Sally Rainford was six years old. She lived in Chamberlain Heights with her Mommy (Gwen) and her older sister (Andrea). Like most girls her age, Sally liked Barbie dolls, Pokemon cards, Gummy Bears and dancing. In fact, she liked dancing so much that she had recently started lessons at the Spencer District Academy, where her teacher, Ms Evelyn Deane, taught her the Bunny Hop, the Butterfly, The Seven Steps, and lots of other neat and interesting things. That was why her Mommy had brought her to Lace & Garters Dancewear Shop ("What are garters?" Sally had asked, but Gwen Rainford had only smiled), so they could pick out a tutu for the dance recital next month.

Being somewhat bright for her age, Sally understood there was a time and place for everything, and knew that women didn't take their clothes off in the middle of a busy store. Which was why she'd been so surprised when The Big Girl had emerged from the changing booth wearing nothing but her bra and panties. It was OK to walk around the house in your undies (she and Andrea had plenty of experience doing that), but Big Girls weren't supposed to show off their knickers in public. Everyone knew that.

A good-natured burst of laughter followed Sally's ingenuous inquiry; even The Big Girl seemed amused by the question (although her face darkened to the colour of a wild strawberry). Sally looked round, wondering if she'd said THE WRONG THING again, as she so often did these days. Mommy usually gave her The Frown when she said THE WRONG THING (which was how she thought of it: in capitals and italics). Sally had been trying extra hard to watch her P's and Q's, but sometimes she just couldn't help herself: the words just blurted out with a life of their own.

Fortunately, Mommy didn't seem too upset with her this time.

"She's a dancer, sweet-heart, just like you. She's come in for a fitting."

"A what?"

"A fitting. She's being measured up for a costume."

"She's really pretty," the little girl commented artlessly.

"Yes, she is," Mommy agreed.

The object of Sally's attention was standing on a small platform in the centre of the showroom, blushing to the hairline. Hands on hips, right foot slightly extended, Michelle modeled her panties before an audience of close to fifty. Her impromptu striptease was drawing people in off the sidewalk, the steady trickle of shoppers was building into a stream. Word was spreading quickly up Lyndhurst Road; Lace & Garters Dancewear was putting on a demonstration, a beautiful teenaged girl was being measured in her underwear.

Hot flushes were coursing through Michelle's bloodstream, her belly was knotting with excitement. The display window had been cleared of merchandise to allow a clear view from the street, and she felt like the star attraction in a lingerie parade. Waves of helpless embarrassment washed over her like a rising deluge. And why not? She was wearing nothing but a halter bra and a pair of frilly white panties.

"Raise your arms," Mrs Addler instructed in gravel tones. She was taking the girl's measurements and had no time for airs, graces or social niceties. Michelle lifted her hands obediently, grinning playfully down at the crowd. With her slim legs on display and a mischievous twinkle in her eye, she looked like a 1940s pin-up queen. Several older gentlemen whistled in mock lechery, prompting another round of light-hearted chuckles.

Mrs Addler impaled them with a single, penetrating glare. Instantaneous silence descended over the room.

Muttering something through a mouthful of pins, Donna looped the tape around Michelle's flat stomach. The old woman clicked her tongue like a disapproving grandmother, then turned to the Mad Seamstress: "She'll take a size eight garter belt with nine inch suspenders. Make allowances for the crinoline."

"Check," Judy replied, who was kneeling down on the platform, measuring the girl's inside leg. "Midnight talls, 32 denier. Seamed." She looked up at Michelle, dropping her a conspiratorial wink "Legs all the way up to your throat, kiddo. Dunno if we've got anything in stock that'll fit you. Make do with what we have, I guess. Still, good thing you've overcome your jitters, or you'd still be locked in the dressing room."

Michelle tittered in spite of herself. She hadn't overcome her jitters; that was the whole point. She was nearly swooning with guilty exhilaration. Her pulse was thundering in her ears, gooseflesh buzzed across her torso like a static charge. Her heartbeat had quickened to a frenzied gallop. She'd never imagined revealing her underthings would be so ... electrifying.

