It had been a black day for all humanity when tights came into fashion. Supposedly, panty hose were more comfortable, more convenient and much cheaper than stockings – but they were nowhere near as sexy, at least as far as Angie was concerned. Worse still, corsetry had become a (rather expensive) fashion accessory, way beyond her price range.

For a while, it appeared that all of her hopes would come to nothing.

Fortunately, all was not lost. Following a number of promising leads, she eventually began checking out local second hand dealers in the Westside. There she stumbled across numerous items of interest – corselets and panty-girdles, convertible brassieres and bodyliners. Some places even had unopened stock in the back room - donations from hosiery stores with outdated inventory. That was always a rare treat, Angie would practically squeal with delight at the sight of them.

The trail had eventually led to this mid-range boutique on the west side of the tracks. Angie had been drawn in by the rich, continental décor, with its art deco lamps, crushed velvet draperies and leather bound armchairs. Lavish, for a place this close to the Red Zone, which made it all the more intriguing. The idea of a "Fitting Salon" conjured up visions of pampered luxury straight out of a 1930s musical comedy; a plush wonderland full of sofas, divans and ottomans, where semi-clad women lolled about in regal splendor. The reality didn't quite measure up to Angie's expectations, but Contessa Lingerie possessed considerable charm nonetheless. The staff were polite, the furnishings opulent and there was indeed a private Fitting Salon at the back of the store.

Of course, she hadn't realized until much too late that it adjoined the Display Center at the front.

Stepping hesitantly out of the changing booth, Angie walked across the room with her bra, panties and stockings on full display. Her sense of touch seemed to have been amplified a hundredfold, she was almost painfully conscious of everything touching her skin. Flimsy pink knickers, clinging to her hips, wispy white garter-belt, nestled snugly around her waist. Long, taunt suspenders, stretching along her legs.

It was, without exception, the most thrilling moment of her life.

"Alright then, let's have a closer look at you," Jean said, removing the tape measure from around her neck. Angie downcast her face, desperately trying to hold back the hysterical giggles bubbling up from her tummy.

Over by the display stand, a number of customers were gathering to watch the spontaneous lingerie parade. There could be no doubt what they were talking about, their furtive glances spoke volumes in themselves.

Angie's head was spinning with shame, pleasure and disbelief. This CAN'T be happening, she told herself a second time. Her breath came in short, gasping spurts. She repressed an urge to cross her hands over her cleavage, knowing that it wouldn't really cover anything.

"Raise your arms, dear," Jean instructed. Angie complied, her heart racing like a trip-hammer. She could hear some of the shop assistants whispering to each other, cupping their hands and laughing amongst themselves.

Jean slipped the tape around Angie's waist, tutting to herself in disapproval.

"Twenty four inches," she nodded, reading the tapeline, "two sizes too small."

Angie blinked several times, realizing what the older woman meant. No wonder she could barely breath, the garter belt was the wrong size! She gnawed her lip in consternation; what if they had nothing else in stock? This store had been the last place on her list, and she'd had her heart set on this particular item. It wasn't fair, having to go home empty handed, particularly after the abject humiliation shed just undergone.

Jean looked Angie over once again, still tutting to herself, then turned the girl around so she was facing the front of the store.

"Could you lift your elbows for a moment?" she asked, touching her gently along her forearms. Angie obeyed without comment, suddenly understanding that this ordeal wasn't over, not by a country mile. Jean leant down to unclip her garters. A few moments later, Angie felt the belt loosen at the back, gasping involuntarily as the smooth material whispered off her flesh.

"Let's see if we can find you something more comfortable," Jean said, then turned towards one of the younger sales assistants. "Elizabeth? Size ten waist-cincher with detachable suspenders. Matching pink if we have it."

"Right away," the girl replied, already vanishing through a doorway marked 'Staff Only'.
An unexpected hush fell over the boutique. Angie glanced around the show room, gooseflesh quivering across her arms, thighs and torso.

Every eye in the shop was locked on her.

