Palais
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Palais Part 2 free porn video
PALAIS
4.
Charise just had finished her final preparations when the stage
assistant bustled into the dressing alcove, calling for the girls'
attention.
"All right ladies, time to go," he babbled in his thick Gaelic brogue,
"everybody take your places please."
A burst of excited chatter followed this announcement as the girls
deserted their dressing tables and flocked towards the Grande Stage. The
atmosphere was tense with expectation. Tonight, they'd be doing things
differently; tonight was going to be special.
The management had decided to spice up the festivities with a change to
their normal routine. Each girl would enter the stage fully dressed and
exit in nothing but her high-heels and stilettos. It would still be a
lingerie parade, complete with a trip down the runway into the audience,
but their skimpy little 'underwears' would come off over the course of
the entire evening. It would be an extra treat for the audience, an
unexpected thrill for the male contingent. Charise slipped quietly into
the leggy throng, heart slamming into over-drive. Her body seemed to
tingle with a kind of frigid heat, the way it always did before the show
began.
Out in the auditorium, ambient noise gave way to rising cheers of the
crowd. Glaring spotlights dazzled her eyes, and Charise had to bite her
lip to reign in her excitement. In a matter of minutes, she would be
standing on open display with only a flimsy pair of satin knickers to
hide behind.
5.
Contrary to popular belief, a classic Spectacle ?rotique requires far
more than walking around half-naked. There were certain protocols to
follow, procedures to be observed. Fortunately, Charise had committed
all of them to memory.
First, the girls would line up on the stage, resplendent in their svelt
black minnies, sheer midnight stockings and six-inch stilettos. With
their hair professionally styled, they'd be the very definition of
elegance, as befitted the occasion.
Of course, looking beautiful was only half the job. The rest involved
taking their clothes off, one piece at a time. And that was nowhere as
easy as it first appeared.
At the beginning of the set, each of the girls had to walk down the
catwalk, where they would shed all of their "inhibitions": first an
earring, then a broach, then a deliciously long black glove. Next,
they'd discarding their outer clothing, placing their tantalizing
figures on public display. Only this time, they'd be taking it one step
further: everything had to go: corsets, suspenders and bustiers would be
cast aside with barely a second glance. By the end of the session,
they'd be left standing in nothing but their high-cut lace panties.
In short, the whole affair was a thinly-veiled excuse to strip a group
of pretty young girls down to their bare essentials. Once the bras came
off and the breasts were bared, they would gather up their clothes and
tip-toe backstage to prepare for the second set, where the entire
process would begin all over again.
Standing backstage amongst her twittering co-workers, Charise felt her
pulse quicken with a mixture of outrage and expectation. It was the most
gratuitous exploitation she could imagine.
And she could hardly wait to get started.
6.
OK, Charise - you're up next.
Charise felt a light hand slap her bottom. A few of the other girls
giggled as she stepped forward. It was mild, good-natured laughter; most
of them knew how embarrassing she found these public spectacles. The
dice had been cast, the moment was nigh. Too late to back out now.
The laughter was drowned out by a welter of applause as she strutted
onto the catwalk. A stunning young girl with porcelain skin and blue
eyes, Charise was literal show stopper.
Walking with a graceful, feline stride, her stilettos clocked loudly on
the polished wooden floor boards. There was an art to walking in high
heels, an art very few women ever truly mastered. Charise was one of the
very few.
Reaching back over her shoulders to loosen her zip, she arched her spine
and thrust her belly gently forward. The applause began to escalate as
she drew the zipper slowly down the length of her back: they'd been
waiting to see this all night.
And this was only the first step. Before the night was over, she would
be almost completely naked, her bra, suspenders and stockings strewn in
casual disarray around the floor.
Flashing the audience a brilliant smile, Charise slipped the dress off
her shoulders, lowering the hem slowly to her waist. The view was
literally breathtaking. The shiny satin brassiere adhered to her body by
some force unknown to modern science; her breasts were absolutely
magnificent, barely constrained by the cups.
