My Secret Life Ch. 04

‘So what do think of the Turkish pyjamas?’ she asked.

‘They’re fantastic!’ I answered enthusiastically. ‘And is Vida right when she says we can actually keep the things we are wearing?’

‘Of course you can. That’s the very least of what I can do to say ‘thank-you’ for helping out like this.’

‘Well I think it’s very generous of you, that and everything else you have done for us.’ I replied perhaps a little over-earnestly.

‘Don’t get too carried away with my supposed generosity Alan - as you would understand only too well, most of it will go down as business expenses. And if all goes as well as I expect it will, I will make a very good profit from the business that flows on from tonight’s little gig.’ she responded with undoubted honesty.

‘And the more intimately personal gift you gave me this afternoon?’ I queried.

She gave me another of those quirkily mischievous grins, then gave me a quick, but full-mouthed kiss. ‘I thought that was a shared gift Alan - I enjoyed it just as much as you did, and I venture to say that so did Vida. But now, just one more thing, then I must fly. Get those other things off please!’ she added as she dropped to her knees.

Of course I had no idea why she had done so, nor what to expect might follow - but did as she’d asked and slipped off the shirt then pushed down, and stepped out of the briefs.

It was only then that I realised she’d had something curled up in one of her hands, and as she lifted it I saw what looked like a small, soft leather strap. Using one hand to lift both my cock and balls she slipped the strap down over around them, then I heard the click of press-studs being fastened underneath them.

‘One of the names for these things is a ‘tie’, you’ll find lots of men wear them; not only gay men, but swim-suit and underwear models, and particularly those guys who do the raunchy shows for women’s night on the town. It doesn’t just keep everything in a neater, more noticeable package, but when you begin to get an erection it will help to keep it firm for you - and for those who are looking at you.’ she added with a deep-throated chuckle.

Then having given me a few sensually stirring fondling squeezes of encouragement, she got up and left me to put on the things I had hanging there waiting for me to wear.

* * * * * *

Of course I took my time in dressing myself - having been given another of Joanna’s skin-tinglingly close shaves the sensations I got as I merely brushed the fine silk against it my skin it sent shivers of excitement rippling right through me. And as I did so the arousal she had started with her momentary fondling quickly intensified. Realising that if I allowed that to continue for too long I might then find I had trouble fitting myself into the pouch, I quickly pulled on the lacy thong, only to find that the expansion gusset actually worked exactly as Joanna had said it would.

A long, slim mirror had been hung on one of the canvas walls and I took that opportunity to check out just how well defined my cock appeared through the lace-work, and even though it was then only partially engorged, as it grew it had spread the gaps between the patterned silky threads wider, and I realised that when fully erect there seemed little doubt that not only its shape but even its changing colour would be clearly visible.

That realisation gave me a few moments nervousness, but then I remembered that the mask would give me an overall anonymity, and also that the whole purpose of the visit had been to both see, and display some of Joanna’s selections of clothes that people with our sexual proclivities wished to wear. I would, after all be no more than one of a large number of models doing exactly the same thing - and I imagined that most of the audience would in fact be visualising themselves in the outfits being put on display.

So in a much more settled frame of mind I continued dressing and when done, and when I took another look at myself in the mirror I found myself feeling very much more positive about the whole thing. In fact, I thought the combination of the unusual Turkish pyjamas, plus the loosely fitting coat, actually gave me a rather distinguished look.

By then I could hear the sounds of other men gathering in the area beside the entrance to the stage, so, after a final comb of my hair, I hurried out to take my place with the three other amateur models in the section with the clear view through the stage-side curtains.

And soon after that we heard the sound of the opening strains of music, and just a little later heard Joanna’s voice welcoming her guests, then beginning her description of what the audience was about to see - and then the show itself began.