By the time the assistant returned from the storeroom, a sizable crowd had gathered inside the boutique. People seemed to be wandering in off the street at random. There must have been close to forty in all; men, women and children (though mostly men, Angie noticed ruefully) enjoying the rare spectacle of a pretty young girl stripped to her unmentionables. It was like one of those awful nightmares where you suddenly found yourself back in your old classroom wearing nothing but your bra and panties. Except this particular dream was coming true!

How can this be happening? Angie thought for the third time, hands pressed firmly over her breasts, how could she be standing here with her pink satin lingerie on show to the world? All she'd wanted was a garter belt and a pair of stockings. Now she was the star attraction of an unscheduled striptease.

"...now, if you'll just walk this way," Jean was saying. The older woman led her through the growing throng, directing her attention to the three-way with a light pat to the bottom. Angie's eyes widened in surprise; for a moment she forgot the leering mob around her.

Oh.

The girl in the mirror was quite beautiful.

Large blue eyes lent her an innocent, child-like appearance, framed by a sweep of shining blond hair. She stood frozen in the glass, her nubile figure on full exhibition. Her bra and panties were glaringly pink against her pale flesh, her legs impossibly long and slim in their gauzy black stockings.

The Fever was back, coursing through her system with a vengeance. Her breathing had shallowed; she felt delirious, faint, light-headed. She had literally dreamt of this for years, but never imagined it would be so...
Angie felt the saleswoman's fingers on her bare shoulder.

"All right – take a few steps around the showroom," Jean said, standing to one side, "let's see how you look."

"What?" Angie started, putting a hand to her mouth, "No, no … I couldn't…"

"Oh, of course you can," Jean retorted with a dismissive laugh, "you need to move around to make sure the outfit fits properly."

"But…"

"You don't want any nips and tucks as you walk down the street," Jean smiled, then cast a twinkling eye towards the milling crowd, "anyway, I think you owe them a little favor after keeping them in suspense for so long."

Angie glanced around once more. The store was crammed to capacity now. The clientele appeared to be composed almost exclusively of young males – odd, considering it was a women's boutique – each of whom regarded her with expressions of avid fascination. They'd been waiting here as least fifteen minutes, and were determined to get their money's worth, so to speak.

What am I going to do now? Angie asked herself. There was no escape, no way to avoid her obligations. Jean was right, she'd already revealed her bra and panties, now she had to model her suspender stockings. There was simply no alternative. Lowering her face to conceal a naughty grin, Angie sniggled her assent.

"All right. I'll do it."

A wave of approval swept through the crowd as Angie began her routine. Strutting about the display centre with a hand planted on her right hip, she beamed and smiled into the audience. Despite her initial reluctance, she moved with the grace and confidence of a professional: she'd played out this scenario at least a thousand times in the privacy of her bedroom with the curtains flung wide and the radio playing in the background. It was one of her fondest fantasies, one she'd cherished since early childhood. In a way, all of those late-night performances had prepared her for this unexpected debut, honing her innate skills and abilities.

Nothing, however, could have prepared her for this extremely public humiliation. Warm, fluid heat seemed to course through her veins; a fine, crimson blush spread across her features. Her mind was listing in a sea of ecstasy, her belly trembling in near-rapture.

How would she ever live this down?

The mob had formed a rough semi-circle around the display centre, allowing Angie room to maneuver. Pausing in the middle, she shifted her hips from side to side, running her fingers through her thick blond locks like an exotic dancer. Her suspenders tugged on black stocking-tops, straining tight enough to leave marks. The gesture was greeted with a raucous storm of cheers.

Jean watched from the main counter, visibly impressed by what she saw. An old hand at the lingerie game, she could tell that the girl had no formal training, but what she lacked in experience she made up for in raw charisma. She had the throng's undivided attention: nobody could resist her natural poise and beauty. Many of them probably believed the whole thing had been a carefully planned publicity stunt. Who could blame them, given the circumstances?

God, if only we could put on a show like this every week, she thought regretfully, I could retire on the commissions alone.

Out in the display area, Angie sauntered from left to right, gyrating her bottom to reveal her pert, round cheeks. Running her hands up and down the waist-cincher, she plucked at the garters one by one, releasing each with a satisfyingly loud snap! She bopped along to an imaginary soundtrack playing in the back of her mind, rapping out a beat on the checkerboard tiles beneath her heels.