Charise continued to lower the mini, exposing more of her pristine white
underwear. Blushing from toe to hairline, she shimmied the tight
material over her wide, curvaceous hips. Her face approximated the hue
of an autumn sunset. She was struggling with sheer, helpless
embarrassment. She bit her lip to hold back the giggles, knowing that
once she began, she'd never be able to stop.
Stepping carefully out of the dress, she straightened up to allow
everyone a heart-stopping eyeful of her lingerie. She'd chosen to wear a
virginal white ensemble beneath the black mini: it was her prettiest
outfit, and she'd known it would be an added surprise for the crowd. Her
high-cut g-string panties shimmered like quicksilver against her lightly
tanned flesh. They glimmered beneath the bar's glaring fluorescents;
soft blue shadows flowed across the glistening material whenever she
moved her hips.
The garter-belt and stockings had been inevitable: she'd been given no
choice in the matter. The Palais had a long association with exotic
corsetry. Literally every show featured dozens of college girls in
suspender stockings, proudly displaying their long, tapering legs for
the patrons. It was practically law, all of them were required to wear
frilly little garter belts beneath their clothing. No panty hose, NO
thigh-socks, and definitely NO leg-warmers. Garters were an absolutely
necessity, no exceptions to the rule. Beautiful women should always wear
exciting lingerie, and suspenders added that touch of sophistication
that the Palais' crowd would be expecting.
This evening, Charise had selected an intricately designed bridal
number; a magical wisp of lycra, lace and 'liquid' satin. It somehow
appeared both decadent and demure, the kind of thing worn by a virgin on
her wedding night. Long, white, adjustable garters were clearly visible
below her underpants, clipped up to sheer midnight stockings at mid-
thigh. Feeling indescribably naughty, she reached down to tug gently at
one of the reinforced black tops. The cheering escalated to a roar.
There were few things as truly captivating as the sight of a pretty girl
adjusting her hosiery.
Charise straightened up, planting a hand on her hip and shifting her
weight to her left heel. As a final treat for her howling admirers,
Charise put a hand to the back of her neck, removing a clasp and letting
out her glorious mass of platinum hair. A blond avalanche swept down her
shoulders; the luxurious, wavy tresses trailing to her hips.
Flash bulbs exploded all around her as the Paparazzi seized the moment
(Charise was almost caught by surprise; local papers and "lad's"
magazines frequently traded photoshoots for free advertising. This time
next week, her panty-clad figure would be gracing the pages of PICS
Magazine and Chamberlain View).
Raising her right hand to her rosebud mouth, Charise saluted the crowd
with a 1940s air-kiss, then turned on her left heel and walked further
down the runway, her luscious young bottom turning cute little circles
in its glistening satin sheath. Her suspenders stretched and shortened
along her thighs, matching tempo with each clicking step.
7.
Charise suppressed an almost irresistible impulse to cover her cleavage.
In a few moments, she would discard her flimsy white suspender belt. The
mounting tension was all but excruciating (paradoxically, she was no
stranger to this kind of dishabille; she'd modeled swimwear several
times over past year or so. Of course, there was a vast difference
between a two-piece bikini and a matching set of intimates! OMG this was
so embarrassing).
Standing before the mob in her glimmering white underwear, Charise felt
small and naked and unspeakably feminine. Her tummy seemed to be
swarming with tiny, tickling fingers; the audience fell silent as she
bent from the hips and unclipped her suspenders one teasing clasp at a
time.
Her heart skipped a beat as she felt the hooks give at the back of her
garter belt, releasing her waist from its silken restraints. Moistening
her lips with a flickering pink tongue, Charise arched her back and
removed the belt with sensitive, precise fingers. Palming elastic with
her left hand, she slipped the garment off her body in a single deft
movement. There was not an instant's hesitation in the manoeuvr?; she'd
had months of practice to hone her technique. Slinging the garter belt
over her shoulder with saucy precision, she turned back down the catwalk
as the crowd roared their appreciation.
8.
