It was 1959 and I was eighteen years old. My mother and father had died over a year ago in a car crash and after spending six months in a foster home my Aunty Jean had taken me in as her ward.

Aunty Jean was forty-five and quite an attractive woman for her age. Her body was a little on the large side but she had large creamy breasts and stunning legs for a woman her age. She worked in an office in the city and her work attire usually consisted of skirt, blouse, heels and hosiery; she dressed sophisticatedly and wore lots of makeup and perfume.

She preferred tight pencil skirts; the hem resting just above her knees, and tight satin or silk blouses. She always wore hosiery and I was occasionally rewarded with a glimpse of stocking-top or welt as it is correctly known. She wore either taupe or grey nylons and, although they had recently gone out of fashion, she preferred fully-fashioned stockings with a back-seam. She also favoured high-heels; either strappy sandals or open-toe pumps.

Aunty Jean's makeup was always perfect: lashings of black eyeliner, mascara and multi-hued eyeshadow set off her sparkling hazel eyes. Her cheeks were rouged to enhance her high cheek-bones and she wore ruby-red lipstick on her full sensuous lips. She painted her fingernails and toenails with nailpolish to match the colour of her lipstick. Her pretty face was framed by a jet-black bob, which some of her friends jealously insisted was dyed. She wore exotic perfume which seemed to envelop her in a cloud wherever she went.

She stood five-foot six-inches tall in her heels and was voluptuous rather than fat.

To me she was stunning...

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