The Models' New Clothes

Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!

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The Models' New Clothes

(***, M/F, Serious, nudity, silly, very little spanking)

A young model tells about an unusual modeling show where she and the other model's costumes are a little, er, transparent. (Approximately 2,850 words. Originally published 1996-02.)

The day of the show I was more nervous than I'd ever been in my life. Even more nervous than my very first runway six years ago. I don't know why I was so nervous. We'd been rehearsing and going through fittings all week. And after all, I do runways all the time. Of course this one was for Roge St. Louis, one of the most respected designers on the planet, and he was unveiling his first collection in more than ten years after his celebrated retirement back in 1984.

Roge was a legend in the industry. Even today's cutting edge fashion was still influenced by his classic works. The fact that he'd come out of retirement and personally selected a group of twenty-six models to show off his new line was unprecedented, and quite flattering to those chosen.

My name is Buffy, though most people know me as Belinda Van Horne. I've been modeling since I was fourteen. I was born and grew up near Jacksonville, Florida, and like many models, I was very shy and reserved when I started. During the past four years my career has really taken off and I've been doing gigs all around the world, everything from swimsuit calendars to magazine covers. Getting picked by Roge to be in his new show was a real coup and my agent was feverishly excited. The whole affair was to be broadcast live on a nationwide cable channel, so the exposure would be tremendous.

But I was nervous.

Perhaps it was the clothes. I'm no fashion expert, especially when it comes to avant garde styles, and I wouldn't dream of criticizing Roge, but his new line seemed to me to be, well, _lacking_. I didn't say anything to the other girls, but many, I think, were also a little worried.

It wasn't that they looked bad; some of the outfits I thought looked smashing, depending upon who was wearing them. It was just that, well, they seemed, er, rather skimpy. Perhaps it was just my eyes. Maybe I got my contact lenses swapped again.

Take my outfit, for instance. Roge tells me the material is this new micro-molecular stuff, so sheer it's almost invisible. I can't even see the straps. In fact, the whole dress is so light it almost feels like I'm not wearing anything. Of course I can't really tell how it looks from my perspective, but it must be nice because the stage crew sure seems to admire it. I wish I could see it better, but Roge has strictly forbidden mirrors.

I think he's worried that if we saw how revealing these outfits were we'd become self-conscious, and he's probably right. I know I feel a little shy. When I'm walking I can feel the air move between my thighs and actually tickle my pubic hairs! Whatever this dress looks like I know it must be quite short. In some ways I'm a little glad I really can't tell. When I look down it seems that I'm totally exposed, but Roge says that that's just the way the material looks from my angle--when looked at from the side he says the cloth looks like a thin stream of water, like a waterfall.

"It's beautiful, dahling," he says and gives my fanny a gentle pat. "Trust me." And then he's gone.

But I'm more fortunate than some of the girls. There are a number of them who didn't have an all-over tan, and Roge insisted that they spend most of the week lying naked in tanning beds so their bottoms and boobs don't have that ugly chalky look when the rest of their body is a beautiful bronze. Apparently he's worried their skimpy outfits will show off these areas.

A few Roge has to give his daily "white bottom cure." I'm not sure what that is, exactly, but the results are spectacular. They spend about a half-hour in his private chambers with the door tightly shut and when they come out their faces are flushed, their eyes glisten, and their fanny's are bright red. In about an hour or so their bottoms are a deep maroon that Roge says is very beautiful and will "enhance" their outfits wonderfully.

I tried to ask Cindy once what this "cure" consisted of, but she glanced worriedly in Roge's direction and refused to talk about it. She seemed very nervous and looked like she was about to burst into tears. I decided the cure must be some kind of enema or something, rather private and awkward no doubt. (While I've never had a cure like that myself, it's quite common. Just like some models glue bathing suits to their butts others will actually carry a suppository while performing--though painful it's said to enhance their strut and overall "thrust" of their rump.)

Anyhow, I thought the clothes of the other girls were even more revealing than mine. While I just _felt_ naked, the other girls _looked_ naked. I mean most of them looked like they didn't have a stitch on! Roge assured me this was just an optical illusion. My eyes weren't used to the lighting and of course I didn't have the fashion critic's eye.