Charise posed on the runway with her cleavage thrust into the air. An
odd, nervous tension fell over her as she waited her turn. Technicolour
visions danced gaily through her pretty head; closing her eyes, she
could see herself modeling her bare panties before the entire bar-room.
The moment she'd dreaded so much was rapidly approaching, it was almost
time to fulfill her exhibitionistic responsibilities. She was
practically trembling with anticipation.
She'd been given no choice in the matter; the baring of the breasts was
an absolute necessity. Refusal was out of the question: nobody argued
with the Palais' management. It was grossly unfair of course, but the
administration had been most specific on this issue.
Sweeping her gaze the across the bar, Charise walked sleekly down the
middle of the runway. She reached back and unhooked her satiny white
underwire, allowing the shoulder-straps to glide loosely off her
shoulders. There was always an instant of speechless, shivering tension
whenever she took off her bra in public. She was a large, busty girl
possessing a Jane Mansfield figure - 'A regular D-Cup Delight' was how
the resident barflies often described her. Her lush, enormous breasts
bounced and lolled as she removed the tight, satiny constraints.
Charise was almost dizzy with arousal. She felt utterly vulnerable,
completely subject to the voyeuristic whims of the wildly cheering
audience. Her first impulse was to place her fingertips over the dark,
sensitive tips of her nipples, but she paused in the act, allowing the
crowd a generous view of her assets. Her hands twitched nervously as she
tried to decide where to place them. She was blushing all the way to her
hairline by now.
A storm of approval burst forth from the audience, literally shaking the
rafters in their enthusiasm. Whistles and catcalls reverberated across
the room; glasses clattered on table tops as heavy bootheels stomped the
polished floorboards.
Tingling in near-ecstasy, Charise finally covered her hard, pointed
nipples, teasing them gently between her splayed fingers. A dozen flash
bulbs flared simultaneously, the crowd gaped in wordless appreciation.
If there was one more captivating than a beautiful teenaged girl
adjusting her hosiery, it was the sight of one trying to hide her
breasts from public exposure -
and not quite succeeding.
9.
With that, the opening session was brought to a close. Two more were
scheduled over the next four hours, and Charise wondered if she would
survive the ongoing humiliation.
10.
If the evening's revenues were anything to go by, the lingerie show had
been an overwhelming success. The administration had been pleased enough
with the final earnings to hand out a healthy fifty pound bonus with the
standard paypacket. Like all of the Palais' modeling staff, Charise was
paid in cash, allowing the Club to avoid certain financial
inconveniences (such as health care and pension plans). She'd been
getting changed backstage when one of the barhands came round with the
money, clearly dumbstruck by the presence of all those bras, panties and
smooth, naked tummies. Charise concealed her share in the depths of her
shoulderbag, then slipped back into her jeans and t-shirt. She always
said she would have stripped for free, but there was no denying the
satisfaction of having a little extra to burn. With tips from the
clientele, she might rake in close to ?500 this weekend.
Charise gave her hair a quick brush then gathered up her belongings. It
was long past midnight, and her friends were beginning to drift off in
murmuring groups. Two of them offered her a lift home, but she politely
declined, saying she could take a taxi.
Really? It'll be no trouble, Charise.
No, I'll be fine, thanks. I live in the opposite direction, anyway.
It wasn't an outright deception. She'd always lived in the opposite
direction, as long as she could remember. That was one of the downsides
to being a tranzie. She could walk the same paths chosen by many genetic
girls, but never take a parallel course. Truth be told, she couldn't
afford to.
The Palais wasn't some cheap backstreet clip joint. It was a five-star
venue with a reputation to uphold. She'd lose her job if her secret was
discovered. The repercussions would be catastrophic, she could easily
find herself blacklisted by every club in the Red Zone.
Charise had no intention of ever letting that happen. This job was the
fulfillment of all her deepest fantasies.
She'd been all of seven years old the first time she'd performed a
striptease before her bedroom mirror. Some might reason this was nothing
unusual, most little girls stripped in the mirror at one point or
another. The problem was, of course, that Charise had been a boy at the
time. An extremely pretty one, no argument there, but a boy nonetheless.
