The ad was a simple photocopied sign pinned to the bulletin board in the cafeteria:
"Model / waiter(ess) needed for fashion show. Age, size, gender not important. Paid."
A phone number and the address of the local Art's college were listed below. Pat hadn't been a model since a brief stint in the pages of the local mall's catalog, many many years ago. But the waitressing bit she could nail without breaking a sweat. Too many gigs in too many greasy spoon diners had taught her to hate the service industry. But the ad did say "Paid." And Pat did need money.
She wrote down the number.
The Art College was a few blocks away from the campus of the University where Pat was currently finishing her studies. It consisted of a single building, a vaguely modernistic cube owing more to the brutalism of cheap manufacturing than any esthetic sensibility, though the small park behind it was lovely. In the middle of the park was a large fountain, and behind that fountain was a large white tent. The lady on the phone had instructed Pat to head there.
The tent barely contained the chaos within. A series of temporary changing booths had been set up in the middle of the tent, just poles and black fabric draped over the shaky horizontals. Around them were folding tables, make-up stations, and bright lights. And everywhere people were running around, chasing or being chased, waving papers and bits of fabric as they shouted at each other across the large space.
Pat froze in the entrance. A bubbly blonde with a clipboard rushed up to her.
"Hi! Are you one of our models?" she exclaimed, a bright smile plastered on her face.
"Yes", said Pat, "I spoke to someone on the phone. I don't remember her name."
"That's okay, at this point we just need bodies. You DO have waiting experience? Good. I'm going to assign you to Joshua, he's Fan-tas-tic! His stuff is, like, wow. You'll love it."
The blonde with the clipboard led Pat to a corner of the tent where a small gaggle of people were busily dressing a smaller group of either stunned or bored models. In the middle of it all was a small man, or a tall boy, Pat couldn't decide which, who busied himself by pointing and yelling and generally telling people what to do. He turned to Pat, frowning. His face was partially obscured by a fashionably cut curtain of black hair, leaving Pat still confused as to his age. Probably early twenties, she decided.
He looked her up and down, one finger on his chin, appraising her.
"Yes. Number 3" he said to no one in particular.
A young man dressed in black rushed forward and lead Pat to the dressing room.
"Just take your clothes off and I'll bring you the dress you'll be wearing. DON'T try to put it on, it's very delicate, we will do it for you. Just leave your stuff in a corner."
He pointed in a vague direction, and left, leaving Pat in a small dressing area. It was just three walls, with one side open towards the corner where the designer was still busy yelling at people. The dressing area was big enough to hold several people, and a few folding chairs were scattered about. Piles of clothes and bags were tucked to the side.
"Well, I guess that's that." thought Pat.
She dropped her bag on the floor against the curtain wall and, hesitantly, started to take off her clothes. She didn't hesitate much, she knew she had a nice body, shaped by swimming and a life-long love of the outdoors. Though she was only five foot one (and a half, she automatically added), she had a lean look, making her legs look long and her hips curvy. With her long brown hair, no one ever mistook her for a young girl or, God forbid, a boy. Stripping in this public place was a bit of a thrill, actually, a pleasant tickle in the back of her mind.
She peeled off her jeans and T-shirt, dumping them over her bag, leaving her in her bra and panties. Thank goodness she had worn a clean pair of sturdy cotton briefs. She folded her arms over her breasts and waited.
The young man returned promptly, a large bundle of grey fabric in his arm, which he carefully placed on the floor. He looked Pat over, one eyebrow arched.
"You have to take it all off." He said. "Here, wear those."
He tossed her a small pair of grey panties. Pat caught them, suddenly feeling a warm blush spread over her. Did he really expect her to strip naked in front of every one? In front of him?
She looked down at the panties in her hand, partially to avoid looking at the young man, but mostly to hide the nervous smile that curled her lips. Truth was, she loved being in these situations. She loved being naked where she shouldn't be, loved the thrill of being seen, even though she was usually too shy to do anything about it. But to be told to be naked, in public, in front of these strangers. That pushed all the right buttons.
The panties in her hand were barely a G-string. They would barely hide the heat that was now rising up her thighs and nestling deep in her womb.
Staring into the distance, she reached behind her and unclipped her bra. She let it slide down her arms and dropped it on her pile of clothes. Her breasts bounced free, her nipples already hard. They looked full on her small frame, though they were small enough to stand proudly firm. She hooked her thumbs in her panties and, watching the young man from the corner of her eye, pulled them down over her hips.
He did not look interested at all.
She stepped out of her panties and straighten up, taking her time figuring out the G-string she was supposed to wear. She could feel the cool air brushing against the shaved lips of her sex, making her blush a deeper red. She knew that anyone looking over would see her, see her naked breasts, the tight curve of her ass, and, guided by the small triangle of dark pubic hair, her pussy. She didn't dare look around, secretly enjoying the buzz of her exhibition.
She finally stepped into the G-string and pulled the fabric snug against her. It barely covered her pubes, and she could feel the string split her sex. She wondered if she was leaving a wet spot on the grey fabric.
