Model: Section 1 free porn video

Model: Section 1 By Diana Kimberly Heche Part 1: The Stage Backstage was a whirlwind of action. Designers, hair stylists, and make up men raced about everywhere. Voices which were already raised increased in volume minute by minute to be heard above the din of the noise and chaos. Production teams dashed about shouting orders at lighting and sound crews - designers dashed about shouting orders at production teams. Scores of clip board holding bodies wove in and out of the rows of make up mirrors while managing to dodge racks of clothes that whizzed by like cars on a NASCAR track. In the center of this hurricane of movement models moved about everywhere - primping, readying, drinking and smoking - and, depending on the clothes they were given to wear on tonight's catwalk, hurling insults or lavishing praise upon their personal handlers. In unseen corners and bathrooms, illicit drugs disappeared up designer and model noses alike. I, for a change, was out of the mouth of madness and in the private room designer Hugh Courtney-Fletcher reserved for himself just for these occasions. HCF, as he was called, was the "It" designer of the moment. His clothes had blanketed the teen and adolescent set, and wearing them on the catwalk guaranteed a model massive exposure in all of the fashion magazines and television shows practically around the globe. Unlike most designers who thrived on the adrenaline rush, HCF claimed he enjoyed designing clothes but couldn't stand the shows themselves. That is why he always insisted upon a private room to steady himself from the craziness outside his doors. That's at least what he claimed. The reality, however, was much more simple. Courtney-Fletcher held the power in his hands, and was not afraid to use, and more often than not, abuse it. In a business where models were discarded like a read newspaper, keeping a high profile, or even working regularly, was not an easy task. Most hard working models were nowhere close to the same league as the so-called super models - with their huge contracts and guaranteed work. For most girls, a simple grudge by a major designer or someone who stages a show, could mean the difference between working regularly and obscurity. And even those who do find work when they fall from grace don't transition well - it is a long way down from the catwalks of Milan and pages of Vogue to the catalogues of Sears. No, the entrances by limousine, and diva like fits over what a girl would and would not wear, wasn't the hard reality of day to day modeling. It was filled with kowtowing and kissing the asses of designers, talent agencies, magazine editors, photographers, designers, show producers and even local morning television personalities. Then there was me. I stood alone. I wasn't in the rarefied air of the Milan catwalk models, and by my very nature, would never be. But I had done New York, London and to a lesser extent Paris, and was a decent sized name in my own right. Yes, sometimes I did get swept up in the life and the money, but I looked at my career with a very clear eye. If I fell out of favor with the big name designers and was no longer able to strut up and down the runway in my fabulous dresses and my six inch stiletto heels, there would be no second act for me. No, there would be no Sears catalogue or Sunday newspaper spread, not even a K-Mart advertisement. There was, you see, Middle American sensibilities to think about. Yes, I was a young, competent, and if I chose to believe what has been written about me in the press, beautiful model. And at this moment in time - right now - I was sought after. But I also understood that I was living my fifteen minutes of fame and my time would eventually run out. Because for every article that praised me, there was another that claimed, in the best cases, I was a novelty act - kitsch, and in the worst cases, an abomination to the seriousness of fashion. The fact was simply, no matter how many times my photo was snapped in the latest clothing, no matter how many times I was lucky enough to grace the pages of magazines stretched out in my tight skirts, form fitting tops, long red hair and perfectly feminine body, there was no getting around a single fact: I was a boy. And the world knew it. Other girls did it, and I too knew what needed to be done to go on in this business and stay in the lime light. And as I stood before Hugh Courtney-Fletcher, perched on my impossibly high six inch platform heels, tight simple black mini-dress and shiny black nylons, he knew it too. That's why he called me here. That is why the centerpieces of his show, his spring collection of skirts and tops, hung on the rack behind him as payment for what was both had knew was about to occur. Plain and simple, this was a barter. And I was not going to waste time pretending it was anything else but