"OK, hold still, Missy," Judy told her, "time for the cincher."

Michelle glanced down and gasped with delight.

The 'cincher' was a gorgeous, ribbed garter-belt, the kind with adjustable suspenders and little white bows on the clasps. Transparent lace roses decorated the central waist-strap; the sides were reinforced with taut lycra panels. Unlike the slimline versions Michelle was familiar with, this was a genuine garter-belt, designed to flatten the tummy and contain the figure.

"All right, breath in – this is going to pinch a bit," Judy warned her.
Michelle held her breath as the cincher was clipped around her waist. The merest touch of lace was enough to blow her circuits. Huge, bluish stars detonated in front of her – for one infinite second, Michelle feared she was going to explode with desire. The room spun around her momentarily, morphing into a vortex of neon lights and colours.

Can't take much more of this, she thought, knowing that her yearnings could never be fully gratified.

"Yep – a perfect size eight," Judy remarked, nodding with satisfaction. The spectators murmured in admiration, whispering amongst themselves. Even the Mariah clones were suitably impressed with what they saw. The girl on the platform smiled modestly and placed a coy hand over her panties (although her palm was too small to really hide anything). The garter-belt was stretched tight about her middle, sinking into the soft pad of her abdomen. Her waist seemed impossibly tiny. Michelle looked achingly feminine.

"Works for me," Donna remarked neutrally (and coming as close to a compliment as she ever got), "but we ain't finished yet. You got those stockings, Judith?"

"Right here."

There are very few things as fascinating as the sight of a young woman slipping into a pair of black, seamed stockings. An expectant hush fell over the store as Michelle drew the sheer ebony hose up her tapering thigh. The effect was enthralling, spellbinding. Men stared in slack-jawed amazement, women stood motionless, their features inscribed with mute reverence.

Michelle sighed as she attached the stockings to her straining white garters. Exuding a light, fragrant perspiration, she bent over to adjust the straps, tuning them like the strings of some implausible musical instrument. Her pliant, dimpled bottom was thrust out towards the crowd, gossamer frills fluttering with her every move. She tinkered with the garters for a remarkably long time, coaxing them gently into position while the audience looked on, hypnotized. The suspense was insufferable.

Two agonizing minutes later, Michelle stood up, tossed her hair back off her shoulders, and allowed the audience a heart stopping view of her underwear. Yes, underwear, she smiled to herself, recalling Misha's obsessive, hair-splitting distinctions. No point in denying the obvious, was there? The spectators were cheering loud enough to shake the windows, and many of the younger women were extolling her virtues. They weren't applauding her lingerie, whatever Misha may have thought.

They were applauding her underwear.

Michelle accepted their acclaim with a graceful, heartfelt curtsy. Dipping her head and spreading her arms wide, she bowed before her congregation, a trim, nubile blond in pert white underpants and black suspender stockings. The gesture was totally unaffected, a spontaneous display of gratitude. This was the consummation of all her nighted fantasies. She felt transfigured, transported. Brushed by divine wings. The applause thundered on and on.

Of course, not everyone present was swept up in the jubilant atmosphere. Wearing a face that could have tamed a Texas bull, Mrs Donna Addler summed up the situation in six terse words:

Girl needs a damned good spanking!

Fifteen minutes later, Michelle had been irrevocably transformed. Judy tied her hair back in a French braid while Donna squeezed her into her costume. The two Mariahs volunteered to retouch her make-up, glossing her lips the most impertinent shade of red they could come up with. Violet mascara was applied to Michelle's eyelids and a subtle rouge to her cheeks. They worked with an indefatigable purpose, painting and strapping and primping and grooming. Vermillion feathers plumed her hair, silver ornaments ringed her lobes.

The dress itself was quite breathtaking. Consisting of a full-circle skirt and a halter top, it rippled electric blue beneath the showroom's harsh industrial lights. Wide black stripes ran from bust to waistline, while the bodice was fringed with racy yellow ruffles. The skirt was belled out by roughly eight pounds of petticoats, their flimsy polyester frills peeping out from beneath the cobalt hemline. Shoulder length gloves sheathed her arms in scarlet lace, tall black pumps added inches to her height.

