Stockholm in 1940 1
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Palais free porn video
Copyright transfemme 2000/2002. Permission granted for
private reproduction and internet publication. All
characters and events depicted herein are purely
fictional.
PALAIS
By Transfemme
1
Standing in a pool of moody backstage lighting,
Charise Granger drew her T-shirt slowly over her head,
revealing a shining white satin bra, the kind with
detachable straps and tiny lace trimmings around the
cups. She paused a moment to shake out her strawberry
blond hair and moisten her full, crimson lips,
stealing a glance at the mirror. A tall, delicately
built young woman with alabaster flesh and liquid blue
eyes looked back.
Hanging her T-shirt over a nearby chair, Charise began
to unbuckle the belt of her stone wash jeans,
listening to the restless murmur of the Friday night
crowd. The Palais Royale was perhaps the most popular
adult venue in the Red Zone; the main bar would be
swarming with nightlife by ten. In less than fifteen
minutes, the lingerie parade would begin, and Charise
would be sent out along the catwalk wearing little
more than a whisper and a promise.
She was almost feverish with anticipation.
Charise had been working at the Palais for just over
two months now, and still felt a little nervous before
every show. Barely eighteen, she had little experience
modelling outside a couple of down home mannequin
parades and amateur reviews (and certainly not in her
bra and panties; such activities had been confined
largely to her bedroom). By contrast, the Palais was a
place of satin radiance and neon ecstasy. Stepping
onstage in her impossibly tall stilettos, she felt a
wonderful shiver of embarrassment fill her trim, firm
tummy. She was young, she was beautiful, and the
questionable nature of the 'entertainment' made her
delirious with excitement.
There was, of course, another reason for her
tremblingly pleasant anxiety.
Adjusting a wayward bra-strap, she began unbuttoning
her jeans, progressively revealing the lacy tops of
her high-cut white briefs. In a matter of minutes,
every inch of those skin-tight Lycra panties would be
visible to every person in the bar. She could feel a
subtle flush rising to her cheeks, tinting her flesh
with a warm, carnation glow.
'What am I doing here?' she thought, working the Levis
slowly over her hips, enjoying the gently sinuous
movement of denim down her thighs.
Peeling her jeans down to the floor, she stepped
lightly out of them, brushing her hair back from her
face. Her snowy white panties shimmered with a satiny
radiance as she walked barefoot across to the clothing
rack. Gleaming like quicksilver, they seemed to have
been airbrushed onto her body, filming her hips like a
second skin.
Her fingers played with the elegant French lace trim
encircling the waistband; touching that sheer strip of
floral gossamer made her ache with longing. She wanted
to be out on stage as soon as possible, her long,
slender legs absolutely bare, her lingerie on display
to half the town.
'What am I doing here?' Charise asked herself again,
running her hands down the length of her torso. How
could she explain this sultry, breathless desire to
place her underpants on full inspection for a room
full of faceless strangers? She might have spent years
wading through the mountain of literature devoted to
her unique psychology (indeed, she'd started already),
but her reasons were deceptively simple in the final
analysis:
Parading her underthings made her feel beautiful.
Voguing across the catwalk in her scanties was an
experience both thrilling and sensual; her state of
dishabille always made her feel gloriously feminine.
Having recently turned eighteen, she loved wearing
pretty lingerie, and the opportunity to reveal her
flimsies beyond her bedroom rarely presented itself
under normal circumstances. The panty shows appealed
to her sense of fun; like all teenaged girls, Charise
enjoyed testing the limits.
Charise was young, pretty, and she enjoyed parading
around in her bra and panties. It was as simple as
that. True, the money was good, but it wasn't her
primary motivation for working at the Palais; Charise
would have been perfectly willing to do it for free.
She wasn't even particularly concerned about the style
of lingerie she wore, just so long as it made her feel
and leggy and lovely and unforgivably naughty.
In short, wearing lingerie made her feel like a girl.
2
She'd been amazingly lucky.
Few would have described it as luck, but it had been
luck nonetheless, luck of a type relevant only to
Charise herself, fortune of a magnitude that only she
could truly appreciate. How many of her kind were
born with a face which spanned the gulf between the
male and the female so perfectly? A body so completely
androgynous, poised at the very cusp of human gender,
needing only the barest hormonal nudge towards the
feminine?