that. Smiling, I walked over swinging my hips seductively from side to side and sat down on his lap. HCF's hand slid down my smooth nylons all the way to feet. With his forefinger he slid his finger between my shoe and foot, tracing the arch which curved at an incredible sexy angle due to the height of my heels. I could feel his hard dick press up against my ass through the material of his pants as he continued to explore my body wantingly. I leaned over and whispered in his ear, "We don't have much time, Hugh. Show starts soon." I kneeled before him and unzipped his pants. His hard cock sprang forth aching with desire. Smiling up at him, I let my wet tongue gently ring around the top of his penis, before sliding his dick deep into my mouth. I pressed my full lips against his shaft while bobbing my head up and down very slowly coaxing the beginnings of sperm from his hole. Not wanting him to explode yet, I stopped, letting his penis fall from my mouth, still shiny and glistening from my saliva. My voice, feminine and seductive from months of practice, breathlessly invited him, "I want to feel you inside me." Courtney-Fletcher guided me onto the floor doggy style. He slid my skirt up and made a pleasurable noise as his eyes took in the high roundness of my ass, now positioned in the air for him to take me. The tip of his dick now dripped with sperm and anticipation. I reached over to my purse handing him the lubricant. "Come and feel my tight hole," I purred out. The world famous designer quickly spread the lubricant over his shaft and went plunging for my hole. He shoved it in a little too far, a little too fast. I felt a sharp pain. "Easy lover, you have to take it easy lover," I cooed in warning. HCF heeded my words and slowly pushed, feeling my sphincter loosen and my hole open for him. He slid his cock deeper in my ass and groaned with desire. I had been only been fucked a few times before, but I knew just how tight and warm my canal was. I rocked back and forth with his rhythm to slam my ass and meet each of his pelvic thrusts. He pumped my hole harder and harder filling the room with the slapping sounds of skin against skin. I could feel my c cup breasts bounce in unison with his movement. Now that I had relaxed, the feel of his dick sliding in and out of my ass felt damn good. My own penis ached with desire. But there was no time for that now. I squeezed my ass cheeks tightly, and he jerked spastically and he exploded his full load deep into my canal in wave after wave. I squeezed my cheeks and sphincter even harder to milk out every last drop. He fell back on the floor and put his hand over his softened dick, "Oh my God... I had no idea it could be so... tight and good." In the back of my mind I noted the irony of a designer who was not only not gay, but nonetheless, had never experienced anal sex before. "I've watched you... for a while... I always wondered..." Since I had started modeling nationally, I had a email box full of men who "always wondered". They had wives and girlfriends and would never consider sleeping with a boy. But as I had learned slowly over the past months, there's a power seduction of being a boy who looked like a girl ... something that opens up secret doors of desire. He stood up and walked over to the rack of his latest creations... the clothes that the entire fashion world had waited anxiously for a year to be unveiled. HCF was a very astute man. One had to have not only imagination, but great observational skills to be a designer of his magnitude. He knew exactly what this show would mean to me, and my career. "A long way from Clothes Circle," he said, referring to my first modeling job of teen girl's wear at the delicate age of 18. A job that took a high school boy and thrust him onto the center stage as America's best known T-Girl. "It surely is." I responded simply, and I my mind drifted back to the unlikely chain of events that landed me here... Part 2: The Beginning - The Card I sat in my car outside the Pacific Plaza building examining the business card I held. I let my thumb run over the raised print. Glancing at my watch for the third time in ten minutes I noted I was half an hour early. I turned up the radio and leaned the seat back. "What was I doing?" I asked myself aloud, not for the first time today. I stared at the well scrutinized card as if it could tell me the answers. Only the words, "Lynn Bruin Talent" with a phone number and address lay silently in answer. I thought about my family in San Diego who were under the impression that I had driven to Los Angeles for a interview at a bank. I couldn't bring myself to, and had no intention of, telling them the truth. With the noted exception of my sister, they frowned upon modeling and acting. As an old school New York fireman, my dad didn't believe it was real work, and my mother was afraid I would waste my