"The effect is very subtle, Buf," he told me gently as he helped fit me into my outfit--a rather difficult and time-consuming task for such an invisibly petite dress. Getting it on involved a great deal of pushing and grabbing and pinching and maneuvering various parts of my anatomy around to get it to fit. Roge said he should have made some adjustments but there just wasn't time.

I found it a little strange that he wouldn't let me help but insisted on doing all the work himself, leaving me standing there with my arms above my head feeling like nothing more than a showroom mannequin. It was also rather embarrassing. By the time he was finished my breasts felt almost like he'd been fondling them and my sex was damp and my nipples quite erect. I was sure glad I had on that outfit, slim as it was, so he couldn't see how aroused I was getting!

Though it was unusual for the fashion industry, we spent an entire week rehearsing for the show. We endured countless fittings and I'd swear I spent as much time undressed as I did _in_ that outfit. Fortunately the place was kept quite warm--almost hot actually. At first most of us slipped on a robe between fittings but soon that just seemed rather ridiculous. The dresses were so sheer it hardly mattered and after all, we were all professionals and a little extra exposure made little difference.

We had to practice our walk and Roge even coached us on that, threatening a few with the suppository cure if they didn't "shape up." He wanted our walks to match both our unique bodies and the particular outfit we were wearing. One girl needed to wiggle her chest a bit more to enhance the effect of her cleavage--which from my perspective looked exceedingly excessive--and another needed to swivel her hips a bit more.

The runway was bit non-traditional too. Rather than have several girls walking at once Roge had each girl wait until the next was exiting before entering. He explained that this was because we were each so special he wanted us all to have our moment in the spotlight without any others to distract the attention away. Needless to say we appreciated his generous gesture.

At the end of the runway where models traditional simply pirouette and walk away, Roge had each of use learn to do several poses. Some had to bend and touch their toes, others put their arms above their heads as though reaching for the ceiling. A couple girls knelt or crawled, and a few even rolled around in what I thought was a bit of an obscene manner. Each girl's little dance was unique, however, and the effect was quite pleasing. It gave us each a chance to show off our personality and we liked that.

My sequence was rather embarrassing even wearing the dress. I had to sit down on the floor and spread my legs wide and slowly lean back on my hands and then lift my butt off the floor so that the only parts of me touching the ground were my hands and heels. This position thrust my breasts toward the ceiling and of course offered everyone a spectacular view of my crotch!

Roge at first had insisted I wear no underpants under my dress but that was going too far. I flatly refused and he finally consented and fitted me with what felt like a skimpy thong--I guess I should have expected no less from him. The bikini panties were made of the same gauzy material as the dress and felt lighter than air. Roge spent a great deal of time getting it to fit just right. He said the material wasn't lying flat against my pussy lips and he had to do considerable adjusting to get it to work. He had me spread my legs very wide and he played with my pussy lips and crack for about an hour before he finally had the panties on properly.

"The thong is rather thin and keeps slipping into your butt crack," he told me. "Walk gingerly. Try not to let your thighs rub against each other."

I'd try it and he'd shake his head and have to fit the panties again and then we'd start over. I tell you, when we were finished I was so horny from all that touching I didn't even wait to take off the panties when I got to my dressing room. I just slipped my hand down there and brought myself off three times before I felt somewhat normal again. (I must say, that cloth is remarkable--my fingers couldn't feel it at all. I must remember to tell Roge they should make condoms out of that stuff.)

I felt rather embarrassed afterward. I wasn't behaving very professionally. But I couldn't help myself. It was either that or the prop boy, and I didn't fancy my picture showing up in the tabloids again. I was worried that Roge or someone would notice the distinct smell on the panties--I'm afraid they must have been absolutely soaked with my juices--but fortunately no one said a word.

Anyhow, the day of show arrived and the place was just nuts. People running everywhere, half-naked models all over the place, and Roge, the picture of quiet composure and confidence, walking about and beaming at everyone. He seemed very pleased with how everything was going and no matter how nervous anyone appeared--either one of the television producers eying the almost transparent outfits with raised eyebrows or one of the more conservative younger models balking at not being allowed to wear a bra--Roge just smiled and cooed and quieted everyone down with soothing words and praise at our cooperation and beauty.

That evening we were all gathered backstage and ready for our grand entrances. Roge was dressed in an Italian tuxedo and looking like a cat that had swallowed the canary. He just beamed positive energy. Soon it was time.