Not many, she'd come to realise since she'd left home
twenty-eight months before. Her transition had been
crystal smooth, the drift of a feather through some
flawlessly blue sky. She'd begun her metamorphosis
shortly after her sixteenth birthday, back when She
had been a He.
A boy.
A boy with tiny wrists and huge misty eyes and a voice
like fine autumn rain. Missing his cue and entering
the stage too late for puberty, he was constantly
mistaken for a girl, a delicate, ivory tomboy
attempting to hide her femininity behind short hair
and Nike runners and those ungainly black duffle coats
so popular a few years ago.
She'd known, even then.
In a way, she'd always known; her earliest childhood
memories involved aprons and lace and bright yellow
ribbons; the innocent, dawning fantasies of a
transgendered child. The knowledge had been abstract
and hazy, like the blurring lens of a unfocused
camera, but the understanding had been there all
along. Over the years, it had grown into a certainty,
a conviction profound enough to bring about the
reconstruction her body, her identity and ultimately,
her entire being.
All set in motion by a single sentence, uttered at the
age of five:
I'm really a girl.
3
Backstage traffic was always relatively heavy Friday
nights; waiters, barhands and security staff passed
through the changing area in an endless stream. Make
up, dressing tables and clothing racks had been
provided for the girls, but their employers saw no
need for privacy. Girls who modelled their underpants
for a living had no use for dressing rooms, as far as
the management was concerned.
Charise glanced self-consciously around the changing
area. Beautiful young girls were disrobing all around
her, slipping out of blouses, stepping out of skirts
and frocks. Not a single one over the age of nineteen,
they walked about in their prettiest underwear
carefully oblivious of the activity around them.
She often wondered about genetic girls; did they feel
that indescribable silken thrill that preceded
clipping a suspender belt around a tiny waist? Did
they enjoy the same moist, gasping fantasies she
experienced whenever she slipped a wisp of black
denier along her thigh? Charise believed there was
nothing more sensual than stepping into a pair of Doir
stockings, feeling the silk whisper along her cool,
marble-smooth skin.
She hung her jeans over a hanger on the clothing rack,
then wandered back to her table to check her costume
(such as it was) for the evening. The show was about
to begin; all around the changing area, the other
girls were adding last minute touches to their
make-up; fourteen achingly pretty young women stripped
to their bare knickers, bending over their mirrors and
displaying their lush, ripe bottoms to the world.
Charise joined them, pausing to step into her
glistening black stilettos. Heels were absolutely
essential to the job. No girl was permitted to set
foot on stage without them. High heels to gave her
legs that sexy, tapering appearance the patrons
admired so much. She turned her back to one of the
full-length mirrors, appraising her curvaceous figure,
eyes narrowed self-critically.
She stood with her hands on hips, looking back over
her shoulder, shifting her weight from foot to foot.
The stilettos were the only outerwear she was allowed
during the performance; ironic that they could add so
much to her innate feminine sensuality.
The parade catered to a diverse range of tastes; in
the first ten minutes of the performance, the audience
would be treated to expensive Italian corsetry,
high-class Victoria's Secrets, outrageously frilly
petite culottes a la Francais; even good old-fashioned
Playtex cross-your-hearts. And that was just the warm
up.
Charise's personal favourite was the girl-next-door
sequence of the program, with its adorable selection
of full-briefs, control panties and plain, pretty
Lycra: the comfortable, sensible underthings that
women wore in their everyday lives. She loved walking
onstage flashing her underwires and cottontails; the
very same undies she might have worn while shopping
out at Chamberlain Plaza or buying a cheese burger at
McDonalds. She couldn't explain it; maybe she just
felt more accessible striding the catwalk in her nylon
hipsters.
Clicking back to her table, Charise gave her face a
final check, tinting her cheeks with a soft carnation
glow. She'd need a dab of powder before she stepped
out into the spotlights. Just enough to take the edge
off her breathless, rosy blush. Like most of the girls
here, Charise favoured the 'natural' look. Not that
she needed too much sugar-frosting at the best of
times; her complexion was as close to perfection as
her innate biology (and her daily oestrogen
supplement) could provide.
To be continued.
Email me on [email protected] for part 2 (or
if you just like lingerie parades).
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