Although many of the men’s outfits made me almost drool with envy, it was what I saw being paraded out from the other side of the entry to the cat-walk that really grabbed and then firmly held my attention. No matter how fine or sexy the outfit, to me at least, they always, always looked several dozen time better when being worn by a woman. And the women Joanna had selected for her show were of course not your usual, stick-thin super-models, but attractive young women having, amongst other things, much more distinctively curvaceous breasts, waists, hips and legs.

But as undeniably sexily attractive as they all were, it was what Joanna had selected for each one of them to wear that showed her creatively masterful touch; highlighting and using each girl’s particular features to the very maximum. Those with the very longest legs wore gowns with equally long slits, or openings - allowing frequent glimpses of the full length and shape of them. Girls with the most voluptuous breasts wore either corselettes or bustiers - which both pushed up and then displayed a good deal of the rich creamy curves that were being held within the rest of the garment. Those somewhat less generously endowed wore half-cup bras that not only lifted and separated the twin globes, but also displayed their usually already darkly stiffened nipples. And those with the classically willowy hour-glass figures were allowed the opportunity to show those off to their very best advantage by being given more than usually revealing Teddies or body-suits to wear.

There was night attire; from sensuously long, full nightdresses and peignoirs, to the very shortest imaginable baby-dolls - many all but totally transparent and mostly with brief but colour and style matching panties, but here and there, one or two models had even disposed of that refinement. There were pyjamas in both clingingly shiny silks and driftingly floaty chiffons, which either hinted at the shape and attributes of the body beneath it, or blatantly flaunted them.

A tall, platinum blonde with piercing aquamarine eyes was especially alluring, particularly as she - as Joanna’s underwear had been - wore a nightdress that precisely matched the colour of those subtly sparkling eyes. The paleness of her skin, hair, eyes and the gown, plus the way she held and moved herself, all combined to give her an air of ethereally refined elegance, and I found I couldn’t help myself wondering if that would still remain intact when she was in the throes of an orgasm - or would this ‘ice-maiden’ then turn out to in fact be a rapaciously ravening sex-fiend?

There were undergarments of every conceivable design; from those that allowed no more than a modestly alluring hint of what lay beneath, to those that openly and brazenly displayed their contents through their transparency or from cut-aways and peek-a-boo panels. And one of the models had even deliberately worn her thong back-to-front; fitting the narrow back-strap between her pussy-lips and allowing it to fit tightly up into the depth of the cleft between them.

Even those of us who had a special preference for what are sometimes thought of as being less overtly sexually charged garments - those that both conceal and yet still somehow also manage to ‘reveal’, or at least hint at the delights that lie beneath them - had been catered for. There were slips and chemises of varying lengths, styles and colours, and, in its ever extending range of designs, the ever popular camisole.

But although there were so many of those items to both admire and covet, my eyes were immediately caught by the one being worn by a raven haired beauty - and given the similarities in her size and colouring, I made a mental note to see if it might be possible to buy one for Vida. The damson-plum coloured camisole seemed to have been made from some sort of silky chiffon - and although I guessed that it would come with a bra that matched the skimpily tiny lace panties that were being worn with it - the girl had been sensibly dressed without that - so that as she made her way slowly down the cat-walk, her appetisingly shapely breasts were free to jiggle and bounce about beneath the slippery fabric.

And of course there were always the stockings and pantyhose - sometimes worn with one or other of the garments being displayed, sometimes as the main centre of attraction. Hose of every possible hue, and of every conceivable design; from the barely visible finest, to the heavily seamed and patterned. There were stockings that glittered and shimmered, stockings that relied on the ribbon-like suspenders to support them, and stockings that merely firmly hugged a point high up on the model’s thighs. There were pantyhose that were so sheer a man could have easily counted each and every one of the girl’s pubic hairs, and others that seemed to invite his fingers to tracingly follow the intricate patterns that all seemed to lead to that point high up between her thighs.