life away. She grew up in LA and knew how hard it was to break into the business. And although she wouldn't say so to me - it was relayed through my sister confidentially - Mom didn't want to see her son hurt because he wasn't the right type. She didn't believe that there was room for someone as thin, slight and... truthfully, somewhat effeminate as me. The same reasons I was given every time I didn't succeed, be it sports, meeting girls, making friends... I looked down and found that I had crumbled the business card in my hand. *** The waiting room of the agency was filled with young men in the 18-20 range, most thin, most somewhat smallish, and many who, to the casual eye, could be related to me. The agency was definitely after a type. But there were some big differences. Despite physical similarities, these were LA "wannabe" model types. Their hair was slick, their clothes were black, they lounged about without a seeming care in the world. Several were reading over screen plays. I, on the other hand, was in khakis and what I realized now, was a very stupid looking tie. "Peter Hayley?" The receptionist called out my name. I stood up and was lead to a spacious office, modernly furnished, with a - had it been something other than a smoggy day - outstanding city view. The nameplate on the door read "Kendra Jones." I sat in front of the glass and chrome desk waiting for the office's occupant. A tall raven haired woman in a power suit walked in from the door behind me and shook my hand. She stood eye to eye with me while wearing flats, and couldn't have weighed 120 pounds. It was difficult to tell how old she was, for her hands appeared to be much older than her still very attractive and surgically smooth face, but I put her be around 60. A former model no doubt. She asked a few polite questions about my trip up and the weather in San Diego before diving straight into business. She spoke quickly and directly in a rapid fire manner, "I got your head shots back in January, and called you in because I think we might have something that fits you - if, of course, one of the others outside doesn't seem better for the part. AdverTyne, an ad agency headquartered here in town, is launching a campaign for a mall clothier, Clothes Circle. You, know, teen and adolescent girl hipster stuff. Can't go to a mall without seeing one." I nodded, she was right, they were a fixture of nearly every mall in the nation. Kendra Jones continued, "Well they're planning to do an update on the old Joe Namath panty hose wearing commercials from the 70s," she was referring to the famous ads in which Jets quarterback Joe Namath wore panty hose in televisions spots. "only with their full line of clothes. You remember," she waved her hand in small circle as if she could conjure the image from thin air, "something like, 'if he could look this good imagine how you would look...' That kind of thing. They're going to start with print ads, and then move to TV. The TV gigs pay very, very well. Is that something you could do? Ever done cross-dress work before?" I was caught off guard by her rapid firing of the questions, but managed to supply a quick answer, "Certainly... I mean, 'no' I haven't done the cross-dress work, but I think I can get the hang of it for the shoot." I answered more confidently than I felt. "Good. Because the ad agency wants to walk that thin line between amusing, and making the client's clothes look good. The clothes can never be made the joke, understand. Whomever looks the most natural, the most feminine, gets the job. And, again, you have no major body scars, rashes, etc., that would keep you out of this shoot if we choose you?" Again, I was taken aback by her rapid change of direction, "Huh uh. Nothing, no scars". She stood up and moved around her desk. We were done here. She shook my hand and told me they would be in touch. And just like that, it was over. *** My sister Tanya sat on her bed and listened to my story, extremely bemused. She was two years ahead of me, a sophomore in college, but spent very little time on City Campus. My parents groused about paying for a dorm room she rarely used, but for Tanya it was perfect. The comforts of a home cooked meal and soft bed when she felt like it, and the unrestricted freedom of the dorms whenever she chose. Why would she do it differently? And I suspected, for all of my parents complaining, they secretly enjoyed that she was still around. "My brother the cross-dresser," She laughed, "So what are you going to tell the parents if you get the job?" I shrugged. Admittedly I hadn't thought that through, "I don't know. It's Summer vacation, college doesn't start until September, maybe I'll tell them I'm staying with a friend in LA while I job hunt up there. They want me to get some professional type work for after-college resume. They should go for it since there's nothing