The mob was howling for more, yelling and clapping loud enough to rattle the window panes. Some of the younger women were doing a bump-and-grind act to demonstrate their enthusiasm. Others were motioning for her to remove her bra and sling it around her head.

Angie's senses hit saturation point, she was being overloaded with pleasure. Lights flickered across her vision and her nipples throbbed hard against their satin confines. The room began to lurch and sway around her, strobing in and out of focus. She attempted one more circuit of the showcase, flashing a radiant smile and thrusting her breasts out towards the audience.

Fortunately, Jean saw the signs almost immediately. The tension and excitement had been too much for her, the girl was ready to swoon. Switching on the PA, she seized the microphone and called for attention.

"All right, hasn't she done a wonderful job, everybody? Let's hear it for…" Jean paused, groping for a name, then thought to hell with it, and finished with "our resident fashion model!"

The room exploded with applause as Angie halted in the middle of display, balancing precariously on her tippy-toes. Shifting her weight to the left, she straightened both arms over her head, saluting the crowd with two upraised palms. It was a classic "cheesecake" pose, worthy of a Vargas or an Elvgren, and the horde lapped it up.

The world shimmered before Angie's gaze. She began tottering forward, dazed and breathless. Jean managed to steady her at the last second, slipping a sheer negligee around her shoulders. Her bra, panties, suspenders and stockings were fully visible through the transparent fabric.

“OK, that's all for now, folks," Jean called out, leading the half-naked teen 'off stage.' "Our sales assistants will tend to your every need. One free pair of nylons with every purchase over ten pounds!"

Jean bundled the girl into the staff room and poured her a long, cold glass of lemon water. Angie was literally shaking with anxiety; now that the adrenaline rush had passed, she was ready to collapse. She accepted the drink gratefully, drawing the negligee about herself with a kind of naïve modesty.

"Are you all right?" Jean asked, absently lacing up the gown, "you're trembling from head to toe".

"I'm – I'm OK", Angie stammered, cold flushes swirling through her tummy. It was the Fever, raging like an uncontrolled bushfire.

"You did very well out there", Jean remarked encouragingly, "did you hear all the applause? Most of them thought you were a real model."

"I'm not. I…I've never done anything like this before."

"Really? You seemed so composed out in the showroom, right up until the very end. Have you thought about applying to an agency?"

"No", Angie replied demurely, "I've always been too…shy."

They looked at each other for a few seconds, quietly bonding in their mutual silence.

"I just realized…" the older woman began, "after all that, I don't even know your name."

"It's Angie. Angie Hastings." She neglected to mention she'd been born male, had cross-dressed since the age of five and changed her name by deed poll only a few months before.

"You local to the area?"

"Yeah, kind of." She had a small studio apartment in Ascott Valley, over on the north side of town.

"What do you do for a living?"

"Student at Chamberlain Uni. Design major."

"And you've never done any modeling work before? Honestly?"

"No. Never. " Not in public, anyway.

Another lengthy pause.

"You know, I haven't seen the store this full in years", Jean mused thoughtfully, her eyes roaming up and down Angie's trim silhouette. She'd rarely seen a girl with such exquisite proportions…and that was frankly amazing, considering how many fittings she'd done over the past fifteen years.

Out in the display centre, the crowd was chanting for an encore. More importantly, cash registers were buzzing in unison. The showroom was a hive of activity; shop assistants scrambled from booth to booth as stock practically flew off the shelves. Jean would have bet her eye teeth that suspender stockings had just come back into style. The implications were obvious, visions of dollar signs danced through her head.

Jean leaned in closer, lowering her voice to a rather coercive level.

"Angie…I have a proposition for you…"

The two women spoke in hushed tones, and a deal was struck.

…and that was how Angela Hastings of Ascott Valley became a lingerie model in her eighteenth year.

Naturally, there was some resistance to the idea of a respectable business establishment running what amounted to a weekly burlesque show – the Christian Citizens' Monitor objected most strenuously – but such protests were immediately dismissed as puritanical zealotry. There was no ordinance against modeling underwear in a private venue, and the majority of people viewed it as good, clean fun.

