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 midthigh. 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 PICZ 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.

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 manoeuvré; 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.

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.

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.

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.

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 pants."

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.