down here. Plus, if you get the ad job, they put you up during the shoots. I'll burn that bridge when I get to it," I said purposefully mixing metaphors. "Sounds smart enough. What are you going to tell them if they see you on television?" She asked. At this I laughed, "Oh I don't expect to get this particular job, really. I'm not right for it. I just wanted to meet one of the talent agents, which I did, and get my name out there, which I did. And I'll get one more chance at it during the auditions and photo tests. That's more than I can ask for. This is more to lay the ground work for future gigs - knock on wood," I wrapped my knuckles against the extended mahogany posts of her bed. Tanya sat and thought for a moment. "Maybe you're being too pessimistic. After all, they did ask you to come all the way up there to look at you in person. It's a high paying enough gig not to lie down and die before you even try. And as the 'Jones' lady pointed out, the key to the snatching the TV gigs is to be natural and making the clothes look good," Her brow was furrowed in thought, "have you checked out Clothes Circle's stuff?" I shook my head. Why would I? But, even so, I was warmed by her confidence in me. "It's very hip, sexed up teen stuff. Lot of super short skirts, hip huggers, crazy super high heels..." She let her sentence drift off before continuing, "You know, I don't know how serious those LA types in the room with you were, but pulling off Clothes Circle stuff isn't going to be easy. Especially with those really high shoes and tight skirts that make it hard to walk. I'm thinking if they don't put in some real practice time, the only people who will really be your competition are the true transvestites in that crowd," she laughed again. "And well... what can you do about that..." She looked me over for a second. It was odd to be assessed so openly your sister, especially when she was mentally changing your gender, "How do you feel about this whole putting on girl's clothes anyway? Any hangs up there?" I shrugged again, "No big deal to me really. You go in and do the audition, come out. Get paid. No big deal." Although I had never considered women's clothing before, I found what I was saying was not entirely true. I wasn't quite able to put my finger on it, but there was an odd sort of feeling an... anticipation and... even arousal... at the concept. Tanya's face was still very much in thought mode, "That's only kind of what I'm asking. C'mon, let's take a trip to the mall. I want to show you what you're getting into with the Clothes Circle thing. Again, its not lace and ruffles or even Birkenstock thing. These clothes are hard!" *** It was not until we were in the mall, standing in front of Clothe Circles store window did I understand what Tanya had been referring to. This was the stuff of adolescent father's nightmares. Tiny binding skirts, form fitting low hip huggers, tiny tops, high platform shoes, spiked 6 inch stiletto heels and tiny shimmering barely-there tank tops. "When we were 18, your age, all the girls bought some stuff like this," Tanya explained, "we would hide it at a girlfriend's house whose parents weren't home, then change into it and go to parties. We would change back before going home. It was the cutting edge risky thing to do," Tanya laughed at the concept. Laughter had always come easily from Tanya. I smiled with her as I pictured Dad exploding into several million flaming pieces catching Tanya in clothing like this, "Dad would have killed you if he knew people saw you dressed like this." "Killed's not the word. Besides, his son is the Clothes Circle girl now. He can kill her. Let's go inside." Clothes Circle girl. Her. The words bounced around my head and I felt my stomach lurch. Intellectually I understood what she had been getting at by practicing wearing the clothes to be the most adept in them. But I had been preoccupied with the "breaking into the business" angle of it all. It was only now, that I began to fully comprehend what was to be involved. We walked about the store, which was thankfully not very crowded. My casual demeanor had abandon me completely as I realized Tanya's plan was to do the buying here and now. I had expected a little time to get my mind around the idea. I didn't know if I could do it, there was a psychological barrier that sprang up as soon as I walked in the door. Buying women's clothing in the open is no small thing. I whispered to Tanya that I thought we were moving too fast. "Too slow, we're moving too slow," was her response, her voice lowered for my sake. "I found this stuff not easy to get used to, and I had worn heels and skirts forever. You only have - what - weeks? Too slow is more like it." We moved over to the shoe section. Tanya flagged down a sales girl. "Follow my lead," she said without explanation, and when the sales girl arrived, "my