"Mommy, LOOK at her NOW!" Sally Rainford cried as they unveiled the Vision Splendid.

Michelle stood on the platform with her crinoline hitched up her calves. Her brilliant smile brightened the darkest corners of the room, her crystal green eyes flashed with cheek and impudence. She looked unspeakably naughty, with her petticoats raised and her come-hither glances tempting the crowd.

Several cameras popped simultaneously, lenses zoomed and whirred. Word had finally reached the local press, evidently. Michelle raised her right hand in coquettish salute, knowing her image would probably grace the pages of The Chamberlain Messenger next Monday.

"Is she going to DANCE, Mommy?" Sally asked hopefully.

"I don't know darling," Sally's mother answered, "maybe if you ask her nicely ...."
Hearing this exchange (and thinking this would be the perfect end to a perfect morning), Judy stepped up behind Michelle, cupping a hand over her mouth.

"Well, how about it, kiddo?" she crooned in the girl's ear, "I think you owe it to them."

Michelle looked over towards Mrs A, sensing she had to get the old harridan's approval, regardless of what Judy said. She was right, needless to say. Still wearing that same bull-taming expression, Donna shrugged her shoulders and nodded her assent.

"Yeah, all right, go on," she said in a tone of grudging surrender, "you've drummed up more business in one morning than we've had in a month of Sundays." She peered across at her partner, eyes narrowed to slits; "we still got that Offenbach CD, Jude?"

"Sure do." Judy replied, and made for the cash counter. She gave Michelle an affectionate slap on the fanny as she walked past. "Just wait here, it'll only take a minute."

Michelle acknowledged the smack with a barely audible laugh. She enjoyed being the focus of attention, even when it involved a hot, stinging bottom. Misha would have considered it a blatant attack on his manhood, an insult bordering on contempt – but Misha wasn't here now. Misha had fled into the darkened catacombs of Michelle's unconscious mind, and she had no use for his fragile male ego. She was free: free for the first time in her existence, and she planned to make the most of her new-found liberty. However long it lasted.

Meantime, Mrs A was addressing the crowd, pulling herself up to her full height and breathing fire from her nostrils:

"Well, what're you waiting for? Y'all deaf or something? Get out of the way, the kid's gonna dance for you."

Babbling with excited gibberish, sixty-odd free-loaders cleared a space in the centre of the store, pushing back against racks and shelves and mannequins. Husbands stumbled over each other in a frantic scramble for the best seat in the house. Girls tripped up their boyfriends and issued snarls of warning. Yowling children were hoisted onto shoulders or lifted onto bench tops. More photographs were taken, several digicams were smuggled in below the tinkling doorbell, and one old man was heard to ask what all the commotion was about. Chaos ensued for precisely sixty-three seconds, and then –

The opening strains of Gaite Parisienne rang out over the sound system.

Michelle raised her skirts to her chin. An avalanche of glaring white petticoats spilled down either side of her legs, framing her sheer black stockings in stark contrast. Virginal satin knickers leapt into plain view, as clean and fresh as the driven snow. Long, white suspenders descended from her underwear, stretching and shortening with every move she made.

An exultant roar went up from the mob, drowning out the Overture in its intensity.

Michelle Waverley gazed out across the dance floor, her face beaming with pure happiness. An indescribable rush of pleasure coursed through her veins. This morning she'd been a clumsy, effeminate boy trying to scam a couple of old women; now she was a beautiful young girl, a talented, self-assured dancer poised to take the stage. She surveyed her audience with a sultry blend of warmth and embarrassment: they'd come in droves, swarming in off the streets just to see her underwear. Her pristine white panties; her lavish lace garters and frivolous midnight hose.

They'd come to see her.

Could she deny their expectations?

It's can-can time! Michelle thought as she stepped down off the platform.

To be continued...