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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 Some places even had unopened stock in the back room - donations from hosiery stores with outdated inventory.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.

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 stepped forward.

Later:

"Are you all right? You're practically trembling from head to toe."

Jean handed Angie a long, cold draught of medoc. She was sitting out in the staff room with a diaphanous pink negligee drawn about her shoulders in a kind of naïve modesty. She accepted the drink gratefully, knocking it back in a single shot.

"I'm ... OK," Angie stammered, cold flushes swirling through her tummy. It was the Fever, raging like an uncontrolled bushfire. Now that the adrenaline rush had passed, she was ready to collapse.

"You did very well out there," Jean remarked, absently lacing up the girl's negligee, "did you hear all the applause? Most of them thought you were a professional model."

"I'm not. 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 center, 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 conspiratorial 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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