The announcer began the spiel and introduced Roge to roaring acclaim and then the first model went out. Christy--I'm certain you've heard of her--looked absolutely stunning in the little nothing she was wearing. I was near the middle of the pack and could quite see her as clearly as I would have liked, but I couldn't help but notice her bottom was the color of a ripe Washington apple--she'd spent considerable time in Roge's office that afternoon.

According the Roge the bright lights of the stage would highlight the translucent material and really make it gleam. I couldn't see but it must have worked because when Christy appeared the noisy audience went dead silent for a full ten seconds. I mean dead--you could have heard a pin drop, like in those phone commercials. It was eerie.

At first I was worried that something was wrong, that the people didn't like the outfit or new cloth, but then I heard a few gasps, a couple grunts, some cheers, and a catcall or two. Then there was someone clapping, and then more. Soon the place erupted in a loud cheer and I knew the show was a success. Right there in the first few seconds is were a shows lives or dies. I knew it was a historical moment. Roge's big comeback. This would show those idiots who said he'd gone over the deep end into senility. He was a genius. This show was proof. It was an incredible moment and I got to be a part!

Christy exited and the next girl stepped forward. This time the cheers were immediate, and I was impressed, because that meant the crowd didn't have to take long to decide whether or not they liked the outfit--their first impression was positive, which was what we needed for this collection.

Model after model went forward, each one making the crowd go more and more wild. I noticed that the crowd appeared to be the most excited during the model's little routine at the end of the runway, several girls being asked to repeat their act as the audience roared "Encore! Encore!"

My turn was coming and I could feel the butterflies in my stomach. Just outside that thin curtain were 4000 eyes that would be glued to me as I emerged, not even mentioning the television coverage. I would have to walk toward them, wondering what they were thinking, what they thought of my outfit, wondering if I'd made a mistake to allow Roge to dress me so revealingly.

The girl in front me went. I watched the plump curves of her bottom jiggle as she walked. It was rather shocking, but then she was one of the younger ones, eager to do anything to advance her career. At least I'd had the sense to wear panties underneath my dress.

Then it was my turn. I walked around the curtain and blinked at the blaze of lights. I almost froze in fear--I could see nothing but whiteness--but I forced myself to keep moving, never stop, never show your fear.

"Never let them see you sweat," I said over and over in my head, repeating the model's mantra.

Off in the distance, deep in the white fog surrounding me, I heard a loud whistle. This was followed by echoing whistles and shouted cheers and I suddenly felt so much better. At least they liked the outfit. I walked bolder now, with infinitely more confidence.

My breasts bobbed below me, just inside my field of vision, the stiff nipples quite an obvious distraction to me. I was glad no one else could see through the sheer material like I could.

When I reached the end I began my act, once again grateful that I was wearing underpants. This was on national TV, for pete's sake! Could Roge have really been serious about me doing it without panties?

The whistles and catcalls were starting to make me blush--the atmosphere was more like that of a local bar after midnight on a Friday rather than a roomful of sophisticated fashion critics, reporters, and celebrities.

I could feel the energy of the crowd flooding into me and it was intoxicating. I wiggled and writhed for them, dancing lewdly despite my constant blushing and I even improvised a move or two, rolling into a face-down position and thrusting my buttocks back at the watchers.

I could feel the cool air of the air conditioners and the heated air from the stage lights rising and curling about my legs, especially near my sex and ass and it thrilled me with such daring. I couldn't believe I was doing this.

Just the thought of the public seeing me so intimately both terrified and aroused me. I had to remind myself that though it didn't really feel like I was wearing a dress, I certainly was. Still, despite my embarrassment, I couldn't help but wiggle my ass a bit as I scrambled up onto my feet for my exit.

I blushed furiously backstage, the audience roaring after me to return, and I ignored the scolding looks from my comrades. "So sue me," I said with a shrug and pert flounce. "A girl can have some fun if she wants!"

I went to my dressing room and closed the door. The silence felt good and I suddenly was quite tired. I sighed deeply with great satisfaction. Despite everything, despite all my worries and concerns, the evening had gone well. I had made my big break, showed off a little bit, and now my career would be going through the roof. I could feel it. All I had to do now was sit back and wait for the offers!

The End