So I stood there, admittedly beginning to slightly perspire at both the display of so much feminine pulchritude and the fact that each one had been gowned in the most positively alluring way. Taking in not only the multitude of styles; from those more loosely flowing, to others that were more simply body-shape enhancing - and the constantly changing variety of fabrics; from silk, satins, chiffons and nets, to the occasional and therefore more dramatic use of some of the more clinging man-made fibres. And also the brilliantly kaleidoscopic rainbow of colours that were constantly moving forward; white, every imaginable shade of virtually every one of both the primary and secondary colours - and of course here and there, the ever effectively erotic, black.

Of course the show that Joanna had planned was not so neatly divided; the boys and girls - as she herself always referred to them - displayed themselves in pairs; sometimes in vaguely matching or complementary garments, sometimes in things that were entirely different but of a similar colour, sometimes in outfits that had been specifically designed to be ‘his and hers’. But the parade was forever ringing the changes in the type of apparel; the skimpiest of underthings might be followed by a stunningly elegant nightgown, which in turn might precede a model in a particularly revealing pair of pantyhose. So both I and everyone else in the audience was kept in a state of excited anticipation as to what Joanna’s creative mind might still have to stir our collective imagination.

And I felt certain that the combination of the sexual allure of the models, plus what each had been given to wear to highlight that, rarely failed to meet even the very highest of any single person’s expectations.

But in spite of the impossibility of picking any one favourite from such a mind-numbingly amazing array, there was one that for me, and probably many others too, did stand out above the rest. But then perhaps it was the girl who was modelling it that actually made the outfit as spectacular as it was - so much so that for some little while she must have been the one that every single man and woman found their eyes glued to.

For one thing, she was the only person in either the parade or indeed the entire room, who was not wearing one of the androgynously anonymous masks. But then I’m sure that just a single glance at the rest of her made everyone in the room almost completely forget that fact.

She was tall, and by the shape of her features and her milk-coffee coloured skin, probably had at least some non-European genes in her make-up. And although not overly flamboyantly so, her body certainly had all the voluptuous characteristics that one sees in the carvings on many of the ancient Indian temples. Her high-set breasts were full, rounded and clearly tautly firm, her waist was almost impossibly tiny, and if her breasts were not sufficient to clearly identify her sex, her hips flared with a generous roundness that signified that this was indeed all woman. Long, slender legs, plus the almost ridiculously high and brightly sequined sling-back stilettos she was wearing, lifted her above the height of most of the other girls, and if anyone still had the time or inclination to look at any other parts of her, they found a face that could well have vied for beauty with the one that had long-ago reputedly launched a thousand ships. Framed by thick waves of dark black hair, that fell to just below her shoulders, she had up-tilting and wide-set jet black eyes which looked out with hooded sensuality from above a pair of seemingly sculpted cheek-bones. Between them was a straight and imposing nose, below which was a large, full-lipped, ruby-red mouth that somehow gave the impression that it was simply waiting to be either kissed, or to be called on to provide some other source of indescribable pleasure.

But although she was a woman who could have literally had every man panting if she had appeared in nothing more than sack-cloth - it was in fact what she wore, or perhaps it was that, plus the way that she wore it, that literally made the entire audience gasp aloud when she appeared.

Joanna had taken full advantage of the girl’s phenomenal looks and figure and dressed her in a stretchy, skin-tight silvery-bronze lamé, one piece, hot-pant-suit. And from the way it fitted her, I and probably everybody else, felt convinced she must have had to be literally poured into it!

The upper portion fitted her so tightly that it really had no need of the thin, spaghetti straps that went up over her shoulders, and the deeply plunging neck-line displayed both the mouth-watering fullness of her breasts and the temptingly deep cleavage between them. Then because the fabric clung so tightly to her those of us who were sufficiently observant could not only see how spikily her nipples jutted through it, but even the sensually puckered swelling of their surrounding aureoles.

But although the effect of the sight of her upper body must have continued to hold many, many pairs of eyes, I am certain that there were an equal number of us who all but groaned when ours dropped to take in the rest of her.

