the
Good Ole Boys had triumphed without firing a single
shot. Never the less, these were difficult time for
those who wavered at the periphery of the Picket
Fence; those living on the outer rim of the
acceptable and the 'norm'. No laws had been passed,
no witch-hunts mounted against the 'pink stain', and
yet sexual diversity had virtually disappeared from
the public eye, even in former 'Pride Capitals' such
as San Francisco or East Village. In the final
analysis, invisibility was the safer option, far
preferable to the isolation, loneliness and constant
surveillance suffered by the Visible.
All the same, Angie had very little to worry about.
She was already invisible. No one would have guessed,
even for a second, that she had not been born female.
PART THREE: EXPOSURE
'Are you okay in there?'
Angie glanced around with a gasp, a vague blush
touching her porcelain features. The door to her
cubicle had been flung open, allowing the world
outside a generous view of the booth's lavender
interior. A tall, thirty-ish sales woman stood by the
doorway, smiling in at her. Virtually paralysed with
surprise, Angie looked self-consciously into the
showroom, frozen in the act of slipping her long,
tapering leg into a silk stocking. Her bra and panties
glaringly pink against her pale flesh, her gloriously
nubile figure on full exhibition.
Embarrassment blossomed like a huge purple flower in
the warm depths of her belly. She was young and
strikingly beautiful, a slim, willowy adolescent
trembling on the edge of maturity. Her eyes were twin
pools of late November sky; huge and innocent and
glowing with child-like wonder.
She crossed her hands modestly over her cleavage,
stepping back from the open doorway.
'Oh, I'm sorry', the sales assistant apologised, in
genuine concern, 'did I startle you?' She was a tall,
elegant lady with a trim figure and a beaming, elfin
face. Her ID tag read Jean, the sort of name that
sounded inexplicably appropriate when attached to
women of her generation.
'No, no - not at all', Angie replied, her cheeks
reddening to the tone of a maraschino cherry, 'just a
little jumpy, I guess. I'm... I've been looking for
...' her sentence trailed off into the endless limbo
of the unfinished statement. It was ridiculous -
ludicrous really - she still grew as coy as a ten
year-old whenever she went shopping for underwear.
The saleswoman stepped into the cubicle, absently
forgetting to close the door behind her. Angie opened
her mouth to say something, but couldn't quite get it
out.
'Do you need a hand with that?' Jean asked, indicating
the garter belt.
Angie glanced over at it, scarlet-faced and completely
flustered.
'Well, I... yes, I suppose so. I mean...'
Jean nodded, her smile almost comically sympathetic:
it's okay; I know exactly how you feel.
'They can be a little difficult, especially if this is
your first time trying one on', Jean told her, taking
up the frilly strip of lace corsetry and stepping into
the narrow confines of the changing space. Taking her
gently by the shoulders, she turned the blushing young
girl towards the mirror. She stood in her bra, panties
and stockings, flushed to the tips of her eyebrows.
Jean passed the garter belt around Angie's waist and
began clipping it into place, her fingers moving with
the expertise of long practice. Excitement poured over
Angie's body like some thick warm fluid, her breathing
quickened to swift, shallow spurts.
'It's sort of like putting on a bra, except lower
down', the older woman was saying, 'the tricky part is
attaching the stockings'.
Angie could only nod her assent, feeling the belt
constricting her waistline by at least three inches.
The satin was stretched taunt against her rosy flesh;
the garters dangled loosely against her bare thighs.
Her mind was listing in a sea of ecstasy, her legs
trembled with near rapture.
Out in the salesroom, heads were craning about on
flexible stalks. It was Saturday morning, and this was
the only store this side of the city to stock European
underwear. Evidently half the population of
Chamberlain was in the showroom at the moment, and
every single one of them wanted a better look. Well,
at least the saleswoman's presence was blocking their
view for the most part.
'Thank heavens for small mercies', Angie thought to
herself, a tiny giggle rising to her lips. Taking a
deep, calming breath, she pushed the laughter back
into her belly, shifting her centre of balance to her
left hip. Her eyes literally danced with feminine
mischief. Her heart was pounding in her throat, she
felt almost delirious with arousal.
'There, that's done', Jean said, turning the girl
around by the elbows so they were standing virtually
face-to-face, 'now, let's get those garters hooked up.
Could you step forward on your right leg for a
moment?'
Angie thrust her knee slightly forward in the classic
pose while Jean began adjusting the suspenders. The
woman fumbled with the clasp for a few seconds,
fussing over the garter-strap. Translucent denier
stretched against Angie's lean, white haunch.
Jean clucked under her breath, hitching up the
stocking-top with some difficulty in the claustrophobic
space of the changing booth. She released the clasp
after a brief struggle, then straightened up with an
oddly sceptical look on her face.
'Here; come out into the showroom', Jean said, taking
Angie lightly by the wrist, 'there's not enough space
in here for the two of us'.
A four second pause. Then:
What?!
Angie's cheeks flared like a pair of wild
strawberries.
'Come on out', Jean repeated, smiling placidly, 'it's
a little too cramped in here. There's plenty of room
in the showroom'.
'The showroom?!' Angie gasped in surprise, 'but...
but I'm not... I'm not wearing anything'. Her tummy
swarmed with teasing butterflies, a wave of panic
surged through her entire nervous system. She felt
herself stepping into her stilettos, her mind suddenly
slipping into autopilot. Her lips parted in shock,
eyes bulging from their sockets. What was she doing?!
'Oh, don't worry about that', Jean replied amiably,
leading her forward by the right hand, 'we have pretty
young girls like you in here all the time. It is a
lingerie shop, after all'. They were at the very
threshold now: in a few seconds, Angela would be
exhibiting her lingerie before the entire store.
But there's MEN out there, Angie tried to say, though
the words never actually left her mouth. The store was
literally crammed with ubiquitous males (or so she
thought); husbands, fiances, hip young dudes in brown
leather jackets. Little boys in baseball caps clinging
to their mother's skirts. Angie strutted forward on
her impossibly high heels, her head spinning with a
mixture of shock, embarrassment and pure, girlish
delight.
'...anyway, you need to see yourself in the three-way
to get the full effect', Jean was prattling on,
oblivious to the girl's crimson-faced reluctance,
'those change-room mirrors just can't give you the
distance you need for a full-length view'.
I must be dreaming, she thought wildly as they stepped
through the doorway into the brightly lit salesroom.
Time seemed to pause as she was led towards the
central display, weaving a trail through a small
forest of gaping mouths and goggling eyes. The store
was absolutely bristling with customers, and at least
half the clientele seemed to be of the masculine
persuasion.
Angie simply couldn't believe this was happening to
her.
Although she'd harboured fantasies of this kind for
years, she'd never - NEVER in her wildest dreams -
imagined she'd find herself parading her gleaming
satin underpants before a roomful of startled (and
somewhat admiring) onlookers. Her luscious, teenaged
body was bursting with the ripening fruit of dawning
sexuality. A rare, fine colour was stealing up her
torso, tinting her red from chin to belly button.
This can't be happening, Angie thought once more as
the crowd parted before her.
To be continued
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Dani
- 20.03.2022
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