Jean scheduled the events for Friday afternoons and Saturday mornings (an arrangement tailored to Angie's university timetable), frequently inviting the local press to cover the latest trends in 'undercover' fashions. The free publicity drew increasingly larger numbers, sending profits through the roof.

Within six months, the store was expanded to accommodate the influx of visitors, anxious to get a glimpse of the stunning blond teenager all the papers were talking about (rumor had it that Angie would occasionally drop into the boutique on the way home from classes, casually modeling her undies for anyone fortunate enough to be on the premises. These impromptu stripteases added an element of suspense to the proceedings).

As the weekly performances gained popularity, Jean laid down a strict regimen for Angie to follow. In spite of her matronly persona, Jeanette McArthur had the instincts of a shark when it came to financial matters. Strong-willed, self-disciplined and uncompromising, she was determined to use Angie's talents to her full advantage.

Each performance was rigorously mapped out in advance, right down to the choice of underwear. Angie would arrive at least an hour in advance, at which point she'd be stripped to her panties and taken to the fitting salon to prepare for the next ordeal.

Once the make-up ceremonies had been concluded, her wardrobe would be chosen from the most recent inventory – bras, pants, torsolettes, bustiers and whatever else was in that month's catalogues. Naturally, she was required to wear suspenders, stockings and high-heels. These had become her trademark in the public consciousness.

Finally, Angie was zipped into a dress (usually an elegant cocktail gown or a tight-fitting mini, depending on the season) and sent out to the Showroom, where she would assist the staff and welcome customers at the door. It was important she be seen fully-clothed beforehand; Jean believed it made for a more thrilling entrance later on.

Once the crowd assembled, Angie would disappear into the fitting salon while everyone settled down to enjoy the show. There was always a large number of men seated in the audience, but Angie didn't mind; most were doddering old grandpas from the local retirement village (few of whom even recalled why they'd been brought here in the first place).

When Angie emerged from the salon, the atmosphere took on the tone of an old-fashioned cabaret. Louisiana horns played in the background, wolf-whistles and cat-calls shrilled about the room. It was a fun, light-hearted affair with lots of faux lechery from the male contingent. Reveling in the attention, Angie would strut around with her hands on hips, flaunting her knickers and blowing kisses to her "admirers."

There seemed to be no limit to their success. Five years into the decade, Contessa Lingerie was Chamberlain's most prestigious retailer of women's undergarments and Jean McArthur had been promoted to regional manager of the ever-expanding chain. Although she didn't retire on her commissions, she became one of the city's wealthier entrepreneurs, eventually running for president of the Chamberlain Business Consortium.

By contrast, Angie Hastings kept a somewhat lower profile than one might have expected, given her pre-eminent position on page three of PICZ Magazine. It wasn't through lack of opportunity: she'd had numerous offers from casting agencies and fashion companies – all of which she politely declined in favour of her regular stints at Contessa's. As she frequently explained, she'd only taken up modeling to pay her tuition fees, and had set her sights on graphic design years ago.

That was the official cover story, anyway. The truth was somewhat more complicated. Angie had no desire to be hounded by the paparazzi. Like all tranzies, she was hardwired for privacy. She understood from the very beginning that a small town university student would attract comparatively little attention if she kept her head down. A recognized celebrity, on the other hand, would be subjected to the worst kind of scrutiny conceivable. As every facet of her life was probed and dissected, her true identity would be dragged into the light, her darkest secrets revealed. And that would be an unqualified disaster.

As mentioned above, these were dangerous times for those who those who wavered on the edge of acceptability, and while Angie might be considered naïve, she could never be described as a fool.

Once her studies were concluded, Angie allowed herself to fade from the public eye, choosing the more prosaic career of "visual communications" as it was termed back in the day. Art had always been her first love, and it was more than enough to sustain her through the lean times ahead.

So... did anyone ever guess that Chamberlain's premier Lingerie Queen had actually been born a boy?

Well, that - as they say in the classics - is a story for another time.

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