The short, tiny pants fitted her just at tightly, perhaps, if that was humanly possible, even a little more so than the top half did - and the seam that ran down the back of them was, until it reached the top of the crack of her arse, all but invisible. But from there, as it tracked the line down the split between her tautly rounded buttocks, it had been made all-too apparent. And that distinctive line of stitching obviously carried on down underneath her, because it reappeared, albeit briefly, as it highlighted the even more disturbingly sexy space between the poutingly separated pussy-lips at the front. But then it somehow disappeared again - and so the fabric covering the prominently fleshy Mons Veneris moulded itself to her just as smoothly and tightly as a second skin.

I don’t know how many men had failed to find themselves with an erection during the earlier part of parade - certainly I wasn’t one of them - but I guarantee that even they, no matter how old or otherwise infirm, couldn’t have failed to achieve one as that particular girl made her slow, but self-confident way down and then back along the cat-walk.

After more than forty five minutes of that mind-numbing dazzle of lights, music and sexily exciting vision I could tell from the feel of it that my cock had stretched the panties’ in-built gusset to its absolute limit - and began to wonder if Joanna’s insistence that I not wear the leak proof panty-briefs, had been the right one.

But I was given no time to worry about what might be starting to be visible through the semi-transparency of my Turkish pyjamas because just then the young woman who was supervising the flow of models from our side of the stage, whispered that it was time for we amateurs to do our thing. As luck would have it Vida and I had been selected to lead our groups and as I stepped forward to the side of the stage to await our final cue, I spotted her standing in a similar position opposite me.

Even though I knew it was she who would be leading that group of women, at first sight I failed to recognise it was actually Vida I was looking at. Joanna had obviously obtained for her a wig that was virtually a re-creation of how her own previously long hair had been those many, many years earlier. And even I, who knew very little about such things, could tell from the way it both moved and fell that this was no cheap, man-made fibre substitute, this wig had been made from natural hair.

Then Joanna had used Vida’s height and colouring to model a truly spectacular outfit - making her pale, creamy-white skin the dramatic back-drop for a long, classically elegant set of night attire, in semi-transparent black. Even the high-gloss satin ribbon trimmings and highlights that had been used to outline certain, feminine features; the curve of her breasts, her waist, and the softly rounded swell above her sex, were in black. But, as though to highlight those highlights, embedded along the very edges of those shiny satin ribbons, were hundreds of minutely tiny sparklets - so as she moved, each of those almost microscopic mirrors flashed their erotic message; ‘here be the curves of a beautiful and highly desirable woman!’

When I finally managed to look past the overall display Vida was making I saw that as with that never-forgotten - and often re-worn - white nightdress and peignoir, this too followed in the same basic format. The outer gown was the less transparent, and the nightdress beneath it was virtually see-through. So much so that when she began to slowly move forward to join me, and the outer gown drifted away from her, through the nightdress I could see that there was even a third layer - albeit a minutely skimpy one.

A jet black pair of almost insignificantly small triangles made up what there was of the bra, and another covered just the centre of the mound between her thighs. In fact the triangles of silk were so small I knew that they were there as nothing more than signposts, there purely to highlight what were of course the ultimately most sexually significant parts of her body; the tips of her breasts, and full-lipped opening to her pussy.

Even in the second or two left to us before we turned to begin our progress along the cat-walk, I saw where her eyes were staringly fixed - down at my crotch. ‘You look stunningly beautiful!’ I whispered as I reached for her hand to guide her out.

She looked quickly upwards, gave me a tight smile and replied. ‘And you look more than ready to do something about fixing the swampy mush my pussy seems to have suddenly turned to.’

Then, to even louder applause than the appearance of each pair of models had triggered, the eight of us made our nervously hesitant way along the cat-walk.

* * * * * *

That the show had been a rip-roaring success was all too apparent; not only was the applause at the end of the finale almost deafening, it continued on and on - until Joanna relented and had all of the models return in the outfits they had worn for their final appearance, and included in that were we amateurs. As the cat-walk steadily filled the applause grew even louder, and here and there we could hear both whistles and cries of ‘Encore!’ ‘Bis!’ and 'Zugabe!’.