Selfshot
I stood before Anne and pulled the nylon up over my hard cock and around my waist forming a nylon tent which I could see Anne staring intently at.Anne smiled as I stood silently, thoughts running through my head as to what I was doing and that there could never ever be any going back from this situation. I looked Anne in the eyes and asked her if she intended to return the favour and remove her trousers. She laughed and said that I wouldn’t want to see her old legs. I assured her that I wouldn’t be standing in front of her with a huge erection, wearing her tights, if I didn’t want to see her.I took her hand and led her to the bedroom, pulling the curtains to keep our privacy and turning the light on. I told her to take her trousers off and as she did so I took off my T-Shirt so that I was standing in front of her with only a pair of her barely black tights on. Anne unbuttoned her trousers and let them fall to the floor, a sight that I had longed to see for many years.I stepped. Bachelor Guy ran a weird bric-a-brac shop in the London district of Soho, which was then full of Bohemian jazz clubs, casinos, strip joints (the forerunners of sex shops) and over-made-up street walkers, whose trademark salutation was: "Would you like a nice time, dearie?" I loved wandering the area, especially at dusk, when it began to get 'edgy'.One day my father gave me an envelope which he said had to be urgently delivered by hand to his brother-in-law. I was given the fare to travel up to London from the suburbs by bus. It was nearly five o'clock when I eventually reached Uncle Guy's shop in Soho, called Bijou Ephemera. Its garishly-illuminated shop window featured all manner of bric-a-brac: antique jewellery, old china, leather-bound railway almanacs, split-crotch panties, mildly erotic Edwardian postcards and some very naughty Aubrey Beardsley prints. Lettered across the shop window was the boast: 'London's Premier TV Centre', although I never recall seeing a single television.
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