And the world wasn't particularly kind to children of any description,
especially those who yearned for something totally unacceptable.
No matter, that was the past long buried if not forgotten. She'd
weathered the storms of anger and prejudice for close on thirteen years,
finally coming to accept herself, which was the only thing that truly
mattered. It was probably why she was able to pass so well. In the two
months she'd worked at the Palais, nobody had suspected she was anything
other than biologically female, not even the girls who shared her
dressing table. That was something of a miracle, considering how often
she'd stood nude amidst the naked, so to speak.
Charise hoisted her shoulderbag and started towards the exit. The
general hubbub was dying down as the girls left the alcove, but the main
topic of conversation hung stubbornly in the air.
Apparently, the management had been impressed by audience's reaction to
this evening's "strip parade" - impressed enough to make it a regular
event, as a matter of fact. The rumor mill was already operating at full
capacity: if the punters had their way, the girls might be required to
go topless from next week on.
What would they demand next?
Pole sliding?
Lap dancing?
Nude shows?
That might conceivably present a few problems...if she hadn't been born
a tranzie.
Yes, like many children born in the Courtland Valley, she'd been
diagnosed with TISM, the so-called 'transsexual plague' that had
featured so prominently in the news of late. Her gradual transition from
male to female had been the most harrowing experience of her life,
starting at the age of seven and ending shortly before her tenth
birthday. It had taken three years; thirty-six months of physical and
psychological torment as her genetic structure was completely re-written
and all traces of masculinity erased from her body.
At the time, it had been an ordeal of pain and doubt and fear, the kind
that no child should ever experience. But in the end, Charise had
emerged anatomically female. Nobody outside of the medical profession
could have seen the difference, and then only after extensive physical
examination. To all intents and purposes, Charise Grainger was a woman.
11.
She exited the building via one of the staff entrances, then made her
way round to Royal Avenue to hail a cab. A faint plume of mist curled
from her lips, the air outside was cooler than she recalled. She glanced
up and down the road, wishing she'd brought a sweater. It was nearly
three AM, the street all but deserted. Above and behind her, the Palais'
neon signs strobed away in silence. The music had ended hours ago,
leaving the Club empty and spectral the pre-dawn gloom.
What am I doing here? Charise asked herself for the thousandth time. Why
had she run away from her life back in Ridgewick, severing all of her
closest ties with barely a backward glance? She'd known fortune so often
she'd lost track, but had also paid a tremendous price to satisfy her
desires. Her parents had become remote, distant strangers. Her mother
refused to even take her calls. Had it been worthwhile? All the
sacrifice, all the pain, all the loss?
Sometimes - just sometimes - she thought yes.
Lights were approaching from east. Charise raised a hand to signal the
driver, then stood by patiently as the taxi pulled over beside her.
Charise opened the rear passenger door, settling into the back seat with
a weary sigh. Felt like she'd been on her feet since last Thursday.
"So, where you going then, luv?" The cabbie asked. He was a large,
stocky man with twinkling eyes and pink, jovial features; the kind of
face Charise associated with elderly, good-natured tradesmen.
"Lamington Terrace, please." She replied, making herself more
comfortable.
"That over by Coronation Drive?"
"Yes, that's the one."
"All right, then." Blinkers flashing through the fog, the taxi pulled
away from the curb, gradually accelerating along Royal Avenue. The
lights of the Palais faded behind them.
"So - you work at that club?" the driver inquired, glancing in the rear
view.
"Yes, I do."
"Oh?" the old man raised his eyebrows somewhat humorously, "and what do
you do there?"
Charise granted him a small but extremely cheeky smile.
"Walk around in my bra and panties."
The Cabbie considered this answer thoughtfully, then replied, "Sounds
like my Missus in summer. Don't suppose they have any vacancies?"
Charise laughed, feeling the pressures and frustrations of the previous
night's escapades draining out of her. The cabbie joined in, chuckling
under his breath as he switched gears.
The taxi turned left at Crown, and vanished into the chill morning air.
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