brother here has no idea why I brought him. But when I tell him," she turned to me with a devilish grin on her face, "we made need to strap him down." While my sister spoke, the sales girl had the look of studied patience as only someone who has on many occasions chased down 40 pairs of shoes for a woman who leaves with nothing, could. But to make sure she understood that this was no farce, Tanya asked her if she got paid on commission. The, girl somewhat reluctantly, said yes. "You're going to love us," Tanya said silkily. We now had the sales girls full attention. Now turning back to me she said, a little louder than conversationally, so others nearby could hear, "my brother has the - in his case - misfortune of being the same size as my friend Marcy, who is tragically still wearing JC Penny's garb from grade school," There was a perceptible shudder from the women who overheard, to women who shopped in hip places like this, that was like hearing nails on a chalkboard, "I am going to buy her a new wardrobe and drag her into this decade whether she likes it or not, and he is going to be my clothes horse." "Plus," Tanya winked at the sales girl, "maybe we can find something for him as well." It was perfectly done. As I sat down in the shoe section getting ready to try on god knows what, we had made a situation that was uncomfortable for us, and everyone around us, into an act of fashion heroism. Tanya quickly went about finding the highest pair of heels she could find. I knew what her reason was instinctively. Learn to walk in these, and I will be able to master anything. The sales girl kneeled in front of me and slid both pairs of high heel, wood bottom platform sandals onto the throw away nylons I was wearing over my feet. We had rolled up my jeans to my calf so we could get a better look at the shoe. Tanya asked me to stand, and extended a hand to help guide me up. I needed it. The sensation of standing on heels for the first time was very strange. Having never stood on anything this high, it felt like I was going to shoot straight through the roof. But I also felt I now looked at the world from the height I always thought I should be. I found it very difficult to balance, my feet were at an odd angle, like standing on my toes, and there was a strain to stay balanced - I felt as though I may topple forward. But it was the next moment that changed my life. I looked down at feet perched in the high heels, arched and curved sexily, and felt a strange arousal. I was turned on in the very way men who love heels are when they see a sexy set of feet encased in them, but I was also turned on because I was able to create this sexiness with MY feet. It was an odd, confusing, pleasurable situation, but I liked it. And despite what I was trying to tell myself as I tried to clear my brain of the conflicting thoughts, I knew then I wanted more. I knew then I was hooked. "Jesus Christ Pete, I hate to say it, but you've got pretty feet." Tanya looked amazed. Even as I told her "to get a grip" I realized, it was the nicest thing I heard so far. Something I never knew was inside me, had been awakened. *** When we returned from the mall, we unloaded bag after bag into Tanya's room. We both admitted on the way home we had overdone it, but what was done was done, and if need be, things could be returned. "Besides," Tanya said smiling at one point during the drive home, "it's on Dad's credit card, I'm the one who is going to catch the grief. Not little Clothes Circle girl." Clothes Circle girl. Once again, the conflicting emotions of shame at my new found desire and titillation were at odds. We sat in her room looking at the piles of bags on her bed, "Okay, let's measure you, then take the night off. I still have to get more stuff tomorrow. But I don't think we're going to be able to pull the 'my same size friend' act in a lingerie store. Unless of course you want to try?" She was kidding, she knew it was too much too ask of me, but in many ways I wish that she were not. "Oh, no argument here. I think that was enough for one day." "Good," she said. "For tomorrow I become Professor Higgins, and you Eliza" she said making reference to the film "My Fair Lady". Like the heroine in that film, she was going to teach me all about being a woman. **** That night, in the netherworld of sleep, I was back in the mall. I looked down and again saw I was wearing impossibly high shoes and my toes were polished and my feet moisturized, only now I walked confidently and purposefully. Every step I took I could feel my breasts bounce against my skin. As I looked around, I could see the eyes on me, desiring me, wanting me. As I strut past a store I saw my reflection in the mirror, I was no longer me, but Tanya. A larger breasted, longer haired, Tanya, wearing tiny red hot pants and a halter top. I found myself growing wet as I watched myself