From: an308559@anon.penet.fi (FM)
Date: Sun,  4 Aug 1996 10:31:21 UTC
Subject: Models


FICTION FROM FM: Models (***, F, nudity, silly, little spanking)

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Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!
Copyright (C) 1996 by FM.   All Rights Reserved.   Free distribution via
electronic medium (i.e.  the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as
long as the text is not modified and this copyright is included,  but no
other form of publication is allowed. This document may contain material
of an ADULT nature. *READ AT YOUR OWN RISK*.  Anything offensive is your
own problem.  This story is for **entertainment** purposes only and does
not necessarily represent the viewpoints of the author or the electronic
source where this was obtained.   All characters are _fictional_ and any
resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
________________________________________________________________________


                         The Models' New Clothes

    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 speel 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
facedown 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!