The lady I had recognized has found his dress, a classic gown, and asks for my opinion, as a tailor assistant adjusts the tight corset emphasizing her large décolleté. Actually, emphasizing her ample breasts, which are completely exposed by half-cups. The tailor assistant even brushes her nipples before draping a see-through voile over them. "How do you like this, dear?"
I blush as I automatically respond, "You look gorgeous." And she does. Gorgeous, albeit indecent.
I shake my head, slightly in shock. I quickly check my modern Roissy dress, no half-cups there. Instead, there is a silk corsage. Transparent. So, they expect us to parade almost topless in front of the male audience.
Worse than topless. Fully dressed in a designer dress, see-through corsages emphasizing our breasts much more than if we were wearing only bikini bottoms at the beach.
What do they think I am? A stripper? Good Girl takes charge, and I am about to give the dress back to the dresser who is following me like a puppy and forfeit the competition for good.
Then I recognize her. The woman flaunting her vast bosom in the Roissy gown. She CEO of HM Interfaces. An entrepreneur I met at the ICT Global Innovation Conference. She had given a keynote speech there. She is in great shape, but she is older than me. Must be over forty. What is she doing here in that indecent gown? But she must sense my intentions, because she gets closer and whispers in my ears," Please stay, Eva." And when I turn toward her, she presses her lips on mine.
Not just a sisterly kiss. A rather passionate kiss. And--without too much thinking--I respond. As the kiss breaks off, she winks at me as her Dresser leads her away. Her number is blinking, and her turn on the runway is next.
I feel confused, but my husband Greg brought me here, after all, and he is probably sitting in the jury leering at the almost-topless classy women as he lobbies to become Quentin Quantum Computing's new contractor.
Another contestant smiles encouragingly at me. Already topless, with a fluid elegant motion she slips her panties down her legs. Deep breath, then, riding the sisterly wave, I do the same I guess temporary nakedness is normal in fashion shows' backstages. And I am not technically naked, because I am still wearing high heels, self-sustaining stockings (all black), gold earrings, and a gold necklace that looks nice against my dark skin tone.
My young dresser nods in approval--is there a slight bulge on his crotch?--and helps me try my dress on. Roissy dresses--like tango dresses--are designed to be worn pantyless--he tells me. Last check on the full-body mirror. My breasts are exposed, true, but there is a layer of sheer silk-chiffon over them, making my nipples just visible as bouncing dark circles.
Another young man (badge: James, Makeup Artist) makes a few minor modifications to my face, then nods (go!), and someone else (Badge: Show Director) gives me the real 'go', like a shooter signaling to a fighter pilot his aircraft is ready to be launched toward the cruel sea.
Catapulted out there! I lift my foot and kick off the walk-- and everything changes. My Exhibitionist Self takes control, silencing Good Girl. The world looks eerie--the dazzling white runway in front, the spotlight following my steps, murmuring shadows looking at me from heels level. Unexpectedly, I feel at ease. I sashay forward, stop at the right place, rest my hands on my waist, smile, pirouette, smile a different smile, and walk back, swinging my hips, until I reach the haven on the other side. My Dresser is waiting there. He is the younger of the men, there is a hierarchy here. But where is the top dog? I sigh, unaware of his silent presence. He is waiting for me just there. I recognize his woody scent: he is the one who chose the dress for me. And now, I remember his face on the cover of Time magazine. Zahir. World-class Fashion Designer. He looks pleased by my short performance. "Are you a professional model, Ma'am?". Under his minimalist attire, the man hides the physique of a Mandinka warrior. And when I shake my head no he makes a note in his small notebook "Then you are a natural, Ms. Eva Cortéz." He reads again, "Doctor Eva Cortéz" he corrects himself, and he earns my grateful smile, which he demonstrates to appreciate via an unusual courtsy. Then he kisses my hand, very properly, without touching it, like a Prussian officer. "Zahir Jackson, Tailor." Tailor. Such a delicious understatement. "Pleased to meet you..." I just smile shily, disproportionately pleased by their approval. But he is already welcoming the next girl and my Dresser is again on me.
I am relaxing as the President completes her second pass on the sidewalk and appears from the other side. And I almost hear Good Girl gasp. The President's gown is open in front, almost to her waist, leaving her lower belly in the open. Natural bush, the same color of her hair. She winks at me, looking perfectly at ease in her open Roissy gown. Which, by the way, looks perfect. Enlightenment: Roissy dresses are designed to be opened in front, on demand, showing our pussies to the world. Thanks to Zahir's magic, they look gorgeous both closed and open.
Too late to back off. My turn is next. The make-up artist adds a couple of last-minute touches to my face, my young dresser touches my nipples through the sheer silk to make them erect (not so necessary since they already are) and I am out there in the cold. In the hot. On the catwalk for the second pass. My Roissy dress is properly closed, but I imagine I am supposed to make good use of its peculiar features. They are animatedly discussing something, but when the spotlight focuses on me their chat subsides in anticipation. I am temporarily blinded, but I focus on the runway. The anonymous men are just unimportant shadows. Like my first scuba back roll, this is a quick entry into an eerie, unknown universe. But I feel much more at ease here than underwater. Maybe I am truly a natural. I can feel several men's gazes checking my breasts as they bounce slightly at each step, the chiffon deliciously brushing my nipples and keeping them alive. I sashay forward--one foot exactly in front of the other--stop, rest my hands on my waist, pirouette, and turn back. I feel some heat down there, possibly prompted by the jury's multiple gazes on my backside, like Archimedes' heat reflectors. Thank God, the Roissy dress doesn't catch fire like the Roman triremes' sails. Should I show my pussy to these leering men? No way. My show ends here. Just then, I hear a woman giggling.
Amanda.
She is on the jury.
My brain gets in fast motion. Amanda. She should be here to flaunt her pussy in this indecent dress, not me. Her business dresses always too short, her décolletés too low for her big tits, her blond hair always perfect. The perfect office slut. I wonder how much time she spends at the hairdresser. And how much Greg pays her! Too bad his profits are dwindling. She buys her vulgar dresses at Zara's, but hairdressers are expensive.
Amanda here? And who in the heck invited her? Quentin Razor the secluded billionaire? I don't think so. Maybe she is not as dumb as I thought. But there is not too much time to elaborate. The Show Director hurries there for me, and he informs me that the jury wants my Roissy dress open on both sides on another pass, because I am one of the finalists. "Both sides?" "Sure, front, and back." Of course. Front and back.
If I agree, of course.
Do I agree?
Do I?
Now, calm down, Eva. You are an accomplished businesswoman. Able to make important decisions. Quick and effective decisions. Just then, I hear that giggle again. And I decide. Now, is this a challenge? Now, Mr. Gregory McGregor, dear husband, let's see who is more daring, me or Hygrometer Lady.
I agree.
Mandinka Chief is there and whispers something into my assistant's ear before hurrying away.
The boy smiles broadly. There is a secret weapon of sorts, he says. A jewel. A gift for the best performers, one I can try on here, on the catwalk. A privilege. A rare feat. He can help me wear it.
I tie up Good Girl as I nod yes. But she is still vocal, so I also gag her.
I concentrate on the task, and --presto--with another back roll I am again there on the runway, a natural scuba diver underwater now, feeling wonderful in her native element. With an aggressive edge, prompted by the giggling lady. I flounce back and forth like a female tiger, flaunting my bikini wax to the jury--minus the bikini--then my backside. I stretch like a feline, then I bend over--not too much: I am a lady after all. But enough to be rewarded with a low-pitched but distinctive 'aah'.