in the glass. I slipped my hands down my pants and masturbated my clit, lightly fingering my hole. Reaching back I untied the strings of my halter top, and let it drop. The laws physics of my dream did not let it go straight down, but made it float downward like a leaf falling from a tree. I suddenly felt a small pair of hands reach and around and cup my breasts, even as I could feel a hard penis pressed against my ass, long and ready. I bent backward slightly to feel all of its hardness against my crack. I wanted this penis in me. A hand ran across my front. My clit now, was gone, in its place was a dick. The hand slowly rubbed it until it was hard. The hands behind me pushed me to the ground flat on my stomach and lie on top of me. I could feel a pair of soft, round, breasts press against my back while at the same time feeling a dick slide into my ass. I lie there moaning with each pump sliding in and out of my hole. I turned back toward the glass - I was still Tanya, but the red haired woman with the penis, moving her hips up and down while she fucked my tight hole, was facing the other way. Suddenly, quite impossibly, I was on my back with my legs spread. It felt as though I had been here a while. The woman above me was fucking Tanya/me hard. I could feel my own dick grow between us, my penis yearned to explode. My eyes traced upward from the slapping of our pelvises together, to her round, shapely breasts. I slowly took in her the curve of her neck up to her beautiful sculpted face. As I looked again, I realize that I knew this face. The features were more feminine and soft, but it was my face. We both had dicks, and someone was in my body fucking me as Tanya. On the moment of recognition, the face above me moaned out in ecstasy "Tanya, oh Tanya" even as the woman exploded deep into my ass. I too exploded in unison. A moment later, I was no longer Tanya, but on top of her, breast to breast, her penis seemed to have disappeared and my dick was softening and squeezing out of her... vagina. I woke up with start. Confused, shamed, frightened. And covered in my own sperm. Part 3: Living Lies Penny Dawn, a six foot, bosomy, strikingly beautiful, Amazon of a woman, was liked by no one. But in this world of kiss asses, wannabees, and hanger ons, looking at the fawning entourage constantly in her orbit, it was impossible to tell. Penny was, with the possible exception of me, the most recognizable model here. But unlike me, she was right on the cusp of the next level. She had barely missed the cut for Sport's Illustrated Swimsuit issue, and was listed in Fashion World Magazine as this year's "Young Up and Coming Model". Of all the models she worked with, she disliked me particularly, which, for this woman of bottomless cattiness, was saying something. I was unique, and there was always a mild buzz around me. But for her the math was simple, for every photo that was snapping in my direction, was one not snapping in hers. For every line in a paper used for my name, was one not used for hers. And because we were both in the stable of models for several of the same designers, we did many shows together, so for her this "problem" never went away. But what bothered her the most was she couldn't get under my skin as she did with the other models. It is true, I spent all of my public, and the majority of my private, life as a woman. And if you judged visually or by my behavior, I very much seemed to be one in every way. But the fact is, I was not a girl. The psychological games Penny played on other models, did not work on me. They couldn't, I only appeared to think like a woman. And the sexual manipulation she worked on other men, did not work on me. I was, as someone who used my womanly sexuality often in the same way, well aware of those games too. The fact is, I was no longer a boy either. And all of this made her hate me the more, even as she smiled in my face. But even in this world of fake smiles and air kisses, seeing me in the latest Hugh Courtney-Fletcher spring dress, with several more parked on the rack near my make up table, was too much to keep inside. Her eyes narrowed with a hatred undiluted and fierce in its absolute directness. But she assumed I didn't see her daggers, and it passed as quickly as it had come on. The plastic opaque smile took its place. She came over and oohed and ahhed over HCF's new creations while handing me a glass of champagne. I took it, sipping while chatting about nothing. I drank the glass rather fast and she shouted for a production assistant to get another, and as quickly as I had put the first one down, the second was in my hand. I smiled a thanks, making a mock toast. Champagne, and booze in general, were the two edge sword of this business. It eases the nerves and makes it easier for some girls to walk out in front of hundreds in their underwear or practically topless, in some cases. But it also was fed to the girls by people like Penny, especially girls like me who must always wear very high heels because of our stature. If she were lucky, then we would be a little unsure on our feet. Falling was not uncommon in our business, and only hurt the pride of the model, more than causing any real damage. Unless, of course, like tonight, you were like me wearing the center pieces of the show. I sipped my drink carefully, I was not going to be spread across the runway floor today. I made a mental note, not for the first time, to watch Penny carefully. "Models line up!" It was show time. Each of us stood in a cue like airplanes on a runway, and were sent out by a production assistant wearing a head set wired to the producer. The music thumped and we strutted our stuff to massive applause up and down the catwalk. As soon as we disappeared backstage, with the help of make up, hair men and clothes handlers, we quickly changed into the next outfit. It never failed to amaze me that modeling was actually work. Forty minutes later it was over. The show went off without a hitch. We all moved to the stage and took bows behind Courtney-Fletcher, and six other young designers whom he was helping to launch. I was still wearing the fifth outfit I had walked in, his new light weight cocktail dress. He walked over and pulled me out front, to receive the waves of applause for his latest creation. Bulbs flashed throughout the room and telephoto lenses extended from the cameras. I calculated from experience that my image would appear, for the next four months or so, prominently in pages and on television no less than 200 times. And I was looking good, but more importantly for the life of my career, I was wearing HCF's creation very well. I was, after all, just a well paid clothes horse. I didn't have to turn around to feel the heat from Penny Dawn seething behind me. *** Nearly everyone else had taken off their show duds, slipped into sweats, and gone home. Not me. I could not be afforded the luxury of ever letting the illusion slip. I was a model all day everyday. I scrubbed off the thick make up used for the show, and carefully re-applied my own. Extending my smooth curvy legs - toe pointed outward, I rolled a pair of skin tone stockings over each leg. Standing up I slipped a tight blue miniskirt over my high round ass. I then pulled out a pair of five and a half inch sling back platforms, and slipped my feet into them, one after the other. Even after wearing heels for this long, I marveled at how pretty and feminine my feet were. Especially encased in sheer nylons and arched so high. Looking around carefully making sure no one could see, I slipped out of my bra, and threw a matching silk top over my full c cup breasts. My bra-less nipples poked through invitingly. Certain that no one saw me, I breathed a sigh of relief and brushed my hair. Long ago, I had quietly had minor surgery done to my face, and major surgery to my hips, and breasts. When it was all over, penis aside, naked I was indistinguishable from a woman. A few designers I worked with constantly and some close clothes handlers knew - it was impossible to keep something like that completely secret - but it was never talked about publicly or to the other notoriously loose lipped models. But it was essential to my ability to do swim suit shots and look perfectly natural in skimpy clothes without a bra or heavy padding and girdles. My womanly shaped was attributed in the media simply to advanced tricks of the trade and prosthetics. But I learned early that to move from novelty act to serious model, I needed to go under the knife. But therein lie my Catch 22. I, and the people who handle my career, also understood very clearly that for the strange and difficult reasons of American taste and morality, America would, for the most part, except someone who is good at making themselves look like a woman. But these very same people become very uncomfortable with the concept of a boy with a girl's body on their televisions and the front of their magazines. My sister Tanya's had an analogy, while slightly off target, apt enough: People love magicians because of the illusion, knowing it's an illusion, and not seeing how its done. People would be very wary, even fearful, if those things they did turned out to be real. Dressed I headed to the car and flopped into the passenger seat. My sister, manager, and confidant, turned the key and drove out of the arena parking lot. "Great show Layla. I was absolutely stunned to see you got the cocktail dress. That was awesome." My mind flashed back to Courtney-Fletcher above me grunted away as his cock slid in and out of my hole. Me on the floor doggy style, breasts bouncing, moaning in pleasurable joy. "Yeah, we worked something out. But you're right, that was a hell of a show." [to be continued]